Luc was not particularly surprised to see Brianna striding through the courtyard toward him, her kirtle flying out behind her.
What did surprise him was that it had taken her so long to come. In his experience, indulged women were quick to note deficiencies in their attendance. Brianna tugged off her veil and cast it impatiently at the ground with a marked disregard for convention. The orchard was clearly her destination and her mood was evidently less than prime.
What doubly surprised Luc was the wave of anticipation that rolled through him. Indeed, Brianna was even more alluring in her anger than she had been in the hall and Luc’s blood quickened that he was the target of her anger.
As she drew nearer, Luc saw that Brianna’s eyes flashed, a flushed spot burned in each cheek. She gathered up her skirts and strode into the orchard with purpose, indifferent to the survival of her fine shoes. Burrs and dried weeds snatched at her gown but she strode on, eyes flashing emerald fire, oblivious to every obstacle.
She was magnificent. Luc found himself turning to confront her and bracing for a battle of words, without ever having had any intention of doing so.
“You!” Brianna jabbed one finger through the air. “You cannot stay here. You simply cannot!”
Luc folded his arms across his chest and surveyed the approaching princess with feigned indifference. “I just have.” He shrugged, purely to infuriate her.
It worked.
“Oh! You are insolent! I am the princess of Tullymullagh and I will not permit you to remain.” Brianna snagged her kirtle on the branch of a tree and gave the garment a frustrated tug. A slight tearing sound resulted. If Luc had expected her to moan over the damage, he would have called her response wrong.
The princess glared at Luc, cursed, and clutched even more of her voluminous skirts before continuing toward him. She came to a breathless halt before him, tipped up her chin, and looked him in the eye.
And she had a dangerous allure with such proximity. The ripe curve of Brianna’s breasts was within a handspan of Luc’s chest, the fan of her breath brushed his skin. A waft of a feminine scent—Luc fancied ’twas attar of roses—set a heat unfurling in his belly.
Ye gods, had he ever met a more beguiling woman?
“I shall force you to follow my quest!” she declared vehemently, her eyes flashing.
Luc let himself smile. Brianna was a good bit tinier than he and ’twas amusing to consider how she might single-handedly compel him to depart.
“Indeed?” he could not help but ask.
His smile clearly did naught to improve her mood. “Indeed!” Brianna retorted. “Why, I shall call the gatekeeper this very moment and have him escort you to the road.”
Luc arched a brow and glanced toward the gates. “The gates have been closed since sunset.”
Brianna spun to look, her golden hair whirling around her shoulders, the wavy tresses evidently having worked free of her braid. Luc was certain he had never seen hair of such an incredible color. It made him want to touch it, but he had no more than lifted his hand before she spun back to face him.
Her lips had thinned that he spoke the truth, but she squared her shoulders regally and looked him dead in the eye.
Indeed, the lady did not surrender the field readily. Luc could not help but admire her persistence.
“You may pass through the broken wall, as the invaders did,” she charged.
“Ah, but ’twould not be seemly,” Luc returned solemnly.
“Seemly?” the lady echoed in an indignant hiss. “What is not seemly is your lingering here when I have granted a quest.”
“Yet here I will remain.” Luc turned and deliberately nicked a spur from the closest bough with his blade, knowing that his indifference would trouble her greatly.
’Twas impossible to resist.
“There is no place for you to sleep,” she claimed, with a toss of her wondrous hair. “I am quite certain that all pallets are claimed this night.”
“I will sleep in the stables. ’Tis no trouble at all.” Luc granted the lady his most winning smile.
Her nostrils flared. “I shall forbid it!”
“But the arrangement is made.” Luc leaned casually against the tree, intrigued by her determination to be rid of him. “Indeed, your ostler is most kind.”
Brianna stamped her foot. “You cannot do this! You must leave on my quest.” She fixed Luc with a bright eye and her voice lowered. “ ’Tis how it works in every bard’s tale—how can you be so cursedly stubborn?”
Before Luc could ask her the same question, the lady took a deep breath and glared at him anew. “Have you forgotten that you were summoned, after all, to compete for my hand?”
“That may be so,” Luc acknowledged easily. “But I came for an entirely different reason.”
The lady blinked and was momentarily at a loss. “You did?”
“Aye. I came to discuss another matter with my father.”
The lady appeared uncertain how to proceed in the face of this information. She looked at Luc, at her hands, at the ground. From what he had already witnessed, Luc suspected ’twould not take her long to chart a new course. He watched and waited, expectant.
