Chapter Nineteen
A Marriage Proposal
Neave, February 14–22, 1565, Ulster, Ireland
“A peculiar visitoris coming to call a sennight hence, Neave.” Father sank down on the edge of my bed and raked his beard.
My stomach the size of an acorn, I handed him the babbling Aine and went to stand at the window. It grew dark outside, the dusk misty and uncertain.
Do we call him peculiar now? Brigid, spare me this unending torment.
“What visitor, father?” I said aloud, knowing the answer full well.
“Tiernan O’Donnell, daughter, the King of Tyrconnell.”
I whirled round. “What—?”
“I don’t like it.” Father stood, rocking the babe. “Not one bit.”
“Is he...after your fealty, then?” My question emerged daft and feeble.
Father moved to stand beside me, staring out into the courtyard. “He requests your presence, Neave.”
I pushed away a chill. The Earl’s bitter rival would seek that which the Earl himself was after when he arrived here six years past with his self-serving proposal.
“You could have given the messenger my reply and spared us both the trouble,” I spat.
“The messenger wouldn’t carry back any reply.” Father shot me a glance. “He came only to announce the visit.”
I took my daughter and climbed into bed, settling her in my arms. “Then it shall be the shortest visit he’ll ever have the displeasure to make.”
I gave no further thought to O’Donnell in the sennight that followed, for my mind dwelled elsewhere. Despite father”s vigilant safeguarding against all things O’Neal, the whispers had seeped through. The Earl hadn’t taken kindly to my rejection. According to the servants’ wide-eyed prattling, he returned from Castle McConway in the darkest of humors and shut himself in his study for days with naught but drink for company. For the first time since I received his filthy letter, something resembling a smile crossed my face. Did he fancy me a hound, who even when misused would meekly submit to its master?
How fortuitous then that he’d soon hear of O’Donnell’s impudent designs.
On the day of his visit, there was no lavish meal, no finery, no guests, nor even my sisters. But my father sat on the dais, and I took place beside my mother, as we did when the Earl came to fool me into believing he loved me. No man would trick me so again. Still, the notion filled me with strange, almost tingling, wonder—the Earl’s mortal foe coming to ask for a hand of a wife he’d cast aside.
Tiernan O’Donnell arrived at noontide. He had a decade on me, and I envisaged him aging and dull. But he possessed an air of a virile warrior and moved with an easy grace of a he-lynx, indolent and sure. With his pale copper hair, sparse beard, and watery green eyes, he looked more a Norseman than a Celt and ought’ve been homely with such faded coloring and a splattering of freckles on his nose, withal. Yet the symmetry of features, along with his deep-seated confidence and unbridled maleness, rendered him almost handsome.
He eyed the simple venison stew and wheaten bread rolls with some regret. “Gratitude for your hospitality, Lord McConway. But with your blessing, I’d like to get to the affair at hand without delay.”
A wry smile he shot me made his eyes crease at the corners and his high cheekbones ride even higher.
I didn’t return it.
Father waved away the servants. “You may go.”
“Well done, m’lord.” O’Donnell cocked his head to one side like a large cat contemplating its prey. “Forestalling the whispers and humbling me in one swoop.”
Father bristled. “Kindly get to your affair at hand, m’lord.”
The King of Tyrconnell fixed father with a cold stare, then reached for the serving spoon. “I believe I’ll eat, after all.”
After working through half of his helping in taut silence that didn’t seem to trouble him, however, he trained his gaze on me. “Lovely Lady Neave, the whispers don’t do you justice.”
Not a muscle moved in my face. The time when I could be won over with blarney was far behind me.
Unruffled, he returned to his meal. “Tasty,” he said between slow, indulgent bites. “Quite welcome after my long ride.”
Finished at last, he washed the stew down with ale, then set it aside with a small nod of approval.
I studied him over my cup. Despite his vigorous appetite, he appeared hale and muscled.
“What a fitting name, m’lady.” His smile assumed a warm, intimate quality. “You’re the living image of Neave of the Golden Hair. Which brings to mind the famous tale.” He poured himself more ale and took a long draught. “The hapless Oisín is not much of a riddle, is he? Was blind to his priceless treasures and paid the price in the end. But what of Neave?”
I smoothed my skirts under the table, stiffening at the way he said my name, low and hoarse.
“We never learn whether she grieved for eternity or avenged herself against her daft husband by taking a new lover.”
Father compressed his lips, his gaze dark and heavy. “Have you come to regale us with the tales of old, m’lord?”
O’Donnell pushed his bowl away. “I’ve come to ask for Lady Neave’s hand in marriage.”
I scoffed, unable to stop myself.
My new suitor’s eyes turned clear and dispassionate. “I ask for no dowry, knowing m’lord has more daughters to wed. I’ve no need of it. Lady Neave and her children will be safe and want for naught in Tyrconnell.”
Father parted his lips, but I beat him to it. “If I may be so blunt, Lord O’Donnell. I’m no maiden and have two small children, withal.” My tight smile didn’t reach my eyes—I’d make this man regret his insolence. “Why ask for my hand so soon after my divorce and why ask at all?”
His watery gaze iced over. “If I may be so blunt, Lady Neave, why d’you think?”
Our eyes locked, and a faint thrill rushed through me. The Earl’s mortal foe, the same one he’d chained in his dungeon, brought to heel, and humiliated, had asked for my hand!
“I’d not presume to know your mind, m’lord,” I said, wanting to hear it. Craving to hear it.
“Lady Neave!” Father’s voice held a note of dire warning.
“It seems an opportune time for marriage, m’lady.” Lord O’Donnell tipped his head to one side, studying me. “Opportune for me and opportune for you, withal.” He drained his cup. “For if you’re as proud a beauty as they say you are, then you’d welcome revenge as much as I do.”
I clasped my tingling hands to conceal a jolt of warmth that surged and flared into my every corner. Then, I released my fingers and pressed them to the burning spot beneath my heart, where I kept the Earl’s filthy letter.
“Lady Neave will take her leave now.” Father stood. “M’lord, I’ll not abide such talk in my castle—”
I’d not heard the rest, for I fell under the spell of a riveting vision. Though he’d cast me aside, the Earl was proud. How his face would twist with fury at the tidings of his bitter rival becoming my lawful husband. How he would rave at the images of his dungeon prisoner having leave of my willing body, of the man he loathed and despised sharing my bed, and me happy and content in his strong, hale arms. How he would crumble at the notion of his adversary fostering his children, and his children forgetting him and calling this man da. How his hands would ball into impotent fists, but his rage would have neither outlet, nor resolution.
This is what you get, a chroí.
I stared past my father’s great hall, enthralled by the vision of the Earl’s fist pummeling the stone wall until it bled.
You thought I’d become your concubine or wither away without you? I almost laughed aloud. I’ll wed a handsome chieftain, no less powerful than you, and with English allies, withal.
Oh, how sweet this revenge would be—like freshly harvested honey, warmed by the sun. I could nearly taste it on my tongue.
“I accept, Lord O’Donnell,” I interrupted my father’s tirade, wishing to wed him on the spot. “I accept your marriage proposal.”