His shoulders straightened and his stride resolute, Ronan O’Byrne appearing again the formidable chieftain she had always known him to be.
She knew nothing would sway him, but was there even the slightest chance she could try to turn the day’s unwelcome events to her advantage?
“Father? If I must marry, will you at least allow me to choose my husband from among these men? Let them compete not to win my hand…but to prove to me which one is most worthy?”
Ronan had stopped at her first query, his back to her, and Deirdre heard a low chuckle from him as he slowly turned around to face her.
“Aye, you’re Triona’s daughter through and through. She would have asked the same thing of me—though it would have been more an obstinate demand with her chin lifted high and her beautiful green eyes flashing. You have a wee bit of my sweet-tempered sister, Maire, in you to make such a request so reasonably…”
Her heart pounding as her father studied her for a long moment, Deirdre knew she had won him over when he smiled wryly.
“I almost pity the poor bastards, but aye, you may choose which one you shall wed. Shall we go and welcome them together? Nicely, Deirdre…and courteously.”
“Oh, aye, most courteously, Father,” she echoed, taking his proffered arm and lowering her head so he wouldn’t see the glint of defiance in her gaze.
After all, she was her headstrong mother’s daughter through and through…
“So those are my rivals,”Liam said more to himself than Conor as they rode into the stronghold yard together and dismounted along with Liam’s men-at-arms, their horses quickly led away by stable hands.
He recognized a couple of them whom he had known since childhood: Brendan O’Neill and Darragh O’Sullivan, both grown into strapping warriors. Yet there were three other young men gathered near the door of the feasting-hall who were clearly Deirdre O’Byrne’s suitors from the richness of their dress and the deference paid by retainers hovering around them.
“Cian O’Brien, Fergal MacCarthy, and Roy O’More,” Conor said to him in a low aside. “Firstborn sons, all of them, and most eager to make an alliance with the O’Byrnes by marrying my sister, God help them.”
Liam grunted out a laugh, though his jaw tightened at this news.
He was no firstborn, but a second son born to his big-boned father, Murchertach, chieftain of the Imaal O’Tooles and a spurned suitor of the tempestuous Trina O’Toole, who had married Ronan O’Byrne twenty-four years ago.
Now Liam had come to Glenmalure to make Deirdre, Triona’s daughter, his bride, and he had nothing more to his name than his horse, his sword, and the chainmail on his back—and his growing reputation as a formidable warrior.
Even the men-at-arms that had accompanied him from Imaal weren’t his own, but his father’s, though the generous dowry that Ronan had promised to the man who wed his daughter would change at once his standing among the rebel clans of Éire.
Aye, he would win her and bed her, and start his own family with his lovely bride this very night.
He had never seen any woman as beautiful as Deirdre, and it made no difference to him that she was nearly two years older than him.
An odd thing for her not to have married already, but a boon for him to have been granted the opportunity to compete for her hand—and he would most certainly triumph. Those three firstborn sons that would inherit everything from their chieftain fathers weren’t as hungry to win her, and Liam had outdone the other two, Darragh and Brendan, in many tests of skill at clan gatherings.
Archery, footraces, swimming, wrestling, knife throwing—aye, none had bested him, and none would this day. He could hardly wait to get started, but where was his comely bride-to-be, anyway?
“Ah, there’s my father now…and Deirdre,” Conor answered him as if reading his mind, Liam’s gaze flying to the great carved door of the feasting-hall that had opened to a roar of approval from his rivals and their men.
He roared, too, louder and longer than anyone else, which made Deirdre look his way and lift her chin.
He could tell from the smile pasted upon her face that she wasn’t happy at all, but gritting her teeth as her father waved everyone to silence.
“My daughter Deirdre and I welcome you again to Glenmalure! Come in now and eat with us before the competition begins, but know first I have agreed that she willchoose the man she marries—aye, by seeing which of you proves to be most worthy. If you accept this challenge, join us.”
Liam swore under his breath as Ronan and Deirdre walked back into the feasting-hall, followed closely by the three firstborn suitors who jostled with each other to get inside first—a ridiculous display.
Of course those fools would think themselves the worthiest with their wealth and position, while Liam refused to allow himself to believe that he had lost his advantage. Now he gritted his teeth as Conor gave a low whistle beside him.
“Well, that’s my sister for you. Leave it to her to sway my father to her way of thinking—by God, she’s a wily one. I wouldn’t be surprised if she sends every one of you poor bastards home without making her a bride.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Liam said under his breath, his jaw set and his stride determined as he signaled for his men-at-arms to follow him and Conor into the feasting-hall.
CHAPTER 3
“Nothing pleases me more than a man with a healthy appetite,” Deirdre said to the three grinning young men seated opposite her at the head table, her compliment clearly well-received as they watched servants fill their bowls with porridge a second time.
