Devlin
Devlin
Erin Yorke
A Rebel Heart Held Her Fast… and young noblewoman Alyssa Howett knew she had no choice but to release Devlin Fitzhugh, the wild Irish hero who had freed her woman's soul.A Warrior Walked Alone His fealty was only to his sworn chieftain - or so Devlin Fitzhugh had always believed. Then fate brought him a daughter he'd never known and a passion he'd never dared dream with a sun-bright English rose who would test his loyalty… and prove his love!
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u29693b4e-0af3-5a24-b97e-559232225a46)
Praise (#u3551c9a4-74eb-55e8-849d-e70c46e5ea3c)
Excerpt (#u187e5b81-1367-5024-b2a1-3941f2680e97)
Dear Reader (#u2df66693-046f-54d1-9332-6188ea969121)
Title Page (#u95466061-a883-5374-ade5-f95664b84abc)
About The Author (#ue2ef542d-7293-5b2e-b95a-27a6f8454d28)
Dedication (#u13c42b70-c66b-54d6-ab97-2cadaba7ac2f)
Chapter One (#u6499029e-585d-5f58-8713-bf3c0b0a5362)
Chapter Two (#ue85f173f-3d0e-5686-ad64-0ea7d805c710)
Chapter Three (#u182cdaca-345e-5329-af20-5cc0ca82f46b)
Chapter Four (#ud3f6b9fa-4eea-5807-9635-8e7d0efa1828)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Acclaim for Erin Yorke
Desert Rogue
“High, exciting adventure a la Erin Yorke!”
—Romantic Times
“Another winner from one of the greats. 5
s.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“…grabs your imagination from page one…
Five-star reading.”
—Rendezvous
The Honor Price
“Another Yorke Elizabethan masterpiece.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“…a tumultuous era, a tempestuous love story, a wondrous romance.”
—Romantic Times
“…an unforgettable tale filled with adventure and love.”
—Rendezvous
Counterfeit Laird
“Erin Yorke at her very best.”
—Bestselling author Barbara Bretton
“…a romantic comedy filled with wonderful characters…”
—Romantic Times
“…an incredible reading experience.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Don’t play with me, lass,” Devlin growled, his words harsh. “It could lead to serious business.”
“But I’m entirely serious,” Alyssa countered. Her inviting smile transformed her into the most desirable woman Devlin had ever encountered. She ran splayed fingers along his broad shoulders and was satisfied with the shudder she felt beneath her touch.
“I’ll not steal anything that should, by rights, belong to your husband,” Devlin ground out, the cords of his neck bulging and prominent as he fought for self-restraint.
“You cannot steal what is freely given, Devlin Fitzhugh.” The words were a whisper on the wind.
“But there can be no future for us, Alyssa. Surely you understand that.”
“All the more reason to enjoy the present,” she murmured, her lips seeking his once more.
At the firm pressure of her mouth, Devlin’s resolve began to crumble…
Dear Reader,
The team of authors who write as Erin Yorke returns to one of their most popular settings this month with Devlin, an emotional tale set in Ireland and England. It’s the story of an Irish rebel who saves the life of an Englishwoman and is captured by the English for his efforts. The young woman rescues him from prison, but the two of them must battle distrust and betrayal before finding the happiness they deserve.
Deborah Simmons also returns this month with The de Burgh Bride, the sequel to her steamy adventure, Taming the Wolf. This book is the story of the scholarly de Burgh brother, Geoffrey, who has drawn the short straw and must marry the “wicked” daughter of a vanquished enemy, a woman who reportedly murdered her first husband in the marriage bed!
A city banker forced to spend a year recuperating in the country goes head-to-head with a practical country widow and learns that some of life’s greatest pleasures are the simple ones, in Theresa Michaels’s next book in her new Western series, The Merry Widows—Catherine. And corruption, jealousy and the shadow of barrenness threaten the love of a beautiful Saxon woman who has a year to produce an heir, or be separated forever from the knight who holds her heart, in Shari Anton’s stirring medieval tale, By King’s Decree.
Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you enjoy all four books this month. Keep an eye out for them, wherever Harlequin Historicals® are sold.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Devlin
Erin Yorke
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ERIN YORKE
is the pseudonym used by the writing team of Susan Yansick and Christine Healy. One half of the team is married, the mother of two sons and suburban, and the other is single, fancy-free and countryfied. They find that their differing lives and styles enrich their writing with a broader perspective.
For Gary—You were really patient with this one
And for Chris and Dave, who learned to fend for themselves
Thanks for understanding. You’re the heroes in my life.
And
For Natasha Antonova Smith
Who went from “a wonderful life” to “pretty woman” in three weeks. May the happiness you found here follow you home to Russia.
Chapter One (#ulink_79351803-1611-5298-9fb5-d0c292fa1cf6)
Ireland, 1593
Lying in the belly of a trench near Dublin Castle, Devlin Fitzhugh felt a chill travel along his spine that had nothing to do with the briskness of the mistshrouded night. The sensation was so odd and unfamiliar that he was bewildered for an instant until he recognized it for what it was. He swore softly in the darkness. He hadn’t been plagued by fear before a skirmish since he was a stripling lad.
Slowly, he released his pent-up breath while he awaited the signal that would begin the raid. Yet try as he might, Devlin couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that tingled along the base of his skull. He didn’t have to ask himself why a man who had charged recklessly into battle innumerable times before should suddenly feel trepidation. He knew the source. It was the child the Macguires had recently brought to camp. The one they maintained he had fathered. The one they insisted was now his responsibility.
There was no reason to dispute their claim. Muirne’s coppery hair and the single dimple she sported in her left cheek echoed his own, loudly bespeaking her bloodlines. But what was he to do with a motherless mite no more than three years of age? He had never had ties other than those he owed his lord, yet here was an obligation of a different sort, one that prevented him from tendering unconditional allegiance to any chieftain, even Eamon MacMahon. The idea perplexed him and filled him with guilt. He was at a loss as to how to deal with it, but he would have no choice other than to do so once he rescued young Niall and returned him to his father’s camp.
His determination to sort out his life, however, did nothing to bring Devlin peace. The lethal calm he always experienced before battle continued to elude him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, worry still ate at his warrior’s resolve. Muirne had but lately lost her mother. What if she lost her father as well? What if he didn’t return from the impending fray? Devlin pushed the possibility from his mind. Surely thinking such a thing would make it so. Quickly, he crossed himself, as though to ward off evil.
“Your prayers won’t help Niall or any of us,” came a derisive voice at Devlin’s side.
“Perhaps, but they won’t bring about any harm, either,” Devlin responded gruffly. He stared straight ahead into the darkness, resisting the urge to throttle Cashel MacMahon, Eamon’s nephew and foster son. No other man would dare speak to him in such a manner.
“That remains to be seen, Fitzhugh. It’s beyond me why the MacMahon, wounded though he is, would entrust you with the task of seeing to my cousin’s deliverance. Wasn’t it your fault the boy was taken in the first place? He was riding with you when the attack took place.”
“You don’t have to understand anything other than you’re to remain silent and await the sign that the North Gate is open. And when it does come, you’ll do as I tell you,” Devlin replied through gritted teeth. His voice held a deadly calm that would have quieted most men. Yet Cashel pressed on.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you put the rest of us and our success at risk. Should that be the case, I will have to kill you.” Devlin stated his intent matter-of-factly, ignoring the attention his whispered words had earned from the others. His hand snaked back to rest lightly on the hilt of his dagger. He’d not permit Cashel’s unfounded pride to bring more disaster down upon their heads.
“Aye—allow the MacMahon’s son to be captured and then slay the foster son. Mayhap you want both Niall and me out of the way so Eamon will consider naming you his heir,” Cashel spit. His brown eyes glittered in the darkness as he looked to the rest of the rescue party for support. Receiving none, he became angrier. “I’ve never trusted you, Fitzhugh.”
“’Tis wise to distrust a man who dislikes you,” Devlin said casually, though a lethal note attended his words all the same. “And at the moment, I find I dislike you intensely.”
“Hold your tongue, Cashel,” urged Sean. “Your grudge sounds as if it is founded in naught but your own jealousy.”
“Founded in my rightful anger, you mean, an anger derived from Fitzhugh’s failure to safeguard my foster brother. The gallowglass is an outsider—a hired sword—no blood kin to us. It was bad enough that Eamon trusted him with teaching Niall the ways of warfare, allowing such a one to usurp a task that by rights should have been mine. Fitzhugh couldn’t keep the boy safe within our own territory. What makes the MacMahon, or any of you, think he can snatch Niall from the clutches of the English now that they have imprisoned the lad?”
“Because I vow by all that’s holy, I’ll move heaven and earth to return Eamon’s son to him,” Devlin growled as his fingers itched to unsheathe the dagger they clutched.
“Promises! You’re good with those, but with little else. Your newfound brat is testimony to that. What promises did you make to her mother when you lay with her?”
“Silence, man!” warned Dugal as Devlin’s fury blazed across his face. But Cashel ignored the caution, bent on his attempt to belittle Devlin in front of the MacMahon’s men.
“I know I would have lain down my life to protect Niall, yet it was no great surprise to me, Fitzhugh, that you returned to camp alive to tell your tale of ambush. I should slay you now for your cowardice. But I am a rational man and will leave justice to the clan. At present, I will do no more than relieve you of your command, and assume leadership for this raid.”
Devlin could control himself no longer. Quickly, his knife sliced through the night air, a muted flash of reflected moonlight. The weapon’s point lightly grazed Cashel’s neck in warning, leaving a scratch that could as easily have been a mortal slash.
“If my words fail to make an impression, then perhaps my blade shall,” Devlin hissed. “Understand once and for all, Cashel MacMahon, that I am in charge here. I’ll tolerate your insubordination and insults no longer. Now, will I have to spill Irish blood before I take on the English, or have I your word you’ll do as I bid in order to rescue Niall?”
“Aye, you have it,” came Cashel’s sullen and begrudging reply. “But may God have mercy on you if you don’t succeed, because I will show you none.”
Then the signal for which they had been waiting sounded, and there was no more to be said.
“I’m no less a prisoner than the Irish he has been sent to convey to England,” fumed Alyssa. She tossed back her long blond hair as she paced her temporary apartment within the walls of Dublin Castle, her violet eyes flashing in anger.
Just recently torn from the only home she’d ever known by a father she couldn’t even remember, Alyssa Howett found being answerable to the capricious whims of this stranger quite difficult, especially when she despised the man who sought to tame her.
Shortly after Alyssa’s birth, Cecil Howett had nonchalantly assigned her care to his sister-in-law in Ireland. For the seventeen years since then, he had furthered his career in England without giving her a thought. Now, on her aunt’s death, he had arrived to move his daughter to London. Well, if he expected her to go willingly, to leave the country she considered her home for the one that had seen her birth, he was a fool, in Alyssa’s opinion. He had already curtailed her liberty, going so far as to decree that she was not to leave the room assigned to her in Dublin Castle without his permission. What sort of life would she have with him in London? The thought terrified her. The devil take the man! She owed him no obedience.
Perhaps he had sired her as he claimed, but he’d never raised her, had never loved her. In truth, Alyssa suspected, he had only come at this juncture because her aunt’s death had coincided with an order from Queen Elizabeth to transport prisoners from Dublin to London. Turning abruptly toward the high windows, Alyssa yanked their coverings aside and stared up at the dark sky overhead.
“Without the Irish moon and the dreams my heart spawned here, I will never survive in England,” she moaned, her words a soft echo in the nearly silent room. “But what more can I do to convince him not to take me to England? He ignores my arguments and hasn’t responded to either my pleas or my tears.”
Only the crackle of the fire and the whisper of the rushes underfoot broke the hush, a quiet Alyssa found mournful rather than comforting. She had lost her aunt but days before and still the Englishman who called her daughter showed Alyssa no mercy, expecting her to do his bidding without question. The monster had to be stopped!
Again Alyssa began to move, her dainty slippers making barely a sound as her feet wove irregular patterns back and forth across the floor of her private rooms in Dublin Castle. Her tread was so light the scent of the herb-strewn grass was barely noticeable as she recrossed the aromatic straw. The candles threw her shadow on one barren wall and then the next.
“Just because he suddenly considers me his parental responsibility I must be uprooted and taken to rot in that cold, dank country he calls home? Truly I warrant, the only thing Cecil Howett cares about is his duty to the queen. Family is clearly secondary or this father of mine would have come for me years ago,” she mused, chewing her lower lip.
“Still, if I were as rebellious as the Irish he has been ordered to transport to English prisons, how long would he wish to keep me in his company? Wouldn’t he prefer to see such a disobedient daughter banished from the public eye to waste away in exile—in Ireland perhaps?”
The thought of it made Alyssa smile, girlish hope bursting forth to light her delicate features like a beacon of sunlight escaping a cloud-filled sky. There was no certainty that her scheme would work, but at least it was better than simply waiting for the ship to England to sail with her as an undocumented prisoner.
What would make the man truly, irrevocably furious with her? So furious he would leave her behind as punishment.
Inspiration struck. She would openly defy him before the whole of Dublin Castle.
Not only would she leave her rooms, but tonight she would visit the Irish prisoners in their cells, bringing them warm blankets. Then, tomorrow morning when the royal jail was adither with questions of who was helping the rebels, she’d boldly cross the bailey to bring them extra food. She would do whatever was necessary to thwart her father’s will, and keep on doing so no matter how many lectures she received on being dutiful He would be forced to renounce her, forced to leave her behind. Having a daughter who was sympathetic to the Irish rebels wouldn’t further his career in the service of the queen. It would end it.
Glancing around the simple apartment, the girl spied the bed drapings and grinned. Closely woven to keep out the night drafts, they would surely keep in a body’s warmth. And they’d be more practical to cart across the courtyard than the feather mattress that covered her bed.
The way the men on guard duty had stared at her when she and her father had arrived at the castle left Alyssa no doubt that a winsome smile and an inch or two of exposed ankle would get her exactly where she wanted. And, after all, when she was found out, her excuse was simple. As a softhearted country lass, she was merely making the prisoners more comfortable. What was the crime in that?
Quickly Alyssa unfastened the draperies and bundled them tightly. They weighed more than she had anticipated, but perhaps one of the guards would carry them for her once she got to the tower where the cells were located. She opened the door and slipped into the dimly lit hallway.
“Cecil Howett,” she murmured, “before I’m through, you’ll pray to leave me in Ireland.”
The inky black sky barely acknowledged the pale slip of moon as Devlin and his party moved silently through the obsidian shadows toward Dublin Castle. For a moment, the Irishman fretted, wondering if the English might have secured Niall elsewhere. However, he quickly discarded the idea. The English wouldn’t expect the MacMahon to know of his son’s capture yet, much less mount an effort to free him. No, Niall would be secured in the South Tower where Irish rebels were always imprisoned, Devlin assured himself.
When he and the others reached the small side gate standing open as promised, he and Cashel moved as one, flying across the open courtyard to the door where the English stood watch, unsuspecting of their enemy’s approach.
As contrary as Cashel might be, he was a skilled fighter, Devlin had to admit as they dragged the fallen guards from their station and, moments later, waved the others forward to join them.
Crossing the threshold of the tower, Devlin again blessed himself, still feeling the need of extra protection. The strange uneasiness continued to ride his shoulders. The gallowglass glanced behind him, his eyes missing no detail, but the MacMahon forces were doing just as ordered. Yet his senses remained heightened, his nerves stretched taut beyond all reason.
Niall could not be freed without taking a risk though, and Devlin would be the last man in Ireland to willingly avoid his duty for some superstitious chill. Castles were always drafty, he told himself, disregarding the fact that he’d felt the qualms outside as well. With a shake of his coppery head, he signaled the others to follow as he inched up the stone stairs to the cells at the top.
Given its sixteen-foot-thick walls, no one could burn the tower down, let alone undermine its massive plinth. Would that stealth and subterfuge could succeed where force might not, Devlin prayed.
With his sweetly voiced offer of warm drink, Dugal’s girlish tones and slight figure disguised in borrowed skirts ought to distract the guards stationed on the upper level. Once that was done, the worst would be over.
“Thirsty, men?” asked Dugal from the shadows as the guards leaped to their feet, knives ready.
“Where’s Hawkins? He always comes up with our drinks at night,” protested the watchman. “We’re not expecting any visitors.”
“I’m not a visitor. I’m just delivering th-this warm cider,” stammered Dugal, his soft tones slipping.
“So you claim. Take off that shawl and let us see your face,” ordered the Englishman. “Then we’ll decide if we’re thirsty”
Without hesitation Devlin sprang forward from the dusky stairs. The ruse had worked long enough for his men to join him. Now was the time for skilled fighters to take over.
“Why, you—”
As the Englishman grabbed Dugal, a flash of silver flew through the air, unnoticed in the poor light. Cashel’s knife easily found its mark, burying itself in the speaker’s neck and leaving him gasping for air, his arms freeing Dugal to clutch at the embedded blade. Instantly Cashel was on his victim, stabbing him once more until the guard fell to the floor, the first man dead in the raid.
“Take the keys, free whomever you want,” the second jailor cried.
“Check the cells for Niall,” ordered Devlin, catching the ring and tossing it to Sean as Cashel approached the other guard with murder in his eyes.
“Cashel, leave him. Niall is more important—”
“Here I am, Devlin,” called a weak voice.
Devlin turned and relaxed for the first time in three days. Niall was alive—filthy, clearly frightened but thankfully upright and moving under his own power.
“Are you all right then, lad?” As the boy emerged from the darkness, Devlin wrapped Eamon’s son in a warm embrace.
“I’ll do.”
“Thanks be to God,” Devlin murmured. “Let’s go home.”
“We must take those fellows along,” Niall explained, gesturing to the other prisoners already fleeing the jail.
“As you say,” agreed Devlin, “at least until we’re outside the castle. No matter what his crimes, no Irishman deserves to stay in this English hellhole.”
Suddenly a bell tolled, echoing in the yard as Cashel and Devlin exchanged glances.
“They must have found the guards at the gate. We’ve no time to waste,” urged Devlin. “Down the stairs to the passage in the north wall. Niall, don’t stop for anyone or anything.”
Going first in order to protect Niall, Devlin descended the steps with his sword and dagger drawn. In all his life, he’d never had a presentiment of disaster as strong as this. Every nerve in his body was alert, every sense working to anticipate what might lie at the foot of the circular stair.
“Hurry,” he called over his shoulder. As shouts in the bailey resounded off the stone walls, he increased his already quick pace. “Tell the others it’s each man for himself, but all of us for the MacMahon’s son. I’ll try to distract pursuit.”
Then, unbelievably, he had reached the ground. Taking a deep breath, Devlin opened the door to the outer corridor, only to be nearly bowled over by a mound of moving fabric that hit him like a heavy blue cloud.
“Ho’ What?” His breath knocked from him, he could only motion the men to go without him while he disentangled himself from the folds of material and the squirming form beneath them.
“Devlin?” questioned Niall anxiously.
“Go quickly now. I’ll join you later,” Devlin ordered, pleased the boy hesitated only briefly before obeying.
“Get your hands off me, sir, or I’ll have you jailed,” warned a feminine voice from beneath the unwieldy draperies as she attempted to free herself from them.
It had taken Alyssa longer than she expected to leave the main part of the castle Then there had been that loud clanging noise erupting out of nowhere that startled her and made her drop the cloth earlier—where there had been no guards about to assist her. It had seemed like ages until she had been able to pick up the bed hangings, and here they were all over the floor again, no thanks to the dolt towering above her, an Irishman from the sound of him.
Raising her eyes so she could give him a piece of her mind, Alyssa stopped short. A man, a tall giant of a man, with red hair and angry blue eyes glared down at her, weapons in both of his hands.
“Sir, you might have killed me—” She gulped, her eyes wide with trepidation. Could these be escaping prisoners? Her father would turn murderer himself if she got involved with them—and she would be his victim!
Then another figure darted forward, yanked her to her feet and shoved her in front of him toward the door.
“She can be a hostage for us—just as they took Niall,” rejoiced Cashel. He needed to escape the castle immediately, before his part in the crime was discovered. No Englishman would be able to identify just which Irishman had placed the woman in jeopardy, and if he were taken, he’d say it had been Devlin’s idea.
“No, let her go. She’s hardly more than a child,” protested Devlin. He grabbed for the man, but Cashel was already through the door with the girl, leaving Devlin no choice but to follow.
“My daughter! My God, they have my daughter,” cried an anguished voice as they headed across the bailey. “Tell your men to be careful.”
