Rhiannon entered the chamber, her hands folded in front of her bloodstained ap.r.o.n as she watched the pair, envy in her eyes. Her gaze shifted to the dark hole in the wall. "What is this?" She moved briskly forward as Gaelan rose to his full, imposing height.

"'Tis obviously the escape route of the killer." Gaelan searched her expression. "Have you something to tell me, Rhiannon?"

Her gaze jerked to his. She stared briefly, then looked down at Connal. "Culhainn will survive. He is in the solar. You may go to him."

Connal twisted to look up at Gaelan, and he nodded his permission.

Rhiannon's lips tightened with irritation as she watched the boy leave. She glanced between Gaelan and Raymond. "I did not know of this." She flicked a hand at the tunnel. "Nor who killed Meghan."

"'Tis the why of it I wish to know. Someone risked his life to do that!" He lashed a hand to the bed. "Who was the warrior in the woods?"

"A Fenian. I told you they wanted information to destroy you."

He grabbed her arms "You lie."

"They want to bring you down quickly. All English. They threatened this"-her gaze glanced off the bed-"if I did not comply." Her voice fractured with shame. "I did not believe they would get to her. Don't you see? We cannot stop them."

Gaelan scoffed, thrusting her from him so hard she stumbled back. "I will, woman, be a.s.sured." He turned to Raymond. "Get a small torch. We find where this ends." He gestured to the tunnel. "And I want a guard on her." He pointed, anger blistering his tone. "She does not p.i.s.s unless someone is present."

Rhiannon gasped.

His gaze raked her. "You prefer the dungeon?"

"Nay."

"I do this because Connal needs you, not out of sympathy for my wife's sister. If I find you have lied, Rhiannon, I will banish you from this place forever." Gaelan flicked a dismissive hand, turning his back on her. Raymond nodded ahead and Rhiannon spun on her heels, her spine stiff as she quit the room.

Gaelan braced his back against the nearest wall and slid to the floor, cradling his head in his hands. Helplessness overwhelmed him. Siobhan was alone, unarmed and likely injured. And if I do not find her, if she is dead? He swallowed over and over, smothering his fear until it left a dull throbbing ache in his chest.

Wherever you are, my love, submit and live.

Sliding his fingers down his face, Gaelan stared at naught, planning his next moves. His gaze fixed on a pile of fabric on the floor and he reached, bringing it close, shaking it out. It was a banner, his banner, yet without the bar sinister cutting it diagonally. And in the claw of the dragon was the thistle of Donegal. His eyes watered and he blinked, then buried his face in the cloth, catching her scent in the weave.

"Gaelan?"

He tilted his head back to find Raymond near, an unlit torch in his hand.

"Driscoll has them all under guard." His expression said it was useless since the discovery of the tunnel. "And Owen is here and was at the gates the entire time."

Nodding, Gaelan climbed to his feet, laying the fabric carefully aside. Raymond struck a flint to a torch and together they ducked into the tunnel.

He was as ruthless as he'd ever been, Raymond thought. Combing through Donegal with the precision he exacted in a planned attack, a siege. Men walked in lines, overturning brush, digging through cl.u.s.ters of trees, shrubs. But there was no way to cover every inch of land. And that fact was bleeding him dry. When Gaelan came to the villages, he approached with quiet care, his voice losing its angry bite. He removed his armor, the battle-ax and fierce dragon helm left in the camp. He came with only his sword strapped at his side. As humble as Lord Donegal could be.

Gaelan smiled, and Raymond knew there was no pleasure in the gesture.

He spoke softly when he wanted to rage.

He offered coin when he would have offered his soul for a morsel of information.

He touched the crown of a girl-child with long dark red hair, and Raymond saw pure agony flash across his features, instantly hidden from prying eyes. He'd seen it often in the past days, when he thought no one was watching. Gaelan would not allow a single soul to witness his pain, to see him weakened by it, and maintained the stoic expression as he had through a hundred other battles. Yet in the darkness of the evening, when they stopped to make camp and Gaelan retired to his pavilion, Raymond heard him beg G.o.d for her life, tears in his voice.

If this faceless enemy wanted to bring him to his knees, Raymond knew he was nearly there.

Not knowing where his wife was, if she was alive or injured, or buried under the very ground he trod, was unbearable torture, and Raymond hated to see him suffer, hated that he could do naught for him.

I never want to fall in love that hard, he thought. 'Twas not worth this slow death.

He swallowed the stone of despair every time he thought of the slaughter left in the lord's marriage bed and how Siobhan would fair against one so lethal. What kind of man carved a woman's face from her skull, he wondered for the hundredth time. To what purpose? It was clear Meghan was mistaken for Siobhan, her hair and coloring and her location obvious, yet even Gaelan did not know the maid slept there. Had the killer realized his mistake and in rage cut the false face off?

It was madness. Raymond suspected that if they found her, and if she were, by the grace of G.o.d, alive, she would be abused beyond hope. He hated himself for his weakened thoughts and refused to show them to Gaelan. The resolution of his troops was hard enough.

