by Laura Parker
Happily embraced in his arms, she said, “Aye, I’m pleased by your lustful ways, as long as that lustiness is for me alone.”
The laughter disappeared from Killian’s face. “I’ve sworn my fidelity to you before God and man. Never you doubt it, lass. You must trust me or we’re lost.”
Deirdre gazed at his serious face and regretted her words. Over and over again during the weeks before their marriage he had looked at her solemnly and asked her if she had changed her mind. “Then you must trust me,” he always had said when she answered that she would wed him.
There were secrets between them. He would not tell her whence came the money for this voyage, nor would he tell her what he planned to do once they reached Cork. She did not know by what means he intended to secure Liscarrol for her. Despite that, she did trust him.
“I am jealous, ’tis a sad failing of mine, but trust you with my life I do,” she said and reached up to capture his lips with her own.
She felt the familiar surge of desire run through his body, the tremor of tensing muscles, and marveled that she had the power to so affect this enigmatic man. In the weeks between their pledge to marry and the wedding, they had lived as chastely as any respectably betrothed couple. Fey had kept her company and shared her room until the morning of the wedding. And so this, their wedding night, had been as full of anticipation as any nuptial night, or perhaps more so.
As he carried her to the narrow bunk they shared, she savored the intensity of her own desire. It throbbed deep within her, pulsing in her breasts and loins, a longing to be soothed and assuaged by the touch of his hands and body.
When he laid her back onto the mattress he hovered a moment above her. “Is it too soon?” he asked. To her amazement he blushed, his skin darkening in the lantern light. “I do not mean to use you hard. We have made love once this night. Perhaps we should wait. It is late, you are—”
Deirdre cut short his apology with a fingertip against his lips. “It is late, mo cuishle. We have made love once but not, I think, enough.” She saw the hesitation in his eyes and reached for his hand curved on her waist and brought it up to cover the fullness of her breast. The heat of his palm upon her skin made her nipple tighten and it rose under his touch. “Do you not believe me?” she whispered, her voice husky with desire.
Killian stared down into the dark green depths of her eyes and felt the astonishment of her desire to his very soul. She wanted him—nae, she desired him with an intensity that matched his own!
There had been times in his life when he wondered if he was capable of this burning of the flesh for a woman that his comrades-in-arms had spoken of often and fondly. Never before had he experienced this tormented longing, this inescapable need to be with a woman, to see her, hear her voice, and know that she was well. Only in his dreams had he known ecstasy and fear—until now.
He smiled suddenly. How foolish he had been to doubt. Here, lying in trembling softness beneath him, was the very embodiment of that tangled skein of emotions called love.
“I believe, mo cuishle, that you are all that mortal man dreams of,” he whispered as he bent and touched his lips gently to hers. “I love you.”
Deirdre wrapped her arms about his neck, almost afraid that he would still pull away from her, but he did not. He stretched out beside her on the bed, rolling her toward him, and embraced her. They lay side by side for a long time, trading kisses and smiling at the desire that darkened their eyes and melted their inhibitions.
She had learned in a few short hours of lovemaking to follow his lead. When his tongue flickered lightly over her face she followed suit, tasting the saltiness of the sea on his cheeks, and knew that he had been walking on deck. She reveled in the sweetness of his breath upon her face, and when his mouth closed over hers again, she reached up and entwined her fingers in his hair. Her lips were no longer soft and pliant but swollen with desire.
Her body stirred under the firm, molding caress of his hand which moved leisurely back and forth from her waist to her neck. She moved to the movement of that hand, wanting it, needing it, letting it feed the blistering heat of desire that scalded her from shoulder to thigh. Her hand moved to the buttons of his shirt. She worked them awkwardly with one hand, whispering a curse when she could not loosen the third.
