Devlin. Erin Yorke
recently torn from the only home she’d ever known by a father she couldn’t even remember, Alyssa Howett found being answerable to the capricious whims of this stranger quite difficult, especially when she despised the man who sought to tame her.
Shortly after Alyssa’s birth, Cecil Howett had nonchalantly assigned her care to his sister-in-law in Ireland. For the seventeen years since then, he had furthered his career in England without giving her a thought. Now, on her aunt’s death, he had arrived to move his daughter to London. Well, if he expected her to go willingly, to leave the country she considered her home for the one that had seen her birth, he was a fool, in Alyssa’s opinion. He had already curtailed her liberty, going so far as to decree that she was not to leave the room assigned to her in Dublin Castle without his permission. What sort of life would she have with him in London? The thought terrified her. The devil take the man! She owed him no obedience.
Perhaps he had sired her as he claimed, but he’d never raised her, had never loved her. In truth, Alyssa suspected, he had only come at this juncture because her aunt’s death had coincided with an order from Queen Elizabeth to transport prisoners from Dublin to London. Turning abruptly toward the high windows, Alyssa yanked their coverings aside and stared up at the dark sky overhead.
“Without the Irish moon and the dreams my heart spawned here, I will never survive in England,” she moaned, her words a soft echo in the nearly silent room. “But what more can I do to convince him not to take me to England? He ignores my arguments and hasn’t responded to either my pleas or my tears.”
Only the crackle of the fire and the whisper of the rushes underfoot broke the hush, a quiet Alyssa found mournful rather than comforting. She had lost her aunt but days before and still the Englishman who called her daughter showed Alyssa no mercy, expecting her to do his bidding without question. The monster had to be stopped!
Again Alyssa began to move, her dainty slippers making barely a sound as her feet wove irregular patterns back and forth across the floor of her private rooms in Dublin Castle. Her tread was so light the scent of the herb-strewn grass was barely noticeable as she recrossed the aromatic straw. The candles threw her shadow on one barren wall and then the next.
“Just because he suddenly considers me his parental responsibility I must be uprooted and taken to rot in that cold, dank country he calls home? Truly I warrant, the only thing Cecil Howett cares about is his duty to the queen. Family is clearly secondary or this father of mine would have come for me years ago,” she mused, chewing her lower lip.
“Still, if I were as rebellious as the Irish he has been ordered to transport to English prisons, how long would he wish to keep me in his company? Wouldn’t he prefer to see such a disobedient daughter banished from the public eye to waste away in exile—in Ireland perhaps?”
The thought of it made Alyssa smile, girlish hope bursting forth to light her delicate features like a beacon of sunlight escaping a cloud-filled sky. There was no certainty that her scheme would work, but at least it was better than simply waiting for the ship to England to sail with her as an undocumented prisoner.
What would make the man truly, irrevocably furious with her? So furious he would leave her behind as punishment.
Inspiration struck. She would openly defy him before the whole of Dublin Castle.
Not only would she leave her rooms, but tonight she would visit the Irish prisoners in their cells, bringing them warm blankets. Then, tomorrow morning when the royal jail was adither with questions of who was helping the rebels, she’d boldly cross the bailey to bring them extra food. She would do whatever was necessary to thwart her father’s will, and keep on doing so no matter how many lectures she received on being dutiful He would be forced to renounce her, forced to leave her behind. Having a daughter who was sympathetic to the Irish rebels wouldn’t further his career in the service of the queen. It would end it.
Glancing around the simple apartment, the girl spied the bed drapings and grinned. Closely woven to keep out the night drafts, they would surely keep in a body’s warmth. And they’d be more practical to cart across the courtyard than the feather mattress that covered her bed.
The way the men on guard duty had stared at her when she and her father had arrived at the castle left Alyssa no doubt that a winsome smile and an inch or two of exposed ankle would get her exactly where she wanted. And, after all, when she was found out, her excuse was simple. As a softhearted country lass, she was merely making the prisoners more comfortable. What was the crime in that?
Quickly Alyssa unfastened the draperies and bundled them tightly. They weighed more than she had anticipated, but perhaps one of the guards would carry them for her once she got to the tower where the cells were located. She opened the door and slipped into the dimly lit hallway.
“Cecil Howett,” she murmured, “before I’m through, you’ll pray to leave me in Ireland.”
The inky black sky barely acknowledged the pale slip of moon as Devlin and his party moved silently through the obsidian shadows toward Dublin Castle. For a moment, the Irishman fretted, wondering if the English might have secured Niall elsewhere. However, he quickly discarded the idea. The English wouldn’t expect the MacMahon to know of his son’s capture yet, much less mount an effort to free him. No, Niall would be secured in the South Tower where Irish rebels were always imprisoned, Devlin assured himself.
When he and the others reached the small side gate standing open as promised, he and Cashel moved as one, flying across the open courtyard to the door where the English stood watch, unsuspecting of their enemy’s approach.
As contrary as Cashel might be, he was a skilled fighter, Devlin had to admit as they dragged the fallen guards from their station and, moments later, waved the others forward to join them.
Crossing the threshold of the tower, Devlin again blessed himself, still feeling the need of extra protection. The strange uneasiness continued to ride his shoulders. The gallowglass glanced behind him, his eyes missing no detail, but the MacMahon forces were doing just as ordered. Yet his senses remained heightened, his nerves stretched taut beyond all reason.
Niall could not be freed without taking a risk though, and Devlin would be the last man in Ireland to willingly avoid his duty for some superstitious chill. Castles were always drafty, he told himself, disregarding the fact that he’d felt the qualms outside as well. With a shake of his coppery head, he signaled the others to follow as he inched up the stone stairs to the cells at the top.
Given its sixteen-foot-thick walls, no one could burn the tower down, let alone undermine its massive plinth. Would that stealth and subterfuge could succeed where force might not, Devlin prayed.
With his sweetly voiced offer of warm drink, Dugal’s girlish tones and slight figure disguised in borrowed skirts ought to distract the guards stationed on the upper level. Once that was done, the worst would be over.
“Thirsty, men?” asked Dugal from the shadows as the guards leaped to their feet, knives ready.
“Where’s Hawkins? He always comes up with our drinks at night,” protested the watchman. “We’re not expecting any visitors.”
“I’m not a visitor. I’m just delivering th-this warm cider,” stammered Dugal, his soft tones slipping.
“So you claim. Take off that shawl and let us see your face,” ordered the Englishman. “Then we’ll decide if we’re thirsty”
Without hesitation Devlin sprang forward from the dusky stairs. The ruse had worked long enough for his men to join him. Now was the time for skilled fighters to take over.
“Why, you—”
As the Englishman grabbed Dugal, a flash of silver flew through the air, unnoticed in the poor light. Cashel’s knife easily found its mark, burying itself in the speaker’s neck and leaving him gasping for air, his arms freeing Dugal to clutch at the embedded blade. Instantly Cashel was on his victim, stabbing him once more until the guard fell to the floor, the first man dead in the raid.
“Take the keys, free whomever