“My men will do what they must in order to recapture the prisoners,” said the governor of the prison. No one, English or Irish, had ever escaped his jail alive and he’d be damned before one did tonight. “Get MacMahon, lads! There’s a healthy bounty on the boy, and there’ll be more for every Irishman you take, whatever his name.”
They swarmed from nowhere, swore Devlin, dodging right and left to avoid the onslaught until he could catch Cashel and the female. Then, they fought their way nearly across the compound, while steel clanging loudly upon steel shattered the night. Every moment brought more English soldiers to the skirmish. But Devlin knew he and the others couldn’t yield and live.
Methodically, the gallowglass worked his way toward his goal, the escape route in the north wall, engaging one after the other of Her Majesty’s troops, relishing the victory of each step that brought him closer to freedom. Hard put to follow the movements of all under his command, he was nonetheless aware of several Irishmen making their way through the gate into the safety beyond Dublin Castle.
“Please, God, let Niall be among them,” he whispered.
Cashel, however, was still within the bailey, having a difficult time of it. Maintaining his hold upon the girl, the fool was keeping her all too close to the fighting for Devlin’s taste. If she were killed, they’d have an innocent child’s murder on their heads.
“Release the lass!” Devlin roared above the din. Once she had scurried away, he and Cashel could no doubt slash their way out of the English stronghold.
“Devil the girl! I won’t give up my life for hers,” Cashel balked. “She’s our only hope of getting out.”
“I’m ordering you to let her go,” Devlin roared, fending off one attacking English sword after another as he moved forward, still monitoring Cashel’s progress.
All at once Cashel, near the open gate, obeyed, roughly casting his hostage away from him and flying toward safety.
Yet Devlin cursed him as Eamon’s foster son, in his haste to turn tail and run, sent the girl tumbling to the ground, directly into the path of numerous English soldiers, swords drawn to slash anyone between them and their quarry.
“Keep down, lass,” he ordered, eyeing his own tenuous path to freedom as the guards circled nearer.
But the trembling girl ignored his warning and scrambled to her feet, ready to flee, only to put herself directly in the way of a descending English blade.
Instinctively, and without a thought as to the consequences, Devlin moved to block the brainless female from the English weapon rather than continue in the direction of the gate. Swiftly, his muscle-laden arm reached out to thrust her behind him before the point of a sword could inadvertently end her life.
His protective action took no more than an instant, but it was an instant that Devlin did not possess. Suddenly the gallowglass found himself encircled by the enemy, and all hope of escape vanished. The girl was pulled out of range and half a dozen blades took aim.
“Take him alive,” commanded an authoritative voice. “I want to know who is responsible for this outrage.”
Devlin fought like a man possessed, hacking wildly, striking out in futile desperation, welcoming the heavy thud of his sword against others. But his feverish assault was to no avail. His route to freedom had been sealed off, Cashel the last man through. The gate was forever beyond him.
Still, the Irishman would not concede the inevitability of his capture. Eight men surrounded him, their swords slashing freely at his arms and face. Blood dripping, he defended himself more valiantly than ever. Yet even his great strength could do no more than stave off for a few moments a fate that could not be altered.
Eventually he was subdued, though it took near a score of men to hold Devlin while the shackles were clamped around his wrists and ankles. Once he was securely fettered and yanked to his feet, the soft clinking of his chains echoed desolately in the night air as he looked around him in frenzied disbelief.
The ground was littered with five fallen English and only one of the men under his command. The girl he had saved stood enfolded within the arms of a middle-aged Englishman, who gave rein to freely flowing tears. She regarded the man with a baffled look before she slowly rested her head upon his chest, allowing the fellow to clasp her more tightly.
Devlin wanted to bellow his rage. Now that he had been taken as punishment for his good deed, who would be there to comfort his daughter as the English wench was being comforted? The answer was stark and grim: no one!
He had consigned Muirne to existence as an orphan. There were none to protect her as her father would have done, nor would any love her as intensely. Devlin agonized at the inequity of it. But whom did he have to blame for his predicament? No one other than himself. And that galled him all the more.
Groaning, he reviled his soft heart and even softer head, having traded his daughter’s future for that of a witless Englishwoman too stupid to get out of harm’s way. Cursing himself for being the greatest fool God had ever fashioned, Devlin saw the girl turn in his direction. When her shy glance traveled across the crowd to meet his, he spit in disgust. Resentment rose like bile in his throat, so that coldly, without a hint of compunction, Devlin Fitzhugh damned her and then damned himself as well.
Chapter Two (#ulink_d2e3424a-28fb-5424-bb34-444df71b403f)
The morning was young, and remnants of last night’s struggle were still visible in the bailey below Alyssa’s window. Though the inhabitants of the castle sought to return things to normal, a sense of upset hung heavily in the air. Nowhere was it more pervasive than in Alyssa’s bedchamber, where the distraught girl fought to blink back tears.
Though she had troubles aplenty of her own the fate of the Irishman who had saved her life touched her heart. And now, because of her, the brave, comely gallowglass was confined in the tower. Devlin Fitzhugh was his name…or so the charges read.
Remorse plagued the girl’s heart. Who knew what awaited him? ‘Twas not meet that so fine a man should have to endure suffering as a result of her defiance against her father, a defiance that now appeared childish and shallow when she considered the consequences it had wrought.
The point had been brought home when she had seen her Irish savior dragged away. His thick, coppery hair and his proud, sullen face had captured the early light of dawn so that he was aglow with fierceness, despite the wounds he had sustained. The sight of him had caused Alyssa’s breath to catch in her throat. He appeared a magnificent rebel, a man who should be free roaming the green hills of his homeland, not destined for an English jail or worse.
Alyssa shuddered. By comparison, her own future suddenly seemed not so bleak. The look of horror on her father’s face when she had been in danger, the tears of joy he had shed when he had clasped her to him after she had reached safety, surely indicated that he felt at least some fondness for her, that he was not the complete ogre she had imagined him to be. Still, how could such a sentiment be reconciled with the unalterable fact that he had abandoned her following her mother’s death in childbirth? That he had sent her off to Ireland with his sister and never once come to see her?
The relationship with her father, life in England, the fate of the man in the tower—there were so many emotions swirling around in Alyssa’s troubled heart. Mindlessly brushing back a blond tendril that had escaped to nestle in the hollow of her cheek, she began to pace her quarters, but dozens of repetitions did nothing to soothe her. Instead, her upset and bafflement only increased with each step.
Finally, a frustrated Alyssa threw herself down onto a straight-backed wooden chair beside a small table. Wearily, she propped her elbows on its worn surface, closed her eyes and leaned her head against her folded hands. Life had been so simple a few months ago. Nay, even last night, before she had visited the cells, her situation had not been as complex. How could it have worsened so much within so little time? Things had been bad enough without more trouble finding her. Once again, the image of shackles on the strong arms that had defended her wrenched Alyssa’s heart. Oh, trouble hadn’t found her, she thought with self-disgust, she had gone looking for it. If only she could do something to gain the Irishman’s liberty, or at the very least ease his plight. Perhaps if she spoke to her father…
Alyssa’s thoughts were interrupted by the squeak of a hinge and the sound of her door slowly swinging inward. A masculine footfall stopped beside her, and then warm, compassionate fingers swept a strand of hair back from her forehead before coming to rest atop the crown of her head.
“Your mother had hair as beautiful yet unruly as yours,” her father said quietly. Heartened that the girl had not batted his hand away as she would have a few days ago, Cecil patted her shoulder awkwardly before settling himself in the chair on the opposite side of the table. He was finding it exceedingly difficult to shoulder the day-to-day responsibilities of fatherhood so late in life.
When she raised her head and regarded him somberly, Cecil was concerned that Alyssa’s arresting violet eyes were made more vivid by the pale lavender smudges staining the delicate skin beneath them. Like her mother, she had the look of a fragile female, he mused, and the girl had endured much of late. Then he reminded himself that there was a fire beneath Alyssa’s surface with which he had become all too well acquainted these past few days. It was a blaze that tempered her spirit and gave her a strength her mother, God have mercy on her, had never possessed. Even now, there was the look of protest etched upon the lass’s pretty features, and Cecil chided himself for thinking that the comfort she had accepted from him immediately after her near tragedy had forever changed things between them.
“Do not compare me to my mother, sirrah. You’ve sworn to me how very precious she was to you. Speaking of the two of us in the same breath only emphasizes my own inconsequential standing in your eyes.”
“Daughter, what must I do to make you believe that you are just as dear to me?” Howett asked, reaching out to capture one of Alyssa’s restless hands in his own.
“If that were true, Father, then you reward those who preserve my life quite oddly.”
“The Irishman…” Cecil muttered with a sigh. “Try to understand, Alyssa.”
“What is there for me to comprehend other than that you have helped punish the man who saved me from falling victim to a sword?”
“I have spoken to Governor Newcomb and done all I can for Fitzhugh. Isn’t it enough that he’s alive at the moment?” Cecil demanded. “In truth, the rebel should have been immediately beheaded, if not garroted, for his crimes against the queen.”
“The queen! Your duty to Elizabeth always provides you with an adequate excuse whenever your actions are questionable,” Alyssa shot back heatedly, withdrawing her hand from her father’s grasp.
“Her Majesty is not a sovereign to be thwarted, Alyssa. ‘Tis a lesson you should commit to heart before you set foot in England. To fail to do so is to court disaster,” Cecil replied, his voice stern.
“Is that why you always put your loyalty to the queen above all else? Above my mother? Above me?”
“I’ve told you I had no choice! When our sovereign commanded me to accompany her envoy to the Lowlands as his secretary, what could I do but go? Had I refused, I could have been thrown in the Tower, and both you and your mother left to live in poverty. As it is, your dam did not live to see my return home. But you were waiting for me,” Cecil said. His words were drenched in wistful nostalgia, as though he truly did wish that things might have been different.
“A scant two months later, I was informed that my service had pleased Her Majesty, and I was to be sent abroad again. I knew that such an order precipitated a career to be spent in foreign lands. Was I to take you, an infant, with me? Expose your tender, young life to the hazards of constant travel? I had just lost my wife, I would not lose you as well. Nor did I want to see you grow to womanhood among the intrigues of various royal courts. No, as much as I wanted you beside me, I could not be that selfish. Instead, I consigned you to the care of my sister, a loving woman whose own two children had died. Even though she was slated to settle in Ireland, it seemed to be in your best interests at the time. You must believe me, Alyssa. It was because I loved you that I gave you away. If I was in error, I apologize.”
“But why didn’t you visit me? Why didn’t you write?” Alyssa asked
“What excuse can I possibly offer, my dear? Elizabeth kept me too busy to travel on my own behalf. And by the time you were old enough to read, I had hardened my heart to the pain of our separation Perhaps I was simply too cowardly to open myself to the anguish again. But now, my years of service have been rewarded. I have been given a post in England, and after I see these Irish rebels safely in English jails, I can once more establish a home. I wish to have you there with me.”
Alyssa wanted to believe him In fact, she yearned to do so. But the sense of rejection she had known as a child would not permit it until her father had proved himself to her
“If you care for me as you say you do, Father, then how can you stand by and watch the Irishman who saved me be condemned to imprisonment?” Alyssa asked stubbornly.
“Don’t you think I wanted to thank your impulsive rescuer, to send him on his way laden with gold and jewels? I did. But I have neither the authority nor riches to do so, regardless of what is in my heart. The rogue led an assault on Dublin Castle, Alyssa! Soldiers of the crown were slain. Political prisoners were released, some of whom I was charged with transporting to England. And because the chaos your Irishman caused began at the cell of Eamon MacMahon’s son, we have to assume he’s in league with the MacMahon himself.”
“The MacMahon?”
“Aye, a right troublesome rebel, a traitorous Irish nobleman who has been stripped of his lands and wealth by the queen. The MacMahon and his band live as outlaws. To have kept his son in captivity would have been to curtail his lawless behavior and acts of aggression against the crown. But your gallowglass saw to that, didn’t he? Why, his association with Eamon MacMahon is, in itself, reason for execution. I had it within my power to keep him from immediate death but little else. It was beyond me to gain his liberty. As it was, it took more than an hour of heated words with Governor Newcomb to convince him to march Fitzhugh to the tower rather than the block.”
“What did you say?” Alyssa asked, curiosity overcoming her reluctance to prolong any conversation with the man who was her sire. Though Fitzhugh’s execution had been a dim possibility, it had not been one she had considered seriously. Who would take the life of so heroic a man?
“I asserted that Fitzhugh was due some clemency for saving the daughter of Her Majesty’s representative.”
“And Newcomb agreed?”
“No…not entirely. I’m afraid we arrived at a stalemate. But I managed to convince him it was unwise to act hastily. Since I am not scheduled to leave Ireland until the end of the month, when the prisoners from the outlying districts have been brought to Dublin and placed in my care, we have decided to lay the matter before the queen. A missive has been sent detailing events. The Irishman will be safe from Newcomb’s wrath at least until we receive Her Majesty’s reply.”
“But what if…if…” Alyssa faltered in her question, her eyes growing round with horror.
“There, there, daughter, you’re not to worry. The queen will show mercy. The rebel will most likely be imprisoned in England for a time, but at least he will be alive,” Cecil assured her, silently praying his words contained some truth.
“How can you be so certain?”
“Do you have to ask? My dealings with Elizabeth over the years have given me some insight into her character. I promise, the Irishman’s life will be spared,” Cecil contended. Receiving the queen’s decision in the matter was a few weeks away, but the moment to soothe his daughter was now, to make her see he was not the monster she had painted him and that life with him would not be so unhappy as she anticipated.
“And if your recommendation holds no sway with the queen, what will we do?” Alyssa whispered, her fair face paler than usual.
“I beg that you trust me, daughter,” Cecil Howett implored with an intensity that oddly enough tugged at Alyssa’s heart. “Your Irishman will be spared. I give you my word.”
“Then I thank you, Father,” Alyssa said stiffly, still uncertain as to whether or not she could believe his promises.
“Your gratitude may be misplaced, sweetling,” Cecil Howett said with a weary shake of his gray head, glad the discussion seemed to be drawing to an end. “With conditions being what they are in English jails, it could well have been more merciful to have permitted your Irishman’s execution.”
“Nay, Father! You did the right thing, and I pray you will continue to do all within your power to keep him safe,” Alyssa replied fervently. She thought about placing a tentative kiss on Cecil’s cheek to seal their bargain, but hastily decided against it. She was not yet willing to chance allowing this stranger into her heart. It was a further complication she didn’t need when she had more pressing things to tend to. While her father saw to it that Fitzhugh remained alive, it would be up to her to bring Devlin solace as best she could. Surely she owed him that much, and never had debt seemed such a light burden.
Though Devlin had been confined for nearly eighteen hours, his violent rage at his predicament had yet to leave him, and he savagely yanked at his confining chains. Strong as he was, his efforts were to no avail. But he could not stop himself from trying to pull the links free of the large iron ring embedded in the wall through which his shackles had been laced. He knew he would not cease his attempts until he fell victim to exhaustion. Then, perhaps, sleep would overcome him and in sweet oblivion he would find peace of sorts, transitory though it would be.
Once more he tugged at his chains, gritting his teeth and silently cursing the impulsiveness that had landed him where he was. A score of thoughts raced through his head. He wondered whether Niall had escaped safely, and pondered his own fate, but mostly he thought of Muirne and what would become of her in his absence. Oh, he knew the MacMahon would see the child fed and sheltered as best he could. But food was not always plentiful in the rebel camp and starvation was certainly no stranger to Ireland since a handful of English had stolen lands that had once fed thousands. Besides, a girl could not grow up roughand-tumble in a camp as he had done, without proper guardians to see to her welfare. If she managed to survive at all, she would likely end up as her mother had, bearing someone’s bastard and succumbing to an early death.
The idea of it ate at Devlin’s very soul, though he barely knew his daughter, and he almost groaned his grief aloud when he considered the life the child would be forced to live.
He had been nothing more than a softhearted fool not to have turned Maeve away when she had crept beneath his blanket one dark, moonlit night. He had never decided whether it had been the frost on the ground or the ice surrounding his own heart that had seen him shivering with cold that evening. The only thing of which he was certain was that it had seemed natural to accept the warmth Maeve had offered. But he should have resisted temptation. Then there would have been no child to suffer because he had been captured.
More enraged with himself than before, Devlin had never looked so fierce. He was about to begin his futile pulling at the iron ring once again when he heard a scurrying in the darkness, much too loud to be that of one of the rats with whom he shared the tower. Quickly, he got to his feet. He’d not appear cowed before his English captors.
Taking a proud stance, Devlin wondered what fresh torture was about to befall him. So far, he had not answered any of the questions he had been asked about the MacMahon or the location of his camp. Would the English employ the lash or the hot iron to bend him to their will? The method mattered not. He would fight submission until he lost consciousness, or at least, he prayed he would.
Suddenly, out of the darkness, stepped a willowy female form. Devlin muttered a curse. The sight of the girl he had saved was more painful to him than any physical punishment. He could not bear to look at her without silently railing against his unfathomable behavior in the courtyard of Dublin Castle, the behavior that had cost him his freedom and decreed Muirne would not have the life he wished for her.
“Hello.” The voice was soft and delicate as the English lass dropped her hand away from the candle she had been shielding.
Looking at her, Devlin could see now that she was not the child he had at first supposed her to be. Her soft curves proclaimed that she was more woman than girl, but the youthful beauty of her face hinted that childhood was not all that far behind her. Why, she was probably no more than sixteen, Devlin thought, until he realized what he was doing and began to silently berate himself. What difference did it make? What was the wench to him, anyway?
Devlin shot her a fierce look meant to send her scampering on her way in terror. But she stood her ground, overlooking the fury on his face just as she ignored her malodorous surroundings. Instead, she saw only a magnificent warrior, one with a heart so big that he had risked his life for hers though the world had declared her his enemy.
Alyssa gave a tiny sigh as she studied Devlin Fitzhugh. Her aunt and uncle might have pampered her, but no one had ever been willing to hazard his life for her before this rugged gallowglass had done so. She was as much impressed by his gallantry as she was by his physique. Surely the world had never known such a hero.
“My name is Alyssa Howett,” she began. “I am the…woman you saved last night.”
“As if I could forget you!” Devlin growled. “But it matters not to me what you are called, girl. Get you hence before I do you harm.”
“Oh, I know you’re angry, and I can find no fault with that, but I also know that you would never hurt me,” Alyssa continued. “Such evil could never be in your nature.”
“Step a few inches closer so that I can wrap my chains about your slender young neck, and I’ll show you how very wicked a desperate man can be.”
“I had to speak with you, to tell you how badly I feel that I played a part in your capture.”
A part? This whole thing is your fault, Devlin wanted to bellow. But he held his tongue because he knew such an outburst would be a lie. From his viewpoint, no one but he was responsible for his dilemma, and that grated on him more than if someone else had actually been to blame. Still, the sight of the girl was almost more than he could bear, reminding him as it did of his foolish gallantry during Niall’s rescue.
“Please, you must believe me,” Alyssa persisted in the face of Devlin’s stony silence. “I truly am sorry.”
“No sorrier than I am,” Devlin ground out bitterly. If the girl felt guilty, it was an emotion that might be used to his advantage. “What were you doing flitting about the cells in the middle of the night? Can’t your father control you, or is it a habit of yours to visit imprisoned men under cover of darkness?”
“No!” she exclaimed, her face blazing crimson. “No to both questions. I don’t know my father very well. We’ve just been reunited after many years apart, and when we first became reacquainted, I hated him and refused to obey him in even the smallest matters. He had abandoned me, you see.”
The simple, innocent confession tore at Devlin’s being. How long would it be before he saw Muirne again—if ever he did? And, how would she feel about him if he came back into her life? Would she, too, feel her father had deserted her?
“I want you to know that I begged my father to arrange your release, but it was futile.”
“A man of great honor, your sire,” Devlin commented in derision, “and I suppose you are much like him.”
“Don’t you think I would help you if I could?”
“Prove it,” he demanded. “Get me the key that will unlock my chains.”
“I can’t,” the girl admitted shamefully. “The guard carries them.”
“Then what good are you? Leave me in peace.”
Despite the fact that she would have granted the Irishman his freedom if it were within her power, the thought of never seeing him again filled Alyssa with melancholy. She attributed the feeling to silly, girlish fancies and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand, easing Devlin Fitzhugh’s plight in whatever small way she could.
“I’ve brought you something,” she said, fishing in a deep side pocket of her gown.
“A weapon, a chisel?” Devlin asked anxiously.
