Dangerous Joy

by Jo Beverley

  "My father," the innkeeper said. "Hardly ever budges from the spot."

  "He's fortunate to have his spot, here in the place he's lived all his life." It was a guess, but a safe one.

  "True enough, sir, and I'll feel blessed to be the same in time, if the Good Lord and the English devils permit it."

  It seemed a common enough phrase in these parts, but the fact they used it in front of Miles showed they were willing to trust him.

  "Have you had much trouble with the English here?" he asked.

  "Not much, sir, not much. We've kept pretty quiet, Saint Patrick be praised."

  "A quiet life is a blessing, that's for sure." Miles took another deep draught of the rich ale. "If I were you, though, I'd not want last night's trouble-making on the doorstep."

  The innkeeper became very interested in polishing a pewter pot. "Sure an' no one wants that kind of thing, sir! Terrible, terrible. And not men of these parts."

  Then how did Miss Felicity Monahan come to be embroiled? Miles wondered. "I'm sure not," he said out loud. "But they must have had a reason for singling out Mr. Dunsmore."

  The innkeeper shook his head. "Truth to tell, sir, Mr. Dunsmore has been singling out himself by his wicked ways ever since he came back from Dublin."

  "That was recently?"

  "Indeed, sir. The earth had scarcely settled on Kathleen Craig's grave than her husband was off, with as much of her money as he could get his hands on. Now he's back trying to squeeze more out of his poor tenants."

  "Hence the little reminder."

  The pot received another thorough polish. "I suppose that could be it, sir, indeed it could."

  It was reasonable that Mr. Rourke wouldn't reveal knowledge of the attack, but Miles thought the man's doubt about the reasons behind it might be genuine.

  "He's very English," he mused.

  Rourke replaced the pot on a shelf and turned to lean on the bar. "That's true, sir. English through and through. But I hope no Irishman would be so un-Christian as to attack a man merely for the misfortune of his land of birth. Why at times you could be taken for English yourself!"

  The blue eyes were guileless, but the words could be either a warning or a threat.

  Miles deflected them with a smile. "I had the misfortune to go to school in England, Mr. Rourke, and they whip the correct tone and manners into you there. But I have not one drop of English blood in my veins."

  "Ah, blessed you are, then, sir. Blessed, indeed."

  So, Dunsmore's unpopularity wasn't entirely for being a harsh landlord, or even for being an English twit. So what the devil was it?

  "He seemed a pleasant enough man, for an Englishman," Miles ventured.

  "He has a fine polish to him, true enough," said the innkeeper blandly. "Like the shine on still water in the summer sun."

  Miles choked on his ale. Pond-scum, in other words.

  When he had his breath back, he said, "I understand he made a fine marriage here."

  The innkeeper turned to straighten a row of tankards. "Indeed he did, sir. He does seem to have a way with the ladies."

  Interesting. So there's something in the matter of Dunsmore and women. That's what Miles feared.

  He fished for a bit more enlightenment. "If Miss Craig used her estate to buy a handsome man's charm, perhaps she had a fair bargain..."

  "A fine estate for a little charm?"

  It wasn't the innkeeper, though. It was a female voice behind him, also speaking the Gaelic clear and true.

  Miles turned to face his ward.

  "You do hold women cheap, do you not?" she accused. She was dressed now in a severely-cut, blue wool walking dress and looking active again. What had she been up to? Was he going to have to watch her every moment of the day and night?

  "I don't hold women cheap at all, Miss Monahan. In fact, I generally find them quite expensive." At the flash in her eyes, he hastily added, "But a fine estate and loneliness is no luxury."

  "No one in these parts is lonely, Mr. Cavanagh. We care for one another."

  "Some people need more than the kindness of neighbors. And if you are all so considerate, why did not some other man marry Miss Craig, since it was marriage she wanted?"

  Miles thought that was the end of it, but the old man by the fire let out a paper-dry wheeze of a laugh. "Marry Kathleen Craig! Ugly as the church gargoyle and a tongue like a rusty blade. And proud besides. She wouldn't take any man not of her station, and none of the gentlemen here were desperate enough."

