The Irish Rogue

by Judith E. French

  "Craftsmen?" O'Ryan nodded. "I know what you mean. Slaves. We do have them in Ireland; I'm ashamed to say. I don't approve of slavery."

  "Different for you, meaning no disrespect. But I know my place."

  "Do you?" O'Ryan reined in his mount, looked around to be sure there were not witnesses, and offered his hand to Abraham. "Let's start again. I'm Michael O'Ryan. And you are?"

  Abraham hesitated. "Abraham Washington." He didn't accept the hand.

  O'Ryan withdrew his offer. "I understand you're a carpenter?"

  "I can make most anything out of wood."

  "I've heard as much. What about farming? Planting? I don't know wheat from oats, but I'd like to learn. I'd appreciate it if you'd help me."

  Abraham studied him suspiciously. "If I can," he said finally.

  "Good." O'Ryan nudged his horse and fell in beside the woodworker. "You can start by telling me what this is in this field."

  "Horses."

  O'Ryan winced. "I can see that they are horses—two, a bay mare and a chestnut stallion."

  "Master James's prize stud, Isle of Jersey's Scarlet Earl. Master James calls him Jersey."

  "And the mare?"

  "Belongs to Mr. Payne Voshell in Oxford. Master James charges forty dollars breedin' fee with Jersey. The mare's not in season till next month. They put them together so they can get to know each other before the gunpowder goes off."

  "Gunpowder?"

  "You'd think a barrel of black powder had gone off if you tried to get into Jersey's paddock when he gets the smell of a mare in heat. Any other time, Jersey's as gentle as a kitten, but not when he's got lovin' on his mind."

  O'Ryan nodded. "I understand perfectly. And what's planted in that field across the road?"

  "Tobacco."

  "I thought as much. How do you start it? From seed? In the field, or in beds someplace? Where do..."

  By the time they returned from Oxford in early evening, O'Ryan's respect for Abraham had increased threefold. In other circumstances, O'Ryan suspected they could have become close friends. But the gap between the mistress's husband and her slave was too wide. And Abraham had lived too long as a possession to try and breach it.

  * * *

  Anne watched through the parlor window as O'Ryan dismounted and handed the gelding's reins to Abraham. For a big man, her husband moved with a flowing grace that made her breath catch in her throat whenever she caught sight of him. She could well believe that he was descended from Irish nobility, as he claimed. Surely no one could behave with such elegant assurance unless they were to the manor born.

  He'd left the house early, before she came down for breakfast, so she hadn't seen him all day. But his absence hadn't kept her from thinking about him, from wondering if she'd done the right thing in marrying him or in lying to her father.

  She'd been so sure of herself when she told Mary that a union of convenience would be the answer to her problem. She hadn't counted on the sting of her conscience, or the possibility that dealing with a flesh-and-blood bridegroom would be so difficult.

  Anne had to keep reminding herself that O'Ryan had given her his name for money. He cared nothing for her, and once he had her grandmother's inheritance in his hand, he'd never think of her or her child again. And that was best for all of them—wasn't it?

  "Anne?" He was standing in the entrance hall, hat in hand. A short-waisted, sky-blue coat stretched dangerously tight across O'Ryan's broad shoulders and his buff doeskin breeches fitted his lean, long horseman's thighs and calves like a second skin.

  Dangerous. That was the right word to describe him, she thought. "Michael." She managed a half smile. "We've eaten, but the girls have kept your supper warm."

  Those blue eyes seemed to read her soul. Was it possible he knew what she was thinking?

  "Will you join me?" he asked.

  She should refuse. But when she opened her mouth, "All right" slipped out.

  "If you'll give me a few minutes to—"

  "Of course," she answered graciously, falling into the familiar role of hostess. "You must be dusty from your long ride. I'll be in the dining room."

  Her father and most of the servants had already retired. Anne had thought about going up to her room, but she hadn't wanted to be waiting in bed when O'Ryan came in. She didn't know what she would do if he insisted on sleeping in her bed again. That arrangement simply wouldn't work. Having him beside her at night was impossible. Who knew what liberties he would take next, or how far she could trust herself? She would sit with him while he ate, and they could discuss the matter calmly. Theirs was a business arrangement, so that made them partners, albeit in an unconventional manner. O'Ryan obviously valued frankness, and that's what she would give him.

