They held one another's gaze, then Rardove broke contact and reached for a tray of mugs the servant had just set on the table.

"You know little of this land, Sir William," he said over his shoulder. "You might find it burdensome to scorn what friends you have."

"I will recall that to mind."

"Be sure you do." Wine gurgled from the flagon into his cup, the sound of splashing loud in the quiet hall. "As for your sister, let me a.s.sure you, I am doing everything I can to secure her return."

De Valery's reply was pitched low and harsh, carrying no farther than the two men. "Let me me a.s.sure a.s.sure you, you, Rardove, I will see someone pay in blood if anything happens to Senna." Rardove, I will see someone pay in blood if anything happens to Senna."

Lowering the cup, Rardove placed it on the table with deliberate slowness. "Alas, your dear, docile docile sister is not in my keeping at present, so I've little to say on the matter." sister is not in my keeping at present, so I've little to say on the matter."

Rardove elongated the word docile docile to a number of extra syllables. De Valery's jaw tightened. He swiveled and looked to the circle of knights, who stood watching him with hooded eyes. to a number of extra syllables. De Valery's jaw tightened. He swiveled and looked to the circle of knights, who stood watching him with hooded eyes.

De Valery turned back. "I cannot see for what reason the Irish would take her," he said with a mistrustful glance down at the cup of wine on the table.

"They are fiends," Rardove explained in a magnanimous gesture, then followed de Valery's gaze to the goblet. "Care for some?" He raised the flagon. De Valery said nothing. "Your men, perhaps?"

Rardove held the vessel higher so the knights in the background could see. Ten pairs of eyes stared back, five armored knights and five muscular squires, none a day under seventeen. Not a muscle moved. Rardove cleared his throat and set the pitcher down.

"Explain to me why O'Melaghlin would take my sister," de Valery said grimly.

"Because they are savage barbarians," Rardove snapped. "All of them, with as little honor or sense of right as a sheep. I had a few of their men in my prisons and I expect when O'Melaghlin saw a chance to escape, he saw taking her, too, as a matter of pride."

De Valery's gaze slid slowly up Rardove's robes, to his face. "Aye. I expect he did."

Rardove's face grew hot at the insolence, but the cadre of sword-bearing knights kept his tone quiet as he leaned forward and spoke near William's ear.

"Woe to you, young cub, if you become the object of their enmity as have I. You know nothing of this land, and happens your arrogance will bedevil you as much as the Irishry."

"Happens it may bedevil you the more if Senna is not returned in pristine condition."

Rardove set the pitcher down. "And there we come to the heart of the matter. The Irish are a changeable race, untrustworthy and as likely to turn an alliance as to spit."

De Valery's jaw flexed. "What is your plan, then?"

"There is no way around it. I've summoned my va.s.sals to the muster. The justiciar Wogan is coming. Edward, too."

De Valery stared. "The king of England is riding here to rescue Senna?"

"The king of England is riding here to prevent a rebellion on his Irish borders while he tries to quell the one in Scotland."

"A rebellion? Senna is out there. out there."

"I know. We march for the Irish come three days."

De Valery paused long enough for several thoughts to have flickered through his young mind. Rardove waited, wondering which he would choose. If he was anything like his sister, William de Valery was probably not going to make a wise choice, a political choice- The cub leaned forward until the tip of his nose was practically touching the baron's. "Be a.s.sured of this, Rardove: I'll march straight over your bones if anything happens to my sister."

No. Not politic at all. Rardove ground his teeth.

He could cut this one to the ground with a few deft words if he wished, fling out a few memories of his mother, here in Rardove Keep, bending for Rardove, but for now such things needed silence. De Valery would not be pleased to learn his mother had been here, died trying to escape. And he preferred de Valery's alliance to his enmity. For now.

De Valery gestured to his knights and the troop moved out of the hall. The sound of booted feet on stone thundered through the room as the herd of armored men ascended the stairs.

"I can count on your presence at the muster?" Rardove called after.

De Valery paused with one foot on the top step. He half turned to glance over his shoulder, mail basinet clumped around his neck. "I think you know what you can count on from me, my lord."

Rardove smiled thinly. "Twenty-four knights and their retinues."

