"Oh, nay, my lady. 'Tis just that Gaelan mentioned ... I did not think..."

"You didn't think I would turn so ugly?"

"There is always beauty in your strength, princess. And 'tis a miracle you survived."

"I owe Fionna that credit, sir." She turned toward the village, and though he offered his arm for support, she refused it. As Raymond met her stride, the strangest feeling permeated his skin. He glanced about, swearing they were being watched, yet he could find no one in the morning light.

"'Tis Fionna." Siobhan paused, glancing into the thicket of trees. "Likely a bird or a squirrel this time."

Raymond made a disbelieving sound. "Great Scots."

She met his gaze, smiling. "Fionna," she called. "He does not believe in you."

"He's English," came from above. "And therefore a fool." Scowling, Raymond looked up to see a silver gray cat laying on the fork of a branch, tail curling up and down.

"Shame on you, Fionna." Siobhan kept walking, giggling softly.

"That is not a human," Raymond insisted, catching up with her and still looking back over his shoulder. He hoped the cat or any other creature didn't dig up his armor and extra provisions.

Siobhan introduced him as they walked through the village, the people smiling and friendly, and Raymond took up a position as a wood cutter and kept a close eye on anyone approaching her.

Later that afternoon, Raymond folded the leather straps around the bundle of wood and hoisted it to his back, carting it to the next home. He traded the service for food and wine, and the townsfolk were more than generous, considering there was no hiding the fact that he was English and the folk mentioned soldiers attacking the village.

Raymond saw no benefit. It was too far from Donegal, nor was it very prosperous. It was clear someone wanted a war and for Gaelan to start it. But without an enemy, their hands were tied tight. He stopped at Siobhan's cottage and found her sitting in a chair outside the door. It was odd to see her simply sitting, for the woman he knew moved like a whirlwind through the castle. Then he noticed her fidgeting.

"Nay, do not get up, my lady."

"Are you hungry? Please say so, Raymond. I am nigh going mad with all this rest," she said with disgust.

He grinned. "I will be hungry, if it pleases my lady."

She made a sour face. "Patronizing does not become you. Deliver your wood, then." She waved him off.

"After that I must check on my weapons and armor."

"Need you grain for your mount?"

"She will survive."

He walked away, delivering the wood, saluting her as he pa.s.sed, and Siobhan could not help but throw, "Beware of the witches. 'Tis dusk, you know."

Raymond scoffed, walking briskly out of the village. "Superst.i.tious rot," he muttered, yet glanced about, seeing more in the forest than he knew was there.

Carrying a tray, Rhiannon stepped into the solar and was more than a little irritated by the sight of Connal sitting on the old desk, his feet swinging as he took aim with his slingshot. Gaelan spoke softly to him, encouragingly, and her heart clenched at the relationship the unlikely pair shared.

Connal took the shot. The pebble pinged against the wood cup sitting on a keg in the corner. Gaelan praised him, ruffling his hair.

She cleared her throat.

The pair looked up and Gaelan whispered to Connal. He immediately jammed the slingshot into his braies and hopped off the desk, moving past with only a mumbled, "Good day." He has taken him from me, she thought, then called herself selfish. The boy needed a father, a man to guide him. "I took that away."

His look said he was aware of the lad's behavior. "He will scrub out the kettles for the next sennight in penance to Nova."

She nodded, wishing she'd thought of that.

An uncomfortable silence stretched. "Driscoll said you were wounded?"

"Aye." Gaelan scratched at his shoulder.

She nodded to the st.i.tches. "How long have they been in?"

He shrugged. "Four days mayhaps."

"Then they need to come out." She moved closer, setting the tray laden with a bowl of water and cloths on the desk. He pulled off his tunic and shirt in one move, then sat as Rhiannon came to his side, soaking a cloth and laying it over the healing wound to soften the dried blood. She sharpened her knife, then without a word lifted the cloth and plucked at the st.i.tches.

She inhaled, her hand on his shoulder. "She lives."

Gaelan's gaze snapped to hers and he cursed his lack of forethought. "Aye, and keep it to yourself." Her hand lingered on him and he shoved it off.

"Why do you keep this from them?" She inclined her head to the castle folk beyond the walls.

"And have her killer find her?" he sneered. "Finish and be gone, woman."

