Claiming Her

“Aodh.” Her voice was so low, even she could hardly hear it.

Laughter from soldiers on the battlement walls drifted in the window, a cheerful backdrop to their deadly serious conversation. “He would make Rardove a good ally. She would be a good peace offering.”

“Aodh, please, you cannot. He is changeable… unpredictable. Violent.”

“Then you chose a bad man to make an enemy of.”

Her face hardened. “It was no choice.”

For a moment, she knew her cause was lost, that Susanna would be sent back to the monster, and—

“Give me a reason.”

She breathed in a gasp of hope. “What would you have of me?”

He watched her a moment more, then rolled his shoulder off the door frame and strode off without a word.

She stood at the window for an hour, hoping for some sign, some sound of horses or sight of riders, perhaps gunfire, if Aodh was sending Bermingham off and the man did not wish to go.

But why would Aodh risk such a thing, not only for her, but for a woman whom he did not know, a woman Katarina had visited and found bleeding and broken one afternoon two years back? She’d brought Susanna home with her, set her up in the household as a maidservant, to disguise the fact that she’d helped a noblewoman escape from her noble, awful husband.

Not even Walter had known who she was; he assumed she was another wandering waif Katarina had latched on to, like Dickon, like the itinerant priests who had visited Rardove and begun all this madness of “treason,” to the half-dozen other waifs and misfits who’d found a home at Rardove.

But eventually, even Bermingham’s drink-sodden brain had put it together, and he’d demanded Susanna’s return. Twice. But each time, he grew distracted by drink or whoring or whatever else the man did, and had let it go.

The arrangement suited Susanna perfectly well. Her father might have been the Crown’s man in the north of Ireland, meting out justice and collecting its proceeds, but her mother had been sweet and entirely unsuited for a life of greatness. Neither was Susanna. She was more than happy to serve Katarina, to have a friend. To not be beaten daily, or whatever her accursed, violent husband saw fit to do to her when he returned home from the bawdy houses or raids.

But none of this should matter to a marcher lord, because in the end, Bermingham had a large fortune as a result of those raids, and many men to ride with him when he was in the mood for mischief. Many men to bring to a fight against the Queen of England, whom he’d always served with the thinnest thread of loyalty.

So now, Aodh had a choice. A simple one, if he sought an ally. Return to Bermingham what was rightfully his.

She paced and paced, biting her nails to stubs.

Late afternoon sunlight was pouring through the window by the time he returned.

Again, the twist of a lock. Again the low squeal of iron hinges slowly rusting, turning, then the door swung open.

Aodh stood in its opening. Backlit by the warm glow of oil lamps in the landing, he was a dark silhouette.

Beside him stood Susanna.

Chapter Twenty-Six

SUSANNA GAVE A CRY of happiness and rushed forward, wrapping Katarina in a warm, tearful embrace.

Katarina hugged her back, her eyes filling with tears, so that she had to bend her head to hide them.

“Bermingham came, my lady, as we knew he would, one day,” Susanna said as they hugged each other. “He came, and his lordship sent him away.”

“Did he?” She trusted nothing else to leave her lips, or she might weep.

“That he did. And Cormac. Oh, Cormac was quite wonderful.” The warmth in Susanna’s voice brought Katarina’s head up.

“Cormac, the drinker?” she said, surprised.

“Oh, no more than you, my lady,” Susanna assured her happily, her cheeks flushed, her round face aglow in a smile. “He is quite fine.”

Katarina smiled. “Sooth?”