Sister of Rogues

by Cynthia Breeding

  Keir shook his head, although he didn’t know if Finley saw the gesture since they were standing behind a building where the street lamp didn’t shine. “Nothing that concerns our cause.”

  Finley grinned, white teeth flashing in the dark. “Then it must be a woman.”

  “Aye,” Kier replied, momentarily lapsing to his childhood brogue. Or maybe it was because he was thinking of Fiona’s soft Scottish burr. How easy it would be to forget proper English grammar with her. For that matter, forget talking completely…but he wasn’t about to let his mind take him where his body wanted to go. “That’s the truth of it times four.”

  His friend whistled. “Ye have four women on your mind?”

  “Aye,” Kier said again, “but not how you are thinking.”

  “I’ve the time for the story and a pint or two.”

  “I wish I could, but I need to get back, before the hounds of hell are unleashed.”

  “That bad, is it?”

  Briefly, Kier told him what had occurred that day. “I find myself disagreeing more and more with the methods used at the asylum, even though the women staying at my house may have problems.”

  Finley smiled. “I’m thinking the wee hellcat ye called Fiona might be a bit more of a problem than the others.”

  “She does not act worse than the others.”

  “’Tis not what I’m saying.”

  “I treat her the same as I would anyone staying in my home,” Kier said gruffly.

  Finley’s grin broadened. “Ye may treat her the same, but ye cannot be denying what is in your heart.”

  “My heart?” Kier almost choked. “Are ye—you—daft, man? Or did that time in France make ye—you—go soft?”

  “The French do like to put a flourish on their words,” Finley said amiably, “but ’tis the Irish who brandish their hearts without fear.”

  “My heart is just fine inside my chest.”

  “Ummph.” Finley eyed him. “Ye should not judge all women by Lady Litton.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that conniving woman or what she did.”

  “Fair enough. But I’ve known ye for five years. The fire went out of ye when Lady…when the woman left. Just now, I saw the spark of it back in your eyes when ye spoke of your wee hellcat.”

  “She is not my hellcat.” Kier ran his fingers through his hair, wishing thoughts of riding the wee hellcat in his bed didn’t keep intruding. The more he saw of Fiona’s fiery spirit though, the stronger the fantasy grew. “According to the warden, the lady is so deep in grief for her dead husband that she cannot even admit she was married.”

  “Are ye sure of that?’

  “She denies being married.”

  “’Tis not what I meant. Are ye sure she is a lunatic?”

  “Why would she be here if she was not?”

  Finley shrugged. “Sometimes a person is put away for another reason.”

  “Like what?”

  “I do not know. Just be sure ye have all the facts.”

  All the facts. By St. Patrick. Kier wasn’t sure of anything concerning his lovely wee guest. And that was the truth of it.

  Wesley Alton smiled at the stone-faced guard, not caring the man only grunted in response. It spoke well of the asylum that its employees didn’t cater to gratuitous gestures. A feeling of fulfillment swept over him as he briskly walked into the warden’s office and took a seat.

  All in all, the week since he’d arrived in Dublin with the MacLeod bitch had been extremely satisfying. What little of the English gentry that remained in Dublin since Parliament had been dissolved were more than happy to accept him into both the Kildare Street Club and Daly’s. They even hailed him as a war hero when he had—most modestly after subtle manipulation of conversation—mentioned that he’d been the French spy, Gerard Fontaine, who had helped Arthur Wellesley win the battle of Vitoria. Wesley had conveniently left out the fact that he had been caught while spying for Napoleon but managed to convince his captors he was on the English side of the war.

  Using the alias Gerard Fontaine would separate him from Walter Avery and any connection to the asylum or the woman who was an inmate there. Yes, all in all, Wesley was most pleased with himself. Once his visit with the warden was over, he planned to spend the evening at one of the clubs, celebrating.