She pulled the last st.i.tch and padded the wound, wrapping and tying it off.

Gaelan turned to his clothes, donning them quickly, refusing to speak a word as he tucked his tunic inside the wide belt. When he was wont to leave, she grabbed his arm.

"She is my sister; I would not hurt her. I love her."

Her unguarded expression gave him pause, and he considered whether his a.s.sumptions might be wrong. "Your silence will have a price. Who do you hide, Rhiannon?"

Indecision warred in her and finally she burst with, "The raiders, they are-" She clasped her hands, staring at the floor, before sighing and lifting her gaze to his. "Without choice."

"'Tis an easy excuse, and there is always a choice, woman."

He was right, of course. And when the wrong ones were made, one must live with the price.

"And theirs is to murder," he growled, looming over her. "I saw infants slaughtered, old women dragged till there was naught left on their bones, Rhiannon. There is naught in this world that would justify slaying innocents!"

"You did in the name of coin."

"I fought warriors, soldiers, those capable of killing me, and never once have I slain a child!"

He thrust her aside, yet before he reached the door she said softly, "But your men have."

He jerked a look at her.

"Did not Sir Owen, in the heat of battle, try to kill Siobhan?"

Gaelan's expression turned black as tar pitch, for both knew that in battles innocents did die.

On his knees Raymond dug in the dirt, checking on his armor and weapons. When his fingers touched the cold metal, he quickly recovered it and stood, heading toward the spot where he'd left his horse. He walked briskly, his intentions clear, until he noticed footprints in the dirt, hoof prints he knew his mount did not make. Raymond followed the path, squatting once or twice to examine the depressions. The sun was setting, the glow offering little light, and he had naught to form a serviceable torch. He was about to turn back to his mount when he stumbled, falling to his knees and catching himself before he hit the ground. Something hard bruised his palm and he dug, fingering a thick metal ring attached to a rope. Raymond stood, pulling, and in the fading light the earth opened, a great misshapen door swinging out of the ground, like the door of a cellar.

He let it drop to the ground, sending leaves and dust into the air, then leaned over the cavern, peering.

"Great Scots."

The impact was swift and deadly, smacking his shoulder, driving blistering pain through his body and bringing him to his knees. A javelin, he thought, twisting, trying to unsheathe his sword, but it only served to drive the spear deeper. His a.s.sailant kicked him and he tumbled headfirst into the grotto. And into unconsciousness.

Chapter 30.

Siobhan rushed into Fionna's cottage. "Help me, please."

Twisting, Fionna frowned, noticing first the fear in her cousin's eyes, and the mammoth sword clutched in her hands. Then the blood. Quickly laying aside her spoon and covering the cook pot, she followed her outside.

Instantly, she bent to Raymond. "Oh lady be praised," Fionna muttered when she found a pulse. The javelin shaft protruded from his shoulder, snapped off inches beyond his skin, and fortunately, halting the bleeding. Fionna called for Paddy and several others to help carry the Englishman into her cottage as Siobhan told her how she'd found him crawling on the ground.

"I dragged him till I found his horse-"

Fionna cursed the stars under her breath.

"And fear I've made his wounds worse," Siobhan finished, waiting until Raymond was on the bed before setting the weapon aside to pull off his boots. "He had his sword in his hand still, bless his Norman hide."

Fionna spared her a concerned look, her gaze sweeping Siobhan's body. "You should have left him," she scolded, then glanced to be certain they were alone before adding, "You did not pierce him. This is not your fault."

"Then who's is it? He promises Gaelan to watch over me and look what happens!" She cut the tunic off him whilst Fionna poured tinctures down his throat.

"Do not speak of it now. This one will die if we do not work quickly."

She tugged at the spear tip and Raymond stirred on the bed, thrashing in pain. Fionna closed her eyes and chanted softly, laying her hand over his brow. He settled and she hiked her skirts and climbed atop him, bracing her knees on his arms and pinning him to the bed. With two hands, she grasped the javelin and yanked. He howled, arching sharply and throwing her off, dumping her on the floor, his chest oozing fresh blood. Siobhan reached for Fionna, but she waved her off, ordering her to cover the wound.

She did. "Sweet Mary mother, how does he still live?"

