The Irish Rogue

by Judith E. French

  She sighed again and drew her knees up.

  O'Ryan felt an odd sense of loss when he could no longer see her exposed ankle. Despite the soft mattress under him and his utter contentment, he felt himself growing hard.

  The curtains on the windows facing the bay puffed inward as a breeze shifted, washing away the heat of the night. The draft was sweet and clean, bringing images of whitecaps and wheeling gulls. He would have sworn he could taste the bite of salt on his tongue.

  The bedroom should have been cooler with the movement of air, but O'Ryan felt beads of moisture gather at the nape of his neck and trickle slowly down his back.

  He was suddenly restless. He knew he should get up, go to the far chamber, and dress. He'd always been an early riser. No matter what time he went to sleep—and it was often after midnight—it was his custom not to lie abed after daybreak.

  This morning was different.

  He enjoyed the view from his spot very much, and had no wish to leave before Annie did. He wondered if she had any idea how lovely she was when she was asleep... how desirable to a man.

  Her nose was small and slightly turned up at the end, her mouth full, and her chin just right for a determined woman. Her ears were delicately shaped and lay close to her head, perfect for whispering secrets into or... Sensual thoughts crowded into his mind, making the heat in his body more intense, until even the palms of his hands seemed overly hot. He shifted on the mattress, trying to ignore a growing tension in the length of his body.

  Devil take him! Hadn't he promised her that he'd act the gentleman? What kind of man was he that he could spy on her in her sleep and make love to her in his mind?

  She's your wife, isn't she? came a treacherous voice from deep in his head. Who has a better right to look?

  Anne rolled onto her stomach, still holding the tangled sheet in her fist. As she turned, she twisted the pillow, and he saw the base of the brass candlestick tucked under it.

  "Damned if you didn't mean to brain me with it," he murmured half under his breath.

  It had definitely been too long since he'd shared bed-sport with a lady. He was a man who enjoyed the pleasures of the opposite sex, but he had never seduced a virgin or paid a whore.

  The woman beside you is neither.

  Nay, it is too soon, he answered firmly, and slid his feet over the bed. He'd not taken two steps toward the antechamber when someone rapped on the door. O'Ryan barely had time to dive back under the sheet and hide his burgeoning erection before the knob turned and Kessie's voice came through the opening crack.

  "Miss Anne, make yourself decent. Your papa's coming."

  Anne, still half-asleep, struggled to a sitting position. "Kessie? What..." She glanced over at O'Ryan and her eyes widened in alarm.

  "Sorry, precious," the housekeeper called. "I told him not to disturb you two so early, but you know how he is."

  "Papa?" Anne mumbled. "Why is he—?" O'Ryan slid over beside her and slipped an arm around her. Anne gasped, snatched the coverlet up to her throat, and kicked his leg. "Get over on your side!"

  A man's spurs clanked in the passageway.

  O'Ryan leaned down and laid his hand on her midriff just as her father appeared in the doorway.

  "Morning!" James declared. "Time you two were up and about. I had my breakfast an hour ago." He rubbed his stomach. "Milk toast and cornbread, but enough to hold body and soul together."

  James was dressed for riding in a wide-brimmed hat, hunting coat, and boots. In one hand he carried a leather crop, in the other a mug of ale. O'Ryan could smell the yeasty odor of the hearty brew.

  "I mean to go to Greensboro Hall and invite young Nate and his family to join us for supper. I hear his wife's brothers are visiting from Chestertown. With Sibyl—that's Nathaniel's mother," he explained, "that will make eight at the table. A good number, don't you think?"

  "Yes, Papa," Anne agreed without much enthusiasm. "But why tonight, when we've only just arrived home and you've been under the weather? Wouldn't it be better to—?"

  "Lord, no!" James replied. "Don't know how long Graham and Miles Steele mean to stay. Good card players, both of them. I took them for eighteen dollars last Christmas. More jingle in their pockets than good sense. Nate's little Susannah is in the family way. She'll be delighted to come and hear about the latest fashions in Philadelphia. Sibyl knows her horseflesh, but she's bound to be a bore to live with day in and day out. A little of Sibyl Greensboro goes a long way." He shook his head and looked at O'Ryan. "She's a widow, and she's set her cap for me, but she'll never catch this old fox. One good wife is all a man needs."

