by Laura Parker
When MacShane did not answer but continued to stare at her with an unreadable expression, Fey’s smile faltered. What could she do to make the man want to keep her? Should she reveal the truth—a truth not even Darce had guessed? Fey’s translucent lids lowered as her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “I know how to make the gentleman below stairs stand tall. I know how to please ye better than them pox-ridden whores of the streets!”
As Fey’s small hand reached out to touch the placket of his breeches, Killian recoiled as before a hot poker and shoved the child away. “Good God!” he whispered coarsely. “A catamite! Is there no end to your infamy?”
“I did nae…mean to…anger ye,” Fey said in quick gasps that ended in dry sobs. “’Twas only…I wanted to please ye.”
The raw edge of Fey’s voice tightened the knot of anger in Killian’s stomach. He was not a Puritan, but the boy’s proclivity for depravity was straining the limits of his tolerance. Yet, what could he expect from a lad he had picked up on the docks?
His expression remained hard but his voice was mild as he said, “I apologize for staking you. ’Tis not your fault that you’re steeped in every sort of devilment known to mankind. Did your master send you to ply that trade among sailors?”
Fey’s face did not alter.
Killian swore under his breath. “How old are you?”
Fey shrugged, the old sly gleam returning to her eyes. “I’m small for me age. I can be ten, or eight if ye’d like.”
Annoyance flashed in Killian’s face. “What I want is for you to be yourself, if you can remember who that is.”
“I’m eleven…I think.” Fey’s face grew thoughtful. A moment before, she had been about to reveal the truth about herself, but it seemed inconsequential now. “What’s to become of me?”
Killian’s black brows lowered even more. “How should I know? Oh, I’ll not have you hanged, if that’s what worries you.”
Fey eyed the man before her in frank appraisal. “Ye will nae beat me?”
“I may take the flat of my hand to your britches if provoked,” Killian amended.
A quick grin lit her face. “Then I will stay with ye!”
“No.” Killian shook his head. “You cannot do that.”
“I’m strong, and wily. I could cook for ye, clean for ye—”
“Steal for me?” Killian interjected softly.
Fey’s eyes widened, and then her lovely smile blossomed full. “Ye’re having me on!”
“Aye, that I am. I’ll string you up myself if ever I catch you stealing again!”
His voice had taken on a menacing edge but Fey did not back away this time. “Ye’ll have me, then?”
“No, bouchal. Killian dug into his pocket, pulled out his purse, and emptied half the coins into his hand. “Take this and find yourself lodgings at an inn on the main highway to Paris. Buy yourself a bed, a joint of lamb, and a bottle of ale. When you get to Paris, ask for the apartments of the Duchesse de Luneville. Say that MacShane sent you. You’ll be given work there, and perhaps one day we’ll see each other again.”
Fey listened in polite silence, her eyes averted from the gleaming gold. She had no intention of leaving this man. If she stayed with him, she would not be put on the street to beg or endure merciless whippings or days of starvation.
Yet, Fey was too steeped in the greed and avarice of men not to suspect that she would need to offer him something in return for his generosity. But what could it be?
With the jaded vision of a street urchin surveying her prey, she gazed at the tall strong man. He was splendidly made, handsome and virile—her hand had briefly touched strong evidence—but one never knew about a man’s tastes. “Do ye nae like the ladies, m’lord?”
“My name’s MacShane,” he answered shortly. “I prefer women. Ladies are terribly tiresome to woo.”
“I shall keep that in mind,” a cool voice remarked from the doorway behind them.
“I knocked twice,” Deirdre said as she advanced into the room. “I heard voices, so I did hesitate, but water cools quickly in the morning air and the boy should scrub while it’s hot.” She turned to nod at the pair of servant girls who followed her, one of whom carried a pair of steaming kettles and the other an iron washtub from the laundry.
“I brought the child a fresh pair of britches and a shirt. They belong to the stable master’s son.”
