“Then let us return home.” He contented himself with holding out his hand to her, knowing that she would not welcome the crushing urge to hug her tight to him that pressed at his chest. His sister did not like to be touched, confined, held captive. Damn Jeffreys.
To his surprise, she came into the half embrace of his upraised arm and buried her head in the wool of his coat. “I’m sorry, Sean.”
“No need for that, mo cridhe.” He enfolded her fragile frame in a full embrace, but she stiffened and pulled away, lifting her hand to brush away an uncharacteristic tear from her pale cheek.
Sean saw the bruises on her wrists as she moved, purple finger marks that spoke of brutality on her pale flesh. Fury filled him as he turned back to Jeffreys. “What have you done to her?”
The other man’s eyes narrowed and his words were sharp, but he took a step back from Sean and Bridget. “My men were a bit rough perhaps, when they intervened to save Jamie.”
Jeffreys didn’t look him squarely in the eye and Sean grew cold inside. What had they done to her? She was just a child, just a little girl… “A bit rough?”
Jeffreys said, with a chilling hint of apology that was worse than any attack he might have launched. “Under the circumstances, McCarthy, you’re fortunate they didn’t leave her for dead--they witnessed what certainly appeared to be her attempt to murder my son.”
He understood, now, why Jeffreys had not allowed his son to be present at the meeting. “You said the boy made a plea on her behalf, why would your men--”
“They saw the attack, McCarthy.” Jeffreys’s voice was firm, although his gaze refused to alight on Bridget, despite the fact that she stood at Sean’s side. “Boys will lie gallantly at times. He was not to be believed and they knew it.”
Sean looked down at his sister’s pale face and gently took her hand, lifting it, exposing the bruises that went all the way up as far as he could see under her sleeve. “Where are they?” He would kill them. No one put hands on his sister.
And then he was struck by another suspicion. “Bridget, did Jamie do this to you?” The boy had been the same size as Bridget last time Sean had seen him, but that had been nearly a year ago.
“I told you what happened, McCarthy.” Jeffreys said angrily.
Bridget said nothing, just shook her head almost imperceptibly.
“Jamie did not do this to you?” Again, she shook her head.
“I told you what happened.” Jeffreys sounded impatient, but there was an undertone of guilt there, too. “I’ve already disciplined them.”
Disciplined them? Sean could guess the indifference in such a punishment. “What did you do? Take away their biscuits?” English justice had always been lacking, always been biased against those who’d been here for more than a few centuries and didn’t relish bowing to any English king or queen. “Or did you beat them as badly as they’ve beaten her?”
Jeffreys bristled in indignation. “I’ve done what needed to be done.”
“Where are they?” Sean was amazed at how calm he sounded. Inside, his guts were churning with fury.
“They are far away. I’m not fool enough to leave them around here to suffer an ‘accident’.”
The maid’s expression flickered and it seemed for a moment she would disagree with her employer, but then she lapsed into silent misery, staring in fascinated horror at Bridget, who stood unmoving and stiff beside Sean.
Sean knew that he was moments away from true murder himself, unlike his sister. “I want the names of those cowardly--”
Jeffreys tugged sharply at a pistol at his waist. “I am at the end of my patience with you. If you didn’t let the girl run around like a wild animal, she would not have gotten herself into this mess.”
Sean heard the sound of boots in the hallway. “Your son—“
Jeffreys interrupted coldly. “You have one minute to leave with your sister before I change my mind and see that your sister pays the full price for her folly--and she will, I promise you.”
Sean’s finely honed sense of self preservation told him he should save this battle for another day. But Bridget, hurt, was more than he could bear. “She—“
Jeffreys interrupted brusquely. “Either this matter rests, here and now, or I will bring charges of murder against your sister, as I should have done in the first place. If it weren’t for her tender age--”
“Her tender age didn’t stop your men from beating her as if she were a man hard bitten by life.”
Against his will, Jeffreys glanced at Bridget and then quickly glanced away. “She’s alive. And perhaps she’s learned a lesson. Take her back to England with you. Let those who know how to bring nations to their knees try to civilize the wild creature you’ve let her become.”
Sean put his arm around her shoulder, as if to protect her from the harsh words, but she gasped and flinched away. London was the last place he would take her now. “Why should I force her to live in a land entirely populated by those who don’t believe she’s worthy of justice—isn’t it bad enough that there are too many of you over here?”
As he stared, feeling helpless with rage, he wondered what further damage was hidden by the cloak. He wanted to kill someone. Anyone. Jeffreys would make a good start.
The man he wanted so badly to kill stared at him impassively. “Well, your time is nearly up. Should I take her into custody again?”
“Remind your son, for me Jeffreys. Fillean meal ar an meallaire.” Evil returns to the evil doer. He felt little satisfaction at Jeffreys’s slight flinch. Sean lifted the slight burden of his sister into his arms and sat her in the saddle. He did not look behind him once as he swung himself behind her and rode away. Damn the English. All of them.
Connor met him at the door, his eyes darkening with the same fierce anger reflected in Sean’s gaze as they stared down at Bridget, who lay limp and unresponsive in his arms. Two serving maids, who had served as rough governesses since the last had gone flouncing off, took her into their care, clucking and moaning softly into her neck as they led her docilely away.
