Chapter Twenty-Four
A Marriage of Revenge
Neave, March 10-28, 1565, Ulster, Ireland
Wee Aine lay warm andcontent in my arms as I leaned against the cushions of my new husband’s coach and struggled to push away the thoughts of my son. My Ronan, my precious boy, had been taken from me and given to the Earl by my own father!
“If you wish to dispense with your life, I’ve no power to stop you, daughter,” father had boomed after O’Donnell’s visit. “But I’ll not throw a blameless child into the claws of his father’s mortal foe.”
I’d not argued, for I was certain he’d meant to foster Ronan at Castle McConway, where I could visit as often as I fancied. But the following day, I awakened to find Ronan gone and Betha whispering that my father had taken him to Benburb.
I’d sunk to the floor, forcing words through my tightening throat. “Had he put up a fight? Had he wailed for me?”
“He flew to the coach ahead of Lord McConway.” Betha sighed. “Like a wee bird, he did, his tabby cat in his arms. The lad has need of his father, m’lady.”
“And what of his foster mother?” I bellowed. “Did Lord McConway tell him how she’ll plot to get rid of him soon as she’s with—”
My sobs had made it impossible to continue.
Betha paled. “Shall I ask Ida for a calming brew, m’lady—?”
Despite her gentle demeanor, Betha was a servant. And like all servants, she wagged her tongue when out of earshot. I stilled myself, lifted my chin high. “I shall miss my son, but being wed to the handsome and powerful King of Tyrconnell will be calming enough. Best you go and get everything ready for our departure to my splendid new home.”
I’d stared at the darkening sky through the window as Betha took her leave. The Earl may have had our son, but I still had our daughter. And my sweet revenge.
The coach jounced, calling me back to myself—a boulder. And a faint voice had cut through my baleful gloating. Would he even take notice of your marriage?
My wedding ceremony took place at a small chapel only hours past—a hasty, somber affair attended by three of O’Donnell’s men and none of my own clan, per father’s censure. We arrived in Tyrconnell at noontide, the sky murky with rainclouds and the air thick with the promise of a downpour. The first bolt of lightning struck down in a deafening explosion when we reached the heavy gate.
Those same three men escorted me into a cramped great hall with a large stone hearth and table set for supper. Having ridden ahead, my husband awaited me there. I swallowed my unease. At Castle McConway, he appeared a vindictive chieftain bent on retaliation, but here in his domain, he was a king—poised, dispassionate, imperious. At his side, sat two other men and seven women. All regarded me with inscrutable faces.
Stomach tight as an acorn, I took my place beside my new husband on the dais. The faint voice soared again, louder this time. Would he even mind what becomes of you?
The Earl’s mortal foe lifted his cup. “Dear friends, I am happy to present my wife, Lady Neave O’Donnell.” He cocked his coppery head to one side, regarding the gathering. “Formerly Lady Neave O’Neal.”
I swallowed at the cold finality of these titles.
The faces grew more inscrutable.
The King of Tyrconnell placed a fanciful kiss on my hand, his green gaze touching on me. “I trust you all will treat Lady O’Donnell with such grace and honor as befits her rank.”
The wedding supper was humbling: boiled ox-flesh with kale, black pudding, and ale. O’Donnell ate with great appetite, enjoying two generous helpings and countless cups of ale. I, however, couldn’t stomach the food, for I grew increasingly ill at ease. Although my husband hadn’t bothered with introductions, the five women in kerchers had to be the wives to his five men. But what of the other two—young and comely—with their long maiden hair arranged in plaits and berry-stained lips twisted with sardonic smiles?
After the silent meal, a woman-servant came to lead me away for bathing, scrubbing, and scenting. My stomach knotted as she dressed me in the English-styled chemise with a multitude of pleats and elaborate needlework. Had I truly wed Tiernan O’Donnell of my own free will? Heart fluttering like a butterfly’s wing, I schooled my mind’s eye to the Earl’s vile words on the parchment.
Aye, I had wed him, my Aedan, and soon my retribution will be complete.
The small chamber, where the servant took me, contained no hearth and bore no suggestion of matrimonial ceremony. Plain and somber as any spare chamber, it stood shrouded in the clammy chill of the Tyrconnell castle.