He was not to be disappointed.
“You mean that you do not want to win Tullymullagh?” Brianna asked in evident amazement, the very idea clearly unthinkable to her. “Or my hand in marriage?”
Luc shook his head decisively. “Nay.”
She caught her breath at his blunt denial and her eyes widened in astonishment. Luc could see now that Brianna’s eyes were a thousand shades of green, their depths lit with remarkable golden flecks. They tipped upward at the outer corners, like those of a cat or an Eastern seductress, her lashes were of deepest gold and thick beyond all.
Luc saw in their depths a glimmer of intelligence and his resistance to the lady’s allure slipped dangerously. His heartbeat began to echo in his ears and Luc was very aware that he stood in a twilit orchard with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Brianna licked the ruddy fullness of her lips, frowned, then scanned the decrepit orchard in disbelief. When she spoke, her low tone was incredulous. “You truly prefer the company of ancient fruit trees to the pursuit of a quest that might make you a powerful lord?”
“Oh, without a doubt.” Luc watched the lady consider his assertion, clearly never having heard the like, and enjoyed that he was challenging her belief that all would dance to her will.
He realized he liked surprising her. Luc had the distinct sense that Brianna was seldom surprised.
Much less denied.
Her ruby lips parted and Luc wondered, at a most inopportune time, what ’twould be like to kiss this determined Irish princess. Her lips would be softer than soft, he guessed, and his hands would fit right around her waist. She would kiss sweetly in her innocence, though Luc guessed that experience would make her passion burn with a bright flame.
He felt a sudden, quite unreasonable, desire to be the one responsible for that awakening. Indeed, Brianna stood so close to him in this very moment that Luc had but to bend his head to brush his lips across hers. ’Twould be so easy.
The thought was more than tempting.
But that would be wrong! He had no interest in marriage and noblewomen like Brianna could not afford to dally. Nay, ’twould be her chastity that won her a fine match, no more and no less.
All the same, he could not shake his desire for her kiss.
Clearly Luc was even less well suited to the life of a knight than he had previously believed.
Brianna, oblivious to his inner turmoil, wrinkled her nose in a most enchanting way. “But, why?” she asked in genuine confusion. “All men desire to be lords or barons or kings or otherwise greater than they were born. Surely you desire more than you have to your own hand?”
Luc arched a brow at her assumptions. “Which would be what?”
“Well, some holding smaller than Tullymullagh.” Her conviction and her words faltered. “I would assume. I mean, your clothing is like that of a farmer.…” A soft flush suffused the lady’s cheeks and her gaze dropped away from Luc’s in her embarrassment.
Her blush deepened when he said naught. “Unless, of course, I misconstrue the import of your simple garb.”
When she flushed with such maidenly sweetness, ’twas difficult to recall that she was the one who had summoned the brothers here on a mere caprice. Indeed, she looked so innocent and vulnerable that Luc had a errant urge to protect her from harm.
As might better befit the chivalrous knight Luc had long ago decided he would no longer be.
Luc took a deep breath. He would not protect this princess or pursue her quest, but still, he could not be churlish with her for thinking her home fine.
“You guess aright. I administer a Welsh barony in lieu of my sire,” Luc acknowledged quietly. “ ’Tis a modest manor, but suits my needs well enough.”
Brianna slanted a bright glance through her lashes, her cheeks bright pink. “I would apologize if I gave offense. I meant no insult.”
Luc shrugged, unable to keep himself from smiling in reassurance. The lady smiled ever so gently back at him and his heart began to pound once more. “Most nobles think naught of what makes their board groan with abundance.” Luc tried to sound unconcerned by her broadening smile. “But ’tis the farmers and laborers, after all, who break their very backs that they might pay the lord’s tax.”
Those words dismissed her smile before ’twas full.
“Oh!” Brianna drew herself up proudly, the fire back in her gaze. She shook a finger beneath Luc’s nose. “My sire does not overtax his villeins!”
“Nay?” Luc rolled his eyes at her naive trust, then nodded toward the stone keep looming behind them. “And what built Tullymullagh? Such a keep is of great cost to construct, and coin comes from but one source on a holding.” He propped his hands upon his hips and stared down at the defiant princess. “Unless your sire wished thrice upon a clover leaf and had the fairies conjure Tullymullagh in the night?”