The slight emphasis she put on the last words was not lost on Killian, but he only rested his hands on his hips, amazed at the change that had taken place in her in so short a time. Dressed in a wine-red manteau, her hair caught up off her neck and covered by a small linen cap, she appeared a very proper young mademoiselle. Killian’s gaze flickered to her feet. She even wore slippers.
Aware of the hard blue gaze on her, Deirdre crossed the room in a slow, elegant glide to deposit on a chair the clothes she carried.
When MacShane had disappeared with the child she had not known what to do. She could scarcely have run after them and demanded to know what he intended to do with the boy. Nor had she thought it wise to wake her family and bring them into this odd business. Her father did not like MacShane. He would put the darkest of interpretations upon MacShane’s involvement with the child who had broken into their kitchen and drawn a knife on her. Then she had hit upon the idea of bringing the child fresh clothes and bandages. It was the perfect excuse to go to MacShane’s apartment, and the child was badly in need of someone’s attention.
She had hurried so to dress that she had torn one of the new Parisian silk stockings Conall had brought her. But MacShane would not know that. Neither would he be aware of the rapid tattoo of her heart nor see the tremor of her knees beneath her morning gown. This was her home. MacShane could not say or do anything to prevent her from looking after the child.
She turned to him and held out a small stoppered bottle. “’Tis horse liniment. O’Grady swears by it as a panacea for every kind of abrasion.”
MacShane did not reach for the bottle but continued to stare at her.
Undismayed by his rudeness, she turned to Fey. “Have Captain MacShane put this on your back when you’re bathed. ’Twill sting, but you’re a brave lad and can bear it. O’Grady used it on my scraped knees whenever I took a tumble as a bairn. When you are dressed, come down to the kitchen for breakfast. Cook is expecting you.”
Without a backward glance at MacShane, Deirdre walked out of the room followed by the two Fitzgerald servants.
Killian stared at the empty doorway. Lord Fitzgerald’s daughter had just flirted with him!
Fey, too, had been impressed by the lady’s composure. “She’s nae afraid of either of us,” she murmured a little in awe.
“Then she should be!” Killian grumbled and turned to the child. “Well, spalpeen? There’s your bathwater. Faith! You reek of fish and dung.”
Fey looked at the tub of steaming water in horror. She could not undress before him without revealing her secret. “Ye cannot mean me to step in there? I’ll boil.” She began backing away. “I won’t do it!”
Killian caught Fey before she reached the door and hauled her kicking and screaming toward the washtub, peeling away her clothing as he went. “You will bathe, my lad! Hold still! I won’t—! Mille murdher!
Fey slid out of the big man’s embrace, her face pale with alarm. “I was going to tell ye, I swear it!”
Killian stared at Fey, his eyes moving slowly from the child’s face back down the length of the young body. “You’re nae a lad! You’re a lass!”
Fey grabbed her torn britches from the floor and held them before her naked loins. “I never said I was a lad. ’Twas ye who called me that!”
“You let me believe, ma girsha, didn’t you?”
Fey’s eyes flickered toward the bed and away. He was very angry with her, but perhaps she might still be able to persuade him to keep her. She lowered the garment she held, a forthright look in her dark eyes. “I said I’d be good to ye, I meant it! I’d do anything for ye. Anyt
hing!”
Killian lifted a hand only to lower it again as the child before him flinched. “I’d not take you for all the gold in Nantes harbor, you thieving, lying little whore!”
The accusation stung her as none of his other words had. “I’m nae a whore! I do not like the trade.”
Killian’s voice was wintry. “Have you tried it?”
Fey shrugged, hugging the scraps of cloth tighter against her thin frame. “A lass has little else to offer. But a lad can beg on the streets. He can sweep up in shops, run errands. With a protector he can keep shy of the worst sort that would force themselves on him.”
The anger washed out of Killian as Fey summed up her life and her reasons for masquerading as a boy in those few sentences. “How long have you been on your own?”
“Four years.” Fey gave a shuddery sigh as her muscles relaxed. It was hard to remember to trust this man when she had not trusted anyone for so long. “I did not think it made much difference, me being a boy. Only now…” She looked down at her chest, where only the most discerning gaze would realize that breasts were beginning to bud.
