Chapter 7
Caitlin sat on the three-legged bench Niall's mother had offered her, trying not to let it topple over and spill the crumbling oat cake into the pile of ashes the woman obviously thought was a blazing fire.
Her heart ached as she peered into the once-beautiful face, the mouth too sensitive, a body so delicate it seemed the tiniest brush of a butterfly's wing would make her crumble.
But it was the older woman's smile that made Caitlin's throat tighten with unshed tears.
It shone, luminous with joy at welcoming her son home.
What had happened to them? Fiona and Niall and their mother?
How had things gotten so muddled? Niall, with his powerful sense of duty and the gruff kindness he fought so hard to hide—he was a man who would never stand by and let his mother and sister suffer so terribly no matter what past bitterness lay between them.
And no power on heaven or earth could shake the love Caitlin had seen in his mother's eyes.
A gift more precious than Niall could ever imagine.
Even Fiona's anger seemed out of place, as if the reason the girl gripped it so tightly was to shield herself from loving her brother too much. Nothing at Castle Daire made sense.
Caitlin took another bite of oatcake, casting a surreptitious glance over her shoulder, hoping that Niall would appear and help her navigate the unfamiliar waters of his family. But he had vanished as certainly as Fiona had.
For the hundredth time since she had awakened to find Niall standing over her with a sword, Caitlin wished she could run to Reverend Mother, bury her face in the abbess's lap, and ask her what to do.
How many times had she watched the abbess tend the broken souls who had found their way to the abbey's gates?
Always Reverend Mother had known what to do, what to say, how to wrap the love of God about them as if it were a warm robe.
But Caitlin had always been the comforted one, protected from whatever ugliness had haunted the eyes of those the abbess ministered to.
If only she knew what to say now to this woman whose misty eyes stared out at a world only she could see. If she only knew how to reach out to Fiona with her rage and her pain, and to Niall, who now looked far more battered than when she had pulled him up from the cliff ledge.
"Is the fire warm enough, my poor child?" Niall's mother scooped the moth-eaten robe from her own shoulders and tucked it around Caitlin.
"Nay," Caitlin protested. "I cannot—"
But the older woman only patted her hand, with such innate tenderness it reminded her of the abbess. "There, now. And have you not endured enough, mo chroi? Warm yourself, and tell me your troubles if it would ease your poor heart."
Caitlin's eyes burned. Had it been only four days since she had left the abbey?
It seemed a thousand years had passed since anyone had spoken to her so tenderly.
Yet she dared not burden this poor woman with her troubles.
It was obvious Niall's mother had suffered enough. Caitlin fought to steady her voice.
"I would rather not speak of it. Not yet. Only know that without Niall's help, I would be dead now."
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph preserve us!" The older woman pressed her hand to her heart, and for an instant something real flickered in her eyes, a reflection of horror, helplessness, that had driven her deep into a world of her own making.
Then, in a heartbeat, it was gone. "You need not fear now that you are under my Niall's protection," she said with an earnest smile.
"So much like his father, he is. More honor and courage I never saw in a man. "
Honor? Courage? But this was the father Niall claimed had burdened Niall with his shameful name, was he not?
Yet during this mad journey, the world had turned shape-shifter.
Nothing had turned out to be as it seemed.
If she wanted the truth, she would have to unearth for herself.
Whatever that truth might be, her spirit reached out to this bewildered woman who offered her compassion with such a generous heart.
"You are Niall's mother and Fiona's, and you remind me so very much of... someone I love." She could not stop the tears from glittering in her eyes. Her voice faltered. "But I do not know what to call you when I thank you for your kindness to me."
"Aniera is my name, but you have no need to thank me. My husband—he would rise from his grave if ever we turned someone in need away from Castle Daire! This is your home for as long as you wish." Aniera smiled. "It will be good for Fiona to have another woman about. She is too much alone."
Caitlin looked into Aniera's eyes, so like her son's, and saw a fleeting sorrow there. Buried beneath the dream world she lived in, was there some part of her that understood how much she had lost and still grieved?