  O'Ryan hugged Anne tighter. She smiled up at him and reached under the sheet and jabbed him in the ribs. He cut off a yelp of surprise and covered his distress with a cough.

  Her father didn't seem to notice. "You'll do well, both of you, to be pleasant to Sibyl," he advised. "If she approves of the match, you'll have no trouble. But if she doesn't, she's bound to spread gossip about your hasty marriage."

  Anne elbowed O'Ryan. "Since when do you care about women's gossip, Papa?"

  O'Ryan wondered how long James intended to stay in the room.

  "The Davis name is a respectable one," Anne's father said sternly. "The Eastern Shore is a small place. I'd be less than responsible if I let you behave recklessly and cut yourself off from proper society. We're informal here, with none of the fancy manners you'll see on the Continent or in Philadelphia. But Anne comes of good stock, as I hope you do. And there's no reason the two of you can't be received in the best homes."

  "Give me a few minutes to dress," O'Ryan said. "I'll be glad to ride out with you again."

  "Anne can come with us," he replied. "She's quite the rider herself. What do you say, my girl? Will you join us?"

  "Not today," Anne answered. "If we're entertaining tonight, I should be helping Aunt Kessie with the preparations. You two go."

  "Right. That we shall." He looked back at O'Ryan. "Downstairs in a quarter hour, or I'll come back to fetch you."

  As the door closed behind him, Anne twisted free of O'Ryan's grasp. "I'll thank you to keep your hands to yourself," she whispered urgently.

  O'Ryan grimaced. "First you bruise my flesh and now you accuse me? Next you'll be thumping me with this." He retrieved the candlestick and hefted it dramatically. "I'm lucky I wasn't murdered in my sleep."

  "Because I felt sorry for you and let you in here doesn't mean I intend you to take liberties." She retreated to the far side of the bed and pulled the sheets up to her chin. "Go back into your own room and don't come out until you're decent."

  "Are you planning on getting dressed?"

  "Not until you're downstairs and I can lock the door."

  He was tempted to tease her further, but her rosy complexion had taken on a distinctly green hue. "Are you unwell?" he asked. "Morning sickness?"

  "No," she protested weakly. "Yes, I... think so." She took a deep breath. "Just get out of my bed."

  He nodded. He rose, noticing that the evidence of his earlier excitement no longer stood at attention. He crossed the room, then stopped when he heard her gasp. "What's wrong?"

  "Your back."

  The room, which had seemed so comfortable before suddenly became cooler. O'Ryan became acutely aware of the smooth floorboards under his bare feet and the acrid taste in his mouth. "You've never seen a man's naked back before?"

  "Those—those scars. What happened to you?" The sting was gone from her tone. Her brown eyes brimmed with compassion.

  O'Ryan braced himself inwardly, trying not to let the bad memories flood back. "Cat tracks," he answered lightly. "A cat-o'-nine-tails."

  "You were beaten?"

  He stiffened, certain he could feel the leather whip slicing through his flesh and hear the jeers of the onlookers. "My past is my own affair."

  "Even when my child will carry your name?" Her face paled to the color of buttermilk. "Who are you, Michael O'Ryan?"

  "You said it yourself. Just a fortu
ne hunter."

  "Fortune hunter or not, I mean to keep you to our bargain."

  "Aye. And so do I. For I'll not be cheated of what's due me, Annie."

  She wilted under his hard gaze, lowering her head and clapping a hand over her mouth. "I—I...," she stammered.

  "Are you sick?" He returned to the side of the bed. "Lie back against the pillow." She obeyed, eyelashes fluttering.

  "Tish, tish," he soothed. "It will pass, lass. It's only the morning sickness." He went to the washbowl and pitcher and poured cool water onto a towel. Wringing out the cloth, he carried it back and placed it on her forehead.

  "Thank you," she murmured. "That feels good."

  Her skin was nearly translucent; even her lips seemed to have lost their color. "You're likely carrying a boy," he said. "The old women say that it's the boys that bring the most rough weather for a mother."

  She grasped his hand, opening her eyes to look directly into his. "You're very kind, Michael O'Ryan, too kind for a fortune hunter."