“Aye, we must do something about that,” Killian murmured, looking away. “Get in the tub, la—lass, and do not tell me that you’ll drown. When you’re clean, put on the clothes the lady brought you. They’ll do for now.”
“Ye’ll keep me?” Fey cried as Killian headed for the door.
“I’m not in the habit of cosseting bairns!” he answered unhelpfully.
When the door shut behind him, Fey collapsed on the floor and gathered herself into a tight ball. There were no sobs this time. The emotions careening through her were too strong for tears. MacShane would not rape her or beat her. And there was the lovely lass who had fed her, brought her clean clothes, and promised her more. Perhaps she had died, after all. Perhaps Darce had beaten her to death and she had found heaven at last.
*
Deirdre had paused at the top of the stairway after sending the maids below, her heart beating so rapidly that she knew the agitation showed in her face and gave away her feelings. She was elated, exhilarated, triumphant: all because of the flash of interest she had spied in MacShane’s blue eyes. It had not been flattering or particularly admiring…but it had been passionate.
That look had caught her utterly by surprise. Yet, why should it have? She had been raised in France in a season when all women could expect to be admired, flattered, and constantly pursued. She knew that ardor was but a polite mask for lust. If MacShane had no better manners than to reveal his baser instincts to her, it did not follow that men like Cousin Claude did not have those instincts. She had lived in a household dominated by men too long not to know better.
That was what excited her—that, and something more. He was a stranger, yet those hot blue eyes were hauntingly familiar, as something remembered from long ago. If he had smiled again she would have remembered, she was certain of it.
A tiny pinprick of pain began between her brows, the same annoying pain that had awakened her during the night. She put a hand to the point between her brows and massaged the spot. Why should thoughts of MacShane always make her head ache?
When a door in the hall behind her opened, she swung about, embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming.
MacShane strode toward her, head bent in thought. When he realized who stood in his path, he checked his pace as if annoyed.
Deirdre waited patiently for him to speak. After all, he had ignored her moments before. He ran both hands through his long, uncombed hair but it was in lamentable disarray. His shirt was spotted where water had dripped from his face, and he had not yet taken a razor to his beard. Black stubble contoured his hard jaw and set off the lines of his wide firm mouth. All in all, he looked the part of the remote, ill-tempered Irish soldier whom her brothers had warned her of, but she could not forget the sound of his laughter. It had echoed through the kitchen and startled her with the unexpectedness of its warmth. He was unlike any man she had ever known before, and that in itself was intriguing.
“Is your father awake?” he asked without preamble. “I must see him.”
“Good morning to you, too, MacShane,” she answered with a polite nod. So much for flattering looks!
The frown puckering his brow faded but his expression remained austere. “Aye, my manners are wanting. Good day to you, Lady Deirdre.”
Deirdre smiled until her dimple was on full display. His gaze was on her once more, hard and unwavering. This time there was no passion in the blue eyes, only the curious, steady gaze of a man sizing up a problem. “Da will not be about for hours yet, sir. ’Tis scarcely dawn. We may be country mice but we keep city hours. Perhaps I can help you.”
Killian glanced back down the hall. “’Tis a terrible vice of mine, imagining that I can cure the world’s ills when there’s drink warming me veins,” he muttered.
Deirdre followed his gaze. “Does your problem concern the child? I am quite good with children.”
Her coolness annoyed Killian. What had happened to the wild-haired lass with dirty bare feet who had ridden light-as-the-wind on the back of a seasoned campaign horse? Where was the wildcat in night clothes who had drawn a bread knife on him to protect a street urchin whose crimes included murdering his employer? The poised, serene creature before him was not the sort a man would confide in, nor was she the stuff of a man’s dreams from which he awoke aroused. She was a lady fit only for gentlemen who visited gilded salons and scented gardens. Well, he was no gentleman, and she might as well learn it.
“’Tis no matter for a lass,” he said curtly.
