by Laura Parker
Deirdre nodded, too heartsick to care where they spent the night. Tomorrow they would reach Liscarrol and the culmination of twelve years of longing.
Chapter Eighteen
Deirdre rode toward the crest of the hill with an odd kind of excitement beating high in her chest. She had waited for this day for so long that she could hardly believe it had arrived. Much of the surrounding countryside was different from her memories as an eight-year-old, but it did not matter. She recognized the pale green tinge in the western sky just above the shoulders of the Shehy Mountains and knew that Liscarrol lay in the valley just beyond the rise.
There was an eagerness in her face that drew Killian’s gaze to her again and again as they slowly climbed to the summit. In the soft morning light, the pale gold of her skin matched the shining crispness of her hair, which she had left uncovered under the rare near-cloudless sky. She was the embodiment of all that was young and unspoiled and vulnerable. His heart went out to her in hopes that she would not be too disappointed in the sight that lay ahead. He could not warn her not to expect too much. It would only spoil her happiness that he did not share her expectant joy.
When she glanced at him and flushed in surprise to find him gazing back at her, Killian smiled. He had been warned in Cork that Liscarrol had been without a caretaker for most of the last twelve years. He had even been able to learn that the cousin left in charge had been elected first to the Dublin Parliament and then appointed a position in London. Liscarrol was isolated away from the main traffic lanes and therefore was of little use or interest to the English. No doubt, neglect had made it uninhabitable.
He suppressed a sigh. Ireland was a land of the disinherited and the supplanted. He had come only because of Deirdre. Yet, when he looked at her as he did now, a tender, fierce love gripped him. He loved her.
More than she loves me.
He pushed aside the thought. He had known that from the moment she begged him to bring her here. When the time came that she found bitter disappointment and tears replacing her joy, he would be there to comfort her, and that should be enough.
But it isn’t, a voice inside him whispered. You want all her love and Liscarrol stands in your way.
As the last few yards stretched out before them, Deirdre rose in her stirrups and gasped in joy as the horizon suddenly dipped into the verdant valley below.
A long silver thread of the river Bandon meandered through the valley, glistening like a snail’s track on the dew-drenched green grasses. Atop a rocky rise on the valley’s floor where the river looped out below it stood Liscarrol.
The granite fortress gleamed like a silver-gray jewel with a cape of deep green ivy trailing from its wall.
“’Tis as I remember it!” Deirdre cried breathlessly. “’Tis the same!”
She urged her horse through the narrow gap at the top of the hill and began the steep descent.
Killian followed her, less impressed with the beauty of the place. Deirdre’s adoring eyes had not seen what had caught his attention. The fields were empty of sheep and cattle. Old rock fences were tumbled and tangled in overgrown bracken and vines. There was no smoke from a fire in or near Liscarrol, no sign of life at all.
Deirdre slowed long before she reached the castle.
Breathless but exhilarated, she forced herself to allow her horse to canter the rest of the way. As she neared the river that separated her from Liscarrol she smelled the wet, faintly fishy odor of the water and the pungent scent of the decaying rushes. She smiled as she gazed on the swift-flowing water. Her father had always boasted that beneath the green and brown rushing waters were the best salmon runs in the area.
Bees hummed in the new buds among the long grasses and a memory came back so quick and sharp that she sighed in pleasure. She had loved above all things to toast bread in the huge hearth of the Great Hall on long lazy evenings and spread the thick crisp slices with sweet fragrant honey gathered from Liscarrol’s apiary. She wondered who had gathered the honey these last years.
Slowly, savoring the moments, she raised her eyes to the far bank. In the distance, great common yews, like static green flames, lined the avenue that led from the river to the castle. She frowned as she noted the brown clumps of weeds which had invaded the lane. In her father’s time the lane had been kept clear of grass and a fresh layer of stone had been added each spring. Away to the left of the stone-walled fortress where once there had been a flourishing orchard there were only leafless, black-limbed trees, their buds still tightly closed against the harsh spring.
