The Irish Duchess

by Patricia Rice

  The door behind them shoved open, scattering the little grouping as Sean dashed in with his bag of apples. The screams and shouts that ensued prevented further conversation, until the duke took matters in hand.

  Frowning at the commotion, he released Fiona. Holding himself stiffly, as if still unsure of his balance, he waded into the fray. Shooing the lot toward the second room, he motioned for Sean to take the knife and peel the fruit for the youngest. Leaning a hand against the bed for support, he removed a stolen apple from one of the older children and handed it to one of the younger.

  The children obeyed his every silent command with alacrity, although not without protest. He picked up the loudest complainer by the shirt, glared, then set him on his feet again, effectively silenced. Within minutes, the room had cleared of the disruption.

  “My word,” the widow whispered in astonishment. “He does have a way with children.”

  “He’s used to giving orders and having them obeyed,” Fiona replied in near giddy relief. “They’re good children, they just need a strong hand. I wish we could have found a home for them. Neville has promised to pay for their support, but it’s family they need.”

  At the mention of “support,” Colin looked up with interest. “His Grace means to provide for all those hungry mouths?”

  “You’re offering to take the task?” Fiona asked wryly.

  Colin looked properly horrified. “Not me! It’s America bound I am as soon as Patsy has the babe. I was thinking of McGonigle. He and his wife never had children.”

  Neville limped up behind Fiona, circled her shoulders with his arm, and guided her toward the bed. He gestured for the widow to take the room’s only chair, for all the world as if they conversed politely in his ducal drawing room.

  Relieved to have him off his feet, still worried that Neville didn’t understand a word being said, Fiona sent him an anxious glance. Sitting beside her, he smiled and placed his other hand proprietarily behind her. “Wife,” he whispered in her ear as he leaned close.

  Not at all certain that he didn’t retain all his senses and merely teased her, Fiona glowered and returned to their interrupted discussion.

  “I’d like to see McGonigle saddled with seven brats,” she declared. “That would curtail his rebellious activities considerably.”

  “That, or drive him to drink,” Colin agreed.

  “But don’t you see?” the widow interrupted. “It’s perfect. The duke can make McGonigle his magnanimous offer, McGonigle will puff up with pride, his wife will be thrilled to tears, the extra coins will make the butcher and baker happy... And once all the grousing and suspicion stops, we can reach some sensible solution to our problems.”

  “Looms?” Neville asked with deceptive simplicity.

  He must have some understanding of the conversation. Fiona glared. If he had that much understanding, then he knew she wasn’t his wife, and he didn’t owe her looms or support for the orphans. Without her dowry, he could afford neither. But he might not be remembering the treason charges his enemies were holding over her head. She needed to learn to juggle problems like Michael juggled balls.

  Both the widow and Colin turned their attention to the duke, hope so blatantly lighting their faces that Fiona absolved them of all suspicion in Burke’s demise. Did that make McGonigle the murderer? Shuddering at the thought of putting the orphans into the hands of so evil a villain, she wasn’t certain where to begin.

  “We’d discussed buying the looms,” she finally said into the growing silence. She cursed Neville for mentioning the topic. “It’s nothing certain, you understand. Lord Aberdare must still be consulted. I’ve not even approached him yet about using the Great Hall until we can afford elsewhere.”

  “That’s it, then,” Colin said with finality. “We’ll settle the children on McGonigle, hold the memorial, let everyone know about the looms, and we’ll live on hope a while longer. It can work. Will you be starting back to Aberdare in the morning?”

  Astounded at how quickly this ball started rolling, Fiona sat with her mouth open, unable to form a suitable reply. Beside her, the damned duke grinned and murmured, “Speechless?”

  She wished. Aware that all attention now focused on her, Fiona raised a trembling hand to her temple and sought some argument to postpone any decision until she had time to think. She couldn’t make quick decisions on such important matters.

  “Well, Fiona, is it helping us you are?” Colin demanded. “Or are you too far above us now to care?”

