Nell Page 4

  The hall was dimly lit, and the twisting stair passage had no light at all. Nell paused to find a candle and hold it to the flickering torch flame. The pool of oil in the well was black and evil-smelling. She wrinkled her nose. The wick caught. She lifted the edge of her skirt, twisted the hem around her wrist, and moved toward the stairs.

  His voice stopped her. “’Tis early yet for retiring.”

  Slowly, she turned. Donal O’Flaherty stood near the open door, his lean height framed by the indigo blue of the darkening sky. “You left early, too, my lord.” Her voice was huskier than usual, but he wouldn’t know that.

  He stepped into the circle of light thrown by the torch. “’Tis flattering to have a beautiful woman notice my absence, but I am an Irish chieftain, lass. I have no English title. You may call me Donal.”

  Lord, he was handsome. Nell had been weaned on legends of King Conor and Emain Macha. If anyone fit her image of a true Irish warrior, it was this splendid young man with his striking high-boned face and dark gray eyes. She flushed and lowered her candle. “Good night, sir.”

  Instantly, he was at her side, his hand on her arm. “Don’t go yet, Eleanor. Come outside with me and see the stars. The moon is nearly gone, and there are no clouds tonight.”

  She stared at the lean fingers curving around her wrist and wondered if his flesh burned as hers did. “Call me Nell. There are always stars in Maynooth,” she said quietly. “Are there none in Galway?”

  “Galway is on the sea. Except for late summer, there is usually heavy fog.”

  Nell looked up, and her breathing altered. He was very close. “It sounds like a gloomy place, your Galway,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “The fog comes at night and before the dawn. Otherwise, ’tis a magical land of blue water and white sand. You will be happy there.”

  It was the first time either of them had acknowledged their pending betrothal.

  She swallowed and looked away.

  “Nell?” The sound of her name on his lips was like a soft caress. “Come outside with me and see the stars.”

  When he spoke in that voice, persuasive and low as if he wanted nothing more in all the world, she would have gone with him anywhere. He took her hand and led her outside, across the courtyard and out the gates, to sit on the hilly bank below the castle. The sky was completely dark now, and the stars were a spangle of glittering silver across the inky blackness.

  “I had no idea it would look like this,” Donal said in a hushed voice.

  Nell’s eyes widened. He really had wanted to see the stars. It wasn’t just an excuse to be alone with her. “Have you never been here before, my—I mean, sir?”

  “I have a name, Nell.”

  She drew up her knees and clasped her arms around them. “I know.”

  He waited, but she remained silent. “I have been to Dublin, often,” he said at last, “but never by way of Kildare.”

  “And what do you think of Dublin?”

  His mouth tightened into a thin, angry line. “’Tis an English city ruled by Englishmen. Were I never to see it again, I would not be sorry.”

  She waited for a full minute before speaking, and when she did, Donal knew that he had offended her. “Perhaps you think this is an English house as well, sir, and are just as displeased with us?”

  He could barely make out her profile, a dark silhouette etched against a darker sky, framed by wings of pale hair. He lifted her hand from the grass and pressed her palm against his lips. He felt her tremble, and it reassured him. “Yours may be an English house, Nell, but nothing about your family offends me. In fact, I am particularly pleased with the company.”

  “I know you didn’t want to marry me,” she said bluntly.

  He frowned. “Who told you that?”

  “You did.”

  “You are mistaken, lass. I have never seen you before this morning.”

  She nodded her head. “We met once before at the Beltane fires. It was there that you spoke of your hatred for the English.”

  The puzzled expression on his face deepened. Surely, he would have remembered a beauty like Nell. “I do not recall such a conversation,” he said slowly. “Are you sure it was I?”

  Nell laughed. No woman, no matter how young, would forget such a man. “Completely sure.”

  Donal let go of her hand, leaned back in the grass, and tucked his arms behind his head. “Tell me more of this Beltane and why the daughter of an Englishman would attend such an event.”

  “My mother is an Irish princess, descended from the house of Munster. Beltane calls out to her Irish blood. Three years ago, she decided I was old enough to accompany her.”

