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A woman’s petticoats fluttered over gartered knees.
The mounted soldiers bore down on the palfrey, shortening the gap. Neither man was Hugh’s quarry, Kelly. Hugh delayed his last signal, his hand clenched, but raised and visible to his men. The English must cross the bridge. His gut tightened. His simple plan to capture Kelly was about to be compromised.
Rory was supposed to lead the English into the trap. But Rory wasn’t on the Arabian galloping toward the bridge.
Hugh spied the man he wanted in the second pack of redcoats, fifty yards behind the leaders.
At the same instant he saw his quarry, the gap closed. One lout sprang from his saddle and took the woman to ground on the muddy verge below the river. The palfrey bolted onto the bridge, then reared, frightened by the turbulent, raging, muddy water flooding over the structure.
Hugh ground his teeth. A curse issued from his throat. His breath locked inside his chest. This was not what he’d planned. A woman’s scream pierced the wet air, matched by a shriek from the terrified horse.
Without a rider guiding it, the palfrey toppled off the bridge, into the flood, and careened downstream. It fought mightily to regain its footing and swim across the Abhainn Mor.
Kelly reined in his mount, ten feet shy of the bridge. His evil laugh echoed across the water as he dismounted. Redcoats and brown horses surrounded the unlucky woman. Hugh didn’t need to see inside the closing circle to know the woman’s immediate fate. The sounds of imminent rape were testament enough.
The valuable Arabian struggled to gain footing on the west bank. Art Macmurrough darted out of hiding and plunged into the river, snaring the trailing reins and taking charge of the beast. Hugh growled a shout, enraged that the man had dared break his given orders. His shout died between grinding teeth as he told himself not to be surprised.
That impulsive act by a battle-tested Irish soldier spoke to all that was wrong with Ireland and to why Hugh’s homeland remained in a perpetual state of domination by English overlords. Celtic soldiers, unlike their English counterparts, followed their commander’s orders to the letter only when the whim suited them.
Incensed, Hugh reached for his sword. Something dark and dangerous pushed him perilously close to slicing his own man in half.
Damning his Irish for their fatal caprices, Hugh dug gold spurs into Boru’s sides, galloping out from under the shelter of the wych elms on the bluff above the ravine. His purpose was obvious. He was going after Kelly alone.
Loghran O’Toole immediately rode forward, physically barring Hugh’s path with his war-horse. “‘Tis not our quarrel. Bide a while yet, my lord. Give Rory and Brian a chance to make up ground. All is not yet lost.”
“Get out of my way, O’Toole,” Hugh growled, his voice laden with malice. “Had my orders been followed to the letter, that woman wouldn’t be there. I’ll not stand idle while Kelly takes his sport before my very eyes.”
“You will,” Loghran said, challengingly. “It’s my sacred duty, sworn on the deathbed of your grandfather, Conn O’Neill, to see that no English blade carelessly takes your life. Give our men time to recover. Brian and Rory won’t let you down. Think of the woman as—” Loghran injected a twist of gallows humor into his voice “—a minor diversion.”
Hugh was not amused. He unsheathed his sword.
“My lord, I didn’t bring you safely through fifteen years of English hell so you could risk all for a skirt. Stay, else I’ll call the men and order you returned to Dungannon. Trussed if necessary.”
“Get out of my way.” Hugh’s sword cut through the rain. Another wretched scream pierced the tumultuous dusk. The point of Hugh’s steel pressed into the boiled leather carapace molded to Loghran’s chest. The younger man’s voice softened to a dangerous snarl. “You know what Kelly’s men will do to a woman. We’ve seen their handiwork before.”
“Aye. More than that, I know what he will do to you, should he be lucky enough to get his hands on another O’Neill. Heed my words. Stay to this side of the Abhainn Mor.”
“To the devil with your counsel. I’m in command here.” Hugh drew back on the reins. Boru reared, flashing mighty hooves at the horse and warrior that blocked the worn path to the bridge. “Listen to me, old friend—cross me and you lose your head. Move! That’s an order. Defy me at your own peril.”