  That did it. Leaping to her feet, Fiona slammed open the door and gestured toward the hall. “Out, Colin. I’ve enough of your blather. I’ll not be browbeaten into doing anything until I’m ready. Go back and see to your wife. I’ll see you again when I’m ready, and not before.”

  The duke and the widow both stood up when Fiona did. Neville placed calming hands on her shoulders. He nodded as Mrs. Blackthorne curtsied and lifted a ducal eyebrow in Colin’s direction.

  “Later,” the duke said ambiguously.

  Colin immediately perked up, gave the duke a respectful salute, and offered his arm to the widow. “We’ll come help with the children in the morning, shall we?” he said cheerfully. He closed the door before Fiona could tell him what she thought of his reply.

  Before Fiona could vent her fury with a stream of invectives at the door, the duke pulled her around and lowered his head, capturing her mouth with his.

  “Damn you,” she whispered before succumbing to the temptation of losing herself in the spiraling heat of the moment. Sliding her arms around broad shoulders, she let her problems disappear behind the cloud of longing Neville’s caresses inspired.

  Later, she would worry about looms and orphans, dangers and dukedoms. Later, she would worry about the meaning of this overwhelming flood of relief she felt at his rapidly recovering memory. That he might never return to normal frightened her more than she could bear. For right now, she would bask in the worship of Neville’s kiss and the promise of his embrace and give nothing else any consideration.

  The adjoining door exploded open, blowing in a confusion of curls and giggles, carried on the wails of a babe.

  Neville lifted his head and grinned at Fiona’s dazed expression. Caressing her left breast with one hand, he murmured wickedly, “Heirs.”

  Twenty-two

  By the faint light of the coal brazier, Neville stripped off his wrinkled linen and washed in heated water, wishing he could dunk his aching head as well. He thought the children asleep, although an occasional wriggle kept him guessing. Still, it was dark, and he couldn’t abide his stink much longer.

  His wife had slipped into the other room to change and check on the children there. She would be back shortly, and he rushed through his ablutions in anticipation of sharing the bed with her. The pounding in his head had dwindled with the past day of idling, and his desire had escalated.

  Some events shone clearer through the fog of his memories than others. He suspected his mind simply declined to recall those things for which he wasn’t ready. The irritation of his speech problem prevented him from concentrating too hard on what he didn’t wish to remember.

  Their guests today had called him a duke, and he had a vague notion of mountains of responsibilities and torrents of tasks awaiting him. But no one pressed him to remember them, and his mind sought more pleasant occupations.

  He had no memory whatsoever of caring for children, but with no other chore on his horizon, he found the task easy. Keeping sticky fingers and faces washed, making sufficient trips to the chamber pot, feeding and keeping them warm were chores he could accomplish without words. Providing the occasional hug, wiping away tears, and just giving them a little attention had worked miracles.

  The simple-minded tasks gave him time to concentrate on the more important enigma of the woman he considered wife. He knew his memory was murky on the point, but he had a distinct recollection of a bower of orchids and welcoming arms to fortify his reasoning.

  Pulling on
the coarse cotton shirt Fiona had brought back from one of her forays, Neville noted its length, wrinkled his nose at the texture, and stripped off his muddy trousers. He didn’t think he was accustomed to sleeping in his shirts, but he had little choice now.

  Steadier on his feet with practice, he added more coal to the brazier, pulled a blanket around one of the more restless children, and climbed into the wide bed. His wife was taking an inordinately long time changing into her nightshift. He suspected she hoped to find him asleep. Not bloody likely in the state he was in.

  At last, the door opened and a figure in white slipped through, her lovely hair in a thick braid down her back. While waiting for her, Neville occupied himself imagining untangling it. She crept around the room, checking on the children and the door lock,—as if he hadn’t already done that.

  Smiling, he waited until she slipped between the sheets. “Fey-onah,” he murmured proudly. He’d practiced the name all the day, keeping it in his errant memory.

