Devlin

“No sorrier than I am,” Devlin ground out bitterly. If the girl felt guilty, it was an emotion that might be used to his advantage. “What were you doing flitting about the cells in the middle of the night? Can’t your father control you, or is it a habit of yours to visit imprisoned men under cover of darkness?”

“No!” she exclaimed, her face blazing crimson. “No to both questions. I don’t know my father very well. We’ve just been reunited after many years apart, and when we first became reacquainted, I hated him and refused to obey him in even the smallest matters. He had abandoned me, you see.”

The simple, innocent confession tore at Devlin’s being. How long would it be before he saw Muirne again—if ever he did? And, how would she feel about him if he came back into her life? Would she, too, feel her father had deserted her?

“I want you to know that I begged my father to arrange your release, but it was futile.”

“A man of great honor, your sire,” Devlin commented in derision, “and I suppose you are much like him.”

“Don’t you think I would help you if I could?”

“Prove it,” he demanded. “Get me the key that will unlock my chains.”

“I can’t,” the girl admitted shamefully. “The guard carries them.”

“Then what good are you? Leave me in peace.”

Despite the fact that she would have granted the Irishman his freedom if it were within her power, the thought of never seeing him again filled Alyssa with melancholy. She attributed the feeling to silly, girlish fancies and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand, easing Devlin Fitzhugh’s plight in whatever small way she could.

“I’ve brought you something,” she said, fishing in a deep side pocket of her gown.

“A weapon, a chisel?” Devlin asked anxiously.

“Nay, ‘tis but an apple,” Alyssa replied apologetically. “But I thought it might give you some comfort.”

“Think you I have any stomach for food?” Devlin asked in disgust. “Go away and don’t return unless you want to place your life in jeopardy.”

The only response he received was the dull thump of the apple as it dropped to the floor inside his cell and rolled towards him. Then there was silence followed by the sound of light, hurried footsteps marking the girl’s retreat.

The quiet did not last long. It was interrupted by the gravelly voice of one of the guards. Carrying a bucket and a stack of trenchers, he was walking in the company of two of his fellows. It was obvious they were delivering the day’s meal.

“We got here in time to hear that softhearted wench offer you an apple,” the Englishman said derisively. Unlocking Devlin’s door, he padded forward, followed by the other two, who stood with pikes pointed in Devlin’s direction. “Sort of makes this your own private Eden, doesn’t it?” The guard laughed cruelly, retrieving the fruit and holding it aloft before he crunched it between his few remaining teeth.

“I didn’t know the serpent ate the apple as well,” Devlin drawled, his voice drenched with condescension in spite of his circumstances.

“Seems to me we should give you something other than your supper, laddie. You need instruction in how to talk to your betters…the girl and me.” The jailer took a small club dangling from his waist and began to wield it. Sickening thuds echoed in the darkness as the weapon found its target again and again. That Devlin bore the cruelty without pleading for clemency incensed the Englishman further, increasing his efforts. Finally, however, he tired of his sport.

“A few more such lessons, Irishman, and you’ll no longer be so pretty. Then there will be no lass come to visit you and make your lot easier.”

It was perhaps the most merciful thing he had heard since his capture, Devlin thought as consciousness made ready to flee and the Englishman’s harangue began to fade in the distance.

“Niall, praise be Mary and all the saints,” yelled Eamon MacMahon two days later as he saw the small band of men approach his campfire. Hampered as he was by his crutch and broken leg, he hobbled to his feet and embraced his son warmly. “By all that’s holy, I feared I’d never see you again. But the scouts said Devlin wasn’t with you. Where’s the man to whom I owe my son’s life?”

“Right here, Uncle,” Cashel said gruffly. “Devlin was taken early on and I had to take charge and lead the fight out of the castle to save Niall. I’m proud to say we lost only one man, Kieran.”

“And Devlin.” Niall’s voice was strident, his youthful indignation barely held in check. Initially he’d refused to even accompany Cashel, arguing about not leaving Devlin behind until the older man had tied him to his horse for the journey home. “Father, we must return at once for Devlin. I can’t abandon him. In fact, if Cashel hadn’t knocked me out when I tried to head back into Dublin, I wouldn’t be here at all—”

“Then God bless the man, you young fool. If you were taken again, there would surely be no talk of ransom,” the Irish chieftain said. “Cashel, I appreciate your putting Niall first, but was there no way to help Devlin?”

