Table of Contents

Part 1 A Bridge Crossed

Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four

Part 2 Promise Renewed

Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue

PRISONER OF PASSION

"'Tis time for debts of honor to be paid, my lady."

"I spit upon your honor, my lord," Sybelle said, trying to free her hair from his grasp.

"As I spit upon yours," he said in a low, soft voice, his mouth quirked in a devilish smile, rife with promise. "Now let's have done with the verbal warfare, Sybelle; I've need of a more personal form of combat." Rolf released her and leaned against one of the posts of the bed, folding his arms across his chest. "Disrobe."

The angry denial he saw in her eyes made him smile all the more deeply. "Disrobe, or I shall rip the gown from your body myself."

Rave Reviews for
WOLF'S EMBRACE:

"Excellent, fast-paced historical romance . . . compelling characters."

Joan Hohl

"Touching . . . provocative!"

Casey Michaels

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

To the ladies of the clubwhose support and love is much appreciated; who listened and encouraged: Joan, Kathie, Rita, and Lori.

To Pat for her unflagging belief in my work.

To Carolyn for giving me the Irish name book in the first place (and for the loan of a certain video tape!)thank you so very much.

To two great ladies of historical fiction who were inspirations with their beautiful prose: Sharon Kay Penman and Roberta Gellis.

To my customers at WaldenBooks #668 who cared you know who you are!

To my co-workers: Mary, Betsy, LuAnn, Stephen, Rick and Krissiethe laughter and the good times helped.

To two actors of incredible scope whose performanaces gave me pleasure and inspiration: Timothy Dalton and Michael Crawford.

And to the passionate, eloquent music of Andrew Lloyd Webber, which exalts the creative soul.

Wolf's Embrace

Gail Link

To my parents: for their love, their unending
support, and most of all, their patience and belief in
me as a writer. Words could never be enough to ex-
press my thanks and love.

A LEISURE BOOK®

November 1992

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
276 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10001

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

Copyright © MCMLXXXIX by Gail Link

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

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Printed in the United States of America.

PART 1
A Bridge Crossed

Prologue:
Ireland 1476

"Siobhan."

The voice thundered in the small room. "Did you hear me?"

"Aye, tiarna."

"Then do as I bid."

"Will you not think on this?" the old woman inquired, hoping that he would reconsider.

The blaze from the fireplace threw the tight muscles of the man's face into relief. It seemed to be carved from the same harsh rock that made up the walls of his castle and the fireplace in his sitting chamber. This was the face of a man who didn't know the meaning of the word compromise. Several of the dogs that had been sitting at his feet rose with him, awaiting their master's command.

He reached down and fondled the ears of the largest, a big brute who responded with a growl of contentment. "'Tis all I have thought about. It must be done."

"There is no must," she admonished him softly with the ease that came from the familiarity of the years behind her.

The man's head turned; he threw her a warning glance that silenced the old woman.

She knew that the Wolf had made up his mind; there would be no changing it. He had decided on a course of action, and he would follow it to the end.

Siobhan nodded her head in assent. "I shall see to the arrangements that must be made, my lord."

He nodded his dark head as he stared into the flames. Now that he was decided, all that remained was to do the deed. Tonight he and his men would ride to Castle Derran and steal the eldest daughter of Hugh Fitzgerald.

Chapter 1

"Audrey! Clare! Where are you?"

Sybelle Fitzgerald searched the gardens surrounding the keep. She knew that her twin sisters loved to play amongst the myriad plants and flowers of their mother's garden. Sybelle also enjoyed the gardens, but for a different reason. Here she felt close to the mother she still missed, even though Margaret Fitzgerald had died eight years ago, along with her just-born son. It was a place of peace and contentment, where Sybelle often sought a few minutes of respite from the various tasks that she either oversaw or performed herself, all part of her duties as the chatelaine of her father's various manor houses and castles. Of all the properties her father owned, some given in recognition of his services to the Yorkist crown, this relatively minor castle in Ireland was her particular favorite.

Her father, Hugh Fitzgerald, the Earl of Derran, had already set aside this place as Sybelle's own on her last birthday, deeding it to her. These were her gardens now, her people, her heritage. A legacy for her heirs. She gently touched the soft wool at her waist. At twenty, Sybelle was long past the age for being wedded and bedded. No children tugged at her skirts, no babe waited for its birth.

Since his earlier efforts at marrying her off had come to naught, her father, ever indulgent of his eldest daughter, had promised that she would wed only by her choice.

This state weighed heavily on Sybelle's mind this day as she prepared to celebrate the wedding of her personal maidservant to one of her father's grooms; Alyce was happy, glowing in her love for her affianced husband.

A quick flash of cloth the color of the evening sun caught Sybelle's eye. Giggles that could not be missed alerted her to where her sisters were hiding.

''If you do not come now, I promise that you shall both be banished to your chambers when the festivities commence. You shan't be allowed to participate in the wedding celebrations at all."

Abruptly the giggles ceased, and from behind a large hedge the twins emerged.

"We were only playing a game with William, 'twas all, Belle," pronounced Clare.

"Aye," echoed Audrey, "William promised to show us a treasure." Audrey added with all the disdain her fourteen-year-old tongue could muster, "But all he did was to show us some ugly old weapon he'd found and steal a kiss from Clare." A sharp jab in the ribs was Audrey's reward for volunteering this bit of information.

Sybelle stifled a smile and asked Clare, "Is this true?"

Clare, her blonde hair loosed from its usual plaits, blushed and stared at the ground. Sybelle noted that although both her sisters were becoming women physicallythe changes in their bodies had been evident these past few monthsthey were both still too young emotionally to be forming attachments to any boy. William, a page, would have to be disciplined. Clare and Audrey would have to be cautioned that their honor was not to be taken lightly.

Sybelle silently acknowledged the need to have a long talk with them. It was easy to shrug away the task of telling the twins about their place in society, especially how very fortunate they were in being allowed to remain children longer than most of the girls of their age. The duty fell to Sybelle, who had raised and loved them, protecting them perhaps overmuch. Maybe tonight, or better still, tomorrow when the wedding feast was over.

"Your gowns are grass-stained. Come in and change or you will miss the ceremonies."

Audrey fell into step with Sybelle, asking, "Will Father return and join in the wedding feast?"

Sybelle, her brow knit in thought, answered, "No, Audrey, our lord father had business to attend to."

"For the king?" asked Clare in an awed tone.

"I suppose so," Sybelle answered, though in her own mind she wasn't quite sure. Something was wrong; she could feel it. Her father usually took her into his confidence. Yet this time he'd left only a parchment containing a hastily written note to her that he had to leave for England without delay. He gave no details, and no further messages came. This was unusual for Hugh Fitzgerald, who frequently communicated with Sybelle whenever business for his king took him away from family for any length of time. A fortnight had now passed without word from the earl, and Sybelle was worried. One didn't attain the position that her father had without enemies, particularly from the Lancastrian camp. She dismissed any threat from her neighbors. Her sire was a royal sheriff, her family too well thought of, to be in danger from that quarter.

She forced a wide smile to mask any troubling thoughts that might reveal themselves to her sisters. Besides, this was a happy day; naught would come of worrying save to spoil Alyce's happiness.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

"'Twill be easy to take the wench, my lord."

"Everything has been secured?"

"Aye. The guards are away from their posts because of the wedding feast. The maidservant of Derran's daughter was wed this evening. The lady gave leave for a grand celebration, and there has been much feasting and drinking. 'Tis almost as though heaven were aware of our plans and aiding us."

A cynical smile curved the lips of their lord, Roll O'Dalaigh. "'Twould probably be closer to say hell, Auliffe."

Auliffe's dark eyes twinkled with amusement. "'Twould serve the purpose better if the Norman believed his flesh was abducted by the devil himself. Like as not he'll have to search to hell and back to find her."

Rolf O'Dalaigh answered, "No, Auliffe. He will know soon enough."

"You'll be telling him?"

"Aye, I will."

"Why?"

"So that he knows full well that to strike at a member of my family is to strike at me." Rolf smiled again, but this time it was the gesture of a man confident and hard in his purpose. "He will remember the man who took his daughter's honor, as he stole my cousin's. The Earl of Derran must be taught that the Earl of Killroone is not to be trifled with."

Another voice spoke out, urging caution. "It is still not too late to change your mind."

Rolf tilted his head, slicing an angry glance at his younger brother. "There is no need for you to join us if you feel the task beneath you."

Branduff O'Dalaigh's golden eyes were gentle, for he loved his brother and respected him as the leader of their family. Yet still he felt duty bound to voice his reservations about an action that he deemed folly. "Rolf, you know full well I respect you and will obey your wishes. But do you think what harm this will do to the woman we are to take? She has done nothing wrong."

"She is her father's daughter," Rolf answered. "That is enough."

Conversation abruptly stopped as another man approached.

Rolf's knife was at the man's throat. "Is all safe ?"

The man choked on the fear that he felt. He nodded. Rolf let loose his hold.

"Excellent. 'Tis time we make our move."

"My lord," the man gasped, "there is the payment that you still owe me."

Rolf signalled Auliffe with a wave of his hand and Auliffe produced a bag of coins, which he threw at the peasant.

The man picked up the leather pouch and fled into the night.

"Do you trust such as he, my lord?"

Rolf snorted. "Of course not, which is why I sent you to observe as well, Auliffe. A man who betrays his lord will sell his services again."

"Then should we not dispose of the problem rather than allow him to profit?" Auliffe suggested.

"No," Rolf said calmly. "He will serve my purposes quite well. When Derran returns, the man will no doubt tell him who has stolen his daughter and expect a reward for doing so.

"The proud earl will pay money to the man who betrayed him. A just touch, do you not think?"

The men laughed softly, all save Branduff O'Dalaigh. He said a silent prayer.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The sounds of revelry echoed faintly in Sybelle's chamber. She stood at the window, staring out into the night sky. It was a solid darkness, unbroken by a moon. Breathing deeply of the cool air, she felt it caress her skin. She drew an ivory comb through the shiny brown waves, which unbound came to below her knees.

A sound from her bed caused her to turn her head, but it was only the movement of her sister Clare. The twins were too excited to sleep in their own chamber tonight so Sybelle had allowed them to share her wide bed. But, she was too restless to sleep herself, preferring to observe the stars, which dotted the night like so many gems against a backdrop of velvet.

She was bending to blow out the candle and return to her bed when she saw the door to her room open slightly.

Before she could reach for her dagger, the door swung open and in strode several men, weapons drawn. Fearing for her sisters' safety, Sybelle swallowed the scream that rose in her throat. Perhaps they wouldn't notice the two sleeping girls curled amongst the fur robes of her bed.

There were three men. All were tall, that little she could tell. Not her men, to be sure. One approached her, blade glistening in the tiny light the candle afforded.

"Here is the one we seek."

In the shadows of the room, the speaker's face was harsh and proud, and held the look of a warrior. Terror griped her, but she wouldn't allow it to show. One man she might be able to fight and save her honor, not three. She must remain calm and cool-headed.

Sybelle stood rooted to the spot, allowing only her right hand to move behind her as she felt for the dagger.

Seeing the slight movement, Rolf grabbed the woman, putting his blade to her breast. "Halt."

Through the material of her nightdress she felt the hard point of the weapon against her flesh. She was so close to the man that she could smell the fragrance of horse and leather that clung to him. It was still too dark in the room to see all his features properly, or to see what the other two men were doing.

The touch of his large hand on her body sent shock waves through her flesh. "Be still or my blade will draw blood," the deep voice said roughly in her ear.

Sybelle stilled. His hand continued its leisurely journey across her body, cupping the curves, sliding softly along the valleys.

"You'll do," were the enigmatic words the stranger uttered. He spoke English with an accent that she knew to be native Irish, perhaps from the rebel western coast.

Rolf waved his hand towards the tangle of furs that lay upon the bed. "Take a pelt for her."

Sybelle jumped in alarm and the knife scratched a hole in the material and on her flesh. Her fears came true as the twins awoke with a start.

The men were surprised; each went for a girl, trying to hold the wiggling bodies still and maintain some control over mouths that wanted to scream.

"Tell them to be quiet," Rolf urged, moving with Sybelle so that they stood next to the bed that now held Auliffe with an armful of Audrey, while Branduff was struggling with Clare, who managed quite successfully to nip him on the hand before he stilled her.

When Sybelle spoke, it was in French. She instructed her sisters to pretend that they could not understand English; they were to be quiet, and above all, do or say nothing.

"What did you say?" Rolf asked in a throaty growl.

"Only that they should be still," she lied boldly. "They are my cousins newly arrived from Normandy for a visit."

Branduff threw Rolf a puzzled look. He made as if to speak, but was silenced with a warning look from Rolf.

"That is all?"

"Yes," she said softly.

"They shall remain here," Rolf ordered. "Bind their hands and feet." He sliced a glance at the defiant, fury-cold eyes of the girl that Bran held. He added, "Also their mouths." These orders were given in Gaelic.

Rolf made note of the confused look on Sybelle's face. Good, he thought. Two could play at the game of ignorance.

"What is it that you seek?" Sybelle asked.

Rolf's cryptic response was simply, "Justice."

Finising with the twins, Bran and Auliffe awaited Rolf and his captive.

Sybelle saw the terror that each twin was feeling. Whatever was to happen to her, her sisters would be spared as long as she cooperated with the strangers. Quelling her natural urge to fight to free herself and her sisters, Sybelle allowed the man to place the soft pelt over her shoulders and lead her from the room.

Her brain raced as she tried to find a reason for her abduction. A simple rape was not their plan, for if they had wanted that, they could have taken her in her own chamber, her sisters along with her. The glow from the tapers that still flickered in the hall permitted Sybelle to see that they had no need to rob. Each of the men, though covered with a skin cloak, wore jewels too fine for an ordinary man.

Why, then?

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Sybelle thought they had been riding for hours. Her body was stiff and sore, aching from the pressure the leader's hands asserted on her. Each mile took her farther from help, from the people she knew. They had stopped only once, to change horses. Hunger gnawed at her stomach; thirst invaded her parched mouth. The chill of the night was still evident, even though dawn was fast approaching. Sybelle shivered beneath the fur pelt, and, as she did, felt the tightening grip of the man who held her close.

Who was he and why was he doing this to her? What did he want from her? Justice. He said only that he had come for "justice." Justice for what ? For whom?

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Rolf felt the trembling form beneath his arm. Her flesh was chilled; he pulled her closer into his embrace. His right arm was securely tucked beneath the full swell of her unbound breasts. His own flesh tightened in response. The smell of sandalwood scented the hair that he'd forced her to braid while they'd changed mounts.

She'd spoken not a word, only silently condemning him with eyes the color of a stormy sea.

At least Derran could breed courage in his offspring, Rolf grudgingly admitted to himself. Even the girls followed orders unflinchingly after the initial attempt at escape. Rolf respected courage, especially in this situation. There would be no challenge in subduing a meek woman afraid of her own shadow. This woman would present a provocation to him while he held her.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

"Dismount," Roll ordered Sybelle.

Sliding from the saddle, Sybelle tried to straighten her cramped limbs.

"Drink," was the curt command.

Sybelle reached for the skin container, wanting to throw it back in his arrogant face, but realizing this was not a sensible idea. She must keep her wits about her until she could make good an escape.

"Enough." The skin was taken from her hand and raised to the lips of the leader, who drank deeply.

Now, with the sun high overhead, Sybelle could see the man and his party clearly. There were five in all. Two were dressed in rough clothes, yet all appeared of higher class than their clothes indicatedespecially the man she deemed the leader of this pack. Yet there was no hint of the courtier's demeanor about him, rather that of a tougher breed, hardy and robust, at home in the elements that now surrounded them.

Instead of the sweetly rolling green hills around Castle Derran, the landscape here was unsparing, wild and windswept. She could smell the sea in the air that enfolded them.

One man was at least the age of her father, Sybelle concluded from the lines that marred his face. The other four were younger, no more than thirty, she guessed. The youngest man was perhaps her age.

She judged him to be related to the leader. Both were tall, taller than the majority of the men that she was accustomed to, each possessing broad shoulders, though the elder's seemed the wider. Each had a face that belonged to his place, although the younger man's was not as hardened as the elder's. Shining black hair, dark as onyx, was worn past their shoulders, thick and healthy. It was in the eyes that Sybelle noted the disparity in the two men. It wasn't just that their eyes were different colors; it was in the way each looked at the world. In the older man's green eyes she could see ruthlessness, pride, a will of iron; in the younger's, the golden sheen reflected loyalty, courage, and a hint of gentleness.

Mayhap he would be the key to her release.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Roll called out in Gaelic again. Since they'd left the Fitzgerald holdings, he'd been sure to keep to his native tongue when issuing orders to his men. All the better to keep this outsider in confusion.

Remounting, Roll waited for Sybelle to be placed in his arms. Bran, seeing the weary look on her face, suggested, ''Perhaps she could ride with me, brother?"

Rolf responded curtly. "No. Derran's daughter is mine."

"I was not challenging your authority, merely asking if you wished to be relieved of the burden of handling the wench," Bran replied.

Rolf leaned down and clasped his brother on the shoulder. "I thank you for your consideration then, but I will take the woman with me. The quarry is mine and I will bring it to the lair on my own. Lift her up."

Bran did as Rolf bid, noting the puzzled expression on the woman's face. His brother's tactic of keeping her off-guard was working successfully.

Sybelle again felt the confining strength of the hard-muscled arm that slipped beneath her breasts. No man had ever touched her so intimately. She sensed that he was aware of this fact and did it deliberately, a taunt she had no retaliation for.

Suddenly her weary expression vanished, replaced with a determination that she would prevail, that she would not admit weakness to this man.

Higher they climbed up the craggy hills, the smell of the sea sharp and clear. In the distance she could make out the form of a huge castle set upon a hill that overlooked the sea. The mist whirled around them, chilling her flesh again.

A shout from the walls of the castle produced an answering response from the bear of a man who rode next to the leader. The gates of the keep swung wide; the party rode in to a welcoming gathering of people in the courtyard.

Sybelle was handed down to the bear, who kept a firm grip on her wrist.

Rolf handed the reins of his huge gray stallion to a waiting groom as he dismounted. A smile of cunning crossed his face, chilling Sybelle even further, as did the words he uttered, spoken in flawless French.

"Welcome to Wolf's Den, Lady Sybelle. Permit me to introduce myself. I am your host. Roll O'Dalaigh, Earl of Killroone, at your serviceas you shall assuredly be at mine."

Chapter 2

She was in the grip of a terrible nightmare. It had to be so, for there was no other explanation for what was happening to her.

Several hours had passed since she'd been brought to the castle of this barbaric Irish lord; she was shown to a room in the upper level of the castle, and roughly shoved inside as the door was securely locked from the outside.

A look at the window revealed no escape route there. She couldn't fit through the narrow opening in the stone, and it was too high to chance a drop to the ground below even if she could have squeezed through. The room was bare of any ornamentation; a chest at the foot of the bed contained only a collection of fur pelts for use on the bare bed. No fire was laid in the hearth to warm the cold room. She shivered and drew another pelt from the chest, throwing it around her shoulders. Her stomach again made her lack of food this day apparent to her. Was she to be denied even her basest needs? And for what?

His words came back to her in that clear, cold voice that spoke the tongue of France as if he had been born there. What had he meant by using the word "service"? Was she to become some kind of servant to him? He said his name with all the pride that she suspected was an inherent part of his nature. Roll O'Dalaigh. Was it supposed to mean something to her?

Sybelle searched her mind for any recollection of the name, but no such memory came to life. Questions flooded into her mind. Was this in any way connected to her father's recent trip to England? Was this Irish lord somehow linked to the Lancastrians? Most of the Irish lords, Sybelle knew, supported the Yorkist cause. The tenure of the Duke of York, Edward IV's father, as Viceroy of Ireland, was the main reason for their loyalty. Was she to be used as hostage for anothera political exchange?

Tired of standing, Sybelle curled herself up on the wide bed, there being no other piece of furniture in the room. She must look frightful. Her hair was a tangle, her soft nightdress was dirty, torn in spots. Her flesh was bruised in several places. The pleasant thought of how good it would feel to sink into the depths of her own tub, to wash away the grime and ease the ache in her bones, invaded her brain.

When a knock sounded on the door, Sybelle leaped to her feet, not quite sure what to expect when it opened. A woman entered the room. She was older, perhaps nearing fifty, her hair the color of slate. She wore no head covering; instead her hair was simply wrapped around her skull in a neat coronet of braids. Of average height, she moved with an economy of motion as she brought in a tray laden with bread and cheeses and an assortment of nuts. A jug of water completed the fare.

Pretending she didn't want to eat would be foolish, so Sybelle took the tray gratefully, placing it upon the bed. She tore off a large chunk of the dark bread and swallowed it, her wary eyes never leaving the woman. Washing the bread down with the water, she enjoyed the cool feel of it sliding down her throat. No wine had ever tasted so good. Her fingers made short work of the cheese, the taste simple and fulfilling.

The woman's voice muttering something in the Irish tongue stopped Sybelle's meal.

"Do you speak my language, old woman?"

The dark eyes narrowed slightly. "Aye, my lady."

"Do you know why I am here?"

"Aye," was all she said.

There would be no volunteering of information from this quarter, Sybelle thought. Here was a family servant who understood the value of loyalty, just as her Alyce would never reveal anything without Sybelle's permission.

Yet when Sybelle looked carefully into the woman's eyes, she detected a trace of sympathy there. The woman hadn't tried to hide it or pretend that it wasn't visible. What did she know?

"What are you called?" Sybelle asked politely, keeping her voice even.

"Siobhan, my lady." Sybelle tried the sound of it on her tongue. Her pronunciation brought the first smile to the old woman's features since she had entered the room. Siobhan pronounced her name again slowly, enunciating the syllables for Sybelle, who repeated it again, "Sshvaughn," this time perfectly.

"Thank you for the meal, Siobhan."

"You were not brought here to starve, my lady."

"Indeed ?" Sybelle arched a curved brow. "When am I to know the reason that I was forcibly taken from my home? Today? Tomorrow?" she said, her politeness fading fast.

"You will know when my lord wishes you to know."

"Your lord? The man named Rolf O'Dalaigh?"

"That is correct, Lady Sybelle."

"You know my name?"

"Aye. You are the Lady Sybelle Fitzgerald, daughter of the Earl of Derran."

"Who will move heaven and earth to get me back, of that I can assure you," Sybelle said. "He will pay any price, meet any ransom."

"There will be no ransom," came the deep-voiced reply from the doorway.

Both Sybelle and Siobhan turned immediately towards the door.

Rolf O'Dalaigh stood there, one hand against the jamb, a sardonic smile on his handsome face. Sybelle's eyes registered the changes evident in his appearance. Gone were the knee boots and wools that he'd worn earlier; they had been replaced with the finery of a man who did his homage at Edward's court. Her quick glance took in the whole manthe length of his legs, covered in stockings of the finest silk to his shoes of softest kid . . . her eyes strayed upward and widened. His doublet was black velvet, trimmed with beaver fur and gold threads along the neckline and hem of the short skirt. Underneath, his shirt was a white silk trimmed in threads of gold. A brooch of heavy gold studded with a large emerald gleamed on his doublet; it matched the ring on his left hand. About his slim waist was fastened a belt of gold, the buckle emerald, as was the hilt of the dagger that he wore attached to the belt. The jewels alone could have bought and sold numerous estates. What need had he of ransom? Sybelle thought glumly.

Before her stood a man accustomed to wealth and power, who radiated raw masculine intensity. Sybelle unconsciously felt herself comparing this Irishman to the lords of Edward's court and finding them wanting. His was a virile arrogance. It was stamped clearly in the lines of his boldly chiseled features, in the wide mouth with its top lip curled in mockery.

She lifted her gaze higher and caught the assessing look in his eyes. Sybelle forced herself to look away.

"The meal was to your liking?" he asked, his voice deep; he caressed her without her consent, ignoring her question about ransom.

"A trifle plain, perhaps, but satisfying nonetheless, my lord," Sybelle stated calmly, giving no hint of the anger simmering beneath her cool exterior. He would jump on any opponent's weakness and exploit it.

My lord. Rolf could tell just how much it pained his captive to utter those particular words. She was the kind of wench who would balk at calling any man her lord. Faith, he said silently to himself, I'll swear she has a difficult time acknowledging even her English king as lord. The hard sheen of pride was evident in the stormy blue-gray eyes she focused on him. Aye, she would be a wench who would take much taming before she would concede any man her master. His smile deepened.

Rolf's sensual mastery of women had begun early in his life. Since he was a youth of thirteen, women had flocked to him, drawn to his tall, lean body, his dark good looks, green eyes that could seduce with the merest regard, and, he admitted wryly, his father's title. The parade of willing beauties, both highborn and peasant, had ceased to please him. He was wearied by the easiness of his liaisons; a tumble meant little except to relieve his physical needs.

Mating with this woman would be different, Rolf allowed. She would be the taste of tartness that he craved, the spice lacking in his life. Vengeance would add a special flavor to the satisfaction of his honorand the ache in his loins.

Rolf broke off his soundless thoughts and muttered a few short commands to Siobhan, who bowed deeply, nodding her head as she quietly left the room.

They were alone, two combatants in the game Rolf had chosen. The atmosphere was rife with tension, tinged with hostility. A thin layer of civilization held in check the underlayers of untamed arrogance rampant in each.

Sybelle was tired, both physically and mentally. All she wanted was to wash and sleep, to rest her body and her mind. She needed no more evasions tonight. But she had no choice.

"I repeat," she stated, "my father will pay any ransom for my safe return."

"And, I repeat, my lady, that for you there will be no ransom."

"Why ?"

"Because money is not what I seek."

"What is?"

"Justice," he reiterated.

"That is the second time you have said that. Justice for what?"

Ignoring her question, Rolf asked one of his own. "Where is your father?"

"In England."

"For what purpose?"

"The king's business," Sybelle answered briskly.

Rolf gave a harsh bark of laughter. "'Tis what he told you?"

Sybelle didn't deign to respond.

"Do you know Duvessa O'Neill?" he asked, his voice a harsh, slicing instrument.

Startled, Sybelle wondered what the shy young woman whose lands bordered theirs had to do with the situation. "Aye, I know Duvessa," she responded.

"As does your father." Rolf delivered the words with icy contempt.

"Of course my father would know Duvessa," Sybelle snapped. "We've been guests at her estate as she has been at ours. That is no offense."

"No indeed," he said softly, "but abduction is."

"As well as you should know, my lord."

"The noble earl, your father, has abducted Lady Duvessa." His voice was even softer than before, and his eyes showed a coldness that sent chills fingering along her spine.

"What?" Sybelle asked in a shocked tone.

"Derran has taken Duvessa and fled to England, away from my immediate reach, for he knew that if he remained in Ireland he would be facing my blade by now."

"What you say is ridiculous!"

"It is the truth."

"I doubt that, my lord," Sybelle stated coldly. "Truth is obviously something with which you have no acquaintance."

Rolf, his anger rising faster, grabbed Sybelle by the arm, clasping strong fingers around her flesh, throwing aside the pelt she was using to conceal and warm her body until she stood clad only in her nightdress again.

"Hear me, my lady. He most certainly forcibly abducted Duvessa."

"How do you know this?"

"Word was sent to me after the deed was done."

"What interest was it to you?"

"Duvessa is my cousin, child of my father's sister," Rolf explained. "She is my ward until I decide whom she is to wed. Except, wedding another is out of the question now. Your father has ruined my cousin, and for this act he must be made to suffer also."

The cold chips of green that were Rolf's eyes spoke eloquently to Sybelle of how Rolf planned to extract his revenge against her father. Rolf believed her sire had taken Duvessa's innocence, so now hers must be forfeit in turn. What she had always thought to bestow on her legally wedded husband would be taken from her by force. Sybelle knew with a dread certainty that there was nothing she could do to talk him out of the idea. She was a prisoner on his lands, among his people. Sybelle was confined in her enemy's embrace, with no escape possible. Unless, she thought, mentally snatching at a straw, she could change his mind about her father. She had to try. ''Where is the proof?" Sybelle demanded.

From his doublet, Rolf produced several pages of parchment for her inspection. "Do you read?"

Brusquely, Sybelle answered him, her face tilting to lift her chin defiantly. "Of course I can. Do you?"

Smothering the smile that threatened to crack the hardness of his demeanor, Rolf said, ignoring her jibe, "'Tis not the norm, Lady Sybelle. Even you must admit that."

"Perhaps not amongst your people," she said recklessly. "Amongst my class it is considered important for a woman to know letters."

His harsh laughter echoed in the room. "That, my lady, is so much dog dung. Women are not educated in England to the extent that you would have me believe. Even an Irish nobleman, such as myself, has some little knowledge of that fact."

"Gathered, no doubt, in some noble slut's bed-chamber?"

"A slut is a slut, my lady," he said, his eyes narrowing, "be she high-born or peasant. But enough of this. Here is the proof that you seek."

Sybelle snatched the parchment sheets from his fingers, careful not to touch his outstretched hand. She scanned the precise writing, reading swiftly. It came from the hand of Duvessa O'Neill's own priest, Father Geoffrey Carmody, who was witness to the Earl of Derran's abduction of his lady from her castle. This was accomplished by a ruse, the priest stated.

"The earl rode in with a small hunting party. Lord Derran said that he would ask the Lady Duvessa if he could rest his horse and his men. The Lady Duvessa readily agreed, asking them to share a meal with her and her ladies. Later, the lady Duvessa and the earl were engaged in conversation that appeared to be heated. Within minutes the earl gave a signal to his men. Swords were drawn. Derran announced that he was taking your cousin with him. As there was only a small force at the keep, Lady Duvessa pleaded that no one be hurt. She instructed her retainers to sheathe their weapons. Derran and his men took her and two of her ladies, and fled."

A cold tingle touched Sybelle's spine. She knew Duvessa O'Neill's priest, having met the kindly man several times. He was not given to false statements. His words would be the truth as he saw it.

Yet Sybelle also knew her father. There must be more to the story than what was contained in the old man's letter. Her father had no need to abduct a woman. His name and rank alone would assure his choice of any woman as mistress, or wife.

"My lord," Sybelle said quietly, "there must be another reason that my father acted as he did."

"Your father stole my ward from her own castle and forced her to accompany him to England. Duvessa was a virtuous young woman, soon to be pledged in marriage to a man of my choice. What reason could he have for forcing her to relinquish that which a gently bred woman of her position would give only to her husband? He wanted her, so he took her."

Seizing an opportunity, Sybelle asked, "Do you think Duessa would want you to do to someone else that which you acuse my sire of doing?"

"It matters not to me now. An eye for an eye. An honor for an honor."

Her mind spun with hurried thoughts, seeking a way out of this madness. "Allow me to write to my father, to demand an explanation. Or let us journey to Edward's court and confront him."

"That will not do. I've had enough of English hospitality to last me a lifetime," he stated starkly.

"You will not listen to reason?"

"I have, my lady, my own reasons."

Sybelle knew that whatever suggestions she proferred would be rejected out of hand. Rolf had spoken; he was resolute. As was she. He'd not take her without a fight.

A noise in the hall outside made both turn toward the door. It swung open, revealing Siobhan, accompanied by several large dogs, who joined their master.

Sybelle recognized only one of the breeds that surrounded Rolf. Three of the dogs were mastiffs, two fawn colored, another more silvery. The fourth dog, a bit smaller than the mastiffs, was watching her carefully. The gray fur was short and shaggy, the head cocked towards her, alert.

Rolf instructed the others to stay put while he brought the last dog to Sybelle. "Put out your hand."

Keeping her eyes on the dog, Sybelle did as she was bid. The animal sniffed her hand, then sat on its haunches. Cautiously, Sybelle reached out her hand and stroked the fur, feeling its soft texture.

"'Tis a wolfhound, my lady. An Irish wolfhound. Lest you think that 'tis merely a family pet, he can rip apart a man's throat with no difficulty," Rolf said smoothly, reaching out his hand to touch the tender flesh of Sybelle's pale throat. He could feel the rapid beat of her pulse beneath his hand. "Have no fear. He's for your protection."

Her laughter was strained. "From you, my lord?"

The stroking movement of his large hand stopped; it now lay against her throat, encircling it. His smile was a slash of white against his sundarkened face. "No, my lady. He will protect you for me."

Sybelle read the unspoken words as if he'd set them before her. The dog would ensure that she would not try to escape. If she did, it would react swiftly. "I understand."

"Good," he said simply. "Is the grandchamber ready for her ladyship, Siobhan?"

"Aye, tiarna."

"Then escort her there."

"Come, my lady," the older woman said, holding out the fur pelt for Sybelle.

Drawing the pelt about her shoulders, Sybelle walked proudly from the room, the wolfhound trailing vigilantly behind her.

His parting words slashed against her flesh like a leather whip. "'Twould not do not to show her to a room befitting her position."

Chapter 3

Her position, Sybelle thought bitterly. Her position would soon be that of whore to the master of the castle.

The change of rooms confused her. She would have expected him to keep her in the smaller, damper, darker room. It would have suited his purposes admirably. Instead, she was ushered into a master room that was filled with the richness of his heritage.

Sybelle slowly circled the chamber Siobhan had ushered her into, making a visual inventory. This certainly rivaled any Plantagenet's royal palace for comfort, she thought. It was very different from the first room she had been given. Here tapestries adorned the walls, and sweet-smelling rushes mixed with essence of herbs scented the floor. The bed was enormous, the hangings surrounding it richly woven with velvets and stitched with gold and silver threads.

Sybelle reached out her hand, rubbing the softness of the material. She breathed deeply; the fabric held traces of jasmine.

Against one wall stood a huge wardrobe. Opening the doors, Sybelle saw that it contained clothes befitting a woman of high birth. Hung there were silks, velvets, the softest woolens, lawn gowns trimmed with the best of Flemish lace. Even though the gowns were out of fashion by current standards, Sybelle couldn't help but admire the cut and style.

Another door led to a smaller room, obviously used for the personal needs of the occupants of the larger room. It contained an enamelled chamber-pot and a small stand which held a copper wash bowl. Soaps of various colors and scents shared space with vials of lotions and oils on several shelves built into the wall.

In the corner a copper tub of scented water beckoned her weary bones. Looking carefully around the room, Sybelle shed the fur, dropping it to the floor. Next she abandoned the thin shift, wrapped it into a ball and tossed it into a corner of the room in disdain.

Sybelle had never seen a tub quite this large. Several big men would be needed to move it. It was round and deep, with designs hammered into the copper. Sybelle bent to study the markings more closely. One stood out amongst the others: it was the head of a wolf.

Shivering slightly, Sybelle stepped into the water, giving a sigh as she did so. Lathering a bar of soap across her shoulders and down her arms, she enjoyed the feel of the water soothing her muscles, making her feel slightly drowsy.

The soft bark of the wolfhound made her start.

Sioibhan entered the room, carrying several lengths of white linen to be used for toweling. "Don't be shy, my lady, for 'tis sure I've seen all sizes and shapes of bodies about this place. I thought you'd be liking a bit of help with your long rope of hair."

Siobhan disappeared for a moment, reappearing with two smaller copper pails that contained steaming water in one, cold in the other.

"I noticed you fancied the scent of sandalwood, my lady," Siobhan said as she picked up a vial and poured a measure of the contents into her hands. It was green in color and smelled of wildflowers and herbs. "I think that this will blend to the scent of your soap." Siobhan proceeded to lather the mixture into Sybelle's wet hair.

Sybelle relaxed, letting the old woman work her magic, for it truly felt as if the soft motions of her hands were producing a tranquilizing effect. The ministrations were gentle, reminding her of Alyce. A rinse of hot water followed by the cold caused Sybelle to sit bolt upright in the tub.

"Step from the tub, Lady Sybelle."

She stood, doing what she was told. "I can dress myself, Siobhan."

The older woman chuckled. "'Tis no doubt I have of that, my lady. Please." She held up the waiting towel and wrapped it around the long tresses, then folded the younger woman into a longer, soft sheet of linen, wrapping it closely about her body. Siobhan nudged her into a small chair while she proceeded to rub briskly at the thick brown hair. "'Tis a lovely color, my lady, much like the shade of our honey." Sybelle colored at the compliment. To her, her hair was plain, with nothing distinctive about the hue. "I would like a taste of your type of honey, Siobhan. I fear that I have a tooth that favors sweets."

"As does Lord Rolf," Siobhan echoed.

That remark brought about a swift change in Sybelle. She stiffened, her back straight, her features contained.

Siobhan realized that it wasn't the best thing to have brought Rolf's name into the conversation at this point. It was easy to see that the proud daughter of the Earl of Derran wasn't going to come easily to Lord Rolf's bed. A secretive smile touched the old woman's thin lips as she gave a contemplative look at Sybelle, who was drying the rest of her body while Siobhan continued to dry her hair. If anyone could draw the wolf away from his burden of loneliness, it would be this one. As reluctant as Siobhan had been to see her lord commit what she thought to be folly, she now conceded that he might have been fortunate after all. Here was a woman of spirit to match his own. Mayhap some good would come from this tragedy of circumstances.

Sybelle's voice broke into the woman's thoughts. "Where did all these soaps and fragrances come from ?"

"They belonged to the Lady Brianna, mother to my lords."

"From where did she obtain them? Truly, there is a wealth of scents."

"My lords' father, the late earl, was a traveller in his youth. He owned several sailing ships that brought back marvellous spices and fabrics from the places he traded with. No trip did he undertake without bringing something back for his lady wife. There was much sorrow when he and the Lady Brianna were killed."

Sybelle turned to stare at Siobhan. "Killed?"

"They were murdered by an English pig," Siobhan said harshly. "May the good Lord have sent his perfidious soul to hell, there to rot for all eternity."

"Was the murderer brought to the king's justice?"

"No." The woman spat out the word. "He was too highly placed, and there was no real evidence against him, for he did not do the deed personally. He paid hired assassins to do it."

"Surely a case could be brought against him?"

"Lord Rolf sought justice, my lady." Siobhan explained that the family had been attending a wedding feast of a relative of Lady Brianna's in England. After the ceremony, Rolf, accompanied by several male relatives, left for a nearby inn. On his return the following morning, he discovered the carnage.

A slow twist of horror paled Sybelle's face. Bile rose in her throat at the imagined scene. She took a deep, steadying breath. "Did he confront the persons he believed responsible?"

"Aye, my lady, that he did. There was one man Lord Roll knew who wanted his parents dead, a rejected suitor of his mother's. A man who craved power, thinking that if he could wipe out my lord's entire family, he could take not only Killroone, but my lady's property in Wales." Siobhan added that Branduff was also supposed to go, but that a broken leg had prevented him. "The accident saved his life. Had my Lord Rolf not been elsewhere that night, he too would have probably lost his life to the band of hired killers."

"I've little doubt just how he was spending his evening," Sybelle said sharply, fighting the feeling of sympathy for the young man confronted with the murder of his parents.

"That is of little consequence, my lady," Siobhan admonished her. "What happened to my lord when he sought justice was a grave insult," Siobhan said fiercely, beginning to untangle Sybelle's almost dry hair with a comb fashioned out of silver.

"He sought out the man he deemed responsible after having found one of the assassins, who confessed before he died that he was indeed paid by the Baron Boulton to rid him of an enemy."

Sybelle listened as Siobhan explained that Rolf rode with all speed to Edward's court and laid his case before the king. Edward wanted more proof than a dead man's word. Rolf demanded that Edward summon the baron to answer the charges.

"Edward agreed only after some prompting from his brother, Gloucester, and word was sent for the baron to appear. He answered the royal summons, stating that Lord Rolf was a liar. Could he produce the man who spoke against him? My lord admitted that he could not, but that he would swear on the holy book that he told the truth. He was even offered to let the judgment rest in God's hands and challenged the baron to a duel to the death. Then one of the queen's relatives came forth and said that the baron was with him, had been for several weeks, at his hunting lodge near the Scottish border.

"That was the end of the matter for your king."

Siobhan placed her wrinkled hands on Sybelle's shoulders. "My lord was incensed. Edward declared the matter settled to his satisfaction. He suggested that the new Earl of Killroone return to Ireland. Naturally my lord could not do that.''

"No, I do not imagine that he could," Sybelle said thoughtfully.

"Nor, I wager, would you allow it to rest, my lady?" Siobhan asked, giving Sybelle a pointed glance.

Sybelle thought about her father and sisters and nodded her head gently. She would also have tried to bring to justice anyone who'd harmed any member of her family. "What did your lord do?"

"He did what he thought was right," Siobhan said proudly. "He withdrew from the court, waiting for Boulton. Once again he challenged him to mortal combat, which the coward refused. It was then that Boulton's men seized my lord, summoning the king's men. Boulton swore out a complaint against Lord Roll, stating that my lord threatened to murder him in front of witnesses."

Siobhan put down the comb. "Lord Rolf was clapped into the Tower, awaiting sentencing. The only person who spoke for him was Prince Richard of Gloucester, who argued persuasively that the Earl of Killroone should be returned to Ireland. He said that Rolf O'Dalaigh was an honorable man torn by grief. He urged his brother to watch Baron Boulton. After several months in that English hell-hole, my lord was released in the custody of Prince Richard. Gloucester's men delivered Lord Rolf safely to Ireland."

"What happened to the baron?"

"He died from a hunting accident, my lady," said Siobhan simply.

A raised brow was Lady Sybelle's only response to this.

Siobhan reached into the wardrobe and pulled out a velvet robe of the deepest claret red for Sybelle to slip into. Sybelle did that, tying the golden sash about her slim waist. She did not think it strange that Siobhan had not first offered her a nightshift to sleep in, so intent was she on hearing the end of the story.

"You doubt that it was an accident, Lady Sybelle?" said the deep voice of Rolf O'Dalaigh.

Sybelle spun around, wondering how long he'd been listening to the older woman tell her tales, and how much of her he'd been witness to. The challenge in his stormy green eyes gave her the answer.

"The baron had the misfortune to encounter a problem with his mount," he said. "A shoe was loose, forcing his return to the stables. He foolishly went without any of his retainers, and it would appear that he was accosted by a rather large animal which savaged the baron horribly. It was the sort of death he deservedwithout honor, screaming for his miserable life like the craven bastard that he was." Roll paused as the wolfhound nuzzled his hand. "Or so I was told."

"Did you think I had forgotten you, Lugh?" Rolf said, fondling the dog's ears. "Siobhan, see that Lugh is fed below. The lady Sybelle won't be needing him for the remainder of this night."

Siobhan held onto the words that begged to escape from her throat. She couldn't persuade her lord otherwise, so she silently complied, taking the dog with her and leaving the couple to their fate.

Chapter 4

Sybelle couldn't cry. Instead her brain tortured her with memories that were already digging bitter roots deep into her soul. Shame warred with anger in her mind. She closed her eyes; all that she could see still was Rolf, standing, waiting, after Siobhan and the wolfhound left the room.

He latched the door securely. Turning, Roll approached her, reaching out a hand to caress the unbound waves of her hair.

Sybelle had reacted by trying to pull herself out of reach, to which Rolf responded by securing his hand tightly in the thick, curling tresses.

"'Tis time for debts of honor to be paid, my lady."

"I spit upon your honor, my lord," Sybelle said, trying to free her hair.

"As I spit upon yours," he uttered in a low, soft voice, his mouth quirked in a devilish smile, rife with promise. "Now let's have done with the verbal warfare, Sybelle; I've need of a more intense, personal form of combat." Rolf released her and leaned against one of the posts of the bed, folding his arms across his chest. "Disrobe."

The angry denial he saw in her eyes made him smile all the more deeply. "Disrobe, or I shall rip the gown from your body myself."

It was as if he wanted her to make him lose his temper, Sybelle thought. She who had all the reasons for anger saw it instead reflected in those complex green eyes.

She unbelted the robe, slipping it off her body carelessly. Her hair at least provided minimal covering. Sybelle raised her head, looking Rolf squarely in the eyes. She wouldn't beg or cower. Not in front of this man, she vowed silently. Let him look his fill. It mattered little to her.

"Lying bitch," was the last thing Sybelle expected to hear from Rolf's lips.

"What mean you?" Sybelle asked, startled.

"Put away your pretense that this signifies nothing to you, Lady Sybelle," Rolf said softly, approaching her.

Sybelle stood her ground, refusing to acknowledge that Rolf had seen uncannily into her heart. How? Was this accursed Irishman a wizard?

His touch was feather light as he swept aside the long curtain of her hair which hid her body from his view. Slowly, she felt the power of his hand caressing her cheek, stealing a path along her throat to the place where her heart beat.

Rolf backed away from her, eyes never breaking the contact he had with hers. Quickly he divested himself of the single garment that he wore, a robe, also of velvet, totally black, with no other color to mar its beauty.

The breath caught painfully in her throat. Here was a man perfectly formed, a specimen that any bride would have welcomed joyfully into her marriage bed. She knew that he felt no shame standing before her now, exposed as God made him. No, the shame was in her, she understood, for she couldn't shut her eyes to the untamed display before her.

The only ornamentation that he now wore was the ring, and something else, something not familiar to her world. On both his arms were wrist bands of solid gold. Pagan. As was he, Sybelle decided. It was evident in the hooded eyes that swept over her body, heating her skin. It was in his face, high cheekbones taut with control, a square jaw broken by a devil's slash. And those lips, curled in a feral grin. His thin, strong nose responded also, nostrils quivering slightly as if he scented her. She was being stalked, even if neither of them moved.

The blood beat swiftly in her veins; she could hear the thunder of her heartbeat as he advanced towards her.

Cold, she must remain cold, she repeated, until he felt secure, then she would unleash the anger she felt ready to explode inside her.

Roll threw back the thick pelts that covered the bed, exposing the white linen piled high with pillows.

Sybelle felt her body leave the ground, then she sank into the softness of the down as Rolf placed her on the bed, joining her. She sought to cover her nakedness with a pelt, but Roll pushed her hand aside. "No," was his growled response. Hating herself with the trembling she knew was winding its way through her body, Sybelle forced herself to lie as still as a woman ready for the last rites. Her lids were tightly closed, shutting off the fear that she thought might be evident in her eyes. 'Twas one thing to say she would face her ravisher without fear, another to do so.

What was he waiting for? Did not men hurry through the act that was for their pleasure?

Her eyes flew open. What was he doing?

Rolf's mouth quirked in an odd smile, half bemused, half seductive. Instead of grabbing for her thighs and dragging them apart as she thought he would do, swiftly mounting her, Roll swept his mouth over her face, leaving soft kisses across her cheek and the bridge of her small nose, across her throat, where he paused to nibble at the sensitive spot behind her ear. His hands were not idle either, for they swept along her arms and then across her waist. Rolf skimmed the tops of her legs with tender strokes. His black head dipped to her breast, his mouth nipping along the full slope of tender skin, his tongue snaking out to lave the area with its burning brand of possession.

An involuntary tingle of sensation infiltrated her nerves as Sybelle sought to resist what he was inflicting on her. Anger now on the rise, she lifted her arms from the bed, pushing futilely against the warm flesh of his chest. Within seconds, Sybelle found her wrists pinned above her head, captured in one of Rolf's strong hands. She resumed her struggle, squirming in an attempt to buck him off. He responded by throwing a powerfully muscled leg over hers to still her movements. Along her belly Sybelle could feel the foreign sensation of flesh. Resuming her struggles, she heard the soft mocking laughter from his lips as his fingers boldly touched the tangle of honey-brown curls at the apex of her closed thighs.

"Irish whoreson," Sybelle hissed.

Rolf froze momentarily, his eyes chilling her with the intensity she saw there. Where before his lips had coaxed, now they ground into hers with a force that took her breath away, bruising her with little care. He forced her legs to part, sliding between her splayed thighs, positioning himself for his assualt on her maidenhead.

Pain splintered Sybelle's thoughts; Rolf's body was in full possession of hers. Again and again he claimed the territory he breached.

Her hands now free, Sybelle launched her own attack. Her nails raked across his cheek, her mouth bit wherever she could find flesh. But the blows she pummeled him with were ineffectual; Rolf resisted her attacks and kept pressing his own until, finally, he completed his task, spilling himself into her body.

Sybelle lay exhausted; the sweat from his body mingled with hers, as the blood that stained her sore thighs mixed with the essence of him.

She felt the bed give as he left it. Turning her head, she watched him belt the robe, pick up a tankard of ale left by Siobhan on a nearby table, and drain the contents.

"Mayhap with practice you'll make a fair whore, madame. Perhaps you can even increase your family's holdings by spreading your legs for the Sunne himself. 'Tis widely known that the English king is generous to his favorites, if not particularly discriminating in his bedpartners." He paused, his tone as cold as the winter winds. Stroking his hand along his face, he came away with traces of blood. "'Twould seem we've both drawn blood, my lady." With those words he spun on his heel and left the chamber.

Forcing herself to sit up, she struggled to swing her legs to the floor. Pain jarred her as she bit on her already swollen lip. Shakily, she tried to stand, swaying for a moment before regaining her equilibrium.

The sheets seemed to mock her as her eyes beheld them. Angrily, she tore them from the bed, throwing them to the floor, where she tore them into strips in her fury and shame. If only she could have torn Rolf's hide from his body; if only she could have rent his actions from her memory as easily as she ripped the material!

But she could not. Her dishonor was complete. It was in evidence on the remnants of the linen that she held in her hands. How far she'd come in a matter of days! Lady Sybelle Elizabeth Fitzgerald, heiress to estates, wealthy, educatedhumbled and tumbled by an Irish barbarian in a feud not of her own making. But he's not bested me, Sybelle swore. By Jesu, I'll not allow him to win.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The hall was empty except for the young man who sat in a corner, fingers strumming a plaintive tune on a large harp. His skillful hands coaxed the music from the instrument; his voice sang softly, sweetly, of a love lost, an honor betrayed.

"Sweet Jesu, must I listen to you and your melancholy humor?"

Bran's fingers stilled at his brother's harsh voice. Rolf offered him a goblet of wine, downing his own in one long swallow. Bran accepted the beverage, drinking carefully, observing Rolf all the while. He noted the dark circles that rimmed his brother's eyes as Rolf focused his attention on the flames that burned low in the huge fireplace.

"'Tis done," he said wearily, turning his back on the warmth of the flames.

There was no joy in the words, Bran noted; instead there was a sadness in his brother's voice that he'd never heard before. The confidence of earlier that evening had vanished, replaced with a strange sorrow.

Noticing that Rolf was again refilling his goblet, and that the wine jug was empty, he asked, "Do you want me to fetch more?"

Rolf nodded his head, not looking at Branduff. He seemed to be somewhere else, away from this room, away from himself even.

"Rolf, if you've a need to talk . . . "

The eyes that focused on him were angry, the voice curt. "I need no father confessor tonight, lad. Leave me alone." With that, Rolf turned his head away again, but not before Bran caught the long red welt that ran along the side of his face. Obviously the Englishwoman had not yielded to his brother calmly. He'd entertained hopes that Rolf would change his mind, but the morose man slumped into a chair wasn't what Bran expected to see tonight. If truth be told, he hadn't a notion what to expect from Rolf after his bedding of the Lady Sybelle. Triumph? Joy? Pleasure? Justification? None of these feelings was evident to him on his brother's harsh features.

Bran's hands convulsed into fists as he felt the hot sting of tears behind his lids. Whatever comfort he could offer his brother would be rejected, he knew. To the Lady Sybelle he must remain aloof, knowing that his blood-tie would not allow her to accept any overtures of friendship now.

Prudently he left Rolf alone, stilling the hand that ached to reach out and clasp his brother's shoulder.

Minutes passed before a servant, hastily awakened, brought the jug of wine that Bran ordered.

"My lord, your wine," the servant murmured, waiting for further instructions, which were not long in coming.

"Get out."

Recognizing that Lord Rolf's tone brooked no disobedience, the servant hastened to do his lord's bidding.

Rising from the leather chair, Rolf walked to the table. He poured a long measure of the ruby liquid into his goblet, swallowing a hearty amount.

When the glass was empty, he slammed his fist onto the wooden table, shouting, "God damn her!"

Hours later, as the hall began to fill with servants eager to begin their daily routines, Rolf decided that a retreat was in his best interests, not to mention that of his servants, who were cautiously trying to tip-toe around their lord. Because Rolf had not yet sought his own chamber did not mean that others in his household had not; those waking would expect something to break their fast. Some would be bold enough to make known their thoughts on what had occurred last evening. Already Rolf could hear the faint whisperings from the servants. By the end of the day the incident would have spread through the surrounding village. It would not be malicious, Rolf conceded; it was simply that, in his position as earl, what he did affected all, even something so personal as his choice of bedpartneror a matter of revenge.

Rolf could hear the sighs of relief as he left the hall, saw the curious looks cast his way as he took to the stairs leading to the upper floor and his private apartments.

Splashing water into a bowl, he rinsed his face, gazing into the mirror that lay on the small table. Dark traces of beard were heavy on his jaw and his green eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep and a surfeit of drink. He'd lost count of the pitchers of wine he'd consumed. A river of the stuff still wouldn't make him forget that he'd never taken a woman by force before.

The sounds of activity from the bailey below alerted Rolf that his men were aleady practicing arms. He could hear Branduff issuing orders and listened to the noise of sword clashing against sword.

At that moment, the gentle rapping on his door focused his errant thoughts back.

He swung around as the door opened, admitting a woman of three and thirty. In her wake entered a servant bearing a tray containing a jug of cold milk and a loaf of dark bread, an earthenware jar of honey, anti a heap of butter on a trencher of day-old bread. The servant placed the meal on a table near the massive bed, smiled, murmured a blessing upon the Lord Rolf, and silently backed out the door, leaving the woman and Rolf alone.

''What brings you to my chambers this morning, Etain?" Rolf inquired, not bothering to hide his displeasure.

"A night amongst the wine cups does not become you, my lord wolf," she said softly. "'Tis no need you have to vent your anger towards me. Come, eat ere you start to feel ill."

"The role of nursemaid does not suit you, Etain."

Her smile held genuine affection for the man. "My lord, you need no nursemaid, but I think you could use a friend. Will you not eat something?"

The gently coaxing worked. Rolf relaxed upon the bed, allowing Etain to hand him a thick slice of bread dripping with honey.

Her mother, Siobhah, had urged her to make this visit, thinking that perhaps she could offer him some comfort. This Etain was ready to do, whatever he needed. She had not lied. She was his friend and would always be so.

"If my lord would permit, may I play the role of barber? Yours is no face to inflict on gentle folk this early in the day."

Rolf laughedat least the sound coming from his throat resembled a laugh. Taking Etain's hand in his, he kissed it gently. "'Tis one you've seen this way on more than a few morns, if I may be so bold to recall?"

She laughed with him. "Aye, my lord, but then, I never said I was gentle folk, did I?" Her mind skipped back in time to hours spent in Rolf's bed, her skin reddened by the very same growth of beard he now sported.

Rolf thought how good it would feel to lie with a woman now. The need was great within him. He could take the opportunity before him. Wasn't that why Siobhan had asked her child to come? Etain didn't have to tell him so; he knew the older woman, knew the way her mind worked, Etain's was a body he was familiar with; she was a woman who enjoyed the comforts of a mutually satisfying coupling.

He watched her heat water for shaving. His mind recalled her slender form beneath him in a bed, yet over her features were painted those of another. Instead of hair the color of sunshine, he saw golden-brown; instead of long limbs, he beheld a woman of smaller stature; instead of eyes of pale blue, he remembered a mixture of gray and blue, blended into a stormy, haughty look. Sybelle's haunting memory refused to fade.

Rolf remained silent throughout Etain's ministrations; her heart knew that she couldn't reach him.

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Siobhan spied her daughter leaving Rolf's bedchamber.

"How fares my lord?" she asked.

"Uneasy, mother. He has built a wall around himself and he refuses entrance to anyone. Little could I do to break his mood. Faith, I've never seen him like this before."

Siobhan nodded her head. "Neither, daughter, have I. 'Tis why I thought that perhaps you could comfort him." Siobhan turned her head towards the long corridor. "Mayhap you can be of some service to the lady instead."

"Lady?" Siobhan quickly explained the situation to her daughter, whose pale blue eyes widened in surprise.

"I thought it best to allow her some private time ere I brought her something to eat, should she be of a mind for food. She may have need of your healing arts, daughter. If you cannot help the wolf, perhaps you can aid his prey."

"I shall do what I can, Mother. Do not hope for more than that, for it may be nothing." Etain looked her mother deeply in the eyes, questioning her mother's interest in the woman. "What concern 'tis it of yours that my Lord Rolf's captive be cared for?"

Siobhan smiled; the action removed years from her features. "'Tis the prisoner who possesses the key to free her jailer."

With that enigmatic pronouncement Siobhan ushered Etain down the hall to the room set aside for Sybelle's use.

Chapter 5

"Fetch me Fergal," Rolf ordered in a deadly quiet voice to one of his grooms, who ran to do his biding.

Branduff, his training momentarily halted, approached Rolf. "Would you like company?" he asked, removing his helmet. His hair was sweat-plastered to his head.

With an imperious snap of his fingers, Rolf summoned one of the squires, instructing him to fetch water for his brother. Branduff drank deeply of the cold liquid, splashing some across his neck and face. He repeated his inquiry.

"The dogs need a run, as does Fergal. I need no company."

Bran remained silent, not saying that the dogs could be exercised in the keep just as well and that their long ride the day before should have been enough of an outing for the spirited mount his brother rode.

"A game of chess would please me later," Rolf said, mounting his big gray stallion and motioning for the dogs.

"Aye, 'twould please me also, brother. I await your pleasure then, till anon."

Wheeling the horse about, Rolf dug in his heels. The beast seemed to grow wings as he dashed through the gates, the two mastiffs close behind.

"Do not worry about him, lad," said Auliffe, his voice gruff and hearty. "Lord Rolf knows what he's about." Then he added, as if to himself, "Even if we don't."

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A fine mist hung over the shore. Not quite a drizzle, it was soft, moist, and persistent. The sky was gray; the waters of the Atlantic choppy and restless, echoing Rolf's mood.

He sat on the shore, booted feet planted on the sand, his chair a large rock. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the wide expanse of ocean before him, ignoring the weather, which dampened his long black hair. With a careless gesture, he swept one hand through the tangle on his forehead. His wide mouth thinned as he reflected on the woman he held captive.

His purpose had been clear last evening when he walked into the room. He would enjoy her body, reaping the physical rewards of his well-planned revenge. Aye, that had been his intentuntil he stood on the threshold and beheld her. The candle-glow cast a soft light on her hair, warming her skin to the color of rich cream. When she became aware of his presence, he silently observed the wariness battling with pride in her eyes. Surely he had been wrong to imagine he perceived a sadness in her for the young man he'd once been, who'd been forced to extract his own form of revenge for his parents' murder. Nay, he must have mistaken her look, for Rolf couldn't forget the blazing fury of icy-hot eyes turned on him then, bitter denunciation clear.

The set of her soft shoulders as she dropped her only form of clothing touched him unexpectedly. It was then that he knew he couldn't merely slake the raging lust he felt for her lushly curved body without giving her pleasure also. Her defiant eyes met his; Rolf understood what he must do. Revenge would be even sweeter if he could induce the maid to relinquish the self-control she so prided herself upon. Yes, he reasoned, that would be another measure of his taming of Fitzgerald's daughter, her willing acquiescence to her own seduction.

Rolf's long-lashed green eyes closed as he brought back to his mind a clear picture of the room and the maid who faced him. A waist he could circumvent with his hands; breasts high and full, nipples peaking from between strands of long brown hair; legs curving and strong. A horsewoman, he judged. A body fashioned for loving, for the comfort of a man, to give back the strength received.

Yet what of that which he could not see? What figured in her mind? What depths lay hidden beneath hair and skull? Was there complexity to the pride, or was haughtiness only a surface emotion, empty of concern? Did she possess real courage, or was her antagonism only a shield easily taken on and off?

Rolf dismissed his deeper thoughts as his loins rose to the need. Take. Capture. Defeat. Enjoy. Vanquish. Surrender. Aye, all those words and more tumbled quickly through his brain as he swept her warm body into his powerful arms. Depositing her on the bed, he reacted quickly when she tried to cover the beauty of her form from him.

He observed that Sybelle was planning a strategic retreat from the act as her curling eyelashes dropped, shielding her eyes from the sight of Rolf joining her on the bed. He saw the small fists clenched tightly to endure what was to comea virgin sacrifice to the altar of lust and vengeance.

His smile deepened the grooves alongside his rugged jaw. Ah, sweetling, Rolf thought, the sacrifice will be welcomed most eagerly if I've anything to do about it. To make you succumb to pleasure's promise will be a task I shall enjoy deeply.

Brushing her thick curtain of hair aside, Rolf placed his mouth to her face, touching her lightly with swift kisses tenderly placed, making a sensual exploration of her neck and shoulders. How pale was her full breast against his tanned hand. How well the curve of her flesh filled his palm. He continued to cup and weigh, judging the flesh superb as his thumb stroked the soft bud into flower. When his mouth took possession of his hand's treasure, he could feel the instantaneous reaction of her body. No one before him had access to this territory; the wench was unschooled, unaware of the sweet temptations that caused her flesh to burn, to tremble. The gentle quakes that shook her breast pleased him greatly.

Catching the startled look that took hold of her stormy eyes, Rolf could read amazement, bewilderment, the vision of the unknown making itself known.

The tantalizing allurement of lust was upon her now, weaving its wiles about her.

Sliding his hand along her waist, he skimmed the rich promise of her hips, gliding the rough skin of his palm across the taut, slim-muscled, down-covered thighs closed tightly against him.

His mouth levied a tax on her flesh, which responded, against her formerly resolute will.

Finally, he couldn't avoid the portal that he sought. His fingers stroked the curls guarding her inner treasure.

