Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
T he door creaked open, and a servant with a stooping posture and wary eyes peered out, the faint glow of a wall sconce behind him casting flickering shadows across his lined face. Grace adjusted her cloak, feigning the hesitation of a weary traveller caught unprepared by the cold and dark.
“Please, sir,” she said, her voice soft and steady, “I have lost my way and seek shelter for the night. I would be most grateful if you might grant me a place to rest until morning.”
The servant squinted at Grace, his suspicion evident as he took her measure. “And what’s an English lass doing wandering the Irish countryside at this hour? This isn’t a place for the likes of you.”
Grace offered a weary smile, her cloak pulled tight around her. “I assure you, sir, I am no threat. My party was separated during our journey to Kenmare, and I have been trying to find my way back ever since. The storm last night left me disoriented, and I have not seen a soul for hours. Please, I only seek shelter until morning.”
The servant hesitated, his stern expression wavering at her explanation. “Kenmare, you say?” he muttered, scratching at his temple. “That’s quite the journey for someone on foot.”
“It is,” Grace agreed, letting a note of exhaustion creep into her voice. “And one I would not have undertaken had I had any other choice. Surely you would not turn away someone who has nowhere else to go?”
After a long pause, the man grumbled under his breath but stepped aside, his gaze sweeping over her before nodding curtly. “The master does not usually take to unexpected guests,” he muttered, stepping aside, “but I’ll not have it said we turned a lady into the night.”
“Thank you, sir.” Grace inclined her head and stepped over the threshold, her boots echoing against the stone floor. The entry was dimly lit with torch sconces, its high ceiling vaulted with wooden beams. Cold drafts of air carried the faint scent of damp stone and old wood. The walls were adorned with faded tapestries that told of ghosts in their former glory.
“This way,” the servant murmured, leading her up the stairs, then down a narrow corridor. The castle seemed to slumber, its occupants unaware of her presence—or so she hoped. She’d lost track of what hour it was.
They reached a small room near the end of the hall. The servant opened the door, revealing a sparse but serviceable space: a low bed with a woollen blanket, a single chair by the hearth, and a small table holding a half-burned candle.
“You may rest here,” the man said, setting the candle alight with his own. “I'll bring water if you need it.”
“That will not be necessary,” Grace replied with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
He nodded, retreating and closing the door behind him. Grace stood still for a moment, listening intently as his footsteps receded down the corridor. The flickering candle cast a warm glow, but it did little to dispel the oppressive atmosphere of the castle. She had entered the enemy’s lair, and every fibre of her being was alert to the danger that surrounded her.
Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird, and her palms were clammy with fear. Grace had never done anything like this before, and most of her wanted to turn back and flee the castle. But she was so close to finding Maeve, she could not let Carew down. She must find her courage!
There was no time to waste, so she considered her next move. If Maeve was here, she must be found before the household stirred and Grace’s presence was discovered.
She extinguished the candle, plunging the room into darkness. After allowing her eyes to adjust, she quietly opened the door and peered into the corridor.
The dim sconces lining the walls cast long, flickering shadows that made her jump, and her heart hammered louder with every step she took along the labyrinth of halls. Each creak of the floorboards felt deafening, and every faint rustle of fabric sent her spinning to check for someone ready to shout that she was an intruder.
She reached the central staircase, its stone steps spiralling upward into the gloom. If Maeve were being kept here, Grace reasoned, it was likely to be in one of the upper chambers, where the household’s guests—or prisoners—might be secured.
Ascending with deliberate care, she kept one hand on the wooden railing and the other near the pocket of her gown, where she had tucked a small dagger Carew had insisted she carry. Alongside the dagger was a small pistol that Ashley had forced upon her, its weight unfamiliar but oddly reassuring. She prayed she wouldn’t need either.
The upper floor was darker still, its windows covered with heavy curtains that stifled even the moonlight. Grace moved from door to door, holding her breath each time she pressed her ear to the wood. Most of the rooms were silent, but she dared not linger long, fearful of being caught lingering.
Finally, she came to a door near the end of the corridor, where a faint sobbing reached her ears. Her heart clenched. It had to be Maeve. Summoning every ounce of courage, Grace turned the handle and slipped inside.
The room was more luxuriously furnished, but the air was thick with despair. The moonlight filtering through a gap in the curtains illuminated the figure on the bed. Maeve lay curled on her side, her hair tangled and her shoulders trembling with suppressed sobs.
“Maeve?” Grace whispered, crossing the room quickly. She knelt beside the bed, her hand gently brushing Maeve’s arm. “Maeve, wake up. I am Grace. I have come to help you.”
Maeve stirred, her tear-streaked face turning towards her. Her eyes, wide and filled with confusion, turned to Grace's. “Who…?” she began, her voice hoarse.
