L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep by Sharon Schulze Page A

Aidan
O’Neill inside, then brought in a blanket and a bucket. Dismissing Henry to
return to his duties, Connor removed a lantern from its hook on the wall next
to the door and entered the room, closing the door behind him.
    Something rustled and squeaked in the far corner of the chamber.
    “I see I’m to be given all the comforts Gerald’s Keep has to
offer,” O’Neill said dryly. He shook out the blanket with a snap, wrapped it
about his shoulders and settled onto the floor, resting his back against a sack
of grain.
    Connor hung the light from a peg on the wall and leaned back
against the door, arms folded across his chest. “What did you expect—that your
sister would hear what you had to say, then greet you with open arms?”
    “She ever was a contrary lass,” O’Neill said with disgust. “Never
willing to do what we wanted.”
    “If this latest plan of yours is an example of your wishes where
she’s concerned, I can understand why. Did you truly believe she’d agree to
give herself and her child up to the men who abused her?” He watched the
Irishman’s face carefully, but saw only honest confusion displayed there.
    “They’ll wind up in Hugh MacCarthy’s hands sooner or later
anyway,” O’Neill said with some heat. “No offense to you, milord, but you
cannot expect to thwart Hugh. A more pigheaded man has never lived!” He shook
his head. “Hugh won’t rest till he’s taken what he wants—or dies in the
process.”
    Connor straightened and stood at his ease—outwardly, at least. “Hugh
MacCarthy will find there is a huge difference between terrorizing a dying old
man and his defenseless peasants, and facing me and my men.”
    “So you say, milord. But what’ll you gain, eh? This keep isn’t
yours, ′tis your brother’s. And Moira . . . ” He
laughed. “Do you honestly believe having her in your bed will be worth the
bother of dealing with MacCarthy? The man sees this as a holy quest—”
    The sneer on O’Neill’s face changed to shock as Connor lunged
toward him and, snagging the front of his tunic, lifted him off the floor.
“You’ll cease talking of your sister as though she was a whore,” he snapped,
raising the man higher and shaking him. “Else you’ll be lucky if you can crawl
out of here.” Connor threw him against the piled bags of grain and watched him
slide to the stone floor, all his strength focused upon not closing the
distance to finish off the mouthy bastard.
    O’Neill lay unmoving, staring up at Connor. Then, reaching around
to rub the side of his head, he slowly sat up. “Christ, you’ve a temper on
you!” He smoothed his hair back and gave his beard a tug. “Wouldn’t have
thought it of a Norman,” he added with a grin.
    By the saints, was the man mad? Connor wondered. Toss him aside
like an empty ale horn, and he became more friendly ?
Jesu! Perhaps he ought to bring Will in here, see if he’d any notion how to deal with someone like O’Neill.
    “Your mistake,” Connor said. His gaze cold, he picked up the
blanket and tossed it down next to O’Neill. “Seems I’m Irish enough to want to
kill you where you sit, but I’ve sufficient Norman blood to stay my hand.”
    He reached for the lantern, then paused before opening the door.
“Have you anything you’d care to tell me before I leave you and the rats to
enjoy the remainder of the night together?”
    “Nay, milord—not a thing,” O’Neill said in a lazy drawl.
    “Perhaps something will come to you by morning,” Connor said as
he left the room without a backward glance, closing Aidan O’Neill in utter
darkness.
    His mind awhirl, he headed back to the keep. He doubted he’d
learn any more from O’Neill come morning than he had tonight. And he hesitated
to question the fool about the MacCarthys’ plans too closely, lest he
inadvertently give O’Neill some snippet of information about their situation to
carry back with him.
    Connor paused outside the door leading into the hall,