De Valery swung away. "I'll be there," he said without looking back. The mud-soaked knights disappeared in a swath of golden sunlight as the door swung open, then slammed closed again, leaving the great hall in blue-black shadows and moldy intrigue.

The de Valery horses were a.s.sembled outside the covered stairwell leading to the keep. As the men dropped down the stairs, puffs of dirt billowed in small clouds. Low-angled dawn light mingled with the hazy grit floating in the air, making amber swirls of grime that rose around their steel-encased legs.

Will dragged his mail hood over his head and stuffed a padded layer of cloth between his hair and the protective iron links, then swung up into his saddle. He shoved the helm onto his head and latched the slotted visor upright with a twist of his fingers, exposing his face.

His men watched him in silence. With a curt nod, the cavalcade moved off, riding slowly across the bailey.

Will held himelf straight and silent as they pa.s.sed under the rusted fangs of the raised portcullis. The gate was slung so low he would have lobbed off an ear if he'd risen in the stirrups. The squeal of grinding winches lifted the draw after they'd pa.s.sed.

His hands held the reins as lightly as ever; his words, the few he used, were as impa.s.sive as a monk's upon hearing the tally of the rectory's in-kind offerings at Michealmas. Indeed, nothing about him betrayed anger. He could have been a wooden wagon-wheel, rolling across the land. But he was far past anger. Nigh onto a noxious rage that needed to be tempered to prove useful.

Christ's mercy. Senna kidnapped by an Irishman. Only Senna. She'd come to conduct a business deal, and was caught up in an intrigue so large it would rock this war-torn land for a generation to come.

And now, the land Will had earned with a great deal of blood was at risk. He said frequently that he cared naught for land, but that was only because he had no land to care for. The manor would have come to him, of course, but he would never have taken it away from Senna.

Not that he could now in any event. The business was hers, ever since she bought out her father's debt with her very own dowry, after her husband died. With a blade through his heart.

Robbers, she'd said, and had called out the hue and cry. The culprit had never been found. she'd said, and had called out the hue and cry. The culprit had never been found.

Will would gladly have done the deed himself if Senna hadn't. The way her face looked after a single night wedded was enough to bring murder to anyone's mind. It was more than sufficient to spur Will into teaching Senna every skill of blade and bow he had in his considerable repertoire.

But now, Will had land. Land. Land. And despite his nonchalant claims to the contrary, he wanted it badly. And despite his nonchalant claims to the contrary, he wanted it badly.

He was quite conscious of the fact that he did not know much about Ireland, certainly not enough to know if Rardove was telling the truth about the Irish and their lack of honor. It mattered little. They had Senna, and he would run his sword through them, every one, to get her back.

With a gentle p.r.i.c.k of his spurs, he lifted his horse into a canter. His men followed suit and the land fell away under the smooth, rocking motion as they made for the de Valery keep.

Chapter 39.

Finian stopped them on a small rise of land. In the distance, Senna could see occasional glints of silver, as the currents of a small watercourse flowed between trees.

"Up, Senna."

She looked around. The leaves of the trees were obviously green, but in the night, the branches were more of a dark black ma.s.s. "Up what?"

He pointed high, to a small wooden platform set in the upper branches of a tree.

"A deer blind!" she exclaimed.

"One thing I can honestly give thanks to an Englishman for."

They climbed the rope ladder leading up to the blind. Senna pushed through the hole at the top and scooted backward to make room. His head popped up through the opening in the platform. He pushed the rest of the way through, then pulled the rope ladder up behind and shut the trap door.

It was a wooden platform, about three long paces wide, cut out like a crescent moon around the huge bole of the tree trunk. The leaves rustled every so often on a light breeze. Otherwise the night was utterly still.

He sat at the edge and hung his feet over the side, as the nighttime winds swept over the land like feathers. He looked at Senna, lifted an arm, half curved, and crooked a brow. She smiled and scooted to his side. He dropped his arm over her shoulder and lifted his hand, pointing into the valley below.

"Do ye see those lands, Senna?"

"I do."

"They're yer brother's."

Her smile faded. "What?"

"Did ye not know he has lands here?"

"No." She looked over. "Will does not speak of his pursuits, ever. I know nothing of what he has gained. Or lost."

"No? Well, I do not need anyone to tell me. Yer king took the land, gave it to someone he owed a favor to. Yer brother, in this case."

