Chapter 2
Niall glared at the rickety gate, frustration and fury flowing through him so hot it was a miracle the wood did not burst into flame.
By the blood of Cuchulain, he had spent a lifetime schooling himself in the ways of a warrior, endured countless wounds without flinching, passed tests of skill and bravery that would make any sane man tremble.
He had girded fierce pride about his waist as tightly as his shortsword and fought his own demon, impatience, with the fury and determination of a thousand Finn MacCools.
But even a warrior could only endure so much.
Curse the girl to the bowels of her Christian hell! She had outfought him, outrun him, and slammed the gate in his face as if he were some filthy beggar. If anyone at the chieftain's court heard about this day...
He grimaced, hating the knot tightening in his belly. Who would guess that a man who sought out the most deadly heat of every battle could be unnerved by such a subtle weapon as mockery? But he had been forced to endure enough of that poison in his twenty-four years to last a hundred lifetimes.
The image of eyes blue as Ireland's clearest lake goaded him, and Niall's jaw clenched at the memory of the wench he had found in the wood.
Niall of the Seven Betrayals... the mere sound of his name had made her dark-lashed eyes widen in revulsion, her pink lips curling as if she had bitten into bruised fruit.
He should be used to inspiring such a reaction in strangers by now. He thought he had managed to bury his emotions over the years, hide the vicious sting such rejection caused him. But with this exquisite young woman, the wound had been new as a fresh sword cut.
Not that he could let that matter. He had learned in a dozen bitter lessons that lashing out in anger or pain would only make things worse.
The only thing it accomplished was to give enemies a choice place to aim their blows.
Nay, he had to hide his emotions, control them, never let anyone see—especially this raven-haired wench who had so unnerved him.
He banged on the gate again, splitting the skin on one knuckle, but he scarce felt the sting as a timid voice drifted through the barrier.
"A moment longer, sir. We are a cloistered order. Our abbess must decide what to do. It is unheard of to allow one such as yourself to enter. Only the terribly sick can pass through these gates."
Niall ground his teeth. It seemed he had spent his whole life waiting to be allowed inside—into the warm circle of someone's trust, maybe even into someone's heart.
He had pounded at those invisible gates since he was a boy of eight, had grown to manhood battering scorn back with the blade of his shortsword and the strength in his body.
He had performed impossible feats for his chieftain, six quests in an effort to wash away the shameful legacy of the father who had left Niall with betrayal as part of his name.
With this last quest, Niall's prize would be won.
A name cleansed of infamy, a future washed clean of his father's dishonor.
With the last drop of his blood, Niall had fought to reclaim his honor, but now...
what would happen when the court discovered what his final quest had been?
The ultimate test of his manhood, his courage, his loyalty to his chieftain?
Fetching some wench from a convent? Niall winced.
If there had been an army to bar the way, or some accursed dragon spitting flame, it might have been a worthy task.
But the only test to his courage and strength here was a rotted wood gate and a bevy of nuns who ran shrieking at the sight of him.
He could already hear the laughter back at court—the whispered jibes behind cupped hands, the triumph of his enemies, the quiet shame of his hard-won allies.
But worst of all was the faint suspicion Niall could not quite shake free, that somehow he had been betrayed by the chieftain who had been more a father to him than his own.
Niall suppressed an unwelcome chill. Was it possible that the ruler men called Conn the Ever Truthful had planned this humiliation of his great enemy's son from the very beginning?
That he had been raising Niall higher and higher in power and royal favor only to dash him to the stones below?
Nay, Niall could not believe that. He shoved suspicion resolutely aside.
There must be something more in this quest, something still hidden.
The chieftain was shrewd, renowned throughout Ireland for his honesty.
And the only reason Niall had not starved as a boy was Conn's generosity.
Generosity that would have extended even further, had Niall's mother not been mad.
Niall's hand shifted to the leather pouch affixed to his waist Whatever the truth was, it would be revealed soon enough in the letter Conn had pressed into his hand just before he left Glenfluirse.
For an instant, Niall was tempted to dig the missive out, read it—either confirm or dash away his fears.
