"Damned thing's a mess, ain't it?" Rory muttered, wetting his lips as he looked at his arm.
"The bullet must have nicked a vein," Connor grunted in reply. After another try with a fresh pad with the same results, he was frowning heavily and Rory was white to the lips. Caitlyn looked at Connor in alarm. He shook his head at her, telling her without words to say nothing that would alarm Rory, and tossed the blood-soaked pad in the bowl she still held. Then he lifted the bowl away from her and set it on the bedside table. Extracting the knife from his boot again, he held its blade to the candle flame until it glowed red-hot.
"This will hurt," he warned Rory, who nodded and turned his face away. The hand on Rory's uninjured side clenched the bedclothes. Caitlyn covered that clenched fist with her hand, and the fingers curved to grip hers instead.
"If you're squeamish, don't look," Connor advised Caitlyn briefly. But she was unable to tear her eyes away, watching with fascinated horror as he brought the red-hot blade up against the open, oozing wound. Rory made a choked sound as the knife sizzled and the smell of burning flesh rose from the wound, but he didn't scream. Instead, his fingers squeezed Caitlyn's until hers were numb.
"Brave lad," Connor murmured to him as he lifted the knife from the wound and returned it to the candle. Cauterized, the wound remained closed. On one side, at least, the bleeding had stopped.
"Jesus, that hurt more than getting the damned bullet," Rory managed faintiy.
"I know."
Caitlyn felt her stomach chum as Connor helped Rory turn over so that he could reach the back of the arm. Then, mouth grim, he held the glowing knife to the exit wound. Rory stiffened, groaning loudly as the cauterizing heat stopped the bleeding. His hand squeezed Caitlyn's until she thought she would scream. Just as she felt she could bear the pain no more, Rory went limp.
"Connor!" Caitlyn gripped Rory's lifeless hand in a panic. Connor took the knife away, cleansing it with the flame before returning it to his boot, while Caitlyn hovered frantically over Rory.
"He's fainted merely," Connor said, deftly winding a bandage around the injured arm. "He's not badly hurt, now that we've got the bleeding stopped." He tied the bandage in place, then pulled the sleeve of the nightshirt over it. "Stay with him till he wakes. I have business to attend to that I can't put off any longer."
Connor got to his feet, looming tall beside the bed as he frowned down at his unconscious brother. Clad only in shirt and breeches, booted feet splattered with mud and rain-wet black hair tied in back in a neat club, he emanated raw masculine power. Caitlyn, standing beside him, felt small and almost fragile. She looked up at him uncertainly. This Connor with the hard-set face and purposeful air was unfamiliar to her. The candlelight gleamed off an intricately wrought silver cross that dangled halfway down his shirtfront from a chain around his neck. That was unfamiliar to her as well; she had never before seen him wear an item of jewelry other than his pocket fob. The aqua eyes glinted as brightly as the silver medallion in the bronze of his face. His mouth was set, with deep lines running from it to his nose that she had never noticed before. It struck her then that Rory's injury hurt Connor too, more than she would have thought.
"What-what were you about, to get Rory shot?" she whispered, unable to resist the question. Connor's eyes were on her then, the restless energy that burned in them frightening. She knew he would tell her nothing.
"You know as much as you need, and more. You should have stayed in the house." His voice was rough-edged, his eyes aflame. "A word of advice, Caitlyn: keep your nose out of that which doesn't concern you."
With that, he turned on his heel and was gone. Caitlyn stared after him for a few moments, listening to the sound of his booted feet on the stairs. Then, as Rory stirred, she settled herself beside the bed. Her mind was awhirl with questions to which she could find no satisfactory answers.
XIV
The work was near done when Connor strode back into the stable. The trapdoor was closed, with straw swept over it so that none would ever guess of its existence. The take had been divided up; Fharannain was still saddled, and Cormac and Liam were tying the filled saddlebags to the horn. His cloak and mask rested across the saddle. Mickeen was scooping what was left into the strongbox that stayed hidden in the bam. That was something else for Connor to take care of, but later.
As he entered, shaking the rain from his hair, Cormac and Liam turned from their task to look at him. Anxiety was plain in both faces. Connor allowed himself a brief moment of self-congratulation. Whatever else he had done, or not done, he had raised his brothers well. They cared for one another truly, as a family should.