  "Only with ladies in distress."

  "You always seem to be coming to my rescue."

  "I'll try not to make a habit of it."

  She gave him a half smile. "You'd best go. Papa will be looking for you."

  "Shall I send up your maid? Do you want anything?"

  "Just for the room to stop spinning. No, I'll be fine. Hurry or my father will be back up here insisting we both ride with him."

  O'Ryan nodded. He wanted to be away from Anne, to shed this overwhelming feeling that he had to protect her. He needed to be outside in the fresh air, where he could remember his priorities. "All right," he agreed. But as he opened the door to the smaller bedroom she called after him.

  "You can't fool me," she said. "You're not as tough as you pretend. And for a bachelor, you seem to know a lot about having babies."

  * * *

  An hour later, when she came down the wide front staircase, Anne had to admit that O'Ryan had been right. The queasiness had passed, and she felt clear-headed and happy. In fact, she was hungry—ravenous to be exact.

  O'Ryan and Papa were nowhere to be seen, so she assumed that O'Ryan had eaten and they had ridden off to Greensboro Hall. The table was still set for one. Heavy silver serving dishes rested on the mahogany hunt board, and a pitcher of rich cream stood nestled in a bed of ice beside her plate.

  The pairs of tall windows on the bay side of the house and at the back had been thrown open, and a breeze played through the dining room. Servants had rolled the rugs and packed them in the attic so that the wooden floor was bare and cool underfoot for summer.

  Anne helped herself to fresh strawberries and biscuits still warm from the oven. She turned up her nose at the boiled eggs, but chose a few strips of bacon, two pancakes, and an oyster fritter. Balancing her heaped plate in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, she pushed open the door to the winter kitchen.

  Two identical young black women were polishing silver. Aunt Kessie stood at a writing desk checking her ledger. "Morning, Miss Anne," the twins said in unison.

  Anne greeted all three cheerfully and carried her breakfast over to a battered old table near the brick fireplace. The hearth was wide enough to roast a full-grown sow on the spit, but it contained no fire today. The iron pulleys and wheels, the blackened three-legged spiders, and the Dutch ovens were cold. In warm weather, all the cooking was done in the summer kitchen, a whitewashed brick building that stood a dozen yards behind the house; this room was used for preparation.

  Aunt Kessie glanced at Anne's plate and smiled enigmatically. "Didn't they feed you in Philadelphia, child?" The twins giggled, but one serious look from the older woman sent them back to work with renewed vigor.

  "Nobody cooks like Toby," Anne said. "Mary's food is good, but it doesn't taste like home." Between bites, she asked a dozen questions about the health and well-being of people and animals on Gentleman's Folly. "Did you see the pirates? Was anyone hurt? When—?"

  "One at a time, if you please, miss," Aunt Kessie replied. She clapped her hands twice. "Afi, Afua, you can leave that until later. Send one of the children to gather the eggs, see if the wash is dry, and start on a new batch of butter. Hurry, now. We want everything right for Miss Anne's supper party tonight."

  "Yes, ma'am." The two maids wiped their hands on their aprons and hurried out the door onto the back porch.

  Aunt Kessie poured herself a cup of tea and drew a chair over to sit near Anne. "Your new husband may not like you coming into the kitchen to eat with us."

  "He won't mind." Anne finished the last strawberry and wiped her mouth with a napkin. "Oh, they're lovely this year, aren't they? Delicious."

  "Is he a good man?"

  "O'Ryan?" Anne got up to find honey for her tea. "Yes, I think so. I think Papa likes him, although he'll pretend he doesn't for a while."

  "What's important is that you like him." Aunt Kessie's sloe-black eyes grew anxious. "Mr. Preston was not right for you. I knew that. I could feel his evil. But this Irishman is different. He worries me. I cannot see into his heart. I cannot feel what he thinks."

  "Did you look into a candle flame? Ask the old people spirits?"

  Creases formed at the corners of Aunt Kessie's mouth.

  "What kind of talk is that? You've been listening to these silly girls. If I see something, I just see it. I don't ask, sometimes the voices tell me things about a man or a woman. But Kessie Africa doesn't mess with black magic. You should know better."

