Only once had Drake seen the new Lord de Lacy, and that had been at a trial where the earl had accused one of the villagers of trespassing and poaching. Black Irish he had been, with no resemblance to Eileen’s auburn good looks. The outcome of the trial had been a foregone conclusion, and Drake had turned away in disgust at the satisfied sneer on the earl’s dissipated face as the sentence was read. If that creature were some relation to Eileen, she would be better off not knowing it.
He found the graveyard, hitched his horse to a weed-grown fence, and walked among the long-dead ancestors of the de Lacy family. Many of the stones had dates that were weathered and indecipherable, but these held no interest for him. In a less overgrown corner of the lot he found what he had come for, the mausoleum holding the recent earls. He read the inscriptions on the newest structure and knelt to say a prayer for the three members of the de Lacy family stricken dead on the same date fifteen years earlier. Richard, Elizabeth, and Eileen de Lacy lay buried along with the Summerville hopes.
A rustle in the weeds disturbed his thoughts, but Drake did not look up. The summer sun burned his uncapped head as his mind pondered the tragedy of that day. It seemed so improbable in this peaceful setting to think of thieves and rebels destroying an entire family, a young, noble family, but he had sensed the currents of unrest in this place. Peace would not be found easily here.
The sound became a rusty chuckle as Drake continued with head bowed. He glanced up in annoyance to confront the withered wrinkle of an old crone. Garbed in rags that had faded to an indistinguishable gray, she stared at him with inexplicable delight.
She pointed a gnarled finger at the smaller of the three tombs and cackled something in Gaelic Drake found hard to decipher. He stood up, thinking to leave the old woman to her strange chants, but she caught the sleeve of his coat and would not let go. Patiently he listened to her jumbled words, picking out the English and those in Gaelic he recognized, until a pattern formed that brought a frown to his brow.
He pointed to the small tomb inscribed Lady Eileen de Lacy, 1725-1730 and the woman nodded with a mad smile, cradling her arms as if she held an infant, stroking the imaginary hair. Then she pointed at the tomb beside it, the one for Lady Elizabeth, shook her head, and repeated the same garbled phrases.
Before Drake could make her repeat them slowly, an old man in priest’s cassock hurried down the weedy path toward them. He made a gesture of respect in Drake’s direction, but hastily caught the old crone by the arm and steered her away.
With an apologetic look the priest explained, “She is not quite right up here, she is not.” He touched his temple lightly. “I am sorry if she has disturbed your prayers.”
Drake could sense the priest’s curiosity, but it was evident that removing the old woman was more important that satisfying inquisitiveness.
It had been a been a long time since Drake had practiced the religion of his mother, but this encounter returned strong memories. Britain’s penal codes forbade the practice of Catholicism, so the fraternity of priests was small but closely knit. If anyone knew anything about the de Lacy tragedy, it would be the de Lacy family priest, if there were one. And Drake knew the man to find him.
Charged with a restlessness that could find no outlet, Eileen spent the summer wandering woods she knew by heart, searching for the peace she had once found there. Peace seemed to have deserted her, replaced by odd longings that could not be assuaged by any of her usual activities. On this day in August, wild roses spilled their perfume into the heady heat, and green leaves formed a canopy of shade for her comfort, but the musky air only enhanced her restlessness. Purposefully she set up her easel.
With brush in hand, the restlessness retreated. She hummed to herself as the image she saw in her mind formed on the paper. Summer called for oils and the deep hues of greens and yellows. She smiled at the image as it appeared beneath her fingers.
The shuffle of moist leaves warned her she was not alone, but, thinking Quigley had returned, she ignored it. She would be finished shortly. He could wait. The deserted cottage behind her should keep him cool and comfortable for the duration.
But Quigley always stayed out of sight, and this intruder kept advancing until she could no longer pretend he was not there. With more curiosity than fear, she glanced around at the tall, masculine figure intruding upon her haven.
“You were singing,” Drake accused as he entered the clearing.
