by Jo Beverley
Miles tried to imagine what he would do if called upon to choose between his own life and that of a small child. How could anyone not choose to save the child? It might be the act of a friend, however, to stop such a sacrifice.
The problem was that in less than a month Felicity would be able to give herself and her fortune to Dunsmore without hindrance, and she would do it unless she could be persuaded it was folly.
The best eye-opener would be for her to fall in love. She certainly didn't love Dunsmore. Miles ran through the friends they might encounter in Melton, seeking one able to attract Felicity.
Stephen Ball, perhaps. No. Stephen's interests were political—and urban, not rural. Miles could not see Felicity as a political wife.
Con Somerford. Now, he was more likely. A sound man with a pleasant nature and wide estates. But Felicity said she wished to marry an Irishman.
Which led, as he'd known all along, to himself...
"Halt!"
Miles snapped out of his musings to see two cloaked horsemen training pistols on them.
"What the devil—" He'd never heard of highwaymen in these parts before.
"Come along, Felicity."
Then Miles recognized Dunsmore's voice. He turned to stare at his ward.
"I'm eloping." Her straight back and raised chin spoke defiance, but she couldn't quite meet his eyes.
"Oh no you're not."
"You can't stop me."
He kicked her horse in the gut so it reared, unsettling her, then grabbed her around the waist, hauling her off Cresta and in front of him.
"Damn you!" She writhed and flailed with an earnestness that infuriated him. No unwilling bride, this. He thumped her on the back hard enough to knock the breath out of her and set Argonaut to circling so the men couldn't be sure of a shot. It wasn't easy to reach down for his right pistol while managing the horse and a squirming woman, but he got his hand to the butt, then felt something press against his groin.
"Be very still," she said.
Miles calmed Argonaut and went very still indeed.
She'd drawn the left pistol from its saddle-holster and was pressing it damn close to his balls. He didn't know if she'd cocked it, or even knew how, but he wasn't willing to gamble on it.
"Felicity—"
"Enough of that. This is where your tyranny ends. Denzil!"
Dunsmore was holding back, but the groom came forward, leading Cresta. Soon his pistol was close enough to Miles that it was impossible that he miss.
"You can get down now, Miss."
Miles heard the safety cock back down. He should never have doubted that Felicity knew pistols. Damn her for a canny, ruthless, headstrong, dangerous jade.
She slithered off, landing unsteadily, but gathering herself. Then she looked up at him. "Get off."
"Go to the devil."
"Get off, or Denzil will shoot Argonaut."
He had a great desire to kick her in the teeth.
He obeyed, however, and swung off his horse. Felicity led Argonaut over to a tree and tethered him. "We wouldn't want him running back to his stable and raising the alarm, now, would we?"
She walked back to her horse and looked at Miles. "Help me mount."
He wanted to tell her again to go to the devil, but Denzil still had his pistol angled toward Argonaut. He'd wondered what he'd do for a child. It appeared he would do a lot for a horse. But Felicity wouldn't get away with this.
He walked over to her, looking for uneasiness or remorse and finding none. He linked his hands.
"Don't do anything foolish," she said before putting her booted foot into his hands. It certainly was tempting to hurl her right over the horse's back, but he tossed her efficiently into the saddle.
She nodded.
He thought it was with approval, but then he knew no more.
Chapter 8
God, but his head hurt.
When Miles tried to put his hands to the pain, he realized they were bound behind his back.
He muttered a stream of curses into muddy grass and promised that Felicity Monahan would pay with interest for every ache and cramp.
He was lying face down beneath the hedgerow and found it impossible to roll over. The struggle to do so, however, showed that the rope around his wrists had been hastily tied. There was give to it. It took longer, almost, than he could bear, especially with every movement causing his head to pound as if freshly hit, but he managed to work first one hand free, then the other.