Her reaction was swift as she pushed furiously against his broad shoulders.

Rolf was not about to be dissuaded from his pursuit. One of his large hands seized both of hers, his long leg stilled her writhing motions, bringing his swollen flesh into contact with her soft skin.

Never fear, lass, Rolf thought at that moment, I'll make it good for you. He'd decided to spare her as much pain as he could, showing her skills perfected, over many years and countless women.

An unbidden thought entered his mind. It was as if every other wench he'd lain with was merely a preparation, a rehearsal, for this particular woman.

Then he heard the cutting, barbed words Sybelle threw at him.

"Irish whoreson."

Rolf felt a layer of coldness settle on his flesh, chilling the red-hot blood in his veins. He put aside his tender considerations, intent now on inflicting a measure of the unexplained hurt he felt. English bitch, he thought bitterly. You'll now know who's master. Aye, Rolf reminded himself, it was never politic to forget what the centuries had taught the Irish about the Englishdo not trust the bodach sacsanach, male or female. Aye, especially the female.

Where RoWs earlier caresses had been soft, they were now bruising. His kisses scored her flesh in their intensity, as he roughly pushed apart her legs, bringing his long-limbed body to rest in the cradle of her soft thighs. Thrusting his hips forward, he began his attack on her defenses, which yielded to the swift motion of his body. She fought as much as she could. He could hear the gasp of pain she let slip through her swollen lips. Her maidenhead was breached; he rode her strongly, exorcising the demons that now drove him, spilling his seed into her waiting body, slumping for a brief moment on the tender curves of her breasts.

Instead of the momentary exaltation he usually felt upon release, Rolf experienced instead the bitter tang of disappointment.

That sense of frustration remained keenly with him even now, as he fondled the head of one of his dogs. The vivid memory of eyes wide with cold fury, the bruises already showing against her slender wrists, the blood and semen mixed upon her thighs and the bed linen burdened his mind. Why this was so, he knew not.

Etain's offer of that morning was a way to dispel these haunting visions, yet he couldn't bring himself to seek solace in her arms. It wouldn't have been fair to the lovely woman, for he would have used her as a convenient receptable. For the sake of their years of knowing each other, for their past relationship as lovers, Rolf couldn't use her now like a slut. Besides, Sybelle Fitzgerald's was a face not easily dismissed, even in the casual bedding of another.

The darkening of the afternoon sky warned him that the weather would soon be rougher. Angry gray clouds pushed aside the soft mists.

He whistled to the dog racing along the sand in pursuit of something and, grabbing Fergal's reins, Rolf mounted. The horse snorted, eager for another hard gallop. He turned the stallion towards his castle, sensing that the day would prove as stormy within the walls of his home as without.

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''She will not answer my knock, Siobhan," spoke the young servant girl, who carried a tray of food and wine, her eyes downcast as Siobhan and her daughter stood before the huge oak door. "Truly, 'tis the second time that I've been here this morn, with no reply."

"'Tis noted that you have tried, Maire. Leave the tray. Etain and I will see to the lady."

Maire nodded her head in acknowledgment, handing the tray to Siobhan, Who in turn gave it to Etain.

Siobhan knocked upon the door. "My Lady Sybelle, are you awake?"

No response came from within, so Siobhah decided to enter anyway, worry creasing her face.

She unlocked the thick door, entering the room. All was in darkness. The shutters were drawn against the light. No fire burned in the hearth; no candles were lit.

"My lady?" Siobhan moved to the window, throwing aside the faded wood panels to allow what light was available to come into the room. She quickly secured a flint to light the brace of candles that stood on the small table, where she motioned Etain to place the tray.

When the room was properly lit, Siobhah eyed the torn and tossed bed linens upon the floor. In a hard hide chair before the dead fire sat Sybelle, wearing only the velvet robe.

Siobhan saw to the rebuilding of the fire, a curt toss of her head in her daughter's direction indicating that Etain should try to get Sybelle to respond.

Etain obeyed her mother, her own blue eyes surveying the tangle of clothes that lay strewn haphazardly on the floor. 'Twas not hard, she thought, to surmise what had happened to this room. She bent, picking up a piece of ripped linen, examining the telltale signs of a maiden's lost innocence, combined with a man's sexual release.

"Burn it," came the cold pronouncement from Sybelle, who finally noticed Siobhan was not alone in the chamber.

Siobhan turned towards Sybelle, a quizzical look on her face until she saw the cloth held in Etain's hands.

"Destroy it," Sybelle said, her hands gripping the chair so tightly that her knuckles stood out.

"As you wish, my lady," Etain said, gathering the linen into a bundle, making to deposit it outside the door.

Sybelle spoke again, this time her voice was not so harsh; it was pleading, the words uttered through great effort. "Do not allow it to be displayed, please." Sybelle reached out her hand, grabbing Siobhan's wrist. "It must be destroyed before anyone can see it. Do not, I beg you, let it find its way to my father. Put it to the flames."

Siobhan nodded solemnly, taking the linen from Etain's hands and leaving the room, allowing the two younger women to be alone.

Her voice barely above a husky whisper, Etain asked, "Why would you think the linen would be sent to your father?"

Sybelle raised her head, staring at the tall, slender woman who stood in front of her. Sweet Jesu, who was this? Another witness to her humiliation? Yet Sybelle found no signs of either reproach or triumph in the gentle face. Instead, there was dignity, a singular calm that shone from the woman's visage.

"For proof, of course," Sybelle said bitterly. "A badge to claim victory."

"'Twould only serve," Etain answered softly, "if Derran was outside the castle walls. Then 'twould be politic to send proof of your lost virginity to your father. However, as your father has fled to England, 'twould serve no true purpose to send a bit of stained cloth to him. When he becomes aware of who holds you, he will know without a scrap of material that my lord has taken you," she finished matter-of-factly. ''Come, stand, so that I may examine you."

Sybelle cocked her head to one side, her brows arching. "So you can what?"

"I will not hurt you, my lady. My mother, Siobhan, wished me to examine you to see if I could perhaps ease your pain."

Sybelle stiffened in her chair. "Why you?"

"I am a healer, my lady," Etain said proudly, awaiting Sybelle's reaction.

A sigh of resignation escaped Sybelle's lips. "'Tis no need. You cannot restore that which I have lost."

Etain laid her hand on Sybelle's. "Are you sore ? Do you still bleed?" she inquired.

Sybelle shook her head, a blush suffusing her cheeks. "No, no more blood has passed. My limbs, in truth, are sore."

"Then you must relax in a tub of hot water and herbs. 'Twill soothe your aches; your body will return to its proper state in time."

"What are you called?"

"Etain," she replied, bringing the tray to Sybelle. "You should eat something. 'Tis no use to brood over that which is gone."

Sybelle flashed her an angry glance. "What know you of what I've experienced?"

Handing Sybelle a goblet of spiced wine and a slab of bread and cheese, Etain answered her. "When I was two-and-ten, my lady, raiders made bold to our shores. My lord's father was away, and 'twas thought 'twould be easy to take both food and women. They who came reckoned not on my lord's people fighting back, for a force of men were left on duty to protect the castle and its people. Yet, not everyone escaped unscathed. My brother was slain before my eyes. I and two other village girls were captured. 'Twas then I learnt about men, my lady, and what it means to be a captive. Only one man possessed you. We were not so fortunate."

Sybelle observed that there were no traces of hurt or humiliation in Etain's eyes. Rather, they exhibited only a strength of purpose. She stole a glance at Etain's hands. She wore no rings. "Etain, are you wed?" Sybelle's curiosity overcame her normal reluctance to pry into another's life.

"'Tis not for lack of offers, my lady. Think you that what happened when I was a girl renders me unfit for marriage?" Etain watched Sybelle's features carefully. "Aye, I can see that you do. Forsooth, it matters more to your sort, I'll wager. Here we do not hold what is not one's fault against one. My rape 'twas not of my choosing, my lady, so it is of no matter."

"Yet you've not wanted to be married?" Sybelle asked.

Her mouth softened in a smile. "Aye, I think one day I shall. But it will be my choice, my lady. No man will force his will upon me. If I choose a lover, it is by my consent that he shares my bed, or I his."

Sybelle, although gently reared, was familiar with men and women sharing beds while not married to one another. Being raised in the shadow of Edward Plantagent's court was an education in itself. Yet it was indeed strange to hear a woman unwed freely admit 'twas she who chose, not the man. There was nothing coarse or cheap about this woman, Sybelle discerned.

A curious notion buzzed in her brain like an angry insect. Had this woman shared Rolf O'Dalaigh's bed? Sybelle gave herself a mental shake. What did she care? 'Twas no concern of hers if he took all the women in this cursed keep to his licentious bed. She drew herself from the chair, her muscles cramping slightly. He had probably bedded every woman in western Ireland, and fathered half again as many bastards, peopling the land with black-haired, green-eyed infants with a hint of the pagan about them. Sweet Mary, no! Sybelle screamed silently, one hand spreading across her middle while Etain answered the knocking on the chamber door. A babe? Even now the seed of the Earl of Killroone could be taking root in her womb. No. No! Her breath caught painfully in her chest as she tried to force the aching thought from her mind. Not a child. Holy mother, not a child, please, Sybelle begged. Let me prove barren ere I bear a bastard, especially his bastard.

Etain opened the door to the servants, who brought in wooden buckets of hot water. She directed the filling of the tub, producing a small container of herbs concealed within the deep pocket in the skirt of her woolen gown. She dropped a measure into the steaming water as she signalled for the Lady Sybelle.

"Lady Sybelle."

"Aye, Etain, I am coming."

Sybelle cast a sideways glance at the older woman. She was a healer; would she aid Sybelle if Sybelle requested something to avoid conception? Such methods were not unknown to her, having heard servants gossiping about such matters.

Should she broach the subject now, or wait till she could ascertain whether or not Etain would help her? Could she trust this woman?

Sybelle sank into the hot water, letting it flow around her, relieving her aching muscles. She closed her tired eyes, shutting out all but the feel of the soothing warmth, the smell of herbs. No, she could not trust this woman . . . yet. Etain was her lord's creature; she owed loyalty to Rolf O'Daliagh. His was the word she would heed, not Sybelle's plea for assistance. And, Sybelle thought, could she permit herself to . . . to what? Stop what might have already taken root?

"Etain?"

Etain stood in the doorway of the antechamber. "Aye, my lady?"

"Another draught of spiced wine, please."

She turned, complying with Sybelle's request.

I must abandon this fanciful notion, Sybelle thought wearily. He's taken what he wished; now there's an end to it. I must put my thoughts to leaving this place as soon as I can. But how?

Chapter 6

"I needno, I demand to see him. Tell your lord that I want an audience, now."

Siobhan observed the angry flags of color in the pale face. Sybelle's cheeks were bright, her eyes dark. "I am sorry, my lady, but my lord is not at Wolf's Den this day."

Sybelle's nostrils quivered with the vexation she was feeling. Craven dog. "Where is he?"

Siobhan debated whether or not to tell Sybelle the truth or fabricate a lie. She decided on the truth. "He rode to the estate of a friend of his, my lady."

'To gloat, no doubt?"

The bitter sting of her words gave Siobhan further proof that the lady's mood was tart. "Nay," she said, her voice edged with weariness. "He had a duty to perform." Spreading the word of his glorious conquest? Sybelle wondered.

"He went to tell the man that the woman he was to wed is no longer available."

"The Lady Duvessa?"

"Aye, my lady."

"The earl told me that she wasn't betrothed."

"Nay, not formally," Siobhan said. "My Lord Rolf had approached this friend several years earlier. It was agreed that when the Lady Duvessa reached her eighteenth year, the formal papers of betrothal would be signed and soon after she would wed the man chosen for her by her cousin."

"Was the Lady Duvessa aware of her cousin's plans?"

"Indeed, my lady. My Lord Rolf would not pledge her without her knowledge. He loves her dearly, like a sister. His choice would have made her a good husband."

"Mayhap he still can?"

Siobhan shook her head. "'Tis doubt I have of that, my lady. Lord Lucan wanted a virgin to wife."

Sybelle observed, "Then he is little different from any other man."

Siobhan shrugged her thin shoulders. "That is not always the way of the world, my lady."

"Think you not?"

"Such is for each man to decide. Virginity is a Christian concept not all have embraced."

Sybelle, her expression puzzled, asked, "Are you not a Christian, Siobhan?"

She answered with a smile. "Aye, my lady, but I am also Irish. There are laws older than Christianity here, laws seasoned in the blood."

"Pagan."

"Nay. Celtic. We are a strong race, my lady. Our ways are time-honored and remembered. Lord Lucan is more Norman in his thinking, so it was important for him to be the first in his wife's bed."

"Are you saying that my Lord Killroone does not share that philosophy?"

"That I cannot honestly answer, my lady. I only know that it was not instilled in him as it seems to be in you English." Siobhan hesitated a moment before continuing. "Knowing my lord as I do, I would imagine that he would rather be the last."

"Last?"

"Aye. The woman he chooses for his countess must be his alone."

"Would not his lady expect the same?" Sybelle probed. "I have my doubts that your lord earl understands the meaning of the word faithful."

"He knows, my lady, for he had the best examplehis mother and his father." Siobhan set to work on braiding the right side of Sybelle's head now that she was finished with the left side.

"When do you expect him to return?"

"Not for several days."

More waiting, Sybelle thought. Her confrontation with Rolf would be postponed. Was this his way of reminding her who held the dice in this game of chance? This situation must be resolved soon, else she would scream from uncertainty. Now that the revenge he sought was accomplished, he would be eager for her to be gone. Or would he? And what about the Lady Duvessa?

Siobhan removed the supper tray, nodding her approval that the Lady Sybelle had again found her appetite. Her spirits were fractious, but Siobhan assumed that 'twas to be expected.

"Do you wish anything else, Lady Sybelle?"

"Only my freedom," was the reply. Siobhan gave no comment and walked out the door, carefully bolting it after her. She hated the sound of that bolt. Not for much longer would it be barred, she thought. My Lord Rolf will succumb, as will the lady. Then, all doors will be opened; no locks will be needed again, least of all on a heart.

Sybelle paced the room, giving vent to the indignation she was feeling. Her long sleep had refreshed her. She assumed Etain had put something into the spiced wine for, after drinking it, she had felt drowsy and lay down, quickly falling into Morpheus' arms. Upon awakening she had found out that one day had passed. The ache in her limbs had eased; the ache in her heart would take longer to heal.

She felt the cold muzzle of the dog pressing against her hand. Dropping to her knees, she hid her face against the dog's neck, allowing her tears to flow freely.

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"Will you keep her a prisoner of that room forever, Rolf?"

Lifting his eyes from the chess set, Rolf looked at his brother. Idly, he picked up a piece from the board, turning the carved figure around in his slim fingers, caressing the ivory queen slowly before returning it to the board. "She is free to leave it whenever she chooses."

"Does she know that?" Bran asked, making his next move on the board, carefully watching his brother. "Have you seen her since your return?"

Rolf absently fingered the healing scratch on his smooth cheek. "No, not since that night." Not in the flesh, he acknowledged, but in his thoughts Lady Sybelle was a constant companion. She has become part of me so quickly. Why? How? Ruthlessly, Roll shrugged aside such dangerous thoughts. She was merely a woman, an instrument with which to wreak his revenge. Only that. A bodysoft, warm, alluring, like others he had had before. If he continued to tell himself that, perhaps he would soon come to believe it. Danger lay in thinking otherwise.

"Shall you be returning her to the Earl of Derran soon?"

"No."

Branduff studied the implacable look on Rolf's face. "I thought you had accomplished the purpose for which you brought her here. Hasn't your need for vengeance been assuaged?"

"Not quite yet," Roll admitted, executing a move that defeated his brother. "Game to me, Bran."

A good-humored smile lit the younger man's face. He played for enjoyment, his brother played in earnest. For Bran it was pleasure; for Rolf it was a sharpening of his skills.

"You're playing for stakes higher than a game, Rolf," Bran observed. "Do you think Derran will ignore what you have done?"

"No," Roll answered in a dangerously quiet tone. "Yet what can he do?" Rolf picked up a knife, selected an apple from the silver bowl on the table, and proceeded to cut it with dexterous strokes. "His king will forbid him to mount a full-scale attempt to redeem his daughter. Edward knows it would be futile to launch a force of men against me. Against anyone in this part of Ireland. He will play it safe, demanding that Derran do so also. Remember his attempt to invade France?" Rolf raised an eyebrow, munching the sweet flesh of the apple, enjoying the tartness. ''Edward's lost his taste for war. A discreet inquiry as to the terms for releasing Derran's daughter will be made."

"And then shall you release her?"

A smile touched Rolf's mouth. "No. She will be my prisoner, my dormuine, for as long as it pleases me."

Concubine, Bran thought. His brother's plans had indeed changed. The English woman was to be more than Rolf's captive, she was to be his whore.

Roll tossed the apple core into the fireplace, sending up a flash of flames. "The immediate release of our cousin is my first concern. Then, when I have seen that the earl wishes to bargain, I will think about returning his child. Not before." Rolf's face again took on the hard, implacable set of stone. His words were bitter. "Imagine the humiliation he will suffer at Edward's court when 'tis learned that his oldest daughter is the leman for an Irishman. His pride will be trampled, his name besmirched. A small price to pay for robbing Duvessa of her honor."

"And what price will you pay, brother?" Bran asked, pouring himself another tankard of ale, golden eyes narrowed in concern.

Rolf threw a quizzical glance at his brother. Arrogantly, he replied, "Naught."

Bran mused on how well Rolf played the game of self-delusion. Sweet Jesu and all the saints. They would all pay a price. Just what, or when, he wasn't sure. Compassion for all the players in this tragedy had ripped a seam in his soul. What could he do? He loved his brother. He loved his cousin. Family honor was important to him, yet . . .

Siobhan entered the small solar, announcing, "My lord Rolf, Auliffe awaits you in the bailey. The French merchant ship has landed."

"Thank you, Siobhan. Have arrangements been made for Captain duBerre and his officers to dine with us this evening?"

"Aye, my lord. Auliffe sent word when the ship was spotted. He assumed that you would wish that they join your table, as always. Rooms have been readied for their use."

"Excellent." Rolf arose from his chair, snapping his fingers for his dogs to follow. "Siobhan?"

"Aye, my lord?"

"Extend an invitation for the Lady Sybelle to attend us this night."

Bran laid a hand on his brother's arm, felt the muscles tense under the soft wool. "Do you think that is wise, Rolf?"

"A moment ago you thought the Lady Sybelle should be given the privilege of leaving her rooms." Rolf's green eyes locked with Bran's golden ones; the younger man released his hold on his brother. "It would please me if she joins us, Bran, starting tonight." With a turn of his head he directed to Siobhan, "See to it. Derran's daughter may leave her chambers when she wishes," Rolf said. "She is not to go beyond the confines of the keep.''

A nod of Siobhan's head indicated that she understood, and would obey.

"Come Bran, let us not keep them waiting."

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Sybelle heard the bolt as it slid back. She stroked the head of the wolfhound as he went stiff, head cocked, eyes alert. These past two days, the dog had been her only company; he helped her fill the lonely hours. For indeed they were lonely. The girl who brought her meals spoke not a word of either English or French. Etain had not returned since that first morning when she attended Sybelle. Even Siobhan had deserted her. Boredom Was eating at her, sharing space with frustration. Not only had the arrogant Irish raider made free with her, but he had stolen what little ability she had to put the hours to use. She was surrounded by luxury with nothing to donothing save listen to the sounds of the world beyond these walls, to relive certain events until she thought she would scream with anger, to pace back and forth with no purpose to her time.

If he meant to drive her slowly mad, he would succeed.

The door swung open. Siobhan entered, carrying a goblet of spiced wine.

Lugh relaxed.

Sybelle smiled.

Siobhan hadn't missed the look of surprise on Sybelle's face when she entered the room, nor the swift unguarded pleasure that shone in the slateblue eyes before the strong will Sybelle exerted over her emotions returned and the mask was once again in place. Siobhan judged that Sybelle would be eager for escape, anxious to leave the limitations of this room. In her own way she was as proud as the Lord Rolfand just as stubborn, Siobhan deemed.

"My Lady Sybelle, I am bid come invite you to share the evening meal with my Lord Rolf and his guests," Siobhan said as she handed the silver goblet to Sybelle.

"So he deigns to allow me out of this cage of splendor?"

"He wishes it, my lady."

Sybelle walked away from Siobhan, her hands bracing against the window, her eyes focusing on the rain-swept landscape. She breathed deeply of the scent. It smelled of freedom. He wishes it, my lady. A snap of his fingers, a whim of the moment, and I am free, Sybelle thoughtfor however long it pleases him.

One part of Sybelle desired to take Rolf's command, fling it back in his face, and tell him that the only way she would leave would be with her father holding the key and Rolf in chains, begging for mercy and forgiveness. The other part longed to fly out the door and down the wide stairs, to be anywhere but this chamber of bitter recollections.

"How large a company of guests is there to be?"

Relief surged through Siobhan. She exhaled the breath that she had kept contained. "Only my lords Rolf and Branduff, the captain of a merchant ship, and several of his officers."

"Shall you attend?"

"No, my lady. 'Tis not my place to eat at the lord's table."

A cunning smile was Sybelle's silent response. Perhaps this captain would be able to help her. A promise of money would be sure to sway this merchant. What could the Earl of Killroone offer him that the Earl of Derran couldn't match, or excel? A fast profit for work that involved minimal risk. This man would be able to secure his own ship, or a fleet of vessels if he so desired. Any word from Derran could open up doors to any man lucky enough to secure his favor. A way must be found to obtain a few minutes of conversation with the man without the knowledge of the earl or his brother.

Sybelle turned from her position at the window. "You may tell my Lord Killroone that I shall be pleased to attend, Siobhan. Most pleased, indeed."

"As you wish, my lady," Siobhan said, taking the silver chalice from Sybelle's outstretched hand. "I am further instructed to tell you that you may quit this chamber at your leisure," Siobhan saw the quick brightening of Sybelle's face, and added, "Although my lord wishes that you not leave the confines of the keep, as yet." The hope she saw in the younger woman's face disappeared. "Go mbeannai Dia dhuit."

A weary curiosity forced Sybelle to ask, "What does that mean?"

"May God bless you, my lady."

The woman's softly spoken words touched Sybelle more than she thought possible. Tears misted her eyes. She reached out her hand and took the older woman's, squeezing it gently in a gesture of friendship.

Siobhan slipped into a gesture of respect for Sybelle, a deep curtsy, her eyes downcast. "I will  see to the preparations for your bath, my lady, and to your clothes. Will you allow me that honor?"

Sybelle nodded and Siobhan left.

Sybelle signalled to the dog, who trotted over to her. She ruffled the short fur before she went to the wardrobe, searching for something to throw about her shoulders. She would make for the wide stairs that lead to the battlements.

Freedom was now within her grasp. Sybelle stood in front of the door, hesitating, her hand extended before her.

Inhaling a deep breath, she grasped the handle and swung wide the door, her back straight, her smile formidable.

Chapter 7

She knew that she was being observed, but she didn't care. The strong blast of wind whipped her two braids behind her back like twin pennants. The moisture in the air was tangy, a welcome change from the dry confines of her chambers. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the scent of unchained exhilaration, for Sybelle was exhilarated. It was a small victory in the scheme of things, yet a victory nonetheless. She was no longer a prisoner of that room. Here she could took out, view the restless waters of the Atlantic, see the rocky beaches, listen to the excited squawk of the birds as they flew about looking for scraps. She observed several of the earl's people going about tasks, fishing, or unloading cargo from a larger ship that rode at anchor some distance away. She couldn't see what was being unloaded, but it was keeping men in three smaller boats busy.

She leaned against the weathered stone, feeling the ravages of time in the smoothness of the surface. She looked down. It was a sheer drop to the ground below.

The thought crossed her mind that she could leap from the precipice before anyone could lay hands on her. Did not most of her class believe in death rather than dishonor? She braced her hands on the stone, leaning over.

She smiled. Such was not her way. It mattered little to her that her religion forbade the act; she would not allow herself to throw away that which she held dear, her own life. She was a Fitzgerald; in her veins ran the blood of kings, of a people who did not recognize surrender. She would not succumb to the temptation of the melancholy. Sybelle was stronger than that; besides, she wanted her own brand of vengeance against he who had taken away her innocence, her freedom.

He thought she was planning on leaping. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched her, frozen. She would be over the wall before he could reach her. He hadn't thought that she would be tempted to take her own life. No, by God. She didn't have the right!

Rolf ran the few paces up the outer steps to Sybelle's side, grabbing her wrist in his strong grasp, pulling her away from the edge.

"Release me," she said, her tone conveying the contempt that she felt for this man.

Rolf, feeling foolish that he had raced to her side, thinking that he was saving her, bit out the words, "You do not give the orders here, my lady." He dropped her wrist, noting the bruises that already marred the white flesh. Christ, was he responsible for them? Without conscious thought his hand reached for hers, and then just as abruptly he withdrew it. "'Twould not have been a painless death."

Sybelle glared up at him, mentally congratulating herself on the still red welt on his face. "Think you that I was going to take my own life?" Her chin lifted. "You are not worth it, my lord."

Rolf recognized the cold fury that shone in her eyes, evident in the words she flung contemptuously at him.

"When am I to leave this place?"

Rolf's mouth twisted in a smile. He folded his arms across his wide chest, leaning against the wall of stone. His left eyebrow raised mockingly as his eyes wandered slowly up and down her form. He saw the blush rise in her cheeks, the delicate color staining the wind-blown skin a darker pink. "Wolf's Den shall be your home for awhile longer, my lady."

"Why?" she flung at him. "Have you not had that which you wanted? What else remains?"

"To regain my cousin." He smiled again. "You must hope that your lord father will want you."

"Of that I have no doubt," she said stubbornly.

"Why are you not wed?" he asked, surprising both himself and the lady with his abrupt change of subject.

"'Tis no concern of yours."

"But 'tis a curiosity, my lady. You are the daughter of a powerful man, a favorite of the English king." He added as an afterthought, "Not unpleasant to look at. Why?"

'I repeat, Irishman, 'tis no concern of yours." She made to walk past him, dragging her cloak aside as if the touch of him against the material was repugnant to her.

That gesture angered Rolf. He grabbed her wrist again, this time trying not to put much pressure in his hold as he saw her wince. "I have not dismissed you, Sybelle. Perhaps you need a reminder of just what your place is here." He saw the color drain from her face, the only betrayal of what she was feeling, for she stood her ground, refusing to give an inch. Sweet Jesu, but she reminded him of a goddess, challenging a mere mortal to dare to approach her. Her arrogance amused him; her defiance gave rise to a tide of lust sweeping across his loins. He could take her again, as many times as it pleased him, for who here would gainsay his wishes?

Only he. Some force he couldn't understand, or name, held him still. "Until the time comes that you are returned to Derran, you have only those rights that I grant you in this place. Try and remember that. You are my cumal, my personal slave."

She gasped at the word. "Slave?" Her eyes widened in shock.

"Aye, slave."

Sybelle bowed her head, her shoulders slumping momentarily. Bend or break, bend or break, a voice repeated in her brain. Aye, she answered herself, she must bend else she could not break him. She lifted her face, her eyes direct, emotionless.

"Will Siobhan show me to my new quarters?" she asked in a flat tone.

"There are to be no new quarters," he said, noting the swift look of surprise that crossed her face.

"I thought . . . "

"You have no need to think, Sybelle. Hear my words. You are mine now, and only mine. To all in this place you will retain the status of your birth, save that should I command a thing to be done by you, you will obey, whatever the task." He released her wrist, placing his hand under her chin, holding it gently. "Do you understand?" His green eyes captured hers in a merciless stare.

Oh yes, barbarian, I understand! her mind screamed. 'Tis another role that I must undertake in this hellish drama of your making. I will play my part and bide my time. "Aye, I understand fully, my lord," she said, her voice low and sweet. She sank to a stiff curtsey. "May I be excused now, my Lord Killroone? Or will you be wanting anything else?"

"Naught, save for your company tonight, at supper."

"As you wish, my lord," she said as she turned and started slowly down the stairs, the wolfhound at her heels.

A noise from the bailey below made her pause. She saw a rider being admitted into the keep, his horse well lathered, its sides heaving in exhaustion. Lugh barked, and Sybelle reached out her hand to place it on the dog. She looked at Rolf, saw the recognition on his face. Was this man bringing news of her father?

The man mounted the outer stairs and came rapidly up until he approached Rolf. Sybelle could see now that he was a mere youth, only fifteen or sixteen at most. He whispered something to Rolf, who nodded his black head, his features freezing, the skin tightening in response to the lad's words.

When the boy finished his report he turned and made his way back down the same stairs. Rolf, who was about to go the same way, halted, changed his mind, and came to where Sybelle was poised on the inner stairs.

''My men still haven't found the Lady Duvessa. Declan has ridden to inform me that your father has most assuredly left this country." His voice was harder when next he spoke. "Where in England would Derran go? To which of his estates? Tell me," he demanded.

"I know not where my father is, my Lord Killroone. The choices are vast."

"Perhaps you had better think on it, my lady. The sooner I find out where Derran is, the sooner we can begin negotiations."

His words made sense to Sybelle, but would she be betraying her father, putting him at risk if she gave Roll an answer? If Hugh Fitzgerald hadn't gone to London, then chances were he would have made for his favorite estate, his manor house in Dorset.

"Well, what say you?"

"I do not know, my lord."

"Nor would you say if you did, eh?" he declared. "So be it, my lady." With that he turned on his booted heel and left her, the force of his harshly uttered words echoing in her ears.

Chapter 8

It was a room that could hold almost a hundred guests if the host so desired, and had done so many times. Tonight the Great Hall served as a setting for a smaller party. Instead of the huge trestle tables that would have flanked each other on the floor, a place was created for the musicians, who played softly as the main table, which rose higher on a dais, was prepared. A new coating of rushes had been laid behind and under the table. In place of ordinary methers, wooden drinking vessels, goblets of the finest silver, encrusted with gems of various sizes, were placed on a white tablecloth, made of the best Irish linen.

Covering the bare, cold stone floor, was something found in only the wealthiest of homes, a carpet. Large in size, it was several hundred years old, and in excellent condition. Rolf's grandfather had purchased the Saracen rug from a Frenchman, whose ancestor had returned from the Crusades with several fine examples of carpets for his home. Shades of red, gold, blue and cream were woven into an intricate pattern of delicate beauty.

Several oil lamps had been hung, along with hundreds of candles, which bathed the room in a golden glow.

Seated at the high table were Rolf, his brother, Auliffe, and his guestsCaptain Armand duBerre and two of his officers. On Rolf's instructions, all were dressed as if they were attending a court function instead of an informal supper.

"Mon ami, what is the reason for this elegant setting?" Armand asked. "Not that I mind, you understand, but 'twould appear you have gone to a lot of trouble for just my men and me." His dark brown eyes scanned the room quickly, taking note of the new tapestries that hung on the stone walls; the elegance of the plate put out for their use; the subtle perfume which invaded his nose as he inhaled deeply of the scented candles. What was this for? Or perhaps he should ask who this was for? Certainly not for him or his men. Over the years he had been made most welcome in the home of his friend, yet nothing had ever compared to the formality of this night. Whispers had reached his ears of a lovely captive that Rolf kept securely within the confines of his castle. That thought puzzled Armand. What need had Rolf for keeping a woman prisoner?

Rolf extended his arm, indicating to a waiting servant that he was ready for more wine. The servant hastened to do his bidding, refilling the other vessels at the table as well. "Mon cher Armand, you must be patient. I have a surprise for you," Rolf said mysteriously, adding, "I remember that you love surprises."

Armand shrugged. "Oui." He drank of the ruby liquid, savoring the taste. "Excellent."

Rolf inclined his head. "It should be, as 'tis what you brought on your last visit."

Armand grinned. "Ah, yes, the shipment meant for His Grace, the King of England. I do recall."

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Sybelle stood just ouside the Hall, listening, observing. A shiver of apprehension clouded her thoughts. Coldness stroked her spine like an icy finger. Within moments she would be face to face with the man she hated, the man whose very name inspired a loathing so fierce that she felt she would explode with the weight of her anger. It was that anger that she drew on now as she prepared to enter the room. She must remember that she was the victim. He might control the situation, but he did not control her. He might possess her body; her mind must remain her own.

Schooling her features into a bland mask of indifference, Sybelle entered the room.

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"Elle est manifique!" Armand exclaimed, drawing the focus of masculine eyes towards the entrance to the Hall.

Sybelle walked slowly towards the dais with Lugh beside her. Her proud carriage did not go unnoticed by the master of the castle, who sat silently observing the effect she was having on his guests.

Armand held out his hand to help her to her chair, placed between his and Rolf's. Sacrй mиre, but this woman was exquisite, Armand thought. He approved of her mode of dress, even though it was more the style of twenty years before. Instead of confining her hair with a wimple, she had let it flow freely, tumbling to her waist; a thin circlet of gold held it back from her face. He longed to reach out to see if it felt as soft as the fur trim that surrounded her neck and wrists.

That shade of wine velvet made her skin look like cream, Rolf thought. Beneath the cloth of the table his fist clenched as though in pain. He wanted to slide his palm across the expanse of smooth flesh exposed by the low neckline of the bodice, feel the warmth, catch the pulse beat. He didn't need to see the eyes of the others to be aware that they were imagining what she would look like unconfined by fur and velvet, how like velvet and fur her flesh would feel. He felt an ache forming heavily in his body.

"Wine, Lady Sybelle?" Bran asked, wanting to offer her some token of reassurance, of friendship. It was a compulsion he gave in to, recalling another face illuminated by a single candle, eyes a different shade of blue, but no less defiant.

Sybelle turned her head and saw the younger, gentler version of the castle's lord. "Aye," she replied, waiting while he filled the vessel, all the while wondering. Being the cynosure of all these masculine eyes disconcerted her somewhat. Did they all know her purpose here? She was used to being the object of such attention. Hosting her father's dinners for the king or other lords since she was fourteen had prepared her for the scrutiny of those who inhabited her milieu. But this? Being the only woman at a formal table was a part she had never played before. Another lord's lady or daughter would normally have been present.

"Thank you," she said simply as Bran passed the goblet to Armand, who handed it to Sybelle, allowing his hand to brush hers ever so slightly. Her thoughts returned to Rolf. Did he seek to humiliate her? What was going on in that enigmatic mind?

"Perhaps you would care to present this lovely angel to us, mon ami?" Armand suggested with a wide grin.

Rolf, who was paying close attention to the contents of his own goblet, perforce had to perform the ceremony of introduction. He slanted a look towards his companion. Black lashes, which covered his eyes as he sat thinking, now opened, revealing eyes of the coolest green laced with misty gray.

"Lady Sybelle, Captain Armand Michel duBerre; his first officer, Jean-Marc DesMains, and the ship's doctor, Vicomte Henri Montblanc.

"Armand, Jean-Marc, Henri, may I present to you the Lady Sybelle Fitzgerald, daughter of the Earl of Derran."

Armand took Sybelle's hand in his, lightly saluting her with the warmth of his mouth on her flesh, the soft scrape of his moustache and beard tickling her. "Enchantй, my lady. It is even said in France that the roses of England are by far the most beautiful, and eagerly sought after, much prized by the man lucky enough to possess such a lovely flower."

Sybelle smiled at the Frenchman's gallantry. She countered with, "Though 'tis said that only the best can keep the rose in bloom, for the thorns, and the care required, are more than some will chance."

"Ah, my lady, what are thorns and a small amount of trouble if a man desires to have that which will bloom for him alone?"

Bran wondered if Armand knew that he was treading in dangerous waters. Armand was so captivated by the gentle beauty of Lady Sybelle that he was failing to note the look of displeasure that formed in Rolf's eyes. And, Brand speculated, he doubted if his brother was aware of just how much he was revealing of himself with his furtive glances at Sybelle. Bran had never seen his brother behave this way about a woman. The hunger that he saw in Rolf's green eyes revealed much more than a casual passion for the Lady Sybelle.

Tonight Rolf looked the part of the wolf, one whose ravenous gaze kept straying to the object of his desires. It wasn't the cold glance of the predator closing in for the kill; no, it was the stalking glance that promised no quarter, no retreat, warning others away from that which was his own. Hot and intense, Rolf's eyes could have burned the rose to ashes.

Servants entered the Hall, Siobhan in the background supervising the process. They put before the head table a selection that would do justice to the walthiest households in England, France, or Ireland. They began with salmon freshly caught and prepared, poached in wine. Siobhan would not normally have served this, it being considered too ordinary for guests, but she knew that it was a favorite of the captain's. This was followed by a selection of chicken pies, with special designs on the crust, no two alike. Once that had been cleared away, the main course of roast venison and a second course, of pork, was brought in.

Sybelle chose a thick slice of each. Rolf and the other men also sampled everything, to the accompaniment of the musicians who played songs that came from Ireland's soulone minute happy, the next sad.

Soft conversation that had no real depth went with the meal. It was a way to pass the time; Armand made the most of his seat next to Sybelle. Rolf remained silent for the most part, observing. He noted that Bran was having a small success in his conversation with the Lady Sybelle, as was Armand.

Rolf casually dismissed the threatening notion that he was jealous. Ridiculous! Hadn't he shared wenches with Armand when both were students? Hadn't he and his brother both enjoyed the charms of Etain's bed? He stabbed at a piece of venison with his two-pronged fork, chewing the meat slowly, concentrating on the flavor, instead of the woman beside him.

The musicians paused for a moment as an elderly man, his face radiating a quiet strength, sat on a chair specially provided for him. He was dressed all in white, the soft wool and linen of Ireland clothing him. His hair was long and still thick, falling well past his seemingly frail shoulders. Black eyebrows covered eyes as dark as ink.

He addressed a question to Rolf in Irish. Receiving the reply he wished for, he commenced his tales, his voice alluring and forceful. For the benefit of all there, he spoke in English, as commanded by his lord. All ceased their chatter. They listened intently to the old man as he recited tales of men and monsters, of dragons and queens, of kings and captives, of love and hate, greed and despair. One tale in particular brought a frown to Rolf's face. It was an ancient tale of a high-king who seized a faerie woman, intending to use her to his own will, who found himself under her spell, caught in the magic rather than controlling it.

"Cease, Tadgh," Rolf said tersely.

The storyteller acquiesced.

Sybelle directed her question to Bran. "Who is he?"

Bran swallowed the sweet confection he was eating, wiping his hands on the embroidered napkin. "Tadgh, my lady."

"What does it mean in my tongue?" she asked, trying the name.

"Timothy. Did his stories please you?"

"Aye. They reminded me of the French minstrel that my mother hired, who entertained us with his sagas of knights and ladies, of honor and courage."

"We call Tadgh a seanchai, a storyteller," Bran continued.

"Does he travel from castle to castle?"

"No" Bran began, only to be interrupted by Rolf's deep voice.

"He is an ollamh, a poet, member of the Aosdana."

Sybelle looked at Rolf willingly for the first time that night. "Which is . . . ?" she questioned in a voice soft and melodious.

"A member of the literary class, my lady. Second after our ancient high-kings. They are the recorders of our history, the people who make sure the children of Ireland never forget the heritage that is theirs. Tadgh serves as both the chief poet and teller of tales for our house. He is an important member of this household, for he also sees to the duanaire of this family."

Bran saw her puzzled look, interpreting the question she seemed reluctant to put to his brother.

"Each family has what would be called in your tongue, Lady Sybelle, a praise book, which is used to record family history. Your minstrels tell tales of others. The purpose of our story-tellers, and the book, is to make sure there is a personal record for the sons and daughters that come after us, so they will have the memories, and the joys, to share. It is a way to preserve that which was once alive, but will one day disappear. In that way you are never far from those who came before, whose lives allow us to see what we could hope for, mayhap learn from."

Sybelle reached out her hand, touching Bran's without hesitation. "As a gift to my father, the King's Grace, Edward, commissioned a history of the Fitzgeralds. 'Twas a beautiful book, much prized by my lord father." Her misty blue eyes reflected a certain sadness. She recalled evenings spent in the massive room that housed her father's accounts, and the precious store of books that were her mother's treasures, and later, hers. She remembered fondly the feel of the thick vellum pages, the artwork depicting the knights and ladies.

"Mayhap you would like to see what is contained in our collection of books, my lady?" Rolf offered, surprising himself with the gesture.

Sybelle was perplexed by the generous nature of his proposal. She decided not to question Rolf's motivations, so she said, her voice barely above a husky whisper, ''Aye, my lord." Her eyes sought his; the naked need she saw reflected in Rolf's sent a chill along her arms. With one hand he held out a gift, with the other she sensed he would as soon rip off the pretense of this being a civilized evening. Perhaps that was what she wanted toono pretense, no courtly gestures, no masks to hide behind.

But that wouldn't secure her freedom, she knew. For that, she would have to pretend, to join in the false masquerade of emotions, presenting a face of acceptance while she hid the face of purpose.

"I shall instruct Tadgh that whatever you wish to see shall be placed before you on the morrow. Perhaps 'twould do you good to see how much we Irish care for our heritage."

"As you please, my lord," she said demurely.

Rolf was surprised by her calm answer. He threw that last line out to her, fully expecting to have a fiery retort thrown back at him. When none came, he was puzzled.

"The hour is late," he said. "I suggest that we retire as we have business to attend to early on the morrow." He pushed back the sturdy, carved oak chair. "My lady?" he said, holding out his arm.

Sybelle rose slowly, placing her arm on his.

The others rose also, murmuring goodnights.

Sybelle felt the blush rise to her face again. She hadn't thought that Rolf himself would see her back to her chambers. Lugh, replete with the generous amount of table scraps that both Rolf and Sybelle tossed to him, trailed faithfully behind the couple as they trod the steps of the grand staircase. Eventually they came to the door of the master chamber. Sybelle's heartbeat quickened. Would he seek again to force his physical passions on her? She stood still, not knowing how to interpret the look on his face.

Rolf detected Sybelle's apprehension. His wide mouth curved into a semblance of a smile. Raising one hand, he stroked a long index finger along the curve of her cheek, across the fullness of her bottom lip, descending the slim length of her throat in a lazy swirl until he came to the flesh displayed by the neckline of her gown. Here his finger meandered even more slowly. It glided along the slopes of her breasts, up and down, touching the fur that surrounded her bosom, before sliding just barely into the gown, feeling the soft vibrations of her breathing.

Her gasp stilled his hand. Withdrawing it, Rolf said nothing, merely reaching past Sybelle to open the door; he waited for her to enter, then closed it securely behind her.

Sybelle leaned against the door, palms flat against the wood, to catch her breath.

What game was he playing? she wondered. She had expected another invasion, had readied herself to fight once again. He'd said not a word, permitting his hand to speak for him. But what had it said? Holy mother, she thought as she walked from the door, reaching behind her to untie the laces of her gown. He made her feel as though she were being ravished by just that touch. His mode of dress, the color he chose, only emphasized his power. The other men were dressed like peacocks, brightly shaded and plumbed. He wore black, with no accent colors.

A sorcerer. He must be, she decided, stepping out of the velvet dress and tossing it onto a chair. Else why would she tremble at his touch? He was her enemy. My enemy. Sybelle repeated this litany over and over as she crawled into the bed.

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Her hair enveloped them as their bodies entwined. He wound his hands into the strands until he held her face still, forcing her lips to meet the hungry need of his. She surprised him by meeting him more than halfway in their erotic duel. Her tongue touched his seductively before she retreated, pushing herself away from him slightly. Her warm lips darted across his face, leaving their soft imprint on his cheeks, the hollows of his throat; her tongue mapped the indentations of his chin before returning for a quick foray into his hot mouth. Her hands skimmed across his chest, and held him lightly. He relaxed, letting her have her way.

Smiling the smile of an enchantress, she slipped her right hand across the black tangle of hair that lightly covered his chest. She followed the trail up and down his flat abdomen, returning to that which lay awaiting her ministrations. Her fingers caressed his masculine nipple deftly, catching the response, then circling it slowly. She watched his breath quicken.

Her tongue tasted where her finger had gone, causing him to drag in a deeper gulp of air. When he tried to grab her head, she moved swiftly to capture the strong, lean hand, bringing it to her lips, kissing the rough palm, covering it with tender salutes. Flicking her tongue out, she laved his thumb and each long finger with a bold, caressing stroke, before winding her honeyed tongue around each one, taking it deep into her mouth, generous with her attention.

"Sorceress," he said in a thickly muttered whisper.

She smiled again.

Adjusting herself slightly, she slid along the length of his lean torso until she was bending over his waist, her honey hair falling over his lower body like a silken curtain, holding him captive by invisible bonds. A slight shake of her head moved the waves until they were caressing the very heart of his strong masculinity. The proud thrust of his body rose as she moved her face closer. . . .

Rolf awoke from the powerful dream, a fine sheen of perspiration dewing his flesh, his breathing ragged.

Angrily he threw back the fur, and leaped from the bed. He walked to the window. His eyes scanned the horizon, his nostrils breathing the calming scent of the ocean. The chill of the spring night formed goose bumps on his naked skin. He ignored them. The wind blew his hair about his shoulders and into his eyes. He raked it back with an impatient hand.

Crossing the room, Rolf poured himself a large measure of wine from an amber bottle. He drank quickly, feeling its warmth hit his throat. Rolf mused that Armand would label him a peasant if he could see him now. But he needed the wine to wipe her face from his mind, her charms from his dreams. Several glasses later the memory of her body, warm and willing, promising delight, was still with him.

Suddenly the delicate Venetian glass held tightly in his hand shattered. "Christ," Rolf swore. He grabbed the nearby ewer and, splashing the contents into the small bowl, plunged his hand into the icy water. He reached for a scrap of linen and wound it around his bleeding hand.

Dawn was another hour away by his reckoning. And his empty bed held no warmth for him.

Perhaps he could interest Armand in an early ride on the beach, or arrange for the falcons to be brought out so they could do some hawking. He must do something, he decided. His body demanded release from the coils of tension that were holding him prisoner.

Chapter 9

What was she to do?

Clare's mood was dark, as she paced back and forth across her chamber, long braids swinging to and fro.

The question plagued her. Indeed, what was she to do? Something. Anything. She must think.

Think. 'Twas all she had been doing these past few days. Activity was her byword, not this useless pacing. She was forbidden to leave the castle unescorted. She, who loved her freedom, was a virtual prisoner, aching to be allowed some form of respite from the watchful eyes, ever vigilant.

The window seat of stone claimed her wandering body. Drawing her knees up, she rested her chin upon them, staring through the window to the green land that stretched out below. Instead of people intent on their proscribed duties, all she could envision was a man well over average height, with thick, shaggy hair as dark, she fancied, as the depths of hell; a strong, resolute jaw; slanting cat's eyes under black brows, eyes almost too dominant for his long face. Protest all she wished, there was no disputing the effect those eyes had on her. It was as if he'd seen into her soul, scorching a trail so indelible as to never be forgotten.

She was resolved to be strong, to not allow these melancholy shifts of mood to sway her away from what she must do. Action. She needed to take action again instead of allowing her fate to be ordained by the actions of others.

Leaping from her perch, she knew what she must now do.

A noise from the bailey below halted her momentarily. The cry came from a hunting bird, a black falcon. How she wished she could be hawking with her sisters and her father, to be secure in the knowledge that all was well in her world.

The bird's angry squawk focused her attention on the creature yet again. The hood was being replaced, the bird's magnificent golden eyes temporarily rendered sightless.

A knot formed in her chest. Had she actually likened his eyes to a cat's? No, she realized, they were like those of the falcongolden, sharp, intense.

Angrily, Clare dismissed the strong image of the blending of man and bird. She walked to her small table and sat down. Several sheets of parchment were before her, the quill freshly sharpened, the ink ready. Duty was a demanding task-mistress. If only she didn't have to write this note to her father, informing him of what had transpired these last few days.

She dipped the quill and haltingly began to write the missive she'd put aside for far too long.

When she was finished, Clare sanded the letter. Shaking off the excess, she carefully folded the sheets of parchment, and dripped wax on the outside over the fold. Affixing her private seal to the note, she rose from the chair as her sister entered the room, her usually smiling face pallid, her blue eyes sad.

"Sir John is below, Clare, awaiting both of us." Clare, her face composed, her manner so different from the happy child of less than a week ago, nodded her head. Drawing her arm through her twin's, she hugged Audrey close.

"Is the messenger also below stairs?"

"Aye," Audrey said, her voice showing the strain that she was feeling. "A system has been secured to get the letter to our father as soon as possible. Sir John has arranged it all. Come, let us attend him; perhaps he can give us wise counsel on what to do next."

Her young voice taking on a layer of frost, Clare said, "I wish we had a force of a hundred knights, and that we knew who had the temerity to abduct our sister. I would gladly don armor to ride at the head of such a group to challenge the villain who stole Sybelle from us!"

Audrey, her gentle nature shocked to the core by all that had transpired, received another blow listening to her sister's words. "Oh, Clare, 'tis a jest on your part, isn't it?"

Clare replied, "'Tis no jest I make, Audrey. I would do whatever I could to get our sister back from whoever has her." Determination, as sharp as a dagger's thrust, edged her voice.

"I pray that she is well and will be returned to us soon," Audrey said, frowning slightly at her sister's vehement, warlike pronouncements. "Our priest says a special mass for that purpose each day."

"'Tis all well and good, Audrey," Clare said, "but no mass will get our sister back. That shall be accomplished by action, not words."

Audrey gasped in astonishment. She knew Clare did not share her deep religious feeling; she wasn't aware of her twin's lack of respect for the church. How far apart she and Clare were growing! This time of turmoil was straining their unique bonds, rending the seams of their family.

"'Tis in God's hands, sister. We must not forget that He will listen to us and"

"He helps them that aid themselves, Audrey." Clare recognized that perhaps she was being too harsh on her sister. "Come, Audrey," she said gently. "Let us join the good Sir John and see if he knows what we can do to help Sybelle."

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Downing a large tankard of ale, the grizzled old soldier threw an angry glance at the serving wench who was hovering about him. "God's blood, woman, be gone!"

The shocked maid fled at the harsh command, almost bumping into Audrey and Clare as they entered the Great Hall.

Wiping the foam from his lips with a brush of his hand across his mouth, Sir John Standish stood as the two young women entered the room. Sir John, the Earl of Derran's chief man-at-arms, privy to his lord's business, couldn't dismiss the guilt that ate at his heart. He blamed himself for not being in attendance the night of the wedding feast. Who would have believed that anyone would have the audacity to plan such an attack on the home of Hugh Fitzgerald? Normally a large retinue of men would have been guarding the castle, but the earl's own precipitous plans had changed the number of men left behind. Sir John had ridden with the earl to the boat that took him and the Lady Duvessa across the Irish Sea, and had seen them both safely to the shores of Cornwall, before returning to Ireland as soon as he was able.

He mulled over the events in his mind; his soldier's experience told him that there was something odd about this abduction. Suspicions crowded his thoughts. An informer. Years of following his hunches when life and limb depended on them came to the fore. He absently fingered the dagger at his side.

"Good health to you both," he said in his booming voice, when he saw the twins.

Audrey responded, "And to you, Sir John."

"What news have you, Sir John?" Clare strove for command in her tone.

"My messenger waits for your letter, Lady Clare." At Sir John's signal, a youth who wore the livery of the Earl of Derran stepped forward to take the dispatch. He placed it carefully into a leather pouch which also bore Derran's own badge, the swan and the bear. "A route has been devised that will ensure this gets to your father as quickly as possible." He knew what he had to say next would be harder on the twins because of the closeness they had for their elder sister. ''You must both make arrangements to be gone from this place soon. We will take care, but we must get both of you to the safety of my lord's estates in England."

"Without Sybelle?" Clare asked.

"You can do nothing here, my lady. The safety of you and your sister must be seen to, and that will be assured only when you are within the security of your father's stronghold."

"We were within the walls of a secure household here, Sir John," reminded Clare. "That proved to be of no use."

His face was creased with the cares of his office. Shame hung heavy about his shoulders. "I failed your sister, my lady. I cannot allow myself to fail you. We must be gone. Please see to your women; gather what you need for the journey."

Clare saw the look of grief on the older man's face and realized just how much he felt responsible for what happened at the castle. She placed her hand on his arm, knowing that if it were possible, Sir John would have gladly given his life for Sybelle, and for them. She accepted that his duty to her father would be to see to the safety of his remaining children.

Audrey observed the changing emotions on Clare's face. She could tell that for Clare to leave, to abandon Ireland and Sybelle, would be admitting defeat. However, they all knew that if they remained, whoever had abducted their sister might make an attempt on them. There was wisdom in Sir John's words. They must return to England and to their father, seek the safety that he could ensure with his formidable presence.

Audrey's voice was the touch of calmness needed. "We shall be ready to leave at first light, Sir John. Have you word of where our father is?"

"He was for London, and then for Graywood, my lady."

Clare was about to speak when a disturbance halted her.

"Your pardon, Sir John, my ladies," said a young squire, who was dragging a small man into the Hall. "'Twould appear this fellow has some information as to the disappearance of the Lady Sybelle."

Instantly Sir John's hand returned to the small dagger, indicating with a wave of his hand that the person was to be brought to the dais.

Clare recognized him as a tenant farmer on the estate. He was indeed small, less than average height, greasy hair hanging lankly across his forehead, smelling of the earth and stale drink.

He made a sort of bowing motion with his head, showing broken yellow teeth as he smiled.

"You have knowledge that may assist us?" Sir John asked, wishing to remove this person as quickly as possible from the Great Hall. He had the stealthy look of a weasel, Sir John reckoned as he observed the way the man's eyes took in the comforts of the Hall.

"Speak!" Sir John bellowed.

"Forgive me, my lord," the man said in a fawning tone.

Sir John did not seek to correct him on his use of the title, so intent was he on hearing if the man had any pertinent information. He again said harshly, "Speak."

"I saw riders the night that my Lady Sybelle was lost."

"Riders?" said Clare and Sir John in unison. Audrey clutched Clare's hand in hope.

"Aye," he said.

"What is your name?" demanded Sir John.

"Emond."

"Do you know whence came the raiders, Emond?"

"They were Irish, my lord."

"Sir John, you fool," he grumbled. "What do you mean, Irish?"

"They wasn't Norman, sir. No, they was from a ways away, as far as I could tell. None here dress like that anymore, nor do they speak the old tongue."

"Gaelic?"

"Aye, mySir John."

"Where did you see them?"

"They rode across the fieldstrampling crops, they did. My woman works in the kitchens. Glad of the work she be, also, as we've five mouths to feed."

"Get to the point, man," Sir John snapped.

"I was walking to the castle here to fetch her after the wedding festival, the moon being bright, and I saw several riders, looking like demons from Hell, talking the old language, carrying something in a fur. I hid till I seen them go."

"Did you see any faces?"

"Just the man who was in the lead. A devil to  be sure," he said, crossing himself as he uttered the words.

"Would you recognize him again?"

"Aye, that I could, Sir John."

"What good is that, Sir John?" Clare asked, "if we do not have a name to put to the face?"

"I don't know who they was, my lady, but I would recognize the man again if I was to see him. Riding a devil-gray horse, and wearing the clothes of a wolf."

"Clothes of a wolf?" Sir John asked, curiosity aroused.

"Aye. He had on a cloak made of wolf skins, and when I saw him pass, he was wearing a gold band about his wrist. It had the head of a wolf on it."

Sir John's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You certainly saw quite a lot from your hiding place."

"I told you, the moon was full. They came riding by. When I saw they weren't men from here, I hid behind a tree so's they couldn't see me."

Sir John's face creased into worry lines as he thought about Emond's words.

Clare snapped her fingers. "Audrey, do you recall the last time we shared a meal with Lady Duvessa, that she was working on a tapestry?"

Audrey nodded her head.

"Do you remember the design she was using? 'Twas a wolf's head, was it not?"

"Aye. She said it was for her cousin's birthday."

Sir John Standish sighed deeply, his features hardening in recognition of what this meant. "The Wolf of Killroone has your sister," he said wearily. "Sweet Jesu, your father never considered. . . . "

"What are you talking about, Sir John?" inquired Clare. "What has my father to do with this?"

"The Earl of Killroone is also known as the Wolf, my lady. 'Tis his emblem, the device that he uses, as did others of his family."

"What has this to do with Sybelle and the Lady Duvessa?"

Ignoring his lady's question, Sir John demanded roughly of Emond, "Why did you not come forward sooner?"

"I didn't know the Lady Sybelle was gone. My wife was ill following that night. Whilst in the village yesterday I heard some people talking, asking questions. I did not know that I could be of any help."

"Get him out of here, Longford."

"Aye," the younger man said, pulling the man along, who struggled at this treatment.

"Is there a reward for this information?"

Sir John's suspicions were further aroused at the tone of the man's voice. His dark brown eyes narrowed as he took stock of the man in front of him. "One moment, please," he said, signaling for Longford to approach him. Removing a few coins of silver from the pouch at his waist, Sir John handed them to Longford and whispered something to him, his eyes never leaving Emond.

Longford acknowledged Sir John's words with a swift nod of his blond head, then escorted the man called Emond from the room as Emond gleefully grabbed for the silver coins.

Clare, watching the scene with interest, decided that now was the time to press her question once again. "Sir John, would you please answer my question now. What has this Wolf of Killroone to do with my sister, Lady Duvessa, and my father? Why would this person abduct Sybelle?"

"This is for your father, the earl, to answer, my lady."

"You cannot tell us, Sir John?" Audrey asked.

"He won't tell us, sister, that is the difference," Clare stated, her blue eyes dark with the rising fury that she felt. "Will you send a party of men to this lord Wolf to retrieve Sybelle?"

"No, my lady. I will continue as before."

Anger bubbled to the surface as Clare said rashly, "You fear this Irish lord?"

Sadly, his voice betraying the hurt he felt at both the situation and such words from a girl he loved as his own child, Sir John stated, "I fear no one save God, and perhaps your father, my Lady Clare. If 'twould do any good I would gladly sacrifice my life for that of your sister. 'Twill be of no use. I had my fears when you described the man who entered your sister's chambers. Now it is confirmed. My Lord Derran must be informed; you both must be protected. Kiliroone has the tool to strike at your father, but I do not trust that he would not attempt to strengthen his hold at any time by taking you ladies prisoner if he felt 'twould aid his cause.

"Do you think that I would not like to ride to his keep and get your sister? An assault would not free her, nor would mortal combat, I fear."

"Will he hurt Sybelle?" Audrey asked, her hand gripping Clare's even tighter. "Or do you fear that perhaps she has alrady been lost to us?"

Clare's eyes darkened in anger and frustration. "No!" she said loudly, denying her sister's fears.

"Had he wanted to slay her, she would have been left for dead here. No," Sir John said, his voice betraying the real horror that he felt. "I do believe that the earl is holding her hostage for a purpose."

"And what could that be?" Clare demanded.

"That shall be for my Lord Derran to inform you if it is his wish."

Clare said, "You know something. Why do you refuse to tell us?"

"I took an oath to your father, my lady. I must not reveal his private business."

"Come. We must make ready to leave."

"You do not think that money can persuade the Earl of Killroone to free our sister?" Audrey asked hopefully.

"No. If you were to send him jewels and gold it would be for naught. When my lord explains to you both, then you will know why it is not for money that a man such as the earl would risk his life."

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Later, all in Castle Derran embraced sleep, the guards having been doubled around the estate, with instructions from Sir John to keep a close watch. An extra pair of men were stationed outside the twins' door.

Inside, the girls lay cocooned in their bed, the hangings surrounding the bed embracing them in darkness.

Sleep had not claimed all the inhabitants.

"Curse these things," Clare hissed, pushing one of the heavy embroidered panels aside. "Sweet Mary, I cannot breathe."

Audrey, who lay prone watching her sister, pushed herself up, arranging the pillows so that she could lean against them. Reaching out her slim hand, Audrey pushed aside the tangled mass of blonde waves that hid Clare's face from view.

"Be calm, sister."

Clare tossed off the comforting hand with a shrug of her shoulder, twisting herself around in the bed until she faced Audrey. Her blue eyes rested on her twin's smooth features, her hair neatly plaited, her manner demure. She looks like an angel, Clare thought, while I probably resemble some hound from hell.

"What troubles you so?"

"Things too numerous to mention, dear Audrey. Forgive me for waking you."

"'Tis not just Belle's abduction, is it?"

Clare and Audrey exchanged glances; the secrets each kept were impairing their ability to see into each other's hearts.

Clare rested her head on Audrey's shoulder, missing the closeness that now seemed elusive. Audrey responded by hugging Clare close, whispering, "Tell me, please. I know your sleep was disturbed."

She tried to evade Audrey's question by answering, "Sir John hasn't told us the complete truth. He has some idea why this man took Belle from us. We have a right to know the truth."

"Most assuredly, Clare. But Sir John must have a good reason for keeping the truth from our ears. Mayhap 'tis a delicate political manoeuvre involving the king, and Sir John is honor-bound not to break his oath."

"Perhaps. Yet I feel that is not the answer."

"What bothers you, Clare?"

Clare pulled abruptly away from her sister's embrace, bringing her knees up. She rested her chin on them, the golden waves of her hair hiding her face. She took a deep breath. Then, knowing that she couldn't continue to ignore her twin, she said, "Nothing."

"That is an untruth, and well you know it. Do you fear separation from William?"

"He is a mere boy, Audrey." Clare scoffed. She listened to the weary tone of her own voice. Only days ago William was an object to practice her tentative woman's wiles on. Now that seemed such a childish waste of time. She was merely flirting as she had seen other girls her age do. Harmless. Fun. A lifetime ago.

"Then what? Who?"

