Amy trailed up the steps far, far behind her mother's retinue hoping that, after receiving their request to be excused from the tea, someone in Lord Comlan's residence would send Beattie back to her. Beat-tie and her mother's maid—whose services were shared today with Lovey—had naturally been provided with a hired coach to follow their mistresses. And neither maid could've known in advance about the change Lady Wyfirth had made in their day's plans.
Unfastening her bonnet, Amy stepped into the rose and white bedroom still decorated with dolls, stuffed animals and other mementos of her childhood. She was preoccupied with planning the evening's secret adventure… leaving her utterly unprepared for what awaited inside.
To Beatrice's disgust, she once again found herself trapped in confines all too close with the Irish lord's impertinent manservant. She fervently wished she could have escaped when Amy had or at least that Mrs. Davis, Lady Wyfirth's maid, was also on her way back to Wyfirth House. But, no, Mrs. Davis was required to remain on the off chance that the future viscountess, Louvisa, might require her services.
"You could've returned to your master after summoning this hansom," Beatrice tartly admonished her unwelcome companion. "I don't need the questionable worth of your company to see me safely home."
"Faith and begorra! A regular tartar you are!" Dooley hooted, plainly not at all offended. "And here I be doin' you a fine favor, Mrs. Milford."
"No heathen Irishman need do me any favors," Beattie huffed, hands clamped tightly around a furled parasol.
"Who be you callin' a heathen? 'Twas the English what turned heretic and broke from the true church." Dooley instinctively defended his countrymen although he'd "no' be admittin' " what an odd quirk of faith his bond with the Tuatha had wrought.
"Tch, tch." Beattie shook her head with feigned regret for his lost soul. "The Irish are a strange lot and as incomprehensible as their way of slaughtering the Queen's English."
"Ah, 'tis an insult you mean." Dooley nodded, mischief dancing in his eyes. "And that's as should be for didn't I say, just as soon as I heard your lady call you Beattie, that 'twas better said Beastie."
Temper heating, Beatrice nearly snorted while turning her burning glare to pierce twilight shadows deepening beyond the window.
"I've no doubt but wha' you drove Mr. Milford to a great likin' for his jar."
The unfamiliar term even more than the mention of her nonexistent husband startled Beattie into again glancing toward her gleefully grinning companion. And the confusion furrowing her brows brought yet another loud guffaw from Dooley.
"His jar… his drink." He cocked one eyebrow, a deeper red than his fiery hair. "You ken?"
"Tch, tch!" Again, Beattie repeated her favorite expression of dismissive contempt and again Dooley laughed louder.
"Surely, since your master is host of this afternoon tea—" Beattie took a different tack, anxious to underscore this incorrigible man's shortcomings. "You should've returned to him as soon as possible."
"Don' you wirra on tha' matter. There's a veritable army seem' to it all. An' I'll no' be wanted." For the first time during their drive, Dooley tamed his nearly irrepressible humor. "Asides, there's things as somat ought be a warnin' your mistress."
"Something you would know?" Beattie was clearly dubious.
"Aye." With exaggerated solemnity, Dooley intoned, "There is them as is up to no good."
"Hah! And you think this is some rare occurrence? Something no one else knows?" Beattie thoroughly enjoyed heaping ridicule on the man who'd dared call her Beastie. "Why the City is littered with creatures of ill intent. And I hardly like to think what a multitude there are throughout the whole of England."
Though seriously tempted to pretend shock that her country was so rife with such villains, he calmly argued. "You silly creature, have you no' understandin' that I'm a talkin' the safety of your lady's Great-aunt Daffy—no' yours nor even Miss Danton's."
"Ah, hah. And you think I might believe that by some heathen trickery or superstitious nonsense you possess the way to know what's about in a country a good long distance from here?" Beattie's scorn earned the return of Dooley's grin.
"Aye, well, be it you ought for I've learned a fair bit 'bout magical ways durin' me years amongst the good gentry o' Erin."
