Part 44 (1/2)
”Language barrier still a wee bit of a problem, is it?”
”Driscoll remains behind-and aye-”
”I will give it, PenDragon.”
He met his gaze, a challenge in his eyes. ”How much do you offer to heal this land?”
”My word, my honor.”
Gaelan searched his eyes for the lie and didn't find it. He nodded, then held out his hand. They clasped, fist over wrist in a warrior's bond. ”'Twill do-for now.”
With a quirk of his lips, Ian stepped back, then headed to his horse, and Gaelan wheeled Grayfalk toward the gates.
Rhiannon raced to his side. ”What will you do with him?”
Gaelan's face was an unforgiving mask as he stared down at her. ”I would sever his hide from his body, but we need him to end this.”
”He forfeits the lives of his family, they all do”-she gestured to the bloodstain in the dirt without looking-”to help you.”
Gaelan refused to be baited by her tears. Had she spoken up, this would have been solved faster. Had Patrick come to him, he could have stopped this feud before so many were slaughtered like livestock. He leaned down and said, ”I have no more mercy.”
She staggered in horror.
The young O'Donnel stepped forward. ”My lord. O'Niell keeps the families in Coleraine.” Gaelan's brows shot up. ”'Tis why there is so little to share, I'm thinkin'. There are too many new families without men to hunt and protect.”
Gaelan nodded, then called for his soldiers. ”Markus. a.s.semble three squads, take two wagons of provisions to Coleraine with young O'Donnel here, and bring back any who wish to live in Donegal.”
”Or south,” Ian said, his mount sidestepping.
Gaelan eyed him for a moment, then called for Driscoll. ”You are in command.” Driscoll frowned, clearly wanting to join the search, yet did not gainsay the order. ”I want a guard on her every second.” He pointed to Rhiannon, then met her gaze. ”Your sister will have no say in your fate, Rhiannon, understand this. Tend to DeClare and my son.”
Driscoll grasped her arm, ushering her toward the keep. Gaelan ordered the weapons and mounts restored to Maguire's men, the prisoner under Ian's supervision. Ian crossed to Patrick. Before he reached him, Rhiannon tore from Driscoll's grasp, her body slamming against Patrick's, arms clutching him, her sobs m.u.f.fled against his chest.
”Shhh, love, shhh,” he murmured against her hair. ”Do not cry for me.”
”I cannot bear it.”
”You will, you must. We were never meant to be, not in this life. Our treachery has done this and we must suffer the price.”
His voice was resigned and she hated it, hated that she could not have the man she loved, that he'd abandoned her only to return and destroy them again. She tilted her head back to meet his gaze.
”Give me my dignity in this and keep your own.” His voice fractured, softened. ”Do not let my last sight of you be in tears.” He bent and kissed her, a ferocious soul-stripping match that stirred all who looked on. Then he stepped back and allowed himself to be hoisted into the saddle and bound to it. Ian took the leads, riding after PenDragon.
Patrick looked back over his shoulder only once. Rhiannon stood alone and proud, honoring him with her stiff spine, her unshed tears. They pa.s.sed through the gates and she remained perfectly still until they closed behind him.
Then she sank to her knees and wept for the forever her lies had cost her.
Chapter 33.
The sea raged, the crush hammering at her stone prison. Rain splattered, and she flinched with each drop, the icy water sizzling against her body. The air was colder, the breeze swifter, brus.h.i.+ng her hair back from her face as she lifted her head. She glanced about, suddenly aware she was not alone.
Across from her perch, a yawning hole stood where a door had once been. The storm cast shadows darker than night, silhouetting the figure framed in the crooked stone entrance.
She cursed him behind the gag.
He chuckled, thinly sinister and brittle with suppressed anger. And madness.
”I wish I could kill you now.”
Her eyes spoke for her. Do it then.
”Not yet.”
Suddenly he leapt the empty s.p.a.ce between them, stones falling over the crumbling edge of the floor, and Siobhan pressed against the wall till it bit into her back. He squatted and pulled the gag from her mouth.
She spat, working feeling into her jaw. ”Who are you?” She could not see his face.
But he snickered as if she was a fool.
She felt the s.h.i.+elding warmth of his body as he moved closer, then the coldness of a blade against her unprotected cheek. ”So pretty,” he whispered and with a quick flick, p.r.i.c.ked her skin.
She turned her face away, but he caught it, forcing her to meet a gaze she could not see. ”Why do you do this? I know naught of you.”
”I know. 'Tis the sweetest victory, my lady.” He's English, she thought. ”You will die and never know by whose hand.”
”Then what victory is that?”
”Only mine.” He dragged the blade against her jaw, down the slender column of her throat, and Siobhan told herself if he wanted her dead, he would have done it before now. Was he a coward? Or just taunting her?
”Her face peeled away from her skull like the rind of an apple,” he whispered close to her ear, and cold wracked her. ”She stared into my eyes as I took her nose, her lips.”
Siobhan's stomach recoiled at the image.
”She was alive then,” he hissed. ”Alive.” He tisked, a sound lacking in sympathy or remorse. ”'Twas you I wanted. Only you.”
”Why?”
”'Tis my right!”
”Who are you?”
”Your king.”