by Laura Parker
The lieutenant made a steeple of his fingers and pressed them lightly to his lips. “You are eager to be gone from here, Mister MacShane. I wonder why.”
Killian gave him a knowing smile. “I am wed but three days, monsieur. Were you to see my bride, you would know what spurs me.”
“Is she, your bride, Irish?”
“Yes.”
“Her father was a papist and a traitor loyal to James?”
“So it would seem,” Killian agreed cautiously. “But I own I did not know the man well. He had no liking for me, nor I he.”
“Why?”
Killian shrugged. “Our views of the world and politics were different. Our views of the practicalities of life were also.”
“You quarreled?”
“We did.”
“Over the daughter?”
“What else?” Killian smiled expansively. “What father enjoys losing his daughter to a young vigorous man? We would not be wed now but for Divine intervention. The father died.”
“And you have come to inherit his lands?”
“I have come to claim my bride’s dowry. I will not quibble with you, I am a, ah, how do you say un chevalier d’ industrie?”
“A sharper,” the lieutenant offered unhelpfully.
“Mais non! I am not a swindler. I live by my wits. In marrying, I hoped to extend my livelihood into that of gentleman and landowner.”
The lieutenant frowned. The man had as good as said that he had married his bride for her dowry alone. Well, it was no business of his. “You may not inherit unless you can prove that you are a man loyal to the English throne and a member in good standing of the established religion.”
“How may I do that?”
The lieutenant looked again at his assistant with a slight smile. “It is not so simple a task as you may imagine. We are serious in the method of accepting converts. Many papists would perjure themselves for a shilling. Any man who applies for admission into the established Church must first undergo a period of instruction. Afterward he must submit himself to an examination. If satisfied with his devotion and piety, he will be given a certificate guaranteeing him to be a fit subject for baptism. Only then is a man entitled to full ownership of the lands which he seeks to attain.”
Horror showed in Killian’s face. “So much? But I shall be old and buried before the inheritance is legally mine.”
The lieutenant’s smile widened. “’Tis up to you. If you should accept instruction, you will be given a temporary permit to reside in Ireland. If not, you must return whence you came.”
“If I accept these, ah, restrictions, I will be allowed to pursue my claims?”
The English officer nodded. He did not like this man but there was no reason to lie to him. Before admitting the man into his company, he had determined that Liscarrol was a small holding in the wilds of the west and of little interest to the Crown. “For the time it takes to assess your true feelings upon the matter of religion, you will be allowed to remain.”
Frowning, Killian stroked his chin. Then a smile lit his face and he nodded. “So be it. What must I do first?”
The lieutenant withdrew a paper from his desk drawer. “Fill this out and then fill out a separate one for your wife.”
Killian took the paper but his smile faltered. “My wife is not concerned with this.”
“Surely she intends to follow in your footsteps?”
Killian raised his eyes and they gleamed with guile. “I am not so ignorant of your laws as you would think me. As my wife, she has no claim to anything she owned before the ceremony. She is young, innocent, sweet, and delightful. She may remain in happy ignorance of my deed which, in the truest sense, benefits her. She may not attend Mass, I have apprised her of that fact. Why should she be bothered with details of state which do not affect her?”
“You fear losing her,” the lieutenant said baldly.
Killian nodded slightly. “Just so.”
“If you become a Protestant, she may seek an annulment.”
Killian shrugged. “What benefit could that be to her when it is I who own the land and your law permits me to retain it?”
The lieutenant looked away. He knew the man for what he was now, a cheat, a swindler, a rogue who had caught an innocent young girl in a fraudulant marriage for the sake of confiscating her property. The man was the lowest sort of creature and becoming a member of the established Church would not better him. The laws sometimes seemed greatly unfair, yet there was nothing he could do about it.
When Killian MacShane had signed the necessary papers and was gone, the lieutenant looked at his assistant. “I hope the land has gone to bog and the house has been razed!”
“Perhaps the smugglers will see to him,” the assistant offered helpfully. “There’s been trouble again in the west with the rebel O’Donovan.”
“Just so,” the lieutenant answered. “May the man make that devil’s acquaintance.”
Outside on the quay, Killian unwrapped his lace jabot and wiped his face.
Instruction in the established religion, how would he explain that to Deirdre? No, he would not explain it. She would not accept his deception as a condition of their remaining in Ireland, while he knew it was their only chance.
To his surprise, he realized that his hands were less than steady. He had won the right to remain in Ireland, but he had also placed his head in a noose which, if he slipped, would tighten and strangle him.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a small figure dart between the legs of a red-coated soldier. As he straightened, the child came hurtling toward him. The soldier yelled for the boy to stop and lifted his musket from his shoulder. Sensing the danger in which the boy stood, Killian reached out to grab him by the collar, but the boy twisted free and Killian was left holding a small velvet coat.
The blast of gunfire on the crowded quay sent startled passersby fleeing in every direction with cries of fright. The boy disappeared around a corner with the scattering crowd.
For a moment Killian stood staring after the soldiers who ran past him. He smiled. They would not find the boy, of that he was certain. The child had seemed familiar, and then he realized why: the boy’s antics reminded him of Fey as he had first seen her.
