Devlin

Then another figure darted forward, yanked her to her feet and shoved her in front of him toward the door.

“She can be a hostage for us—just as they took Niall,” rejoiced Cashel. He needed to escape the castle immediately, before his part in the crime was discovered. No Englishman would be able to identify just which Irishman had placed the woman in jeopardy, and if he were taken, he’d say it had been Devlin’s idea.

“No, let her go. She’s hardly more than a child,” protested Devlin. He grabbed for the man, but Cashel was already through the door with the girl, leaving Devlin no choice but to follow.

“My daughter! My God, they have my daughter,” cried an anguished voice as they headed across the bailey. “Tell your men to be careful.”

“My men will do what they must in order to recapture the prisoners,” said the governor of the prison. No one, English or Irish, had ever escaped his jail alive and he’d be damned before one did tonight. “Get MacMahon, lads! There’s a healthy bounty on the boy, and there’ll be more for every Irishman you take, whatever his name.”

They swarmed from nowhere, swore Devlin, dodging right and left to avoid the onslaught until he could catch Cashel and the female. Then, they fought their way nearly across the compound, while steel clanging loudly upon steel shattered the night. Every moment brought more English soldiers to the skirmish. But Devlin knew he and the others couldn’t yield and live.

Methodically, the gallowglass worked his way toward his goal, the escape route in the north wall, engaging one after the other of Her Majesty’s troops, relishing the victory of each step that brought him closer to freedom. Hard put to follow the movements of all under his command, he was nonetheless aware of several Irishmen making their way through the gate into the safety beyond Dublin Castle.

“Please, God, let Niall be among them,” he whispered.

Cashel, however, was still within the bailey, having a difficult time of it. Maintaining his hold upon the girl, the fool was keeping her all too close to the fighting for Devlin’s taste. If she were killed, they’d have an innocent child’s murder on their heads.

“Release the lass!” Devlin roared above the din. Once she had scurried away, he and Cashel could no doubt slash their way out of the English stronghold.

“Devil the girl! I won’t give up my life for hers,” Cashel balked. “She’s our only hope of getting out.”

“I’m ordering you to let her go,” Devlin roared, fending off one attacking English sword after another as he moved forward, still monitoring Cashel’s progress.

All at once Cashel, near the open gate, obeyed, roughly casting his hostage away from him and flying toward safety.

Yet Devlin cursed him as Eamon’s foster son, in his haste to turn tail and run, sent the girl tumbling to the ground, directly into the path of numerous English soldiers, swords drawn to slash anyone between them and their quarry.

“Keep down, lass,” he ordered, eyeing his own tenuous path to freedom as the guards circled nearer.

But the trembling girl ignored his warning and scrambled to her feet, ready to flee, only to put herself directly in the way of a descending English blade.

Instinctively, and without a thought as to the consequences, Devlin moved to block the brainless female from the English weapon rather than continue in the direction of the gate. Swiftly, his muscle-laden arm reached out to thrust her behind him before the point of a sword could inadvertently end her life.

His protective action took no more than an instant, but it was an instant that Devlin did not possess. Suddenly the gallowglass found himself encircled by the enemy, and all hope of escape vanished. The girl was pulled out of range and half a dozen blades took aim.

“Take him alive,” commanded an authoritative voice. “I want to know who is responsible for this outrage.”

Devlin fought like a man possessed, hacking wildly, striking out in futile desperation, welcoming the heavy thud of his sword against others. But his feverish assault was to no avail. His route to freedom had been sealed off, Cashel the last man through. The gate was forever beyond him.

Still, the Irishman would not concede the inevitability of his capture. Eight men surrounded him, their swords slashing freely at his arms and face. Blood dripping, he defended himself more valiantly than ever. Yet even his great strength could do no more than stave off for a few moments a fate that could not be altered.

Eventually he was subdued, though it took near a score of men to hold Devlin while the shackles were clamped around his wrists and ankles. Once he was securely fettered and yanked to his feet, the soft clinking of his chains echoed desolately in the night air as he looked around him in frenzied disbelief.