“Nay, ‘tis but an apple,” Alyssa replied apologetically. “But I thought it might give you some comfort.”
“Think you I have any stomach for food?” Devlin asked in disgust. “Go away and don’t return unless you want to place your life in jeopardy.”
The only response he received was the dull thump of the apple as it dropped to the floor inside his cell and rolled towards him. Then there was silence followed by the sound of light, hurried footsteps marking the girl’s retreat.
The quiet did not last long. It was interrupted by the gravelly voice of one of the guards. Carrying a bucket and a stack of trenchers, he was walking in the company of two of his fellows. It was obvious they were delivering the day’s meal.
“We got here in time to hear that softhearted wench offer you an apple,” the Englishman said derisively. Unlocking Devlin’s door, he padded forward, followed by the other two, who stood with pikes pointed in Devlin’s direction. “Sort of makes this your own private Eden, doesn’t it?” The guard laughed cruelly, retrieving the fruit and holding it aloft before he crunched it between his few remaining teeth.
“I didn’t know the serpent ate the apple as well,” Devlin drawled, his voice drenched with condescension in spite of his circumstances.
“Seems to me we should give you something other than your supper, laddie. You need instruction in how to talk to your betters…the girl and me.” The jailer took a small club dangling from his waist and began to wield it. Sickening thuds echoed in the darkness as the weapon found its target again and again. That Devlin bore the cruelty without pleading for clemency incensed the Englishman further, increasing his efforts. Finally, however, he tired of his sport.
“A few more such lessons, Irishman, and you’ll no longer be so pretty. Then there will be no lass come to visit you and make your lot easier.”
It was perhaps the most merciful thing he had heard since his capture, Devlin thought as consciousness made ready to flee and the Englishman’s harangue began to fade in the distance.
“Niall, praise be Mary and all the saints,” yelled Eamon MacMahon two days later as he saw the small band of men approach his campfire. Hampered as he was by his crutch and broken leg, he hobbled to his feet and embraced his son warmly. “By all that’s holy, I feared I’d never see you again. But the scouts said Devlin wasn’t with you. Where’s the man to whom I owe my son’s life?”
“Right here, Uncle,” Cashel said gruffly. “Devlin was taken early on and I had to take charge and lead the fight out of the castle to save Niall. I’m proud to say we lost only one man, Kieran.”
“And Devlin.” Niall’s voice was strident, his youthful indignation barely held in check. Initially he’d refused to even accompany Cashel, arguing about not leaving Devlin behind until the older man had tied him to his horse for the journey home. “Father, we must return at once for Devlin. I can’t abandon him. In fact, if Cashel hadn’t knocked me out when I tried to head back into Dublin, I wouldn’t be here at all—”
“Then God bless the man, you young fool. If you were taken again, there would surely be no talk of ransom,” the Irish chieftain said. “Cashel, I appreciate your putting Niall first, but was there no way to help Devlin?”
“Would you have had me risk the lives of all of these for the sake of one?” Cashel demanded. “The English were swarming like bees in a flowering meadow, their weapons ready and no mercy in their eyes. I thought it meet to escape while we could.”
“Devlin told us he would try to distract pursuit from Niall,” reminded Dugal. “Perhaps he did get away. He may still come along under his own power.”
“But he’d never leave one of his men behind. We shouldn’t have left if there was any chance that he’d show,” argued Niall, repeating the words he’d echoed since escaping Dublin.
“There wasn’t any!” snapped Eamon’s nephew. Annoyed that concern for Fitzhugh overrode his own part in the heroic rescue, Cashel revealed more than he’d intended. “I was the last one through the gate. I saw him taken.”
“And you didn’t turn back to help him?” Niall was the spokesman but the murmur from the others of the clan left Cashel no doubt that the lad spoke for all. “You betrayed not only Devlin but all the MacMahons when you deserted him—”
“The devil take such nonsense. It was our lives or his and I’d do the same again if need be.”
“And what of your quarrel over who was in charge?” challenged Sean. “You didn’t like being his second.”
“I’ll not deny I’ve questioned the MacMahon’s judgment regarding Fitzhugh’s ability, but I admit when I’m wrong and I was about this. Devlin Fitzhugh planned the raid on the Castle and executed it perfectly. He fought like ten men to get us free of there, but he’d be the first to agree that Niall’s life must come before his own. Niall, lad, he told you in the tower, ‘don’t stop for anyone or anything.’ Have you forgotten?”
“No, but—”
“And Dugal, didn’t Fitzhugh insist on leading us out of the castle, knowing full well that the odds were against us once the alarm sounded? The man knew the risks and willingly accepted them.”
“You’re glad he was taken,” accused Eamon’s son.
“Use your head. Would I choose to anger your father by abandoning a man he so values if I could avoid it? My main responsibility was seeing you out of the pale and back here before the soldiers found us. Now that you’re safe, we can tend to Devlin” Though it galled him to say it, Cashel could see he had no choice but make it appear this had been his plan all along. Of course, by the time they returned to Dublin, Fitzhugh’s rotting head on a pike might be the only part of him left. The English didn’t take kindly to Irishmen who raided their jails.
“Then we’ll ready the horses for you to leave at first light,” agreed the MacMahon. He didn’t know if he trusted Cashel’s story, but he was kin, and one didn’t forsake the clan when ordered to perform a duty. “I won’t feel Niall is truly safe until you bring Fitzhugh home—and I know you’re the one man who can do it.”
“I’ll go, too, Father,” volunteered Niall.
“No. You’re too inexperienced to be helpful,” countered Eamon. “Cashel will pick the men he wants and when he returns, we’ll feast like never before. Now, Cashel, get some rest before you head out again.”
“Aye, Eamon, and you, enjoy your son. I’m thankful I could bring him home to you.” The words grated in Cashel’s ears, his hero’s welcome evaporated for worry over Devlin. Damn the blasted gallowglass! Even absent his presence was still felt. Cashel MacMahon would never risk his life for one such as he.
Chapter Three (#ulink_c96362f2-8c0d-5852-b043-24761ffb33d5)
Devlin finally stopped his measured pacing, steps sorely restricted by the chains that still bound him to the wall. Overcome by exhaustion, he hunkered down in his dark, dank cell. With his elbows propped on his muscular thighs, he allowed his head to fall wearily forward and rest against his hands as morbid anxiety gnawed at his soul, and the iron around his wrists and ankles bit into flesh rubbed raw.
He’d been confined here only three days and already he felt a growing sense of desperation so strong that it took all of his rapidly diminishing resources to deal with it. He was a freeborn man, who had always moved about his homeland whenever and wherever his inclinations had dictated. How many of his nights had been spent sleeping under star-studded skies, how many days had seen him roaming the rugged Irish landscape as unconfined as the winds that blew in from the sea?
Yet it made no difference what his lot had been, he thought bitterly, his fingers digging into his flesh in frustration and raking down his stubble-covered cheeks and chin. Whatever had been was past. This was his fate now—at least for the time being—until either Eamon arranged his rescue or he succumbed to madness or death. Did the English plan to torture him by keeping him confined for the rest of his natural life, or did they intend to execute him for his part in Niall’s escape? He still didn’t know.
If not for Muirne, death would be vastly preferable to facing years of imprisonment. Yet the little one was his responsibility and it was his duty to fight for survival for her sake, Devlin reminded himself, lifting his coppery head and allowing it to fall back and make contact with a damp, stone wall.
But to be reduced to this! It was almost beyond endurance to be caged like some dangerous animal. It made him feel ferocious, ready to pounce and kill whatever living being happened into his wretched new domain.
Suddenly, a flicker of light broke through the blackness and Devlin steeled himself to his full height, even as his well-muscled body tensed in wary anticipation.
The soft, whispered rustle of material should have warned him what was about to happen, but it was not until she held the candle aloft, allowing it to illuminate the soft contours of her face, that Devlin knew who this intruder upon his dark thoughts actually was. The girl, Alyssa, stood before him again, a tentative smile brightening her face almost as much as the flame she carried.
Sweet Jesu! Would she give him no peace? Devlin stood there, wishing she would disappear, that the darkness would suddenly devour her and leave no trace behind to remind him she had ever existed.
“I want you to know I’ve begged to have your chains removed,” Alyssa began uneasily, her slim white hand fluttering to indicate Devlin’s fetters. “My father has promised me he will have it done today. At least you’ll be able to move a bit more freely, even though you are still confined to a cell. I have a small cache of coins left me by an aunt, and I’ve used some of them to see to it that you’ll have two meals a day instead of one. And tonight, there will be some fresh straw to replace that vermin-infested heap in the corner,” she said, her nose wrinkling for an instant in distaste until the presence of the man whose bravery had captured her girlish heart made her begin to forget where they were.
As she concentrated on his dangerous good looks, the surrounding squalor faded away completely and Alyssa saw only Devlin Fitzhugh. His well-honed body, his stubborn stance, his arrogant bearing all exuded a masculine beauty. And his face, with its finely chiseled features, was inordinately handsome, or at least it would be, Alyssa amended, if only he would stop scowling at her so blackly. Why didn’t he say something?
“Besides that, I’ll continue coming to visit you every day just as I have for the past two, to see how you are faring,” Alyssa finally stated, as much to break the silence as to inform the rugged Irishman of her intentions.
“Go away, girl. I’ve told you repeatedly I have no desire for your company,” Devlin growled.
“I’m certain you don’t mean that,” Alyssa protested, unwilling to believe the warrior who had begun to haunt her dreams would treat her so unceremoniously. She was growing tired of his telling her to leave him alone. Wasn’t it about now he should be exhibiting some degree of gratitude?
“I do,” Devlin warned harshly.
“’Tis naught but your manly pride talking,” Alyssa stated insistently, her violet eyes flashing. It appeared that seeing to the welfare of her Irish gallowglass was going to be difficult. But Alyssa had not earned her reputation for willfulness undeservedly. Devlin’s lack of cooperation only made her more determined to help him survive his imprisonment, an incarceration for which she still felt blame.
“’Tis my righteous fury speaking and nothing less,” Devlin all but snarled. “If you value your safety, you’ll leave now and never return.”
“Fie, sir! I am weary of your threats!” Alyssa exclaimed with an unconsciously insolent sway of her hips. “I have told you from the beginning, you don’t frighten me one jot! You saved my life.”
“That was naught but folly, a softhearted, dullwitted impulse that I’ve lived to regret, and never more than at this moment. Certainly it is an error I would never repeat.”
“Say what you will, but I know that in spite of your fierce glowering there is a kind heart within your warrior’s body. And so, Devlin Fitzhugh, you will be seeing me often. Now you can continue to rail or you can save your strength and accept the fact. It makes no difference to me.”
With that, Alyssa withdrew something from her pocket and shoved it through the bars. It was a hunk of bread wrapped in a scrap of cloth. Devlin glared at it, and then at the girl.
“I’ll see you on the morrow,” Alyssa whispered softly, and then both she and the weak light of the candle were gone.
Devlin remained where he was, allowing his eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. This time, unlike yesterday, he’d be damned if he ate the girl’s largesse, he swore to himself. Hungry as he might be, it would stay where it was until the wench returned the next day. She could add whatever she brought to the pile, which would continue to grow until she finally realized that he would have none of her ill-conceived generosity. That was the only way to deal with such a headstrong lass.
But a high-pitched squeak and a pair of small, red eyes glowing in the darkness caused Devlin to quickly reconsider his decision. Food strewn on the floor of his cell would only cause it to become more rat infested than it already was. And with not even a few crumbs left behind, the English girl would never believe his assertions that he had ignored her food, that the rats had eaten it. Most likely, the little witch would only laugh in the face of his anger and smile that knowing feminine smile of hers. Lord, but she’d lead some unlucky man a merry chase when she grew older. And in the meantime, she would practice her infuriating behavior on him, Devlin thought in despair, seeing once again the impudent swing of the lass’s hips as she argued with him.
Bending down, he swatted at the advancing rat and scooped up the bread, muttering darkly.
Savagely, Devlin bit off a piece, almost choking on it in spite of the honey slathered across its center. But once the last morsel was gone, no sweetness lingered in his mouth.
Dear mother of God but he had dreaded his imprisonment before the girl had made a habit of appearing. How would he ever endure jail and the wench, too? Devlin rested his head against the iron bars and gave a low moan Surely there was no mercy in heaven.
Then, despite himself, an exasperated smile crossed Devlin’s face. A man impressed by bravery, Devlin found he couldn’t but admire Alyssa Howett. She was nothing if not a spirited, defiant little soul. Why, not even his blackest look could quell her. And with all that blond hair of hers, and those unusual violet eyes…Perhaps at another time, in another place, she could have tempted him.
But what was he thinking! She was English, one of the oppressors, and he an Irish rebel. She was little more than a girl and he was fast approaching thirty winters. She had an entire lifetime before her, and he, in all likelihood, was a condemned man.
What strange thoughts she wrought within him! They were especially odd when Devlin considered that whether free or imprisoned, he was a warrior, and had little time for women, let alone young girls. And this young girl was intelligent, smart enough to see through his bluster, to know that he bristled not at the small kindnesses she insisted upon showing him, but at being beholden to a female. Yes, she was clever all right, and if he had had his liberty, he would have fled from her immediately.
Within a week, Alyssa discovered, her days in Dublin Castle took on a pattern of their own. As long as she appeared promptly for the midday meal she was expected to share with her father and the governor, her mornings were hers. Then, afterward she was free to embroider or sketch until dinner.
Not once had Cecil Howett questioned her amusements or disturbed her wanderings, apparently pleased that she was keeping out of trouble. Most important, his attitude gave her entry to any manner of place all over the castle grounds.
Flipping through her drawings, Alyssa smiled at her chosen subjects: children playing in the lane outside the jail, alert wardens walking the wall, maids scurrying across the courtyard with laundry, Devlin pacing in his cell, unaware he was being observed. Those of the gallowglass were her favorites, though Devlin Fitzhugh would not be one to indulge an artist’s endeavors and pose willingly. In fact, he was not a man accustomed to enforced idleness of any kind.
Naturally, she made certain to include a daily visit to the Irishman’s cell, if only to help rectify his foul humor. She hoped her father didn’t find out, but even if he did, Alyssa knew that she wouldn’t abandon Devlin Fitzhugh. After all, when he’d been in danger for his life, he hadn’t hesitated to protect her. He was a hero, despite the absurd interpretation the English put on the event. Traitor, indeed!
Alyssa contemplated her charcoal drawing of the man who had risked everything to save her from those descending swords, and she trembled. She had been such a fool—yet what an acceptable outcome the near tragedy would have, if her father were right. Transported to England, Devlin would spend time in her father’s jail where they could be together. It would have been better to live with him in Ireland, but that was out of the question.
Still, Alyssa would be with the man she loved. And love him she did. Studying a sketch of an imaginary scene, Devlin outdoors, she traced the strong line she’d made of his shoulder, the proud angle of his head, and the planes of his chest as he aimed a bow and arrow. His eyes were focused and intense, his lips parted slightly in concentration, his attitude superbly confident as if guaranteed his arrow would find its target. But wasn’t that part of why she loved him—his arrogance and total assurance of his position? She doubted another man like Devlin Fitzhugh existed anywhere.
Her beloved aunt had died and Devlin had come into her life within days. Surely, he was the faerie folk’s answer to her prayers for an escape from Cecil Howett. Now all she had to do was convince Devlin that fate had brought them together, not her foolishness.
He seemed to have stopped growling as much when she visited him last. In fact, occasionally she thought he was even pleased to see her, not that he admitted it. Like most men, he needed to think he was in control of his destiny, and she’d not deny him that pnvilege—false though it might be. Closing her eyes, Alyssa imagined his face lowering slowly to hers and tasted his lips on hers, firm, demanding and welcome. If only her dreams could become reality.
Cecil Howett sat at a desk in the outer room of the quarters assigned him. He held his breath as he took the missive from London being proffered him by Newcomb’s secretary. Waiting until the man had left the room, Cecil turned the document over in his hands. The seal had been broken and the contents most likely read by Newcomb already. With nervous fingers, Howett unfolded the paper, his eyes quickly scanning the message contained therein. Then his shoulders slumped in disappointment. It was what he had most feared. Devlin Fitzhugh was to be executed at dawn the next day.
Damnation! The report of the rebel jailbreak had emphasized that Fitzhugh had averted Alyssa’s murder! Didn’t that mean the man should be spared? Apparently not according to Her Majesty. How was he going to inform Alyssa of the decision? And how was he going to explain that his promises had meant nothing? He knew how important the man had become to her, unwise though that was. Hadn’t he but recently learned she had been sneaking into the prison every day to see him?
It might be best to delay giving his daughter the news until after Fitzhugh’s death sentence had been carried out. Of course, having no advance warning would add to the girl’s sorrow, but it would also give her one more day of peace, and her young life had seen upset aplenty as of late.
Resolved, Cecil rose from his desk and walked to his cupboard to fetch some wine when Alyssa burst into the room, her bright presence making the gloom within his heart that much darker.
“Is it true a courier from London has arrived?” she asked breathlessly, only to abruptly cease her question as her eyes fell upon the royal decree open upon the desk, and she saw Devlin’s name written in large, bold letters.
“Alyssa, don’t!” her father warned, hastening to her side. But it was already too late.
“Dear God in heaven!” The softness of her voice made plain her shock. Slowly, Alyssa sank into her father’s chair. “You must do something to stop this,” she proclaimed in anguish, catching desperately at Cecil’s sleeve.
“Would that I could, sweetling, but I fear your Irishman is beyond hope.”
“You gave me your word that Elizabeth would not order his execution,” she accused. “You must do something or his death will stand forever between us. Surely, you have simply to—”
“I tell you I can do nothing,” Cecil interjected, his guilt shortening his temper. Yet, he spoke the truth. Having discovered his error in extending false hopes to his daughter, Cecil was not of a mind to make the same mistake again. Now that Alyssa knew her Irishman’s fate, it was best she quickly realize the futility of the situation.
“’Tis a hard lesson to learn, to accept the things about which we can do nothing, but impress it upon your heart, girl, and it will serve you well in life. That is all the solace I have to offer.”
“’Tis little enough, but mayhap it is better than your lies,” Alyssa retorted with bitter resentment. Then her demeanor changed, as horror completely penetrated her anger and denial. “Tell me, does he know?” she whispered weakly.
“Nay. Newcomb and I have only learned of it ourselves.”
“Oh, Father, I beg you—” She’d act the dutiful daughter for the rest of her life, only Devlin had to be saved!
“I’ve already told you, there’s nothing to be done. Your Irishman is doomed, Alyssa.”
At his words, the girl’s sobs rent the air. Yet her father remained steadfast. After tomorrow, Fitzhugh would be executed, and Alyssa could begin to put the ordeal behind her. Thinking it best for his daughter to give way to her emotions, he withdrew quietly from the room, walking the corridors of Dublin Castle until he could no longer hear the girl’s distress.
With every step he took, Cecil wondered how he might make this situation easier for Alyssa. The only thing that came to mind was moving the execution forward. If the deed was done, it would be over before she knew it had happened. He’d talk to Newcomb about it right away. Surely the man owed him that much.
Though Alyssa had given herself over to grief with abandon, her tears began to slow and her shoulders began to stop heaving shortly after her father’s departure. She knew she had to pull rein on her emotions. Soon, Devlin would be gone, she told herself, sniffling, and she would be the one who would see to it. With her help, he would make good an escape tonight. He had to! Damn her father and his empty words! Cecil Howett was even more charlatan than she had thought.
Rapidly, ideas began to formulate in Alyssa’s mind. The overnight guard on duty this week had a reputation for loving gold, and he had been helpful in the past. She still had a good deal of the coinage her aunt had left her. If she had learned anything at Dublin Castle, it was that with money, one could buy almost anything. She only prayed her little fortune was worth the price of a man’s life.
Having hope to cling to once again, Alyssa stood, smoothed her gown and banished the anguish from her face. There was much to prepare before darkness fell. After tonight, she might never see Devlin Fitzhugh again, but how much more comforting it would be to know he was alive somewhere in his precious Irish countryside rather than moldering in a pauper’s grave on the outskirts of Dublin.
The small pouch of gold coins suspended between Alyssa’s breasts weighed heavily around her neck despite the slight bulk of her meager inheritance. Trying to be inconspicuous, she took a roundabout route across the bailey that eventually led her to a door at the base of the prison tower
When she stepped inside, Alyssa’s heart began to beat rapidly at the thought of what lay ahead. It was not the notion that she could soon be an enemy of the crown that caused her skin to turn paler and her breaths to become more shallow. No, it was fear of failure that brought about these physical symptoms. If she did not accomplish the purpose at hand, Devlin Fitzhugh was a doomed man, forever beyond the reach of any help she might wish to render.