“How do we cross?”
Deirdre looked up, startled to find Killian at her side. “There’s a bridge down there,” she answered, pointing down the bank toward the right.
She was surprised but grateful when he backed away and let her lead the way. He did understand, she thought. In spite of his disgruntlement, he realized how important the moment was for her and would not steal from her the pleasure of entering her home first.
The stone bridge was missing more than one plank and the horses had to carefully choose a path across it.
“Cousin Neil must have few guests,” she mused aloud. Killian did not answer.
Holly bushes had overgrown the boundaries of the bridge’s far side, and for the first time she considered the possibility that no one lived at Liscarrol. She paused and turned to Killian. “I had not thought that we might arrive with no one to greet us.”
Killian shrugged. “If your cousin is absent we will be spared the necessity of explaining our purpose. ’Tis easier to oust an absent host.”
Deirdre smiled at him. “I would not oust Cousin Neil without ceremony. In any case, he will be welcome as long as he chooses to remain.”
Killian looked back at the men who accompanied them; they lagged far behind. “Come, wife, let’s secure our new home.”
Deirdre nodded and urged her horse forward.
The ride was quickly accomplished. The carriageway’s disrepair was more evident up close but Deirdre hardly noticed. It was the castle itself that made her gasp aloud as she slid from her saddle.
The stone walls were still firmly in place but the massive portal was gaping open on broken hinges and the glass in every window of the facade had been shattered. The few remaining pieces of furniture had been tossed from the doorway and lay splintered in a pile of ashes.
Anticipating her next move, Killian threw a leg over his horse and dismounted, but Deirdre was ahead of him, running with lifted skirts toward the house. She reached the steps and plunged into the dark interior. Her cry of surprise made Killian’s blood turn to ice in his veins. He drew his pistol as he ran after her but before he gained the first step, Deirdre reappeared in the doorway, her face livid.
“They’ve destroyed it! They’ve burned everything!”
Killian paused. “Who’s burned it? Who’s in there?”
Deirdre looked at him with a stricken look in her eyes. “There’s no one here. There’s no one at all. The house has been burned. Do you think Cousin Neil was attacked by the English? Perhaps they murdered him!”
Killian swore under his breath but caught himself before blurting out the truth. She looked so hurt and defeated when moments before the light of joy had shone in her face. He could not tell her that her cousin was not only unharmed but reveling in his friendship with her enemies.
He must not even be aware of the ruin Liscarrol had become, for he had been ready to buy it from Lord Fitzgerald.
“Look about you. Whatever happened here happened months ago. Your father would have heard had your kinsman been arrested. As for the damage, it could have been done by any aulaun. Or perhaps the English feared the abandoned fortress would offer shelter for the desperate and they burned the place as a reminder of their authority.”
Killian amazed himself with his ability to spin the plausible, glib lie, but he was not sorry when he saw a little of the sorrow lift from Deirdre’s expression. Her cousin was not worthy of the grief she suffered. He put an arm
about her. “Let’s look the place over.”
They climbed the stairwell to the Great Hall. As Deirdre had said, a fire had been set inside the stone walls and not a single tapestry, carpet, or stick of furniture had escaped the lick of the blaze. The slate floor was littered with charred debris, but instead of the odor of soot and ash, the sharp, acrid stench of feces and urine stung their nostrils.
Deirdre turned to him with a hand held to her nose. “Why does the place stink so?”
Killian shook his head, then followed his nose until it led him to the archway of the small private chapel which had served as the place of worship for many generations of Fitzgeralds. There he found the cause of the stench. Piled more than three feet high in the middle of the desecrated chapel was a hill of sheep dung.
“The blasphemous swine!” Deirdre declared, anger percolating through her stunning disappointment.
“There’s proof if we need it that the destruction was deliberate,” Killian murmured to himself. “A spade and a strong back will soon take care of it,” he continued in a louder voice. “Come, let’s see whatever else awaits us.”
