Black Falcon's Lady

  "I fixed it so that Sassenach witch will never see you again!"

  "You what?" Tade's hands shot out, crushing Deirdre's arms in a bruising grip.

  "I told her you were with Sheena," Deirdre flung back. "That you'd no doubt get to Nightwylde after you'd finished with your other mistresses. But is seems the high-and-mighty Miss Wylder is not wont to be just another in your string of women, because she—"

  Rage coiled within him as he imagined the Maryssa's pain. "Deirdre, I trusted you.”

  "I did it for you!" Deirdre clutched at his shirtfront. "A score of girls in Donegal would forfeit all they own to wed you—Irish girls, Catholic girls, prettier by a thousandfold than that Wylder chit."

  "I don't want them. I don't love them."

  The defiance that had burned in Deirdre's face faded into desperation as a ragged sob was torn from her throat. "Tade, she's not worth dying for!"

  "Aye, Dee. She is."

  Gripping her wrists, Tade pulled her fingers free of him, then strode to the opening of the loft.

  "She'll not see you, Tade!" Deirdre shrieked, stumbling after him as he climbed down the ladder. "She'll never forgive you!"

  "Tade! Deirdre!" Tade caught a fleeting glimpse of night rail as the lank white-robed form of Rachel threw open the door to her bedchamber. Barefoot, she rushed across the room to catch the sobbing girl in thin, gentle arms.

  Deirdre clutched at her mother, childlike tears flooding her frightened eyes. "Mama! Mama, don't let him go!"

  The piteous cries tore at Tade's heart, but he could not go to her. He felt the pull of Maryssa like that of the moon, wooing the tide onto jagged cliffs at the gray sea's edge.

  Tade paused at the door, unable to sever his gaze from the terror in Deirdre's face, the silent pain in Rachel's soft brown eyes. Then he turned away from all he had loved and walked alone into the dawn.

  * * *

  The walnut-paneled dining room of Marlow Hall was stifling with the heat of three dozen candles, their waxy fragrance blending in a sickening mixture with the stench of heavily perfumed bodies and the aroma of rich food. Maryssa pricked at a bit of roast duckling with the tines of her fork, unable to imagine how she would ever be able to swallow with Quentin Rath slurping and guzzling bare inches from her elbow.

  The odious colonel had all but shoved Reeve Marlow into the punch table in his effort to gain Maryssa's arm when the footman announced that dinner was to be served. And in spite of Christabel and Reeve's valiant efforts to maneuver her out of his grasp, Rath had brazenly plopped his broad buttocks into the chair beside Maryssa and barked for the liveried footman to spoon dizzying portions of meat and gravy onto his delicate china plate.

  Maryssa hazarded a glance at him from the corner of her eye. His sloppily powdered bag wig sat askew on his florid sweat-dappled brow, while great rings of dampness seeped through his flowered velvet coat in malodorous half-circles.

  Maryssa felt her stomach churn as he shoveled half of a baked capon into his sauce-stained mouth. Her eyes leaped away from his smacking lips. But as her gaze skittered across the table, it snagged on Christabel's blue eyes, which were fastened upon her in loving concern.

  Maryssa managed a smile and hastily popped a piece of roast duck between her lips. The succulent meat tasted like wet cotton as she struggled to force it past the knot in her throat. She wished for the thousandth time since alighting from her father's carriage that she had been able to hold true to her plan.

  She had arrived the night before, wounded by Deirdre's words, weary, and without so much as a valise in her hand. Maryssa had fully intended to explain to the Marlows that she could not bear to be introduced into Donegal society the next evening and would even be poor company for the fortnight's visit Christa had cozened Bainbridge into allowing Maryssa to accept. But when the footman had ushered her into the salon, Christabel had fairly flown over to clasp her in a joyous embrace.

  "I vow I could cheerfully murder Tade Kilcannon for declining my invitation for tomorrow evening!" Christabel had bubbled. "Reeve's been wearing the carpets to shreds, pacing about in a fury to give him the news, and I thought it would be forever before you arrived!"

  The pain in Maryssa's chest had wrenched tighter at the mention of Tade's name and the knowledge that he must be, in truth, avoiding her. But Christabel had merely tightened her silk-clad arms about her, saying, "Now we have two things to celebrate tomorrow evening, Maryssa. My finding a best friend and—" The shy blush that tinted Christabel's beautiful face set her aglow with happiness. "And," she continued breathlessly, "well, it seems that Reeve's penchant for breeding has finally brought results."

