A Warrior's Heart Page 9

  Roran nodded thoughtfully. He had asked himself the same questions, and was glad that Sean was not simply taking her word for it. Roran wasn’t so sure he could remain fully objective where Brighid was concerned, as much as he’d like to think otherwise.

  “I do believe she is telling the truth about this,” he said carefully. “As much as we have been misled, we must assume some blame for our own misconceptions. Brighid never actually claimed to be something she was not.” It was a very thin endorsement, but truthful. “We saw her and assumed she was a lad, and she never bothered to correct us.”

  Sean grimaced. “Aye. You can wager that from now on all boys will be required to undergo a brief physical examination from now on ere they join the ranks.”

  Roran nodded his agreement, though he could not say he was at all sorry things had happened the way they had.

  “I think that in essence, Brighid is an honest soul. Capable of fostering misconceptions, yes. But outright lying? I do not think so.”

  “She claims she had no knowledge of its meaning?”

  “Nae, and that is yet another reason why I believe her. Even if she did not know its true value, it is obviously a very valuable piece. Why live in squalor when she might have sold or traded it at any time for food or clothing or shelter?” He shook his head; it didn’t make sense. “I will tell you why. Because it is the only clue she has to her past, Sean, and that is where its true value lies. She will not part with it.”

  They sat for a while in silence, Sean absently fingering the small custom blade he always carried with him. He exhaled. “All right. If you are willing to give her the benefit of the doubt on this, so shall I. You have never been wrong about the true nature of anyone,” Sean said, then added with a grin, “gender notwithstanding, of course.”

  Even Roran’s lips quirked at that. But then, he thought to himself, he hadn’t really been wrong, had he? The instinctual, baser parts of his nature – the ones he often used to get the measure of a man – had recognized her for what she truly was, even if his conscious mind had not put the pieces together.

  “I think we should make a slight detour on the way back to Scamallhaven,” Roran answered, “and pay a visit to the good Sisters of the Most Blessed Virgin.”

  Sean shivered. “Oi, I do not like nuns, Roran.”

  A bark of laughter sounded. “Nae, I suppose a man like you has little use for the celibate and pious. However, I do believe there is a village nearby where you may, shall we say, relax for a few hours while I inquire at the convent.”

  That thought had Sean brightening considerably.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Thank you for meeting with me, Mother Superior.” Roran spoke with utmost respect, bowing slightly to the severe woman in stiff brown robes. She might have been a beautiful woman once, but the nuns here lived a very hard life and it showed in her features. Deeply etched lines mapped over skin that had once been young and supple; eyes that might have once laughed and glittered in amusement were now as hard and unyielding as the black stone they resembled. And lips that might have once curved and parted in youthful anticipation were thinned into a permanent scowl.

  The effect of her bleak appearance and unflinching self-control gave even a battle-hardened knight-warrior such as Roran a few moments of pause. He couldn’t imagine his sprite’s feisty spirit surviving in a place of such heavy sobriety.

  She nodded her head once in acknowledgement. For the most part, the order followed a strict vow of silence, but as the Mother Superior she was allowed minimal communication with outsiders when the situation called for it.

  “About sixteen years ago or so, a girlchild was left on the steps of the abbey. Do you remember?”

  The woman’s eyes softened slightly and she once again answered with a nod.

  “Can you tell me anything about the circumstances of her arrival?”

  The nun closed her eyes briefly as if remembering. “The child was very ill,” said Sister Charity, her voice little more than a whisper, rough with disuse. “We did not think she would survive. We called a priest to administer Extreme Unction.”

  “But she did survive, did she not?”

  A beatific smile ghosted her features. “God had a purpose for that one.”

  “Do you have any idea who left her here?”

  The rare smile faded. The Sister shifted uncomfortably and averted her eyes. Roran picked up on it immediately. She would not place her soul in peril with a lie, but she did not wish to share her knowledge, either.

  “Mother Superior,” said Roran, firmly but gently, “I assure you that my motives are pure. I ask on behalf of the child you once saved.”

  Cautious hope lit her eyes. “She lives? She is well?”

  “Aye, on both accounts.”

  “Is she with you?”

  “No. She waits in the village. She did not think she would be welcome.” From the little she’d told Roran of her time at the convent, he had to agree. Apparently she’d been a real handful.

  To his surprise, the nun’s lips actually twitched a little, then sobered again. “Perhaps it is for the best.”

  “Who brought her to you, Sister?”

  She didn’t say anything for a long time, so long that Roran was afraid she would resume her silence. She closed her eyes again; her lips moved slightly, as if in prayer. He remained quiet and still; he was a patient man.

  Finally she nodded and opened her eyes. “The girl was not alone. A young woman brought her.”

  Roran’s interest spiked. “A young woman, you say?”

  “I believe she was the child’s mother, barely more than a child herself. Both were gravely ill. The girlchild survived, but the woman did not.”

  “What did she look like, this woman?”

  “Very small, delicate. Golden hair, blue eyes, skin as pale as moonlight.”

