The Betrayed (Echoes from the Past Book 7) Page 11

  “Mary,” he called to a young dark-haired girl who’d emerged into the yard, “take these gentlemen to the kitchen and tell Mistress O’Toole to serve them broth and bread. And instruct Siobhan to find them beds and fresh clothes.”

  “’Twill be done, Sir Brian,” the girl responded.

  Sir Brian turned back to the men. “When ye haven’t eaten for days, ye need to start slow, or ye’ll make yerselves ill. Broth and bread now, meat later,” he promised with a wink. “And ale. Ye’ll need ale.” The priest translated Sir Brian’s words to the best of his ability and the men nodded their thanks.

  “I wish the old coot would stop yakking and let us eat,” Pedro murmured, earning himself a look of reproach from the captain, but the other men appeared to share Pedro’s sentiment, nodding in agreement and gazing at Mary as if she were the answer to their prayers . Under other circumstances, they might have had more lascivious thoughts when faced with a pretty girl, but they were too hungry to focus on less immediate desires.

  “Gracias, don Brian. You’re very kind,” Captain de Cuéllar said.

  “My enemy’s enemy is my friend,” Sir Brian replied with a throaty chuckle. “Isn’t that so?”

  “Indeed, it is,” the captain replied after the priest explained what the chieftain had said.

  Pedro and Alfonso sighed with relief when Sir Brian bid the men a good day and left them to get settled. “Thank God. I thought he’d never stop talking,” Pedro said as they turned to Mary.

  Pedro and Alfonso barely looked at her, but Julio’s eyes narrowed in appraisal as he bowed to her from the neck, smiling sardonically. She was a waif of a girl, maybe twelve or thirteen, and blushed furiously under Julio’s intense gaze.

  “Ye can follow me,” she said. She sounded breathless, and quickly turned away, clearly uncomfortable under Julio’s scrutiny.

  Mistress O’Toole welcomed them with less enthusiasm than Sir Brian had, but fed them all the same, then shooed them out of her kitchen, wrinkling her nose in much the same way the chieftain had. They hadn’t bathed since dipping in the lake several days ago and their clothes reeked of stale sweat and, in the case of the captain, dried blood and pus. After their meal, a different woman, this one in her forties and wearing an odd headpiece that covered all her hair and ears, led them to the uppermost floor of the castle, where they were allocated sleeping quarters and provided with pitchers of hot water and clean garments. Rafael fell into bed as soon as he washed and changed, but not before he thanked the Lord for surviving long enough to enjoy this bounty.

  Supper with Sir Brian was an informal affair, which suited the men just fine. They looked awkward in their borrowed shirts and britches, which were made of homespun fabric and more suited to farmers. Only Captain de Cuéllar had been given finery befitting his rank. He wore a clean linen shirt, a leather doublet, and wool breeches, and sat next to the chieftain, his appearance much improved by a bath and a shave. They all sat around a trestle table in the great hall, a cavernous room with an enormous fireplace and mullioned windows. At least a dozen sets of antlers were displayed on the stone walls, their presence a testament to the men’s hunting prowess. The hall was lit with dozens of candles and sweet-smelling rushes were strewn across the floor, the dried grass giving off a faint herbal scent that Rafael found pleasing.

  Lady O’Rourke sat on the chieftain’s left side. She was a stout woman of middle years and had a ruddy complexion, but her smile of welcome was warm, and she had fine blue eyes that shone with kindness. Father Joseph sat to her left and was so occupied with translating the conversation that he barely had an opportunity to touch his food.

  A plump young woman sat next to the priest. She’d been introduced as Sir Brian’s daughter, Shannon. She shared her father’s fiery coloring and her mother’s plainness. Her cheeks bloomed like roses, perhaps from shyness, and her gaze was fixed on her plate. Rafael’s gaze slid to Julio’s face, but the man paid no mind to Shannon. Instead, he listened intently to what the priest was saying, nodding eagerly.

