by Jo Beverley
Kieran clearly didn't understand the words, but said firmly, "He's white."
"Gray," Miles corrected. "Horses like that are called gray."
"I think he's white."
Felicity grinned over the boy's head, then asked, "Why keep the horse if he's so wicked? And I'd hardly say he was well conformed, either."
"Ugly as sin," Miles agreed, "despite excellent bloodlines. But the stamina of him. If he could be ridden, he'd be an impressive steeplechaser. The wretched beast can't bear to be behind."
"Is he not even broken, then?"
"Oh, he's broken, and I have the scars to tell the tale. He'll behave himself well enough under a firm rider, but his gait is not one I'd want to endure for ten miles or more."
She shook her head. "Feed him to the dogs. No man will ever buy him."
"You think not?"
Her old spirit flashed in her eyes. "I'm sure of it."
Delighted by her relaxed high spirits, he asked, "What will you wager, then?"
She turned wary. "What do you propose?"
"After seeing your new devotion to domestic matters, I think you'll owe me a cake baked by your own fair hands."
"A cake?" she laughed. "Do you want to die of the gripe?"
"I've more faith in you than that. So, do we have a wager? If I sell Banshee, you'll bake me a cake?"
She eyed him suspiciously. "To speak of setting one impossibility against another... and what will you do if you fail?"
"What would you want?"
He saw revealing emotion flicker across her face but could not read it. "I think the stakes should be equal. If you lose, you bake the cake."
He laughed. "I probably know as much about it as you. Which is nothing. Very well. You're on."
"Ah, but wait, you tricksy rascal. I know you. You'll sell him for a penny to the first kennel you pass."
Kieran looked up at that. "Are you going to sell the white horse for a penny, sir? I have a penny."
Miles ruffled his hair. "No, lad, I'm afraid not. I'm going to sell him to a fine gentleman for fifty guineas."
Felicity broke into genuine laughter, and it was the sweetest sound Miles had heard that day. "Fifty guineas! Miles Cavanagh, you're mad! I'm going to enjoy that cake you bake for me."
* * *
With Kieran restored to his governess and settled for a nap, Felicity looked as if she would escape again, but since Miles's mother and Colum had gone out to visit friends, her wings were clipped.
"Felicity," Miles said, "you can trust me, even without a four-year-old chaperone. Let me show you my stables."
Genuine interest warred with caution, but interest won. "Very well. I'll change into my habit, for I'd dearly love a ride."
"Ask my mother's maid for a pair of boots."
She flashed him a grimace, but there was a smile hiding behind it. Just perhaps, they were friends again. Soon they were strolling through the gardens toward the extensive stables.
"Did you develop this all yourself?" she asked.
"My father started it. I've introduced some ideas of my own, though."
She wandered around, giving the bustling place an expert scrutiny and asking shrewd questions.
"It's wonderful," she said at last. "I'm surprised you can tear yourself away from here to waste time in England."
"You have a low opinion of the country."
She flashed him a grin to warm his heart. "Sure, and I've nothing against the land and trees. I just have a very low opinion of the inhabitants."
"Yet your mother was English."
"Now there you're wrong." She moved on to the next stall with a jaunty step. "My mother's father was a Scot who moved down to Whitehaven, and my mother's mother was from Antrim."
"Ah. That doubtless explains a great deal."
She flashed him a look. "It clears me of the taint of English blood, at least."
"It also shows you know scarcely enough of the English to pass judgment." He stepped next to her. "I'll agree that as a nation they've not done well by Ireland, but as individuals, they can be tolerable. You need to meet more of them."
She immediately moved away, on to the next stall to consider Miles's prize stallion, Horatio. "You could at least give your horses good Irish names."
"My mother has the naming of them."
She turned to him with a skeptical look. "And why would a daughter of the Fitzgeralds have such a classical turn of mind?"
"Perhaps she, too, thinks we Irish need to look beyond our shores to find the key to our own identity. Of course, neither she nor I would carry it so far as to marry English blood."