“Would you have had me risk the lives of all of these for the sake of one?” Cashel demanded. “The English were swarming like bees in a flowering meadow, their weapons ready and no mercy in their eyes. I thought it meet to escape while we could.”

“Devlin told us he would try to distract pursuit from Niall,” reminded Dugal. “Perhaps he did get away. He may still come along under his own power.”

“But he’d never leave one of his men behind. We shouldn’t have left if there was any chance that he’d show,” argued Niall, repeating the words he’d echoed since escaping Dublin.

“There wasn’t any!” snapped Eamon’s nephew. Annoyed that concern for Fitzhugh overrode his own part in the heroic rescue, Cashel revealed more than he’d intended. “I was the last one through the gate. I saw him taken.”

“And you didn’t turn back to help him?” Niall was the spokesman but the murmur from the others of the clan left Cashel no doubt that the lad spoke for all. “You betrayed not only Devlin but all the MacMahons when you deserted him—”

“The devil take such nonsense. It was our lives or his and I’d do the same again if need be.”

“And what of your quarrel over who was in charge?” challenged Sean. “You didn’t like being his second.”

“I’ll not deny I’ve questioned the MacMahon’s judgment regarding Fitzhugh’s ability, but I admit when I’m wrong and I was about this. Devlin Fitzhugh planned the raid on the Castle and executed it perfectly. He fought like ten men to get us free of there, but he’d be the first to agree that Niall’s life must come before his own. Niall, lad, he told you in the tower, ‘don’t stop for anyone or anything.’ Have you forgotten?”

“No, but—”

“And Dugal, didn’t Fitzhugh insist on leading us out of the castle, knowing full well that the odds were against us once the alarm sounded? The man knew the risks and willingly accepted them.”

“You’re glad he was taken,” accused Eamon’s son.

“Use your head. Would I choose to anger your father by abandoning a man he so values if I could avoid it? My main responsibility was seeing you out of the pale and back here before the soldiers found us. Now that you’re safe, we can tend to Devlin” Though it galled him to say it, Cashel could see he had no choice but make it appear this had been his plan all along. Of course, by the time they returned to Dublin, Fitzhugh’s rotting head on a pike might be the only part of him left. The English didn’t take kindly to Irishmen who raided their jails.

“Then we’ll ready the horses for you to leave at first light,” agreed the MacMahon. He didn’t know if he trusted Cashel’s story, but he was kin, and one didn’t forsake the clan when ordered to perform a duty. “I won’t feel Niall is truly safe until you bring Fitzhugh home—and I know you’re the one man who can do it.”

“I’ll go, too, Father,” volunteered Niall.

“No. You’re too inexperienced to be helpful,” countered Eamon. “Cashel will pick the men he wants and when he returns, we’ll feast like never before. Now, Cashel, get some rest before you head out again.”

“Aye, Eamon, and you, enjoy your son. I’m thankful I could bring him home to you.” The words grated in Cashel’s ears, his hero’s welcome evaporated for worry over Devlin. Damn the blasted gallowglass! Even absent his presence was still felt. Cashel MacMahon would never risk his life for one such as he.

Chapter Three

Devlin finally stopped his measured pacing, steps sorely restricted by the chains that still bound him to the wall. Overcome by exhaustion, he hunkered down in his dark, dank cell. With his elbows propped on his muscular thighs, he allowed his head to fall wearily forward and rest against his hands as morbid anxiety gnawed at his soul, and the iron around his wrists and ankles bit into flesh rubbed raw.

He’d been confined here only three days and already he felt a growing sense of desperation so strong that it took all of his rapidly diminishing resources to deal with it. He was a freeborn man, who had always moved about his homeland whenever and wherever his inclinations had dictated. How many of his nights had been spent sleeping under star-studded skies, how many days had seen him roaming the rugged Irish landscape as unconfined as the winds that blew in from the sea?