Startled, Eileen halted her unconscious humming, but the marquess’s open curiosity made her smile. She hummed a few bars of a rather naughty ditty she had heard in the Drew’s tavern, and he grinned.
“Thank God, you haven’t changed. I thought I’d find you with your hair done up in powder, fluttering a fan, and pouting at me. Has my neglect put me in complete disapprobation?”
She studied Lord Sherburne’s expression. Beneath the golden tangle of hair, blue eyes had grown darker, more shadowed than she remembered, and the cleft Neville jaw had a determined set to it that renewed her restlessness. But a smile played about his lips as usual, and the warmth of his gaze was difficult to meet. She shook her head in reply.
He regarded her with a bemused expression, as if just discovering she did not speak. “I have never heard you hum before. If you have a voice, there is no reason you cannot talk. Unless, of course. . .”
Drake’s eyes brimmed with mischief as he stopped before her. Without a word of warning he slid his arm around her waist and covered her lips with his kiss.
Eileen’s initial reaction was to resist, as she had done with other men often enough. But this man’s mouth was warm and soft and inviting, and not in the least fearsome. She felt drawn to him in a manner she could not comprehend, and she succumbed to temptation. His chest did not yield beneath her hands; the firm strength of his arms about her waist was secure and reassuring. When Drake pressed his kiss deeper, Eileen bent to his pressure, and his arms tightened to hold her protectively as he took possession of her mouth.
The touch of his tongue opened a chasm of restlessness and longing. As Drake’s kiss stole along her senses, her mind leapt with instant alarm. Hastily Eileen turned her head away, but she continued to cling to his coat, uncertain of her ability to stand on her own any longer.
Knowing he exceeded the bounds of propriety, Drake continued to hold this fairy princess within the circle of his arms. The dreams that had haunted his sleep these past weeks had become flesh and blood reality, and he was reluctant to part with them. Realizing that the scent of wildflowers he had attributed to some hidden blooms in actuality came from the slight female in his arms, Drake saw the danger of this folly.
Ever since he’d visited that gravestone in an Irish churchyard, his imagination had been ignited by the history of this quicksilver sprite. The haunting vision of that tragic landscape and this woman in his arms had merged into one in his dreams, but neither matched the reality before him.
The August sun was too warm for hoops and petticoats, and she had apparently dressed sensibly for her outing. The pale yellow muslin with its tightly cinched waist and low neckline lost in a froth of lace and ribbons appeared as cool as a mountain spring, and Drake felt as if he had discovered some rare new flower. Her discarded bonnet lay among the clutter of painting paraphernalia at her feet, and her auburn hair glowed with golden sunshine and copper highlights. She wore it loose, caught up in ribbons to keep it from her face but falling in a girlish river over her shoulders and back, exposing her slender throat to his view. She held him enthralled, and he could scarcely let her go.
“How else could a gentleman ask a lady if she has a tongue?” he inquired facetiously, stroking the thick, rich lengths of hair cascading down her back before she could jerk away.
Eileen made an angry moue of distaste and pushed at him, but Drake kept a grasp on her arms. “Slap me, if you wish. I deserve it, I know.”
With a flash of the same disastrous mischief Drake had exhibited a moment earlier, she turned her head up to be kissed again.
Not questioning this unforeseen response, Drake obligingly bent to taste the sweet wine of her lips once more, luxuriating in their heady liquor until the sharp point of a knife pierced the linen of his shirt just below his unbuttoned waistcoat.
He stepped back in astonishment, then reading the challenge in Eileen’s eyes, he shrugged ruefully. “Quite right, princess. You are not a toy any more than that thing is.”
Drake caught her slender wrist and disarmed her, but only because she offered no resistance. He feared what would happen should she truly wish to kill him, she who was so swift in her judgment and her reactions. Catching a glance over her shoulder of an uncertain figure hovering beneath the tree, Drake fought off a second reprimand. “Don’t worry, Quigley, Miss Eileen has taught me my lesson.”
