Gwyneth. That summoned an image of an Amazon that did not allay his fears in the least. Neville shook his head vehemently. “Never.”
He couldn’t read the look in her eyes before she turned away and started down the corridor.
“I’ll show you to your room, Your Grace.” She spoke quietly and politely.
Fiona never spoke quietly and politely. She exploded with joy or fear or rage. She insulted, praised, shouted, or cut men to ribbons with her tongue. Some men would consider her a virago. Others would call her worse. Neville called her the part of him he’d lost.
His heart pounded as he grabbed her shoulder and swung her around. He couldn’t recall ever being this terrified in his life. He didn’t want to ever be this terrified again. With Fiona by his side, everything would work out. Without her, he might as well dry up and blow away.
“Our room,” he demanded. He couldn’t let her see his fear.
“We can’t,” she whispered.
Did he hear the tiniest bit of desperation there? Was that just a flicker of longing behind her determined expression? It didn’t matter. They had no choice.
Neville opened the door behind her and firmly pushed her into the room. Stepping in behind her, he shut the door. And locked it.
Twenty-four
Fiona stood, shivering, on the castle ramparts, watching the army packing its gear in the courtyard below after the earl sent them on their way. Michael had vetoed Eamon’s call to arms, agreeing with her that soldiers could only exacerbate their problems with the villagers.
Now that Michael had opened communications with the rebels, no one had come to burn them out. Yet. She tried mentally hastening the army on its way, but she couldn’t summon the necessary concentration. Her thoughts kept creeping back to last night and the duke.
He hadn’t taken her as wife. Somehow, she had known he wouldn’t. They’d slept together as innocently as they had the prior nights with a room full of children as chaperones.
Perhaps not so innocently. He had held her all night, as if fearing her escape, and she’d wished his hands would slip elsewhere on her person besides her waist. She couldn’t believe she’d slept a wink, but she’d awakened to the arousing sensation of his fingers circling her breast. Primeval needs rose at just the memory.
She’d wanted to linger in his embrace, to follow where the exciting sensations led, but Neville hadn’t let her explore. He’d kissed her ear, run his hand down her side and over the curve of her hip, and then he’d climbed out of bed. Drat the man’s self-control.
She didn’t shiver with cold now, although the ramparts were a windy place. She shivered in anticipation. Only the duke’s speech was muddled. The rest of the man remained fully intact. Perhaps he bent the rules by sleeping with her, but he wouldn’t risk the chance of a child until vows were said. In that, he remained the proper man she remembered—humorless, autocratic, demanding, seeing no path but his own.
Yet he was down in the courtyard now, showing Sean how to hitch a mule. And he’d made no mention of his bills in Parliament or his estate in Anglesey since he’d arrived in Ireland—or leastways, since the boy had bopped him over the head.
Could she trust the man she’d seen the past few days, or would he revert to his old self as soon as he fully recovered? If he recovered.
She hated that she would be responsible if he was permanently disabled.
But Neville was making it compellingly obvious that even disability didn’t deter him. He was far stronger than she dared hope or believe. Strong enough to endure bankruptcy and murder? Strong enough to understand that she was a danger and not a proper gracious duchess?
She had to find out before they both made the biggest mistake of their lives.
Spinning back toward the tower stairs, Fiona fled the ramparts.
***
From the courtyard below, Neville watched the slender figure on the roof hurrying toward the tower and breathed a sigh of relief. When she’d first appeared up there, he’d feared she’d gone there to throw herself off. He’d carried his heart in his throat until she’d started her familiar pacing. Pacing, he could deal with, though he was still relieved when she decided to come down.
As if he’d been watching too, Michael suddenly appeared in the courtyard, his uncovered hair gleaming in the wintry light. “Grasshoppers don’t live well in glass jars,” he stated without preamble. “We have to talk.”
Talk. Just what he couldn’t do. Neville cast a glance back to the boy merrily hitching up mule wagons, noted the steady parade of uniformed soldiers marching down the road, and saw no escape.
“Find priest,” he said as forcefully as he could, but he knew he couldn’t fool Michael.
“That’s what we have to talk about.” Michael shoved his hands in his pockets. “Are we going to do it out here in the cold or inside where it’s comfortable?”
Neville released the animal he was working on and pressed his fingers to his temple. Damn his aching head anyway. Too many things depended on his unreliable brain. “Can’t talk,” he finally admitted through gritted teeth.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Michael said grimly. “Why isn’t Fiona down here covering up for you?”
Ignoring a question he couldn’t answer, Neville stalked toward the door. “Find priest. Vicar. Banns, license.”
Michael hurried after him. “For a man who can’t talk, you get your point over quite excellently. How am I supposed to argue with you?”
Neville pointed at the slender figure flying down the massive stone stairs. “Don’t,” he said emphatically. “Pointless.”
He thought Michael stifled laughter. He wished he felt like laughing himself. He wished Fiona was running down those stairs to lovingly rush into his arms. He might as well wish to be King of England.
“We must talk,” Fiona said, before she’d reached the bottom step.
Michael did laugh then. Neville merely crossed his arms over his chest and waited impatiently for her latest attempt at evading the inevitable. Not only must he deal with his unruly brain, but with his unruly body every time she entered the room.
