He ought never to have taken this assignment. He owed Michael MacDermot a damned lot, but not enough to follow this scoundrel about. Ireland seethed with secret societies and terrorist organizations that believed their own narrow-minded points of view would solve the work of centuries. Once he’d been idealistic enough to believe their tales of outrage and to sympathize with the world of woe around him. Now, he just wanted them all to bugger off and leave him alone.
But he owed the earl and wouldn’t see Fiona hurt, even if she had fallen into the treacherous snare of a damned English duke. That obnoxious weasel at the back table would harm anyone who stood in his way, and as best as Eamon could determine, the better part of the law stood in the rogue’s way. Eamon thoroughly despised absentee landlords, but this particular landowner was deserving of his own special place in hell.
He really should report to Michael, Eamon knew, but there wasn’t much he could report or that Michael could do. The ruffian he followed had money in his pocket, but Eamon couldn’t determine of a certainty from what source—unless it was the English landowner who sat across from the cad now. Eamon didn’t think it likely that either of them had been near the village when Burke died, but since then, the man he’d been following had talked to each of the suspects Michael had mentioned. And now he was talking to a wealthy man.
The question remained, what did a bloody English nobleman have to do with a lot of discontented Irish?
Eighteen
Rain pouring down her face and hair snaking in damp tendrils beneath the neck of her shirt, Fiona gathered her cloak closer and stumbled down the lane toward the cottage.
She’d been mad to leave Anglesey. Who would dare harm someone as powerful as a duke? It all seemed some sort of bad dream now, with the cold Irish rain beating down her back and hunger eating at her belly. She hadn’t remembered how miserable the cold and the wet could be. How in the name of the Holy Mother of Jesus would she keep Aileen’s orphans warm and fed in this weather?
Wiping rivulets of water from her eyes, Fiona slogged up to the cottage, every inch of her caked with mud.
The door popped open before she could knock. Sean, Aileen’s eldest, stood on the threshold, his narrow face drawn with anxiety. Fiona’s empty stomach contracted.
“Sean? What is it?” She stepped into the cottage as the boy opened the door wider.
A blast of moist heat hit her. The fire was roaring, but how they’d paid for the peat was a mystery to her. She was too grateful for the warmth to care. Hanging her dripping cloak on a hook by the door, she scanned the interior, counting heads. Before she reached the requisite seven, her gaze stumbled over the long masculine figure stretched out on a pallet before the fire.
Neville.
He’d followed her. He’d heard Townsend’s wild claims and followed her, as she’d hoped. Had he come to see her hanged as a traitor, or did his bedeviled pride bring him?
She panicked at his stillness. She had wanted to protect him, not kill him.
Blinking back moisture and hiding fear, Fiona kneeled beside the duke. He didn’t stir. His eyes didn’t open. Her pulse accelerating, she turned to Sean. “Is he sleeping?”
A rush of Irish poured from the terrified boy, interrupted occasionally by the old woman in the corner and one of the girls. As well versed in the old language as the new, Fiona still had difficulty comprehending.
“Mary, Jesus, and Joseph,” she muttered as some of the problem sank in. She should have known the damned duke would arrive ahead of her. But she’d had no way of warning the children.
Sean had only thought to protect his family from thieves and murderers when he’d knocked the stranger over the head. Not until it was light had he recognized the Englishman.
She’d run here to keep him safe, and the children had done for him.
Fiona pried at the duke’s eyelid, checked his pulse and breathing, and prayed. He lived, she could say that much.
“Mrs. Callaghan, have you sent for my Uncle William? Surely he arrived with the duke?”
The old lady rocked in her corner, cuddling the sleeping babe against her. “He’s not arrived. The lads have asked.”
There was no point in asking for a physician. There was none to be had, even had there been coins to bribe one into coming. And Fiona wasn’t entirely certain it should be known that the Duke of Anglesey lay prone and helpless in this miserable hovel.