  “English settlers, she brought in,” the priest said angrily, no longer translating, but airing his own grievances against the queen. “And where do ye think they were settled? Well, I’ll tell ye—on land confiscated from the monasteries. That’s right, land that belongs to the Church,” Father Joseph vented. “Consecrated land given over to farming. But I wouldn’t expect anything less. Spawn o’ the devil, she is,” he spat. “She’ll burn in hell, of that ye can be certain, gentlemen. The good Lord will see to that.”

  “Our own noble families have been disgraced,” Sir Brian chimed in. “Irish titles abolished, as if generations of history could be erased with a stoke of a quill. Well, we didn’t stand for that, did we, Father?” Sir Brian cried, slamming his fist into the table. “We fought for what’s ours. Rose up against the heretic queen and will do so again. ‘Kill the Spaniards on sight,’ she commanded. I’ll not execute brave, God-fearing men, men who hold the same views as me and mine. I’ll have ye know we’ve taken in as many as three dozen men to date, and more are coming every day.”

  Rafael couldn’t help noticing Kieran O’Rourke’s grimace of distaste at Sir Brian’s proclamation, but he remained silent, devoting himself to his meat and ale. He seemed to be a man of few words, but clearly held a position of respect within the household. The few times he looked up, his gaze drifted to Shannon, who blushed even more rosily when singled out by his attention.

  “Where are the rest of the men?” Julio asked. They hadn’t seen any other Spaniards when they’d arrived, and Sir Brian had mentioned that there were several dozen men on the premises.

  “We can’t house that many men inside the castle. I had one of the barns converted into a barracks. Ye can meet yer countrymen on the morrow.”

  “How many men are there?” Julio persisted.

  “There were nearly forty, but several succumbed to their injuries,” Sir Brian replied, and the priest translated.

  “Chieftain, is there any word of our surviving ships?” Captain de Cuéllar asked. “We greatly value your hospitality, but our ultimate goal is to return home.”

  “There’s a ship that put in for repairs about twenty miles north of here. I forget her name,” Sir Brian replied.

  “Then we must rendezvous with the ship,” de Cuéllar said to the men, his eyes lighting with hope. “We should leave first thing tomorrow.”

  “Captain, with all due respect, we are too emaciated and exhausted to undertake another twenty-mile trek. I, for one, would prefer to remain here,” Julio Fernández said, looking to his friends for support, which they readily gave.

  “Then I will go on my own,” the captain announced. “I will ask the ship’s captain to wait and I will return for you.”

  “I’ll go with you, Captain,” Rafael said. The captain was older than all of them, and the only one who’d been wounded. To let him go off on his own seemed cowardly and unfair.

  “You stay here, de Silva. I’ll be fine,” he said, smiling at Rafael. “You’ve earned your rest.”

  Rafael opened his mouth to protest but closed it before he said something he’d regret. He couldn’t bear the thought of going back out into that endless forest. He was too depleted after his ordeal. Given leave to remain at the castle, Rafael turned his attention to food and drink, allowing the conversation to flow over him like an incoming tide. Once the main course, something called griskin that tasted like pork, was cleared away, Sir Brian glanced affectionately at his wife and daughter.

  “All this rebellious talk has distressed the ladies,” he announced. “I think they would enjoy some music. Won’t ye, acushla?” he asked, singling out Shannon.

  “Aye, Father, I would.”

  “’Tis decided, then. Feirgil, give us a song,” Sir Brian called out to a curly haired young man seated at the other end of the table. “’Tis quite selfish of me, but I keep Feirgil here with me at the castle. I have a great fondness for music, and Feirgil is very obliging. Aren’t ye, laddie? He�
�s just composed a new planxty for us. ’Tis about a leanan sidhe, per Shannon’s request.”

  “And what is that?” Captain de Cuéllar asked as the young man fetched his lute.

  “The leanan sidhe is a beautiful fairy maiden who takes a human lover,” Shannon explained, blushing to the roots of her hair. Before she could elaborate on the story, she was silenced by Father Joseph, who glared at her with disapproval, either because she’d spoken out of turn or because he didn’t hold with fairy maidens taking lovers, human or otherwise.

  The song was sung in Gaelic, so the Spaniards didn’t glean a word of the poetry, but the haunting notes of the melody and Feirgil’s gentle voice left everyone spellbound, and not a little forlorn. Having finished the song, which was unusually long, Feirgil looked to Sir Brian, who bowed his thanks.