Praying that her small cache of coins would be enough to tempt Hawkins, the greediest of the guards, into betraying his duties, Alyssa decided a smile sent in his direction would not be amiss.
Squaring her shoulders and donning a sweetly vapid smile, Alyssa left the patch of sunlight painting the floor of the tower just beyond the open door. She ascended through the gloom to the guards’ station, where she hoped to find Hawkins alone. The possibility that he might not be there leaped across her mind along with a thousand other things that could befoul Devlin Fitzhugh’s escape. Rather than cause maidenly trepidations and abandonment of her plan, however, the reasons for possible failure were swiftly examined and then put aside. She continued with a dainty yet determined tread, her violet eyes taking on a steely cast.
“Now you’re not to worry that pretty head of yours, milady. Just you leave everything in my hands. You’ll find them quite capable, I assure you,” Hawkins said with a twist of his mouth that was more leer than grin.
“Are you certain?” Alyssa questioned anxiously.
“Didn’t I tell you that I’ll take care of the guards at the base of the tower? Alls I have to do is unlock the rebel’s cell, and lead him along the portion of the outer wall that’s always steeped in darkness, no matter how bright the moon, to the kitchens. From there, I takes him down to a little-used storeroom, where chests of grain stacked one upon the other hide a small portal that opens onto the trench. Once he climbs out of there, he’ll find a horse tethered behind a clump of trees. The rest is up to him.”
“But how will you avoid the other guards?” Alyssa persisted.
“I’ll set things in motion just before the guards change at dawn. The ones on duty usually doze for a bit and only waken just before their relief appears. ’Twill be a simple matter to get past them, especially when I shares a jug of wine with them at the beginning of the watch.”
“Still, I’m worried,” Alyssa insisted, glancing over her shoulder to make certain that no one else was nearby.
“There’s no need to fret on old Hawkins’s account,” the man stated, pretending to misunderstand Alyssa’s concern as he sidled closer. “I’ll be safe enough. Once I get the Irishman clear, I’ll come back, drop a tattered Irish cloak and Celtic dagger along the escape route, lock myself in Fitzhugh’s cell and throw the keys out into the corridor. Then, when I’m found, I’ll pretend to just be coming to after having been laid low by one of them bloody Irish bastards. Begging your pardon for my bluntness, milady, but that’s all them buggers are.”
“Your plan could work,” Alyssa conceded.
“Aye, with your gold and my brains, Fitzhugh will be clear of Dublin Castle by this time tomorrow,” Hawkins said, eyeing the small pouch of coins Alyssa held in her hands.
“So be it,” Alyssa pronounced, counting out half of her remaining inheritance into Hawkins’s dirty palm. What choice did she have other than to place her trust in this man? God help her, he was all she had! “The rest is yours when Fitzhugh has gone.”
“And now, milady, to seal the bargain,” the guard said, his eyes raking Alyssa’s bosom as he bent low to take her hand. Bringing it to his lips, he placed a clumsy, wet kiss along her knuckles.
“I would think half of my gold would have done that,” Alyssa protested, trying to tug her fingers from his grasp.
“Ah, but what’s a little intimacy between partners?” asked Hawkins with a lascivious grin as he held on to Alyssa’s hand. “And I’ve a feeling that we’re about to become mightily close indeed. You rest easy and just go to sleep tonight dreaming of all Hawkins can do.”
Alyssa snatched her fingertips from the guard and turned away. She couldn’t chide the man for his impudence until Devlin had seen the last of Dublin Castle. But once that had happened, she’d make certain Hawkins never touched her again.
Walking down the corridor, she considered a visit to Devlin, as was her wont, but decided against it. He would be able to sense her uneasiness, and she couldn’t tell him of his impending execution and her plan for his escape when anyone might come along and overhear. Besides, not one to follow, he would only find some flaw in the scheme she had set in motion and want to take command of things himself. No, it was better to wait until the hour for his release was at hand. Then she would visit his cell one last time.
Of course, Hawkins didn’t expect her presence tonight, Alyssa thought as she emerged from the tower. But then, what could he do once she was there? Naive she might be, but she was not such an innocent as to place Devlin’s life entirely in Hawkins’s grimy hands. Despite Hawkins’s inevitable protests, it would be she who led Devlin Fitzhugh to freedom’s door, handed him a dagger and wished him godspeed.
Tracing the route she would be taking with Devlin that night, Alyssa entered the kitchens, explaining to the cook that Governor Newcomb had given her permission to browse through the stores for anything she might want to make her upcoming journey to England more bearable. With the cook’s blessing, Alyssa descended into the storage room, pragmatically counting each step that might have to be taken in darkness that night. Seeing the chests of grain, she paced off their location from the doorway, and managed to reach behind them, her fingers searching for and finding the small, hidden doorway Hawkins had described. Satisfied, she went back to the kitchens, and asked that some dried fruit be placed upon her father’s ship when it docked. Thanking the cook, she accepted a small tart with a smile meant to hide her lack of appetite.
Grateful that her plan to free Devlin was viable, Alyssa slowly made her way back to her chambers. She knew her heart should be singing. If all went well, he would disappear into the night’s last mistshrouded vestiges of darkness. He would live, and her debt to him would be paid. But her elation at saving his neck from the ax was tempered by a sadness that prevented complete joy.
Becoming more dejected with each step she took, Alyssa knew it wasn’t the idea of spending her inheritance that upset her, though becoming penniless meant giving up all hope of escaping her father, and forsaking forever the possibility of independence that her aunt’s secret gift was meant to promise. No, the money and all it stood for was a trifling price to pay for Devlin Fitzhugh’s life. Yet, as each moment that passed brought it closer, there was a forfeiture Alyssa was loath to make, one that burdened her heart. After tonight Devlin would have his liberty, but the price exacted would be a steep one. Never in her life was she likely to see him again.
Surely if her father intruded upon her solitude by coming to her chambers in the intervening hours before Devlin’s flight, she would not have to hide her schemes behind false tears. The ones she shed would be real enough.
* * *
Devlin stood with folded arms leaning against the wooden door of his prison. To all appearances, his stance was nonchalant No one looking at him would think his studied indifference to his surroundings masked an alert watchfulness. Nor would any know his position was carefully chosen to give him the best view of the corridor running outside his cell. The only comment that might have been made would have been one of surprise that he was not stationed at his small prison window, trying to catch any breeze the unusually warm summer evening might surrender.
Yet lost deep in thought as he was, the summer temperatures were of no concern to Devlin Fitzhugh. The heat that began to build in his body was of a different sort altogether. It was bad enough that after three weeks another day had passed and the Mac-Mahon’s men had made no attempt to rescue him, he thought irritably, but where the hell was Alyssa Howett? She should have been here already, as she usually was, and then his suffering for the day could have been complete.
Hearing shuffling at the far end of the corridor, Devlin waited, both hoping and fearing that it would be Alyssa come to him once more. The dread of torment and the anticipation of pleasure mingled incoherently. When had it begun to happen? When had never wanting to see her again started to shift to being unwilling to survive in this hellhole without her? Had it been after she had stood her ground in the face of his temper? Before that, when she had first brought him food and comfort? Or was it the moment he had set eyes on her?
Devlin shook his head wearily. He tried to tell himself that faced with the prospect of never having a woman again, any female would appeal to him, but his excuse held little sway with his traitorous heart.
Perhaps it was no more than prison madness descending upon him. How could it be otherwise? She was English. She was at least partially the reason for his imprisonment. And still, God help him, he longed to see her, though her nearness, in the face of his inability to touch her, brought him as much pain as it did joy. Surely such emotions bespoke insanity. Each day became worse. Mayhap if he spoke to the girl’s father, begged him to keep her away…but no, he couldn’t do that. His pride would never allow him to admit to anyone how much the English wench moved him. Nor did he really want her to abandon him. Imprisonment without her daily company was unthinkable.
“Newcomb and Howett have been closeted most of the day. Something’s afoot,” one guard told another as the two passed by Devlin’s cell, dispelling his hope that Alyssa was nearby. “Have you any idea as to what it can be?”
“No, but whatever it is, I wager ‘twill only result in these cursed Irish being coddled more.”
“Aye, there are some here that seem to have their own maidservants seeing to their needs,” the first guard replied, jerking his head in Devlin’s direction. “Damn me, but I’ve never seen the like.”
Their conversation faded as the men rounded a corner, but it bothered Devlin not a whit. Whatever had them talking would become plain soon enough if it concerned him. What could bother him more than the torture to which Alyssa Howett gently subjected him?
Once more, Devlin peered into the descending darkness, watching and listening for Cecil Howett’s daughter. It was growing unusually late. His heart started to race, and sweat beaded upon his forehead as he strained to see if she was coming. He hoped to God she wouldn’t. He prayed to God she would.
Chapter Four (#ulink_254bb578-ed7c-5c70-940c-b144befb1348)
“I don’t know why you’re here. I thought we’d agreed I would see to everything.”
The words crept into Devlin’s consciousness, causing him to quickly leave sleep behind and become alert. In his experience, he’d never seen anything other than a lone guard occasionally shuffle down this corridor so late at night. Yet the approaching footsteps were hurried, and the sound of Hawkins’s voice told Devlin that the Englishman was not alone. Quickly, the agile gallowglass gained his feet. If someone were to come for him, be it friend or foe, he’d not be found curled up upon the straw like some docile farm animal.
“You decided the matter would be left in your hands,” came the reply, in hushed yet determined feminine tones. “But I’m not such a fool as to trust you blindly. That’s why I’ve come to oversee things.”
The voice was so soft, the whisper so subtle that Devlin almost thought he imagined it. He had done that often enough of late. But he could sense Alyssa Howett’s nearness and knew that what he had just heard was real.
Sweet Jesu! Couldn’t the wench be content that she disturbed his dreams without actually seeking him out in the middle of the night?
Based upon his experiences with Alyssa, Devlin would not argue the premise that the world was totally devoid of justice. After hours of awaiting her arrival, he had finally concluded she wasn’t coming. Slowly, the tension associated with her had left him, and he had almost been grateful to have a day without the torture her presence seemed to bring.
Now here she was, when she was least expected, and he was the vulnerable recipient of her surprise attack. He was not at all ready to deal with her at the moment. But then, he was never totally prepared for Alyssa Howett. He had tried ignoring her, bellowing at her, threatening her, stopping just short of throwing himself upon his knees and pleading with her to leave him in peace. Yet when he envisioned himself resorting to such a tactic, his hoarse pleas transformed themselves into urgings of quite a different nature. Shuddering, Devlin tried to push aside the images flooding his mind and steel himself for Alyssa’s latest assault.
“Devlin. Wake up, man! It’s me, Alyssa.”
As if he would have any doubts as to who it could be.
“What is it now?” he asked, his voice as quiet as hers, yet drenched with surliness.
Suddenly the key was in the lock and the door began to swing inward. She had never entered his cell before! Why was Alyssa stealing into his wretched surroundings at this time of night? Sweet Mother of God, was she going to offer herself to him? More important, what was he going to do if she did?
“Begone, lass,” he hissed, wanting her out of his path when impulse led him to make a desperate bid for freedom. When else would he find himself with unlocked door while most of the castle slept?
“Aye, I will be in a moment,” she answered, “and you’ll be right behind me.”
“What! Don’t mock me, Alyssa,” Devlin growled, though a glimmer of doubtful hope lit his blue eyes all the same.
“There’s little time to talk, Devlin.” Alyssa’s lovely face was drawn with anxiety. “You’re to be executed this morning. We’ve got to get you out of here now. The guards on duty have been taken care of, but their replacements will be arriving in an hour. If you’ve any thought of keeping your head attached, you’ll have to be well gone by then.”
“And him? What’s he doing here?” Devlin asked, nodding in Hawkins’s direction as the man followed Alyssa into the cell. The Englishman’s presence made the gallowglass wonder if the girl could be leading him into a trap, unwittingly or otherwise.
“Me! I’m the one she paid to see to your escape,” the guard grumbled. “The better question is what is she doing here? I’m not about to risk my neck by leading two of you out of the tower and around the castle grounds.”
“I’ll save you the effort,” Alyssa stated matterof-factly. “You’ll be locked in the cell now and the keys dropped on the stairway. ‘Twill avert suspicion from you.”
“You’re giving me orders? This is what comes of having business dealings with a female,” Hawkins muttered, “when what I really prefers is the idea of dealing with you in my bed. And after tonight, don’t think I won’t have you warming my blanket—”
Hawkins didn’t see Devlin Fitzhugh’s fist coming, nor did he feel the pain before slumping to the floor unconscious.
Devlin turned to Alyssa. Towering over her, he peered into her guileless visage, pearlescent in the moonlight, and he seemed to come to a decision.
“All right, lass. Let’s go. I’ll place my trust in you,” he said softly.
“And I in you,” Alyssa replied, reaching into her cloak and handing him a dagger. “I thought you’d have need of this for the journey home.”
A surprised Devlin looked at the weapon and then at Alyssa. Her violet eyes were darker than he had ever seen them. In their depths glistened concern, sincerity and something else, some nebulous element that Devlin wanted neither to identify nor analyze.
“We really must be off, Fitzhugh,” Alyssa insisted worriedly, her fear for this man’s safety forcing her to wrench her gaze from his.
Scooping up the keys and the threadbare Irish cloak to be dropped along Devlin’s escape route, Alyssa disappeared into the dark corridor. Once Devlin joined her, she secured Hawkins with lock and key. Then motioning to Devlin, she led the way, her tread so quiet and light that she appeared to float just above the surface of the cold, stone floor.
Following in her wake, Devlin vowed he had never seen so graceful a creature. Then, realizing the insanity of his absorption in Alyssa Howett’s gait, he inured himself against her charms, his warrior’s demeanor descending upon him once more.
He didn’t know where she was taking him, or if her plan had a prayer of succeeding! Yet what did it matter? he asked himself. She was the only hope he had, and if they were accosted, he was armed.
At worst, he would die the death of a fighting man, a fate more palatable than the one the English had planned for him. Grimacing, Devlin clutched the hilt of the dagger. But, when they descended the staircase, there was no need for it, just as she had promised. There were no proud guards ready to do their duty for queen and country, but only sleeping Englishmen, empty mugs lying beside them.
Suddenly, Alyssa and Devlin were at the door in the base of the tower, the one that led into the bailey. Instinctively, Devlin reached out to thrust Alyssa behind him, but before he could lay hold of her slender frame, she took his hand, and began to tug him along after her.
In truth, her efforts had no more effect upon him than a sparrow attempting to pull a boulder. Still, now that the moment of truth was at hand, Devlin found that he followed the girl willingly enough.
Bending his head to pass through the doorway, Devlin drew fresh air, laden with the promise of freedom, into his lungs. But there was no time to savor the heady feeling it gave him. Alyssa was insistently yanking him forward once more, her small hand all but lost within the confines of his large one.
Though she did not lead him towards one of the gates set into Dublin Castle’s thick walls, Devlin put up no resistance, his steps following Alyssa’s as she moved along a section of stone cast deep in shadow.
Then suddenly, torches appeared on the far side of the courtyard, borne by a contingent of soldiers marching in the direction of the tower. Devlin heard Alyssa’s sharply indrawn breath and felt the pulse in her fingertips quicken within his hand, evidence of her surprise.
“’Tis too early for this sort of thing. Her Majesty owes me another hour or two of sleep,” one of the soldiers called to his fellows.
“Aye, but though ‘tis earlier, ‘tis a pleasant enough way to begin the day,” another shouted in reply, “executing an Irishman.”
“I hope the bastard was told yesterday and spent a sleepless night,” the first rejoined. “’Twill be easier to manage Fitzhugh if he’s exhausted.”
“They’re coming for you, to take you to the block!” Alyssa whispered in horror. “Damn Hawkins for a harlot’s son. Why didn’t he know about this change in schedule, or did he choose not to tell us?”
Before her Irishman could answer, however, the light of the torches crept into the blackness in which Alyssa and Devlin stood. A cry uttered by one of the soldiers alerted all of them, and directly the queen’s men were bearing down on the pair with alarming speed.
“Get out of here, lass,” Devlin growled. He had no intention of being taken again trying to save Alyssa Howett’s pretty neck. But to his consternation, he found he could not loosen the girl’s grasp upon him.
“Devlin, this way! Follow me!” Alyssa yelled above the rising clamor, her soprano tones carrying clearly through the night air. Frantically she pulled at his hand until Devlin’s sense of logic surrendered to desperation and he once more permitted himself to be guided by her.
Swiftly they ran, the soldiers efficiently closing the gap between them. Then, Devlin found himself going through a doorway, only to realize that it provided no exit from the castle. It was merely the entrance to the kitchens. The girl had become lost, if ever she had had a viable escape route planned at all.
“Hurry. Help me shut the door and slide home the plank,” Alyssa directed, her breath coming in frightened gasps.
“’Twill only buy us a little respite,” Devlin said stoically, more inclined to face death in the coming skirmish than to chance being recaptured. He didn’t want to spend time alone in this place with Alyssa Howett—time during which a doomed man might do and say many a foolish thing in the last moments of his life.
“You great dolt! I know what I’m doing, but I can’t manage alone,” Alyssa yelled angrily. “Do as I say!”
Against his better judgment, Devlin gave in to her demands. The door was slammed shut and the wooden bar hastily put into place just as the first sword landed against the exterior with a heavy thud.
Devlin’s dagger weighed heavily in his hands. He detested the thought of hiding in the kitchens with a woman when a battle beckoned just the other side of the door. He had to make Alyssa see that such behavior was impossible for him, to make her understand what he was about to do.
He turned to her in the eerie glow of the banked fires. She was a golden maid now. Placing his thumb beneath her chin, he raised her face to his.
“’Tis not that I’m ungrateful, Alyssa Howett,” he began, his husky voice melodic and almost tender, “but there’s no help for it. We’ve lost. I must go out to meet my enemy.”
“Wouldn’t you rather go out the door that leads to the trench surrounding the castle and find a horse awaiting you?” Alyssa asked, her eyes caressing Devlin’s face, every plane, every rugged masculine contour.
“The devil you say!”
As the banging on the door grew louder and more insistent, Devlin didn’t hesitate to trail Alyssa down the staircase to the storeroom. He should have been ecstatic to have the possibility of freedom so near, yet somewhere in the back of his mind, in the portion that did not deal with the immediate problems of survival, Devlin knew something was wrong. But things were happening too quickly, and he ignored the feeling as he easily moved the chests of grain and found the exit Alyssa had promised. He entirely disregarded his uneasiness as he put his shoulder to the door and forced it open, then wriggled through a narrow tunnel hardly wide enough to allow his shoulders room to pass. Whatever it was that was disturbing him could be dealt with once safety had been reached.
And then, he was outside, and he could think of nothing other than the liberty he had so miraculously been granted. Already he envisioned himself riding through the forests and across the mountains, freer than the winds that would play against his face and ruffle his hair.
Crawling to the top of the trench, he saw a slim hand appear from the darkness to lie beside his own.
“The horse should be tethered behind yon stand of trees,” Alyssa informed him, scrambling up the deep, earthen walls.
Immediately, Devlin and Alyssa began to run, low to the ground, praying all the while that the swirls of rising mist would keep them safe from detection. Reaching the trees, they found that there was, indeed, a horse waiting.
The castle was coming quickly awake, the sound of running guards ready for battle issuing from behind the walls. Devlin swung himself up into the saddle, and looked down at the woman, little more than a girl, who had saved his life. He would remember her forever, standing here in the moonlight, her skirts lost in the smoky mist. There was so much to say to her, and so little time. He could not seem to find the words, and perhaps it was best that he could not.
Alyssa, however, had no such trouble.
“Give me your hand, Devlin, and help me up. Why are you looking at me with such shock? There’s no time to tarry.”
“What are you doing? You’ve got to go back to your father. You can say I took you hostage and released you once I cleared the castle.”
“Go back!” she echoed, her face a study in dismay and bewilderment. “Fie, I can’t do that now! They saw me leading you by the hand and mayhap heard me directing your flight as well. I can’t return unless you want me to find my head upon the block. They know I helped you escape.”