Raymond watched Gaelan walk toward him from the crofter's hut.

Gaelan paused at Grayfalk's side, gripping the pommel, fighting the urge to destroy everything around him. He met Raymond's gaze and shook his head, then swung up into the saddle, guiding the mount away from the solitary home on the edge of the border lands. They rode in silence, pausing just outside the encampment. Irish and English shared the warmth of fires and meals, the lines, so clearly drawn between them for weeks, faded with the need to find their princess.

My Irish princess.

Gaelan raked his fingers through his hair, his stomach clenching painfully. "On the morrow send them back."

Raymond blinked, at the sound of his voice in the stillness and the command. "All of them?"

"Aye. I go alone."

"How can you think to cover so much land?"

"We are nearly in Maguire's tuath, Raymond. Any further and we threaten a war with this many troops. Henry needs time to woo his new cache of earls," he added bitterly.

Raymond could not disagree with that. "I ask to remain with you, Gaelan. Let Driscoll, Mark and Andrew go on ahead."

"Nay, my friend. I go alone. I need you at the castle." His tone brooked no argument and he wheeled around and rode to the edge of the glen.

Long moments stretched to hours as he sat there, looking over the land, staring at nothing. The muscles in his throat rubbed like grated gla.s.s, threatening his breathing, and Gaelan felt his world coming to a brisk end, for without Siobhan it meat naught. Without her, land and home were just a roof and walls and earth.

It was near dawn when he returned to his pavilion, the loneliness leaving an ache so deep Gaelan didn't think he had the will to continue.

But he did. If only for the chance to kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who'd sent him to this h.e.l.l.

Chapter 26.

Open land surrounded him. The lushest green he'd ever clapped eyes on. Hours ago his troops forged toward the castle. Gaelan could not stomach the thought of Connal being alone in his worry, yet neither could he cease his search, not even to comfort the boy.

Squatting near the blaze, he drove his fingers into his hair, gripping his skull. It was as she had said, he thought, squatting and staring at the small fire. If he could not feed and protect his people, then he had no right to rule it. By the proclamation of Henry or the church, he did not.

The emptiness was swallowing him whole, leaving behind a barren cavern in his chest. She'd saved him from a desolate life, from feeling this emptiness again. It did not matter that he'd wanted the coin Henry offered, and to leave here ... nay, to hide, he corrected honestly, to secret himself away from feeling this much. He cursed Henry for sending him here, then blessed him for giving him the chance to know love, to earn her respect when she loathed the man he was. To be someone she was proud to love.

For an eternity, I will love you.

To be denied it, denied her smiles, her touch-her wisdom, because some band of Irish warriors hiding in the trees wanted to see him fail was-impossible.

And in a burst of rage, he lurched to his feet, her name tearing from his lips.

It echoed across the open land.

One by one, figures emerged out of the darkness, rising from the ground like beasts from pools of smoke.

Gaelan's sword was in his hand before the first one was upright. He sensed a familiarity in these men. The men Siobhan met in the forest.

The attack came swiftly. Five warriors, hooded and agile, descended on him like locusts. Gaelan sidestepped and swung his broadsword, decapitating a man, his head rolling into the fire as Gaelan swung the sword around his back, switching hands and driving it into another's chest.

For an instant, the burning skull held them rapt.

"Where is she?"

A third man threw a short blade and it impacted with Gaelan's unarmored body, driving into his shoulder to the hilt and hitting bone. He flinched, yet advanced, fending off attack as he pulled the knife from his shoulder. With a sinister smile, he threw. The blade sank into an opponent's throat, piercing the jugular.

With shrill war cries, two men charged, but Gaelan was a man driven with vengeance, the need to vent his rage and helplessness swelling to mammoth proportions. He expelled it on the perfect targets. He lashed at one, then the other, so close his sword left a track of blood over one man's chest, his chin.

"Come," he growled, waving them close. "Bleed me more."

"If you must leave this land in a sack of pieces, then so be it, Sa.s.senach."

A hooded man lunged. Gaelan did not bother with his sword and drove his gauntleted fist into one man's face, driving his nose into his brain and dropping him where he stood. Instantly he turned his blade to the other, the last, advancing, jabbing, p.r.i.c.king him like a pincushion.

"Where is my wife?"

The man went noticeably still for an instant, eyes flaring inside the black hood. "Your people will die, PenDragon."

"You concede they are mine?" Another jab, this one in the thigh and enough to draw a burst of blood. He'd bleed him to death without a single mortal wound, his rage was so tremendous.

"The English are yours."

A quick clash of swords, thrust, strike and thrust, and the two backed off, circling. "Ahh, so you do not think I belong for the blood in my veins when the blood of a traitor runs in yours?"

With a harsh growl, the man lunged forward to strike. Gaelan brought the flat of his sword down so hard the Irishman's arm quivered with the vibration. His aim faltered and Gaelan tucked the blade tip under his throat.

