Lord Of The Isle
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“Get out of my way, O’Toole,” Hugh growled, his voice laden with malice. “Had my orders been followed to the letter, that woman wouldn’t be there. I’ll not stand idle while Kelly takes his sport before my very eyes.”
“You will,” Loghran said, challengingly. “It’s my sacred duty, sworn on the deathbed of your grandfather, Conn O’Neill, to see that no English blade carelessly takes your life. Give our men time to recover. Brian and Rory won’t let you down. Think of the woman as—” Loghran injected a twist of gallows humor into his voice “—a minor diversion.”
Hugh was not amused. He unsheathed his sword.
“My lord, I didn’t bring you safely through fifteen years of English hell so you could risk all for a skirt. Stay, else I’ll call the men and order you returned to Dungannon. Trussed if necessary.”
“Get out of my way.” Hugh’s sword cut through the rain. Another wretched scream pierced the tumultuous dusk. The point of Hugh’s steel pressed into the boiled leather carapace molded to Loghran’s chest. The younger man’s voice softened to a dangerous snarl. “You know what Kelly’s men will do to a woman. We’ve seen their handiwork before.”
“Aye. More than that, I know what he will do to you, should he be lucky enough to get his hands on another O’Neill. Heed my words. Stay to this side of the Abhainn Mor.”
“To the devil with your counsel. I’m in command here.” Hugh drew back on the reins. Boru reared, flashing mighty hooves at the horse and warrior that blocked the worn path to the bridge. “Listen to me, old friend—cross me and you lose your head. Move! That’s an order. Defy me at your own peril.”
“My lord.” Loghran tried one more time, unwilling to let Hugh face unnecessary danger. “The fate of one lone woman cannot alter Ireland’s destiny in the same way that your fate does. She is not your quarrel. Think you of the united Ireland of our dreams. You know as well as I that the wench is likely naught more than an abbess who cut and ran with a soldier’s purse.”
“She may be Mary Magdalene, herself. On Tyrone land, we will bloody well protect all women from English abuse.”
Hugh O’Neill touched his gold spurs to Boru’s sides once more. The stallion charged.
O’Toole yielded ground, wheeling his horse around full circle. With deep regret, he unsheathed his sword and followed, hard on the young earl of Tyrone’s heels, down the cliffside, to the flooded bridge crossing the Abhainn Mor.
Morgana Fitzgerald drove one strong knee into the groin of the soldier attacking her. By the time his womanish howl split the drenched air, she had her blade in hand. With well-practiced efficiency, she slashed the dagger across his throat. He fell to his knees, clutching his throat and his cods, his scream now a dying gurgle.
Morgana bounded to her feet, balanced and ready. She was winded from the fall from her horse, but not terrified, as Kelly wanted her to be. The cut man’s death rattle proved that English soldiers were not made of the steel Lord Deputy Sidney, the governor of Ireland, and his cruel and bloodthirsty adjutant, James Kelly, would have all Ireland believe they were.
She regretted her one reflexive scream, which might have made these soldiers think she were frightened. She knew from experience to act as though she were the one in control. To do anything less would give away her only chance to keep the upper hand.
Unfortunately, she had screamed. Any woman would, when being rudely and deliberately tumbled her off her horse.
Morgana Fitzgerald didn’t have the luxury of pretending she was any woman. If that were the case, Sidney’s soldiers wouldn’t be following her. The second soldier stalked her as she circled the fallen man, edging her way to the bridge.
When she tried to run for it, he darted in front of her, blocking her path. Her knife was no match for the sword in his hand. He feinted at her with it, driving her back as the rest of the English arrived. James Kelly laughed as he dismounted.
In two heartbeats, four men surrounded Morgana, boxing her in, the river at her back. Morgana made a quick search of their crude circle, reading their true purpose in their eyes. Cold-blooded and deadly Geraldine anger calmed and fueled her now. She’d not be raped by a pack of English whoresons without killing two or three of them first.
The one with the drawn sword danced slightly away from the bridge, opening a wider gap in the circle, as he sheathed his weapon. He eyed her nine inches of razor-sharp steel caustically. “Here, now, Lady Morgan, there’s no call for that. We only wanted a little sport.”
“You’ll not take it with me, cur,” Morgana fired back, maddened far beyond mere insult at their game of cat and mouse. These men all knew who she was and why Kelly was after her. They were lower than the scum beneath London sewer rats.
One of them was responsible for poisoning Morgana’s six-year-old brother Maurice. For that, she would gladly kill all five of them. She had arrived in Benburg innocently unaware of the trap that waited there for her. Kelly and his men had been swilling whiskey at the only inn in Benburg all afternoon, idly waiting for Morgana to arrive. The men she’d hired to protect her on her journey north had been slaughtered in a matter of minutes.
She had been so caught up in her secret negotiations with Bishop Moye she hadn’t noticed there was a traitor in her midst. She had also mistakenly thought that Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in Armagh had been untouched by the English order to seize and close all of Ireland’s churches. There was no sanctuary to be gained by fleeing to a church. She’d not make that mistake again, either. From here out, Morgana would trust no one, only herself.
The traitor in Morgana’s escort no longer mattered. The carriage yard at the Kittie Waicke Inn was littered with the bodies of every man Morgana had hired to protect her on her dangerous mission north to Dunluce. Their throats were slit as wide as the dying soldier at John Kelly’s feet.
Kelly bent to revive his man and drew back, appalled. “Sweet suffering Jesus,” he groaned, shocked so deeply he crossed himself. “The bitch has killed Rayburn!”
“You expected less of me, Kelly?” Morgana snarled. “You know perfectly well that anything you do to a Fitzgerald will come back to haunt you. Shall I repeat for these fools the curse Eleanor Fitzgerald laid on your head?”