FIELDS OF FIRE
Carol Caldwell
Prologue
March 1770
Northwest Coast of Ireland
“And you better bloody well not forget the consequences.”
James Somerville ignored the threat from the man at his side and wrapped his cloak securely to protect himself against the chilly mist. He was thankful that the hood hid most of his face. He’d kept up his end of the bargain this night. Now all he wanted was to be left the hell alone.
As usual, they had picked a moonless night along an obscure section of rocky coastline to do the deed. He watched the casks being carried to six currachs that bobbed gently in the quiet inlet. The boats transported the goods from the shallow waters of the inlet to a fishing barge that waited far offshore. He didn’t know what happened to the whiskey then, but that didn’t matter to him—his part of it was over.
James turned in the direction of his wagon, positioned along a narrow passageway that led to the shore. “I’m leaving.”
“Nay,” ordered his companion. “Wait until the currachs have cleared the inlet.”
“Is this truly necessary?”
“’Tis, and you know why,” the man answered.
“Aye. I suppose I do.” James stared at the dark shapes in the water, paddling away from the shoreline. He thought of his father. He wondered if, during his thirty years at distilling, he was ever tempted to smuggle illicitly made whiskey. He’d loved his old da, but the man was highly opinionated. He’d had an answer for everything. If it were possible, his da would be telling him from the grave what he should have done. Well, it wasn’t possible, and as far as James was concerned, smuggling was the only way to survive in these hard times.
“You know the next location. Be there,” the man commanded as the last currach passed beyond the cliffs of the inlet. He walked to where his horse was tethered, and he mounted and galloped off.
James waited until he could no longer hear the horses’ hoof beats. Alone, he climbed atop the empty wagon and guided his two-horse team away from the secluded spot. It had been another successful night. Sometime tomorrow, he’d return to Sorrel House and Blackwater Distillery where his family, who were all that mattered to him, waited for his safe return from what they believed was yet another business trip.
Chapter 1
July 1770
Dublin, Ireland
“Smuggling?”
“By God, lower your voice, Jalene.” Wil Somerville nervously glanced around the Kilronan House dining parlor. “It’s not a subject for everyone to hear.”
“It’s not a subject I wish to discuss at all,” Jalene Somerville retorted, though she obliged him by speaking more quietly. “The Blackwater Distillery is a reputable operation. James would never do anything to jeopardize our family’s business.” She paused. A serving lass appeared at their table, placed a pot of tea and a plate of scones in front of them, and left.
“How could you accuse my brother of smuggling?” She angrily asked her best friend and distant cousin.
The usually jovial Wil shifted in his chair. His gaze implored her to believe him. Dark red curls poked comically out from beneath his black wig near his ears, as if to mock the troubled expression on his freckled face.
“It’s only because I care for you that I tell you this. I’m certainly not about to confront James. We’re not exactly old chums.” He reached for her hand. She pulled it away.
Wil was more serious than she’d ever seen him. She still had to defend her brother. “Aye. From the time the two of you were lads playing pranks on each other, you never got along. It’s easy to believe the worst of someone, especially someone you have no liking for. You’re wrong, Wil. I’ll hear no more of it,” she hoped her words would put an end to this discussion, although she was puzzled about why Wil would tell such a lie. He was her friend.
Yet, she as well had lied. James thought she was visiting their aunt in Dundalk. In fact, she had journeyed unchaperoned to Dublin to meet Wil. True, his cryptic note had said it was important, but that didn’t lessen her guilt for deceiving James.
Wil stood. “I’ll take you back to the inn now.”
“I’d prefer to stay.”
“I’d prefer to leave,” he said testily.
“Then do so, Wil. I want to be alone to think.”
“You can think all you like when you’re back in your room. Now gather your belongings so we can go.”
“I won’t. Leave me be, Wil Somerville.”
“Mother Mary! I’ll not leave a lady such as yourself alone here. For the last time, get your cloak and packages.”
“For the last time, I’ll not be leaving with you, Wil. If you give me any more anguish over it, I’ll call for assistance from the proprietor.”
Wil glared at her. After a few moments, he said, “You win, dear cousin. I’ll pick you up at the Eye of the Swan tonight. Be ready to go at nine.”
She stared at him, unable to reply.
“It’s not good news, I know, but I’ll prove it to you. Be ready.” He walked over to the side chair they’d set their coats on, and yanked his cloak from underneath hers. Her straw hat and the package of toffee she had purchased earlier from a street vendor fell to the floor. Wil set her belongings none too gently back on the chair. He stomped from the dining parlor.
With blurred vision, she watched Wil leave. Several tears rolled down her cheeks onto her gown. She searched her satchel and found a handkerchief. The cloth had a small black swan embroidered on one of the corners. She dabbed at her eyes. What if Wil was right about James? These past few months she had failed in her effort to balance the books; cost for supplies indicated there should be more stock in inventory than there actually was. When she asked James about it, he dismissed her fears as miscalculation on her part. He’d reassured her that eventually she’d discover the error. Now she wondered, but refused to doubt James. Will was mistaken.
More restless than hungry, she reached for a scone and was munching on it when a gentleman approached the table.
