Dark of the Moon

by Karen Robards

  "Trust me, child. I mean you no harm. Neither I nor my brothers would hurt a wee lassie." He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at her compassionately.

  "I'm no wee lassie!" flared Caitlyn. Then, at the knowledge that he had every reason to disbelieve that blatant untruth, she burst into tears again. Sobs shook her thin body. She could not let go of her shirt without exposing her breasts to him again, so he was treated to the sight of tears coursing down her cheeks like rain while her mouth trembled and her nose reddened.

  ' 'Sweet Jesus.'' Connor sighed the words under his breath. Then, taking a step forward, he picked her up in his arms as though she weighed no more than a babe. Caitlyn shrieked, flailing. He pinned her arms and legs with ease. " Tis all right, child. I told you, I mean you no harm."

  "Put me down, damn you! Put me down!" She was choking on sobs even as she fought for her freedom. Ignoring her struggles, he took two strides, then sank down into a large horsehair chair in a comer of the room with her on his lap.

  "Cry it out, then, child. 'Tis doubtless what you need."

  Caitlyn fought frantically for a moment, sure he meant to do more than merely hold her on his lap as one would a bairn. But he contained her flailing limbs so that she could not hurt him. After a while she gave up and went limp, resdng tiredly back against the solid warmth of his chest and closing her eyes. Tears poured down her face, and sobs shook her slight frame. Before she knew it, she was curled sobbing against his chest.

  "That's right, lassie. That's the way." His hold gentled as she ceased to fight him. His arms were loose around her, stroking her hair, patting her back. There was a kind of awkwardness about his actions that told her that he wasn't entirely at ease with the situation, that it was one in which he had not found himself many times before. As she thought of him comforting one of his brothers in such a fashion, a small watery hiccup of amusement tried to escape. When they had been hurting as children, Connor more than likely had cuffed them on the shoulder and told them to be men. But she was a female, which made all the difference. For whatever reason, he was being kind. She had never had anyone to comfort her since her mother died, and the luxury of being held in someone's arms while she sobbed and gulped and gasped encouraged her to cry out the fear and loneliness and despair that had been her constant companions for years. With her face pressed against his shoulder, she cried until there were no more tears left inside her. Then at last she lay quietly against him, gulping and sniffing like a tired child. Her fingers had curled unconsciously in his shirt front, which was damp from her tears.

  When her snifflings were reduced to no more than an occasional shuddering breath, he spoke very quiedy to the top of her head, which still rested against his chest. "Now you see I haven't harmed you, and I will not. You have no need to fear anyone at Donoughmore."

  Caitlyn stiffened, sitting upright in his lap. With her tears behind her, her wariness of him returned, not as strong as before but still warning her that he was a man and she a defenseless female. Her eyes flew to meet his, huge blue pools in a tear-drenched little face. Her mouth trembled. With a conscious effort she stilled the trembling, gathering up the shreds of her pride as best she could.

  Then she remembered her torn shirt, which in the face of all her unaccustomed emotion she had forgotten, and looked down to find her breasts exposed again.

  Gasping, she scrabbled for the ends of her shirt and clutched them together, her eyes flying to his. He met her wary look with a slight, reassuring smile. Caitlyn was not reassured. As she had bolted erect, his hold had loosened, his arms slipping from around her so that they rested now on the arms of the chair. There was nothing compelling her to stay in such close proximity to him. She scrambled off his lap and whirled to face him, glaring down at him as she held the front of her shirt together. He looked very big and very strong sitting there at his ease, his shoulders as broad as the back of the chair against which they rested and his legs in their black breeches and boots stretched out before him. His curly black head lay back against the rose-colored horsehair, and those light eyes fixed on her face. Her eyes touched on the cradle of his thighs. Momentarily she pictured herself curled up there. A vivid scarlet blush stained her cheeks. To compensate for her embarrassment, she glowered at him. Like a man in the presence of a frightened young animal, he made no sudden moves but stayed seated, smiling wryly up at her.

  "Back to yourself already, I see," he said.

  "I'll not be staying here." It was a challenge. Gripping her shirt together with one hand, she swiped the back of the other over her still-wet eyes. Connor sighed and got to his feet with slow, careful movements. Caitlyn took a quick step backward, eyes widening as they fixed on him. He shook his head at her. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned one shoulder against the wall, regarding her as if she were a problem the likes of which he had not faced before.