Who indeed, Clare thought. Who was he? Clare had asked herself that question the few times that she permitted herself to think of him. He was no phantom, for she remembered the hard touch of his hands on her arms, her lips, the strength of his slim body against hers.

Clare confessed, "One of the men that night." She spoke softly, the words painful in their utterance.

Audrey exclaimed, "One of Belle's captors?"

Twisting her head, Clare looked directly into Audrey's widened eyes. "Aye," Clare said. "'Tis unreasonable, unthinkable," she declared. "Yet I feel a pull towards him that I cannot understand. Can you comprehend that, Audrey?" Clare said, hoping that her sister could make sense of the senseless.

Audrey could do nothing except grasp Clare's hand, squeezing it with a reassuring embrace. "Mayhap 'twould be better if he remained only a spectre to you, sweet sister," Audrey said, her own eyes bright with unshed tears. She slid beneath the linens again. "We must rest for our journey, for Sir John will set a brisk pace, to be sure."

"Goodnight, Audrey."

"To you also, Clare."

Clare sat listening to Audrey's even breathing after her twin finally succumbed to sleep. She remained awake, turning the events of the past few days around in her mind, trying vainly to make coherent the incoherent. Gradually, exhaustion overcame her and she, too, fell asleep, though it afforded her no real comfort. Her sleep was disturbed by restless dreams, in which she was pursued by a creature that changed from man to bird, to cat, to horse, to man again. Clare jolted awake, saw the yellow glow of the rising sun, and admitted defeat, consigning sleep to some quieter night.

Chapter 10

Hugh Fitzgerald stood outside the open door to his bedchamber. He watched the woman sitting inside, head bent; the light from the mullioned window caressed the black strands of hair plaited into a single thick braid. The green ribbon, woven through the woman's hair matched the simple woolen dress She wore.

''Mavoureen dheelish," he said, entering the room.

At the sound of the endearment, Duvessa turned from her needlework, dropping it on the floor, not caring what happened to it. She was intent only on seeking the comfort of the strong arms which beckoned her.

Hugh folded the slender woman into his embrace.

"Did I say it correctly?" he whispered.

"Aye, my love," she said, her voice a soothing caress.

"Duvessa, you shall always be 'my sweet darling,' for I have risked much to win you," he said, working her hair free from its be-ribboned constraint.

Duvessa wrapped her arms even tighter around her husband's slim waist. "Think you that I do not know that? Have I also not made sacrifices?" She raised her head, looking Hugh full in the face. Her hazel-green eyes were guileless, direct in their sincerity. "I would do so again, gladly, to be wed with you. No matter what, 'twas the only way."

Cupping her small round face in his large soldier's hands, Hugh gazed down into the face of the woman he loved. "'Twas hard for you, Duvessa, that I know. Leaving Ireland, and your home, playing out that farce to spare you from wedding the man chosen for you by your cousin . . . Think you I liked playing the villain in this piece?" he demanded vehemently. "No. But I would do it a thousand times over, my love, if that is what I must do to have you at my side, in my bed.

"We are safely wed now," he said. "No one can challenge us, or deny our union. Did not the Archbishop of Canterbury himself perform the service? Did not the King's Grace attend, along with his queen? Christ!" he swore, "even as much as I loathe Elizabeth Woodville, she is a witness to reckon with."

"I would have traded your Edward and his entire court for your children."

A note of sadness crept into Hugh's voice. "As would I, Duvessa." His blue eyes darkened. "But leaving my girls in Ireland was something I had to do. If they'd come, the pretence would have been for naught. Too much precious time would have been wasted. This way, should your cousin send inquiries to them, they will know nothing and be safe."

"Yet . . . "

"Yet I would have had them if 'twere possible."

"Can we not send for them?"

"Aye," he said, placing a kiss on her head. "'Tis time they were informed of their father's marriage, paid their respects to his new bride. I shall dispatch a rider later this day." He scooped Duvessa up into his arms, making for the huge, canopied bed. Why had God blessed him so? he wondered. He had had the good fortune to love, and take to wife, two beautiful, loving women. He had three daughters of whom he was extremely proud; his king found favor with him . . .

His thoughts trailed off as he placed Duvessa on the wide bed. Straightening, Hugh pulled off the doublet he wore, tossing it haphazardly to the floor. Bending, he stripped off his hose and braies; his shirt followed.

Duvessa's eyes hungrily drank in the sight of her husband. She too wondered why God had chosen her to be so fortunate. She was wed to the man of her heart's choosing; he stood before her now in the full glory of his masculine beauty. What did she want with the callow youth Rolf had chosen for her? Here was the man of her dreams.

Above medium height, his body was defined by a lean musculature and broad shoulders. The sunlight set off golden sparks in his dark reddishblond hair, which curled thickly around his head. The thick hair that covered his wide chest angled down to a nest of hair, from which rose the essence of his masculinity.

She thought of the many times her nurse Matilida had repeated to her that true ladies received nothing from the necessary couplings with their husbands, except perhaps a child. She had also cautioned that an older man wasn't able to perform his husbandly duties as well as a younger man.

Sweet Matilda, how very wrong you were, Duvessa thought saucily. Hugh gives me the greatest joy I have ever known. And as for his age . . . Hugh would be thirty-eight his next birthday, she knew. Better a seasoned stallion, Duvessa decided, able to give and sustain pleasure, then an untried colt, eager for his own get. She smiled. Father Geoffrey would probably tell me to say ten Hail Marys for my wicked, lustful fancies about Hugh.

Undoing the laces that held her gown in place, Duvessa gave herself up to her husband's claim, dragging his mouth to hers. For you, my heart, she thought, I have given up my country, and if the need should ever arise, I would give my life, gladly. I pray you never regret our love, for I never shall. Holy Mother, Sweet Jesus, thank you eternally for this greatest of gifts, the love of Hugh Fitzgerald.

Hugh's lips skimmed a path from her cheeks to the hollows of her throat, dipping to the flesh revealed by the opened neckline. He tasted Duvessa's flesh, felt her nipples tighten with desire as his mouth fed hungrily. Her sharp gasp of pleasure thrilled him. Shoving her skirt above her waist, Hugh knew he couldn't wait to completely undress her. His hands skimmed her thighs, which parted in anticipation.

"Hugh," she moaned, her hands grasping his shoulders tightly. "Hugh. . . . "

"Yes, love," he answered, "now," as he fit his body to hers, allowing the strong rhythm to carry them both. His wild cry of triumph mingled with her own husky exclamations of rapture.

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Duvessa lay within her husband's arms, her head against his left arm. She nipped a playful kiss on his index finger and tickled the back of his hand with the tip of her tongue, trying to touch each of the freckles she saw there.

Hugh's hand lifted her chin to meet his descending mouth, which covered hers in a powerful kiss.

"I fear we have missed the evening meal, my lord husband," Duvessa said, moving sinuously against his body, stretching like a contented, sleek cat.

"Indeed," he said, his wide mouth curved into a devilish grin.

"Shall I fetch something for us?" she asked, twisting her body around so that she faced him, her breasts against his chest, one slim leg wedged between his. She could feel the evidence of his desire hot and hard against her body.

"Perhaps you had better, else I shall be forced to administer another lesson in wifely duties."

Duvessa dropped a swift kiss onto his mouth before she lifted herself off his body and slid to her feet. She picked up their discarded clothes, laying them carefully across her chair and gathering her hastily dropped needlework. She smiled as she looked at her design: it consisted of their joint emblems on one coat of arms. Her fingertips touched the raised colors; her lips curved sweetly. This was to be for Hugh's birthday, a hopeful sign for their future babes. She so wanted to have Hugh's child. A man of his position and wealth needed a male heir, as did she. Her property in Ireland demanded it. One hand strayed to her flat belly. She prayed daily for a child, asking the Holy Mother to intercede for her.

A wanton smile revealed white teeth. 'Twould not be for want of trying, to be sure, Duvessa admitted, casting a quick glance at the blond man who lay with his eyes closed, dozing lightly, unconcerned about his nude state.

Pulling on a chemise of the finest lawn, she laced the ties across her breasts, feeling the fabric brush her sensitive nipples, making her recall with a sweet pain the pleasure of Hugh's mouth on her flesh.

She remembered the envious looks of some of the English ladies at the court as she slipped her arms into a robe of dark green velvet, banded with soft beaver fur. She touched the wide band of gold on her right hand. Hugh might have bedded some of those fine women, but he'd married her. She shared his name, his bed, his home, his life. And, she thought darkly, his guilt when Rolf found out the truth.

She slipped out the door, heading for the stairs at the back that lead directly to the lower floors and the kitchen of the huge manor house. As she descended the circular stairs, Duvessa felt a stab of apprehension. What would Rolf do when he discovered that she was gone?

When Rolf's last message reached her, informing her that he was about to arrange her marriage with Lord Lorcan, Duvessa had felt trapped. She loved her strong-willed cousin, honored him as her guardian. But stronger was the love she felt for the powerful English lord who was her neighbor. She knew Rolf's mind. He would never allow her to wed a Royal Sheriff, a symbol of English rule, nor would her priest defy her guardian and perform the ceremony to join her to the Englishman.

Knowing Hugh wanted to offer for her, and fearing that Rolf would spirit her away to his own stronghold, Duvessa begged Hugh to find another solution. His idea was simple: he would abduct her; they would go to England for their marriage ceremony, then inform Rolf. Desperate, afraid of losing Hugh, Duvessa agreed to his plan.

Now, experiencing the potent force of Hugh's lovemaking, sharing his quick mind and important dreams, Duvessa realized she would have done anything to have him, including, had he wished, becoming his mistress. Rolf would have to be made to understand just what this union meant to her, for she had no intention of giving Hugh up.

A sudden inspiration flicked through her brain. Her step-daughter Sybelle. She would be a powerful ally in her battle. Sybelle loved her father; she was close to Duvessa. She would be the voice of reason to Rolf. He couldn't manipulate Sybelle, Duvessa decided, as she entered the kitchen, smiling at the cook.

"What is it that you be wanting, Countess?" asked the cook, wiping her big hands on her apron, which already held traces of her work. She was a plain-speaking countrywoman, proud to be in the employ of such a man as Lord Derran. She guarded her territory jealously, aware that men were usually the holders of her position, and she wasn't sure what to make of the young foreigner her lord had taken to wife. This had been a secure job; she didn't want to lose it.

"I would like something for my husband and myself," she said.

"Shall I send a servant to you?"

"No," Duvessa instructed. "That won't be necessary. I will take our meal myself. What have you on hand?"

Duvessa blushed under the portly cook's knowing glance.

"Some cheese, a joint of mutton, smoked ham, my lady."

"Ham, I think," Duvessa said, searching for a tray. She found one and laid it before the cook.

"Thick slices, please. And some of that cheese, too."

As the cook sliced the ham, she observed the young countess fetching apples from a pile, selecting a loaf of hot bread. It took no great intelligence to know why the earl and his countess had skipped their evening meal; the flushed, happy glow on the Irishwoman's face was all one needed to see.

Duvessa loaded the tray, helping herself to one thick piece of succulent ham. "Excellent," she pronounced, and then looked at the mutton.

"Would you be wanting that also?"

Duvessa shook her head. "No, not right now. I have been told though, by my lord husband, that you make a fine lamb stew. That I should very much love to taste," she said as she hoisted the tray.

Watching her leave, the cook grabbed the joint and began slicing it into chunks, adding carrots and onions. It occurred to her that people of such strong appetites wouldn't be satisfied with a single feeding.

On the stairs, returning to their room, Duvessa thought once again of Sybelle. She wished she could have confided in her, but she had acquiesced to Hugh's wishes, keeping the secret of her love and their plans.

Duvessa considered Sybelle and Rolf. Aye, that would be a match indeed. . . .

"No!"

The shouted word reached Duvessa's ears as it echoed loudly, painfully, through the manor house. She dropped the tray in the hall in her haste to reach her husband.

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The parchment was crumpled in Hugh's closed fist; his face was contorted with the rage he was feeling, directed both at the Earl of Killroone and at himself. "That Irish son of a bitch!" He swore aloud as Duvessa burst into the room, panting.

"Hugh! My God, what has happened?" she questioned, hurrying to his side. She'd never seen her husband so angry before. It frightened her. She placed a hand on his clenched fist, felt the knots of tension.

"I am instructed to give you this also, my lord. 'Tis from my father."

Duvessa looked around, noting for the first time that she and her husband were not alone in their chambers. A young man, barely older than a boy, stood before her, mud and dirt caked to his clothes and person, his manner hesitant. His gaze was downcast. Duvessa could see the stain of color rising in his face as he realized what he was interrupting.

Duvessa drew herself to her full height, which was the equal or more of most men's, and repeated her question.

Hugh replied tersely, releasing the papers. "Read this."

Duvessa obeyed as Hugh took the other sealed missive from the messenger.

Hugh quickly scanned the short document. He read Sir John's hastily coded message informing him that his daughters were now en route to Graywood for their safety.

When he looked up from the note, his eyes were old. Both Duvessa and the lad felt shudders of fear slip along their bodies. Instead of the hotblooded lover of a short time ago, Duvessa saw another man, a man whose features registered cold-blooded fury. This was a man who could kill, without fear or hesitation.

Duvessa shivered.

She re-read the sheets Clare had written. Sybelle abducted.

"Get below," Hugh instructed the younger man. "Have a bath and some food." He swept his eyes over the dirty clothes. "See to it that someone provides you with clean garments. You will ride to London later this night to deliver a message to the king for me. Go," he said, dismissing the lad with a curt nod of his head.

The youth did as he was told, saving his groan of fatigue for the stairs lest his master hear.

"What does Sir John say, my love?" Duvessa asked, approaching Hugh with caution.

"That your cousin, Rolf O'Dalaigh, has taken Sybelle to his own castle as hostage.'' Hugh's shoulders slumped with his own personal agony. "Christ's blood. I truly never thought he would have the temerity to do this. Duvessa," Hugh turned to her, and in his eyes she saw fear, not for himself, but for his beloved child. "You know your cousin well. Will he harm Sybelle?"

Duvessa hesitated a moment before answering him. Aye, she knew her cousin. They had both underestimated Rolf's reaction, and now Sybelle was paying for that. "Rolf is a very proud man, Hugh, not unlike you," she said, catching the swift intake of his breath, the tightening of his facial muscles, the flare of his nostrils. "He is not a man who forgives easily, or forgets. Rolf's mother was Welsh, daughter of a royal house. His father's ancestors were kings of Ireland. His heritage is deep-rooted, a part of him. He holds fast to the laws others have long abandoned."

"What laws?" Hugh demanded.

"Brehon laws," she said. "Before there was Christianity, before the Normans, we had our own rules. Rolf holds to the ancient customs. He is simply seeking the retribution he believes is his due as head of our family."

"By stealing my child?"

"He feels that you have taken me by force, my lord. Sybelle is the enechlawn, the honor-price demanded." Tears welled in her eyes as guilt rose in her heart. Duvessa said quietly, "Forgive me, my lord."

"What for?"

Duvessa raised her long-lashed hazel eyes to his. "For not anticipating my cousin's reactions. I should have known."

Hugh crossed the room, pulling Duvessa into his embrace, cradling her face against his shoulder. "'Tis no fault of yours, wife. 'Tis mine alone."

"No, Hugh, I never stopped to consider. . . . "

"Neither did I, Duvessa," he said. He held her close as thoughts of retribution warred with feelings of guilt. His pride in his eldest daughter knew no bounds. Her quick wit and ready intelligence provided him with a companion he could trust. Hugh relied on Sybelle and her judgment more often than he cared to admit. He acknowledged his own supreme arrogance in not thinking through all the consequences of his actions. It had never occurred to him that this Wolf of Killroone would plan and execute such a daring, albeit disastrous move. So intent was he in securing the lovely Duvessa as his bride that he had never stopped to consider all the ramifications. Who would have believed the Irishman would be so daring? Certainly not he, Hugh admitted. Guilt rose like an ache in his gut, uncoiling, twisting its way with fangs of malice into his heart. Because of his own actions, his daughter was held accountable. By God, he thought, not for long! He would call to arms all those who owed him loyalty, make for Ireland, and smash this man who had dared take his Sybelle.

The last few words hammered their way into his brain like sharp nails. "Take his Sybelle." Sweet Christ, Hugh thought. Had this man actually taken his daughter?

"Duvessa," he said, barely holding his fear and anger in check. "Do you think he has bedded my daughter?" Hugh couldn't bring himself to utter the word that ate like a canker in his soul: rape.

"'Twould be Rolf's privilege if he thought the same had been done to me," she said, knowing she could not ease the guilt she shared; nor could she ease her husband's suffering.

"Then he is a dead man," he said coldly. He looked at the rumpled sheets on the bed, testament to the wild hours spent enjoying his wife's charms. Suddenly, it almost made him sick. His own pleasure bought at the cost of his daughter's honor. Sybelle, his firstborn, his favorite, consigned to servestop it! he told himself. He had to banish the images that rose in his mind, painting ugly scenes of the daughter he loved being used like an ordinary whore to service a man's brutal lust. Better to replace those thoughts with the ways he would exact his revenge. There would be no honorable combat. Hugh smiled cruelly. This Irish lord would pay dearly. Before he was done he would make the bastard beg for death. And beg he would, Hugh vowed as he mentally devised the ways he could make a man think the arms of death a welcome relief from the pain of living.

"My girls will be arriving here soon," he said, removing Duvessa's clinging arms from his body. "See to whatever arrangements must be made."

Duvessa watched as Hugh walked from her, methodically pulling clothes from the chest at the foot of the bed, dressing quickly and efficiently. It was as if he pulled an invisible coat of armor around himself.

"Hugh, we must talk."

"Why?"

Duvessa stared at him. "To discover what we must do."

"I already know what I must do."

"Hugh, you cannot."

He stopped at the door. "I can, and I shall, do what I deem necessary to free my daughter."

Duvessa ran to him, clutching one of his arms. "Perhaps I should return to Ireland, explain what happened to Rolf, and beg him to set Sybelle free."

Hugh's hand captured hers, gently, forcefully disengaging it from his sleeve as though he couldn't stand the reminder. "You will do no such thing, Duvessa," he stated coldly. "His fate was sealed by his actions. You are my wife now; act the part."

His words cut her deeply. She watched him walk away, the stiffness in his bearing conveying the bitterness he was feeling.

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He lay awake, unable to find solace in sleep. He was aware of his wife's body, could smell her scent. He wanted to lose himself in the pleasures of the flesh, immerse himself so deeply in his physical passions that he would find a few moments of respite. Pride held him back. Pride and guilt. As much as he needed to bury his memories with actions, he couldn't. How could he seek, even temporarily, the comfort to be found in lovemaking when his daughter was a captive? Knowing that perhaps at the same moment he was achieving satisfaction, Rolf O'Dalaigh could also be pumping his life seed into his child.

Already his letter to Edward was on its way to London. His king could not refuse him. Yet, a nagging thought plagued him. Suppose Edward denied his request? He knew Edward Plantagenet wasn't the king he once was. Derran recalled the disaster of the French campaign. Insulted, he'd refused, along with Gloucester, the king's brother, the payment offered by the French king to give up the war with France. Edward hadn't been pleased, he remembered. The Woodville's avaricious influence was too strong. Derran loved his king; he wasn't sure that he liked him. Yet Hugh's was a loyalty bonded by the years. What would he do if Edward denied his call for support? What were his alternatives?

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Duvessa longed to draw her husband into her arms, to give him the succor she knew he needed. Twice she made to reach out her hand to him; both times she pulled back. When he'd entered their chamber she'd feigned sleep, finding pretense easier to deal with than the stark reality of Hugh's anger. She listened to his breathing, knew that he was as wide awake as she. It was as if there were an imaginary line drawn down the middle of the bed that neither could cross. She was afraid of his rejection, afraid even of speaking for fear of reminding him with her voice of Ireland. She missed the satisfaction, the quiet strength of Hugh's embrace.

Rolf, she thought, bitterly, why could you not leave well enough alone? Why did you persist in this folly?

Hugh forbade her getting in touch with Killroone. Duvessa could see no other alternative. If Hugh returned to Ireland seeking vengeance against Rolf, the results could be disastrous. Something might happen to him. She could not, would not, risk losing her husband. Bound as she was to obey his dictates, she knew she must demur in this instance. A way must be found to get a message to Rolf, telling him that she was Hugh's countess, and why they had done what they had done. He would have to understand, and release the Lady Sybelle. And if he'd damaged Sybelle's honor, he must be made to make restitution. Duvessa knew money would not suffice. Her husband would demand more, as was his custom. Perhaps she should suggest to Rolf that it would be wise to take the Lady Sybelle to wife.

Duvessa smiled secretly. She was sure that if Sybelle shared Rolf's bed, she would insist on marriage. There was no other alternative. On the morrow Duvessa would explain to her husband that one of her ladies wanted to return to Ireland. Naturally Hugh would have to send her back with an escort. Her letter to Rolf would be sent through the woman, whom Duvessa could trust.

Satisfied, she turned on her side, her eyes seeking her husband's form in the dark. His broad back presented itself to her. She saw the faint traces of her nails on his shoulders, along with the scars caused by numerous battles.

You and Rolf are more alike that you know, my love. Two sides of the same face. I cannot permit you to destroy each other. There must be another way.

Chapter 11

A week had passed since the night of the dinner, a week in which Sybelle tested the limits of the slight freedom she enjoyed, knowing that whatever she did, wherever she went, she was followed. Watchful eyes were always near, surrounding her with the knowledge that there was no escape, no way to return to her own world.

No longer was the door to her chamber locked. A maid brought her her morning meal, helped her choose her clothes, then, smiling, deferentially, left her alone. Sybelle made her way down the wide stairs that first morning, carefully watching for signs that she would be forbidden, instructed to go back. When none came, she continued, observing the household servants going about their chores. With the faithful Lugh at her side, she explored the home of her captor, finding that she liked the wall-ordered household where work was accomplished with a minimum of fuss.

Instead of the gawking, leering, or even contemptuous looks she expected to receive from these people, she found instead a welcoming smile, a nodded head, a warm glance, a softly murmured comment. Even though she didn't understand the Gaelic, she interpreted the genuine amicability behind the words.

On the second day she had sought Tadgh, who gave her a tour of the library, where the history of the O'Dalaigh clan was kept, along with various manuscripts collected by members of the family. Sybelle examined several of the books, gently touching the brightly illuminated pages of one in particular. The work and love evident in this volume were enormous. Colors leapt out of the page, catching the eye, drawing the reader to the secret wonders contained within. One rendering of a dragon was so real she could almost swear she felt the creature's flame-filled breath scorch her hand.

She communicated her enjoyment to Tadgh, who, watching her closely, seeing how the artist's representations held her interest, decided to show her another volume. Removing a gold key from his writing desk, he unlocked the leather cover. He placed it upon the high fixture, and bade her sit on the covered stool so that she could examine it more carefully.

Sybelle opened the thick, hand-tooled cover, tracing the detailed workmanship, and gasped in delight at the sheer beauty presented by each page.

Tadgh observed her silently, waiting for the reaction he knew would come when she came to a specific group of illustrations. The old man kept his own counsel, unless asked by his lord; still, he couldn't allow an opportunity such as this to pass. Roll was aware of the set of paintings that were the primary focus of this book.

Her lips compressed as she beheld the images before her, rich with texture and color. Depicted on the pages were a woman and a beast, alone in a secluded forest glade. The woman was young, her hair a thick curtain of silk around her slim body, clothed in a white flowing dress. Her eyes betrayed her fear: a few feet from her stood a snarling wolf, a large, deadly creature. The next picture was of the woman extending her hand; the wolf approached tentatively. The last illustration showed the woman kneeling, cradling the beast's head in her lap, her hair falling around its neck like a chain, her left hand stroking the fur.

Sybelle closed the book with a snap. She thanked the old man, seeing the hint of amusement and fondness in his venerable eyes.

"You are welcome here any time, Lady Sybelle," he said, giving her hand a pat.

"I appreciate your kindness, Tadgh, though perhaps not your selection of tales." The wry note in her voice made him smile.

"As you wish." He pointed to a shelf that contained more volumes. "These are the books that my lord brought back from France. Perhaps they would be more to your liking."

"Mayhap," she said, "although I would like to learn more about your customs."

Tagdh nodded his approval, his lined face creased into a smile. "'Twould be my privilege to instruct you, my lady."

"I would like that," she said. "Could you teach me some of the Irish tongue?" she asked.

"Aye."

"Good."

"When do you wish to begin?"

"Soon," she replied, walking to the door. Her desire to learn the language stemmed from two sources: boredom and curiosity. Concentrating on Gaelic vocabulary would allow her to focus her mind on an active pastime and, since she was the mistress of Irish estateseven though the Gaelic tongue was almost never heard in her regionit would be a matter of pride with her.

Later that day she explored the keep, curiosity forcing her out of the castle. It was quite large, providing for a number of people who secured their living from this place. She watched three girls carrying huge loaves of bread from the bake-house into the kitchen quarters. An older woman carried wooden pails of milk, another woman ale. A chubby child of three chased a black-and-white kitten that halted when confronted by the ominous eyes of Lugh.

Sybelle bent to retrieve the kitten, holding it face high. A tiny paw swiped at her nose. A rueful smile tugged at Sybelle's mouth as she caressed the soft fur. She felt the child tug at her skirt, holding out his arms.

Sybelle knelt so that she was face to face with the handsome boy.

"Paidrig," called a voice from the opposite doorway.

Sybelle handed the kitten back to the boy, touching his silky red hair, following him as he ran to where his mother stood, waiting.

The woman smiled broadly. Sybelle thought that she was quite lovely; there was an earthy healthiness about her features. In her arms was another red-haired child, a girl.

''Good day, my lady," the woman said in English.

"And to you," Sybelle answered. "You have lovely children."

"Aye," the woman answered, stepping aside, and indicating that Sybelle was free to enter should she wish to. Sybelle hesitated for a moment before casting aside her qualms and entering the cottage.

Simple wooden pieces furnished the insidea rough-hewn table and chairs and a stone fireplace that contained a peat fire, over which a pot with the woman's early meal simmered. A large bed was placed against one wall. It rested on wooden supports so that it was above a smaller one.

"Would you like something, my lady?"

Sybelle thanked her and said, "No."

Addressing the woman, who poured a little milk for the kitten into a rough wooden bowl and set it before the fireplace, she asked what was her position in the castle.

"I am a seamstress, my lady," the woman answered, giving her son a bowl filled with thick venison stew. He ate happily, if somewhat noisily.

"Show me some of your work," Sybelle requested.

Placing the infant on the smaller bed, the woman opened a wooden chest, removing several pieces of material. It was an odd assortment: a work of delicate stitchery showing design and talent, a child's pants and shirt, a gown for a child's baptism ceremony. The last piece was made for a man. It was a pale shade of cream linen, sewn with precise stitches. Sybelle examined it carefully. No guildsman in London could have made a finer shirt.

"Your work is truly beautiful," Sybelle said in a quiet voice, running her hands over the gold threads which decorated the sleeves.

"Thank you," she responded, picking up the infant girl who had begun to cry. Unfastening the laces of her woolen gown, the woman freed her milk-swollen breasts, putting the child to her flesh.

Sybelle was mesmerized by the sight of the woman and child. Wet nurses were hired so that a noble lady wouldn't have to be subjected to the demands of a child. But this woman's bond with her babe seemed joyfully exchanged, not a forced labor. The child was content, sucking happily as her mother crooned to her. She observed that the woman exhibited no shame in the act. What would it feel like, Sybelle wondered, to have a babe draw sustenance from her flesh? In her mind she saw herself sitting before a fire, Alyce leaning over to place an infant into her waiting arms. The child's hair was dark, which startled Sybelle. Then, suddenly, it wasn't a babe that rested his small head at her breast; it was a man whose tongue stroked the aching, engorged nipple.

Hot color stained her cheeks, and Sybelle turned around, the shirt still clutched in her hands.

Her father would appreciate this, she thought, trying to restore order to her mind. She was about to ask the price when she realized she had no money with which to purchase the garment.

"It is for my Lord Rolf's wedding day," said the quiet voice behind her.

For him, Sybelle thought. Was she never to escape from him, if only for a moment? "Wedding?" she asked, her own voice low. The seamstress's words sank in.

"Aye," she said, lowering her eyes as Sybelle turned to face her.

Of course she knows who I am, Sybelle decided, and is afraid to speak. "When is Killroone to wed?"

"When he finds the right woman," Auliffe replied, his brawny body filling the doorway.

Sybelle stood back as he walked in. The child ran to the big man, attaching himself to one of the huge legs, throwing his arms about it.

"And this woman, she will have no say in the choice?" Sybelle asked, not surprised, if his recent actions were a measure.

"There is always choice, my lady."

Sybelle's mouth pursed in a bitter movement. "If you think that is so, then 'tis little you know of the world, Auliffe."

Auliffe realized, belatedly, that he shouldn't have brought up the notion of choice when clearly this lady had none. He was acutely embarrassed and hastened to change the subject.

Auliffe reached down a thick, beefy hand, and lifted the boy high in the air, carrying him upon his shoulder as he made short work of the distance between himself and the woman on the bed.

"'Tis pleased I am that you have met my family, Lady Sybelle," Auliffe grinned, his hand around his wife's shoulders.

Lady Sybelle's face betrayed her surprise.

Auliffe looked at his wife, placing his son on the floor. "Grania, did you not tell the Lady Sybelle who you were?"

"I . . . " Sybelle interrupted. "Your wife had not the chance to tell me."

"Aye, Auliffe. The Lady Sybelle has been here but a few minutes," Grania said, her eyes briming with love, "before your daughter made her demands for food known."

Auliffe beamed proudly at the infant who lay asleep in her mother's arm. He ruffled his son's hair. "This is my son Niall; my daughter is Sinead." A deep smile was reserved for the woman he called Grania. Sybelle could see the obvious gap in their ages made no difference to the couple. Auliffe was old enough to be the woman's father, mayhap even grand-sire. Yet it seemed of no consequence to the couple.

Auliffe remembered he was to deliver a message. "Etain is looking for you, my lady."

"Where is she?"

"She awaits you outside."

Sybelle said her goodbyes and left the couple who, unbeknownst to her, exchanged meaningful glances. When she emerged, the sun was hidden behind gathering clouds, and the air was chillier. She saw Etain talking to the woman who had carried the milk earlier, giving her something from a soft leather pouch at her waist, heard her instructing the woman as to its use.

"Auliffe said you sought me?" Sybelle addressed Etain when she was free.

"Aye, my lady. How fare you?"

Sybelle smiled. Her blue eyes remained shadowed, as if protecting her from revealing too much. "I am as well as can be, Etain."

Etain drew her arm through Sybelle's. "Will you join me for a meal?"

Sybelle cast a hurried glance around the bailey, searching for Etain's residence. She saw only the stable area, the cookhouses, the storerooms, the Auliffes' cottage, a small pen that housed pigs, and chickens scratching for food. She saw also the knights' room and a sheep pen that bordered the stables.

"I live beyond the wall."

Sybelle said stiffly, "Then I fear I must decline."

Etain saw the disappointment on Sybelle's face and ascertained the reason for it. "My lord has given his permission."

"Does he not think that I will try to escape?"

Etain indicated two horses and, waiting beside the palfreys two men, both armed.

"An escort?" Sybelle asked.

"He thought it for the best."

"Indeed," Sybelle mused. "Where is Killroone?"

"With Captain duBerre."

Sybelle ran her hand along the horse's flanks, then rubbed her fingers across the mare's nose. She had a fondness for horseflesh, and judged Killroone's stable to be superior, especially if these animals were examples. Their chestnut coats gleamed, even on such a cloudy day.

Sybelle and Etain were helped onto their horses and, along with their escort, rode out the gates of the keep, Lugh still trailing alongside.

"What business has he with the Frenchman?"

Etain spoke softly. "They are partners, as were my lord's father and Captain duBerre's."

"Partners?"

"Aye, in trade."

"Trade?" Sybelle echoed, then recalled Siobhan's words about the late earl. Members of the nobility did not engage in trade. That was left to the merchant class.

Lugh's barking alerted them to the presence of others. They halted to let a wagon loaded with wool pass them by, making for the bumpy road that lead to the beach. Sybelle could see the large vessel anchored off-shore. Men were waiting on the sand for the smaller boats to arrive on shore to pick up their cargo. Several horses were being led to the beach, along with a crate containing birds.

"May we ride below?"

Etain debated the wisdom of such a move. "Aye," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "We can reach my cottage from there," she said, urging her mount forward, following the wagon down the slope. When they cleared the wagon, both women pressed their animals onward, the sand spraying under their hooves as they galloped across the beach. Lugh barked excitedly, joining in the fun, prompting the men who were working to cease their activity and watch the sight of the two women racing their quality horseflesh.

Directing the loading of the wool, Rolf stood next to a man of his who checked each bundle against the figures in a tally-book. Everything must be strictly accounted for, as he shipped not only his own merchandise, but that of the free tenants on his land, as well as the goods of other lords. No man had cause to doubt the accuracy of the Earl of Killroone's record-keeping. His accounts were scrupulous and fair. He knew the importance of the goods he shipped, and how much in demand were the items Ireland could provide. Irish wool and linen were hungrily grabbed by Italian and Flemish merchants alike; high value was placed on Irish horses and hawks.

The Irish goods would be exchanged for what his people needed: corn, salt, iron, even wine; the spices which enhanced and preserved their foodstuffs; the silks which clothed the wealthy; the various furs which provided warmth; the jewels that gave happiness or were used to flaunt wealth. Trade gave Ireland the edge it needed to retain its freedom.

The bark of the dog and the pounding of the approaching hoofbeats stole Rolf's attention from his task. An involuntary tightening of his loins occurred when he recognized one of the riders as Sybelle. Since that evening meal he'd avoided her, choosing to throw himself into work that demanded his attention. Each night he went to his chamber exhausted. Each night the haunting dreams returned, torturing his sleep, fracturing the night into shards of uneven time.

Christ, he swore softly. She had no right to look so lovely, so proud. She rode astride, as did Etain, sure and confident. A thick fur-trimmed cloak hid her hair and body from his eyes. Lugh scrambled across the sand, eager to greet his master.

Sybelle observed the man and the dog. Roll bent, placing a knee upon the sand, his fingers stroking the dog's coat, his voice low and husky as he talked to the animal. Then he raised his lashes, and she felt the force of the icy gray-green gaze.

Would he speak? she wondered, her own tongue silent. She held tightly to the reins as her horse pawed the sand.

When he spoke, his words were directed to Etain, in Gaelic, excluding Sybelle. Even though she didn't understand, she could tell by his tone that he wasn't happy she was there.

Etain listened solemnly until Sybelle broke in. "My lord, the blame is mine. I insisted that Etain bring me here."

"Did you?" he asked, arching a thick brow.

Her chin raised higher. "Aye."

Green eyes locked with blue, each assessing the other, neither giving way.

"Tiarna," the man at Rolf's side spoke, anxious to get back to the business at hand.

Rolf gave his attention to the clerk. Raking a hand through his windswept black hair, he turned his back on the ladies, indicating to them that the meeting was at an end.

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Sybelle examined the stone cottage that overlooked the ocean. It was clean, comfortable, furnished quite well with various luxuries. She examined a fluted decanter of wine. The bed was adorned with soft linen instead of coarse homespun. Across a chair was flung a cloak of white velvet, lined with beaver.

"Do you like it?" Etain asked, pouring wine for Sybelle, a mug of ale for herself.

Sybelle nodded. "'Tis exquisite."

"A gift from Armand."

"Captain duBerre?"

"Aye. 'Tis his wine you'll be drinking," she said with a smile.

"His choice is excellent."

"Armand has a fondness for it. Myself, I'd rather have ale."

"Actually," Sybelle confided, "so would I."

Etain laughed, a full, rich sound. "My lady, you are full of surprises."

Sybelle sipped her wine and ate the meal Etain provided, savoring the taste of trout flavored with almonds and cream. She felt, with an instinct she trusted, a closeness to this Irishwoman. Etain possessed a quiet strength, as did the Lady Duvessa. It was this that made Sybelle feel free to ask, "Is the French captain a good friend?"

"Very close, you may say, my lady," Etain answered. "He is my lover."

Sybelle lowered her eyes, considering the woman's words. Mayhap he couldn't afford to wed Etain, and would have need of money. She would see to it that her father was generous.

Yet, she thought, suppose they were not planning on being wed? How could she bring up the subject?

"What troubles you, Sybelle?" Etain asked, dispensing with the more formal mode of address.

Sybelle lifted her head, blue eyes alight with curiosity. "Are you and the captain planning to marry?"

Etain considered this for a moment. "There has been no talk of such," she admitted.

"But what if he leaves you?"

"He will."

"No," Sybelle clarified, "I do not mean for just the span of a sea voyage."

"Armand is free to come and go as he choses, as I am free to tell him to stay or to leave."

"Do you love him?"

"Armand holds a close spot in my heart; he always will. Yet I do not feel the love for him that would make me ache endlessly should he never return."

"Does he love you?"

"In his own way, aye, he does. As I love him. We are close; still, we have not exchanged souls."

Sybelle's perplexed expression made Etain grin. "An exchange of souls?" she asked.

"To be that much a part of another's life, so that you understand him completely. 'Tis rare, Sybelle. Only a few attain that level of love." She poured another tankard of ale, enjoying the cold taste. "Armand and I share our bodies, our pleasure. For us that is enough."

Sybelle spoke what was on her mind. "Your words are strange to hear from the lips of a woman."

"Because I speak frankly?"

"Aye. You do not pretend, Etain. Your honesty is too much a part of you."

"So my mother often says." She smiled. "I sense that my words disturb you."

"'Tis just that the women I know do not speak so of carnal matters."

"It may be they have never experienced the pleasure of a man's embrace."

"Two of my ladies are wed."

"Did they tell you, prepare you, for your first mating?"

Mating, Sybelle thought. What a curious way to phrase the act. "Dame Judith instructed me when I was fourteen and first betrothed."

"Betrothed?" Etain questioned in surprise. "Are you still?"

"No," Sybelle answered her quietly, fondly recalling the young man who was to have been her husband.

"What happened?"

"He died."

"How?"

"A sword thrust meant for the king's younger brother, Richard, found its mark instead in Piers's body.''

"Had you known your betrothed?" Etain was aware of the custom of the nobility to make marriage arrangements without the boy and girl involved having met.

"Piers was the son of my father's cousin." A sad-sweet smile curved her lips as she recalled the younger man. "He was fostered to my father's care. I was very fond of him, as he was of me. We would have had a good marriage, of that I am sure." She could still remember the sharp blow dealt to her when the Earl of Derran sent word of the tragic, albeit heroic death of Piers de Marvain. His gently teasing ways had ended. No more would she look forward to his quiet wit, or to sharing his dreams and hopes. As for Etain's wordsthere had been no sharing of souls. Still, she believed that they would have made each other happy. She would have been content. Wasn't that the function of a marriage in her world? A blending of interests surely outweighed such romantic notions as souls. Souls were for God alone.

"How old were you when you lost him?"

"Sixteen. We were to be wed in three months."

"You are the daughter of a wealthy, influential man. Were there no other marriage contracts arranged?"

A smile tugged at Sybelle's mouth. "Indeed. My father thought it best to put forth another match. This time 'twas to a Scottish lord."

"What happened?"

Her smile turned wry; her words were laced with ironic amusement. "'Twould seem he neglected to tell my father about an obstacle standing in his wayhis mistress." Sybelle's eyes sparkled. "She was a widow under his protection who had already given him a child and was about to present him with another. When her brothers heard about his discussions with my lord father, they objected strenuously. He decided that perhaps it would be better if he wed his mistress." She laughed. "It was either that or her brothers would have cut him into little pieces and fed him to their dogs. He wisely made the most expedient choice in the circumstances.''

Etain joined Sybelle in laughing, but then paused, reaching out her hand to enclose Sybelle's. "'Tis no luck you've had."

"No, perhaps not. Yet I have turned it to my best interest," Sybelle said in a pragmatic tone.

"How so?"

"By negotiating with my father that I shall be allowed to choose my own husband," she said proudly. "If I must be wed, then I would it were to a man of my own selection."

"You were granted that?"

"Aye."

"Derran must hold you in high regard."

"My father trusts me. He knows I will pick a man best suited to me, and to my responsibilities."

"What of passion?"

"What of it?"

"Is there no place in your life for that?"

"Of what use is that to me?" Sybelle asked, a contemptuous tone echoing her words.

"You felt no fire pass between you and your Piers?" Etain asked.

Sybelle paused for thought. "We were suited well. Besides, is not passion a thing for men?"

"No, 'tis not."

Sybelle felt a touch of awkwardness. "Do you feel this passion when you share your bed?"

"Indeed," Etain stated proudly, "else I would not do so. The sharing of passion is a gift. If it is not given freely on both sides, it loses its flavor." Etain watched the play of emotions on Sybelle's face. The younger woman was digesting her words, she knew, and finding them at odds with the way she had been instructed.

"Come," Etain said, gathering up her cloak. "We must return to the keep." From a tiny window she saw the darkening sky. Another storm was due.

Chapter 12

The evening's meal had ended; the hour was late and most had sought their rooms for the night as strong winds and fierce rain buffeted the walls of the castle.

Sybelle paced slowly around the confines of her room. There had been no opportunity at the meal to talk to Armand duBerre alone. Etain's company kept him occupied or Rolf directed a substantial portion of his conversation to him.

He must help her. She would explain to him that she was a captiveone who could make him rich if he were to aid her in escaping. A way must be found.

She stood before the blazing fire, placing a small log onto the flames. Her flesh was chilled. Fear skittered along her nerves as she held out her hands to the warmth, and she took a deep calming breath. The night was more than half over. She must do something now, else all would be lost.

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Roll found that he couldn't sleep, so instead of remaining a prisoner of his bed, he chose work. He sat at a small writing table in his chamber, reviewing the accounts of the voyage. Everything was in order, a tally ready for Armand and a copy to be kept for his own records. A handsome profit should be netted on this voyage. It had been a hard winter, and money was needed to sustain his people, to make repairs and buy goods necessary to their continued survival. He picked up another thick record book. His personal household expenses. He was thankful his days as a student at the University in Paris were not completely wasted. His father's dictum of responsibility was ingrained into him"one should never be careless about the lives or estates entrusted to one's custody," the old earl had taught. Roll took his obligations seriously, and he knew some thought him overly cautious. It was in his nature to take command, to make sure that he was getting what he paid for, to have the ultimate control. Too many lords gave only a cursory glance at their accounts, ceeding that right to a clerk or baliff, as long as they had what they needed.

Rolf trusted his menhe simply never ceased to forget who was responsible for the welfare of his family and people. He was Killroone.

He finished scanning another document and reached for a thin stick of wax, which he set alight, dripping it over the paper. He closed his hand into a fist and turned it to affix the seal on his ring to the parchment. The wolf's head stared back at him, along with the word around its throat: Glacaim. "I takeI accept."

The last group of papers he read had to do with his mother's property in Wales. Her brothers had both died, along with their children. The small keep was now in his care. It would require a personal inspection soon. Perhaps Bran would be his emissary.

Thoughts of his brother pushed their way into his brain. He knew Bran did not like what he had done. Bran's heart was of a gentler nature than his; this Rolf accepted. And he wanted to keep it that way as long as possible. His feelings of protectiveness for his younger brother stemmed from Rolf's own pain at the ugly things he'd been forced to see in his lifetime. As long as he lived he would never forget the carnage of that horrific day when he'd discovered the bodies of his parents.

Rolf shuddered, forcing his mind to focus on something else. Angiallthe hostage. Somehow she was never far from his thoughts. He massaged the bridge of his sharp-bladed nose. He could see her sitting astride the horse, looking as haughty as Queen Maeve of legend; or at the table where they shared supper, the hint of sadness in her eyes making him think of the sorrowful Deidre. When he thought about her now, it was, always with a keen hunger. He closed his eyes, letting the fantasy block out the dark truth of the night. She stood before him, the wind whirling her hair gently around her body, a smile soft and tender upon her mouth, her eyes dark and deep. She stood, waiting, anticipating his approach, her face glowing with a radiant ecstasy. He had only to reach out his hand. . . .

And what? Grasp the air?

The low growl of one of the dogs forced his mind back to reality. He saw it scratch and sniff at the door. What ailed it?

Picking up his sword, Rolf walked to the door. He pulled the animal back from the entrance, listening for any sounds. He could hear nothing, yet the dog's agitated actions indicated someone was outside in the corridor.

Slowly he eased the wide door open so as not to make an excess of noise. The hall outside was almost completely dark, except for the sputtering light afforded by the candles set in the wall sconces.

His eyes adjusted quickly as he scanned for signs of movement. A quick flicker of light caught his eyethere on the stairs, slowly descending. The figure of a woman and a dog. He could barely make her out; she clung close to the shadows, the single candle glowing brightly.

It was Sybelle, followed by Lugh. Did she think to leave the castle? Wasn't she aware she would never get past the guards? His eyes narrowed. From what he could ascertain she wasn't dressed for traveling, but for sleep. The long robe she wore trailed behind her, sweeping along the curved stairs. He waved the dog back into place with his hand, commanded its silence, and closed the door to his room, making his way along the corridor, watching her graceful steps.

She headed for the smaller guest chamber on the lower floor, off the Great Hall. The bedchamber Armand was using, and probably sharing with Etain.

What was the Lady Sybelle doing?

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Armand had just begun to doze, his arms securely wrapped around the body of the lovely Irishwoman in his bed. Etain was the perfect mistress, a lover to treasure. Tonight he needed to hold the richness she provided close, savoring the delights as they played the game of love to its rich conclusion. On the morning tide he would sail to France.

He heard the soft sound of the knock, just barely. He forced his eyes to open, and listened again. The sound returned, urgent and stronger.

He eased himself from Etain's body, who woke with the movement. Her eyes focused quickly, saw the finger he held to his lips, indicating that he wished her to remain silent.

He gathered a pair of discarded hose and pulled them on, adding a white shirt, which he left unlaced. The dagger that lay by the bed was in his hand. He pulled shut the drapes surrounding the bed, shutting Etain away from the visitor.

Cautiously he walked to the door.

"Captain duBerre, are you awake?"

He recognized the low voice as that of the Lady Sybelle Fitzgerald.

Opening the door, he stood in the entrance. "What is it that you wish, my lady?"

"Some of your time, captain," she responded in French. Sybelle glanced quickly to the right and the left. "May I enter? What I have to say must be done in private."

Confused, Armand stepped aside as the woman and her ever-present, vigilant watchdog came into the room.

"My lady," Armand began, thrusting the dagger into its sheath, placing it on a chest, "you should not be here."

"Oui," she answered, walking around the room, her hands clenched tightly together. "I know." She paused, aware of just how bold was her stratagem, and what she was asking. Somehow the conviction that she was behaving in a manner that was contradictory to how she was taught no longer mattered. Escape from this dark dream must be foremost in her mind.

"My father is the Earl of Derran."

"Oui, my lady."

"He is a man much favored by his king, rich, influential. Return me to him and you will be rewarded beyond your dreams." She faced him calmly, proposing her plan.

"You wish me to betray my partner?"

"With the favor of my father, you would have no need for a partner," she said, her voice persuasive. "Think of it. Derran will be generous, this I promise you." She angled her head, casting him a slicing glance. "Would you not want your own ship? Perhaps two? That can be arranged.''

Armand paused, as if considering her proposition. "Are you certain that you can speak for your sire?"

Sybelle faced him, her eyes challenging. "Monsieur, you have no reason to doubt my word. Whatever you request I can vouchsafe you that my father shall grant, if 'tis within his power. And his power is extensive. He will keep any promise that I make to you."

Armand walked closer to her, glancing at the pale flesh he could see bared by the neckline of the robe. He stopped, stretching out his hand, lightly touching her slender throat. He wondered just how far this English lady was willing to go to free herself? Would she beg? Would she offer the ultimate price for her freedom?

Etain, hidden behind the curtains of the bed, listened to the conversation. Her knowledge of French was limited, but she could follow the conversation enough to know that Sybelle was offering Armand a bribe. It was obvious to Etain that Sybelle had no real notion of the full extent of Armand's identity. She truly believed that she was making him an offer he could not afford to refuse.

Sybelle found her voice. When she spoke it was husky. "What say you?"

Armand stood in front of her, very close. He put his hand to his chin, stroking the hair of his beard, as if in consideration. "Is that all you have to offer?"

Sybelle's head rose a fraction; her voice got colder, firmer. "Isn't that enough?"

Armand's brown eyes twinkled. He was beginning to enjoy the game. "Haven't you forgotten something important?"

"What other demands do you have for your services?"

"Surely it is more than services required, my lady? It is the selling of my friendship."

"And I perceive it to be an exchange of influential patrons. My lord father can do more for you than can Killroone. England is a larger trading partner. Also, I have my own estates, in this country. Your services would not come cheaply."

"Neither does my loyalty," Armand said softly.

"What else do you require?"

"Suppose I said your soft body in my bed for the remainder of this night, cherie?" he whispered into her ear, pushing aside the unbound hair.

She stiffened. "Remove your hand," she commanded. Armand complied. Sybelle turned to face him, her palm contacting quickly with his skin.

"I am no one's whore, monsieur."

"Neither am I, my lady," he said, grabbing her arm as she made to leave. He released it only when he heard the wolfhound's growl.

"I did not" she said.

Interrupting her, he countered with, "You would have me sell my loyalty to my partner for some paltry coin, for a few kindly spoken words on my behalf?" A sneer transposed his face. "You Anglais, everything is reduced to money, n'est-ce pas? Even your king is for sale," he said with a hint of condemnation. "Well I am not, ma chиre. Rolf O'Dalaigh is my friend. I do not barter my affections. Nor would I if he and I were partners in business only. Sacrй mиre, my ancestors would spit on me."

"Forgive me," she said simply and, with her dog, left the room.

Etain parted the curtains; a sheet of linen was draped around her body. "What would you have done if she had given in to your last request?"

Armand smiled as he walked to the bed, dispensing with his clothes. Leaning over, he placed a kiss on her parted lips, tumbling her backwards onto the bed. "There was no chance of the Lady Sybelle doing that, ma coeur." He gathered Etain close in his embrace. "She would bargain with whatever she could to be free, but not with her pride."

"I agree," Etain said, her voice a softly uttered whisper. "Sybelle Fitzgerald will pay a price for her freedom, but it will be on her terms. Bartering her body would not be acceptable."

"Would you?" he asked, brushing a kiss across her forehead.

"Only if my freedom were already assured," she answered practically. "Otherwise, one could give and get nothing in return." She leathered her palms across his smooth chest, following with her lips. "She would not, even then. Nor would Roll, if the situations were reversed."

Armand chuckled at that thought. "How correct you are, cherie." He related an incident to her that occurred when he and Rolf were students. "And when the comtesse said that she would pay handsomely for his continued services, Roll quit her bed abruptly." He shrugged his shoulders. "But enough of them, ma chиre. There are only a few hours left to us. Let us use them wisely."

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Rolf waited until Sybelle entered her chamber, following her in the shadows. She hadn't stayed long, he noted, feeling an unanticipated sense of anger and jealousy. He assumed she was trying to purchase her way out of his care by offering Armand something to help her flee. His lips twisted into a bitter smile. He was sure she'd failed, else her face would have worn a happier look. Instead he saw resignation, and a trace of pain. He fought against the urge to comfort, for in that path lay surrenderhis, not hers. She must not know that he . . . that he what? Wanted to draw her into his arms, caress that strong face, and kiss that captivating mouth?

Abruptly, Rolf slammed his open palms backwards into the cool wall of stone. He inhaled several deep, slow breaths. His lips thinned, his jaw clenched. Damn her for the English vixen that she was. Once again he must show her whose will was stronger.

A smile of expected satisfaction curved his mouth. Before he was done, she would learn the word maistir, for indeed, in his establishment, there could only be one masterRolf O'Dalaigh.

Chapter 13

Sybelle sat staring into the flames of the fire, trying to fight the oppressive air of dejection she felt creeping upon her like a devouring cloud. Armand had rejected her offer. Tears formed in her eyes, hot and stinging; she brushed them aside as they fell. Her shoulders were slumped forward. The mournful, keening sound of the wind and rain seemed to echo her mood.

What did the future hold for her once she was freed from this prison of despair? What life awaited her? She searched for an answer. All she saw were questions.

She heard the latch of the huge door being slid back. Startled, she stood, her breath catching in her throat. Armand had changed his mind.

The hope, the look of anticipation, faded from her features, replaced by a chill dread. Standing before her was Rolf, not Armand. Lugh rose from his position at her feet, obeying his master's gesture.

Rolf quietly closed the door, leaving them alone. He leaned against it, his green eyes narrowed as he drank in the sight of Sybelle outlined by the fire, her gown of ivory lawn and lace boldly displaying her exquisite form lighted from the back by the flames. She seemed unaware of just what she looked like, what was revealed by her action. The deep rise and fall of her chest with every breath forced his attention to the lush curve of her breasts. Her hair, gilded into a fiery halo of light, shimmered.

He knew, she surmised. Somehow, he knew. Her eyelashes fanned down, hiding her eyes from him.

"Sybelle." Her name was spoken in a husky whisper, reaching across the chamber, touching her.

Her lashes raised; her gaze connected with his. She expected to see anger in the depths of his cool green eyes. When it wasn't there, she was at a loss. What should she do? There was nowhere to run. And what would it accomplish if she did run? He would only hunt her down and drag her back. There was no escape.

Calmly, she sought his eyes again, satisfiedno, that wasn't the correct wordaccepting the inevitability of her position.

"Sybelle. Bend to me," he said, approaching her with careful, considered steps. Slowly he circled her, assessing. She could feel the gentle caress of his palm as he glided it from the crown of her head along the waving tendrils of her hair, until his hand cupped the slight curve of her bottom beneath the honey strands. She quivered involuntarily. Next, she felt the graze of his fingers on the linen that clung to her legs. The brush of his hand sliding from her waist to her knee sent a warming pulse in that area to beat more erratically.

Sybelle clenched her teeth. She must force her mind away from the deed, for only by focusing on something else could she be free. A claiming of her body was one thing, a claiming of her mind another. Vainly she fought to direct her thoughts onto mundane mattersthe year's harvest; what price wool would bring; what repairs would be needed at her estate. Her sistershow fared the twins? Clare. Audrey. Concentrate, she berated herself silently. Dismiss the ministrations of his fingers as they undid the silken ties that held the gown, exposing the flesh beneath. Movement ceased and her eyes, closed, fluttered open. He was behind her again, his strong hands on her shoulders, murmuring words into her ear in Gaelic, rough whisperings that belonged to the night, to the darkness enfolding them as the fire grew dim.

Her hair was brushed to one side, her neck and shoulder exposed. She heard his deeply indrawn breath, and a soft gasp escape her own mouth as she felt his warm lips on her flesh. The gown was pushed further down her arms, momentarily imprisoning her in its soft embrace, before he did away with it completely. His hands spanned her waist as he lingered on the journey from her shoulders to her spine. Soft kisses feathered across the blades of her back and worked along her backbone, ending in an intimate caress as he fell to one knee, touching his mouth to the pale globes of both cheeks. One hand extended, Rolf let his index finger stroke a sweet path from her knee to the back of her foot, encircling her ankle gently.

He rose. His robe joined the nightdress on the floor. Skin to skin they stood. Warmth from his larger frame permeated hers. The black hair of his chest rubbed against her shoulder; the hard muscles of his thighs and the growing proof of his passions were hot on her flesh. His hands slid around her stomach, reaching upwards until each wide palm cradled her tender skin. The rhythm of his thumbs across her nipples caused her to bite her lips to stifle the moan she felt moving through her. "Succumb, Sybelle," he urged in her ear, nibbling softly on the lobe, before drawing his tongue across the same spot.

The even tenor of his breathing was changing. She could feel the deep expulsion of air as his chest expanded, could hear the slight raspy quality of the sound. "Yield . . . to me," he said, his voice a growl of animal intensity.

Sybelle's own breath came in short pants when Rolf made bold with his next touch, a long caress of his left hand from the underside of her breast across her soft belly until he delicately fondled the golden-brown hair at the juncture of her thighs.

Her knees began to buckle slightly as Rolf's palm glided across the curls, not yet seeking entrance.

He grasped her right hand in his, turning, backing slowly toward the raised bed, leading her. "Come," he whispered, "now."

Sybelle followed. She was entranced; relinquishing control of herself, she slid across the bed. She blinked, waited for him to make the next move.

He remained standing by the bed, his gaze traveling along her body, warming her.

She watched the slow, sensual movements of his hands as they raked the hair back from his face, and then, as he brought them back down again, deliberately, across his shoulders and chest, ending at his thighs.

He joined her, entwining his fingers through hers, placing a kiss on her wrist. He echoed that with a foray to the inner circle of her elbow, his tongue snaking out to lave it with a few quick strokes. His mouth was against hers, coaxing, persuading hers to give in to the feelings he evoked. His kiss deepened, widened, intensified. He raised his head. Clutching a handful of his thick, shoulder-length mane, she forced his lips back to hers, needing, however dangerous, the contact, the compelling force he provided.

Sybelle could feel her body getting warmer, even though the room was chillier, now that the fire burned low. What was he doing to her? She shouldn't allow it to happen, yet what was her course? It seemed to Sybelle as if Rolf's hands and mouth were everywhere on her body, leaving her bereft of air. Sensations overrode her reason. She was floating on each new experience, as if she no longer had control. There were hills to climb, valleys to plumb. Her head fell back against the pillow as she let the sensory impressions wash over her, like crashing waves against the rocky shore. Then, when she thought she could endure no more, another burst of light erupted when Rolf's body thrust explosively into hers, draining her energy.

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Darkness hid the triumphant smile that curved Rolf's mouth. Ecstasy was a sweet brew, once tasted, always savored. Tonight she was his, completely, her surrender accomplished.

But, a small voice nagged at himwhat of your surrender? Rolf ignored the sharp prick of his errant thoughts, concentrating instead on the texture of her skin, soft and supple, as he skated his hand across the gentle curve of her spine, splaying his fingers along her delicate hipbone.

He felt her flinch in reaction, pulling away from his touch.

Sybelle shuddered with distaste. Oh, sweet Jesu, she thought, how could I have abandoned myself to a man, to him, especially, like that? It was as if a spell had been placed on her, blinding her to her own true ways, making her follow where before she would have scorned to go. His skillful hands and mouth wove spells of indescribable beauty upon her susceptible flesh, as his voice penetrated her mind, seducing her with its potent charm.

Yet she couldn't deny, in her honest heart, that there had been the pleasure Etain spoke of. A feeling of sensation so powerful Sybelle thought she had died momentarily and been reborn. He held that power over her, and the knowledge was a bitter taste in her mouth.

She hoped that he was asleep, that his movements were unconscious, so that she could make her way from the bed, this place that held memories of her shame. The first time forced against her will; the second, a succumbing to the sorcerer's magic, forgetting that he was her jailer, the keeper of her freedom. What she hadn't been able to contemplate doing in cold blood, she found herself experiencing with the hot-blooded blade of desire searing her vitals. Had her father encountered the same conflagration, so intense as to brand one's soul?

That thought shocked and scared her. Her father was a man in his prime, a widower, settled with his life, as she was with hers. This aberrant surrender to the folly of carnal lust was momentary, something she would wipe from her mind, from her life. Hugh Fitzgerald was too rational, too experienced a man, a battle-scarred soldier, to allow himself to be swayed by a lapse into the forbidden realm. And she was her father's daughter, fighting a different campaign. Her will must be firm, or else she would be forever lost.

Roll feigned sleep as she quit the bed, carefully watching her graceful movements as she strode across the room. In front of her she clutched a small fur from the bed, holding it around her nakedness as best she could.

''Where do you go, Sybelle?" he asked, pushing himself up against the carved panels of the headboard, brushing back the damp strands of hair from his face.

Startled, she stopped. She turned her head. "To the privy."

He crossed his powerful arms behind his head, making her more aware of the play of muscles in his chest. Her eyes widened perceptibly when she saw the red welts that crisscrossed his upper torso. Marks of nailsher nails. Crimson testimony to her unbridled loss of control. She could tell by the slight smile that touched his face that he was aware of her discomfort. Aware and enjoying it. Her spine stiffened. She was no meek mouse made only for this cat's pleasure. She had nibbled the bait; she saw the trap. Her guard would now be up.

"Fetch me a cup of wine," he ordered calmly. Rolf made mental note of her evident disdain. She wanted to fling the words back at him, he knew, along with a score of scathing comments. But would she dare? Her blue eyes reflected a battle raging within her. He could see the pressure she was exerting to force her lips to remain closed. Temper was evident in the slight widening of her small nostrils. Her slender hands curled into fists.

"Now," he said.

Sybelle walked to the small table upon which rested a flagon and a cup. How was she to manage this feat and still keep the fur around herself? It would be impossible. And he knew it. Ignorant beast, she silently fumed. How dare he relish my discomfiture?

Clenching the fur in one hand, she made use of the other to pour the wine. The cup was silver, studded with small jewels. It was made for lovers, wide and deep, for a man and a woman to share. She filled it almost to the rim, slicing the figure on the bed a quick look.

Turning, she walked back to the bed.

Rolf extended his arm, his gaze holding hers, not noticing the imperceptible movement of her hand, which tapped the cup, splashing the contents all over his bare chest and the bed linens.

"Your wine, my lord." Sybelle dropped the cup to the floor and spun on her heel.

Rolt was quick to react. Grabbing her hair, he tugged her backwards so that she landed atop him. She struggled briefly, but to no avail. "Lick it off," he said.

Sybelle's eyes widened in shock. "What?"

