The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance Part 49

He strode to a sideboard against the far wall. While he searched for something, Branna looked about the room, soft light from several candelabras illuminating the darkest corners.

The primary item of furniture dominating the room was a great bed with a heavy wooden frame overlaid with quilts, a thick fur coverlet and pillows. The bed was curtained; its linen draperies pulled back and tied to the bedposts with leather straps. An arched fireplace took over one wall, soot blackening the protective hood of stone. Several chests and a hanging tapestry graced the opposite side of the room.

"Remove your cloak."

Branna complied, even though the room was damp. She laid it over a nearby slatted chair.

Devlin came back to her with the pot of salve and a cloth. He dipped his fingers into the paste and took her right hand.

With surprising gentleness, he rubbed the waxy paste into the palm of her hand, covering the cuts and abrasions.

"Your name?"

"'Tis Lady Branna Mordah."

"Pray tell me, my lady, what was of such significance tonight that you would risk your life?"

She glanced at his face. His eyes met hers, as dark and s.h.i.+ny as wet slate.

"I seek an heirloom of my mother's which was stolen when she died."

"And you think 'tis buried here? You are surely mistaken."

The salve had been well worked into her skin, but he continued to ma.s.sage her hand, sending delicious tingles up her arm and down to her toes, making her even more nervous.

"Your one hand will need a dressing. 'Tis the most damaged."

"What is this ointment? It has the scent of flowers."

"'Tis calendula salve, made from the leaves of marigolds and lavender. 'Tis used upon the horses."

Did his horses receive such wonderful rub-downs? She wanted to be covered with the fragrant salve. Branna shook her head before those thoughts went further.

As he wrapped her right hand with a cloth, Branna s.h.i.+fted her eyes to the decorative windows. Moonlight spilled through, glinting off the pieces of coloured gla.s.s, highlighting the central tree design. Branna gasped and pulled her hand away.

"Your windows. I've seen that design."

"Nay, 'tis impossible. It was created for Hollylough Castle years ago. My home is so named for the holly trees in the thicket by the lough's edge. There are no windows like it."

Her heart thumped wildly. But Branna had seen them long ago. She gripped Devlin's arm. "Do you have a chapel with those same windows?"

"Aye, of course."

"Take me there."

"Tomorrow. The windows are most beautiful with the coming sun."

"No. Now." Branna touched his arm, feeling his steely muscles beneath the tunic sleeve. "Please, I mean you no trouble, but I must see the chapel tonight." Branna hated the desperation in her tone, but couldn't be refused.

He searched her eyes and smoothed a lock of hair from her face. He carefully took her hand. "I'll take you."

In the outer ward, the wind gusted, blowing dirt and straw about. Branna was sorry to have left behind her cloak. Devlin led her to a stone building adjacent to the great hall. He opened the double wooden doors and stepped aside.

Branna walked towards the altar. "The first time I walked down this aisle, I touched all the wooden benches along the way."

Branna knew Devlin listened behind her.

"We were to be a family. Mama looked beautiful in a yellow wedding gown with her dark hair free about her shoulders. She wore a crown of white flowers I made for her."

Branna had reached the front of the chapel and looked up at the window, her mind far back in time. "I remember the stained gla.s.s with the tree at its centre, the curled branches and red berries. So beautiful. So perfect."

Branna shuddered as she ran her hands over the altar. "Until the dogs came. Tiarna helped hide me under this bord and I was safe."

Branna turned to Devlin. Tears ran down her cheeks. "The dogs killed them. Tore at them and stole my mother's emerald chalice; took her life." She tightened her jaw. "I want them back."

Three.

Devlin drew Branna to him. He wrapped her in his arms, drawing comfort as well as giving it. He breathed into her hair, "G.o.d's blood. That was your mother."

She raised her head and looked at him askance. "My mother was here that night, in your chapel, as was I. You must know what happened?"

"I know very little. Only that the hounds killed my father by accident that night. I was twelve and squiring at a neighbouring estate. I was summoned home for the funeral, but only told the dogs were driven crazy and had wrongly attacked him."

