Part 24 (1/2)

”She?”

”Mother Superior.”

Pentony was shocked to find his lips twitching into a grin.

”She did what?” Rardove repeated, incredulous. ”Kicked you out? She's a woman, woman,” he sputtered, waving his hand at the soldier's belt. ”You have a sword.”

The soldier cleared his throat. ”Aye, my lord. But she has G.o.d.”

Rardove's face went absolutely unreadable. It looked like he didn't best know how to explode. His face turned slowly, like an autumn oak leaf, into a bright, flaming red.

”Get out!” he roared. The soldier skittered backward and fled the room before the echoes faded. he roared. The soldier skittered backward and fled the room before the echoes faded.

Pentony rose and began a.s.sembling the sheaves of parchment scattered across the table. ”Ireland has become quite a hotbed of treason of late,” he observed mildly. ”You, O'Melaghlin, Red.”

There was no verbal reply, but it felt as if a towering presence had suddenly built in the room, like a stack of storm clouds. Pentony looked over his shoulder. Rardove was staring at him. Pentony stilled, sheaves of paper in hand, while the strangest combination of amazement and...joy dawned on Rardove's face, as if Pentony had beautiful, naked women dancing behind him. How terribly odd. Or perhaps just terrible, for no reason he could name.

”G.o.d. d.a.m.n,” Rardove exhaled.

Uneasy, Pentony dropped the scrolls and let them roll over on themselves, like small flat creatures nesting.

The baron got to his feet. ”G.o.dd.a.m.n, you're G.o.dd.a.m.ned brilliant, Pentony.”

G.o.d had been d.a.m.ned quite enough in the past minute, even in this place of sin. Something was amiss.

Pentony was surprised by the cold, wavy sensation moving through his chest. Was that nervousness? Worry? It had been too long to know for certain.

”My lord?”

Color was flooding back into the baron's face, florid, healthy, disturbing. He snapped his fingers. ”Sit. Write.”

Pentony did neither. ”Write what, my lord?”

”Write about treason,” Rardove retorted, almost gleeful. ”As you said, terrible treachery abounds in Ireland. The Irish have grown far too bold, and this intrigue with Red proves it. 'Tis time to crush them.”

”Crush them?”

The soles of Rardove's boots cracked against the wood planks beneath the rushes. ”This alliance between Red and the Irish threatens the king's peace along every sh.o.r.e of his realm. Edward will not like to hear of it.”

Pentony had a flash of understanding. Hear of this, this, rather than of the fact that Rardove had both found and lost a dye witch, all without mentioning it to his liege. Putting out the hue and cry on someone else was an excellent way to deflect attention from one's own crimes. rather than of the fact that Rardove had both found and lost a dye witch, all without mentioning it to his liege. Putting out the hue and cry on someone else was an excellent way to deflect attention from one's own crimes.

It was a frighteningly clever maneuver.

”Edward will be enraged to find more Celts aligning against him, with what he has brewing in Scotland.” Rardove looked over, saw Pentony staring, and waved his hand through the air. ”Write, man. Write!”

Pentony sat and dipped the tip of the quill in the inkwell, more by long years of habit than obedience. ”Who?” he asked, although he already knew. He wrote slowly.

”Wogan, the justiciar. He is riding to us? Well, let us send riders to intercept him along the way, and tell him of the intrigues of the Irish.”

Pentony's pen scratched across the parchment.

”No, I shall not wait placidly for war to be launched upon me,” Rardove said, in a voice as close to thoughtful as he could come. He ran his fingers through his beard. ”Send word to all the neighboring lords as well. And all my va.s.sals.”

Pentony's pen scratched to a halt. He looked up slowly. ”Why, my lord?”

Rardove strode to the window. He moved in and out of the narrow bands of sunlight that squeezed through the shutters. Flipping the rusty iron latch up, he flung them wide. Sunlight poured in. It hurt Pentony's eyes.

”The lord governor of Ireland marches north,” Rardove said loudly. ”The king of England is marching too. The harvest is in. It is time to make war on the Irish.”

Chapter 31.

Finian lay on his back and stared at the stars. For almost twenty years, he'd devoted himself to a two-fold goal. Recover Irish lands, notably the Wishme beaches, and never, ever get entrapped by a woman.

Yet here he was...

What?

Bedding a woman. He threw his arm over his face and thought it again, liking how it sounded. That's all he'd done. Bed a beautiful and intelligent woman. Nothing else had happened.

He groaned into the bend of his arm. There was no fooling himself here. Nothing would ever be the same again. Because he'd more than bedded her. He'd possessed her. Dived into her like she was a river and he the rain.

And he was not done yet. Like water on parched skin, he was absorbing her, never even knowing he'd been dying of thirst.

She lay collapsed atop his chest, her legs draped on either side of his hips like streamers, trembling slightly. He was still inside her, and had no desire to pull out. Even now, minutes later, soft quivers still occasionally rippled through her body, caressing him softly as his fingers curled around a length of her hair, idly lifting it, then letting it fall. Even in sleep, her body still responded.

He felt her s.h.i.+ft. She lifted her head and looked at him. He smiled faintly.

”Ye're awake.”

She nodded.

”Will ye tell me something?”

”I will tell you anything.”

No, he thought. he thought. Do not say such things. Do not say such things.

”What did ye mean,” he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, ”when ye said ye're not an innocent?”

She nodded, as though this was what she'd expected. ”I was married before.”

”When?”