The Sword of the Banshee

by Amanda Hughes

  “Where is the lady of the house?” one of them bellowed.

  “I don’t know, sir,” they heard Mr. Schumacher plead in broken English. “She was here when I retired for the night.”

  India and Quinn listened as the men searched the sitting room. They thundered through the room, their footsteps approaching then fading as they disappeared down the hall and up the stairs.

  India was pressed so closely to Quinn that she could feel every breath he took. She could smell his musky scent, and feel his heart hammering against her breasts. Quinn was even more aware of India’s body, the softness of her flesh and her warm breath on his neck. He had denied his feelings for her so long that he could feel himself losing control. He pressed his eyes shut, trying to gather strength against the urge to run his hands all over her. Nevertheless the alcohol clouded his judgment, and he brushed her ear with his lips. A bolt of desire shot through India, and she drew back abruptly.

  Calleigh gripped her with his good arm and whispered, “You must be quiet.” His breathing quickened as he clutched her shoulders and buried his lips into her neck. India tried to step away, but she was pinned too closely against the closet wall.

  “Don’t move,” he murmured. Quinn covered her mouth with his lips.

  India did not want to feel passion for this man. She tried to fight back the desire as it mounted. Colm had tried to coax a reaction from her years ago, but it was not something she would share. Nevertheless something inside her allowed Quinn to continue. He ran his hand down her back and over her hips, squeezing her flesh. She flooded with desire for him. Losing control, she moved her arms up around his neck allowing him to run his lips over the tops of her breasts and pull her hips to his loins.

  Suddenly, they heard voices. “Over here!” someone called from the sitting room.

  Quinn pulled back from India, his chest heaving, and his shirt soaked with perspiration. They listened, not moving, trying to calm their breathing. They heard glass break and books crash to floor as the Loyalists searched for the door to the hidden room.

  “He said it was right here. God damn it! Break it down!” someone ordered.

  They began to hammer the bookcase in the sitting room with the butts of their muskets, kicking and breaking the paneling away. There were several loud cracks as the wood splintered. The men burst into the hidden room wielding their weapons. India and Quinn held their breath, not moving a muscle.

  “There is no question he has been here,” barked Durham. “Quickly, down those stairs,” he demanded of the others.

  India and Quinn waited for a long time, for what seemed like hours until no sounds were heard from the Loyalists or the servants. Cautiously, they emerged from the hidden closet.

  “I knew it,” Quinn muttered, looking around. “One of the servants has been spying.”

  In two strides, he was at the cellar stairs making sure there was no one secreted there. “All clear,” he declared. He looked over his shoulder at India and said “You better have a story ready for the servants.”

  India nodded, her legs feeling weak. Quinn smiled and strode up to her, ready to pull her back into his arms, but when he looked into her eyes. They were black and lifeless. He stopped abruptly, searching her face. “What is it?”

  India did not reply. Instead, she began to straighten her clothing. Calleigh stared at her. He was thunderstruck. She had been completely unaffected by his caresses. Hurt and rejection warmed his temper. For the first time, in his life his passion had been fueled by something deeper than lust and he felt injured. He wanted to lash out at her. If he could not reach her with passion, he would reach her with pain.

  He brushed his coat off casually and said with a chuckle, “Ah well, I had a bet with the boys that I could thaw the Ice Queen. It looks like I failed.” He raised his hand and patted her cheek. “Thank you though, darlin’. It was a sheer delight tryin’.”

  Calleigh put a finger to his forehead and saluted India, disappearing down the cellar stairs. India stared after him, her expression unchanged.

  Chapter 27

  In June, the Congress announced the appointment of General George Washington as Commander in Chief of the newly formed Continental Army. The American Revolution had begun.

  After convincing the servants and local Loyalists that she was out for a walk the night the house was ransacked, India went back to masquerading as the Widow Allen. By day, she was the conservative Irish Protestant aristocrat, haughty and elitist; by night, she was a hard-headed impartial leader of a rebellion.