Deirdre’s pleasant feelings evaporated. She had been dismissed. “Then do not allow me to detain you.” She turned and started away before she remembered her own manners. “When your temper has improved, you may find my father in the stables. ’Tis his custom to ride at midmorning. Bring the lad with you. I’m certain Da would like to meet him.”
“The lad’s a she.”
Deirdre turned about and said, her voice cool, “Do not mistake me for a fool, sir. I have seen the child.”
Killian regarded her steadily, his eyes narrowed. “Aye, and what you saw was a lass.”
“How can you expect me to believe you when—” Deirdre’s voice faltered as the sound of splashing water was heard from the end of the hallway.
Killian regarded her now with a stare of undisguised amusement. “I may be rude and ill mannered, but I know when I’m looking at a lass’s quim.”
Blood stung Deirdre’s cheeks. Even Conall and Darragh would not have used such language in her presence. “You’ve nae manners, MacShane!”
The grin that had teased Killian’s mouth disappeared. “’Tis why I’d prefer to deal with your da. ’Tis your own meddling that brings you into my affairs.
“I’m a soldier, nae a courtier,” he added as he approached her.
When he was only a foot from her he placed his hands on her shoulders, and the pressure of his touch betrayed the latent strength he possessed. He stood so close that she discerned for the first time several tiny white scars crisscrossing his brow and the regular pulse beat at the base of his throat. He leaned toward her, and for one wild moment she thought that he would kiss her.
“You’ve a way of walking, lass, that puts a man in mind of earthy pleasures. But if your virginal conscience shies at the thought of ravishment, if you need soft words and fancy manners, find yourself another.”
Deirdre took a hasty step back, breaking the warm contact of his hands. The insult was so outrageous that she could not at first find words with which to answer him. Find herself another, indeed! He had seen through her cool manners and knew she found him attractive. What’s more, he found it amusing; no, he found her amusing.
Deirdre straightened her shoulders and fitted him with her haughtiest stare. He would not get the better of her. “Mind your manners, sir! I am not afraid of you, nor is ravishment likely to happen beneath my father’s roof.”
The threat had n
o visible effect on MacShane. He simply crossed his arms. Yet, his mouth was less hard as he said, “’Tis a relief to know it would not be ravishment, lass, yet I trust to your father’s good name that you’d come to me a virgin.”
Deirdre gasped. “You—you’re ill mannered, rude, arrogant, and quite offensive, Captain MacShane!”
Killian nodded. “’Tis a fair beginning for an insult, but you end too soon, lass. You should call my friendship with your brothers into account, remind me of your own considerable consequence, and perhaps even question my parentage. Aye, and you should not give me the advantage of my rank. It spoils the effect.” Quite to her surprise he smiled at her. “But I own, I do like you in a hot rage, lass. That I do.”
“You’re mad!” Deirdre replied.
“That’s the way of it. Now stamp your foot. You do know how?” he added carelessly.
Nonplussed, Deirdre could only stare at him.
“You’ve not the eyes of a termagant,” he said thoughtfully. “They’re as green as a slieve in summer.”
He must be mad, Deirdre thought again. What else would explain why he insulted, bullied, taunted, and then flattered her in turns? She turned away, afraid of what he might say or do next. “The child Fey will be removed from your care immediately. I will see to it myself. She may come to my room until my father decides what is to be done with her.”
Without waiting for his reply, Deirdre walked past him toward his room.
Killian followed at a leisurely pace, more than a little pleased with himself. He had routed the prim mademoiselle and awakened the wolf cub beneath Lady Deirdre’s exterior. What had Conall called her? Faolan. Aye, he liked Faolan better than “Lady Deirdre.”
When Deirdre opened the door, Fey stood in the middle of the room scrubbing herself dry with the rose embroidered hand towel. Deirdre had only a momentary glimpse of the girl’s naked loins before Fey looked up in horror and covered herself, but one look was enough.
Fey’s gaze flew to MacShane as he appeared in the doorway. “Ye gave me away!”