Killian rolled back onto his back, laughing. “Do not curse my garments, love. This is how ’tis done.” With a casual but ruthless pull, he ripped his shirt open as buttons scattered. “There, that is better,” he said as he brought her hand to his chest. “Touch me, mo cuishle, touch me where you will. It is pleasure at your hands.”
His chest was more pale than his face and hands, smooth and sleekly muscled. He was warm and hard, like the satiny flanks of a stallion. There was power, strength, and gentleness in him. Her hand trembled as it slid down into the concavity of his belly. Where his breeches gaped away, a sketch of black hair traveled downward in a widening path until it disappeared. Using both hands, she loosened the heavy belt buckle and rows of buttons that closed the placket of his breeches.
She had seen him in his nakedness before, briefly in the moonlight at the hunting lodge, but never before had he lay openly, swollen and ready, under her regard.
She stared at him a long silent time, so long that Killian finally overcame his reluctance to speak. “Am I so ugly then that you are struck dumb, acushla?”
She glanced up into his face, all the wonder and love of the moment in her eyes. “Nae, you are lovely to look at. I did not know that men were so lovely.”
“No one has ever called me lovely before, lass.” he said quietly with the wonder of it in his words.
She reached out to encompass him. “You’re the most lovely thing I’ve ever seen. And this, is it so with all men?”
“What?” he questioned between gritted teeth, for she stroked him with an incredible amount of enthusiasm.
“This, this pouting of the flesh. Are all men so, so big?” she asked with nervous laughter.
Killian shut his eyes, caught between amusement and desire. “I would not know much of other men, acushla. As long as I please you, does it matter?”
Deirdre shook her head. “’Tis only glad I am that I did not know before,” she admitted shyly.
“Know what?”
“That you were so big. I would not have believed that you’d fit.”
Killian gave up his effort to control his laughter and he wilted immediately in her hand.
“Och, look what’s happened!”
Killian wiped the mirth from his eyes to find Deirdre gazing down at him in utter disappointment. She looked up doubtfully. “’Tis ruined.”
He touched her face, his thumb pulling her lower lip free of her teeth. “You may easily mend the damage, lass, with a kiss or two…or three…or four.”
Later, when they still held each other as if the fruition of their desire had not yet been achieved, Deirdre stroked his face and smiled as her nails raked the blue-black stubble on his chin. “Man is a wondrous thing.”
“Aye, and woman.” Killian smiled down at her with all, his heart in his eyes. “I love you, Deirdre Fitzgerald. You are my heart’s desire. What is your desire, I shall get it for you.”
Joy suffused Deirdre. This man with secret corners and quicksilver moods loved her. Others saw him as a soldier, a dreaded man with a sword whose rage and relentlessness were legendary. None of them knew the man who shared her bed in these moments. They did not know his tenderness, his carefree laughter, his unguarded moments. It was there in his face now, a vulnerability exposed to her alone. He would do anything for her. If she asked him to turn around and take her back to France, he would. If she asked him for jewels and diamonds, no doubt he would find a method to produce them. The knowledge both pleased and appalled her. Out of love, he would do as she asked. Reason warned her that if she overburdened that love he would come to resent her. She must tread carefully in her desires. He was no horse to be put through his paces. He would get and hold Liscarrol
for her. What more could she want of him than that?
“Simply love me.” Deirdre said it confidently but was no less amazed to hear his reply of “I do” because she knew that he did.
After a moment, he slid from her and a chill touched her where their bellies were wet with sweat. A moment later, he was asleep, his head resting upon her left breast.
*
Deirdre strained with mounting excitement for sight of the city of Cork as the ship sped up the misty waters of Cork Harbor. Behind them, off the starboard bow, Blackrock Castle sat on the south bank of the river Lee. An English flag flew from the main turret, holding sway over the dozens of others which flew from the masts of the British naval vessels plying the waters before it.
“Redcoats!” Deirdre muttered. “How dare they ply Irish waters—Ouch!”
“Speak Gaelic no more,” Killian commanded as he released her arm. “’Tis a French lass you are from now on.”
