Chapter Forty-Four
Return to Me
Neave, August 24, 1565, Ulster, Ireland
It was the middle ofthe night when sweet Benburb walls rose in the mist to welcome me.
Are you home, awaiting me, my Aedan, or riding for Tyrconnell with bloodshed on your mind and murder in your heart?
Only a dozen yards. Heartbeat in my ears, I slowed Fionna to a trot and pulled down my hood as low as it would go.
Only another yard. I eased her to a walk, coming upon the sentries—a large force of mounted piked men. More stood above at the parapets.
One grabbed Fionna’s reins before I could utter a word.
“A bit late to travel alone, lass.”
I gulped at the keen glint in his dark eyes. But it wouldn’t do for the castle guard to bear witness to my disgraceful arrival.
I braced myself and forced the lowborn lilt again. “Aye, I bring the O’Neal an urgent message from Lady Neave O’Donnell.”
He studied my figure with unchecked appraisal. “Aren’t you a juicy wee plum?”
I tried to rear but found myself surrounded by three other men, all reeking of drink, boredom, and plunder. A hand reached for my chest, another burrowed underneath my skirts.
“Get yourself off your mount if you seek admission to Benburb,” someone said behind me. “Before we drag you clean off.”
Ears pounding and hands clenching into fists, I turned to glare at him. “Have you forgotten the O’Neal doesn’t put up with rape, man?” I bit out in my own voice.
The hand on my breast froze.
“Or are you all so tired of your station?” My anger was a hot, bright flame, blooming and pulsating inside me, bursting forth. “Or mayhap so bored that you’d relish the pillory?”
The hands had gone.
I raised my voice another notch to ensure the lookouts at the parapets heard. “The lord might even order death by crochadh should he learn you’d done harm to the messenger of his children’s mother!”
The sentries exchanged glances.
“What are you called, man?” I demanded from the first one, my voice as stern as when chiding Ronan after he’d done mischief. “And you?” I turned to the one behind.
“What’s a lady doing dressed in a servant’s garb?” mumbled the first one.
I yanked the reins from him. “I await your name, man.”
“Blasted hell...the mare is Fionna,” someone murmured. “Lady Neave’s own mount.”
The first sentry backed away and motioned to the others to lift the portcullis. “Never mind our names, m’lady, and do mind we’d let you pass.”
Moments later, I stood before the entrance, trembling with fatigue and nearly weeping with the anticipation of seeing Dylan. Instead, our old guard opened the door, yawning and squinting in the dim.
“Who are you, lass?” he stared, blinking away sleep.
A woman wed, seeking shelter and adultery with a recent widower. I pulled down the hood to conceal my face. “I bring an urgent message to the Prince of Ulster.”
The guard studied me with a frown. “The O’Neal is away.”
“Away...” A chill slithered down my spine. “Where to?”
The man straightened. “That would be his own affair and none of yours.”
My heart squeezed as I followed the guard into the great hall, gloomy and abandoned, the air thick with despair.
“I’ll show you to the servants’ quarters,” he said. “But it’s much too late for a meal.”
The narrow cot, to which he pointed, was made with old rushes and crawled with something swift and numerous. I sat gingerly on its edge, drawing Sorcha’s russet tight about me. Soon as the guard left, I headed straight to the lord’s chamber, unimpeded as the castle slept.
A thin ray of moonlight streamed through the window onto the great empty bed as I stepped inside and closed the door. My dressing table looked as if I’d just gotten up from it; my stool stood in the same place I’d left it. My combs and perfumes lay scattered where I shoved them away in rage and agony, and my ivory hairbrush—Aedan’s gift—remained among my baubles where I’d hurled it, my hair strands still tangled in the coarse boar bristles. The silk shift Aedan gave me lay folded atop my stool, as if awaiting me.
I padded into my dressing room. All my opulent married woman’s gowns hung on their forms, undisturbed.
Hot tears flooded my eyes. He hadn’t let anyone touch my belongings, waiting and hoping, believing I would return to him.
Turn round and come to me, a chroí. I lifted my gaze to the pale morning star, hugging myself with cold, shaky arms. I’ve come home to you, my Aedan.
I grabbed his saffron léine from his night table, squeezing and crushing it until my knuckles ached. It smelled of him—horse, whiskey, sun, rain. Trembling, I removed Sorcha’s dusty russet, slipped on the léine, and climbed into bed amid soft white sheets and silky sheepskins, conjuring up his solid warmth.
Return to me, return to me, return to me.