"Tiarna was your father? Why did you not find me?"

"I knew nothing of you. By the time I arrived home, it was days later. You were long gone and my household was ruled by my uncle. I could not legally return and take over as master until I had reached my majority."

"'Twas the chalice the dogs were after." Branna buried her face into his chest.

Devlin didn't know what to believe. There was more to his father's death than he'd been told. His uncle had only said that he was to take on the leaders.h.i.+p role after his father had died.

"You were looking for the emerald chalice at the tomb."

Branna nodded against his shoulder.

Devlin frowned. "How can this chalice bring your mother back? She's been dead nearly fifteen years."

She stepped out of his arms and her blue eyes brightened. "The chalice is magic. It can bring my mother back from the dead. 'Tis my heart's desire."

Devlin had never heard of such a cup. "How did your family come by this magic chalice?"

"My ancestor Liam once saved a gnome from the jaws of a serpent. The gnome was very grateful and, since gnomes are known for excellent metalwork, as a reward, the chalice was given to Liam, with the instruction that drinking from it would bring forth his heart's desire."

Why had he never been told of their parents' marriage or the chalice? He'd have to ask his uncle for an explanation to determine the truth of her words.

"Your mother died long ago. Why have you waited until now to get her back?"

"You can drink from the chalice only once in a lifetime." She dropped her head. "I waited till I knew my heart's desire."

He slipped a finger beneath her chin. "What convinced you?"

"My uncle's family is to marry me off, as I am past my prime, but no one has offered. Everyone is afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Of me. My aunt has spread lies about me, saying I was the evil one who called the dogs, killing my own mother. She is jealous and hateful. I could not endure the shame."

He held her a few more moments, rubbing her back, worried by her chilled skin.

"We must leave. The storm worsens." In truth, he needed to leave this place of painful memories.

Fear came into her eyes, darkening them to a deepwater blue. "Will the dogs be waiting for us?"

Devlin kissed the tear stains on her cheeks. "I'll protect you, my lady."

The wind howled and rain lashed Branna's face as Devlin took her hand and they stepped outside the chapel. Even with his promise, Branna's eyes darted around the bailey, waiting for the dogs to attack. Every sound heightened her fear, pulling at her memories.

In the safety of Lord MacKenna's chamber, a blazing fire snapped in the fireplace, beating back the chilled dampness and her panic. Branna was surprised his servants were still up at this late hour. She stood by the warmth of the fireplace and rubbed her wet arms.

"You should remove your wet clothing." Lord MacKenna held out to her an armful of fabrics. "You ought to find something warmer in here."

Branna took the proffered garments. "Thank you. I am chilled."

"There is a wardrobe behind that tapestry." Devlin pointed to a thick wool carpet hanging from the wooden rafters dyed vibrant colours.

Hidden behind the tapestry, Branna slipped out of her damp, low riding boots. She unclipped her brooch and slipped out of her loose-sleeved surcoat, wet almost through. She touched the deep blue wool of her long-sleeved gown and discovered it was almost as wet and radiated an unpleasant odour. It too had to go. She sat on the wooden bench and peeled off her hose.

Finally, Branna stood only in her long linen chemise, exposed to the draughts. Branna rummaged through the garments and chose one of Lord Connal's linen s.h.i.+rts. The neckband and the wristbands were embroidered in colour and design to match the windows of the castle. She slipped it over her head and smoothed the material down, admiring its quality. She breathed in Devlin's scent of wood smoke, sweat and horses, which clung to his s.h.i.+rt. She liked the earthy, very masculine aroma.

Taking a deep breath, Branna stepped out from behind the tapestry. She instantly felt Lord MacKenna's eyes on her, but snapped her head around when she heard the door to the chamber close.

"My steward has brought an evening repast. Come and eat. You must be famished."

Lord MacKenna was seated at a small table beside the bed. Branna approached the table set with trays of food, two bread trenchers and a pair of gla.s.s goblets.