“Beg your pardon, madam. I saw you were dining alone. I wondered if you might enjoy some company?”
The gentleman was dressed in varying shades of grey, from the ribbon tied to the queue on his powdered wig to his silk stockings and silver-buckled shoes. He motioned to the chair across from her. He was not unattractive; his boldness, however, exceeded propriety. He’d made advances to her as if she were a loose woman. Though he deserved a sharp set-down in return, she politely answered, “Thank you, sir. I am quite well on my own.”
“Surely you wouldn’t deny a lonely heart company. A lady alone in Dublin could only be after one thing. I am more than capable of remedying that,” he boasted.
“Sir!” she said. “I assure you, you’re quite wrong.” She examined him more closely. His cleft chin looked cruel, out of place on his handsome face. His paunch caused his velvet waistcoat to fit snugly around the middle. When he moved to the chair across from her and sat down, his grey eyes held a challenge that sent a warning chill through her.
“Please, sir, you mistake my character. If you don’t leave, I’ll scream this dining parlor down.” She got up. He stood as well, grabbed her arm, and held it tightly.
“Sit,” he ordered, pointing to the chair. He reached inside his waistcoat, withdrew a pocket pistol and put it on the table.
Her mouth moved, but her voice failed to work. He released her, and they both sat back down.
“Now let’s do this properly. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Cory Donnegan. What is your name? You’ve got the prettiest amber-colored eyes I’ve ever seen.”
She tried hard not to show fear; although her heart pounded so fast she was certain it could be seen flapping beneath her gown. As long
as they stayed in the Kilronan House dining parlor, she had a chance to escape him. She would think of something. She had to.
“My name doesn’t matter, Mr. Donnegan, because I don’t care to know you. You can’t shoot me in public. You’d take a chance at getting caught,” she said, more boldly than she’d meant to do.
Her words didn’t faze him. He settled in the chair and stroked his chin. His other hand covered the pistol. “Look around you, my dear. Do you think the few people who are here would be fast enough to secure me, or help you? I think not. Give me your name, and no more nonsense. Whether you like it or not, I want to know you.”
She scanned the dining parlor. He was right. What had happened to all the people who’d crowded the place just a half-hour ago? A few serving lasses chatted as they cleared tables near the back of the room. The only other people in the place were an elderly man and woman seated quite a distance from them. She lifted her cup to her lips for a sip of tea to calm herself. Donnegan, she decided wouldn’t hesitate to use his weapon.
Abruptly, he grabbed the pistol and hid it underneath the table. She knew it was directed at her. “Your name,” he said.
She jerked the cup she held and spilled its contents onto the table. “Jalene Somerville,” she blurted.
“Somerville? Any relation to the Somervilles of Blackwater Distillery?” he asked as though he were making pleasant conversation.
“Aye,” she said. “Why?”
“Who is the gentleman you were talking to earlier?” he asked, ignoring her question.
She didn’t want to say anything further, especially after what Wil claimed.
He stroked his chin. “Naturally, I’m intrigued by a beautiful woman involved with the man who has information that belongs to me.”
She was certain the smirk on his face was in response to a look of stupefaction on her own. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.
“Who is he? What’s his name?” Donnegan demanded.
She was sure he would use the pistol if provoked. He couldn’t kill her, though, until he was satisfied the information she gave him was the truth. She replied, “I don’t know. He approached me as you just have. He was more courteous when I declined his company.”
He shoved his chair back with such force it toppled the one behind him. “Get up. You’re coming with me.” He stood. “You’re lying,” he said, “but ‘tis no matter. My man and I observed your tête-à-tête from the back tables. My man followed your gentleman out the door. We’ll see how easily his tongue loosens when he learns we’ve abducted you.” He reached into his wrist-frills and pulled out a large lace-trimmed handkerchief to conceal the pistol. “Move.”
Although chances of escaping him now were slim, she knew they would be less once she was outside. She stalled for time. She smoothed the skirt of her fawn-colored day gown, fluffed the ecru lace that trimmed its sleeves and stood. Perhaps if she screamed or dashed away, she’d escape the man. Nay, he’d shoot her—possibly kill her. With no recourse except to do as he said, she grabbed her cloak and the package of toffee from the chair. Donnegan motioned her towards the door.
As they neared the entryway, she stopped. “Wait. I forgot my hat,” she lied. She’d left it as an excuse to leave his side and run from him in the opposite direction as fast as her legs would carry her.
“Leave it.” He grabbed her elbow.
“It’s my favorite. I must ...”
“Say no more, woman.”
His grip tightened on her elbow. He shoved her forward. The few patrons who remained paid no attention to them or his rough treatment of her. For now, at least, her fate lay in his hands.
* * * *
Taylor Traynor stood concealed in the shadows of the buildings across the street, watching the door to the Kilronan House. The damned pillow he had tucked under his breeches and waistcoat so he’d appear pot-bellied was making him sweat. The fake eye patch cut his vision in half, and his all-too-bushy beard irritated the hell out of him. After days of following Cory Donnegan in and out of taverns, gaming rooms, and inns, he still had no clues as to whether the man was the ringleader of an illicit distillery operation. He was beginning to think that his government sources had misinformed him. If it had not been for Colonel Hume Cahill, who’d personally requested that he take this assignment, he would have been home at Knights’ Head, enjoying a brandy by the fire, or the company of a woman, or both.