"Rory?" Cormac asked quietly as Connor came over to check Fharannain's girth.
"He's well enough. He'll suffer no lasting harm."
Liam looked as relieved as Cormac. Mickeen, having finished what he was doing and now in the act of carrying the strongbox to the place where it was customarily secreted, said over his shoulder, "Aye, and didn't I tell you that only the good die young? Young Rory should have a grand long life."
The three remaining d'Arcys grinned. Mickeen, for all his gruff exterior, was as fond of Rory as they were. The old osder had been with them from the beginning and would lay down his life without hesitation for any one of them.
'What about Caitlyn? Did you… tell her anything?" Cormac asked as Connor donned cloak and mask and swung into the saddle.
"Nothing. And you're not to, either of you. Not that I don't think we can trust her, but the fewer people who know the truth the safer we are." He signaled with his knees to Fharannain to move out, adding over his shoulder, "Go on up to the house now and get some sleep. Your part is done for tonight.''
Then he was out in the rainswept darkness, setting Fharannain at a canter over the hills toward Navan. Fortunately, he knew tonight's route as well as he knew the layout of his own house, as did the great black beast beneath him. Fharannain flew effortlessly over fences and streams that both could barely see, leaving Connor's mind free to wander.
Rory had taken a bullet. It was the first time in the years they had been riding with him that one of his brothers had been hurt. Connor felt a deep anxiety as he thought about it. Mayhap he should put a halt to things now, while he could with all of them whole. His brothers were, and always had been, his first concern. His father had given them over to his keeping on the night he died, and Connor had honored his promise to his sire to care for them to the best of his ability ever since.
They had been rough years, those first ones. There was no money, only the land and the few pieces of furnishings and gewgaws that could be salvaged from the charred ruins of the Castle. As a lad of twelve, left with three young brothers ranging in age from four to seven to provide for, to say nothing of the peasants who had traditionally depended upon Donoughmore for support and now were forced to make their own way with much hardship and suffering, Connor had been at his wit's end. At first he had sent Mickeen to Dublin to sell what few possessions they retained that were worth anything, but he had known that when the possessions ran out, the money would too.
In a desperate search for some means of earning a living for his new responsibilities, Connor had gone to Dublin on his own and had quickly discovered that thievery or buggery was the only way for a lad his age to get money. As he was not inclined to permit some fat rou6 the use of his body, he had turned to thievery. In the intervening two years he had spent at least half the time in Dublin, leaving Mickeen behind at the farm to care for his brothers, picking pockets and thieving from market stalls and stealing whatever he could find that could be converted to cash. With no small degree of success, either. He had kept his brothers alive and the farm going while the injustice of it all burned at him. He, Connor d'Arcy, Earl of Iveagh, should by rights have been master of a handsome estate, with a fortune to command. His brothers would have known a life of ease and plenty. Instead they were poorer than the poorest peasants, often hungry and in rags, with only a lad not much older than they to provi
de for them. His hatred of the bloody Anglicans who had stolen everything of value from the Irish and killed his father besides became a living thing inside him. One day, he vowed, he would have his revenge. And that day had come, though the vengeance was small compared with the magnitude of the grievance…
Seamus McCool was standing in the mouth of the cave where they always met. Connor reined in Fharannain, untied the saddlebags, and tossed them to the bluff Irishman. Seamus would see to it that the items were sold and the money distributed to those whose need was greatest.
"Lord keep you, sor," he said fervently to Connor, his eyes bright in the darkness as he hefted the bags to test their weight.
"And you, Seamus," Connor replied, wheeling Fharannain about. He rode back into the night, his business concluded. Until the moon waned again.
XV
A band of horsemen rode into Donoughmore eariy the next day. Connor had stayed close to home, ostensibly to supervise the slaughter of sheep. In reality, Caitlyn suspected he wanted to keep an eye on Rory, who was a trifle weak and more than a trifle testy, but surviving. Mrs. McFee had been told merely that Rory had come down with Caitlyn's chill, and she seemed to think no more about his being confined to bed. As for Caitlyn herself, the excitement of the night before had an unexpected benefit: she was completely restored to health by the morning and thus was able to go about her business as usual.
