Elizabeth Mayne - Lord Of The Isle

Loghran grunted a Gaelic comment pertaining to the indecency of the woman’s position, then galloped up the cliff, leaving Hugh to deal with woman on his own. Donald the Fair politely offered to wait at the bridge for Macmurrough.

Morgana swallowed hard several times, gulping down her fear, before she was able to speak. The river was behind her. No point would be served by voicing her deep-seated fear of water now. She managed to loosen her grip on Hugh O’Neill. She could exert no control over her shaking.

Hugh rather missed the tight bindings, once she’d righted herself on the saddle and sat astride before him. Again, she fussed with cloth—pulling down wet skirts, tugging hanging sleeves and covering tartan into modest disorder.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Hugh cleared his throat, preferring not to remark upon the strength and power he’d sensed in her legs when they wrapped around his waist so intimately. He, too, gave his hands to the work of replacing her fallen clothing. For a moment or two, the river’s wild current had threatened to strip her naked. “Remind me not to attempt riding tandem with you over another body of water.”

Morgana ran a wet hand over her face. “This is most unseemly. Look you there. My horse is tied to that tree. You’ve been most kind. I can continue on my own from here.”

“Continue?” Hugh murmured in her ear as he tucked the salvage of his plaid over her shoulders. She shook so violently, her body felt as though it were convulsing. “Nay, Morgana of Kildare. A man of mine is coming with the soldiers’ horses. He and Donald will bring your animal to Dungannon’s stable. You are in no condition to ride unassisted.”

“I say that I am,” Morgana insisted. Dungannon was a stronghold of clan O’Neill. She had no interest in winding up there. If the truth were to be spoken, she had hired a guide to make certain she traveled north without passing within a league of Dungannon. James Kelly was a minor nuisance compared to the troubles she could expect from those who resided at Dungannon.

Morgana began again, guarding words, as well as tone. She didn’t want to alert any suspicion, but was doubly convinced that they must part ways. “I must be on my way to Dunluce….”

“Save your breath. I’m not listening. We ride to Dungannon as we are.”

Hugh cut off what he sensed would be towering argument. He’d learned young not to expend his breath arguing with women. Instead, he turned Boru to the path leading up the cliff and into Tyrone. She struggled some, protesting the leaving of her horse behind.

“This is outrageous,” Morgana declared. “First I am attacked at the inn at Benburg, then nearly killed at the bridge over the Blackwater. Now my rescuer abducts me against my will! Some knight in shining armor you pretend to be, Hugh O’Neill.”

Instead of correcting her, Hugh turned as silent as Conn the Lame’s marble effigy. Fifteen years under the rule of the most strident woman alive had taught him to keep his tongue behind his teeth and measure his words before voicing his opinions.

“You’re cold and miserable.” Hugh’s arms slid around her waist, drawing her back against his chest. “Whist now. We’ll be at Dungannon anon. My men will not rape you when we get there. You’re safe, Morgana of Kildare.”

“And that’s supposed to reassure me?” she asked waspishly, keeping a secure hold on his powerful wrist, where his hand pressed so firmly against her bare belly through wet and torn cloth. “Who is to protect me from you?”

Hugh chuckled at her apprehensions. “You’re safe from my attentions for the moment, lady. At least until I know if you wash up well.”

Morgana hissed, sucking in her stomach. His arm at her waist tightened more. God help her, but she’d never in her life found herself in a more vulnerable or embarrassing situation. Here the man who had saved her from certain rape now hinted that he might take more liberties with her person than James Kelly had dared.

She regretted calling upon her grandfather’s magic. She had summoned a devil! Hadn’t she woken to find this very man leaning over her, touching her intimately, speaking to another about her, as though she weren’t capable of hearing his words? His men all thought her a whore. Most likely he did, too.

She would disabuse him of that thought as soon as she could. It wasn’t decent to be so immodestly clothed and ride tandem with a man whose bare shanks touched her own legs.

The jarring gallop of his horse intensified the aches in Morgana’s head and neck. Damn Kelly! Her thoughts swam in confusing circles. She felt foolish and silly for having imagined ghosts and warrior-gods, now that she was certain this man was no apparition.

Hugh was solid and warm-blooded and hard male flesh against her back. His heat warmed her sodden clothes and soothed her shivering body. She was shamed anew each time she remembered having both her legs wound around his waist. She wanted him to disappear. The last thing on earth she wanted to do was to face him eye-to-eye in any better light.

“How much farther is this Dungannon?”

“Not far.” Hugh urged Boru to the crest of a steep hill. Hidden in the valley behind it was Dungannon. The fortified village skirted the north shore of a lake, its walls now enlarged to enclose all of the Dominican abbey within the fortifications. On a crannog jutting into the lake sat the dark and ominous castle of the same name, Dungannon. The rain beat harder on the lee side of the hill.

To Morgana’s eye, the castle and its walled town looked like a great black spider crouched in the center of a shimmering, intricate web.

Her brooding unease shot to full-blown alarm. The castle was completely surrounded by water! She bolted upright, banging the crown of her head on Hugh’s chin. “Put me down!”