Her eyes flashed emerald lightning; when she spoke, her voice was low. “My sire crusaded to the Holy Land,” she declared, fairly biting out the words. “ ’Twas upon his return that he began to build Tullymullagh’s keep, the labor funded by what he had earned there.”
There was misplaced righteousness! Luc knew well enough how crusaders “won” their spoils!
“Earned?” he echoed skeptically. “There is naught earned by crusaders to the East.”
The lady’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“That riches brought from Outremer are oft stolen from infidels and heathens, naught more noble than that.”
Brianna gasped. “My sire is a knight of honor and repute! How dare you slight his intent, when you know naught of him or of crusade?”
“Naught?” Luc barely bit back an explanation of his own past before ’twas uttered. He glared at Brianna, as annoyed with himself for responding to her as with her ability to conjure old memories.
Crusade had naught to do with his life any longer. Luc gritted his teeth and turned back to the tree, removing a spur with more force than was necessary.
“Then you do know something of crusade,” Brianna observed.
Luc flicked a quelling glance her way. “Naught worth discussing.”
The lady was not quelled, but then he had hardly expected as much.
“You are a knight,” she charged softly.
Luc pivoted to face her and folded his arms across his chest in turn. He met the lady’s gaze steadily and determinedly changed the course of their conversation. “It seems to me that matters are most simple. You expect me to depart on your quest. I do not intend to do so. The hour is late, my lady, and I would suggest that you retire, despite your evident urge to be rid of me.”
To Luc’s surprise, his last words were greeted by a flash of fear in the lady’s remarkable eyes. Clearly she wanted him gone—why was she afraid that he understood the truth?
Luc had a sudden sense that something was in the wind.
He took a step closer and the lady, remarkably, backed away, her retreat fueling his suspicions. “Why are you so anxious to see me gone?” he asked. Brianna fairly danced backward, but Luc was in hot pursuit.
“I am not!” she protested, her guilt more than clear.
“What difference does it make whether I linger in the orchard or not, my lady?” Luc asked smoothly. “Have you some scheme concocted?”
Brianna blanched tellingly. What was she planning? “Nay! Not I!” she lied hurriedly. In her haste to escape his questions, the lady stepped on her skirts and stumbled.
Luc lunged forward and caught at her elbow. Brianna gasped as he scooped her off her feet in the nick of time. She clutched his shoulders for a tantalizing moment before she was safely upright again.
Luc could feel her heart hammering against his chest with a fear disproportionate with the potential of falling. Her small hands landed on his shoulders, her toes stood on his sturdy boots, her elbows rested in Luc’s grip. Luc looked into the lady’s luminous eyes, totally unprepared for the jolt of desire that rolled through him.
She was so tiny, so exquisitely feminine.
And she was so very clever. Luc had never been able to resist a puzzle, and Brianna of Tullymullagh was proving to be more of one than he had expected.
He wanted very much to know what plan was hatching in her mind. “I must go,” she insisted and tried to step away.
Luc adjusted his grip ever so slightly, summoning a smile to reassure her. He had no intention of hurting her, but neither would he release her when he was so close to an answer.
“Tell me first what you are scheming,” he suggested.
Her eyes widened. “Naught!” Brianna declared breathlessly.
Luc arched a brow. “That seems unlikely. Why else would you fear my remaining here?”
“I simply want you to go on my quest.” Her words tripped over each other in their haste to be heard.
Luc was not persuaded. “Why?”
Brianna swallowed, she looked away, then she looked up at Luc. “I like you best,” she said, then her cheeks flamed.
’Twas so obviously a lie—both from her manner and the simple truth of Burke’s greater desirability—that Luc laughed aloud.
“Indeed?” he said finally. “I believe, my lady, that you are merely trying to make me do your will.”
Brianna’s flush deepened. “Nay, not I.” She opened her eyes wide and stared up at Luc, as though willing him to believe her. “ ’Tis true.” She patted his shoulder. “Truly.”
Luc did not believe Brianna for a heartbeat, but that did not stop a wicked idea from dancing into his mind.
He arched a brow, enjoying the prospect of surprising this woman yet again. “Aye? Then, if you favor me so very much, why not grant me a token of your esteem?”
Brianna blinked. “My sleeve?” she asked hopefully, as though she knew ’twould not suffice.
Luc shook his head firmly. “Your kiss.”
Brianna’s mouth opened in a perfect circle of surprise. She paled, then another flush stained her cheeks. She dropped her gaze with maidenly modesty but not before Luc saw the sparkle of curiosity in her eyes.