He looked down at the coat he held and his grin broadened. Perhaps in a year, if his plan succeeded, he would send for Fey. She was bright, courageous, and quite pretty, but she needed a heavy hand to keep her in line.
But first, he had other business to attend to.
The duchesse had hired him to pursue and eliminate from her cache of smugglers those who were disloyal to her. Before they had set sail from Nantes, he had made himself known to one of her sea captains by presenting a letter from the duchesse herself. The captain had given him the name of a man to contact when he arrived in Cork. This man would put him in touch with the smugglers who worked the coastline between Ballydehob and Bantry.
Killian smiled grimly. The duchesse’s spies were everywhere, it seemed. He was to be followed. He knew the contents of her letter because he had steamed it open ahead of time. She did not trust him. It was just as well. He did not trust her either.
Killian’s features hardened as he reached the gangway of the ship. He did not like the idea of setting Deirdre among smugglers, but he had accepted the job because it paid extremely well and he had nothing to offer Deirdre without it. When in time he put Liscarrol on its feet, he would loosen his ties to the duchesse. Until then, Deirdre was better kept in ignorance in yet another matter.
“’Tis a smugglers’ master, a swindler, and a groom I’ve become in the space of a week,” he murmured to himself. “What more will the season bring me?”
Chapter Seventeen
Southwest Minister, Ireland
Deirdre shifted in her saddle to ease the pain in her lower back. The leather creaked as she moved, and Killian glanced around, his light eyes as distant and cool as the mist-laden day about them. She straightened her back immediately and kicked her mo
unt to increase its pace but the weary animal merely continued to plod along, its hooves making sucking noises as it traversed the boggy ground.
“There’s nothing to be gained by hurrying,” Killian announced grimly, using English because they were not alone. “’Twill take hours until we reach Kilronane. We should have spent the night in Enniskean as I suggested.”
Stung by his words, she allowed her weariness and hunger to answer for her. “Aye, and to your way of thinking we’d have done better to stay in Cork until summer. Or better still, we should have stayed in Nantes altogether!”
“Like a bairn, you see the wisdom of my suggestions too late to do us any good,” Killian answered dryly.
Deirdre angrily pulled her hood forward to shut off the sight of him. How dare he insult her before the company in which they traveled. He had not spoken more than three sentences to her the entire day and now he chose to fuel the animosity between them.
Killian did not speak again but suddenly dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and his mount lunged forward from a walk into a canter that quickly outdistanced her.
Snickering from one of the two men Killian had hired to protect them on the journey made Deirdre turn her head to glare at the offender.
“The man nodded his shaggy head pleasantly and bared a mouth of rotten teeth as he said to her in Gaelic, “’Tis the oinseach sees the amadan’s faults!”
“A wise head keeps a shut mouth!” Deirdre retorted in Gaelic and was gratified by the stricken look that overcame the man, who thought her ignorant of his language.
“Begging your pardon, mum,” he mumbled and fell back behind her with his friend.
Deirdre’s mouth tightened as she looked ahead. Killian was a dim figure in the distance, his outline darkened and blurred by the fine but persistent rain that had been falling since dawn. It was his fault that the man had dared to speak to her so. MacShane’s callous treatment made them view her with contempt. Now he had ridden off and left her in their company like one of the sacks of meal in their provisions.
“He is angry, but so too am I!” she muttered.
No, she was not angry. She was cold, wet, and miserable. Why could Killian not understand how eager she was to see Liscarrol after more than twelve years’ absence? For two weeks she had waited impatiently in the small dismal room near the waterfront of Cork while he busied himself with plans which he was very reluctant to share with her. In fact, he was reluctant to share much more with her than an evening meal and their bed.
Deirdre flushed, annoyed with herself for the delicious shiver of desire that ran through her at the mere thought of Killian in bed beside her. Each night he had thoroughly wiped from her mind the petty grievances that she had amassed during his long absences each day. One touch and she forgot everything but her need of him and their pleasure.
He had used their love as a blind against her inquisitiveness. He had answered her questions with drugging kisses, her inquiries into his daily business with seductive caresses, her pleading to leave for Liscarrol with the tantalizing beguilement of his body’s touch. A fortnight had passed before she became suspicious of his actions. The realization of the truth had made her furious because she had become so willing a pawn.
As Deirdre watched his silhouette disappear behind a line of trees, she wondered how long Killian would have kept up the pretense that he had made plans for their journey had she not decided out of boredom to check on the traveling coach he said he had ordered. She had found that there were coaches readily available, not the waiting list Killian had told her of, and that he had not yet ordered one. They would not now be within a day’s journey of her goal had she not ordered a coach herself and begun packing.
The cool wind of trepidation blew across Deirdre’s conscience as she remembered Killian’s reaction to her discovery. She had never seen him angry before, and it was a revelation.
“You have done what?” he had demanded.
“You lied to me,” she had answered, too annoyed by his petty contrivances to notice at once the strange look that had entered his eyes. “You said there were no coaches available. There were. I ordered one of them. Though you seem enamored with the city, my husband, I am bored with Cork. We will leave for Liscarrol in the morning.”