  Although Daly’s had fallen into some disrepair since Kildare’s had become more popular, Wesley preferred its old elegance. The gilt on the chairs was worn, the aurora-silk seat covers faded, but the marble chimneypieces were intact, a symbol of its one-time grandeur. He reveled in the refined atmosphere—French cognac served in heavy crystal snifters amid the hazy smoke of expensive cigars. This was his rightful world. He had been meant to hold the title and lands that his father’s young widow inherited, except that Ian MacLeod had foiled Wesley’s plans by marrying the woman.

  But he would have his revenge. MacLeod’s sister would be only a fragmented shell when Wesley was through with her.

  He smoothed the fine wool of his frockcoat, admiring the softness of the weave that contrasted drastically to the scratchy, cheap clothing he’d worn in London. He was entitled to the finer things in life—and Dublin was a city ready to be exploited.

  “I did not think I would see you so soon,” Mr. Kelly said as he entered the office. “Is something wrong?”

  Wesley didn’t bother to stand, although he assumed a concerned expression. “I wanted to inquire about my daughter before I left for France. It will be a good fortnight before I can return and I wanted to check on her.”

  “Ah, yes, you said you did business in France,” Mr. Kelly said as he took a seat behind the desk. “Fiona seems to be doing fine.”

  “Fine?” Wesley didn’t want to hear fine. He wanted to hear a report of Fiona rebelling and subsequently being beaten.

  “Well, relatively speaking. She did push a matron a few days ago.”

  Wesley shook his head in mock despair. “I am afraid my daughter has quite a temper, but it has gotten worse with…with the present situation. What kind of punishment did she receive?”

  Mr. Kelly searched through papers on his desk. “She was confined to her room.”

  “Without food?”

  The warden glanced at the note. “I believe she was allowed to eat.”

  “Was she beaten?”

  He shook his head. “Mr. O’Reilly frowns on beating women.”

  “Who is O’Reilly?”

  “He is the gentleman at whose home your daughter is lodged.”

  “Home? What kind of home?”

  “A residential place just down the road.”

  “My daughter is not here?” Wesley felt rage beginning to build. “Why is she not in a cell here in the asylum? She needs the treatments you mentioned. All of them.”

  “Rest assured, Mr. Avery. Your daughter is well-cared for. A trained matron—one who has had experience in such places—oversees her. I am alerted to any situation that arises.”

  Wesley didn’t want assurance. “I prefer that she be moved into the asylum.”

  “At the moment, the women’s ward is full. Also, when a woman of…substance is admitted, we try to give her better accommodations. You are, after all, paying for them.”

  “Can’t you put her in a cell by herself?”

  Mr. Kelly frowned. “The only cells we have open are in the men’s wards. Surely, you wouldn’t want that?”

  Barely managing to control his anger, Wesley rose. “We will discuss this again when I return from France.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Kelly laid the paperwork down and rose as well. “Good day.”

  Nothing was good about the day. Not anymore. Wesley fumed as he stomped off the grounds, not acknowledging the guard this time. Why wasn’t the sly little bitch not chained to the wall in a cold cell like he had been in Bedlam? Damn it all. He
’d been treated like a rabid animal until he’d managed to escape. Damn it all. He’d expected to see Fiona wild-eyed and already half-crazed. Instead, she was being kept like a damn guest in someone’s house?

  Maybe the MacLeod bitch had whored herself into better accommodations? Wesley’s disposition brightened a bit. If that was what she’d done, it would be just another step to her total ruin. Men raped whores…he’d done enough of that himself. The act wouldn’t be pleasant. Maybe it was just as well he’d made up the bit about a trip to France. Two weeks of the little whore being used by men like that guard would be pure justice and it would give Wesley time to think…and plan.

  Because the current situation would not do. It would not do at all.

  Chapter Six

  Even though Ada continued to glare at Fiona whenever they were in the same room, retribution for pushing the matron had not come…yet. Fiona fully anticipated it would at a time when Kier was gone. For the past several days, he had been home, although he’d stayed mainly in the library. She assumed he took his meals there as well, since he had made no appearance at the midday lunch. Their evening meals—a light repast of bread and cheese—were brought to their rooms.