“My lord.” Loghran tried one more time, unwilling to let Hugh face unnecessary danger. “The fate of one lone woman cannot alter Ireland’s destiny in the same way that your fate does. She is not your quarrel. Think you of the united Ireland of our dreams. You know as well as I that the wench is likely naught more than an abbess who cut and ran with a soldier’s purse.”
“She may be Mary Magdalene, herself. On Tyrone land, we will bloody well protect all women from English abuse.”
Hugh O’Neill touched his gold spurs to Boru’s sides once more. The stallion charged.
O’Toole yielded ground, wheeling his horse around full circle. With deep regret, he unsheathed his sword and followed, hard on the young earl of Tyrone’s heels, down the cliffside, to the flooded bridge crossing the Abhainn Mor.
Chapter Two (#ulink_463a1add-9dea-5854-a396-d6b3ff6ea50d)
Morgana Fitzgerald drove one strong knee into the groin of the soldier attacking her. By the time his womanish howl split the drenched air, she had her blade in hand. With well-practiced efficiency, she slashed the dagger across his throat. He fell to his knees, clutching his throat and his cods, his scream now a dying gurgle.
Morgana bounded to her feet, balanced and ready. She was winded from the fall from her horse, but not terrified, as Kelly wanted her to be. The cut man’s death rattle proved that English soldiers were not made of the steel Lord Deputy Sidney, the governor of Ireland, and his cruel and bloodthirsty adjutant, James Kelly, would have all Ireland believe they were.
She regretted her one reflexive scream, which might have made these soldiers think she were frightened. She knew from experience to act as though she were the one in control. To do anything less would give away her only chance to keep the upper hand.
Unfortunately, she had screamed. Any woman would, when being rudely and deliberately tumbled her off her horse.
Morgana Fitzgerald didn’t have the luxury of pretending she was any woman. If that were the case, Sidney’s soldiers wouldn’t be following her. The second soldier stalked her as she circled the fallen man, edging her way to the bridge.
When she tried to run for it, he darted in front of her, blocking her path. Her knife was no match for the sword in his hand. He feinted at her with it, driving her back as the rest of the English arrived. James Kelly laughed as he dismounted.
In two heartbeats, four men surrounded Morgana, boxing her in, the river at her back. Morgana made a quick search of their crude circle, reading their true purpose in their eyes. Cold-blooded and deadly Geraldine anger calmed and fueled her now. She’d not be raped by a pack of English whoresons without killing two or three of them first.
The one with the drawn sword danced slightly away from the bridge, opening a wider gap in the circle, as he sheathed his weapon. He eyed her nine inches of razor-sharp steel caustically. “Here, now, Lady Morgan, there’s no call for that. We only wanted a little sport.”
“You’ll not take it with me, cur,” Morgana fired back, maddened far beyond mere insult at their game of cat and mouse. These men all knew who she was and why Kelly was after her. They were lower than the scum beneath London sewer rats.
One of them was responsible for poisoning Morgana’s six-year-old brother Maurice. For that, she would gladly kill all five of them. She had arrived in Benburg innocently unaware of the trap that waited there for her. Kelly and his men had been swilling whiskey at the only inn in Benburg all afternoon, idly waiting for Morgana to arrive. The men she’d hired to protect her on her journey north had been slaughtered in a matter of minutes.
She had been so caught up in her secret negotiations with Bishop Moye she hadn’t noticed there was a traitor in her midst. She had also mistakenly thought that Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in Armagh had been untouched by the English order to seize and close all of Ireland’s churches. There was no sanctuary to be gained by fleeing to a church. She’d not make that mistake again, either. From here out, Morgana would trust no one, only herself.
The traitor in Morgana’s escort no longer mattered. The carriage yard at the Kittie Waicke Inn was littered with the bodies of every man Morgana had hired to protect her on her dangerous mission north to Dunluce. Their throats were slit as wide as the dying soldier at John Kelly’s feet.
Kelly bent to revive his man and drew back, appalled. “Sweet suffering Jesus,” he groaned, shocked so deeply he crossed himself. “The bitch has killed Rayburn!”
