Black Falcon's Lady

  "Aye. I lied to my brother and nearly got Devin captured by the priest hunters. Tade wanted to murder me after I sent him out to gather fool's wool when he got back from Derry, and he had every right to slip a noose around my neck. My idiocy nearly put one around Devin's."

  "You stupid—" The sound of retreating hoofbeats brought Sheena's head snapping around, her tirade dying in her throat as her gaze locked upon Maryssa Wylder's mare vanishing into the shadows.

  With a cry of fury, Sheena yanked herself from Deirdre's grasp, all pretense of friendship and sweetness gone as she turned on the girl. But with the same arrogance as her brother, Deirdre Kilcannon had spun away from her and crossed the ring of light with the innate pride that had been in Tade's broad shoulders moments before.

  Sheena started to stalk after her, but the laughter of Caitrin MacVee drifted in the air. Nay, Sheena O'Toole would not be subject to ridicule yet again this night at the hands of a Kilcannon. She'd find a way to make them all swallow the insults they'd dealt her this night—Caitrin, Deirdre, Tade, aye, and that Wylder witch with her pale skin and her fears.

  Sheena chewed on her lower lip, a dozen schemes darting through her mind. There must be some way to regain Tade's loyalty while shattering any illusions of love he still held for the Sassenach slut. Theirs was an alliance ripe to be corrupted by betrayal . . . and by hate.

  The sound of Deirdre's voice above the music rasped across Sheena's taut nerves, and she glanced up to see the girl running to embrace Devin Kilcannon's tall, slender figure, his hair a pale halo in the firelight.

  Sheena's eyes narrowed to slits. Aye, there was a way to be a heroine to all the mountain folk, a way to win Tade's gratitude and love. And yet . . . A shiver coursed down her spine. She would be throwing, not only her life into peril, but her immortal soul as well. If anything went awry . . .

  Nay, she would take care. Be clever, cunning, do no lasting harm to anyone except the English heiress who threatened to steal the man who rightfully belonged to an O'Toole. Sheena tore her gaze away from Devin Kilcannon's gentle face, shifting her eyes to where Maryssa Wylder had stood moments before. Her amber eyes caught the tiniest glint of gold on the ground. She stepped toward it and snatched it up, holding the delicate swan high in the firelight. With a sneer of disdain, she flung the fragile necklet into the writhing flames and smiled.

  If she was cunning and clever, she would stand as Tade Kilcannon's bride before the seasons turned, and the heir to Donegal's wild lands would look upon Maryssa Wylder, not with the adoration reserved for an angel, but with the contempt set aside for a witch born of Satan himself.

  * * *

  Maryssa forced her chill-numbed feet up the steps to the wide oaken door, slipping one shaking hand from beneath her bedraggled cloak to turn the heavy latch that barred the entrance to Nightwylde. With all the stealth her aching limbs could muster, she forced the portal open, terrified that some servant kept late at his duties might hear the creak of hinges, or that her father, hovering over his ledgers and accounts, might still lurk in the library.

  Still, she thought, it would be worth incurring her father's wrath to huddle beneath her coverlets, bury herself in her pillows, and sob out the grief that threatened to tear her in two—a grief she had suffered for hours as she had ridden aimlessly among Tade's night-shrouded vales, a grief she knew she could never escape.

  She stepped out of the rising wind. The tapers set in sconces in the wide stone hallway oozed inky shadows along the floor, the candle flames fluttering as the midnight breeze crept around her cloak, batting at the wicks.

  The very stones of Nightwylde seemed to taunt her, as if the spirits loosed on this demon night were cackling on the rising wind, mocking her. Yet even the devil-spawned specters of All Hallows Eve could not torment her more than her own heart, as it cried out for the healing touch of Tade Kilcannon's strong hands. For as she had watched Tade stride into the embracing shadows of his mountains, Maryssa had known that he carried with him every joy she had ever known—the promise of a future bright with his loving, sharing his bed, bearing his children, babes he would cherish and guard with the same fierce tenderness he had lavished on Maryssa.

  Here, among the stones of Nightwylde, and even in the gardens of Carradown, there would be no haven to turn to, no succor except what strength he had left within her, and the unspoken, half-wild hope that his seed might have taken root in her womb.