One tray was piled high with cheese, almonds, figs, dates and raisins. The other tray held a selection of meats and fish: venison, chicken and haddock. Her mouth watered.

"Aye, 'tis been many hours since I've eaten."

Devlin indicated the empty chair and from a flagon poured a pale yellow liquid into the two gla.s.ses.

"Sit."

Branna nodded and gratefully took the seat. She sampled a few of the selections and gulped a swallow of the sweetened wine. It burned going down and she coughed. It wasn't watered as she'd expected.

Once she caught her breath, she asked, "Your mother, what was she like?"

Devlin studied her a moment. She met his eyes without apology. "She was like suns.h.i.+ne lighting all the corners of the castle. We'd take long summer walks in the sweet fields and sometimes pick berries in the wood. Then she was gone."

He shrugged his shoulders and she felt him take an emotional step back.

"I remember my father was bereft. Shortly after her death I was sent away, earlier than the other children had been. I was never certain if my father loved me or if I was too much a reminder of her. That is why I was surprised to learn of his new marriage."

"Your mother sounds very much like my mother." Branna swallowed hard over the sudden lump of sadness in her throat. "Since I was so young, my grandmama has told me stories of my mother and her childhood. I'd like to find the chalice before she pa.s.ses on to the heavens."

"I too have an uncle who took me in and gave me reason to go on," Devlin said softly. "I doubt you remember anything of your father?"

"Nay. He died when I was only two years. My mother told me he was a good provider, but I don't believe she was content."

"My father, do you have memories of him?" Devlin's tone was tentative, the question carefully asked. It touched a place in her heart.

Branna smiled and gripped his hand that lay on the table. She wanted to pull him into her arms, as he'd done for her, and soothe him.

"Many times he spoke to us of his son with great love and pride. He welcomed the day you would return. He wished for us to meet and have in this castle a great family." A mixture of tenderness and longing hit Branna. "He was a good man. He used to call me 'Little Raven' for my dark hair." She whispered, "He saved my life that night."

Devlin abruptly pulled his hand away. He cleared his throat and rose. "Please excuse me while I change into dry clothing."

She watched him stalk towards the wardrobe, not sure if he was upset at her or his father . . . or both.

Within the wardrobe, Devlin sank to the bench feeling the weight of his heritage. Bitter agony rose to his throat. He didn't want to be Houndmaster. He liked being a knight and living at Hollylough, especially now that he knew his father had loved him. Yet this curse was part of him, who he was. He had no other choice.

Devlin removed his damp clothes and dressed in a fresh tunic and hose. His uncle Hugh, the current Houndmaster, believed it to be a great honour and had prepared him well over the years. Devlin's true wish was to live out his years in relative peace at Hollylough.

Devlin came from behind the tapestry. In the far corner, Branna stood at the stone sill of an arched window. She reached to touch the crimson rabbit atop a board game drawn with a cross.

Devlin's grip on her wrist stopped her.

"I . . . ah . . . I only wished to brush off the dirt. 'Tis evident no one has played in many years."

"This was my father's game. We played after evening meals. I've not played since his death."

Branna caressed his hand still fastened upon her wrist.

"Forgive me, my lord. I meant no disrespect to Tiarna. I loved him as if he were my own father. Would you be willing to play in his memory?"

Devlin felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He hadn't been able to play the game for nearly fifteen years, yet this slip of a woman offered him a reason to put it to rights.

Her fingers continued to caress up his arm, her touch sending ripples of sensation through his body. "I'll teach you what I know of the game."

Emotions warred through Devlin, his battle instincts stirring. He would not grow close to her. His destiny lay with the h.e.l.lhounds. Only he had not expected such comfort on his last night as a mortal man.

Lady Branna had given him a wondrous gift the truth about his father. Devlin had spent too many years blaming himself for driving his father away. His uncle always at his side, insisting Devlin's father could not bear to look upon the son who reminded him of the beloved wife who died bringing Devlin into the world. He would deal with his uncle soon.