He pushed stiffly to his knees, and then to his feet, which caused his head to pound like a bass drum and his vision to cloud. But he saw the bulk of Argonaut nearby and staggered over to rest against his solid warmth.
"Thank God they didn't hurt you."
The horse whiffled in what might have been equine concern.
After a few moments, Miles decided he wasn't going to throw up, which he supposed was a blessing. And if he stayed very still, the pain in his head was merely a solid ache. Gingerly, he felt the back of his skull and found a large lump and the stickiness of blood. Since he was alive and moderately alert, he supposed he'd avoided serious damage.
No thanks to Felicity Monahan.
He'd never have thought she had that degree of brass-faced ruthlessness. It all went to show how little he really knew the slippery jade. Perhaps she and Dunsmore deserved each other.
But they wouldn't have their way.
Gradually, the world was steadying to a sick roll. Miles studied the surrounding misty gloom. There was no one nearby, of course, but he knew exactly where he was. Tyfahan Cross, about two miles from Clonnagh. It was strange that Felicity and her swain had waited until here for the attack. There had been any number of more isolated spots on the way.
So why had they?
Elopement, she'd said. So they must be intending a flight to Scotland. Miles moved suddenly and cursed as the pain made him nauseated again.
His mind remained clear, however, and he could follow their plan. Tyfahan Cross was only half-a-mile from the small port of Barragan. Dunsmore doubtless had a vessel tied up there, ready for a speedy cast off.
By waiting until late, the pair also had the advantage of darkness and the fact that most honest people were home enjoying their supper.
Miles looked quickly at the sky, trying to estimate the passage of time since the attack. Not long. Twilight had just been settling when Dunsmore made his move, and it was scarce true dark yet. With luck, they'd expected his bonds to hold him longer.
He checked and found his pistols were in their holsters. Since no shot had been fired, he assumed they were ready for use.
He untied Argonaut and hauled himself into the saddle, kicking the horse to speed even before his head settled. He was clearheaded enough to steer into the westerly branch of the fork and by then could settle to making best speed, trusting to heaven alone that there were no potholes to bring them down.
His head screeched with every jolt, but that only made him more determined to stop Felicity from boarding ship.
He needed to throttle her.
After he'd beaten her.
After he'd expressed every scrap of fury and betrayal in his soul.
In the hamlet of Kilgloch, a few people peered out warily at the horseman galloping by; and then he had Barragan in sight. It was little more than a string of fishermen's cottages along the shore, with boats bobbing at anchor not far off. But—by God—one fishing boat was tied up at the wharf.
They had not sailed yet!
A small clump of people were talking, and the horses still stood nearby.
When they heard him, heads turned and the group wavered with alarm. A struggle started.
Miles pulled a pistol from its holster, cocked it, and fired as close to the group as he dared. The cluster of people fragmented, one running for the horses, scooping trailing skirts up high.
Felicity.
What the devil was she up to now?
She scrambled into the saddle and headed off along the sho
re.
Miles checked for a moment, unsure which target to follow.
Then Dunsmore ran toward his horse. Kicking Argonaut forward, Miles put himself between Dunsmore and Felicity, his unfired pistol in hand.
The four other men—Denzil, a servant of some kind, and two fishermen—seemed inclined to stay out of trouble.
Dunsmore charged after Felicity as if he would ride straight through Miles.
Miles raised the pistol, completely willing to shoot.
Perhaps Dunsmore realized it, for he pulled his horse to a rearing stop only feet away. "Such a conscientious guardian." But it was close to a snarl.
"Note that fact."
"You can't guard her day and night."
"I won't have to when you're out of Ireland."
Dunsmore calmed his horse and regained his superior manner. "I have no intention of leaving Ireland without my promised bride."
Miles raised the pistol. "I despise you and your actions, Dunsmore. My head feels cracked, and I am entirely out of patience. Board the boat or I'll shoot you."
"My men would kill you!" Dunsmore blustered.
"I doubt it, but at the moment it seems worth the risk."