  Just like Aibhilin, Roran thought. “Did she say anything? Give any indication of her identity?”

  Sister Charity looked at him intently. “She succumbed to the fever quickly, but had a few moments of lucidity. She begged us to hide the child, to protect her. She said there were those who would do her harm because of who she was, and that it was better off she know nothing of whence she came.”

  Roran’s heartbeat thumped against the inner walls of his chest. This latest information seemed to fit perfectly with the theory he and Sean had discussed, but he cautioned himself; it was not enough to be considered proof.

  “You refrained from speaking of any of this to the child?”

  “It was the mother’s dying wish that we not, and we take such things very seriously, Sir Roran. When the child recovered, she had no memory of her or her life prior to arriving here. We took it as a sign that she was not meant to.”

  Roran wasn’t sure he agreed with that logic, but he was not about to share that opinion. “You gave her the name Brighid?”

  The nun shook her head in denial. “Her mother said that we must call her that, that it was for her safety.”

  “That was not the child’s real name?”

  The Sister shifted. “I cannot answer that. I can tell you only that Brighid is the name under which she was baptized, and communed.”

  “Do you remember anything about a pendant? A black stone carved in the shape of a dragon winding itself around a silver Celtic cross, clutching the harp of King David?”

  “It was the mother’s,” she confirmed. “When she passed, we put it on the child.”

  “But you never told her where it came from.”

  She shook her head.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me, Sister?”

  Again, she considered carefully before answering. “You are not the first to inquire about the child.”

  At Roran’s raised brows, she said, “Many years later, a man came here, searching for his wife and child. By that time, the girl had already run away.”

  “What do you know of this man?”

  “He said his name was McKinnon. I belie
ve he might have been a silversmith, but that is all I know.”

  Believing he could glean no more from the Sister, Roran thanked her and went on his way.

  ––––––––

  As Roran neared the village, a short but familiar whistle had him veering into the forest. He followed the sharp, staccato bursts to a well-hidden clearing behind a particularly thick copse of trees. It didn’t take him long to find Brighid perched in one of the branches, enjoying a piece of fruit. Roran dismounted and allowed his horse to graze while lifting his arms up. Brighid leapt gracefully into his arms, sliding down his body until her feet touched the ground.

  “What are you doing out here alone?” he said frowning. “Where are the others?”

  Brighid blushed. “Ah, weel, Sir Sean said something about continuing the lads’ training in the village, and that I was te stay here and remain hidden.”

  Roran sighed. Sean’s idea of training most likely involved the lads’ first introduction to wenching. He could not be overly annoyed with him, though, since it gave him a few moments alone with Brighid. Except for the nights when she was abed with him, the lads were inclined to hover around her, now that they no longer believed he would castrate them for doing so.

  She pulled another piece of fruit out of her pocket and handed it to him. “So tell me, Sir Roran,” she said with a mischievous twinkle, “were ye able te use yer manly charms te woo the words from the silent Sister?”

  Roran’s eyes widened. It took a moment for him to realize she was having a bit of fun with him; so few people did. Sean was the one that invited and encouraged such familiarity, not him. Except when it was Brighid doing the teasing. He found he liked when she did it.

  “Aye,” he confirmed. In the hour or so ride down the mountainside, he debated what, if anything, he would tell Brighid right away, coming to the conclusion that it would be prudent to speak with Sean first. Brighid was not privy to their theories, nor did she seem at all familiar with the tales of the missing princess. They’d decided to keep their thoughts to themselves until they learned more. Now that she was looking at him expectantly, practically bouncing on the balls of her wee feet, he had to tell her something.

  “Sister Charity remembers you,” he began.

  “I bet she does,” Brighid muttered, her face acquiring that pretty pink glow. Roran chuckled, once again quite certain that the spirited Brighid must have indeed been a handful for the somber nuns. “Did she tell ye anything?”

  “Aye.” Roran sank onto the fallowed grass. He pulled a blade from his pocket and patiently began to slice the apple.

  “Weel?” she asked eagerly. She dropped down beside him onto her knees, facing him so that her left thigh pressed against his right. Even that slight contact felt like an intimate connection, the fast-growing bond between them a tangible thing.

  “She says that when they found you, you were not alone. A woman held you.”

  Brighid inhaled sharply. “A woman?”

  “Aye. From the Mother Superior’s description, I think she was your mother.”

  “My mother... Why did they never tell me this?” she asked in a stunned whisper.

  “The woman was sick, too. She did not survive the night. It was her dying wish that you be told nothing of her.”

  “Why would she wish for such a thing as that?” Brigid asked, stunned.

  Roran hesitated. Should he relay what the nun had reveled? If Brighid’s true identity really did put her in danger – and he had to believe it did for the mother to make such a request on her deathbed – then it was important that she know. It had been a long time ago, and he had every intention of not allowing any harm to come to her, but as he had seen countless times, sometimes the best laid plans went awry.

  “The woman told them that you would be in danger because of your heritage. The pendant you wear – it was hers.”

  Bemused, Brighid fingered the pendant, as if it could somehow reconnect her with her past.

