Black Falcon's Lady (Celtic Rogues Book 1) Read online

  Maryssa turned her own eyes to his, struggling valiantly to keep the tears from flooding her lashes. "Th-thank you," she murmured in a cracked voice.

  Tade's own lips softened into an expression of such tenderness that her eyes stung. As though she were wrought of fine porcelain, Tade's hands spanned her waist, sweeping her up to set her atop the huge stone. "There, Maura," he said softly, the very name a caress.

  Reaching up to her cheek, he brushed back a tendril of dark hair that had escaped its bands of green ribbons and ivory pins. Hand straying to the wisp of silk woven through her hair, Tade grasped the ribbon’s edge in strong, bronzed fingers, tugging it gently. Slowly, it slipped free, curling through the sable strands like the fingers of the breeze. "For luck," Tade whispered, pressing the bit of silk to his lips. The sight of his mouth pressed against the ribbon still warm from her hair sent a shiver of heat skittering up Maryssa's spine.

  "Luck!" Christabel's mutter of disgust filtered through the haze of sensation engulfing Maryssa. She looked down to see her friend's blue eyes still scowling at Sheena O'Toole. "The man’ll need a blasted cudgel."

  Tade chuckled, swooping Christabel up so abruptly the hem of her gown swished up past dainty azure garters. Her rump smacked down beside Maryssa, barely cushioned by layers of thick petticoats. A ripe oath parted Christabel's dainty lips, stunning Maryssa, but the rest of the delicate beauty's grousing was lost in a cry from the field.

  "Quit yer blatherin' an' get out here, Kilcannon, or we'll be startin' wi'out ye!" A stocky man with a shock of walnut-colored hair bellowed. With a wide grin, Tade spun around and saluted the man.

  "I'll be happy to annihilate you as soon as I fetch my hurling sticks, Diarmit!" he called. Eyes the exact shade of Maryssa's ribbon flashed her a wink as Tade plopped onto the ground, levering off first one gleaming boot, then the other. His fingertips skimmed the sky-blue embroidered stockings down lean muscled calves, revealing flesh the color of burnt honey and dusted with dark hair. Maryssa felt an odd lightness in her stomach as she stared at one well-shaped foot.

  Tade wriggled his toes, and Maryssa's eyes leaped to his face, the flush heating her cheeks not merely from embarrassment. Hastily she dragged her gaze away from that tempting glimpse of flesh, forcing herself to look out across the rocky field where the other players awaited, their feet bared as well. Maryssa winced inwardly as she thought of trouncing about that stone-starred expanse with nothing to shield the naked soles of her feet.

  "You get accustomed to having your feet sliced to bits." The laughter in Tade's voice drew her gaze back to his face as he retrieved her ribbon from its nest of grass beside his boots.

  "I think I'd rather not."

  Her hesitant reply drew a burst of ringing laughter from Tade, the sound muffled against the silk of her ribbon as Tade bound the narrow length of silk around one bicep, clamping the ribbon's end in his white, even teeth to pull the knot tight.

  Springing to his feet, he tossed them each a kiss, then swung toward the broad expanse of clearing.

  He loped to its midst with careless grace, muscles rippling beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, the green ribbon waving jauntily in the wind. And even the hostile aura of the crowd had little power to dull the tingling Maryssa felt within her breast as he swept up his hurley, smoothing his palm across it as lovingly as if it were a woman.

  "Maryssa.” Christabel touched her arm, nodding toward the field. “You've just made half of Donegal cross-eyed with envy. Nearly every maiden for twenty miles would wear sackcloth on Tuesdays just to have Tade Kilcannon speak to them, let alone wear their token."

  "He must have enough ribbons to fill his whole cottage, then," Maryssa said, disappointment stealing over her.

  "Nay. I've never once seen him accept one. Until now." Christabel laughed. "But don't expect your Galahad to sweep about doing knightly combat. Hurling puts me more in mind of a band of warring ruffians than a jousting tourney—oh, look!" Christabel cried, pointing to the meadow as the loud smack of wood upon leather echoed through the clearing.