She stiffened as the dart found its mark. "Ireland has tamed invaders before. The Fitzgeralds themselves are descended from Norman stock."
"And do the Monahans claim purer blood?"
"Grandfather claimed to be able to trace us back to Miled."
"To the first true Irishman, hero of myth and legend? After whom I'm named myself, after a fashion. But then the Fitzgeralds claim to have the blood of fairy in them, through the third earl's wedding with Aine of the Danaan."
"Sure, and are we into genealogical rivalry here?"
"Why not? As horse breeders, we understand such matters." He patted the neck of the fine stallion. "Horatio here has the blood of the Darley Arabian and the Godolphin Barb in him. I would think it a shame to mate him with common stock."
She scowled, then marched on to feed her mare some carrots. "You can mate him to Cresta without concern. Her bloodlines are excellent."
"I'm sure they are. You understand these matters."
She turned to face him. "It seems to me you are obsessed. Look at Kieran. He's the son of Rupert Dunsmore and Kathleen Craig, but a finer lad would be hard to imagine."
"Doubtless the mother had many excellent qualities."
"She was ugly."
"Then the lad is fortunate, though ugliness is not a crippling problem."
"It was for her. Men looked no further than her appearance."
"Was she such a sweet-natured being, then?"
She bit her lip. "No. But I'm sure she could have been if shown more kindness."
"Perhaps, though it seems to me that kindness draws forth kindness. It's true, however, that even a sweet-natured horse can be ruined by cruel treatment." He deliberately moved the discussion closer to the true heart of the matter. "Just as a fine child can be so ruined."
She looked at him sharply. "Then why do you persist in trying to interfere in my plans."
"Because I care. If I can find another way, will you let me?"
She turned from him. "Oh Miles, there is no other way. But I do want to thank you for bringing Kieran here. It means so much to me to know he is safe, for now."
"Then I'm content, for now. Come, let me have Achilles saddled for you. I think you'll enjoy his gait."
And for the rest of the afternoon, he would permit no troubling matters to come between them.
* * *
Hours later, Miles and Felicity cantered back into the Clonnagh stables in relatively good spirits. Miles nodded for a groom to help Felicity down, not wanting to disrupt the harmony in any way.
"So," he said as they strolled back up the lane to the house, happy dogs at their heels. "What do you think of Achilles?"
"He's wonderful, as well you know. You do seem to have a knack of hitting gold more often than dross."
"Skill, cailin. Skill."
She flashed him a wicked look. "But then, there's Banshee. And it's occurred to me that he's the only horse here lacking a classical name."
"True," Miles laughed. "Mother looked at him newborn and refused to name dogs' meat."
"Why did you keep him?"
"Perhaps I was just fattening him up?"
"Or thinking he was a changeling, and the fairy-folk would give you back your own beautiful colt?"
"Now, there's a thought! That would explain a great deal." He rubbed the side of his nose with the pearl handle of his crop. "In truth, I felt sorr
y for him, poor ungainly little thing. If I'd known his nature, I might have hardened my heart. By the time it became clear he'd be hard to handle, I'd made such a matter of finding the good in him that I couldn't give up."
"Male pride," she said innocently. "I understand perfectly."
"As if you were lacking in pride."
They were smiling as they turned the corner where the stable lane joined the carriage path around the house. Smiling as they came face to face with Annie Monahan, glowering massively in a heavy mud-colored woolen cloak. Miles thought for a moment that she had a brindled cat in her arms, but then realized it was an enormous fur muff.
"Laughing," she accused, "and the poor dear creature in such distress!"
It took Miles a moment to realize what she meant. "I'm sorry about Gardeen."
"So I should think! You should have taken better care of her."
"True enough. But none of us came through unscathed."
Felicity chimed in, "It was my fault, Aunt."
"I have no doubt of it. You've always been a careless girl." She fished in the enormous fur muff, pulled out a smaller one, and gave it to Miles.
Then he realized it was warm, alive, black....