  "Hold your tongue, Mr. Rourke!" Felicity snapped. "Kathleen might not have been a charmer, but she was kind underneath. She just needed loving, rather than the treatment she received because she was bone-thin and had a cast in one eye."

  Miles hid his grimace in draining the last of his ale. He was as charitable as the next man, but it would have taken more than a moderate Irish estate to tempt him to a lifetime with Kathleen Craig. The interesting question, though, was whether Felicity was defending Miss Craig or the man who had married her.

  "Then," he said, "if Mr. Dunsmore offered her love and kindness, perhaps it was a fair bargain."

  "Perhaps it was," Felicity said with enough firmness to suggest doubt.

  Old Mr. Rourke spat into the fire. "That Dunsmore doesn't have the kindness of a sharp rock on a cold day. Spoke ill of her behind her back—and to her face, too, I wouldn't be surprised."

  Miles remembered something "Joy" had said. "And yet they had a son."

  "True enough, sir, true enough. And a lovely lad is young Kieran."

  Felicity suddenly paced toward the small window and back again. "For Kathleen, Kieran was worth any price. Any. She didn't want marriage so much as a child, and Rupert gave her one. The last three years of her life were the happiest she'd ever known. On her deathbed, she wept because she had to leave him. Kieran, I mean..." Her voice faded.

  "You were there?" Miles asked gently.

  She turned sharply to face him. "Of course I was there. She was my friend."

  It seemed a most unlikely friendship.

  "On her deathbed, she begged me to watch over the child. So you see, I cannot leave him to go to England."

  Miles had no intention of discussing their personal plans in front of the village gossips. He rose. "The lad has his father and doubtless a nurse or two. But we can discuss this later. Now, if you would be so kind, I'd enjoy a tour of the village."

  For a moment he thought she would refuse, but with a sigh of irritation, she led the way out into the village street, giving a terse commentary as they went.

  Miles found it an interesting tour, not for the village, which offered nothing unusual, but for what he learned of Felicity Monahan.

  Thus far he had encountered a wanton, a shrew, and the illusion of a proper miss, but it would seem that Felicity's repertoire might include a sweet-natured lady. She was clearly held in respect and affection by the people here. Everywhere, she was met with smiles and tidbits of personal information.

  Children ran to greet her, sharing small animals, pretty stones, or a piece of carefully executed handwriting.

  He gathered she had started a small dame school in the village and provided the necessary books and slates.

  Though his wayward ward tried to maintain a chilly facade with Miles, it proved impossible. Her hair began to spring from its tight arrangement, and her cheeks flushed with color. She would frequently turn to him with the remnants of a glowing smile, and then her beauty knocked the breath right out of him.

  Lord, but she was right. She was a dangerous woman.

  They left the village and walked along the lane toward the Foy Hall stables. Miles tried to preserve the joyous glow, but almost immediately Felicity reverted to chilly antagonism.

  "I wonder what it is you want me to believe of you, Felicity, and why."

  She continued to stare ahead. "Why should I care what you think of me, Mr. Cavanagh?"

  "Now, that is a remarkably foolish question. And you are not a foolish woman."
/>
  She flashed him a look. "Faith. What an admission! I'm sure I should be flattered."

  "Only if it's untrue."

  A light in her eye showed enjoyment of the verbal sparring-match, but they were interrupted by the sound of wheels in the lane. They both moved to the side to let the vehicle pass, but the one-horse gig stopped and a handsome blond lad of about four shouted, "Sissity!" It didn't take genius to guess that this was Dunsmore's son, for there was a marked resemblance.

  It was as if someone had lit a lamp inside Felicity. "Kieran, my poppet! How lovely to see you all unexpected." She grabbed the lad at the waist and swung him around while the middle-aged woman driving the gig smiled.

  "Now," Felicity said, returning him giggling to his place, "what adventure are you on today?"

  "No 'venture. Just plums."

  The older lady explained. "Cook wanted more of Mrs. Dooley's pickled plums, so I volunteered to drive over. To give the lad a break, you see."

  This was said with meaning, but there was no need to guess the interpretation, for the boy pushed out his lower lip and said, "Papa's in a bad mood."