  "I offered you a home, child, and employment. The offer is not withdrawn simply because you are a lass."

  "Still, I'll not be staying." Caitlyn was bristling at him, desperate to get back to her lost sense of self after the demeaning weakness of tears. With the revelation of her sex, she felt as if her soul had been stripped bare. As a female, she felt vulnerable, and she hated the feeling. She longed to step back into the skin of the cocky, self-sufficient lad she had been for so long.

  "So you would go back to Dublin, back to being O'Malley the thief." The words were slow, drawn out, and he studied her as he spoke.

  "Aye!"

  "What do you suppose would happen to you if your sex were discovered in Dublin, as it inevitably would be? 'Tis not something a lass can conceal forever. You've been lucky so far because you're not much more than a child. As you mature, the secret is bound to come out. What then?"

  "No one will find out. No one ever has."

  "We found out, just because my nitwit brothers were joking around with you. If we can discover your secret, so can others. Others who might not scruple to hurt a wee lassie. What if you were taken up for thieving? Do you not think that they would find out you were a lass as soon as you were put into the gaol? Not that it would keep them from hanging you, but they'd have fun disporting themselves upon you first. You do know what I'm talking about? Ah, I see you do. I guessed as much, from your fear of men."

  Caitlyn stared at him, chewing on her lower lip with a kind of desperation. There was sense in what he said, but she didn't want to see it. With every fiber of her being, she longed to go back to being the lad she had been.

  "We won't harm you, child, but others might. You should thank your patron saint that you landed in a safe berth. You can make your home with us and be a lassie without fear of aught." He paused for a moment, taking a long look at her. Then he added, almost indifferently, "But if you truly wish to go back to Dublin, back to being O'Malley the thief, I'll not stand in your way. The decision is yours, but I'd be having your answer now."

  Caitlyn swallowed, her eyes huge and uncertain as they searched his face. In the short time she had known him, those lean dark planes had become almost as familiar to her as her own features. It struck her suddenly, irrelevantly, that he was a very handsome man. The question was, did she trust him? Her heart drummed wildly. She was afraid to abandon the lad she had been, afraid to be a female for all to see. But if he had wanted to take his pleasure of her, he could already have done so and she could not have prevented him. Instead he had been kind. Against everything she had ever learned in her life, she almost felt she could trust him. Licking her lips, drawing a deep shuddering breath as anxiety over the decision squeezed her chest like an iron band, she said, barely above a whisper, "I'll stay."

  He smiled at her, his eyes warming. The last flicker of distrust Caitlyn had been harboring wavered. If it did not fall entirely, it crumpled a litde. She did not quite smile back at him, but she came close.

  "A wise decision." He was as crisp as if he were addressing the lad she had been. Dropping his arms, he moved toward her. Caitlyn, instinctively ala
rmed, backed away. He raised his eyebrows at her as he walked past where she hugged the wall and headed toward the door. With his hand on the knob, he turned back to face her.

  "I know it will be difficult for you to get accustomed to garbing yourself as a female, but 'tis necessary. Mrs. McFee, to say nothing of the rest of the folk around here, will be scandalized if you continue to wear male clothing. So you will oblige me by soaking in the hot water there and then dressing yourself in the things Mrs. McFee found for you. When you're dressed, come down to the kitchen. From the smell of it, breakfast is nigh ready. After you have some food inside you, we'll see what more there is to be done."

  "I don't want to wear female clothes." She wrapped her arms around herself protectively. But she was damp, and cold, and the thought of getting into dry clothes of whatever persuasion was tempting.

  "I know. But as I said, 'tis necessary. You are a lass, after all, and now that everyone knows it, you could not wear breeches. It would not be proper."

  Caitlyn scowled. Connor d'Arcy was bloody accustomed to giving orders, that much was clear. What he would have to learn was that she was not accustomed to taking them.

  From his position by the door, he looked at her speculatively. "It would please me greatly if you would don skirts, child." He smiled at her, a lovely coaxing smile that could have charmed a bee out of its hive.

  Caitlyn wavered. Put like that… She was conscious of a sudden strong desire to please him.