“Grace Whitford,” she said softly. “Your brother sent me. He is outside, waiting to take you home.”
Maeve’s expression shifted from confusion to disbelief. “Ronan sent you?” she whispered. “How?—?”
“There is no time to explain,” Grace interrupted. “We must leave before Flynn realizes I am here.”
Maeve sat up slowly, wincing as she moved. The faint light revealed dark bruises along her arms and across her cheek. Grace gasped, her stomach twisting with anger and sorrow.
“Maeve,” she said, her voice trembling despite her efforts to stay calm, “What has he done to you?”
Maeve’s gaze dropped, her hands clutching the blanket as though it might shield her from the shame and fear written across her face. “He said I was being disobedient,” she murmured. “That I needed to learn my place.”
Grace’s anger flared, white-hot and righteous. “You do not belong here,” she said firmly. “Flynn is a liar and a coward. You must come with me now.”
Maeve hesitated, tears spilling over as she shook her head. “He’ll come after us. He said if I tried to leave—he said I’m ruined.”
“He will not touch you again,” Grace said, her voice fierce. “Ronan is waiting just beyond the gates. He will protect you.”
Maeve’s eyes searched Grace’s face, as though seeking reassurance. Finally, she nodded, her movements slow and tentative. “Very well,” she whispered. “I’ll go.”
Grace squeezed her hand, relief flooding through her. “Get your cloak. The night is cold, but we must hurry.”
As Maeve rose from the bed, Grace helped her don a thick cloak around her shoulders. Together, they moved towards the door, their steps silent. The corridors seemed to stretch endlessly before them, each shadow a potential threat.
Finally, they reached the staircase. Maeve hesitated, her grip tightening on Grace’s arm. “What shall we do if he’s awake and sees us?” she whispered.
“Then we run,” Grace replied, her voice firm. “But I will not allow him to stop us.”
Maeve nodded, her resolve visibly strengthening. Together, they descended the stairs, the torch near the front door guiding them like a beacon.
The sound of raucous laughter and clinking glasses echoed in the corridor, accompanied by the unmistakable slur of drunken revelry. Grace froze mid-step, her heart pounding so violently she feared it might betray them. They must have gone the wrong way! Beside her, Maeve clutched at her arm, her trembling fingers a silent plea for reassurance. Light spilled from a half-open door ahead. “’Tis him.”
A voice rang out in a drunken boast tinged with cruelty. “A toast to our triumph, lads! He thinks he can outwit me? Will he not be surprised to return and find his little sister came to me on her own!”
Another burst of laughter followed, the kind that sent shivers down Grace’s spine. She glanced at Maeve, whose wide eyes glistened with barely contained tears. Grace placed a steadying hand on her arm, her whisper barely audible over the din. “We must keep moving. Slowly and as quietly as possible.”
Maeve nodded, her breath shallow as they edged closer to the source of the noise. The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly, and Grace feared they would ever reach the end. The smell of ale and sweat was overwhelming as they passed by, and Flynn’s laughter felt like a blade poised to strike.
As they slipped past unseen, Grace prayed fervently that the laughter would not suddenly stop, that no shadow would fall across their path. The door was now behind them, but their fear lingered, a suffocating presence urging them onward.
When they reached the threshold, Grace pushed the door open and stepped into the cool night air, pulling Maeve through with her, then shutting it carefully behind her. She prayed their steps were unheard as they hurried back across the drawbridge and towards the waiting shadows where Ronan was hidden.
“Ronan,” Grace called softly, her voice carrying just enough to reach him.
He emerged from the darkness, his tall figure silhouetted against the moonlight. His eyes widened as they fell on Maeve, and in an instant, he was at her side, his hands gripping her shoulders as he searched her face.
“Maeve,” he breathed, his voice breaking with relief then anger as he saw her beaten face. “What has he done to you?”
She shook her head as though she could not speak of it. “You came for me,” she whispered, tears spilling anew.
“ Mo mhuirnín , I’ll always come for you.” Ronan pulled her into a fierce embrace, his jaw clenched tightly as he held her. Over her shoulder, his gaze met Grace’s, and in that moment, a silent understanding passed between them. She had done what he could not, and for that, she knew he was grateful.
“We must go,” Grace reminded them. The night was not over. Flynn would not let Maeve go so easily, and the danger was far from past. Who knew how long they had until they discovered she was gone?
“We must gather the others and make haste before he discovers you are missing,” Ronan said, making his voice low and urgent as they prepared to depart. The cool night air wrapped around them like a shroud as Ronan tightened his grip on Maeve. He glanced back towards the darkened fortress they had just left, half-expecting Flynn to burst through its heavy doors at any moment. They had to move swiftly before their escape was discovered.