  "Breeding?" Maryssa had echoed numbly.

  “Aye. Reeve and I are going to have a baby."

  Despite the pain of yet another proof of Tade's rejection, Maryssa had not let her unhappiness rob any of the Marlows’s joy. She had forced a smile and explained that her new maid had neglected to see her trunk loaded into the coach.

  Maryssa's throat constricted, the bit of meat finally squeezing its way through the tightness as she gazed miserably past the heaping platters of food to where Christabel crowned the head of the table like a sparkling goddess. The joy that had lit her friend's delicate features the day before had deepened during the night, leaving her smile softer, gentler, her eyes brimful with a completeness that jabbed Maryssa with sharp pricks of envy.

  How many times in her lonely childhood had Maryssa vowed that she would have a babe of her own someday? A girl, tiny and dewy-soft like the one Jenny, the scullery maid, carried with her in a split-oak basket as she went about her chores. Maryssa could almost hear herself sobbing into the pillow of her narrow bed at Carradown that she would love her baby just as Jenny did, even if it always cried, even if it was awkward and had strange eyes and ugly dark brown hair.

  Maryssa closed her eyes, the face of the babe she had always imagined rising in her mind, but the golden curls and sky-colored eyes of her childhood dreams shifted, changing to hair the color of polished rosewood and a gaze as bright green as the Irish hills. Tade. The thought of him, of his child, struck her like a hidden dagger to the heart.

  Suddenly the vision shattered, something hard and damp slamming into her back with a force that nearly pitched her bosom-first into her plate. She turned her gaze to where Quentin Rath bent over her.

  "Miss Wylder, are you all right?" he asked, his palm still flattened against the ivory damask of her gown. "Stake me, but I thought you were about to strangle yourself on that bit of meat you ate, your face got so pasty."

  “I-I’m fine, Colonel Rath. It was just the heat.”

  "Well, if you'd take yourself bites of size to chew on, perhaps you'd not be so overcome. It is little wonder you look so frail, the way you pick at morsels scarce large enough to tempt a linnet. Take this advice from one who has dwelt on this infernal island nearly all his life," he chided, eyeing her breasts as greedily as he had eyed the capon bare moments before. "Eat hearty. You'll need your strength to battle this crude land and its witless inhabitants."

  "Oooo, Miss Wylder, do mind the colonel, here," a voice edged with a constant whine crooned at her shoulder. Maryssa turned to where the close-set eyes of a girl Christabel had introduced as Jacinth Levander blinked up at Rath adoringly from above her decidedly hooked nose. "Colonel Rath has had no end of heroic exploits, protecting us from these barbaric Irish." Jacinth's skinny fingers reached up to pluck at the gravy-splotched sleeve of Rath's coat. "Why, he was off pursuing that devil the Black Falcon but a week since."

  "The heroic Colonel Rath has been off pursuing the 'witless' Falcon nearly two years now without success," Reeve Marlow observed dryly, lifting his wine goblet to his lips. His words pierced a lull in the buzz of voices about the table, and a sudden quiet fell over the room.

  Rath's fingers went stiff on her back, and Maryssa feared his buttons would burst as his chest swelled out in indignation. "True, in the past the rogue has eluded me," Rath grudgingly admitted. "But I
wager the Falcon will not be soaring for a while this time."

  Maryssa saw Reeve's face go suddenly still. "Not soaring? What do you mean?''

  "A ball from my pistol struck his left arm. Saw him jerk, I did, and the blood. But even wounded, the bast—I mean, blackguard—can ride like the devil himself."

  Maryssa felt an odd squeezing in her chest at the thought of the Falcon falling beneath Quentin Rath's bullet, the rebel's swirling black mantle marred with blood, the piercing green of his eyes . . .

  Sudden dizzying waves of fear swept over her as Tade's face rose in her mind, his gaze so incredibly green it shone like polished emerald. She bit her lip, seeing his grin as he tossed his baby sister high in the air, his lean body cutting naked through the cold blue waters of the lake, his long legs hurtling him across the meadow in pursuit of the horsehide covered ball. No, lightsome Tade, with his laughter and his teasing, could never change into the implacable hooded rebel known as the Black Falcon. Why, then, did the thought torment her so? She shoved the thought away and turned her eyes to Reeve's taut features.

  "He did escape, then?" Reeve stifled a yawn, but Maryssa could detect lines of tension about his lips.