That alone shattered his resistance.
Luc inclined his head and brushed his lips once across hers, not wanting to frighten her. Even that minute taste of Brianna’s lips proved to be sweeter than honey and left him hungry for more. Indeed, Luc wanted naught else but to gather Brianna closer and kiss her so deeply that she could think of naught else.
He paused, though, and waited for her consent.
Her gaze flicked to meet his once more, that sparkle dancing in the emerald depths. “One kiss,” she whispered breathlessly.
Luc did not grant the lady a chance to change her mind.
This, he resolved, would be a kiss worth remembering.
Luc lifted Brianna against his chest, his fingers spreading across the back of her tiny waist. To his delight, his hands did fit perfectly around her slender waist. He slanted his mouth across hers, claiming her lips with tender possessiveness. Brianna tasted of wine and honey, she smelled of roses, she felt more soft than anything Luc had ever felt before.
’Twas but a moment before she tentatively kissed him back.
Luc needed no further encouragement. He deepened his kiss, caressing her lips with his tongue until she opened her mouth to him.
When he took advantage of her move, Brianna gasped, then sighed. Luc swallowed both sounds, his heart thundering when her tiny fingertips landed against his jaw. Her touch was as light as a feather, the press of her curves against him a temptation that was nigh impossible to put aside.
But her kiss revealed her innocence and ’twas not Luc’s place to take more than his due.
Even if he savored what she granted to him.
Finally, Luc set Brianna on her feet and reluctantly lifted his lips from hers. The lady appeared delightfully flustered, yet she would not meet Luc’s gaze.
Remarkably, she seemed to have naught to say for herself. Her breathing was hastened, those fingertips had fallen to Luc’s shoulder. He captured her hand securely within his own.
Brianna’s flesh was so creamy, her hand so fragile within the roughened breadth of Luc’s own palm. That protectiveness returned with a vengeance at the sight of her uncertainty, yet Luc could not resist his urge to plant a single chaste kiss in her palm.
Even her palm was breathtakingly soft.
Brianna caught her breath at his gesture, her other hand rose to her lips. Luc looked into Brianna’s eyes as he folded her fingers over his salute and pressed his lips to her knuckles. She stared at him, clearly well aware that she trod new ground and entirely uncertain how to proceed.
Luc grinned slowly, liking very much that he had surprised her.
Again.
This could well prove habit-forming.
“Off to your chambers, my lady,” he murmured. “ ’Tis late to be wandering about in the orchard with fallen knights, after all.” Brianna glanced up as though surprised by his words and Luc winked, unable to resist teasing her. “Even the one who is your favorite.”
Brianna turned absolutely crimson. She inhaled sharply and snatched back her hand, spinning away to flee across the orchard. She did not glance back until she had reached the safety of the orchard’s perimeter.
Then she shook a finger at him. “I shall not forget this, Luc Fitzgavin!” she huffed. “You have gone too far in this.”
“On the contrary, my lady,” Luc grinned. “I only did your bidding. Is that not what you prefer?”
“Oh! Oh, you are insolent beyond all!” Brianna clearly struggled to find a better argument and failed. She opened her mouth and shut it again, glared at Luc, then pivoted and stalked across the bailey. The princess snatched up her veil en route and continued to the doorway to the hall without stopping.
No doubt she thought Luc would miss her single backward glance.
He saluted her with a single wave when she did look back and was nigh certain he could hear her snort of disapproval. “I shall learn your secret, my lady,” he called softly after her. “Make no mistake about that.”
Though he knew his words must have carried across the silent bailey, Luc was not surprised that Brianna did not answer him.
A tuneless whistle on his lips, he turned toward the stables, acknowledging that Tullymullagh was proving much more interesting than he had expected.
Not to mention a certain princess. ’Twas Brianna’s cleverness alone that snared Luc, no more than that. And the puzzle of whatever scheme she had concocted, of course.
Though, oddly enough, ’twas the taste of her kiss that kept him awake long into the night.
The audacity of the man!
Brianna stormed through the hall, not caring who she troubled in her passage. How dare he insist upon a kiss? A nagging voice in her mind insisted that ’twas her own fault, but Brianna ignored it.
What else could she have done but insist he was her favorite? The man was too perceptive by half! Who else would have discerned that she wanted merely to have him gone and cared little for the quest?
And now, he was determined to remain at Tullymullagh and ferret out whatever plan Brianna had.