“He drank heavily tonight,” she murmured, her tone strangely subdued, as if seeking to explain away the brutality Flynn had inflicted upon her. Ronan’s arms tightened around her shoulders. He made no reply to her words—there would be time later to unmask the full depth of Flynn’s cruelty and offer what solace and redress he could. For now, escape was paramount. They made their way to a copse of trees where the horses had been hidden.
Maeve was hoisted onto Ronan’s gelding, then he helped Grace onto her mount.
“Thank you,” he whispered in her ear, the intensity of his voice speaking volumes that words could not capture at present. Later, he would attempt a better way of expressing his gratitude. There was no time for emotion when they were so close to having Maeve safe. What other demons Flynn might have inflicted upon his sister they would deal with in time. What mattered now was that they had recovered her.
He mounted the horse behind Maeve, who was trembling, and tightened his arms around her, though he suspected ’twas fear and nerves more than the cold that caused it.
They moved in near silence, their horses’ hooves muffled by the damp earth as they circled to the back of the bailey. The shadows were deep here, offering cover as they approached the grove where Freddy and Joy were to have kept watch.
Joy emerged first, her face lighting up at the sight of Grace. “You have done it!” she whispered, her usual exuberance not tempered by the gravity of the moment.
Together, they made their way around the wall to where Stuart and Patience waited at the servants’ entrance. Stuart’s eyes widened slightly when he saw Maeve, but he quickly recovered, inclining his head. “Oh, well done, Grace!” Stuart said in quiet approval.
“Yet another case for women in the army, is it not, husband?” Patience said with a wry arch of her brow, though her tone carried relief and pride rather than true jest. It eased the tension in the air, allowing them a moment’s respite to acknowledge what Grace had accomplished.
Ashley offered a faint smile. “I shall not argue the point tonight, my dear.” He then spoke more gravely to the group: “We must get the ladies to safety.”
The group moved quickly, their mounts falling into a tight formation as they rode towards the edge of Flynn’s lands. The darkened countryside seemed vast and perilous, the moonlight their only guide. The air was heavy with tension, Ronan reflected, each rider being alert for the first sign of pursuit.
They had nearly reached the safety of the trees when a shout rang out behind them. Ronan twisted in his saddle, his worst fear realized. Flynn and a group of armed men poured through the keep’s wall, their torches flaring like malevolent stars in the night. How had they been discovered so quickly?
“Ride!” Ronan commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. “To the trees!”
The group surged forward, their horses galloping full tilt towards the cover of the forest. The shouts of their pursuers grew louder, the thunder of hooves closing in. Ronan’s arms tightened around Maeve, her fear palpable as she clung to him.
Arrows whistled past them, one striking a tree just inches from Grace’s head. Ronan’s heart clenched as he saw her duck instinctively, her horse surging forward in response to her urgent commands.
They reached the edge of the trees, the dense foliage offering some cover as they weaved between the trunks. The sounds of pursuit grew fainter, but Flynn’s men were not easily deterred. Ronan knew they would not stop until they had regained their quarry.
A flash of torchlight upon steel warned Ronan an instant too late. A small knot of Flynn’s men had ridden hard around another path and now blocked their escape. Swords and pistols gleamed in the uncertain light. The party skidded to a halt, rearing horses and frantic whinnies adding to the chaos.
Ashley was first to react, drawing his pistol with the practised ease of a military man. He fired a warning shot over the heads of Flynn’s brigands. They ducked, startled, but did not retreat.
As they burst into a small clearing, Flynn himself emerged from the shadows, his eyes wild with fury. His horse reared, its hooves striking the air as he levelled a pistol at Ronan.
Ronan dismounted swiftly, easing Maeve from the saddle and placing her behind the horse for cover. His eyes met Grace’s and she followed suit, understanding what he wished her to do, her face pale but resolute. The men advanced slowly, their laughter coarse and their intentions clear.
Flynn dismounted as well, his pistol still aimed. The two men circled each other, the air crackling with tension.
Flynn’s eyes glinted with fury and drunken confidence. He brandished a pistol in one hand and a rapier in the other. “Carew!” he shouted drunkenly. “You think to steal what is mine? Give me Maeve, and I might let you slink away with your tail between your legs.”
Ronan stepped forward, rigid with contempt. “Maeve is not yours,” he said coldly. “She never was!”
“Oh, she is mine, ye need have no doubt!” he taunted, to the sniggering of his men.
Ronan’s jaw tightened, barely keeping his fury suppressed. The air was heavy with tension, the only sound that of the horses snorting and stamping. The torches flickered, casting erratic shadows across the faces of Flynn’s men, who surrounded him in a loose semicircle, weapons drawn. Their gazes passed between their leader and Ronan.
