A Woman of Courage Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  A Woman of Courage

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Notes:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Twelve years ago she’d been Connell’s wife.

  His devastating rejection of her, after only three months of marriage, and their subsequent divorce caused a pain so real it twisted her insides. The hostilities that ensued after their separation, followed by an uneasy truce when she found she was pregnant with their son, Lorcan, made it prudent to restrict her contact.

  During their short marriage he had weakened her in a way no other man could. She’d transformed into a woman so overtaken with lust she’d been blind to everything, including his true feelings. With Connell all her instincts, control, and intellect became like overcooked oats, a sludge that thought of nothing except him.

  Her breath caught when her former husband strode out of the large central house, marching toward her. His long limbs and easy stride accentuated the rippling muscles of his legs. Every movement emphasized his grace and strength. He was still tall and broad, with long, smooth, black hair and a black beard to match. He would have been too handsome, too pretty, if it hadn’t been for his large crooked nose. That imperfection added to his allure, making him more appealing. Her pulse quickened, and her body warmed with need. She forgot her reason for being here, forgot everything except him. Damn it. Even in her injured state, with everything she had endured, he still had the ability to turn her mind to mud.

  A Woman of Courage

  by

  Marlow Kelly

  Honour, Love, and Courage Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  A Woman of Courage

  COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Margaret Marlow

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Tea Rose Edition, 2015

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0523-3

  Honour, Love, and Courage Series

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Jo, my best friend and confidante.

  Author’s Notes:

  Perched on the western edge of Europe and never conquered by the Romans, ninth century Ireland had its own distinct culture. You might be forgiven for thinking the Irish were a primitive people. After all, they had no towns or cities. They lived in clans or túath that occupied ringed hillforts with circular homes of wattle and daub.

  They had no monetary system; instead their wealth was measured in cattle.

  Clothing was basic with both men and women wearing a long dress-like garment called a léine. The woman’s léine reached her ankles, whereas a man’s came to the knees.

  But this was a rich culture with a strong tradition of scholarship and literacy, including a Celtic form of Christianity, and a native system of laws known as Brehon law, which recognized divorce and equal rights between genders.

  Marriage in ancient Ireland was not regarded in the same way as today. It was a legal contract between clans rather than the unbreakable bond between man and wife. Once a marriage contract was arranged the groom paid a dowry or bride-price to the bride’s father. Each year after the marriage the groom paid a settlement to the bride’s clan. After the first year the bride kept a portion of the payment that added to her wealth. The amount diminished each year until the twenty-first year when it ceased.

  Celtic Christianity didn’t frown on divorce. The Celts were much more practical, concentrating instead on writing the laws governing separation. This could be because a husband never owned his wife. When she married all her property and wealth stayed in her control, and in the event of estrangement she retained her possessions.

  Although Ireland was a male-dominated society, women were allowed greater freedom, independence, and property rights than in other European societies of the time. Women were able to become poets, healers, and brehons (lawyers). And under the right conditions, with the backing of her male relatives, a woman could become queen of her people, as is the case for Fianna in A Woman of Courage.

  If you’d like to learn more about early Irish society and marriage try these websites:

  University of Cork—Marriage in Early Ireland by Donnchadh Ó Corráin

  http://www.ucc.ie/celt/marriage_ei.html

  Brehon Law—The Irish Court Service

  http://www.courts.ie/Courts.ie/library3.nsf/pagecurrent/3CBAE4FE856E917B80256DF800494ED9

  The Irish Cultural Society

  http://www.irish-society.org/home/hedgemaster-archives-2/history-events/the-brehon-laws

  Chapter One

  Ireland, 810AD

  Fianna Byrne scrambled up the steep embankment that circled the hillfort of Duncarraig. Scratches streaked her legs, her body ached, and no matter how much she tried to prevent it, blood seeped into her mouth from a gash at her temple. But these wounds were inconsequential compared to her grief. Her home was gone, destroyed by an attack that began at sundown and ended with the destruction of everything she loved.

  She hammered on the wide wooden gates of the fort. Would she be welcomed or turned away? Were old feuds still guiding their decisions? Muffled voices floated down from the rampart, and footfalls echoed on the wooden palisade. They were aware of her presence. She almost prayed they would kill her where she stood. It was what she deserved. As the leader of Clan Byrne, she had failed to protect her people.

  She turned to see the sun rising over the eastern horizon. Orange and gold rays danced over the fields, welcoming the dawn. It would be a glorious summer day. On any other morning she would have watched the sunrise, and prepared for the long working day that characterized the season. But all that was gone, obliterated in one hellish night.