  "Very well, I'll try the clothes," she said ungraciously.

  "Thank you." He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. Then, bethinking himself of something, he turned back to her. "Have you a name besides O'Malley?"

  "O'Malley'U do." She was loath to surrender so much so fast.

  Connor smiled serenely at her. His eyes were as placid as summer pools in that dark face. "If you have none of your own, we'll call you Bridget. I've always had a fondness for that name."

  Caitlyn's scowl deepened as he started out the door.

  "Caitlyn," she said abruptly. "Me ma called me Caitlyn."

  He sent a quick glimmering look over his shoulder at her. There was laughter in the aqua eyes, but they were also kind.

  "Ah, Caitlyn," he said as if weighing the name. "Yes, that will do. Come down to the kitchen when you're dressed, Caitlyn."

  And then he took himself off, leaving Caitlyn to glare at the closed door. It was some five minutes later before she reluctantly turned her attention to the bath.

  X

  Three weeks later, Caitlyn was rebelliously peeling potatoes under the disapproving eye of Mrs. McFee. In attire she was a miniature copy of that good lady, clad in a sleeveless linen dress of green and yellow stripes that left the long white sleeves of her shift on view. It had been inexpertly cut down from an old one of Mrs. McFee's. While it was cooler than the other dress she now possessed-long-sleeved, solid blue kerseymere, courtesy of the same source-it still seemed hellishly hot in the sweatshop atmosphere of the kitchen, where mutton roasted on a turnspit in the immense stone fireplace and various vegetables and fruits for a pie bubbled in iron pots suspended over the fire. The too-large white mobcap she wore kept slipping down over one eye, driving Caitlyn mad as she had to swipe it back with one hand. Her apron, which was so large she had it wrapped twice about her middle, had started out white but now bore numerous multicolored splotches from all the things she had spdled on herself that afternoon alone. (She had changed the one she had worn during the morning; Mrs. McFee was a stickler for cleanliness.)

  Despite the sweat that beaded her brow and upper lip as she worked, Caitlyn herself was cleaner than she had ever been in her life. She feared that her skin would rub clear off her bones if she scoured herself any more. Her hair had been scrubbed by Mrs. McFee personally (who made no secret of the fact that she feared finding lice) until her scalp was raw. Clean, it was soft, shiny, and inky black. Caitlyn wore it gathered into a skimpy, straggly bun at her nape, with the mobcap over the whole as Mrs. McFee informed her was proper. From her hairline to her toes inside the sturdy leather shoes she had been allowed to keep, since they were not much different from women's footgear and anyway there were no shoes at Donoughmore to fit her small feet, her skin was as white as the belly of a whale. Straight, inky-black brows and lashes framing kerry blue eyes and the faint pink of her mouth were the only touches of color in her face. Small nicks from the knife she was using covered her hands, and her blood was mixed liberally into the bowl of misshapen peeled potatoes at her left hand. Piles of potato peelings covered the scrubbed tabletop and littered the flagstone floor. The most disheartening thing about it was that, after she had finished the monumental job of peeling enough potatoes to feed five hungry men (Mickeen joined the d'Arcys at supper), herself, and Mrs. McFee, she would then have to clean up the mess she had made. Just thinking about it made her exhausted.

  It was near suppertime. Caitlyn had been working in the kitchen most of the afternoon, learning with a complete absence of enthusiasm how to cook. The truth was, she was inept, just as she was at all the women's work Mrs. McFee had set her to. She hated being a female, she did, and all that went with it!

  "All done," she announced finally with an awful sigh. Mrs. McFee looked around from kneading dough to frown at her.

  "Aye, and it looks like you've left more on the floor than you've got in the bowl! Ah, well, if his lordship says you're to help me, then I guess you will. Bring the bowl over here, then, lass, and get on with cleaning up the mess."

  Making a face at Mrs. McFee's broad back, Caitlyn picked up the bowl and awkwardly carried it to the work table against the far wall where the woman labored. Holding her skirt carefully clear of her feet with one hand (walking without tripping over the voluminous skirt was an art), she made it to the table with nary a mishap and set the bowl down. Mrs. McFee took one glance at the contents, then shook her head.

