"They seem good people," she replied. "And they know how to throw a fine party!"
He chuckled and drew her back into the thick of the rollicking, heart-stirring celebration. Midnight came and went, and still they danced.
Babies and small children were tucked into nests of coats and blankets in one section of the barn. The musicians shed their coats, downed gallons of brew, and the jigs and reels grew faster until the dancers' breasts heaved and sweat ran down their faces.
Then, abruptly, the music stopped.
"Ellen Moloney," O'Ryan heard someone say.
"Ellen!" cried another man.
Hands began to clap.
"Aye, Ellen Moloney!"
A green-eyed, brown-haired girl stepped to the center of the floor and began to sing a plaintive love song.
Anne rested in the circle of O'Ryan's arms. He whispered in her ear. "Come away, love." Obediently, she put her hand in his and followed him out of the light and into the shadows.
He led her through a wide doorway to a dusty alcove.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Shhh." He drew her close, and kissed her full on the mouth. Once, when he'd been running from the redcoats in the Mourne Mountains and hadn't eaten in two days, he'd come across an abandoned house and a small patch of red strawberries.
Anne tasted as sweet as that ripe fruit.
He'd feasted on those berries—savored them—devoured them... as he wanted to do with her.
She quivered in his embrace, but her lips parted to deepen the caress. Their tongues touched, and she trembled with raw need.
He could feel the heat of her soft body through her clothes, sense the racing fever in her blood. Hot... burning... but no more than his own.
"Anne, Anne," he murmured between urgent kisses. "You're enough to drive a man half out of his mind." His hands moved over her, skimming her bare throat, cupping her full, firm breasts, laying claim to her until her faint sighs turned to whimpers of desire.
She leaned into him, molding her body to his hard thighs and swollen cock. "Love me, Michael," she murmured. "I want you to love me."
All night, the men had passed jugs of poteen around. But O'Ryan hadn't wanted any of the homemade whiskey, hadn't wanted to risk getting drunk for fear of not being able to protect Anne. But now, he knew he was intoxicated, smashed out of his head, not by raw alcohol, but by the scent and feel of this woman in his arms.
He couldn't get enough of her.
Only a few feet away, behind a thin partition of planks, the dancing had begun again. The music and the thud of a hundred feet shook the floor, but they might as well have been an ocean away.
"Annie, Annie," he groaned as she tugged at his shirt and slid her fingers over his stomach and up across his chest. The ache in his loins intensified. He wanted her now, all of her, but he couldn't take his own pleasure without making certain she found hers.
His hands were all over her, caressing, touching, and her breath came in quick gasps. He kissed her again and again until she clung to him shamelessly, head thrown back, moaning, heedless of discovery.
But he couldn't stop kissing her, couldn't tear himself out of her embrace... until her fingers brushed the source of his desire.
He groaned as she clasped his swollen sex, lightly stroking its length and sensitive head. Blood pounded in his veins. The pleasure-pain was agony... wonderful.
He wanted nothing more than to yank up her skirt and thrust into her warm, wet cleft, to have her here and now. He knew he'd die if he couldn't satisfy this searing hunger.
But he couldn't...
If they were caught, her reputation, her honor, even her life might be at risk. Swearing under his breath, he tore himself away.
"Michael?" Her eyes widened. "Why—?"
"Not here," he rasped. "Too dangerous." He tried to think. "Up the ladder. Behind you." He guided her hand to a rung. "Hurry."
"The loft?"
"Yes." Perspiration dripped down his face and soaked his shirt beneath his coat. His hand was trembling as he helped her up into the hayloft. "Yes, hurry. Careful," he warned. "Don't fall."
He followed her up the ladder and moved away from the gaping hole in the floor. Dim light filtered up through cracks between the planks, and the swirl of pipes and strum of strings permeated the heaps of golden straw. Overhead, he could hear the coo of pigeons and the rustle of wings.
"Is this private enough for you, husband?" Anne's voice was taut, breathless, as full of passion as any man's dream.
