Dangerous Joy

by Jo Beverley

  A prickle down the back of the neck warned Miles that there was more to the words than first appeared. "I've never met the girl."

  "She is a fine young woman. Forgive me for mentioning it, sir, but it must appear strange that such a young man be given charge of her, and she an heiress, too. Her friends must be concerned."

  So you rank yourself as a friend, do you? Or something more? The man was apparently a widower. One looking for a second wife? A rich wife?

  "Her friends have no cause for concern, Mr. Dunsmore," Miles said blandly. "As long as Miss Monahan doesn't try to wed a fortune hunter before March, we should rub along well enough."

  Dunsmore's narrow face became even more pinched. "I mean no slight, Mr. Cavanagh, but it all looks—"

  Before he could complete his sentence, he was pulled from his horse by a gigantic rooster. In fact, a company of animals had burst out of a copse. A goose. A ram. A horse. A bull.

  Miles gathered his wits and realized they were men wearing masks and cloaks. Then a pig was on his back, cursing fluently in Gaelic and trying to drag him out of the saddle.

  Miles elbowed backward and kicked Argonaut into a rear that dislodged the man. He wheeled the horse to see four men on Dunsmore, pummeling him unmercifully. He charged over to scatter them.

  But two assailants grabbed him, each clinging to a leg, and Argonaut wasn't trained to this. The wild-eyed horse began to spin and buck. Miles slashed at one creature with his crop, but the other managed to drag him off and wrestle him to the ground.

  Two other men flung their weight on top of him, and he was quickly trussed. Argonaut was kicking at anything, and Miles saw a man strike him with a cudgel.

  "God blast your eyes!" he yelled, struggling again, but a gag was shoved into his mouth and bound there ruthlessly. Argonaut made off down the road, a distinct break in his stride.

  Writhing against the ropes binding his wrists and ankles, Miles vowed to flay every one of these rascals for hurting his horse.

  But for now, he was out of the action, and the four men ran back to join the three who were beating Dunsmore. For what cause, Miles wondered, pulling against his bonds to no effect. Personal or political? These days in Ireland, it could be either.

  Bruised and furious, he saw the goose thwack the cowering Dunsmore with a sturdy rod, blows designed to hurt but do no permanent damage. This affair was clearly a warning, but they must be mad to use an Englishman this way. By tomorrow, the area would be swarming with the military.

  Then Dunsmore was hoisted back into his saddle, his battered beaver shoved cockeyed on his head. He slumped forward and clung to his horse's neck as the nervous gray was set to run on down the road.

  Now Miles had leisure to wonder what his own fate would be. Most of the strange animals slipped off into the misty shadows, leaving the horse and goose behind.

  The goose still held that rod.

  "What the devil are we to do with him?" muttered the goose to the horse in Gaelic.

  "Leave him here. Someone'll come by."

  "It's starting to rain."

  "Christ, he won't melt!"

  "Connor's cottage is just over there."

  "Jesus and Mary, do you want me to carry him? He's a big man. Why not just let him go if you're feeling so soft?"

  "He's the sort who'll pick a fight. Look at the red hair on him. With time to cool down, he'll see reason."

  Don't bet on it, thought Miles vengefully.

  He was trying to note anything that might identify the men, but the light was fading fast. The horse was heavyset and perhaps a foot taller than the goose, but the goose was tall enough. Their nondescript clothes were largely hidden by their cloaks. The animal heads both hid their features and muffled their voices.

  The horse came over. "I'm going to loose your feet so you can walk to shelter. Give me any trouble, boyo, and I'll knock you out and drag you."

  Miles believed him. The horse helped him to his feet and steered him through a gate and over to a decrepit bothy just as the slight drizzle turned into steady rain. The cottage lacked glass or shutters on the windows and the door hung at a crazy angle to the opening, but it was dry inside. Miles was pushed down onto the ground and his feet were tied again.

  "Someone'll come by later to let you free. If you're wise, you won't make trouble then or later."

  At that moment, Miles would have tried to strangle anyone who loosed him, so he did see their point. Time probably would calm him a little, but he sent silent curses after them as they left him in the damp, musty dark.