  “Did you take part in the ritual?” he asked casually, his eyes on the orbs of light above him. Brehon law did not require it, but he preferred that his future wife be a virgin.

  “Nearly, until you rescued me.”

  Suddenly, it came to him, and he whistled long and low. “By the beard of Christ! It was you, the English lass whose father would have forced me into marriage.”

  “Apparently, it was all for nothing. Despite my warning, you are fairly caught, Donal O’Flaherty.”

  It was the first time she’d called him by name. It was a good sign. “What of you, Nell? Is this marriage to your liking?”

  She looked him full in the face, this man descended from King Conor’s warriors of the Red Branch. Could he possibly be serious? No woman in her right mind would refuse him. His hands were open and relaxed, one behind his head, the other resting on the ground at his side. Nell imagined those hands on her skin and shivered. “Yes,” she said simply.

  Her answer shook him. She was direct and honest and incredibly lovely. He wanted to touch her, to run his hands over the bones of her face, the bridge of her nose, to open his mouth and trace with his tongue the edges of her lips and the column of her throat. His longing was deep and possessive, more profound than sexual. He wanted to mark her as his own so that all other men would know she was promised to him. “Will you come home with me to Aughnanure?” he asked bluntly.

  She looked startled. “We must be wed first.”

  Her hair was liquid silver in the starlight. His hands clenched. “When will that be? Soon, I hope.”

  Nell smothered a laugh and stood, brushing the grass from her gown. He was not so very different from other men after all. “We have tried to make your visit comfortable, sir. Is your chamber not pleasing?”

  He watched the graceful movements of her hands, felt the dark blood of desire fill him, and rose to stand beside her. “My chamber is most pleasing, Nell. I can think of only one thing that it lacks.”

  Again he was very close. Her hands lost the will to move. She stared up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “What are you thinking, Donal O’Flaherty?”

  “How hard it is not to kiss a Geraldine.”

  Nell looked at the hard line of his mouth. Embarrassed, she turned away, cheeks burning. She felt his hand on the nape of her neck and something else, something new. The tides within her body announced that she was a woman. The dance had begun.

  “Nell,” he murmured against her hair. “My beautiful, beautiful Nell.”

  He smelled of wool and smoke and turf and horse. His voice was pure magic. “Come home with me, Nell. There is a priest there. Come home with me to Aughnanure.”

  Firm hands settled on her shoulders and turned her around. His face was divided by light and dark, one side shadowed, the other bled pale by starlight. She could no longer think clearly. He was two of her, or nearly so, with wide shoulders, a deep chest, the narrow hips of a horseman.

  Neither moving nor speaking, he waited. The choice was hers. Not for others, perhaps, but for him it would always be. Come home with me to Aughnanure.

  Slowly, tentatively, her hand moved across h
is squared-off jaw, his mouth, the sharp line of his cheek. “Yes,” she said softly, sealing her fate. “I’ll come with you to Aughnanure.”

  His head bent. She had waited a lifetime for the feel of this man’s kiss. His lips were firm and pleasant, tasting of rain and wood smoke. One arm circled her waist and drew her to him, while his hand cupped the back of her head, holding her still, his tongue teasing her mouth until she opened for him.

  Heat bubbled within her. She pressed against him, her body molding against his, filling his empty spaces. When she could breathe again, she laughed, a low, musical trill in the velvet night.

  Reluctantly, his hands moved from the curves of her breasts to settle on her waist. He breathed as if he had been running. “What is it, lass?”

  “You didn’t want me, not in the beginning. I know you didn’t. But you want me now.”

  Donal looked down at her lovely, laughing face. “Aye,” he said softly, “I want you now.”

  Gerald Og, ninth earl of Kildare, stood in the small hall at Maynooth and looked at the black-haired boy holding his daughter’s hand. He had been right to approach Donal O’Flaherty. The O’Flahertys were fierce fighters. “From the fury of the fighting O’Flahertys, may the Lord deliver us” was the motto inscribed on the gates of Galway City. O’Flaherty chieftains were chosen by rites of ancient Brehon law rather than the English practice of primogeniture. Only the fittest, elected by popular vote, became an O’Flaherty chieftain.