  She went into the dining room, checked the serving dishes to be certain the food was of proper temperature, then dismissed Grace. She didn't want anything she and O'Ryan discussed to be overheard. Servants were notorious gossips, and what one suspected the whole Tidewater would claim as gospel in a matter of days.

  Anne rubbed the small of her back as she eased into her own chair at the long table. The Greensboro family hadn't departed until midafternoon, and she'd helped Aunt Kessie and the staff slide the parlor furniture back into place and re-lay the rugs that had been removed for the dancing.

  The party had gone well, and Anne was certain her guests had enjoyed themselves as much as she had. Still, it had been tiring. Susannah might be the perfect wife for Nathaniel, but she was terrible to share a bed with. Susannah had talked and talked, then when she finally dozed off, she'd snored. The good thing was that this morning's bout of sickness had been brief and easily hidden.

  O'Ryan came downstairs without his waistcoat or stock, wearing a clean, wide-sleeved linen shirt, open at the collar. His wheat-colored hair was damp and stray tendrils framed his face. His throat was tanned and as smoothly muscled as his sinewy arms.

  "You didn't have to do this," he said to her. "I could have found something to eat in the kitchen."

  "And shock Aunt Kessie?" Anne chuckled. "You don't know her yet. She has a rigid sense of what's proper and sees that we stand by it or suffer the consequences."

  A smile tugged at the corner of his sensual mouth. "I suppose we're lucky she's gone to bed. There'd be the devil to pay if she caught me taking supper in my shirtsleeves."

  Anne laughed. "Amen to that. But we're lucky to have her. My grandfather found Aunt Kessie selling plantains in Barbados before I was born. They liked each other immediately, and he could see that she was an educated woman who had fallen on hard times. He brought her and her children back to the Tidewater, and she's worked for us ever since."

  He reached for a biscuit. "Does her family work here as well?"

  Anne shook her head. "Her oldest daughter is a midwife across the bay, and one son is a brewer in Baltimore. Her youngest daughter died, but there are grandchildren, some in Baltimore, others here on the Eastern Shore."

  "And none are slaves?"

  Anne removed the serving lid and passed a plate of fried chicken to O'Ryan. "No. I told you, Aunt Kessie is a free woman."

  "My first husband was a Creole," said an amused voice from the hall, "and my father was Alexandre Gautier, a French merchant."

  Anne glanced up. "Aunt Kessie?"

  The housekeeper's mouth was a thin line, but her dark eyes showed amusement. "If there is anything else Mr. O'Ryan would care to know about me, he can ask."

  "No disrespect meant." O'Ryan said.

  "Good." Aunt Kessie nodded graciously. "Is there anything else that I can do for the two of you before I go to bed?"

  "Nothing, thank you," Anne replied. She busied herself with a napkin as Aunt Kessie's footsteps receded, then looked at O'Ryan.

  "I think I've been put in my place," he said.

  Both chuckled. "Me, too," Anne replied. "I told you how she is."

  The shared feeling of being scolded eased the tension between them, and Anne found herself enjoying her husban
d's company as they chatted easily about Oxford and last night's frolic. When O'Ryan finished eating, she was reluctant to end the pleasant conversation.

  "Would you care to stroll in the gardens?" she asked. "It won't be dark for nearly an hour."

  "I'd like that."

  She let him take her hand, and they walked side by side. She showed him the herb garden and the fountain with the Greek statue of a boy and a dolphin at the center.

  "Spray used to come from the dolphin's mouth when I was a child," Anne explained, "but something broke, and Papa hasn't found anyone who could fix it. Now it just collects rainwater and fallen leaves."

  "I might be able to do something with it." He didn't tell her that the fountains had been his favorite place to play when he was too young to venture out without his nurse, or that he had watched the head gardener at Cuchulainn clean and repair the fountains many times.

  Together, they explored the maze and the orchard beside the kitchen garden. Then, as the light faded and stars winked on, one by one, they walked down the hill to the dock, where the plantation sloop lay at anchor.