She could just spit.
Brianna climbed the stairs to the solar, seething all the while. Surely, Luc could not unravel her plan further? ’Twas bad enough he refused to leave, ’twas quite disconcerting how he delighted in denying her, but surely, he would never figure out her true plan?
Unfortunately for her peace of mind, Brianna was not nearly as certain of that as she might have liked to have been.
Her fingertips rose to her burning lips as she reached the second floor and in the shadows there, Brianna confronted another unwelcome truth.
She might not truly have been lying when she called Luc her favorite of Gavin’s sons. He was by far the most interesting of the three, for he alone defied expectation.
’Twas just a first impression, no more than that, and Brianna knew well enough that such impressions could be deceiving. After all, even the mercenary Gavin thought his eldest son unworthy of note.
All the same, Brianna could not help but wonder why Luc was no longer a knight.
No less what he would do on the morrow.
Connor of Tullymullagh stood at the solar window and watched the waxing half moon rise over what he had wrought. The pale moonlight fell over the bailey below, the curtain wall, the village beyond, the spire of the parish church, and rows of fields lying fallow for the winter.
Connor’s roving gaze came back to the curtain wall over and again. Not one, not two, but three places there were where the wall was yet incomplete. Three breaches—beside the gate—to hold against attack, three weaknesses in Tullymullagh’s defense.
Three reasons why the keep had fallen into alien hands.
Too late, Connor cursed his own foolish trust. He had thought himself secure in his pledge of fealty to the high king, thought Tullymullagh too minor an estate to attract an avaricious eye, thought Ireland a kingdom of peace.
And he had been wrong.
In the wake of that error, Connor could not help but wonder whether his secret had been breached. He had been so very careful for so very many years, but had he merely fooled himself? Had it been his secret that brought Gavin and England’s king to his gates? Connor fought the urge to turn, fought against even looking, let alone checking that all was secure.
A man like Gavin Fitzgerald could not possibly know.
Connor took a shaky breath, frowned, and studied the holding spread before him. The keep that he had spent two decades building, the keep that housed his memories and treasures, would soon be occupied by the spawn of Gavin Fitzgerald.
And there was naught he could do about it. ’Twas a bitter root to swallow. Connor had long planned of Brianna continuing here. He had planned upon Ruarke de Rossiers taking Brianna’s hand and the pair of them bringing son after son to light.
Connor scanned the long empty road for some sign of his champion knight, but found only stillness. He gripped the sill, feeling suddenly old and ineffective. Aye, Connor had had plans aplenty and now had naught to show for it.
He ran his hands across the smooth stone that formed the lip of the window, letting his mind flood with memories of better times instead. Connor felt the heat of a foreign sun upon the back of his neck, tasted the tang of alien spice within his belly, watched a king’s ransom in gems catch the light as they filtered through much younger versions of his hands.
And Connor heard a much-loved voice instruct him upon the differences in pearls, as those same gems—those marvels who snared the very moonlight in their sheen—rolled across his tongue.
Salt from the Red Sea, the precious rarity of sweet from Oman.
Connor stared at the vacant line of the road and wondered whether he could yet taste the difference. This window looked at the distant sea, and beyond, to Outremer, and Connor scanned the horizon in recollection.
He remembered all too well the first stone keep he had seen. By the time he had travelled all the way to Outremer, Connor had seen castles more wondrous than ever he could have imagined. The castles had seized hold of his imagination and, by his return, Connor had been determined to build his own fortress of stone.
As he had. Still he marvelled at the cleverness of the garderobes hidden in the corner of each floor and the wooden ramps outside that guided the refuse to the river swirling around the north side. Basins there were, carved into the very walls, and designed to snare rainwater for the occupants’ use.
The hall itself was high and massive, lofty enough for any king and large enough for any gathering Tullymullagh might host. The floor in the hall was fitted stone, a massive fireplace was nestled into the north wall, its mate into the south.
A stair rose on the wall farthest from the dais, climbing to the second floor with a heavy door at its summit. This tier, with its heavy wooden floor, was divided into three, one of which was occupied by Brianna, the others used for maids and retainers.
The stairs rose again to Connor’s own solar, a lavish chamber that filled the third floor and overflowed with memories for him. Each plank had been laid with care, each stone placed with perfect craftsmanship. The windows here, as elsewhere, were small openings fitted with wooden shutters. By and large, they faced east and south, to diminish the bite of the winter winds.
