He could not let Caitlin see that with those sweetly probing eyes. Dared not let anyone guess at his shame. Yet she was worried herself. He could sense it in a way that unnerved him. Why did he feel the irresistible need to soothe what fears of hers he could for the time he would be gone? Or was he not soothing Caitlin at all? Only his own battered conscience?
"You should be safe enough for now," he snapped, unprepared for the way his heart lurched when his gaze lit upon her face. "Conn will not even suspect that I have chosen to defy his command." How could the words be so painful? As if the life he had built in Conn's court was being flayed away one dagger blade at a time.
"I am not afraid," she said.
It was a lie, and he knew it. She had lived all her life in that abbey, with sisters who had known her forever. She was a stranger in this wretched household still staggering beneath the curse of his father. She must be alarmed, fearful, and yet Niall had no comfort to give her. He didn’t know how to untangle this coil himself.
For an instant, he wanted to go to her, gather her in his arms. Bury his grief and uncertainty in the yielding softness of her breasts. He wondered what it would be like to hold her, to admit to someone for the first time in his life that he was afraid. But that was impossible.
He turned, stalked out the door, heard footsteps, light, already familiar, as Caitlin followed. He felt her watching as he swung up onto his horse. How was it possible that he was as aware of her gaze as he had been of her lips upon his the night before?
He spun his mount in a tight circle, trying to get the horse and his own white-hot imagination back under control.
With an oath, Niall galloped away from Fiona's mockery, his mother's bewilderment, and Caitlin's sweet temptation. He only wished he could keep riding until the world fell away.
Chapter 9
If Niall's horse had carried him straight into Conn's fortress, he would not have noticed, he had given so little attention to his surroundings in the hours since he galloped away from Castle Daire. With each movement of the sun across the sky, he burned—his mind a tangle of memories, old and new, torn by the choice he had to make between the chieftain who had loved him like a son and the innocent beauty whose life had been cast into Niall's hands.
Niall's fingers shifted again to the leather pouch at his waist, the message he had written to Conn almost like a living thing within its depths. He could not have loathed the missive more if it had been gnawing its way into his belly. It seemedguilt—that emotion he had shrugged away with scorn for so long—had claws and teeth. Niall wondered if he would ever be free it again.
If only he could rid himself of the letter, the deed would be done. His betrayal of Conn complete, no way to change it. Was it possible he could find some peace in that? No more peace than he had found in the days since he chose to let Caitlin live.
He rode over the crest of a hill, suddenly alert to the sounds of a disturbance below—a tiny croft, five boys near Fiona's age wrestling in play. But nay. Niall's eyes narrowed. This was no game—at least not to the smallest youth who sprawled in the dirt. Blood streamed from the boy's nose and cut lip as the other four lads loomed over him.
Niall's gut knotted. How many times had he been in that lone boy's place? Fighting against impossible odds, driven by his anger and shame? Even Conn's favor had not protected Niall from the fists of the other boys, especially the chieftain's six sons. It was easy enough to stalk a lone boy in the vast fortress, lie in wait to strike. Once the bloodying was over, no one had betrayed what had happened, not to the chieftain, the trainers in arms. Not to anyone.
Niall would have cut out his own tongue before he cried for help or for mercy. And he himself threatened to thrash anyone who told of the beatings he suffered.
Countless times, Niall had refused to explain the cuts and bruises on his face. In that terrible silence, Niall had bided his time, grown stronger, practiced harder, until the day he could best his tormentors himself. But he had never suspected what it was like for those few who had not joined in the brawls to watch such injustice, helpless to stop it.
"Stay down, you craven cur!" A burly lad with a misshapen mouth gave the boy a vicious kick. "Admit defeat, you son of a drunken slut!"
The lad curled his scrawny body into a ball and rolled away, seeming to surrender. Then, the instant the other boy turned to his friends in victory, the small lad launched himself into the burly lad's midsection.
Howling, the other three leapt on the boy, but he struck eight to ten solid punches before they dragged him off.
Damn fool! Niall gritted his teeth as the older boy pummeled him. He should not interfere. Nothing would have infuriated him more during the years when he had been in the boy's place.Besides, it might only make things worse once he rode away. But when three of the boys imprisoned their prey and the other began to pound him in earnest, Niall could not watch any longer.
As he urged his horse into a run, he was uncertain. Who was he riding to aid? The boy who struggled in the dirt or the lad he had once been himself?
The thunderous hoofbeats did little to quell the gang of young brutes, insolent grins curling their mouths as if they expected nothing but approval from anyone who witnessed their sport.
With difficulty, Niall mastered the red tide of rage rising inside him. "Let him go," he said softly, a threat more terrifying than any bellow could be.
Genuine shock whitened the faces of the boy's attackers. One loosened his grip on the lad and gave Niall a sly smile.
"Beg pardon, fine sir, but you cannot understand. This coward is none but Owaine, the son of a drunken slut, his father one of any hundred men. He would not yield the road."
"So four of you fell upon him? An unfair number by any counting. Which of you are cowards now?"
The boys took a step back. One of the more daring raised his chin. "I am the son of the mostpowerful man in this valley. Who are you to judge me?"
For an instant, Niall thought of telling the boy his identity was none of his affair; then he changed his mind. Considering the message he was sending to Conn, it would matter little if all Glenfluirse knew he was at Daire. What could it matter if five farm boys knew his name? Besides, the knowledge that a warrior had championed their prey might keep the boy safe from his tormentors, at least for a little while.
"I am Niall of the Seven Betrayals."
"N-Niall..." The other lads chorused in uneasy recognition, faces flushed, arrogance vanquished by awe.