She didn’t dare move him until he came around. Blows to the head weren’t something one took lightly. She’d seen grown men permanently turned into helpless babes after a drunken brawl. Infants dropped on their heads were never quite the same. A man who’d been hit twice in the same place, causing unconsciousness in both cases, could easily have his brains scrambled.
At least the children had had the sense to keep him warm and dry. She didn’t hear the pneumonia in his lungs, which was more than she could say for herself if she didn’t strip out of these wet clothes.
“Have you paper and pen then, Sean? I’d send word around to the castle. They’ll be looking for us. And the duke’s horse? Where is it?”
After ascertaining which of the children could manage the horse, Fiona took a piece of brown sacking and a stub of charcoal Sean gave her. She scribbled a hasty letter to the castle housekeeper and sent the second eldest out into the rain to deliver the message and hide the horse.
“Now we should have some bread and a bit more shortly. Have you a potato I can eat until help arrives?”
Shyly, the children produced potatoes, a flea-ridden blanket, and a cup of rainwater from various dark corners of the cottage. Fiona sipped thirstily at the water, roasted the potato and ate it half raw, allowing her clothes to dry by the fire rather than undress and wrap in the blanket. In all that time, the duke never stirred.
Fiona studied the pallor of Neville’s face, the strong bones and high brow, the thick eyebrows that accented his usually stern demeanor. He didn’t seem quite so intimidating laid out flat and helpless, his lids closed over all-too-observant eyes. But she knew the passion he hid behind his stoic facade. And she admired the keen intelligence of his powerful mind.
Daringly, she caressed his brow, brushing his hair back from his face. The stubble of a beard roughened his jaw. Neville often shaved twice a day so as not to appear uncivilized. He would have failure of the heart did he see himself now. Smiling, she tested the texture of that dark growth over the hard curve of his jaw.
A strong hand captured her fingers. She stared into open gray eyes in surprise. Fiona hadn’t realized how worried she’d been until relief almost inundated her. “Neville! Thank all that is holy, you’re awake!” She blinked back tears, blaming them on joy.
Silvered eyes watched her with uncertainty. Neville never looked uncertain. When he said nothing, Fiona bit her lip to keep her teeth from chattering. Perhaps he was a bit confused.
“I’ll have tea as soon as the boys come back with the makings. Will you take a drop of water then?” She tried helping him into a sitting position, but he didn’t cooperate. He wouldn’t release her hand. Fear twisting its augur deeper, Fiona touched his forehead in search of fever.
“Sean was simply protecting the babies. You should never have come here in the middle of the night. There’s too much meanness afoot.”
Neville closed his eyes again, but he continued clinging to her hand, the pressure of his fingers nearly cutting off the circulation in hers.
“It’s all right, Neville. When you’re feeling better, we’ll take you to the castle. It’s just a little bump on the head. If you could drink the water, I could give you something for the pain.” She tried reassurance, but she wasn’t certain she reached him. His fingers didn’t unclench.
The door burst open and the boys tumbled in with sacks of food, followed by the closest thing the castle had to a major-domo.
“Miss Fiona! We’ve been that worried about you. And His Grace!” Doyle threw up age-spotted hands in dismay. “What’s to become of us? We’re destroyed, w
e are.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Doyle. Did you bring me clothes? These will never dry out in this weather. His Grace is just a little unwell. We’ll have him up and about directly.”
The fingers clutching hers didn’t relax, preventing her from standing to see what Doyle had brought. She supposed she should feel some relief that Neville still retained his strength. That he didn’t speak caused more concern than any relief she might feel.
Doyle glanced nervously about at the cottage teeming with children, all staring at him. “I must speak with you privately, Miss Fiona. It’s urgent.”
Privately. Of course. They would retire to the master drawing room, she thought sarcastically. “Has the rain lessened?” When Doyle nodded, she gestured at the children with her free hand. “Go wash yourselves at the well. Sean, make certain the young ones are good and clean before you bring them back here. We’ll have a feast shortly.”