"Gardeen?" he asked. Then felt idiotic.
"And who else would it be?" Annie demanded acidly. "The poor creature staggered home yesterday bedraggled and exhausted. You should have known she would try to follow you."
"But..." Miles looked at Felicity, and she put out a wondering hand to stroke the warm fur.
She answered his unspoken question. "I don't know."
"Take care of her this time," Annie barked. "You won't get another chance."
"I thought cats had nine lives," Miles said.
Annie's eyes narrowed. "And what makes you think any human is given more than one of them?" She turned and tramped off up the drive toward the house.
"Oh, dear, she is in a state," Felicity said.
"So am I. What the devil..." Miles raised the small cat to look into its silvery eyes. Unblinking cat's eyes stared back, but whether the message was Why did you abandon me? or Why did you let me get killed? he could not tell.
In silent accord, Miles and Felicity went to the herb garden, to the little mound marked by white stones. He noted that the dogs paid no homage, but snuffled around after intriguing smells.
"I buried a cat here," Miles said, aware of the black cat warm in his hands. He looked at Felicity.
"Oh, no!" she protested. "If you think I had time or inclination to be finding an identical little black cat... and why, for Erin's sake, would I want to?"
"I don't know. But I hardly studied the corpse. Perhaps it wasn't very like Gardeen at all."
Her face stilled with anger. "Miles Cavanagh, I'll tell you this once and once only. The cat in my pocket was the one that was killed, and the one whose body I gave to you. Perhaps we picked up a stray cat on the way and just assumed it was Gardeen."
"Perhaps." But Miles didn't believe it. He looked at the cat again, but Gardeen—or Gardeen II—just purred contentedly.
* * *
They returned to the house to find that Annie was staying for a few nights, though grumbling about missing her cats.
Aideen looked at the small black cat in Miles's arm and raised a brow. "I've never known you to be fond of the creatures before."
"I'm not sure if I'm fond of them now." But Miles's finger touched the silky fur of its own volition. "This one seems to have adopted me."
"It's very like that dead one, surely."
Miles shrugged. "This is Ireland. Perhaps we shouldn't ask too many questions." He went up to change for dinner, taking the cat with him.
Once in his room, Gardeen became active, roaming her new quarters, exploring all the corners.
"You won't find any mice here, little hunter." Miles rang for Hennigan, then started to strip off his clothes. "I wonder what you'd have done yesterday. Would you have stepped in to protect me? Or to protect Felicity. Just whose guardian are you?" He stopped in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt to frown at the cat, wondering if he were running completely mad.
He was very tempted to dig up the corpse, but it would be pointless. That cat had definitely been dead. And that cat had been the one they'd brought from Foy, for when Felicity spoke like that she was always truthful.
He thought back to when they'd been leaving Foy, to the black cat which had chased after them. Perhaps it hadn't been Gardeen. Perhaps there had been two identical kittens in the litter.
Or perhaps this one wasn't Gardeen.
It shouldn't matter. But Miles suspected he was going to need a little guardian in the coming days.
Hennigan arrived with fresh hot water and looked down his thin nose at the black creature leaping and rolling on the silk damask bedcover.
"Yes, she's back," Miles said. "And around to stay. I hope."
* * *
When Miles went down to dinner, he left the cat in his room with a dish of milk and some morsels of fish and chicken. He thought he'd closed the door, but after dinner when the music began, Gardeen appeared.
Miles picked her up and placed her on the top of the piano, but she immediately leaped, paws sliding on the glossy mahogany, off and onto his shoulder.
"My, but she does seem to be attached to you, Miles," his mother said.
"Scared to let the thatch-gallows out of her sight!" Annie declared, still simmering.
"Miss Monahan, I promise to take the greatest care of her from now on."
"You'd better," said Colum with apparent seriousness. "Things happen to people who are unkind to Annie's cats. I remember a lad tied a burning rag to the tail of one. Within weeks, he broke his leg."
