“It was a bargain made between us,” he answered. “She agreed to help my sister, and in return, I was to escort her to Tara. But our plans were interrupted.” He explained to the King what had happened with Maeve’s soldiers and their subsequent change of destination.
“So you brought her to seek help from us.” King Patrick led him outside. Though it was not customary for a king to walk alongside a man of his low status, Killian knew that the man was seeking his own answers.
“I cannot promise help for King Devlin,” Patrick admitted. “But if Taryn wishes to see her father before his death, I could arrange that.”
It was likely the best she could hope for. But a blade of guilt slid within Killian, that he could not help her. Even if she did plead for his life, there was little chance that Devlin would be spared.
Torches flickered in the inner bailey, illuminating the stone wall surrounding the fortress. The King led him toward one of the outbuildings and offered, “You may sleep among my men. I will alert you when your sister arrives.”
With that, the King left him alone. Killian stood before the door leading to a small tower. Several men stood at the top, watching over the wall. He knew, from previous visits, that the men took turns guarding the castle during the night. If there was more information about the High King or King Devlin, these men might have the answers he needed.
As he climbed up the stairs leading to the tower, he knew that it wasn’t wise to escort Taryn to the High King, despite hisearlier agreement. This wasn’t his concern anymore, especially since she had been unable to uphold her end of the bargain. But he didn’t like the thought of letting her go alone with MacEgan soldiers. The men wouldn’t harm her—but he couldn’t let go of the worry that she would endanger herself with King Rory. The High King would not care that she was innocent—instead, he might use her to torment her father further.
She shouldn’t go at all. And perhaps it was best if Maeve’s men prevented her from reaching Tara. All he had to do was let them take her.
It bothered his sense of honor, for she was clearly afraid of her mother. Somehow Maeve was involved with the scars, and if he let her go back to the Queen, Taryn might suffer even more.
It’s not your battle to fight, he reminded himself. His concern lay with Carice, not a woman he had known only a little while. He could not leave Laochre until he had seen his sister with his own eyes. He needed to know that she was safe, above all else.
And then what? He had no silver or coins at all. The MacEgans might give him a place here, but he would still be afuidir, albeit a free man.
It wasn’t the life he’d dreamed of. He wanted his own land, a place where he was servant to no man. Taryn had offered him silver and vast wealth, in return for his assistance. She had sworn to grant him anything he wanted—all he had to do was save the life of a traitor.
Or he could walk away and remain afuidir.
Common sense told him that this was a grave risk. His own life might be forfeit, if he made the attempt. But if he did not intervene, King Devlin would die within a sennight. No man was foolish enough to defy Rory Ó Connor.
That is, no one except his bastard son.
Killian began turning over the situation in his mind. He did believe he could help Devlin escape, if that was what Tarynwanted. But he would have to remain invisible to the High King so no one would know how it had happened.
If he was caught in the attempt, there was a chance that he would die. But would the High King execute his own bastard son? Killian didn’t know. Rory had rejected him once before, so it was a great risk.
But with that risk came opportunity.
For once in his life, the power was in his hands. He could choose whether or not to help Taryn. If he agreed to this dangerous quest, he would demand what he wanted—land to call his own. And even more than land, he wanted his freedom to rule over it.
The thought was outrageous, for he possessed no legal rights. His mother had not been a part of the Faoilin tribe and neither had he. She had never spoken of her own parents or the tribe she was born to, refusing to tell him anything about her family. Even the name MacDubh was an invented one.
He was a man without freedom, without any rights—without even a name to call his own.
Killian walked across the length of the wall, staring out into the darkness. Needles of ice stung his skin, and he rested his hands against the stone. Even in a place like Laochre, he felt the sense of isolation, of not belonging. All the silver in the world could not fill up the emptiness.
Taryn Connelly would do anything to save her father. But could she give him what he truly wanted—a place of his own? The Queen would certainly refuse to grant anything, since she wanted her husband to die. The only person who truly held the right to give him land was the man whose life he had to save: King Devlin himself.
However, it didn’t seem that anyone trusted Devlin. The man might make idle promises and keep none of them. Until he met the prisoner for himself, Killian could not judge whether ornot Devlin could keep his word. Taryn seemed to think he was innocent of his crimes, but then again, she was his daughter.
She was a pawn in this game, a woman who loved her father and would do anything to save him. The question was, how far would she go?
“His name is Liam,” the Queen said, passing over her son. “He’s just over a year old.” Taryn bent her head toward the baby, and the rush of longing filled her deeply. The child waved his fist, his tiny hands touching her face, as if he could see nothing wrong with the scars. She pressed a kiss to the child’s forehead, marveling at how perfect he was.
“He’s beautiful,” she told the Queen. “And look at his smile.” She cooed over the baby, who squirmed in her arms, trying to get back to his mother.
Queen Isabel lifted her son to her shoulder, patting him. “He’s a sweet babe.” She smiled serenely, then asked, “Has your father arranged a betrothal for you?”
Taryn’s smile faded, and she hesitated in her answer. “I was almost betrothed once,” she admitted, thinking of Lucas Ó Rourke.
“Almost?” Isabel prompted.