Deirdre scowled up at him, rubbing her pinched arm. “You gave me a bruise.”
“Let it be a reminder,” Killian replied unrepentently. “I will not be disobeyed in this.” He raised a questioning brow. “I am understood, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oui, mon mari! She smiled at him. “But may we not speak English also?”
Surprise brightened Killian’s face. “You speak English? Why did you not say so before?”
Deirdre shrugged. “You did not ask me, and it did not seem a talent you would prize.”
Beside them but a little apart, a youth dressed in the velvet coat and breeches of a gentleman’s ward watched as the handsomely dressed black-haired man bent closer to his bride to whisper words that made the lady’s face turn pink. The youth turned away, hurried across the deck to the opposite railing and, face hidden in an arm, burst furiously into tears.
“Bitch! The cheap doxy! And him, as randy as they come!” Fey mumbled between sobs. Even now, when she had been so close that they could touch her, they were too wrapped up in their own pleasures to realize that she had sneaked aboard ship before it had left France.
A long miserable month had passed since the night she had returned to that rented room in Paris and found MacShane in bed with Lady Deirdre. She had never learned what had occurred at the home of the Duchesse de Luneville, but it did not really matter. MacShane had chosen to wed Lady Deirdre.
They did not want her with them. MacShane had said it was because she was a child and they were embarking upon a dangerous, uncertain future. She did not believe him. MacShane’s interest in her had evaporated because he was besotted by love. Lady Deirdre’s solicitous inquiries about her and her gentle words of sorrow that they must part had not blunted the rage of her knowing that she had lost MacShane.
They had paid her passage back to Nantes, and Lady Deirdre had promised her a permanent place in the Fitzgerald household. They thought her in a coach bound for Nantes at this very moment. They did not know that she had cut her curls once more, dyed the remainder with boot black, and bought a suit of young gentlemen’s clothes and a ticket aboard the ship. It had been easy to avoid them on the short voyage. They had scarcely moved from their cabin.
“Ye may not pay attention to me now,” Fey muttered to herself as she squeezed her pocketful of coins, “but there’ll come a time when ye’ll wish ye had!”
In her pain she had discovered an ally. The Duchesse de Luneville, too, disapproved of the marriage. It gave them a common bond and a common interest in the fate of Liscarrol and MacShane.
The duchesse was very generous…and very clever. She expected loyalty in exchange for her money. She wanted to know MacShane’s every move, where he went and what he did and said. And if he should show signs of growing weary of his young bride, she wanted to know that, too.
Fey shrugged off the guilt of becoming an informer. MacShane had betrayed her. He deserved no more. She could look after herself. He must do the same.
Yet, as she gazed at the green and gray vista of the coast of Ireland, she could not help wondering what would become of them. Danger rode the soft wet breezes. The unease of the French crew in British waters was a near-tangible thing. This was a country in conflict, a land in subjugation. MacShane endangered himself by coming here. Perhaps she was not betraying him in spying on him. She might be saving his life by following him to Ireland.
That thought made her dry her eyes. If she was able to help MacShane, he would be grateful. He would not turn from her a second time. As for the duchesse, she was in France and they were in Ireland. What she did not know she could not prevent.
Fey smiled and wiped her nose on her velvet sleeve.
*
“What do you mean that I may not accompany you?” Deirdre questioned.
“Exactly what I say,” Killian answered impatiently. “I must speak with the customs officials and it will be easier not to have you present.”
“Why? Do you think I cannot speak for myself?”
“I know you will speak quite clearly for yourself,” he muttered, “and that, my love, is what worries me.” He reached for his tri-corner hat and set it on the golden-haired wig that covered his own hair.
“Why do you wear a wig?” Deirdre wrinkled her nose in distaste. “You never wore one before. And ruffles, what is this?”