Eileen grinned and held out her hand for the knife. Drake returned it, though his gaze lingered long on her bland expression.
“Are you in the habit of kissing all your beaus in that manner?” he inquired. The angry flash of silver eyes forced a hasty retreat. “You’re right. It’s no business of mine.” Drake buried his inexplicable anger in coolness. “I’ve come to ask you to return to the house with me. I have something I wish to tell Sir John, and I thought you ought to be there to hear it.”
His voice was almost harsh, and Eileen turned her back to him as she packed the knife in amongst her other belongings. She cleaned her brushes as Drake lifted her painting from the easel and admired it. His words said nothing of her artwork, however.
“I do not know how you learned the information you sent me, and I will not ask, but you have saved my family much grief. You understand why I could not write to thank you, don’t you?”
Eileen looked up, caught his glance, and nodded.
“Edmund is my cousin. I cannot deal with him as he deserves, but thanks to your warning, I have learned to better protect myself and others. There will be no repeat of the incident. I need not tell you the torment Diane would have suffered should she think the lives of her cousins endangered.” Drake helped her to lift the canvas bag of utensils and offered his arm so they might return to the house.
Eileen made a sign of a question mark in the air and pointed to him.
“And I?” He shrugged. “I am happy if Diane is happy. My cousins are all creditably employed and momentarily out of mischief, and I have made my prospective father-in-law happy by setting the wedding date for spring. My fiancée has decided she wishes to reside in London, and Edmund is content with the arrangements that have been made for him, though not for long, I daresay.”
Eileen frowned in disapproval but Drake had no way of seeing inside her head.
Once they reached the Hall, Quigley carried away the paints to the studio, and Eileen made him wait while she dashed into the parlor. She returned with the thin volume of nonsense tales. She turned swiftly to a page detailing a woman garbed in golden passion and laughter and gestured toward his left hand.
Drake took the book and his lips quirked in a half smile as he noted the well-turned pages. “No, I do not describe Lady Pamela in these pages. She is not a fantasy of mine, just a fact of life. Did you enjoy the stories?”
Vaguely puzzled that a man who could describe a woman so passionately on paper referred to his intended so nonchalantly, Eileen nodded without smiling. She closed the book, and only then did she look up to catch the sadness in Drake’s eyes.
“You are right. A grown man should have better things to do than write silly tales.”
Astounded by this interpretation of her silence, Eileen shook her head fiercely, holding the volume against her heart, but he paid no heed to her theatrics. Returning to business, he guided her toward the study, where Sir John waited.
Eileen halted at hearing the notes of a guitar from nearby. Avoiding Drake’s impatient grasp, she threw open the sliding doors to the main salon, and smiled in delight.
The male trio sprawled across the sofas and chairs looked decidedly out of place in this formal drawing room, but they leapt to their feet at her entrance. Eileen flew to inspect the Spanish guitar that Theodore held. The poet, James, burned red with embarrassment as she abruptly turned to him. She reaching knowingly for his coat pocket where his latest scribblings were hidden. Holding her prize, she lifted her eyebrows at a third party, a formidably large but attractive man.
Drake offered introductions. “Miss de Lacy, Mr. Michael Jasper, lately of the Third Cavalry.”
Eileen threw him a surprised look at this use of her dubious surname, but Drake remained impassive as Mr. Jasper bowed in acknowledgment of the introduction. As Eileen could not make the usual polite greeting and their guest was apparently too tongue-tied to offer explanation of his presence, they parted on an exchange of tentative smiles.
Reluctantly, she let Drake drag her back to the hall while wondering why Drake had brought along this retinue. Remembering Michael’s rather overwhelming stature, strength, and prior occupation, Eileen sent Drake a surreptitious look. Like many gentlemen, he and his friends had occupied themselves in learning to protect themselves at sword point, and Drake, at least, had developed quite a reputation. Did he still feel called upon to surround himself with bodyguards against any further attacks by his cousin?
