Free Wild Roses by Miriam Minger

vengeance upon my house, then so I must bear it. But dammit,
woman! Do you even remember your Christian name that I have a hope of making
amends to your father's clan by your safe return?"
    Maire stared into his eyes, Duncan's gaze so strangely
ravaged that she was stunned a Norman would seem stricken over the deaths of
any Irishmen. She told herself she should remain silent even as she heard
herself speak, something inside her making her want to give this perplexing man
an answer even if it wasn't the truth.
    "Rose . . . aye, at least I think. I-I'm not
sure—"
    "Rose." Relief filling him that at last he
knew something of her, Duncan wasn't surprised she
bore such a name. That he'd seen few women as lovely was the sole thought that
had come to mind when he had first entered the room, and she'd turned from the
window in a flurry of blue silk and midnight hair, the sunshine enhancing what
firelight had already promised. His gaze fell to her lips, as red as the wild
roses climbing the ancient ruins at the Hill of Tara.
    And sweetly curved, he found himself thinking, now that
he held her so closely to note, too, how flawless was her milk-white skin, more
proof of a gentle rearing. Reminded like a jolt of her father, who must have
been slain by Adele's knights, Duncan tore his gaze from delicate features as
exquisitely fashioned and met her eyes, a soft luminous gray he remembered all
too clearly from last night, when he had opted to focus upon them rather than
the tempting beauty of her breasts. He almost wished he wasn't so eager to
return her to her family!
    That unexpected thought made Duncan swear under his
breath, and he swept her from her feet so suddenly that she cried out in alarm,
stiffening in his arms.
    "You've nothing to fear," he said to soothe
her as he strode to the door. "I want Clement the friar to see you. He's
more gifted a healer than any man I've known."
    "B-but I can walk, truly."
    She still sounded frightened, but how could he blame
her after all that had happened whether she remembered every brutal detail or
not? Yet he shook his head as they left his private apartment, watching her
eyes widen as she saw the circular stone steps wending downward.
    "It would task you too much. This way will be
quicker."
    She protested no further, and Duncan's thoughts went to
the damnable circumstances at hand, though holding her in his arms was proving
more a distraction than he would have imagined. He did not recall bearing a
woman so lithely feminine, not since Gisele . . .
    Duncan swore again but this time to himself, stunned
that he had favorably compared any woman to his lost love. He had never done so
before. Angrily he told himself that this woman with her unfortunate gait and
Gisele were as different as night and day, Gisele as graceful and flawless as
Rose would never be, as no woman could ever be—
    "Please, Lord FitzWilliam, you're hurting
me."
    Realizing with some chagrin how tightly he held her,
Duncan muttered an apology and loosened his grip, elated finally to reach the
bottom of the stairs. Here he should have been thinking of his immediate plans,
not the strange musings that had seized him!
    He ignored the servants stopping cold in their tracks
to stare as he made his way through the silent great hall to an opposite tower,
Duncan deciding he would send messengers to other ruling barons as far south as
Wexford and north into Ulster as well, to ask if they had word of any attack on
an Irish clan loyal to King John and to give them the woman's name. That, at
least, would be a place to start, and if Clement devised a potent healing brew
that might aid Rose in remembering more about her family, he might yet avert an
outright war. He contended already with enough accursed strife—
    "Duncan, wait, word has come from the west! Those
rebels have attacked again—this time not stealing but slaughtering an entire
herd of cattle, the bastards."
    Maire grew as tense as the Norman holding her; she was
grateful at