Wild Angel by Miriam Minger Read Free Book Online Page A

mayhap instead
of finding Triona a husband, you might think to wed her yourself."
    Stunned, Ronan stared at his brother, his fury ebbing
into sheer incredulity.
    "Me, marry Triona O’Toole? Now I know you’ve drunk
too much ale." He sat heavily, tunneling his hand through his hair. "With
that insolent tongue and her willful ways, I’d never know a moment’s peace. No,
Niall, you’ve always been a more tolerant man. You’d sooner be the one to wed
her."
    "Don’t think I haven’t already considered it. You’ve
long told me that I should settle down."
    Again Ronan was stunned, this time by the strange
cramping in his gut. The fierce grip on his cup amazed him, too, his knuckles
gone white. And it was all he could do to mutter, "Go on, then, if you
want her," before he downed half his ale in one swallow. Yet he scarcely
tasted the pungent liquid, and when he lowered his cup, he found that same
amused smile on Niall’s face.
    "No, I think I’ll pass, brother. You know I’ve
always favored blonds." Niall set his cup down and rose. "I think I’ll
go sit with Maire for a while. She was resting when I went by earlier."
    Ronan set his cup down, too. "I’ll walk over with
you—"
    "No, no, relax and finish your ale," Niall
broke in, already striding away. "I’ve got to change clothes first for
supper, so say I’ll meet you over there. No hurry."
    Odd, Ronan thought, shooting a narrowed glance over his
shoulder as Niall left the hall. His brother already wore one of his finest
tunics, made from green cloth stolen from a Norman merchant who’d given up his
wares only too eagerly in exchange for his life . . .
    Ronan suddenly noticed that every servant in the hall
was staring at him, standing stock-still as if their shoes had been bolted to
the floor. "Go back to your work," he ordered them, angry with
himself for exploding so violently at Niall.
    That wasn’t like him. He preferred to keep his emotions
well in check. Had for years. He was a man of self-control. Strict
self-discipline. It was safest that way. Yet it was clear now that these past
few days had affected him, visiting Imaal and seeing Fineen again, bringing
everything back, his memories of Conor more painful than ever. He felt taut as
a drum, edgy, made all the worse by his new charge’s willfulness. No wonder the
servants were staring.
    Pleased to see that the bustling activity had resumed,
Ronan turned back around and lifted his cup to drink, his gaze drawn to the
fire. As he watched the bright red-gold flames, it was unsettling how easily
Triona’s face came to mind.
    Unsettling, too, the rousing memory of her in his arms
when he had pulled her from her horse. It had been a long time since he had
held a woman who felt as good as she, her firm breasts swelling against him,
her slim hips snug with his
    "Lord! Lord, forgive me, but I must speak with
you!"
    Looking up from the fire, Ronan frowned at the young
maidservant rushing toward him, one of the four women he’d sent to assist
Triona. Already imagining what the girl had to say he had to gesture for her to
speak up, his darkening expression clearly daunting her.
    "I–it’s the lady, Lord. She refuses to bathe . . .
refuses to let us inside the room! She sent me to tell you that she’ll ready
herself for supper only if her maid, Aud, assists her. And she wants her pets,
Lord, or else she’ll not budge. And her door unlocked, so she doesn’t feel like
a prisoner."
    Incensed by this preposterous list of demands, Ronan
rose so suddenly from his chair that the poor girl jumped like a nervous doe.
She didn’t wait as he dashed the last of his ale into the hissing flames but
scurried from the hall, Ronan following a few strides behind her.

     
    ***

     
    Triona spun from the window as a key creaked in the
lock. She raced at once across the room and lent her weight to the barricade
she had erected. Her heart began to pound as someone tried to enter but when the
door held firm, she laughed in triumph. Ha!