  "Turn your head, please," Anne asked him.

  "Why?"

  "Can't you just do it?"

  When she gave him permission to look again, he found that she'd removed her shoes and stockings and laid them neatly on a patch of grass.

  "Good thinking," he said, pulling off his boots.

  "It's a holdover from my infancy," Anne teased. "I can't get near the bay without wanting to wade in it." She raised her skirts to reveal a lovely flash of pale ankle and splashed into the water.

  "No fair," he said. "My breeches are too tight to roll far."

  "Watch out for the crabs," she warned. "They grow to the size of wagon wheels here."

  A few minutes later, they sat on the edge of the dock and dangled their feet in the cool water. "This land should have been named Eden," O'Ryan said.

  "I've heard that Ireland is very beautiful."

  "It is, with a different beauty." Like yours, he thought. He wanted to take her in his arms, to kiss her as he had before in the garden, but he sensed that this wasn't the right time. Like a wild rose in the bright sunshine, she was opening a petal at a time to reveal her inner secrets.

  "Tell me about it." She crossed her arms and rubbed them as a crisp, salty breeze played over their faces.

  "I wouldn't know where to start."

  "How about the River Shannon? What does it look like?"

  "Wide, ever changing. Always the same." Memories of County Clare flooded over him. "Rocky shores, green pastures running down to—"

  She broke in. "Why did you tell my father that you were from Belfast?"

  "I lived there for a time. Studied there." He looked into her face. "Why? Did you think I was lying?"

  "I think you prefer to be a gentleman of mystery," she replied. "You evaded that question the last time I asked."

  "Did I? It seemed to me that we were interrupted by Grace."

  "If you say so." She smoothed her skirts. "Tell me more. I want to know what peat smells like when it burns and why you came to America and—"

  "One thing at a time." He stared out over the water, thinking that she was very clever and that he would need to watch what he said. It wouldn't do to give Anne more information than she needed. "Peat is the blessing of Ireland," he said. "It burns with a blue smoke and..."

  The moon was halfway over the trees when he paused to catch his breath. Anne was a good listener, a rare gift in a woman and one that made her even more dangerous. He'd bed her if he could, but he wouldn't let himself become emotionally involved with his wife. True love and marriage were pretty words for ballads. Anne had wed him for his name. Once her child was born, she would pay him off, and he could begin to build a new life.

  "It's time we went back," he said, getting to his feet and offering her a hand.

  "Yes," she agreed. "Morning comes early on Gentleman's Folly." She took a few steps, then stopped. Her expression reflected her sudden discomfort.

  "What's wrong?" he asked.

  "Nothing. I..." She clasped her midsection. "A sudden cramp. Oh." Her eyes clenched shut and she drew her breath in sharply. She swayed and he put an arm around her shoulders to steady her.

  "Sit down," he ordered.

  "No!" She shook her head. "I must get to the house. I must—"

  He picked her up in his arms and carried her up the hill, flinching inwardly as she tensed with each contraction. By the time he reached the house, trickles of blood stained her legs.

  * * *

  "Am I to have no say in this matter?" O'Ryan thundered at the housekeeper. "Is she not worth the silver it will cost to fetch the doctor?"

  Aunt Kessie didn't retreat a step down the hall. Instead, she drew herself up to her full height in front of Anne's bedroom door and crossed her arms stubbornly. "I cannot stop you from calling him, but know that by doing so you condemn her to death as surely as if you plunged a knife into her heart."

  "Damn you, woman! Can't you see? She's bleeding!" He wheeled on Anne's father. "Will you stand there and let her die?"

  James's brow furrowed. "This is women's business. If Kessie says that McNeal will kill her—"

  "You're mad, both of you." O'Ryan shouldered past his father-in-law. "I'll go for the physician myself."

  Kessie grabbed his arm. When he glared into her face, it seemed to him as smooth and dark as polished walnut.

