She was gone before he could collect his befuddled senses and stop her. Frustrated, Neville slammed his fist against the bed again and again, swearing with the one curse word arising through the fog of his mind, one that seemed particularly apt considering the state of his aching loins.
***
Fighting a growing panic, Fiona searched up and down the harbor for the familiar sight of the duke’s yacht. For the love of Mary, she’d sailed on the damned thing. She knew what it looked like.
The yacht wasn’t there.
Being left alone with the burden of the duke’s illness, the orphans, the danger to His Grace and to Michael’s holdings, terrified her. She had to find help. She couldn’t do it all alone.
Draping her shawl around her face, she stopped and talked with the harbor master, asking about private ships, but he’d not seen anything but the fishing boats that sailed out regularly. When he began to look at her with curiosity, she hurried away.
A physician. Perhaps she could find a physician who would know what to do. If only she could get word to Michael. But she didn’t like worrying Blanche until she was certain they had cause to worry. Neville could come around. She’d seen it happen.
She hurried down what passed for a prosperous street in Sligo. The duke was her responsibility. She had known he would follow her. It was her fault he had come here and got his head bashed in. She scanned the swinging overhead signs for one that indicated a physician.
She still had a few of the duke’s coins left. She’d spent them rather recklessly, believing she would have more on the yacht. But now she had a wagon load of children and nowhere to take them or any means of feeding them. She could look after herself, but seven children, an old woman, and an addled duke presented a burden beyond her abilities. Where was the damned yacht?
She finally gave in and asked for the physician’s direction. He wasn’t in, of course, and she left a message asking that he come to the inn. Until she knew his fee, she didn’t dare spend any of the remaining coins.
Fiona almost cried in relief as a familiar face appeared in the crowded street. And then she remembered who he was and what he might have done, and she sought to hide, too late.
“Fey-onah, my love! What brings you to this gateway of hell?” The handsome features beamed in pleasure beneath a head full of dark curly hair.
“Colin.” Nervously, Fiona kept walking in the direction of the inn, forcing Colin to turn and follow her. “I thought you’d gone to America.”
“Patsy didn’t want to part from her family while the babe’s due. And what is yourself doing here? I thought I’d heard you’d gone to be a duchess.”
Oh, damn. Did all the world know her business? “I’m looking for a place for Aileen’s orphans. And yourself?” She avoided the issue as neatly as possible.
“Looking for work. The fishing is bad. Thought I’d go on to Belfast next. You wouldn’t happen to have a coin or two about you, would you, Fiona? I hate asking, but it’s that low I am, and with the babe coming... You know how it is.”
Did that mean he’d not killed Burke for the money or that he’d gambled it all away already? Cursing the suspicion that Burke’s death had thrown upon her childhood friend, Fiona shook her head. “You know better than to ask, Colin. I’ve no allowance from my cousin. If I did, I’d spend it on the orphans and not on your gambling.”
“Arrah, and you’ve always been a hard woman, Fiona. You’ve a place to stay, then? Could I come up and share a drop of tea?”
Tea wasn’t what he wanted. He hoped for whiskey. She knew his sort, and his handsome charm had never spun her head. Not in a long time, leastways. Clamping her lips, she shook her head. “The least one is ill. It could be the mumps. Have you had the mumps, Colin? It can kill a grown man. You don’t want to come near if you’re not after having them.”
“And weren’t you the one giving them to me when we were wee ones? Don’t begrudge an old friend a cup of tea, lass. Come along with you, then.” Catching her hand, Colin placed it firmly in the crook of his elbow.
Damn. Damn, and double damn. Cursing furiously all the way up the street, Fiona sought some means of escaping Colin, and preventing him from seeing the duke in his helpless state. She could be walking on the arm of a murderer, for all she knew. She couldn’t believe it of Colin, but Neville was right. Desperate men sometimes did desperate things.
Fighting the urge to scream in frustration, Fiona fumbled for her purse as they reached the lobby of the inn. She knew one certain way of diverting a man like Colin.