When his scowling companion looked to have been more thoroughly confused than enlightened by his words, Dooley gleefully cackled, " 'Tis a grand pity that you lack the good sense to be a friend to the sidh dwelling in our blessed Irish raths. Simple fac' it be that the Tuatha De have a great store o' knowledge and talents we puir mortals lack."
Sidh? Tuatha? Beattie had heard quite, quite enough of such drivel from Amethyst. And only for love of her lambie had she listened. But no one could force her to endure so much as a single further insinuation of similar delusional nonsense from this insulting heathen, this coarse…
Determined to waste on the man not even the breath required for a further disdainful "tch," Beatrice's fiercely burning glare caught a glimpse of Wyfirth House farther down the street. She demanded that the cab stop immediately and lost no moment in climbing down without the assistance of any useless male.
"Patrick!" Startled, Amy sagged back against her bedroom's closed door while scores of wild questions chased through her mind. "What are you doing here? And how did you get in? Does anyone know you're here?"
"Climbed in through a window." Paddy boldly winked at his pretty inquisitor.
Despite an inner tremble of unease, Amy forced herself to straighten, control wary suspicions and bravely step farther into a room that should never have contained any unrelated male.
Paddy's eyes danced with irrepressible laughter. But by Amethyst's guarded expression, he saw the right in choosin' to keep some facts to hisself. She was no' likely to appreciate his fine skill and many years experience in getting into and out o' fine houses undetected… with a few little bobbles o' reward for his trouble.
"And where's the harm?" Like a member of some fine pantomime show, he adopted an exaggerated guise of wounded feelings.
"No one saw you?" This unexpected visit reinforced Amy's long held opinion that Patience's handsome grandson was more irresponsible child than man. And, despite his grandmother's all too obvious hopes, someone whose suit for her hand was no more welcome than was Orville's.
"With all the Society folk at Her Royal Nibs to-do and no callers expected, your servants finished their duties early so as to claim a few blessed moments to themselves."
"But what are you doing here?" Amy whipped initially scattered wits back into order.
"Me granny has fussed herself into a fine state over your great-aunt Daffy's peril." The uninvited guest ruefully grimaced.
"Why?" Amy sharply demanded, alarm rising. "What happened? Is she all right?"
Paddy shrugged. "I only know that after the warnin' signs we've seen, granny is sore afraid to think her dear friend alone whilst who knows what wicked rogues have planned for her."
Although hardly a definitive accounting, this single statement seemed to Amy confirmation of all her nebulous fears. Fingers unconsciously folded tightly together, she bit hard on her lip. Trapped in London, what could she possibly do to help Daffy? What, considering how completely she'd failed in today's earnest efforts to discuss the matter with Comlan.
"You must come with me now." Putting the full measure of his vaunted charm into the plea, Paddy gently pulled Amy's hands apart to lightly squeeze them. "Stay with Daffy until the danger passes."
"Now?" Amy was aghast… initially. But as Patrick fervently nodded, she made a decision utterly out of character with her claimed admiration for calm and reasoned actions. She would go to Ireland. Go immediately. How could she not? If she chose otherwise and something happened to Daffy that her presence might have prevented, she'd suffer a lifetime of painful regret.
"Amy—" The door swung open under Beatrice's firm hand. Despite well-oiled hinges, it faintly squeaked… a sound accompanied by a gasp, equal parts horror and reproach.
Whirling around, Amy gave Beattie a speaking glance effectively warning her to silence.
"Remember," Amy said while softly closing the door, "I told you about the letter I received from my great-aunt's dear friend, Patience?"
Beattie slowly nodded, plainly skeptical of these strange doings on the heels of her unpleasant ride with Dooley.
"This is Patrick O'Leary, her grandson." Suddenly struck by the absurdity of a formal introduction made in the privacy of a debutante's boudoir, Amy couldn't restrain an inappropriate grin.
Attention on the unrepentant intruder, Beattie missed Amy's ill-timed amusement and again nodded. She chose to guard her tongue until some explanation was given for the brazen man's purpose here. And to excuse his presence in her innocent lambie's bedroom it had better be something of importance equal to the Second Coming.
"He has come to escort me back to Daffy's side." With this flatly stated explanation Amy made a valiant attempt for calm.