Rolf's green eyes glittered. "You heard me, my lady. Obey." When he saw that she wasn't moving, he forced her head to his chest. The soft black hairs tickled her nose. She could smell the mixture of man and wine. His fingers tightened just slightly. Not enough to ignore; only enough to make her aware. "Do it," he said with a groan.

Sybelle's tongue slid from between her lips, catching the tiny rivulets of wine drops, tasting the mixture of grape and salt. She could feel the increased tremors of his heartbeat as she circled the flat masculine nipple, flicking it with her tongue. It responded, forming a tight bud. Do all men react this way? she wondered. She then banished the thought from her brain as unworthy, beneath her.

She noted the look on his face as she slowly raised her head. His hand no longer kept her a prisoner. His eyes were darker, almost invisible under the hooded slits of his lashes.

"Enough," he muttered harshly.

She ceased, pushing herself up and away from him, her fur falling. When she made to grab it again, his fingers clasped her wrist. "No." She understood he was attempting to regain control, because, somehow, her ministrations threatened his own reserve.

Defiantly, she quit the bed without benefit of a cover to hide behind, walking straight to the door of the garderobe without looking back. Sybelle entered the main bedchamber several minutes later, expecting to see him there, waiting for her, ready to demand she again play the part of his mistress. Her gaze searched the room. He was gone. All that remained was the cup, still lying on the floor, and the bed linens, askew, stained red with wine. The bed looked as if a bacchanal had taken place there.

A sharp knock on the door proceeded Siobhan's entrance. She saw the look of consternation on Sybelle's pale face, and bent to hand the young woman her discarded gown from the floor. Her old eyes took in the condition of the bed; her nose recognized the lingering scents of love and wine. She opened the shutters, letting in the fresh, nippy air, scented with the salt of the ocean, the storm having ceased.

"My lord begs me invite you to attend him when you have broken your fast, my lady," Siobhan said softly, tidying up the room, and removing the stained sheets as three servants enteredone with a morning meal, the other two with buckets of hot water for her bath.

"For what purpose?" Sybelle questioned, biting into the thick, spicy meat pie.

"I do not know, my lady. He bade me only to say he wants you with him this morn."

Confused, Sybelle nodded, as she quaffed the tankdard of ale. What now?

Chapter 14

What now indeed, Sybelle thought as she made her way down the stairs to the Great Hall. Entering, she saw Rolf seated at a table with Armand and Bran, finishing their morning meal.

When they beheld her, they all stood. Rolf extended his hand. His green eyes narrowed as he ran his gaze over her slender body. She was clothed, modestly, in a dark blue wool. "Good morrow, my lady," he said, his deep voice a wellremembered caress.

"To you also, my lord," Sybelle responded, accepting his hand as he led her to a chair next to his, just vacated by Bran, who moved to another. She could feel the color rising in her cheeks as Rolf's eyes looked at her; they glowed with an arrogant seductiveness. Her skin tingled where he touched it. She shivered with the recalled emotion of the last few hours in her chamber. By no word did he bring the subject to the fore of his conversation with the others, yet somehow it was there, unspoken, between them. A tangible thing that she could feel simmering in the air.

"I regret that you must wish our dear friend Armand adieu," Rolf said, offering her a cup of spiced wine. His smile as he placed the silver cup into her hands brought another blush to her face, forced her to remember another cup of wine.

Branduff observed the swift color that stained Sybelle's flesh. He grasped that there was something deeper in the relationship between the two. He could tell by the tremulous actions of Sybelle's hands as she accepted the cup from his brother, and the trace of wickedness Rolf's eyes as he deliberately placed his wide palm over Sybelle's, lightly smoothing the flesh of her fingers.

Sybelle swiftly removed her hand. She clasped the cup to steady her nerves, already shaken by the contact with his flesh.

"Do you return to France?" she addressed the question to Armand in his native tongue. Armand nodded his head, his manner charming. 'Oui, my lady."

"With quite a bountiful cargo, eh, mon ami?" Rolf chided.

"Mais certainement, Rolf. We shall both make a tidy profit on this venture."

"The Lady Sybelle and I shall ride with you and watch your departure," Rolf stated.

Sybelle opened her eyes wide. She made as if to speak, then thought better of it. Damn him. He knew of her visit to Armand, she was sure. This was his devious way of letting her see the means of departure without taking part.

"I thank you, my lord." she began, "yet I feel that I must de"

"Decline?" Rolf finished for her. "Nonsense, my lady. The air will do you good."

Sybelle saw in his implacable eyes and the strong set of his face that there was no way that she would be allowed to forgo this event, so she bowed, momentarily, to the inevitable. "As you wish, my lord Killroone."

"Indeed," he murmured for her ears alone.

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Sybelle watched as the ship became a mere speck on the Atlantic, drifting farther and farther away. She and Rolf were alone on the beach, Branduff having been dismissed, along with several other men who'd accompanied them.

The wind whipped back the top of the cloak she wore, revealing her hair. She brushed aside stray strands that threatened to escape from her coronet of braids.

He recalled her hair unloosed, in his hands, on his lips.

They remained in silence for many minutes. Sybelle continued to look out at the ocean, her eyes staring straight ahead at the horizon.

"You should not have tried."

She spun around, anger in her eyes. "He told you," she said.

Rolf's mouth curved in a semblance of a smile.

"No. Armand would never do that."

"Then how?" she asked.

"I saw you. And I know you, as I know myself."

That thought disturbed her; supposing that it were true? Could he read her character, her innermost thoughts? Nonsense, she chided herself. 'Twas only a pretext on his part, to confuse her.

"You should be proud of your friend. He doesn't take a worthy bribe."

"Perhaps I should tell you something about Armand's background." He lead her to a stone outcropping. Rolf remained standing as Sybelle sank to the rock seat. "You would have tried in vain, no matter what the sum. Armand is the third son of le Marquis D'Antarre. His family is quite old and respected, quite wealthy. Without need of your beneficence." He saw the color fade from her face as the realization of what he had said sank in.

He was one step ahead of her. She felt like a pawn in play on a chessboard. She stood, her back ramrod-straight. "My compliments, my lord," she said. He had carefully withheld the information that would have stopped her from making a fool of herself. He was manipulating her so skillfully, controlling the actions of the game. He was a skilled battle commander, and as the daughter of one of England's foremost soldiers, she could admire that. The thought struck her as comical. Power. He was a master, she conceded. Aye, a man used to being in command, in control.

She couldn't stop the laugh that escaped her lips.

"What do you find so humorous, my lady?"

She turned to face him, her slate-blue eyes alight with a mood he couldn't grasp. "How very much you remind me of my lord father."

Rolf's features hardened. "'Tis not a compliment, Lady Sybelle."

"Oh, but my lord, it is. Your skill as a strategist is almost the equal of my father's. When you two finally meet, 'twill be a rare match."

Her attitude baffled him. He could tell her that he knew her as well as he knew himself, and then she would do something alien to throw him off balance. Because of this, she must never see, never guess, that she had the uncanny ability to disturb him.

Her continued laughter irritated him. He grasped her shoulders, pulling her into his embrace. His mouth touched hers with raw power, driving in its intensity. He yanked her hair from its confinement, freeing it, winding his hands through the strands, anchoring her to him as he sought to brand her with his lips.

Sybelle felt his passion, shared it. Telling herself that she was committing folly to allow it to continue, she pushed aside her qualms and gave herself to the wondrous moment in his strong arms, returning his kisses. The blood pounded in her body, keeping time to the excited beats of her heart. She felt on the threshold of something new and beautifuluntil he abruptly pulled her clinging arms from around his neck.

He gulped in a deep breath of air, fighting the almost overwhelming need to reach for her again, push her to the sand, and shove aside her skirts, mounting her there and then, riding till the sensation passed him. What was it about this woman that so inflamed his loins that he was pressed to throw caution aside?

"There is no escape, my lady. You do well to remember that. You are mine now."

She smoothed her hair back into order, arching her chin high. "I am Sybelle Fitzgerald, my lord, and you do well to remember that," she said proudly.

He cupped her stubborn chin. "You belong to the wolf and are so marked, my lady." He released her chin to caress each side of her face, his fingers and knuckles stroking fire. "You are mine. For now. Forever."

Chapter 15

A heavy rain pelted the Dorset countryside.

At the wide window overlooking the gardens, Duvessa stood, waiting. A rider had come only a short time ago to bring the news that Hugh's daughters were but a few miles away. Hugh was visiting several of his neighbors in an attempt to settle a dispute over some property lines. Duvessa had sent a groom to fetch him.

The tempo of the rain changed. Now it was softer, calmer, much more like the misty Irish rains she was accustomed to. Almost an hour passed since she bade the groom find him before she saw Hugh arrive, his horse lathered. She watched him dismount, secure in the knowledge that from her vantage point she could observe without being seen. Duvessa longed to run to his side, to fling her arms about Hugh and beg him to end this estrangement. Pride held her back. That, and the certainty that such a move would win no favor from Hugh.

She wiped a solitary tear from her cheek. Her gaze never left him as he snapped out instructions to his servants. Soon, he was fast approaching the house.

Earlier she'd summoned a servant with instructions to prepare something hot for him to eat and drink on his return. Duvessa worried about the state of his health as Hugh worked ceaselessly preparing a strategy for the re-taking of his child. He didn't seek their bed until quite late each night, and rose early. What sleep he had was fitful, as was hers.

The slammed entrance door was her indication that her husband had entered the house. She went to the hall, where she saw Hugh pulling off a cloak of wool and beaver fur, tossing it to a waiting manservant.

Duvessa noted the way the rain clung to his thick hair, curling it even more tightly around his skull. His hair would be soft to the touch; how she longed to feel her fingers winding through the silky reddish-gold curls, damp and wonderful, as it was when they made love. That image conjured up memories of incredible beauty, of a time meant for them alone, a sharing of their hearts and bodies.

Hugh turned around. The first thing his eyes beheld was his wife's face. Christ, but he needed her softness right now. All he had to do was reach out, place his hand on her white skin. . . .

But he couldn't.

Duvessa spoke first, breaking the awkward silence that hung over them. ''My lord, please come. I have had a meal prepared for you."

It was on his tongue to refuse; he thought better of it.

"As you will, madam," he said tersely, following her into the dining chamber.

The food was waiting on the table, set for one. Hugh sat down, as Duvessa served him. When she was done, she sat next to him, pouring herself a glass of wine. She watched her husband closely as she sipped the wine, forcing herself not to reach out her hand and clasp his. This was as close as she dared come at the present time. Sadness filled her heart. The lines of strain were even deeper ingrained on Hugh's face.

He ate in silence, keeping his own counsel. He wanted to share the burden of the guilt he felt, yet he couldn't bear to heap any further pain onto Duvessa's shoulders. This was his problem. He would handle it.

What was taking Edward so long in responding to his request ? He should have heard from his king by now. His thoughts turned angrier and he slammed his fist onto the table, startling Duvessa.

"Hugh?"

"Sorry," he said in a low tone, his face muscles freezing in an effort to contain the bitter fury he felt.

A loud knock made them both turn as a man entered the room. He was soaked to the skin, his clothes covered in dirt. He dripped water and mud onto the expensive carpet as he knelt to deliver his message.

"My lord Derran," he said, gulping in air, "Sir John bids me tell you that your daughters are arrived. They shall be here within moments." He stopped to take in another deer drag of air "All is safe with them."

Hugh stood up, dropping his napkin to the silver plate.

The man stood up also, and saw the stains he had left on the carpet. He shifted nervously, sure that his master would be mightily vexed for the damage he'd caused.

Hugh walked right past him without regard to the carpet.

"My lady, I am heartily sorry for the damage done," he apologized, expecting her to take him to task.

"'Tis of no consequence. Cleaning will set it to rights. You bring my lord husband and me tidings of great happiness. Go you now and refresh yourself. 'Tis no doubt you've had a long journey."

He bowed his way out of the room, considering himself very fortunate that the lord and lady had so much on their minds, for he couldn't fathom their forgiving his error in judgment and manner otherwise. He worshipped Hugh Fitzgerald, wishing only to be as like him as possible, with a wife as calm and gentle as the Lady Audrey. But that was too much to hope for.

Duvessa waited in the hall with her husband, beside the open door. They watched in silence, listening for the sound of horses or wagons, not sure which mode of transport Sir John would use to get the twins there.

Finally, they heard the sounds of horses approaching, saw the party heading for the stables. Hugh descended the small steps of the house, little caring for the persistent rain.

Clare was in the lead, as usual, with Audrey following at a more sedate pace. Not waiting for anyone to help her dismount, her skirts flying, Clare launched herself from her horse, running to her father's arms, which circled tightly about her. Here she felt safe and secure. Audrey joined her but a moment later.

Duvessa watched the touching scene, noting the tears that betrayed her husband's generally well-hidden emotions. How much he loved his children was in evidence, and he didn't care who saw. There was a quiet gentleness in the way he embraced the girls that spoke volumes about the inner strength of the man.

Clare lifted her head and saw the woman in the doorway. She recognized the Lady Duvessa O'Neill, and wondered what she was doing at her father's house.

"Father, why is the Lady Duvessa here at your manor, instead of her own castle in Ireland?"

"Because this is now her home," he stated, his arms around both of his daughters.

"Her home?" asked Audrey, confused.

"Aye," Hugh replied. "She is my wedded wife."

"Wife?" the twins echoed in unison.

"She is my lawful countess, and your new mother."

Clare looked up at her father. "And the reason for Sybelle's abduction," she stated flatly.

"Let us go inside, and I will endeavor to explain things to you both."

"Aye, Father, Iwe, would appreciate that."

Hugh turned his head towards Sir John. "You I will see immediately. Wait for me in the library."

Sir John nodded his head as Hugh escorted the girls into the house.

Duvessa felt awkward, yet she hid these feelings from the two girls and her husband, stepping aside as the trio entered. "I will see to something to break your hunger from the long journey," Duvessa said, feeling embarrassed at the hostile look in Clare's blue eyes.

Audrey, ever the diplomat, felt Duvessa's consternation and slipped her arm about Duvessa's waist, saying softly, "Thank you, bellemиre. We would truly be grateful, as the pace has been fast this day so that we could reach our father's estate before nightfall. I am quite hungry, as is Clare. Would you mind if I took some time to refresh myself?"

Smiling, Duvessa hugged her step-daughter and said, "No. this is your home. Please, do not feel any difficulty because of me."

Audrey kissed her cheek. "Come, Clare. Father must speak to Sir John. Let us bathe and change before we eat."

Clare, who had stood quietly observing the scene, said nothing. She swept up the stairs with Audrey in tow.

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In the library, Hugh poured himself a brandy and drank it in one swallow. He thanked the sweet Lord that his twins were safe. Now he would have to explain to them fully the true cause of their sister's abduction by the Wolf. Damn, where was Edward's response?

"My lord?" Sir John said.

"Come in," Hugh answered, pouring another brandy and one for Sir John. "Have you any further news of my Sybelle?"

Sir John bowed his head briefly, draining the fine brandy in a quick gulp. "No, my lord. But 'tis certain she is in the possession of Rolf O'Dalaigh. And my suspicions are that a farmer on the estate helped in the cause in some way."

"One of the tenants?" Hugh asked, his voice sharp with disbelief.

"Aye. Something about the man didn't ring true, so I am having him watched,"

"What made you suspicious?"

"His actions andan instinct, my lord. As a soldier, you know when to follow that. Hasn't it saved both our lives?"

"Aye," Hugh nodded.

"Well, I asked him several questions, and he managed to trip himself up on one particular point."

"Which was?"

"He stated that he could see the riders who abducted the Lady Sybelle because the moon was full," Sir John paused. "There was no moon that night. He couldn't have seen them close enough to obtain the description he gave me."

"Why did you not force the truth out of him?" Hugh demanded, fists clenching.

"I thought it more politic to play the waiting game, my lord. I already knew who had your daughter. I needed to see if this man would make any further contact with the Wolf of Killroone before springing my trap. Trust me, he is being closely observed."

"Was he aware of your suspicions?"

"No, my lord. He took his reward and left."

"Reward?" Hugh bellowed in an angry tone.

"Aye. For his information."

Hugh banged his fist down on the table, shaking the bottle of brandy. "This scum was paid for his information?"

"He was, my lord. It was necessary to lull him into thinking that we believed his story."

"Should it be proved that he aided the raiders in any way in the abduction of my daughter, I want a special punishment for him." Hugh's words were merciless.

"That should not be too difficult to arrange, my lord Derran, but I think I could wager successfully that your daughter's people would be glad to relieve you of the burden. The Lady Sybelle is much loved at Castle Derran. And a traitor is not well-loved by the Irish. He will be dealt with properly, that I can assure you."

"Good."

"Has the king's Grace answered your summons for aid?"

"No. Edward has seen fit to make a delay in his response to me. If I do not hear from him soon, I shall make for Ireland with or without his consent."

Sir John observed the pain evident in Hugh's dark blue eyes. He'd been his lord's man for more years than he cared to recall; never had he seen the abject despair in the earl's face as he did now, not even on the field of battle when odds were heavy against them. It was as if Hugh couldn't take the time or the care to mask the pain he was feeling, the utter helplessness. For a man of action to be so constrained by political vagueness must be hellish, and it would also be dangerous. "Would that be wise?" he asked.

"At this point, I don't care," Hugh replied. "My daughter's life is at stake."

"Then we must hope that his Grace will respond soon."

"Have you been able to secure any information about Killroone's keep?"

"Aye, my lord. 'Tis a small piece of intelligence, yet better than nothing." He pulled from his worn brown doublet a small piece of lambskin, on which was sketched a crude map of the area surrounding Rolf's castle. "See here, my lord," Sir John said, pointing with his finger to a spot on the map. "This is a well-fortified place. Killroone has his castle set upon the rocks, giving him the vantage point; he can see all who come. His back is to the ocean; a way to quit his keep should he need to."

"What about coming from water rather than land?"

Sir John shook his head. "'Twill do no good. His tenants are fiercely loyal to the man. Besides, from his height, he could see a large party coming from any direction. 'Tis an impregnable fortress, my lord. His is the virtual control of the area."

"Damn him," Hugh cried, the muscles of his face tightening further. His words were laced with cold fury. "He will curse the day he crossed me."

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"Our father is married!" Audrey exclaimed when she and Clare reached the privacy of their rooms.

"Aye," Clare said, swiftly removing her dirty garments until she stood clad only in a fine linen shift. "What do you make of this?"

"What can I make of it?" Audrey responded, adding her clothes to the growing pile. She tested the warm water in the wooden tub before stepping in. "Since when would our father keep his marriage a secret, especially from his daughters and heirs?" Clare questioned.

"He must have had his reasons."

"'Twould appear so, Audrey, but still I must ask you why? 'Tis not like him." Clare undid her two plaits of thick hair and combed out the tangles caused by the wind and rain. "If he had told anyone, it would have been Belle, and I'll wager she didn't know." She stood, pulling the linen undergarment over her head, using it to wipe away the traces of mud from her face. "It was our right to see Father wed," she pronounced importantly. "No, something must have been wrong."

Audrey ducked her head and rinsed the sweetsmelling soap from her hair. She watched as Clare sat down in a tub identical to hers. "Do you think Duvessa loves our father?"

Clare cocked her soapy head to one side, working her fingers through the suds. "That I do not know, Audrey." She rinsed her hair, pouring water from a small bucket over her tresses. "But I do know that she is involved heavily in what happened to our sister." Clare stood, rinsing herself with another bucket of water, this one warm. Stepping from the tub, she joined Audrey before the fireplace, where a blaze warmed their skin. She briskly rubbed the soft linen over her body.

"I want to know why," Clare said, "and I shan't rest till my questions are answered."

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Duvessa sat at the small writing table in her bedchamber. In her hand was the letter she had written to her cousin explaining the actions she had taken and why. Included was a demand that he release the Lady Sybelle and permit her to return to her father in England. Duvessa re-read the missive, hoping that her words would change her cousin's heart. She needed to make Rolf understand, to make him aware of the deep feeling she harbored for her English husband. Dipping the quill into the inkpot, she added an extra request. This was difficult for her to word, for she knew that both his honor and the lady's were involved. She pleaded with Rolf to make amends if for any reason the woman he held was unable to secure a proper marriage. Harmony must be restored, as they were all bound by the marriage alliance now. Clan bonds were extended to include her new family; she must remind her cousin that Lady Sybelle now shared a kinship to Roll. Perhaps that tactic would sway his feelings. It was certainly worth a try.

A soft knock sounded on her door. Duvessa immediately slipped the sheets of paper beneath a book of courtly love poetry that she had found amongst her husband's possessions. "Enter," she called out.

A small woman just a few years older than the Lady Duvessa, entered the room. She dipped a slight bend of her knee, addressing her mistress. "You wished to see me, countess?"

"Aye," Duvessa said, her voice holding a conspiratorial tone, "I want you to do something for me."

"You have only to command, madame."

"Good." Duvessa turned her head away and drew out the papers. She folded them carefully and placed her seal on them. "You are to deliver these papers to my cousin, the Earl of Killroone."

The woman looked puzzled. ''Aye, but how shall I deliver them?"

"Oh, pray forgive me," Duvessa said, handing the woman the papers. "These are to be kept secret, and to be given to him alone. No other must have access. Do you understand?" She waited for the nod of comprehension before continuing. "You will be returning to Ireland as soon as my lord husband can arrange a passage for you."

"Leave you, my lady?"

"Aye. 'Tis for the peace of my family that I ask this of you."

"'Tis my duty and honor to obey you, yet. . . . "

"'Tis no easy task that I give you, Yseult, that I know," Duvessa said. "And it pains me greatly to keep this a secret from my lord husband, but it must be so. You are the instrument of my plan to promote peace amongst the warring parties of my family. I cannot return to Ireland to see my cousin, the earl, personally. This letter will speak for me.

"My husband shall be told that you long to return to Ireland. That you miss your family too much to stay here."

Yseult nodded at Duvessa's words. In truth she was in no hurry to return to her native country, for she found her position in Duvessa's household pleasant, and she genuinely liked her mistress. She did miss her family, but not to the extent that she would ever forsake the Lady Duvessa. As one of five daughters, and the youngest at that, she knew that her life would have been far less comfortable had she not joined the Lady Duvessa's household when she did. Yseult was the gently reared child of a knight of Duvessa's late father. For her there would be no advantageous marriage, no dowry portion to tempt a man to offer for her. A lady's companion was her lot in life, and truth be known, she relished it.

"You are to go to my estate, tell Father Geoffrey to arrange an escort for you to my cousin Killroone. There is money for the journey, for you shall have to ride fast horses instead of going by carriage. You know where I keep the money for the extra household expenditures; use that. It should suffice." Duvessa hugged the woman. "Thank you, Yseult. When this business is over, I shall once again ask you to attend me." Duvessa gripped her hand in friendship. "I shall have need of my own around me."

"It shall be as you wish, countess," Yseult said quietly.

"Aye. Now go and pack whatever you brought with you for your return journey."

The woman turned to leave the room, the letter secure in her hand.

"Wait," Duvessa called. "You are to send me word as soon as you can. I must know what my cousin's reaction is to my request. Promise me?"

The woman sketched a curtsey. "Aye, my lady. It shall all be done as you requested."

"Go mbeannai Dia dhuit," Duvessa said.

Yseult stopped at the entrance and spoke softly, not sure whether she should broach the subject. She found the arrangement between the lady and her lord to be wildly romantic, the essence of boldness and overwhelming love. Hadn't she herself felt the attraction of the boyishly handsome earl? His eyes saw no one save her mistress, which Yseult found charming. "My lady, do you regret what you did?"

Duvessa looked her square in the eyes. "I regret only the consequences of my actions for my stepdaughter. I could never regret following my heart. For to deny that would mean forsaking the love I feel for Hugh, and that is something that I shall never do while I have breath in my body."

Chapter 16

Clare and Audrey sat at the table awaiting their father and his wife. They exchanged nervous glances, not knowing what to expect of the meeting to come. They had bathed, rested, dressed, and talked about what was to happen.

A village girl, placed into temporary service, popped her head in the open doorway every few minutes, anxiously looking for the entrance of the earl and his countess as a sign for her to begin serving the meal. She was well aware that had this been a more formal establishment, a page, perhaps several pages, would be doing the tasks that she was assigned. Yet at the earl's insistence, since he was rarely in residence, rules were relaxed and auxiliary help employed.

"What is taking them so long?" Clare questioned, twisting her hands together, pulling at the ring she wore on her little finger. "We've been here fully twenty minutes now."

Audrey smiled serenely. "'Tis been only a little past five minutes, Clare."

Clare threw her a dark look. "Are you sure?" she asked. "It truly seems longer." She pushed back the large chair and stood up, pouring herself another glass of spiced wine. "Perhaps I should send a servant to see what is keeping them?"

"That won't be necessary, daughter," came the rich voice of Hugh Fitzgerald from the entrance-way. On his arm was the Lady Duvessa O'Neill Fitzgerald, Countess of Derran.

For this special occasion, Duvessa had decided that a reminder of who she was, and of her own family heritage, was needed. Instead of the plain clothes she had worn earlier, tonight she chose a rich shade of deepest burgundy silk, adorned with miniver. Around her throat, ears, and fingers, were the O'Neill rubies. Against her skin they stood out like drops of blood captured in gold. Her hair was banded by a circlet of gold, and her thick hair fell in luscious waves to well below her knees.

Hugh smiled as he led Duvessa to her seat at the table. His wife was proud, and wore her pride well. To him, no queen of ancient Ireland had the grace and the beauty that she possessed. Hugh thought how aptly she was named, for in the Irish language her name meant "dark beauty." He could feel her tenseness as her small hand tightened around his before she relinquished it.

Hugh instructed the hovering servant to begin. "After we have been served, and are alone, we shall talk of what must be said."

All at the table remained silent as the girl, Drucilla, began to lay platters of food on the polished refectory table. Roasted rabbit was revealed on one plate; another held several capons covered with spices and wine; still another contained several types of fish. A bowl of figs shared space with a large silver bowl of nuts. A chunky block of cheese, surrounded with apples, filled a plate. Two earthenware jugs held beverages, ale in one, the other a Flemish wine.

Hugh indicated to Drucilla to leave them alone; he would summon her when she was needed. She bobbed her head and backed out the door.

All at the table ate in almost virtual silence, save for snatches of polite "another slice of capon; pass the cheese; a fig if you will; perhaps another portion of fish"Soft-spoken, well-mannered generalities that hid the seething tension underneath.

At last, wiping his wide mouth with a lace-edged linen napkin, Hugh pushed aside his plate.

"You demanded an explanation of what has happened." His blue eyes narrowed, a penetrating glance that focused on his daughters, who responded to the power contained therein. His head turned in the direction of his wife. His hand reached for hers, and brought it to his lips. "The Lady Duvessa and I fell in love. Ordinarily, I would have approached her parent or guardian and made arrangements for a marriage contract. However, her guardian, her cousin, the earl of Killroone, had other plans for her. Giving her to an Englishman was not what he would have permitted."

The look on Hugh's face was that of a man who, once resolved, was implacable. "I thought to spare my lady wife any implication in my scheme. An abduction would have absolved her in any way of blame. Never did I think that Rolf O'Dalaigh would have decided to"

"Turn your strategy against you, Father?" Clare mocked.

Hugh's features hardened and his wide mouth formed a grim line. "No, Clare, I did not think that he would take such a risk. Do you think I would have placed any of my children in danger had I thought so?" he asked, his voice raised and filled with anguish. "Do you not think that I feel remorse that my actions have lost me my Sybelle?" He slammed his fist on the table, causing the plates and glasses to rattle.

"Were you so eager to bed this lady that you had no thought for anything else?" Clare accused him angrily.

Hugh stood, his hand raised. Duvessa grabbed for it, murmering, "No, Hugh, please."

"Release me, Duvessa," he said. He faced his daughter, his features grim. "Insolent girl! How dare you judge me? You will apologize to my wife."

Clare faced the Lady Duvessa. "My humble apologies, madame, for I meant no disrespect to you." She flashed her father a defiant look.

"I know that you meant me no harm, Clare. We are all distraught over the taking of your sister. Our tongues are perhaps sharper than we mean in our pain," Duvessa said, her heart aching for the torment they all were feeling. "Part of the blame must lie with me, for I did not think that my cousin Rolf would go to such lengths to exercise his rights as head of our clan." Her glance sought her husband's face. "We had thought to wed so that no hindrance could be placed against our union in the future, and to do that we had to be wed in England with your king as our witness. 'Tis as simple, and as complicated, as that." She paused, taking a sip of her wine to moisten her dry lips.

Hugh caught that gesture and swallowed hard. His anger at Clare was the result of his own continued feeling of guilt. Even now he wanted his wife with a consuming passion that grew deeper and stronger with each passing day. And the loneliness he felt at denying himself the sweet delights of her body scraped his soul raw. He had known denial as a soldier, knew what it was to want and to ignore, to placate with other diversions; but this pain of abstinence after such sweet, fresh pleasure was greater than anything he'd ever felt. It was matched only by his culpability in his daughter's abduction.

"Never did we think that by answering love's call we would hurt anyone else. Neither Hugh nor I wished that. You must believe us."

Audrey sprang from her seat and threw her arms around Duvessa's slim shoulders. "My lady mother, no one can blame you for following the dictates of your heart." She kissed Duvessa's cheek and went to her father, seeking strength from his embrace. She looked up at him, eyes expressing her hope. "The king's Grace will help you in your bid to regain our sister, will he not?"

"I await his reply to my message, my dear," Hugh said, hugging her close. He thought how unlike these two sisters of the same mold were. Audrey was sweet, gentle, understanding, with a calm, placid heart; not so his firebrand Clare, who was impetuous and outspoken, blunt and generous. He never ceased to marvel that from his loins sprang three such different females as his daughters.

"Will the king's Grace accede to your request?" Clare asked.

"He must," Hugh answered. Yet, in his heart, he knew that with his king, there was no "must" unless it befitted Edward. "We will get Sybelle back, never fear. If need be, I will raise my own forces."

"And put him to the sword," Clare said, vehemently. "Though a quick death would be too good."

"Never fear, Clare. When this Wolf of Killroone is within my power he shall rue the day that he put hands on my flesh."

Duvessa listened to the bitterness in her husband's tone and said a silent prayer that her plan would bring about results.

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The meal was long over, and the twins had sought their bed for the night. Duvessa paced the confines of her bedchamber, knowing that she must tell Hugh about her lady Yseult and put her plan into motion. He was not abovestairs, having decided to talk with his man-at-arms. Nervously, she rubbed her palms together. There could be no turning back now. Come what may, right or wrong, she must do the deed.

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A bottle of wine lay almost drained at Hugh's elbow. Plans had been worked out between him and Sir John for the retaking of his daughter. Hugh's usual calm in preparing for battle took on a strange edge when speaking of this assault. His habitual clear thinking was temporarily clouded with doubts regarding the safety of his daughter. Always before he was the cool leader in battle, being able to judge a situation to its best advantage for his king and his troops.

He heard the door to his library open. His wife stood on the threshold, peeping around the door.

"Come in, Duvessa," Hugh said softly.

"I needs must talk to you, my lord husband."

He pulled out a chair. "Sit. Speak," he said wearily.

Duvessa's eyes went to the now empty bottle of wine; she smelled it on Hugh's breath as he leaned close to her. Her husband didn't indulge in drinking merely for the sake of something to do. He was a moderate man where spirits were concerned. Or he had been. She wanted to cradle that fine head to her breast and assure him that all would be well, that their world would soon be righted. Duvessa blinked back the tears that threatened to reveal her inner feelings. She must be content to feed on her memories until the breach between them was healed and her husband was once again safe within the haven of her love, as she was with his.

"My lady Yseult wishes to return to Ireland, my lord. I have said that you will grant her request, and provide an escort."

Hugh's blue eyes closed; the thick, short lashes of reddish-brown lay against his skin. He steepled his fingers; Duvessa yearned to caress the fine golden hairs that lightly dusted the backs of his hands, to touch her tongue to the pale coating of freckles nature bestowed on him. Neither Clare nor Audrey had inherited this gift; Sybelle had, though not to the degree that it shaded her father's skin.

"It shall be as you ask, my lady. Tell her to be ready to leave at first light tomorrow. I will inform Sir John and instruct him to make the necessary arrangements.''

Just as Hugh was about to stand, the door to the room was thrown open and Sir John appeared.

"Forgive me, my lord, but the message that you have been awaiting is arrived."

Accepting the thick packet of parchment that carried the Royal seal of England, Hugh broke the wax emblem. He hurriedly scanned the contents, his face draining of color before anger restored it.

"Damn you, Ned. Damn you to hell for this!" Hugh shouted, ignoring the fact that his Utterances could be deemed treasonous to some ears. He was beyond caring about such petty matters as he threw the sheets to the desk, taking a deep breath.

"What does your king say, my love?"

Hugh turned to her. The look on his face was a frightening sight to behold. She thought she had seen his anger before; this was tinctured with the stain of the betrayal that Hugh was feeling.

"Here, read his words of friendship," Hugh sneered, taking the sheets and tossing them towards her. "Read them aloud so that Sir John can hear how well loved I am by my king, in whose service I have been faithful these long years. Read," he said, his tone harsh and abrasive, "and see in what favor the Earl of Derran is held by his liege lord."

Duvessa picked up the papers and read the script written in Edward IV's own hand. She read aloud:

"My Lord Derran:

'Tis with a heavy heart that after careful consideration I must refuse your request for troops, either royal or those which owe you allegiance. To undertake such an expenditure on behalf of one individual is folly. I know the pain that you must be feeling, for the Lady Sybelle is a child any man could be proud of. Yet, what you ask on her behalf must be weighed against the good of England. Such an extravagance cannot be permitted, and to send a campaign so far into Ireland would be to risk too many lives.

I have talked to my advisors on this matter and I have made up my mind. I give you permission to bargain for her release, and will offer you a mediator ifyou wish, but I cannot allow you to lead troops in a hostile action against this Irishman.

You must know, Hugh, that I would join you in this if I weren't Edward of England. But 'tis all I must think of, and also of your life, dear friend. Thereby, under Royal edict, you are forbidden to summon any of your own retainers to mount an attack on this Killroone's stronghold. You are also relieved of your position of Royal Sheriff. Should I discover that you have disobeyed my command, your title and property will be forfeit to the Crown. You and your family will become prisoners of the state.

This appears harsh, my friend, yet I feel if I don't do this you will hie to Ireland in search of this Irish earl of Killroone. Our country cannot sustain any further political strife at this time. You must understand, Hugh.

My queen and I offer our prayers that this situation will be rectified to your best interests."

"Rectified!" Hugh shouted. "Christ, can Edward be so cold?" From his finger he removed a stone of incomparable beauty, a sapphire set in a thick chunk of woven gold, and tossed it angrily across the room, so that it bounced off the wall and fell to the floor. "A piss on your kindness, my lord King.''

Hugh gripped his arms tightly together and bowed his head. He was a man caught in the deepest torment, torn by loyalty to his king and to his daughter, torn between anger and hurt that the man he gave his life-long fielty to could have betrayed him. He had feared that Edward wouldn't back him with either money or men; he had expected that, but to be told that he could not mount his own rescue effort on behalf of his daughter, that his heritage would be forfeit if he chose that path, was a wounding he hadn't thought Ned capable of. The ring he'd torn off so viciously that it cut his finger had been given to him years ago by Edward as a token of his favor and professed love.

Duvessa's heart was torn as she watched the man she loved in such agony. She vowed that she could easily tear the once handsome face of Hugh's king to ribbons of rent flesh for the pain he was causing her beloved husband. lord, what shall you do?" Sir John asked.

Hugh straightened, his blue eyes reflecting the tortured decision that he must make. "Do?" he questioned, his voice husky with emotion. "Do," he repeated wearily. "I shall do what I must to protect my remaining family from the Tower, Sir John. I will accede to my king's request, and damn him for forcing me to do so at the expense of my eldest child." His hands balled into fists. "Edward is a coward, and he forces me to become an impotent reflection of his fear. For that, and Sybelle's fate, my service to the cause of York is at an end."

"We must tell the twins, my lord," Duvessa stated simply.

"Aye," Hugh acknowledged.

"My lord," Sir John spoke, "if you want I will lead a band of men to this Wolf's castle and attempt a rescue of the Lady Sybelle as we had planned. It may be difficult, but we shall endeavor to free her. Leave the selection of the men to me."

Hugh clasped the older man on the shoulder. "Thank you for your offer of courage, my friend. Yet, as much as I would like to say aye to your request, that I cannot do. I cannot risk your life and property, and that of any men you would ask."

"My lord, 'tis no risk. I would do it gladly, surely you know that?"

"Aye, Sir John, I do. But Edward has bound my hands so that all who help me are doomed. No, that I will not ask or permit. You have my gratitude for the offer, knowing the risks.

"No, now I must deal with this man, much as I hate the thought of that. If he wants justice for any imagined action, than he shall have to face me or brand himself a coward. I shall write and offer whatever it takes to ransom my Sybelle. If that does not satisfy him, then I shall give him a chance to fight me for her."

"No, Hugh," Duvessa cried.

"If it must be so to regain my daughter, I will do it. I must. Now, let us retire upstairs and tell Clare and Audrey."

"Before we do that, my lord, you must give Sir John the instructions for my lady's leaving."

Displaying a weariness of the soul that sapped his strength momentarily, Hugh gave brief commands to Sir John, leaving the details in his capable hands.

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Refusing the help that he could plainly see in his wife's eyes, Hugh opened the door that housed the sleeping twins.

"Clare. Audrey," he said softly, so as not to startle them.

Both twins roused from sleep quickly.

"Father?" they asked in unison.

"Aye. I have to talk to you both."

Each of the girls immediately sat up, throwing a concerned look in their father's direction.

"Have you had word from the king's Grace?" Clare demanded.

"Indeed I have," Hugh admitted.

"And?" Audrey queried.

"I am forbidden to attempt to free her by means of force. I can ask no man who owes me allegiance to rally to my banner and join me in freeing my daughter. Nor will the king sanction money or men from his quarter, although truth be known I did not really expect him to provide succor. What I expected was the loyalty due me as Edward's man. That was denied me."

"What will you do, Father?" Audrey asked.

"I shall do all that I can. Trust me." Hugh thought silently to himself that he didn't know how, but that he would effect his daughter's release somehow. He had to, for too much was at stake.

Both girls went to their father's arms, which gathered them close, effectively cutting Duvessa out. No one realized they had done so, except Audrey, who threw a look in Duvessa's direction, and saw mirrored there in her wide hazel eyes the anguish they all felt.

Duvessa crept silently out the door, leaving Hugh to his children. The tears she had kept at bay fell freely now down her smooth cheeks. Love should bring only joy; instead, she now began to believe that it brought also pain and suffering, and the price too high to pay.

Sybelle, she prayed, may you have tamed the Wolf, softened his heart and mind, or we are all lost.

Chapter 17

Sybelle stretched sinuously, her arms riding high over her head, as she breathed the cool, crisp air. The sun shone in through the windows. She snuggled further into the deep richness of the bed, enjoying the feel of the soft linen next to her naked skin. Sleeping nude was something she'd never done; now it felt natural, right.

Voices below in the bailey kept her from returning to sleep. Reaching for the brocaded velvet robe at the foot of the bed, she threw it around herself as she rose. Going to the window, she peered out, blinking at the unaccustomed bright sunlight.

She saw two grooms bringing horses that she recognized as belonging to Branduff and Rolf. Auliffe gently cuffed one lad, admonishing him for something. She watched as another boy emerged into her sphere of vision with a hawk on his arm, followed quickly by yet another who also carried a bird.

Hawking. They were out for sport this morning. What she wouldn't give to be able to fly over the hills on a reliable horse and hunt, to enjoy a delicious taste of freedom. At times she felt just like the captive birds, a possession for a purpose.

Sybelle heard Rolf's deep voice as he entered her field of sight. He was bareheaded and the sun glinted off the blackness of his shoulder-length hair, shading it with warmth. This day he was dressed in a rich green, the color of the forest at evening. Accompanying him was Bran, who wore the warmth of the sun on his slender frame.

His clothes gave her an idea, and her mouth curved into a deep smile. Should she? Could she? Dare she? Yes, it was a risk worth taking. She didn't care what Roll thought, she would do it. At that moment, Sybelle didn't care that it would be thought scandalous. She'd come beyond that.

Smiling, she opened the door to her room. She motioned to the young servant woman, Maire, who was walking by, that she wanted Siobhan. Maire nodded; she spoke only Gaelic, but she understood the name Siobhan and hurried to do Sybelle's bidding.

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An hour had passed since Rolf and Bran left the castle to hunt. They were taking a break, relaxing their horses, sharing a skin of cool water.

Bran noted absently that it had been well over a month, nigh onto two, he corrected himself, since the Lady Sybelle had joined their household. In that time he'd observed subtle changes in how his brother and the lady fared. He often caught the looks each focused on the other when they thought they were unobserved. No longer was the lady's regard that of fear or wariness. Glimmers of affection for the people and the land could be seen in her proud eyes. And, once in awhile, he caught the look of deep concentration on her face when she gazed at his brother, a sort of unwitting fascination, as best he could tell. And in Rolf's green eyes he could see respect, and something deeper. It was a look of wanting that bordered on the overwhelming. Strong cords of feeling emanated from them both. Bran judged that neither was aware of how much power each held over the other. He knew Rolf would scoff at the notion, as would the noble lady, but the growing intensity of consciousness between the couple was the subject of much conversation amongst the castle inhabitants whenever Rolf and Sybelle weren't around.

Bran slanted a look at his brother. Rolf was speaking low to his favorite bird, praising the winged creature in dulcet tones.

But Rolf was not so oblivious to him as Bran thought. Without looking up, his brother said, "What troubles you, Bran? You seem to be far away."

"I suppose I was," Bran admitted sheepishly, focusing on his brother's face.

"I hope that it was a woman who had your mind."

Bran smiled. "In a way, aye."

"In what way?" Rolf demanded.

"'Tis my own concern, brother," he replied.

Rolf shot him a strong look. "Mayhap 'tis time we considered a match for you if your blood runs that hot."

"'Tis no concern for you, Rolf, as the title and the estate are yours, and as such the responsibility of providing heirs for Killroone."

"Until that happens, you, dear brother, are my heir. And if you don't wish an alliance of a permanent kind, perhaps we could find you a biddable mistress."

Branduff said in a terse voice, "I think I can be trusted to find female companions of my own, thank you."

Rolf continued, "Is there a woman who has captured your fancy? Speak and I shall arrange it for you."

Bran's thoughts drifted to form a misty version of a girl of spirit and grace, of flesh and fire, who permeated his fantasies. Yet he couldn't speak the name of the child-woman whose golden-haired figure called to him. Rolf wouldn't understand. At times, neither did he.

"No," he lied purposefully, "there is no woman of any importance."

"The niece of Glengarden is young, but comely. I could speak"

"If you think she is so well-formed, perhaps you should offer for her yourself," Bran said scathingly.

"She would not suit me," Rolf said. "Besides, we were speaking of your marriage, not mine."

"No, brother, you were speaking of my marriage alliance, not I."

"As head of our family, 'tis important that I know who you will wed. It is not just your decision, Bran."

"I am not a child, Rolf, to be instructed or forced."

"I had not thought that you were, Bran," Rolf stated, his arm thrown companionably around his brother's slim shoulders. Rolf saw in his brother's face the man that he had once been. Although six years separated them, Rolf often thought that it was closer to a score or more. In experience and the ways of the world, he was so much the older and, sadly, the wiser. In only one way could he feel the cares of his world pass him by without notice; that was when he held the Lady Sybelle in his arms, when he sought the sweet sanctuary of her flesh. Then he felt re-born, renewed in a way he'd never believed possible. Was it an illusiona fantasy of his mind? Could one woman, an inexperienced one at that, hold him in thrall? Could she constantly deliver that haven he hadn't known he needed until that special night?

"There is the widow of the late Lord Dormoth," Rolf said, resuming the focus of his speech. "He was much older than she, and even though there were no children of the union, I have reason to feel that 'twas not her fault." He paused. "She is but fifteen, and attractive, with a sweet nature."

"Get her for your own," Bran shouted.

"She's not what I want."

"What, or should I say who, is?" Bran demanded. He picked up the skin for another drink of the water, wiping his lips with the back of his ungloved hand. "Describe to me what you seek in a woman who shall be your countess, Rolf."

Rolf took the skin from Bran's hand and drank. He took a deep breath and said in a considered tone, "Pride. Intelligence. Spirit. A heritage worthy of the future Earl of Killroone." He rested his chin between his thumb and forefinger. "A woman of deep passions. When I have found such a rare gem, I shall be content."

Branduff's mouth dropped open. Did his brother not realize that he had just described the Lady Sybelle? The wolf's perfect mate was now within his grasp.

At that moment there was a shout from one of Rolf's men. "My lord, riders approach."

Instantly Rolf was on his feet, a small dagger in his hand. Bran was similarly ready, and the men accompanying them drew bows.

Over the crest of the hill came three riders. Rolf instantly recognized the burly form of the giant Auliffe and recognized the face of another of his retainers. Then his glance sharpened on the face of the third, and he sucked in his breath. Only one person had hair that shade of honey kissed by the sun, or a small nose and cheeks dusted with golden freckles. It was Sybelle.

"The Lady Sybelle." Bran echoed his brother's thoughts.

"'Twould appear so, indeed."

The horses came to the spot where Rolf's party had stopped. A grin was on Auliffe's features. Sybelle was smiling and making a small bow of her head.

Rolf sheathed his weapon, walking towards the heavy-breathing mare Sybelle rode. Grabbing the bridle, he held it in his hand as he stroked the neck of the animal.

"What is this?" he asked, his eyes narrowed into green slits as he took in Sybelle's costume. He recognized the horse as belonging to his brother. Obviously the lady had raided his brother's apartments and made free with various items of clothing. The sturdy wool doublet that would have reached Bran's waist, was well below Sybelle's slender thighs. Her feet were encased in leather boots that reached past her calves. A snowy linen shirt was laced high, yet it couldn't prevent the lovely column of her throat from being exposed to his gaze.

"I would have thought that 'twas obvious, even to you, my lord. I am for the hunt."

Bran laughed out loud.

Rolf shot him a contemptuous look.

"Are you indeed?" Rolf asked.

"Aye. I saw you and your brother this morn, and I decided that I wanted to join you. Since you didn't think to offer me the opportunity, I took it myself."

Rolf looked at Auliffe, demanding an explanation.

Auliffe cleared his throat, and spoke as the rest did, in English for her benefit. "My Lady Sybelle asked me to accompany her, my lord, as she knew that you wouldn't want her alone in such unfamiliar territory."

Both Sybelle and Rolf swung a look in Auliffe's direction as he artfully phrased that small distortion of the truth.

"Indeed," Rolf said, bringing his face back to Sybelle's. "As you wish, my lady."

"Have you a bird for me?" Sybelle asked.

"Here, my lady," Bran offered, "take mine." He took the long-tailed falcon from the boy who held him and placed him on Sybelle's gloved hand.

She ran her hand over the bird's dark feathers, stroking softly. "Magnificent," she breathed.

"Truly," Rolf said softly, his eyes not on the bird.

Mounting Fergal, Rolf signaled for his own bird, a strong, short-tailed hawk. He removed the scrap of leather that closed off the bird's vision, and let it fly. Sybelle did the same to hers, and they were off in pursuit.

Bran and Auliffe exchanged glances as they watched Rolf and Sybelle depart, the others following behind. Bran remounted his horse, a sleek black, and turned to question Auliffe in their native tongue. "What do you make of this?"

"By the sweet saints, lad, I don't know," he said, pausing to rub his hand reflectively over his thick beard. "When I was summoned and told that the Lady Sybelle wanted to go hawking, 'twas a surprise to me. And, when she appeared wearing what I make are your clothes, well, 'twas a bit difficult to understand. She was determined to do it. Nothing I could have said would have persuaded her different." He cast an odd look Bran's way. "The situation that exists between your lord brother and the lady is somewhat hard to comprehend. I feel as though she is the lady of the keep, and as such, I should respect and grant her wishes if 'tis within my power."

"What do you think would be the reaction of our people should she ever become the countess?"

"Do you think 'tis a possibility?"

Bran's golden eyes glowed with an inner consideration. "Aye, Auliffe, that I do. What say you?"

"Your brother is well-loved by his people, my lord, as are you, and as such, they want only that you both are content, and that the line of your ancestors continue as it has for more years than recorded history. They wish for you both the legendary love that existed between your parents. For myself, I know that I would welcome the Lady Sybelle, even though she is Norman and foreign to our ways, if she made my lord Rolf happy."

"Would you encourage this mating?"

Bran leaned over to pat the neck of his restive horse. "Aye, I would. And I shall." He pulled back on his reins, forcing his animal to rear. "Let us join them and see what this day has accomplished."

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She felt alive, vibrant, happy. Odd that she could use those precise words to describe how she was feeling right now. But it was true. She heard her own laughter ring out spontaneously as Rolf made a witty remark about his own bird and her luck. In the two hours since Sybelle joined the hunt, the bags holding the kill bulged. Across the back of one of the attendants' horses was slung a hart, brought down with a single arrow by Rolf's quick hand.

"A rest, my lord," she said.

Rolf pulled his horse up. He noted the glowing color in Sybelle's cheeks, the look of keen pleasure that lit her misty-blue eyes. He admired the length of her flanks covered by the material that clung to them. He found himself wishing that her legs, which clung tenaciously to her mount's sides, clung to his own limbs instead. The doublet parted as she took in a deep breath, giving him a glimpse of the form beneath. The cream linen clung to her shape, revealing the fullness of one breast. Memories of her skin next to his infused his brain, making him ache with longing. Never before had a woman so turned him this way and that with her feminine charms. Previously, he had been able to find the temporary tranquility that eased his flesh, forgetting easily after the act was completed. This searing heat that demanded more of what it fed on was new to him.

Rolf listened as she questioned Auliffe about a particular animal. He found even the quality of her voice soothing. There was no idle prattle to her speech.

Less than three-quarters of an hour passed before they called the hunt over. Rolf and Sybelle rode side by side, their horses trotting at a sedate pace. They came to the outskirts of a village.

"I wish to rest our horses for a few moments. Perhaps we can also find something stronger than water to quench our own thirsts." And, in a gesture that surprised Sybelle, Rolf asked, "Do you have any objections?"

She blinked. "None, my Lord Killroone."

"Then we shall tarry here awhile. Auliffe."

"Aye, my lord?" he asked, riding closer to Rolf.

"Hasten to the village and tell them we wish to stop."

"As you bid, my lord," he answered, riding ahead.

Within minutes the small community was lined with people.

Sybelle watched as Rolf was approached by some of the villagers who made their living on this land. She took note of the genuinely pleased looks as Rolf's people surrounded him, some begging for his attention as he dismounted. Several women presented their children for his inspection, giving quizzical glances towards Sybelle, chattering away in Gaelic. One or two of the women pointed in her direction. Rolf smiled broadly. She wondered just what it was they had to say. Her eyes scanned the terrain quickly. Their small cottages of stone looked well cared for; they themselves were clean, obviously well-fed. Bran joined her as she continued to watch Rolf and the entourage that enfolded him.

"Your brother appears much loved by his people."

"That surprises you?" Bran queried, dismounting to accept the cup of ale that he was being offered.

Sybelle colored at this remark. She raised her chin. "I had no way to know how well received he was by his own."

Bran murmured something in Gaelic to the lad who held the cup, and he quickly fled to do Bran's bidding, returning with a cup of sweet honey-mead for Sybelle.

She took the proffered drink, saying her thanks as best she could recall in the boy's language, and saw his face break into a wide grin, revealing a missing front tooth. She sat silent for several minutes, merely observing Rolf and the villagers. There was no bitter gall of servitude in their looks, nor were they afraid. They were as God made themmen and women, not cowed creatures who feared their lord and master. Killroone walked among them unafraid, confident. Sybelle was aware that all too often people who lived on a lord's land were not so well cared for. Some were starved for their crops, others were treated little better than unmindful beasts of burden; and she knew that some lords followed the old Norman custom of the droit de seigneur, the taking of the village virgins to the lord's bed so that he could have the joy of initating them to womanhood, whether they were willing or not. Their feelings were given little consideration.

What sort of man was he that he inspired such a deep affection in his retainers and his people?

Rolf's next action took her by surprise.

He removed one of the bags containing birds and a few choice rabbits. He instructed Auliffe to bring forth the slain deer. He presented them to an old man, saying a few words in Gaelic. He made a sweep of his hand that Sybelle saw was meant to include her also. The old man kissed his lord's hand, and leaning heavily on his carved walking stick, he approached Sybelle.

He spoke in a soft voice, barely above a whisper. Sybelle looked to Bran for translation.

"He says that he thanks you for his family and the others in this humble village," Bran explained, waiting till the man finished speaking again: "He wants you to know that you will be in the prayers of the village for your generosity." Bran saw her puzzled look and explained. "The food. Rolf wants his people to have it to supplement their foodstuffs, especially the hart."

The realization of the gift of the deer dawned on her.

"They are forbidden to hunt the animal?"

"No, not forbidden," Bran answered. "'Tis custom, and they respect it. Killroone would never allow his people to starve, yet they see the hart as the property of their earl." He smiled, and in that small gesture Sybelle could see another face, more carefree and less cynical. "'Tis always understood that whenever possible a Killroone deer is given. We have no problem with poachers in these lands."

Sybelle responded, "Please, tell him that they are welcome to the food." She felt the old man's wrinkled lips on her smooth hand. She heard him chuckle and murmur words in a low voice to Bran, who tried hard to contain his laughter.

"What did he say?" Sybelle demanded.

"I don't think you wish to hear his words, my lady."

"Tell me."

Bran tried to his his smile. "He said that you and Killroone will have splendid children. From gods do gods come. Some of Rolf's people worried needlessly about the future. You are surely ben charrthach, the loved woman."

Sybelle was taken aback by the old man's words. "Please tell him that he is wrong," she instructed.

"Are you sure about that?"

Her face was implacable. "Without doubt."

He spoke to the old man, relaying Sybelle's words. The man raised his eyes and stared deeply into Sybelle's face. She returned his sharp glance. He said something to Bran before he turned and walked stiffly away.

"He does not believe you, my lady. His mother had the sight. At times he is blessed with it."

The sight. In England, to have made that claim would have resulted in a charge of heresy or witchcraft. Sybelle admitted to herself that here, in this roughly beautiful place, it seemed to belong. This was another world from hers, where myths took precedence over reality, where strict church doctrines were blended with an older religion that embraced the forces of nature and accepted some things as truth that couldn't be proved.

With her practical turn of mind, she shrugged away the old man's claim instead of blessing herself needlessly. Sight be damned, she scoffed. "He is wrong."

"As you say," Bran agreed, silently taking stock of all that the old man had spoken.

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A hot bath was awaiting her when she returned. Siobhan was waiting also.

"My lady, I see your plan worked. Was it all that you hoped for?"

"Aye."

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Siobhan asked. She could only imagine what the sight of the Lady Sybelle dressed in Bran's old clothes did to the Lord Rolf.

"Indeed I did; perhaps for the first time in a long time."

"Yet something troubles you, my lady?" Siobhan asked, noting the slight furrow on Sybelle's brow.

Sybelle pulled her braid to a knot above her head, pushing in a gold pin to anchor the mass there. "Aye. 'Tis what I saw today and what I have been told, the discrepancy of what I believed and what is truth."

Siobhan looked at her. "And what is that, my lady?"

She was interrupted in answering by the soft rapping upon the door. Sybelle saw Siobhah was already to the task of opening it when a large dog pushed past her, making for Sybelle. It was Lugh, who'd been confined to another part of the castle when she rode out.

He barked excitedly. Sybelle was almost knocked over by the force of his greeting as he stood up to lick her face.

A tug on his collar by Siobhan forced him down. "So, you missed me, eh, brute?" Sybelle teased, fondling the dog's thick neck. "Did you think I had forgotten you?" she chided softly, reaching tor a linen bag she'd brought with her. Opening the sack, she produced a joint of meat, which she set on the stone before the fire.

"Eat now," she commanded in a gentle tone, watching as Lugh followed her bidding.

She turned to Siobhan. "I fear the cook may be missing this, but I thought of poor Lugh confined inside the castle and thought that he deserved a special treat."

Siobhan produced a hint of a smile. If she could love the beast, could she not love the master?

Sybelle returned to the question Siobhan had asked. "I had been told that in this part of Ireland, out of reach of the king's authority, life was hard, unrelenting; that poverty abounded, and that the people were treated harshly. I did not see that in evidence today. Truth be known, Killroone's lands are more favored than many in England. His people appear well and content."

Siobhan helped her strip off the mannish clothes she wore. "Were the people who lived on your estate maltreated?"

"Of course not," Sybelle declared.

"Then why would you assume, my lady, that the Irish would treat their own ill?" Siobhan gave her a penetrating glance. "Or would it have been easier to hate him if you thought he was a monster?"

Sybelle inhaled deeply. "I do not know what you mean."

"Be that as you wish," Siobhan responded. She gave Sybelle a penetrating stare. "He is a man, my lady, much as you are a woman. No more, no less." She gathered the clothes and left the room.

Sybelle eased her sore muscles into the warm water, enjoying the feel of it sliding over her flesh.

She soaped her skin and recalled the sight of him at the village. Much as she wanted to, she found that she couldn't forcibly shut out the mental images. She forced herself to think on anything else, but soon found her wayward thoughts returning to him, again and again, like dreams powerful and potent. Siobhan's words echoed silently in her brain. It would indeed have been easier to hate him if he were a monster. Yet how could she deny the reality of what she saw with her own eyes? He was capable of warmth, of kindness, of compassion. How did that balance with the man she knew could hate with such depth, who could be cold and calculating, capable of lust and dark passions?

Shades of memories formed in her head of him with a child tucked high in his arms; of his long fingers stroking the flanks of her horse; of the soft sunlight glinting off his eyes, making them sparkle with the sheen of cut jewels.

And then, if she closed her eyes, she could see him again on his large gray, riding and shouting orders, at one with the animal, bent low over the neck of the powerful beast as they jumped a high outcrop of rock, soaring high. A shaft of pure pleasure stabbed at her vitals as she recalled her emotions then. It shamed Sybelle to think that at that precise moment she would have eagerly followed wherever he lead.

Damn him! she said silently. Why couldn't he have been a simple creature from Hades? why did she have to see him as a man with many faces? It wasn't fair.

Nor, she deemed, was her captivity. She couldn't allow herself the luxury of seeing him as anything other than what he was when first she met himher captor, her possessor. No matter what he did, she must not forget his sins, for danger lay in pushing aside what had happened and seeing him as he was. What had Siobhan said? Man to her woman?

Never.

Chapter 18

Rolf paced the confines of his chamber. All that occupied his mind were visions of the Lady Sybelle, riding to the hunt dressed in her man's garb; sitting there, atop her horse, accepting the tribute of the village elder.

He smiled, remembering the whispered comments of the women of the village regarding his choice of a woman. Even her mode of dress hadn't altered their notion of the rightness of her. This puzzled him. Outsiders were generally treated with the hospitality due them, yet courtesy was tempered with caution. There was something about her that his people responded to, an inner warmth. He saw it in the gentle smile she bestowed on the lad who offered her the drink, in the way she blushed at the old man's words. One woman had uttered the word бlainn. Beautiful. Indeed, beautiful was a word he would have used for her.

His thirst for vengeance had abated somewhat, and he found himself wondering just how he could have allowed his sense of purpose to have become lost. It was too easy to forget when all he wanted to do so desperately was take her to his bed, lose himself in the warmth of her body and forget that she was the daughter of his enemy. She was here for one purpose, and he must remain steadfast to that plan, no matter how much he wantedachedto alter what he'd set out to do.

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Supper was a quiet affair, with just Rolf, Bran, and Sybelle. The Great Hall was surrounded by shadows as the focus of the light was at the table. To one side several harpists, who were again on the main floor instead of in the smaller musicians' gallery above, played a mournful melody, befitting the somber mood of the trio.

Each maintained a carefully crafted silence, speaking only when absolutely necessary. The ease of the earlier part of the day seemed to have vanished with the passing of the hours.

'Tis as though a funeral were taking place, Rolf thought, with the way we all sit here and make no effort to communicate with each other.

To the musicians, he demanded. ''Play something else, something light and gay."

One of the men ceased playing the harp and picked up a lute. He strummed the instrument, picking out a lively tune. The musician could tell that they were responding to the change in tempo, and he lead the others in faster, heartier music, even asking the Lord Bran to lend his voice in song.

"With your permission, brother?"

Rolf bowed his head, nodding his assent.

Branduff joined the group, picking up a lute for himself. He strummed the strings quickly, testing the tone. Satisfied, he began to play. His voice was a lilting tenor, and the song he sang was in Gaelic.

Even though Sybelle couldn't understand the words, she responded to the inflection of his words, to the soaring use he made of the human instrument he possessed.

When he finished, she loudly clapped her appreciation. Bran made an exaggerated bow towards the table.

"His voice pleases you?" Rolf asked.

"Aye, it does, my Lord Killroone."

"Bran has the blessing of the ancient ones in his throat. He inherited that from our Welsh mother. I, however, do not possess that gift."

Sybelle turned to him and confided, "Neither do I. My voice is only fair. My sisters have the gift, however, as did my mother." She wisely chose not to mention that her father also held title to a fine singing voice, though he seldom used it. "Clare's soprano is a joy to hear." Mentally she recalled her younger sibling's range and tone, noting that it would blend harmoniously with Bran's.

The tempo of the music changed. Rolf recognized the basse danse, made popular by the Burgundian court. He stood up and held out his hand. "My lady?" he asked, half expecting her to voice a nay.