The ground was littered with five fallen English and only one of the men under his command. The girl he had saved stood enfolded within the arms of a middle-aged Englishman, who gave rein to freely flowing tears. She regarded the man with a baffled look before she slowly rested her head upon his chest, allowing the fellow to clasp her more tightly.

Devlin wanted to bellow his rage. Now that he had been taken as punishment for his good deed, who would be there to comfort his daughter as the English wench was being comforted? The answer was stark and grim: no one!

He had consigned Muirne to existence as an orphan. There were none to protect her as her father would have done, nor would any love her as intensely. Devlin agonized at the inequity of it. But whom did he have to blame for his predicament? No one other than himself. And that galled him all the more.

Groaning, he reviled his soft heart and even softer head, having traded his daughter’s future for that of a witless Englishwoman too stupid to get out of harm’s way. Cursing himself for being the greatest fool God had ever fashioned, Devlin saw the girl turn in his direction. When her shy glance traveled across the crowd to meet his, he spit in disgust. Resentment rose like bile in his throat, so that coldly, without a hint of compunction, Devlin Fitzhugh damned her and then damned himself as well.

Chapter Two

The morning was young, and remnants of last night’s struggle were still visible in the bailey below Alyssa’s window. Though the inhabitants of the castle sought to return things to normal, a sense of upset hung heavily in the air. Nowhere was it more pervasive than in Alyssa’s bedchamber, where the distraught girl fought to blink back tears.

Though she had troubles aplenty of her own the fate of the Irishman who had saved her life touched her heart. And now, because of her, the brave, comely gallowglass was confined in the tower. Devlin Fitzhugh was his name…or so the charges read.

Remorse plagued the girl’s heart. Who knew what awaited him? ‘Twas not meet that so fine a man should have to endure suffering as a result of her defiance against her father, a defiance that now appeared childish and shallow when she considered the consequences it had wrought.

The point had been brought home when she had seen her Irish savior dragged away. His thick, coppery hair and his proud, sullen face had captured the early light of dawn so that he was aglow with fierceness, despite the wounds he had sustained. The sight of him had caused Alyssa’s breath to catch in her throat. He appeared a magnificent rebel, a man who should be free roaming the green hills of his homeland, not destined for an English jail or worse.

Alyssa shuddered. By comparison, her own future suddenly seemed not so bleak. The look of horror on her father’s face when she had been in danger, the tears of joy he had shed when he had clasped her to him after she had reached safety, surely indicated that he felt at least some fondness for her, that he was not the complete ogre she had imagined him to be. Still, how could such a sentiment be reconciled with the unalterable fact that he had abandoned her following her mother’s death in childbirth? That he had sent her off to Ireland with his sister and never once come to see her?

The relationship with her father, life in England, the fate of the man in the tower—there were so many emotions swirling around in Alyssa’s troubled heart. Mindlessly brushing back a blond tendril that had escaped to nestle in the hollow of her cheek, she began to pace her quarters, but dozens of repetitions did nothing to soothe her. Instead, her upset and bafflement only increased with each step.

Finally, a frustrated Alyssa threw herself down onto a straight-backed wooden chair beside a small table. Wearily, she propped her elbows on its worn surface, closed her eyes and leaned her head against her folded hands. Life had been so simple a few months ago. Nay, even last night, before she had visited the cells, her situation had not been as complex. How could it have worsened so much within so little time? Things had been bad enough without more trouble finding her. Once again, the image of shackles on the strong arms that had defended her wrenched Alyssa’s heart. Oh, trouble hadn’t found her, she thought with self-disgust, she had gone looking for it. If only she could do something to gain the Irishman’s liberty, or at the very least ease his plight. Perhaps if she spoke to her father…

Alyssa’s thoughts were interrupted by the squeak of a hinge and the sound of her door slowly swinging inward. A masculine footfall stopped beside her, and then warm, compassionate fingers swept a strand of hair back from her forehead before coming to rest atop the crown of her head.

