Montbryce Next Generation 01 - Dark Irish Knight by Anna Markland

baby duckling after its mother. Lorcan wiped his sleeve across his brow and breathed a sigh of relief he had said nothing about the death of MacLachlainn’s wife, nor the missing son of the dead steward. At least he hoped he had not.

CHAPTER TWENTY
    A child of coastal plains, Ronan savoured the primitive beauty of the Welsh mountains. The mist rolled in and out of the valleys of Cadair Berwyn just as it stole over the shore at Sord Colmcille.
    He fell into the habit of walking each morning to the edge of the outcropping where he had discovered a quiet place to contemplate the future. He sat cross legged, his mended shinbone aching now only a little. He filled his lungs with the crisp air and felt a measure of peace he had not known for many sennights.
    He half closed his good eye and imagined the crag looming out of the mist before him was Túr MacLachlainn. When he sought the Earl’s aid, should he tell of his love for his home, or would the Norman think him maudlin?
    Surely a noble warrior would understand the need for vengeance? But what motivation to give the Earl? Why should Ram de Montbryce send soldiers on a risky venture in a land across the sea? They could drown before they reached Ireland.
    He had rehearsed what he would say over and over in the six days since Rhoni had agreed to take him to Ellesmere. He was still no closer on this the eve of their departure. Rhoni had more or less avoided him, and though he needed her advice, he did not want her to think he pursued her. Whenever he was in her presence he thought only of carrying her off to his bed.
    Even in this place of solitude her perfume lingered in the air.
    Conall had lost patience with him and become sullen and moody. The boy had managed to filch a dagger from somewhere, and complained constantly that Ronan had not even procured a sword.
    It was a moot point. Rhodri had invited Ronan to train with his men in the afternoons. It felt good to wield a sword again, albeit a borrowed one. His muscles ached after the long period of inactivity while he convalesced, but it was a satisfying ache. He was mending, learning to fight with one eye, preparing.
    But he acknowledged it would be a long while before he could undertake an assault on Túr MacLachlainn, even if Montbryce consented to help him. His grandfather had built an impregnable fortress.
    He inhaled deeply, closed his eye and rocked from side to side, adrift on the sea. A song from his youth came unbidden to his lips.
    Tá cailín álainn a dtug mé grá dí
    Sí is-deise’s is-áille ná bláth na rós.
    Gan í ar láimh liom is cloíte atá mé.
    A cailín álainn, is tú fáth mo bhrón.
    He heard a rustling movement behind him. He came to his feet and turned, expecting to see Conall. Rhoni de Montbryce stood before him, one hand gripping the folds of her skirt, the other pressed to her mouth. She looked ready to bolt.
    He held out his hand. “Surely you’re not still afraid of me?”
     
    Rhoni was conflicted. She had followed Ronan to this deserted place each day and watched him from a distance without his knowledge. But this day, the mellow sweetness of his deep voice, singing a plaintive song in his own language, had overtaken her senses and she had inadvertently revealed her presence. His breath, visible in the cool morning air, had carried the haunting words of his song into the stoic mountains around them.
    But he thought she feared him?
    Mayhap she did. She certainly feared the emotions he stirred and the sensations he caused in private parts of her body she had never paid much attention to before.
    She lifted the hem of her skirt slightly and took a hesitant step towards him. “I chanced upon you as you sang. You have a melodious voice. Can you tell me the meaning of the words?”
    He took hold of her hand. “Sit with me and I will share with you the lament I was singing. We Irish are a strange breed. Even our love songs are laments.”
    She sat beside him on the rock, feeling its chill