On impulse, Caitlin reached out, took Aniera's frail hand. How many times had Caitlin seen the abbess do just that—touching someone, letting silence offer succor when words could not? But Caitlin was not certain whom she was trying to comfort, Aniera or herself.
At that moment, she heard the hollow echo of footsteps approaching. She knew it was Niall even before she saw the glow light Aniera's eyes. Caitlin turned and tried not to let her dismay show as she looked into the face of the man who had taken her from St. Mary's.
Even if Conn's men hunted them, Caitlin doubted they would recognize the arrogant, warrior who had charged away from court to win himself an honorable name.
Dark shadows stained the skin beneath eyes burning with weariness and confusion, his hair a tangle where he had driven his fingers through it.
Despite the burnishing of the sun he had ridden in, fought in, practiced skill at arms in for so long, a gray pallor clung to his face.
Bewildered and bruised, he still squared his shoulders, fought to hide his distress from his oblivious mother.
"I thought I would show Caitlin to her room," he offered. "We rode long and hard to reach the castle, and I know she must be wearied."
Aniera made a tsking sound in obvious distress. "Listen to me babbling on, and the poor child so tired she is nigh toppling off her seat! Is this the hospitality we offer at Castle Daire? Niall, I shall take her up at once so she might rest."
"Nay," Niall said too sharply. He gritted his teeth as he saw his mother flinch, confusion clouding her face. He forced himself to gentle his tone. "I would not trouble you, Mother. Caitlin is my charge, and we need some—some time alone."
At the inquisitive tilt of his mother's head, Niall rushed on.
"We need to plan what to do, in case the people searching for her should come."
"You need not make excuses to spend time alone with such a fair young woman, Niall," Aniera teased.
"It is absurd. No one in Ireland would be rash enough to attack Castle Daire.
Twice your father turned an army back from these walls when there were only ten men to defend it.
Aye, Caitlin, it is true. Over all of Ireland, the bards still sing praises to the courage of Niall's father. "
Caitlin saw one of Niall's hands curl into a fist. What must it have been like for a boy as proud as Niall to see that hero stumble and fall? To know that the songs of praise had died, and now his father was immortalized not for his courage but rather his infamy?
But Aniera's once-lovely features glowed with love and pride, faith unwavering as she thought of the man who had been her husband. "Niall, take our Caitlin to the Sea Chamber. Of all the fine rooms in Castle Daire, it is the most enchanting."
"The Sea Chamber?" Caitlin cast a questioning glance at Niall, knew that he, too, was remembering the splash of waves, moments of laughter.
"I was born in the North before my love carried me away.
I was so young, and everything was so unfamiliar here.
I grew sick with longing for the sea. Though it tore his heart, my Ronan had to leave me, to sail away with warriors to some far place.
When he returned, he barred himself in the room.
I wept until my eyes were raw, thinking he did not love me, regretted our marriage.
And then—" Aniera touched her lips with her fingertips, as if remembering a lover's kiss.
"He gathered me in his arms and carried me up the stairs to show me the magic he had wrought.
The first night we shared in that room, a babe was planted in my womb.
Aye, Niall. You. I am certain of it. And later, you were born in that bed, while your father sat beside me holding tight to my hand, and I looked across the chamber into my very own sea. "
"I remember something of the tale," Niall admitted, discomfort darkening his face.
"It was your favorite game to climb about that bed, pretending it was a ship sailing off to fight fierce invaders. That you were like your father—brave enough to face the perils of wave and storm." She paused, looking past them, to some vision she alone could see.
"Do you remember, Niall? How you loved it? And your father, playing sea monster, snarling and growling and trying to drag you off the bed into the imaginary waves?"
Caitlin looked at Niall, her heart aching. Had he once been that little boy? Frolicking, carefree? Brave enough to play at monster because he knew that his father would always be there to chase any real ones away?
What had that boy suffered when his world came apart? And what hell had that father endured, a warrior compassionate enough to create a sea for the woman he loved? Or were these all Aniera's imaginings? Stitching beauty and tenderness over reality to make the ugliness bearable?
Was that the reason Niall had taken her to the sea? Caitlin wondered. In honor of the mother he had all but forgotten? An innate understanding of a longing for wave and shore that reached from the time of his first flickering memories?