Sybelle hesitated. Should she refuse? She should, her head decided.

Her hand in his, they walked across the stone floor till they stood before the musicians and were surrounded by the shadows. Rolf lead her into the soft, gliding steps of the dance, which they executed perfectly. One dance lead inevitably to another, as she taught the movements of the English court dances to Rolf. She ignored the quick leap of her pulse when he placed his hand on hers, as he bent low and his breath drifted across the deep neckline of her borrowed gown. His fingers gripped her waist and raised her slightly above the floor as if her weight meant nothing to him. She breathed the clean scent he exuded. That brought her thoughts back to the festival that was held at Castle Derran last Twelfthnight. She had been dancing with another Royal Sheriff, who had smelt like a strong fish left out too long. Luckily, in her hand she had held a linen square that was liberally spiced with her favorite scent.

Another notion struck her. That was also the night that the Lady Duvessa and her father shared a dance. Looking back now, she could see their faces in the light of the hundreds of glowing tapers. Her father had whispered something to Duvessa, and the lady had smiled up at him, her wide hazel eyes shining with a look of sweet joy shared between them. Why hadn't Sybelle paid closer attention to it? Probably because at that precise moment the gentleman had stepped on her kid-covered foot, causing her to halt the dance for the pain.

A faster tempo brought her mind back to the present; Rolf smiled and released her hand, stepping aside. Among the instruments that the musicians used was one she had never heard played before. Its existence was not unfamiliar to her, and the Scots were also known to be fond of this musical instrument. The keening sound of the bagpipes filled the room.

Sybelle paused to watch as both Rolf and Bran danced to the different sound the pipes produced. When finished, they both let out a booming yell which reverberated in the Hall, startling the master's dogs.

Brother slapped brother on the back. Sybelle walked to the table and poured a glass of ale for each man. Turning, she beckoned both men with her arms outstretched, a warm smile on her features.

In each man's mind was the notion that the Lady Sybelle looked at ease here; hers was the warming, welcoming glance that beckoned one home, and gave peace.

Bran and Rolf eagerly took the tankards from her hands and quaffed the brew to the accompaniment of the musicians as they continued to produce lovely sounds.

The tranquil scene was interrupted by the sudden arrival of Auliffe, bearing a large leather pouch in his huge hand.

"My lord," he nodded his head, "pray forgive me for this interruption."

Rolf, feeling a sense of happiness that he hadn't known in a long while, said, "What is amiss that you come now?"

"A messenger has just arrived from England, my lord."

With that pronouncement a pall fell over those assembled in the room. Then Sybelle's eyes fell on the distinctive crest on the pouch. It was from Derran, her father. She could feel the leap in her heartbeat.

Bran felt the chill overtake his earlier mood, and he cursed the luck that brought the messenger at this time, just when there seemed to be something taking place between his brother and the lady.

"Where is the messenger?" Killroone asked, dismissing the musicians with a curt wave of his hand. They scurried away as fast as they could.

"Waiting outside."

"Bid him enter and wait here. I shall see what the Earl of Derran has to say."

"As you wish, my lord," Auliffe answered, leaving the hall and returning with a tired-looking youth.

Rolf placed his tankard on the table and took the pouch from Auliffe's hands; he opened it, tossing the heavy leather onto the stone floor with a thud. He held in his hand a thick sheaf of papers crowned with a wax seal bearing the stamp of the Earl of Derran. Breaking the wax impression, Rolf walked away from the group and stood before the blazing fire to read the letter. His face remained implacable, the strong set of his jaw firm and resolute. He read the pages slowly, taking his time, absorbing what was written and what was implied.

Sybelle anxiously watched his face, searching for some clue to his reaction to her father's letter. She could detect no softening to the hard shell of his features. What was taking place in the dark recesses of his mind? What had her father to say? She longed to run over to Killroone and rip the sheets from his hand and see for herself what was written. Her left hand gripped the fabric of her skirt and tugged at it nervously.

Rolf finished reading. He said nothing for a moment, merely looked down from his height to the flames. He then stood up straight, his shoulders squared. Turning, his wide mouth was curved into a slight smile. One brow was raised just a fraction over the cool, slightly slanted green eyes.

Sybelle stared at him, mesmerized by the power she saw in those eyes, in the saturnine mask his features wore.

"The Earl of Derran demands," he emphasized, "that I return his daughter the Lady Sybelle to him. The arrogance of your sire astounds me, my lady. He demands. God's Blood!" Rolf smiled with a wicked charm. ''He makes a passionate plea for your release, under his terms." He held high the papers in his right hand. "It seems the earl is willing to make recompense that he feels will be equitable. A king's ransom indeed he offers for you, my lady. Your freedom for estates, jewels, gold."

"May I now read the letter, my Lord Killroone?"

"Prithee, do so," he said.

Sybelle approached him, both fear and excitement racing through her veins. A message from Derran at lasta way, she hoped, to free her from her bitter bondage.

She focused her eyes on the outstretched hand that held the document, and a shiver of sensual pleasure flicked her nerves. It was a powerful hand, one that held pain and pleasure, hope and despair, comfort and condemnation. Could she retrieve the document without putting her flesh to his?

She reached out her smaller hand for the paper. His fingertips grazed her hand for the smallest fraction of time before she withdrew. Her legs felt weak. She needed to sit down to read this letter. Bran correctly interpreted her searching look. A chair was immediately placed for her use.

Sybelle sank down gratefully, giving him a faint smile.

"My Lord Killroone," she read.

"In your possession is the person of my eldest daughter. I would have her back in my safe keeping. Name your price and it shall be met, whatever you ask. Money is of no consequence. Whatever form you deem payment in shall be accorded, be it land, jewels, or precious metals.

What ere your quarrel with me, my daughter is innocent. If 'tis blood you seek, then be man enough to meet me in single combat. No retainers. No large scale forces. 'Twill be decided by you and me, alone."

So intent on her father's words was Sybelle that she didn't hear Rolf coming up behind her. She felt his hand on either side of her head, stroking the soft texture of her hair, molding her skull, as he leaned down to whisper words for her alone.

"Innocent," he drawled out the word. "Derran speaks of that so convincingly. Blood." Again the word was drawn out, as if he was testing the pronunciation of a foreign term. "Does he suspect, my lady, that you no longer possess innocence, and that the blood sacrifice has already been paid? By you?''

Sybelle paled at his softly spoken words, each one a lash against her bruised soul. She also spoke low, with an edge of sadness to her voice. "My father is a soldier, my lord. I know his mind; he must take careful consideration of all the facts placed before him." She swallowed and closed her eyes, which were laced with moisture. "Aye, I believe, in truth, he knows." She bowed her head, silently acknowledging the unspoken sharing of her shame.

Rolf's fingers tightened ever so slightly on her shoulders. "Suppose I were to demand his life as forfeit. Would he willingly sacrifice himself for you?" he questioned.

Her head rose as she unconsciously responded to the soothing movements of his hands. "Aye, my lord. He would. But you would not seek that."

Rolf's fingers stopped their ministrations. He whispered, "How can you be sure of that, my lady?"

Sybelle turned her head slightly. "For, in truth, there would be no satisfaction in that demand for you, my Lord Killroone."

Rolf knelt by her side. He needed to see her face as he asked, "How can you be so certain, Sybelle?"

How could she explain to him that it was just something she felt, that she knew with no reason. "For you there would be no satisfaction in the gesture of the deed. Else why would I be here now? You would have hunted my father down, and never thought of me. No, a sacrifice would defeat your purpose. The victory would come too soon, and be empty for you. You would not accept his quick death."

"Who said 'twould be quick?"

Sybelle locked her gaze to his, gray-blue eyes meeting with green. "You would."

"Are you so sure?" he demanded.

A sad twist of her lips became a bittersweet smile. "'Tis something I am certain of, my lord. If you were to demand the death of a brave opponent such as my father, you would execute it as befitted his position. Your honor would demand it."

She understood, he thought with an odd surprise. He reached up his hand to cup her face.

"What will be your answer, my lord?" she asked, dropping her lids to hide the fear she was feeling.

"There has been no mention of my cousin, the Lady Duvessa. Strange, do you not think?"

Sybelle paused for reflection. "Mayhap Derran wants it that way."

"But I do not. And the game is of my device. The rules are set down by me. Only me." He stood, resuming his place behind her, and whispered in her ear, "Suppose, my lady, I had said I would accept his life. What would you have done?"

"Given you cause to change your mind, my lord." She needed no further explanation than that. Rolf understood immediately what she would have offered. Her pride and body willingly given tor her father's life. In that moment he envied Derranto be loved so much that a woman of Sybelle's quality would sacrifice her own high principles.

Rolf addressed the messenger, who stood mutely observing the scene, as did Bran and Auliffe. "Tell your master that we have no bargain. Not until he returns what belongs in Ireland. Have you got that, boy?"

The boy, dressed in the livery colors of Derran, nodded his head. Bravely, he decided to try now his instruction from Sir John. "May I take a message from the Lady Sybelle to her most noble father, the earl?"

"No, you may not," Rolf said. "You may say that the lady is well, in good health, as you can plainly see." Rolf once again laid his hands on her hair, slowly caressing it, allowing the youth to put his own interpretation on the gesture. And the boy could see the easy familarity with which the Earl of Killroone caressed the Lady Sybelle. Such actions would normally be permitted only by a member of the lady's family, or her husband; clearly this man was neither, yet he assumed the position of intimacy.

Robin knew he was the eyes and ears of his absent lord, and what he would have to report would tear an agonizing hole in the Earl of Derran's staunch pride. It bothered him to see this Irishman play so free with his lady. He wanted to draw a sword and demand satisfaction for his lord's sake, and yet he knew he couldn't. And he was within the walls of Killroone's own strongholdan untenable position to be issuing a foolhardy challenge. Better to hold his tongue and temper, else he could not serve his Lord Derran or his daughter.

Rolf's narrowed green gaze saw the conflicting emotions on the guileless boy's face. The lad still hadn't learned to hide his feelings before battle lest his opponent all too easily read them and thereby find his weak spot.

Defiantly, Robin asked, "My lady?"

Sybelle could feel the tense pressure of Rolf's fingers on her throat before he walked away from her to refill his empty tankard. She rose from the chair, putting a charming smile on her face for the messenger. "Only this. Bid my father and sisters well for me. Say that they have my love, as I pray I possess theirs." She clasped his hand, and he knelt to kiss hers, saluting her bravery. "Tell them . . . " she paused. "Tell them that I long most heartily for our reunion. God willing, 'twill be soon."

"It shall be as you command, my Lady Sybelle."

"Go in peace and safety, with God's grace."

"May his gracious protection surround you, my lady."

"See that he is fed, and sheltered for the night," Rolf instructed. "He is to be sent on his way on the morrow."

"As ye wish, my lord," Auliffe said gruffly. "Come, lad," he said, urging the boy along with his large hand.

Bran spoke to Rolf, low and soft. "What does Derran say?"

"Read for yourself," Rolf responded.

Approaching Sybelle, Bran saw that she still held the papers clenched in her slender hand. With the tip of her left index finger, she slowly traced the broken wax seal. He wondered what was going through her mind now. Her thoughts seemed focused inward, as if she weren't really there. And Rolf's eyes now bore the stamp of sadness. The interplay between the two was not lost on Bran. Their silent communication, excluding everyone, was poignant. And palpable.

Christ's blood! he swore angrily to himself. Was there no way out of this position for his brother and the lady? What was to become of their lives? Of the closeness he had glimpsed earlier that evening when they danced, happy in each other's arms?

Sybelle looked past him as he bent to take the letter from her hand. Her eyes, Bran noted, were now focused on the figure of his brother, as if she were absorbing, memorizing details. There was no hate in the gray-blue depths.

At that moment Rolf turned his head and body just slightly so that his gaze held Sybelle's.

Bran sucked in his breath at the heat he observed passing between them. In his mind leapt the words tine chreasa, the flashing fire. For the sparks between them sizzled in the dimness of the night.

Sybelle rose from the chair she'd returned to when the boy left, silent and proud. She sank into a low curtsy in Rolf's direction before rising to leave the room. All this was accomplished without a sound.

Bran was confused, yet he noted that his brother didn't seem to share his feelings. The Earl of Killroone's narrowed gaze followed the woman departing from the Hall, then he released a deep breath; his hand curled tightly into a fist.

"What will you do?" Bran asked after he read the note from Hugh Fitzgerald.

Rolf raked a hand through his black locks. "What I must," he said simply.

"Mayhap. . . . "

"Not tonight, brother. Sweet Jesu, not tonight." Rolf sliced him a glance that revealed to Bran that he wasn't quite as impervious to the lady's feelings as he pretended. Regret was evident in the green eyes of the Wolf of Killroone. Regret and respect.

Bran clasped Rolf on the shoulder, his fingers conveying his warmth and understanding. "As you will, Rolf."

Rolf's lips curved into a crooked smile. "If only I could be assured of that."

Chapter 19

She didn't know what was making her so restless. Or, she admitted, perhaps she did. Rolf. If she closed her eyes, she could recall the caress of his fingers as they stroked her hair, as they trailed across her back, as they held her waist, as they . . .

Denial. Her thoughts turned to that word and all that it implied. She was denied her family, her friends, her estates, her freedom. All were stripped from her.

But what of what she tried to deny? This bed that now she lay in held memories too vivid to banish successfully. Here her body had learned the ancient secrets of the blending of man and woman, of giving and receiving.

Sybelle snuggled deeper into the warmth of the bed linens, hoping that the images stored in her brain would cease tormenting her. She would use denial to put aside the thoughts that pricked at her wakefulness like sharp daggers. Yet what of the physical ache which invaded her flesh, grasping and twisting until it became a real need churning inside her? What of that, indeed?

She quit the bed, knowing what she must do, where she must go. She covered her nakedness with the velvet nightrobe, tying the braided belt securely around her waist. She lifted a single candlestick, hushing the dog when Lugh stirred.

Opening the door to her chamber, she went in search of the force that she obeyed and refused to name. It beckoned. She responded.

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No light save that from the small fire that blazed in the hearth was visible in Rolf's rooms. He craved the night now, embraced it as willingly as he would a woman, seeking there relief from the memories that trapped his mind and forced him to recall the sensual pleasures found in one particular woman's arms.

He closed his eyes. His breathing quickened. In the sanctuary of his mind he could bring forth no clear solutions, only reawakened stirrings of the passion that engulfed him whenever she was near.

Rolf's head cocked to one side as he heard the faint movement of the door to his apartments. His eyes opened wide, his mind came alert. No dogs were in his room this night, and at present he was without weapons. A figure entered and glided through the deep shadows that claimed his chamber. He remained seated, waiting.

He half expected Branduff, come to talk about Derran's demands. Instead, the night rendered unto him the unmistakable form of a woman. Sybelle.

As she approached him, he could see her eyes, clear and calm. She blinked once before she softly blew out the candle she carried. She dropped it to the floor, where it lay on the small patterned rug like a forgotten ally.

Even though the darkness of the room almost engulfed her, Sybelle could still make out Rolf's lean frame as he sat sprawled in the hide chair. A fur rug was tossed over it to protect his naked flesh from the cold leather. She knelt, her hand resting on the warm skin that covered his thigh, feeling the contraction of the muscles there. Her palm slid boldly around his knee, tracing the strong bones. She moved her fingers up and down, splaying them across the soft hair that covered his skin. She rested her cheek, rubbing just slightly, where her hand had been.

Rolf's breathing was becoming harder and harder to regulate as he allowed her to continue. Was this a trick of the night? Was he imagining that she was here, now, doing of her own free will what he had only dreamed of? The texture of her silky braid mixed with the velvet abraded his calf with the strangest of sensations. His body grew taut, his blood hot, his hopes high.

Finally, he could take no more of this passive role and he stood, bracing himself against the chair, the golden bracelets he wore gleaming molten against his tanned wrists. Sybelle was at his feet, her head tilted back as she let her gaze rise slowly from his legs to his chest, to his slumberous eyes. Upon her lips played a smile, sweet and gentle. He reached out his hand, palm up, towards her. She placed her hand in his and he pulled her to her feet. With her free hand she unloosed the belt that held the robe together. Rolf finished pushing aside the garment, exposing the body underneath.

He bent his head, his mouth seeking hers in the lightest of touches, his tongue tracing the contours of her lips, licking, nibbling.

His arms pulled her close as he deepened the melding of their mouths, seeking the free range of expression. He was quick-snatching, foraging, exploring, teaching, learning, discovering the delights to be found in such a kiss.

For Sybelle, too, it was a journey, a reaching into the deepest parts of her body. She craved the joy he gave her in this exchange, thrilled to the way she felt in this merging of flesh, a foreshadow of an even closer assimilation. There was no holding back, no reservation.

Sweeping her up into his muscled arms, Rolf carried her to the wide bed that awaited them.

Master and mistress, jailor and captive, ceased to exist as the shackles of passion both constricted and released them. It was at once dream and reality, dark and light, obsession and freedom.

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When he woke he was alone.

Rolf closed his eyes to shut out the feeling of bereavement. In his mind he was still with her, still enjoying the pleasures found and discovered. She had touched him, not just in the physical sense, but with the depth of her response to his lovemaking. Her pure delight, mixed with the wonderment he saw in her luminescent eyes, thrilled him past reason. Reciprocating love with her made him feel more male, more virile than he had known. He was transported, as if he were immortal, as if he were indeed under the spell of a magic so powerful as not to be believed. It was this power, this magic, that he wished never to lose.

And he would not lose it, or her.

Derran would have his answer.

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There was a treasured piece of Venetian glass that served as a mirror. Sybelle stared at herself in it. Her fingers traced the swollen contours of her kiss-bruised lips. It was her face that was reflected there, and yet it wasn't. Something was radically different. Her skin felt the same; the glow she saw gave her a flush of color. Her eyes seemed possessed of a secret knowledge that lent them an inner fire, a deeper recess of sensation.

Her body felt aching and energized at the same time.

She put down the mirror and walked to the window, drawing her arms about herself, her thoughts focused inward. What was she to do? The evening past had been at her instigation. No blame could be placed on her lord captor. She had sought him out, driven by a need so powerful that it defied logic. This unnamed, untapped part of herself was frightening. This craving to be unified in flesh with Rolf was growing stronger and stronger. Just to leave his bed this morn took almost more strength than she possessed. She wanted to linger, to repeat the shared intimacies that captured her and made her body sing with abandon.

Tears fell down her cheeks. This bond, this connection between them, was feeding on her will. It compelled her, motivated her to seek solace. Aye, she had found the hard-won power to leave his room, that sanctuary of the night. What would happen to her when she returned again and found that the Wolf's embrace was too powerful to relinquish?

Confusion tore at her heart. She must leave before it was too late. She must escape before she discovered that she couldn't; before she found that she didn't even wish to; before she could unwittingly reveal her secret.

Chapter 20

''Sybelle Fitzgerald is dead."

Bran listened in shocked surprise. Had his elder brother taken leave of his senses? "Rolf, you know those words to be false."

A slanting, green-eyed look was directed at Bran. "Of course I know that. Derran, however, does not."

"Rolf, have you forgotten his emissary?"

Rolf turned his eyes towards the surging surf of the Atlantic. The waters were choppy this morning, pounding against the shore with a particular vengeance. It was this sight that had given him the idea that would be a way out of his dilemma. A way to keep the Lady Sybelle at his castle, and to satisfy her father's demands. He could see the incredulity in Bran's eyes; mirrored there was also astonishment at what he was suggesting. Hadn't he also thought the plan mad? Lack of sleep and too vivid memories forced his hand. Desperation tugged at his heart. "He will take a message that I must think over the offer that Derran has rendered, and I will send my reply in a month's time."

"What about our cousin, the reason for this act in the beginning?"

"I have not forgotten Duvessa."

"Then what do you plan to do when Derran hears this wild tale that his daughter has died? Have you given thought to what his reaction will be? Have you considered what he might do to Duvessa?" Bran asked, agitated, pacing back and forth along the stone barrier.

"Aye, I have given it great thought. You must trust me in this."

"How will you explain this sudden, and fortuitous, death?"

Rolf looked again at the surf. "Accidents happen," he said unflinchingly. "The lady was despondent; she sought refuge in death. He need never know the truth."

"What about the Lady Sybelle?"

"She shall remain here."

"Rolf, release her," Bran advised. "Do it before you regret this action."

"You do not understand, Bran. For me there is no release."

"You love this woman that much?"

Rolf brushed aside the strands of hair from his eyes and put his back to the barricade of the wall. "Love? I know not. But want, desire, need. All these I feel for her."

"And what of the woman? Will you not consider her sentiments? She has others who matter in her life. Or do you seek to make her your cetmuinter?"

Rolf considered his brother's words. Marriage. To Sybelle, with her as his chief wife. The eldest daughter of the English Earl of Derran for his countess? While his cousin was kept as a whore? No, justice must be served first.

But what of pleasure? He couldn't deny that was now a factor in his decision to keep the woman with him.

The Earl of Killroone shot a penetrating glance at his younger brother. Bran was allowing himself to become too upset over this matter. Rolf needed no scolding from that quarter. Aye, now was the time to send him to take care of that matter in Wales. Perhaps a taste of the Welsh countryside would be good for him.

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The messenger from Derran was standing with his horse at the stable, watching the signs of activity around him. He noted the placement of the guards, the strength of their numbers. He could add nothing to Sir John's map, save for details he had memorized from the interior. There was no way in or out lest the master of this keep willed it so. This was indeed a fortress strong and true.

He heard some noise at the front gate. The huge oaken doors were swung open; obviously the reply to the gatekeeper's question had been an affirmative one. He watched as the party entered the courtyard, and his brown eyes widened in surprise. He recognized the lady and her escort.

Robin stepped back into the shadow of the stables, pulling his horse with him, making as if to check the shoe of his mount while surreptitiously watching the woman as she dismounted. She was greeted by Auliffe, and welcomed in a most familiar manner.

'Twas Yseult, personal lady to the Countess of Derran. Sir John, who was awaiting him at Castle Derran, had escorted the woman to the O'Neill estate at the request of the countess. Being homesick for her own kind was the reason given as to why she was returning to Ireland, but Robin thought it odd that she should show up here, at Killroone's castle at this particular time.

"What brings you to this place?" Auliffe was saying.

"I bring my lord the Earl of Killroone a message from his most worthy cousin, the Lady Duvessa O'Neill. It is for his eyes alone." Yseult spoke the words and took a deep breath. "'Twas a long journey and I am quite tired. May I see the earl now so that I may deliver the greeting of his cousin?"

"Follow me, and I shall make haste to find the earl. He will be most anxious to hear what the lady has to say. Is she well?" Auliffe looked a trifle worried as to what the lady's answer would be, lest he learn his lord's cousin fared poorly.

"She is in excellent spirits."

Auliffe nodded. "She has the courage of her family behind her and she will not fail them."

"Come, let us inside."

Robin couldn't make out what was being said, since they spoke in that odd collection of sounds that he perceived to be Gaelic. He did manage to make out the name of the countess and Killroone. Now he was in a hurry to be off so that he could reach Sir John with the information as soon as possible. A system of fast horses had been set up so that he could complete his ride without having to slow down or stop. He tapped the leather bag at his side. In it was the reply handed to him that morn by the giant Auliffe. He had been told some of what it contained. He pulled on his gloves and leapt upon the animal's back. There was no time to waste now.

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Yseult was shown into the room that served as the library. Tadgh was seated at his desk reading from an illuminated manuscript hundreds of years old. He had raised his head at her entrance and smiled briefly before resuming his studies. She seated herself on a small tapestry chair, her eyelids heavy from lack of sleep. The door opened and Yseult expected to see the tall, imposing figure of the handsome Wolf of Killroone. Instead, a woman of medium height, wearing a dress that was slightly outdated, but showed off the curves of her slim figure to great emphasis, entered.

"Excuse me, I did not know that Tadgh was occupied," she said in English. Sybelle looked to Tadgh to translate her words into Irish for the woman she believed could not understand her.

"I am waiting for Killroone, my lady," Yseult answered in English.

Sybelle looked more carefully at the woman speaking. She was dressed in a simple style, without the excess of court dress. She wore a welltailored wool gown of a becoming shade of burgundy, and matching slippers. Her hair was hidden under an elaborate hat, which covered her skull. Recognition struck Sybelle. This young woman was from Duvessa's household. She'd seen her once at the O'Neill stronghold, and mayhap at the Castle Derran. What was she doing here?

"Are you not one of the ladies that serve the Lady Duvessa O'Neill?"

Yseult nodded her head, saying nothing.

Tadgh watched in silence, noting the curious glance that Sybelle gave to the woman. Within the English lady the need to ask her questions was being well harnessed.

Sybelle had come for her lesson in Gaelic. She was proving an apt pupil, with her eagerness to learn the Irish tongue and the ways that were foreign to her. A little parcel of each day was spent in this room going over texts, practicing words so that the inflection was correct, reading and translating manuscripts. She asked questions and made Tadgh smile with her quickness. He instructed her as he would any pupil, yet there was something special about her which made him exceedingly fond of her. He wanted to see her succeed. She reminded him in some ways of the Lady Brianna. Not in looks or manner, just a vague notion that he couldn't put a name to. Perhaps an intenseness of spirit. And a giving heart.

"I suggest we take our lesson into the Great Hall, my lady. This woman has business with the earl."

"As you wish," Sybelle said. She turned to the woman and addressed her question to her. "How fares the Lady Duvessa?"

Not quite sure what to say, Yseult responded, "She is as well as can be, my lady."

Sybelle twisted her hands, wringing them in frustration at this simple, direct answer. "Is she with my . . . the Earl of Derran?"

Yseult looked deeply into the troubled eyes. "Aye."

For some reason unknown to her, this woman would volunteer no additional information to Sybelle. A quick sideways glance told her that Tadgh was standing by the open doorway, waiting.

Sybelle resisted the urge to demand that the woman tell her all she knew, for she felt sure it would have been an exercise in futility. This lady was determined to remain silent regarding what she was about.

As she turned to leave, Sybelle saw the tall figure of a man standing in the doorway of the room. Tadgh had disappeared, replaced by the Earl of Killroone. Her lips parted in surprise; her tongue wet her dry mouth. A warm flush tinged her cheeks and her stomach as she remembered the taste of him on her tongue. Her lids closed for a moment as she composed herself. She mustered all her reserves of calm and deportment as befitted the daughter of a powerful noble. Lifting her head, her chin held proudly, she left the room, ignoring the sweet seduction of those devilish green eyes, those powerful hands, that lean hard body so ably masked in ordinary garb. She found that another thing she liked about him. He had no need to flaunt his position by his manner of dress. Unlike other nobles who glittered and bedazzled, no matter what the occasion, Rolf was off-hand in his dress. Yet there would be no mistaking him for who he was.

She joined Tadgh, yet was unable to resist stealing another glance in the direction from which she came. He wasn't there. All she could see was the closed door. A deep sigh left her mouth. Was it such a great sin to want this much? To ache for the forbidden fruit? To hunger for the taste of the knowledge that lead only to heartbreak? She realized that the only manacles she wore now were in her mind, and that they would soon be impossible to break unless she did something, and soon. Her only hope was Bran. She had detected a sign of concern on his face. He had to help her.

Yseult stood up at the entrance into the room of the formidable Wolf of Killroone. He was everything she could ever have imagined a prince of Ireland to look like. Would that she were a prisoner of one such as he! She wouldn't care if anyone ever ransomed her.

"You have word for me from my cousin?" he asked in Irish.

"Aye, my lord," Yseult answered in the same. She reached into the cloak she had removed when first she entered, pulling from a hidden pocket the letter that Duvessa wrote to Rolf. She handed it to him.

"I would read this in private," he declared.

She bowed deeply. "As you wish, my lord."

"You must be tired from your hurried journey. A room will be set aside for your use, and food will be brought to you. Siobhan will see to it. Go now." He dismissed her, and she reluctantly took her departure of the man, leaving him alone with the letter.

Rolf tore open the seal. In his hands he held, he hoped, the answers he sought.

"My dearest Rolf:

It is difficult to put onto paper exactly how I know what has taken place in regard to the Lady Sybelle and most humbly beg you to forget this folly of revenge.

I was wrong not to tell you sooner of what I was planning, but you must understand 'tis not something I could or would change. You must believe me that I did what I did because I felt there was no other choice open to me.

I know that you had plans for my marriage to Lord Lorcan, and know that you did what you believed best for me and my estates. I understand the heavy burden placed upon you and your responsibility to our family. You are not a man to shirk those duties that you feel are a part of your care. This is commendable, dearest cousin. The family is all important to you. This is as it should be as the head of our clan. Yet this was a decision that I could not be happy with, for I had met another who captured my heart and my love.

You are probably asking why I did not seek your blessing to this proposed union.

That, my dearest cousin, would have been the end of my relationship with Hugh Fitzgerald. That I could not risk.

Your feelings on the matter of AngloNormans is well known to me. With this knowledge, I could not let you know that I had fallen in love with a man who represents the King of England in this our country.

Knowing that you would have tried to halt our eventual marriage, my lord husband and I developed a plan that would make interference from you, or anyone, inadvisable. We

were married by the English archbishop, with the King of England as our chief witness, along with several nobles of his court. Now none can say that we were wed without proper witnesses or ceremony.

I love this man to whom I am wed. You must believe me when I tell you that without him, there would be no reason for me to remain in this world. He is all that I want in a man.

Hugh and I are together and will remain so. Nothing you can do shall tear us apart. But the continued holding of the Lady Sybelle will destroy this family. For by now you must know that she is, by my marriage to her father, your family also. Her honor must be your care."

Rolf stopped reading the letter to digest what his cousin was telling him. She had written in Gaelic, and two words stood out like hot brands on the paper, words that brought a twist of the knife to his heart. Duvessa mentioned derbfine, the family, that sacred bond that made Rolf act as he had. And later she mentioned Sybelle in context with the word indfine, the extended family. Clever Duvessa, to use the very thing he respected and believed in against him, to put to use the very device that he employed to justify his actions.

He returned to her letter.

"Neither my husband nor I ever gave thought to the fact that you would be so hasty in your decision to salvage the pride of the clan. Nor could we know that in doing so you

would set about a chain of events that would lead to such a tangled web of troubles. In saying that, I cannot fully blame you, my dear cousin and guardian, for you were simply obeying the dictates of your own code. No, I must share full responsibility, and that fact weighs heavily on both my husband and myself.

The Lady Sybelle is now my daughter. She is much loved by her father. I would ask that you consider what you have done and prepare to make amends.

This is difficult for me to put to paper, but I must. If (and I feel that the answer will be in the affirmative) you have taken her to your bed and robbed her of that which belongs to her proper husband, then you must make restitution in the best way possible.

This is the only way to avoid the bloodshed that I so greatly fear if you and my lord husband Hugh should meet. This must be avoided at all costs.

Please, Rolf, I entreat you for my sake, and the sake of our combined families, will you not relent and resolve this difference amicably? I need your assurance that there will be no further acts of vengeance.

It hurts my heart to see the two men I love most torn in this conflict. You must spare all of us this pain that will only mount if you continue this action, i beg you, send Sybelle home or marry her. There can be no other choice; surely you must see the reason in that?

Sybelle deserves more consideration than to be merely the pawn in this game. In her you could find no better choice for a wife. This could be the action that will heal this breach in our families. Will you not take this step? Will you not relent?

Do not force me to chose once again between my husband and my cousin, for you know by now where I must go and whom I must follow.

We cannot go back now, there is only the future. You hold the outcome in your hands.

You need not send a reply back with Yseult. By your actions I shall know how you will deal with this situation.

I pray that you make the right choice, Rolf. So much of all our happiness depends on it.''

Oh sweet Christ. This letter from Duvessa tore at him with the force of a sword cut to his stomach, ripping it open and exposing his guts. Pain wrenched his soul; his integrity lay torn and bleeding in his mind. All that he could see reverberating before his eyes were the words that Sybelle was now a part of his family, his clan, through the marriage of his cousin to the Lady Sybelle's father. Far from using Duvessa as a whore fit only for stolen moments, he had chosen instead to make her his countess, his lawful wife. A bitter thought skewered his brain. It was an action not unlike what he would have done had the situations been reversed. And in the doing, in the avenging of honor, he had stolen it from one now in his responsibility.

Revenge tasted sour in his mouth.

He crushed the papers in his hands and tossed them to the other side of the room. A silent "No!" screamed in his mind. He put his hands to his face, felt the traces of wetness that spotted his cheekbones. Tears. He hadn't felt them since the night of his parent's death.

With a few well-chosen words and images on paper, his cousin had reduced his pride, his sense of purpose, to ashes.

What was he to do?

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Sybelle knew what she must do and set her schemes into motion. When her lesson with Tadgh was over, she sent word to Bran that she would like to take a ride on the beach, and would he like to accompany her as she had a matter to discuss with him.

She found him in the bailey with the horses saddled and ready. They quickly went out the gates and made for the shore, galloping their mounts at a frisky pace. After several miles of open run, Sybelle pulled her horse up and signaled that she wished to stop and dismount.

Bran, being the gentleman that he was, assisted her.

Strands of hair were loosed from her long braid. She took the time to replait her hair so that it didn't look quite so wild. "You will forgive me, I trust, if I put order to this?"

He smiled and said charmingly, "Of course not, my lady. Do as you must."

"Come," she beckoned with a wave of her hand, "please sit beside me."

Bran did as she asked, selecting a spot on the sand, staring out to the far horizon. He could tell that she was stalling for time, obviously composing herself for what she was to ask.

How to bring up the subject? she pondered. Could one just blurt out that one needed help and expect the brother of the man who was holding her prisoner would be moved by her pleas? What right did she have to expect that her arguments could have sway over the ties that bound him to his brother? Yet she must try or there was no hope.

"Branduff, I must crave your indulgence for a few moments on a most pressing matter. I beg of you that you not speak until I have finished. Have I your word?"

He looked at her, his gold eyes intense. "It shall be as you wish, Lady Sybelle."

In a soft voice she said, "Thank you."

Where to begin, she wondered.

Deciding to plunge right in to the heart of the matter, knowing that she could not continue as before, Sybelle said, "I must beg your help." She couldn't sit; she needed to feel the motion of walking to calm her nerves. She began to pace along the sand, and turned to face him. "You are not without a kind heart, my lord"

He interrupted, "Address me as Bran, mбs й do thoilй."

She translated his "if you please" and responded with, "As you will. I have seen how you are. Ordinarily I wouldn't have dared to approach you, lest my pleas be heard by unreceptive ears. I ask that you grant my request and aid me in leaving this place."

She put her hand up and waved away his words. "I know that 'tis a request perhaps doomed in the asking, yet I feel 'tis imperative to my happiness and to your brother's that I ask this." Tears welled in her eyes, not the tears of the weak or the cringing, but the tears of a strong person reaching her breaking point and realizing it.

"There can be no real solution to this problem unless I leave this place. Bloodshed must be averted." Sybelle felt herself growing colder as each moment passed. She wrapped her arms about her body. "And I do not need to tell you the kind of man your brother is. There is within him something . . . " With this she hesitated, wondering just how much of her own turbulent inner emotions she should reveal. Deciding to risk it, she admitted, "In him there exists potent force that can draw people to him without effort. I have seen how he is with all who depend on him. He commands and controls without realizing it. 'Tis a part of him, as is the color of his hair or eyes."

She paused again, walking to the edge of the crashing surf. She watched it come in and leave, back and forth, inexorable. The inevitability of the water and its effect on the sand were constants. How to explain to a man that his brother was like that? That one could be caught in the formidable pull of his person, and that like the ocean it could be deadly to one's soul through no fault of its own, but because it simply was.

Bran left his perch on the sand and went to her, offering his arms as a form of shelter.

Sybelle accepted the offer in the kind spirit in which it was given. She allowed herself to rest and seek comfort from the man. He was trying to understand her words, to fathom the almost desperate quality in the way she said them. She had no fear, that he could tell, for her physical safety.

"Bran, all I ask of you is that you see me secure to my father's protection, so this situation will be diffused. I will guarantee you that nothing will happen to your family. No repercussions will be visited upon you by my father. Just give me your aid in securing my release."

He stroked her head as he continued to hold her, realizing that she had become as dear to him as blood-kin. "You shall have my answer this night. Come," he said, leading her to her horse, "we shall return to the keep and after the evening's meal I shall render you my decision."

"May God grant that 'tis the wisest choice."

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Bran had no need to track down his brother, for upon his return, he heard that Rolf had left word with several people that, should they see him, they were to instruct him to join Rolf in his chambers.

He escorted Sybelle to her chamber, kissing her affectionately on the cheek, and went to Rolf's apartments.

"You wish to see me, Rolf?" Bran asked when he'd located him.

Rolf's face was stern, and quite pale. He indicated another chair for Bran.

"Today another messenger arrived."

"Who from?"

"Our cousin, the Lady Duvessa, Countess of Derran," Rolf said in a quiet voice.

Bran rose from the seat. "Countess of Derran?" He formulated the question incredulously.

"Indeed," Rolf stated, raising one black brow. "Quite a surprise, eh?" He stood up also. "It seems as though our sweet cousin has a stubborn nature."

"She married her abductor?"

"She was a willing accomplice in her own abduction. It seems she loves this man and decided to take him for her lawful husband."

Bran let the words sink in, the ramifications of what Rolf said causing a chill to feather his flesh. "So the taking of the Lady Sybelle was for naught ?"

"'Twould appear so, eh, brother?"

"You will have a large enechlawn, Rolf. Derran will demand"

"Nothing," Rolf stated.

Bran cast him a perplexed look. "How can you say that? You know the value he places on his eldest child. You are now honor bound to do what he asks."

"You talk as if I will return the lady."

Branduff gasped. "Of course you shall."

"There is no course, my brother." Rolf turned, coming to stand in front of Bran. "Have I not told you before that she is for me?"

Branduff observed that Rolf was quite serious. He meant to ignore what he should do, what was right. My God, Bran thought, Rolf still chose to ignore the real reason he could not let her go.

"Branduff, do not worry about this. 'Tis my concern. You have affairs of your own to concern you."

"Such as?"

"Our lady mother's land in Wales."

"What of it?"

"'Tis in need of a personal inspection. This day I have made all the arrangements. A ship will put forth two days hence."

"I am to be banished?" Bran accused.

"Banished?" Rolf laughed. "Of course not. 'Tis time you took over the responsibility of the land our mother bequeathed to you."

"Must it be now?" Bran's golden eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I think 'tis wise."

Bran remained silent, thinking. He smiled. "It shall be as you ask, Killroone."

Rolf threw him a sharp look. "What? No lecture, little brother?"

"'Twould be to no avail. You will do what you will come what may. 'Tis your right as Killroone. Would my gainsaying change your mind?" He tilted his head at an angle, his eyes questioning. "I think not."

"I will expect word from you on your arrival. Take whom you wish to accompany you if you so desire." He crossed to his desk and opened a drawer, searching for the accounts and records of the property. In plain sight was the letter from Duvessa, which he had not given Bran to read.

This piqued Bran's curiosity. He was determined to see for himself what his cousin had written. He walked over to the desk, leaned down, and pocketed the note while Rolf was turned away.

"I wish for you to read these, Bran," he said as he faced his brother. "Should you have any questions before you leave, we can discuss them."

Branduff accepted the ledger book and a quantity of papers, shoving them inside the leather cover.

A knock on the door to Rolf's room forestalled any further conversation. It was Siobhan, with a message for Rolf.

"The apprentice from the goldsmith arrived with a message for you, my lord. He said to tell you that the piece is ready and that you may come at your earliest convenience and see if 'tis what you be wanting exactly."

"Tell the lad that I shall be along later."

"You've ordered something from the smith?" Bran asked as Siobhan left them alone.

Rolf smiled with a twist to his fine lips. "Indeed. A token of regard for someone." He would say no more than that.

"What about Duvessa? Do we not need to give a tinal?"

Rolf knew that his brother referred to the custom of the friends of the bride giving a wedding present to the groom. It was used as a supplemental dowry for the bride, and as Duvessa had no close friends to speak of, it would have been their duty, in normal circumstances, to see to that. Yet Rolf also was aware that when a woman was wed outside the clan, a bride payment was made to her father (or in this case her closest male relative with guardian rights). This was called Tinnscra, and was generally transported wealth. "Do you think that Derran will honor our customs?"

"As they are not his, and he most likely isn't even aware of them, no," Bran responded. "Yet this is no excuse for us not to honor our ways."

"Do you honestly believe he will accept anything?"

"Returning his daughter will be the first step."

"No!" Rolf shouted. "Sybelle is mine. I will hear no more on that. Do you understand?" He slammed his fist on the small piece of furniture that served as his desk. God, Bran, he asked silently, think you not that I haven't already realized what I have done? What I cannot undo?

Bran nodded and left the room, hurrying to his own chambers so that he could read the note from Duvessa before Rolf realized it was missing. He read the contents with a heavy heart, coming to a decision. He must tell the Lady Sybelle what it contained.

Bran knew Rolf ruled his domain as a royal palantinehe was a man used to his own control, his own rules, his own command. This was Rolf. However, Bran believed that even his adored elder brother must bow to something higher than his own will. A man of honor must be taught that there was perhaps a greater honor than his own.

Bran was caught in a far-reaching dilemma. Sybelle had begged for his help. To aid her was to break faith with his brother, his clan, his earl. To save pain, he must cause it, and by so doing, risk probable loss of his place, his home, and more importantly, his brother's love.

Oh God, he prayed, what must I do? Either way I choose I stand to lose. He slammed his fist against the bedpost, bruising his hand. He ignored the physical pain as the mental anguish layered upon his brain with a heavy vengeance.

May my brother find it in his heart to forgive me for what I must do. As he has his honor, so I have mine, and must do what I feel is proper.

A sojourn with his Welsh relatives might be prudent. He was under no illusion that his relationship with his brother would not be impaired from the day that he put his plan into action. He would take the gamble, push the risks for all their sakes, yet most especially for Rolf and the lady.

God pray that he wasn't making an error that would result in destruction rather than resurrection.

Chapter 21

"There is no doubt in my mind you carry the comarba, the heir." Etain finished her examination, washing her hands in the warm water.

Sybelle rearranged her clothes and sat up on the bed. When she spoke it was in a quiet voice. "I thought as much. My time has not come for these past two months."

"He will be overjoyed at the news."

Sybelle put her hand on Etain's arm. "You must swear to me that you will never tell him."

Etain shot her a worried look. "What mean you with this request? In a few months' time there will be no need for tales, he will be able to see for himself."

Sybelle decided to take Etain into her confidence. "I must leave here."

Etain sat beside Sybelle on the bed. ''There is no way the Wolf will allow that I'm thinking."

"He must not know."

"You will never be able to flee from here without his knowledge. You will never be allowed away from this place, as well you know, unless it is in the care of someone he trusts."

"This I know," Sybelle admitted. "Yet I have reason to believe that I have found the person who will help me."

"Then you should say nothing to me, for I would be bound by my loyalty to tell my lord Rolf."

Sybelle wet her lips before continuing. "I know that you and Ro . . . Killroone have been close."

"'Twas a thing of the past."

"It matters now, Etain." Sybelle took Etain's hand in her own. "I have felt that between us there is a bond, a friendship if you will."

"I too have felt this."

"I find the words difficult to say. Nevertheless, for you to understand what I am to do I must utter them. Once you spoke of an overwhelming need for one person, a bonding of the flesh and the spirit. . . . "

Etain interrupted her. "You have felt this with my lord Rolf, have you not?"

"This I cannot deny, Etain." Would that I could, Sybelle admitted to herself. "Honesty forbids me to seek comfort in a lie."

"Then why do you wish to give this up?"

"Because I can see only painmy painin such a union. I fear that I shall lose myself in him. That Sybelle Fitzgerald shall cease to exist, for I have been given no free choice in the life forced upon me." She left the bed and walked to the window, where she sat on the stone seat and faced Etain. "There is within Rolf something that I cannot deny. 'Tis against all that I have been taught, all that I have known. For me to stay is to be trapped in a web of his making." She began to play with a strand of her hair, winding it around her fingers. "I must confess to you that I have even sought out his bed."

Etain could see how much those simple words had cost Sybelle to say. For Etain there had never been shame in seeking and embracing her desires. She could read the confusion and the anguish these words caused Sybelle. She was a proud woman caught in a snare that tore at her, ripping at her sense of decorum, at her sense of who she was.

"Do you wish me to give you a potion that will relieve you of the child?" It was against Etain's better judgment in this instance, but she thought that perhaps without the child Sybelle would feel more in control of at least this little part of her existence.

Sybelle's head snapped up quickly. Her hands went protectively to her stomach, as if to ward off any harm to the unborn babe. "No. Never. 'Tis not the fault of the child. It is innocent in this matter."

Etain went to her and gathered Sybelle in her arms, offering her succor. She knew then what she would do, what she had to do. "I will help you, Sybelle," she said quietly.

"I know 'tis a burden that I place on you; that I ask of you to do that with which you do not agree. Words cannot express what you have given me. Yet I would not have you put yourself in any danger from Killroone."

"Fear not for me. I can handle what I must."

Sybelle asked, "You will say nothing of the child?"

"He has a right to know. The babe is his also."

Sybelle nodded. "Of that fact I am aware. But if he knew about this child, do you not think that he would do all in his considerable power to keep me here? No one must know."

"My mother suspects."

"Aye, I am aware. She has said odd things to me lately about wanting and needing strange foods." Sybelle smiled in a shy manner. "I have asked her for some items not normally served. And she has seen me in the morning when the illness is upon me."

"That should not last much longer, I think," Etain said. "What of when you return to your family? Have you given thought to what their reaction will be when you come back swelling with the bastard child of your abductor? Shall you be greeted with love or with shame?"

"Aye, I have thought on this. My lord father will welcome me back and abide by my decision."

"You are sure, my lady?"

"Without a doubt. I am secure in his love for me."

"'Tis hoping I am that you won't regret this." Etain withdrew her arms from around Sybelle and went to pour them both a cup of spiced wine. She returned with the silver cup, extending her hand to Sybelle. "You will be an outcast from general society."

Sybelle drank from the cup, draining the contents. "I have never sought the useless frivolities of Edward's court. In fact, my father has protected me from the harshness to be found there by insisting that my sisters and myself remain as much as possible on our estates. So you see, to be bereft of that court is no hardship for me at all."

"What of the babe?"

"What of it?"

"Will you see that it has a proper life after you have given birth?"

"Think you that I will abandon my child?"

"Nay. You could never do that, Sybelle. However, the babe will be a constant reminder to you of its father. Many in your circumstances would provide well for the child from a distance."

"Give it up? Place it in foster care?"

"'Tis often the lot of the bastard child."

"Would you do that?"

Etain smiled, amusement evident. "In Ireland we hold no circumstance of birth against a child. Here, the babe has a right of inheritance no matter how conceived. The child is simply accepted. 'Tis a lot simpler I'm thinking than your complicated system."

"Mayhap you are right. I do not know." She touched her belly again. "Only this, I shall not give away my babe. 'Tis part of my flesh also, and as I have estates of my own, it shall be my heir."

"And his father's heir as well."

Sybelle chose to ignore that remark. Lugh rose from his position at the fire and padded over to the door, ears alert.

Sybelle knew that someone was coming. She crossed to the door and swung it wide. Standing there was Bran.

"Come inside, my lord."

Sybelle shut the door as Bran patted Lugh's head. The wolfhound responded by licking the man's large, slim hand.

The room was dim and he didn't see Etain. "I am here to give you my answer."

At that moment Etain made herself known. "Perhaps you would wish me to leave you two alone?" she asked.

"Etain?" Bran was surprised.

"Yes, my lord Branduff. She is aware of my plans for escape. She will help."

Bran threw Etain a puzzled look. He knew of Etain's feelings for his brother, of her strong loyalty to Killroone. "It seems as though we are of a conspiracy then. So be it." He sounded resigned. "My brother has given us the means by which we may execute our leavetaking. On the next day hence I am to take ship for Wales to oversee some business that involves family property there. We shall manage to sneak you on board somehow."

"That shouldn't be difficult to manage with my assistance," Etain volunteered.

"I shall devise a plan to get Rolf away so that we can do this."

Etain spoke. "That won't be necessary. Trust me to arrange what is needed." Her pale blue eyes sparkled with a quick plan. "The Lady Sybelle and I will switch clothes. I shall ride in that morning and she will ride out with you."

Bran stroked his chin. "It might just work." He skimmed his gaze over the taller, blonde woman. "You are of a different coloring and size."

"A cape will hide the differences. No one will be paying attention for they will be expecting to see me."

"Agreed."

Bran touched Etain's smooth cheek in a soft caress. "Are you certain?"

She shared a smile, closing her eyes for a moment and relaxing against his hand. "Do not fear for me, for mine will not be the action that will wound Killroone most."

Bran's smile was bitter-sweet. "Think you that I am not aware of that? I shall not be returning to Ireland for a time."

Sybelle grasped his hand and kissed the slender palm. Her tears of gratitude wet his flesh. "Thank you," was all she managed to say, knowing that anything else would be superfluous.

"There is something else that needs to be said. This day Killroone had word from Lady Duvessa."

Sybelle nodded. "I was on my way for lessons with Tadgh when I saw her lady-in-waiting arrive. What had she to say?"

Bran was glad now that he had taken the letter and read it. It hardened his resolve to return Sybelle to her family. Duvessa's plea was poignant and touched his heart. There had been enough bad blood between the families. And now that they were united through marriage, there must be no more disharmony. "That she is married to your father."

Sybelle gasped. "They are wed?"

"'Twould appear so."

"I knew that my lord father would not have harmed the lady." She felt her love and faith in Derran vindicated. She poured another cup of wine for herself. "Shall we drink to the Lord Killroone's inestimable sense of justice?"

Chapter 22

Finally arriving at his destination, Robin entered the secured grounds of Castle Derran. He quickly threw the reins of his very tired, well-lathered horse to a waiting groom and ran to the Great Hall, where he saw the questioning face of Sir John as he sat before the huge fireplace. A small table had been set there for his use; it was strewn with maps and documents.

"What answer have you?" he bellowed, throwing down the thick vellum he'd been reading. He sat back in his chair, waiting for the youth to approach him.

Robin saw the deep lines of concern on the face of the man he served.

"Have you seen the Lady Sybelle?"

Robin drew a deep breath. "Aye, Sir John," he said, sinking into the seat Sir John indicated he take. A hovering servant was dispatched to bring him a mug of ale. "She seemed quite healthy, and has been well cared for, inasmuch as I could tell." The ubiquitous servant handed him the tankard of foaming ale and he drank. "As to the answer," he continued, wiping his mouth on his woolen sleeve, "I do not think our lord earl will be much pleased.''

"Why?" asked the gruff voice.

"The Lord Killroone has decided, I was told, to keep the Lady Sybelle hostage until he renders a decision in a month's time."

"Damn him," Sir John said wearily.

The messenger added to his tale. "There is more." He swallowed another large gulp of his beverage.

"What ?"

"A curious occurrence happened whilst I was there. When I was making to leave that place, I saw another arrival at the keep. 'Twas the personal lady of the countess."

The bushy brows on Sir John's face rose, arching. "Are you certain?"

"Aye," Robin responded. "'Twas sure that I am that it was she. I watched in secret so that she was unaware that one from Derran's household was there."

"Then 'twould appear that the countess is in communication with her cousin against my lord's strict orders." He rubbed his jaw reflectively.

"What will you do?" Robin signalled for a refill.

"The earl must know."

"Shall we leave for England now? Or do you wish me to go on alone?"

"We shall leave in the morning. The earl's ship awaits us in Dublin." Sir John drained most of the contents of his cup. "Tonight there is some unfinished business that must be seen to first."

At that moment a guard entered the room. "Sir John, the prisoner is as you wish him."

"Good," he said with a cunning smile. "I will attend him in a few moments."

The man turned on his booted heel and left the room.

Sir John's face was harsh in the soft light. Robin had seen that look before. It did not bode well for the person against whom it was directed.

"My lord earl will not be pleased that some agreement regarding his daughter could not be reached." He drank the remainder of the fine Irish whiskey in his cup. "No, he will not be pleased at all." He once again ran his hand across the stuble of beard on his jaw.

He got up from his seat and dismissed Robin. "Rest you well, for 'tis for England we be on the morn."

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The dungeon was dark. A torch lit the way for Sir John.

"He's in here," indicated the guard of a cell which was in complete blackness.

"Has he spoken yet?"

"No, Sir John. He hasn't said a word, 'ceptin' to say that he was innocent."

"That holds no surprises for me. Open the door."

The guard did as he was commanded. Sir John entered the dank cell. It had been unused and smelled as such.

"Well, Emond, have you had a chance to reflect on your actions?" He held the torch aloft.

The flame shone on the weasel face of the man who had given his account of the taking of the Lady Sybelle. He shut his eyes, for the illumination of the torch hurt them. He had been confined to this place for almost a day, without food, water, or light. Emond could hear the sounds of the small, furry cohabitants of his cell. He was shivering from the cold and the damp, anxious to leave.

"I'll tell ye whatever 'tis that ye be wanting to know, my lord."

"Just tell me of your role in the abduction of the Lady Sybelle Fitzgerald."

"Ye know my part, your worship. I told ye how it was that night."

Sir John signalled to the guard, and the prisoner suddenly found himself with his bony arms in the chains that were attached to the walls.

"I am losing what little patience I have. Tell me."

Emond sensed the fury in the man-at-arms. He began to tremble violently. "I don't know what ye want."

Sir John removed his dagger from its sheath and stroked it lovingly. "Oh, but I think you do."

"What's wrong?" His voice was a whine, shrill and small. "Haven't I told ye what ye wanted to know that other time? What in the name of the blessed Jesus are ye tryin' to do to me? Ain't I a god-fearin' man?"

"I don't give a damn what you are, my good fellow. I want only to know your part in the incident."

Emond now understood that there was no chance of mercy from this man, so he thought he would bargain for his release. Anything to escape the severe eyes that imposed fear in him.

Before he could talk, Sir John approached him, placing the blade against his lower extremities. The blade was stroking him intimately, the weight of it pressing against the meager measure of his maleness. Emond sucked in his breath as he recognized the threat. He whimpered in fear. "No, do not. I beg ye." The tears began to form in his watery eyes.

Sir John smiled. "Then tell me what I want to know."

"I . . . I . . . the Earl of Killroone forced me to do his bidding. Said that he would kill me and my family if I didn't help him with his plans. 'Tis the honest truth."

Sir John doubted this scum knew the meaning of the word honest. "Were you paid anything for this help?"

Again the weight of the dagger was heavy against him. "On my honor I was not."

"Then why did you not tell me as soon as he left?"

"I was sorely afraid of the Wolf, that I was."

"Is that the truth?"

"Oh, most certainly." He managed a weak smile, thinking that Sir John was beginning to believe him.

"Then you were a fool," Sir John said sharply. "You should have been afraid of the Earl of Derran's man."

"Killroone made me!"

Sir John sneered. "You are a liar," and struck him across the face.

"No, 'tis true. I am a loyal man."

"We have proof otherwise."

"Who accuses me?" Emond demanded, fear in his voice coloring his tone.

Sir John snapped his fingers. At the door of the cell a woman appeared. Emond's wife. "This man," he pointed to the quivering figure, "is your husband?"

"Aye," was the reply.

"Then tell him what you told me."

She stepped forward and looked into the face of the man she had called husband for almost twenty yearstwenty years of being treated like a creature fit only for his pleasure and comfort, with never a kind word or a care, lest it be for his own concern. She had endured for the sake of her children and could have endured the rest of her life if need be, yet she could not allow him to profit from the harm to one who always treated her with kindness.

"He bragged to me," she said, "that he was gettin' coin from his arrangements with the nobility. I asked him who he knew that would be givin' money to the likes of him. I was told to mind my own business." As she stepped closer to the light of the torch that the guard held in one hand, faded bruises could still be seen on her face, a face which had once been considered fair and gentle. ''He said that the Wolf was a generous man, and that he thought it a grand joke that he could be gettin' coin also from my lord Derran."

"Hold yer damned tongue, stupid bitch!"

Emond was rewarded with a back-handed slap from Sir John that knocked his head against the wall, stunning him momentarily.

"Does she speak the truth?" He snorted in disgust. Sir John needed no more words from the man. "You are the stupid one, thinking you could betray your lord and get away with it. This woman's words only serve to incriminate you further. Your own words the night you described the abduction condemned you, you fool." Sir John turned from the man and said gently to the woman, "Tell my man to see you safely to your home. You shall be amply rewarded for your courage."

Her head rose. "I need no payment. If I was to take coin for speaking against him, then I would be the same as him. No, I did not do what I did for money. 'Tis for the kindness and care shown by my lady that I spoke." She added sadly, "And by doin' this, mayhap I free my children of a traitor's influence." She spat in the prisoner's face. "Pig! Now I shall be forced to flee this place where I was born so that my children are not tainted with your disloyalty."

Sir John questioned her. "Where will you journey?"

"I have family, a sister, in Cork. She will take me in."

"You will not reconsider the money?"

She smiled, a proud shake to her head. "No, thank you." She turned to leave without a glance at her husband.

"Don't leave me," Emond wailed.

"Silence," Sir John said. "Now will you tell the truth?"

"She's a lying bitch. Do not believe her."

"I do. Talk."

"I told ye," he simpered, afraid that he was going to suffer for what he had done. "The Wolf made me."

"So, that is the story as you continue to tell ?"

"'Tis the truth."

"Truth is something of which you have no knowledge. And you shall pay dearly for that."

"No, ye must believe me."

Sir John's laughter filled the tiny room, bouncing off the walls with a macbre ring. "Must I? Had you been a brave man, you would have been spared." He worked the blade of his very sharp dagger so that it cut through the cheap garments, slicing through the fabric, exposing the prisoner.

The man's eyes widened in horrified shock as he saw the dispassionate look on Sir John's face, felt the cold steel against his flesh. The smell of human waste tinged the air; the loud screams Emond made echoed in the room.

Sir John took the proferred material with which to wipe away the traces of blood from his dagger before replacing it in its sheath.

"What shall we do with him?" the guard asked.

Sir John glanced at the man hanging from the wall chains. "Remove that offending piece of offal from my sight. He is to be hung. Leave the body for the crows, as a reminder of what fate befalls traitors." He heard the screeching of the rats. "Wait till morning to hang him. Give me your sword." The guard did as he was told and Sir John stuck the tip into the flame of the torch. He turned back to the hapless man. The odor of burning flesh was pungent.

Sir John returned the blade to the flame and wiped off the steel before returning it to the guard. "I don't want him dead ere the rest of the sentence can be carried out."

"It shall be as you command, Sir John."

"Good." He closed the door and left the cell in darkness once again. "I'm famished. Let us get some supper."

Chapter 23

Rolf held the bracelet in his hand, feeling the weight of it, examining the quality of the workmanship until he was satisfied that it was exactly  what he wanted.

"When snapped on the wearer's wrist, it locks into place, my lord, and unless you have the key, it cannot be removed without doing damage to the workmanship," the smith said proudly. He knew his lord was an exacting man. He felt justifiably satisfied of this special golden bracelet, made smaller than the ones he'd crafted years ago for his lord's birthday, a gift from his parents.

'You have pleased me greatly, for it is what I want, and I think that it will please the person who gets it." Rolf took from the inner pocket of his cloak a sum of coins wrapped in a piece of linen. He tossed them to the smith with a dazzling smile.

The man took the payment and counted it out. He was overjoyed at the extra sum that Rolf had included with the original agreed-upon price.

"'Tis for a job well done and at such short notice. Good workmanship deserves a just payment." Rolf held the object of jewelry up to the light. "Perfect," he said in his deep voice.

The goldsmith gave a slight bow. "As always, 'tis a pleasure to serve a man as perceptive as you, my lord." He looked around his small shop. "Is there anything else that takes your interest?"

Rolf looked at a handsome pair of candlesticks. He picked one up, examining the figures carved into the gold.

"Are they to your liking, my lord?"

"Aye. Could you add initials to these without spoiling the rest of the design?"

The smith pointed to a spot in the work and Rolf nodded. "I foresee no problem, my Lord Killroone. Give me the initials you desire carved and it shall be done. Must this also be a work that is needed soon?"

"No," Rolf said thoughtfully. "These are a gift that will keep." He pulled on his thick leather gloves, returned the bracelet to the velvet bag, and pulled taut the gold threads.

At that instant, the assistant to the goldsmith, an apprentice, came from the back of the shop to show the master what he was doing with a particular piece. Rolf noted the craftsmanship that the lad was producing. The necklace the youth held in his hands gave him another idea.

"My brother, the Lord Branduff's birthday, is within two months. I would have a special gift made for him to commemorate the occasion."

The apprentice and the master listened carefully as Rolf explained the design that he wanted, the blending of the symbols. Satisfied that his wishes would be carried out, he left the establishment.

"The Earl of Killroone's patronage is important to you, isn't it, Master Abraham?"

The old man nodded his head. "The patronage and the protection mean more than my livelihood, lad," he said, ruffling the hair of the youth. "They mean my freedom and my very life. Here I am allowed to be a man of business, of property, without fear." The smith escorted the boy back into the workroom bulging with the tools of his trade, from precious and semi-precious stones, to gold and silver. Here Abraham had no fear that any night he would be awakened by a mob banging on his door, nor did he wonder when someone would try and rob him of what valuables he kept for his work.

"Killroone made me and mine a pledge of safe harbor, in exchange for leaving what we used to call a life in France."

"How did you meet him?" the boy asked in French.

"I rendered a service to him while he was visiting friends in Paris. He returned the favor when a disgruntled man who did not have the money to pay his bill decided that I had cheated him. He threatened me, and Lord Killroone intervened when he stopped by to pick up a gift for his parents."