He ripped off his coat and spread it on a mound of straw. "Private enough," he answered hoarsely.
Then they were kissing and fumbling with buttons and ties. Somehow, her skirt was off, her shift above her hips, and he was between her sweet, shapely thighs, thrusting deep.
"Forgive me now for going off without explaining?" he demanded.
"Not yet." She arched beneath him, raking his back with her nails.
"Annie..." He freed a pink-tipped breast from its binding and suckled fervently as he raised up and slid into her silken folds again. She was tight and hot. The pleasure was beyond words, beyond reason.
Her excited moans drove him on.
"Are you ready?" He was fuller and harder than he had ever been. His muscles clenched as they moved together in perfect harmony.
She was Eve to his Adam, not simply a woman, but the only woman, created for him alone. And he felt the power and glory of their union as if it were the first time, not just for them, but for any man and woman.
And while the fiddlers played on, O'Ryan forgot the world and everything in it, content with Anne, and this precious gift she had given him.
* * *
Later, he cradled her and stroked her hair, murmured words he had never said to another woman. His body tingled with rolling chords of music, aftershocks of shared rapture. But even sweeter was the feel of Anne in his arms, as if they would stay this way forever.
Questions rose in his mind, but he pushed them back. He would not think about the future, not tonight. Tonight he would take this joy and hold it in his heart as he held her.
Below, he could hear the farewells exchanged and the shuffle of feet as the gathering below broke up. One by one, the lanterns winked out, until there was silence below and the only light came from the stars shining through an open loft window.
"You will be my undoing," Anne said, stroking his chest with feathery caresses.
"And you mine, woman."
"I think you brought me up here like some dairy wench to save the cost of a room for the night."
He chuckled. "Aye. If it were up to you, we might have rolled on the floor in the middle of the ceilidhe."
She giggled. "The thought did pass my mind."
"Wicked woman."
She sighed, and after a time, she asked, "Do you think it will work? Hiring these Irishmen?"
"It will."
"You're always so certain of yourself. I wish I was."
"I've had to be," he answered, kissing the tip of her nose. "There were few others I could look to for help. And fewer I could trust."
She murmured sleepily, "Umm, so you say. But you once talked of your mother as though you loved her. You trusted her, didn't you?"
He kissed both her eyelids and the point of her chin. "My mother, God rest her soul, was a law unto herself." He kissed her bottom lip. "I did love her, but I knew better than to trust her."
"But she was a good mother to you?"
He sighed. "Can you not be still, wife? I'm trying to make love to you."
"And who's stopping you?" She kissed him back, teasing his lips with her tongue. Her stroking of his chest distracted him further, especially when she began to lightly pinch his nipples.
"Oh, have pity on a man, will you?"
She made a small sound of amusement and laved his nipple with a warm, satin tongue.
And his heart skipped a beat. "When I was young, yes." He couldn't help it if his breathing came harder or if he see
med to feel the blood racing through his veins. "I remember my mother reading to me, singing, tending me when I was sick. But..." He groaned again. "Have mercy, Annie. I'm trying to answer your questions."
"And I'm listening."
"My mother valued her creature comforts more than her marriage vows." He pushed away, his mood becoming somber. "She took a rich and powerful lover. I surprised them together in the orangery when I was twelve, but she begged me not to tell my father. I never did."
Anne's touch turned to one of compassion. "Oh, Michael, it must have been a terrible shock to you."
He pushed back a wave of regret. "Not so much as the shock the following year of finding that she had left both me and my father for him."
"But if she loved him..." Anne squeezed his forearm tightly. "If she truly—"
"She didn't. She left him for a richer prize, and died giving birth to that man's bastard son." He swallowed the lump in his throat. "My mother, for all her noble blood, was nothing but a very high priced strumpet."
"You mustn't say that. Not about your—"
"I forgave her a long time ago, Annie. Forgave, not forgot. One thing I promised myself was that I'd learn from my father's mistake."
