Erin Yorke - Devlin

More enraged with himself than before, Devlin had never looked so fierce. He was about to begin his futile pulling at the iron ring once again when he heard a scurrying in the darkness, much too loud to be that of one of the rats with whom he shared the tower. Quickly, he got to his feet. He’d not appear cowed before his English captors.

Taking a proud stance, Devlin wondered what fresh torture was about to befall him. So far, he had not answered any of the questions he had been asked about the MacMahon or the location of his camp. Would the English employ the lash or the hot iron to bend him to their will? The method mattered not. He would fight submission until he lost consciousness, or at least, he prayed he would.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, stepped a willowy female form. Devlin muttered a curse. The sight of the girl he had saved was more painful to him than any physical punishment. He could not bear to look at her without silently railing against his unfathomable behavior in the courtyard of Dublin Castle, the behavior that had cost him his freedom and decreed Muirne would not have the life he wished for her.

“Hello.” The voice was soft and delicate as the English lass dropped her hand away from the candle she had been shielding.

Looking at her, Devlin could see now that she was not the child he had at first supposed her to be. Her soft curves proclaimed that she was more woman than girl, but the youthful beauty of her face hinted that childhood was not all that far behind her. Why, she was probably no more than sixteen, Devlin thought, until he realized what he was doing and began to silently berate himself. What difference did it make? What was the wench to him, anyway?

Devlin shot her a fierce look meant to send her scampering on her way in terror. But she stood her ground, overlooking the fury on his face just as she ignored her malodorous surroundings. Instead, she saw only a magnificent warrior, one with a heart so big that he had risked his life for hers though the world had declared her his enemy.

Alyssa gave a tiny sigh as she studied Devlin Fitzhugh. Her aunt and uncle might have pampered her, but no one had ever been willing to hazard his life for her before this rugged gallowglass had done so. She was as much impressed by his gallantry as she was by his physique. Surely the world had never known such a hero.

“My name is Alyssa Howett,” she began. “I am the…woman you saved last night.”

“As if I could forget you!” Devlin growled. “But it matters not to me what you are called, girl. Get you hence before I do you harm.”

“Oh, I know you’re angry, and I can find no fault with that, but I also know that you would never hurt me,” Alyssa continued. “Such evil could never be in your nature.”

“Step a few inches closer so that I can wrap my chains about your slender young neck, and I’ll show you how very wicked a desperate man can be.”

“I had to speak with you, to tell you how badly I feel that I played a part in your capture.”

A part? This whole thing is your fault, Devlin wanted to bellow. But he held his tongue because he knew such an outburst would be a lie. From his viewpoint, no one but he was responsible for his dilemma, and that grated on him more than if someone else had actually been to blame. Still, the sight of the girl was almost more than he could bear, reminding him as it did of his foolish gallantry during Niall’s rescue.

“Please, you must believe me,” Alyssa persisted in the face of Devlin’s stony silence. “I truly am sorry.”

“No sorrier than I am,” Devlin ground out bitterly. If the girl felt guilty, it was an emotion that might be used to his advantage. “What were you doing flitting about the cells in the middle of the night? Can’t your father control you, or is it a habit of yours to visit imprisoned men under cover of darkness?”

“No!” she exclaimed, her face blazing crimson. “No to both questions. I don’t know my father very well. We’ve just been reunited after many years apart, and when we first became reacquainted, I hated him and refused to obey him in even the smallest matters. He had abandoned me, you see.”

The simple, innocent confession tore at Devlin’s being. How long would it be before he saw Muirne again—if ever he did? And, how would she feel about him if he came back into her life? Would she, too, feel her father had deserted her?

“I want you to know that I begged my father to arrange your release, but it was futile.”

“A man of great honor, your sire,” Devlin commented in derision, “and I suppose you are much like him.”

“Don’t you think I would help you if I could?”

“Prove it,” he demanded. “Get me the key that will unlock my chains.”

“I can’t,” the girl admitted shamefully. “The guard carries them.”

“Then what good are you? Leave me in peace.”

Despite the fact that she would have granted the Irishman his freedom if it were within her power, the thought of never seeing him again filled Alyssa with melancholy. She attributed the feeling to silly, girlish fancies and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand, easing Devlin Fitzhugh’s plight in whatever small way she could.

“I’ve brought you something,” she said, fishing in a deep side pocket of her gown.

“A weapon, a chisel?” Devlin asked anxiously.

“Nay, ‘tis but an apple,” Alyssa replied apologetically. “But I thought it might give you some comfort.”

“Think you I have any stomach for food?” Devlin asked in disgust. “Go away and don’t return unless you want to place your life in jeopardy.”

The only response he received was the dull thump of the apple as it dropped to the floor inside his cell and rolled towards him. Then there was silence followed by the sound of light, hurried footsteps marking the girl’s retreat.

The quiet did not last long. It was interrupted by the gravelly voice of one of the guards. Carrying a bucket and a stack of trenchers, he was walking in the company of two of his fellows. It was obvious they were delivering the day’s meal.

“We got here in time to hear that softhearted wench offer you an apple,” the Englishman said derisively. Unlocking Devlin’s door, he padded forward, followed by the other two, who stood with pikes pointed in Devlin’s direction. “Sort of makes this your own private Eden, doesn’t it?” The guard laughed cruelly, retrieving the fruit and holding it aloft before he crunched it between his few remaining teeth.

“I didn’t know the serpent ate the apple as well,” Devlin drawled, his voice drenched with condescension in spite of his circumstances.

“Seems to me we should give you something other than your supper, laddie. You need instruction in how to talk to your betters…the girl and me.” The jailer took a small club dangling from his waist and began to wield it. Sickening thuds echoed in the darkness as the weapon found its target again and again. That Devlin bore the cruelty without pleading for clemency incensed the Englishman further, increasing his efforts. Finally, however, he tired of his sport.

“A few more such lessons, Irishman, and you’ll no longer be so pretty. Then there will be no lass come to visit you and make your lot easier.”

It was perhaps the most merciful thing he had heard since his capture, Devlin thought as consciousness made ready to flee and the Englishman’s harangue began to fade in the distance.

“Niall, praise be Mary and all the saints,” yelled Eamon MacMahon two days later as he saw the small band of men approach his campfire. Hampered as he was by his crutch and broken leg, he hobbled to his feet and embraced his son warmly. “By all that’s holy, I feared I’d never see you again. But the scouts said Devlin wasn’t with you. Where’s the man to whom I owe my son’s life?”