“You expected less of me, Kelly?” Morgana snarled. “You know perfectly well that anything you do to a Fitzgerald will come back to haunt you. Shall I repeat for these fools the curse Eleanor Fitzgerald laid on your head?”
Captain James Kelly’s mouth twisted cruelly as he straightened. “Save your witch’s curses, and your breath, Lady Morgan. You’ll come with us quietly now. No more of your games and escapades.”
A cold laugh slipped from Morgana’s throat as she brandished her blade. “Don’t count on it.”
“Ah, Morgan, Morgan, don’t tempt me to teach you the lesson I’ve got in mind. Lord Grey cares little about what condition you arrive in when I return you to Dublin.” Kelly wagged his exceedingly dark eyebrows, which stood out in stark contrast against his distinguished head of silver. “Fight me, Morgan O’Malley, and I’ll allow my men to take their pleasure of you, after I’ve taught you a woman’s proper submission to English authority. Now, give me that damned knife. Prove that you’ve had some upbringing, by bending your knee properly to me.”
“I’d kiss the devil’s arse first, you whoreson. We’re in Ulster now. I have it on good authority that the only law here is that enforced by the man called the O’Neill. Begone, John Kelly.”
“Nice try.” He sneered. “But wrong, very, very wrong. There is no man called the O’Neill these days, my dear.”
At Morgana’s look of suspicion, he continued, relishing taunting her in return for her stinging insults. “I personally saw to the destruction of Shane O’Neill several years back. Believe me, clan O’Neill rues the day James Kelly came home to Ireland for good.”
“No.” Morgana shook her head, refusing to believe him.
“Why, my dear Morgan, who do you think it was that severed Shane O’Neill’s head from his body? Or presented it to Lord Grey to display on a stake outside Dublin’s castle walls?”
“Truly—” Morgana shuddered “—I have no interest in knowing the answer to that question.”
“Ah…” Kelly sighed elaborately. “So you would profess no interest in politics beyond the Pale, hmm? But we both know differently, don’t we? I’m the only man alive with the balls to confront an O’Neill. Just as I’m the one who will bring you to heel.” His head twisted on bull-like shoulders, and his eyes beaded inside narrowed lids.
He spun around so quickly for such a big and heavy man that Morgana failed to see the blow coming. His fist struck her in the face, knocking her to the ground. Her head reeled with a vile explosion of pain. Blood filled her nose and mouth.
While she was down, Kelly stamped his left boot at her right arm, trying to kick her knife from her hand.
But she was faster than him, and trained well enough in hand-to-hand combat to wield a knife with either hand. He jumped clumsily back, not quick enough to avoid the cutting path of her blade. She cut his red coat to the hem and gouged a cut in his thigh before he stumbled out of her range. Morgana bounded back to her feet, dazed but in control of her knife.
One of his men came at her from behind. A pair of crushing, heavy arms swept around her waist, dragging her off her feet. That man, too, paid the price of getting too close.
The soldier screamed as he clutched at his face, his eye bloody and bulging from its socket. Kelly kicked at her again. Morgana caught his heel and jerked his foot with all the force she had, toppling him onto his backside in the mud.
“Bitch!” Kelly shouted, grabbing her skirts. “I’ll teach you to raise your filthy Irish hands against an Englishman!”
“Bugger yourself. I’m more English than you’ll ever be. My Norman ancestors conquered Ireland while yours were filthy, naked Celtic peasants rutting in peat bogs.”
“Augh!” Kelly grunted as he got back on his clumsy feet. He charged her like a raging bull, then caught himself up short, dodging another vicious swipe from her dagger. Morgana swept the blade back and forth with both hands, daring any of them to come close again.
Kelly caught the hem of his coat, briefly examining the gash underneath it and the trickle of blood running down to his knee. “Oh, you’re going to pay for that, bitch.”
“Come, you murdering whoreson,” Morgana taunted him. “Come, let my steel kiss you again.”