When the half-dozen riders appeared in the lee of the Casde, Cormac's hail brought Connor out of the sheep bam with his shirtsleeves still pushed above his elbows to stand watching their approach. Caitlyn, covertly eyeing the pair of them from the trough where she had been dispatched to scrub the wool pelts, could see the tension in Cormac's face. Connor looked impassive as the riders clattered down into the bamyard. TTiey were disheveled, their horses splattered with mud as though they had ridden long and hard. Caitlyn recognized only one: Sir Edward Dunne.
"What business brings you to Donoughmore, Sir Edward?" Connor asked brusquely as Sir Edward nudged his horse away from the milling pack and approached him.
"We're tracking some damned highwaymen," Sir Edward said, excitement lending a glitter to his gray eyes and a coarse edge to his patrician accent. "We followed their trail onto your property but lost them on the far side of the Castle. Did you or your people hear anything out of the ordinary last night? Or see anything?"
"I heard nothing at all, nor has anything untoward been reported to me." Connor, barely civil, cocked a head at Cormac, who shook his head. "How come you to be chasing highwaymen, Sir Edward? Has fox hunting begun to pall?"
The sneer was such that Sir Edward could hardly miss it. Apparently he chose to ignore Connor's gibe, because his voice was even enough as he replied: "Lord Alvinley was the victim. As you know, he's my uncle. He came to my house afterward, and we immediately set out in pursuit of the bandits, who made off with considerable booty. My uncle had the rents on him, you see, and his wife's jewel case too, as he was bound for Dublin to join her. His bailiff had just finished collecting from his tenants, so it was a goodly sum. And the jewelry was very fine."
"Obviously someone was well aware of Lord Alvinley's plans. Your uncle would do well to look amongst the people close to him for the rogue."
"My uncle swears the villain was none other than the one the peasants call the Dark Horseman. He said the gang was dressed all in black, and the leader wore the Cross of Ireland on his clothes. IVe always thought that the Dark Horseman was nothing more than a tale made up by the peasants to frighten their landlords, but Lord Alvinley is convinced that the man exists and that he was robbed by him. In any case, he had a piece of luck: one of my uncle's outriders winged one of the bandits. There were drops of blood along the trail we followed." There was a brief pause, and then with a barely veiled taunt Sir Edward added, "You might consider joining the search, d'Arcy. There's considerable bounty at stake if our quarry truly turns out to be the Dark Horseman. My uncle has doubled the price on the man's head. And sheep farming cannot provide a very lucrative living."
"Unlike you, I don't care for blood sports. And sheep farming provides sufficient for my needs."
The sudden glint in Connor's eyes would have cowed a braver man than Sir Edward, who backtracked to a safer topic immediately. "Yes, well… Are all your tenants sound this morning?"
"All that I've seen. Would you care to search amongst them for the rogue?" This was uttered in such a blighting tone that Sir Edward's hands tightened on his horse's reins, causing the beast to back nervously.
In the moment it took for Sir Edward to quiet his horse, Cormac seemed to hold his breath. But Sir Edward clearly had decided no good would come of further antagonizing the master of Donoughmore. His tone was conciliatory as he said, "No, that won't be necessary. You will send word if anyone is laid low or is not working as he should?"
"You may be sure of it."
"We'll be off, then. I have this feeling that they are near at hand, perhaps holed up somewhere to care for their wounded. Good day to you, d'Arcy." He noddeed at Connor and Cormac, tipped his hat to Caitlyn, who was staring at him, sheep pelts forgotten, then wheeled his horse and headed out of the barnyard toward the road, the others following.
Caitlyn looked after them, eyes wide. Absentmindedly she brushed stray stands of hair back toward the kerchief covering her head, completely forgetting her wet hands, which dripped water on her face. With a muttered imprecation she dried her hands on her yellow-striped skirt and lifted the hem of it to wipe the droplets from her face. Then she turned to stare at Connor and Cormac, who were moving back toward the bam. They had been out last night, cloaked and masked. Connor had spoken of a good night's work. Rory had been shot. And in Rory's room last night, a silver medallion in the shape of a cross had gleamed around Connor's neck. She had never seen it before or since. Enlightenment dawned in a blinding flash.