  One hand fluttered down to her stomach, savage joy springing forth at the thought that a child born of their love might even now be clinging to life inside her—a part of Tade no one could ever take from her, a part of him that would be hers forever, that she could shower love upon during the dismal days that seemed to stretch into eternity.

  It had been more than two months since she had had her last bleeding, yet never had she considered that she might be with child. The queasiness that had beset her during the weeks of Tade's absence had seemed the result of her terror that he might lie dead. She dismissed the excruciating sensitivity of her breasts as evidence that her nerves were yanked wire-taut with the tension of waiting. But now Tade's words echoed in her mind and heart, blossoming into hope: Even now you might carry my babe . . .

  Maryssa started, berating herself for her careless preoccupation as the latch clacked shut behind her, the metallic sound ricocheting off of the entryway walls. Her pulse leaped as she scooped up her skirts and darted for the safety of the wide staircase as the sound of fast-approaching footsteps filled the hall from some distant doorway.

  Her slippered toe had touched the first step, her cloak unfurling behind her, when suddenly a hard fist knotted in the billowing folds, jerking her to a stop. Unable to stifle a scream, she wheeled toward the hand, her gaze fixing upon the raging visage of Bainbridge Wylder.

  "F-Father!" she stammered, her skin stiff with fear.

  "Where, by God's blood, have you been?" The words hissed through her father's teeth, his lips blue with fury, his face mottled red.

  Maryssa searched desperately for some excuse, some lie to save her from the menace beneath those woolly brows. "I—I wanted to see the Samhain fires, and—"

  "Those satanic fires!"

  "I overheard the servants whispering about them," Maryssa interrupted despairingly. "And it—it sounded so curious I decided to ride out to see them."

  "Hold your lying tongue, girl! You expect me to believe that you, who possess not an ounce of courage, hied yourself off in the middle of the night to watch a horde of pagan wretches dance about fires?"

  "Father, I—" Maryssa winced as the blunt fingers closed on her arm, cutting deep into the soft flesh. "I only thought to see what the fuss was about.”

  "You'll be seeing the rough side of my hand before this night is over unless you can conjure a more believable tale than that," Bainbridge snarled, ripping the tie of her cloak loose with a force that burned her throat. "Unfortunately, I haven't time now to tend to you as I'd like. You've kept our guests waiting long enough." He hurled the cloak into a heap on the stones, his eyes raking in a derisive sweep over her linsey-woolsey petticoats, honey brown against the muslin modesty piece set in her plain bodice.

  Maryssa's stomach wrenched, her eyes flicking to the block of light from the arched doorway of the library. "G-guests?" she repeated. "At this time of night?" Her fingers nervously smoothed a wisp of hair back from her temple. "Father, who has come?”

  "The good colonel, Quentin Rath, has driven over from Roantree," Bainbridge snapped. "But more importantly—"

  A footstep echoed along the corridor, and it was as though the chill of the night had suddenly seeped into the walls.

  "But more importantly," echoed a cold voice, "your eager bridegroom has come to wait upon you."

  The sickeningly familiar voice crawled over Maryssa's flesh, and she felt it like the brush of a corpse's hand. Dread and fear knotted in her stomach, then were forgotten in a surge of savage protectiveness. She folded her hands across the slight swell of her abdome
n as an almost unearthly sensation of evil seemed to permeate the corridor. Reluctantly she dragged her gaze from her father's face to where Sir Ascot Dallywoulde's rapier-thin body slashed the candlelight.

  The shadows of the night clung to his death-hued skin and to the sparse blond hair clinging about flesh as shrunken as any cadaver's. His thin lips parted in a cruel smile beneath eyes that burned with hellish zeal.

  "Sir . . . Sir Ascot . . ." Maryssa choked, battling the hideous feeling that those fanatical eyes could pierce her very soul, gaze through the folds of linsey-woolsey into the sanctuary of her womb. She leaned against the carved banister in an unconscious effort to shield her stomach from Dallywoulde's sight. "You—you're supposed to be—"

  "Watching Jeremy Bludgeon's execution?" Ascot paced toward her with a dangerous stride. "The cowardly villain decided to cheat his judges out of their due. He hanged himself in his cell the evening after sentence was passed."

  Maryssa stifled a sick gasp. "How—how horrible!"