  “The good Lord bless yer unique talent, lad. That was beautiful. Well, it’s off to bed with me,” he said.

  The women immediately sprang to their feet and followed Sir Brian from the hall. Everyone else followed suit.

  Rafael retired to the tiny room he was to share with Julio. Julio wasn’t his first choice of roommate, but Rafael didn’t dare utter a word of complaint, even when he’d first seen the room and realized there was only one bed. Soldiers slept side by side all the time. This was no different. As long as Julio didn’t snore, they’d get on just fine. Rafael undressed and slid beneath the counterpane.

  “These people are savages, and they live like pigs,” Julio grumbled as he turned onto his side, eager to talk. “I’ve never seen such primitive conditions.”

  “They fed and clothed us, and they’ve given us shelter, Julio,” Rafael replied.

  “Because they recognize our superiority. They have much to learn from us. Their women look like pigs too,” Julio continued. “I suppose if you live in a pigsty, you can only appreciate pigs. O’Rourke’s wife is shaped like a sack of grain, and his daughter better have a handsome dowry, or no self-respecting man will marry her.”

  “That’s unkind.”

  “I don’t have to be kind. No one understands what I’m saying anyway. Even that dotty old priest only understands Latin. Tomorrow, I think I’ll visit the kitchens.”

  “Why, are you still hungry?”

  “Yes, hungry for a woman. There were some comely wenches there. That Mary creature was all right to look at, but she’s not been blessed with a bosom. Flat as a plank. The buxom one had a face like curdled milk. Come to think of it, I don’t even care. I won’t be looking at them long enough to remember their faces.”

  “Goodnight, Julio,” Rafael said, and turned away from the man. He didn’t like Julio and hoped he wouldn’t have to share a room with him for long. If he were honest, he wished he and the captain had never met up with Julio and his friends at the settlement. The other two men were all right, especially when on their own, but Julio Fernández had a mean streak that he didn’t bother to hide. Having come from a wealthy family, Julio oozed entitlement from every pore, and his good looks only made him more obnoxious.

  I hope these Irish señoritas have their wits about them and won’t be taken in by a pair of dark eyes, Rafael thought as he drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 20

  April 2015

  London, England

  Rhys accepted a mug of tea from his PA and swiveled away from his desk to gaze out over the London skyline. He loved the view, but the gorgeous weather of the last few days had given way to a damp, foggy morning. Familiar buildings loomed out of the gloom, their edges blurry as if the glass and concrete were melting into the mist. Rhys took a sip of tea and wished he’d picked up an espresso instead. He felt tired and irritable. The fatigue was due to lack of sleep, but the irritation was all down to Quinn. She’s sent a text last night, inviting him to dinner the following Saturday, and made sure to add that Jo would be coming as well.

  Rhys sighed and propped his feet up on the credenza beneath the window. To refuse Quinn’s invitation would be churlish, but to accept would imply that he was still interested in Jo romantically. Quinn hadn’t asked him about his date with Jo outright, but he almost wished she had. He felt a need to explain, to state his reasons out loud and to reassure himself that all was still well between them. He hadn’t meant to lead Jo down the proverbial garden path; he’d simply realized that a relationship between them would never work and decided to extricate himself before things went too far. In fact, when he’d invited Jo out to dinner, he’d planned for something completely different.

  He’d chosen the restaurant carefully—an establishment that was trendy yet classy, small enough to guarantee an intimate atmosphere, and known for its superb food. He’d left several bottles of Sauvignon Blanc chilling in his fridge for when he and Jo returned to his place for a nightcap and made sure he had fresh milk and all the ingredients he’d need to cook her a sumptuous breakfast should things proceed in that direction. But over the course of their dinner, something had changed, and it wasn’t Jo. It was Rhys’s reaction to her.

  Seeing a therapist had been his mother’s idea. Well, not directly, because his working-class hairdresser mother didn’t hold with such posh ideas and senseless waste of money, but she’d said something to Rhys that had stuck with him when he’d gone home to Wales for Christmas after the heartbreak of losing Hayley and the baby.