  He slumped back against the stone of the empty hearth, counting his bruises. There weren't too many. It was presumably just bad luck that he'd been with Dunsmore, and the rascals had been as gentle with him as they could.

  He assumed they were the Farmyard Boys, who'd been operating around the eastern counties for the past few years, visiting sharp retribution on any landlord who oppressed his tenants or on any Irishman who sided with the English. True, the English yoke lay heavy on Ireland, with harsh laws and twenty-five-thousand soldiers to enforce them, but these vigilantes were not the way to improve anything.

  All the same, if Argonaut were all right, he'd let the matter pass.

  As darkness sank from dusky to deep, Miles's forbearance thinned. His bonds chafed his wrists. He was turning numb in some places and cramped in others. The gag stretched his lips and leached all the moisture from his mouth. He began to shiver, for it was a chilly January evening.

  Damn their black hearts! Despite the pain, he began to work at the ropes around his wrists, hoping to loosen them enough to wriggle his hands free.

  When he heard a sound outside, he stopped. About bloody time, too!

  Then he wondered why he was so sure the person was coming to help. He was, after all, a witness of sorts.

  The broken-hinged door creaked open, showing a dark shape backed by the lighter gray of a misty night. The shape crept forward, scarce making a sound other than the brush of a cloak against the dirt floor.

  Something was put down with a clink.

  A weapon?

  Uselessly, Miles tensed for combat.

  Chapter 2

  It was a lantern, for a window was opened to spill golden candlelight into the shanty. The light haloed around the cloaked figure who had just placed the lantern on a wormy shelf on the wall.

  Something in the cut of the cloak and the shape of the hands told him his reliever was a woman.

  He let out his breath in relief. A clever move, for no matter how angry he was, he was unlikely to take it out on a woman. What were the odds that she was a pretty winsome piece, to boot?

  She pushed back the hood of her cloak to prove him right—thick red curls, a heart-shaped face, and stunning dark eyes full of warmhearted concern.

  "Oh, you poor creature!" she declared, hands clasped before an ample bosom like the more maudlin type of Madonna. Her voice marked her as a peasant, but it was a pleasant voice all the same.

  He would have said something polite if he hadn't had a damn gag in his mouth. Was she simple? She continued to just stand there looking at him in melting sympathy.

  He made some protesting noises, and she gasped. "Oh, your mouth, sir! Indeed, sir. I'll have you free in just a moment, sir. Don't concern yourself!"

  She ran over to undo his gag. But instead of going behind him, as would be sensible, she stretched from the front, bringing her chest to within inches of his face. He was practically smothered by soft warm flesh and the sweet perfume of roses.

  "Oh, they've tied this rag so tight, the monsters! How could they be so cruel?"

  She leaned even closer.

  Saints preserve them both but it was a very well-endowed chest, and she was wearing an old-fashioned laced bodice which confined only the lower part of her breasts while pushing them up. The generous upper part was covered only by a shift made fine by many washings.

  Miles was not really in a situation to be thinking amorous thoughts, but his body reacted all
on its own to this excess of magnificence.

  For a peasant she smelled remarkably sweet, too, with a warm womanly scent and that delicate touch of rose. She was undoubtedly lacking some of her wits, though, for she was still struggling to free him by stretching her arms around him.

  Why the devil didn't she just go around the back?

  He tried to say something but only achieved a choking noise.

  Still fumbling behind his head, she looked down at him, her beautiful eyes only inches away. She had long dark lashes so thick they seemed tangled with soot, but in this light there was no way to tell what color her irises were. They looked coal-black, which gave her an expression of unending concern.

  He reminded himself that this was illusion, and that she didn't seem to have enough wit to come in from the rain.

  He mumbled again, practically snarling at her.

  "Oh, dear, oh dear. You poor man. Are you in terrible pain? Oh, I have an idea! Let me try to do this from the back."

  She shifted around and sat him forward. Within moments, the gag was off.

  Miles worked his aching jaw and tried to find saliva to moisten his mouth. "Drink?" he croaked.