  All through the summer and fall of 1775, she toiled, sending and receiving messages, training spies, and supervising the placement of moles within the British Army. By July 1776, the operation was in full force, and India was busier than ever coordinating the activities of her long list of contacts. Occasionally, she would see Quinn at a meeting or consult with him on raids, but their interactions were minimal and strained. He no longer came to the house, avoiding his Brandywine home completely. India was unsure of his whereabouts most of the time and grateful for his absence. The man stirred feelings in her she did not understand. On one occasion, Alden Quincy told her that he was spending much of his time in the Colony of South Carolina, and the distance suited her completely.

  Calleigh’s experience was different. He thought distance would cool his ardor for Lady Allen, but instead, it fueled his desire. She robbed his peace of mind like no other woman he had ever known, and he threw himself into a variety of liaisons to distract himself. Yet these women were merely carnal diversions, and his hunger for India increased. He could not rest until her saw her again.

  The opportunity presented itself midsummer. Calleigh had been busy for months conducting raids around Camp Charlotte, South Carolina when, thanks to good intelligence, the patriots procured a naval victory. At last, he found time to return to the Brandywine Valley with a surprise for India.

  The minute Calleigh returned home, he called a meeting at the Quincy barn, the location where India had originally encountered the Revolutionaries. He said it was to be a small meeting, but all officers must be in attendance.

  That evening, Mr. Pickle’s lessons ran late with Phineas. It was not unusual for him to come in the evening to tutor the boy, but on this occasion, lessons ran even later than normal.

  “The boy has a sharp mind,” Mr. Pickles said with a sigh to India, adjusting his spectacles. “But his desire for academics is low.”

  Phineas rolled his eyes up to look at India.

  She gave the boy a hard look then turned to Mr. Pickles. “I agree. He has but two loves, horses and pigeons. If he channeled half that energy into academics, we would have a scholar.”

  Phineas looked down at his feet longing to be in the stables.

  “We will discuss this later. I have a meeting,” she said to the boy.

  He jumped up and bolted from the room, the door slamming behind him.

  “Before you go, Lady Allen, I have a letter to translate for you.”

  “Oh,” said India, looking at the grandfather clock in the sitting room. She was torn. It was time for her to go, but she had been anxiously awaiting news from the Singers regarding the transport of British supplies. “Yes—thank you,” she said reluctantly, sitting down. She swept the skirt of her green riding habit under the desk sitting down next to Mr. Pickles.

  It was a slow and laborious task translating the document from Yiddish to English, but in less than hour, they were done. After seeing Mr. Pickles to the door, India stopped at the hall mirror to adjust her tricorne hat as Phineas saddled her mare. She rushed down the steps, mounted, and set off at a gallop for the meeting with her horse kicking up dust behind her.

  When she arrived, it was well under way. The barn was dark, bringing back memories of her first visit there almost two years ago. Candlelight flooded one end of the structure, and she wondered why they had reverted back to the old ways.

  India walked quickly toward the candlelight, still panting from her rapid ride. A
s she drew closer, she realized that this was a small meeting and, except for one person standing in front of the light being interviewed, all the officers were behind the candelabrums. She stopped in front of the desk near the stranger.

  “Lady Allen, you’re late,” she heard Calleigh say from behind the candles. Her heart jumped at the sound of his voice. It had been months since she had heard him speak, and it sent an odd thrill through her.

  “Yes,” she said straining to see beyond the candles. “Please forgive me. There was important news from Philadelphia.”

  Calleigh continued. “The officers are interviewing someone new tonight. He has already met with my approval, and I believe he will meet with yours as well.”

  “Oh indeed,” she said. With a welcoming smile, she turned toward the figure next to her in the candlelight.

  Quinn continued, “Mr. Cian O’Donnell wishes to join our fight.”

  India’s smile dropped. She looked into the handsome face of her former officer.

  Cian took her hand, kissed it, and murmured, “Lady Fitzpatrick.”