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Erin Yorke
A Rebel Heart Held Her Fast… and young noblewoman Alyssa Howett knew she had no choice but to release Devlin Fitzhugh, the wild Irish hero who had freed her woman's soul.A Warrior Walked Alone His fealty was only to his sworn chieftain - or so Devlin Fitzhugh had always believed. Then fate brought him a daughter he'd never known and a passion he'd never dared dream with a sun-bright English rose who would test his loyalty… and prove his love!
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u29693b4e-0af3-5a24-b97e-559232225a46)
Praise (#u3551c9a4-74eb-55e8-849d-e70c46e5ea3c)
Excerpt (#u187e5b81-1367-5024-b2a1-3941f2680e97)
Dear Reader (#u2df66693-046f-54d1-9332-6188ea969121)
Title Page (#u95466061-a883-5374-ade5-f95664b84abc)
About The Author (#ue2ef542d-7293-5b2e-b95a-27a6f8454d28)
Dedication (#u13c42b70-c66b-54d6-ab97-2cadaba7ac2f)
Chapter One (#u6499029e-585d-5f58-8713-bf3c0b0a5362)
Chapter Two (#ue85f173f-3d0e-5686-ad64-0ea7d805c710)
Chapter Three (#u182cdaca-345e-5329-af20-5cc0ca82f46b)
Chapter Four (#ud3f6b9fa-4eea-5807-9635-8e7d0efa1828)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Acclaim for Erin Yorke
Desert Rogue
“High, exciting adventure a la Erin Yorke!”
—Romantic Times
“Another winner from one of the greats. 5
s.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“…grabs your imagination from page one…
Five-star reading.”
—Rendezvous
The Honor Price
“Another Yorke Elizabethan masterpiece.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“…a tumultuous era, a tempestuous love story, a wondrous romance.”
—Romantic Times
“…an unforgettable tale filled with adventure and love.”
—Rendezvous
Counterfeit Laird
“Erin Yorke at her very best.”
—Bestselling author Barbara Bretton
“…a romantic comedy filled with wonderful characters…”
—Romantic Times
“…an incredible reading experience.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Don’t play with me, lass,” Devlin growled, his words harsh. “It could lead to serious business.”
“But I’m entirely serious,” Alyssa countered. Her inviting smile transformed her into the most desirable woman Devlin had ever encountered. She ran splayed fingers along his broad shoulders and was satisfied with the shudder she felt beneath her touch.
“I’ll not steal anything that should, by rights, belong to your husband,” Devlin ground out, the cords of his neck bulging and prominent as he fought for self-restraint.
“You cannot steal what is freely given, Devlin Fitzhugh.” The words were a whisper on the wind.
“But there can be no future for us, Alyssa. Surely you understand that.”
“All the more reason to enjoy the present,” she murmured, her lips seeking his once more.
At the firm pressure of her mouth, Devlin’s resolve began to crumble…
Dear Reader,
The team of authors who write as Erin Yorke returns to one of their most popular settings this month with Devlin, an emotional tale set in Ireland and England. It’s the story of an Irish rebel who saves the life of an Englishwoman and is captured by the English for his efforts. The young woman rescues him from prison, but the two of them must battle distrust and betrayal before finding the happiness they deserve.
Deborah Simmons also returns this month with The de Burgh Bride, the sequel to her steamy adventure, Taming the Wolf. This book is the story of the scholarly de Burgh brother, Geoffrey, who has drawn the short straw and must marry the “wicked” daughter of a vanquished enemy, a woman who reportedly murdered her first husband in the marriage bed!
A city banker forced to spend a year recuperating in the country goes head-to-head with a practical country widow and learns that some of life’s greatest pleasures are the simple ones, in Theresa Michaels’s next book in her new Western series, The Merry Widows—Catherine. And corruption, jealousy and the shadow of barrenness threaten the love of a beautiful Saxon woman who has a year to produce an heir, or be separated forever from the knight who holds her heart, in Shari Anton’s stirring medieval tale, By King’s Decree.
Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you enjoy all four books this month. Keep an eye out for them, wherever Harlequin Historicals® are sold.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Devlin
Erin Yorke
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ERIN YORKE
is the pseudonym used by the writing team of Susan Yansick and Christine Healy. One half of the team is married, the mother of two sons and suburban, and the other is single, fancy-free and countryfied. They find that their differing lives and styles enrich their writing with a broader perspective.
For Gary—You were really patient with this one
And for Chris and Dave, who learned to fend for themselves
Thanks for understanding. You’re the heroes in my life.
And
For Natasha Antonova Smith
Who went from “a wonderful life” to “pretty woman” in three weeks. May the happiness you found here follow you home to Russia.
Chapter One (#ulink_79351803-1611-5298-9fb5-d0c292fa1cf6)
Ireland, 1593
Lying in the belly of a trench near Dublin Castle, Devlin Fitzhugh felt a chill travel along his spine that had nothing to do with the briskness of the mistshrouded night. The sensation was so odd and unfamiliar that he was bewildered for an instant until he recognized it for what it was. He swore softly in the darkness. He hadn’t been plagued by fear before a skirmish since he was a stripling lad.
Slowly, he released his pent-up breath while he awaited the signal that would begin the raid. Yet try as he might, Devlin couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding that tingled along the base of his skull. He didn’t have to ask himself why a man who had charged recklessly into battle innumerable times before should suddenly feel trepidation. He knew the source. It was the child the Macguires had recently brought to camp. The one they maintained he had fathered. The one they insisted was now his responsibility.
There was no reason to dispute their claim. Muirne’s coppery hair and the single dimple she sported in her left cheek echoed his own, loudly bespeaking her bloodlines. But what was he to do with a motherless mite no more than three years of age? He had never had ties other than those he owed his lord, yet here was an obligation of a different sort, one that prevented him from tendering unconditional allegiance to any chieftain, even Eamon MacMahon. The idea perplexed him and filled him with guilt. He was at a loss as to how to deal with it, but he would have no choice other than to do so once he rescued young Niall and returned him to his father’s camp.
His determination to sort out his life, however, did nothing to bring Devlin peace. The lethal calm he always experienced before battle continued to elude him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, worry still ate at his warrior’s resolve. Muirne had but lately lost her mother. What if she lost her father as well? What if he didn’t return from the impending fray? Devlin pushed the possibility from his mind. Surely thinking such a thing would make it so. Quickly, he crossed himself, as though to ward off evil.
“Your prayers won’t help Niall or any of us,” came a derisive voice at Devlin’s side.
“Perhaps, but they won’t bring about any harm, either,” Devlin responded gruffly. He stared straight ahead into the darkness, resisting the urge to throttle Cashel MacMahon, Eamon’s nephew and foster son. No other man would dare speak to him in such a manner.
“That remains to be seen, Fitzhugh. It’s beyond me why the MacMahon, wounded though he is, would entrust you with the task of seeing to my cousin’s deliverance. Wasn’t it your fault the boy was taken in the first place? He was riding with you when the attack took place.”
“You don’t have to understand anything other than you’re to remain silent and await the sign that the North Gate is open. And when it does come, you’ll do as I tell you,” Devlin replied through gritted teeth. His voice held a deadly calm that would have quieted most men. Yet Cashel pressed on.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then you put the rest of us and our success at risk. Should that be the case, I will have to kill you.” Devlin stated his intent matter-of-factly, ignoring the attention his whispered words had earned from the others. His hand snaked back to rest lightly on the hilt of his dagger. He’d not permit Cashel’s unfounded pride to bring more disaster down upon their heads.
“Aye—allow the MacMahon’s son to be captured and then slay the foster son. Mayhap you want both Niall and me out of the way so Eamon will consider naming you his heir,” Cashel spit. His brown eyes glittered in the darkness as he looked to the rest of the rescue party for support. Receiving none, he became angrier. “I’ve never trusted you, Fitzhugh.”
“’Tis wise to distrust a man who dislikes you,” Devlin said casually, though a lethal note attended his words all the same. “And at the moment, I find I dislike you intensely.”
“Hold your tongue, Cashel,” urged Sean. “Your grudge sounds as if it is founded in naught but your own jealousy.”
“Founded in my rightful anger, you mean, an anger derived from Fitzhugh’s failure to safeguard my foster brother. The gallowglass is an outsider—a hired sword—no blood kin to us. It was bad enough that Eamon trusted him with teaching Niall the ways of warfare, allowing such a one to usurp a task that by rights should have been mine. Fitzhugh couldn’t keep the boy safe within our own territory. What makes the MacMahon, or any of you, think he can snatch Niall from the clutches of the English now that they have imprisoned the lad?”
“Because I vow by all that’s holy, I’ll move heaven and earth to return Eamon’s son to him,” Devlin growled as his fingers itched to unsheathe the dagger they clutched.
“Promises! You’re good with those, but with little else. Your newfound brat is testimony to that. What promises did you make to her mother when you lay with her?”
“Silence, man!” warned Dugal as Devlin’s fury blazed across his face. But Cashel ignored the caution, bent on his attempt to belittle Devlin in front of the MacMahon’s men.
“I know I would have lain down my life to protect Niall, yet it was no great surprise to me, Fitzhugh, that you returned to camp alive to tell your tale of ambush. I should slay you now for your cowardice. But I am a rational man and will leave justice to the clan. At present, I will do no more than relieve you of your command, and assume leadership for this raid.”
Devlin could control himself no longer. Quickly, his knife sliced through the night air, a muted flash of reflected moonlight. The weapon’s point lightly grazed Cashel’s neck in warning, leaving a scratch that could as easily have been a mortal slash.
“If my words fail to make an impression, then perhaps my blade shall,” Devlin hissed. “Understand once and for all, Cashel MacMahon, that I am in charge here. I’ll tolerate your insubordination and insults no longer. Now, will I have to spill Irish blood before I take on the English, or have I your word you’ll do as I bid in order to rescue Niall?”
“Aye, you have it,” came Cashel’s sullen and begrudging reply. “But may God have mercy on you if you don’t succeed, because I will show you none.”
Then the signal for which they had been waiting sounded, and there was no more to be said.
“I’m no less a prisoner than the Irish he has been sent to convey to England,” fumed Alyssa. She tossed back her long blond hair as she paced her temporary apartment within the walls of Dublin Castle, her violet eyes flashing in anger.
Just recently torn from the only home she’d ever known by a father she couldn’t even remember, Alyssa Howett found being answerable to the capricious whims of this stranger quite difficult, especially when she despised the man who sought to tame her.
Shortly after Alyssa’s birth, Cecil Howett had nonchalantly assigned her care to his sister-in-law in Ireland. For the seventeen years since then, he had furthered his career in England without giving her a thought. Now, on her aunt’s death, he had arrived to move his daughter to London. Well, if he expected her to go willingly, to leave the country she considered her home for the one that had seen her birth, he was a fool, in Alyssa’s opinion. He had already curtailed her liberty, going so far as to decree that she was not to leave the room assigned to her in Dublin Castle without his permission. What sort of life would she have with him in London? The thought terrified her. The devil take the man! She owed him no obedience.
Perhaps he had sired her as he claimed, but he’d never raised her, had never loved her. In truth, Alyssa suspected, he had only come at this juncture because her aunt’s death had coincided with an order from Queen Elizabeth to transport prisoners from Dublin to London. Turning abruptly toward the high windows, Alyssa yanked their coverings aside and stared up at the dark sky overhead.
“Without the Irish moon and the dreams my heart spawned here, I will never survive in England,” she moaned, her words a soft echo in the nearly silent room. “But what more can I do to convince him not to take me to England? He ignores my arguments and hasn’t responded to either my pleas or my tears.”
Only the crackle of the fire and the whisper of the rushes underfoot broke the hush, a quiet Alyssa found mournful rather than comforting. She had lost her aunt but days before and still the Englishman who called her daughter showed Alyssa no mercy, expecting her to do his bidding without question. The monster had to be stopped!
Again Alyssa began to move, her dainty slippers making barely a sound as her feet wove irregular patterns back and forth across the floor of her private rooms in Dublin Castle. Her tread was so light the scent of the herb-strewn grass was barely noticeable as she recrossed the aromatic straw. The candles threw her shadow on one barren wall and then the next.
“Just because he suddenly considers me his parental responsibility I must be uprooted and taken to rot in that cold, dank country he calls home? Truly I warrant, the only thing Cecil Howett cares about is his duty to the queen. Family is clearly secondary or this father of mine would have come for me years ago,” she mused, chewing her lower lip.
“Still, if I were as rebellious as the Irish he has been ordered to transport to English prisons, how long would he wish to keep me in his company? Wouldn’t he prefer to see such a disobedient daughter banished from the public eye to waste away in exile—in Ireland perhaps?”
The thought of it made Alyssa smile, girlish hope bursting forth to light her delicate features like a beacon of sunlight escaping a cloud-filled sky. There was no certainty that her scheme would work, but at least it was better than simply waiting for the ship to England to sail with her as an undocumented prisoner.
What would make the man truly, irrevocably furious with her? So furious he would leave her behind as punishment.
Inspiration struck. She would openly defy him before the whole of Dublin Castle.
Not only would she leave her rooms, but tonight she would visit the Irish prisoners in their cells, bringing them warm blankets. Then, tomorrow morning when the royal jail was adither with questions of who was helping the rebels, she’d boldly cross the bailey to bring them extra food. She would do whatever was necessary to thwart her father’s will, and keep on doing so no matter how many lectures she received on being dutiful He would be forced to renounce her, forced to leave her behind. Having a daughter who was sympathetic to the Irish rebels wouldn’t further his career in the service of the queen. It would end it.
Glancing around the simple apartment, the girl spied the bed drapings and grinned. Closely woven to keep out the night drafts, they would surely keep in a body’s warmth. And they’d be more practical to cart across the courtyard than the feather mattress that covered her bed.
The way the men on guard duty had stared at her when she and her father had arrived at the castle left Alyssa no doubt that a winsome smile and an inch or two of exposed ankle would get her exactly where she wanted. And, after all, when she was found out, her excuse was simple. As a softhearted country lass, she was merely making the prisoners more comfortable. What was the crime in that?
Quickly Alyssa unfastened the draperies and bundled them tightly. They weighed more than she had anticipated, but perhaps one of the guards would carry them for her once she got to the tower where the cells were located. She opened the door and slipped into the dimly lit hallway.
“Cecil Howett,” she murmured, “before I’m through, you’ll pray to leave me in Ireland.”
The inky black sky barely acknowledged the pale slip of moon as Devlin and his party moved silently through the obsidian shadows toward Dublin Castle. For a moment, the Irishman fretted, wondering if the English might have secured Niall elsewhere. However, he quickly discarded the idea. The English wouldn’t expect the MacMahon to know of his son’s capture yet, much less mount an effort to free him. No, Niall would be secured in the South Tower where Irish rebels were always imprisoned, Devlin assured himself.
When he and the others reached the small side gate standing open as promised, he and Cashel moved as one, flying across the open courtyard to the door where the English stood watch, unsuspecting of their enemy’s approach.
As contrary as Cashel might be, he was a skilled fighter, Devlin had to admit as they dragged the fallen guards from their station and, moments later, waved the others forward to join them.
Crossing the threshold of the tower, Devlin again blessed himself, still feeling the need of extra protection. The strange uneasiness continued to ride his shoulders. The gallowglass glanced behind him, his eyes missing no detail, but the MacMahon forces were doing just as ordered. Yet his senses remained heightened, his nerves stretched taut beyond all reason.
Niall could not be freed without taking a risk though, and Devlin would be the last man in Ireland to willingly avoid his duty for some superstitious chill. Castles were always drafty, he told himself, disregarding the fact that he’d felt the qualms outside as well. With a shake of his coppery head, he signaled the others to follow as he inched up the stone stairs to the cells at the top.
Given its sixteen-foot-thick walls, no one could burn the tower down, let alone undermine its massive plinth. Would that stealth and subterfuge could succeed where force might not, Devlin prayed.
With his sweetly voiced offer of warm drink, Dugal’s girlish tones and slight figure disguised in borrowed skirts ought to distract the guards stationed on the upper level. Once that was done, the worst would be over.
“Thirsty, men?” asked Dugal from the shadows as the guards leaped to their feet, knives ready.
“Where’s Hawkins? He always comes up with our drinks at night,” protested the watchman. “We’re not expecting any visitors.”
“I’m not a visitor. I’m just delivering th-this warm cider,” stammered Dugal, his soft tones slipping.
“So you claim. Take off that shawl and let us see your face,” ordered the Englishman. “Then we’ll decide if we’re thirsty”
Without hesitation Devlin sprang forward from the dusky stairs. The ruse had worked long enough for his men to join him. Now was the time for skilled fighters to take over.
“Why, you—”
As the Englishman grabbed Dugal, a flash of silver flew through the air, unnoticed in the poor light. Cashel’s knife easily found its mark, burying itself in the speaker’s neck and leaving him gasping for air, his arms freeing Dugal to clutch at the embedded blade. Instantly Cashel was on his victim, stabbing him once more until the guard fell to the floor, the first man dead in the raid.
“Take the keys, free whomever you want,” the second jailor cried.
“Check the cells for Niall,” ordered Devlin, catching the ring and tossing it to Sean as Cashel approached the other guard with murder in his eyes.
“Cashel, leave him. Niall is more important—”
“Here I am, Devlin,” called a weak voice.
Devlin turned and relaxed for the first time in three days. Niall was alive—filthy, clearly frightened but thankfully upright and moving under his own power.
“Are you all right then, lad?” As the boy emerged from the darkness, Devlin wrapped Eamon’s son in a warm embrace.
“I’ll do.”
“Thanks be to God,” Devlin murmured. “Let’s go home.”
“We must take those fellows along,” Niall explained, gesturing to the other prisoners already fleeing the jail.
“As you say,” agreed Devlin, “at least until we’re outside the castle. No matter what his crimes, no Irishman deserves to stay in this English hellhole.”
Suddenly a bell tolled, echoing in the yard as Cashel and Devlin exchanged glances.
“They must have found the guards at the gate. We’ve no time to waste,” urged Devlin. “Down the stairs to the passage in the north wall. Niall, don’t stop for anyone or anything.”
Going first in order to protect Niall, Devlin descended the steps with his sword and dagger drawn. In all his life, he’d never had a presentiment of disaster as strong as this. Every nerve in his body was alert, every sense working to anticipate what might lie at the foot of the circular stair.
“Hurry,” he called over his shoulder. As shouts in the bailey resounded off the stone walls, he increased his already quick pace. “Tell the others it’s each man for himself, but all of us for the MacMahon’s son. I’ll try to distract pursuit.”
Then, unbelievably, he had reached the ground. Taking a deep breath, Devlin opened the door to the outer corridor, only to be nearly bowled over by a mound of moving fabric that hit him like a heavy blue cloud.
“Ho’ What?” His breath knocked from him, he could only motion the men to go without him while he disentangled himself from the folds of material and the squirming form beneath them.
“Devlin?” questioned Niall anxiously.
“Go quickly now. I’ll join you later,” Devlin ordered, pleased the boy hesitated only briefly before obeying.
“Get your hands off me, sir, or I’ll have you jailed,” warned a feminine voice from beneath the unwieldy draperies as she attempted to free herself from them.
It had taken Alyssa longer than she expected to leave the main part of the castle Then there had been that loud clanging noise erupting out of nowhere that startled her and made her drop the cloth earlier—where there had been no guards about to assist her. It had seemed like ages until she had been able to pick up the bed hangings, and here they were all over the floor again, no thanks to the dolt towering above her, an Irishman from the sound of him.
Raising her eyes so she could give him a piece of her mind, Alyssa stopped short. A man, a tall giant of a man, with red hair and angry blue eyes glared down at her, weapons in both of his hands.
“Sir, you might have killed me—” She gulped, her eyes wide with trepidation. Could these be escaping prisoners? Her father would turn murderer himself if she got involved with them—and she would be his victim!
Then another figure darted forward, yanked her to her feet and shoved her in front of him toward the door.
“She can be a hostage for us—just as they took Niall,” rejoiced Cashel. He needed to escape the castle immediately, before his part in the crime was discovered. No Englishman would be able to identify just which Irishman had placed the woman in jeopardy, and if he were taken, he’d say it had been Devlin’s idea.
“No, let her go. She’s hardly more than a child,” protested Devlin. He grabbed for the man, but Cashel was already through the door with the girl, leaving Devlin no choice but to follow.
“My daughter! My God, they have my daughter,” cried an anguished voice as they headed across the bailey. “Tell your men to be careful.”
“My men will do what they must in order to recapture the prisoners,” said the governor of the prison. No one, English or Irish, had ever escaped his jail alive and he’d be damned before one did tonight. “Get MacMahon, lads! There’s a healthy bounty on the boy, and there’ll be more for every Irishman you take, whatever his name.”