“A different style of armor,” Killian answered obliquely as he adjusted the lace ruffles of his cuffs. “I am going ashore to secure our papers. Until then, keep yourself occupied by musing upon the fact that we have completed the first leg of our journey. Before nightfall you will have the sod of Ireland beneath your tread.”
He did not wait for her consent but turned and left the cabin. After assuring himself of the papers in his pocket, he strode down the gangway onto the quay.
When the whitewashed walls of the customs house loomed before him, Killian took a deep breath and expelled it. He had chosen a difficult masquerade to play before the English. To be successful he needed to seem a mountebank, a charmer, a man of much ambition and very few scruples. He had bought his crimson velvet habit with that part in mind. He meant to be a visible, easily recognizable figure about the city of Cork. It would make his role as an interloper more plausible. He only hoped that Deirdre would never learn of the method he would use to gain their admission into Ireland.
“For Deirdre!” he muttered to himself as he set his hand on the door latch.
Two hours later, the English naval officer looked up from the sheaf of papers spread before him. “You are Killian MacShane?”
“I am,” Killian answered in English with a heavy French accent. After lounging in the antechamber of the customs house while waiting his turn to be interviewed, he had become all he seemed: tired, bored, and eager to be gone from the place.
“And you are seeking to return to your home in Ireland?”
“No, monsieur.” Killian tapped the paper on top. “As you read, I am French by birth.”
“So it says,” the lieutenant answered dryly, exchanging a sly look with his young assistant who stood nearby. “Your name is Irish and you claim lands once owned by an Irishman by the name of Fitzgerald. Does that not make you Irish?”
“Irish by heritage, French by upbringing and persuasion,” Killian replied.
“That is no recommendation to me,” the officer said coolly. “The French are our enemies. They aided the impostor James in his pretensions to the English throne. They stir up the Irish with promises of guns and aid. Daily we are raided by smugglers and pirates, many of them flying the French flag.” He appraised Killian from head to toe and back, taking in his lavish attire and expensive wig. The distinct odor of rose water that emanated from him made the officer’s lips thin in distaste. He was a simple man and disliked the excesses of the French. “I am inclined to deny your entry.”
“Inclined but not determined,” Killian answered smoothly. “You must follow the letter of the law. To that end I am not to be denied.”
“You are a Catholic. That alone prohibits you from entrance into Irela
nd.”
Killian’s black brows arched in surprise. “Where does it say that I am Catholic?”
The lieutenant was not amused. “Do you tell me that you have renounced your faith?”
Killian seemed to appear embarrassed. “Must you word it that way? I would rather believe that the calling was never fully mine. A man of your experience must understand how the temptations of the flesh often hold sway over the pious psalms which would deny man his small vices.”
“You are aware that we have strict laws governing the conduct of Irish papists? As a Catholic you are forbidden to enter a profession, hold public office, engage in trade or commerce of any kind. You may not purchase land or lease land, nor may you accept a mortgage on land in security for a loan, nor may you receive or inherit land.”
“Your laws are quite strict, as you say. What, however, have they to do with me?”
The lieutenant’s eyes flickered. “You are educated, that much is clear. An Irishman who sends his son abroad to be educated forfeits all his property—as does his son.”
“I am educated, that is true. But my circumstances are not of the kind you describe. My mother went abroad after the death of my father—of cholera—in hopes of taking the veil. It was discovered there that she was with child. After I was born, she did become a nun and remained so until her death a few years later, when I was sent to be raised by monks. So you see, my father did not send me abroad, nor is it my intention to lay claim to whatever small holding he may once have held.”
“So you say. How do you propose to subsist here?”
“I have come to claim a small property inherited by my wife, which, as her legal husband, now belongs to me.”
“Papists may not inherit property.”
“That again,” Killian murmured, allowing his annoyance to show through. “Kindly show me whatever document you wish me to sign that I am not a traitorous villain bent upon spreading the papist cause throughout the land and I will sign it here and now.”