Black Falcon's Lady (Celtic Rogues Book 1) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Kimberly Cates
years listening to a woman’s lies in the most ill-advised marriage witnessed by heaven or hell. You think me fool enough to begin again?"
"I'm not my mother!" Maryssa pulled away from him, the still-fresh horror of the witch-burning causing her to flare in a rare attempt at defense. Her arms closed convulsively about her ribs. "If you hated my mother so much why did you marry her? Didn't you ever love her? Or me?"
She saw her father's lips whiten as if she’d delivered a blow, but in a heartbeat the expression vanished, leaving her to wonder if it had ever been there at all.
The fingers digging into Maryssa's flesh loosened, and she could see the struggle in her father, as if he were forcibly ripping them away. "Love? Mary?" With a bark of laughter he shoved Maryssa from him and wiped the palm of his hand on his breeches as if it were soiled. "Your mother betrayed me. Aye, and would have cast you aside for a fresh pair of slippers."
The words cut deep, but Maryssa raised her chin, meeting her father's gaze. "And what would you cast me aside for, Father? Less even than that?"
"I've fed you these twenty years, housed you, kept clothes on your back."
"Aye, and endured me like a brace of iron weights hanging about your neck, burning and chafing in your hate." Maryssa struggled to keep her voice from quavering. "I'm sorry I was born, Father."
"No sorrier than I."
Maryssa scooped up her petticoats and stumbled toward the door.
"Stop!" Instincts bred of a hundred like confrontations made her freeze where she stood at her father's command. "We've one more matter to discuss before you go running to your room. I've dismissed that Celeste woman you dragged here. Painted, disgusting wench! I'll not have her in my house."
Irony swelled in Maryssa's throat, her fingers clenching on the edge of a small table beside the door. "If I told you how much I hated Celeste, would you run after her, Father?" she whispered, the words hollow as the corridor that echoed beyond the velvet-draped wall.
A dull bit of metal glimmered at Maryssa from among the gilded trinkets and gleaming candelabra on the polished mahogany table. She reached out to touch the object, which seemed strangely at odds with the richly furnished room. A tiny, cunningly wrought toy soldier, its blue-painted coat unchipped, the jaunty lead plume bedecking its hat tarnished with age, though it appeared never to have been touched by small fingers.
"Don't touch that!" Her father’s order was brittle-edged, and Maryssa was stunned to find the words tinged with pain.
She turned, fragile and tentative. "Father..."
"Od's blood! What heinous crime did I commit that I am father to such as you?" Woolly brows slashed low over Bainbridge Wylder's eyes as he jammed a blunt hand against the close-set sockets. "Worthless. A worthless chit cowering from her own shadow when I could have had—" The hand snapped away from Bainbridge's face, his knotted fist cracking down onto the desktop before him. "For God's sake, don't stand there gaping, girl! Leave me in peace before I'm tempted to rid myself of you by means more permanent than marriage!"
His rage-filled face seemed to shift into patterns of bone-deep loathing—a loathing that might well lead to . . . murder?
Maryssa felt the blood drain from her face.
"Get out!"
Her father’s furious roar seemed to clutch at her throat, cutting off breath and life. She stumbled back against the table, then wheeled and fled down the dark hallway.
Escape . . . the need pounded in Maryssa's blood, a desperation past bounds of fear and wisdom, uncontrollable as sea-captured birds driven onto rocky cliffs by the waves. And during the minutes it took her to make her way to the deserted stable and fling herself upon a saddled sorrel mare awaiting the groom outside its stall, she knew she would have ridden the devil himself if he had been flying from Nightwylde.
The groom's frantic cries as he ran after her, shouting warnings on the dangers of
"I'm not my mother!" Maryssa pulled away from him, the still-fresh horror of the witch-burning causing her to flare in a rare attempt at defense. Her arms closed convulsively about her ribs. "If you hated my mother so much why did you marry her? Didn't you ever love her? Or me?"
She saw her father's lips whiten as if she’d delivered a blow, but in a heartbeat the expression vanished, leaving her to wonder if it had ever been there at all.
The fingers digging into Maryssa's flesh loosened, and she could see the struggle in her father, as if he were forcibly ripping them away. "Love? Mary?" With a bark of laughter he shoved Maryssa from him and wiped the palm of his hand on his breeches as if it were soiled. "Your mother betrayed me. Aye, and would have cast you aside for a fresh pair of slippers."
The words cut deep, but Maryssa raised her chin, meeting her father's gaze. "And what would you cast me aside for, Father? Less even than that?"
"I've fed you these twenty years, housed you, kept clothes on your back."
"Aye, and endured me like a brace of iron weights hanging about your neck, burning and chafing in your hate." Maryssa struggled to keep her voice from quavering. "I'm sorry I was born, Father."
"No sorrier than I."
Maryssa scooped up her petticoats and stumbled toward the door.
"Stop!" Instincts bred of a hundred like confrontations made her freeze where she stood at her father's command. "We've one more matter to discuss before you go running to your room. I've dismissed that Celeste woman you dragged here. Painted, disgusting wench! I'll not have her in my house."
Irony swelled in Maryssa's throat, her fingers clenching on the edge of a small table beside the door. "If I told you how much I hated Celeste, would you run after her, Father?" she whispered, the words hollow as the corridor that echoed beyond the velvet-draped wall.
A dull bit of metal glimmered at Maryssa from among the gilded trinkets and gleaming candelabra on the polished mahogany table. She reached out to touch the object, which seemed strangely at odds with the richly furnished room. A tiny, cunningly wrought toy soldier, its blue-painted coat unchipped, the jaunty lead plume bedecking its hat tarnished with age, though it appeared never to have been touched by small fingers.
"Don't touch that!" Her father’s order was brittle-edged, and Maryssa was stunned to find the words tinged with pain.
She turned, fragile and tentative. "Father..."
"Od's blood! What heinous crime did I commit that I am father to such as you?" Woolly brows slashed low over Bainbridge Wylder's eyes as he jammed a blunt hand against the close-set sockets. "Worthless. A worthless chit cowering from her own shadow when I could have had—" The hand snapped away from Bainbridge's face, his knotted fist cracking down onto the desktop before him. "For God's sake, don't stand there gaping, girl! Leave me in peace before I'm tempted to rid myself of you by means more permanent than marriage!"
His rage-filled face seemed to shift into patterns of bone-deep loathing—a loathing that might well lead to . . . murder?
Maryssa felt the blood drain from her face.
"Get out!"
Her father’s furious roar seemed to clutch at her throat, cutting off breath and life. She stumbled back against the table, then wheeled and fled down the dark hallway.
Escape . . . the need pounded in Maryssa's blood, a desperation past bounds of fear and wisdom, uncontrollable as sea-captured birds driven onto rocky cliffs by the waves. And during the minutes it took her to make her way to the deserted stable and fling herself upon a saddled sorrel mare awaiting the groom outside its stall, she knew she would have ridden the devil himself if he had been flying from Nightwylde.
The groom's frantic cries as he ran after her, shouting warnings on the dangers of
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