  He couldn’t name the children or their guests today. Those names had slipped back to wherever they’d come from. But he remembered Fiona.

  She jumped nervously, easing away to turn on her side, facing him. “You’re awake.”

  He stroked her cheek and remembered the petal softness of the flowers he grew. Pleasant memories were easier than the unpleasant ones. “Awake,” he agreed.

  “You need to rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

  He understood more and more of what was said, but he shrugged off the words as unimportant. A funny thing about blows to the head—they rearranged one’s priorities. He’d learned he could function without words. But he couldn’t function entirely without this woman. He supposed that would have annoyed him in another time or place. Right now, it seemed eminently sensible.

  “Rest later.” Grasping her arm so she could not escape, Neville leaned over and covered her mouth with his. He had no difficulty remembering what to do in this situation. Her lips were gloriously pliant and exciting as he tasted them.

  She struggled briefly. He didn’t want to fight her. Gently, he stroked her breast through the softness of her gown, and trailed his kisses along her jaw.

  “Neville, we can’t,” she murmured in a tone he associated with panic.

  “No?” He didn’t stop what he was doing but merely asked because it seemed necessary to respond. She shivered as his tongue licked her ear lobe, and her nipple peaked beneath his caressing fingers. He slid his hand lower, urging her hips closer to his.

  “No! Neville, stop, please.” She pushed an entreating hand against his chest.

  He understood those words too well. Frowning, he raised up on one elbow to look down at her. “Why?” he demanded, finding the word without even trying.

  “We’re not married,” she whispered. “Not married,” she repeated, in case he hadn’t understood.

  Not married? That didn’t make sense. Collapsing back against his pillow, Neville stared at the ceiling and searched his aching brain. He knew what they had done together. That was the one distinct memory he possessed. He hadn’t even unclothed her. They’d made love beneath a bower of orchids. They’d made love in heated passion, without a qualm of remorse. His memory might be fuzzy, but he didn’t think he was the kind of man who would ravish virgins without vows being said.

  Virgin. The recollection of her innocence prompted him to question the rest of the setting. Surely a newly wedded couple did not make love in a conservatory?

  His head throbbed thinking about it. With decisiveness, he turned on his side again. “Marry tomorrow.” He bent to take her mouth again, satisfied that he’d solved any further complaint.

  “We can’t.” She shoved against his chest again, a little harder this time.

  He didn’t like being thwarted, he discovered. Irritation mixed with frustration. He was ready. She was ready. The children slept. What more could she ask? Besides, their sleeping in the same bed made the point moot. They had to marry. His inability to word the argument, however, gave him some understanding of her refusal. She didn’t want an idiot for husband.

  Growing angry, Neville glared down at her. “Not stupid,” he announced distinctly. How could he find the words to say he could provide for her, even if he couldn’t speak correctly? Or how could he ask if she thought him repulsive now that his tongue had gone astray?

  “Stupid?” She seemed genuinely puzzled. “I’ve never accused you of stupidity.” Her fingers wrapped in the cloth of his shirt instead of shoving him away. “You’re the most intelligent man I know. We just can’t marry.”

  He followed enough of that to let his anger recede. Stroking the soft tendrils that always escaped about her face, he returned to his original question. “Why?”

  She struggled for an answer with as much difficulty as he phrased his questions. “I’m Catholic, you’re Anglican,” she finally said.

  Those words meant little or nothing to him. Dropping back against the pillow, he sought a clearer explanation, but his thoughts traveled in circles. They’d made love. He remembered some discussion of heirs. If they hadn’t been married, they’d planned it. Was this Catholic/Anglican argument something new? Why would it interfere now if not then?

  It didn’t matter. He knew beyond any doubt that he must marry this woman he’d made love to and slept with. He might not remember concrete events, but the proprieties were ingrained. He couldn’t explain, but she wasn’t stupid either. He would wait a little while, until his speech returned. By then, perhaps something would occur to make her understand.

  As far as he was concerned, she was his wife.