Upstairs, the heat from the blaze had burst many of the windows. In each of the rooms on the upper floor new fires had been lit. In places where the flames had eaten through the heavy beamwork of the ceiling, the roof had collapsed.
Killian said nothing as Deirdre moved from room to room. He watched as bewilderment replaced sadness on her face, until finally a kind of weary resignation settled over her features as the extent of the damage to her beloved home revealed itself.
When at last she slumped against the archway of the minstrel’s galley above the Great Hall and gave up to the tears she had held at bay, he remained apart. It was her grief and she would feel better for the letting of it, he told himself. Yet, when her sobs of bitterness, anger, and disappointment threatened to overwhelm her, he moved to enfold her in his arms.
“’Tis a sad business, this,” he said low and tightened his arms as she began to pull away. “Nae, lass, do not reject me. You’re grieving for the past, but you must let go of it. We must return to Cork.”
Deirdre lifted her tear-streaked face. “Leave Liscarrol? I will not. Liscarrol may have suffered but it’s far from defeated. The walls still stand. It could be made new again with work.”
“Aye, that it could,” he agreed. “There’s enough work to be done to keep a score of men working a full six months.” With his thumb, he rubbed a tear from her cheek. “See reason, macushla. There’s just you and I. We cannot accomplish the task alone.”
“I am not afraid of work.” Deirdre felt better as she talked of a future for her beloved home, and her eyes sparkled with renewed hope. “The walls are sound. Half the roof remains intact. We can clean out the lower rooms first and live there while the new roof is built.”
Killian said slowly, still trying to dull the blow, “From where do you suppose the money will come to buy the new materials and furnishings you desire?”
Deirdre frowned. “I had not thought of that.”
“So I supposed.”
“Are we so very poor then?”
Killian shrugged. More poor than she could guess. He had held a slim hope that Liscarrol might prove a productive estate, but there was nothing here but a blackened shell surrounded by empty fields. He could expect to receive no more money from the duchesse until he had found and dispatched the smugglers who were cheating her, and that might take him weeks or months. No, he could not provide Deirdre with funds for rebuilding, nor could he afford to keep her long in Cork. Pricked by his own lack, his sense of failure when she needed him, he turned surly.
“I am not a wealthy man. You are accustomed to comforts that a man like me has rarely known. I do not fault you for your soft hands and silken gowns, but it makes you unfit for the work you claim you would do. We will return to Cork at once. After the sale of Liscarrol’s land, we will return to France where you may live comfortably from the proceeds of your inheritance.”
“I will not!” Deirdre’s chin rounded in determination. “I am not some simple-minded lass to be ordered about at will. You underestimate me, Killian MacShane, if you think me fit only for salons and ballrooms. I am fit for any chore I choose. As for money, I will hire a few of the local people on the promise to pay them in—in a few weeks’ time.”
Killian’s laughter was nasty. “Who would work for a lady of no fortune or means?”
“I am a Fitzgerald,” Deirdre replied. “That name counts for something in Munster.”
“Nae, lass. You are an Irish lady, and that carries little enough weight these days. Liscarrol may be yours but you are without visible means of support. Where are your cattle, your sheep? Where are your tilled fields? And, were you to be so fortunate to possess them, do you think the English would allow you to keep them? The taxation alone would keep you a debtor. God’s love, lass! Do you not know what has become of the country you say you love? Is it only through the rainbow mists of childish fancy that you see this place?”
He grabbed her by the arm and turned her to face the Great Hall below. “Look! What do you see? Filth! Decay! Neglect! ’Tis the end of a dynasty. The rule of your beloved Fitzgeralds is over!”
Deirdre twisted free of his grasp. Anger blazing in her eyes, she turned and slapped him.
Killian saw the intent in her eyes before she struck and chose not to defend himself, but when she raised her hand a second time, he lifted his arm. “Once is quite enough.”
His voice was low, almost gentle, but the look in his eyes stayed her hand the second time. Deirdre blushed. She felt lightheaded with frustration and impotence. He was right, right in everything he said, and yet she could not, would not accept it.
