The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(20)

Virtue is its own reward rang through his mind, but that platitude had little to do with the desire that had seized him until he could scarcely see straight. This is wrong, he thought frantically, this is wrong, I will not do this…

Stephen lowered his mouth the fraction needed and kissed her.

Her response was either genuine warmth or such an imitation of it that he would never know the difference. And he let himself not care. Stephen had always tried to bestow pleasure as well as take it, but nothing in his past was like the jumbled, stolen time that followed. He only came to himself, clear-headed, when he woke later with Roisin curled up next to him on the narrow pallet.

What a mess, was his first thought. But the second, on its heels, was, It was worth it.

He didn’t know how long they’d been asleep, but he judged it was not past midnight yet. The rain had slowed. She could not stay here all night. As it was, every person in the camp would know what had happened in here—including, he realized with a chill, Harrington. Which meant his father would soon know it.

Time enough to deal with that when he reached England. For now, he had to wake her and thank her genuinely before sending her back. To be handed over to the Earl of Ormond in the morning.

Unless…what if he simply let them all go? They were far from Carrigafoyle, but no doubt they could slip away into the stones and hills of Ireland and make their way wherever they could. Some provisions from his stock—his men would do as ordered. And it would ease his conscience about tonight’s lapse.

He slipped on a shirt and simple breeches and knelt down to touch Roisin on the shoulder. Even as he opened his mouth to wake her gently, there was an eruption of screams and hooves and the clash of arms.

Stephen jerked up, a swift moment of shock giving way to well-honed instinct. “Stay here,” he commanded Roisin, who had sat up, eyes wide, and then he grabbed both sword and dagger on his way out of the tent.

The camp was engulfed with men on horseback, clothed in dark, rough fabric such as could be seen all over Ireland. They wore half masks to conceal their eyes, and the rain did the rest to cloak them effectively. Stephen’s own men were as swift as he was, on their feet and armed, but they bore all the disadvantage of being surprised and on the ground against horses.

Harrington stood tall above the rest, but they were being forced away from the tents that held the prisoners. Was that the attackers’ purpose—to free the women and boys? More power to them. If Stephen could have identified a leader, he would have told him to take them and go.

But whoever they were, they meant to shed blood. He saw two of his men fall and then a horseman was bearing down on him. He sidestepped at the last second, only to realize the man hadn’t been riding for him. Roisin had come out of the tent behind him, dressed in only her shift, her hair darkened with rain. She put up her hands, in protest or surrender, but it didn’t matter. The horseman ran her through with a sword, barely slowing to tug the weapon free.

Without awareness of having moved, Stephen was next to her where she’d fallen. The sword had been driven clean enough through her heart, and there was a bewildered expression on her face. Swearing, propelled by rage, Stephen launched himself into the fight.

The English stood no chance. The attackers had one very clear goal—to keep any aid from reaching the prisoners. It was like no fight Stephen had ever been in—messy, dirty, chaotic—with his men herded in one direction and prisoners in the other.

They fell one after another, the twelve remaining women and two boys, helpless before their killers. Stephen tried to get to them, but he was herded back and away without ever being allowed to come to grips with the enemy.

When the prisoners were all dead, the ring of horsemen broke away and began to retreat. Stephen lunged at the only one in his reach and managed to knock the man’s horse sufficiently to jar the rider off. But the man was good and kicked himself free so that he landed on his feet facing Stephen, sword drawn.

“Want to die here, English lordling? I’ll be happy to oblige.” The voice was Irish, the words English, the venom unmistakable.

Stephen parried the man’s first blow and ducked beneath the second. But barefooted, he slipped in the churned-up mud and stumbled as the man’s sword point drove straight at him.

As Stephen’s leg wrenched beneath him, Harrington slammed the Irishman with all his weight. But he, too, was off balance, and the man stepped out of it and then, terribly, thrust a dagger that seemed to come from nowhere up and under Harrington’s half-laced brigandine.

Stephen’s eyes had misted over, from pain and blood and water, but he could just make out the Irishman’s outline as he leaned over and spat into the mud. “Remember this, lordling, and don’t play games out of your depth again.”

He raised his sword and Stephen waited for death. But it was the hilt, not the blade, that met Stephen’s arm. He heard the crack of bone and then, mercifully, everything went white.

—

In his six weeks in Ireland, Kit had spent nearly as much time at Kilkenny as in Dublin. He would never have agreed to be the Earl of Leicester’s secretary if he’d known how often it would throw him into social situations that he despised. Being at the English court was one thing—the endless protocols and rituals and social lies were all made bearable by Pippa and Anabel, as well as the usual outlets afforded a young man of good family. He was an outstanding rider, an excellent huntsman, and skilled in all forms of sport.