Dunsmore stared at him, looking like nothing so much as a thwarted child. "You can't do this!"
Miles didn't dignify that with an answer. He nudged Argonaut forward a step or two. In lieu of shooting Dunsmore, beating him to a pulp was extremely attractive.
Perhaps Dunsmore read the intent, for he suddenly wheeled his horse and rode back to the wharf to dismount and shout, "I'll come straight back!" He sounded even more like a spoiled child.
Miles followed slowly. "Not to Barragan, you won't. You're on Clonnagh land. Once I put the word around, you'll not be welcome here. Ned Tooley, is that you?"
The stocky young fisherman rubbed his face uneasily. "It is, your honor, it is."
"I assume the gentleman hired you to take him to Scotland."
"Aye, your honor, he did. I saw no harm in it, God be my witness!"
"Nor was there. Take him to his destination. But," Miles added, "do not bring him back."
The man's eyes brightened, and he winked. "Right you are, sir, and a pleasure it will be."
Miles studied Dunsmore, wondering how Felicity could contemplate tying herself for life to such a specimen. "You won't marry Felicity before her majority, Dunsmore. That, at least, I can promise."
Despite his defeat, the man smirked. "I wouldn't lay odds on that, Cavanagh. Desperate women are capable of a great deal, as you have seen. And she is. Desperate."
Miles fired a pistol ball into the ground inches from the man's foot and then, leaving Dunsmore still dancing and expostulating, headed off down the sand after Felicity.
His head still ached like the devil, but it appeared fury could overwhelm pain.
His traitorous ward was nowhere in sight, but her horse had left hoof prints in the sand. Slowly, because of the uncertain moonlight, he tracked her up Hickey's Gully and back to the road to Kilgloch.
There he banged on a cottage door. "Open up, Molan! It's Cavanagh."
The door opened, and a gray-haired man peered out. "Is it truly you, your honor? Sure and there's devils out tonight!"
"Devils indeed. Has someone ridden past in the last few minutes?"
"Indeed they have, your honor. A lady pretty as Sinead, thrown up by the water and asking the way to Clonnagh."
Devil take it, was she going to ride on to his home as if nothing had happened?
"Thank you, Molan. Good night to you."
"And to you, your honor! But take care, for the Danaan are out tonight!"
Miles cantered off, knowing that already new myths were weaving. Did all magical tales have such sordid origins?
It was a risk to go at speed, for it was too dark now to see clearly, but he did it anyway. He hoped Felicity, on strange territory, would not be as rash. He was proved correct when he saw her ahead, riding at a slow walk.
She twisted to look back, but then turned forward again and resumed her steady pace.
His head throbbing and his jaw tight, Miles eased his pace until he came up with her. "Get off the horse."
"Why? So you can beat me?"
"Don't you deserve it?"
"I don't acknowledge your authority over me." Tears glinted on her face, though. Tears from losing Dunsmore, dammit?
He seized her reins and, when she didn't let go, rapped her knuckles sharply with the handle of his crop. With a hiss, she released her grip.
"This has little to do with authority," he said. "You attacked me, and I will retaliate."
"I never touched you!"
"And I'm not going to touch you. Get off."
She glared at him for a moment, then slid off the horse. "Now, what?"
"Now, you walk. It's only a bit over two miles."
"Oh, I'm quaking. Is this your punishment?"
"It'll do. I seem to remember your boots pinch."
"You bastard!"
"Being lied to, tricked, and knocked over the head brings out the worst in me."
With that, he set both horses in motion again and ignored her. He supposed if she absolutely refused to walk, he'd have to make some arrangement to get her to Clonnagh. She wasn't riding there, though, and one way or another she was going to hurt as much as he did.
Perhaps she realized that, for he heard footsteps behind.