They swarmed from nowhere, swore Devlin, dodging right and left to avoid the onslaught until he could catch Cashel and the female. Then, they fought their way nearly across the compound, while steel clanging loudly upon steel shattered the night. Every moment brought more English soldiers to the skirmish. But Devlin knew he and the others couldn’t yield and live.
Methodically, the gallowglass worked his way toward his goal, the escape route in the north wall, engaging one after the other of Her Majesty’s troops, relishing the victory of each step that brought him closer to freedom. Hard put to follow the movements of all under his command, he was nonetheless aware of several Irishmen making their way through the gate into the safety beyond Dublin Castle.
“Please, God, let Niall be among them,” he whispered.
Cashel, however, was still within the bailey, having a difficult time of it. Maintaining his hold upon the girl, the fool was keeping her all too close to the fighting for Devlin’s taste. If she were killed, they’d have an innocent child’s murder on their heads.
“Release the lass!” Devlin roared above the din. Once she had scurried away, he and Cashel could no doubt slash their way out of the English stronghold.
“Devil the girl! I won’t give up my life for hers,” Cashel balked. “She’s our only hope of getting out.”
“I’m ordering you to let her go,” Devlin roared, fending off one attacking English sword after another as he moved forward, still monitoring Cashel’s progress.
All at once Cashel, near the open gate, obeyed, roughly casting his hostage away from him and flying toward safety.
Yet Devlin cursed him as Eamon’s foster son, in his haste to turn tail and run, sent the girl tumbling to the ground, directly into the path of numerous English soldiers, swords drawn to slash anyone between them and their quarry.
“Keep down, lass,” he ordered, eyeing his own tenuous path to freedom as the guards circled nearer.
But the trembling girl ignored his warning and scrambled to her feet, ready to flee, only to put herself directly in the way of a descending English blade.
Instinctively, and without a thought as to the consequences, Devlin moved to block the brainless female from the English weapon rather than continue in the direction of the gate. Swiftly, his muscle-laden arm reached out to thrust her behind him before the point of a sword could inadvertently end her life.
His protective action took no more than an instant, but it was an instant that Devlin did not possess. Suddenly the gallowglass found himself encircled by the enemy, and all hope of escape vanished. The girl was pulled out of range and half a dozen blades took aim.
“Take him alive,” commanded an authoritative voice. “I want to know who is responsible for this outrage.”
Devlin fought like a man possessed, hacking wildly, striking out in futile desperation, welcoming the heavy thud of his sword against others. But his feverish assault was to no avail. His route to freedom had been sealed off, Cashel the last man through. The gate was forever beyond him.
Still, the Irishman would not concede the inevitability of his capture. Eight men surrounded him, their swords slashing freely at his arms and face. Blood dripping, he defended himself more valiantly than ever. Yet even his great strength could do no more than stave off for a few moments a fate that could not be altered.
Eventually he was subdued, though it took near a score of men to hold Devlin while the shackles were clamped around his wrists and ankles. Once he was securely fettered and yanked to his feet, the soft clinking of his chains echoed desolately in the night air as he looked around him in frenzied disbelief.
The ground was littered with five fallen English and only one of the men under his command. The girl he had saved stood enfolded within the arms of a middle-aged Englishman, who gave rein to freely flowing tears. She regarded the man with a baffled look before she slowly rested her head upon his chest, allowing the fellow to clasp her more tightly.
Devlin wanted to bellow his rage. Now that he had been taken as punishment for his good deed, who would be there to comfort his daughter as the English wench was being comforted? The answer was stark and grim: no one!
He had consigned Muirne to existence as an orphan. There were none to protect her as her father would have done, nor would any love her as intensely. Devlin agonized at the inequity of it. But whom did he have to blame for his predicament? No one other than himself. And that galled him all the more.
Groaning, he reviled his soft heart and even softer head, having traded his daughter’s future for that of a witless Englishwoman too stupid to get out of harm’s way. Cursing himself for being the greatest fool God had ever fashioned, Devlin saw the girl turn in his direction. When her shy glance traveled across the crowd to meet his, he spit in disgust. Resentment rose like bile in his throat, so that coldly, without a hint of compunction, Devlin Fitzhugh damned her and then damned himself as well.
Chapter Two (#ulink_d2e3424a-28fb-5424-bb34-444df71b403f)
The morning was young, and remnants of last night’s struggle were still visible in the bailey below Alyssa’s window. Though the inhabitants of the castle sought to return things to normal, a sense of upset hung heavily in the air. Nowhere was it more pervasive than in Alyssa’s bedchamber, where the distraught girl fought to blink back tears.
Though she had troubles aplenty of her own the fate of the Irishman who had saved her life touched her heart. And now, because of her, the brave, comely gallowglass was confined in the tower. Devlin Fitzhugh was his name…or so the charges read.
Remorse plagued the girl’s heart. Who knew what awaited him? ‘Twas not meet that so fine a man should have to endure suffering as a result of her defiance against her father, a defiance that now appeared childish and shallow when she considered the consequences it had wrought.
The point had been brought home when she had seen her Irish savior dragged away. His thick, coppery hair and his proud, sullen face had captured the early light of dawn so that he was aglow with fierceness, despite the wounds he had sustained. The sight of him had caused Alyssa’s breath to catch in her throat. He appeared a magnificent rebel, a man who should be free roaming the green hills of his homeland, not destined for an English jail or worse.
Alyssa shuddered. By comparison, her own future suddenly seemed not so bleak. The look of horror on her father’s face when she had been in danger, the tears of joy he had shed when he had clasped her to him after she had reached safety, surely indicated that he felt at least some fondness for her, that he was not the complete ogre she had imagined him to be. Still, how could such a sentiment be reconciled with the unalterable fact that he had abandoned her following her mother’s death in childbirth? That he had sent her off to Ireland with his sister and never once come to see her?
The relationship with her father, life in England, the fate of the man in the tower—there were so many emotions swirling around in Alyssa’s troubled heart. Mindlessly brushing back a blond tendril that had escaped to nestle in the hollow of her cheek, she began to pace her quarters, but dozens of repetitions did nothing to soothe her. Instead, her upset and bafflement only increased with each step.
Finally, a frustrated Alyssa threw herself down onto a straight-backed wooden chair beside a small table. Wearily, she propped her elbows on its worn surface, closed her eyes and leaned her head against her folded hands. Life had been so simple a few months ago. Nay, even last night, before she had visited the cells, her situation had not been as complex. How could it have worsened so much within so little time? Things had been bad enough without more trouble finding her. Once again, the image of shackles on the strong arms that had defended her wrenched Alyssa’s heart. Oh, trouble hadn’t found her, she thought with self-disgust, she had gone looking for it. If only she could do something to gain the Irishman’s liberty, or at the very least ease his plight. Perhaps if she spoke to her father…
Alyssa’s thoughts were interrupted by the squeak of a hinge and the sound of her door slowly swinging inward. A masculine footfall stopped beside her, and then warm, compassionate fingers swept a strand of hair back from her forehead before coming to rest atop the crown of her head.
“Your mother had hair as beautiful yet unruly as yours,” her father said quietly. Heartened that the girl had not batted his hand away as she would have a few days ago, Cecil patted her shoulder awkwardly before settling himself in the chair on the opposite side of the table. He was finding it exceedingly difficult to shoulder the day-to-day responsibilities of fatherhood so late in life.
When she raised her head and regarded him somberly, Cecil was concerned that Alyssa’s arresting violet eyes were made more vivid by the pale lavender smudges staining the delicate skin beneath them. Like her mother, she had the look of a fragile female, he mused, and the girl had endured much of late. Then he reminded himself that there was a fire beneath Alyssa’s surface with which he had become all too well acquainted these past few days. It was a blaze that tempered her spirit and gave her a strength her mother, God have mercy on her, had never possessed. Even now, there was the look of protest etched upon the lass’s pretty features, and Cecil chided himself for thinking that the comfort she had accepted from him immediately after her near tragedy had forever changed things between them.
“Do not compare me to my mother, sirrah. You’ve sworn to me how very precious she was to you. Speaking of the two of us in the same breath only emphasizes my own inconsequential standing in your eyes.”
“Daughter, what must I do to make you believe that you are just as dear to me?” Howett asked, reaching out to capture one of Alyssa’s restless hands in his own.
“If that were true, Father, then you reward those who preserve my life quite oddly.”
“The Irishman…” Cecil muttered with a sigh. “Try to understand, Alyssa.”
“What is there for me to comprehend other than that you have helped punish the man who saved me from falling victim to a sword?”
“I have spoken to Governor Newcomb and done all I can for Fitzhugh. Isn’t it enough that he’s alive at the moment?” Cecil demanded. “In truth, the rebel should have been immediately beheaded, if not garroted, for his crimes against the queen.”
“The queen! Your duty to Elizabeth always provides you with an adequate excuse whenever your actions are questionable,” Alyssa shot back heatedly, withdrawing her hand from her father’s grasp.
“Her Majesty is not a sovereign to be thwarted, Alyssa. ‘Tis a lesson you should commit to heart before you set foot in England. To fail to do so is to court disaster,” Cecil replied, his voice stern.
“Is that why you always put your loyalty to the queen above all else? Above my mother? Above me?”
“I’ve told you I had no choice! When our sovereign commanded me to accompany her envoy to the Lowlands as his secretary, what could I do but go? Had I refused, I could have been thrown in the Tower, and both you and your mother left to live in poverty. As it is, your dam did not live to see my return home. But you were waiting for me,” Cecil said. His words were drenched in wistful nostalgia, as though he truly did wish that things might have been different.
“A scant two months later, I was informed that my service had pleased Her Majesty, and I was to be sent abroad again. I knew that such an order precipitated a career to be spent in foreign lands. Was I to take you, an infant, with me? Expose your tender, young life to the hazards of constant travel? I had just lost my wife, I would not lose you as well. Nor did I want to see you grow to womanhood among the intrigues of various royal courts. No, as much as I wanted you beside me, I could not be that selfish. Instead, I consigned you to the care of my sister, a loving woman whose own two children had died. Even though she was slated to settle in Ireland, it seemed to be in your best interests at the time. You must believe me, Alyssa. It was because I loved you that I gave you away. If I was in error, I apologize.”
“But why didn’t you visit me? Why didn’t you write?” Alyssa asked
“What excuse can I possibly offer, my dear? Elizabeth kept me too busy to travel on my own behalf. And by the time you were old enough to read, I had hardened my heart to the pain of our separation Perhaps I was simply too cowardly to open myself to the anguish again. But now, my years of service have been rewarded. I have been given a post in England, and after I see these Irish rebels safely in English jails, I can once more establish a home. I wish to have you there with me.”
Alyssa wanted to believe him In fact, she yearned to do so. But the sense of rejection she had known as a child would not permit it until her father had proved himself to her
“If you care for me as you say you do, Father, then how can you stand by and watch the Irishman who saved me be condemned to imprisonment?” Alyssa asked stubbornly.
“Don’t you think I wanted to thank your impulsive rescuer, to send him on his way laden with gold and jewels? I did. But I have neither the authority nor riches to do so, regardless of what is in my heart. The rogue led an assault on Dublin Castle, Alyssa! Soldiers of the crown were slain. Political prisoners were released, some of whom I was charged with transporting to England. And because the chaos your Irishman caused began at the cell of Eamon MacMahon’s son, we have to assume he’s in league with the MacMahon himself.”
“The MacMahon?”
“Aye, a right troublesome rebel, a traitorous Irish nobleman who has been stripped of his lands and wealth by the queen. The MacMahon and his band live as outlaws. To have kept his son in captivity would have been to curtail his lawless behavior and acts of aggression against the crown. But your gallowglass saw to that, didn’t he? Why, his association with Eamon MacMahon is, in itself, reason for execution. I had it within my power to keep him from immediate death but little else. It was beyond me to gain his liberty. As it was, it took more than an hour of heated words with Governor Newcomb to convince him to march Fitzhugh to the tower rather than the block.”
“What did you say?” Alyssa asked, curiosity overcoming her reluctance to prolong any conversation with the man who was her sire. Though Fitzhugh’s execution had been a dim possibility, it had not been one she had considered seriously. Who would take the life of so heroic a man?
“I asserted that Fitzhugh was due some clemency for saving the daughter of Her Majesty’s representative.”
“And Newcomb agreed?”
“No…not entirely. I’m afraid we arrived at a stalemate. But I managed to convince him it was unwise to act hastily. Since I am not scheduled to leave Ireland until the end of the month, when the prisoners from the outlying districts have been brought to Dublin and placed in my care, we have decided to lay the matter before the queen. A missive has been sent detailing events. The Irishman will be safe from Newcomb’s wrath at least until we receive Her Majesty’s reply.”
“But what if…if…” Alyssa faltered in her question, her eyes growing round with horror.
“There, there, daughter, you’re not to worry. The queen will show mercy. The rebel will most likely be imprisoned in England for a time, but at least he will be alive,” Cecil assured her, silently praying his words contained some truth.
“How can you be so certain?”
“Do you have to ask? My dealings with Elizabeth over the years have given me some insight into her character. I promise, the Irishman’s life will be spared,” Cecil contended. Receiving the queen’s decision in the matter was a few weeks away, but the moment to soothe his daughter was now, to make her see he was not the monster she had painted him and that life with him would not be so unhappy as she anticipated.
“And if your recommendation holds no sway with the queen, what will we do?” Alyssa whispered, her fair face paler than usual.
“I beg that you trust me, daughter,” Cecil Howett implored with an intensity that oddly enough tugged at Alyssa’s heart. “Your Irishman will be spared. I give you my word.”
“Then I thank you, Father,” Alyssa said stiffly, still uncertain as to whether or not she could believe his promises.
“Your gratitude may be misplaced, sweetling,” Cecil Howett said with a weary shake of his gray head, glad the discussion seemed to be drawing to an end. “With conditions being what they are in English jails, it could well have been more merciful to have permitted your Irishman’s execution.”
“Nay, Father! You did the right thing, and I pray you will continue to do all within your power to keep him safe,” Alyssa replied fervently. She thought about placing a tentative kiss on Cecil’s cheek to seal their bargain, but hastily decided against it. She was not yet willing to chance allowing this stranger into her heart. It was a further complication she didn’t need when she had more pressing things to tend to. While her father saw to it that Fitzhugh remained alive, it would be up to her to bring Devlin solace as best she could. Surely she owed him that much, and never had debt seemed such a light burden.
Though Devlin had been confined for nearly eighteen hours, his violent rage at his predicament had yet to leave him, and he savagely yanked at his confining chains. Strong as he was, his efforts were to no avail. But he could not stop himself from trying to pull the links free of the large iron ring embedded in the wall through which his shackles had been laced. He knew he would not cease his attempts until he fell victim to exhaustion. Then, perhaps, sleep would overcome him and in sweet oblivion he would find peace of sorts, transitory though it would be.
Once more he tugged at his chains, gritting his teeth and silently cursing the impulsiveness that had landed him where he was. A score of thoughts raced through his head. He wondered whether Niall had escaped safely, and pondered his own fate, but mostly he thought of Muirne and what would become of her in his absence. Oh, he knew the MacMahon would see the child fed and sheltered as best he could. But food was not always plentiful in the rebel camp and starvation was certainly no stranger to Ireland since a handful of English had stolen lands that had once fed thousands. Besides, a girl could not grow up roughand-tumble in a camp as he had done, without proper guardians to see to her welfare. If she managed to survive at all, she would likely end up as her mother had, bearing someone’s bastard and succumbing to an early death.
The idea of it ate at Devlin’s very soul, though he barely knew his daughter, and he almost groaned his grief aloud when he considered the life the child would be forced to live.
He had been nothing more than a softhearted fool not to have turned Maeve away when she had crept beneath his blanket one dark, moonlit night. He had never decided whether it had been the frost on the ground or the ice surrounding his own heart that had seen him shivering with cold that evening. The only thing of which he was certain was that it had seemed natural to accept the warmth Maeve had offered. But he should have resisted temptation. Then there would have been no child to suffer because he had been captured.
More enraged with himself than before, Devlin had never looked so fierce. He was about to begin his futile pulling at the iron ring once again when he heard a scurrying in the darkness, much too loud to be that of one of the rats with whom he shared the tower. Quickly, he got to his feet. He’d not appear cowed before his English captors.
Taking a proud stance, Devlin wondered what fresh torture was about to befall him. So far, he had not answered any of the questions he had been asked about the MacMahon or the location of his camp. Would the English employ the lash or the hot iron to bend him to their will? The method mattered not. He would fight submission until he lost consciousness, or at least, he prayed he would.
Suddenly, out of the darkness, stepped a willowy female form. Devlin muttered a curse. The sight of the girl he had saved was more painful to him than any physical punishment. He could not bear to look at her without silently railing against his unfathomable behavior in the courtyard of Dublin Castle, the behavior that had cost him his freedom and decreed Muirne would not have the life he wished for her.
“Hello.” The voice was soft and delicate as the English lass dropped her hand away from the candle she had been shielding.
Looking at her, Devlin could see now that she was not the child he had at first supposed her to be. Her soft curves proclaimed that she was more woman than girl, but the youthful beauty of her face hinted that childhood was not all that far behind her. Why, she was probably no more than sixteen, Devlin thought, until he realized what he was doing and began to silently berate himself. What difference did it make? What was the wench to him, anyway?
Devlin shot her a fierce look meant to send her scampering on her way in terror. But she stood her ground, overlooking the fury on his face just as she ignored her malodorous surroundings. Instead, she saw only a magnificent warrior, one with a heart so big that he had risked his life for hers though the world had declared her his enemy.
Alyssa gave a tiny sigh as she studied Devlin Fitzhugh. Her aunt and uncle might have pampered her, but no one had ever been willing to hazard his life for her before this rugged gallowglass had done so. She was as much impressed by his gallantry as she was by his physique. Surely the world had never known such a hero.
“My name is Alyssa Howett,” she began. “I am the…woman you saved last night.”
“As if I could forget you!” Devlin growled. “But it matters not to me what you are called, girl. Get you hence before I do you harm.”
“Oh, I know you’re angry, and I can find no fault with that, but I also know that you would never hurt me,” Alyssa continued. “Such evil could never be in your nature.”
“Step a few inches closer so that I can wrap my chains about your slender young neck, and I’ll show you how very wicked a desperate man can be.”
“I had to speak with you, to tell you how badly I feel that I played a part in your capture.”
A part? This whole thing is your fault, Devlin wanted to bellow. But he held his tongue because he knew such an outburst would be a lie. From his viewpoint, no one but he was responsible for his dilemma, and that grated on him more than if someone else had actually been to blame. Still, the sight of the girl was almost more than he could bear, reminding him as it did of his foolish gallantry during Niall’s rescue.
“Please, you must believe me,” Alyssa persisted in the face of Devlin’s stony silence. “I truly am sorry.”
“No sorrier than I am,” Devlin ground out bitterly. If the girl felt guilty, it was an emotion that might be used to his advantage. “What were you doing flitting about the cells in the middle of the night? Can’t your father control you, or is it a habit of yours to visit imprisoned men under cover of darkness?”
“No!” she exclaimed, her face blazing crimson. “No to both questions. I don’t know my father very well. We’ve just been reunited after many years apart, and when we first became reacquainted, I hated him and refused to obey him in even the smallest matters. He had abandoned me, you see.”
The simple, innocent confession tore at Devlin’s being. How long would it be before he saw Muirne again—if ever he did? And, how would she feel about him if he came back into her life? Would she, too, feel her father had deserted her?
“I want you to know that I begged my father to arrange your release, but it was futile.”
“A man of great honor, your sire,” Devlin commented in derision, “and I suppose you are much like him.”
“Don’t you think I would help you if I could?”
“Prove it,” he demanded. “Get me the key that will unlock my chains.”
“I can’t,” the girl admitted shamefully. “The guard carries them.”
“Then what good are you? Leave me in peace.”
Despite the fact that she would have granted the Irishman his freedom if it were within her power, the thought of never seeing him again filled Alyssa with melancholy. She attributed the feeling to silly, girlish fancies and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand, easing Devlin Fitzhugh’s plight in whatever small way she could.
“I’ve brought you something,” she said, fishing in a deep side pocket of her gown.
“A weapon, a chisel?” Devlin asked anxiously.
“Nay, ‘tis but an apple,” Alyssa replied apologetically. “But I thought it might give you some comfort.”
“Think you I have any stomach for food?” Devlin asked in disgust. “Go away and don’t return unless you want to place your life in jeopardy.”
