The Irish Duchess

by Patricia Rice

  She’d never heard that tone before. If she didn’t know better, she’d believe it nothing short of murderous. Not Neville. Not her stoic duke. Surely he wouldn’t...

  “I’ll not—” Durham began to protest.

  The rapier lunged, whirled, and returned, at ease, to Neville’s side. Durham’s waistcoat and shirt fell in shreds to the floor, and he stared blankly at the X just beginning to leak red across his chest. With a groan of anguished shock, Durham dropped any pretense of holding the heavy sword, slipped to his knees, and stared at his chest.

  “I didn’t hurt her, I swear,” he whispered, vainly stanching the blood with torn pieces of linen and the rough tweed of the coat he still wore.

  “Apologize,” Neville commanded curtly.

  Something about that coat struck Fiona as familiar, but she had no wish to linger and ponder the puzzle. “Neville, let’s just get out of here,” she urged. “We must find Michael and Effingham.

  Her skin tingled in terror as the full impact of Neville’s determined stance hit her. Neville meant to kill the man just for insulting her. She could see it in his eyes. Never, in all her life, had she thought her studious duke would resort to such violence, but he was on the edge of berserk. He was doing this for her. The knowledge scattered her thoughts to the winds.

  “Effingham won’t be going anywhere soon,” a new voice intruded.

  Before she could so much as squeal, a hard arm caught Fiona’s waist, hauled her up against a tall frame, and slammed a hand over her mouth.

  Townsend.

  Thirty-nine

  Fiona bit at the hand covering her mouth. Townsend smacked her.

  Her cheek stung, and she didn’t need to look to see how her husband took this new development. Neville’s rage swept the room in a force so powerful she thought the storm striking outside had entered through the windows. She slumped forward, dumping all her weight on Townsend’s one arm. She damned well wouldn’t stand between Neville and this object of his fury.

  Townsend staggered at the unexpected drag of her full weight. Neville’s rapier whooshed over Fiona’s head before she even reached her knees. Fortunately for her, she was well-balanced. Townsend screamed in pain and released her, and she rolled to the floor, before crawling indecorously out of the field of battle.

  Safely behind the huge oak chair, she finally dared to observe the situation. Blood dripping from the gash on his cheek, Townsend hauled a battle-ax off the wall and wielded it expertly. A battle-ax against a slender rapier—Neville didn’t seem to notice the disparity. Roaring, he slashed at his opponent.

  Thunder crashed outside, startling Fiona. In a flash of lightning, she saw Durham lift the broad sword again.

  With no more effective weapon at hand, Fiona grabbed a cue stick and lurched to her feet.

  “Good show, cuz, but I really don’t think he needs your help,” Michael drawled from the doorway. “Our illustrious duke appears capable of tearing His Majesty’s Navy into tatters right about now.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief that the earl had escaped, Fiona glanced toward the door where her noble cousin leaned lazily against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t looking at her, however. He was glaring at Durham.

  The frightened lordling had regained the broadsword and raised it over his head, prepared to strike. Before Durham could act, Neville spun from his first target, sliced his rapier across Durham’s bare midsection, and returned to cutting Townsend’s weapon arm into neat pieces.

  Fascinated, Fiona stared as Townsend cried out in pain, staggered, and dodged the repeated blows, waving his ax with faltering strength, never once coming close to the more nimble duke.

  “You’re the magician, Michael. Turn him off.” Effingham appeared behind the earl, watching the duke’s furious attack in almost as much fascination as Fiona.

  Michael snickered. “That’s Fiona’s job. Let her at him.”

  She shot a glare of fury at both the lackwits. Neville was in the process of single-handedly murdering two men, and the two nobles stood and watched as if it were some entertaining play of Shakespeare’s. Men were all mad.

  As the next burst of lightning illuminated the grim scene, she located a pewter tankard rolling on the floor. Dodging the melee to grab it, she slammed it over Durham’s head before he could lift his sword again. He slumped to the floor and stayed there.