A tiny staircase wound against one wall of the solar, leading to Connor’s own private chapel at the peak of the tower. The bishop himself had blessed the cross that rose from the roof.
Below Connor’s window was spread the bailey itself, a large courtyard filled with activity each day. The well was here, the armory, the smithy. He could see the portcullis of the gates to this sanctuary.
Connor’s gaze fell on the cursed curtain wall and he knew now that he should have built it first, not last. Though indeed ’twould have been inconvenient for moving the great quantities of stone.
But experience taught the lesson too late.
Behind Connor, to the east of this high tower, lay the garden his beloved Eva had treasured. ’Twas a sign of the differences between them—that he had to look to the mysteries beyond the horizon while she was content within the circle of her garden walls.
’Twas a tribute of a kind that he let the garden tumble into disrepair after Eva’s passing. In truth, Connor had not been able to bear the possibility that the garden Eva so loved continued to flourish after she was gone.
Perhaps ’twas good he could not look upon its tangled waste from here. Perhaps its neglect—and the reason for it—was not a fitting image for a man to carry to his dreams.
Connor frowned. Beyond the gates, a ribbon of road wound through the tightly clustered homes of Tullymullagh’s village, the smoke of peat fires meandering skyward on this chill night. The cross on the roof of the parish church was etched in silhouette against the darkness of the sky, the outlines of distant hills could be seen in the moonlight.
If he squinted, Connor imagined he could see the glint of the sea. It had been so long since he had ventured away from Tullymullagh. Now, he remained by a mercenary’s whim. He might well be forced to leave.
Connor did not know where he would go.
He looked down at his hands, the moonlight making them appear more frail than he knew them to be. He was no longer young; he was no longer idealistic, for time had taught him otherwise.
Aye, he was tired and aged indeed.
There were but two things Connor had left to do in this life. He would see Brianna safely wed to a man of honor, and he would see the legacy he had saved for her safe within her own grip. His eye strayed of its own accord to the stairway rising to the chapel and he turned back to the window with an effort.
A hue and cry burst on the stairs, tearing Connor away from the jeweled treasury of his memories. He spun in dismay, just in time to find the rough Gavin Fitzgerald bursting into his chambers. Connor’s steward, Uther, raced behind him, his expression echoing the horror Connor was feeling.
“My lord! I do apologize!” Uther declared, nearly breathless from a quick climb. “He insisted upon coming to the solar and there was little I could do to stop him!” The steward’s expression was scathing, but the mercenary clearly cared naught for such disapproval.
“Ha!” Gavin declared with satisfaction. “That fool child of yours left the door unlatched. Now I shall claim what should be mine!”
And Connor’s heart clenched in fear.
Did Gavin know his secret?
Gavin’s very presence in Connor’s chamber was offensive, every rough line of his being in marked contrast to the grace of the solar’s decor.
Never mind its precious secret.
Connor’s heart hammered with the fear of discovery. “Nay!” he argued with rare vehemence. “This solar is mine, at least until one of your sons wins Brianna’s hand.”
Gavin swaggered into the room and waved dismissively to Connor. “Nay, old man, I have been patient enough. King Henry divested you of Tullymullagh and granted its possession to me.”
Connor could hardly argue with that, though he dearly desired to do so.
Gavin poked himself in the chest proudly. “ ’Tis my keep now, it has been my keep for a month and ’tis time there were changes made within its walls. I shall savor each one of Tullymullagh’s pleasures, as its rightful lord.” He openly ogled the fine chamber. “Including this one.”
All the same, Connor was not at all prepared to vacate his abode for this savage excuse for a man. And certainly not immediately. ’Twas imperative that Connor see his last two objectives realized.
He folded his arms across his chest and rose to his full proud height. “I shall not move from this chamber. ’Tis to Brianna and her spouse I will yield and none other.”
Gavin sneered. “You have little choice, old man.” He hauled his blade from its scabbard with unexpected speed, then smiled as he touched the tip to Connor’s throat.
Uther gasped. Connor held his ground, letting his contempt for Gavin filter into his gaze.
“Unless you would care to settle the matter with steel upon steel?” Gavin taunted.
Connor stood in regal silence and seethed. His keep might have been granted to Gavin, but ’twas clear enough the man was devoid of chivalrous intent, or indeed any grace.
Yet ’twas also clear that he was younger and more fierce than Connor could hope to be. ’Twas not a swordfight Connor could win, as much as he hated having the truth made so bluntly clear.