He motioned to the other men to get closer to her, but none seemed inclined to be cut. The fool who had lost his eye shouted like a castrated bull and charged her. She slapped her wet cloak into his injured face and let him go rushing past. Wet wool shrouded and blinded him as he slipped and crashed to the muddy ground.
Morgana saw her chance to escape then, and bolted for the bridge. She hiked her skirts clear of her strong feet. She slashed the hand of a soldier trying to catch her, and leaped over the man struggling to unwind his head from her cloak.
Despite Morgana’s deep-seated fear of water, she ran for the bridge, praying the water rushing over its sunken planks wasn’t as deep and treacherous as it looked.
At the brink of the raging flood, she choked, unable to plunge into what her mind perceived as certain death—water, deep and bottomlessly malevolent water. Morgana’s terror at being captured by Kelly paled against her fear of drowning.
A third blow drove Morgana to her knees. Kelly hammered the hilt of his drawn sword into her neck. He fell upon her, flattening her, wrenching her blade from her fist.
She fought to breathe, crushed by Kelly’s weight. Cruel fingers dug into her hair, lifting her face from the mud, bending her neck against the agonizing pains still rippling across her shoulders. Astraddle her back, he stuck her own blade against her throat and rubbed the knuckle of his thumb against the soft flesh under her jaw.
His breath fanned her ear as he clucked his tongue. “Now then, my little fighting Amazon, I have you at my mercy.”
A large knuckle raked across the path the blade would take slitting her throat. He thrust his wet tongue inside her ear and ground his hips suggestively across her bottom. His fingers tightened on her hair, pulling harder to make her bow up from the ground. He laughed cruelly as he licked the sensitive flesh behind her ear. Then he slowly brought the point of the blade against her throat and turned it down. The dagger slipped between her breasts, severing the lacing of the embroidered stomacher covering her gown.
Taut linen was no match for well-honed steel. Powerless, Morgana pressed her hands into the mud, arched way back by his painful pull on her hair. She grit her teeth as he cut her gown and kirtle down to where her belly made contact with the earth.
“Well, well, well, boys, look at this,” Kelly called. “Who would think an Amazon would have such big and pretty titties? Look at them well now, my good.men, because they’re going to get all soiled and dirty. Are you listening, Lady Morgan? I’m going to take you first on your face. An animal like you will probably like that.”
Morgana clawed desperate fingers in the mud, searching for a rock or a stone that could be wrenched free, anything to use as a weapon. The mud rendered nothing. She twisted, balancing precariously on one hand, using her fingernails to scratch at him. He jerked his face out of range, tipping her blade under her right breast.
“Ah, ah, ah, Morgana. Mind those claws of yours. Else my hand slips and severs this lovely mound clean away from your ribs. Think what a curiosity you’ll be in your cage outside Dublin Castle then, hmm?
“Why, you’ll be the governor’s prize attraction, the Irish savage with one tit—another Celtic freak of nature, rivaling the cyclopes of ancient Greece.”
Morgana stiffened, sickened by the touch of his filthy fingers. His two uninjured men dared to come close. Spittle was clotted on their panting lips.
Kelly jerked Morgana’s face toward them, commanding, “Look, Morgan le Fay. They all want to shove their pricks in you. And they will, soon, my little Irish witch. Soon. Then I’ll have the pleasure of watching you grunt and heave to satisfy their lust. Think you I won’t have my revenge for the merry chase you’ve led me from Dublin?”
Morgana’s fingers itched to snatch her grandfather’s Celtic dagger from Kelly’s hand and skewer him with it. Soured whiskey breath fanned her face. White rage at his effrontery in threatening her with her own blade flooded through her. She would show Kelly no mercy when the tables turned.
He twisted her head more, bringing his foul-smelling mouth closer to her lips. She jerked her head away. “No!”
“Good, Lady Morgan, fight me.” His fingers tightened, painfully ripping hair from her head, forcing her head far enough back that she could see his gray eyes darken with cruel pleasure.
“There’s nothing I like better than a woman who struggles as hard as she can against being taken.”
Bent as she was, she couldn’t see where he poked the point of her blade. But she felt it. And she felt the knife score her flesh as he drew it between her breasts. It came to rest pressed into the hollow of her throat.