  "Oh, sir. Of course, sir!" She pulled a flask out of the pocket of her old-style full skirts and uncapped it. "Sure, and this'll revive you in a wink, sir!" She held it to his lips and tipped.

  Instinctively, he swallowed, but then he jerked back so most went down his front.

  "What ails you, sir? 'Tis the finest Irish whisky! I swear it on my mother's grave!"

  Miles coughed. "I'm sure it is, my dear. But it's not the thing for the thirst I have. Is there no water?"

  She leapt to her feet, her hands—now around the flask—once more clasped to that bosom. "What a fool I am, to be sure! I'll not be a moment, sir."

  She dashed to the door, then froze as if caught in a terrible dilemma. She frowned at the flask in her hand, then at Miles, then left—pouring the contents on the ground as she went.

  Miles lay there, stunned. Definitely simple. It might be true that there was nothing else in which to carry water, but why the devil hadn't she just finished untying him so he could make his own way to the stream?

  He sighed, recognizing another stroke of genius on someone's part. If he were unlikely to throttle a woman, he'd be even less likely to harm such a simple one. Some men, however, would not hesitate to take what that ample, exposed bosom offered.

  Had they thought of that?

  Perhaps it was part of the plan.

  Again, his unruly body reacted.

  She came back to hold the flask to his lips again. This time, cool, sweet water soothed his mouth.

  "Thank you, my dear," he said, as calmly as he could, for he had no desire to alarm her. "Perhaps now you could untie my hands and feet."

  She sat back on her heels and put a finger to her lips like a child. "Well, now, you see, sir, I was told to be very careful with you. That you might turn violent."

  "Then perhaps one of those fine bullies should have accompanied you."

  "It was thought on," she admitted, chewing her knuckle. "It was never intended that you be hurt, sir."

  Miles's jaw was aching from the way his teeth were clenched, but he knew the slightest trace of anger could have this poor woman fleeing into the night. "I realize that," he soothed. "I promise I will not hurt you. Untie me, please. These ropes are very painful."

  She gnawed on her knuckle a moment more, then stood and raised her skirt to reveal white stockings and sturdy shoes. They argued a slightly higher rank than he'd imagined. But what the devil was she doing?

  The skirts rose a little farther, rose slowly so his gaze seemed guided by them—up shapely, cotton-covered calves; past a simple garter tied below the knee; and on to a creamy, naked thigh. He was bemusedly wondering just where this journey was to end when it halted at a leather strap holding a sheath. She pulled out a knife so long and businesslike that he instinctively shrank back.

  Blade glinting in the candlelight, she grinned at him, then flung herself forward. Miles cursed and tried to wriggle away, but she seized the rope around his ankles to stop him.

  "Just you stay still, now," she said cheerfully as he felt the knife bite at the ropes. The ease with which they parted told him he had not been mistaken about its sharpness.

  She moved behind him. "Sure and I fear the ropes have burned your poor wrists, sir. Just a moment here, and you'll be free."

  The ropes parted and he brought his wrists to the front to rub them, wincing at their tenderness. He tried to stand, but was so stiff he rolled to his knees. He staggered to his feet by holding onto the rough stones of the chimney. Muttering curses at all farmyard animals, he limped around the small room, trying to ease the stiffness, cramps, and pins-and-needles.

  Then the girl snared his attention. She was still kneeling, and now it was the knife that nestled between her breasts, pointing up in a way that could only make a man think of a phallus.

  The pain faded...

  "Would you like me to rub your legs, sir?" She stretched a hand toward his thigh. But it was the hand holding the knife.

  Miles leaped back with a yelp, and his left leg gave way, landing him bum-down on the hard ground. "For Christ's sake, girl, put that thing away!"

  With a hurt look, she stood, raised her skirts again clear up to the top of her leg, and slowly, suggestively, sheathed the knife. She definitely had more in mind than just relieving him of his bonds. It was a prospect that appealed mightily to certain parts of his body, but he was hardly in a fit state to do her justice.

  He pushed back to his feet, noting with relief that the worst of the stiffness and pain had gone. "Where's my horse, girl?"