“Your mother had hair as beautiful yet unruly as yours,” her father said quietly. Heartened that the girl had not batted his hand away as she would have a few days ago, Cecil patted her shoulder awkwardly before settling himself in the chair on the opposite side of the table. He was finding it exceedingly difficult to shoulder the day-to-day responsibilities of fatherhood so late in life.

When she raised her head and regarded him somberly, Cecil was concerned that Alyssa’s arresting violet eyes were made more vivid by the pale lavender smudges staining the delicate skin beneath them. Like her mother, she had the look of a fragile female, he mused, and the girl had endured much of late. Then he reminded himself that there was a fire beneath Alyssa’s surface with which he had become all too well acquainted these past few days. It was a blaze that tempered her spirit and gave her a strength her mother, God have mercy on her, had never possessed. Even now, there was the look of protest etched upon the lass’s pretty features, and Cecil chided himself for thinking that the comfort she had accepted from him immediately after her near tragedy had forever changed things between them.

“Do not compare me to my mother, sirrah. You’ve sworn to me how very precious she was to you. Speaking of the two of us in the same breath only emphasizes my own inconsequential standing in your eyes.”

“Daughter, what must I do to make you believe that you are just as dear to me?” Howett asked, reaching out to capture one of Alyssa’s restless hands in his own.

“If that were true, Father, then you reward those who preserve my life quite oddly.”

“The Irishman…” Cecil muttered with a sigh. “Try to understand, Alyssa.”

“What is there for me to comprehend other than that you have helped punish the man who saved me from falling victim to a sword?”

“I have spoken to Governor Newcomb and done all I can for Fitzhugh. Isn’t it enough that he’s alive at the moment?” Cecil demanded. “In truth, the rebel should have been immediately beheaded, if not garroted, for his crimes against the queen.”

“The queen! Your duty to Elizabeth always provides you with an adequate excuse whenever your actions are questionable,” Alyssa shot back heatedly, withdrawing her hand from her father’s grasp.

“Her Majesty is not a sovereign to be thwarted, Alyssa. ‘Tis a lesson you should commit to heart before you set foot in England. To fail to do so is to court disaster,” Cecil replied, his voice stern.

“Is that why you always put your loyalty to the queen above all else? Above my mother? Above me?”

“I’ve told you I had no choice! When our sovereign commanded me to accompany her envoy to the Lowlands as his secretary, what could I do but go? Had I refused, I could have been thrown in the Tower, and both you and your mother left to live in poverty. As it is, your dam did not live to see my return home. But you were waiting for me,” Cecil said. His words were drenched in wistful nostalgia, as though he truly did wish that things might have been different.

“A scant two months later, I was informed that my service had pleased Her Majesty, and I was to be sent abroad again. I knew that such an order precipitated a career to be spent in foreign lands. Was I to take you, an infant, with me? Expose your tender, young life to the hazards of constant travel? I had just lost my wife, I would not lose you as well. Nor did I want to see you grow to womanhood among the intrigues of various royal courts. No, as much as I wanted you beside me, I could not be that selfish. Instead, I consigned you to the care of my sister, a loving woman whose own two children had died. Even though she was slated to settle in Ireland, it seemed to be in your best interests at the time. You must believe me, Alyssa. It was because I loved you that I gave you away. If I was in error, I apologize.”

“But why didn’t you visit me? Why didn’t you write?” Alyssa asked

“What excuse can I possibly offer, my dear? Elizabeth kept me too busy to travel on my own behalf. And by the time you were old enough to read, I had hardened my heart to the pain of our separation Perhaps I was simply too cowardly to open myself to the anguish again. But now, my years of service have been rewarded. I have been given a post in England, and after I see these Irish rebels safely in English jails, I can once more establish a home. I wish to have you there with me.”

Alyssa wanted to believe him In fact, she yearned to do so. But the sense of rejection she had known as a child would not permit it until her father had proved himself to her

“If you care for me as you say you do, Father, then how can you stand by and watch the Irishman who saved me be condemned to imprisonment?” Alyssa asked stubbornly.