Ronan drew his sword. It gleamed faintly in the dim light. His voice was cold, cutting through the strain like the blade he held. “Call your men off. This is between you and me.”
Flynn tilted his head with mock deliberation, the glint of amusement in his eyes portraying his confidence. “Very well,” he drawled, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his face. “En garde,” he mocked as he swung his own blade in a circle.
The two men squared off, ready to fight to the death over years of enmity. Ronan adjusted his grip on the hilt, his muscles coiling in preparation. Around them, the onlookers seemed to fade into the periphery. This was not merely a duel; it was a reckoning.
Flynn lunged first, his movements smooth and deliberate, his blade arcing towards Ronan’s side. Ronan parried, the clash of steel ringing out sharply. The force of the blow reverberated up his arm, but he countered with a swift thrust aimed at Flynn’s chest. Flynn dodged, his grin widening as though he was toying with Ronan.
As the fight progressed, the air filled with the sound of grunts and the scrape of metal. Flynn fought much as Ronan had expected, his strikes wild and ruthless. He moved with the precision of a man who fought often. Yet Ronan, fuelled by fury and the weight of his sister’s suffering, matched him blow for blow.
They weaved back and forth, each man testing the other’s defences, searching for an opening. Flynn’s smile began to falter, replaced by a grim determination as he realized Ronan would not go down easily.
Flynn’s blade darted towards Ronan’s shoulder, but Ronan parried with a sharp twist of his wrist, creating a resounding clanging of metal. Flynn’s smirk twisted into a snarl as he circled like a predator. His eyes glinted with malice, and Ronan felt Flynn’s hatred in every move. He returned the feeling in full measure.
In the next instant, Flynn’s hand darted to his side, drawing a pistol from beneath his coat. The movement was swift and unmistakable. The click of the hammer being drawn back shattered the pretence of fighting like gentlemen.
Flynn’s face was a mask of triumph, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. “This is how it ends, Carew,” he sneered. “You lose, and your family pays the price.”
Ronan glared at him, his jaw set, defiance raging within despite his disadvantage. “I’ve come to expect nothing less than dishonour from you,” he said hoarsely.
Flynn’s lips curled and his finger tightened on the pistol’s trigger, and for an agonizing moment, time seemed to stand still. He should never have trusted Flynn to fight like a gentleman, and all he could think about was dying in front of Maeve and Grace.
“No!” Maeve’s scream tore through the night, raw and filled with terror.
And then, before Ronan could react, shots split the air—sharp, deafening cracks. Flynn’s body jerked violently, the force of the bullet driving him back. His pistol fired into the sky, wild and missing its target. For a moment, Flynn stood frozen, his eyes wide with shock, before he crumpled to the ground.
Ronan numbly turned and saw Grace standing a short distance away. She held a pistol in her trembling hands, the barrel still smoking. Her face was pale, her expression one of shock.
Then he saw Stuart to the side, who gave a little shake of his head, and Ronan was grateful for his action, the calm precision of a soldier. His pistol remained raised for a heartbeat longer before he lowered it, his steady gaze fixed on the fallen rogue.
Flynn’s men, who had watched the duel with bated breath, now hesitated, their confidence shaken by the sight of their leader’s lifeless body. One by one, they lowered their weapons and began to back away, retreating into the darkness.
Maeve let out a sob as the dam finally broke. Joy and Patience rushed forward, their relief palpable as they surrounded the group, checking for injuries and murmuring words of reassurance.
Ronan strode to Grace, his gaze intense. She still held the pistol, her knuckles white against the dark metal, as though she could not let it go. Gently, he reached out and covered her hands with his own and eased the weapon from her grip.
“Grace,” he said quietly, his voice thick with a mixture of awe and gratitude.
Grace blinked, as though coming out of a trance. “He was going to kill you,” she whispered.
Her words hung in the air, a simple truth that shook Ronan to his core. He placed the pistol on the ground and stepped closer, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. Then he gathered her into his arms.
Ronan held her tightly, memorizing how she felt in his arms. She melted into the embrace, her cheek resting against his chest. He owed her more than he could ever express, more than he could fathom in this moment. Flynn was dead, and his family was safe—for now. It was Grace who had stepped into the fray when all seemed lost by helping Maeve escape.
Grace’s breath hitched, and she shook her head slightly. “I missed,” she said, her tone hollow.
“You would have done it,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with wonder. “You would have killed for me.”
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she said nothing, merely nodding as though unsure how to respond.
Together, they gathered Maeve and the others, turning their backs on the battlefield and leading their horses towards the road that took them away. The night felt lighter, the immediate threat of Flynn gone for now. And though this was far from over, Ronan allowed himself to hope for peace.