Chapter 20 #2
"Your... gallantry increases, I see. And toward a woman!
" Conn turned his face toward the crowd.
"There are those within these walls who remember a vow you took, that you would never be so moved by one of the fairer sex.
Surely, all of Glenfluirse is as astonished as your chieftain.
Two vows broken by the warrior who swore only honor would ever hold claim to his heart! "
"You summoned only me, or so Declan said."
"Aye, and so I did. If I wished for the lady's presence, I should have commanded it. And, of course, as my champion, my foster son, the man I named tainist, you would have obeyed your chieftain's order." Conn's brow arched. He expected a reply.
But Niall would not lie. He said nothing, certain only that no power on earth could have made him bring Caitlin here if there was the slightest chance of danger. The silence seemed to stretch out forever, but at last, Conn chuckled, clapping Niall on the shoulder.
"You have journeyed far, and even the boldest champion grows weary. I command you to take a well-deserved rest, my son. Is that not an order you can obey?"
Niall sensed a jagged edge to Conn's words, could scarce blame him for his displeasure. Or was it hurt he saw, buried like an ember in the chieftain's eyes?
Guilt tugged hard. What must it be like for a man who had extended such generosity, risked so much in loving an outcast child, to see suspicion in that foster son's face? Especially after the chieftain had heaped such honors upon Niall's head?
Niall cursed silently, torn between Conn's familiar, much-beloved face and the dragging weight of his father's sword—two loyalties, so divided it seemed as if one man could not contain them both. Two paths that could never cross. Two separate destinies.
Yet, despite Niall's confusion, the chieftain deserved better treatment from his foster son, if only in payment for the kindnesses Conn had shown that lonely young boy.
Shoving his doubts aside, Niall stepped away from his foster father and bowed, paying him homage. Conn himself urged Niall to straighten, the smile beneath the red mustache warm now, almost like the one Niall knew so well. The smile Niall had fought to win time and again as a youth.
"You are my son. My heir," Conn proclaimed, his voice resonating, deep and clear.
"No man in all Ireland is more valued by your chieftain than Niall of the Seven Betrayals.
When the moon rises seven times from now, I shall grant you the reward you have won, a name of your choosing, cleansed of all blame. "
Shouts rose from the crowd. "So long? Why delay?" Niall heard someone cry. "Give him his name at once!"
Conn cast a glance across the mass of his subjects, quieting them. "It will take seven days to bring another guest of honor to our celebration. Fintan's daughter!"
Cheers all but deafened Niall, adoration of the hero all Glenfluirse had loved.
"Aye, Niall," Conn repeated. "Summon Fintan's daughter to me. Caitlin of the Lilies has helped you earn your reward. Let her have her rightful share in your glory."
Niall started to protest then said nothing. He would reason with Conn about Caitlin once they entered his private chambers.
"Does the wench look fertile? I hear she is even more beautiful than her mother, Grainne, was, and Grainne was said to be the most exquisite beauty in all Ireland.
Though there was another who could have challenged her for that title in some men's eyes.
Scota—so beautiful she bewitched even your father. "
Niall stared hard into Conn's face. It was smooth as new cream. So why did Niall feel as if an invisible rope were tightening around his chest?
Conn grinned beneath the impressive mustache, guileless, honest. "I have a motive I have confessed to no one save you," he murmured under his breath. "I am considering easing my eldest son's jealousy by offering him the lady's hand. What do you think, Niall? Is that not wise?"
That cur cannot have her! She is mine!
Protest welled up inside him but Niall crushed it into silence with a warrior's instinct as he felt the intensity of Conn's gaze. Nay, Niall resolved, show no weakness, reveal no vulnerability that could be used against you... or, more terrifying by far, against Caitlin.
"Aye," Conn answered himself in a voice Niall alone could hear. "It seems only fair in view of what my blood heir has lost—the position of chieftain traded for the honor of mingling Fintan's bloodline with my own. What do you think, Niall? Shall Magnus take a bride?"
Niall railed in silence. Give him Glenfluirse and all its power and riches! Let Ireland itself sink into the sea, as long as Caitlin of the Lilies can be my wife.