  "Aye. Fled like a coward into the mountains. But most likely the bullet I buried in his flesh will clip his wings long enough to keep him holed up in his nest until his new adversary arrives."

  "You're bringing in a new man?" Reeve asked.

  "Aye." The hair at the nape of Maryssa's neck prickled at the eagerness that slackened Rath's thick lips. "The finest huntsman of human quarry in all of England. He will arrive in Lononderry upon All Hallows Eve and has vowed that within the month he and his hounds will ferret out every brigand and papist priest who lurks within these hills."

  Maryssa's fingers tightened on the handle of her fork, driving its silver scrolls deep into her palm as she remembered Devin's pale, gentle face. "Surely you can't mean to set hounds on priests?''

  "Aye, and great sport it will be, too. Wilier than wolves, they be, these priests, and thrice as dangerous. Why, just last month I found one secreted away in a hole carved into the wall of Tiernan MacCarthy's hovel. Before my men could rout him out, MacCarthy nearly slit my throat."

  “It is hardly a wonder," Christabel said, an edge to her voice. "The priest was Mr. MacCarthy's son."

  "Well, both sire and his spawn have got their just punishments," Rath said, spooning up a glob of potato cake and gravy. "MacCarthy lies rotting in Rookescommon prison, and his papist son. . .” Rath guffawed, then stuffed the heaping spoonful of food into his mouth. "I vow he lies rotting over half of Londonderry."

  "Over half of Londonderr?” Maryssa stammered. "I don't understand."

  "A chunk here, a chunk there. Drawn and quartered he was, and by the time the horses were done with him—"

  What little food Maryssa had managed to choke down rose in a sour ball in her throat. She saw Christabel's face take on a greenish cast.

  "Rath! Enough." Reeve snapped, his gaze flashing to his wife. "No one at this table has any interest in your barbaric sport."

  “It is not so barbaric." Rath shrugged. "Even in England priests are sometimes hunted. And here on this cursed island the papist poison runs far deeper. Their clergy fester like a cancer, spreading foul, sinful lies to these brainless peasants. It is the duty of all God-fearing men to cut it from their hearts."

  Maryssa looked up at his sagging jowls, his face puffed with self-righteousness. "Odd," she said softly. "Your words are near echoes of the claims made eighteen hundred years ago."

  "Your pardon, Miss Wylder?" Rath's mouth was set in a line of displeasure, and all eyes about the table had fastened on Maryssa.

  She leveled her suddenly steady gaze on Rath. "I said, the men who murdered Christ used much the same excuse."

  Forks froze midway to a dozen separate mouths, faces washed with lead paint waxed whiter still as shocked silence fell over the room. Maryssa saw Reeve's mouth twitch into a smile as Christabel lifted her chin with pride.

  "Miss Wylder," Jacinth's high-pitched voice trilled, her eyes bugging out in horror, "surely you cannot compare those foul beasts to Colonel Rath. Why, after all, this is Ireland. He is but ridding the land of vermin who—"

  "I doubt Tiernan MacCarthy considered his son vermin, Miss Levander," Maryssa challenged.

  "And I doubt that your father will be pleased to be informed that he harbors one so sympathetic to the Catholics' plight," Quentin Rath snarled. "Especially since it was at Bainbridge Wylder's prodding that we sent for Sir Ascot."

  Maryssa felt something snag in her breast. "Who?"

  "Sir Ascot Dallywoulde, the most ruthless priest hunter ever to loose his hounds."

  Maryssa gripped the edge of the table so hard her fingers ached, the pain that had torn through her at Tade's betrayal deepening to a sick horror as she pictured her cousin's fanatical eyes. A priest hunter, an animal who tracked down men like Devin—gentle men, men of faith. "Father?" Maryssa croaked. "Father knew Sir Ascot was—"

  "Miss Wylder, you look most distressed at the thought of these brigands being brought to justice," Rath observed in frigid tones. "Just when did you acquire your sympathy for papists? While you were in England? Or was it perhaps during the night you spent at the Kilcannons'?"

  A murmur swept over the table, and Maryssa could feel Christabel bristle. "Colonel, how dare—"

  "The night your soldiers smashed in the door, Colonel Rath?" Maryssa cut Christabel's sputtered words off, the horror that had wrenched her moments before giving way to blazing anger. "That was most heroic of you!" she bit out. "An entire troop of soldiers raiding a cottage full of babes."

  "Not all babes, eh, Miss Wylder?"