“Shall we kill him, then?” Connor asked.
“Not unless we wish to see Bridget hang for the crime of attempted murder,” Sean answered bleakly.
“You can’t take her back to England with you now.”
“Just as well I’m not going back, then, isn’t it?”
Connor couldn’t muster a grin, his anger still strong in his blood. But he nodded, a glint of approval in his eye. “About time you knew where you belonged.” A glimmer of worried practicality surfaced. “What will you tell—“
“Have no fear, uncle. I’ll not kill the golden goose. I’ll only leave her on a string—a long string that stretches across the sea.”
He rummaged through his desk for paper and took a deep breath to clear his head and relax the tight muscles in his hand—a hand that longed to hold a weapon more satisfying than a pistol or rapier. A broadsword would be more fitting for the iron grip of his fingers right now. Instead he settled for a pen. The words came surprisingly easily to him.
My Dearest Wife,
I fear I have been delayed. My sister’s illness is worse than can be told with mere words. It is well you did not accompany me, or I would have to worry for your safety, too.
Know that I dream only of you, and that I will return to you as soon as my duty here is acquitted.
May you always have these blessings…A soft breeze when summer comes—A warm fireside in Winter—And always—the warm, soft smile of a friend.
Dream of me until I shall be with you again.
He signed with a flourish and blotted the lies dry before he had time to change his mind. Or even to regret the destiny he now embraced. His Katie was a quick young woman, but even she would take a while before she realized her bed was destined to be forever empty of him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DECEMBER 1854
Kate slapped the man who had just kissed her. “You presume too much, Mr. McCarthy.” She regretted
her action as soon as she saw the white handprint standing out starkly on his cheek.
Niall McCarthy laughed and plucked a berry from the mistletoe above their heads. “Your husband has asked me to watch over his bride until he can return for her. Surely he would want you well kissed under the mistletoe, even if he is not here to do the job?”
Kate moved away from the greenery she had not seen in time to avoid. “Your humor leaves much to be desired, as does your kiss. I thought you would not come this year, Christmas is but three days away.”
“So serious,” he chided her. “This is not the season for frowns and sighs. Haven’t I been a faithful watchdog, keeping you company while my cousin cannot?”
The unrepentant man pulled a letter, tied with a ribbon and sealed with Sean’s maroon wax, from his breast pocket. “Delivering his letters so that you know he is still alive? Delivering yours so that he might not return to a stranger after all this time?”
“I thought so, but now I doubt it.” Kate held out her hand. “What is his excuse this time? He is afraid to sail the seas in winter? He has lost his soul to the devil?”
“I think you chide the wrong person. I am not my cousin. What have I done to cause you to doubt me, but deliver his husbandly missives?” He held tight to the letter as he put his hand to his heart and affected a distressed expression, but she was not fooled. Niall McCarthy was not a lighthearted man at the moment.
Kate sighed and wiggled the fingers of her outstretched hand. “Perhaps I’d have more faith in you had you delivered my husband to me, instead of his letters.”
“You cannot blame Niall for your husband’s absence.” Miranda stirred by the fire, where she sat cradling her sleeping son Sinclair. The toddler looked almost angelic in his mother’s arms, thought awake he had the force of a mighty windstorm. Four year old Gillian sat at her mother’s feet, drawing. The child had inherited her artistic ability—and her intensity--from her aunt Helena.
“There, see? Even the duchess knows that I am innocent.” Niall placed the letter in her hand with a bow and a flourish.
Kate closed her fingers. Thin. One sheet. He had not had much to say in reply to her last correspondence. Obviously he was not to celebrate Christmas with her in England, as she had requested. The only question that remained was whether his answer to her alternative was positive or negative. Would he allow her to come to Ireland? Or would he refuse her again, with some ill-reasoned excuse?
“Are you going to open the letter, or try to read it through the folds?” Miranda asked quietly, so that she did not wake her son. Gillian looked up abstractedly from her drawing paper, found nothing of interest in faces of the adults around her, and went back to her work.
Kate loved the children, but seeing how they had grown only reinforced the years of her life that slipped by, sometimes so easily that she did not notice until Christmas, when yet another year of her marriage had passed.
“I’ve written him, as you suggested and I’m afraid to see what he’s replied.”
“What did you ask?” Niall had moved to stand by the fire, and his expression was more wary than Kate liked. Had Sean told his cousin her request? No, better to say her demand.
She held her breath as she broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
Ni dhéanfadh an saol capall ráis d’asal.
It is for the best, Kate. All the world would not make a racing horse from a donkey. I should have known it long ago.
Yours, one last time,
He had signed it with his usual scrawling flourish. But what did it mean? Was she the donkey, or was he? Why could the dratted man never speak straightforwardly to her? He professed love and devotion in pretty phrases that, in the end, were no solace in her lonely bed, no matter how carefully she stored them, or how many times she read them to herself by candlelight.
She looked at Niall’s carefully averted profile and the words to ask fled her as her throat closed in fear.