She wore her hair pulled back in a black ribbon, but the wind had tumbled it about her face and shoulders in a glorious disarray of shimmering copper strands. Neville’s gaze lowered to the fullness of her bottom lip. He wanted the right to kiss her here and now.
Her blush satisfied him that she’d noticed the direction of his gaze and read his mind. Maybe she’d been thinking about this morning too. At least she’d put on a gown instead of trousers. Maybe her sojourn in London had taught her some feminine habits.
Amazed he’d remembered that much, Neville almost missed her first breathless words.
“Colin and Mrs. Blackthorn are coming. I’ve seen them just over the hill.”
Neville didn’t miss the significance of her statement. Perhaps the household hadn’t realized where the two of them had slept last night. The castle halls rambled in a maze of rooms and chambers. There were few servants to gossip. But Colin and Mrs. Blackthorn knew exactly how they’d lived these last few days.
“Explain Michael,” he commanded her.
Fiona glared at him, pouted out her luscious bottom lip, then with a toss of her head which tumbled silken hair down her back, she stalked into the Great Hall with grace, grandly confident he and Michael would follow. Which they did.
Succinctly, she explained the blow to Neville’s head, the trip to Sligo, and their encounter with Colin and the widow. She neatly blurred the facts by mentioning the separate rooms at the inn. But there was no denying that Colin and Mrs. Blackthorn thought them husband and wife.
Finding nothing to juggle in the empty hall, Michael paced as Fiona spoke. When she finished, he spun around and contemplated them both.
“All right, then, that’s easily handled.” He gave Neville a quizzical look. “The blow’s just addled your impeccable speech, Your Grace? You’re quite certain you’re still competent to look after our Fiona?”
>
“Perfectly competent.”
Neville wished he felt as competent as he sounded. But mostly rooted deep inside him was the knowledge that he couldn’t let Fiona go. He knew he wasn’t an idiot. Fiona knew it too. He didn’t think her capable of rejecting a man because of a minor speech impediment.
“I’ll hide,” she suggested. “Just tell them I’ve returned to Blanche in London.”
Fiona appeared ready to bolt. Neville grabbed her hand and held on tight. “No.”
Michael turned his penetrating gaze on his cousin. “You wouldn’t wish to make a liar of yourself and the duke would you now, Fey-onah, my own?”
She paled. “Michael, be reasonable. We can tell them I’m off to America, if you prefer. Tell them anything. Don’t do this to Neville. I explained in that letter—I’m a danger to him. Our marriage will ruin him. I thought he was your friend.”
Neville easily read the laughter in Michael’s expression. They hadn’t always been friends. He remembered that much. If he admitted the truth to himself, their characters were too diametrically opposed—as his and Fiona’s were. Yet he clearly remembered that he’d come to respect the intelligence and perceptivity of this eccentric Irishman. And he believed the earl had come to rely on Neville’s knowledge of what was possible and what was not in the business world. It could work.
“Because Neville is my friend,” Michael replied. “I trust his judgment, Fiona. If you would take him for husband, you should trust him too.”
“But he doesn’t know.” Fiona stamped her foot, seeming ready to implode. “His head got bashed before I could explain.”
Neville placed both hands on her shoulders to keep her from flying toward the rafters and lifted a questioning eyebrow.
She threw him a look of irritation. “Your friend Townsend seeks to destroy you through whatever means available. He brought you papers declaring me a rebel and a traitor so he could destroy any friendship between you and Michael. And from what I overheard, he may have hired those ruffians who hit you over the head the first time. It’s likely he’ll do anything to keep you out of power and sever the ties between us. I’m a danger to you!”
Neville briefly wished for the return of the fog in his brain, but Fiona’s blunt speech had blown away the last few comforting remnants.
He remembered Townsend’s appearance on the eve of his wedding to Fiona. He remembered the damning papers. And he remembered Fiona’s disappearance. His headache returned with a vengeance.
He fixed her with a fierce gaze. “You ran away.”
She turned and glared back at him. “What good can you do dead? Or married to a traitorous Irish Catholic?”
“My choice. My decision,” he said emphatically, frustrated that the words still did not come easily.
“You wouldn’t have believed me. You would have stayed there and let Townsend destroy you. What would you have me do?”
“Trust me.” To his astonishment, Neville realized he was shouting. Clenching his fists, he glared at her in helplessness. He couldn’t pull together the right string of words he needed. Finally, he just said, “Not a child.”
Michael interfered before they could come to blows. “Fiona, lass, the point is moot. I’ve both a vicar and a priest on the way, and the entire village invited to see you repeat your vows. No one need know they weren’t properly said the first time. See to your orphans, your gown, the festivities, and whatever else is necessary for a ceremony in the morning. Your betrothed and I will see to the other details. Can you do that?”
Astounded, Neville stared at the earl. Impaired as he was, he’d thought he had a battle on his hands keeping Fiona, but Michael simply brushed the handicap aside without question.
Never having experienced that amount of trust before, Neville didn’t know how to respond.