But Conn had ordered him not to open it until the first night he and the girl were alone.
The gate creaked, yanking Niall from his dark musings.
He felt an irritating surge of gratitude toward the grizzled nun swinging the portal open.
Despite a mustache that many a youths would envy, the woman regarded him as if she expected a hidden army to charge in after him, intent on ravishment.
He should have been vaguely amused, but the fear in her eyes tugged at something inside him.
Her expression reminded him of emotions Niall had known all too well, had fought to forget—what it felt like to be completely vulnerable, at someone else's mercy.
"I mean you no harm," he ground out, but the words sounded more like a challenge to battle than an offer of comfort.
The woman skittered back. "Th-the abbess will see you now. F-follow me."
He shook his head. He might as well have saved himself the trouble of trying to put her at ease. Few women had ever been anything but afraid of him, except for the mad ones who found something exciting about dancing with the devil.
In a rustle of robes, the nun fled before him, as if she expected him to take a bite out of her backside. At last, they reached a simply furnished chamber, a lone woman standing in a shaft of sunlight from the arrow slit above her. He had faced armies of warriors that had looked less resolute.
Niall glanced around, looking for the young woman he was supposed to fetch, impatience firing inside him. He had no time for these womanish games.
"I come from Conn the Ever Truthful, high chieftain of Glenfluirse. He has commanded that I bring Caitlin of the Lilies to his court."
The abbess merely peered at him, unaffected as if he had delivered a clutch of rabbits from a nearby farmer.
Perhaps living with all these fluttery women had made the abbess a halfwit. "She has been under your protection, this woman?" Niall demanded.
"She is under my protection," the abbess said, her chin bumping up a notch.
"I come to relieve you of your responsibility.
Your services are no longer needed." Niall dug a heavy leather bag from the folds of his shirt.
"This is for your trouble." He dumped the pouch's contents onto the abbess's table, surprised himself at the riches that glowed upon the worn wood.
Cloak fasteners of gold, torcs and rings, some studded with precious stones. Odd gifts for a nunnery.
"Return it all to your master." The abbess barely spared the trinkets a glance. "No riches on earth could ever pay me for raising this child."
Niall grimaced, aware of the tenderness between his legs. "I met one of your wenches in the wood. If she is any indication of the type of wards you are entrusted with, I understand your sentiments."
"You understand nothing." The abbess glared at him, her eyes burning with emotion.
"Will he care for her? This chieftain of yours?
Will he protect her? See that she is happy?
In all these years, we have heard not a word from him!
We know nothing of his plans for her. All her life, Caitlin has been loved. The abbey is her home."
Niall shifted his feet, uncomfortable with the intensity in the abbess's features, a heart laid bare, love, grief, defiance, courage. An odd mixture he had not seen in the years since he had last looked into his sister's small face.
"A high chieftain is not required to confide his plans to a simple abbess or to one of his warriors. We are his subjects. We do whatever he asks of us."
"I have far more allegiance to Caitlin than to any distant chieftain. A loyalty forged in love, not duty or fear. I will do anything in my power to protect her."
Niall looked into her face, a sharp retort on his tongue.
Yet truth was, it would be simple enough for the old nun to spirit the girl away into one of countess hiding places where he could never find her.
Leave him stumbling around the countryside like a fool, possibly to return to his chieftain empty-handed.
He wanted to rage at the woman, force her to his will, but he had stared into the faces of enough enemies in battle to know instinctively if their resolution would waver when he pressed them.
This woman would let him cleave her in two if it would protect the girl.
Something twisted in his chest. Loyalty had always moved him, perhaps because his own father's allegiances had shifted like the winds.
From his chieftain and his wife to a woman who had driven him mad with lust.
Niall gazed into the abbess's eyes, wanting to offer her some small comfort. "You ask about the chieftain. I cannot tell you his plans for your fosterling. But I can tell you this. He is a good ruler. A just one."
The hope that flickered in the abbess's face was almost painful, edged by doubt. "You are his messenger. Of course, you would praise him."