Abandoning the skin she had been scrubbing to float in the muddy water, Caitlyn followed the d'Arcys into the bam. Connor and Cormac stood together just inside the door, watching from the safety of its shadows the riders crest the hill. Two pairs of eyes glanced at her as she entered, then narrowed. Her eyes were enormous, her expression a mixture of astonishment, disbelief, and knowledge.
"What ails you, lass?" Connor asked, his eyes moving over her face with disquieting swiftness.
" 'Tis you, isn't it?" she demanded, speaking scarcely above a whisper as her eyes fixed Connor and Connor alone. "You're the one they call the Dark Horseman!"
Connor returned her look for look, his devil's eyes taking on a warning glint. "You've been out amongst the sheep too long," he said tightiy. Then as she continued to stare at him a litde muscle beside his mouth jerked and he strode from the bam. Caitlyn watched him walk away, her eyes taking in every bit of him from the curling black hair confined by a black ribbon to the broad shoulders straining against the white linen of his shirt to the lean hips and long, powerful legs in their buif breeches and black riding boots. Connor d'Arcy, Earl of Iveagh, lip- service Protestant to protect his land, expert swordsman, kind paterfamilias, Irishman, gentleman, was the Dark Horseman. She felt she should have known it, should have guessed. He was everything she and Willie and the others had always imagined the Dark Horseman would be. But she had never dreamed…
Her eyes swung to Cormac, who was watching her rather as one would a coiled snake.
"Your brother is the Dark Horseman," she said with certainty. Cormac opened his mouth to reply, then, meeting the conviction in her eyes, closed it again.
"Aye," he said slowly, then with a burst of pride added: "Aye, he is."
XVI
Over the next ten months, Caitlyn fulfilled Sir Edward Dunne's prophecy and grew into a beautiful young woman. With good food and affection, she blossomed, gaining three inches in height so that the d'Arcys no longer towered over her and developing pleasing curves where females were supposed to have them. Despite the soft rounding of her breasts and hips, she still remained slender as a wand, with an impo
ssibly small waist and endless legs. Her hair grew until it reached the middle of her back, thick and smooth and glossy as satin, and black as a raven's wing. She was careless about dressing it, rarely taking the time to do more than tie it back with a ribbon, but its beauty was such that no artifice was required to show it off. Her enormous kerry blue eyes no longer seemed too large for her small-boned face. Framed by thick lashes like lavish black fringes, set off by slanting black brows, they glowed against the camellia whiteness of her skin. Her facial structure was delicate, with the exquisite modeling of the bones readily apparent: high, smooth forehead from which her hair rose in a widow's peak, high cheekbones, rounded jaw and chin. Her nose was small and straight, her mouth soft and perfectly formed, her neck long and slender. At just turned seventeen, she was a woman grown, and O'Malley the thief was nothing more than a dim memory to everyone but Caitlyn herself.
Word of her beauty spread over the countryside, and males for miles around came to see and be dazzled. The former reigning belle of County Meath, Mrs. Congreve, had her nose put decidedly out of joint as most of her admirers deserted her to worship at the shrine of Caitlyn's youthful freshness. Connor was the only eligible male in the vicinity who seemed completely unaffected by Caitlyn's blossoming. He still treated Caitlyn like the young cousin he called her, and continued to visit Mrs. Congreve at her home, his visits increasing in frequency as he oftimes absented himself overnight. His brothers expressed vociferous fears of an imminent wedding. The suggestion made Caitlyn so cross she wanted to spit.
"He would never be so stupid," she informed Cormac, who had expressed just those fears as they rode together along the grassy banks high above the Boyne. Like herself, Cormac had grown up considerably in the past few months. He was no longer the gangly youth she had fought with upon coming to Donoughmore more than a year before, but a well-knit man of nineteen. For the last six months or so, he and Rory had been brangling mostly good-naturedly over the attentions of Lisette Bromleigh, daughter of a baronet in the neighboring county of Cavan. Lately, though, the younger d'Arcys had given signs of becoming aware of the beauty blooming in their midst, and Caitlyn was getting a wee bit tired of the sudden upsurge in chivalrous attentions they were directing her way.
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