The Virgin's Spy (Tudor Legacy #2)(79)
She smiled, a miniature version of Ailis’s blindingly beautiful smile, and said, “I am ready.”
“So eager to leave your father’s hospitality?” Dane strode into the courtyard, his mockery ringing through the air.
Stephen straightened while Maisie laid a hand on Liadan’s arm—in warning or support. Perhaps both.
Liadan declined to answer, and Stephen bit back a grin at her obvious contempt. Here was a girl who would make her mother—her entire clan—proud.
There were two horses readied; either the girls would share or Stephen wasn’t really leaving. Though in that case, surely Dane didn’t mean to send two young girls on their own across the Irish countryside?
“What about you, Courtenay? Ready to leave English territory so soon?”
“Why? What was the point of bringing me here only to let me go?”
“Two reasons. First, you had to admit your true identity to Ailis to get here. I imagine that did not go over so well. I don’t mind confessing I relish the thought of her taking out all that wild Irish anger on you rather than me.”
Liadan was looking at him, confused. Maisie seemed as impassive as always. “And second?” Stephen ground out. He’d have to tell the girls the truth on the way back to Cahir. He did not relish having Liadan’s contempt turned toward him. He could not predict Maisie’s reaction.
“Second,” Dane repeated thoughtfully. “Well, I’ll make you a deal on the second. You want to leave, there’s a horse. Go with my blessing.”
“Or?”
“Stay.”
Again Stephen asked, “Why?”
“You stay here willingly, and return to England where you belong. Report to Walsingham and your queen and put Ireland behind you forever.”
Dane moved in closer, fingering the hilt of the dagger in his belt. “But if you return to Cahir, then I send word to the English court that their favourite son has turned traitor. ‘Gone native,’ I believe the phrase is. You’re not the first. It’s a flaw the weak-minded are prone to, sympathizing with the enemy. I don’t suppose it’s a flaw your queen—or your father—will forgive.”
Stephen’s head spun. It was all too easy to imagine the black picture Dane painted. No, Elizabeth would not forgive. He knew her well enough to know ingratitude hurt her more than any other sin. And his father? Stephen tried to picture his father here—and came up blank. Dominic Courtenay did not belong to the murkiness of Ireland. In his father’s eyes, loyalty was a matter of black and white.
But it wasn’t. Because Liadan and Maisie were looking at him, and behind him, at Cahir, was a woman he had wronged. Never take what is not freely offered, his father had counseled, and then only if you are certain you will not leave pain behind. That is poor payment for any woman.
He had already repaid Ailis in pain.
“You should stay,” Maisie said evenly. “I will make sure she understands.”
Whether she meant Liadan or Ailis, he didn’t know. And he didn’t have a chance to figure it out before Dane continued.
“One more thing.” Dane pulled his dagger free, a deceptively fine blade twelve inches long, honed to a wicked edge. “A message for Ailis and her clan—a reminder, if you like, that I cannot be blackmailed.”
Without a word, without a warning, Dane seized Liadan around the shoulder and pulled her close. The blade went through her throat like the softest cheese. Dane was soaked in a spray of his daughter’s blood, then let her limp body drop to the ground.
There was a roaring in Stephen’s ears and the smell of blood assaulted his senses. At the edges of his vision ghosts crowded in, hungry to pull him back into their maelstrom of pain, Harrington and Roisin and the screams of girls in the blackest night…
But it was daylight and there was only one small, dead girl. Maisie dropped to her knees, making a keening noise that broke through Stephen’s shock. He lunged for Dane.
And was brought up short by a guard with a loaded crossbow. But it was not pointed at him—it was pointed at Maisie.
“You promised to let them go!” Stephen shouted.
“I promised Ailis the return of her daughter. I did not specify in what condition. You have two minutes to decide,” Dane added, casual despite the blood on his hands and clothes. “Take Ailis her daughter and you may have the Scots girl living. Or return to England and have one more dead girl on your conscience.” He raised his hand at the bowman, ready to signal and let fly the bolt that would kill Maisie.
Stephen couldn’t get her to move. He crouched, speaking low and urgent in her ear. “We have to go, Maisie, listen to me, we’ve got to go now…” a refrain that went on and on and did absolutely nothing to reach her.
“One minute,” Dane said.
Stephen grabbed her by the shoulders, silently apologizing for his roughness, and pulled her to her feet. “Mariota,” he said in as commanding a voice as he could manage. “Get on the horse.”
It at least stopped her keening. He practically shoved her onto the larger of the horses. He couldn’t mount that one on his own with a burden. They could rearrange themselves as needed once they were away from Blackcastle.
Hating Dane and Ireland and God and himself most of all, Stephen draped Liadan’s limp body unceremoniously over his shoulder. Despite his anger with God, he prayed fervently that he could mount without dropping her. No way in hell was he letting Dane or one of his men touch her.