“Don’t you think I wanted to thank your impulsive rescuer, to send him on his way laden with gold and jewels? I did. But I have neither the authority nor riches to do so, regardless of what is in my heart. The rogue led an assault on Dublin Castle, Alyssa! Soldiers of the crown were slain. Political prisoners were released, some of whom I was charged with transporting to England. And because the chaos your Irishman caused began at the cell of Eamon MacMahon’s son, we have to assume he’s in league with the MacMahon himself.”

“The MacMahon?”

“Aye, a right troublesome rebel, a traitorous Irish nobleman who has been stripped of his lands and wealth by the queen. The MacMahon and his band live as outlaws. To have kept his son in captivity would have been to curtail his lawless behavior and acts of aggression against the crown. But your gallowglass saw to that, didn’t he? Why, his association with Eamon MacMahon is, in itself, reason for execution. I had it within my power to keep him from immediate death but little else. It was beyond me to gain his liberty. As it was, it took more than an hour of heated words with Governor Newcomb to convince him to march Fitzhugh to the tower rather than the block.”

“What did you say?” Alyssa asked, curiosity overcoming her reluctance to prolong any conversation with the man who was her sire. Though Fitzhugh’s execution had been a dim possibility, it had not been one she had considered seriously. Who would take the life of so heroic a man?

“I asserted that Fitzhugh was due some clemency for saving the daughter of Her Majesty’s representative.”

“And Newcomb agreed?”

“No…not entirely. I’m afraid we arrived at a stalemate. But I managed to convince him it was unwise to act hastily. Since I am not scheduled to leave Ireland until the end of the month, when the prisoners from the outlying districts have been brought to Dublin and placed in my care, we have decided to lay the matter before the queen. A missive has been sent detailing events. The Irishman will be safe from Newcomb’s wrath at least until we receive Her Majesty’s reply.”

“But what if…if…” Alyssa faltered in her question, her eyes growing round with horror.

“There, there, daughter, you’re not to worry. The queen will show mercy. The rebel will most likely be imprisoned in England for a time, but at least he will be alive,” Cecil assured her, silently praying his words contained some truth.

“How can you be so certain?”

“Do you have to ask? My dealings with Elizabeth over the years have given me some insight into her character. I promise, the Irishman’s life will be spared,” Cecil contended. Receiving the queen’s decision in the matter was a few weeks away, but the moment to soothe his daughter was now, to make her see he was not the monster she had painted him and that life with him would not be so unhappy as she anticipated.

“And if your recommendation holds no sway with the queen, what will we do?” Alyssa whispered, her fair face paler than usual.

“I beg that you trust me, daughter,” Cecil Howett implored with an intensity that oddly enough tugged at Alyssa’s heart. “Your Irishman will be spared. I give you my word.”

“Then I thank you, Father,” Alyssa said stiffly, still uncertain as to whether or not she could believe his promises.

“Your gratitude may be misplaced, sweetling,” Cecil Howett said with a weary shake of his gray head, glad the discussion seemed to be drawing to an end. “With conditions being what they are in English jails, it could well have been more merciful to have permitted your Irishman’s execution.”

“Nay, Father! You did the right thing, and I pray you will continue to do all within your power to keep him safe,” Alyssa replied fervently. She thought about placing a tentative kiss on Cecil’s cheek to seal their bargain, but hastily decided against it. She was not yet willing to chance allowing this stranger into her heart. It was a further complication she didn’t need when she had more pressing things to tend to. While her father saw to it that Fitzhugh remained alive, it would be up to her to bring Devlin solace as best she could. Surely she owed him that much, and never had debt seemed such a light burden.

Though Devlin had been confined for nearly eighteen hours, his violent rage at his predicament had yet to leave him, and he savagely yanked at his confining chains. Strong as he was, his efforts were to no avail. But he could not stop himself from trying to pull the links free of the large iron ring embedded in the wall through which his shackles had been laced. He knew he would not cease his attempts until he fell victim to exhaustion. Then, perhaps, sleep would overcome him and in sweet oblivion he would find peace of sorts, transitory though it would be.