I lay on the narrow marriage bed, hugging myself and gulping down swift, shallow breaths. But think of the revenge! How he’ll rage when he learns of this.
A spiteful bride, awaiting her retaliatory bridegroom. I placed my arms at my sides and steeled myself. A handsome bridegroom and a powerful king, withal!
The sky outside blackened with the falling evening when Betha came to take Aine away after suckling. The bridegroom was taking his time. Would that he hurry to have this done with.
He arrived at nightfall, his copper curls tangled, short English tunic rumpled. A stranger I’d never attend if not for the Earl’s betrayal.
Mayhap I’ll keep him at bay with a fib of an aching head—
He lay beside me, reeking of sweat and woman and yawning like a cat disturbed from slumber. “You needed not wait, wife.” He chuckled at the epithet and turned away. “You have your revenge now, and I have mine.”
I glared into the darkness as he snored. The Earl had kept no concubines. Yet he proposed concubinage to me soon as he wed his English countess. What chieftain would refuse such pleasures lest his own wife contented him? I froze with belated clarity—he’d kept me for my wantonness and offered concubinage for the same, hard-pressed to find another to abide his depravities.
Was it revenge you fancied, fool?
Hot tears blurred my sight and braced my throat. Surely, the Earl knew of O’Donnell’s concubines. I dropped my face into the pillow, skin aflame, hands cold and trembling. He’d not rage—he’d laugh all the way from Benburb.
Following our fraudulent wedding night, Tiernan O’Donnell had not returned to my chamber and made himself scarce in all other regards, withal. A fortnight passed since my arrival at Tyrconnell, but I’d only laid eyes on my new husband at our invariably mute suppers. Some relief! I’d not seek his distasteful company if I’d grown mad with loneliness. And likely, I would.
It was plain to see I’d find no allies here. While O’Donnell enjoyed his two helpings at a time, his officers studied me with a lewd glint in their eyes, their wives regarded me with unveiled wariness, and the two young concubines shot me sidelong glances and whispered in each other’s ear. Cast aside or not, I was forever the O’Neal’s creature—and not to be trusted. But did my husband, too, share in this absurd misjudgment?
I startled when after another hostile supper, he took me by the elbow and walked with me upstairs to my chamber.
“I trust you are comfortable here, wife?” He cocked his head to one side, studying me.
I compressed my lips and said nothing.
“This air of outraged majesty suits you.” He gave a strained chuckle. “And yet, what have I failed to provide?”
I drew back from his penetrating green stare and came up hard against the wall. “I have my revenge, m’lord,” I bit out, “and you have yours.”
He stepped closer, eyes raking my face. “Not only lovely but keen and mettlesome, withal. The whispers are true, then.” He slid a hand to my hip with his easy, vexing grace, dropping his voice into a low murmur. “Yet women give cheek when they’re most unhappy.”
His tone was so sure, body so poised, gaze so unwavering, it was as if he could ferret out all my secrets with a mere look. I bit my lip, fighting a rush of heat to my face. His insolence rankled me. And it tickled me.
“I would that you shared the cause of your melancholy with me. I am, after all, your lawful husband.” He tipped my chin with his index finger, and a mixture of whiskey, fresh linen, and male filled my head.
To my chagrin, every corner of my body came alive with his scent.
I swallowed my misplaced longing. “I wish to be alone now,” I squeezed out.
A wry grin played on his lips. The silence drew out as he stroked my neck with the back of his raspy hand.
A treacherous warmth welled up inside me as he imprisoned me against the wall. I hadn’t been touched so since the Earl slammed the door in my face.
“You’re a poor liar.” His fingers skimmed the tops of my breasts, warm and firm.
He appeared younger, taller, and broader so near, his gaze steady as a placid lake. My heart raced and thudded with need. Why not use him like the Earl had used me?
“Am I, m’lord?” Unblinking, I stared into his eyes.
“But ours is a marriage of revenge—” He withdrew with a half-smile and turned toward the door. “Is it true you have mastery of making a likeness on a canvas?” he said in silken tones, pausing. “I’ll have pigments, and brushes, and all such things brought in for your enjoyment.”
The following morning, a servant-woman delivered painting implements and a stretched canvas, but the sight of it gave me little joy. Regardless of our reasons for marrying, it stung that my new husband didn’t fancy me. True, I wasn’t as fresh as his concubines, but neither was I yet old or the homeliest creature on earth. I’d been good enough for the famed O’Neal. Why not for the lesser O’Donnell?