"He is a stubborn, stupid English is how," Fionna muttered, climbing to her feet and corking the wound with cloth. Siobhan sopped the blood pooling beneath him as Fionna tried treating the wound, but he shoved her hands off, clawing at them when she tried again, refusing to succ.u.mb to the painless oblivion beckoning him. "Curse the man." Fionna stepped back, dragging the back of her hand across her damp brow. "Great spirits, I cannot help him if he tears at me like this."

"Then knock him out."

Fionna spared her a glance, then straightened. With a sharp whip of her hand, as if she'd struck his face, Raymond was out cold-and still. Both women sighed, then went to work.

"I do not like doing that." It was abusing her powers, she thought.

"It did not look that way."

Fionna ignored the jibe and plucked the splinters from his wound. He will have the luck of the Irish in him if he survives, she thought, flicking aside a chunk of wood. Silently Fionna chanted a prayer, not for the knight but for Siobhan and the child she could unwittingly lose for her valiant attempt to save this man. As she worked, beyond the walls of the modest cottage the villagers armed themselves, fearing punishment for the injuries of the English knight.

He watched her from a great distance as she stood over a small pot. Stirring her herbs into a potion, likely. His shock over finding her alive served to strengthen his determination to end this masquerade quickly and take what was his. She should be a rotting corpse, he thought, and cursed his weakness for not ending her life with a swift cut to her supple throat. He stepped, hiding behind trees, his body cloaked like the forest. He withdrew his dagger. She was alone more often then not, and he could kill her and none would be the wiser. They did not know who she was anyway, he deduced, or they would have alerted PenDragon by now. He moved closer and closer still, lurching behind trees, when a dark-haired woman rushed to her side. Fionna O'Donnel, he recognized. The witch. The wh.o.r.e. With an arm about her shoulder, she ushered her inside the cottage, casting a look back over her shoulder at the forest. And he swore she looked right at him.

Raymond stirred on the fur pallet, his skin blistering with sweat. Soft hands bathed him and whispered words filled his mind. He tried opening his eyes, knowing he should be gone from here. His lady was his to champion, to protect, and Gaelan depended on him to stand his duty. Someone pushed a cup to his lips, briskly ordering him to drink. He tried, the liquid dripping down his chin. He would be humiliated if he had the strength to bother, he thought groggily, and sank into the furs. His skin burned, pain radiating out from his shoulder to his fingertips, and when he could bear it no more, heard himself cry out like a child, it cooled, a soothing cloth smothering the fire growing in his body. Sounds faded in and out, voices, feminine and worried, whispered around him. He prayed one of them was Siobhan.

Ahh, my friend, forgive me for failing you.

Hours later he stirred again and forced his eyes open. I've risen to heaven, he thought, blinking. For surely she was an angel. Black haired, she was naked, her back to him where she stood in a small tub, bathing, pouring water over her head. His bleary gaze watched the liquid slick over her skin, down her b.u.t.tocks, her shapely thighs to the calves.

"Rest," he heard. "Your desires will do you little good and greater harm," the voice, lilting and soft, said. She twisted and met his gaze. Ice blue eyes stared back at him. His drugged gaze slipped over her body in blatant admiration.

Fionna ignored the heat sifting through her body as he mumbled, "Angel."

"Nay, English. Witch," she whispered, and he frowned.

"...do not ... exist."

"Of course not," she said, waving her hand.

Raymond closed his eyes, his head lolling on the pillow, yet he still thrashed.

"Why does he not rest?" Siobhan asked. "He seems to fight the healing."

Fionna stepped from the bath, patting herself dry. "He wants to be up and about, I'm thinkin'." Siobhan moved behind her, draping the robes over her shoulders. "To protect you."

Siobhan nodded and leaned close to whisper, "Raymond, I am here and well. Please rest."

He struggled blindly, but Fionna pushed him down into the pallet. "You cannot protect her if you are dead, aye? Behave and do as you are ordered!" Without opening his eyes, he obeyed. The women looked at each other, then sighed tiredly. Fionna gathered a basket full of herbs and cups, a tiny kettle and her wand. "Come, there's little time to waste."

"He is that close to death?"

Fionna refused to look at the Englishman. "Infection will take him if I do not call on the elements."

Siobhan nodded, taking the basket and following Fionna out to the stone circle.