Hugh tasted blood, because she’d caused him to bite his own tongue.

“Put me down, I say! I’ll wait here for your man to come with my horse. I refuse to go one step farther in your company. Put me down!”

It was becoming difficult to retain sympathy for her plight in Hugh’s mind. Where was the woman’s gratitude? He’d put an end to the cruelty Kelly and his men had dealt her. He’d saved her life. She should be kissing his hands, begging his grace and expressing her thanks, not haranguing him at every turn. “No. I will not put you down.”

“Why not?” Morgana demanded imperiously.

“You should know better than to ask that. A woman alone isn’t safe in these climes.”

“I command you to put me down. This instant!”

“Lady, you do not command me to do anything,” he responded. “Be silent!”

“No!”

“Now, you listen to me,” he countered, goaded out of his usual reticence. “This is Ulster. More than that, this is my land, Tyrone! Here a woman does not speak again when a a man commands her not!”

Morgana twisted on his thigh, turning halfway round to glare at him. “I’ll scream my bloody head off if you don’t put me down at once! I don’t know who you or where you are taking me or what purpose you have to your actions. You’re frightening me, and I’ve had quite enough fright for one day and night.”

“Morgana of Kildare, I gave you my name. It is Hugh O’Neill. That is my home, Dungannon Castle. I am taking you there for the purpose of cleaning you up, giving you shelter for the night, then sending you on your way at first light.”

“Will you swear by that on your immortal soul?”

“Woman, you delude yourself, thinking you’ve had fright enough for one day and night,” Hugh declared in an ominous, threatening voice. “Do you provoke my temper at this hour, you’ll know what true terror is before morning comes. Now, keep your tongue behind your teeth.”

To the north, over Slieve Gallion, thunder rumbled and lightning stroked the sky. A responding cord smote Slieve Gullion, whence Morgana had come.

Morgana’s banked temper nearly burst forth. She knew better than to believe a word he’d said about sending her peacefully on her way. Come morning, someone might remember that James Kelly had named her as a Fitzgerald. She’d never get clear of Dungannon Castle then.

“Very well,” Morgana said, having the last word. She snapped her shoulders and, head upright, glared at the castle. She mustn’t give in to her weariness or let down her guard. If it cost her a night’s sleep to stay alert to the arrival of his man bringing the horses, so be it. The very moment she was reunited with Ariel, she’d leave for Dunluce.

Only a light rain was falling by the time they reached the portcullis. It was raised to admit Hugh and Morgana, and closed behind them. She shuddered when the gate groaned as it was lowered. That was not a good sign.

The village streets were dark and narrow and fairly quiet. She silently searched each crossroad, looking for a postern gate at the end of the cobbled street that might give exit outside the town walls.

In the town’s square, there was some celebration occurring. Hugh spoke to numerous men who hailed him from the doorway of a tavern, but he didn’t tarry. Morgana clutched the dripping tartan to her shoulders, her eyes on the open avenue ahead, which ended at a stalwart portcullis barring entrance to the castle.

It looked more terrifying up close than Traitor’s Gate at Dublin Castle. Morgana’s heart rose to her throat. A Fitzgerald woman in Dungannon—that couldn’t be borne. Now, when it behoved her to faint, she couldn’t.

Hugh held Boru still, waiting for the portcullis to rise. As soon as it had, he guided the horse at a measured pace over the long bridge, crossing the lake into the fortress. Morgana’s fingers exerted incredible force where they gripped his forearm, which brought questions to his mind. How had she come to acquire her unusual and unwomanly strength? Was she a protegee of Grace O’Malley, piratess extraordinaire? More importantly, was she actually a Fitzgerald, as Kelly had claimed?

Torchbearers and grooms rushed to meet him. Hugh dismounted and surrendered Boru’s reins, then reached up to help the woman down to the cobblestones, saying to the servants, “Wake Mrs. Carrick and tell her to come to me in the round tower. Fetch hot water and clean cloths. Both my guest and I are in need of hot baths.”

“I can’t possibly go inside tracking all this mud and filth,” Morgana stammered, clutching at every imaginary straw she could think of to avoid stepping foot in the castle proper. Hugh dropped his hands from her waist, letting her stand on her own. The light from the torches showed how filthy and battered she was. Few hags had ever looked worse. He inclined his head in the direction of the open well in the bailey yard. “Would you prefer that I have servants douse you naked with water from-that well?”

“Of course not,” Morgana answered, without looking for any well. Her gaze was fixed past Hugh’s right shoulder. “I can’t go in there! I can’t!”

The desperation Hugh heard in her voice caused him to swing around to look beyond the wide-open doors of the great hall. A measure of pride filled him, for the well-lit, stately chamber, filled with dancing courtiers and elegantly dressed and coiffed ladies, gave proof of how hospitable and elegant his home was. The happy strains of melodious harp and lute accompanying a tenor’s sweet voice entertained a bevy of noble guests.

“You can’t possibly think I want anyone to see me looking like this? Isn’t there a side or a back door I can go through?” Morgana pleaded.