"That was brave of him."

"Oui, Benjamin, that it was." Master Abraham pulled out a piece of parchment and began to sketch the design that Rolf requested. His old fingers completed the sharp scratchings quickly. He stopped, looked, and added another flourish.

"He bade me come to Ireland and teach my craft, promising that I could worship on his lands as I please. So I sold my business and moved my family to Killroone's estate."

Abraham smiled as he thanked God for this wise choice on his part. Now he was favored with trade for many quarters, thanks to the earl's influence. He had several talented apprentices, both Irish and French, who came to learn the ancient ways of crafting jewelry from raw materials into works of art.

Already he had begun work on the jeweled cask he would present to the earl on the day of his wedding. And from the gossip heard in the village, that day would be sooner than expected. He watched as Benjamin went to work on his own effort. Abraham removed the work of gold studded with gems from a locked cabinet. Mayhap he had better finish this piece. He set to work.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Rolf looked across the chess board at his partner. Sybelle played well, perhaps a trifle recklessly at times, but there was a boldness to her moves. There was about her tonight a glow, an inner radiance that he couldn't fathom. She was the embodiment of legends, the essence of supreme feminine charm.

Sybelle too was reflective. She knew that, if the plan succeeded, this was her last night in Rolf's castle. She wondered why she felt a sudden trace of sadness creep into her heart. Shouldn't she be trying to stave off a smug smile? But this was difficult to do when one couldn't summon such a thing. Her eyes kept straying to the man who had so commanded her destiny these past months. Would he miss her company? Or would he be merely angry that she had somehow thwarted his scheme of revenge? And why had he not told her the contents of his cousin's, her new lady mother's, letter? Did he think that she wouldn't find out?

Was it only the presence of the woman whose body he craved that he would miss? What of Sybelle? Would he be thankful that the choice of going against her powerful father was taken from his hands?

And what of the babe?

Underneath the table set up for this quiet game of chess, Sybelle's fingers strayed to the belly that gave sanctuary to the seed rooted inside. Etain had said that Rolf would be overjoyed. Would he? She had no idea if he had already fathered any children. Had he? What of them? Would he think it the ultimate justice to impregnate and abandon the English earl's daughter? Or would he have forced her to bear his child and then sent it, and her, away? Would those green eyes light up at the prospect of fathering her babe? Or would they turn cold and aloof? Or worse yetwould they gleam darkly in triumph and indifference?

She moved her chess piece, seeing the look of surprise in those ensnaring eyes. She'd taken him off guard. He flashed a smile so disarming that her heart quickened. She was raging a battle inside herself. To have found in her captor the man she believed it possible to live with in marriage struck her as the height of ironic folly. He was unlike the men she had known before, content with their place, who did not journey beyond their boundaries. They challenged not, and were not challenged themselves. They read little and questioned little. Rolf did both, and he enjoyed the exercise. Several times he had joined her while she and Tadgh discussed Irish customs. Their conversations were lively and quick-witted, with both enjoying the thrust of the barbed comment.

Therein was the danger that tugged at her heart and spirit. She found in Rolf the man she could both love and respect, who provoked her, and made her feel so very alive and aware of herself as a woman. Tomorrow she would quit this place, leave behind the spellbinding virile force that was Rolf O'Dalaigh. But could she put this sojourn, truthfully, behind her? She carried his babe, her babe, below her heart. This child was the result of the blending of them both into another being. She was awed by that notion.

Sybelle supposed that she should be feeling shame. Surprisingly, there was none. Even the idea that she would now be considered damned amongst her own kind couldn't destroy the secret happiness she felt at knowing that she was with child.

Tonight was all that was left. A calmness, a tranquility overcame her pensive mood, granting her a strange kind of peace.

Rolf watched the slim fingers moving her piece on the board. Tonight he would present her with the bracelet. He would come to her room later that evening when all were asleep. His mouth curved into a secretive smile. He could well imagine her wearing nothing but the bracelet and her skin. His blood flowed hot at that thought.

"Rolf, may I take you away from your game for a few minutes to go over some of these papers with you?" Bran interrupted.

''With your permission, Sybelle?" Rolf asked, a raised black brow adding a touch of the rogue to his handsome face.

"As you wish, my lord," Sybelle responded, pushing back her chair, catching the movement at the door of the solar. Etain entered, spoke a few words to the brothers and proceeded to Sybelle's side.

"I thought it best to pay a visit this night so that I could arrange for a long sleep for my lord."

Sybelle touched her hand in concern. "'Twill not harm him in any way?"

Etain smiled at the grave concern in Sybelle's voice. "Nay. He will sleep deeply and awake after the ship has sailed. A sleeping draught of this sort I've used several times before. 'Tis harmless, only allowing rest."

"How will he take it?"

"Branduff has ordered a special bottle of wine from Rolf's cellars. 'Tis a French favorite of my lord's. I will slip some of the potion into it."

"Are you sure that you are still willing?" Sybelle asked, pretending interest in the needlework Etain was using as a cover for this meeting. The piece was richly detailed and aglow with fine colors.

"You know the answer to that, Lady Sybelle." Etain's eyes were touched with moisture. "Your unhappiness wounds me. And mayhap he does not know it yet, but it wounds my lord also. My heart tells me that you and he are part of one soul, that the ancient ones meant for you and he to be together. The babe is proof of that. Your union is blessed. I do this for him, also."

Etain turned her face towards Rolf, silently bidding adieu to any further passion between them. Her wise mother was so very correct. The Wolf had met his mateonly he had not formally recognized the inescapable fact. Etain knew Rolf must be unshackled, along with Sybelle, from the bonds of revenge. No good could come of no choice. Each must be free. It was, ironically, freedom for her too.

"Tomorrow I will ride in early and we will exchange clothes. Be sure you keep the cloak tight about your face lest someone discover the fact that we've switched identities for the day."

"Words cannot express my gratitude. If ever you need my help, seek out the Earl of Derran. Send word to me through my father."

"I shall remember that." She paused. "What will you do? Will you return to your estates in Ireland?"

Sybelle smiled sadly. "I think not. Too much has happened for me to want to return there now." She closed her eyes, her lashes fanning her skin. "God, how I do miss my home. At night I dream I am there, walking in my mother's garden. But for now 'tis better if I remain in England for a time. My father has secure keeps there."

"Mayhap 'tis best."

"I think so," Sybelle replied, glancing at the two brothers, deep in conversation. On the morrow the closeness between them would be torn asunder. She could halt what would happen if she chose. She had only to tell Bran and Etain that it was over. A sweeping tristesse fingered along her nerves. There was no turning back now. Their actions were set into motion. She must finish as she meant to, ignoring the consequences.

A knock sounded on the door, and the servant girl, Maire, entered carrying a tray containing several glasses and a bottle of wine. She spoke in Gaelic to Bran and Wolf. Bran responded by engaging in a touch of flirtation with her, bringing a swift blush to her cheeks, before she responded with a remark that drew a stain of red across the taut flesh of his cheekbones.

Rolf laughed, as did Etain.

Sybelle felt an outsider at the closeness exhibited in the room, even though Etain explained the remark after she ceased laughing. It brought to mind how dearly she missed her own family. Soon, she told herself, she would be able to embrace her sisters and her father, not to mention a new mother her own age. This would all be a distant memory. It must be, for her to retain any hope of happiness in her future. This was soon to be her past, and it must remain forever so.

Rolf opened the bottle. Skillfully, Etain dropped the contents of the ring she wore into Rolf's glass as she secured a glass of wine for herself and one for Sybelle.

All drank heartily of the brew. Sybelle and Etain politely refused another glass, both bidding their goodnights.

"We leave the game unfinished?" Rolf asked.

"It will keep," Sybelle replied.

Rolf nodded and returned to his words with Bran, pouring another glass of wine.

The game is already over, my lord, Sybelle mused, only you do not know it. Check and mate to me, she thought, sweeping from the room and giving him a last look, recording all the details of his face in her memory.

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Rolf yawned as he tried to divest himself of his garments. He couldn't imagine why he was so tired. His eyelids felt weighted down. He blinked twice, grabbing for the thickly carved bedpost.

Mayhap he had better forget undressing before he went to Sybelle. Time enough for that when he was done doing what he wanted to do.

Rolf hefted the weight of the velvet bag in his hands. He picked up the elaborate branch of candles from his bedside and proceeded down the hall and up the stairs to her room.

All was in shadow as he moved silently. He found that he had to stop occasionally as the weariness he experienced threatened to overcome him. He forced himself on, pushing aside the fatigue.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Sybelle dipped the quill in the inkpot and wrote the word across the middle of the parchment sheet. She didn't offer her name or his. When he read it she hoped that he would understand.

Lugh's bark forced her to halt. She shoved the note under the pillow of her bed.

The door opened and she gasped. There stood Rolf. Etain had assured her the sleeping draught would take effect quickly. Obviously Rolf's will was stronger then Etain anticipated.

Sweet Jesu, Rolf thought, but she was a vision, a creation to be savored. He walked in, placing the candles beside the bed. He couldn't resist the temptation to sample her inviting lips. He bent his head, touching the fullness slightly, in a caress tender and sweet, as if she were a precious and fragile object.

She saw the flickering of his eyelashes, the inner control that made him straighten in spite of what she assumed was his overwhelming need to sleep.

"What brings you here, now, my lord? I am quite tired and would seek my bed, alone." She said that in a way she hoped sounded harsher than she meant. She went to walk away, to put some distance between them, for the warmth of his flesh was so close to hers. The sight of his long-lashed green eyes was enough to make her resolve weaken. How easy it would be to tumble to the comforting sheets in his arms and take sweet, seductive memories away with her.

No.

It was over.

Ended.

He stopped her, his hands on her upper arms, forcing her still. "I have a gift for you, my lady."

She turned her head. She saw the bag he was holding out to her. She accepted it with a wary look.

"Open it. Do not be afraid," he whispered against her ear.

Sybelle did so, bringing forth the contents of the velvet pouch. It was a bracelet. But not any bracelet. This was special, a match to the one he wore. The gold gleamed in the soft candlelight, as did the distinctive eyes of the wolf pictured there, tiny emeralds winked enticingly. It was exquisite. Her fingertips traced the head On closer inspection, she noted the difference between it and what he wore. This was not merely a band as was histhis was meant to be secured.

"Hold out your arm," he said in a voice that was low and commanding, yet strangely soft.

Sybelle obeyed her instinct, felt him clasp it onto her wrist and snap it shut. She stared at it as if it were a foreign body, not a part of her. Rolf still held her hand in his. He brought her palm to his mouth, lavished her hand with the salute of his lips before he released it as he staggered back against the bed. He fell across it, his body giving in to the need for sleep.

She couldn't let him stay like that, so she shifted his heavy weight onto the bed proper. Pulling the soft kid boots from his feet and tossing them to the floor, Sybelle sat down beside him. Her hand strayed to his cheekbones and boldly caressed the flesh there. Her fingers moved downwards to his lips, touching, memorizing. She leaned over and put her mouth to his, giving freely a sweet kiss. Her tongue traced the cleft in his chin. She pushed aside the half-open shirt of deep green, feasting her eyes on the exposed flesh.

She took one of his hands, held in both of hers, before placing it against her belly. "Our child," she whispered. "Your seed quickened, Rolf." She pressed his hand, laying hers atop it, bracelet to bracelet. "A warrior prince to be sure, with the blending of our bloodlines. He will be raised with pride and love. Our child deserves that. Trust me, my lord Rolf. Your babe will want for naught. On this you have the word of Sybelle Fitzgerald.''

Sybelle lay down, cradling Rolf in her arms, his head on her breast. Her mouth caressed the thick black hair. Tears fell from her closed lids. "Farewell, grб," she said, speaking the Irish word for love.

Chapter 24

Sybelle was waiting for Etain as dawn broke the sky. She surveyed the room, emitting a deep sigh. Freedom was close at hand. She had opened the window, allowing the cool morning air, heaving with the smell of the sea, to envelop her. Now she stood at the bedside, watching the man. She leaned her head against the bedpost, silent and thoughtful. He didn't look quite so fierce, so remote, in sleep. A hint of a smile curved his wide mouth. Her hands went round the wood, hugging it as she couldn't him. His breathing was deep and even. She could see his large, expressive hand reach out in sleep, as if searching for something, or someone. He moved his fingers, as if stretching, covering, caressing.

She gripped the post tighter, her body flush against it. The breath quickened in her throat. Sybelle dropped her hands to her side as a knock sounded on her door.

Etain entered. She uttered a surprised gasp when she saw the sleeping figure of Rolf in Sybelle's bed.

"What is Killroone doing here?"

Sybelle ushered Etain into the privy room and explained. "He came to deliver a gift to me last evening." She held out her left hand, the bracelet gracing her slender wrist.

Etain examined it, her hand tracing the detail of the workmanship. "'Tis beautiful."

Sybelle nodded. "A work fit for a queen, I would judge."

"'Tis true," Etain echoed. Or, she thought, choosing to keep her observations to herself, a Countess of Killroone, a princess of Ireland. This was no ordinary gift. It was a claim, a sign of ownership, a commitment. It was a symbol of himself that he was bestowing on the English lady. Now would not be the time to inform her of what this was and what it signified. The Lady Duvessa would see and recognize the mute proclamation.

"Let me fix your hair into one braid so that no one notices the difference in color." Etain took her by the shoulders and spun her around, working quickly, forming the plait. "Done," she said, "now the clothes.'' She removed her cloak. Sybelle stripped off the nightdress and donned the simple wool gown Etain had brought with her. It was an odd fit, but Etain improvised with the hem by placing several jewelled pins at the waist to draw it up.

Sybelle left the laces of the bodice loosely tied, as she was of a more generous frame in the bust than Etain. She turned around, slipping the cloak over herself. "Will I do?" she questioned. The cowl of the cape was trimmed in a band of golden fur, the cape itself of a deep, soft brown wool. "'Tis lovely, Etain," Sybelle said, her fingers fondling the texture.

"A gift for you," Etain explained, embracing Sybelle. "Come, we must away now if we are to make this work." They left the privy room and passed again the silent figure on the bed.

Sybelle approached him warily, fearful that he would somehow wake up and catch her in the act of fleeing from him. Tremulously, she eased her hand beneath the pillow for the almost forgotten note.

Etain asked, "What have you there?"

"A note for Killroone. I must leave it for him, where he may find it ere I've gone."

"Give it to me. I shall place it in his apartments."

Sybelle passed over the note. "Please, do not forget. He must read this." There was a sense of urgency to her tone.

Etain patted her hand. "Have no fear, Lady Sybelle, it shall be as you request."

"Then let us go now," she said, not looking back.

Lugh whimpered as she went to shut the door, and Sybelle hesitated. She hunkered down on her knees and embraced the huge beast. He licked her face, almost knocking her over. Suddenly, Sybelle stood. "Lugh comes with me."

"Are you mad? He cannot."

"He must. There is a way," Sybelle insisted, outlining her idea.

Etain thought her daft, yet she acquiesced. "As you will," she pronounced with a slight roll of her pale blue eyes.

Bran was waiting on the outside stairs, taking a last look at the home he wouldn't see for some time, if ever. He ran his palms across the weathered stone, enjoying the tactile sensation. Would he like Wales? How long would he have to remain in exile? And what of when he delivered the Lady Sybelle to her father? His wisest course would be to drop anchor and send her ashore alone in Dorset. But he had promised to deliver her to Derran. He couldn't merely dump her on the shore like unwanted ballast and leave without seeing her safely to her family. 'Twould be the coward's way outand he was, after all, a son and brother to Killroone. O'Dalaighs stood their ground and did not quaver.

And what of the Lady Clare, that special face he couldn't erase from his mind? She was most likely betrothed. A blossoming child-woman of such beauty and fortune would not be without suitors, and a contract for marriage was as good and binding as a true marriage.

He shook his head, casting aside frivolous fantasies. Clare Fitzgerald was not within his reach. The Earl of Derran would see to that. More to the point, she probably hated him for his part in the abduction of her beloved sister. What he needed was to set his mind to the tasks ahead, bringing Sybelle to her family and restoring order in his birthright property in Wales. He would need all his cunning and wits about him. He closed his eyes, searched his memories, saw his mother, heard again her stories about life in her homeland, but he was yet a stranger to a heritage only vaguely recalled.

Ireland would be a part of his past when he sailed today. Wales was his future. He must now stand alone, without the power of his name, without the guidance of his older brother. Mayhap that was for the best. Rolf cast a powerful shadow. Bran's own must be free to grow as large. The future must be free of the past.

He regretted not being able to say a true farewell to his brother. It could not be helped, yet still it cut him deeply. He longed to explain why he must do what he was about to do.

He heard the door behind him open, saw the approach of the two figures.

"Are we ready?" he asked, anxious to be off.

Sybelle and Etain again embraced. "Keep me in your heart," Sybelle whispered.

Etain answered, "Be happy, Sybelle." She kissed her cheek. "Trust your heart. When the time is right, you must do that."

Sybelle looked at her with curiosity. She linked arms with Bran, who bent to place a gentle kiss on Etain's lips. "Farewell, Etain."

"May God grant you a life long and a fruitful one, my lord."

"You also, sweetest Etain," he said, escorting Sybelle down the outside stairs.

Etain hastened to the door that led back inside. She was to bring Lugh up here and let him go free when Sybelle had crossed through the gates.

She hurried back to her post, watching as Sybelle and Bran mounted their horses, Bran's bags having already been sent ahead.

Bran lifted Sybelle onto Etain's horse, glad that most of the workers were already at their daily tasks and would not have leisure to look at them.

"Let us be away," he said, settling onto his stead. "Open the gates," he shouted, and the guards hastened to obey. They called out their farewells and best wishes.

As they crossed the threshold, Bran heard a voice bellow, "Etain!"

Both Sybelle and Bran froze, halting their horses.

Bran uttered a curse under his breath. 'Twas Auliffe.

Bran spoke. "Etain rides to the ship with me."

Auliffe, thinking that the other rider was indeed Etain, spoke in his native language, requesting that she return later that day, as his wife needed some herbal potions from Etain's supply.

Sybelle nodded and urged her horse forward, hoping that she was correct in her action.

"Where is the Wolf?" Auliffe asked, satisfied that Etain would honor his request.

"We said our goodbyes last evening." Bran watched Sybelle gallop ahead, breathing a sigh of relief. "He was in the Lady Sybelle's chambers so I did not chose to disturb him. Nor should you," Bran said with a smile, not knowing that he spoke the truth.

Auliffe grinned. "I understand. Godspeed on your journey." He reached up a hand to clasp Branduff's arm.

Bran reluctantly let go and set his horse onto the path. He was joined briefly by Lugh, who ran excitedly around his animal, causing the horse to dance on his hind legs, before taking off on a run after Sybelle's mount.

Bran brought his horse under control.

"What the devil has gotten into that dog?" Auliffe wondered. "'Tis not like him to leave unless 'tis with Killroone or the lady."

"Waste no time on the behavior of the creature, Auliffe. Sure you'll be seeing him return after he's had a long run,"

Auliffe shook his head in agreement. "'Tis right that you are, Lord Branduff. Now off with you, lad. And be careful where you be planting your seed in Wales. I heard tales the women there can sap your strength as none other. 'Tis a lusty place, to be sure." He slapped the horse's rump as Bran rode swiftly towards the sea path.

Sybelle was waiting for him along the beach. Her horse pawed the sand. She clenched and unclenched her hand.

What was keeping him? Do hurry, Branduff, she said silently. She saw the ship at anchor, and the longboat which awaited them.

She heard the sound of the dog and the horse. She pulled on the reins and headed back in their direction about a half-mile. Halting, she bade Lugh be still as Bran approached. He slunk to the sands, obeying her order.

"I thought we were found out when Auliffe addressed you," Bran said in a hasty rush. "How did you know how to respond?"

"'Twas a gamble. Only a few words of his speech did I comprehend."

"Luck was with us. Let us not tarry longer, lest anyone else be suspicious. Remember, you are my guest when we board the ship. I will settle with the captain."

"Will you tell him about the change in destination?"

"Not till we are safely from Ireland. There is no need to inform him of the detour I have planned till then."

About an hour later, they were standing on the deck as the ship cast anchor and made sail.

As the captain gave his orders, Sybelle caught the dark look he threw in her direction. His earlier words to Bran as they boarded echoed in her ears.

"Ye be bringing a woman with ye? I wasn't told," he said, speaking English, which surprised Sybelle.

"You are being told now, so what difference does it make?" Bran questioned.

"See that she stays away from my men," the captain said.

At that Sybelle smiled, answering for herself. "I can promise you, captain, that your crew is safe from me."

"Beggin' your pardon, my lady," he said. Hers was a voice of the nobility, not the village slut he expected. And she wasn't Irish.

Bran pulled out a small sack of leather, tossing it to the captain.

"For the lady's passage."

"'Tis no charge, my lord. This be one of your brother's vessels."

"Then take it as a gift. She is my guest. No questions asked," Bran said in a commanding tone. "Understood?"

"As ye will, my lord." the captain agreed.

Sybelle watched Ireland fade into the mist. She was truly free. She shoved back the cloak, letting the soft current of air touch her face. As she did, Bran noted the bracelet on her wrist.

"Rolf gave you this?" he demanded quietly.

"Aye," she answered, "he did."

They remained in silence for almost another quarter of an hour. "I shall not forget the wild beauty of your land, Branduff. See how it fades into the mist as if out of some realm of fantasy?"

A dark dream of the soul, Sybelle thought. A conjurer's trick come to life, both compelling in its majesty and dangerous. Far from gentle. Years from kind. Yet in the little time she had spent in this area, it had captured a piece of her heart. Unwelcome tears filled her blue-gray eyes.

The plaintive cry of a sea bird sounded overhead.

Why do I feel as though a part of me still resides in the land beyond the mist?

England. I must think of England. I'm for Dorset and my family. Home. Strange how that word tasted almost acrid as she said it aloud, "Home."

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

When Rolf awoke he was confused, groggy. Pushing himself into a sitting position against the carved headboard, he soon realized that he was not in his own room; he was in Sybelle's. And he was fully dressed. He thrust the hair back from his face with both hands, attempting to remember what he was doing there.

And where was Sybelle?

The sun high overhead told him that he had slept most of the morning away, that it was probably well into the afternoon. Sweet Jesu, he hadn't slept this deeply for a long time. Why last night?

Branduff. His brother was to set sail early this day with the tide. He had missed that. Damnation. He should have been there to see him safe off.

Getting off the bed he spied the basin filled with water. He splashed his face, reaching for the soft linen next to the jug. He looked back to the bed, wondering where the Lady Sybelle had slept. He couldn't remember anything except for putting the bracelet on her pale wrist. Only blackness, except for a strange dream. Fragments of that he could recall. Sybelle held him in her arms, spoke softly to him of love, and cried. He wanted to speak, to break through the darkness to offer comfort and warmth, yet no words could he utter. Silence held him a prisoner of the blackness.

Sorrow at having missed his brother's leavetaking came over him. What he needed was a ride to clear his head and alleviate the dolor which threatened his mood. He would find Sybelle and they would take the horses and the dogs for a long run. Mayhap he would fill a large leather pouch with some items of foodstuffs so they could eat a meal away from the confines of the castle.

Shoes. He could go nowhere without them. He looked around for his boots and saw them at the foot of the bed.

The memory of the dream caught him unawares. It brought him to a discovery, to a revelation. Through the aching void when he tried to speak and couldn't, he could hear the words forming silently in his brain, needing to be set free. He was unable to say them before, but the images of the dream forced him to come to terms with what was in his heart. An examination of his deepest emotions while trapped in the hell of silence compelled him to express what he'd discovered.

He loved the Lady Sybelle. He had realized it only when he thought that she was lost to him. He thought of being near her and unable to grasp her close, to truly see her, experience again and again the exquisite joy that was his own private heaven as he joined his flesh to hers, shattered his cool composure. He could feel the loss, and resolved not to allow it to happen. Memories alone were too cold to contemplate.

Let Hugh Fitzgerald and all the armies England could muster come to his door. He wouldn't surrender her to anyone. She would cleave to him, and he to her.

The words he'd spoken to her at the beach were all too true.

For now.

Forever.

She was his. There was no going back to the way of life either had before. Their destinies were intertwined. She wouldn't be merely his ceminter, his chief wife; no, Sybelle would be the comthigerna. Rarely was such an honor paid to a woman. The Brehon custom of an equal marriage, with the wife as co-lord, had fallen into disuse since the Norman encroachment into his land. He would revive the ceremony. Aye, his people would know in what esteem he held his countess.

Eager to find Sybelle, Rolf left the room, searching through the keep for her. After an hour, he still hadn't located her. His temper was beginning to surface as he found himself chasing the chimera that was Sybelle. His patience was approaching an end as no one claimed to have seen the lady this day. Empty answers greeted him.

"Auliffe." He called out as he watched the big man give a lesson in the use of weapons.

"Aye, my lord?"

"Have you seen the Lady Sybelle?"

"Nay." He wiped the sweat from his brow. "'Tis been a quiet day here. Only your brother and Etain have I seen this morn."

"Etain?"

"Aye. She rode out with your brother. She promised to return to see my wife, yet she hasn't returned to the castle.''

"Nonsense," Rolf said, "She is with Siobhan. I saw her enter her mother's room after gathering some plants from the herb garden."

Auliffe dismissed the lad he was training. "That cannot be, my lord. She rode out with Lord Branduff early this morn and no one has entered the gates, or left, since."

A quick torch of fear lighted in Rolf's stomach. No. She couldn't have fled with his brother. Never. Not now.

No!

Rolf hurried into the keep, pushing aside several servants, who backed against the wall, afraid of the look in his eyes, the cold set of the fierce warrior on his face.

He burst into Siobhan's room, sending the heavy oaken door crashing against its hinges.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

Etain stilled her mother's speech as Siobhan made to answer the question. His hair and clothes were rumpled, his appearance haggard. The green eyes narrowed with a look of such bleakness that Etain blanched. She felt the chill penetrate her very bones.

"She is gone, my lord Rolf."

His mouth was a grimace of pain as he took her words like a physical blow. His lips twisted to form a bitter line in his handsome face.

"You aided her?" he asked, walking to where she sat with her mother, sorting herbs.

She lowered her eyes from the pain evident in his. Sweet Jesu, she thought quickly. He will never forget this insult. She raised her head and stood up. "Aye," was spoken softly.

Rolf felt his hand curling into a fist. He was within his rights to punish her for betraying him. None would gainsay it. His arm lifted, his hand stretched out as if he would strike her.

Etain waited for the blow that never came.

Instead, Rolf turned his back on her, pausing at the door. He didn't bother to face her as he spoke; his words were uttered in a voice raw with emotion. "Be gone. Leave here this day. Never do I desire to see your face again."

"My lord," Siobhan pleaded, afraid of losing her child.

"Seek no compassion from me." His speech was curt and raw.

"'Tis as I expected, Mother." Etain's tears fell freely. "I did what I believed to be right, my lord."

"You betrayed me." He paused. "Me, who was ever your friend, your lord." Rolf pronounced the last word with emphasis. Clearly he felt that if she didn't believe she had a duty to him as her friend, as her former lover, then he expected, demanded, it as her lord.

In a tone filled with sadness he asked, "Was Branduff aware of your actions?"

"My lord" Etain began, her composure slipping.

"Yea or nay?" he demanded, still refusing to look upon her.

"Your brother is an honorable man who did what he felt he had to do. He loves you, my lord, as do we all."

"Then I am to be considered a fortunate man, am I not?" he asked. "I could only wish my enemies such extreme good fortune."

"She has left you a note," Etain said, barely above a whisper.

"Where?" It cost him a fraction of pride to say that word.

"I placed it in your bedchamber."

Etain wanted desperately to reach out and throw her arms around his waist, rest her head upon that broad back, stroke away his hurt and pain, give him ease in whatever way that she could. It was too late for that, too late for regrets as she watched his tall form vanish from the room.

Siobhan took her daughter's hand, squeezing it, saying, "He will relent. "Tis just that he is hurt."

Etain's pale blue eyes sparkled with her tears. "Oh my mother, he is Killroone, and Bran and I have wounded more than his pride. Do you not see that he hates now? And with good reason."

Siobhan knew her daughter spoke the truth; she also knew in her heart that Rolf loved his brother and cared for her daughter. Now he was blinded by pain, but later he would see clearly. No one had ever thwarted him. Such a man as Rolf O'Dalaigh would eventually see the reason of their actions, why her daughter and the lord Bran had given the Lady Sybelle their protection in this endeavor.

Rolf took the stairs two at a time, hurrying to his chambers. Anxious to see the note the Lady Sybelle left, he threw open the door and beheld a folded piece of parchment on the wide bed.

He opened the paper carefully. The message written inside was simple, without any hint of bitterness or despair. Only one word, written in Sybelle's hand, in Gaelic.

He crushed the note in his large palm, tossing it to the stone floor in anger, in frustration.

"Sybelle." It was said softly, in a whisper, delivered with pain. Again, "Sybelle." This time slightly louder. He felt the sharp sense of betrayal, the invasion of loss. The love he had been eager, willing to bestow, was now thrown back in his face. He was denied the chance to tell her, denied the love that had been his. Was his. Gone were his hopes for an afternoon's tryst, for a lifetime of sharing. Shredded were the happy expectations he'd held.

Bran.

Traitor. To his name, his rank, his heritage, his blood. The pain he felt intensified. Damn him.

Rolf bent and retrieved the paper from the floor. He seated himself and smoothed out the crumpled edges. His eyes again read the single word written there:

Mбthair.

I forgive.

Rolf threw back his head and cried in agony, the force of his voice echoing around the walls of his chamber, reverberating through the very keep itself, with his pain. "Sybelle!" It was the sound of a soul in torment, the keening wail of an animal for its lost mate.

PART 2
A PROMISE RENEWED

Chapter 25

Duvessa hugged herself and smiled. There was no doubt in her mind that she was with child. Hugh would be a father once more.

She wondered if this babe would bring her and Hugh closer together. The past weeks had only widened the gap between them. They played the part of loving husband and wife to those around them, yet they did not communicate in the same way they had previously. Too many shadows floated between them. She sorely missed that communion: missed the warm feel of Hugh's arms around her in her sleep; missed the way he would talk about his dreams. Most of all she missed his laughter, his wit, the wry comments that came to his lips. Her slender arm strayed towards his side of the bed. Still they slept in the same room, in the same wide bed, yet they touched not. She slid to where his body had left an imprint and fitted her body into that space, as if by doing so she could absorb some of the essence of Hugh that she yearned for.

Duvessa buried her face in the linen that covered the large pillow where Hugh's head had lain. She smelled him, and that made her loneliness all the more acute. Oh, Hugh, my love, I cannot bear this distance! It tears me apart to see you withdrawn and remote from me, she thought, her mood pierced by melancholy.

She sat up, pulling the pillow atop her knees. Hugh was not the only person who withdrew from her in this household. Clare was still wary of her, unsure of what to expect. Audrey had no such reservations; she had welcomed Duvessa and the two had become close almost at once. Duvessa wanted that with Clare, not just for Hugh's sake but for her own and the sake of the child she carried, which would share blood with the twins. But how could she reach the girl? What could she say to make Clare understand just how much she loved Hugh? Enough to risk all that she held dear. Could she make Clare see that she wanted to be her friend, and not just for Hugh's sake?

She heard voices outside the mullioned window left open to let in the soft breeze. Duvessa hurried from the bed and peeked out. She saw her husband and her step-daughter returning from what appeared to be a small hunt. She watched as Hugh gave over his hawk to a handler, bade his child farewell, and prepared to ride out again.

He looked up at that moment and saw his wife's face in the window. Her hair was long and loose, waving around her slim shoulders like a blanket of black silk. He nodded his head in a curt greeting before pulling hard on the reins and turning his horse away.

Duvessa brushed aside the tear that fell. She saw the curious look that Clare threw upwards in her direction, and decided that today she must face Clare's hostilities. She could bear no more.

Dressing quickly, she waited for Clare in the room the twins shared. She assumed that Clare would want to change from the clothes she had worn to hunt in. She knew that Audrey was busy with her devotions and would be at the small family chapel at the back of the manor house. And obviously her husband had other matters to attend to, as he had ridden out once again. This was her chance.

Clare pulled off the gloves that shielded her hands from the claws of her bird. She stepped into her room and saw her step-mother sitting there, hands clasped together, waiting for her. She inhaled deeply, wondering what the Irish woman wanted. Dropping her gloves to the bed, she poured some water to refresh herself, and helped herself to an apple. That was something she'd noticed since she'd arrived. There were always jugs of cold water in their rooms; fresh fruit, nuts, oatcakes from the realm of the Scots were left on silver trenchers in case they wished to nibble on something while they read, sewed, or rested. More varied items were fetched back from the village market for their larder.

She bit into the apple flesh with a snap, her dark eyes trained on Duvessa.

Each could feel the hostility that vibrated in the room, and each wanted to dispel it. Clare knew that for her father to have taken Duvessa to wife, he had to have loved her greatly, for to him there was no real profit in such an alliance. He could have had wealthier heiresses in his own country; he could have chosen a woman of higher birth and more influence, even a bride from France or another land. He was a man not usually given to whims. His position in society dictated a great responsibility. Yet for this woman, he had sacrificed what Clare would once have thought impossible. It was the loss of her sister in another's plan for revenge that haunted her, made her less receptive to her father's wife. Audrey had no hesitation in accepting the woman; Clare wished that she didn't feel this shade of resentmerit. Even on the ride she had shared with her father this day, she could feel the uneasy tension between them. They did not discuss either his marriage or her elder sister. There was a distance between them that hadn't existed heretofore. And it was because of her reaction to Duvessa. But how to break down the walls she had erected without sacrificing her own feelings?

Duvessa shared Clare's apprehension, without knowing that both were experiencing it. "I must have a few words with you, Clare, if you do not mind," she said, her voice soft and lilting.

"As you wish," Clare answered, joining Duvessa on the long wooden bench in front of the empty grate. There was no need for a fire at this time of day, as the weather was quite lovely, warm and bright.

"Clare, I am to have a child," Duvessa stated baldly, feeling that perhaps the mention of the babe might help to change Clare's attitude.

Clare's first excited thought.

How pleased must be her father was. A new life for the Fitzgeralds. She said a silent prayer that it was a son, for Derran's sake. A tentative smile crossed her wide mouth. "When is the babe due?"

Duvessa smiled in response, pride evident. "In the early months of the next year."

"Derran must be well contented."

"I have not yet told your father."

Clare's blonde eyebrows raised. "Why then have you told me?"

"I want us to be close, to be a part of a family," Duvessa said with total honesty. She stood up. "These past years, I have had only the sons of my mother's brother for family. The visits we shared were always over too soon. Rolf became earl at an early age, a boy forced to grow up quickly. He has much concern with his lands and his father's business.

"I was not blessed with either a sister or a brother of my own." She stopped her narrative for a moment, hoping that what she would impart would make Clare realize how lucky she had been to have known the love of at least one parent and sisters. "The wedding of my parents was arranged, a blending of families and interests. No love was shared by them. My father was already enamored of another woman, the wife of one of his vassals. My mother knew and accepted that." Duvessa remembered her mother's sad, beautiful face, knowing that all she possessed of her husband was his protection and his name, not his love. "My father was killed in a riding accident, and my mother succumbed to a fever the following year."

Clare experienced sympathy for the girl Duvessa had been. Stripped by fate of both mother and father, and no relatives close by. Her own mother's loss had been cushioned by the protective love of her older sister and Derran. ''Could you not have lived with your cousin Killroone?"

"I suppose that I could have chosen to, as Killroone is head of our clan, yet I felt for myself that I should remain in my own home." She paused and thought about how she wanted to word her next sentence. She could remember clearly the first time she beheld the man who was now her husband. Shy and reserved, Duvessa had hesitated about the invitation that requested her presence at a function to honor the appointment of a new Royal Sheriff. Deciding that it was her duty to attend, she sent word that she would. "I was fifteen when I met your father, Clare. He was a man much feared and respected."

"Aye, he was ever that," Clare said, responding to the emotional content of Duvessa's speech.

Duvessa didn't bother to say that the stories she head about the fierce and warlike Earl of Derran had made her think him a man without pity, a man who would be ugly with power, harsh-featured in his own importance. "Think you that I fell in love with him because he was rich? Because of his prowess as a soldier?" Duvessa's wide hazel eyes were alight with remembrance. "'Twas his smile," she said simply.

Clare blinked. "His smile?" she asked.

"Aye. A simple thing, perhaps, but the truth." She had been seated next to him that night so long ago, surprised that he wasn't the man she'd imagined. When introductions were made, Duvessa gradually relaxed, and as the meal progressed she found herself listening to what he had to say. She watched his face, found herself intrigued by his comments on people and events. There was a serious side to the man, yet she was also witness to the humor that transformed him from a symbol to a man. A stern visage was permutated; she saw instead the handsome, boyish features that laughter allowed few to glimpse.

"Hugh is very complex, a man of great passions, who is able to focus his energies totally on what he has to do. He is a man of honor and courage. Yet I would say that few have been permitted to see the man as he really is. He exposed something of himself to me that night, and in his smile I found a wealth beyond riches, for unlike other men, Hugh smiles also with his eyes."

Duvessa's face was aglow with her love. Even Clare could recognize that. "From that night he was ever in my thoughts. Each time I saw him again it only made me want him more. He shared that laughter with me, gave a part of himself that he hesitated to share with others. And I think that I have been good for him also. He needs no pretenses with me. And in him I saw the true strength that he possesses, that of a man who is not afraid to be gentle."

Clare listened, enraptured by the picture of her father that Duvessa was revealing. "Did you tell him of how you felt?"

Duvessa sighed. "Not at first. There was too much against our friendship; however, I could not resist what he offered, nor I think, could he resist what I had to offer him. I told myself, at the beginning, that I was in need of a man to take my father's place in my life. 'Twas a lie that I used for fear that Hugh would see just how much he meant to me."

"Did you wish him to be your father?"

Duvessa sighed. "Never. 'Twas the same that first night as now, I wanted Hugh as a woman loves a man. Others saw Hugh as only the earl, the soldier, the warrior. They did not know that he has as much charm as your English king." Duvessa acknowledged the vulnerability that she saw in Hugh, that none but she was privy to. It was exposed when he began to talk to her of his children, of his love and pride in them. This touched Duvessa's heart, making her love him even more.

"When did you accept this love?" Clare asked.

"The first night that I beheld him, though I did not admit it to Hugh until last year, when I ached to be with him, when my love grew even stronger. Our moments together were no longer enough for me." She did not speak of the moment when Hugh first kissed her. That was so precious that she could not share that with anyone, even his daughter. He had smiled then, just before he placed his mouth to hers and withdrew her soul to his keeping. When he asked in that husky voice for her mouth, she had given him much more, for he possessed her life and her love for as long as she was alive. He retreated when she would have surrendered. She grasped then the lesson that she had once read in Latin from the Book of Ruth when she was a child: "Whither thou goest, I will go. . . . "

"Can you understand just what Hugh means to me?" Duvessa reached out her hand as if to touch Clare, then pulled it back to her side. "He spoke often of his children, his love for them. When I was a guest at Castle Derran, I could see that love was reciprocated. I wanted to be a part of that closeness, that sense of kinship.

"Will you not relent towards me for your father's sake, especially now, Clare?" This time Duvessa again held out her hand in friendship and kept it out.

Clare saw the feelings that Duvessa did not hide, and she realized that Duvessa was as much caught in this game as were they all. The clear hazel eyes spoke of love for her father, and Clare knew that she could not deny what she knew to be true, that this woman and her lord father were wed, and that now there was to be an addition to their family. Even though she was aware that Hugh Fitzgerald and his wife were having differences, who couldn't fail to observe that her father seemed to eat the Irish woman alive with his eyes, even when he did not so much as touch her. This was indeed a strain on all, and her twin had wisely recognized that in Duvessa was a woman for their father. And, Clare thought, could she blame her father and this woman for taking happiness? Love in marriage was not the normal mode. Hadn't she been aware that she would be given to a man who more than likely would be a stranger to her? She should be grateful that her beloved father found in Duvessa a woman so desiring of his happiness, who cherished him. And she realized that she herself had a wealth of happiness to draw on, that Duvessa hadn't had the same security that she had, hadn't been surrounded by the love of sisters and father. Duvessa's eyes were wide and guileless; Clare decided to trust them.

"It shall be as you wish, belle-mere *," Clare whispered, embracing Duvessa.

"Thank you, daughter mine," Duvessa responded.

"Shall you tell my father?"

"Aye, this night I will give him the news that I hope will gladden his heart."

"Then I shall make sure that Audrey and I retire early this evening so that you and he can share this wondrous news by yourselves."

Duvessa touched her lips to Clare's cheek. "I would be most grateful."

"Consider it done," Clare assured her. Then, aware that she really shouldn't be asking but unable to help herself, she questioned, "What of the younger brother? He was with the Wolf when he captured my sister."

Duvessa studied Clare's face before replying. "Branduff is a man of gentler nature than Rolf. He was born with the touch of the poet." Duvessa's eyes were sharp. "Why do you seek to know about him?"

"No reason, for truth," Clare said, walking around the room, creating tasks for herself as she straightened the already made bed that she shared with Audrey.

A sly smile curved Duvessa's mouth. "He will inherit his own estates in Wales."

"Wales?" Clare asked, curious, then wishing she hadn't sounded quite so interested.

"Aye. The Lady Brianna, mother to Rolf and Bran, was a princess of that land. She knew full well that Rolf would one day be Killroone, and she wanted her younger son to have something of her own lands so that there would be a place for him should he decide to take it."

"So he will have a land of his own to control?"

"If one can be said to ever control any property amongst the Welsh. Both sons are princes there, though Rolf never intended to take any part of his lands there. All were for Bran. It is time for him to decide if he wishes to forsake Ireland."

Clare tried to make her voice sound unconcerned with her next question, though she did not fool Duvessa. "Where in Wales?"

"In the north, I believe."

"The north?" She paused. "I do recall that my father has an estate on the border with Wales."

"He has many estates, or so I am told."

"Aye," Clare said, "Derran has another in York also, granted him by Gloucester for services rendered."

"He seems to prefer this manor house."

"It stands on land that our family has owned since the time before the Conqueror came to these shores."

"Forsooth?"

"'Twas the property of a Saxon ancestor of ours. A man who married a woman from Normandy."

Duvessa, not knowing why that should sound so surprising, asked, "You say that as if 'twas some special occurrence?"

"'Twas an event." Clare grinned. "She was a lady of Matilda's court, much prized for her beauty, but unwed at a late age. Her temper was fierce, and 'twas thought that she was a scoldnot to mention that there were rumors that she was not a true maiden. The Lord Aidan wed her as a favor to his king, for unlike most Saxons, he was a supporter of Duke William, not Harold. He even look her name as his own. Thus we are Fitzgeralds instead of whatever Saxon name was his." Clare shrugged. "'Tis been lost in time."

"What an interesting story," Duvessa declared.

"I always thought it so." Clare shared her delight with Duvessa. "By all regards, they were happy, and had ten children."

"Then he found the key to taming the shrew," Duvessa chided.

"'Twas here that my father was born. It was then a huge keep. Later it was ordered destroyed by the forces of the former queen, wife of the usurper styled Henry VI."

Duvessa vowed to learn all that she could about her husband's ancestry, so that she could tell her own childher son, she amendedabout the mixed heritage he would share. "Will you tell me more, later, of your family?"

Clare was thrilled that Duvessa would show such an interest in her ancestors; she had always found them fascinating and had spent hours translating documents, particularly about the Saxon and the Norman woman he had taken to wife. "It shall be my pleasure, my lady mother."

"Good. Then you must allow me to share with you the tales of my own family, and Ireland." By doing that Duvessa was convinced she would forge a bond that would draw her and Clare closer together. It was a small thing to build upon, but coupled with their love for Hugh, it would work.

Chapter 26

Duvessa had ordered a hot bath to be waiting for Hugh when he returned. Tonight she would tell him about the babe. A meal was to be served in their room for privacy. The twins were to have their meal on their own, as she had outlined to Clare.

Nervously, she paced the capacious room, anxious for Hugh to put in an appearance. She ordered a fire laid in the hearth, as she could feel a slight chill in the evening air.

"Duvessa," came the quiet, strong tones of her husband's voice.

She turned at that sound and saw him standing in the entranceway to their bedchamber. He cast his eyes on the tub, saw the curls of steaming warmth rise. He would welcome relaxing into that.

"I have prepared your bath, my lord," she said, coming forward to relieve him of his short cloak.

Hugh allowed her hands to work on him, pulling off the clothes that he wore until he stood before her totally bare.

Duvessa shut her eyes to the rippling musculature of her husband's mature body. Her breath caught painfully in her throat as she longed to stroke her fingers along each and every rib, across the firm stomach, embrace the flat buttocks and slender thighs. How could he remain so calm whilst she was being torn up inside as she surreptitiously watched him slid into the deep recesses of the tub? She gripped the chair for support, taking a deep breath, then picked up a cloth and dipped it into the water. Producing a bar of fragrant soap, she lathered the cloth and proceeded to glide it around his supple back, up and over his shoulders, and around his chest.

Hugh thought that it was just as well that he was covered by the water lest his wife see the quick physical reaction her ministrations were having on him. How long had it been since he'd buried his aching, throbbing flesh in hers? He could feel the tightening of his manhood in reaction to her nearness. He had felt it earlier that day when he looked up at the window and saw her there, her long hair flowing around her shoulders like a proud banner. Was it his imagination, or was she lingering over his nipples? Was she slowing the touch of her hands and the abrasion of the cloth? He closed his eyes. Up and down he could feel the rhythm of her slender hands. God, he was acting like a stripling youth first enamored of a woman's charms. Lonely had been the hours since last they had lain together. He craved the comfort she provided, and more than the comfort, he needed the feel of her flowing and ebbing around his body like the very breath of life itself.

He raised one long leg against the copper rim of the tub. Duvessa massaged his calf with careful soothing gestures, rubbing the cloth softly, ministering to that part of his body. Her fingers manipulated the toes of his foot so that he gasped slightly. He was angry at himself and the reaction she produced in his body. He started at the strong touch of her hand as she captured his other leg, doing the same to it. He braced himself against the back rim and opened his blue eyes. She didn't seem to care that she was getting droplets of water on her gown. And what a lovely gown it was. Her white skin, skin that he loved to kiss, was exposed. He could see where the gathering of the bodice had pushed up her breasts so that they were half exposed. The mounds of flesh tempted him. Was it his imagination, or had they taken on a fuller, more mature look? He ran his tongue around his suddenly dry lips, waiting to see if she would proceed to that part of his body that lay hidden, but which was sorely in need of some attention.

He closed his eyes once again as he saw the smile curve her lips.

Suddenly, he found himself sputtering water. She had doused him with cold water.

"Sorry, my lord," she said, "I picked up the wrong bucket."

"'Tis of no consequence," he lied, pushing the wet curls of hair from his forehead.

"I only wanted to wet your hair so that I might clean it." She poured a small amount of precious oil into her palms and rubbed them together. She slowly stroked her fingertips around his skull, across his forehead, around his neck. He sighed deeply, visibly relaxing and enjoying the comfort that she gave. She bent forward and rinsed the shampoo from the dark reddish-blond curls. The exposed nape of his neck was inviting, and without hesitation, Duvessa placed her mouth atop the wet skin for a brief kiss.

Hugh sucked in his breath, fighting for control. He forced himself to recall that Sybelle was the prisoner of a man who had surely taken his pleasure of her inexperienced flesh.

''Enough," he said in a tone that resembled a growl.

Duvessa dropped the cloth to the floor and handed him a long length of linen, turning her back as he stepped from the tub.

She walked to the door and left the room. Moments later, a burly servant entered and removed the tub, followed by another who picked up the buckets of water and discarded cloths.

Hugh pulled on a pair of blue hose and a white shirt, which he left loosely laced. He rubbed briskly at his thick hair with a piece of fine Irish linen.

Duvessa entered the room with Drucilla. Each was carrying a silver tray, upon which rested various dishes of food. She instructed the girl to place it on the small table which had been placed that afternoon before the hearth.

"Anything else, my lady?"

"You may leave us, Drucilla. Thank you for your help," Duvessa added quietly.

Drucilla winked at her, uncaring that she was being vulgar. It was simple to see what would take place in this room tonight. Man and woman, be they lord or servant, were all subject to the hunger that drew them to each other. She shut the door softly behind her.

"Wine, Hugh?"

Her voice, that softly lilting Irish voice, had the power to twist his insides. He glanced at her as she poured a goblet of wine, holding it out to him. "Thank you, my lady," he responded, making sure that their hands did not touch as he took the goblet from her fingers. Christ, he wanted to fling the damned wine to the floor, little caring what stains were left behind and take her there, on the wood, scattering the several beautiful rugs which kept out the cold, and appease the burning hunger, the raw, desperate feeling of passion she inspired.

And he missed, strangely enough, the sound of her laughter, the joyous sounds that gave him an opportunity to talk, to share. He hadn't done that with any other woman except his Sybelle. Not even his first wife had gotten that close. He felt bereft without the mirth, without the questions, without the concern. It was as if he were imprisoned in an invisible cell. He wanted to reach out, to seek the warmth; and he knew that he shouldn't . . . couldn't. He called on his reserves of strength and put thoughts of her warm and willing body out of his mind.

He doesn't even want me to touch him, she thought. Is that because he feels the need and shares it? That he cannot endure this separation of all that we have been to one another? Would he be shocked to learn that she could barely restrain herself from begging him to take her, here, now, or wherever and whenever he chose? He had opened the world of sensual pleasure to her, and she ached to feel him a part of her again. Worse, she needed to feel a part of his life. Not this pretense she was acting for the sake of appearances; no, Duvessa wanted the power of sharing Hugh with Hugh. That closeness of spirit that united them made him irresistible to her.

Now she must tell him that there was to be a child of this union, a blessing of the Holy Mother for which she would show her gratitude.

"Where are Audrey and Clare?"

His back to her hurt Duvessa. Hugh, Hugh, her mind silently pleaded, do not turn away from me. "They are taking their meal in their chambers. Each was tired and wished to sup alone."

"Then let us do the same, madame," he said, folding his tall body into the chair. He sank his teeth into the succulent joint of venison and commenced the meal in silence.

This went on for several minutes before Duvessa could stand it no longer. "Hugh, I have some things that I wish to share with you."

Hugh picked up his glass, carefully refilling it. His blue eyes narrowed, his mouth drew taut. He placed the goblet on the table, idly fingering the design, closing in and pulling away.

A shaft of pure desire threatened to destroy the hard-fought-for composure Duvessa tried to maintain. She could contain her words no longer. "Hugh, I am with child."

Abruptly his hand fell away from the glass. He looked at her, saw the wetness of tears fill her huge eyes. His child. His beloved wife carried his babe. The last time a woman had been with his child, she and the babe had died. Could he bear that happening to his Duvessa? The deed was accomplished, yet pride warred with concern.

Please say something, Hugh, Duvessa silently screamed. Do not leave me in agony whilst you sit there.

He stood up, pushing back his chair and came around to her side of the table. He knelt on the floor with one leg. He placed one large hand across her slim stomach. All he could feel was the soft texture of the white velvet that she wore. Her words told him that inside her she carried a child, his child, possibly a son. "'Tis a certainty?"

She dared not place her hand in his as she longed to do. That Hugh had made the first step was pleasure enough. "Aye, 'tis certain I am of it. The babe will be born in the New Year."

"Undress." He said it so simply.

She blinked, wondering what he wanted.

Hugh stood up, holding out his hand and taking hers in it, pulling her to her feet. "Undress," he repeated, his voice commanding her with a dark power.

She undid the laces that held the dress at the sides. Sliding it down over her body, she stepped out of it. She removed the other garments that she wore as quickly, scattering them to the floor. She stood before him, naked, with only her hair as covering. He knelt before her again, pushing aside the thick curtain of hair. Hugh placed, once more, his palm against the satiny feel of her flesh.

Duvessa looked down. She could feel the quivering of her stomach as he replaced his hands with his mouth. She almost fainted from the touch. "Hugh," she said, her voice straining, pleading.

And then he was gone, vanished from the room with the rapidness of a soldier in retreat from a dangerous situation. Her legs buckled and she sank to the pile of abandoned clothes, weeping.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

A full bottle of fine French brandy lay within his reach, but he couldn't bring himself to touch it. Instead, he kept his face towards the flames that glittered brightly. He had tried to purge his thoughts of what his wife had told him. He had selected a volume on military campaigns from the time of Caesar. He could still see where it lay, open, tilted at an abnormal angle against the wall where he'd thrown it in his sense of frustration.

He gripped his hands into fists. How very hard it had been to leave her when she told him her news. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and carry her to the bed, assuring her that he found her more desirable than ever, that he yearned for her with all that was within him, that he could think of no greater gift that she could give him. He wanted to shout, "I love you!"

Yet the darkness of this room as the fire died down reflected the darkness of his mood. While he could rejoice that he was to be a father again, did there exist the possibility that somehow, some way, God was playing a trick on him? Giving him the opportunity to again welcome flesh of his flesh into the world while removing his eldest child from it?

Hours passed slowly as he continued to sit, watching. For what? he asked himself. A sign? A revelation from God? None would come.

Clare found him, slumped in his chair, a morose look on his face, the next morning. He looks exhausted, she thought, surprised to find him there. She thought that he had spent the night in his own chambers, with his wife, celebrating the happy news. She picked up the leather volume and replaced it on the shelf, taking note of the damaged vellum pages.

"Father," she said softly, shaking him gently.

He awoke quickly, his hand automatically going towards his side for a weapon. Old habits were hard to break, he thought as he opened his eyes and saw Clare standing over him.

"Good morrow, daughter," he said, standing and stretching out the cramped muscles that bent his body.

"Good morrow to you, father. Sir John is newly arrived from Ireland. He awaits you in the Hall. I thought it best to give him some food first."

"See that we are not disturbed." Hugh made for the door, then turned. "Has he said anything about Sybelle?" He knew that had his eldest child returned, she would have come straightaway to him without ceremony.

"No, my sister is not with him. He said that he wished to speak to you alone." Clare could not hide the fear that was in her eyes. "Think you that the news is bad?"

"No," he said thickly.

Dismissing Clare, Hugh entered the Hall and saw his chief man-at-arms making steady work on a large portion of ham, a loaf of bread, and a small fowl. Sir John rose when he saw Hugh enter the room, and Huge bade him resume his seat. He poured a tankard of fresh ale for Sir John and one for himself.

"What have you learnt?"

"That the Earl of Killroone holds your daughter and has yet to return her. He sends you this message." Sir John pushed the sealed parchment bearing the wolf's head emblem towards Hugh. "In it, I am led to understand, he will take another month to give you his decision regarding the freeing of your daughter." Sir John took a mouthful of ale before continuing. "It seems that he is in no hurry. And my man checked the defenses of the building while he was inside. There is no way in or out except by Killroone's leave."

"'Tis as I expected. Making an assault on his stronghold is beyond contemplation."

"Aye, my lord. It could prove fatal to the Lady Sybelle."

"Do you think that he would . . . ?"

"No, my Lord Derran. Put that thought from your mind," Sir John admonished. It was time to tell his lord that from his man's reports, she was being given special treatment by the Irish lord. Just how very special would destroy any hopes that nothing had happened between them. "Robin told me that the Wolf is quite . . . " Words failed him then.

"What?" Hugh questioned.

"That Killroone is behaving towards your daughter as if she were his leman.

"Hugh thundered, "His whore?"

"So it appeared to the lad. There was a familiarity between the two, a closeness. Robin said Killroone favored her with his attentions."

Lines of strain were carved deeply into Hugh's features. He was a man tortured by what he had heard, and he could do nothing about it. Now Sir John knew that he had to deliver another piece of news that would darken Derran's face even further. "There are two other matters, my lord."

"Aye?"

"Twould appear your daughter's movements were betrayed by the man I suspected." Hugh's eyes were flinty chips of blue fire. "Was he dispatched?"

"Aye." Sir John described what happened at Castle Derran. He spoke of every detail, giving Hugh a chance to see in his mind's eye what fate was doled out to a traitor.

"He suffered?"

"Indeed, much, my lord."

Hugh's smile was cold. "What was the second concern?"

"When Robin was in the keep of Killroone, he chanced to see another messenger arrive."

"Who?"

"'Twas the lady-in-waiting whom I escorted back to the O'Neill estateYseult."

"She was come to Killroone's keep?"

"Aye. Robin was certain that she was there to deliver a message, but he couldn't really be sure as they spoke in the Irish tongue whilst he was standing there."

Hugh mulled over that notion in his mind. If Yseult was in Ireland, at Killroone's castle, then she was there for Duvessa. There could be no other reasonable conclusion. She had gone against his express wishes and communicated with her cousin.

"You will excuse me, Sir John, but I must confer with my countess." Hugh stood up. "Pray finish your meal. I will be back ere long." He snatched the note from Killroone and left the room, heading for the stairs that lead to the upper floor of the manor. Turning towards the room that he and Duvessa shared, he entered quietly. He saw her, curled up in the bed, her hair fanning out against the fur pelt that covered her. Her face looked innocent and trusting. It was hard to believe that she was a woman who had known a man's embrace and was now carrying his child. Had this been another time, he would have cast off his rumpled garments and joined her in the comfort of the wide bed, kissing her awake, feeling her flesh come alive in his hands, listening to the excited sounds of her heartbeat as he kissed the pulse in her throat. He would have seen those wide green-gold eyes come alive with the delight of love.

He sat down on the bed, whispering her name softly. "Duvessa."

She heard her name being called through the traces of her dream. She could feel the warmth of his hand caressing her face.

She opened her eyes and saw her husband sitting next to her in their bed. "Hugh." His name was love from her lips.

Duvessa sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, unaware how sweet a gesture her husband found that. She could see the tiredness in his face, and longed to soothe away all the hurt and the pain. She reached up her hand without thinking, to caress his face. "What's wrong?"

Hugh savored the forbidden moments of her touch, her soft hand unafraid as she boldly followed her heart. He could stand no more and he grabbed her arm, pulling away her hand.

"You sent word to Killroone." He stated it as a fact, waiting for her response.

She would not lie to him. "I thought mayhap I could influence him."

Hugh admired her courage. She faced him squarely, neither looking away nor denying nor begging forgiveness. He approved.

Duvessa's gaze slid to the parchment Hugh held in his hand. "You've word from him?"

He curled his lean fingers around the seal and ripped it apart. He unfolded the note and scanned the contents. It was short. Hugh lifted his gaze from the and read the message aloud:

"To the most excellent Earl of Derran:

I bid you give me a month's grace from replying to your request. I must think on the terms that you sent, as you must think on mine. The Lady Sybelle is well and in good health, though she expresses a constant desire to rejoin her family.

I would add greetings to my cousin, the Lady Duvessa. When you have decided to return her to Ireland I think we shall have something upon which to base an exchange.

Killroone"

Hugh looked at Duvessa.

"It must have been written prior to my dispatch. Yseult carried a letter from me to him explaining that you are now my lawfully wedded husband, and that the Lady Sybelle is now my daughter."

"Do you think this information will have any effect on him?"

"I can but hope, Hugh."

"Meantime my Sybelle is used as a whore by that cur."

She lowered her head, saying the words, though each was a deep blade to her heart. "You could send me back to Ireland, my lord, should all else fail."

"I keep what is mine, Duvessa. Never forget that." He rose and left the room.

Hope flared within her heart at his words, though it resided there only briefly. She knew her husband, knew that he could not allow his daughter to remain there much longer. Something had to change. She prayed that her letter had found a receptive reading by Rolf, that even now he was planning on returning the Lady Sybelle to her rightful place. Could her expectations be resolved happily? Or was the hold she continued to maintain on her dreams finally to be smashedand their lives shattered irrevocably?

Chapter 27

Sybelle could see the huge chalk cliffs in the distance. She was coming home. Strange, that she still thought of this place as home; she hadn't really resided there in years. Perhaps her Saxon heritage was stronger than she'd suspected.

She breathed deeply of the fresh sea air, having overcome her recent bout with mal de mer. She knew that saying she was seasick was a way of not letting Bran know that she was with child. Sybelle had a suspicion that, had he known what was really making her feel so queasy, he would have demanded that the captain turn around and sail back to Ireland.

Not that the sea had been calm. A summer squall had arisen, and sent them through a patch of rough weather. Normally, Sybelle was a fine sailor, never succumbing to the mild upsets of travel. All that was behind her now as they sailed the channel. She could see the rugged cliffs ahead and recalled when last she was there, almost four years ago. This would be her haven; here she could recover from her recent emotional turmoil, make decisions as to what she would do in the future. Here she would once again embrace her family.

And she must face her father, telling him about her condition. That would be the hardest thing that she had to do. Sybelle knew that he loved her. Nonetheless, he was a man who held a high place in Edward's society. Would he banish her to one of the other keeps? Would he forbid her contact with the twins?

She gripped the rail of the ship tightly. Why did she insist on torturing herself with these questions, these unknown suppostions? She must accept that all would be well, that Derran would not dismiss her in shame.

Shame. Her perception of that word had changed in recent months. When first Rolf took her she feared the outcome if she should conceive a babe. When nothing resulted, she thought that she had been spared. The only thing she had to reckon with was the stigma of having no maidenhead to present to a prospective mate.

She smiled. Mayhap Etain's words were becoming more ingrained in her mind. There could be no shame in an act that brought mutual pleasure. And the act that resulted in the creation of the child she carried had been one of incredible pleasure, sweet exquisite sensations of the finest, keenest pleasure that she had ever experienced.