  Before he could tell her anymore, Sean and the boys joined them. All it took was one look at their ridiculous grins to know that he had been correct in his assumptions of how they had spent their afternoon. Roran did not wish to speak any more on the subject with the lads around. At Sean’s brief, questioning look, Roran merely gave a slight nod.

  Once they returned to camp, Roran brought Sean up to date on everything that happened. Brighid was busy slicing roots and vegetables into the simmering pot, while Lachlan cleaned the game that had found its way into the lads’ snares. The others helped, gathering firewood, fetching water. Somehow they had come to the conclusion that Brighid should not have to lift or cart heavy objects or partake of particularly bloody chores. Sean found that particularly amusing, but Roran believed it exhibited chivalrous qualities that should be encouraged in knights-to-be.

  “Roran,” Sean said slowly, “what if...”

  “Aibhilin was Brighid’s mother?” Roran finished. Sean nodded.

  Roran blew out a breath. His mind had been following a similar path. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “It seems incredible, does it not?” Sean said quietly, “But you feel the truth of it, too. I can see it in your eyes.” He shook his head, his eyes looking down to where Brighid was laughing at something Kieran said. “I never saw it before, but ... “

  Roran knew he was comparing Brighid’s features to the royal family’s, that he was coming to the same realization as Roran already had – that Brighid shared the same Fae-like features as the Queen, as well as the same unusual eyes as the king, so clear and blue and holding infinite power. That even when she was doing the most menial of tasks, she had an air of dignity and grace not normally found among common folk, and certainly not urchins.

  “Aye,” he said, seeing the comprehension dawn.

  “But ... how?” Sean wondered aloud. Questions that had been asked a myriad of times over decades resurfaced with renewed intensity. The disappearance of the Princess was perhaps the kingdom’s most debated and enduring mystery.

  Roran didn’t answer. As of yet, he did not know. But he would find out.

  ––––––––

  “Brighid,” Roran breathed her name like a prayer as he slid into her that night. Her body had become his haven. He moved within her, eliciting and savoring each soft feminine sound of pleasure. She was not a particularly vocal lover; Roran craved her quiet puffs and whimpers of need. The only sounds he enjoyed more were the musical lilt of her laughter and the way she breathed his name in climax.

  Tomorrow their long journey would come to an end. They would cross the final peak and begin their descent into the idyllic valley that was the heart of the kingdom.

  Brighid’s nails dug into his back as his release triggered hers. He looked into her eyes, losing himself in what he saw there. There was nothing more beautiful to him than the way Brighid looked when he gave her pleasure.

  “What will happen tomorrow?” she asked softly, her hand softly petting his chest as they lay together beneath the blankets.

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly, but it was not for lack of attention on his part. He had thought of little else this last week. Since his meeting with the Mother Superior he had been considering the possibilities, always returning to the same one. They would know the truth of it soon enough.

  If their return followed protocol, the lads would be given a day or two to settle in. They would be shown to their quarters, provided with clothing and fitted for weapons. They would be scrubbed and tidied, and then formally introduced to the laws and guidelines which they were expected to follow to the letter, for the moment they walked through the gate, they officially became King’s Men.

  Technically, Brighid was still one of the recruits. She had been selected and marked with them. But one thing he knew with absolute certainty - Brighid would not be bunking with the others. Now more than ever he was glad he had made Brighid his squire; it was his saving grace. He would simply insist that his squire remain with him at all times.
Roran had his own private quarters. He would have a much better chance of protecting her and her secrets for a little while longer at least.

  “Things will be unsettled when we first arrive. There will be much excitement and confusion.”

  Brighid was clever enough to hear everything he wasn’t saying. She shifted slightly. “I have made things difficult for ye, havenae I?”

  Roran smiled and kissed the top of her head. Difficult didn’t come close to describing the situation in which he now found himself. In the simplest of terms, he’d signed a young woman into a strictly male guard, made her his personal squire, branded her, and had taken her innocence. Add on the fact that she was still in his bed and that she might just be the daughter of the vanished princess – the granddaughter of the king to whom Roran had pledged his fealty and owed his very life – and things grew exponentially more complicated.

  “Just a wee bit, sweetling. But you are worth it.”

  She propped her arms on his chest and laid her chin upon them, gazing into his face. “I doona ken what I will find in Scamallhaven, my handsome knight. Ye may weel change yer mind afore too long about that.”

  “Nothing could change my mind,” he told her. “Nor my heart.”

  She smiled at him, a smile filled with so much trust and love he felt guilty for not telling her everything. Brighid was clearly worried that what she found might prove beyond doubt that she was not worthy of a High Knight-Warrior of the Elite Guard. But what if his suspicions were true? What if she was the granddaughter of the king? A princess in her own right? Then he would be the one not worthy. In claiming her as he had, he may well have sealed his own death warrant. King Aedan was a fine man and a great king, but he could not be expected to overlook the defiling of his unwedded granddaughter, not even for Roran.

  Of course, Roran didn’t see it as defiling. He was soul-bound to her, no matter what happened.