  This afternoon, she was alone in the courtyard—save for a frowning Seamus standing guard at the door. Lona was still recovering, Dulcee preferred to pray—which was how Fiona thought of it rather than talking to angels—in the small room that served as a chapel, and Kathleen had declared it was too cold.

  Fiona relished her time in the courtyard, even though it was somewhat in disrepair—the rhododendrons needed cutting back and the chrysanthemums lining the uneven cobblestone walkways needed trimming. She turned her face towards the meager warmth of a late October sun and tried to ignore the coldness of the stone bench seeping through her flimsy gown. At least the women had been given shawls. They weren’t as warm as a Scottish tartan, but wrapping one around her shoulders warded off the chill of an autumn breeze. She missed her freedom wandering the shores of the Loch Linnhe and roaming the hills—even encountering the Crone of the Hills who made herself visible only when she felt like it. Fiona could use the ancient Seer’s help right now, but Ireland was far away from Scotland. Fiona ached suddenly for the majestic mountains near Glenfinnan. The heather in the glens would have faded, but the burns would be running clear and splashes of yellow gorse would still adorn the foothills. This was the time of year—before the snow came—when fluffy white clouds floated across skies brightly azure during the day and sapphire dark at night.

  Sapphire dark…like Kier’s eyes. Fiona remembered how intense his gaze had been the day she had so foolishly spoken of swords and knives…and how his eyes had glinted dark blue when he’d smiled. Even now, her breathing hitched as she remembered that quick flash of strong, white teeth contrasting with his ebony hair. She should have taken offense since she knew he was laughing at her weapons claim, but somehow she got the idea he was a man who didn’t laugh much—and she’d felt that sense of melancholy hanging over him like a dark cloak lift momentarily. Maybe the next time she had the opportunity to talk to him…

  “Time’s up!” Seamus said, ending the beginning of her fantasy. Fiona sighed and stood and then leaned down to pick a few dead leaves off a mum near the bench. Perhaps if she offered to trim the plants, she’d be allowed more time outside? She slid her fingers lightly over a bright gold blossom and then felt her eyes widen even as she tried to hide her surprise.

  Slowly, petals unfolded, becoming floating golden hair as the face of a faerie emerged from the style. Her brown eyes twinkled as green sepals formed into extended hands.

  “Welcome to my garden,” she whispered and then faded away, the flower becoming just a flower again.

  Fiona straightened. Perhaps the Crone of the Hills had heard her plea.

  From his position inside the closed-off tower, Kier peered through the arrow slit into the courtyard where Fiona sat, face uplifted toward the sun. He had deliberately avoided having contact with her over the last several days, although he had stayed in the castle to make sure Ada didn’t seek revenge by sending Fiona for a treatment at the asylum. Lona was just now getting her strength back. Kier didn’t want any of his resident guests to be put in that position, least of all Fiona.

  Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? Even now, he was acting like a green school lad, spying on her from the safety of shadows. After his experience with Lady Litton, he should know not to be enamored by a beautiful face—treachery had lurked behind Jane’s. Trickery that had cost him his entire financial savings and nearly his life itself. Kier had believed everything the Englishwoman had told him. He couldn’t afford to make that mistake again.

  Fiona contradicted everything in the warden’s report both in words and actions, but her father had committed her for her own safety because she was delusional.

  Wasn’t she?

  Her request for weapons was absurd—her offer to actually spar with him a fanciful flight from reality. Kier couldn’t imagine such a delicate creature who looked half-Fae—except he didn’t believe in faeries—could even lift a claymore or a much lighter broadsword for that matter. The idea proved she was insane.

  Didn’t it?

  Or maybe he was the one who was going mad. Since that bizarre conversation in the library, he had thought of little else but accepting her strange offer to spar—especially the wager part. Fiona didn’t have anything material worth bartering. Had she been offering her person if she lost? Kier had been approached by enough widows to know many of them missed the coupling. Maybe Mrs. MacLeod’s mind didn’t remember her husband, but her body did. Of course, that didn’t give him the right to take advantage. Still, the thought of having Fiona naked beneath him in bed, delighted little moans emerging from her throat as he lightly nibbled an earlobe, rained soft kisses down her neck, teased her mouth with his until she writhed and begged for more had him in a constant state of being painfully hard—which was why he’d spent the last few days holed up in the library.