Producing a coin, she held it out. “Why don’t you buy a pint while I check on the orphans? I’ll be down directly.”
Colin gave her a dark look of suspicion as he took the coin. “And who is it you’re after keeping from me, cailin? You’re not harboring a man up there, are ye? For Seamus’s sake, I’d have to take the man apart.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Have you ever been in a room filled with six children and one squalling babe? I’m doing you a favor, I am. Now go hoist your pint. You know that’s all you’re after.”
“Fiona! Fiona MacDermot! I never thought—” A woman hurried across the floor and stopped abruptly as she caught sight of the handsome Irishman at Fiona’s elbow. Her expression of welcome immediately turned to one of outrage. “Well, I never! And you with a wife and babe on the way, Colin Moriarity!”
The Widow Blackthorne. Groaning inwardly, Fiona steepled her fingers against her forehead and swore to worship the devil if God couldn’t do better than this. What was the widow doing in Sligo? Catching a ship with poor murdered Burke’s coins?
“And a pleasure it is to see you, too, Mrs. Blackthorne,” she said dryly. “Won’t you join Colin in a pint while I’m after seeing to the orphans? They’ll have the room destroyed if I’m not lookin’ in on them soon.”
Not caring what glances the pair exchanged behind her back, Fiona hurried up the stairs and away from any witnesses. She didn’t know how long she’d been gone, but she knew it was too long. Neville could have had a relapse. The hooligans could have tied their granny to a chair and let themselves out the bedroom window. Aileen had never been much for discipline.
She burst into the room to a wild shout of triumph from inside. Closing the door and leaning against it, she swiftly absorbed the scene before her.
Neville sat in a chair near the brazier. He bounced two of the youngest on his knees, teaching them to clap hands, while Sean burped the baby over his shoulder and the rest played some wild game involving twisting a blanket into a jump rope and alternately tugging or jumping at it. Terrified Mrs. Callaghan had died of exhaustion, Fiona gathered her strength and pushed off from the door.
“Miss Fiona! Miss Fiona! Can we play outside, can we? Can we see the ships? I’m hungry! Can we have more apples, please?”
Fiona scarcely acknowledged the voices attacking her from all sides. Taking up one toddler in her arms, she watched Neville. If he were strong and in his right mind, half her problems would be solved. But she saw only the glint of admiration in his eyes as he set the younger two on the floor and let them join the fray. She didn’t need his damned admiration right now. She needed his help. His lack of welcoming speech told her all she needed to know.
“I’m sorry to take so long.” She waited to see if he understood. He continued watching her, his expression one of pleasantness and no more.
“Doctor,” she said succinctly.
He grimaced and rubbed the back of his head, nodding his understanding.
“No yacht.”
He looked briefly puzzled, seemed to concentrate, then frowned. “Dublin?”
“Sligo,” she countered. “Not Dublin.” Talking in one word sentences made understanding hideously difficult, but at least she thought they were communicating to some extent.
Neville firmly shook his head, then winced. “Yacht. Dublin.”
Oh, hell. “You told me Sligo!” she nearly screamed.
He gave her one of those ducal looks w
ith one raised eyebrow. “Yacht. Dublin.”
Someone rapped at the door behind her.
“Miss Fiona! We’ve a proposition for ye! May we come in?”
Oh, double hell. Colin.
Before Fiona could head him off, the door opened. One of these days, she’d learn to lock doors. In a panic, she glanced at Neville. He winked, and swiped another toddler from the floor.
Well, that certainly made for a domestic scene.
Twenty-one
“William, what the divil do ye do here when they’re after burnin’ your house down back home!”
The portly man striding anxiously up and down Dublin’s dock turned on his heels at the cry, his face taking on a deeper flush of fear. “Eamon! Don’t frighten an old man like that.”
The younger, lankier man hurried toward him. “I’ve notified the army, but the bastards are sitting on their rumps. You need to get back there now, warn them Lord Aberdare will have their heads if they let the castle burn.”