  Townsend was still reeling about the room, attempting to reach Neville with his ax. She had no idea exactly of which crimes he was guilty, but his actions proved his murderous intent. She couldn’t hope to reach his much taller head with any degree of the strength.

  Grabbing her abandoned billiard cue, she slipped into the shadows closest to the battling pair, waited her moment, and jabbed the stick between Townsend’s legs. With a howl of dismay, he tripped and pitched forward.

  Fiona watched in horror as the tall lord stumbled directly toward Neville’s pointed rapier. She hadn’t meant to kill the man, but Neville...

  She gasped her relief as Neville easily sidestepped, allowing his opponent to crash to the floor. Before Townsend could consider rising again, Neville pointed his rapier at the back of his neck.

  “Had I a cudgel, I would give you a taste of how it feels, your bloody lordship,” Neville growled.

  “There’s always one of Fiona’s tankards,” Michael suggested as he sauntered into the room. “I vote we each crown him one before hauling him to the authorities.”

  “I vote we find out what the devil is going on before beating him senseless.” Effingham strolled in behind his adopted brother. Without compunction, he smashed a wooden chair against the hearth and threw the pieces into the dying fire, stirring a small blaze to light and warming the room.

  Fiona was beyond hearing them. Heart stilling, she stared at Neville, who stared back at her. He’d lost his ragged cap and his golden hair fell across his brow, framing eyes that commanded orders she was finally ready to accept. Despite the cold and damp of the room, perspiration streaked his filthy face. He looked far from the impeccable duke she’d first known. Yet standing there with his sword pointed at his enemy’s neck, he looked more the duke than ever. Her heart pounded as she finally accepted that she’d married a man she could respect, and respect required understanding and recognition of his wishes.

  Battening down all her raging emotions, she wordlessly lay down her billiard cue and left the room.

  At the sight of Fiona’s departure, Michael lifted a questioning gaze to Neville. “Perhaps you should go after her.”

  Neville shook his head. “No, Fiona’s leaving this to us. She’s gone to see about the others.” Fury still coursed through his blood, but the sight of his brave Fiona obediently leaving the battle scene to him tempered his violence with wonder—and with an odd tranquility, as if something had been settled between them.

  “She should be going to her bed and resting,” Effingham protested.

  Neville smiled. “Would you care to suggest that to her?”

  He wouldn’t tell them that he ached to rush after her, gather her in his arms, and haul her screaming and protesting straight to the first bed he found. In the moment she’d met his eyes, they’d made promises to each other, or so he hoped. His heart still swelled with all the knowledge that look had imparted. He’d seen her respect, her willingness, and something he prayed he hadn’t misinterpreted.

  He’d had little enough experience with the softer emotions, but he’d thought he’d seen it in the way her full lips softened, her eyes brightened, and her cheeks blushed. He could do no less than offer her the same respect she gave him. She would do what was best for her and for their child, without his interference.

  Neville thrilled with the knowledge that he could do what he must, and Fiona would support him in whatever way he needed. He hadn’t married just a wife or a brood mare; he’d married an equal partner.

  The idea was such a new one to him that he needed to study it further, work it over in his mind. But for now, he exulted
in the freedom his wife offered.

  Swinging his attention back to his friends, he threw down his rapier and kicked Townsend in the ribs. “Who murdered Burke?” he demanded.

  ***

  Gowned in a thick night shift against the damp air of Durham’s derelict castle, Fiona leaned against the massive headboard of some long-forgotten Irish chieftain, and sipped her hot chocolate.

  “It’s that grateful I am that it’s all done and said.” The Widow Blackthorn bustled around the room, pressing clothes with her fingers and folding them into neat stacks in Fiona’s trunk. “He’s a butcher and a knave and no two ways about it.”

  “Durham?” Fiona asked idly. The last hours had taken a toll on her strength, and she reserved it now for the scene yet to come. She’d spoken with Eamon and McGonigle, but the men in the billiard room had not condescended to explain anything to her as yet.