Yet it made no difference what his lot had been, he thought bitterly, his fingers digging into his flesh in frustration and raking down his stubble-covered cheeks and chin. Whatever had been was past. This was his fate now—at least for the time being—until either Eamon arranged his rescue or he succumbed to madness or death. Did the English plan to torture him by keeping him confined for the rest of his natural life, or did they intend to execute him for his part in Niall’s escape? He still didn’t know.

If not for Muirne, death would be vastly preferable to facing years of imprisonment. Yet the little one was his responsibility and it was his duty to fight for survival for her sake, Devlin reminded himself, lifting his coppery head and allowing it to fall back and make contact with a damp, stone wall.

But to be reduced to this! It was almost beyond endurance to be caged like some dangerous animal. It made him feel ferocious, ready to pounce and kill whatever living being happened into his wretched new domain.

Suddenly, a flicker of light broke through the blackness and Devlin steeled himself to his full height, even as his well-muscled body tensed in wary anticipation.

The soft, whispered rustle of material should have warned him what was about to happen, but it was not until she held the candle aloft, allowing it to illuminate the soft contours of her face, that Devlin knew who this intruder upon his dark thoughts actually was. The girl, Alyssa, stood before him again, a tentative smile brightening her face almost as much as the flame she carried.

Sweet Jesu! Would she give him no peace? Devlin stood there, wishing she would disappear, that the darkness would suddenly devour her and leave no trace behind to remind him she had ever existed.

“I want you to know I’ve begged to have your chains removed,” Alyssa began uneasily, her slim white hand fluttering to indicate Devlin’s fetters. “My father has promised me he will have it done today. At least you’ll be able to move a bit more freely, even though you are still confined to a cell. I have a small cache of coins left me by an aunt, and I’ve used some of them to see to it that you’ll have two meals a day instead of one. And tonight, there will be some fresh straw to replace that vermin-infested heap in the corner,” she said, her nose wrinkling for an instant in distaste until the presence of the man whose bravery had captured her girlish heart made her begin to forget where they were.

As she concentrated on his dangerous good looks, the surrounding squalor faded away completely and Alyssa saw only Devlin Fitzhugh. His well-honed body, his stubborn stance, his arrogant bearing all exuded a masculine beauty. And his face, with its finely chiseled features, was inordinately handsome, or at least it would be, Alyssa amended, if only he would stop scowling at her so blackly. Why didn’t he say something?

“Besides that, I’ll continue coming to visit you every day just as I have for the past two, to see how you are faring,” Alyssa finally stated, as much to break the silence as to inform the rugged Irishman of her intentions.

“Go away, girl. I’ve told you repeatedly I have no desire for your company,” Devlin growled.

“I’m certain you don’t mean that,” Alyssa protested, unwilling to believe the warrior who had begun to haunt her dreams would treat her so unceremoniously. She was growing tired of his telling her to leave him alone. Wasn’t it about now he should be exhibiting some degree of gratitude?

“I do,” Devlin warned harshly.

“’Tis naught but your manly pride talking,” Alyssa stated insistently, her violet eyes flashing. It appeared that seeing to the welfare of her Irish gallowglass was going to be difficult. But Alyssa had not earned her reputation for willfulness undeservedly. Devlin’s lack of cooperation only made her more determined to help him survive his imprisonment, an incarceration for which she still felt blame.

“’Tis my righteous fury speaking and nothing less,” Devlin all but snarled. “If you value your safety, you’ll leave now and never return.”

“Fie, sir! I am weary of your threats!” Alyssa exclaimed with an unconsciously insolent sway of her hips. “I have told you from the beginning, you don’t frighten me one jot! You saved my life.”

“That was naught but folly, a softhearted, dullwitted impulse that I’ve lived to regret, and never more than at this moment. Certainly it is an error I would never repeat.”

“Say what you will, but I know that in spite of your fierce glowering there is a kind heart within your warrior’s body. And so, Devlin Fitzhugh, you will be seeing me often. Now you can continue to rail or you can save your strength and accept the fact. It makes no difference to me.”

With that, Alyssa withdrew something from her pocket and shoved it through the bars. It was a hunk of bread wrapped in a scrap of cloth. Devlin glared at it, and then at the girl.