He didn’t regret that he no longer served full-time as captain in the military. The occasional assignments that Hume, his friend and former commander, asked him to take were more than enough. Normally, he looked forward to the break from managing his estates, but this time his heart wasn’t in it. Smugglers peddled illegal whiskey just as fervently as they did linen and wool. Christ! Most of the coastline was a haven for smuggling. If the Revenue Service called on the entire military, it still couldn’t suppress illicit distilleries, or prevent smuggling. It irked him that the authorities concerned themselves more about the loss of revenue to the state than the social problems created by the great consumption of spirits, both illegal and legal.
Every class of society was affected; women as well as men imbibed. Cotter and gentry alike, more times than not, crossed over the dividing line from moderation to excess. The only difference was that the gentry could well afford it, while many a peasant’s family went hungry. Within each class, such behavior was tolerated by their peers—the gentry, because of who they were, and the cotters, because of who they were not. He heaved a tired sigh, and wondered if he should wait any longer or go inside Kilronan House. Then Donnegan stepped out of the establishment. To Taylor’s surprise, a comely lady now accompanied him. What captured his attention first was the fact that she wore no hat and her sparkling sandy-colored hair was pulled back in a simple knot at the nape. Most women in Dublin wore their hair in a more fashionable, more elaborate style, with extravagant ornamentation and ringlets arranged quite high on their heads. This woman also appeared stiff and unyielding, totally unlike the tavern women he usually saw hovering over Donnegan. He watched the couple travel down the street when he suddenly recalled Donnegan’s overbearing manner towards a female companion the day before. It occurred to him that this woman had been coerced into leaving with Donnegan. The idea that Donnegan might not interest the lady pleased him for some reason, but also made him concerned for her safety. He would have to find out if she was all right, and, if necessary, assist her.
* * * *
“That’s it. Just keep walking.”
Donnegan clutched Jalene’s arm with his left hand as he guided her down the street. His right hand rested on the pistol in his waistcoat pocket. “My driver has the carriage parked around the corner in the alley.”
Her mind raced, searching for a way out of her predicament. As they made their way along the street she nonchalantly dropped the package of toffee, hoping someone would notice her action, and be kind enough to return the parcel to her. She didn’t know what she would do next, but it would be her only opportunity to get help. The few people on the street failed to see her predicament. What had happened to the crowds who earlier strolled the streets? They most likely had returned to their homes after enjoying high tea, leaving her alone with this villain.
As they turned into the alley, she heard the scurry of footsteps behind them. Donnegan did, too. They both turned to see who approached.
“I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to alarm you,” said a tall, bearded man with a black patch over one eye. His blond wig contrasted with his darker beard. Huge-bellied though he was, the man showed no signs of breathlessness from racing down the street.
“I believe this is yours,” he told Jalene, handing her the package.
Donnegan put his left arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer to him. At his touch, she stiffened and stared at the brown paper bundle, but didn’t take it. This man was her only chance. She had to stall for time and make him aware that she was being held against her wishes.
“Thank y
ou, sir,” she said, hoping he could see well enough from his one good eye to read the distress in her face. “Perhaps my friend should carry it for me, since I seem to be unable to hold on to it.”
She held her breath while the stranger handed Donnegan the package. Donnegan didn’t reach to take it. Instead, he moved behind her with his right hand buried in his waistcoat pocket.
“Certainly, my dear.” Donnegan lifted his left arm over her shoulder and raised his open hand to receive the bundle.
The bearded man’s face took on a puzzled look. He clumsily fumbled with the package and dropped it at her captor’s feet. As Donnegan reached to pick it up, the stranger charged like a bull, head down, aiming at Donnegan’s midsection.
Donnegan fired his pocket pistol through the velvet material of his waistcoat. The shot grazed the bearded man’s shoulder, but failed to slow his attack. His head struck Donnegan in the stomach, knocking him flat on his back. The bearded man rolled Donnegan over onto his stomach, and shoved his nose to the cobblestones in the alley. He pinned Donnegan’s arms behind him. Then he half-leaned, half-sat against him.
“It’s a bit late to be asking, but was this fellow bothering you?” the man said, and grinned up at her.
She stared back at him in astonishment. His wig was tilted in a lopsided position on his head, and his enormous stomach looked like it had shifted underneath his overcoat. The white of his one good eye and of his splendid teeth sparkled against his dark bushy face. He was the most unlikely of rescuers. Just the same, she was happy he came along.
“Aye, he threatened to harm me if I didn’t go with him. I’m grateful to you. Thank you.” She gave him the best smile she could produce under the circumstances, and relaxed a bit, putting aside her fears as to what might have happened if he hadn’t come along.
“One of my favorite pastimes is rescuing fair maidens from the hands of evildoers,” he said, applying more pressure against the pinned Donnegan.
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