"I have no right to answer for Fintan's daughter," Niall evaded.
"Why should she object as long as her heart has not been given to some other man?
" Conn chuckled. "And there can be no fear of that.
Convent-bred from the time she was a suckling babe.
I wager you are the first man she has ever seen, save some groveling, toothless priest. Unless the lady has fallen in love with you?
" Conn gave a hearty laugh. "Has she, Niall? "
With all his strength of will, Niall shrugged. "What woman would be so unwise as to love the man who almost murdered her?"
Conn roared with laughter, but his gaze probed Niall's face, searching, seeking.
Niall turned away, fearing Conn would see that Niall's reckless beloved had dared to give her heart into his keeping.
That Fintan's daughter had pierced through all the anger, every dark vow Niall had ever made,and had brought him back into the land of the living, reborn.
"No woman in Ireland can be bound without her consent," Niall said, as much to ease his own fear as in answer to Conn's questions. And Caitlin would never consent to marry any man save me, he finished in silence. She is wife already, mated to my soul.
But could that not be the most dangerous truth of all?
"Do we not owe the woman some small courtesy, at least? Let her stay where she is. Give her time to forget that you wrote an order condemning her to die."
He shifted his gaze away from Conn's probing one, and his heart slammed against his ribs. In the mass of faces, one stood out, the hatred etched in those features virulent, seething. Deadly.
Magnus, Conn's oldest son.
From the time they were boys, Magnus despised him for his tainted blood, hoarded up every defeat, every humiliation Niall had dealt him on the practice field.
Niall had always known Conn's true-born son was counting the moments until he could make Niall pay for stealing his father's favor, smug in the certainty that that day would come.
Magnus had cheated, schemed, stooped to any secret dishonor to try to bring Niall pain.
The man's hatred must be fired hotter than ever now, humiliated as he was before all Ireland.
Niall's blood ran cold. He was right to keep Caitlin hidden at Castle Daire. Right to conceal his love for her. And at Castle Daire his lady would remain, safe from the intrigue that seethed in Glenfluirse. Aye, he would find a way to protect her from this threat, through reason or with his blood.
The heavens would fall before he allowed Magnus to use Caitlin as a weapon in his game of revenge.
Besides, Niall reasoned there was nothing to fear, was there?
There would be time enough to reason with his foster father in the days to come.
Conn had shown himself willing to grant him a kingdom.
Surely, once Conn understood, the chieftain would give Niall the one thing he desired: Caitlin of the Lilies as his wife.
Conn tugged at the fringe of his mustache, his eyes fixed on the crowd that still reveled far beneath him, their spirits rising faster than the ascent of the moon. Disturbing. Nearly half of Glenfluirse embraced Niall as tainist, that position Conn's own blood son should hold.
How had Conn underestimated the allies Niall had won? Such divided loyalties could be dangerous even to a reigning chieftain if some unpopular secret were discovered and held against him. Worst of all—Conn grimaced—he had opened the door to this danger with his own hand.
Yet it was an error in judgment that would be righted soon enough. He would mark these men whose loyalty belonged to Ronan's son, and they would pay in good time. Not by Conn's sword but by a more subtle blade—cunning, ruthlessness, the genius that belonged to Conn alone.
They worshipped valor? Conn scoffed. His measure was no greater than most men's.
Strength? His body was satisfactory enough.
But his mind... aye, his mind surpassed any weapon these bumbling warriors hoarded in their armories.
He would emerge the victor this time, as he always had before, because of one irrefutable truth: there was nothing he would not sacrifice to gain what he desired.
He glanced one more time at the sky then smiled. Magnus should be drunk enough by now, wallowing in rage at the reception Niall received. It was time to visit his son.
Servants scattered, even Magnus's friends fleeing like frightened deer, as the chieftain strode into his son's chambers.
Conn grimaced in disgust as he saw evidence of Magnus's rage—every stick of furniture shattered or upended.
A witless display of rage. And yet one a wise man could turn to his advantage.
With a wave of his hand, Conn dismissed the few who had been brave enough to linger. They rushed from the room with all haste.