Once more he tugged at his chains, gritting his teeth and silently cursing the impulsiveness that had landed him where he was. A score of thoughts raced through his head. He wondered whether Niall had escaped safely, and pondered his own fate, but mostly he thought of Muirne and what would become of her in his absence. Oh, he knew the MacMahon would see the child fed and sheltered as best he could. But food was not always plentiful in the rebel camp and starvation was certainly no stranger to Ireland since a handful of English had stolen lands that had once fed thousands. Besides, a girl could not grow up roughand-tumble in a camp as he had done, without proper guardians to see to her welfare. If she managed to survive at all, she would likely end up as her mother had, bearing someone’s bastard and succumbing to an early death.

The idea of it ate at Devlin’s very soul, though he barely knew his daughter, and he almost groaned his grief aloud when he considered the life the child would be forced to live.

He had been nothing more than a softhearted fool not to have turned Maeve away when she had crept beneath his blanket one dark, moonlit night. He had never decided whether it had been the frost on the ground or the ice surrounding his own heart that had seen him shivering with cold that evening. The only thing of which he was certain was that it had seemed natural to accept the warmth Maeve had offered. But he should have resisted temptation. Then there would have been no child to suffer because he had been captured.

More enraged with himself than before, Devlin had never looked so fierce. He was about to begin his futile pulling at the iron ring once again when he heard a scurrying in the darkness, much too loud to be that of one of the rats with whom he shared the tower. Quickly, he got to his feet. He’d not appear cowed before his English captors.

Taking a proud stance, Devlin wondered what fresh torture was about to befall him. So far, he had not answered any of the questions he had been asked about the MacMahon or the location of his camp. Would the English employ the lash or the hot iron to bend him to their will? The method mattered not. He would fight submission until he lost consciousness, or at least, he prayed he would.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, stepped a willowy female form. Devlin muttered a curse. The sight of the girl he had saved was more painful to him than any physical punishment. He could not bear to look at her without silently railing against his unfathomable behavior in the courtyard of Dublin Castle, the behavior that had cost him his freedom and decreed Muirne would not have the life he wished for her.

“Hello.” The voice was soft and delicate as the English lass dropped her hand away from the candle she had been shielding.

Looking at her, Devlin could see now that she was not the child he had at first supposed her to be. Her soft curves proclaimed that she was more woman than girl, but the youthful beauty of her face hinted that childhood was not all that far behind her. Why, she was probably no more than sixteen, Devlin thought, until he realized what he was doing and began to silently berate himself. What difference did it make? What was the wench to him, anyway?

Devlin shot her a fierce look meant to send her scampering on her way in terror. But she stood her ground, overlooking the fury on his face just as she ignored her malodorous surroundings. Instead, she saw only a magnificent warrior, one with a heart so big that he had risked his life for hers though the world had declared her his enemy.

Alyssa gave a tiny sigh as she studied Devlin Fitzhugh. Her aunt and uncle might have pampered her, but no one had ever been willing to hazard his life for her before this rugged gallowglass had done so. She was as much impressed by his gallantry as she was by his physique. Surely the world had never known such a hero.

“My name is Alyssa Howett,” she began. “I am the…woman you saved last night.”

“As if I could forget you!” Devlin growled. “But it matters not to me what you are called, girl. Get you hence before I do you harm.”

“Oh, I know you’re angry, and I can find no fault with that, but I also know that you would never hurt me,” Alyssa continued. “Such evil could never be in your nature.”

“Step a few inches closer so that I can wrap my chains about your slender young neck, and I’ll show you how very wicked a desperate man can be.”

“I had to speak with you, to tell you how badly I feel that I played a part in your capture.”

A part? This whole thing is your fault, Devlin wanted to bellow. But he held his tongue because he knew such an outburst would be a lie. From his viewpoint, no one but he was responsible for his dilemma, and that grated on him more than if someone else had actually been to blame. Still, the sight of the girl was almost more than he could bear, reminding him as it did of his foolish gallantry during Niall’s rescue.

“Please, you must believe me,” Alyssa persisted in the face of Devlin’s stony silence. “I truly am sorry.”