  Maryssa gaped, fascinated and terrified as the rock-strewn turf seemed to erupt in a frenzy of slashing sticks. Thick, sinewed arms wielded the hurleys’ curved blades with the deadly accuracy of infidels' scimitars, the wooden sticks driving a small leather ball through the air with blinding speed. And at the center of the murderous melee was Tade, his dark hair whipping in the breeze, mouth taut with concentration. Lithe as a great cat, he sprang and dived catching the ball upon the ashen blade with a dancer-like grace that seemed at odds with the mayhem all around him.

  The other players seemed but blundering manikins beside him, the opposing team laboring desperately to keep the horsehide-covered sphere out of his reach, his own teammates trying to feed the ball to within range of his hurling stick. The only man on the field who seemed able to match him was so short he was nearly lost to sight amid the towering Irishmen. Yet that seemed the very key to the wiry Reeve Marlow's skill.

  The two battled for what felt like an eternity, first one, then the other stealing control of the ball, but neither man able to break free of the other. Reeve's hair tumbled in a ragged mass about his reddening face, while the thin lawn of Tade's shirt clung damply to the Irishman's broad chest, the planes of his face limned with a glistening of sweat.

  For just an instant it seemed Tade's eyes jumped away from the ball. Maryssa felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth as Reeve's sandy head ducked beneath Tade's outstretched arm, hurling the ball high off his blade with a dexterity that delighted Maryssa.

  Christabel squealed, shrieking encouragement with all the delicacy of a street urchin as her husband dashed with the ball toward the end of the clearing. Whoops rang from the team opposing Tade's as Reeve ran toward what appeared to be the goal, but before Reeve could hurl the ball over the crossbar, Tade broke free of the other men as well. He bolted after Reeve, Tade's long strides ludicrous in comparison to the pumping of his opponent's short legs.

  Maryssa saw the muscles of Tade's thighs bunch beneath his thin doeskin breeches as he sprang toward the ball, but just as his feet left the ground Reeve slammed to a halt. His foot shot out, hooking Tade's bare ankle. With an oath, Tade crashed to the ground, skidding across the turf on his shirt-front while Reeve merrily hurled the ball over the goal.

  Christabel's cries of triumph were deafening, but Maryssa felt a niggling indignation as, with the pride of a David after slaying his Goliath, Reeve bowed to his whooping teammates.

  “That was not just!" Maryssa blustered. "He tripped Tade on purpose!"

  Christabel giggled, giving Maryssa a hug. "If you plan to watch hurling you'd best get accustomed to it. Especially between Reeve and Tade. They've been attempting to murder each other out there since they were chin high. But I must say, Tade seems a bit off his game today. Unless he starts minding what he's about, they're like to have to cart him home on a litter."

  "A litter? Can they get—"

  "Injured?" Christabel supplied, somber for a moment. "Sometimes. Sometimes badly. The ball moves so fast, and the sticks . . . you've seen how hard they swing them. Last spring Jamie Scanlon was struck with the ball in his leg, and even now he can scarce hobble about. And Reeve told me once he saw a man—" Christabel stopped, plucking at the lace on her gown.

  Maryssa felt a shiver of dread chill her spine, her gaze locking on the tall, dark Irishman shoving himself up from the turf. "Don't you get scared? Watching Tade—I mean, Reeve—when he might—"

  "No. The best players, men like Tade and my Reeve, have almost an uncanny sense about where the ball is. They may get grazed by it or bruised a bit, but most likely the only thing damaged on your fair knight will be his pride." She gave Maryssa's arm a comforting squeeze. " Of course, it is no wonder the poor man is stumbling about so," Christabel said, dimpling. "I am certain it is passing difficult trying to hit the ball when you've one eye upon the edge of the field."

  Stunned at the implication of Christabel's words, Mary
ssa looked back to where Tade had bent down to retrieve his stick. The green eyes did flash her way for an instant from beneath the arc of arm and sweat-stained shirt. He straightened, and even from a distance Maryssa could sense a sheepishness in his gaze that made her smile. The dread knotting inside her eased as her eyes followed the masculine lines of broad shoulders, taut waist, narrow hips—perfectly honed muscles too strong to be cut down by flailing sticks or a small leather-covered ball.

  Her smile deepened at the calming thought, then widened into a grin as Reeve sauntered over to Tade and dusted off the dirt clinging to the Irishman's shirtfront with a cocksure air that sent everyone in the clearing into gales of laughter.