  Miles supposed he was. But no wonder Kathleen Dunsmore had delighted in this late-born child. He seemed a fine specimen.

  No wonder Felicity was fond of him, too.

  She turned to Miles, once more thawed by interaction with others. "Mr. Cavanagh, let me make known to you two of our neighbors. This fine lad is Kieran Dunsmore of Loughcarrick, and the lady is Mrs. Edey, his companion. This is Mr. Miles Cavanagh of Clonnagh, who has the great misfortune to be my guardian for a little while."

  Mrs. Edey said all the right things and Kieran shook hands in a well-brought-up way, saying, "Sissity's parents are dead, sir."

  "I know," Miles said.

  "And her grandfather is dead."

  "True enough."

  "So you will look after her?"

  "I'll do my best." Miles could feel the silent objection from his side.

  "My mother's dead," the lad confided.

  "I know. You have my condolences."

  The boy looked solemnly unsure of the word, but said, "I miss her."

  Miles felt a strong urge to hug him. "I'm sure you do. My father died not long ago, and I miss him."

  The boy said nothing, but something in the set of his mouth implied the thought, "I wouldn't mind if my father died." Miles hoped this poor lad wasn't being mistreated by Dunsmore. But if he were, there was nothing an outsider could do about it.

  Felicity stepped forward. "Enough of this sad talk. We mustn't keep you, but if you have time, Mrs. Edey, you must stop at the Hall on the way home. I'm sure Kieran will be ready for a cake and some milk."

  The boy brightened. "Currant cake?"

  She kissed his cheek. "I don't know what we have, poppet, and it's too short notice to make currant cake, even for you." She poked him gently in the tummy so he giggled. "And I don't think there's a cake made you don't like, young man!"

  Mrs. Edey clicked the horse on, and the gig disappeared around a bend, the small lad twisting to wave goodbye to "Sissity." She stood waving, even after the gig had gone, a strangely bereft look upon her face.

  "A fine lad," Miles said, wanting to warn her not to grow so attached to someone else's child.

  "Yes, he is." Then she turned and led the way briskly into the Foy stable yard. "You wanted to see the stallions. We have two. This is Finn."

  Finn was a handsome bay who appeared perfectly made and of a proud but amiable disposition. Miles wouldn't mind using him to cover some of his mares.

  "And this is Brian."

  Brian was a white-stockinged chestnut of equal quality but more highly strung. He moved restlessly when approached and had to be wooed into good humor. Miles liked spirit in a horse, though, as long as it was within control.

  He patted the neck of the now-polite Brian. "Are they Foy horses?"

  "Finn is. He's by Angus Og, who was my grandfather's pride and joy. Angus Og was just a little long in the back, though. Grandfather's attempts to correct that are scattered around Europe, and all are fine horses but short of perfect. Finn was his great success. He's out of Fionuala." She led him over to the paddock gate so they could see the mares at pasture.

  Felicity gave a boyish whistle, and a solid older bay mare raised her head then trotted over with a swish of her tail. The other mares, some twenty of them, followed. Miles had the distinct impression that they wanted to race ahead to greet Felicity, but if Fionuala was trotting with dignity, they had to hold back. There was no doubt who was lead mare in this herd.

  While Felicity greeted the bay, Miles made friends with some of the others, but it was clear that he was just a stopgap for yet more creatures who adored Felicity Monahan.

  "They're a fine bunch. How many do you sell in a year?"

  Felicity began to move down the line of horses. "We generally have ten five-year-olds. Geldings and a few mares."

  "The ones you don't fancy for breeding stock."

  "That's right." She rubbed the ears of a white-blazed chestnut. "Eileen here has slipped two foals. We won't try to breed her again, so she'll go to England next year. I hope she goes for a hack rather than a hunter, though. I worry sometimes about the way you men ride the creatures."

  She had turned to face him, and Eileen leant her head on her shoulder so he was facing two accusing females.

  "I've only killed two horses in my day, and those with broken legs that could happen anywhere if a horse is ridden at more than a trot."