  On the other side of the candelabrum, the smile dropped from Calleigh’s face too.

  They watched as O’Donnell took India’s shoulders and said, “It has been an eternity.”

  India still did not reply, looking at O’Donnell as if she was seeing a ghost.

  Calleigh was thunderstruck. He had hoped to surprise India with an old friend and instead he surprised her with an old lover.

  India stepped back from O’Donnell, her heart hammering in her chest. She said breathlessly, “Gentleman, you would do well to approve Mr. O’Donnell. He was one of my most devoted officers.”

  “Obviously,” murmured Quinn.

  Self-consciously, India pushed some hair back up into place and walked to the back of the candelabrum to join the others. Her legs felt weak and unsteady. Calleigh never took his eyes from her as she came around to take a seat. He was filled with rage.

  His attention turned to O’Donnell as the officers interviewed him further. Calleigh longed to smash this large Irishman in the face. It was outrageous the way he touched her. He wondered what their relationship had been. He wondered, with fury, if India had given herself to this man.

  Impatiently, Quinn pushed the dark hair from his face. His forehead was damp with perspiration as jealousy burned within him.

  The meeting adjourned and everyone left the barn but Quinn Calleigh. He stayed behind, slumped back in his chair staring up through the hole in the roof. Bats darted back and forth, zigzagging across the night sky as moonlight flooded through the hole illuminating him.

  He had known all along that he never had a chance with Lady Allen. They were from different worlds, and now, Cian O’Donnell was here, head of one of the most powerful clans in all of Ireland, from a family of status equal to the Fitzpatricks.

  Calleigh sighed and ran his hands through his hair, cursing the day he invited India to America. He stood up abruptly and walked out of the barn. He mounted his horse and left the Brandywine Valley.

  * * *

  O’Donnell caught India by the hand after the meeting adjourned. “Where can we talk?”

  India did not want to meet him at the house; she didn’t want to run into Calleigh near the camp, so she suggested the abandoned mill by the river. In silence, they rode along the Brandywine River until they saw the shadow of the mill. Cian was off of his horse the moment they stopped, catching India as she dismounted. She slid down into his arms and he kissed her lips, her face, and her hair, murmuring, “I told myself, if ever I found ya again, I would never let ya go.”

  India pushed him away. “Cian, you must not--”

  “I am no longer married,” he said holding her fast. “She died over a year ago.”

  India shook her head. “That is not all, Cian. You have only just come. My head is spinning.”

  She broke away from him straightening her habit, a worried look on her face. They followed the shoreline in the moonlight, the river gurgling beside them as they walked in the damp night air. Cian held the reins of the horses as they trailed along behind them.

  “How did you come to find me here?” India asked.

  “After you left Ireland, the heart of the rebellion died. Most of the repparees went back to their lives as tenant farmers, but some of us turned our eyes toward America. Several months ago, I came to the Colony of South Carolina. It was there that I met an Irishman named Calleigh who was leading men to freedom. He told me of you.”

  India stopped and looked at him. “Calleigh brought you here?”

  “Yes, as sort of a gift to ya. He knew that you were lonely.”

  India stared at Cian, utterly flabbergasted. She blinked trying to make sense of it all. She mumbled at last, “Well, he needn’t worry about me.”

  Cian pulled her to him. “All that matters is that we are together again, fightin' for Irish freedom.”

  India stared at him mutely.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Oh nothing,” she said shaking her head. “I have become so used to the idea of freedom for Americans; I forgot why I came in the first place, to find freedom for the Irish.”

  They walked along the shore in silence.

  “You have changed, Lady Fitzpatrick.”

  “Indeed,” she nodded. “Lady Fitzpatrick no longer exists.”

  “I will go on loving her nevertheless,” he said firmly.

  * * *

  Cian O’Donnell was given a position of leadership in the rebellion almost immediately. Because of his experience with the Irish Rebellion, he had uncanny instincts about British strategy and moved up quickly in the ranks. His charismatic personality contributed as well. For this reason he was a valuable instrument in recruitment, especially among the Irish.