“My genealogy! I can’t let them burn my genealogy. If it’s lyin’ you are, Eamon O’Connor, it’s your head that will roll.” William hastened down the dock toward the cobbled street leading into the city.
“It’s McGonigle stirring up the trouble. The earl has asked me to look after the matter of Burke’s murder, but all I’ve seen are the English conniving with every blackguard in the county. It’s after the earl, they are, and no mistake.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” William replied, already huffing at the pace the younger man set. “Michael never harmed a soul in his life. It’s the duke they want, I’ll be bound. Have you seen our Fiona?”
O’Connor jerked to a halt and stared at Fiona’s uncle. “Our Fiona? Is she not on her honeymoon with the blasted duke?”
Gasping for breath, William willingly halted. “She ran away the night before the wedding. Michael’s scouring the isles in search of her now.”
O’Connor swore vividly and inventively in three languages. “The brat was born with greased heels, I swear.” He suddenly looked alarmed. “She would not have gone back to Aberdare, would she? There’s something afoot, and I’d not have her in the middle of it.”
“We don’t know where she’s gone!” William exclaimed in exasperation. “Michael thinks she sailed from Portsmouth, and a ship arrived from there a day or so ago, but no one on board claims to have seen her.” His expression became even more alarmed. “The duke’s gone to Aberdare in search of her. If there’s something afoot...”
O’Connor resumed hurrying up the street. “That explains it then,” he said grimly. “That explains it all. The bastards think to kill the emancipation and crime bills with a single blow.”
“Don’t be foolish,” William huffed, hurrying to keep up. “Michael does naught but vote yay or nay, then wander off with his head in the clouds. There’s naught to harm him for.”
O’Connor grimaced. “Not Michael by himself, nor the duke, nor the marquess, but together, they’re an unholy triumvirate. Michael has his wife’s wealth, the marquess has his way with words and manner of twisting arms, and the duke has power and experience. The duke would never have signed those bills if Michael had not persuaded the marquess to sponsor them and the marquess had not twisted the duke’s arm. That’s the way of it, William, and if I know it, so do those who oppose them. You’ve sent your niece into a viper’s nest.”
“Fiona sent herself,” William grumbled. “I don’t have a blamed thing to do with anything she does.”
O’Connor stopped at military headquarters and glared at the stone wall of the building rather than the old man beside him. “Her old beau, Colin Moriarity has been meeting with an English lord, so has McGonigle. And you know who lives in the lord’s home?” He gave William a bedeviled look. “The Widow Blackthorne.”
***
“Holy Mother of God, ’tis a zoo,” Colin muttered almost reverently as his gaze encountered the romping children, one of whom tumbled at his feet.
Picking up the child before his whimpers could escalate, the widow gave him a look of disgust. “’Tis yerself you’re seein’ here, Colin Moriarity. Undisciplined and heathen as the beasts in the field.” She patted the sobbing child on the back and glanced up at Fiona. “What do you mean to do with the lot?”
Then her gaze encountered the man in the chair beside the brazier, dangling a toddler on his knee, and she fell silent.
Colin, too, had discovered the stranger, and his brow drew down in a scowl. Glancing over her shoulder, Fiona read the command in Neville’s expression well enough. The dratted man didn’t need words. Just the lift of his expressive eyebrow could order armies about. His words might be scrambled, but she had the rather relieved suspicion that his brains weren’t.
With a sigh, she set the child in her arms on the floor and sent him off to his brother. “Sean, take a coin from my purse and go fetch some apples for the lot. I’ll see to tea in a little while.”
The nine-year old proudly helped himself to the money, gave their visitors a look that would have rivaled the duke’s, and marched out on his important errand.
Without any idea of what else to do, Fiona crossed the room and took the toddler from the duke. She feared he’d topple should he stand, so she pressed his shoulder, hoping he’d stay impolitely seated.
“Neville, this is Mrs. Blackthorne, from the village, and Colin Moriarity, an old friend of mine. Mrs. Blackthorne, Colin, this is my husband, Neville Perceval.” She prayed they wouldn’t recognize the name or that the duke wouldn’t question her labeling of him as “husband.” She didn’t need any more complications.