  "Horrible? Aye. He robbed us of an afternoon's pleasure."

  "I meant that the poor wretch was so desperate he—" Maryssa cut the sentence off, seeing the varying degrees of anger, disapproval, and disbelief on the faces of the two men.

  Dallywoulde shrugged. "In any case, Bludgeon's well-deserved death enabled me to conclude matters in London sooner than I had hoped, so it was possible to be reunited with the woman who made the season past in London so . . . memorable. I assure you that I hastened to your side the moment my business was concluded." Light glinted off his small, sharp teeth, and Maryssa shuddered at the hate that was scarcely concealed in those ice-pale eyes. She forced herself to meet and hold the Englishman's gaze.

  Stiffening her quaking knees, Maryssa forced her lips into what she prayed would pass for a smile. “It is a pity you tired your horse so. I can't tell you what a comfort it was knowing that you were being so satisfactorily entertained—so far away from me that I could not be forced to join in your revelry."

  Sir Ascot's thin lips curled in menace, icy anger staining his cheekbones with color. "Oh, I intend quite a revel, my dear, after you wed me. I shall exact from you just retribution for the sins you committed at Thorndyke Place."

  Maryssa flinched, then steeled herself, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her jerk away as his bony fingers closed over her hand, lifting it to his damp lips. She felt the sharp edges of his teeth beneath their thin veil of flesh, felt the barely hidden threat within as Dallywoulde's eyes glowed like pale slits in his white face.

  "I assure you I have a long memory." Ascot smirked. "And in giving me your hand in marriage, your father has made clear his desire that I curb your wayward impulses and mold you into womanly obedience. Uncle Bainbridge has allowed you too much license, cousin, but once you are under my rule, you will learn your place."

  Maryssa glanced at her father's face, expecting an outburst of anger directed at Dallywoulde for the insult just paid him, but Bainbridge Wylder's craggy features were as impassive as stone. “It is her mother's blood that taints her thus," he growled, his eyes narrowing on Maryssa. "But I have faith that you, Ascot, have a will strong enough to crush her cursed rebelliousness with as much ease as you do the lowly scum who stir violence in these lands."

  Dallywoulde's lips stretched into a wintry smile. “By the time I sail for England, I will have had much practice in snuffing out rebelliousness—what with clearing the countryside of priests, aye, and snaring the Black Falcon in my noose. It will be child's play for me to quell the sinful stubbornness of one woman."

  Maryssa’s throat tightened at the vision of this evil knight hunting down Tade and gentle Devin, but she firmly pulled her fingers from Dallywoulde’s grasp. “Perhaps, Sir Ascot, you will find your quest not so simple, once you brave the Donegal wilds," she said, leveling her gaze on his cruel eyes. "And I promise you, tearing out my 'sinful stubbornness' will prove a worthy challenge, once you have murdered your way through these lands."

  Her father's furious gasp mingled with a menacing hiss from Dallywoulde, and Maryssa's courage nearly faltered.

  "By God, you impertinent—" Her father's beefy hand flashed out to strike her, but before the blow could land, Ascot Dallywoulde's tensile fingers closed around her chin, digging deep into the tender flesh.

  "Nay, Uncle Bainbridge." Dallywoulde's moist breath dampened Maryssa's skin. “It will be my task to drive the wickedness out of this vassal of Eve. Always it has been thus—men, carved in God's image, preyed upon by temptresses with their sinful bodies and lying smiles. But I promise you that as soon as the papist scum that infests your land lies rotting in hell, I shall drag your daughter through cleansing fire as well. Make her a humble servant of the light." Dallywoulde's gaze flicked to the furious countenance of her father. "If you would leave us for a little, good uncle."

  Maryssa cast a pleading look at Bainbridge Wylder's implacable face and felt anger snap through her at her father's scorn. With a grunt of disgust, he spun on his heel and stalked back toward the door, where a cunning-eyed Quentin Rath lurked.

  Resolve coursed through Maryssa, born of the new strength and sense of worth Tade had blessed her with, and of the knowledge that she had little left to lose. She flung her head back, the heavy seal ring on Dallywoulde's finger gouging her cheek as she broke his hold on her chin. "I have nothing to say to you, sir, be it in the company of my father, or here, alone," she said, stiffening her spine. “I’m no longer the shy girl you terrorized at Thorndyke Place."