  Tade's mouth moved as if he was murmuring something under his breath for Reeve alone to hear, but the sprightly Englishman merely danced back to the center of the field, brandishing his hurley as if it were a victor's laurels.

  Maryssa let her gaze stray to the faces of those ringing the field, wanting to take this shared lightsomeness into herself and hold it. The thrill of the game and Reeve's comical antics seemed to have banished the resentment she had sensed ever since her father's name had been mentioned, yet as her eyes skimmed about, the happiness she wished to share vanished. For the first time she became aware of the distance separating her and Christabel from the crowd's excited laughter. From the people themselves.

  It was as if a wind-witch had stolen in with her broom and swept the grass about the boulder free of its spangling of bright-skirted girls and rosy-cheeked mothers. The babes that had gamboled among the wildflowers now skirted the boulder as widely as though it were the lair of some fearsome beast, while their elders sat crowded together on the turf as far away from the boulder's base as the scrubby trees bordering the clearing would allow.

  Maryssa fastened her gaze on the hurling match again, her hands balling in her lap. The roars of approval and groans of dismay from the rest of those watching still rang out with every strike of wood on horsehide. Yet as the hour passed, even Christabel's chatter and the magic of Tade Kilcannon's powerful grace as he drove the ball time and again past the goal could not hide the circle of emptiness about her. It pressed in from all sides, crushing her with a loneliness that stung hot and sharp at her eyelids.

  The sun had crept halfway across the sky in its afternoon trek to the mountains when Maryssa saw Tade's gaze flick yet again to her face, as it had with increasing frequency during the seemingly endless game.

  With each quick glance, the grim concentration that had furrowed his brow had shifted, his mouth pulling down at the corners in an expression of puzzled concern. Crystal green, his eyes locked on hers, clinging but a second before she saw the leather-covered ball, round and hard, slam off the blade of Reeve's stick and hurtle toward Tade with killing speed. Maryssa tried to cry out in warning. Couldn't.

  As if he had caught the movement from the corner of his eye, Tade spun at that instant to meet it, swinging his hurley upward. But the ash-wood blade slicing the air never even neared its target. Maryssa stared in horror, a scream strangling her throat as the ball slammed with bone-shattering force into the sweat-sheened plane of Tade Kilcannon's forehead.

  Chapter 7

  "Tade!" Maryssa bolted to her feet atop the boulder, scarcely aware the name had been torn from her own throat as his dark head snapped back, the momentum of the blow driving him onto the turf with a strength that slammed the breath from his lungs. Rough-edged curses erupted from the field as hurling sticks were flung aside. Countenances that had been fierce with competition bare seconds ago were now taut and pale as the men dashed toward the tall figure sprawled on the ground.

  Maryssa's fingernails gouged deep into her palms as she fought to see past the other hurlers closing in about Tade, but she caught only glimpses of lawn shirt and doeskin breaches through the maze of legs—Tade's shirt and breeches, and the blanched face of Reeve Marlow as he shoved his way through the circle of men.

  “Get out of the way, you dolts!" Reeve's worried shout split the air as his sandy head disappeared beneath the sea of broad shoulders. "The man has to breathe!"

  The words seemed to clutch, viselike about Maryssa's throat. Breathe! Dear God, was Tade—no!

  Oblivious to the throng all around Tade, to the boulder's rough edges slicing her palms, Maryssa scrambled to the ground. She heard Christabel call out, heard the clack of clogs against stone as her friend followed her, but Maryssa paused not an instant as she dashed onto the field with a speed she had not known she possessed.

  The thick layers of her gown were scooped high in her knotted fists, the clumsy pattens on her shoes tilting crazily on the uneven ground, as she plunged through the others hurrying onto the field. But even the resentful murmurs and hissed oaths of those she passed could not slow her. Slamming her hands against broad backs and crooked arms, she pushed her way through the men still ringing their fallen comrade.

  The sight that met her eyes when she at last broke through the tall shielding of bodies drove a spike deep into the pit of her stomach. His impish freckled face drawn into a scowl, Reeve Marlow bent over Tade, while Tade—vital, laughing Tade with his devilish smile and soul-melting kiss—lay death-still on the grass, the dark waves of his hair clinging to a face robbed of all color, the rich curls of his lashes fanning out in half circles on the crests of his cheeks. With a tiny cry, Maryssa crumpled to the ground beside him, drawing his dark head into the pillow of her lap.

