his fingers over the woman’s heaving back and made the sign of the cross. He found his voice and used it to beseech God to forgive all of them.
As the priest raised his hand in a sign of forgiveness and blessing, Catherine Fitzgerald put her hands to her face and faded into the tower’s stone walls, weeping, as lost as she had been since the night of her death.
Morgana listened to the litany in Latin, numb with shock, unable to tell her tears from the sweat that coursed down Hugh’s neck and throat onto her brow and cheek. His hand gripped her head, tightly holding her head flattened against his chest. His heart pumped erratically.
At some point, the cadence evened. Hugh’s voice rumbled like distant thunder, repeating the same order twice. “Leave us.”
Loghran got up and extended a hand to Kermit, hauling the soldier to his feet.
“Thank you.” As Hugh gave vent to his gratitude, Loghran grunted and closed the windows, twisting the brass hasps so tightly the metal screeched.
The soft swish of their boots retreated across the wooden floor. Morgana tried to use her hands to wipe her face. The right one felt as if it were never going to work again. Hugh caught hold of her fingers and tucked them down between their bodies.
“It’s all right to cry, Morgana.” His lips nuzzled against her sweat-damp brow. “I thought I made it clear I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not even yourself.”
“I’m not a spy!” she managed to say, before Hugh’s fingers pressed against her lips, silencing her.
“You don’t have to explain anything else to me. I know who Catherine Fitzgerald was. Tomorrow I’ll show you where her portrait hangs. You don’t have to believe me, but she was deeply loved, and her death caused much grief and regret. Hush, now. Trust me, Morgana. I won’t hurt you.”
He lifted her chin, gently tilting her face, wiping away her tears with his thumbs. Then he kissed her mouth softly, hoping she would be able to tell that he meant what he said. He wanted her trust more than anything he’d ever wanted in his whole life.
Hugh shuddered then, unable to do anything more than to hold her close. He closed his eyes and shuddered again, shaken by the image of her poised on that window ledge, arms wide open to embrace death. The image moved as it had in reality, sluggish, ponderous, each weighted step he’d taken toward the window to stop her agonizingly slow.
Little by little, her flood of silent tears slowed. No words or sobs accompanied them. Hugh smoothed his hand across the back of her head continuously, massaging the tight muscles in her neck and shoulders. He tried to calm her, as a good father might soothe a frightened and terrified child. But he’d never felt less fatherly in his life as he sat on the floor beneath the closed windows, holding her in his lap.
“I never meant to drive you to do that,” he said at last, finally able to face his own callous impatience and his inability to trust other people. Orphaned by war, and exiled by political expedience, Hugh had lived all his life alone, trusting only Loghran. Women were to be used. He was no better than Kelly. In some ways, he was worse.
“I’m sorry, Morgana. I only meant to frighten you, to make you believe my threats were real. The truth is, I could never raise a hand against you or any woman for that matter, not even were punishment deemed necessary by law or common sense. I am a man, and it comes easy to make such threats when fear holds me in its grips.
“I wanted you to tell me the real reasons why you feel you must go to Dunluce. It was wrong of me to use such underhandedmethods. What I did was worse than anything Kelly did to you today. I’m sorry. I won’t hurt you again.”
Hugh swallowed, then continued. “I give you my word of honor that you will be safe from all harm so long as you are here at Dungannon and in Ulster. If you will tell me when you must be at Dunluce, I will move heaven and earth to get you there
As the priest raised his hand in a sign of forgiveness and blessing, Catherine Fitzgerald put her hands to her face and faded into the tower’s stone walls, weeping, as lost as she had been since the night of her death.
Morgana listened to the litany in Latin, numb with shock, unable to tell her tears from the sweat that coursed down Hugh’s neck and throat onto her brow and cheek. His hand gripped her head, tightly holding her head flattened against his chest. His heart pumped erratically.
At some point, the cadence evened. Hugh’s voice rumbled like distant thunder, repeating the same order twice. “Leave us.”
Loghran got up and extended a hand to Kermit, hauling the soldier to his feet.
“Thank you.” As Hugh gave vent to his gratitude, Loghran grunted and closed the windows, twisting the brass hasps so tightly the metal screeched.
The soft swish of their boots retreated across the wooden floor. Morgana tried to use her hands to wipe her face. The right one felt as if it were never going to work again. Hugh caught hold of her fingers and tucked them down between their bodies.
“It’s all right to cry, Morgana.” His lips nuzzled against her sweat-damp brow. “I thought I made it clear I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not even yourself.”
“I’m not a spy!” she managed to say, before Hugh’s fingers pressed against her lips, silencing her.
“You don’t have to explain anything else to me. I know who Catherine Fitzgerald was. Tomorrow I’ll show you where her portrait hangs. You don’t have to believe me, but she was deeply loved, and her death caused much grief and regret. Hush, now. Trust me, Morgana. I won’t hurt you.”
He lifted her chin, gently tilting her face, wiping away her tears with his thumbs. Then he kissed her mouth softly, hoping she would be able to tell that he meant what he said. He wanted her trust more than anything he’d ever wanted in his whole life.
Hugh shuddered then, unable to do anything more than to hold her close. He closed his eyes and shuddered again, shaken by the image of her poised on that window ledge, arms wide open to embrace death. The image moved as it had in reality, sluggish, ponderous, each weighted step he’d taken toward the window to stop her agonizingly slow.
Little by little, her flood of silent tears slowed. No words or sobs accompanied them. Hugh smoothed his hand across the back of her head continuously, massaging the tight muscles in her neck and shoulders. He tried to calm her, as a good father might soothe a frightened and terrified child. But he’d never felt less fatherly in his life as he sat on the floor beneath the closed windows, holding her in his lap.
“I never meant to drive you to do that,” he said at last, finally able to face his own callous impatience and his inability to trust other people. Orphaned by war, and exiled by political expedience, Hugh had lived all his life alone, trusting only Loghran. Women were to be used. He was no better than Kelly. In some ways, he was worse.
“I’m sorry, Morgana. I only meant to frighten you, to make you believe my threats were real. The truth is, I could never raise a hand against you or any woman for that matter, not even were punishment deemed necessary by law or common sense. I am a man, and it comes easy to make such threats when fear holds me in its grips.
“I wanted you to tell me the real reasons why you feel you must go to Dunluce. It was wrong of me to use such underhandedmethods. What I did was worse than anything Kelly did to you today. I’m sorry. I won’t hurt you again.”
Hugh swallowed, then continued. “I give you my word of honor that you will be safe from all harm so long as you are here at Dungannon and in Ulster. If you will tell me when you must be at Dunluce, I will move heaven and earth to get you there
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