  "Mr. O'Ryan—Michael, his name is Michael. He risked his life for me. Footpads attacked Mary's carriage. One of them pulled me out onto the street. Michael came to my rescue. That must prove what kind of person he is."

  Aunt Kessie nodded. "Maybe so. Maybe not. My voices see danger around him." She took Anne's hands in hers. "You should have waited. You should have brought him here to meet Master James. Marriage is a big step. You are still young. Maybe too young to pick a man you must spend the rest of your life with."

  "I couldn't wait."

  "Ah." The black woman nodded again. "I thought so." She laid gentle fingers over Anne's womb. "Is a girl child in this cradle. That was the small voice I heard crying."

  "A girl? Are you sure?"

  "Definitely a female life."

  "A little girl. Somehow, I thought of it as a boy, but I'd love a daughter. Promise me you won't say anything to Papa, not yet. He would be angry with me."

  Aunt Kessie's dark eyes dilated and became glassy as she breathed slow, deep breaths. "I feel something..."

  "The baby?" Anne shivered despite the warmth of the kitchen.

  The older woman stood up suddenly. "Pay no attention to me," she said. "I am getting old, foolish, maybe even hard of hearing. There's no reason you and your husband should not have many healthy sons and daughters."

  Anne's mouth went dry, and a tiny frisson of fear slid down her spine. "Tell me," she begged. "If something's wrong, I want to know. What—?"

  "You surprised me, nothing more," Aunt Kessie said in a voice that told Anne that the discussion was over. "I was disappointed to miss your wedding. I always thought that when the right man came, you would marry here at Gentleman's Folly. Now..." She sighed and shrugged. "What's passed is past. We must worry about tonight. You know I want only the best for you, child."

  "I wish I could have waited," Anne agreed, trying to push back her uneasiness. "But sometimes we just don't have the choice." She cupped a palm over her still-flat belly. "I want to try to be a good mother to this baby."

  Aunt Kessie nodded. "I know you do."

  "Even if it's coming sooner than I wanted, it's still mine. And I'll love her more than any little girl has ever been loved."

  "Children come when God is ready to send them."

  "A little girl," Anne murmured. "She'll grow up here on Gentleman's Folly, and she'll have you to tell her secrets to, just as I always have."

  "Perhaps."

  "Papa will adore having a granddaughter, once he gets used to the idea
."

  "Yes, they will have each other, I think."

  "If it really is a girl, I'll name her after Mother. Papa will like that, won't he?"

  Aunt Kessie gave her another long, thoughtful look. "Enjoy each day as it comes. It may be that your father's days here are not long."

  "Don't say that!" Anne shook her head. "Papa's going to be fine. I know he will. O'Ryan can take over some of his work, and I'll make certain that he rests more. I need him, Aunt Kessie. I need him, and this baby will need him, and I don't intend to let anything happen to him. Not until he's an old, old man."

  "May the Lord grant it so."

  "He will. I know He will." Anne rose and brushed Aunt Kessie's smooth cheek with a kiss. "I'm home now, and everything will work out. It simply must."

  Chapter 7

  Anne curled up on her bed and pulled the coverlet over her shoulders. It was late afternoon, and she had a dozen things to do before their guests arrived at six, but she was unbearably sleepy. She would just catch a quick nap, a few minutes' rest before she called one of the girls to help her dress and do her hair in the fashionable coiffure Mary's friends were wearing in Philadelphia.

  One garden window was open a crack, and she could smell the heavenly scent of lilacs. Her eyelids felt as though they weighed a pound each. She never took to her bed in the daytime, but she knew she'd feel much better after a few moments of total relaxation. Yawning, she let her eyes drift closed and listened to the muffled clatter of servants' shoes on the stairs.

  The kiss began as lightly as falling corn pollen. It teased her bottom lip and then her top. She sighed as the sweet pressure became slowly and exquisitely more intriguing.

  His mouth slanted perfectly to hers. His touch was warm and mischievous, yet it promised more. She uttered a tiny sound of pleasure as he continued to kiss her.

  She stirred restlessly, feeling the swell of her breasts, the eager heat rising in the pit of her belly. It was impossible to lie still when he was kissing her like this... impossible to keep from...