A two-mile walk gave plenty of time to think. Too much time. Miles couldn't reconcile his admiration for Felicity's intelligence and courage with his disgust at her behavior today. The child was no excuse. She was intelligent enough to realize that the world was full of children and that, all in all, Kieran Dunsmore did not have the roughest track under his well-shod feet.
There was some piece of the puzzle missing.
He realized then that he was nursing a pain greater than the throb in his head. It was the pain of knowing that Felicity didn't trust him enough to tell him the whole truth.
He thought he heard an irregularity in her step and stopped to look back. She immediately froze, standing straight, as if unconcerned.
Damn the stubborn, pride-ridden jade.
He headed forward again. Yes, she was limping and there was at least half-a-mile to go.
Was that the key to it all—pride? Was she the type who'd ride to destruction rather than admit a foolishness?
He found it hard to believe.
After another furlong, he stopped again.
Again she froze.
Damnation. He turned in the saddle. "Get back on the horse."
"No."
"Hades, Felicity. For once, just do as I say!"
"No. I deserve to walk."
He dismounted, intending to throw her on if necessary, but moonlight glinted on fresh tears and showed a haunting sorrow in her eyes.
"Why, Felicity?" he asked gently. "Tell me all about this."
"It would do no good. I'm going to marry Rupert Dunsmore."
"No, you are not!"
"Once I'm twenty-one, you cannot stop me."
"Don't lay odds on it."
"How?" she asked, truly distressed.
Unable to help himself, he brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb.
"Like this," he said, and kissed her cold lips.
They surrendered to him, but it was the surrender of exhaustion and helplessness, with no desire in it at all. He kissed her anyway, trying to give her some awareness of her true worth.
"Felicity," he murmured against her chilled and dampened cheek. "You are a treasure. Many men will want you. Choose wisely."
"The choice is made," she whispered. "It was made long since and cannot be changed. Don't do this, Miles. It only makes it worse."
He kissed the dampness from her eyelashes. "I care for you. I cannot see you hurt."
She laughed unsteadily. "Then why am I walking on blistered feet?"
He laughed, too, in the same bittersweet way. "Because you're an infuriatingly willful
creature and my head still aches like the devil."
She reached up and ran her fingers over the back of his head to the bump. "Oh dear."
"That's what happens when you bash someone on the head with a pistol butt."
"If only Denzil had tied you tighter...."
He pushed back and looked at her, to see that she was completely serious. Her regret was that he'd escaped and stopped her elopement. Without a word, he remounted and led the way to his home.
* * *
By the time they arrived at the Clonnagh stables, Felicity was limping badly, but Miles had heard no sound from her. When they stopped this time, however, she eased from foot to foot, clearly trying to find a comfortable spot and failing.
Miles did his best to ignore it.
A couple of grooms came out to welcome him home and take the horses, then Miles led the way up to the house, resisting the temptation to carry her.
He remembered their stop, when he'd swung her into his arms. For a fleeting moment magic had danced between them, magic that—as in most of the ancient tales—had only led to sorrow.
God, it made no sense to his poor aching head.
They entered by a side door that passed near to the aromatic kitchens. "We're late for dinner," he remarked. "I suppose you want to change."
"Yes, I suppose I do." But she said it numbly, as if she'd agree to walk off a cliff if invited.
He guided her into the spacious hall and toward the curving staircase, but at that moment, a door opened and his mother appeared.
"Miles! At last. We were concerned. And Felicity. Welcome to Clonnagh, my dear." Felicity accepted the embrace with good grace, but Lady Aideen did not miss her distress.
"Why, whatever has happened? You look exhausted. And Miles, you look none too clever yourself."
She'd been followed out by five dogs, two of them belonging to Miles. He returned their greetings as he said, "We had a little run-in with some ne'er-do-wells, Mother. They tried to kidnap Felicity. I think she'd be happy to eat in her room tonight and have a good rest."
"Kidnap! My gracious! Yes, of course you must rest, you poor child. Come along."
Felicity resisted the gentle urging, however, and turned back to Miles.