“I’ll see you on the morrow,” Alyssa whispered softly, and then both she and the weak light of the candle were gone.

Devlin remained where he was, allowing his eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. This time, unlike yesterday, he’d be damned if he ate the girl’s largesse, he swore to himself. Hungry as he might be, it would stay where it was until the wench returned the next day. She could add whatever she brought to the pile, which would continue to grow until she finally realized that he would have none of her ill-conceived generosity. That was the only way to deal with such a headstrong lass.

But a high-pitched squeak and a pair of small, red eyes glowing in the darkness caused Devlin to quickly reconsider his decision. Food strewn on the floor of his cell would only cause it to become more rat infested than it already was. And with not even a few crumbs left behind, the English girl would never believe his assertions that he had ignored her food, that the rats had eaten it. Most likely, the little witch would only laugh in the face of his anger and smile that knowing feminine smile of hers. Lord, but she’d lead some unlucky man a merry chase when she grew older. And in the meantime, she would practice her infuriating behavior on him, Devlin thought in despair, seeing once again the impudent swing of the lass’s hips as she argued with him.

Bending down, he swatted at the advancing rat and scooped up the bread, muttering darkly.

Savagely, Devlin bit off a piece, almost choking on it in spite of the honey slathered across its center. But once the last morsel was gone, no sweetness lingered in his mouth.

Dear mother of God but he had dreaded his imprisonment before the girl had made a habit of appearing. How would he ever endure jail and the wench, too? Devlin rested his head against the iron bars and gave a low moan Surely there was no mercy in heaven.

Then, despite himself, an exasperated smile crossed Devlin’s face. A man impressed by bravery, Devlin found he couldn’t but admire Alyssa Howett. She was nothing if not a spirited, defiant little soul. Why, not even his blackest look could quell her. And with all that blond hair of hers, and those unusual violet eyes…Perhaps at another time, in another place, she could have tempted him.

But what was he thinking! She was English, one of the oppressors, and he an Irish rebel. She was little more than a girl and he was fast approaching thirty winters. She had an entire lifetime before her, and he, in all likelihood, was a condemned man.

What strange thoughts she wrought within him! They were especially odd when Devlin considered that whether free or imprisoned, he was a warrior, and had little time for women, let alone young girls. And this young girl was intelligent, smart enough to see through his bluster, to know that he bristled not at the small kindnesses she insisted upon showing him, but at being beholden to a female. Yes, she was clever all right, and if he had had his liberty, he would have fled from her immediately.

Within a week, Alyssa discovered, her days in Dublin Castle took on a pattern of their own. As long as she appeared promptly for the midday meal she was expected to share with her father and the governor, her mornings were hers. Then, afterward she was free to embroider or sketch until dinner.

Not once had Cecil Howett questioned her amusements or disturbed her wanderings, apparently pleased that she was keeping out of trouble. Most important, his attitude gave her entry to any manner of place all over the castle grounds.

Flipping through her drawings, Alyssa smiled at her chosen subjects: children playing in the lane outside the jail, alert wardens walking the wall, maids scurrying across the courtyard with laundry, Devlin pacing in his cell, unaware he was being observed. Those of the gallowglass were her favorites, though Devlin Fitzhugh would not be one to indulge an artist’s endeavors and pose willingly. In fact, he was not a man accustomed to enforced idleness of any kind.

Naturally, she made certain to include a daily visit to the Irishman’s cell, if only to help rectify his foul humor. She hoped her father didn’t find out, but even if he did, Alyssa knew that she wouldn’t abandon Devlin Fitzhugh. After all, when he’d been in danger for his life, he hadn’t hesitated to protect her. He was a hero, despite the absurd interpretation the English put on the event. Traitor, indeed!

Alyssa contemplated her charcoal drawing of the man who had risked everything to save her from those descending swords, and she trembled. She had been such a fool—yet what an acceptable outcome the near tragedy would have, if her father were right. Transported to England, Devlin would spend time in her father’s jail where they could be together. It would have been better to live with him in Ireland, but that was out of the question.