"Indeed?" Miles met Annie's threatening eyes. "Do your worst." He knew it could be taken as referring to himself, but he meant it to refer to Dunsmore.
Annie's eyes narrowed. "Oh, I intend to, young man. All in my own good time."
"You know," said Colum, "it's a rare privilege to get one of Annie's cats. I never had one adopt me. Nor has Felicity."
"They go where they're needed," mumbled Annie round a mouthful of cake.
Miles squinted sideways at his guardian cat, who stared back complacently. But it curled its tail around his neck in a surprisingly sensuous, possessive gesture.
Miles looked over to where Felicity was playing the piano and wished the caress on his neck was from her. It wouldn't be, though. He'd caught her unawares once, but she wouldn't let it happen again.
What if, instead of waiting with his door ajar, he went to her room? He felt sure he could seduce, or tease, or coerce her into sex again. The more often they made love, the deeper the bond would be. And the more likely that she would get with child.
But that was what held her back.
Miles looked at the cat again. What would Gardeen do if he tried to coerce Felicity? The line of scabs on his hand gave him his answer.
His gaze was drawn back irresistibly to his tormenting ward. He longed to curl his hand around her elegant neck veiled softly by tendrils of dark hair escaping from her knot. He could almost feel her clever fingers dancing over his body instead of over the smooth hardness of ivory and ebony.
But at the moment, such matters were obviously far from her mind. She was lost in music and at ease, and he would not steal that from her. She so often lacked ease.
Annie had called her active and wayward.
The word, however, was troubled, even anguished, and in a very deep sense.
So what troubled Felicity Monahan, down deep, far deeper than the matter of caring for a neighbor's motherless child?
She looked up as if suddenly aware of his questions. Her fingers completed the piece too soon and she rose. "I think I'll see if Kieran is asleep yet. I'd like to read to him."
She was gone before anyone could comment, though no one but Miles seemed at all disturbed. He knew, however, that Kieran had progressed from being a barrier between himself and Felicity to being a shield she could
deliberately raise when needed.
Miles moved away from the company to look out the window, stroking Gardeen. It was shameful to be jealous of a child, but he was. Kieran was his main rival here, not Dunsmore. Without Kieran, Felicity would melt into his arms tomorrow.
But how could anyone fight the allure of a charming four-year-old boy who needed love and protection?
Chapter 12
The next day—the third of Miles's week-of-grace—progressed much like the day before. Miles and Felicity spent the morning with Kieran. Miles had borrowed a small gray pony, and Kieran was thrilled to ride around the paddock on it. He was ambitious, though, and continually demanded to be allowed to ride Banshee.
Miles, leaning against the fence chewing a blade of grass, muttered a curse. "If I thought he'd survive, I'd put him tip there just to teach him a lesson. Has he no sense?"
"Shush. He's stubborn sometimes."
"Like someone else I know." He took the grass out of his mouth and tickled her nose with it.
She swatted it away, but smiled.
"You haven't come to my room the last two nights."
"I never will." But extra color touched her cheeks.
"Never? That's a long time."
"True enough. On both counts."
He teased the pale skin under her chin with the grass. "If I promised you'd be in no danger of getting with child, would you come?"
"I would not." But her blush intensified and she didn't brush the grass away.
"We only have a few more days of truce, a muirnin. 'Tis a great shame to waste them."
Her lips parted slightly. "I'm not wasting them."
He drew the frond of the grass over her red cheek to brush those tempting lips. "Do you not lie awake at night, thinking?"
She turned to him, swatting the grass away. "Thinking of what?"
"Of balls and rods.... Of billiards."
She choked on a laugh. After a moment she said, "I don't believe you lie awake over me."
"Don't you?" He brushed the grass across his own lips and saw her dark eyes follow it. "Then why not test me out? Come to my room this night. If you find me asleep, you'll know you're right. If you find me awake..."
"Yes?"
"Then you'll have to stay awhile."
She licked her lips, and it was almost more than he could do not to kiss her. "Maybe," she whispered before running off to lift Kieran from the pony.