But, despite the odds arrayed against him, Connor would only abandon his chambers on his own terms.
Indeed, he could risk no less.
“ ’Tis indeed a bold knight who confronts an unarmed man with Toledo steel,” he commented and valiantly tried to summon the quelling glance for which he was reputed.
Gavin inhaled sharply but before he could rant, Connor pushed the blade aside with one determined fingertip. He was not at all certain Gavin would permit the move, but breathed a silent sigh of relief the other man did.
His cold eye must not be without effect, even in these days.
Encouraged, Connor cleared his throat and spoke sternly, as though he addressed a wayward child. “You cannot expect me to abandon the chambers of a lifetime at your whim. Had you informed me sooner of your wishes, I would have removed my belongings earlier this day.”
To Connor’s delight, Gavin did not seem to know what to say.
“As ’tis, the hour is too late to stir the help.” Connor inclined his head slightly. “First thing on the morrow, I shall prepare the chamber for you—” he gritted his teeth to utter the next words “—as befits Tullymullagh’s new lord.”
As Connor had anticipated, those last words stole the last of the wind from Gavin’s sails. The man looked around the chamber greedily, then narrowed his eyes as he looked at Connor again.
“I shall hold you to an accounting of the solar’s contents,” he growled. “By noon on the morrow.”
Connor’s lips twisted wryly. “I would have expected no less.”
“And your daughter, she must become a suitable lady of the estate for my son.” Gavin continued. “Burke shall have no impulsive creature by his side, but a woman who can be relied upon to see his home in order.”
Connor bridled at the insinuation that his daughter was less than perfect, but Uther stepped forward. “We have already begun such tutelage,” he lied and Gavin grunted his approval.
“Good. Then, we all understand each other.” Gavin’s eyes narrowed as he looked back to Connor. “I shall have your hide if that bed is moved, or that chest, or that inlay trunk or—”
“I shall take only those belongings most personal,” Connor interrupted crisply. Uther looked positively lethal over the vulgarity of this transaction, but Connor gestured for the loyal steward to say naught.
Indeed, Connor would ensure the one token of value was gone so completely as to not even be missed.
“There will be no trick?” Gavin demanded with a suspicion that made Connor fear anew that his thoughts had been discerned. “You will not lock me in the hall below once more if I leave?”
Connor’s lips thinned and he spoke with great precision. “I give you my word of honor.”
Gavin snorted. “Words!” he sneered. He jabbed his sword through the air at the older man. “I shall take my rest on the floor directly below, that you or your wayward daughter cannot deceive me again. This chamber shall be mine by noon on the morrow, Connor once of Tullymullagh, make no mistake.”
He leaned closer, brandishing the sword. “And do not push the limits of what you deem personal effects.”
Connor held the man’s gaze stubbornly as Gavin shoved his blade back into his scabbard. Gavin turned and stalked to the doorway, pushing aside the scandalized steward.
“Make no mistake yourself, Gavin Fitzgerald,” Connor uttered with quiet resolve. Gavin paused on the threshold to look back. “I shall always be of Tullymullagh. ’Tis in my blood, as ’tis not in your own.”
The two men’s gazes held for a long charged moment. Perhaps something of Connor’s old indomitability shone in his eyes, for Gavin evidently thought better of arguing the point.
Then mercifully, the man swore and was gone.
“Barbarian,” Uther muttered under his breath.
“Beyond doubt,” Connor agreed. The exchange had left him newly decisive, and the path before him lay clear. “Summon Brianna. I will not have her slumbering in any ways near that man. She has defied him—as have I—and I imagine this Gavin is not one to forget a slight.”
’Twas as good an excuse as any to see his daughter close at hand, though Connor did not truly believe that even Gavin would sully a prize destined for one of his sons.
Uther, though, inhaled sharply at the very prospect, then bowed low and clicked his heels. “Aye, my lord. I shall ensure that the lady Brianna arrives with all haste.”
But Connor was already thinking ahead. He must find some way to work his prize into Brianna’s possession, and thence to safety, without his daughter ever guessing the value of what she held.
Sadly for his ends, the princess of Tullymullagh shared her mother’s keen intelligence. Connor frowned and tapped his toe as he thought.
Brianna also shared Eva’s love of a romantic tale. At that recollection, the old king permitted himself an indulgent smile.
Forgive me, my Eva, but the ends do justify the means.