  A shout caught her attention, and the gates creaked open. She walked forward, squaring her shoulders, trying to portray some of the regal bearing that had been instilled in her since birth. The people of the O’Neill clan stopped what they were doing and gaped. Silence filled the fort. She paused a few feet inside the walls, and stared back. Some of the faces were familiar, if not older. All bore expressions of shock and alarm, but none appeared suspicious, and that in itself surprised her.

  Duncarraig had changed very little in the years since she’d lived there. Six small, round, wattle and clay houses, with thatched conical roofs, stood in a circle inside the fort. The king’s residence sat in the centre. It was a similar design to the other homes, except larger. But this wasn’t the same Duncarraig she had known. It couldn’t be, because Seamus O’Neill, the old king, was dead, and his son, Connell, now sat in his place.

  Twelve years ago she’d been Connell’s wife. His devastating rejection of her, after only three months of marriage, and their subsequent divorce caused a pain so real it twisted her insides. The hostilities that ensued after their
separation, followed by an uneasy truce when she found she was pregnant with their son, Lorcan, made it prudent to restrict her contact.

  During their short marriage he had weakened her in a way no other man could. She’d transformed into a woman so overtaken with lust she’d been blind to everything, including his true feelings. With Connell all her instincts, control, and intellect became like overcooked oats, a sludge that thought of nothing except him.

  Her breath caught when her former husband strode out of the large central house, marching toward her. His long limbs and easy stride accentuated the rippling muscles of his legs. Every movement emphasized his grace and strength. He was still tall and broad, with long, smooth, black hair and a black beard to match. He would have been too handsome, too pretty, if it hadn’t been for his large crooked nose. That imperfection added to his allure, making him more appealing. Her pulse quickened, and her body warmed with need. She forgot her reason for being here, forgot everything except him. Damn it. Even in her injured state, with everything she had endured, he still had the ability to turn her mind to mud.

  She switched her attention from his body to his face, hoping for restraint. His eyes were dark, a shade darker than his hair, which seemed almost impossible, and yet now they stood face to face she remembered how they had mesmerized her all those years ago. He scrutinized her, seemingly aware of every speck of dirt, every drop of blood, every feature of her bedraggled appearance, which proved her failure as a queen.

  The fine lines around his eyes deepened when he frowned. How she missed the light-hearted nineteen-year-old he had once been, when they shared their secrets and their bodies. Instead she stood facing a man hardened by experience, responsibility, and battle.

  He emitted a growl that made her want to take a step back, but she smothered her response. This wasn’t the time to show weakness. If she wanted him to listen, she had to be strong and forceful. He stared at her without uttering a word. Was he still outraged over the past? Did he still believe her father, Finn Byrne, had cheated the O’Neills all those years ago? Her temper flared. Who was he to be angry? His father, Seamus, had told disgusting lies about her. She balled her hands into fists in an attempt to contain her rage. They had managed to put aside their differences for the sake of their son. And for Lorcan’s sake she would remember why she had come here, rather than let him prick her ire. If he wanted a fight she would give him one, but not because of the past. She would fight for the safety of her child.

  “What the hell happened? Who hurt you?” Connell roared.

  “Don’t shout at me, damn it. I came to warn you.”

  He was so close she could feel his breath ruffle her hair, smell his unique scent, a mixture of musk, earth, and hay. A vision of them lying naked in a field swam in her mind. Their bare legs entwined. She could almost feel his warm hand sliding down the length of her body. She shoved the memory away. She didn’t need his body, and she wasn’t a young, naive woman anymore.

  He stared at her. Was he waiting for her to answer? Yes, he had always been infuriatingly single-minded. She sucked in a breath, composing herself.

  “Norsemen—Vikings—they attacked at sundown. Rathtrean is gone.” Once again, she was assaulted by memories, but these were images of blood and fire. She could still hear the screams of her men as they were cut down. “I came to warn you so you can prepare your defences.”

  “Are you saying I can’t protect my people?”

  Rage engulfed her, giving her renewed strength. She ground her teeth together. Trust him to pick a fight when she had come to warn him, to warn her son.

  “Where’s Lorcan? I want to see him.” She didn’t need Connell or his anger. She would warn Lorcan, and then leave.

  He blinked. “He’s not here.”

  Cold sweat dripped down her spine, while fear cramped her belly. Was Connell lying? Oh God, let Lorcan be safe.

  “Where is he?” She had suffered so much loss she couldn’t take the death of another loved one, especially not her son.

  “He’s at my brother’s holding.”

  “Which brother? Is he all right?” She stared into his dark eyes searching for any sign of deceit but found none.

  “Our son is in the best of health.”

  “Then why—?”

  “I sent him to Padraig’s. My brother has an exceptional skill with horses. I wanted our son to learn from him. I will send for Lorcan if you want?”

  “No.” She released a deep breath, and her cramp vanished. “Padraig’s fort is inland, away from the river, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then he’s safer there. Have him stay.” She should have remembered how much Connell loved their son.