Her struggle to breathe, to find the words to ask what she most feared to hear, ceased when the duke came into the room in as undignified manner as she had ever seen. His glance first went to Miranda, who sighed a moment, as if he had conveyed all in that one quick glance. And then he looked at Kate.
At first she thought his banked fury was aimed at her. But then he turned his gaze upon Niall and Kate was astonished the man did not turn to ash at once, such was the heat of the duke’s glare. “What is the meaning of this?” He held up a thick sheaf of papers.
Niall replied defensively, “I only carry the letters, my lord, I do not read them.”
“Did your cousin not tell you what you carried?”
“His business is none of mine.” Niall said stiffly.
The duke snorted. “This certainly is. He intends to sue you for alienating his wife’s affections.”
“That’s absurd.” Niall rubbed his cheek absently. “The lady has never treated me more fondly than any cousin should be treated.”
“Apparently your cousin does not agree.” Simon moved forward into the room, and then stopped, as if not certain whether he should go to his wife, his sister-in-law, or to deal with the man who stood by the fire. “He has informed me he intends to divorce Kate. Because of you.”
There was no sound for a moment, such was the shock at his announcement. As he stood uncertainly in the center of the room, Gillian dropped her pad and pen and ran to him. The child was unaware of the distress of the adults, and only wished to greet her father. She held up her arms to him, “Papa, I missed you today.”
With a troubled look, the duke pulled her into his arms and kissed her cheek gently. “I missed you too, sweetness. Have you been a good girl for your mother.”
Divorce. The word echoed in her mind. Kate had been surrounded by happily married couples—even her sister Rosaline, who had sworn not to marry, was happily wed to a wagon train master, of all people. Only Kate had no husband to share her bed. How could he divorce her, when he had never been a true husband? “Whyever would he divorce me?”
The duke set his daughter onto her feet and whispered in her ear. He did not speak until the girl had skipped off to complete whatever errand he had sent her to accomplish. “Whyever does any man divorce his wife? Sean claims that his cousin has stolen your affections for him. He wishes to set you free so that you may be together.”
“That is sheer nonsense. I’ve no more affection for Niall than I do for one of Gillian’s kittens.” Nonsense. Of course it was. Just as was her silly belief that his letters promising to come for her soon. She spoke the truth even as she realized it herself. “He wants to be rid of me. He has always wanted to be rid of me.”
Miranda spoke soothingly, “Perhaps he has heard some foolish rumor--”
She interrupted her sister’s attempts to calm the room. “There is no perhaps. Even if he has heard a rumor, he has no call to believe it without speaking to me. I’ve waited long enough. I know what I must do, and I intend to do it at once.” Five years. Waiting for Sean to explain why he did not send for her. Why he sent occasional letters asking for her patience, claiming that one more item must be taken care of before he could rejoin her.
Niall McCarthy, Simon and Miranda all stared at her apprehensively. “What do you mean?” Miranda asked, the sharpness of her tone waking Sinclair.
Kate spoke decisively, though her heart beat at twice its normal rate. “I am going to the abbey.”
The duke shook his head and straightened forbiddingly. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
Kate had no intention of being dissuaded. “You’ve said that before, your grace, but this time I have no choice.”
“I’ll come with you, then. We can both explain it to him. No doubt he will see reason.” Niall did not sound at all enthusiastic at the idea.
“Don’t be absurd. If you were to accompany me, Sean would have all the evidence he needs for his divorce, Niall. No. This is something I must do for myself.” She turned to Miranda, who cradled Sinclair against her as if Kate ha
d sworn to take the baby with her. “I should have done it years ago. I would have.” But she, fearless Kate, had been too afraid to see the truth. Had been more willing than the most gullible child to believe her sister’s certainty that Sean would one day send for her.
“I won’t allow it,” The duke said.
She felt the choking fear leave her as she made her decision. “I’m going--and this time no one will stop me. If my husband wishes to divorce him, he shall do me the courtesy of telling me so to my face.”
Kate rushed to find a sympathetic ear. Someone who would support her decision. Betsey would understand. Betsey would help.
Unfortunately, when she found her friend, kneading the life out of a round of dough in the kitchen, Betsey’s first words were, “You’ll regret it, Kate.”
Kate asked softly of her best friend, “More than I regret not going years ago, when I realized my husband would not come back for me? Would not send for me? When I realized everything was lies and still let his letters draw a veil of fantasy over me because I so very much feared the truth?”
Betsey smacked the dough with a particularly hard slap and tossed it to rise in the pan without answering Kate’s question.
“Betsey?”
Without glancing into Kate’s eyes, Betsey wiped her hands on her apron before removing it. Her voice was sharp as she said, “You’ve been hiding from the truth for years. Why stop now?”
The bitterness stopped Kate’s breath.
“The letters…” She held up the thin sheet that held Sean’s odd message.
“Lies. Just like Battingston’s promises to me.”
Battingston? Belatedly, Kate realized that Betsey had been crying. Her eyes were red rimmed and there were faint tear tracks down her cheeks. “What has he done?”
“He has married the Chesterville heiress--the news is everywhere.”
“He didn’t.” The engagement had been of such long standing that Kate had begun to think Battingston would finally get the courage to break it.
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