  Dallywoulde's eyes glinted. His lips stretched into a sneer. "I have found that cleansing sins from the souls of the fallen is much like breaking men upon the rack, milady. When one level of suffering no longer suffices, I only need to twist the wheel tighter.''

  Those evil eyes flicked in a cold path down her body, pausing for terrifying seconds on her slim waist. It was as though some devil had given his minion the power to see every sweep of Tade's hands on her skin, as if those chill white lips sneered at a union of the flesh, which this cold knight regarded with nothing but revulsion.

  Maryssa felt the stab of those pale eyes, fear tearing like talons at her courage. If Ascot Dallywoulde suspected she had joined her body with Tade's . . . if he knew of the child she might carry, he would shower her and her babe with vengeance in the name of his wrathful God, crushing them beneath the weight of his fanaticism.

  Fear cut through her as she turned and fled up the stairs, the hideous sound of Sir Ascot's laughter filling her with dread.

  “It will not always be so easy to elude me, milady," Dallywoulde said. "Soon it will be my estates through which you flee, my power that will hold you captive." Ascot licked his lips, a twisted pleasure stinging along his veins as he watched Maryssa's slender form dash up the huge stone stairway. The wench had always seemed like a weakling of a chit, her eyes round with fear, flinching when he had dragged her to his favored spectacles at Tyburn Tree and within Newgate's walls. Never had he expected his whey-faced cousin to turn on him like a raging kitten, claws spread. He steepled his fingers upon his brocaded waistcoat, a sensation of eagerness stealing over him.

  Dallywoulde had decided to wed the chit in exchange for Bainbridge Wylder's vast wealth. He had taken pleasure in tormenting her, watching her writhe on the blade of his justice. How much more entertaining it would be to watch the budding spirit he had seen within her fade and die, crushed beneath his boot heel when she was in truth his wife.

  His dearest cousin had a secret, Ascot thought slyly. He had seen it in her eyes, which were now shadowed with fear. But then, Ascot mused, taking his snuffbox from his pocket and flicking it open with a manicured finger, the most dreaded priest hunter in all Christendom was most adept at wrenching secret from people.

  A knock on the outer door made Sir Ascot stride to the portal and fling it open.

  There on the step stood a weasel of a man decked out in Quentin Rath's livery. "Beg pardon, sir." The man gave a stiff bow. "I bring a message for my ma
ster, Colonel Rath."

  "Give the message to me. I'll see it reaches his ear."

  The man squirmed, his cheeks turning a dull red. "F-forgive me, sir, but I vowed I'd give it to the colonel himself. It is a most important matter. One that I dare not trust to anyone but—"

  "Symington?"

  Dallywoulde's teeth clenched as Rath's voice grated along his nerves. The incompetent peacock was striding toward the servant with a look of such pomposity Dallywoulde had an urge to boot the colonel in his wide buttocks.

  "Aye, sir." Symington's pointed features revealed his relief. “There is a message, sir, I dared not hold until you arrived back at the barracks. Itis regarding an informer who—" Symington bit his lips, glancing nervously at Sir Ascot, and the knight couldn't resist frightening the oaf with one of his most chilling stares.

  Rath glanced from his distressed servant to Dallywoulde, and Sir Ascot could see understanding dawning on the colonel's dull face.

  "Pay no heed to Sir Ascot, Symington," Rath said, then faltered as Dallywoulde turned his frigid gaze upon him. "I—I mean, Sir Ascot Dallywoulde is privy to all that concerns the affairs hereabouts. The most noted priest hunter in England, he is, and kind enough to journey here to aid us in crushing that scoundrel, the Black Falcon."

  “It is no act of kindness," Sir Ascot cut in. "Your cursed highwayman is but another scrap of filth to scoop into the devil's basin. 'Tis the priests' blood I hunger for. Now, what message is it this lout has dragged in?"

  Symington's Adam's apple bobbed in his gangly throat. "Sir, I am told that an informer awaits you at the Devil's Grin."

  Rath snorted. "More often than not these informers are but beggars expecting the Crown's good coin."

  "Nay, sir, not this time. I heard tell that this one is different. A woman, sir. Aye, and a Catholic."