They stared at the manor below. The forests around had been hacked back a good league. A tall motte was built up in the center of the clearing, and atop its rounded hump sat the manor house. A spiked wooden palisade encircled it.

A few outbuildings showed here and there, and a few homes and barns-a small village-huddled at the base of the motte. No villagers could be seen at this late hour, but evidence of their existence was in the tipped cart, which was spilling hay, outside a small stable.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Do ye still wish to go home, Senna?"

"Oh."

"What's it to be, la.s.s? Run yer business, count yer coin?"

"'Tisn't like that," she said dully. It was exactly like that. "What other option have I?"

"Ye could stay with me."

She knew she must appear shocked, lower jaw dropped, her eyes wide, but she couldn't hide it. Finian returned the look, utterly impa.s.sive. He might have just asked her to pa.s.s a plate of bread.

"Pardon?" she managed.

He scooped a heavy swath of hair into his palm and leaned forward to kiss the side of her neck, soft as mist. Whispered, rough-edged, his words came against her skin as he moved down her neck. "Will ye stay with me?"

"I-I-"

He ran the tips of his callused fingers down her neck, stopping just in the valley between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Is that an aye aye?" he asked, smiling.

How shameful, to have all her wits melted like ice by a single Irishman. Stewards from the royal household and chancellors from St. Mark's Abbey had bent before her negotiating talents. Finian simply said Will you? Will you? and she'd practically wept her and she'd practically wept her Yes. Yes.

He leaned forward to lay claim to her lips. She poked her index finger into his chest, holding him at bay.

"No," she corrected. "'Tisn't, actually. Why are you asking?"

He looked startled. He scratched his forehead. "Why? Ye're asking Ye're asking why? why?"

Now here was a phenomenon; an intelligent man laid low by that simple query.

"For certes," she a.s.sured him. "Why?" "Why?"

"Why"-he looked around incredulously-"because 'tisn't safe at yer brother's manor."

"Then why did you offer in the first place?"

"So ye'd have a choice," he grumbled. "So I might be a modic.u.m different to ye from other men."

A modic.u.m. She felt like laughing. He was like a star might be viewed through one of Bacon's optics, brought close and placed in her palm. It was hopeless-she was in love with someone who had no need for the kind of fumbling attempts at affection she could bestow. Why would he need her?

And therein lay the truth: he didn't. He might want her, but he didn't need her, so it was only a matter of time.

She had no words to describe how she felt about him. When he smiled at her, teased her, listened to her with patient regard. And there were were no words to describe how she felt when he touched her. When he looked at her with desire and affection mingled. It almost made her heart break. no words to describe how she felt when he touched her. When he looked at her with desire and affection mingled. It almost made her heart break.

And now he was offering it to her, giving her the chance to have him hand back her heart, broken anew, each morning, when she woke up and recalled he would never truly be hers. Had he not made it plainer than daylight? Only a fool would believe it wasn't so.

He might wed, some day, for position and heirs. But it would not be for love. And it would not be to her.

He was distracting her, running his hand up her leg. He bent and brushed his lips over the vulnerable part of her neck, the center of her throat, where every swallow had to nudge by his lips. The blunt tip of his index finger slid over her thigh, and backward, brushing across the top of her b.u.t.tocks.

"Is this about the dyes?" she asked outright, almost hoping it was. If so, it would be a black mark, a smudge on a man who was, to her, so gleaming bright it almost hurt her heart.

"No."

"Then why?"

He finished the kiss she'd stopped him from before, and she didn't stop him again. Up her neck he pressed kisses-small, hot raindrops-every so often followed by the smallest nibble, his teeth holding back their bite, just enough to raise shivers of pleasure across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, hardening them. Then he moved to her lips.

His mouth slanted gently over her, his touch so gentle she felt his warm exhalation more than his kiss. As if they had all the time in the world, he kissed her, like she was a savory, a new taste for his lips and tongue.

He coaxed her mouth open and launched a slow, irresistible invasion, his tongue plunging deep in the wet recesses of her mouth. His hands slid over her hips and, with a confident tug, pushed her leggings down to midthigh. Then he positioned one knee between hers, his sculpted body and hard erection pressing against her groin.

"Staying, then, are ye?" he murmured against her ear-hot, masculine breath.

"You're muddling my head," she complained.