In truth, she could feel only a sense of joy. Or dare she admit it even to herself a pride in knowing that she wasn't barren. Should she feel shame in acknowledging that she felt no shame?

At that incredulous thought, her laughter rang out.

Bran, coming up the stairs from below ship, saw her standing at the railing, enjoying the sea air, her head thrown back. He knew that he had done the right thing in bringing her home. But the right thing still wasn't a consolation for his unhappy thoughts of his brother and his home. When he arrived in Wales, he would send a messenger to Roll with his reasons for acting as he had. Rolf could do with his greetings as he would, but Bran prayed his brother wouldn't ignore him. Some time would have passed by then, and he hoped Rolf would have attained a mellower humor, one more forgiving and understanding. And, he added to those prayers of reconciliation, that somehow, someway, Sybelle would feel the same for Rolf. He was convinced that the English woman cared deeply for his brother. Or if not that, that she no longer hated him for what he did. He counted on the capacity he believed was in Sybelle for forgiveness and love.

She turned as she heard him approach. Her smile was heartfelt and genuine. For Bran she felt an affection, a kinship. And she had much to thank him for. She recalled the stern look on the captain's face when Bran announced quite casually and without warning that there would be a change in plans. The captain's face screwed up in concern, as he calmly asked where he was supposed to be going now. When Bran informed him that England was now his destination, the man swallowed whatever comment he was about to make.

''So this is your England?"

A light of pride glowed in her eyes. "Aye, once called the ancient land of Wessex, the home of King Alfred."

He looked at the land coming closer as the ship made for the beach. "It reminds me of home."

Sybelle nodded. "In a way, perhaps. 'Tis a land of contrasts and beauty. Inland, where our manor house called Graywood is located, there are rolling hills and woodlands." She raised her brows and tilted her head. "At Cerne Abbas there is a giant figure of a man cut into the hillside. 'Tis said that he is, or was, some part of a fertility rite from people of long ago."

"Truly a giant man?"

"Indeed. He holds in his hand a club."

"How very odd," he mused. "I think that I should like to see that someday."

"I would be pleased to show it to you."

Bran's smile was ironic. "Do you truly believe that will be possible?"

Sybelle understood what he was referring to. "Bran," she said, placing her hand on his, so that her bracelet gleamed in the summer sun, "I repeat, you do not need to see me secure to my father. I will be quite safe here. I can hire a horse or coach to take me home."

"Sybelle, we have discussed this before," he patiently explained. "I said that I would see you safe home and I shall. There will be no more argument on that head."

In that tone of voice, Sybelle could hear Roll. She hadn't expected that such a comparison would hurt; it did.

"What will you do about the ship?"

"I have been thinking on that. Should I send him on to Wales with my trunks, or should I see them unloaded and left in safe-keeping in the town and go overland to Wales?"

"I too have given it thought," she said, facing him. "I think it best that you keep your things on the ship and send it on ahead. An escort will be provided for you for the rest of your journey to Wales."

"Are you sure that that can be arranged?"

With an imperious tilt of her head, she assured him, "I told you ere this, my father will honor my word." She added, "If I have to hire an escort myself, I will."

"Then I shall direct the captain to make for Wales when he's put us ashore. And I will trust your word."

Sybelle looked again towards the shore. "Lyme Regis is ahead. We can hire horses there for our journey. It will not take us long, riding hard, to make Graywood."

At that moment that captain joined them. "Beggin' yer pardon, but we be puttin' inta port now."

"I shall be leaving with the lady, Captain. I want you to see that my things are delivered to Wales as instructed."

"I was supposed to be deliverin' ye to Wales also," he said.

"I shall be there."

"What am I to say to your brother should anything happen to you? Changing direction wasn't part of the trip intended."

"I will absolve you of any responsibility," Bran said.

"Aye, but will your brother the earl?" he prodded.

Bran's gold eyes clouded over with sadness. "I think that you will be most safe, trust me. When you return with the news to my brother, do not worry. You were merely obeying orders."

The captain shrugged his shoulders and went along with the proposal, still not liking it. When the Wolf heard about his brother's departure in England, he would be most heartily displeased, and the Wolf displeased was not a sight a man should see, or endure. "As you will, my lord," he muttered, and left them alone while he scratched his head in bewilderment. Women were always an encumbrance on a ship, always bringing trouble in their wake. This one was no exception.

"I shall need to be borrowing some of your things, my lord," Sybelle said.

"What?"

"Do you think I can ride in these clothes?" She indicated the outfit she had left Ireland in. "They've seen a bit of wear, and could use a strong bath." Sybelle thought that she also could use a complete bath. Sponging off with a coarse cloth and a little sea water had not been a pleasant experience, and she longed for the comfort of a tub and clean clothes. "Please, find me something, I beg of you."

"Hawking was one thing, Sybelle, but actually riding amongst strangers dressed in the clothes of a man? Think you not that this will draw undue attention to you?"

She spoke quickly. "No. Do as I ask, please. I shall feel much more comfortable than in these garments. And I shall be able to ride better."

She was rewarded with a soft smile. "It shall be as you ask. Come, let us fetch you something from my wardrobe that will be circumspect enough whilst not attracting any more comments than necessary on the pretty boy I shall ride with."

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Her rump felt a trifle sore for all the hard riding she and Bran had been doing since they left the ship. Still, it was a tiny price to pay for freedom. And free she was. Sybelle took in the beauty of this land, from the village of Lyme Regis to the contrast of the chalk cliffs and gently rolling countryside. She saw a shepherd herding his flock towards the village, no doubt eager to sell. Lugh, running ahead, got into a barking match with the shepherd's dog until Sybelle's command to return to her forced him to obey.

They passed a grove of apple trees. She could almost taste a mug of spiced cider, cold and tart.

Evening came, yet there was still light enough to travel by. She didn't want to stop for anything, as her growling stomach reminded her. Bran had asked earlier if she wanted to stop for food at one of the taverns they'd spotted along the way. Sybelle declined because of her haste to return home.

When they passed by the estate of a neighbor, Sir Rosewell Charles, she was delightedthey were almost there! She pulled on the reins and stopped her horse, a serviceable white mare, on the hillside.

Bran did likewise, savoring the feel of the ride, dreading the eventual outcome. He'd kept his suspicions to himself regarding how her father would treat him. Duvessa, too, would be an ally, yet would it stand him in any stead with Derran? And if Derran chose to take revenge on him, who could really stop him? Fitzgerald wielded much power and influence, while he, being a stranger, and Irish, had none.

"Is this your father's land?"

"No. 'Tis the property of our nearest neighbor, a self-serving, hypocritical bore." Sybelle fairly hissed the words at him.

Bran laughed. "I take it you do not like the man?"

Sybelle pretended astonishment. "How could you tell?" She patted the mare's neck as she spoke. "He is a man who will use anyone and anything for personal gain. He's had three wives, each richer than the one before. The last he bargained to the king for several favors. Why, just last year he tried to get my father to sanction a match between one of his younger sons and my sister Clare," she confided. "Father told me and asked my thoughts on the matter." Her facial muscles tightened. "I said I'd sooner see my sister wed to an infidel as one of his get. Derran laughed and told me they were his sentiments also.''

"How did he get out of the predicament?" Bran tried to hide his curious twist of pain as he thought of Clare wed to another.

"He simply told Sir Rosewell no."

"Without explanations?"

"None," she said. Then, that was her father, blunt and perfunctory when he had to be.

"Let us away, for we still have several miles to go before we reach my lands, and the less time spent here . . . " she allowed the sentence to trail off as she put her small booted feet into the sides of the mare, letting the rested animal have its head.

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Noise was heard in the direction of the stables. Hugh was in his library, poring over reports and maps, still trying to come up with a way to free his daughter. He made notes as to how much currency he could lay his hands on, should the need arise. He even toyed with the idea of hiring foreign mercenaries to free SybelleAnything so that he wasn't linked to the plan, lest Edward find out and take revenge on his family. Nestled amongst the papers was a document from Edward sent just the other day, asking Derran if he should like to accompany his king on a hunting trip to one of his private lodges. 'Twould be a "simple party." Hugh sighed. He knew Ned's simple parties and what would be included: a bevy of Woodville inlaws and any number of women who would be thrilled to share the favors of the king and any of his entourage. It was an open invitation to fornicate in private for a week. As if he hadn't recently married, or was not worried about the loss of his child. Not a word was mentioned about that in the invitation. 'Twas as if Sybelle had ceased to exist for all save him.

Damnation! There was that raucous noise again. It sounded like whoops or exclamations. He couldn't fathom what was happening.

Duvessa came into the room, a piece of needlework in her small hand. "Hugh, there is something amiss outside. I can hear the stableboys and grooms shouting, though I cannot make out what they are saying."

"I'd best go see what it is." He rose and went to the door. Duvessa followed, and saw the twins perched on the stairs. She waved them back, saying, "Your father has gone to see what all the noise is about."

Before Hugh could reach the door, it was flung open. He saw the grinning, tear-filled face of Sir John Standish. "My lord Derran," he began, choking with emotion.

"Speak, man! What is it?"

From behind the hearty figure of Sir John stepped a lad of medium height, a gloved hand restraining a huge brute of a dog, wearing a cap of gold velvet, and decked out in matching fine attire and hose. Hugh took in the youth, the excellent cut of the doublet, although a trifle big for the lad's slender shoulders. Who was this?

The youth pulled off the gloves and stuffed then haphazardly into the doublet pocket. He then tugged at the cap, releasing the two braids of honey brown hair. And the head was suddenly lifted. Two eyes of clear blue-gray blinked with tears falling freely.

Hugh's gasp was audible. "Sybelle!" he shouted, and as he flung wide his arms, his eldest child hurtled herself into them amidst the barking of the dog. All stood back and allowed this moment the privacy it deserved. Hugh could not let her go. She was here, finally, safe in his arms. He didn't care that the tears which filled his eyes splashed down his cheeks. His large hand ran along her back in a frantic gesture to prove he held her secure in his arms, that she was no mere mirage. It was indeed his daughter.

Thank you, my sweet Lord, for this favor, Hugh said silently.

"Sybelle." He pulled back, allowing her to tilt her head and look into her face.

"'Tis me, Father."

His big hands cupped her face between his palms. His thumbs brushed aside the tracks of the tears that made her eyes, her mother's eyes, sparkle. He kissed her and dropped his hands, so that they gripped her sides as he swung her wide in a circle.

The twins were crying also, and they fell upon their sister as soon as Hugh permitted. Sybelle hugged and exchanged kisses with each one. Then her gaze fell on Duvessa, who stood at Hugh's side now, her hand entwined with his.

Sybelle freed herself from the clinging arms of her sisters and, in a gesture that spoke of her acceptance and respect for the Countess of Derran, she lifted Duvessa's free hand and knelt upon one knee as she kissed that hand which wore her father's ring. Then she stood and embraced her step-mother with open affection.

Duvessa's hazel eyes, already filled with tears at the sight of her step-daughter's return to her family, were touched by the gesture of homage that Sybelle paid her. It wasn't necessary, but was all the more cherished because of that. Duvessa cried, knowing that Sybelle had forgiven her any part in her abduction, however unwitting.

"'Tis happy I am to be amongst my kin once again," Sybelle said, wiping the moisture from her eyes and calming Lugh, who bounded over to her side. "And I would like some food for Iweare hungry."

Audrey ran towards the kitchen quarters in search of something for her sister to eat, saying silent prayers to the benevolence of God for answering the requests she had made. She would make good on her vows in exchange.

"In all my haste to be reunited with you, I almost forgot that I traveled with someone who aided me in my escape." Sybelle detached herself from the close-knit unit of her family and went to the door, pushing past Sir John and called softly, "Bran."

Hugh and Duvessa exchanged glances; Clare gasped and pulled her velvet wrap closer around her body. Not the brother! Not the man from that night. She wet her lips. 'Twas indeed him, she saw as he entered the doorway and she focused on those falcon eyes.

Sir John pulled his knife from its sheath and took the unsuspecting Bran by the throat as he pinned him to the wall.

"Release him," Sybelle commanded.

"Are you mad, daughter? 'Tis Killroone's brother," her father's voice thundered in the hallway.

"I know who he is," Sybelle said, coming to stand by Bran. She laid her hand on Sir John's arm. "Do it now," she said. In her tone, Sir John heard the implacability of his liege lord. He did as she commanded, standing back but not sheathing his weapon. He didn't-trust the man, no matter what the circumstances.

Hugh wanted to kill him. The feeling banished whatever notion he'd had that he should thank the man who helped return his daughter to him. This man was brother to the Wolf. He could hurt the man responsible for his family's pain, his daughter's humiliation, by sending him the gift of his brother in various pieces. Or perhaps not quite a mana gelded bastard fit only for the amusement of whores who would pity him. Or should he relieve him of his sword arm, and perhaps a leg, too, so that he then would be an abject example of the pitiful creature that he was? A cripple fit only for the company of beggars. An outcast. Not by nature a cruel man, Hugh found his anger at his daughter's captivity eroding any sense of fairness that he possessed.

Duvessa hugged her cousin, more tears flowing from her eyes. "Bran, thank you for restoring our daughter to us. You have our gratitude." Her heartfelt speech was in Gaelic.

Bran kissed her cheek and returned her words in his own tongue. "It was necessary, sweet Duvessa. For all our sakes."

He looked at the face of the man opposite him. He could see the coldness in the blue eyes that focused on him. Derran wanted a pound of flesh, his flesh, Bran admitted. Hate was a powerful force, and this man hated. Well, hadn't he known the risks and decided to see it through to the end? This was it.

Then another pair of blue eyes caught him, held him in their grip. It was the navy hue of Clare's eyes. He saw in them happiness, shock, laughter, tears, and a certain hunger. Or had he only fancied that he saw what he felt in her eyes?

Clare stood stock still, staring at him. He was even more handsome then she remembered. Handsome and deadly. And he was the enemy, yet, was he really? Hadn't he returned Sybelle to them? That should count for something. She transferred her gaze from the unknown to the known, her father. Clare could tell that he was planning something. She could read it in his face.

Sybelle also saw the sparks of abhorrence that flickered brightly in Hugh's eyes. She recognized that he was fighting for control.

Audrey arrived, and was like a fresh breath of umblemished air. "There will be food set up in the Hall, so please come now." She waved her hand in the direction of the door.

Sybelle linked her arm through her father's, as Clare took the other. "Let's us eat in peace, I pray you," she said.

Hugh smiled down at her, features relaxing, and kissed her cheek. "It shall be, for now, as you ask."

Sybelle recognized the threat implicit in that statement.

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The supper had been a quiet affair, with Clare and Audrey waiting on Sybelle, much to her chagrin. She begged them to desist. They refused, so she reluctantly accepted their service. All through the meal she kept an eye on her father, watching him as he watched Bran. The tension was high, the coolness with which he directed questions to Bran had the feel of a frosty day. She feared there would be a reckoning before she had a chance to speak to her father, to explain to him why he shouldn't take out his bitterness on Bran.

How good it felt to relieve herself of the costume she had worn and sink into a hot tub, scrubbing away the accumulated dirt and dust of the journey, washing the sea spray from her hair.

A knock sounded on the door and she started in alarm. Realizing that she was being foolish, that she was no longer a prisoner, she went to the door.

"Duvessa," Sybelle said warmly, opening wide the door to let her in.

"I have brought you something that I thought you might be able to wear." she said, laying out a thin wrap of silk. Sybelle ran her hand over the gossamer material and dropped the linen that she had wrapped around her body. When she did, Duvessa noted the gold band on her wrist.

She caught Sybelle's hand, and studied the design. It was identical to Rolf's own. "Where did you get this?"

"From Kilroone," Sybelle replied, tying the robe of deep blue silk about her body.

From the doorway she heard her father's baritone. "Remove it!"

"No," she said.

"Duvessa, leave us," Hugh commanded.

Duvessa flashed a look at Sybelle, taking her cue from her. When Sybelle nodded her head, Duvessa backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Hugh circled the room, throwing glances at her. "Why do you wish to wear it?" he demanded.

Why indeed? She had asked herself that ever since Rolf placed it on her wrist. She had found an answer of sorts: she knew that she couldn't lose that link, for it represented something for her child, a piece of its heritage. And it was something of Rolf's. She touched the band, caressing the wolf's head.

Not waiting for her answer, he spoke again, "'Tis the symbol of a chattel." It angered Hugh to see his child wear that thing. He'd noted something on her wrist while they were dining, could see the gleam of metal thrugh the fine lawn shirt she wore. Now, knowing that it was from the Irishman, he fumed.

She hugged her arm to her chest with the other, fingers stroking the metal. "'Tis mine, Father."

He grabbed her arm and held hard, causing her to wince in pain. "'Tis an emblem unworthy of you. Abandon it," he pleaded as he let her go.

"I cannot."

"Will not?"

"Shall not," she said. He stood at the window. his back to her. She knew that she must soon tell him the news that would shatter him again. How to tell him of the babe? Her wisest course would be to hide the fact as long as she could. It would be prudent, and give him time to adjust to having her back. It would also be cowardly, she decided. But first there was the problem of Bran.

"Where is Branduff?"

"O'Dalaigh is with Sir John at present, below." Until I decided what fate to deal him, he mentally added.

Sybelle came up behind him, her hand on his arm, gently. "He must be permitted to go free."

Hugh turned, his eyes dark and stormy. "Free?" He said the word in a damning tone. "He is Killroone's brother."

"And he helped me, Father, against his brother. Do you not know what that cost him?"

"I don't care."

"Well, I do," Sybelle protested with vehemence. "He is an outcast now." She lifted her chin, matching him determined look for determined look. "I have given him my word."

"Do you expect me to keep it?"

"You wouldn't be my father if you did not." This was said quietly, with staunch conviction.

It was that belief in him that changed Hugh's mind. He cupped her chin, saying softly, "It shall be as you desire, Sybelle."

"Allow him the same courtesy you would any guest. For my sake, and Duvessa's."

"You ask much."

"I only ask that which is right. He should be treated as any honored person at our table who seeks hospitality."

"I agree."

"And there is something else."

"What ?"

"An escort to the Welsh border."

Hugh's thick, reddish-brown brows rose. "For him?"

She shook her head. "Aye. He diverted the ship that was to deliver him to Wales so that he could return me home. I wish him to arrive at his destination safely. Have I your word?"

Hugh knew that she knew that, once given, his word would be honored. "You have it, daughter."

She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tightly. "Thank you." She felt safe in her father's strong embrace. Here no harm could come to her, no demons could attack. She was aware also that her father's patience had a limit. She would tell him about the child she carried after Bran left on the morrow.

"O'Dalaigh shall be informed as to his singular good fortune."

When he was walking out the door Sybelle said one last thing to him. "You have chosen well, Father."

He understood that she was not referring to his decision to abide by her promise. He turned to face her. "I think so, my dear. She is all that I could have wanted, and more than I deserve, I am sure."

"Nonsense. The Earl of Derran is far above any noble in the land, if I must say so myself."

Hugh bowed and rewarded her with a dazzling smile. "My most gracious compliments, though there would be many who would argue with you on that point."

She cocked her head to one side. "Well, I suppose that I would allow you the Duke of Gloucester, though I shall admit a small portion of prejudice, Father, if I think that 'tis you who are the premiere noble in England.''

He said with a trace of bitterness. "Would that were so. You would have been freed ere this."

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Bran found that he was unable to sleep, though he was clearly exhausted. He knew the reason for his reluctance to succumb to the arms of sleep: he wasn't sure that he could trust the master of the house not to arrange an "accident" when he closed his eyes. His rational mind proclaimed that no such fate would befall him in the man's own house, with his wife and daughters as witness. And his cousin's words hadn't reassured him as he would have liked.

Duvessa had come to show him to a room at the far end of the hall and had seen that all was well. They shared an hour of conversation in which he had explained to her his reasons for acting as he had, why he thought Rolf was in need of a lesson in love. Also, he mentioned his suspicion that the Lady Sybelle was in love with his brother.

He rested his head on his arms. Duvessa had waited until she was ready to leave to tell him that an escort had been arranged to see him to Wales.

He had looked at her skeptically.

"Hugh has guaranteed that you will arrive safely. Trust him, Bran. He will abide by his word."

That was what worried Bran as he sat in the darkened room. Should he trust the word of this man? Obviously his cousin did, but she was in love with him. How could he be sure that there wouldn't be an accident to befall him enroute? He acknowledged it was a chance that he had to take. He had no other clear choice. To declare that he wouldn't accept the escort would be to cast doubts upon the honor of Derran, and if he hadn't planned anything, he surely would after such an insult as that.

Ears alert, eyes narrowed, Bran focused his attention on the door of the room allocated to him. It opened slightly. Who? Perhaps Derran himself, come to issue a warning? Or a threat?

He remained still. Whoever it was approached the bed silently, making no noise. He could discern no real form, for the intruder brought no light. He tried to keep his breathing even, his movement calm. Come on, he raged silently, make your move, for until you do I cannot react. He expected that this person wouldn't hesitate if he thought he was fast asleep, and he had given no reason to believe otherwise.

What in hell was taking so long? Bran could feel the impatience welling inside of him, rising to an ugly form of anger. Did this intruder know he was awake and was playing a game with him?

A hand drew back the curtain even farther from around the bed, but Bran could barely make out the hand rising again. He reacted, pulling the arm inside the cocoon of the bed and throwing his weight on the stranger, capturing him under his own body.

"Let me up," was the cold command.

He recognized that voice. It was young, female, and belonged to the termagant known as Clare. She was here, in his bed, her body heaving under his, stirring him with her proximity. He hoisted himself off her, holding onto her arm with a strong grip that she could not break. He struck flint and lit a candle, pushing the bed curtain completely open.

He saw the shiny blade that rested in her hand. He slanted a golden look towards it, asking, "Did you intend to use this?" He picked it from her nerveless fingers and tossed it to the floor where it landed with a dull thud.

She pushed the heavy fall of hair from her eyes. "I had thought about it."

"Then why did you hesitate?" He could see that her eyes were still that captivating shade of darkest blue, like the finest sapphires. Her skin was pale, and so soft. She was clad in the thinnest of garments, for he had felt the budding form of a woman beneath him.

Clare's eyes narrowed as she took in the rise and fall of the masculine chest before her. He obviously slept without the confinement of clothes. She could see the light dusting of black hair feathered across his leanly muscled chest. She wondered idly what it would feel like. Would it be crisper than the thick hair that fell to his shoulders, making a contrast to the white of his skin? That wasn't why she had come to this roomor was it? she asked herself honestly. Would she have used the lovely and deadly jewelled dagger that was resting on the carpet by the bed? Or was it just a device to fool herself into believing that she would indeed try to harm this man?

"I thought that I could kill you for your part in what happened to my sister." Her voice lowered to a whisper. "I found that I could not."

Bran, an arm still placed over her form, looked deep into the eyes of his captive. "Why?"

"Mayhap because I cannot kill?" she asked. Her voice posing the question was pleasant, if somewhat sarcastic.

Bran's thin lips curved into a smile. With an insight that he accepted as fact, he stated, "Oh, leanбn, you could, upon my word, kill if you had to. No," he said, "you chose not to."

Clare wasn't sure that she liked his reading of her character. Who was this Irish barbarian to tell her what she should or wouldn't do? Even if she admitted that his was a true interpretation of her character, how dared he voice it?

"Now for the real reason that you came," he coaxed.

Because, she thought, I had to. Explanations were useless for they made no sense. Clare knew as she waited patiently for her sister to fall asleep, after they chatted about Sybelle's miraculous return to them, and made another short trip to Sybelle's room to check on her, that she felt compelled to visit this room, to see if those haunting gold eyes were as intriguing as she had first thought. She couldn't pretend that she would have carried out her plan for vengeance, for hadn't her sister trusted this man? She should do the same. She gave little thought to the consequences of her actions should anyone find her creeping into this man's chamber. All she knew was that she had to see him, had to . . . had to . . . what? Sensibility had nothing to do with this need to be with him. She had only planned to stand by the bedside, the dagger in her hand a ready excuse should anyone question her. All she wanted was to look her fill, and then she would forever banish him from her mind.

Now all she could think about the weight of him across her body, for he still hadn't allowed her complete freedom of mobility. She found herself studying the mouth, wondering what it would feel like against her ownso very different, she reckoned, from the meek kiss of that squire.

Bran wondered what the taste, the feel, of those innocent lips would do to him. Could he sample them and walk away? He had to, for in the morning he would be gone, never to see her again. Didn't he deserve something sweet to take with him? This was a memory to last him a lifetime, for their future was now; none other existed for them. Reaching out his hand he anchored it in her hair, holding her head, and slowly, inexorably, drew her to him. She was putting forth no resistance. Had she too felt the tug of their mutual attraction? Mouth touched mouth. Skin pressed against skin. Once wasn't enough for a lifetime. He deepened his kiss, gently persuading her lips to open beneath his, so that his tongue could slid in and stoke hers. He could feel her hands reaching for his shoulders; they were cool on his heated flesh. Pushing aside the material she wore that covered her body, he ran his hand around the silky flesh of her breast.

A shaft of desire forced Clare to bite her lip for fear she would gasp aloud. His mouth was on her throat, taking snatches of her flesh and putting his mark on her with the hot brand of his lips. She arched her back unconsciously in an attempt to push her breast into his palms. How strange, how wonderful it felt, how right, for his warmth to be cupping her trembling body. Oh God, she thought brokenly, I must refuse him.

I must reject this before it can go any further, he thought, feeling the pain as he pulled his lips from hers and drew a deep breath of air into his starved lungs. He longed instead to draw her beneath the linen that covered his now fully aroused body and sweep aside the cloth that hid her tender flesh from him, show her the way to passion, the way to love. He could not dishonor her, knowing that he would leave in the morning. He could not do that and find faith in himself.

"You'd best return to your own chambers, and put this incident from your mind."

Her blue eyes, darker in their passion, looked dazed. Clare found that she was free to leave. She scurried from the bed with as much dignity as she could muster, picking up the disgarded dagger.

"Slan leat," he whispered in the darkness.

She understood without being told that he was saying farewell. Clare couldn't bring herself to echo his words and said instead. "Au revoir, Branduff O'Dalaigh."

He watched her go as silently as she had come. Her own words were not lost on him. She thought that they would see each other again. Would that it were the truth.

Chapter 28

Bran had departed for Wales, with an escort of Derran's men, that morn. Sybelle had quietly asked that he keep in touch with her, and Bran wondered if that would be a wise policy.

Sybelle said, "I need to know that you have arrived at your destination without incident." She kissed his cheek, and he hers; then she sent him on his way, with Duvessa and the twins looking on.

Hugh observed the scene from the window, a scowl on his handsome face, wishing that he could have satisfied his thirst for revenge.

He had remained closeted with his bailiff for the remainder of the morning and well into the afternoon, discussing business of his various estates, business that he had for far too long paid little heed to. He had read the reports, but not absorbed them. Now that his daughter was restored to him, and he was about to become a father once again, he knew that he must keep a tighter rein on his affairs. Now, especially since he would no longer take an active part in the makeup of either Edward's judicial system, or any of Edward's affairs. He had resigned his post as Royal Sheriff, informing his king that henceforth he would no longer be involved in policies of state, directly or indirectly. He was sure that would upset Ned; he didn't much care. His loyalty was badly damaged; now there was nothing Ned could do to restore it. The relief he felt at being away from all the court intrigues surprised him. He was truly weary of the machinations of the Plantagenets, and most especially the Woodvilles.

He crushed a document in his powerful hand. It still galled him that he had been forced to let that vermin spawn go. It would have given him satisfaction to have delivered Branduff O'Dalaigh to his brother, if not in pieces than in a burial casket, only to appease his sense of wronged honor. But where would that lead? a voice inside his head mocked. A temporary settlement of his hurt and anger, 'twould not restore what his daughter had surely lost, what he had lost.

It would grant satisfaction, he answered back. Sweet satisfaction.

He stood up, crossed to the window that looked out to the garden at the back of the estate. He could see Duvessa and Sybelle walking hand in hand, talking. It looked as though they had come from the small private chapel. He wondered if Duvessa was confiding in Sybelle about the forthcoming child. Or was his daughter telling Duvessa about her time as a captive of the lady's cousin?

"I am so happy for you and my father, Duvessa. He must be overcome with the joyous news. A father again, at his age."

"It does not trouble you, then?"

Sybelle hugged her step-mother. "Of course not. He is a man who needs children." And happy tidings at this point in his life, Sybelle decided, aware of what her father had recently relinquished thanks to a word from Sir John.

"I am glad you see that need in him also."

"You know that my mother died in childbirth?"

Duvessa stopped. "No, I did not."

"She died giving birth to a son, and the boy died shortly thereafter. My father was desolate."

Duvessa smiled. "I am young and healthy. My babe will be too."

Sybelle hugged her again. "I pray that all will be well for you, and for me."

Duvessa's wide eyes reflected her puzzlement. "What mean you?"

"I carry Killroone's child," Sybelle said.

Duvessa's eyes grew even rounder. She blinked and sat down on a carved stone bench. "Rolf's babe?"

"Aye. And now I must tell my father."

"'Tis glad I am that you waited till Branduff left US."

"'Tis the reason that I did not tell my lord father last evening. He would have been too upset, I'll wager, to have given me his word that Bran would be safely escorted to Wales."

Sybelle joined Duvessa on the bench, her hands folded primly in her lap. "Derran must be informed."

"Aye," Duvessa agreed. "Hugh will have to know. Do you wish me to accompany you when you tell him?"

Sybelle gave Duvessa a wide smile of thanks for the offer. "How I wish you could, though I think that I must be private with him whilst I explain."

"What could you have to explain? 'Tis no fault of yours that you are carrying this child."

Sybelle's gaze locked with Duvessa's. "No, that is not the truth."

Duvessa did not know quite how to broach the subject without raising painful memories for her step-daughter. "Sybelle, there can be no blame if you were forced."

Sybelle gave a sigh of relief that Duvessa did not hold to the theory that 'twas a woman's fault for merely being a woman, that temptation and sin were their particular lot in life. She herself had never subscribed to that canon. "'Twas not the result of being forced, Duvessa." Sybelle saw the shock and the dawning understanding in the hazel eyes as Duvessa comprehended what Sybelle was telling her.

"You were in Rolf's bed willingly?"

Sybelle smiled as Lugh, back from his run of the nearby hills, nuzzled her hand. She bent and hugged the dog before resuming her speech. "'Twould be more in truth to say that it happened in my bed. There was a night, a . . . " She trailed off, remembering the seduction she had willingly acquiesced to, participated in. Memories of that night filtered through her brain and spun her backwards, temporarily, to a feast of splendid sensations.

"Sybelle?" Duvessa asked.

Sybelle shook her head. "Forgive me," she said.

"Do you love Roll?"

"Let us say that I chose to keep this babe when offered a way to rid myself of it."

"Who offered you that choice?"

"Etain." Sybelle scratched Lugh's ears, and the dog growled in contentment. "She asked if I wanted the babe, and I do."

Duvessa noted that Sybelle had successfully avoided saying what were her real feelings about Rolf. Mayhap Sybelle couldn't put them into words as yet. She decided not to press the issue. "Are you returning to your own estate?"

"No, I think not. I want to stay with my family. Though that shall be my father's decision." Sybelle sighed. "Perhaps he will want me to go away." Tears shimmered in her eyes. That was what she feared most, that after having been restored to her loving family, somehow she would be forced to leave so soon after.

"Hugh will never cast you aside, Sybelle. He loves you too much for that."

"I pray that you are correct."

"There is only one way to know."

Sybelle stood up, a determined look on her face. "I know." It was said with a finality. "Stay, Lugh," she commanded as the dog made to follow her.

She knocked on her father's door, opening it to find him seated and perusing a document. He was checking a column of figures. Sybelle was proud that her father was a learned man. All too often, she knew, it was considered less than an accomplishment. Too many people who relied on others to read and interpret their business paid for that mistake when they found money and land lost through unscrupulous estate managers and corrupt bailiffs. Her father hand-picked all who worked for him, sure of their loyalty. Still, he deemed it his responsibility to make a check of all his properties. Her grandfather had lost much by trusting others. And Hugh had made sure that his daughters received the same education, for they were his heirs, and they would be custodians of the future generations of the family and its properties. Sybelle's hand strayed to her stomach; her heir was already conceived.

Hugh held out his hand to her. Sybelle took it willingly, forsaking the other chair for a tapestried footstool, pulling it close. She sank down on that, resting her head in her father's lap.

Hugh laid his hand on her head, softly caressing her hair. He couldn't at times believe that she was back, safe and secure, where none could harm her again. Guilt still weighed heavily on him as he blamed himself for what she had gone through. He was determined to make that up to her as best he could. He didn't know quite how he would do that as yet. He would find a way. He had to.

Perhaps a grand marriage, with a dowry to rival that of any Plantagenet princess. She would be wed only to one he deemed worthy of his daughter. And a man who would shelter her from hurt. But could he part with her so soon? No. She must remain with him and his wife and daughters, and the babe to come. Had Duvessa told her?

As if she had read his thoughts, she said, "Duvessa told me of the child to come."

Hugh couldn't quite hide the pride in his voice. "'Tis a wondrous occurrence though, 'tis it not?"

"Indeed."

"Though I must confide that I worry about Duvessa. She is so young, and if anything were to happen to her . . . "

"'Father, she is not a child. Remember when you were first wed? Both you and my mother were younger than I am, little more than a boy and a girl."

"And I recall that your mother succumbed to death after the last babe."

"Do not let that color your judgment regarding Duvessa and your child. All will be well." Her lips curved into a grin. "And did it not make you swell with pride to hear that you had fathered another child?"

Hugh threw back his head and laughed. "Aye, daughter, it did indeed make me swell with pride"not to mention with love and the need to express that love to his wife, he added to himself. "One day I shall rejoice when you present me with your first babe."

A thorn of fear pricked her heart. She must tell him while her courage was high.

"Then you shall rejoice soon," she said, her voice calm and clear.

He heard, but couldn't believe. Happiness was stripped from his expression; a shadow passed over his features. "What are you saying?" he asked, his tone dark and sober.

"That come next year I shall give you that grandchild to adore."

He gripped her arm and yanked her up from her position at his feet. "Did I hear you correctly?" he asked.

"You did, Father," she responded.

He released her and walked away. She could see him fighting for control as he hunched his shoulders and balled his hands into fists. He took a deep, steadying breath. Sybelle thought that she heard a slight moan coming from him; she couldn't be sure. Then he turned in her direction. "Killroone's," was all he said.

"Mine," was her quick, proud reply.

So it was not over, he thought. Damn the man! Damn him to hell! His options ran swiftly through his mind. He could demand that she rid herself of the unwanted child. He could force her into banishment to one of his other estates until she gave birth and then take the bastard child from her, making sure that it was raised well as befitting the illegitimate grandchild of the Earl of Derran. Or he could simply renounce Sybelle and her offspring, letting fate take her in hand. He could tell her to return to Ireland and have done with it. He could betroth her to an unwitting fool to give the babe a name. Aye, all these options were open to him. None could he choose. This was his Sybelle, whom he had witnessed being born, whom he had held and cherished mere moments after her birth. She was his delight, his comfort and counsel. He could no more abandon her than he could take a knife and plunge it into her heart.

"Then, as yours," he said, opening his arms to her, "it shall be welcome in this house, in this family."

Tears of relief coursed down her cheeks, and she wet the front of his fine lawn shirt as she hugged him gratefully. For many minutes they remained like that, each drawing comfort and love from the encounter.

"Thank you," she managed to say finally.

"No thanks are needed. You are my Sybelle."

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Sybelle decided that her sisters should also know the truth. She walked into their room, delighted to find them both there. Audrey was reading from a book of psalms, studying the finely drawn manuscript with great concentration. Clare was trying to make something of her needlework, but all she was succeeding in doing was to poke her finger with the needle. She drew on the blood that dotted her fingertip.

Audrey turned and saw Sybelle. "Sybelle," she said, rushing to her sister's side, still not quite able to fathom that she was real and not a figment of her hopes. Clare dropped her needlework, bolting to Sybelle. Audrey urged her to take the most comfortable chair that they possessed. Clare sat on the floor, rearranged her skirts, and drew her knees up to rest her chin on them. Audrey stood behind Sybelle, and produced a comb. "Shall I do your hair?" she asked; she had performed this service for her older sister before.

"As you wish, Audrey," Sybelle said, relaxing as she felt the ivory comb pull through her windtangled hair.

"'Tis so good to have you amongst us again, Belle," Clare pronounced.

"'Tis wonderful to be with you both again." Sybelle hesitated for a moment, then began again. "There is something that you must know. I am going to have a child."

Both twins gasped and exchanged looks. Audrey's hand stilled while Clare reached for Sybelle's hand, closing her own around it tightly.

"I have informed our father and Duvessa of this matter."

Audrey threw down her comb and embraced Sybelle. "You shall not leave us!" she said staunchly.

Sybelle thanked God that she was so loved. With that, she could face anything, and she knew that she would have to. "Aye, I shall be remaining here, ma chйre soeur. I only thought that both of you should understand the situation, for there will be gossip and pain, of that I am sure."

"No one had better say aught to me," Clare declared vehemently. "Or they shall rue the day they spoke so of my sister, or of any Fitzgerald."

Audrey volunteered, "I will offer prayers to our Lady to intercede on your behalf and that of the child to come."

"And I shall make another toy for my niece or nephew." Clare tilted her head. "There will be babes aplenty in the household come this next spring." She got up to fetch the design she was working on to show Sybelle, and her mind wandered as her sisters examined the workmanship, such as it was. Clare longed to hold both her new sibling and Sybelle's baby. Would she too have a child one day? And who would father this babe? All she could see was a man who made her feel strange, magical, achingfor what she wasn't sure. All she knew was that he was special; that he was hers. Maybe not now, or even tomorrow. There would come a day. She would make sure of it. Her heart dictated and she would obey.

Chapter 29

"A man comes to see you, my prince," announced the wiry dark man, shaking the snow from his shoulders. He warmed his hand by the fire, accepting a mug of hot wine from a comely young woman, equally dark-haired, who turned to the man being addressed.

"Is he known?" asked the taller man, who slipped his arm around the woman and accepted her kiss.

"He claims to be your brother."

Bran entangled himself from the woman. He quickly stood up and approached the man who delivered the message. "My brother?"

"'Tis what he told Davyfd."

"Did you see him?"

"No, my prince. I only know that Davyfd said the man bore a great resemblance to you."

Bran pondered the implications of this. Rolf, here? For what reason? There had been no communication between the brothers since Bran left all those months ago with Sybelle, no answer to the letter he sent Killroone. What did Rolf want? This was not a season to be traveling through the Welsh mountains.

"Shall we keep him from you?"

Bran was still shocked at the depth, and the quickness, of the loyalty of his people. When he arrived, he had been recognized and accepted almost immediately, word of his coming having preceded him. This was not a rich estate in the sense that he was used to; its beauty, its intrinsic wealth, lay in its people and its natural loveliness. Lakes and rivers abounded in this part of Snowdonia, along with the deep lushness of the Gwydyr forest that surrounded them. Wars and petty squabbles were rare. It was simple, earthy, quiet. He still missed Ireland, and the home where he was born, but not with the same hunger he once had. This place had given him a sense of being reborn, of finding a part of himself that he hadn't known was lost.

"My brother is to be given every courtesy."

"Then I shall see to it myself, my prince." With that Owen made a slight movement of his head in Bran's direction and called a fond farewell to his sister, Morag, who was sharing the prince's house.

Morag, a woman of twenty-five, was curious about the reaction on Bran's face since learning that his brother was about to descend on them. She slipped behind Bran and tightened her slender arms about his lean waist, her nails digging into the leather jerkin that he wore. She had been his woman since a week after his arrival. Others might have succumbed for the honor of bedding the prince, even had he been old and ugly. She, however, wanted the man when first she came upon him, bathing in one of the lakes; the fact that he was her overlord mattered little to her. She would have taken him to her bed had he been a beggar. Morag knew, wisely, acceptingly, that he did not feel for her the same as she felt for him, though in the night when he took her in his arms, and sheathed his hard, lithe body in hers, it concerned her little. The other woman, and she knew there was one though no words had been spoken, was far away, and she was here. "Bach," she whispered, the Welsh endearment a caress in her husky voice, "why does this visit disturb you?"

"My brother and I did not part on the best of terms."

"Still, he comes to you, does he not?"

"For what purpose, I wonder?"

"Mayhap to heal whatever wound lies open between you both."

"I have thought much on that and hope that Rolf has finally forgiven."

"This rift between you, 'twas over a woman, was it not?"

Bran laughed softly. "'Tis a wise woman you are, Moragor could you be a witch?" He pulled her gently around into his arms, planting a deep, quick kiss on her vulnerable mouth. "Aye, 'twas over a woman, his woman, though the story is long."

"When you want to tell me, I will listen." She turned and checked the meat in the pot which hung over the fire. "I hope 'tis enough to feed him also, for 'tis almost the hour for supper."

Bran grinned. "'Tis sure I am that it will be enough."

"What is he like, your brother?"

"I will let you decide for yourself when he arrives." And he knew that he couldn't truthfully answer that question, for the gap had widened between them. Once it would have been easy to respond, now, he too awaited an answer.

"Think you that we have some time before he arrives?"

"Perhaps an hour or so by my reckoning, if he is with Davyfd."

Morag advanced on him, pushing him gently backwards to the pelts of furs that lay strewn on the bed. "I suggest that we make the most of the time." With that they both tumbled down, arms wrapped about each other as their mouths fused in passion's demand.

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Rolf strode through the darkness, the man beside him carrying a torch to light the way. There wasn't much light in this month of December, nor was there much in this dense forest. He followed the snow-covered path, his leather boots, which topped his knees and were covered in soft beaver fur, making no sound. He adjusted the heavy cape of wolf's fur more securely about him, occasionally brushing aside the snow that clung to his hair and to his eyelashes. Christmas in Wales. A time to make peace. He had come to realize that he still loved his brother deeply, and he understood Bran's side. He knew his brother would never deliberately hurt him if it could be avoided. They had shared too much, their bond was too strong for this to permanently break it. It had stretched; it had healed. Months without his flesh and blood had brought Rolf to that point.

Loneliness had a way of forcing one to see things as they really were, and he had filled the hours that came after his hurt with thinking: about Sybelle, his brother, and Etain. And most importantly, with what he wanted. And he wanted reconciliation.

In the clearing he saw a stone cottage. Actually, on closer inspection, it looked as if it were made more of boulders than stone. It was big. He could see smoke escaping from the stone roof. It certainly looked to provide more than adequate shelter from the elements, though somehow he expected a keep more along the lines of Killroone. He shrugged his broad shoulders and pressed forward.

A man next to himthere were three in allmotioned for him to halt before entering. Owen opened the door to the cottage and called to Bran, who was hastily arranging his clothes.

Owen signalled for Rolf to follow him.

Rolf ducked his head as he entered.

Bran stood there, waiting. He was leaner, stronger than when Rolf saw him last. And his hair was longer. Now it brushed past his shoulders, as did Rolf's. There was a difference to the gold eyes, too. They were sharper, keener. And could Rolf also glimpse traces of love there?

While Rolf looked his fill in those seconds, so did Bran. Neither spoke, though somehow they connected, eyes to eyes, heart to heart. He saw in Rolf's green eyes the pain, the struggle, the love. It was there.

''Rolf?"

"Bran?"

No more words were needed as the brothers clasped each other in deep embrace, laughing away the months of separation. It was easier than either had expected.

Morag shifted under the fur pelts, pulling the laces of her dress together over her small breasts, tugging her stockings of wool higher onto her legs. She'd decided that perhaps the brothers would be better served by time alone. Her experienced gaze ran over the elder and judged him another fine man. He was slightly taller than her man. There was about him a flavor of power, of inborn pride. A man, first, last, always, with a mouth created to make women delight in being female.

Rolf saw the shadow of a woman from the corner of his eye. He looked full at the beautiful woman approaching his brother. Surprise registered automatically.

Bran pulled Morag into his embrace for the introduction. He did so in Welsh, then Irish, for the benefit of both. He knew that Rolf's Welsh was probably as lax as his had been when he arrived.

Rolf ran his gaze over the slim figure of the woman appreciatively and judged how his brother had been spending his time. He approved.

"I shall leave you alone, bach."

"You do not have to," Bran assured her.

"Aye, but I do, my lord. I suspect that there is much that you and your brother wish to discuss." Morag found her own thick woolen cloak, which had been slung over a chair. As she went to pull it on, Bran was there, wrapping it around her shoulders. "My mother and father will be glad of the company, not to mention the extra hands at the farm." She kissed Bran full on the mouth, then exchanged a look with Rolf, warming to the intense force in those deep green eyes, and left the two men.

"I see that you have sampled the local customs," Rolf remarked dryly.

Bran indicated that Rolf was to take a seat at the heavy wooden table. Rolf did so, and his nose drank in the smell of food. "'Twould appear that she can cook, too."

"Morag is very obliging," Bran said as he bent to dish out the victuals into smooth, wooden trenchers. "She is a delight."

A slight smile curved Rolf's mouth, hinting at the long dimple in his cheek. "I can well imagine."

"She is a good woman, Rolf."

"I never said otherwise."

"And she knows that I am very fond of her."

"Not love?"

Bran shook his head. "No." When he thought of love, a golden-haired child-woman with eyes as dark as the deep blue Welsh lakes haunted him.

They continued to eat in silence, each trying to avoid the talk that they knew they must share. Through an unspoken mutual understanding, they chose to avoid the topic even when they had finished eating. Rolf asked instead about how Bran found the land, the people, his new position.

"They have been open with me, Rolf. They remember mother's family; we are the last." Bran stood up. He watched the heavy fall of snow from the window, saw the drifts as he closed the shutter with a snap. He produced another branch of candles and placed them on the table. Here candles were precious, not given to waste. Bran recalled the vast amount of light needed, and used, to keep the fortress at Killroone lit; here, in his stone sanctuary, he needed less. "It is not Killroone, though I am content. 'Tis glad I am that you desired me to come here. It has given me a sense of another side of myself, another part that I would have missed had I not come."

"Killroone is always there should you wish to return."

It was said so quietly that Bran almost thought he had imagined the sound, the words. "You have forgiven?"

"I have learned the value of forgiveness," Rolf explained. He stood, retrieving something from the packet he brought with him. He dug out a velvet pouch and gave it to his brother.

Bran accepted the gift, unwrapping the fine, soft material. He held it in both hands, feeling the weight, admiring the craftsmanship. On a thick chain of woven gold hung a carved raven, wings outspread.

"It was to be a gift for your birthday. 'Tis late, but. . . . "

"'Tis magnificient, Rolf." Bran slipped it over his shirt, fingers stroking the metal. He knew the significance of the bird: it was found here in this region, and it was a translation of his name, his symbol.

From the sack Rolf produced another surprise, a jug of Irish whiskey. "Shall we?" he said with an engaging grin, breaking the seal on the top and taking a deep swallow.

Bran took the jug and tipped it, the warmth of the whiskey sliding down his throat. He pushed the jug back to Rolf. A concentrated look passed between them; each reached out a hand to clutch the other's, arm to arm, their rebonding complete.

"'Tis glad I am for your visit, Rolf, though you haven't picked the best time for it. Winter, as I've learnt, can be quite harsh here."

"I can but spare a few weeks from what I must do."

"Which is?"

"To reclaim what is mine." Rolf took a long drink from the jug. "Tб sй ndбn dom." It is my fate.

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It was snowing in Dorset also that Christmas, Sybelle sat before the blazing log, surrounded by her thoughts and the frequent kicks that her child visited upon her. She put her hand over her very swollen belly. Her feet were resting on a tapestry stool, for she was very tired after the visit to the village church that day. She had not planned on going with her family. Hugh, however, had other ideas. "We go as a family," he stated simply. He would brook no insubordination. She understood what he was implying. Fitzgeralds did not act the cowards, no matter what the circumstances. It was only for her father and Duvessa that she would have forgone this Christmas celebration. She cared not for what others thought of her. She could endure. But she refused to bring hurt to those whom she loved if she could avoid it.

And Sybelle keenly observed the various looks on the faces of the villagers as she took her place, heard the hushed whispers. Pity had been prominent on several faces; others shone bright with condemnation. Some averted their eyes, as if contact with her would contaminate them.

Another thump to her stomach made her gasp. This child was certainly eager for life. And big. A frown crossed her features. She was much larger than Duvessa and they were due about the same time. The midwife had no explanation for it. She only suggested that the Lady Sybelle get as much rest as possible, for surely delivery would be hard. She wished that she could contact Etain, for she knew that she would feel better in her care, and she knew that Etain would care for the babe. She dared not take the risk that somehow any message that she sent to Etain would be intercepted by Rolf. And she wasn't ready for . . . for what? To think of him? A sardonic smile etched her mouth. He was never far from her thoughts, no matter how much she tried to pretend otherwise, whether she was awake or asleep. He ambushed her dreams now, invading the kingdom of sleep, where she thought that she would find refuge.

He was no phantom, for she remembered the hard touch of his hands on her arms, his strong mouth on hers, the strength of his lean body against the softness of hers.

Her only words were curses against the power he exacted without his knowledge, without her consent.

Damn you for the demon of the night that you are, she raged silently. And damn me, for I cannot forget.

I tried so hard, truly I did, she thought. She had fought to make her mind a blank sheet of paper where Killroone was concerned. She busied herself with tasks, pushing aside any rebellious thoughts. Then something would trigger a memory, or she would feel the child and she was forced to recall that it had a father, deny that as she might. Duvessa coached her in the Irish tongue, remarking that Sybelle was a quick pupil. She wanted to learn so that her child would know, and it was a link of sorts to him.

Her heart ached with a new kind of loneliness. She now felt an incompleteness, as if part of her soul were missing.

She touched the bracelet that she wore as a talisman. Perhaps she should have removed it when she returned home. If she had, would her memories be less sharp?

Sybelle faced the fact that she didn't want to part with the golden band. It would be for her child, she said stubbornly. A piece of his heritage. Duvessa insisted that it was more than a mere ornament for decoration. It was a gift from the heart, a gift for marriage. In the O'Dalaigh clan it was a symbol of power shared, of love embraced.

Marriage. That thought took Sybelle's mind on a backwards journey to an incident that occurred months past when she and Duvessa had been to the village. Both had walked for the exercise and chanced upon the latest wife of Sir Rosewell Charles. She was emerging from the town's Guildhall when she saw Sybelle and Duvessa. Sybelle had been surprised that the woman approached them. She appeared shy, and Sybelle recalled that this was the woman whose husband used to curry favor with the king. Her tiny voice was hesitant as she said, "Good morrow, my ladies."

Duvessa responded in a similar manner, and perforce, so did Sybelle. What amazed Sybelle even more was Lady Charles' prompt invitation to have supper at her estate the following week. Sybelle and Duvessa shared a look, each wanting to refuse, but at the desperate, pleading glance in the woman's brown eyes, they both gave their consent.

Looking back, Sybelle could see that the lady had been forced to make the invitation at her husband's insistence. When they spoke to Hugh later that day about the invitation, he was reluctant to have a meal at the house of a man he so disliked.

"Perhaps he has changed?" Duvessa suggested.

Hugh exchanged a skeptical look with Sybelle. "That I doubt," he said flatly.

"Then shall we rescind our acceptance?" Duvessa asked.

"Father," Sybelle said, her eyes alight with a suggestive gleam, "mayhaps we had better keep the promise to see what this man is about. Lady Charles appeared quite afraid should we reject her offer."

"Then we shall go. Since I trust him not, I want to find out what scheme he is plotting. He does nothing unless there is gain for him in it." Hugh spoke the last words in a contemptuous tone, leaving his wife and daughter no pretense as to how little he valued a man who would barter his own wife like a common bawd for favors.

Sybelle became aware of the reason for the invitation soon after they entered Sir Rosewell's small fortified keep that he saw as a grand castle. She saw the open stares of the servants as they scurried to and fro from the kitchens. Fear was on their faces. With good reason, Sybelle noted, as one made a mistake, a minor incident, nothing to punish a person for. The servant was disciplined with a back-handed slap to the face which sent the young boy staggering into the wall, spilling what remained of the wine he carried, and splitting his lip.

Sybelle was upset at the treatment doled out to the lad, and more so when she saw the terrified look that a girl, barely thirteen, wore when she approached the eldest son of their host. Her sad eyes were downcast, and she trembled visiblywith good reason, Sybelle noted when she was witness to his hand snaking out as the girl bent over to place a roast partridge on his plate. He pinched her behind, and she jerked upright, her face flaming. Sybelle heard his whisper of "Tonight," and blanched. She would speak to her father about finding the girl a position at their estate, or perhaps her own in Ireland. Perhaps Alyce, newly come from Castle Derran, could train the girl as a lady's maid.

The meal was a trial, with Sir Rosewell dropping the names of as many distinguished people as he could, all the time crediting himself with marvelous fortune.

When at last the repast was finally over, Sybelle pleaded a slight headache, which was no lie, and asked to be excused from the entertainment to be provided. Sir Rosewell insisted that a walk outside the keep would be beneficial and instructed his eldest son to accompany her. Sybelle gave in gracefully and permitted him to lead her out. She tried to ignore him, but Humphrey Charles would not allow that. He spoke loudly, with his harsh voice, of his father's grand ideas for this estate, how important he would be when he took over his father's land, and how very important it was to find the proper wife for a man like him.

Sybelle shuddered as his cold, clammy hands reached for her. She endeavored to push him away as he tried to pursue her mouth, and a stray thought struck her. Why not allow him to kiss her? Would she not then see that Rolf's kisses were perhaps not all that special? One man's were the same as another's, after all.

She relaxed for an instant, and Humphrey decided that now was the time to press his advantage.

Sybelle almost gagged at the wet, sloppy kiss that he pushed on her delicate mouth. He ground his teeth against her lips, trying to thrust his tongue into what was closed against him. She fought for her freedom with a vengeance until she succeeded in freeing her hand and slapped him, hard.

She drew back and tasted the salt of blood on her lip.

Humphrey Charles heaved a deep breath. His eyes, a nondescript shade of gray, narrowed and focused on her. She shivered with revulsion as he undressed her with those eyes.

"Disgusting pig!" she spat at him, turning to flee.

He grabbed her arm before she could, cruelly tightening his fingers on it. "It's not as if you haven't tasted a man before, my lady" he sneered. "Everyone knows that you be swelling with a bastard child." He saw the color leave her face and knew that he had scored a direct hit. "My father is even now discussing with your father our marriage contract."

"What?" Sybelle gasped.

"You heard me. Think you that you'll find another willing to give a name to some Irishman's bastard? No," he said with a curl to his overblown lips. "But I willfor a price." He tightened his hold on her arm when she tried to fight free. "Your dowry, as my father sees it, should more than make up for your lack of innocence. And who knowsit should be fun seeing what tricks you learnt in the bed of an Irish whoreson.''

Irish whoreson. Those words stabbed at her heart with a bitter vehemence. Hadn't she once used them to insult? Now they infuriated her when applied to the Wolf of Killroone. All she could think was, how dare this insufferable lout pass judgment on a man like Rolf.

Humphrey's free hand grabbed her bottom with a studied pressure that she could feel beneath the lightweight wool of her gown. "I know what I would like to teach you," he leered, forcing her body into his so that she was forced to feel his excitement.

She hurled a curse at him, this time in Gaelic, smiling at his confusion.

"So you've learnt some of their heathen tongue, eh? Well, after you've become my wife, you'll never use that again."

"I'd sooner bed with an ape than you."

"That could be arranged," he said with a sickening gleam in his eyes. "It could prove interesting."

"My father will never allow . . . "

"He may have little to say about it. Do you think that another will take such leavings? You have only your fortune and the fact that you can breed to recommend you, my lady. And as for that, a convenient accident can take care of your little mistake."

At that Sybelle reacted violently, bringing up her knee until she connected with his groin and watched him double over in pain. "If you ever, ever, threaten my babe again, I shall see you suffer as you could never imagine pain. I pity the woman that you take to wife, for she shall surely be exposed to the pox, you rutting pig. As for thinking that you are a man," she spat at the ground where he lay, "you wouldn't know the first thing about pleasing a woman. He was more a man than ever you could aspire to being. My estates would be destroyed by me before I'd let someone like you get his greedy hands on them."

"You vicious whore!" he threatened. "My father has the ear of king."

"And I know just how he got it, by pandering his wife. You fool. Do you think that has this much real influence on Edward?" She snapped her fingers. "Your illustrious sire"and she said the words with a visible sneer"will get his money's worth and no more. Think you that he can better the Earl of Derran's influence anywhere? Beware the power of the Fitzgeralds."

She turned to leave and heard his parting words. "None will have you, slut! I could have given you your honor."

"You cannot give what was never yours," she said.

Sybelle recalled the rest of the evening with a shudder. Her father had called for her, and seeing the bruised mouth, pushed past her and delivered a well-aimed blow to the younger man, sending him once more to the ground, this time with his own lip battered and bruised.

Within the week, Sir Rosewell and his family were traveling to one of their smaller estates in the north.

At least that night proved the great differences among men. Never had she seen Rolf mistreat any of his servants, and his lips had never set out to destroy any shred of her person. She remembered how they had tasted, their sweetness, their freshness, their inflamed passion. They possessed, they caressed, they provoked, they flooded her with a sense of wonder. And his hands . . . Humphrey Charles's had inflicted pain and a need to subjugate; Rolf's were warm and sensitive, pursuing, commanding, sharing.

Two more thumps caused her to moan at the force of her babe's kicks.

Alyce was awake and at her mistress's side within a minute. "Can I get you anything?"

Sybelle took a deep breath and sighed. "I think my son is most anxious to put in an appearance in this world."

Alyce scolded. "You should not be sitting without something about your shoulders or you'll be sure and catch a chill, and you wouldn't want to be doing that now." She fetched Sybelle a thick blanket of beaver fur, soft and warm, tucking it about her lap. "You ought to be back in your bed, too," she scolded.

"I cannot sleep."

"Are you thinking about him?"

"Amongst other things."

Alyce's years of service to Sybelle, and her love for her, gave her the courage to speak. "Have you thought of telling Killroone that he is to become a father?"

"Now you sound like my belle-mиre," Sybelle said. "It will serve no purpose. This is my child. Yet I have thought of sending for Etain to act as midwife."

"Etain? Who is she?" Alyce asked.

"She was a healer at Killroone's castle. I would have her with me at this time."

"You hesitate to contact her for fear Killroone will intercept the message?"

"Aye. I have been mulling over sending word through a French captain that Etain was fond of. He may know how to reach her."

"Do you want me to see that a message is relayed? I can do that if you will."

"'Tis an idea." Sybelle rubbed her stomach. She thought about her fears for this child, and she wanted Etain near. But could she be found in time? "I have an idea. I shall say that I desire swans to be served at our Twelfth Night feast. You will journey to the monastery at Abbotsbury and purchase some from the monks there, from their swannery. You will take a sum of coin and purchase the services of two messengers. I must risk the Wolf finding out." She shifted in her seat. "Bring me paper and ink. One of these must reach her in time."

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Duvessa shifted in her sleep, trying to find a comfortable position in which to continue her rest. Hugh was wide awake, watching her. She carried the child well, and complained little. Still, each day his fears grew that she wanted to go to services in the village church, that she needed to worship and thank God at this special time for the arrival of her own child. Hugh relented and decided that all the family would go, even Sybelle. A cart was specially reinforced with soft furs piled high so that Duvessa and Sybelle could journey the distance in comfort, along with Drucilla, newly created maid to Duvessa, and Alyce. The twins and he, with several of his men, rode the distance on their own mounts.

All this because a priest, sent to fill the vacancy left since Hugh pensioned off the last one a year ago, had seen fit to pass judgment on his daughter. He had arrived only two months past, and Hugh had removed him the week before. It still angered him when he thought about it. He had come upon Duvessa weeping. Since tears for no apparent reason were not Duvessa's manner, he demanded to know what was wrong. She hesitated in telling him. He persisted. Out came the story of how she was berated by the young priest for harboring a whore in her house, that she was a woman not fit to be among decent people. He had held back, he said, but his conscience demanded, as Christmas approached, that he at last speak. It was her duty, as Countess of Derran, to remove the woman of sin from her house, be she her husband's daughter or no. When Duvessa said that she would do no such thing, the priest swore that she would be damned for allowing filth to reside among the innocent members of the household.

Hugh needed no further words from his wife for him to take action. He walked quickly from the room and soon found himself in the door to the family chapel. This building was all that remained from the time of the Conqueror. It was small, with a touch of coldness. There were few candles lit, and nowhere were there signs of peace or comfort. Hugh was not an especially religious man; he expected the place to be maintained as it was meant to be, for Duvessa and his daughters. The former priest would not have let it become such an eyesore as this. No, this was the sloppy work of his replacement, a man Hugh now sought in a cold rage.

Bursting into the antechamber off the altar, he came upon the man asleep.

"Get up!" he roared.

The young priest awoke with a start to see the towering figure of the Earl of Derran looming over him.

"My lord"

"How dare you refuse mass to my wife and daughter?" he asked coldly.

The priest gathered his simple wits about him and stood up. "The countess refuses to banish your daughter, and the Lady Sybelle is a whore; she carries the fruit of her salacious union. I cannot allow"

"You?" Hugh said in a voice that resembled a growl. "You? Who do you think you are, little man?"

"I am a man of God, and judge therefore. She is branded whore."

A blow across his face knocked the man to his knees. He cowered there, huddled like a child.

"Get your things and be gone ere the end of this day. If I see you here past sundown you will wish hell had opened up and swallowed you, for Lucifer would be easier to face than me."

The priest tasted the blood in his mouth. He spat a mouthful into a linen square and scrambled up onto the bed.