Still, Alyssa would be with the man she loved. And love him she did. Studying a sketch of an imaginary scene, Devlin outdoors, she traced the strong line she’d made of his shoulder, the proud angle of his head, and the planes of his chest as he aimed a bow and arrow. His eyes were focused and intense, his lips parted slightly in concentration, his attitude superbly confident as if guaranteed his arrow would find its target. But wasn’t that part of why she loved him—his arrogance and total assurance of his position? She doubted another man like Devlin Fitzhugh existed anywhere.

Her beloved aunt had died and Devlin had come into her life within days. Surely, he was the faerie folk’s answer to her prayers for an escape from Cecil Howett. Now all she had to do was convince Devlin that fate had brought them together, not her foolishness.

He seemed to have stopped growling as much when she visited him last. In fact, occasionally she thought he was even pleased to see her, not that he admitted it. Like most men, he needed to think he was in control of his destiny, and she’d not deny him that pnvilege—false though it might be. Closing her eyes, Alyssa imagined his face lowering slowly to hers and tasted his lips on hers, firm, demanding and welcome. If only her dreams could become reality.

Cecil Howett sat at a desk in the outer room of the quarters assigned him. He held his breath as he took the missive from London being proffered him by Newcomb’s secretary. Waiting until the man had left the room, Cecil turned the document over in his hands. The seal had been broken and the contents most likely read by Newcomb already. With nervous fingers, Howett unfolded the paper, his eyes quickly scanning the message contained therein. Then his shoulders slumped in disappointment. It was what he had most feared. Devlin Fitzhugh was to be executed at dawn the next day.

Damnation! The report of the rebel jailbreak had emphasized that Fitzhugh had averted Alyssa’s murder! Didn’t that mean the man should be spared? Apparently not according to Her Majesty. How was he going to inform Alyssa of the decision? And how was he going to explain that his promises had meant nothing? He knew how important the man had become to her, unwise though that was. Hadn’t he but recently learned she had been sneaking into the prison every day to see him?

It might be best to delay giving his daughter the news until after Fitzhugh’s death sentence had been carried out. Of course, having no advance warning would add to the girl’s sorrow, but it would also give her one more day of peace, and her young life had seen upset aplenty as of late.

Resolved, Cecil rose from his desk and walked to his cupboard to fetch some wine when Alyssa burst into the room, her bright presence making the gloom within his heart that much darker.

“Is it true a courier from London has arrived?” she asked breathlessly, only to abruptly cease her question as her eyes fell upon the royal decree open upon the desk, and she saw Devlin’s name written in large, bold letters.

“Alyssa, don’t!” her father warned, hastening to her side. But it was already too late.

“Dear God in heaven!” The softness of her voice made plain her shock. Slowly, Alyssa sank into her father’s chair. “You must do something to stop this,” she proclaimed in anguish, catching desperately at Cecil’s sleeve.

“Would that I could, sweetling, but I fear your Irishman is beyond hope.”

“You gave me your word that Elizabeth would not order his execution,” she accused. “You must do something or his death will stand forever between us. Surely, you have simply to—”

“I tell you I can do nothing,” Cecil interjected, his guilt shortening his temper. Yet, he spoke the truth. Having discovered his error in extending false hopes to his daughter, Cecil was not of a mind to make the same mistake again. Now that Alyssa knew her Irishman’s fate, it was best she quickly realize the futility of the situation.

“’Tis a hard lesson to learn, to accept the things about which we can do nothing, but impress it upon your heart, girl, and it will serve you well in life. That is all the solace I have to offer.”

“’Tis little enough, but mayhap it is better than your lies,” Alyssa retorted with bitter resentment. Then her demeanor changed, as horror completely penetrated her anger and denial. “Tell me, does he know?” she whispered weakly.

“Nay. Newcomb and I have only learned of it ourselves.”

“Oh, Father, I beg you—” She’d act the dutiful daughter for the rest of her life, only Devlin had to be saved!

“I’ve already told you, there’s nothing to be done. Your Irishman is doomed, Alyssa.”

At his words, the girl’s sobs rent the air. Yet her father remained steadfast. After tomorrow, Fitzhugh would be executed, and Alyssa could begin to put the ordeal behind her. Thinking it best for his daughter to give way to her emotions, he withdrew quietly from the room, walking the corridors of Dublin Castle until he could no longer hear the girl’s distress.