  “You’ve always had a hero complex, Rhys,” his mum had said when she joined him for breakfast on Boxing Day.

  “A hero complex?” Rhys had nearly spit out his tea, but his mother had simply studied him over the rim of her own cup, waiting for the words to sink in.

  “I think it’s because your dad died when you were just a baby.”

  “I’m sorry, Mum, but I don’t follow,” Rhys had replied. He loved his mother fiercely, and although she came out with some questionable theories sometimes, he always listened to whatever she had to say with interest and respect.

  “You are not like your brother,” his mum had gone on. “Owain is practical and hardworking.”

  “And I’m not?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth. You are both those things, but you’re so much more. You’ve always been a dreamer, a storyteller. You were desperate to write a different ending to my story even when you were a small boy. You saw me struggling and you wanted to save me, unlike Owain, who thought only of his own needs. You longed for me to be rescued. Well, I was. Your stepfather is a wonderful man and I thank God every day that I wasn’t too stubborn to give him a fair chance when he came calling. What I’m saying is, you are drawn to women who need saving, Rhys. You want to be their hero, their knight in shining armor.”

  His mother had exhaled sharply and shaken her head, looking at him as if he were a lost cause. “It’s all those stories you read when you were a boy, stuck at home during the summer holidays with your library card and your inhaler. You’re searching for a damsel in distress, Rhys. What you need is a woman who’ll be your equal, who’ll challenge you, drive you mad with her opinions, and even save you from time to time. What you need is a partner, not a cause.”

  Rhys had stared at his mother open-mouthed, his breakfast forgotten. In her own no-nonsense, brutally honest way, she’d hit the nail right on the head. He did have a hero complex, a deeply rooted desire he’d given in to once again when he’d dashed off to Afghanistan to search for a woman he’d barely known. The purpose had been threefold, he’d later come to realize. He got to run away from his own pain, impress Quinn, and rescue a beautiful damsel who’d see him as her gallant savior.

  His feelings for Quinn were complicated, but he knew one thing for certain—he loved her, had loved her since the moment he found her sitting beneath a tree in a park, her eyes fixed on a point beyond his shoulder, lost in a trance. Perhaps at that moment he’d thought she needed rescuing as well. Over the past few years, he’d come to love her as a surrogate daughter, not a desirable woman. There was no physical attraction between them; perhaps he’d lost interest in her the moment she rescued herself, bu
t he valued their friendship more than he could say. It was solid, and real, and rare.

  And then came Jo. He had been attracted to her from the start. Perhaps because she was Quinn’s sister, or maybe, as his mother and his therapist had rightfully pointed out, he was a sucker for a damsel in distress, and Jo was certainly that. Given Jo’s sad start in life and her subsequent struggles to fit into her adopted family and then recover from the pain of her brother’s assault, Jo was damaged, and Rhys has fallen for it—hard. He’d be happy to rescue her, but what Dr. Gibson had patiently explained, as if Rhys were a sensitive child, was that injured birds and lame bunnies eventually recovered and needed to be set free, not smothered with affection.

  “I don’t want to get hurt again,” Rhys had told Dr. Gibson at their last session.

  “Then perhaps you should ask yourself why you’re attracted to this woman. Would you still be drawn to her if you didn’t think she needed you?”

  “I don’t know,” Rhys had replied truthfully.

  Over dinner, he’d come to see Jo through the eyes of a man who was ready to question his motives and feelings. She was fragile, despite her willingness to go into war zones and risk her life for a story. And she was emotionally unavailable, a woman who closed herself off to the possibility of ever truly trusting someone. She’d go to bed with him, he was sure of that, and she’d give herself to him without reservation, but she’d never allow him into her heart, not entirely. She’d bolt at the first sign of trouble, or maybe at the first sign of real intimacy.

  “I’ve been down this road too many times,” Rhys had told the therapist.

  “Then perhaps you should try walking a different path.”

  “What about Jo?”

  “What about her?”

  “I don’t want to lose her,” Rhys had replied.

  “You can’t lose something you don’t have, Rhys.”