"Drop it."

The sword fell. There was not a shred of regret or fear in his eyes as he awaited his death, as if he expected no less.

"Who sent you?"

He remained silent.

Gaelan called to Grayfalk and the horse nickered, sauntering to him. Without taking his gaze from the survivor, lie swung up onto the saddle. "Only a coward comes in the dark." With the tip of his sword, he pierced the top of the hood, slicing it open.

The hood fell to just below the man's eyes. Green eyes narrowed and Gaelan felt a sense of awareness, as if he'd seen those eyes before, yet knew he had not. Gaelan drew the razor-sharp blade over the man's cheek, laying it open. He did not move a muscle, did not flinch, and Gaelan admired his bravery.

"Where is my wife?"

"On Ireland, I swear I do not know." Desperation laced his voice with a weariness lending more than from this skirmish.

Gaelan scoffed, sheathing his b.l.o.o.d.y sword. "I'm to trust a vow from a traitor to us all?"

The man glanced around at his fallen comrades, then to Gaelan.

"You are not the master in this," Gaelan said with utmost certainty. There was too much to debate over this man's behavior. He did not know Siobhan was missing until now and it left Gaelan with a new hole in his theories of who was trying to destroy this parcel of lad. "I show mercy for one reason only ... from what I've learned of the Irish loyalty and honor, your death will come at the hands of your countrymen, not from me."

Mortification pa.s.sed over the man's features and Gaelan had his answer. He wheeled about and rode into the darkness, leaving the Fenian warrior to bury his dead where they lay.

Gaelan st.i.tched his wound closed as best he could, cursing himself for not wearing his armor, but the metal skins made a b.l.o.o.d.y racket out on the moors, especially at night. Just as Siobhan had said. The dull throb did little to draw him from the thoughts plaguing him as he ventured a few miles near the sh.o.r.e. He knew naught of this area, the people, only that it was a place he had not looked. Hidden in the rise of a small forest, he stared down at the village, scenting the sea, hearing the crash of waves in the distance. Dismounting, he lashed Grayfalk to a tree where he could nibble on the soft earth, then removed the armor secured to his saddle. He buried it with his b.l.o.o.d.y clothes, wearing little more than boots, braies, a coa.r.s.e brown tunic and a fur belonging to Driscoll. He'd already experienced the prejudice of his station and after the first day would not risk a piece of information slipping through his fingers. His sword he could not leave behind, but buried the ornate scabbard.

Daybreak brought sunshine and warmer breezes as Gaelan walked toward the village. He paused at the edge, inhaling deeply, cleansing the impatient anger in him. His gaze moved over the ring of trees circling the village like sentinels, to the homes, thatched and low slung. Yards were neat, the street combed smooth of ruts. Children worked and played. Several women stood near the town well, drawing water. Two men sat on stools, mending fishing nets and talking, while across the way a father and son struggled to fashion an animal pen. Gaelan strode forward, trying hard to remember every bit of Gaelic Driscoll had taught him and wondering if there was a tavern or an inn. Gaelan had yet to pa.s.s through a village without a tavern at least. The Irish, he knew, loved their drinking and put his men to shame often enough. His steps faltered, and he wondered if Raymond had made it back yet, and what Connal was feeling. He took succor in the fact that Rhiannon was with the boy.

A sudden crack brought him around, his sword out. He watched as a tree tipped, splintering through the remaining cut in its base before slamming into the ground. The jolt sent leaves and dirt up in a puff. A pair-father and son, Gaelan a.s.sumed-laughed at the log as if the b.l.o.o.d.y thing were more than dead wood. Gaelan carefully slid the sharp sword into a loop in his waist belt.

"Ey, lad? c.u.m lend us a wee bit o'tha' muscle you've got just lying there."

Gaelan grinned. The father and son were trying to lift a fallen log that should be split before attempting it and Gaelan strode close, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the freshly felled tree.

"Where do you want it?"

"There. It fell the wrong way," the boy added, sheepish, and his father winked at him.

Gaelan nodded and moved to the end, the other two opposite him. He lifted, and even though it wasn't a strain, he felt his shoulder open again. He dropped the log in its appointed spot and clutched his shoulder. Pain burned through the torn skin.

"My thanks-ah, yer hurt! Why didn't you say so, lad?"

Gaelan smiled. "You'd have been all day trying to chop it up to move it." Blood seeped into his clothing.

The father, a slender, black-haired man, looked at his son, and Gaelan thought the resemblance between the two uncanny. "Go get the healer and be quick about it." The boy dashed off, and then to Gaelan he said, "Come sit and wait. She'll sew you back into your body right enough."

Gaelan dropped to a stump and the man brought him a cup of water. He sipped, and though the wound did not offer enough pain to warrant so much attention, he would not dismiss it. Irish hospitality was a way of life, and he knew this man would give his last slice of bread to a stranger, if he needed it. And Gaelan needed these people. He needed a friend right now and introduced himself as simply Gaelan.