  She smoothed the waving strands of hair back from pale, cold skin, the feel of slight beard stubble abrading her palms, the scent of him, warm and alive, taunting her as she stroked the face that had tormented her dreams this past night.

  "Tade," she quavered, raising tortured eyes to the man bending over him. "Reeve is he—"

  "No!" Reeve snapped. "Damn you, Kilcannon, I didn't hit you that hard!"

  "Beau'ful."

  The wisp of a word was so soft it was nearly lost in the ragged edges of Reeve's voice. Maryssa's stunned gaze darted down to where Tade's head lay pillowed in the nest of her skirts.

  Heavy lashes fluttering to half-mast, Tade's unfocused eyes turned up, pausing at the rounded curves of breasts inches from his mouth before laboriously rising to her face. Lips that had been so still twitched into a grin. "'Ryssa," he slurred, burrowing the back of his head deeper into her lap with a contented sound. "'S beau'ful. C' stay 'ere fever."

  "T-Tade?" She leaned over him to catch his murmured words, cradling his face in her arms. "Are—are you hurt? Are you—"

  "Mmmm, won'ful." His eyes drooped closed and he gave a sated sigh. "Won'ful," he whispered. "If you'd—"

  "If I'd what, Tade?"

  The moist heat of his breath stirred the lace edging the low neckline of her gown, his words so soft she could scarcely hear him. "If you'd jus' bend . . . a little . . . lower."

  In a flash his head swept up, warm lips catching hers in a quick, sweet kiss.

  Maryssa jerked upright, hot fire staining her cheeks as if his mouth had burned her, horrified that the people crowding near had seen. But the only hint of humor lay in Tade's own mouth, its sensual lines tipped into a wry, wobbly grin. Eyes that had been clouded with confusion now peered up at her, a touch of their old devilment sparkling in their green depths.

  She dumped his head out of her lap, taking self-righteous pleasure in his grimace of pain as the back of his head thunked onto the ground.

  "Tade Kilcannon," she sputtered, "you—" Maryssa's indignant tirade was cut short by a raw curse from somewhere in the crowd, the people nearest her falling away as if an ax blade had been driven between them.

  Maryssa looked up, the ire coursing through her tightening into a thin band of fear as she stared into Kane Kilcannon’s furious features. Rust-colored brows slashed over narrowed eyes. His warring-king features were twisted in a way that would have turned the stoutest heart coward. Even the sight of Devin's gentle, troubled face beneath a homespun hood could not still the quaking inside her at the wrath in Kane's sharp
eyes. Maryssa swallowed, her mouth going dry.

  A flash of pink skirts swirled toward her behind a glimpse of stocky legs as Reeve jumped over Tade's outstretched limbs to stand at her side. She felt Tade struggling upright, heard Reeve's placating voice break in, "Good morrow, Mr. Kilcannon, sir, we were having a bit of hurling when Tade—"

  "I can see just exactly what my son's been having a bit of!" Kane spat, his mouth contorting in disgust. Maryssa cringed as the elder Kilcannon's eyes swept over her with the same blatant aversion he would accord the lowliest doxy at Hell's Gate. "Bainbridge Wylder's little—"

  "Da!" Tade bit out the warning in a voice surprisingly clear, the lines about his mouth whitening as he gained his feet. One hand reached down, grasping Maryssa's icy fingers to draw her up, and she could feel the slight unsteadiness still gripping him. "Da, I was struck with the ball. Maryssa just—"

  "Maryssa, is it? I had no idea the heir Kilcannon had taken to calling Sassenach thieves by their first names."

  Maryssa took an involuntary step back, wanting only to be free of the scathing hatred in Kane Kilcannon's face and the rumble of agreement from the crowd, but Tade's fingers tightened around hers, his face snapping taut with challenge.

  "And I had no idea you put so little value on the life of your son."

  "Don't you dare to—"

  "To what? Remind you that we owe her Devin's life? Nay, not only Dev's but our own as well? Tell me, Da, what comfort would your damned stiff pride be with Devin under the hoodman's knife?"