"I'm not your mother, O'Ryan." Anne put her arms around his neck and kissed him tenderly. "You can't go on judging all women by what she did. You're too intelligent for that."
"Am I?" he asked. "Sometimes I wonder."
Chapter 21
It was two days before Michael was able to make the arrangements to hire all the men he wanted, provide transportation for them and their families, and purchase seed and supplies for the coming year. "It will be good to get home," he said. "Gentleman's Folly has dulled my appreciation for town life."
"I agree," Anne replied. "I felt the same way about Philadelphia. I'm afraid I'm just a farmer's daughter."
"Aye." He winked at her. "And you know what they say about farmers' daughters."
"No. What do they say?"
"Shrewd in making a bargain, but oh, so easy in the hayloft."
"Not a bad description." Anne joined in his laughter, but she hadn't missed the word "home" when he spoke of the plantation.
With each passing day, Michael's ties to her and the Eastern Shore became stronger. She didn't believe that he could walk away from what they'd shared that night in the loft. It wasn't simply physical pleasure they gave each other; it was something more. And sooner or later, he had to realize that he loved her.
What troubled her most was whether or not love would be enough to make their marriage real. If she couldn't trust him, their wedding vows would always be a farce. And sooner or later they would break each other's hearts, just as Michael had predicted.
* * *
The journey back to the Eastern Shore was uneventful. Sean, his wife and children, and two other families came back on the same sloop. The rest of the Irish would arrive within the week.
To Anne's surprise her sister's maid Gerda was waiting for her when they reached the manor house. Anne dropped her bundles in a chair and glanced around the immaculate entrance hall.
The banister and wainscoting gleamed with beeswax. Not a single cobweb or dust mote marred the floor or ceiling. A quick glance through the open door into the dining room revealed an equal transformation. A bouquet of early autumn flowers stood in the center of the table. And the curtains, which had hung limply when Anne left for Annapolis, had been washed and starched as well.
"Gerda? Is Miss Mary with you?" Anne asked.
Grace, splendid in starched mobcap and white apron, bobbed a curtsy. "Welcome home, Miss Anne." Charity was nowhere to be seen.
Anne returned the greeting and looked back at the German woman. "If Mary isn't here, then how did you—?"
"The lady send me," Gerda replied. "And good t'ing. These girls you hav' is dumpling heads both. The house vas a shame."
Anne stared at her. "Mary sent you by yourself. But why?"
Gerda made a shooing motion with her hands. "Vhy you stand here, Grace? Take the mistress's t'ings upstairs. Go. Go. Vhat I hav' to say is for the lady's ears only."
Grace gathered up Anne's packages.
"That and that are for the kitchen larder. And the thread is to go—" Anne hesitated, remembered what Michael had said about thrift. "Put that in my room as well," she ordered. Then she motioned Gerda into the small parlor and closed the door behind them.
"Nothing's wrong with Mary? Is her pregnancy—?"
"Miss Mary is fine. She send me to help you." Gerda reached into the pocket of her voluminous apron. "And she also send this money and a letter. She vorries about you, her sister. She cannot go against the master, but she vants me to tell you that she loves you and prays for you every day."
"Mary sent me money?" Anne opened the envelope. Inside were two hundred dollars in small bills.
"Yes, Miss. Your mother's jewelry she takes to the pawnshop, so the master vill not know. Take it and velcome, Miss Mary says. She is sorry, I t'ink, for the hard feeling vhen she vas here."
Anne's eyes clouded with moisture. "Thank you, Gerda. It was very good of you to come. But I'm afraid—"
"Not to vorry about vages," the sturdy maid replied. "A year Miss Mary has promised me. And I like it here. I like this country place. Of my home it reminds me. Fresh air, good milk, and vegetables."
"I think I have you to thank for the condition of the house. Grace has a good heart but she—"
"Is young and needs haus keeper to tell her vhat to do." Gerda pursed her lips. "And that odder one, that Charity. A dumkin, she is. Lazy, but I vill not stand for lazy girl."