At Fiona’s fierce look, Sean grabbed the toddlers and shooed the lot of them out. Only Mrs. Callaghan and the babe remained, and they slept in the far corner.
“All right, what is it, Doyle?” Was it her imagination, or did the pressure of the duke’s fingers lessen?
The old man coughed uncertainly, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s McGonigle’s men, Miss Fiona. Eamon has warned us that they mean to torch the castle. If they should hear His Grace has returned, there’s no telling what they’ll be doing.”
Oh, Lord God in heaven, deliver us from evil. Fiona closed her eyes and drew closer to Neville’s warmth. Reaching out to a barely conscious man for reassurance was the act of a fool, but Neville had strength, and she needed to borrow a little. The fingers wrapped around hers squeezed.
“No one knows the duke has arrived, do they?” she demanded. At Doyle’s vigorous shake of his head, she thought quickly. The younger children couldn’t be relied on to keep quiet once the village awoke. Word would be out shortly.
“Castle. Save.” Neville’s whisper startled her from those reflections.
Pain etched Neville’s face, but Fiona knew his expressions well. Stubbornness and determination tightened his jaw. Stupid man, as if a castle meant anything. She supposed that was just one more example of the chasm between them.
“Doyle, have you sent for the authorities? I know Michael and the colonel are at odds, but the army ought to be of some use. They can guard the damned castle.” There, that should reassure Neville. She wouldn’t worry him with the unlikelihood of any army arriving in time to stop McGonigle’s White Boys. The army moved on tortoise legs, while the ruffians struck like lightning.
“Eamon’s passed the word, but who’s to say—”
Fiona waved a hand to hush him. “Fine, then we must get the duke and the children out of here. If McGonigle is stopped from destroying the castle, he might take out his anger on Michael’s tenants. I can’t believe he’d be stupid enough to burn the new cottages, but he’ll look for some target, and these old barns could qualify. Damn, I wish I could hang the man by his toes!”
Frustrated at the senseless violence that broke out across the countryside whenever tempers flared, Fiona gnashed her teeth and sought some solution to their current predicament. She couldn’t do everything. She’d leave McGonigle for another time, after she had Neville and the orphans in safety. They really couldn’t hide a duke in a hovel.
“The yacht! Neville, where did you leave the yacht? Sligo?” He didn’t open his eyes, but they scrunched up as if in thought. “Sligo,” he repeated uncertainly, with a slight nod of his head.
That was closer than Dublin. Breathing a sigh of relief, Fiona turned back to Doyle. “Bring us a wagon, blankets, food, whatever you can find quickly. I’m taking the duke and the children to Sligo. Get everyone else out of the castle and to safety until the army arrives. If the castle burns, it burns. It’s not worth wasting lives over.” Another thought prompted her to bend over Neville again. “Where’s Uncle William, Neville? We must send word so he doesn’t come near.”
The children returned in a laughing, chattering explosion of noise as they carried in bundles of food from the castle larders. All hope of further conversation gone, Fiona sent Doyle on his errands, and set about making their meal as if the whole world did not crumble around her.
The nearly inert man beside her said nothing more.
***
The demons dancing in his head had voices now. They shrieked and twisted the pain into a living wire coiling through his brain, driving out all coherent thought. He sensed the fire baking one side of him, gradually realized his clothes were damp on the other side, and even recognized the itches of fleas from the pallet he lay on. But little else entered his consciousness except The Good Voice.
He waited attentively for every instance of the familiar, welcoming sound. That most of the words went right on past him mattered little. The Good Voice spoke with a reassurance and a boldness that drove out the demon voices. He occasionally opened his eyes to find the source of that magical sound. So far, he’d caught only the silhouette of long hair and slender curves before the demons shouted, and he shut his lids again. Somehow, he knew that hair blazed with the same fire as the peat in the hearth.
He didn’t bother struggling to sit up at her urging. The effort wasn’t worth the pain. He knew he needed to get beyond the pain, but he couldn’t precisely remember why. It was just something he had to do.