  “As you wish.”

  They stared at each other in silence, like old adversaries, which she supposed they were.

  “I’ll have the healer tend your wounds,” he said, breaking the standoff.

  “There’s no need. I have to go. I have to find my people. There must be more than…” She couldn’t finish the thought. The idea that no one else had survived was too horrific to consider. She was the leader of her people. She had to locate them, and organize shelter and food. But what if you’re the only survivor? Pain tore through her, twisting around her heart. No. She had lived, so there had to be others, and she would find them. She headed for the gate, and the long walk back to Rathtrean.

  “Wait. You have to tell me what happened so I can prepare.” Connell grabbed her upper arm, forcing her to turn and face him.

  “Later. I have to find my people. They’ll need care, and food. I have to—”

  “I need to know what happened so I can protect my people, and our son. When you’re rested, we’ll go on horseback to find them.”

  “You’ll help with the search?”

  “After we talk.”

  She wanted to lash out and tell him she didn’t care about him or his people but bit back the words. She had to do what was best for her clan, and if that meant holding her tongue she would…within reason. Besides having the O’Neills help in the search did make sense.

  She gave a small nod. He took her hand, and led her toward his home. The contact of his skin on hers comforted her. She tried to tug her fingers out of his grasp, knowing she shouldn’t enjoy his touch, but he held on. Once again she was assailed by memories, this time she was a young girl of seventeen. He had taken her hand then too, and led her to his bed.

  Chapter Two

  Connell held Fianna’s hand as he led her inside. Was this really happening or was it a dream? He had to turn around and check. He had imagined this moment for the last twelve years. His attraction to her was more than physical. He enjoyed her fire, and her spirit. She lived by her own moral code and did not bend to the will of others without reason. These were the characteristics his father had abhorred, but then, Seamus had enjoyed weak women. Pretty, mindless things he could hang on his arm.

  Had his father been threatened by Fianna’s strength? After she was gone, Connell had come to realize her depth of character made her special. She had been his confidante, lover, and friend. Her intelligence did not overwhelm his intellect, as his father had suggested, but enhanced it. For those brief months he enjoyed her counsel, and had missed it every day since.

  He glanced at her again. Even with everything that had happened this night she had the bearing of a queen, an indomitable woman who could never be conquered. She had changed in their time apart. Her chestnut hair was a shade darker, and her curves more voluptuous, making her even more striking. A familiar throb settled low in his body. He cursed himself. She needed his help, not his lust. There was a welt on her left cheekbone, and a bloody cut on the side of her head. Her léine was torn to bits. One arm of the long, dress-like garment was shredded, revealing her shoulder, and the side of her breast. From what he could see her body was covered in scratches and cuts.

  He sat her on his bed. Her light green eyes widened, and her body tensed. She was wary of him. That realization struck him
like a kick from a horse. His knees almost buckled, his pulse throbbed, and cold radiated down his spine. He inhaled, trying to recover. Why was he so shocked by her reaction? Of course she distrusted him. At nineteen he had behaved like an idiot. She had been a caring, passionate wife. He had put her down, and treated her like muck. He had acquiesced to his father’s will, and divorced her, when he should have run away with her. It didn’t matter that Seamus had threatened Fianna’s life, and at the time he could see no other way to protect her. Connell should have told his father how he felt. More importantly, he should have told Fianna he loved her. Then he wouldn’t have spent the last twelve years longing for her.

  At the time, he told himself she was just like any other woman, and he would get over her. But she wasn’t. He’d damned himself a thousand times the day she married Kevin McGuire, but there was nothing to be done. Twelve years ago Connell had given her up, and he had missed her every day since.

  But things were different now. Her father and husband were dead. As the last surviving member of the ruling family it had fallen to her to lead her people.

  She was a wealthy woman who had the freedom to marry whomever she pleased. Would she marry him? He almost laughed aloud at his own foolishness. No, that was too much to hope for. He had hurt her in ways that could never be undone. But somewhere in the back of his mind he still thought she belonged with him, in his bed, and had instinctively led her there when he should have led her to the guesthouse. Was she wondering about his intentions?

  “I’ll sleep in Lorcan’s bed on the other side of the room, I want you to be comfortable,” he said, answering her unasked question.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, you will.”

  “I had forgotten how forthright you can be.”

  “What did you expect? I won’t share a bed with you.”

  “No one’s asking you to. I said I would—”

  A cough from Quinn McDermott caught his attention. His foster brother leaned against the doorjamb. His tall slim frame, long dark hair, and smiling blue eyes, gave him an air of nonchalance but Connell knew that was a pretence. Quinn was sharp, with a mind that cut through irrelevant details into the crux of the matter. “Would you like me to send for one of the women to tend her?”