  “What are ye watching?”

  Kier nearly jumped out of his skin at Finley’s voice. “You should not sneak up on a friend like that.”

  Finley arched a brow. “I didn’t. Ye were so engrossed a herd of Connemara ponies could have galloped right past ye.”

  Probably true. He had been so preoccupied with watching Fiona that Kier had forgotten he’d asked Finley to meet him. “I have a list of some men who are interested in divesting ourselves from the English yoke. Once you read the names, we will burn the list. Safer that way.” He moved away from the narrow window. “I will get it for you. Look it over and we can meet here again tonight to pay a visit to at least one or two of them.”

  Finley took over Kier’s position by the window and whistled. “’Tis that your wee hellcat out there?”

  “She is not mine,” Kier managed to say as he made his way to the desk in the alcove. He didn’t think he sounded very emphatic about it though. He had to quit fantasizing about the woman.

  “Aye, well. ’Tis just as well then,” Finley answered, still looking out the slit as Kier returned with the paper.

  Kier felt an unwanted surge of jealousy flash through him. Was Finley interested in Fiona? He had better not be. “Fiona is under my protection if I need to remind you.”

  Finley stepped back and grinned. “Ye don’t, so lay your hackles down. I’ve got me own women.” He tilted his head toward the window. “That one is not needing your protection, I’m thinking.”

  Kier frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “She was speakin’ to a faerie just now.”

  “For the love of St. Patrick. Did you have a few drams of whiskey before you came here? The fae are not any more real than leprechauns.”

  Finley shrugged. “I have not seen a leprechaun, but me grandmother—rest her soul in heaven—always had a faerie or two flittering about. ’Twas a faerie out there talking
to your hellcat. She popped out of the flower she did.”

  Kier stared at Finley, wondering if everyone around him was going mad.

  Lona attended lunch the next day, but it wasn’t until they were out in the courtyard for their exercise that Fiona was able to talk to her since she needed to take care they were not overheard. She was taking a chance on asking Lona if she’d ever seen the faerie. She hoped the other woman wouldn’t burst out with something totally illogical. Fiona didn’t need to add seeing wee folk to the list of things Kier thought was wrong with her.

  “Can ye tell me about the ghost ye see?”

  Lona looked over her shoulder frantically, eyes shifting back and forth in panic.

  “’Tis all right.” Fiona kept her voice low and soothing as they walked. “Seamus cannae hear us if we keep our voices down.”

  Slowly, Lona turned her startled gaze to Fiona. “Ye believe me?”

  Fiona smiled. “Why nae? The Highlands are full of such stories.”

  Lona relaxed her shoulders a little. “’Tis a lady who wails.”

  “Can ye actually see her?”

  “Not well. A white mist surrounds her.”

  “Do ye ken who she is?”

  “I overheard Ada talkin’ to Seamus once.” Lona’s expression turned sly. “They were outside my door whisperin’. Ada had the giggles, she did.”

  Fiona blinked. She had a hard time imagining the matron even smiling. “Did ye hear what they said?”

  “I did.” Lona winked. “’Twas something about meetin’ later in her room.”

  A tryst? Big Ada and the stone-faced guard? It couldn’t be. Fiona studied Lona. Maybe the woman was crazin after all. “Did ye hear anything else?”

  “Aye. Sure. Seamus said he heard footsteps near the closed-off tower, but when he checked, no one was there. Ada told him it was probably the O’Reilly ghost.”

  Fiona perked her ears. “The O’Reilly ghost?” Her room was on the back wall adjacent to that tower. She’d seen two shadowy figures seemingly emerge from the wall.

  “Aye. Have ye not heard Erin or Brena speak of it?”