  "It's a mystery to me how two dozen big, firm potatoes can be reduced to so little. You've peeled off so much meat that there's scarce anything left! Well, what's done can't be helped, I suppose, and as his lordship says, you're bound to get better at it."

  Caitlyn shrank a litde under this disheartening speech. She hated being a female! She hated Mrs. McFee, with her disapproval and bossy ways! And she hated the d'Arcys, every one of them, from Cormac to Connor. Aye, even Connor, though she had to admit to a grudging admiration for him that was the sole reason that she labored so meekly under Mrs. McFee's iron direction. She wanted to please Connor, it was that simple. He loomed large in her life, did Connor, a wondrous being who could boom with rage enough to send his grown brothers scurrying and yet be unfailingly kind to her, a little scrap of nothing who had fallen by accident into his life.

  "Sweep up now, do!" With those impatient words, Mrs. McFee put her back to work. Carefully tucking up her skirt into the waistband of her apron, Caitlyn found broom and pan. Then with a quick look at Mrs. McFee to be sure that the lady was not watching, she swept the broom over the table so that the peelings fell to the floor. From there it was a simple matter to sweep all the peelings together and into the pan. Feeling smug that she had at last done something right, she picked up the pan and started for the bucket in which such scraps were put. And promptly tripped over the hem of her skirt, which had worked its way loose from its temporary mooring. With a surprised oath, she went sprawling.

  "Devil take it to hell and back!" As oaths went, that was not so bad. Certainly not as bad as the one she'd uttered as she'd hit the flagstone floor. Mrs. McFee, who would have to be deaf not to have heard, launched into a scandalized tirade while Caitlyn lay spent on the flagstones, too dispirited to move. Potato peelings were everywhere. It would take an hour to clean them all up again.

  Plus Mrs. McFee was going off, as she did half a dozen times a day. Caitlyn lay there with her chin on her hands for a moment, thinking. Then she got determinedly to her feet, pulled off her mobcap, and threw it on the floor. Her apron was next. Mrs. McFee stopped berating he
r to watch with widening eyes as Caitlyn tossed its starched whiteness deliberately to the floor.

  "I'll not be learning any more woman's work," Caitlyn pronounced to the older woman with a lift of her chin. Then, turning on her heel, she stalked from the kitchen, remembering in the nick of time to lift the hem of her dress. Determination growing by the moment, she marched up the stairs and into Cormac's bedroom, one of the four on the second floor. Each of the d'Arcys had his own room, which was an unbelievable luxury when Caitlyn considered that in Dublin's Irish quarters most families of six or seven shared a single small room and thought themselves lucky. Their bedrooms plus the small office and hall made up the second floor. Downstairs there were two sitting rooms, the kitchen, pantries, a small stone washroom, a brewery for the brewing of beer and ale, and the dining room, which was separate from the kitchen so that, as they ate, the members of the family should not be forced to endure the heat of the huge stone fireplace that dominated the kitchen, where most of the cooking was done in iron pots. In the attic were four smaller rooms clearly meant for servants, one of which Caitlyn had been given for her own. She was the only one to sleep in the attic. Mrs. McFee lived with her daughter and son-in-law in a cottage in the village and came in each day to do for his lordship. She was the only household help.

  Opening the wardrobe which stood against the far wall, Caitlyn rummaged around until she found drawers, breeches, stockings, and shirt. She was too hot to bother with a coat, and anyway the voluminous folds of the too- big shirt would conceal femininity as budding as hers. With some difficulty she pulled off the cut-down dress, untied the tapes of the two petticoats and stepped out of them, and drew the shift over her head. That left her buck naked, as females did not wear drawers (being bare-arsed under those loose-fitting skirts seemed to her more indecent than wearing breeches, though so far no one had asked for her opinion), and she had taken off her stockings earlier in a ftitile attempt to feel cooler in the kitchen. Pulling on Connac's clothes, she felt better than she had in ages. They were miles too big, and she had to tie a string around the waist and roll up the breeches at the ankles and the shirtsleeves to get anything resembling a reasonable fit, but that didn't matter. Taking the pins out of her hair, she tied it back in a neat tail at her neck and looked in the cheval glass in the comer. She still did not look precisely like her old self-she was far too clean for that-but she was closer than she had been since she had exchanged O'Malley for Caitlyn.