  His hand closed around hers as they lay silently, sharing the same bed. Neville discovered he liked the proximity. He could touch her when he liked, share her warmth, speak without the restraint he felt around others. He didn’t know what obstruction prevented marriage, but he would overcome it. Either that, or they would share a bed without vows. He had no intention of letting her go. He wondered if possessiveness had always been a part of his character.

  ***

  “Aberdare could be dangerous,” Fiona protested as Neville picked up the last of their meager belongings and shoved it into a satchel.

  She wanted to trounce him as he gave one of his lordly shrugs.

  “Not hide,” he replied with casual indifference.

  She would give everything she possessed if she could know what wheel was spinning inside that impenetrable head of his. The physician she’d called had been of little or no help in telling her what to expect.

  Rather than wait for Neville’s speech to return, she’d tried explaining what had happened the night before their wedding. Neville had seemed to listen, but she couldn’t tell how much he comprehended. She had suggested they find his yacht, but he had looked at her as if she were the crazed one. Of course, without any funds, reaching Dublin on the opposite coast would be a trifle difficult. Still, she didn’t think Aberdare the safest place to be.

  The castle might not even be there if McGonigle had his way.

  Shivering at the thought of her ancient home in ashes, Fiona lifted the infant from Mrs. Callaghan’s arms, took a toddler by the hand, and proceeded out of the inn room that she had shared as wife with a man she could scarcely claim to know. For a brief few days, she had felt very married. Had she been given sufficient time to think about it, she might say she enjoyed the experience. But her days had disintegrated into reacting to whatever disaster struck next. Right now, Neville was that disaster.

  Gone was her brief reign of power. Neville commanded the troops. He’d settled the children in the wagon bed with more apples. Placing Mrs. Callaghan near the front of the wagon bed and Sean at the back, he’d assured a modicum of authority over the chaos.

  Fiona looked at him skeptically as he reached for her hand to help her onto the bench beside the driver’s seat. “You’ll drive?” she asked in the circumscribed fashion they’d developed for communicating.

  He gave her a lofty look that didn’t ne
ed translation. Men! Scrambling into her place, Fiona reached down for the infant he’d held until she settled. She didn’t have the fascination with children that Blanche possessed, but then, she’d grown up in the village, surrounded by hordes of children, and the birthing process had no mystery for her as it did for an isolated only child like Blanche. Fiona liked the creatures well enough, knew them as a natural result of living, but her mind sought higher goals than reproduction. Unfortunately, she was a female, and not in a position to expect more.

  As Neville climbed up beside her, Fiona felt a strong awareness of his masculine presence. If he had his way, she would be breeding within weeks. The image robbed her of breath. Seeing pregnant women and contemplating that state for herself were worlds apart. She’d best not dwell on it. She’d not let Neville give up his authority in parliament because of her. Which meant the only way she’d ever carry the duke’s child was as his mistress.

  She didn’t want to think about that just yet. Michael would be furious should he ever discover how they’d spent the last few days, and he’d surely find it out. Michael knew everything. She would depart for foreign ports once they’d settled all these other matters.

  Neville drove the recalcitrant mules with ease, though Fiona knew he was more at home in an elegant carriage, behind four well-bred horses. The sun occasionally peeked out from behind the mist and gloom of early dawn. Apparently Colin and the Widow Blackthorne weren’t early risers, thank the heavens. She supposed she should feel guilt at leaving them stranded in Sligo, but she honestly didn’t think there was room left in the wagon.

  “Cold?” Neville asked anxiously as she shivered inside her shawl.

  He might be an impossible man, but he was a thoughtful one. Fiona had little experience with anyone paying attention to her comforts. She snuggled the sleeping child closer, and smiled at his inquiring look. “I’ll survive. Next time we do this, though, let’s wait for summer.”

  His frown of puzzlement gradually gave way to understanding, and he grinned back at her. “Summer. Brighton. Beach, sun.” He waved his hand over his head. “Imagine.”