"Oh, no!" Beatrice firmly rejected the mere notion. "No, no, no! You are not going back to Ireland in the midst of the Season and not with that stranger! What could your parents possibly be thinking?"
Now here, Amy ruefully acknowledged, was the biggest challenge to be met.
"They don't know!" Seeing the expressions chasing across her lambie's face, Beattie had read the truth. "Your parents don't know, do they?"
Amy grimaced, no words of hers would ease that uncomfortable truth.
"And how do you think to get away? Just walk out, bold as you please?" After her verbal battle with that daft Irishman in the hansom cab, Beattie's sensitivities had already been sorely chaffed. "What about me? Do you mean to drag me off into the wilds, too? Paying no mind to what your parents are likely to demand of me for helping their scapegrace daughter."
"No." Amy firmly shook a dark head. "I'd never let you risk so much."
"Ah, but you'll risk it? Tch, tch." Beattie solemnly gazed at Amy in wordless rebuke. "As if I'd let my lambie go off alone with any male, least of all some strange Irishman."
"It isn't your choice," Amy firmly stated.
"Ah, well," Beattie responded with equal determination. "We'll see about that."
Watching these two stubborn women, Patrick realized it was time for him to intervene.
"Ladies, ladies. 'Tis a compromise you'll be wantin'." Suddenly the focus of feminine attention, Patrick sensed their hostility. Although they showed no willingness to be convinced, undaunted, he wielded his Irish charm. "Your maid can play mother hen till we reach the train station where me granny waits with earnest hope that you'll be lendin' yourself to this journey. Then you'll never be alone with this strange Irishman." He sent Beattie a teasing grin.
"Already have we secured a private coach on the train," Paddy continued, turning toward Amy. "It'll reach the coast just in time for us to board a ship departin' on the mornin' tide. You'll be at your great-aunt Daffy's cottage in time for tea."
"That's as may be." Beattie was still unconvinced and suspicious of this smooth talking male who sounded all too much like the reprehensible Dooley. Stern expression mitigated by worry, she looked to Amy. "But I don't see how you think it possible to creep away so easily."
" 'Tis the easiest part, me darlin'," Paddy smoothly answered the question not asked of him. "We'll all slip out unseen the same way tha' I came in."
Beattie sent him a brief yet fierce glare.
"But, Beattie," Amy called for the return of her maid's attention. "After I've boarded the train with Patience and before the hansom cab I'll hire brings you home, I've a little chore for you."
Frown becoming a scowl, Beattie turned fully toward Amy. There were too many peculiar things afoot already, and she didn't like to think what more her lambie might request.
"She's done what?" Demanded the tall man silhouetted against light flowing through his home's open front door.
Beatrice was appalled when the Irish lord she'd expected to be horrified by news of her usually stable lambie's escape through a window and flight from the country, threw back his head to laugh uproariously. But then hadn't all three of the Irishmen she'd recently met proven what a peculiar breed they were.
Once again the human maid had done the near impossible—shock Comlan. He was pleased as Amy's feat also meant her carefully built veneer of unimaginative predictability was beginning to break. Through that crack, however narrow, flowed a weak glimmer of hope that their worlds might yet intersect. As someone who treasured the unexpected and cultivated the unlikely, it was welcome. Furthermore, it afforded at least a slight chance that the dark maid might yet be his alone… a faint possibility beckoning him with tempting visions of far more than mere welcome.
"I will see to your lady's safety." When Comlan nodded, gleams of light from behind seemed to get caught in his golden hair and glow from within. "Worry on it no more."
"But how?" Beattie demanded, unwilling to be foisted off so easily. "You're here and she's heaven knows where by now."
"I doubt you'd find comfort in my explanation." With a charm that put Patrick's paltry efforts to shame, Comlan smiled at the woman watching him with unveiled suspicion. "The best I can give you is a vow made on all I hold dear that it will be true."
Dooley's claim of years spent with the Tuatha De and their great store o' knowledge and talents we puir mortals lack raced through Beattie's mind as clearly as if just spoken. Lord Comlan was right. Beattie slowly shook her head. She wouldn't be comforted by his explanation if it involved such heathen trickery.