***
Michael’s words had a different effect on Fiona. Feeling more and more like a caged animal, Fiona mustered as much dignity as she could, and swept from the hall.
If she didn’t find an escape soon, she’d be a brood mare for an Englishman with a death warrant on his head.
Or did she dare actually trust the damned duke, as he’d asked?
Fiona went about her tasks with an increasing sense of helpless confusion.
The kitchen was a chaos of activity. Every pot, pan, and bowl was in use, and at least half the women of the village turned to greet her with excitement and a merriment she hadn’t seen on their faces in years. The castle had been abandoned for decades after her grandfather’s death, and Michael had only visited it a few times in the two years since he’d inherited. There had been a celebration when his son was born, but not to this extent. The villagers had known little of the earl then; they’d known Fiona all their lives.
Of course, her marriage to a duke gave them even more reason for hope and gaiety. They thought she would bring them riches and power.
Colin and the Widow Blackthorn arrived at the same as one of the orphans crossed the kitchen cat the wrong way. As the scratched child wept, the other children scampered about underfoot, searching for their runaway kitty. The village women drove Fiona and the orphans out of the kitchen and into the arms of Mrs. Blackthorn.
The children scattered, but the widow insisted on finding Fiona a suitable gown in the castle’s wardrobes. Resigned to chaos, still in a frenzy of confusion, Fiona marched upstairs.
They uncovered trunks of moldering material and moth-eaten, outdated garments, and finally retrieved an elegant emerald velvet that was still salvageable. Letting the widow force her into the heavy gown with its ancient train so she could pin and tuck for alterations, Fiona stewed over the decision she must make. Bolt, or trust the duke to take care of himself—and marry him.
From the window of her second story chamber she watched the men ride out, free as birds to go where they would. Trapped in the heavy gown, pinned to her stool while the widow kneeled at her feet, Fiona felt like a medieval lady watching her knights ride to war, leaving her alone with the thankless tasks of the household.
She despised housekeeping. She couldn’t cook. She knew nothing of ordering servants, as evidenced by their bullying her out of the kitchen. When Fiona finally escaped the widow’s ironclad hold to order the Great Hall cleaned for the company, she discovered the enormous chamber already filled with an army of laborers scrubbing and ripping down tattered tapestries. She was useless in her own home. How would she ever fit into the duke’s well-ordered life?
Events were proceeding at a comet’s pace. How could she think like this?
The men had taken the horses, so she had no escape there. It didn’t matter. Each time she attempted to leave the castle, someone came between her and the door with another inane question or task for her to do. Fiona suspected a conspiracy.
Everyone had decided for her. How could they be so foolish as to think she could be a proper duchess?
They didn’t care if Neville had the proper wife. Only she cared about Neville’s future.
She had to trust Neville as much as she trusted herself. These last days had proved that marriage wasn’t as simple as she’d expected. But it might be more wonderful than she’d thought.
As the afternoon waned and the priest arrived, giddy excitement and anticipation raced through the gloomy corridors and empty chambers. The village hadn’t seen a priest in months. Through the general scurry for hot baths and Sunday clothes, Fiona had a devil of a time getting the poor man fed before he was forced into duty in the confessional.
Teeth clenched against nervousness, Fiona fought her own inner battle on the subject of religion. When they’d planned to marry in Neville’s Anglican chapel, she’d known Neville would never accept her religion as his own, so she’d seen no sense in belaboring the topic. But a priest now... She took a deep breath for courage. A local priest was likely to raise a holy stink about an Englishman, much less an Anglican.
She avoided the man, hoping she could postpone the sermon he would read her about the purgatory sh
e would face should she raise her children outside the church. She had already decided she would suffer the better part of hell right here on earth with this marriage, so what was a little purgatory? She just prayed the men would return before she suffered the brunt of the priest’s wrath.
But the wretches had set the hornet’s nest swarming and run for cover, leaving her to deal with the results.
Just as she snatched a few bites from the kitchen for her evening meal, the priest sent for her. With the dragging gait of one sentenced to eternal damnation, Fiona approached the antechamber the priest had commandeered for his confessional.
Twenty-five
Neville had known frustration, disappointment, and fear in the past, but nothing to compare with his towering vexation with the smug, black-robed, crow of a priest.
Who refused to marry them.
Unable to strike a priest, he needed to beat his fists into yielding flesh at Jackson’s boxing salon. Failing that, a sweaty round of fencing with an unshielded point might suffice.
He’d always vented his inner furies by such means before, gaining the release needed to maintain his public composure. He had no such outlet here, and more reason for rage than usual.
Like his very real terror that Fiona had run away again because of this self-righteous vulture.
Neville glared at the priest, and something popped inside his head. “Get out of my sight,” he said, fury washing away his awareness of his words. “You have no idea what you’ve done,” he shouted. “I’ve never laid hand on a man of the cloth before, but if you don’t leave instantly, I’ll not be responsible for my actions.”
The priest didn’t budge.
Michael returned from checking with the servants and stepped between them, raising his eyebrows at Neville’s spate of words. “She’s still here. I’ve had one of the women check. Eamon’s found another bottle of whiskey. Go join him while I talk with the good father.”
The Irish Duchess Page 20