  “Aye, Durham, the wicked, wicked creature, and he with a lily-pure wife who wouldn’t so much as let a drop of cream pass her lips.”

  Mrs. B. had a warped way with words, Fiona mused as she sipped her chocolate. Had she not already pried some of the story from Eamon, she would be at a loss for reply.

  “He seems little more than a blithering idiot to me, completely under his father-in- law’s thumb.”

  Mrs. B. snorted. “Did he look a blithering idiot when he came to your room? Oh, don’t think I don’t know about it,” she warned, shaking out Fiona’s traveling cloak. “For all your clever ways, I still worried when I saw him drinking as he does when he’s into one of his fevers. I worked in this house far too long not to recognize the signs. He’s a mean drunk, is what he is. But it’s usually the servants he goes after, not the guests. There’s not a thing one of us can do. It’s a pure blessing the duke brought him down like he has, although what will become of his tenants, I cannot say.”

  “You could have locked him in his room when he started drinking,” Fiona suggested, although her mind already explored the paths opened by her maid’s words. She knew about mean drunks. Drunkenness was simply an excuse for carrying out their loutish depredations. She’d not heard of one to abstain to prevent the act from happening again.

  “Oh, and it’s that simple for the likes of you to say,” Mrs. B. said scornfully, with her usual lack of respect. “You’d not be beat to a puddle and turned off the next day. We tried it this night, Colin and I did, when we saw how it was to be. But Townsend caught us at it, he did. Evil man, that. He didn’t know us from Adam, thought we were naught but a lot of heathen peasants. We taught him better, we did,” she added triumphantly.

  Fiona hid a smile behind her cup. Colin and the widow had to be almost as inept at heroics as Durham was at villainy. But they had eventually freed Michael and Effingham from the attics, after Neville’s army had already arrived. She’d give them credit for trying. “Aye, and I’m certain it is you saved our necks,” she agreed.

  “Well, and that’s how it should be when we near cost it believing that spalpeen was McGonigle’s messenger. It’s sorry enough we are for that. And didn’t I try and pay for it by staying the way with him so he’d not notice it was an empty carriage he drove?”

  The more emotional she became, the more the widow’s speech degenerated into the accents of her youth. The lilting phrases eased Fiona’s spirits, and the familiar half-truths and self-exculpations soothed her humor. The widow and Colin were equal scoundrels, she’d wager, always looking for the easy path, but they weren’t utter blackguards like Durham and Townsend. The two Englishmen had the advantages of a proper upbringing, making their villainy doubly evil.

  “Now, if we only knew who murdered poor Burke,” Fiona murmured, setting aside her cup and wearily curling against her pillows.

  “Aye, and it was Durham, himself,” the widow replied smugly. At Fiona’s questioning glance, she shrugged. “We’ve been listening outside the door. He admitted he didn’t have the coins for paying a thief, and he thought to use the village’s funds for himself since he’d gambled away his allowance. Cursed Townsend for keeping him on short shrift, blamed it all on his miserliness. Terrible, what the young have come to these days.”

  Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, poor Burke, murdered by a spendthrift lordling. Remembering the tweed coat now as the one on the intruder they chased through hill and dale, Fiona buried her face in the pillows. It didn’t seem quite fair that a murderous drunk could end the life of a decent man. But then, maybe the courts would let Ireland hang the scoundrel. That would be justice indeed.

  She closed her eyes and wished Neville would hurry.

  ***

  Neville scowled as he met Colin propped on a chair outside the room he’d been told Fiona had taken. “What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded.

  Colin shrugged and lowered the chair legs to the floor. “Eamon ordered her guarded round the clock. I’m just following orders.”

  “Oh, and you’re very good at that,” Neville mocked. “I’ve found the man Durham sent to abduct Fiona. He said you believed him when he told you that McGonigle wanted her gone without me. Precisely whose employ did you think you were in?”

  Standing, Colin crossed his arms defiantly, but there was a trace of sheepishness in his expression. “Fiona’s,” he admitted. “I tried to get her to send word to you, but she wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t go against her wishes.”