“You knew what we’d find, didn’t you? You knew! Why did you come with me? You did not want to come, you lied and schemed to keep me in Cork. Why did you agree to come to Ireland in the first place? You never wanted to do it. You could have stayed in France. What is it you seek?”
Killian moved a step away from her but his eyes never left her face. “I am your husband. We share everything.”
Deirdre shook her head and loose strands of wavy blond hair swirled about her shoulders. “’Tis a poor excuse, that. You do not share my pain, my anger at the damage that has been done here. You are indifferent. Liscarrol means nothing to you!”
“You are wrong, lass.”
But Deirdre was not listening. She felt as though all her insides were tumbling. She braced herself in the doorway with one hand and swept the hair from her eyes with the other. “I will not leave here. Liscarrol is my home. I will live here until I die!”
Killian lightly rubbed his stinging cheek. Part of him wanted to shake her, to turn her over his knee, but another part of him admired her tenacity. She had a fine Irish temper but it would not solve her problems.
“You must know that the English will not sit idly by and watch you raise a fallen bastion of Gaelic dominance,” he warned roughly. “If you find the means to breathe life into Liscarrol once more, you will only be making it an attraction for them. But, if you are determined in this foolhardy venture, I will stand by you.”
Deirdre clung to the door frame, her insides churning. How could Killian look so coldly at her? She had thought he understood a little of her feelings for this place, but he did not. “I do not need your help. Go away, Killian MacShane. I rue the day I first set eyes on you!”
Killian watched her go. It was not a pretty beginning. He did not have the soft words a lady needed to hear. He had blundered through in a loud voice that had only made her angrier and more determined to remain. Yet, stubbornness was no substitute for reason.
For the first time since entering the castle, he wondered what had become of the men accompanying them. Had they not found the bridge across the Bandon? A few steps brought him to the nearby window which looked out onto the front lawn. Sean and his companion were not there. Neither were they visible in the distance. They had disappeared.
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He raised his eyes to the rocky outcropping of the nearest hill and saw a thin gray-white thread of smoke rising from a clump of trees. Unconsciously his hand touched the pistol he had tucked in his waistband.
*
“Mille murdher!” Deirdre muttered, imitating Conall’s voice when he was at his most disgusted with her. “That man will not see reason!”
If Darragh and Conall were here they would not have been so unconcerned by the fate of Liscarrol, nor would they have been dismayed by the amount of work needed to restore it. They would have stood by her and helped her plan its reconstruction.
But as she walked across the floor of the Great Hall she could not help taking quick, sidelong glances at the wreckage about her. Killian was right, of course—they could not do all the work themselves. “But we can make a beginning!” With that in mind, she headed out through the main doorway and toward the stables.
Killian had been right, too, in his assessment of her lack of interest in money matters. It was not from her lack of experience with finances, however. With her brothers and father away most of her life and Lady Elva often in delicate health, she had taken responsibility early for the household accounts. She knew the cost of cheese and linen, a fair price for a keg of ale or a tinker’s pot. She knew her own finances to the last sou, of which there were very few left, she mused ruefully. She was not extravagant. She had asked for nothing from Killian but passage to Ireland. Yet, she should have considered that he was not a wealthy man. He had been a soldier, but, unlike her brothers and father, he was not a nobleman and his wages must have been meager.
A pang of guilt made her stop and glance back at the gray somber walls of Liscarrol. Somewhere inside it, Killian was no doubt pacing and swearing. Even so, the glow of pride warmed her as she stared at her ancestral home. She was home, where she belonged. And, because she had married him, Liscarrol was now as much Killian’s as hers. She would remind him of that.
The day had begun to grow cloudy. In the short space of an hour a dark band of rain had risen from the southwest. As she watched, it crested a distant hill, obscuring the ridge in a curtain of dark water. Pulling her hood forward against the cool air, she hurried across the yard into the low-roofed stable.