In the town’s square, there was some celebration occurring. Hugh spoke to numerous men who hailed him from the doorway of a tavern, but he didn’t tarry. Morgana clutched the dripping tartan to her shoulders, her eyes on the open avenue ahead, which ended at a stalwart portcullis barring entrance to the castle.
It looked more terrifying up close than Traitor’s Gate at Dublin Castle. Morgana’s heart rose to her throat. A Fitzgerald woman in Dungannon—that couldn’t be borne. Now, when it behoved her to faint, she couldn’t.
Hugh held Boru still, waiting for the portcullis to rise. As soon as it had, he guided the horse at a measured pace over the long bridge, crossing the lake into the fortress. Morgana’s fingers exerted incredible force where they gripped his forearm, which brought questions to his mind. How had she come to acquire her unusual and unwomanly strength? Was she a protegee of Grace O’Malley, piratess extraordinaire? More importantly, was she actually a Fitzgerald, as Kelly had claimed?
Torchbearers and grooms rushed to meet him. Hugh dismounted and surrendered Boru’s reins, then reached up to help the woman down to the cobblestones, saying to the servants, “Wake Mrs. Carrick and tell her to come to me in the round tower. Fetch hot water and clean cloths. Both my guest and I are in need of hot baths.”
“I can’t possibly go inside tracking all this mud and filth,” Morgana stammered, clutching at every imaginary straw she could think of to avoid stepping foot in the castle proper. Hugh dropped his hands from her waist, letting her stand on her own. The light from the torches showed how filthy and battered she was. Few hags had ever looked worse. He inclined his head in the direction of the open well in the bailey yard. “Would you prefer that I have servants douse you naked with water from-that well?”
“Of course not,” Morgana answered, without looking for any well. Her gaze was fixed past Hugh’s right shoulder. “I can’t go in there! I can’t!”
The desperation Hugh heard in her voice caused him to swing around to look beyond the wide-open doors of the great hall. A measure of pride filled him, for the well-lit, stately chamber, filled with dancing courtiers and elegantly dressed and coiffed ladies, gave proof of how hospitable and elegant his home was. The happy strains of melodious harp and lute accompanying a tenor’s sweet voice entertained a bevy of noble guests.
“You can’t possibly think I want anyone to see me looking like this? Isn’t there a side or a back door I can go through?” Morgana pleaded.
Hugh lifted a clump of muddy, matted hair from her brow. “What difference could your dishabille make to others who have never laid eyes upon you? To what would they compare your appearance? Can you not be thankful that you are alive?”
“That’s unfair.” She lifted her sodden skirts free of her soaked boots, trying to wring the water from her hems with her hands.
Hugh took hold of her hands, stopping her from continuing such a useless and futile effort. “Nothing can be done for these clothes you wear, Morgana of Kildare.”
He caught her chin, lifting it, to make her look into his eyes. The torches glittered back at him from pale irises. “Where is that courage you had in abundance a little while ago? No one will disparage you for the accident of being drenched in a flood.”
“Were it only a flood that caused me to be in such dishabille, I would rejoice.” Morgana stared back at his dark eyes, her pride surfacing in the upward thrust of her chin. “Very well, O’Neill. Let’s get this entrance over with. The sooner begun, the better done.”
“That’s the spirit.” Hugh’s eyes twinkled as he gave her his arm. He didn’t doubt for a moment that his elder sisters would have a fit when they saw this woman enter the great hall on his arm. But neither Susana nor Rachel would dare to cross him in his own house.
Morgana held her chin high, laid her hand on his arm and marched up the steps at Hugh’s side. They hadn’t taken too many steps inside the vast hall before the music stopped, the dancing ended and all heads turned to stare.
Susana O’Neill rose to her feet from her comfortable seat on the dais, alarmed by two things: young Hugh’s tardy arrival to hall and his attire in the rough garments of a kern. Their uncle, Matthew, rarely came to hall, so Susana was by all rights the lady of the manor, and most entertainments she organized suited her pleasures. Since Hugh had returned from England, she’d made many accommodations to please him, but he really didn’t care what sort of events took place in the great hall each evening.
“Young Hugh? What has happened?” Susana left her seat at the high table, rushing forward to intercept her little brother. “Who is this woman? What happened to the both of you? I expected you to hall hours ago.”
“Yes, do explain this.” Morgana challenged him before the woman, obviously great with child, came within hearing range of her voice. “I dare you, young Hugh.”
“Ah, you just proved something else to me, lady,” Hugh said under his breath. “You are a troublemaker.”
Morgana’s hand left his arm, reaching out to snatch her dagger from the sheath on his hip. Again Hugh kept her fingers from their prize.
He offered a soft warning. “Mind what you do, Morgana of Kildare. Tempt me not to make you officially my prisoner. Kelly did accuse you of being a Fitzgerald. That is reason enough to lose one’s head, isn’t it?”
Morgana’s hand clenched into a fist, which she dropped to her side. She turned her back to Hugh, waiting to meet the approaching woman. Several more trailed her, young beauties all, making Morgana feel even more disadvantaged. She heard water drip from her clothes onto the polished tiles at her feet, but she’d be damned from here to eternity before she bowed her head to look at the damage she was causing.
“Ah, good eve, my dear sister. Forgive me for interrupting your soirée.” Hugh smiled disarmingly and bent to kiss Susana’s fair cheek. “I’ve brought a guest to the house. You will see that she has had a rather troubling time on her journey. Morgana of Kildare, may I present my sisters, Susana and Rachel. Susana, Morgana will need some cosseting. The Abhainn Mor is a most rapacious river. I fear Morgana lost all of her possessions to the flood.”
“Sweet Mother of God, Hugh, you weren’t out crossing the river in this weather, were you?” Susana exclaimed, her alarm deepening. “And why on earth are you dressed like a kern? Have you forgotten that I invited Inghinn Dubh to be here this eve?”
“No, I hadn’t forgotten.” Hugh turned to another woman, trailing his sisters. He bowed to Inghinn, also, but did not favor her cheek with a kiss, as he had done with his sisters. “Inghinn, you are-looking splendid this eve, as always. Ladies, please, do not allow us to interrupt your evening. I’ll see Morgana settled by Mrs. Carrick. She’ll take her under her wing and see to everything, I’m sure.”
Hugh turned Morgana to the open stairs rising up to the minstrels’ gallery. Ignoring his sister’s gasp of shock, he led Morgana out of the gallery, to the supreme isolation of the round tower. It adjoined the castle itself at his mother’s solar, on the second floor.
Both the tower and the solar had been closed following his mother’s death in 1570. Five weeks ago, when he and Loghran returned from England for good, Hugh had decided to take up residence in the tower’s comfortable upper rooms.
He had decided that Morgana could be housed in the solar and the sleeping chamber adjoining it on the second floor of the tower. His gut told him to keep her nearby. She was English, therefore not to be trusted. Servants ran ahead of him, opening doors and lighting candles.
Morgana hadn’t missed the surreptitious look of alarm that had passed from Hugh’s sisters to the beautiful black-haired young woman named Inghinn Dubh. The women surely thought their young Hugh was bringing a doxy into their house. Had Morgana been standing in their shoes, viewing a ravaged and filthy woman in these tattered clothes, that would have been her assumption. So she couldn’t hold theirs against them.