  "That lovely bay, sir? He's at the Shamrock. The inn in Foy village."

  "And is he well?"

  "Indeed he is, sir. As fine as fivepence!"

  His main concern eased, Miles stretched and studied the wench with more leisure. Faith, and she was an interesting piece. She was tallish for a woman, with that interestingly generous bosom and a lovely full-cheeked face.

  And lovely long, strong legs, too.

  Not so strong in the head, though.

  Damn those ruffians for sending such a simple lass to do their dirty work. He touched her cheek. "What's your connection with those strange animals, then?"

  She lowered her lush lashes. "Now, you can't expect me to answer that, sir, can you?" But she rubbed against his hand like a kitten and glanced up at him—though he doubted she could actually see through the dense black fringe in such uncertain light. "You won't be making complaint to the magistrates, now will you, sir?"

  Hell. She couldn't be plainer if she said it straight out. She was offering her body for his silence.

  It was tempting, very tempting...

  He teased her lower lip with his thumb, wanting to see her soft lips part a little for him. "So I'll not be making a complaint, will I not, sweetheart? For you, I might well hold my tongue, but Mr. Dunsmore will already have raised the military. Unless you've killed him."

  She looked straight at him then, eyes wide with innocence. "Killed him, sir? By St. Patrick and St. Bridget, he's safe at home. A little the worse for wear, I'll grant you, but not near death at all, at all."

  "In that case, he'll have the army out after your friends tomorrow. Do you have somewhere to hide?"

  She lowered her head, but not before he saw her lips twitch. "Oh, I doubt that, sir. Even though he's a black-hearted Englishman, Mr. Dunsmore will not bring the soldiers down on these parts. So if you don't make trouble, no one will."

  He raised her chin with a finger, seeking truth in those disarming eyes. "You seem remarkably sure of his silence. I wonder why? And I wonder what means you and your friends have in mind to make sure I don't lodge a complaint?"

  "Sure, we'd never hurt a hair of your head, sir, you an Irishman, an' all. And I can see by your sweet face that you're no friend of the English tyrant!"

  It was then Miles rea
lized the girl was acting—overacting—a part. He moved back to study her. "I'm no friend of ruffians, girl, Irish or English."

  She frowned slightly, then rested her hand on his chest. "You would see me transported, sir? I came to you unmasked."

  He trapped her hand, part controlling, part to hold it against him, for he would miss it were it gone. "Perhaps that was foolish."

  "Was it?" Her other hand slid up to his face and she kissed him quickly, temptingly open-lipped. Her hand on his chest turned to grasp his and move it to her breast. She rubbed it there, rubbed herself against it, speaking an invitation with her eyes.

  Perhaps it was relief from danger, but he was abruptly ready for a woman, especially this one. His other hand slid around to hold her close. "You have an interesting way of buying safety, darling, but I'm willing. I prefer to have a name to put to a lover, though. What is yours?"

  She stiffened slightly. "That would be foolish, wouldn't it, sir, to tell you my name?"

  He brushed his lips against her turned cheek. "Come now, if I want to find you, it won't be hard."

  After a moment, she moved to meet his lips and whispered, "Joy, then. My name is Joy."

  He chuckled. "I doubt it, but it's appropriate. I'm sure you bring joy to many men."

  Abruptly, she stiffened. "What? Why, you...!"

  "Haven't you just come from buying off Dunsmore the same way?"

  "I have not, you spalpeen!"

  He resisted her token struggles. "I suppose he isn't in any state for this yet..."

  He kissed her softly, tasting and testing with a keen sense of anticipation, exploring her generous body. She relaxed again and her lips welcomed him, but something—a lingering tension perhaps—told him this was no willing lover but a planned sacrifice.

  He drew back with a sigh of regret. Though this baggage was not aware of it, as Felicity Monahan's guardian he had a position in this community. If Joy were unwilling, taking what she offered would cause nothing but trouble.

  She doubtless thought he was passing through, that she could buy him off and never see him again. If he became her lover, however, he could end up having made enemies of a family, perhaps even the whole village. In Ireland, such matters could be dangerous indeed, as Dunsmore had found out.