"Would you like me to have Dooley accompany you safely home again?" Comlan wryly inquired.
"No!" Beattie gasped, whirling about and marching back to the waiting hansom. That was the very last thing she would ever want. Even less now when she already had before her the daunting prospect of sneaking into Wyfirth House through an unlocked window, just as if she were some common thief.
Chapter 11
To fight the strong wind plastering blue-gray skirts down the full length of her legs, Amy aided the purpose of satin ribbons by holding her bonnet in place with one hand. With the other she gripped the ship's rail while watching a distant harbor fade ever farther back into the morning mist.
Amy had grown uneasy after hours in the constant company of Patience and her grandson, first on the train and just now in the cabin below deck. They watched her too steadily and whispered between themselves. No reason they shouldn't, she supposed, but she didn't like it anyway. Giving the weak excuse of a wish for fresh air, she'd slipped their rein to welcome even the bracing cold of morning.
The brisk breeze revived a weary Amy and cleared a mind too long held captive by her companions' useless babble. She was worried about Garnet's trouble and Lovey's fears but even concern for family gave way to images of the golden Irish lord.
These were her first private moments since the revelation of her impossible love for this man from an incredible race so far beyond her own that she could never hope for more than the taste of heaven already experienced in his embrace.
"I hope it's not discomfort caused by the rolling motion of the sea that has you clutching the rail."
The familiar deep but utterly unexpected voice, startled Amy into quickly turning… too quickly as at that same moment the vessel pitched sharply to one side. She'd have fallen to the deck, if not into the sea, had the subject of her longing thoughts failed to catch her close against his broad chest.
Intensely conscious of their proximity, Amy trembled while Comlan's warm maleness wrapped about her as surely as his strong arms. She gazed up to discover so scant a distance separated them that she could clearly see the hot glitter in emerald eyes. Too, she saw when their burning intensity dropped to her parted lips and trembled. The mere brush of his gaze strengthened heated memories of what had been and inspired wild visions of what could be…
Shocked by the wanton trail her thoughts had so easily followed, Amy allowed her forehead to drop forward and rest against the solid wall he was.
That action dislodged a bonnet saved from the playful wind only by deep blue ribbons tied around her throat.
Initially glad to find her alone and unharmed, Comlan's pleasure was increased by her helpless response to him. His green eyes danced with amusement as he tilted a reluctant chin up and again gazed into the dark damsel's winsome face. The charming color warming her cheeks was assuredly due not to the chill breeze but to the intimacy of their innocent embrace. Though well aware of the sweet dangers in such seductive exchanges, he cradled her temptingly soft form even nearer. Potent smile tilting awry, he inwardly mocked himself for the ease with which this human beauty swayed the king of the Tuatha de Danann's strong will.
Gaze caught and held by the emerald fire in his, wild sensations throbbed through Amy. It stole her breath, leaving not even enough for a sigh as his firm mouth brushed achingly across hers again and again before settling to nip at her lips until they fell open, welcoming the devastating excitement of a deeper kiss. Hands pressed against his powerful chest felt the mighty pounding of his heart—an echo of her own.
The slam of a distant door intruded with its reminder that they were not truly alone. Amy pulled away. She chided herself for the betraying heat washing her face with vivid rose and fought the craven urge to once more close her eyes and bury her face against his chest. Instead, though it required the mustering of her every shred of courage, she steadily met the melting power of Comlan's gaze while making a calm inquiry.
"Did Beattie give you both my letter from Patience O'Leary and the message I left for you?"
"Indeed, yes." Comlan solemnly nodded, hiding his amused satisfaction with her hard won courage. He was gratified by this further proof that there was much hope for the damsel once determined to follow a safe path through her tedious life in the mortal world—and only wished that he could linger to share it with her.
"But our train was pulling out as Beattie left. You couldn't have caught it…" Eyes darkened to charcoal narrowed on the handsome face so near while Amy tentatively raised a subject her well-trained logic insisted must be addressed. "And as there were no more scheduled last night, how did you get here?"
Once Upon a Time Page 11