The only response he received was the dull thump of the apple as it dropped to the floor inside his cell and rolled towards him. Then there was silence followed by the sound of light, hurried footsteps marking the girl’s retreat.
The quiet did not last long. It was interrupted by the gravelly voice of one of the guards. Carrying a bucket and a stack of trenchers, he was walking in the company of two of his fellows. It was obvious they were delivering the day’s meal.
“We got here in time to hear that softhearted wench offer you an apple,” the Englishman said derisively. Unlocking Devlin’s door, he padded forward, followed by the other two, who stood with pikes pointed in Devlin’s direction. “Sort of makes this your own private Eden, doesn’t it?” The guard laughed cruelly, retrieving the fruit and holding it aloft before he crunched it between his few remaining teeth.
“I didn’t know the serpent ate the apple as well,” Devlin drawled, his voice drenched with condescension in spite of his circumstances.
“Seems to me we should give you something other than your supper, laddie. You need instruction in how to talk to your betters…the girl and me.” The jailer took a small club dangling from his waist and began to wield it. Sickening thuds echoed in the darkness as the weapon found its target again and again. That Devlin bore the cruelty without pleading for clemency incensed the Englishman further, increasing his efforts. Finally, however, he tired of his sport.
“A few more such lessons, Irishman, and you’ll no longer be so pretty. Then there will be no lass come to visit you and make your lot easier.”
It was perhaps the most merciful thing he had heard since his capture, Devlin thought as consciousness made ready to flee and the Englishman’s harangue began to fade in the distance.
“Niall, praise be Mary and all the saints,” yelled Eamon MacMahon two days later as he saw the small band of men approach his campfire. Hampered as he was by his crutch and broken leg, he hobbled to his feet and embraced his son warmly. “By all that’s holy, I feared I’d never see you again. But the scouts said Devlin wasn’t with you. Where’s the man to whom I owe my son’s life?”
“Right here, Uncle,” Cashel said gruffly. “Devlin was taken early on and I had to take charge and lead the fight out of the castle to save Niall. I’m proud to say we lost only one man, Kieran.”
“And Devlin.” Niall’s voice was strident, his youthful indignation barely held in check. Initially he’d refused to even accompany Cashel, arguing about not leaving Devlin behind until the older man had tied him to his horse for the journey home. “Father, we must return at once for Devlin. I can’t abandon him. In fact, if Cashel hadn’t knocked me out when I tried to head back into Dublin, I wouldn’t be here at all—”
“Then God bless the man, you young fool. If you were taken again, there would surely be no talk of ransom,” the Irish chieftain said. “Cashel, I appreciate your putting Niall first, but was there no way to help Devlin?”
“Would you have had me risk the lives of all of these for the sake of one?” Cashel demanded. “The English were swarming like bees in a flowering meadow, their weapons ready and no mercy in their eyes. I thought it meet to escape while we could.”
“Devlin told us he would try to distract pursuit from Niall,” reminded Dugal. “Perhaps he did get away. He may still come along under his own power.”
“But he’d never leave one of his men behind. We shouldn’t have left if there was any chance that he’d show,” argued Niall, repeating the words he’d echoed since escaping Dublin.
“There wasn’t any!” snapped Eamon’s nephew. Annoyed that concern for Fitzhugh overrode his own part in the heroic rescue, Cashel revealed more than he’d intended. “I was the last one through the gate. I saw him taken.”
“And you didn’t turn back to help him?” Niall was the spokesman but the murmur from the others of the clan left Cashel no doubt that the lad spoke for all. “You betrayed not only Devlin but all the MacMahons when you deserted him—”
“The devil take such nonsense. It was our lives or his and I’d do the same again if need be.”
“And what of your quarrel over who was in charge?” challenged Sean. “You didn’t like being his second.”
“I’ll not deny I’ve questioned the MacMahon’s judgment regarding Fitzhugh’s ability, but I admit when I’m wrong and I was about this. Devlin Fitzhugh planned the raid on the Castle and executed it perfectly. He fought like ten men to get us free of there, but he’d be the first to agree that Niall’s life must come before his own. Niall, lad, he told you in the tower, ‘don’t stop for anyone or anything.’ Have you forgotten?”
“No, but—”
“And Dugal, didn’t Fitzhugh insist on leading us out of the castle, knowing full well that the odds were against us once the alarm sounded? The man knew the risks and willingly accepted them.”
“You’re glad he was taken,” accused Eamon’s son.
“Use your head. Would I choose to anger your father by abandoning a man he so values if I could avoid it? My main responsibility was seeing you out of the pale and back here before the soldiers found us. Now that you’re safe, we can tend to Devlin” Though it galled him to say it, Cashel could see he had no choice but make it appear this had been his plan all along. Of course, by the time they returned to Dublin, Fitzhugh’s rotting head on a pike might be the only part of him left. The English didn’t take kindly to Irishmen who raided their jails.
“Then we’ll ready the horses for you to leave at first light,” agreed the MacMahon. He didn’t know if he trusted Cashel’s story, but he was kin, and one didn’t forsake the clan when ordered to perform a duty. “I won’t feel Niall is truly safe until you bring Fitzhugh home—and I know you’re the one man who can do it.”
“I’ll go, too, Father,” volunteered Niall.
“No. You’re too inexperienced to be helpful,” countered Eamon. “Cashel will pick the men he wants and when he returns, we’ll feast like never before. Now, Cashel, get some rest before you head out again.”
“Aye, Eamon, and you, enjoy your son. I’m thankful I could bring him home to you.” The words grated in Cashel’s ears, his hero’s welcome evaporated for worry over Devlin. Damn the blasted gallowglass! Even absent his presence was still felt. Cashel MacMahon would never risk his life for one such as he.
Chapter Three (#ulink_c96362f2-8c0d-5852-b043-24761ffb33d5)
Devlin finally stopped his measured pacing, steps sorely restricted by the chains that still bound him to the wall. Overcome by exhaustion, he hunkered down in his dark, dank cell. With his elbows propped on his muscular thighs, he allowed his head to fall wearily forward and rest against his hands as morbid anxiety gnawed at his soul, and the iron around his wrists and ankles bit into flesh rubbed raw.
He’d been confined here only three days and already he felt a growing sense of desperation so strong that it took all of his rapidly diminishing resources to deal with it. He was a freeborn man, who had always moved about his homeland whenever and wherever his inclinations had dictated. How many of his nights had been spent sleeping under star-studded skies, how many days had seen him roaming the rugged Irish landscape as unconfined as the winds that blew in from the sea?
Yet it made no difference what his lot had been, he thought bitterly, his fingers digging into his flesh in frustration and raking down his stubble-covered cheeks and chin. Whatever had been was past. This was his fate now—at least for the time being—until either Eamon arranged his rescue or he succumbed to madness or death. Did the English plan to torture him by keeping him confined for the rest of his natural life, or did they intend to execute him for his part in Niall’s escape? He still didn’t know.
If not for Muirne, death would be vastly preferable to facing years of imprisonment. Yet the little one was his responsibility and it was his duty to fight for survival for her sake, Devlin reminded himself, lifting his coppery head and allowing it to fall back and make contact with a damp, stone wall.
But to be reduced to this! It was almost beyond endurance to be caged like some dangerous animal. It made him feel ferocious, ready to pounce and kill whatever living being happened into his wretched new domain.
Suddenly, a flicker of light broke through the blackness and Devlin steeled himself to his full height, even as his well-muscled body tensed in wary anticipation.
The soft, whispered rustle of material should have warned him what was about to happen, but it was not until she held the candle aloft, allowing it to illuminate the soft contours of her face, that Devlin knew who this intruder upon his dark thoughts actually was. The girl, Alyssa, stood before him again, a tentative smile brightening her face almost as much as the flame she carried.
Sweet Jesu! Would she give him no peace? Devlin stood there, wishing she would disappear, that the darkness would suddenly devour her and leave no trace behind to remind him she had ever existed.
“I want you to know I’ve begged to have your chains removed,” Alyssa began uneasily, her slim white hand fluttering to indicate Devlin’s fetters. “My father has promised me he will have it done today. At least you’ll be able to move a bit more freely, even though you are still confined to a cell. I have a small cache of coins left me by an aunt, and I’ve used some of them to see to it that you’ll have two meals a day instead of one. And tonight, there will be some fresh straw to replace that vermin-infested heap in the corner,” she said, her nose wrinkling for an instant in distaste until the presence of the man whose bravery had captured her girlish heart made her begin to forget where they were.
As she concentrated on his dangerous good looks, the surrounding squalor faded away completely and Alyssa saw only Devlin Fitzhugh. His well-honed body, his stubborn stance, his arrogant bearing all exuded a masculine beauty. And his face, with its finely chiseled features, was inordinately handsome, or at least it would be, Alyssa amended, if only he would stop scowling at her so blackly. Why didn’t he say something?
“Besides that, I’ll continue coming to visit you every day just as I have for the past two, to see how you are faring,” Alyssa finally stated, as much to break the silence as to inform the rugged Irishman of her intentions.
“Go away, girl. I’ve told you repeatedly I have no desire for your company,” Devlin growled.
“I’m certain you don’t mean that,” Alyssa protested, unwilling to believe the warrior who had begun to haunt her dreams would treat her so unceremoniously. She was growing tired of his telling her to leave him alone. Wasn’t it about now he should be exhibiting some degree of gratitude?
“I do,” Devlin warned harshly.
“’Tis naught but your manly pride talking,” Alyssa stated insistently, her violet eyes flashing. It appeared that seeing to the welfare of her Irish gallowglass was going to be difficult. But Alyssa had not earned her reputation for willfulness undeservedly. Devlin’s lack of cooperation only made her more determined to help him survive his imprisonment, an incarceration for which she still felt blame.
“’Tis my righteous fury speaking and nothing less,” Devlin all but snarled. “If you value your safety, you’ll leave now and never return.”
“Fie, sir! I am weary of your threats!” Alyssa exclaimed with an unconsciously insolent sway of her hips. “I have told you from the beginning, you don’t frighten me one jot! You saved my life.”
“That was naught but folly, a softhearted, dullwitted impulse that I’ve lived to regret, and never more than at this moment. Certainly it is an error I would never repeat.”
“Say what you will, but I know that in spite of your fierce glowering there is a kind heart within your warrior’s body. And so, Devlin Fitzhugh, you will be seeing me often. Now you can continue to rail or you can save your strength and accept the fact. It makes no difference to me.”
With that, Alyssa withdrew something from her pocket and shoved it through the bars. It was a hunk of bread wrapped in a scrap of cloth. Devlin glared at it, and then at the girl.
“I’ll see you on the morrow,” Alyssa whispered softly, and then both she and the weak light of the candle were gone.
Devlin remained where he was, allowing his eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. This time, unlike yesterday, he’d be damned if he ate the girl’s largesse, he swore to himself. Hungry as he might be, it would stay where it was until the wench returned the next day. She could add whatever she brought to the pile, which would continue to grow until she finally realized that he would have none of her ill-conceived generosity. That was the only way to deal with such a headstrong lass.
But a high-pitched squeak and a pair of small, red eyes glowing in the darkness caused Devlin to quickly reconsider his decision. Food strewn on the floor of his cell would only cause it to become more rat infested than it already was. And with not even a few crumbs left behind, the English girl would never believe his assertions that he had ignored her food, that the rats had eaten it. Most likely, the little witch would only laugh in the face of his anger and smile that knowing feminine smile of hers. Lord, but she’d lead some unlucky man a merry chase when she grew older. And in the meantime, she would practice her infuriating behavior on him, Devlin thought in despair, seeing once again the impudent swing of the lass’s hips as she argued with him.
Bending down, he swatted at the advancing rat and scooped up the bread, muttering darkly.
Savagely, Devlin bit off a piece, almost choking on it in spite of the honey slathered across its center. But once the last morsel was gone, no sweetness lingered in his mouth.
Dear mother of God but he had dreaded his imprisonment before the girl had made a habit of appearing. How would he ever endure jail and the wench, too? Devlin rested his head against the iron bars and gave a low moan Surely there was no mercy in heaven.
Then, despite himself, an exasperated smile crossed Devlin’s face. A man impressed by bravery, Devlin found he couldn’t but admire Alyssa Howett. She was nothing if not a spirited, defiant little soul. Why, not even his blackest look could quell her. And with all that blond hair of hers, and those unusual violet eyes…Perhaps at another time, in another place, she could have tempted him.
But what was he thinking! She was English, one of the oppressors, and he an Irish rebel. She was little more than a girl and he was fast approaching thirty winters. She had an entire lifetime before her, and he, in all likelihood, was a condemned man.
What strange thoughts she wrought within him! They were especially odd when Devlin considered that whether free or imprisoned, he was a warrior, and had little time for women, let alone young girls. And this young girl was intelligent, smart enough to see through his bluster, to know that he bristled not at the small kindnesses she insisted upon showing him, but at being beholden to a female. Yes, she was clever all right, and if he had had his liberty, he would have fled from her immediately.
Within a week, Alyssa discovered, her days in Dublin Castle took on a pattern of their own. As long as she appeared promptly for the midday meal she was expected to share with her father and the governor, her mornings were hers. Then, afterward she was free to embroider or sketch until dinner.
Not once had Cecil Howett questioned her amusements or disturbed her wanderings, apparently pleased that she was keeping out of trouble. Most important, his attitude gave her entry to any manner of place all over the castle grounds.
Flipping through her drawings, Alyssa smiled at her chosen subjects: children playing in the lane outside the jail, alert wardens walking the wall, maids scurrying across the courtyard with laundry, Devlin pacing in his cell, unaware he was being observed. Those of the gallowglass were her favorites, though Devlin Fitzhugh would not be one to indulge an artist’s endeavors and pose willingly. In fact, he was not a man accustomed to enforced idleness of any kind.
Naturally, she made certain to include a daily visit to the Irishman’s cell, if only to help rectify his foul humor. She hoped her father didn’t find out, but even if he did, Alyssa knew that she wouldn’t abandon Devlin Fitzhugh. After all, when he’d been in danger for his life, he hadn’t hesitated to protect her. He was a hero, despite the absurd interpretation the English put on the event. Traitor, indeed!
Alyssa contemplated her charcoal drawing of the man who had risked everything to save her from those descending swords, and she trembled. She had been such a fool—yet what an acceptable outcome the near tragedy would have, if her father were right. Transported to England, Devlin would spend time in her father’s jail where they could be together. It would have been better to live with him in Ireland, but that was out of the question.
Still, Alyssa would be with the man she loved. And love him she did. Studying a sketch of an imaginary scene, Devlin outdoors, she traced the strong line she’d made of his shoulder, the proud angle of his head, and the planes of his chest as he aimed a bow and arrow. His eyes were focused and intense, his lips parted slightly in concentration, his attitude superbly confident as if guaranteed his arrow would find its target. But wasn’t that part of why she loved him—his arrogance and total assurance of his position? She doubted another man like Devlin Fitzhugh existed anywhere.
Her beloved aunt had died and Devlin had come into her life within days. Surely, he was the faerie folk’s answer to her prayers for an escape from Cecil Howett. Now all she had to do was convince Devlin that fate had brought them together, not her foolishness.
He seemed to have stopped growling as much when she visited him last. In fact, occasionally she thought he was even pleased to see her, not that he admitted it. Like most men, he needed to think he was in control of his destiny, and she’d not deny him that pnvilege—false though it might be. Closing her eyes, Alyssa imagined his face lowering slowly to hers and tasted his lips on hers, firm, demanding and welcome. If only her dreams could become reality.
Cecil Howett sat at a desk in the outer room of the quarters assigned him. He held his breath as he took the missive from London being proffered him by Newcomb’s secretary. Waiting until the man had left the room, Cecil turned the document over in his hands. The seal had been broken and the contents most likely read by Newcomb already. With nervous fingers, Howett unfolded the paper, his eyes quickly scanning the message contained therein. Then his shoulders slumped in disappointment. It was what he had most feared. Devlin Fitzhugh was to be executed at dawn the next day.
Damnation! The report of the rebel jailbreak had emphasized that Fitzhugh had averted Alyssa’s murder! Didn’t that mean the man should be spared? Apparently not according to Her Majesty. How was he going to inform Alyssa of the decision? And how was he going to explain that his promises had meant nothing? He knew how important the man had become to her, unwise though that was. Hadn’t he but recently learned she had been sneaking into the prison every day to see him?
It might be best to delay giving his daughter the news until after Fitzhugh’s death sentence had been carried out. Of course, having no advance warning would add to the girl’s sorrow, but it would also give her one more day of peace, and her young life had seen upset aplenty as of late.
Resolved, Cecil rose from his desk and walked to his cupboard to fetch some wine when Alyssa burst into the room, her bright presence making the gloom within his heart that much darker.
“Is it true a courier from London has arrived?” she asked breathlessly, only to abruptly cease her question as her eyes fell upon the royal decree open upon the desk, and she saw Devlin’s name written in large, bold letters.
“Alyssa, don’t!” her father warned, hastening to her side. But it was already too late.
“Dear God in heaven!” The softness of her voice made plain her shock. Slowly, Alyssa sank into her father’s chair. “You must do something to stop this,” she proclaimed in anguish, catching desperately at Cecil’s sleeve.
“Would that I could, sweetling, but I fear your Irishman is beyond hope.”
“You gave me your word that Elizabeth would not order his execution,” she accused. “You must do something or his death will stand forever between us. Surely, you have simply to—”
“I tell you I can do nothing,” Cecil interjected, his guilt shortening his temper. Yet, he spoke the truth. Having discovered his error in extending false hopes to his daughter, Cecil was not of a mind to make the same mistake again. Now that Alyssa knew her Irishman’s fate, it was best she quickly realize the futility of the situation.
“’Tis a hard lesson to learn, to accept the things about which we can do nothing, but impress it upon your heart, girl, and it will serve you well in life. That is all the solace I have to offer.”
“’Tis little enough, but mayhap it is better than your lies,” Alyssa retorted with bitter resentment. Then her demeanor changed, as horror completely penetrated her anger and denial. “Tell me, does he know?” she whispered weakly.
“Nay. Newcomb and I have only learned of it ourselves.”
“Oh, Father, I beg you—” She’d act the dutiful daughter for the rest of her life, only Devlin had to be saved!
“I’ve already told you, there’s nothing to be done. Your Irishman is doomed, Alyssa.”
At his words, the girl’s sobs rent the air. Yet her father remained steadfast. After tomorrow, Fitzhugh would be executed, and Alyssa could begin to put the ordeal behind her. Thinking it best for his daughter to give way to her emotions, he withdrew quietly from the room, walking the corridors of Dublin Castle until he could no longer hear the girl’s distress.
With every step he took, Cecil wondered how he might make this situation easier for Alyssa. The only thing that came to mind was moving the execution forward. If the deed was done, it would be over before she knew it had happened. He’d talk to Newcomb about it right away. Surely the man owed him that much.
Though Alyssa had given herself over to grief with abandon, her tears began to slow and her shoulders began to stop heaving shortly after her father’s departure. She knew she had to pull rein on her emotions. Soon, Devlin would be gone, she told herself, sniffling, and she would be the one who would see to it. With her help, he would make good an escape tonight. He had to! Damn her father and his empty words! Cecil Howett was even more charlatan than she had thought.
Rapidly, ideas began to formulate in Alyssa’s mind. The overnight guard on duty this week had a reputation for loving gold, and he had been helpful in the past. She still had a good deal of the coinage her aunt had left her. If she had learned anything at Dublin Castle, it was that with money, one could buy almost anything. She only prayed her little fortune was worth the price of a man’s life.
Having hope to cling to once again, Alyssa stood, smoothed her gown and banished the anguish from her face. There was much to prepare before darkness fell. After tonight, she might never see Devlin Fitzhugh again, but how much more comforting it would be to know he was alive somewhere in his precious Irish countryside rather than moldering in a pauper’s grave on the outskirts of Dublin.
The small pouch of gold coins suspended between Alyssa’s breasts weighed heavily around her neck despite the slight bulk of her meager inheritance. Trying to be inconspicuous, she took a roundabout route across the bailey that eventually led her to a door at the base of the prison tower
When she stepped inside, Alyssa’s heart began to beat rapidly at the thought of what lay ahead. It was not the notion that she could soon be an enemy of the crown that caused her skin to turn paler and her breaths to become more shallow. No, it was fear of failure that brought about these physical symptoms. If she did not accomplish the purpose at hand, Devlin Fitzhugh was a doomed man, forever beyond the reach of any help she might wish to render.