  Maryssa struggled to keep the guilty flush from her cheeks as Rath's eyes skimmed over her décolletage. Her chin tipped up, eyes clashing defiantly with Rath's cunning gaze.

  "Just what are you intimating, Rath?" Reeve challenged, his eyes hot with anger.

  "Merely that it is most unusual for a well-born English lady to wax so, er, pugnacious in defense of low-born peasants like the Kilcannons."

  "The blood of kings ran through Kilcannon veins when our grandsires were still mucking out swine huts," Reeve said.

  "That may be true, but I doubt it is their royalty which holds such allure for Miss Wylder."

  Maryssa's stiff fingers fluttered to her breast, and she felt as though the despicable colonel could almost see the tracings of Tade's lips upon her skin.

  Reeve hurled his napkin onto his plate, bounding to his feet in barely coiled fury. "By God, Rath, I'll—"

  "Nay, Reeve. It is all right." Maryssa drew herself up haughtily as she faced Rath's sly leer. "I care not whether Rachel or Tade or any of the Kilcannons were born in the lowliest ditch in Ireland. They were kind to me, loving. They took me in when I was lost and frightened and—" The words caught in Maryssa's throat, the cunning light in Rath's beady eyes making her feel naked, vulnerable.

  "I beg your forgiveness, Miss Wylder." The apology slipped like oil from Rath's tongue, his lips curving into a knowing smile. "Until this very moment I did not comprehend the full extent of your . . . loyalty to the Kilcannons."

  Maryssa flinched, feeling the jaws of some invisible trap snap shut about her. A sudden primal need to escape gripped her.

  Her eyes darted to Christabel's worried features. "I-I'm sorry," she said. "I've a bit of a headache. Perhaps if I could withdraw?”

  "I'll go with you." Christabel started to rise.

  "Nay, I'll not be long. Mayhap a turn about your garden will help to clear my head." Maryssa rose, struggling to affect a calm mien beneath Rath's cold, assessing stare. "If you'll pardon me, Colonel Rath?"

  "Pardon you?" A smile slithered across Rath's lips, his voice dropping to the hiss of a snake. "That entirely depends upon the seriousness of your offense."

  Maryssa felt a chill prickle her skin. Squaring her shoulders beneath the ivory damask of her gown, she walked to Christabel's s
ide to give her friend's hand a reassuring squeeze. Then Maryssa turned and swept away through the ornately carved doors.

  The night was sweet, heavy with the scent of darkness, as Maryssa fled into the garden's warm embrace. Yet in spite of the scores of paper lanterns bedecking the moonlit maze in a dozen glowing colors, it seemed to Maryssa as if the garden's precisely trimmed hedges pressed about her like the bars of a jail.

  Rath's silkily voiced threats seemed to lurk within the night- shadowed pathways, lashing her with coils of panic, driving her ruthlessly through countless shifting images that seemed to dart across the darkened sky like scenes from some macabre play.

  Maryssa clenched numb fingers in the lace that tumbled past her wrists, the starched patterns rasping against her palms. She did not care if Tade took a thousand women to his bed, if she never again felt the wonder of his touch—if only he was safe. Yet even as she fought to banish the nightmare visions from her mind, they roiled onward, giving her no hope, no peace.

  Hounds pursued their quarry through dream-hazed mountains. Devin, his slender wrists bound with stout rope, lay stretched beneath brutal hands, his face contorted in agony as the executioner's knife bit into his flesh. And a midnight-black mantle shrouded Tade Kilcannon's broad, lifeless shoulders in its scarlet-stained folds as green eyes, glazed in death, stared up at her through slits in a black silk hood.

  The bullet I buried in his flesh . . . Maryssa shut her eyes against the hideous image Rath's words painted, but the rich imagination she had cultivated during childhood proved her betrayer, casting across the canvas of her mind a hundred vivid images of Tade, the pistol ball tearing his hard bronzed flesh, his lean body crumpling, falling . . . dying.

  "He's not the Black Falcon! He's not!" Maryssa pressed her knuckles against her teeth, tasting the salt of tears. "Deirdre said nothing of Tade being wounded. He's hale. Safe."

  Yet in the darkest corners of her mind echoes of horrifying laughter rose to torment her, fanatical tones honed with a blade-thin edge of evil. Maryssa's flesh crawled at the memory of Dallywoulde’s colorless eyes, cold and treacherous as ice veiling a churning sea, eyes soulless with hate, their eerie light greedy as he watched a child devoured by flames.