  Perhaps it was best, mused Gerald Og, his shrewd gaze taking in the young man’s muscular legs, his deep chest, wide shoulders, and the hard, uncompromising gray of his eyes. Surely, this man was a fit mate for Nell. Gerald reached out and placed one hand on Donal’s shoulder, the other on Nell’s. His eyes twinkled. “Your match pleases me. May it please you as well. I leave for London in the morning. The wedding will take place when I return, in four months’ time.”

  He saw Donal’s brow darken and continued quickly. “Henry grows impatient for my report. Unless he is soothed, Ireland will know the taste of English steel. I go to keep the peace. We will all benefit.” He waited for the boy to object, but other than a brief tightening of the lips, Donal remained silent. Gerald was more than pleased. The lad knew when to keep his own counsel.

  Lifting his daughter’s chin, he looked into her eyes. “Take care of your mother, lass. She worries when I am away. Send Thomas to me. You must watch him carefully. I’ll not have everything I’ve worked for destroyed because his patience wears too thin.”

  Nell smiled. Thomas Fitzgerald was her older brother. His revolutionary tendencies were a source of frustration to his father and uncles, but she adored him. They had spent many happy hours growing up together in the woods and glens of Maynooth. “I’ll find him for you, Father.” She looked up at her betrothed. “Will you come with me, Donal? I would like for you and Thomas to meet. You have much in common.”

  Gerald coughed and turned away, holding his hands near the hearth fire. If ever two young men were opposites, they were Donal O’Flaherty and his oldest son.

  The O’Flaherty was the elder by two years, and never had two years made more of a difference. Thomas was blond like all the Fitzgeralds and slim as a reed. Every fleeting emotion was revealed on his expressive face, and too often the sulky petulance of an indulged childhood was evident in his manners.

  There was no trace of childhood in Donal O’Flaherty’s lean, chiseled features, and his true feelings were completely hidden behind the schooled indifference of his expression. At the age of sixteen, he had been unanimously elected chief of his clan, and by nineteen, he’d earned a reputation as a shrewd battle strategist and a courageous fighter. Wise beyond his years, he insisted that the O’Flahertys stay as far away from the Pale as possible, refusing to incur England’s wrath by engaging in the common practice of plundering English carracks as they crossed the Irish Sea.

  This marriage had been years in the making. With it, Gerald would accomplish what he’d always intended, to ally all of Ireland with the Fitzgeralds, to create a powerful dynasty that would one day lead a successful insurrection against England and form its own royal house.

  ***

  Four days later, Nell, with the betrothal crest of the O’Flahertys pinned to her bodice, stood in the courtyard of Maynooth, staring up at the man who would be her husband. She felt strangely self-conscious standing there before all of his men, her small hand clasped possessively in his larger one. Her shyness made no sense, not after the hours they had shared alone in each other’s company, hours that would have to sustain her until she saw him again.

  “Nell,” he said softly, the amusement in his voice bringing the heat to her cheeks. “Where are you?”

  She blinked. “Why, here with you, of course. Why do you ask?”

  He moved closer. The breath caught in her throat.

  “Will you think of me, lass?”

  “You know I will.”

  His mouth brushed her lips. “Tell me, with your words.”

  Nell leaned into him, her forehead resting against the hard line of his jaw. When she spoke, her voice was low and firm and filled with conviction. “I want you for my husband, Donal O’Flaherty. Until then, my heart goes with you. I shall think of you every waking moment.”

  Donal’s heart leaped in his chest. He had only known this girl for a few brief days, but he felt as if he’d waited his entire life for her. Nothing had ever felt so right. She was small and intelligent and incredibly direct. The feel of her mouth under his, her hands on his skin, and the way her smile lit her face to heart-shattering purity left him weak-kneed with an emotion that went far beyond mere desire.