  "Listen to me, Irishman!" she said fiercely. "It be as Master James says. This is women's sorrow, and women have the knowing to tend to it. The last babe that Dr. McNeal brought into the world was a fine, fat boy child. His mother—Agnes Walker—was young and strong. It was her third child. She should have lived to see him have sons of his own. But two days after the doctor caught the babe, she took the birthing sickness. Fever ran through Agnes Walker's blood. It burned hotter and hotter until it burned her up."

  "You called McNeal before," O'Ryan argued. "Anne said he was a friend."

  "We called him to see to Master James's heart," Kessie answered. "Not for slipping a babe. That's different." She made a clicking sound with her tongue, and her sloe-black eyes narrowed. "You listen to me," she repeated, then released his arm. "This Dr. McNeal is a good man, but he has bad luck with mothers. I won't see him touch Miss Anne."

  A fragrant scent of sandalwood lingered in the air as Kessie shifted her gaze from his face to Anne's father. "You trusted me with her all her life, trust me with this. I've given her herbs to make her sleep, and I've washed her body in salt water. The bleeding is not bad. It is nature's way. It will stop in its own time."

  "Kessie's right about McNeal," James rasped. He looked as though he had aged ten years since the party the night before. "I know of three other mothers that McNeal lost in the past five years. I don't want my Anne to be the fourth. I trust Kessie. If she says Anne will be all right, she will."

  Kessie's features softened. "You wait here. I need to be in there with Miss Anne. She needs to grieve for this lost baby child."

  "You don't think there's a chance—" O'Ryan began.

  The black woman shook her head sadly. "There is no more baby. But you will have more children. Miss Anne is healthy and has good hips to be a mother. It wasn't her fault that this baby girl had a spirit too weak for this world."

  "But how could you know that it was a girl?" O'Ryan asked. "She couldn't have been more than..." He stopped, suddenly aware that Anne's father was glaring at him.

  "Is that why you two married so hastily?" James demanded. "Did you take advantage of my girl?" He swore through clenched teeth. "I'll disown her! By God, I will. I'll take a horsewhip to you both!"

  "Hold your tongue, man," O'Ryan warned. "Curse me all you want. But mind how you speak of my wife."

  "She's my daughter!"

  O'Ryan's eyes narrowed. "I swear on my mother's grave that I had no improper knowledge of Anne before we were wed."

  "You'd best be telling the truth!" James's face p
urpled in anger. "I didn't raise my daughter to be a harlot."

  O'Ryan took a step toward his father-in-law. "Are you questioning my word?"

  "Yes. No." Rage drained from James's features. "If I've spoken out of turn, you have my apology. But I draw the line at immorality."

  "For shame," Kessie admonished. "Miss Anne will hear. Will you add to her heartbreak by scrapping like banty roosters? Now let me go and see to her." With a shooing motion, the housekeeper slipped into Anne's chamber.

  O'Ryan caught a glimpse of Anne's pale face against heaped pillows, and an icy hand gripped his heart. He turned away, silently offering an urgent prayer for her safe recovery.

  "She's right," James said. "I've let the Davis temper get the best of me again. This is no place for us. Come downstairs and join me in the library for a glass of—"

  "No," O'Ryan gestured impatiently. "I'm not leaving until she's out of danger."

  "Forgive my words. I love Anne. I know she wouldn't do anything—"

  O'Ryan gritted his teeth, in no mood to be pacified.

  "Women often lose a first child." James ran a hand through his sleep-tangled hair. "My wife and I lost several children, but we were blessed with Anne and later Mary. I always thought I'd have sons to carry on after me, but it wasn't meant to be. Sometimes you just have to accept things."

  "My mother died in childbirth," O'Ryan said softly. "I was there. She bled and bled. I didn't know there could be so much blood."

  "I'm sorry," James replied. "I know what it's like to lose a mother and a wife. Anne's mother..." His voice grew thick and trailed off. "I'm going down for that drink now. If you change your mind—"

  "I won't."

  "And if I was wrong about... what I said..." The older man's face reddened. "I'm upset. I should have known that Anne would never disgrace the family name."

  "I will say this one more time and never again," O'Ryan said. "Your daughter and I did nothing dishonorable before the vows were taken. Anyone who suggests otherwise will have me to answer to."

  "Anne's a good girl, raised right. And I can see that you are a gentleman. I should have known better."