"Who are you to defy God?" he asked, trembling.

Arms akimbo, Hugh Fitzgerald stood before him, as proud a man as ever he had seen, and said with a sneer, "Think you that you are God?"

"No, but I know His wishes."

"You know nothing, little man. You preach condemnation, not love. You are not fit to judge my child, nor anyone's."

"God will judge you, my lord."

"He alone will I answer to, never to such as you. You disgust me." Hugh walked away, noting a small leather pouch half-hidden under the bed. He stopped.

The priest saw him and dove for the pouch. Hugh reached it first. He hefted the material and opened it. Inside was a large amount of coin. This must be where the money for the upkeep of the chapel was going.

Hugh again turned on the priest, who he backed up against the wall as Derran advanced. Hugh caught him by the throat with his left hand and hoisted him up against the stone wall. "Feathering the nest, I see. You hypocritical, thieving bastard! By rights you should be hung for this, as an example." His blue eyes were cold. "But you're not worth the rope 'twould take to dispose of your skinny body." Hugh released him, and he collapsed to the floor. "Be thankful for that."

Hugh walked away, his boots making an ominous sound on the stone floor. Before he left the antechamber he turned and faced the quivering priest. "I would advise you to journey far away, perhaps to France. If you remain in England, I will know and you will be sorry. 'Tis not a threat, you understand; 'tis a promise."

He informed Duvessa of what had taken place, and he saw in her eyes a gladness, a hope. Too long he had kept himself from her, tortured by the love he deemed inappropriate to express. When she flew to his arms, he finally returned her embrace. She raised her face for his kiss, her eyes wide and expectant. Hugh found that he couldn't refuse, and when his mouth touched hers, he exploded with need, drinking in all that he yearned for. He pulled away the colorful gold-threaded ribbon that held her thick hair into a simple braid, twined his hands through it as he covered her face, her neck, with his hot mouth. That wasn't enough. He had to have more. His impatient hands tore at her dress; she stepped away and turned her back to him so that he could remove the laces. He took the knife that was at his side and simply cut them in one easy stroke, yanking the dress off her shoulders, along with the linen shift that she wore underneath.

Duvessa slowly turned, her cheeks full of color as she stood before Hugh. Her breasts and stomach were swollen. Tenderly, he scooped her up into his arms and placed her on their bed, tearing off his own clothes in haste. Then it was he who was hesitant when he placed one knee on the bed. "I do not want to hurt you or the babe, my love," he said, holding in check his desire to possess her.

Duvessa held out her right hand, felt Hugh's close around it. "Then we shall be most careful, my husband." With that Hugh sank to the bed, taking her in his arms, his mouth and creative hands loving her, as she did him. "Oh, my love," she moaned, "I have missed you so, Hugh."

So intense was Hugh's pleasure after so long an abstinence that he almost fainted from his own release. He wept when later, both sated and resting, talking quietly, loving the feeling of renewed closeness, he felt the powerful kick of his child. Duvessa placed her hand on his as once again it occurred, then she drifted off to sleep

Duvessa shifted once, as Hugh drew her into his arms. She awoke, her security restored. This was where she wanted to be, this was her universe. Hugh and her child, who was only a month to be born as far as she could calculate. Her Christmas had been truly blessed. All she could have asked for was here again in her husband's strong arms.

If only she could see her step-daughter wear the same look of contentment that she did. She thought of Sybelle, who should have her man beside her, especially now. And no one could convince Duvessa otherwise than that the Wolf of Killroone was her daughter's man. He was father to the babe, and the husband she would have chosen herself for her beloved Sybelle.

She snuggled closer to her husband's warmth as he rubbed his palm across the small of her back, which ached. She hoped that Sybelle would forgive her for what she had done. Once again, Duvessa had take upon herself the task of revealing information. She had used Drucilla to see that a message was sent to her cousin in Ireland. Her maid had been more than happy to slip it into the pouch of the handsome lad who was to serve as courier to both Castle Derran and the O'Neill estate. It hadn't taken her long, she reported to Duvessa, to have caught him unaware with her flirting and her promise of a kiss as she worked the extra note into the leather bag. As Duvessa had several messages to her people, one more wouldn't be noticed. She addressed it to Yseult, whom she asked to return to her, along with her own priest. She explained to him in the note about her hasty marriage, and the need for a priest whom she could trust.

She instructed Yseult that the message was to be dispatched to her cousin as soon as possible. It was of the utmost importance. Whether or not this was right was of no concern to Duvessa. She only knew that Rolf should be here when his child was born. Or at least he should be aware that there was a child. He had a right to know. She loved him too. 'Twas as simple as that.

And she recalled Sybelle's face as they discussed Rolf. There was no hate, only shades of pain and a love that Duvessa recognized. What she did she did for love of all concerned, and the love that she was convinced would heal all past hurts, smooth the scars, and ease the suffering all had experienced. She no longer feared what would happen should Hugh and Rolf come face to face. She was secure in Hugh's love for her; he might wish to hurt Rolf, but for her sake, and the fact that Rolf was father to the grandchild that was to come, would stay his hand. She was sure of that.

She placed a kiss on the arm that surrounded her, sheltering her with its love and strength. In her belly, and Sybelle's, rested the promise of the future. It was time for new beginnings.

Chapter 30

Her labor was long and hard.

The room was filled with women. Sybelle was walking, aided by Alyce and Clare. She was doing this at Etain's demand, who felt that Sybelle's being bedridden from the first pain would be ill-advised. Having made her exam and determined that the babe was not ready for birth, she insisted on this, for she wanted the birth to go as easily as possible for her friend.

Etain brewed some potions over the flames in the hearth. One was to ease Sybelle's pain, the other to relax her so that in what was to come, she would be spared as much hurt as Etain could manage. She also prepared extra in case the countess would have need of it.

She watched as Sybelle took those small steps around the room; her hair was wet with perspiration, as was her skin. Etain was glad that Sybelle's note had found her. Armand was surprised when the fisherman caught up with him just as he was about to set sail. He relayed the message to Etain, who was living with him where she had sought refuge after her dismissal by Rolf. She responded instantly to the summons, preparing what she would need. And glad she was that she had made the decision to come. Most especially after meeting the woman who passed herself off as a midwife. She would be all right for just anyone, but not for the Lady Sybelle or the Countess of Derran. No, they would need her skills, for she thought that some difficulty might arise, though she kept her counsel private so as not to alarm.

She poured the brew for the pain into the cup held by Yseult, who had returned to the Derran household. ''Give this to the Lady Sybelle to drink," Etain instructed.

Yseult did as she was bid.

Sybelle, leaning heavily on the arms of Alyce and her sister, took a deep breath and forced herself to swallow the liquid. It tasted pleasant at least, she thought. Another pain knifed through her belly, and she let out a small scream and doubled over with the discomfort.

"Quick, get her to the bed," Etain barked out the order.

Alyce and Clare supported Sybelle until they could get her into the bed, piled high with fresh linen. Etain insisted that extra soft linen be placed where Sybelle would lie. Drucilla pulled back the pelts and pushed them to one side.

In a corner of the room, Audrey knelt in prayer, while Duvessa sat on a chair, her fingers worrying the thick gold cross and its chain in her delicate hands. She wanted to help with the birthing process, but was shooed away by Etain. In truth she did feel extraordinarily tired, and the small of her back hurt her. She watched and wished that she could give comfort to Sybelle, who seemed to be undergoing immense pain. She gave a cursory thought to her own labor to come. Would she face it with as much courage as her step-daughter? She had to. She was joined by Yseult, who murmured for her ears alone, "'Tis taking so long. The lady will be exhausted, far too much for the birth."

Duvessa replied, "Etain will not let anything untoward happen to my daughter or the babe that she carries. I have complete trust in her. I only wish that Rolf were here."

"The message meant for him was sent, my lady. 'Tis for the Wolf to decide if he wishes to be witness to the birth of his child."

"I had thought," Duvessa said sadly, "that he would have been here ere now."

"Do not fear, my lady."

"My concern is for Sybelle."

Another moan from the bed drew Duvessa's attention to the woman lying there. A cold cloth was placed on Sybelle's forehead.

Oh God, she thought in a haze of agony, please let this be finished soon. I needher thoughts were interrupted by a sharper shaft of pain.

Clare, holding her sister's hand, squeezed it tightly. "Belle, scream if you must. Do not try to be brave."

Sybelle managed a weak smile before her mind clouded. She was being given a drink of something. She felt the mist sweep over her, and from the mist she heard a faint voice calling to her. It was her name, repeated over and over, followed by, "Do not fear. Be strong, my love." She couldn't see a face, heard only the voice. Somehow it soothed her, gave her the comfort that she so desperately needed. She took another deep breath.

Clare wondered how much longer her sister could be expected to suffer through this unending anguish. And the stray thought crossed her mind: how could any woman look forward to this torment? She didn't know if she would welcome this or should pray that she would prove barren. And soon Duvessa would go through this same torture, all to provide her husband with another child, perchance a son. Clare was afraid that she would lose both her sister and the mother she had grown to love. And there was no surety that the babe they struggled to bring into this world would survive.

Below stairs, those same thoughts also crossed the mind of Hugh Fitzgerald. He was unable to concentrate on anything else this day. He paced back and forth like a caged animal without hope of being free. He had heard the last scream from the direction of his daughter's room. Anger had flooded through his system when he heard that. He wanted to throttle the beast responsible for her misery. He wished that she had not proved so fertile. Damn that Irish bastard for his virility.

And what about his own feelings regarding his wife? Her time was almost upon her. Thoughts of his own eagerness to bed her came crashing back into his consciousness. He was responsible for her bearing his child, and the consequent pain that she would experience. He was a man, unable to take any of the burden of the physical pain onto his own person even if he wanted to, and he would have given whatever he possessed to spare the women he loved this torment.

A painful thought speared his brain. Suppose his daughter were to give her life for this child? Did that Irishwoman know what she was doing? Could she help his child to survive? What if? loomed large in his thoughts. What if Sybelle perished and only the babe remained? What would he do? Would he rid himself of the bitter living memory, or keep it?

He slammed his fist into the open palm of his right hand repeatedly. Could he bear to have around the reminder of the loss of his child? No, by God's blood! He couldn't allow himself to think such despairing thoughts. Sybelle would survive, as would Duvessa. They had to. And as for Sybelle's child . . . Hugh finally realized that it mattered little who had fathered the babe; this child was part of his blood, a Fitzgerald. It was Sybelle's legacy, her flesh, and through her, his. His first grandchild.

Sir John poked his head around the door of the library, wondering if he should disturb Hugh, and seeing the look of abject despair on his lord's face, he risked it. "Any news, my lord?"

Hugh stopped his pacing. "No, my friend. And it has been ever so long. I fear for her."

"She's a fighter, my lord, is Lady Sybelle."

"'Tis the only thing that keeps me sane, I think."

"How about a mug of ale?"

"No. I want my wits about me, and I fear that if I start drinking I may want to continue till my mind is a blur." He resumed his restless pacing again. "I only wish I knew what was happening."

Sybelle was moving restlessly herself, trying to find a comfortable position. She had marked Clare's hand as she dug her fingernails into her sister's palm. Clare made no demur, and signaled Alyce to wipe Sybelle's brow once again. Yseult handed Sybelle a glass of wine and held it to her lips so that she could drink. Sybelle nodded her thanks.

Another hour or more had passed since they had gotten Sybelle to bed. Clare looked at the faces of the assembled women. Concern was on everyone's features.

Sybelle uttered a sharp gasp. Only Clare and Alyce heard the name she mentioned on a moan. "Rolf." They traded glances over Sybelle's head.

Etain lifted the gown of white lawn that Sybelle wore, and made a quick examination. She pronounced, "'Tis begun." She went to the basin of water again and washed her hands, looking for something she had brought with her. She said an ancient prayer in Gaelic for the safe delivery of the child and its mother. "Warm some more water and pour it into that small tub," she ordered Drusilla, who hastened to do her bidding even though she couldn't imagine what they needed with a basin reserved for washing.

Etain began to talk to Sybelle, her soft, lilting voice crooning encouragement.

Sybelle could hear her through the soft mist. She pushed as she was instructed, and gave all her effort into seeing that her child was brought into this world. She fought to stiffle her pain and concentrated on her task with the singlemindedness of a battlefield general. She bore down and was finally relieved of her burden. She could hear the sighs, feel the child slip eagerly through her legs. Alyce sponged her face once again. Sybelle heaved a deep breath, and felt another sharp pain grip her belly, just as she thought it was finished.

Etain held up the child and it began to wail, loudly. "'Tis a fine, healthy son," she said and gave the child to Drucilla. "Place the child in warm water and clean it," she instructed and the maid obeyed, taking great care. Yseult held open her arms and wrapped the infant in a dry cloth. Just as she was about to show Sybelle her child Sybelle gave another audible gasp of pain.

Etain bent to assist, thinking it was the afterbirth, but found instead the head of another infant peeping through. "Push once more, my lady" she said and the child slid onto the bloody sheets. Etain picked it up as Sybelle lifted her eyelids. She focused hazily, and thought that she saw another child.

"You have a daughter also, my lady," Etain said, and all crowded around to see the second child.

Sybelle blinked in surprise. Twins! She had mothered a son and a daughter. The girl was washed and wrapped up, and Drusilla began to remove the sheets, taking all the remnants of the birth. Alyce found a clean gown for Sybelle to put on and proceeded to wash her mistress and make her as comfortable as possible.

A broth containing healing herbs and beef juices was spooned into Sybelle's mouth by Audrey. Meanwhile, Duvessa was examining the children carefully, checking for any signs of blemish or disfigurement, while Sybelle was being prepared. Two babies. And each, one held by Yseult, the other by Clare, looked perfect. They both had hair as black as the Wolf's. It was too early to tell what shade their eyes would be, but they were indeed Killroone's babes. Oh, dearest cousin, where are you? Duvessa thought as she placed a kiss on the brow of each child. She hoped that her own babe would be blessed with Hugh's hair. She wanted a child with his reddish-blond locks, and as thick.

"Hugh should be informed," she said, and motioned for Yseult to give the babe to Audrey, who was thrilled to be holding her niece.

Sybelle was dozing for the moment, and Etain suggested that they let her sleep for as long as possible. "She needs the rest," Etain announced, "for she has been through much. And to have produced two such fine babes." She touched each as they were shown to her. "They are a welcome addition to any family." And worthy children of Ireland, she added to herself.

Yseult hurried down the steps and faced the Earl of Derran in his study. Since her return from Ireland, she had kept as much distance as she was able from him, for fear of retaliation for her part in delivering the message to his enemy. "My Lord . . . " she began.

"What?" he asked, jumping up from his seat by the fire. It had begun to snow heavily again, and he thought how beautiful and cleansing it was.

"Your daughter, the Lady Sybelle, has been safely delivered of her babes." She kept her eyes averted.

Little use that was as Hugh placed one hand beneath her chin and asked, "Babes?"

"Aye, my lord. She has borne a daughter and a son."

"Twins!" he said, astonished. Sybelle had twins!"

"Your lady wife requests your presence in my Lady Sybelle's room, my lord."

Hugh made for the door, but before he left he said, "Yseult, what is past remains there, for my lady's sake. Understood?"

She dropped him a deep curtsey in gratitude. "Thank you for your generosity, my lord."

Hugh took the stairs two at a time, eager to see his grandchildren. Two. He still couldn't believe it. 'Twas his reaction also fourteen years ago on the birth of his daughters.

He entered the room, saw his wife, daughters, and assorted servants cooing over the children.

He approached the bed, for by now Sybelle had awakened from her short nap, and she sat up, a child in each arm.

She looks radiant, Hugh thought. He stood next to the bed, gazing down until Sybelle said, "Father, come sit. Meet your grandchildren."

He eased himself down, careful not to jar the bed and disturb her or the babes.

She smiled with motherly pride. "Are they not beautiful?"

Hugh looked at the face of his grandson, saw the crown of thick black hair, touched one long finger to the lad's cheek. He examined his granddaughter the same way, and Sybelle saw the misty film of tears form in his eyes. "They are unique, my dear." He picked the boy up and kissed him. The child opened his tiny eyelids and stared at his grandfather. He blinked in contentment and closed his lids, secure in his grandfather's love. Hugh took the girl. She too opened her eyes and her rosebud lips formed a slight movement. A smile, Hugh thought. She smiled at me. His heart was truly captured by them.

"They are indeed fine," he said, cupping Sybelle's cheek and leaning over to put his lips to her brow. "You have much to be thankful for."

Sybelle murmured a sleepy answer and her eyelids drifted close.

Just as Etain was ushering everyone out of the room, and seeing to the twins being placed in a crowded cradle, she heard the startled gasp from Duvessa.

Duvessa, her hand gripped in Hugh's, looked at the floor in astonishment. Her gown was soaked; the wood bore traces of fluid. "Hugh," she said, her eyes wide with fear.

He scooped her up into his arms.

"Bring her to your room, my lord," Etain instructed.

"Is it her time?" he asked.

"Aye, 'twould appear so. It seems that your child is most eager to meet this world and his kin."

Duvessa laid her head against her husband's chest and could hear the rapid beat of his heart. "Hugh," she said, "promise me that you will not leave me."

"Nothing shall induce me from your side, my dearest love."

He entered their chambers and laid her down gently on the bed, as Drucilla and Yseult pulled away the covers of the bed.

Etain was once again the general in command of this encounter. She rapped out orders briskly. She didn't have time to administer the potion for the pain as Duvessa went into labor, trying to deliver her child.

Hugh held his wife's hand, begging God to keep her safe. He couldn't lose her. She was the love of his heart, the love which filled the empty spaces. He brought her hand to his lips. "Mavoureen dheelish," he whispered and he thought he saw her faint smile through her panting breaths.

In little time, Duvessa was delivered of her own child.

Hugh was awed by the process that brought his son into the world. A son. He couldn't fathom it. And his wife was smiling, her full mouth in a bowshaped curve.

When the babe was cleaned up, he was given to his mother, who kissed him. Her wish had been granted. On his head he sported a fuzz of reddish-blond. "He is your son, my lord."

Hugh held the child and stood up from the bed. He presented their brother to the twins, who were brought into the room to admire their new brother. Hugh felt a rush of love and tenderness, and extreme pride. He cared not that his eyes were awash with tears. He had witnessed the miracle that was life, and felt truly awed.

"What shall we name him, love?" Hugh asked, coming back to the bed.

Duvessa, her own eyes wet with tears of gratitude, looked at the twins. "Clare, I shall leave your brother's naming to you, with your permission, Hugh."

Hugh smiled his agreement.

Clare was nonplussed. This was quite a surprise. It was a mark of honor to chose the name of the heir of the earldom of Derran. Her mouth curved in a shared smile with Duvessa. "Aidan."

Hugh recognized the name. "Duvessa?"

She held out her arms for the child. "Aidan Hugh O'Neill Fitzgerald." She clasped the babe to her heart. '''Tis a grand name. May he grow up to be the man that his father is."

The rest of the women, their tasks completed, filtered from the room, closing the door on the couple and their child.

"I can never express my gratitude, my love," Hugh said, kissing her deeply, tenderly.

"You have given me all that I have ever wanted, or needed, my love," she whispered. "This day we are doubly blessed. Three births, and all healthy. God has been generous." At the contented look on Hugh's face, she thought wickedly, God wouldn't dare to disappoint her husband, for he was too formidable an enemy.

She only wished that Sybelle could have had her babies' father with her. Duvessa remembered how she had depended on Hugh's strength when the pain almost overwhelmed her, though she was most grateful that she had been spared what her daughter had undergone. What was Sybelle feeling now?

Sybelle was feeling happy and sad. Happy that her labor was over, that the unbearable pain was gone, and in its place were her children. A miracle. How could anyone ever think they weren't a gift from God?

Sadness touched her when she thought of their father. They were his children, too, for she couldn't really discount the part he had played in their conception. She realized the depth of her feelings for him as she recalled that it was his voice which gave her the added strength she needed. It was as if, even though he wasn't physically there, he had willed her his thoughts. And she found that she wanted the man, not the ethereal presence. She loved him, desired him, needed himbut did she trust him? Enough to give him her heart, her life, her honor?

Chapter 31

Rolf found an inn that catered to travelers. It was clean and, for a few extra coins, provided him with a hot meal and a private room. He, along with Auliffe, had decided to stop there for the night rather than continue on for Dorset. He cursed his luck that he had found so late the news that Duvessa sent him.

He had decided to remain with his brother in Wales for what was left of December, and on through January. The weather had been rough, with snowstorms upon snowstorms. The wooded landscape was beautiful, affording numerous opportunities for hunting and further time for reflecting. His skills as a hunter were sharp, honed to perfection. He would need all he possessed to capture the most elusive prey he soughtfor he meant to pursue Sybelle Fitzgerald, and to obtain his goal. He had said as much to Bran.

When she left him, he was angry and hurt. He'd decided that he had allowed himself to be trapped by an emotion that he deemed love. It was only lust. He hadn't yet had his fill of the wench, 'twas all. Nothing more. He should have been the one to dismiss her when he was sated with her body. As the weeks passed, he told himself that he was well rid of her, a lying, scheming woman. Only the nights ached with loneliness and the days all seemed somehow flat and dull. It started small, this feeling in his heart. And then he understood: he was in love with her, and always had been. This was no temporary descent into the fields of lust; no, she was his and always would be. There was no way he could sever the bonds between them. For as surely as he had captured her, she had done the same to him.

He recalled the self-satisfied grin on Bran's face when he explained what he was intent on doing. He would regain her love, for now he fully understood that had there been no love on her part, there would have been no forgiveness.

Then, Duvessa's note, delivered by Auliffe, found him.

That message still haunted him. Why had Sybelle deemed it necessary to let him remain in ignorance of his child? Was she ashamed? Or was this a way to strike back at him, to deny him his own flesh? Doubts tore at his mind after receiving the communication. It had taken Auliffe time to find him, and the harsh winter storms had prevented their leaving earlier. Weather and distance separated him from his child, and from the woman who would bear it.

It was now early in April. Sybelle would have been delivered of the babe by now. Had she fared well? The horrific realization struck him that he could be hurrying only to find that she was lost to him. Or the child might not have survived.

He threw a glance at the man sleeping on a pallet at the bottom of the bed that he occupied. Auliffe thought him mad to be pursuing the lady to her father's domain. He cautioned Roll that such a move was not the wisest course of action.

Rolf cared not. He only knew that he must see Sybelle, and his child. Derran would not welcome him. Would Sybelle? And how to get them back to Ireland? He had no intention of returning to his keep without her and the child. They belonged to him. He must plan what he was to do. He could not afford to be caught unawares by Derran or his men. He must establish a course of action and be prepared for anything.

He would use Duvessa.

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"Where came you by this note?" Duvessa asked Yseult. She was checking on her sleeping son, who was curled into his cradle. She ran her finger along the soft cheek. It still amazed her that he was real, that he was healthy.

"Whilst I was in the village getting the items that you requested. I was coming from the draper and a hand covered my mouth and pulled me into a side street. I feared that it was some ruffian intent on harm and tried to get away. He was huge, and strong, and then finally he whispered for me to be calmin Irish. I ceased struggling when he relaxed his grip on me and spun around to see Auliffe. He said that Killroone was there and wanted me to deliver a message to you."

"Killroone is here?" Duvessa gasped. She had recognized the seal on the note. But here? Among Derran's own?

"Did you see him?"

"No. Auliffe slipped me the message and said that I was to see that none but you received it."

"Thank you, Yseult."

She nodded her head and left the room. Duvessa sank into a chair to read the note.

"My sweet cousin:

Your message finally reached me whilst I was in Wales with Bran. Foul weather prevented me from answering sooner.

I must see the Lady Sybelle and the babe. I look to you to arrange this. Contact me through Yseult. I shall be at the Flying Swan tavern.

Do not make me wait too long."

It was signed with a bold K. Duvessa crumpled the note and bowed her head. What was she to do? Should she tell Sybelle that Roll was here? Should she tell Hugh that Roll wanted a meeting?

Oh, no, she decided, that wouldn't be a good idea. Her husband loved his grandchildren; she wasn't sure how he would react should he learn of Rolf's presence. And Sybelle? How did she really feel? When she was with her babes she was alive, othewise there was about her a certain sadness, almost as if she were a widow, with only her children to remind her of her loss. Duvessa would come upon Sybelle and see in her eyes a wistfulness that defied logic. Mayhap if they could but meet again . . . but each was stubborn, proud, and very willful.

A sound from her son brought Duvessa's attention to him. He was only moving about. She tucked the linen blanket across his body once again. Aidan was a delight to Hugh, who she sometimes found merely staring at the boy. Rolf deserved the same contentment. And if they met, perhaps he and Sybelle could resolve their differences. It was worth the gamble.

Standing up, she went to the writing table. She took a sheet of parchment and picked up a quill and dipped it into the pot of ink.

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It was an unusually warm day. Spring had come early, it seemed, as plants hurried into bloom. Sybelle could smell it in the air. She would dress and take the twins outside. For far too long they had been confined to the manor house. The sun shone brightly, the breeze was mild. It would do them good to be exposed to the fine weather. She would have the garden to herself, as Duvessa and her father had gone for a trek into the village. Today was a special occurrence, as there was a troupe of players come to the village to entertain. There promised to be all sorts of entertainment, and since this was a rarity, everyone decided to go. All save Sybelle. She needed no entertainment; her twins were amusement enough. Besides, she would have an excuse for dwelling on her memories. And trying to find an answer to the questions that forever nagged at her soul.

She settled the babies on a large, thick fur pelt. They were awake and active. She bent over her son and tickled his stomach, and was rewarded with a cooing noise. Her daughter was silent; she seemed to be absorbed by Lugh's nose as the dog lay, head on his paws, and watched her. Sybelle was glad of Lugh's attention, though some expressed concern about the huge dog being so close to the children. But Lugh was an excellent nurse, another pair of eyes to keep a protective watch, Sybelle thought. She leaned back on her arms and felt the warmth of the sun on her upturned face; her shoulders and neck, exposed by the gown she wore, were richly shaded in peach. What was the weather like at this exact moment in Ireland? Or, more specifically, at Killroone's castle?

Rolf was never far from her thoughts. She had only to look into the faces of the twins to see him reflected there. Her daughter's eyes were turning that well-recalled shade of green. Her son bore the cleft in his chin. Alyce had remarked recently that they had the look of the fey about them. Etain had said that they were of Ireland, and therefore must one day return.

She mised Etain, who had returned to France several weeks after the birth of the babes. They had parted deep friends, Etain promising to return in several months' time. Her last words to Sybelle had been of Rolf. "He loves you, my lady. Whatever else, the Wolf loves you."

Sybelle wished that she could believe that. She needed to feel something other than this vague sense of bereavement. For even though she thought she had put Ireland and Killroone far behind her, they continued to haunt her, to probe at odd times into her raw feelings. Time had not silenced the whispers of what was. She had never succeeded in putting him from her heart. Silently, she raged at him for rest, for a respite. Was she never to be free?

Her daughter began to whimper. She picked her up and saw the look in those sweet green eyes. "Hungry, my love?" she asked. "Of course you are. Let us feed you, then," she said, unlacing the front of her gown. There was no one about, so she felt quite safe performing this function. A wet nurse had been hired to supplement the milk needed for the twins, and for her brother. Sybelle did not often use the young woman, for her own breasts were large with the supply needed for the twins. Her daughter's mouth fastened onto a plump breast and she suckled greedily. "Little pig," Sybelle crooned. ''Do not be in such a hurry. We've all afternoon."

Her son was now awake and she assumed that he was also ready for his meal. Sybelle patted his stomach. "Soon," she said.

A low growl in Lugh's throat forced her attention on the dog.

Lugh was up. He ran into the trees surrounding the garden. What could have made him react so? she wondered. Could there be someone in the wood? Only a token force of two men remained at the manor house, the rest having been given leave to attend the festival. More than likely 'twas an animal that Lugh had given chase to. Aye, that was probably it.

From a spot hidden from sight, Rolf watched Sybelle. When the dog bounded for where he was standing, he thought that she would surely know someone was there. But she paid no heed, concerned and intent on her duty. The sight that greeted him, after calming down the dog with a whispered command, was of Sybelle and a baby at her breast. She held it and talked to it with a look of obvious love. His child.

Then he heard the sounds that indicated another child was present. Another child? Was this Duvessa's? In her message she had explained that she was to deliver a child near Sybelle's time.

Rolf then recalled that he had seen his cousin with a babe in her arms at the village fair. Seeing Hugh Fitzgerald and his cousin together had given him pause. They were indeed much in love. It was clear in the warm gaze Duvessa bestowed on her husband, and palpable in the way Derran kept her by his side, his arm about her, and in the way he leaned over and spoke words for her ears alone. Where was his implacable resolve to destroy the man? Vanished, along with the need for revenge, the remnant of a period pushed aside for needs of the present, the promise of the future.

He had waited to see if Sybelle would accompany them. When it was apparent that she hadn't, he seized on this chance to see her undisturbed.

Sweet Jesu, then this child must also be his. Twins.

The realization startled him. And she wasn't going to tell him? An atavistic anger flooded through his system. They were his. They belonged in Ireland, with him. Not here, never here, in this country.

He stepped quietly through the foliage, knowing that Auliffe remained on guard lest anyone return early.

Sybelle heard the noise and looked up, expecting to see Lugh returning.

She was sure it was a fantasy. It couldn't be him, here, now. Shock was evident in her eyes. Sybelle watched Rolf approach with wary fascination. He was realand more handsome than she had allowed herself to remember.

She observed him as his green eyes narrowed to take in the inescapable fact that there were two children.

His first words to her were spoken in harsh tones. "How dared you not tell me of my children?"

His anger cooled any desire on her part to greet him with civility. "I thought it best."

"You thought it best?" he demanded.

She removed her daughter from her breast and felt the heat of his gaze on her naked flesh. Sybelle blushed as she laid her daughter down and made to refasten her gown.

Rolf took this opportunity to lift the child into his arms, bringing her close for his inspection. She was truly an O'Dalaigh.

"What is she called?" he asked as he traced a long index finger around her tiny mouth, wiping away a drop of liquid that clung to the corner.

"I have named her Deirdre," she said softly, defiantly.

Rolf bent and placed her back on the fur, picking up the other child.

"That is Declan," she announced.

His second name. Rolf's gaze sought hers.

His son.

His heir.

He had been wrong. She must have hated him very much to have kept this knowledge from him. But she was still wearing the bracelet, he noted, somewhat confused.

"You did not plan to tell me?" His tone was clipped, his deep voice an accusation that flailed her.

"Would you have wanted to know, truthfully?"

The cold look he threw her way chilled Sybelle and brought a return of the fear that she felt coiling inside her.

"Do you even have to ask?"

Sybelle could see the answer on his face. It was stamped on the arrogance that was revealed there. These were the wolf's cubs; flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood.

Now that the moment was upon her, what did she want, truthfully? She observed the tenderness with which he examined his son, the finger he let be used for a sucking tool, the way his eyes crinkled with delight when Deirdre appeared to flash him a stare of importance. There must be a way, a compromise. For Sybelle was aware of the tingling of her nerves in response to being so close to him. She could feel the snapping of emotion between them, as if lightning were shooting through the sky. It was still there, this remembered pull, this attraction both dangerous and delicious. She wanted him. It was all she could do to mentally restrain herself from reaching over and helping him remove his shirt and doublet so that she could feel the warmth of his hairroughened skin against her hands. She longed to run her fingers through that black mane that had grown longer, thicker. It was a primitive reaction to a primitive man.

Roll wanted to feel her fragrant body next to his, to rend asunder the laces that held her gown in place and put his mouth to her bosom and suck the sweet fruits that gave sustenance to his children. He longed to fill his hands with her breasts, to seek the warmth of her thighs cradling him as he sought the refuge he demanded. Could one want to both punish and exalt? He wanted to master her body and show her who was in control. He wanted to worship at her temple. He wanted to kiss her for this most precious of gifts and vent his anger for refusing him knowledge of the same.

"They are to come with me," he said in a calm, cold voice.

"No!" Sybelle cried.

"They are O'Dalaighs and belong with their father."

"They are Fitzgeralds and belong to me," she declared with vehemence.

"Then we are at an impasse, my lady, are we not?"

Ask, she silently begged. Ask me, Rolf. Give me a sign.

He stood up, Declan in his arms. Sybelle took Deirdre in hers as she began to cry, as if sensing the dispute between her parents.

"It seems we have a solution of sorts here. My son shall come with me. Auliffe!" he called out and the big man came through the garden, Lugh at his heels. Rolf gave his son to the startled man.

"Rolf, I beg of you, do not do this," Sybelle pleaded. She grabbed for his doublet, watching her son disappear through the trees and out of her life.

Rolf removed her hand from his clothes and said simply, "You know where to find us, my lady, should you wish to."

She clung to her daughter, who began to whimper in earnest. Tears welled in Sybelle's eyes as she fell to her knees, sobbing. She looked up and saw Roll staring at her. How could he be that cruel? To tear her son from her care? "Rolf!" her voice rose in a cry as he disappeared.

Why wasn't there blood? she wondered as she rocked Deirdre back and forth, too stunned to run after him, Lugh licked her hand. Part of her heart had been ripped from her body. She would have expected to see blood.

Again he demanded, and took. He had only to ask, she screamed silently in her head. She would have given him all, gladly, for she realized that when she saw him there could be no full life for her without Roll O'Dalaigh. And now he had smashed her dreams, assassinated her hopes by stealing her child, his child, from her.

She was still in that position almost an hour later when Clare found her.

"Sybelle!" she screamed, racing to her sister's side. Clare could see the grief written on Sybelle's face.

"Declan is gone," she said sadly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"His father took him." Sybelle's dark eyes revealed her devastation.

"The Wolf? Here?" Clare asked, astounded.

Duvessa and Hugh entered the garden and saw Sybelle on the ground with only one of her children. Both hurried to her.

"Sybelle," Hugh spoke first, kneeling down, "where is Declan?"

"Gone."

"Gone where?"

Clare spoke up, her arms around Sybelle. "She said that Killroone was here and claimed him."

"Killroone? But how?"

"He found out about the babes," Sybelle murmured. "He decided that they belonged in Ireland. I told him no, that they will remain with me." She cradled her daughter closer to her heart. "He then decided, as if he were Solomon, to divide the babes: one for him, one for me."

"Get her inside," Hugh instructed Duvessa. "I shall see to this myself," he said, a bloodlust in his eyes.

Duvessa felt the tears coursing down her cheeks as she realized the havoc she had wrought by trying to heal. She never thought that Rolf was capable of such real cruelty.

No sooner were they about to enter the house when Sir John escorted a nun into their midst, carrying a large basket.

"My lord, I think that you should receive this woman," he said when Hugh waved to dismiss her.

His temper barely in check, Hugh barked, "What do you seek?"

"The mother of this child."

All eyes focused on the tall, robust woman and the bundle that she held. A cry emanated from the basket.

Sybelle shoved Deirdre into Clare's arms as she ran to the nun. Inside the basket, as she pulled back the blanket that covered him, was Declan.

"'Tis Declan," she declared, crying her joy as she pulled him from the basket.

Sybelle kissed his face, hugging him to her breast, which ached with the need to feed him. And judging by her son's wail, he was hungry.

Duvessa and Hugh and Clare all stood about with various signs of surprise on their collective faces.

"He sent him back to me," Sybelle said with surprise. Why? she asked herself. Why did Rolf return our son when he could have made off with him to Ireland? "Who gave you this child?" Sybelle demanded.

"A man, who was accompanied by another."

"Did he say anything? Did he give you any message?" Please, Sybelle thought, let him have said something, given a reason.

"He was a foreigner, Irish I am thinking," the nun said, and added, "all that he asked me to say was for the babe's mother." Although the nun had never met this woman, the Fitzgeralds' generosity to her order was well known, as was the devotion of the lady's sister, Lady Audrey. ''I was to say these words exactly: 'I forgive. The choice is yours.'"

"Choice?" echoed three sets of voices.

Sybelle knew what he meant. Declan grabbed at her wristband. Tears of relief filled her eyes. Thank you, God, she said, for Roll has given me what I wanted. She rallied her reserves of strength and called to Clare, "Bring Deirdre and come with me," as she made for the house, leaving Duvessa and Hugh standing there as Sir John escorted the nun back to her pony cart.

Hugh was perplexed. His first reaction was to order men armed and ready to make for the coast to catch Killrooneand when he did, to extract punishment for his crimes. Now this. Just when he believed he knew his enemy, and his contempt was high, Killroone revealed something more. Why had he chosen to return Declan to Sybelle? Why?

"What do you make of that?" he questioned Duvessa.

Duvessa was aghast at the turn of events. She knew what she hoped this meant. She would have to handle her husband well as she explained. And she hoped that she was correct. Duvessa smiled as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Let us upstairs, Hugh, for I would talk to you in private."

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Miles away, two men on horseback stopped as they neared the coast. Neither had spoken since their departure from the convent. Auliffe was confused by the actions of his earl. He rubbed a hand over his beard. He yearned for Ireland and his wife and family, from whom he had been absent for far too long. And he was unsure now of what was expected of him. He had tried to question Killroone when they made the abrupt change and rode for the nunnery that sat on the hill, but he was silenced with a wave of his master's hand and had simply shut his mouth and did as he was bidden.

Rolf patted the neck of the horse. The poor beast was tired. This wasn't the quality of animal he was used to; Fergal would have lasted three times as long without being winded. He was bred for stamina, for speed. This poor nag was doing the best he could, Rolf supposed. As long as it got him to the coastline so that he could make passage to Ireland. Any point in Ireland. He cared not. He wanted to be back on his native soil.

He cast a glance over his shoulder at the land that he had left. Ahead were the chalk cliffs, behind were the sloping farmlands that housed his children.

His children. The memory of them tugged at his heart with a bittersweet pull. He had thought to make her come with him with the lure of the child. She wouldn't have let herself be separated long; 'twas evident when he saw her with them.

What had changed his mind? She was sure to be asking that question. He threw a glance in Auliffe's direction. He was convinced Auliffe thought him mad. But it was Declan's eyes.

When they had stopped to buy fresh horses, he saw his son's eyes clearly. They were Sybelle's. A misty shade of blue overlaced with gray. He saw again her eyes wet with tears for her loss, begging for her child as she had never done for herself. And Rolf found that it wounded him to see her begging for anything, especially to him. He wanted her, but not that way. That was taking again. In her eyes he could see the power that he held over heras she held over him. Only Sybelle could make him risk losing forever all that he now held dear. She held custody of his future; only she could grant it to him.

It was a risk, but one that he had to take. In his son's eyes he saw the reflection of love. And it came to him in that instant that it could not be forced. It must be given freely to have value.

Had he been a fool? Christ's blood, but he hoped not, for he desired to spend no more time than necessary in the hell of solitude in which he existed now. He wanted her, beside him, for always.

Chapter 32

Once again she was overwhelmed by the harsh beauty of the rugged landscape. It had changed little over the past year; it was she who had changed. Love and experience had wrought that metamorphosis; she was still Sybelle, though altered.

She cast her gaze at the covered cart that made its way over the rocky road. She smelled the ocean. Soon they would be there, the final destination.

She had chosen not to ride inside the coach. She needed to feel the air, watch the changing scenery, absorb that which was Rolf's domain. Lugh barked in excitement, roving eagerly over familiar territory. Her high-spirited mare pranced along, eager for a run. Sybelle wished that she could indulge both the animal and herself. Still, she held onto the reins and promised both of them, "Soon."

The June wind, soft and gentle, spun her hair behind her like a honey-brown badge of distinction, as she pulled closer to the carriage to peer inside. The twins were sleeping, and Alyce, who had chosen to accompany her, along with her husband, was dozing peacefully.

It had been two days since they left the confines of Castle Derran. Knowing that the twins could not be expected to endure the rigors of a hard, fast ride, she ordered Sir John, who was bidden by Hugh to escort her to Killroone's keep, to see to the transportation of her children and her baggage. Sybelle had spent almost a week at Castle Derran upon her return to Ireland, sorting out business regarding her estate and choosing an able steward for her property while she was away. He was instructed to oversee the accounts and provide her with reports at Killroone's castle.

Each step brought her closer to the man she had chosen and further from the life she had known. But this was her choice. Her responsibility. She could recall vividly the effect that her decision to come back to Ireland, and most particularly to the Wolf's stronghold, had on her family.

With the return of her son to her control, Sybelle had realized just what Rolf was doing. He was giving her the sign that she had asked for, the consideration for her feelings to decide not only her own future, but that of her children and Rolf's too. She was aware of a sense of power, and of the equal power that Rolf possessed over her. And he had willingly shared it with her by extending to her the focus of her dominion over him. It was a revelation to be cherished and hugged close.

When she announced her resolve to her family, they had reacted as she expected. Her sisters joined her in her rooms later that evening as she fed the twins and gave them to Alyce for their bath. Audrey offered to bathe Deirdre as Alyce took Declan. Sybelle watched her sister and thought that she would make a fine mother, for Audrey was calm and patient. Yet she knew that Audrey wanted only to enter a nunnery. She felt called to the religious life, though she would bend to their father's wishes, Sybelle knew, if he said otherwise. Not so she and Clare. They were more attuned to their own wishes, their own needs. Her sisters were like two sides of a coin. Would her own children be like that? Or would they inherit the headstrong nature of both their parents?

She signalled for Clare to remain when the others left.

"I want you to come to me. Promise."

Clare nodded her head, her arms around her sister. "That I shall." She wanted to divulge her secret to Sybelle, seek her advice; instead she chose to keep it. "Be happy, Belle," was all she said.

Sybelle cast a glance at the sleeping infants, and a wide smile played upon her lips. "How could I not be?" she asked softly. "I have all that I could want, more than I ever expected.

"Oh Clare," she sighed, hugging her arms tightly together. "I never imagined what life would hold for me. How very naive I was. And how much my world has been turned around these past months." She confided in Clare, ''I had never thought to feel the depth of emotion that Rolf brings forth from me. A marriage of true minds was what I sought, if married I had to be. I would have settled for less, and believed myself adequately compensated if he was kind and good. I never thought to stir beyond the acceptable." Sybelle closed her eyes.

"What of the pain?" Clare posed.

Sybelle's eyes flew open. She caught a wistfulness and an honesty in Clare's question. "Aye, there is pain in love, in life. It is balanced by joy. I have learnt that lesson well."

Sybelle recalled the girl that she had been when she and Etain had discussed the potency of passion that long ago day in the cottage by the ocean. She was so very sure, so adamant that she would never succumb to the devastating emotion that Etain described so vividly. Etain was so much wiser. She now possessed a measure of that wisdom and acceptance of the overwhelming force of love. She had cautioned Clare, and knew that her words would have an influence.

"Heed your heart, sweet sister," she said as she pulled Clare into her arms, exchanging hugs. "Only make sure that when you find a man, he deserves what you will bestow on him. I would urge prudence, but I fear that you will do what you will."

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They stopped for a quick meal and to rest the horses, and to allow Sybelle some privacy to nurse her children.

When she emerged from the coach, she accepted a mug of ale from Sir John. A grin tugged at her lips as she saw the look on his face. "I fear that you are in a quandary about this duty?"

He quaffed his ale and nodded his head. "Aye, that I am, my lady. 'Twas only last year that I was organizing plans for your rescue, and now you be going back to the man who held you hostage." He shook his head.

Sybelle took his hand and brought the scarred knuckles to her lips. "And I thank you for that, Sir John. You have been like a second father to me," she admitted, causing him to clear his throat with emotion. "Will you wish me happiness?"

"As always, my lady, 'tis all that I could ask for you. If you have been able to put aside all that has happened, then I shall respect your wishes."

"I love him."

"If you say so," he concluded, thinking that there must be something to that grand feeling, if the earl and his countess and the Lady Sybelle all felt it.

She finished her drink before preparing to remount her horse, Sybelle appreciated the honesty of his skepticism. He would, perforce, see in Rolf that man she had chosen and why, if she could but persuade him to stay a few weeks at the keep.

Her thoughts drifted back once again as she felt the measured steps of her horse beneath her. She and Duvessa had shared much time together. She could recall Duvessa's words of encouragement for following her heart. Then, the words that confirmed what she had suspected.

"'Twas I who sent to Rolf to tell him of the children," Duvessa admitted a week after the incident.

"I thought as much," Sybelle responded.

"You do not hate me?"

"No. I love you, Duvessa." Sybelle meant that, for she had come to care deeply for her father's bride, so near in age to her own. "I know you, and 'twas not done out of spite, or malice, but because you believed that what you were doing was right."

Duvessa squeezed her hand. "When I saw you through all those long months without the comfort that your man should have been providing, I feared you would allow your fierce pride, which"she pointed out"you share in abundance with my dear cousin, to force you into being alone. I considered that mayhap I could do something to rectify the situation. And I did feel he had a right to know that you were carrying his child. 'Twas only when I saw you sitting there with Deirdre that I knew, somehow, I'd produced harm when I meant only to heal."

"'Twas not your fault, Duvessa."

"Should he have kept Declan . . . "

"I would have gone for my son."

Aye, Sybelle thought as the mare picked her way over some rough terrain, I would have gone and given in. She knew that had she gone that way, it would have eventually crushed her and destroyed any hope of a true marriage; but she would have risked that to keep her son. If he had forced her once again, taken away her right to come freely, Sybelle knew that anything she felt would have been replaced with a deep resentment, which would have killed her love and turned her respect for him to ashes.

Her father had been the hardest to leave. His continued silence about her decision irritated her until finally she cornered him. They had been riding, at her request, one last time, for she was to leave on the morrow. They had stopped beneath a stand of trees and tethered their horses while they strolled, arm in arm.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"Of when you were a little girl," Hugh replied.

"And you were the perfect, handsome knight, come to life from the musical tales of the jongleur."

Hugh laughed. "Hardly a perfect knight, my dear Sybelle."

"It matters not. You were to me." She placed a kiss upon his cheek. "You always will be."

"And you are still the child of my heart who so long ago gave me the hope of dreams."

"Really?"

He hugged her close. "You were a creation of love whose presence stood as brave testament to the follies and bitterness of war and politics. To my mind, a prince of the blood wasn't good enough for you."

"Will you give me your blessing?"

Hugh needn't have asked for what. He understood what his daughter was asking of him. "You have always had that, my love, and always will." He stopped and turned so that they were face to face. "Are you sure of this course?"

"Rolf O'Dalaigh is more than the father of my children; he is my heart, my life. I love him."

I love him. Sybelle said it with such simplicity, such tenderness, that he knew it to be the absolute truth. Somehow, someway, Killroone had tapped the reservoir deep within her soul. His daughter was no fool; there must be depths to this Irishman that she saw and understood.

"Will you relent in your hatred? This I ask of you for my sake and that of the children."

"I love the twins."

"I know you do. And I want them to grow up with your love."

"They shall always have that."

"I do not want it just from letters, Father. We must share time together. Declan and Deirdre must know that you care, must see it in your eyes. And I want to share the years with my new brother." Already Aidan had captured a warm spot in her heart and she would miss him terribly. "I am determined to be with Killroone all the days of my life. A compromise will have to be reached." She wanted them to meet, sure that with the cessation of hostilities, they would find much in common. She and Duvessa would work on their respective mates to assure that it came to fruition.

Hugh hook his head. "I cannot promise you that I shall ever feel comfortable with the man, nor like him, though for your sake and that of my beloved wife and my grandchildren, I will try. On that you have my word. Only do not expect it tomorrow, my love. Give it some time."

Time. There would be enough of that, she mused. It was in her favor.

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The approach to the keep lay ahead. Sybelle drew in a deep breath. She could feel the quivering of her nerves as she once again beheld the stone fortress that had once been her prison. When she left she had thought never to see this place again save in nightmares. Sybelle observed that Sir John was wary, as his hand reached automatically for his dagger.

"There is no need for that," she cautioned him. "We come in peace; they can see that."

Sybelle replied to the shouted question in Gaelic asking for identification. She responded with her name and demanded in the guard's native tongue to see the Earl of Killroone.Sir John was impressed by her handling of the situation and her mastering of the language.

At the wall one of the guards relayed to Auliffe the request that the gate be opened.

"Says she's the Lady Sybelle Fitzgerald, with the earl's children, and demands to see Killroone. What should I do?" he asked, a puzzled look on his face. It was common knowledge that the earl had held such a lady hostage the year before and that she had somehow bewitched the earl's younger brother into helping her escape. Some even saidthough not in the earl's hearingthat she had bewitched the earl himself, since he appeared never to be the same since the sasanach woman had left.

Auliffe joined the guard and climbed to the observation post. He saw Sybelle Fitzgerald, with several men in escort, baggage wagon, and another cart, waiting outside the walls.

"Open the gates!" Auliffe bellowed.

The huge gates swung open and the caravan came through.

Auliffe was there to greet her, as was his wife and several of the servants and people who worked in the castle. They remembered the English woman and were curious.

Auliffe helped Sybelle down from her mount and she addressed him in Gaelic, asking, "Where is Rolf?"

He responded in kind. "The Wolf has business that takes him from his castle. He is expected back on the morrow."

Siobhan, who was informed by a girl bringing fresh milk into the kitchen, rushed from the interior of the castle and sped to Sybelle, dropping a curtsey of respect. When she saw a woman emerge from the cart with the two infants, Siobhan broke into a deep grin. "He will be most pleased," she said to Sybelle. "'Tis where they belong."

"And what about me?" Sybelle asked, wanting the old woman's wise counsel. She took Siobhan's hands into hers and clasped them strongly.

"'Tis where you have belonged since that first night. Only now you have come to realize that, have you not?" the old woman chided.

Alyce came forth so that Sybelle could take one of the children, and Siobhan held out her arms for the other. The light in the old woman's face stripped years from her flesh. She looked at each child. "They are Killroone's get, of that there is no doubt."

Sybelle introduced Alyce to Slobhah, who took the babe back into her care as Slobban escorted them into the castle.

"A room must be prepared for my father's manat-arms, Siobhan. He will be remaining a few weeks before he returns to England. And my maid and her husband will need quarters, if possible. Is there somewhere on the grounds?"

"A cottage will be put at their use, ben charrthach," Auliffe answered. "I will see to it, personally."

The loved one. At that name she smiled and walked with Siobhan into the keep.

Tadgh was there to greet her, leaning on a thick stick of polished wood, his eyes still bright.

"So you have come home?"

Sybelle ran her gaze about the Great Hall and smiled. "So it would seem, my teacher," and she kissed his cheek.

She showed off her children with pride.

"The Wolf's cubs," he said, tears forming in his venerable eyes. "Does he know?"

"Aye," Sybelle said.

Siobhan hastened to see that food was prepared and a meal served, as Sybelle wanted to retire early. She was tired from her travels and wished to be at her best when Rolf came back on the morrow.

She had thought that the children would be tired and inclined to cry. Instead, they too seemed invigorated by being there. Everyone wanted to hold them. They dutifully cooed and smiled as if they were granting favors to the lucky and the chosen. Deirdre made a slave of Auliffe, while Siobhan saw in Declan his father, save for the misty eyes of his mother. Finally, the twins demanded their evening repast. Sybelle decided that she would feed them, then take a bath and wash the smell of travel from her limbs.

She asked Siobhan which room she should use.

"I have instructed that your clothes are to be put  into the room that you occupied before. 'Tis my lord's now, since you left. All things belonging to his parents have been moved and put away."

"Do you think I should?"

"Are you not mistress here now?" Siobhan asked. "Your place is in the WoWs bed."

Sybelle smiled at the simplicity of Siobhan's statement. That was where she wanted desperately to be. In RoWs bed, held securely in his arms, her love and honor entwined with his. There was no going back now, she thought as she climbed the wide stairs. Revenge had brought her here once before; now love beckoned her back.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

After a soothing hot tub and a glass of wine, Sybelle relaxed, crawling into the bed that once she had occupied, and which now bore the stamp and smell of Rolf O'Dalaigh. She snuggled into the sheets and closed her eyes, exalting in the feel of the smooth linen against her breasts, her thighs, her legs. What she yearned for was a rougher caress, the feel of hands used to activity sliding along her skinjust as she wanted to do to him. Tomorrow.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

He was tired and wanted to sleep in his own bed. He had turned down his friend's offer of lodging, which included a willing woman, for the night. The woman was his host's sister, a recent widow, and if he were any judge, eager to sample the delights of the marriage bed once again. He should have seen through the supposed business offer for what it was. At another time he might readily have indulged and enjoyed the charms she offered. Rolf believed now that he would be violating some holy bond if he slept with another woman.

That wild notion made him laugh aloud. A husband without a wife. A father without children. A man without a home. A heart without ease.

He believed that Sybelle would have understood his message and come to Ireland by now. He had counted the days and finally put them from his mind. It was either that or erupt in a rage of anger and fear. Fear that he would never know again the infinite perfection that he found in her arms. Fear that he would be forever a stranger in the lives of his children. And Sybelle was a lovely, rich woman on her own. What would he do if she chose to deny them a future together by wedding another?

A shouted greeting from him alerted the guard before the sentry could call out.

He was tired and exhausted. All he wanted was his bedhis lonely island of past dreams where he relived those two nights of intense lovemaking, of rapture supreme, over and over again until he could almost feel the movements of her body, taste the touch of her skin, smell the scent of her hair. He felt himself becoming aroused by the mere thought of her when tonight the blatant display of desire for him by another woman had left him cold and unresponsive. His passion was reserved for one woman now; all others could be studied and observed as if he were detached from the experience. Sybelle alone could excite him with the recall of her innocence and incandescence. She was woman, pure and whole. She was life; she was his soul. And how long could he survive the loss of that soul? He craved what only she could provide, what only Sybelle could promise.

He handed Fergal's reins to a groom and failed to notice in the dark the extra horses and men who were forced to pitch camp on his grounds. Rolf bounded up the short flight of stairs and entered his keep.

As he made his way up the inner stairs toward his room, a voice called out to him in the darkness.

''My lord?"

He paused, surprised to hear Siobhan's voice.

She had slept only lightly, waiting for him. An instinct she trusted warned her to expect him.

"Aye?"

"I would have a word with you before you seek your bed."

"Can it not wait till morning?"

"No, my lord, 'tis important."

Rolf walked back down the steps and came to the bottom, where she waited. "What is it?"

"You should be quiet ere you go to your room, so as not to disturb your guests," she said with a sly smile.

"Guests?" he asked, forcing his eyes to remain open. "Who dares to claim my chambers?"

"Only those who have the right," she answered enigmatically.

Hope lit Rolf's face and banished the fatigue. Could it be? He turned from her and made to dash back up the stairs.

"Do not wake the babes, for it took us long enough to get them settled for the night," she called after his retreating form.

The babies were here. Surely they would not be alone? He entered the room. All was in darkness, save for a small sliver of light when the clouds that had covered the moon moved off again. He saw the outline of the dog sleeping at the end of the twin cradles. There was no sign of anyone else save for the children. He had given a swift glance towards the bed and saw it empty.

She had sent him his children. He bent over the cradles and patted the head of Lugh, who had come instantly awake as he entered the room. Lugh was guard for the babes, protecting them. He leaned over the cradle containing his son and touched a slim finger to the soft cheek. Mo mhacsa. My son, he said softly. Next, he leaned over Deirdre and touched her tiny fist. So perfect. A chailнn bhig. My little girl.

A wellspring of love for them swelled in his heart. A stabbing surge of sadness cut through his joy as he realized that Sybelle was not here. She had chosen to give him the gift of his children only. He removed his cloak and dropped it carelessly to the floor.

Odd minutes ticked by in his brain as he absorbed the realization of his abject misery. He wanted, selfishly perhaps, to have it allhis woman, his children. To have love and a new chance. He supposed he should be grateful that she had given him the most precious gifts, but did it mean she rejected them because they shared his blood? No, he dismissed that idea. He had seen the love in her face when he came upon her in the garden with them. Had she decided that they were best brought up in Ireland as befitted their heritage?

Or had it been as he feared? That she had decided to marry someone else and needed no reminder of the past? Or had she been forced to give up her children? Or could it have been for love of him? Dare he trust that Sybelle loved him so much that she wanted him to raise their babes? Was she in doubt of how he felt about her? Perhaps she did not love him?

All these doubts and questions buzzed in his brain until he was ready to explode. He covered his face with his hands, knuckles to his temples.

She was hidden among the shadows, needing to watch and not be seen. She had heard a disturbance outside, for she had left open the window to catch the tangy, salt-sweet night air. She wanted to smell the ocean, hear the pounding surf. What she heard was RoWs voice as the wind carried it upwards. She had watched him ride through the gates caught in a quick sliver of moonlight.

Fear had caught up with her. She had to know his true reaction to the arrival of the children. Would he be so happy and sure of his victory that he would have no thought for her absence? And now, seeing him hunched over as if in pain, Sybelle wondered if the promise he had made to her that day on the beach was indeed alive.

She heard her name spoken softly, then the words that gave a lift to her hesitant heart. "Why did you not come? Oh my love, my love." It mattered little that he spoke in Gaelic; she now understood. Sybelle heard the raw longing in his deep-edged voice, felt the need as if it were a living thing.

Rolf heard a noise. It was slight, and only ears trained in the art of war, of vigilance, which never lost the ability, would have picked it up. Someone else was in the room. Was it his imagination? Or had he conjured up a memory so vivid as to manifest itself?

His heart pounded; his breathing deepened. His hands fell to his thighs as he waited.

Sybelle emerged from the protective shadows, clad only in her nightshift. She could ignore the stirrings of her body, of her love, no longer. Her way was clear. She approached the seated figure, her hands outstretched. She connected with the white silk of his shirt, felt the warmth of his skin beneath; the tips of her fingers brushed the bunched muscles of his back as she slid her hands slowly upwards. Her breath caught in a gasp. Sybelle whispered his name in a voice hoarse with the passion she was feeling. As her fingers curved on his shoulders they met his hands, reaching back and up.

The touch of their entwined hands was like flame; each could feel the scorching heat as they clasped.

Rolf drew her hands to his body again; he could feel the kneading of her fingers as a delicate friction. Her lips ruffled his thick hair as she slid her arms down his chest, fingers straying to the opening of his shirt, ripping it.

Sybelle spoke in a tone heavy with need. "For now. Forever." Her cheek lay next to his, her words hot on his skin.

It staggered him momentarily. Then he stood and turned, drawing her to him with the lightest of touches.

Sudden moonlight bathed her body and silvered the honey hair.

He felt exposed by his need of her, this raw, pulsating emotion. Rolf could deny it and himself no longer. He tore at his shirt in an effort to remove it.

Sybelle's eyes were alive with love, and she longed to express that love. She watched the rise and fall of his chest, the crisp black hair, the smooth muscles.

Her veins ran hot with her love. And with the courage from that love, she went forth to take, to give, to accept, to join.

Rolf bent and captured her thighs in his strong bare arms, the feel of his hair-toughened skin thrilling her, but no more than the words that came like a benediction to her ears before her lips joined his in a mutually hungry exploration.

"Mo Bhean." My wife.

In the hours before the dawn broke, they wedded their bodies, their souls, their lives, and their love, and kept the promise.

Epilogue

"You are excited, aren't you?"

At her husband's question, Sybelle turned from her task of changing the linen on her son's bottom and smiled. "I cannot express what this means to me," she said, finishing with her task and putting him down on the floor, where he promptly crawled to join his sister, who sat at her father's foot, chewing on a soft piece of leather that Rolf had given her.

Sybelle was happier than she could have dreamed. In the time since she had wed with Rolf in a proper ceremony, she had experienced a completeness that she had never known. She was content; more than that, she was a woman totally fulfilled. As Countess of Killroone she was invested with power and privilege; she was, as Rolf made clear, his true co-lord. Sybelle vowed never to let him regret the honor he had bestowed on her. She took an active role in the affairs of the property, and encouraged his participation in her own. Their home was abrim with love and laughter, if occasionally it also rang with the heated battle of words and wits of its master and mistress.

Within a month, Derran and Duvessa would be making their first visit to Killroone. Accompanying them would be Aidan and their second son, Thomas. Sybelle was also anxious to see both her brothers, not to mention her sisters. Clare had been there several months previously for a short visit.

Sybelle saw that the twins were now happily playing with the puppies fathered by Lugh. The young wolfhounds nipped and jumped as the twins tried to mount them in a clumsy sort of way.

It mattered not to her that this would be a strange reunion, for she was glad that it was taking place at all. Her letters to her father had always included the invitation; in his last letter, he had at last responded positively and said that he wanted to see his grandchildren; perhaps the past was indeed better off in the past. He had accepted that she was wed to Rolf and in love with her husband.

Sybelle recalled with delight the gift that Rolf had sent to Duvessa and Hugh this past Christmas. It was an exquisite pair of golden candlesticks.

Her mouth curved in a private smile.

She had a secret that she wanted to share with her husband, a surprise that she was eager to divulge.

Calling for Alyce, she requested that the twins and the dogs be taken for a breath of ocean air. At that word she smiled again. The ocean had a lot to do with what she had to tell Rolf. It had been on the beach that she was sure she had conceived their next child.

Waiting till they were alone in their chambers, Sybelle removed the ribbons that held her hair in place. Shaking it free, she saw the hungry look in Rolf's green eyes, saw the slight flare to his nostrils, felt the increased tempo of her heartbeat as he approached her.

Threading his long fingers through her hair, he said in a husky tone, "Abducting you was ever the wisest mistake I ever made. Revenge was never sweeter served nor justice so well rewarded."

Sybelle added, "Nor was love so unexpected, and therefore most blessed, husband mine. Lover of my heart, keeper of my soulmy own, for all time."

Table of Contents

Part 1 A Bridge Crossed

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Part 2 Promise Renewed

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Epilogue