  He pressed his mouth against her temple and then whispered fiercely in her ear. “I want you with me, Nell. If Henry keeps your father beyond the harvest, I shall come for you whether he wishes it or not. Our marriage will take place with or without Gerald Og.”

  She nodded her head and stepped back “Good-bye, Donal.”

  His eyes softened. “Slán leat go fóill, my heart,” he said for all to hear.

  She watched as he mounted his stallion and led his men out of the courtyard. When the last horseman rode through the gates, she ran to the battlements and peered through the narrow slits. At the top of the rise, Donal turned, lifted his arm, and then disappeared over the top.

  Nell sighed and rubbed her arms. The waiting would be difficult. Why must a woman spend her life waiting? She thought of Margaret and resigned herself. There was no other way.

  Six months later

  Nell pressed her fist against her mouth and read Leonard Gray’s carefully scripted message. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. It couldn’t be true. Was it only six months ago that her father had set out for England with such confidence? How would her mother bear it? Her husband most likely dead, her son and all five of his uncles to be executed in one fell swoop. Nell stood near the door of her mother’s chamber, where the Flemish tapestry depicting William Strongbow’s marriage to the daughter of Dermot MacMurrough, King of Leinster, kept out the drafts. Hands shaking, she moved the woven fabric aside and stepped into the chamber.

  Maeve O’Conor Fitzgerald was seriously ill. The rumor of her husband’s death and the incarceration of her beloved oldest son had taken the life from her pretty features, leaving them sunken and aged. Her mind, never strong, hung on the edge of sanity. Nell feared that the news would push her over the edge.

  The huge curtained bed dominated the room. Herbs, cloying and sweet, covered the sickroom floor. Nell motioned the servant away and took her place on the low stool. “Mother,” she whispered, “are you awake?”

  Maeve reached out to touch her daughter’s hand. “Aye, love. What is it?”

  Nell swallowed. Her lip trembled as she uttered the unbelievable words. “They are sentenced to death. All of them.”

  From the bed, th
ere was silence, followed by a low, animal moan. Maeve struggled to sit up, tears streaking her face, red hair falling around her shoulders. “Curse Henry Tudor!” she screamed. “May his soul be damned!” Her voice was raw and ragged with hate. “I curse him and all of his blood. If he takes the son of my body, I swear by almighty God and all who came before Him that Henry shall have no living sons. The name of Tudor, like that of Fitzgerald, shall be forever wiped from the face of the earth.”

  Nell watched in fascinated horror as her mother lifted shaking hands to her face and performed the ancient Irish rite of self-immolation, raking her nails across her cheeks until the blood ran down her neck, pooling at the base of her throat, staining the white linen sheets with streaks that would never come clean.

  Beauchamp Tower, London

  The ninth earl of Kildare penned his note carefully. His time was at hand. The message he sent would be the most important one of his life. He was doomed, as were his four brothers and his son, Silken Thomas. The corners of his mouth turned down bitterly. Silken Thomas, that absurd name earned by the fringed silk bridle Thomas favored for his horse, would be the one engraved on his tomb. Rash, misguided boy. From the day he had called Henry Tudor his enemy and thrown down the standard in Parliament, his hours had been numbered.

  Henry had planned it, of course. He knew the temperament of Fitzgerald’s heir. It was a small matter to circulate rumors of Gerald’s arrest and death in the Tower. What was a devoted son to do but avenge his father’s honor? If only Gerald could have counseled him, sent him word, but it wasn’t possible. He’d been snared as tightly as a gull in the talons of a falcon.

  For their insurrection against the Crown, the Fitzgeralds were to die at Tyburn, all of them, James, Oliver, John, Garrett, and the child born of his passion for Maeve, his firstborn, Silken Thomas.

  Gerald wrote quickly. A black-robed priest who served the true faith waited in the corner. He would carry his missive to Nell. Only Nell could save his younger son. Maeve was—quickly, he pushed away the uncharitable thought. He had known what Maeve was when he married her. It was Maeve’s temperament that Thomas had inherited, and Maeve could not help what she was. Nell was even-tempered like her father. Upon her slight shoulders would rest the future of his house.