“Come on, my sweet, fight me.” He taunted her with cold-blooded malice. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of crying out, so he ran his thumb back down the line he’d cut, smearing her blood. His eyes gleamed diabolically as he put his thumb in his mouth and sucked it. “Ah, but I do like the taste of a woman’s blood.”
“Whoreson!” Morgana grabbed a fistful of mud and threw it in his face.
Blinded, Kelly screamed, stabbed at her. She was ready, driving her fist backward, smashing his nose, using his momentum to topple him off her. He swore viciously, blinded by the mud in his eyes, losing control. “Grab her!”
Morgana wrested her blade from his slackened hand, rolling free as she stabbed at him with all her might.
“You bitch! Get her, damn you cowards!”
“You’re the coward, Kelly!” Morgana sank her blade into his neck with all the force she could muster. His men fell on her then, wrestling to get control of the knife.
Kelly knelt in the mud, clutching his shoulder, chest heaving. He recovered enough to make a fist and strike her in the face.
“Hold her down, you damned whoresons! She’ll think twice about fighting more when I get done with her.”
This time, Morgana’s struggles achieved nothing. Her knife was pried from her fingers and cast aside. Waves of nauseating pain in her temples met up with the horrible ache radiating from her neck into her shoulders and arms. None of that was going to abate very quickly.
She had to think, to calm, to hold back the panic rising inside her. The last and final rule of Grace O’Malley’s thorough training in the rigorous art of self-defense swam in Morgana’s desperate brain. According to Ireland’s famed female pirate when rape was inevitable, one must submit. Accept the pain. Retreat. Think only to the future. Plan your revenge. Convince yourself to live, just to taste that revenge.
Morgana Fitzgerald had no choice but to live. Sudden death was not an option. Sean Fitzgerald’s life depended upon her finishing her journey to Dunluce. She had to live through this. Sean depended upon her! She clung to that thought as James Kelly straddled her. She clung to Grace O’Malley’s rules of survival, but she could not accept rape, not at any price.
She bucked and twisted, nearly freeing her muddy hands from the grips of the soldier who held them. Kelly drew back his fist. She jerked her head to the side, taking the blow intended for her face on her ear instead. That was a blessing.
Her ears rang so fiercely from the blow, she couldn’t decipher the crudities spoken as Kelly yanked on her skirts, trying to free the cloth from under his own weight. She nearly gave vent to her outrage when his coarse hands groped at her knees.
“God damn it all, help me spread her legs,” Kelly commanded. “Orson, keep her damned hands out of my way.”
Rain beat a steady drum on the earth. The chill of it striking her face made Morgana lift her cheek from the mud. There was daylight enough that she could see the trees on the other side of the Abhainn Mor.
Severing all connection with her body, she looked for Ariel, willing her horse to come back for her. Her heart thudded hard, bringing her back to the gruesome present. Kelly’s harsh hands pawed at her breasts. The one called Orson twisted her wrists, nearly breaking her arms.
She bit down hard on her lips, vowing not to scream. She wouldn’t beg or cry. They were all talking fast, collective hands on her body, twisting and crushing her limbs, laughing at their rude jests. She shuddered when she heard the leather of Kelly’s belt whip free of his buckle. Every man crowed over the size of Kelly’s manhood, praising its hardness and envying him the right to be the first to abuse her.
Morgana shut out their voices by chanting an ancient prayer, invoking the spirit of Gerait Og Fitzgerald. She occluded Kelly’s face from her sight by staring into the haunted wych elms engulfed by that fearful raging river.
Not a one of them saw what she did.
A warrior swathed in green and brown rode out from the wych elms on the opposite bank. Morgana blinked, clearing her vision. Surely the preternatural creature was no more real than the Little People. Oh, but she wanted him to be real!
Desperately she chanted the ancient prayer invoking the phantom. She inveigled him with the spirit of her grandfather, Gerait Og Fitzgerald, the greatest and most powerful wizard to ever draw breath in Ireland.