  India saw him every few weeks, usually at meetings then afterward they would walk by the river and talk. “You know that I am committed to the Revolution and nothing else,” she would say to him when he spoke to her of love.

  “Then I shall wait,” he would always reply.

  In the autumn, news came of Washington’s defeat at Long Island and the British occupation of New York. Morale of the patriots was low across Delaware and Pennsylvania. Everyone worried about the possibility of the British occupying Philadelphia. O’Donnell, India, and the officers decided to distract and drain British resources by launching a series of raids so vast and comprehensive that the Redcoats would never have time to occupy Philadelphia.

  To add to the tension, the Colonies were being overrun by criminals masquerading as patriots. They would use the excuse of patriotism to terrorize Loyalists and commit robbery and random acts of violence.

  It was a sultry autumn day when India decided to visit the tailor Antoine Parnell about some new uniforms. She decided to leave early in the day before the sun soared high in the sky. Even though it was a short drive to Wilmington, perspiration rolled down India’s back soaking her light blue gown. When she stepped from the carriage, she felt light-headed and faint, welcoming the cool darkness of Parnell’s shop when she stepped inside.

  “Lady Allen, this is a surprise,” Mr. Parnell exclaimed, bowing politely.

  She dropped down onto a chair, removed her straw hat and began fanning herself. The tailor brought her a mug of water, and India drank it down. “I am most grateful, Mr. Parnell.”

  Although dressed fashionably in an almond colored vest and britches, the tailor was in his shirt sleeves. Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead and gave his braided hair a glossy sheen.

  “You just missed, Mr. Calleigh,” he said.

  India’s heart jumped into her throat. So he was back. Trying to keep her voice steady, she asked, “Mr. Calleigh has returned?”

  “Yes, he brought me his latest sharp-shooter to be fitted for a suit of clothes.”

  Trying to be matter-of-fact, India said, “I was unaware that he had his sharpshooters fitted for clothing.”

  “This is an unusual circumstance
,” Parnell replied. He pulled the drape back from his lodging and said, “Please join us.”

  A young woman with auburn hair stepped into the room. India stared at her, waiting for the sharpshooter to step into the room, but no one appeared.

  “Lady Allen, this is Barbara Molloy,” said Mr. Parnell.

  The young woman smiled at India and curtsied. India ran her eyes over the attractive female. She was tall, slim and poised. India asked, “This is the new sharpshooter?”

  Parnell cleared his throat and said, “Yes, Madame.”

  “What sort of clothing has Calleigh ordered for her?”

  “Men’s clothing to be sure. He wants her to blend with the others when they are on raids.”

  India ran her eyes over the girl again then stood up. “Carry on, Mr. Parnell,” she snapped and left the shop.

  * * *

  India returned home and went up to her room taking the stairs two at a time. When she reached her bed chamber, she dropped her gown and hoop onto the floor, stepping into her riding habit and boots. She was flushed and covered in perspiration, but she didn’t notice, she was too angry. In a flash, she was on horseback riding down to camp to see Quinn Calleigh.

  When she arrived, the men stared at her. Seldom had they seen Lady Allen sitting astride and seldom had they seen her with her hair down about her shoulders. The wind had loosened her pins, and it had fallen down around her face in tangles.

  “Where is Calleigh?” she demanded as she dismounted. Before anyone could answer, she saw him sitting on a stone fence with one leg up, smoking. He watched her with a smirk as she strode up to him.

  “I want to talk with you,” she snapped, her eyes a bright green.

  He didn’t move, although his brows shot up. “‘You do, now.”

  “Why have you recruited a girl as one of your sharp-shooters?”

  He narrowed his eyes, the smoke curling around his head. “Since when do you select sharpshooters? May I remind you that you were the one who advised us that women were frequently superior in marksmanship to men?”