In the evening, I removed my shift and stood before my small bronze mirror, heart dull and throat thick. The grooves in the metal, along with uncertain candlelight, distorted my reflection, yet my skin appeared smooth, waist thin despite childbearing, and breasts high upon my chest. I straightened, wiped my eyes, and climbed into bed.
Burying myself beneath the quilt, I emptied my mind of all thought and let my hand slip to the warmth below. But thinking of naught had resulted in naught.
Keep still, a rún.
Damn you. I clenched my jaw, pushing away the deep, velvety voice. I’ll not think of him. Never.
I closed my eyes, envisaging O’Donnell’s warm hand on my skin and his unflinching gaze upon my face. At length, I caught the thread, held onto it tight. There it was—so near, I could almost smell his infuriating mixture of he-lynx and a trace of a woman’s perfume. No matter, he’d never be my lover. And above all, he smelled of health and virility.
The door opened as my pace turned frantic. I froze, pressing my hand down, to find my husband at the threshold with an unreadable expression.
“The servants whisper of my scarce visits to your chamber. They were left baffled I spent but moments here yesterday.” He sat on the bed beside me, eyes twinkling pale green with humor. “We’ll not suffer such talk to reach Benburb, for it would quite spoil the effect.” He studied the ceiling. “I must call on you now and again, wife.”
Slowly, I brought my legs together.
He placed a heavy hand on my bare shoulder, and the odor of his sweat mixed with the concubines’ perfume wafted over me in cruel mockery.
“I’ll not stay overlong.” He yawned and turned away, whistling “Cailín óg a Stór.”
The words escaped before I could stop them, “D’you lack in all your faculties, m’lord?”
He gave a soft chuckle, unruffled. “No woman has ever asked me such a question.”
“Well.” I scoffed. “One has now.”
He stared, cocking his head in that riling manner of his, then lay on his back to whistle into the night.
I curled up away from him, cheeks hot, chest rising and falling like a tide. He knew, yet it didn’t trouble him. My loneliness was a source of amusement to him! A twisted conquest.
An eternity later, he touched my back. “I trust I’ve visited long enough to put the whispers to rest... Are you quite well, wife?”
My stomach hardened to the point of pain. I parted my lips, snapped them shut. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
He stood and headed to the door. “My apologies for disturbing your...peace.”
After he left, I grabbed a hairbrush from my night table and flung it at the door with all my might.
He must have not gone far, for he returned before I could conceal myself beneath the quilt.
“This seems to have fallen—” He brought the brush over. “Are you certain you’ve not taken ill?”
How I wished to hurl the brush into his smug face. I met his gaze instead. “Have you no need for an heir, m’lord?”
He raised his auburn brows. “I’ve sons by my concubines and...lesser women, withal. Surely, having had the O’Neal for a husband, you’re no stranger to a chieftain’s way of life.”
I flushed with my whole body, trembling from head to foot. The Earl never dared to speak of such things.
My husband shook his head, and the copper strands fell about his shoulders. “I do advise you to rein yourself in, wife. This ill humor does not become you.”
I lay very still after he left. Our marriage had not been consummated. Was he giving me a way out? The brehon would grant divorce on the grounds of nonconsummation. But O’Donnell knew I’d never ask for one, for he’d set up a perfect trap. Cast aside by the first husband and divorced from the second for his lack of marital desire, I would become the laughingstock of Ulster.
Hot tears flooded my eyes, but I threw back the quilt and returned to where I was before this vile man came to interrupt me. I let my legs fall apart, giving in to my gloomy solace, daring him to return at his peril. He knew little of me if he thought he’d seen the extent of my ill humor.
I forced down the mocking watery gaze, and the Earl’s eyes smiled into mine in a flash of steel blue. My Neave. He bent to what he’d called his sweetest treat. Mmm, he rumbled, his warm tongue and skilled fingers dancing their mind-blowing reel.
“My Aedan, my Aedan, my Aedan,” I whispered, soaring and gliding into the starless sky.
Then, I fell back to the cold earth, shattering to raw, desolate bits.
I buried my collapsing face in the pillow. None need to know what I dream of alone in the dark.