The hand that grasped her shoulder and spun her about had astonished Deirdre in its power. Then she saw his face. The bitter cold blue of his eyes, so hard and angry, silenced whatever she had been about to say. His features were stony, altering his countenance into that of a stranger. “You will cancel the coach,” he had said low, his voice made more menacing by the tenuousness of his control. “You will cancel it and never never question my authority again!”
Deirdre shook her head in denial as the memory assailed her. In that moment she had been afraid of him. He had seemed for the first time the Avenging Angel of her brothers’ stories.
If not for her moan of pain she doubted he would have realized how mercilessly his fingers dug into her skin. When he released her, he had seemed as amazed as she to see the red imprint of his hand on her skin above her low-cut bodice.
She touched her shoulder. The marks had remained there for hours, a silent reminder of the depth of rage of which he was capable.
And yet, he had been immediately contrite. Through her stunned surprise she had recognized the look of horror and then shame as he stared at the evidence of his anger. He had bathed her bruised shoulder in cool water and then kissed each mark. And though he had not said a word of apology, she understood and accepted the depth of his remorse.
Later, in bed, with the balm of satiation between them, he had sworn to her that he would take her to Liscarrol as quickly as possible. He had convinced her that a coach would be useless on the narrow boggy trails. They rode, leaving most of their possessions in Cork to be sent for later. There had proved to be wisdom in that.
Deirdre glanced back covertly at the two men riding donkeys and leading pack animals behind her. Killian had hired them for protection. Yet, the men he had chosen were singularly unsuited for the work. They were seamen; anyone could tell that by listening to them. They were unaccustomed to riding, could barely keep their seats on stretches of uneven ground. Besides that, they were rude and sly and made her uncomfortable when Killian was not beside her.
Once more she kicked her horse, digging in hard, and this time the horse went into a canter. Urged on by this success, she shouted and slapped the horse’s haunches and the beast stretched into a gallop that sent her racing after Killian.
Killian heard the approaching horse and slowed his pace, but he did not glance back. He had lost his temper with Deirdre again, a thing he had promised himself he would not do.
It was not her fault that the journey had been forced on him too soon. Yet, if she had not been so stubborn about leaving, he would not now find himself alone with two men whom he trusted less than he would a stray boar or wolf. They were two of the duchesse’s smugglers and they did not yet trust him enough to allow him to leave Cork unescorted.
“Do you find my company so distasteful?” Deirdre questioned as she drew alongside him.
Killian did not reply directly. “If you are weary we will pause for a short while, but we must reach high ground before dark.”
Deirdre caught her lower lip between her teeth. He had not even glanced at her. “You are angry.”
“I am impatient with this wretched weather.”
“And you wish both the elements and I would go directly to Hades,” Deirdre finished for him.
Killian turned to look at her. Her face was damp and the bright curls that had escaped her hood were darkened with rain, but those things did not mar her in his eyes. “You are quite lovely when you’re angry,” he confided with the beginning of an intimate smile.
“Well, you are not!” Deirdre retorted but could not repress a return of his smile. “You are a most uncivil bore.”
Killian was not fooled by her demeanor. There was hurt lurking in her eyes, hurt he had p
ut there five days earlier. He looked away. He could not explain to her his reasons for wanting to remain in Cork. She had forgiven him for the bruises on her shoulder, but he suspected that other things might not be so easily forgotten or forgiven.
“I am a man accustomed to his solitude,” he began as he stared straight ahead. “I’ve never needed to answer to another for my moods or actions. This business of being a husband, of caring for the needs of another, is new to me.”
“I had not considered, my husband, what a burden I must be to you,” Deirdre answered. The tone of her voice made him whip his head toward her and he saw the golden glint of anger as well as hurt in her green eyes. “So I will relieve you of my burdensome presence!”
Before Killian could guess her intent, Deirdre urged her horse forward with a hard kick. He shouted at her but she gave no sign of having heard him as she galloped away.
“Gom!” Killian swore as his body tensed to give chase. The horses he had purchased in Cork were of poor quality, not the well-bred steeds Deirdre was accustomed to. The animal did not have the breath and stamina for a long gallop. He relaxed; she could not go far.
Expecting to be chased, Deirdre crouched low in her saddle until she nearly lay on her horse’s neck. With all her strength she urged the horse on, up the slope of a hill and then down the steeper plunge of its far side. The wind raced past her, whipping her skirts and tugging at her cloak. It tore her hood from her head and dragged the heavy knot of hair from her crown and sent it spilling across the horse’s shoulder.
The ride made her pulse beat hard and quickly in her ears but she did not care. It was the first exhilarating moment of the journey. As the green, granite-strewn ground stretched out before her, she inhaled deeply of the wet pungent air. It smelled of mud and wood and turf and…
She did not recognize the first unpleasant whiff as anything other than the stench of stagnant bog water. Ahead stood a lone oak, its dark skeletal limbs spread in welcome to the sky.
She tugged on the reins to slow her horse’s pace but the animal was already tensing. It dropped from full gallop into a reluctant trot, tossing its head nervously as the unpleasant odor reached its nostrils.