And when he did, he would remember the beautiful creature behind The Voice. That blissful thought alone made the pain bearable.
He agreed with every question The Voice asked because it seemed the wisest thing to do. He wished he could remember what Sligo was for her sake. But already the reason for wanting to know was sliding away.
Nineteen
Pain slammed through Neville as they lifted him into the back of the wagon. Groaning, he attempted protest, but he couldn’t form the words. Childish chatter clamored, and he winced.
Cold air washed over him before someone tucked a soft blanket around him. The Good Voice returned, and he listened as closely as the demons would allow.
“Sean, where’s the duke’s purse? He wouldn’t have traveled without one.”
He caught the word “purse” and the questioning tone. The childish reply spoke in guilt and defiance. Odd, that he knew what they said without hearing the words.
The Voice scolded but equally reassured. He marveled at how the melodious sound could convey so many meanings at once. He sensed her presence, but he couldn’t touch her, and frustrated, he fought against the wool binding him.
“Neville! It’s all right, Your Grace, I’ll make a pillow for your head. But first I must lift the children around you. There’s so many of them, no one will know you’re here. Just lie still and be quiet a while longer.”
He understood “pillow... children... quiet.” Absorbed with translating those clues, he didn’t object when his only means of communication departed. He could hear The Voice not far away, cajoling, promising, laughing, comforting. Such a variety of sounds she made.
Small bodies giggled and wiggled around him. Becoming aware of his helplessness, he struggled against the confinement of the blanket again, without success.
“Mrs. Callaghan, sit up beside Sean with the babe. I’ll sit back here with the children. With luck, we should reach Sligo before nightfall.”
He knew the instant she returned to his side. Even the children sat still. He sensed a solemnity to the occasion but not the reason for it. As gentle hands lifted his head and created a pillow in a soft, warm lap, he sighed in deep contentment.
The wagon jerked into motion and the demons shrieked again. Pain hammered his skull as he fought to free his hands so he could hold his head. Instead, soft fingers stroked his brow.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I know it must hurt. I’ve a potion for you if you’ll drink it. I don’t dare give you the laudanum, but this should help a little.”
“Hurt... potion... laudanum,” registered in his scrambled brain. He
didn’t want laudanum. He wanted coherence. He jerked his head aside as she held something to his lips. “No... laudanum,” he pushed past his unwieldy tongue.
“Not laudanum,” she repeated carefully. “Herbs. Not sleep.”
He sought the missing pieces for meaning. “Not laudanum,” he understood. Warily, he tasted the liquid she dribbled between his lips. Not laudanum. Wearily, he drank it all.
The wagon jolted over muddy, rocky roads, listing from side to side, rocking its occupants who giggled at first, then whined. Caught in a quagmire of a pothole, the wagon stopped at one point. While a helpful farmer pulled them out, The Voice led the children in song. Childish voices piped unintelligible words, and Neville smiled. An image of a bird in a tree appeared in his head, and he imagined it warbling in harmony.
Light from the emerging sun filtered through his closed eyelids and lanced through his pounding brain. He almost wished they’d pull the blanket over his eyes, but he couldn’t put the words together to request it.
As the wagon rattled down the road, he listened to The Voice exclaiming over apples. Laughter and eager crunching followed, and his belly rumbled. As if sensing his hunger, the gentle hands holding his head caressed his jaw.
“Would you have a slice, Your Grace? I’ve peeled it for the babes so they won’t choke. Perhaps you could take a bite or two?”
The sweet juice of the fruit slid past his lips. Not entirely grasping her words but understanding the taste, Neville opened his mouth and allowed her to feed him the apple slice. The burst of flavor awoke his hunger with a vengeance. “Apple,” he demanded.
Her laughter trilled as brilliantly as bird song. He discovered pleasure in the rocking motion beneath him, the softness of her lap, the juice trickling over his lips, and the sun beating down and warming him. He couldn’t remember ever experiencing this kind of simple pleasure. Surely he’d known it at some time, but his mind wasn’t quite up to the memory yet.
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