Praying that her small cache of coins would be enough to tempt Hawkins, the greediest of the guards, into betraying his duties, Alyssa decided a smile sent in his direction would not be amiss.
Squaring her shoulders and donning a sweetly vapid smile, Alyssa left the patch of sunlight painting the floor of the tower just beyond the open door. She ascended through the gloom to the guards’ station, where she hoped to find Hawkins alone. The possibility that he might not be there leaped across her mind along with a thousand other things that could befoul Devlin Fitzhugh’s escape. Rather than cause maidenly trepidations and abandonment of her plan, however, the reasons for possible failure were swiftly examined and then put aside. She continued with a dainty yet determined tread, her violet eyes taking on a steely cast.
“Now you’re not to worry that pretty head of yours, milady. Just you leave everything in my hands. You’ll find them quite capable, I assure you,” Hawkins said with a twist of his mouth that was more leer than grin.
“Are you certain?” Alyssa questioned anxiously.
“Didn’t I tell you that I’ll take care of the guards at the base of the tower? Alls I have to do is unlock the rebel’s cell, and lead him along the portion of the outer wall that’s always steeped in darkness, no matter how bright the moon, to the kitchens. From there, I takes him down to a little-used storeroom, where chests of grain stacked one upon the other hide a small portal that opens onto the trench. Once he climbs out of there, he’ll find a horse tethered behind a clump of trees. The rest is up to him.”
“But how will you avoid the other guards?” Alyssa persisted.
“I’ll set things in motion just before the guards change at dawn. The ones on duty usually doze for a bit and only waken just before their relief appears. ’Twill be a simple matter to get past them, especially when I shares a jug of wine with them at the beginning of the watch.”
“Still, I’m worried,” Alyssa insisted, glancing over her shoulder to make certain that no one else was nearby.
“There’s no need to fret on old Hawkins’s account,” the man stated, pretending to misunderstand Alyssa’s concern as he sidled closer. “I’ll be safe enough. Once I get the Irishman clear, I’ll come back, drop a tattered Irish cloak and Celtic dagger along the escape route, lock myself in Fitzhugh’s cell and throw the keys out into the corridor. Then, when I’m found, I’ll pretend to just be coming to after having been laid low by one of them bloody Irish bastards. Begging your pardon for my bluntness, milady, but that’s all them buggers are.”
“Your plan could work,” Alyssa conceded.
“Aye, with your gold and my brains, Fitzhugh will be clear of Dublin Castle by this time tomorrow,” Hawkins said, eyeing the small pouch of coins Alyssa held in her hands.
“So be it,” Alyssa pronounced, counting out half of her remaining inheritance into Hawkins’s dirty palm. What choice did she have other than to place her trust in this man? God help her, he was all she had! “The rest is yours when Fitzhugh has gone.”
“And now, milady, to seal the bargain,” the guard said, his eyes raking Alyssa’s bosom as he bent low to take her hand. Bringing it to his lips, he placed a clumsy, wet kiss along her knuckles.
“I would think half of my gold would have done that,” Alyssa protested, trying to tug her fingers from his grasp.
“Ah, but what’s a little intimacy between partners?” asked Hawkins with a lascivious grin as he held on to Alyssa’s hand. “And I’ve a feeling that we’re about to become mightily close indeed. You rest easy and just go to sleep tonight dreaming of all Hawkins can do.”
Alyssa snatched her fingertips from the guard and turned away. She couldn’t chide the man for his impudence until Devlin had seen the last of Dublin Castle. But once that had happened, she’d make certain Hawkins never touched her again.
Walking down the corridor, she considered a visit to Devlin, as was her wont, but decided against it. He would be able to sense her uneasiness, and she couldn’t tell him of his impending execution and her plan for his escape when anyone might come along and overhear. Besides, not one to follow, he would only find some flaw in the scheme she had set in motion and want to take command of things himself. No, it was better to wait until the hour for his release was at hand. Then she would visit his cell one last time.
Of course, Hawkins didn’t expect her presence tonight, Alyssa thought as she emerged from the tower. But then, what could he do once she was there? Naive she might be, but she was not such an innocent as to place Devlin’s life entirely in Hawkins’s grimy hands. Despite Hawkins’s inevitable protests, it would be she who led Devlin Fitzhugh to freedom’s door, handed him a dagger and wished him godspeed.
Tracing the route she would be taking with Devlin that night, Alyssa entered the kitchens, explaining to the cook that Governor Newcomb had given her permission to browse through the stores for anything she might want to make her upcoming journey to England more bearable. With the cook’s blessing, Alyssa descended into the storage room, pragmatically counting each step that might have to be taken in darkness that night. Seeing the chests of grain, she paced off their location from the doorway, and managed to reach behind them, her fingers searching for and finding the small, hidden doorway Hawkins had described. Satisfied, she went back to the kitchens, and asked that some dried fruit be placed upon her father’s ship when it docked. Thanking the cook, she accepted a small tart with a smile meant to hide her lack of appetite.
Grateful that her plan to free Devlin was viable, Alyssa slowly made her way back to her chambers. She knew her heart should be singing. If all went well, he would disappear into the night’s last mistshrouded vestiges of darkness. He would live, and her debt to him would be paid. But her elation at saving his neck from the ax was tempered by a sadness that prevented complete joy.
Becoming more dejected with each step she took, Alyssa knew it wasn’t the idea of spending her inheritance that upset her, though becoming penniless meant giving up all hope of escaping her father, and forsaking forever the possibility of independence that her aunt’s secret gift was meant to promise. No, the money and all it stood for was a trifling price to pay for Devlin Fitzhugh’s life. Yet, as each moment that passed brought it closer, there was a forfeiture Alyssa was loath to make, one that burdened her heart. After tonight Devlin would have his liberty, but the price exacted would be a steep one. Never in her life was she likely to see him again.
Surely if her father intruded upon her solitude by coming to her chambers in the intervening hours before Devlin’s flight, she would not have to hide her schemes behind false tears. The ones she shed would be real enough.
* * *
Devlin stood with folded arms leaning against the wooden door of his prison. To all appearances, his stance was nonchalant No one looking at him would think his studied indifference to his surroundings masked an alert watchfulness. Nor would any know his position was carefully chosen to give him the best view of the corridor running outside his cell. The only comment that might have been made would have been one of surprise that he was not stationed at his small prison window, trying to catch any breeze the unusually warm summer evening might surrender.
Yet lost deep in thought as he was, the summer temperatures were of no concern to Devlin Fitzhugh. The heat that began to build in his body was of a different sort altogether. It was bad enough that after three weeks another day had passed and the Mac-Mahon’s men had made no attempt to rescue him, he thought irritably, but where the hell was Alyssa Howett? She should have been here already, as she usually was, and then his suffering for the day could have been complete.
Hearing shuffling at the far end of the corridor, Devlin waited, both hoping and fearing that it would be Alyssa come to him once more. The dread of torment and the anticipation of pleasure mingled incoherently. When had it begun to happen? When had never wanting to see her again started to shift to being unwilling to survive in this hellhole without her? Had it been after she had stood her ground in the face of his temper? Before that, when she had first brought him food and comfort? Or was it the moment he had set eyes on her?
Devlin shook his head wearily. He tried to tell himself that faced with the prospect of never having a woman again, any female would appeal to him, but his excuse held little sway with his traitorous heart.
Perhaps it was no more than prison madness descending upon him. How could it be otherwise? She was English. She was at least partially the reason for his imprisonment. And still, God help him, he longed to see her, though her nearness, in the face of his inability to touch her, brought him as much pain as it did joy. Surely such emotions bespoke insanity. Each day became worse. Mayhap if he spoke to the girl’s father, begged him to keep her away…but no, he couldn’t do that. His pride would never allow him to admit to anyone how much the English wench moved him. Nor did he really want her to abandon him. Imprisonment without her daily company was unthinkable.
“Newcomb and Howett have been closeted most of the day. Something’s afoot,” one guard told another as the two passed by Devlin’s cell, dispelling his hope that Alyssa was nearby. “Have you any idea as to what it can be?”
“No, but whatever it is, I wager ‘twill only result in these cursed Irish being coddled more.”
“Aye, there are some here that seem to have their own maidservants seeing to their needs,” the first guard replied, jerking his head in Devlin’s direction. “Damn me, but I’ve never seen the like.”
Their conversation faded as the men rounded a corner, but it bothered Devlin not a whit. Whatever had them talking would become plain soon enough if it concerned him. What could bother him more than the torture to which Alyssa Howett gently subjected him?
Once more, Devlin peered into the descending darkness, watching and listening for Cecil Howett’s daughter. It was growing unusually late. His heart started to race, and sweat beaded upon his forehead as he strained to see if she was coming. He hoped to God she wouldn’t. He prayed to God she would.
Chapter Four (#ulink_254bb578-ed7c-5c70-940c-b144befb1348)
“I don’t know why you’re here. I thought we’d agreed I would see to everything.”
The words crept into Devlin’s consciousness, causing him to quickly leave sleep behind and become alert. In his experience, he’d never seen anything other than a lone guard occasionally shuffle down this corridor so late at night. Yet the approaching footsteps were hurried, and the sound of Hawkins’s voice told Devlin that the Englishman was not alone. Quickly, the agile gallowglass gained his feet. If someone were to come for him, be it friend or foe, he’d not be found curled up upon the straw like some docile farm animal.
“You decided the matter would be left in your hands,” came the reply, in hushed yet determined feminine tones. “But I’m not such a fool as to trust you blindly. That’s why I’ve come to oversee things.”
The voice was so soft, the whisper so subtle that Devlin almost thought he imagined it. He had done that often enough of late. But he could sense Alyssa Howett’s nearness and knew that what he had just heard was real.
Sweet Jesu! Couldn’t the wench be content that she disturbed his dreams without actually seeking him out in the middle of the night?
Based upon his experiences with Alyssa, Devlin would not argue the premise that the world was totally devoid of justice. After hours of awaiting her arrival, he had finally concluded she wasn’t coming. Slowly, the tension associated with her had left him, and he had almost been grateful to have a day without the torture her presence seemed to bring.
Now here she was, when she was least expected, and he was the vulnerable recipient of her surprise attack. He was not at all ready to deal with her at the moment. But then, he was never totally prepared for Alyssa Howett. He had tried ignoring her, bellowing at her, threatening her, stopping just short of throwing himself upon his knees and pleading with her to leave him in peace. Yet when he envisioned himself resorting to such a tactic, his hoarse pleas transformed themselves into urgings of quite a different nature. Shuddering, Devlin tried to push aside the images flooding his mind and steel himself for Alyssa’s latest assault.
“Devlin. Wake up, man! It’s me, Alyssa.”
As if he would have any doubts as to who it could be.
“What is it now?” he asked, his voice as quiet as hers, yet drenched with surliness.
Suddenly the key was in the lock and the door began to swing inward. She had never entered his cell before! Why was Alyssa stealing into his wretched surroundings at this time of night? Sweet Mother of God, was she going to offer herself to him? More important, what was he going to do if she did?
“Begone, lass,” he hissed, wanting her out of his path when impulse led him to make a desperate bid for freedom. When else would he find himself with unlocked door while most of the castle slept?
“Aye, I will be in a moment,” she answered, “and you’ll be right behind me.”
“What! Don’t mock me, Alyssa,” Devlin growled, though a glimmer of doubtful hope lit his blue eyes all the same.
“There’s little time to talk, Devlin.” Alyssa’s lovely face was drawn with anxiety. “You’re to be executed this morning. We’ve got to get you out of here now. The guards on duty have been taken care of, but their replacements will be arriving in an hour. If you’ve any thought of keeping your head attached, you’ll have to be well gone by then.”
“And him? What’s he doing here?” Devlin asked, nodding in Hawkins’s direction as the man followed Alyssa into the cell. The Englishman’s presence made the gallowglass wonder if the girl could be leading him into a trap, unwittingly or otherwise.
“Me! I’m the one she paid to see to your escape,” the guard grumbled. “The better question is what is she doing here? I’m not about to risk my neck by leading two of you out of the tower and around the castle grounds.”
“I’ll save you the effort,” Alyssa stated matterof-factly. “You’ll be locked in the cell now and the keys dropped on the stairway. ‘Twill avert suspicion from you.”
“You’re giving me orders? This is what comes of having business dealings with a female,” Hawkins muttered, “when what I really prefers is the idea of dealing with you in my bed. And after tonight, don’t think I won’t have you warming my blanket—”
Hawkins didn’t see Devlin Fitzhugh’s fist coming, nor did he feel the pain before slumping to the floor unconscious.
Devlin turned to Alyssa. Towering over her, he peered into her guileless visage, pearlescent in the moonlight, and he seemed to come to a decision.
“All right, lass. Let’s go. I’ll place my trust in you,” he said softly.
“And I in you,” Alyssa replied, reaching into her cloak and handing him a dagger. “I thought you’d have need of this for the journey home.”
A surprised Devlin looked at the weapon and then at Alyssa. Her violet eyes were darker than he had ever seen them. In their depths glistened concern, sincerity and something else, some nebulous element that Devlin wanted neither to identify nor analyze.
“We really must be off, Fitzhugh,” Alyssa insisted worriedly, her fear for this man’s safety forcing her to wrench her gaze from his.
Scooping up the keys and the threadbare Irish cloak to be dropped along Devlin’s escape route, Alyssa disappeared into the dark corridor. Once Devlin joined her, she secured Hawkins with lock and key. Then motioning to Devlin, she led the way, her tread so quiet and light that she appeared to float just above the surface of the cold, stone floor.
Following in her wake, Devlin vowed he had never seen so graceful a creature. Then, realizing the insanity of his absorption in Alyssa Howett’s gait, he inured himself against her charms, his warrior’s demeanor descending upon him once more.
He didn’t know where she was taking him, or if her plan had a prayer of succeeding! Yet what did it matter? he asked himself. She was the only hope he had, and if they were accosted, he was armed.
At worst, he would die the death of a fighting man, a fate more palatable than the one the English had planned for him. Grimacing, Devlin clutched the hilt of the dagger. But, when they descended the staircase, there was no need for it, just as she had promised. There were no proud guards ready to do their duty for queen and country, but only sleeping Englishmen, empty mugs lying beside them.
Suddenly, Alyssa and Devlin were at the door in the base of the tower, the one that led into the bailey. Instinctively, Devlin reached out to thrust Alyssa behind him, but before he could lay hold of her slender frame, she took his hand, and began to tug him along after her.
In truth, her efforts had no more effect upon him than a sparrow attempting to pull a boulder. Still, now that the moment of truth was at hand, Devlin found that he followed the girl willingly enough.
Bending his head to pass through the doorway, Devlin drew fresh air, laden with the promise of freedom, into his lungs. But there was no time to savor the heady feeling it gave him. Alyssa was insistently yanking him forward once more, her small hand all but lost within the confines of his large one.
Though she did not lead him towards one of the gates set into Dublin Castle’s thick walls, Devlin put up no resistance, his steps following Alyssa’s as she moved along a section of stone cast deep in shadow.
Then suddenly, torches appeared on the far side of the courtyard, borne by a contingent of soldiers marching in the direction of the tower. Devlin heard Alyssa’s sharply indrawn breath and felt the pulse in her fingertips quicken within his hand, evidence of her surprise.
“’Tis too early for this sort of thing. Her Majesty owes me another hour or two of sleep,” one of the soldiers called to his fellows.
“Aye, but though ‘tis earlier, ‘tis a pleasant enough way to begin the day,” another shouted in reply, “executing an Irishman.”
“I hope the bastard was told yesterday and spent a sleepless night,” the first rejoined. “’Twill be easier to manage Fitzhugh if he’s exhausted.”
“They’re coming for you, to take you to the block!” Alyssa whispered in horror. “Damn Hawkins for a harlot’s son. Why didn’t he know about this change in schedule, or did he choose not to tell us?”
Before her Irishman could answer, however, the light of the torches crept into the blackness in which Alyssa and Devlin stood. A cry uttered by one of the soldiers alerted all of them, and directly the queen’s men were bearing down on the pair with alarming speed.
“Get out of here, lass,” Devlin growled. He had no intention of being taken again trying to save Alyssa Howett’s pretty neck. But to his consternation, he found he could not loosen the girl’s grasp upon him.
“Devlin, this way! Follow me!” Alyssa yelled above the rising clamor, her soprano tones carrying clearly through the night air. Frantically she pulled at his hand until Devlin’s sense of logic surrendered to desperation and he once more permitted himself to be guided by her.
Swiftly they ran, the soldiers efficiently closing the gap between them. Then, Devlin found himself going through a doorway, only to realize that it provided no exit from the castle. It was merely the entrance to the kitchens. The girl had become lost, if ever she had had a viable escape route planned at all.
“Hurry. Help me shut the door and slide home the plank,” Alyssa directed, her breath coming in frightened gasps.
“’Twill only buy us a little respite,” Devlin said stoically, more inclined to face death in the coming skirmish than to chance being recaptured. He didn’t want to spend time alone in this place with Alyssa Howett—time during which a doomed man might do and say many a foolish thing in the last moments of his life.
“You great dolt! I know what I’m doing, but I can’t manage alone,” Alyssa yelled angrily. “Do as I say!”
Against his better judgment, Devlin gave in to her demands. The door was slammed shut and the wooden bar hastily put into place just as the first sword landed against the exterior with a heavy thud.
Devlin’s dagger weighed heavily in his hands. He detested the thought of hiding in the kitchens with a woman when a battle beckoned just the other side of the door. He had to make Alyssa see that such behavior was impossible for him, to make her understand what he was about to do.
He turned to her in the eerie glow of the banked fires. She was a golden maid now. Placing his thumb beneath her chin, he raised her face to his.
“’Tis not that I’m ungrateful, Alyssa Howett,” he began, his husky voice melodic and almost tender, “but there’s no help for it. We’ve lost. I must go out to meet my enemy.”
“Wouldn’t you rather go out the door that leads to the trench surrounding the castle and find a horse awaiting you?” Alyssa asked, her eyes caressing Devlin’s face, every plane, every rugged masculine contour.
“The devil you say!”
As the banging on the door grew louder and more insistent, Devlin didn’t hesitate to trail Alyssa down the staircase to the storeroom. He should have been ecstatic to have the possibility of freedom so near, yet somewhere in the back of his mind, in the portion that did not deal with the immediate problems of survival, Devlin knew something was wrong. But things were happening too quickly, and he ignored the feeling as he easily moved the chests of grain and found the exit Alyssa had promised. He entirely disregarded his uneasiness as he put his shoulder to the door and forced it open, then wriggled through a narrow tunnel hardly wide enough to allow his shoulders room to pass. Whatever it was that was disturbing him could be dealt with once safety had been reached.
And then, he was outside, and he could think of nothing other than the liberty he had so miraculously been granted. Already he envisioned himself riding through the forests and across the mountains, freer than the winds that would play against his face and ruffle his hair.
Crawling to the top of the trench, he saw a slim hand appear from the darkness to lie beside his own.
“The horse should be tethered behind yon stand of trees,” Alyssa informed him, scrambling up the deep, earthen walls.
Immediately, Devlin and Alyssa began to run, low to the ground, praying all the while that the swirls of rising mist would keep them safe from detection. Reaching the trees, they found that there was, indeed, a horse waiting.
The castle was coming quickly awake, the sound of running guards ready for battle issuing from behind the walls. Devlin swung himself up into the saddle, and looked down at the woman, little more than a girl, who had saved his life. He would remember her forever, standing here in the moonlight, her skirts lost in the smoky mist. There was so much to say to her, and so little time. He could not seem to find the words, and perhaps it was best that he could not.
Alyssa, however, had no such trouble.
“Give me your hand, Devlin, and help me up. Why are you looking at me with such shock? There’s no time to tarry.”
“What are you doing? You’ve got to go back to your father. You can say I took you hostage and released you once I cleared the castle.”
“Go back!” she echoed, her face a study in dismay and bewilderment. “Fie, I can’t do that now! They saw me leading you by the hand and mayhap heard me directing your flight as well. I can’t return unless you want me to find my head upon the block. They know I helped you escape.”
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Erin Yorke
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: A Rebel Heart Held Her Fast… and young noblewoman Alyssa Howett knew she had no choice but to release Devlin Fitzhugh, the wild Irish hero who had freed her woman′s soul.A Warrior Walked Alone His fealty was only to his sworn chieftain – or so Devlin Fitzhugh had always believed. Then fate brought him a daughter he′d never known and a passion he′d never dared dream with a sun-bright English rose who would test his loyalty… and prove his love!