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Aodh Mac Con tossed a reply over his shoulder. “What news?”
His captain took a cautious step forward. “We’ve taken the keep.”
“The walls?”
“Our men are stationed the entire length. The gatehouse and all the outbuildings are secured.”
“The garrison?”
His captain shook his head. “Must be in hiding. We found only nine, and a handful of youths.”
Aodh Mac Con’s gaze honed back in on her. “Where is he?”
She swallowed. “He?”
“The tenth of your garrison.”
Self-disgust burned in her throat. She’d told him that. Still, she hesitated, debating whether to withhold any more specific information regarding Wicker’s whereabouts. Might it give him a chance to escape? Rally a counterattack?
Get himself killed.
“He is in the cellars,” she said, her voice flat. “Bringing up barrels of wine. For the celebration.”
The irony seemed to elude him. He cast orders over his shoulder. “Retrieve him, Réalta Farraige,” he said, saying the Irish words, sea star, as if they were a name, elongating the vowels into a sensual rumble, so the latter sounded a bit like barrage, which was entirely fitting and quite unnerving. “Have the men search the outbuildings and upper floors. Round up all the servants.”
The captain nodded. “The others are being held in the yard, at blade point.” Aodh didn’t move. From the corner of her eye, Katarina saw the captain’s gaze drift in her direction. “We await your instructions, Aodh.”
So, this barrage of a captain was more than a captain. He was a friend.
A ripple moved through Aodh Mac Con’s body, like a statue awakening. He stepped back, releasing her from the wall, leaving her strangely cold without his armored body pressed up to hers.
“Take her ladyship to the solar.” He waved a young man of his guard forward and turned away, and was immediately ensconced in a phalanx of armed men. They moved toward the door like a flock of birds, boot heels clattering.
Katarina stared after them, stunned and reeling without the support of the wall or his armored body. The young guardsman put his hand on her elbow and turned her toward the stairs.
Behind them, Walter’s voice rang out with vague encouragements. “My lady, do not lose courage! If ever it has been needful for English blood to come to your aid, now is that time,” he called, then huffed, “Leave off me,” to someone who was evidently restraining him.
“Heed me, Katarina,” he called again. “Many’s the Englishman who’s found himself in straits even more dire than these, and though you are but a woman, even you can attend the need for restraint and—”
“Oh, Walter, please do shut up,” she said mildly, not looking around. One could only take so much, after all, and the inner voice of reason had fallen blessedly silent.
So did Walter.
It was all oddly…satisfying.
Chapter Six
AS HE CROSSED the bailey, his friend and captain at his side, a strange quietness rode under the more savage thrill Aodh now, finally, felt at accomplishing the task no one thought he’d attempt: take the castle the Queen of England would not give him.
Aodh was an opportunist. From the moment of his birth to this one, his every move had been aimed at gaining the next foothold, and a bloody climb it had been. Rardove was the prize.
Sent out in the world almost twenty years ago with a single mission—to regain his ancestral homeland—he’d meant to do great things, and by those deeds win favor and honor, and return home, Rardove in his fist.
Over the years, Aodh had seen much and done much, most of it hard and brutal, the sort that did not make for suppertime conversation. First as one of Elizabeth’s sea dogs, then as courtier and councilor, Aodh had grown adept at both war and court life. At politics and power, and the furtive maneuverings of mind and man. Such skills were both requisite to and consequence of being favored by Queen Bess.
Rardove had been his father’s dream. And his grandfather’s. And his grandfather’s grandfather’s. And so on, marching back down the family line for centuries. Everyone had dreamed of returning as lord of Rardove.
And now here he stood, within the walls, feeling…cold inside.