She should have known better. The widow immediately dropped into an elaborate curtsy. “Your Grace,” she whispered. “I never thought to make your acquaintance.” She rose and aimed a look of irritation at Fiona. “You brought him to the village and let him carry packages about, but you never introduced him to anyone. Were you that ashamed of us?”
Well, at least she didn’t have to worry about the townspeople treating her differently should she ever marry the duke.
“We were arguing at the time,” she answered in clipped tones, hoping to hurry and end this debacle, or at least cover up the fact that Neville hadn’t replied to the introductions. Maybe they would think him too arrogant to speak. “We’d hoped to find family for the orphans here. What was the proposition you came to tell us about?”
Prevented from advancing into the room by the tide of children ebbing and flowing at his feet, Colin stayed glued to the door. Fiona suspected that he’d noted the duke’s lack of speech, but the English nobility weren’t known for their friendliness in these parts. Besides, Neville was busily engaged in wiping the bloody nose of the three-year-old. Mayhap it was just awe that kept Colin silent.
Instead of answering Fiona’s question, the widow continued watching the duke with fascination. “What happened to his clothes?” she whispered in bemusement, for Fiona’s ears only. “I thought dukes had servants to keep them dressed grandly.”
“We only meant to be here a short time, but we had an accident, and our bags were stolen. We’ve only just arrived, and it’s after our business we must be. If you’d just tell us about your proposition…”
To Fiona’s dismay, the duke set aside the quieted child. Removing her hand from his shoulder, he pushed up using the chair back, and limped crossed the room. He held out his hand to Colin. “Moriarity,” he repeated in that damned authoritative tone that made people jump whether they willed or not. Turning to the widow, he gave a nod. “Mrs. Blackthorne.”
Fiona thought for a moment they would go down on their hands and knees and bow and scrape, so awed were they by this man in rumpled linen and mud-coated trousers. She’d like to know how he did that. She frowned at him for good measure, but he only quirked his lips in return. She had the distinct impression that he laughed at her. Again. Whoever said this man had no sense of humor, lied.
“Proposition?” he inquired, drawing the word out carefully.
> Colin stammered into the breach. “We wanted a proper memorial for Burke, for a man in the village what was killed.”
Realizing he made little sense, Colin stopped, prepared to start at the beginning, but the widow intervened.
“Burke didn’t get a proper wake. We thought a memorial service in the Great Hall at Aberdare might help the village to overcome its grief. Fiona, er, Lady...” She shuffled her thinking and sought the proper form of address while the duke waited.
“Just Fiona,” Fiona filled in impatiently. “I’m not about to be Your Graced all the day. And as much as I’d like to see Burke honored, I don’t see that it will do more than cost money for barrels of ale. I’d see the coins better spent.”
The duke’s warm hand caressed the nape of her neck, not lovingly, but with warning. And perhaps to steady himself. Fiona shot him a suspicious glare but shut up. She would like nothing more than for him to fish them from this mess, but how he was to do it without speech left even her agile brain stumped.
“Continue,” Neville commanded.
He’d moved on to verbs now, Fiona thought sarcastically. How grand. Now he could really give orders.
Despite the sarcasm, she couldn’t help admitting relief that he had the mental capability to take charge. The idea of that powerful mind lost forever in a fog of speechlessness had gnawed at her more than she cared to acknowledge.
Colin straightened his spine. “There’s those who say the earl’s forgotten them already. It’s a hungry winter we’ll have without the potatoes to keep us.”
The widow interrupted, nervously smoothing Colin’s harsh words. “We know the earl can’t feed us all. We’re just his tenants, after all. He’s eased the rents and built us new houses, and we’re eternally grateful, but we have to eat. We’d thought, if we had the service, all the village would come...”
Colin made a gesture of disgust. “It’s no use, Mrs. Blackthorne. The duke won’t be interested in the likes of us, and the earl’s too busy. We’re but making fools of ourselves. It was a daft plan, anyway.”
The Irish Duchess Page 17