  Neville rolled his eyes heavenward. Of course. These people were loyal to Fiona. It didn’t matter the color of the coins that paid them. He couldn’t fault them for that. But he could fault them for being fools. “Next time, think twice about endangering her like that or I’ll have your head on a block. Is that understood?”

  Colin understood that “next time.” He still had a position. Nodding eagerly, he stepped out of the duke’s way. “I’ll not let her out of sight without word from you, Your Grace, and I’ll tell Mrs. B the same.”

  That wasn’t precisely what he’d meant, but it would suffice until the young moonling was trained. All Neville really wanted was to be in that bed beside Fiona. His other duties could wait. With a nod, he dismissed Colin. “I’ll take over guard duty.”

  He waited until Colin was gone before opening the door. He wanted Fiona completely to himself for a while. He had a lot of things to say, words he should have said long ago, if only he’d had the sense. He prayed she’d welcome them this late. He didn’t know what he would do if he discovered she didn’t feel the same. It might possibly drive him as mad as poor Townsend.

  Cautiously opening the door and examining the darkness beyond, Neville slipped inside. Startled by a movement in a far corner, he reached for the sword he’d kept at hand.

  A familiar whisper stopped him.

  “It’s about time, then, your worship. She’s been dead on her feet for hours. The poor lass needs her sleep, she does, but she kept waiting for you.”

  Mrs. Blackthorn. Damn. A body would think that out here in the midst of rural solitude, one could shake this squadron of servants. Scowling, Neville jerked his head toward the door. “Get out.” What little patience he may once have possessed had dissipated entirely.

  Mrs. B. huffed. “Well, and if that’s the gratitude one can expect, I’ll be serving my notice now, Your Grace. I’ve only the duchess’s best interests in mind, I’m sure. She needed someone to talk to, and you weren’t here, I’ll remind you.”

  He was never here. He was always somewhere else when it came to Fiona. That would stop soon enough. “Get out, and if you’re not with us in the morning, I’ll send someone to hunt you down.”

  Finally taking the hint, the widow hurried out.

  Sighing with relief, Neville set his candle down on the table and pulled off his coat and waistcoat. In the lamplight he could see his wife’s thick auburn braid against a white gown. She wore a frilly cap over the rest of her curls. Fiona never wore caps.

  He supposed she protected herself and the babe from the damp chill of this place. She wasn’t entirely irresponsible, was his Fiona. Irr
ational upon occasion, impulsive mostly, but not irresponsible. Smiling, Neville stripped off the rest of his clothing and slipped between the heavy covers beside her.

  “I love you,” he whispered in her ear as he slid his arms around her.

  She snuggled closer into his warmth without waking.

  “I love you madly and I’ll go insane if you ever go off on your own again like that.” Settling into the feather ticking, Neville tugged her into the angle of his arm and shoulder and played with her breast. “I don’t ever intend to leave your side again.”

  “I heard that,” a soft voice whispered. “You mean to drive me mad, do you?”

  Neville caught his breath, but a giggle and a small hand stroking his chest reassured him. Sometimes, he wasn’t entirely sure when she was jesting. He’d had far too little humor in his life. Through the fabric of her gown, he cupped her breast and played with the aroused crest. “You’re already there, my love,” he whispered in return. “I mean to drive you back.”

  She pinched his bare side. Neville yelped, pushed her back against the mattress, and swiftly covered her with his length.

  She surrendered to his plundering mouth immediately. And she surrendered a good deal more before the night was done.

  It was even odds which one was the captive.

  Forty

  “Sean! Sean! He’s back!” Screaming children poured into the courtyard of Aberdare Castle.

  The crowd swarmed around Neville’s horse, surging toward McGonigle who was holding the lad in front of him.

  People, young and old, streamed from the castle and the hedgerows and from down the lane until a crowd of laughing, cheering, weeping adults and children packed the muddy yard. Atop his gelding, Neville swept the crowd in search of the one figure he longed to see more than any other. To his disappointment and concern, she was nowhere in sight.