Nell by Jeanette Baker Read Free Book Online Page A

have to sustain her until she saw him again.
    â€œNell,” he said softly, the amusement in his voice bringing the heat to her cheeks. “Where are you?”
    She blinked. “Why, here with you, of course. Why do you ask?”
    He moved closer. The breath caught in her throat.
    â€œWill you think of me, lass?”
    â€œYou know I will.”
    His mouth brushed her lips. “Tell me, with your words.”
    Nell leaned into him, her forehead resting against the hard line of his jaw. When she spoke, her voice was low and firm and filled with conviction. “I want you for my husband, Donal O’Flaherty. Until then, my heart goes with you. I shall think of you every waking moment.”
    Donal’s heart leaped in his chest. He had only known this girl for a few brief days, but he felt as if he’d waited his entire life for her. Nothing had ever felt so right. She was small and intelligent and incredibly direct. The feel of her mouth under his, her hands on his skin, and the way her smile lit her face to heart-shattering purity left him weak-kneed with an emotion that went far beyond mere desire.
    He pressed his mouth against her temple and then whispered fiercely in her ear. “I want you with me, Nell. If Henry keeps your father beyond the harvest, I shall come for you whether he wishes it or not. Our marriage will take place with or without Gerald Og.”
    She nodded her head and stepped back “Good-bye, Donal.”
    His eyes softened. “ Slán leat go fóill , my heart,” he said for all to hear.
    She watched as he mounted his stallion and led his men out of the courtyard. When the last horseman rode through the gates, she ran to the battlements and peered through the narrow slits. At the top of the rise, Donal turned, lifted his arm, and then disappeared over the top.
    Nell sighed and rubbed her arms. The waiting would be difficult. Why must a woman spend her life waiting? She thought of Margaret and resigned herself. There was no other way.
    Six months later
    Nell pressed her fist against her mouth and read Leonard Gray’s carefully scripted message. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. It couldn’t be true. Was it only six months ago that her father had set out for England with such confidence? How would her mother bear it? Her husband most likely dead, her son and all five of his uncles to be executed in one fell swoop. Nell stood near the door of her mother’s chamber, where the Flemish tapestry depicting William Strongbow’s marriage to the daughter of Dermot MacMurrough, King of Leinster, kept out the drafts. Hands shaking, she moved the woven fabric aside and stepped into the chamber.
    Maeve O’Conor Fitzgerald was seriously ill. The rumor of her husband’s death and the incarceration of her beloved oldest son had taken the life from her pretty features, leaving them sunken and aged. Her mind, never strong, hung on the edge of sanity. Nell feared that the news would push her over the edge.
    The huge curtained bed dominated the room. Herbs, cloying and sweet, covered the sickroom floor. Nell motioned the servant away and took her place on the low stool. “Mother,” she whispered, “are you awake?”
    Maeve reached out to touch her daughter’s hand. “Aye, love. What is it?”
    Nell swallowed. Her lip trembled as she uttered the unbelievable words. “They are sentenced to death. All of them.”
    From the bed, there was silence, followed by a low, animal moan. Maeve struggled to sit up, tears streaking her face, red hair falling around her shoulders. “Curse Henry Tudor!” she screamed. “May his soul be damned!” Her voice was raw and ragged with hate. “I curse him and all of his blood. If he takes the son of my body, I swear by almighty God and all who came before Him that Henry shall have no living sons. The name of Tudor, like that of Fitzgerald, shall be forever wiped from the face of the