She could not question him, but obediently entered the room Drake opened to her. Her uncle looked up from his desk and smiled.
“You found her! Excellent. Now what is this astonishing news that brings you here in such a manner?” Drake held out a seat for her and waited until she had settled herself before sitting down. His normally expressive face revealed nothing of his thoughts.
“I have had time on my hands lately, an exceedingly dangerous occurrence for someone with my curiosity. I have amused myself at your expense, I am afraid. I trust you will not resent what I have done when you hear what I have to say.”
Sir John looked confused. “Come to the point, Sherburne.”
Drake’s shoulders shifted restlessly within the confines of his bottle-green coat. He did not wear elaborate frills as many did, yet the artless elegance of his white cravat was all the more striking against his gold coloring. He looked every inch the part of idle gentleman he played, but the stern set of his features reflected none of his usual gaiety.
“I ask that you keep this to yourself, sir. I do not believe I have done anything dangerous, but. . .” He shrugged, letting the sentence dangle. “The military might question my travels to Ireland and France during the present crisis.”
Sir John’s eyebrows shot up, but he had the wisdom to hold his tongue. They all knew that King George was not amused by the young men supporting the Stuarts. Although Drake was not a political animal, his journeys would not have gone unnoticed.
Accepting Sir John’s silence as permission to continue, Drake said, “While I was traveling, I thought to make one or two inquiries on your behalf. I hope you will forgive my presumption.”
Eileen searched Drake’s face. He did not look at her, but her heart beat a little faster. She could think of only one inquiry he could make in Ireland that would affect her. She waited impatiently.
“You had told me of your brother-in-law’s estates in Ireland. I knew you were concerned about the fate of your wife’s sister, so I thought to inquire while I was there.”
Drake spoke as if he had stopped at a neighboring home to ask after someone’s health. Eileen could scarcely contain her anxiety, and Sir John appeared to be having equal difficulty. When he received no objections, Drake continued.
“I was directed to the churchyard where your in-laws were said to be interred. While I was there, I heard an interesting story from an old crone who visited the de Lacy vault. It could have been the wanderings of an addled mind, but she seemed quite vehement about the stones erected in memory of your sister-in-law and niece. Much of what she said was in Gaelic, but I understood enough to interpret the fact that she believed the graves to be empty.”
Sir John sat upright with a bolt.
Drake chose his words cautio
usly. “That part of Ireland is much set off from the rest of the world. It is too poor to offer more than a few votes and thus it is ignored. Highwaymen abound, as you are sorrowfully aware, but this old woman claimed she knew who had rescued your niece from the rogues. What became of the child, or her mother, I could not interpret, and the village priest soon came and hastened her away.”
Drake threw a concerned glance to Eileen. “I will not go into detail here. Suffice it to say that the priest gave me an idea, and I began making other inquiries. Catholics have learned to mind their tongues over there, but I knew an old priest who is a friend of my mother’s family. The tale he tells is not a pretty one, but to make a long story short, I have discovered the name of the convent in France that now harbors a woman who was smuggled from Ireland immediately after the attack on the de Lacy family. While I was in France, I spoke to the mother superior, but since I am not of the family, she will not communicate with me other than to admit that they know the one I am seeking.”
Eileen clasped her hands and looked anxiously from her uncle to Drake and back again. She bit her lip as Sir John slammed his hands against the desk and rose from his seat, gratefully holding out his hand to Drake.
“Well done, my boy! By Jupiter, I had no idea you had it in you! I’ll not forget this. Tell me where this place is and I will set out at once.”
Drake took the offered hand, but shook his head in disagreement with the baronet’s intentions.
“Even if the woman is Elizabeth de Lacy, I do not think you will find it easy to reach her. This order of nuns has taken a vow of silence. The countess would believe her family dead, since she has made no effort to communicate with you. We might verify she is alive and well, but there is only one way that we might discover if Eileen is truly her daughter. Eileen must go with us.”
Silver Enchantress Page 6