"I need a housekeeper very badly, Gerda," Anne said. "Do you think you could do that for me, at least for a little while?"
Gerda beamed. "You see. Vhat did I say? A good place. Two days here, and already I am promoted to haus keeper." She curtsied. "If you vill excuse me, Miss Anne, I must see to dinner. A roast I have on the spit and—"
"You cook as well? Praise God," Anne said. She waited until she was alone, then walked to a window where the light was better and unfolded the single page of parchment that had been tucked in with the money.
Dearest Anne,
I take pen in hand to tell you that I fear we failed you when we were at Gentleman's Folly. I am sending a little money. I hope it will help. We must remember that with Papa and Mama gone, we have only each other. Please do not let anything drive us apart. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask. I must be loyal to George, but sometimes he can be difficult.
I must tell you something unpleasant that may make Mr. O'Ryan's desertion easier to bear. An Irishman here in the city contacted George with information regarding your husband. He demanded money, which I fear George paid. The rascal's claim is that he came to Philadelphia aboard the same ship as your Mr. O'Ryan.
But the informer claims that Mr. O'Ryan is really Cormac Payne, a stowaway and thief who is wanted for committing a murder aboard the ship Providence, September last.
If the accusation is true, we can thank fate that you have only lost property and not your life. If you hear of Mr. O'Ryan's whereabouts, do contact the authorities at once. On no account allow him back into the house, on peril of your own safety.
I remain, your devoted sister,
Mary
Anne read the note twice, folded it, and tucked it back inside the envelope. It seemed to her that the air had suddenly become cooler in the parlor, despite the sunshine streaming through the windows. She rubbed her arms and tried to put Mary's message into perspective.
O'Ryan had told her the truth of what had happened aboard the Providence, hadn't he? He'd explained that the bosun's death was an accident, a result of the brute's attack on Nora Cleary.
But what if that wasn't what had really taken place? Was Cormac Payne Michael's real name? Why had someone gone to the trouble of seeking out George and selling him information about her husband?
The thought that Michael might have deceived her totally was shattering
. She'd seen evidence of his creative way with words and his ability to persuade her creditors that he was someone other than who he really was. He'd made no secret of the fact that he was a fortune hunter. Was she so head-over-heels for him that she would ignore the possibility that he was a liar and a rogue? That she would accept O'Ryan's explanations for what had happened aboard the Providence without question or proof?
In her heart of hearts, she truly believed him to be a good man. He'd not harmed her or anyone since he'd been in Maryland. And he'd shown real compassion for Abraham, Ivy, and the other slaves. But what if this unknown informer's tale was true? If Michael had killed the sailor deliberately, she wasn't sure she wanted to face it.
If she confronted him with Mary's letter, O'Ryan might run. That would mean losing him and probably the plantation.
Not yet, she thought. She'd wait and think about what Mary had said. What harm could come of delaying long enough to harvest the tobacco and put in a crop of winter wheat? After all, if Michael wanted to be rid of her, he'd had plenty of chances already.
Besides, how could she be certain if George was genuinely concerned about her safety or if this was a ploy to gain control of Gentleman's Folly? If she had to trust someone, she'd rather it be her husband than her greedy brother-in-law.
"Miss Anne?" The parlor door opened and Shannon came bounding in. "Miss Anne," Charity repeated. "The master wants you to come outside. He needs to ask you... some-thin'... somethin'..."
"All right, Charity. Tell him I'll be right there." She bent to hug the frisking pup, all legs and paws and licking tongue. "Good Shannon," she murmured. "Good dog." Shannon had grown too big to pick up anymore, but she was dearer to Anne than ever.
"Anne!" O'Ryan shouted from outside. "Can you come and..."
She couldn't make out the rest of what he was saying, but it didn't matter. Her questions and fears would have to wait. There was simply too much to be done. Thirteen immigrants were waiting in her barnyard. There were babies and old people, as well as able-bodied men and women. She'd have to find shelter for them, arrange for their noon meal, and start to assign duties. And next week, when the others came, she'd have to do it all over again.
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