  "It's foolishness, though, to be risking horses just to hunt down a fox that is of no use to anyone."

  "Charlie's of great use to the huntsmen, since he provides the run. I confess I'm surprised, Felicity. I'd not have thought you squeamish."

  She tossed her head and moved away from the fence, leading the way up to the house. "I'm not at all squeamish. But when I've seen a foal born and worked with it for years, to hear it was killed by a clumsy rider, doubtless the worse for drink, forcing it over a fence that should never have been attempted..."

  "I feel the same way," he said quietly. "That's why I sell my animals myself. So I know the purchasers. Come to Melton with me and see how it's done."

  She swung suddenly to face him. "Oh, so that's what all this is about! It will do you no good, Mr. Cavanagh. You are not dragging me off to Melton Mowbray, not even for a lesson in horse-trading!"

  She marched up the path and Miles followed, wondering whether his guardianship did give him the right to truss her like a Michaelmas goose and carry her off to England.

  "Are we in a hurry?" he asked mildly.

  "Yes," she threw back. "Kieran might be waiting."

  It touched his heart the way she cared about the lad, but worried him, too. He lengthened his stride to come up beside her. "If you're so keen on children, perhaps you should marry."

  To his surprise, she stopped and answered quite moderately. "Perhaps I should, at that."

  "What better place to go husband-hunting than Melton? It's crammed with eligible young men."

  Her eyes widened in mock astonishment. "What? Try to catch the eye of a man who's surrounded by prime horseflesh? You're mad, sir! And besides, how would I find an Irish husband there? I will not marry out of Ireland."

  She had him on both points. "There are some Irishmen in England now and then."

  "But there are assuredly more in Ireland, aren't there? So I'll do my husband-hunting here."

  She turned and swept toward the house. As they entered through a conservatory in which the only healthy plant was catnip, Miles had the distinct feeling he'd lost that round.

  * * *

  To Felicity's disappointment, Kieran wasn't at Foy yet, but she used his imminent arrival as an excuse to go to her room and change out of her dusty gown. In truth, she wanted to escape Miles Cavanagh.

  Damn the man. He seemed to have her constantly teetering on the edge of disaster. And damn her grandfather for changing his will at the last moment. She could have
handled Uncle Colum as easily as she had always handled her father's family.

  She wasn't at all sure she could handle Miles Cavanagh.

  She gave the bell-rope a sharp tug. A clever, strong-willed guardian could ruin everything, and the consequences didn't bear thinking of.

  She caught sight of wind-wild hair in the mirror and pulled out pins and combs, admitting she could have liked Miles if they'd met in other circumstances. He was a fine figure of a man—not that fancy handsomeness that Dunsmore was so proud of, but with robust, practical looks that appealed greatly to her. Clear blue eyes ready to laugh, red-gold hair with a crisp curl to it, and a square jaw that spoke of firmness.

  Of course, the last thing she wanted in a guardian was firmness.

  She began to drag a brush through her tangled curls, telling herself that Miles had a bit too much of the English about him. But her heart told her he was as Irish as soft mist on green grass, and just as pleasant.

  After all, he could have made a great deal of trouble about what had happened last night. He could have been even more unpleasant about her own part in it. He'd harangued her finely, but today he'd not mentioned it at all.

  Of course that could mean that, man-arrogant, he assumed a few sharp warnings would scare her off.

  She attacked her hair sharply enough to bring tears to her eyes, muttering to herself about yet another disastrous turn of fate. Dunsmore, Kathleen, Kieran, Miles...

  Why?

  Why?

  She wouldn't say she'd always been a saint, but she'd never done anything to warrant the pain she'd suffered and the terrible problems that plagued her now.

  She sighed and put down her brush. There was no purpose in going over the past. It was the future that mattered. The future and her plans. Miles Cavanagh could not be allowed to ruin them.

  Where the devil was Peggy? She tugged the bell-rope again, then paced the room, trying to think of ways to bend her guardian to her will. One way came to mind, and she assessed her charms in the mirror with an objective eye. She knew her lush figure attracted men—seemed to turn them into cock-driven idiots, in fact—but she'd never deliberately used it against them.