She crossed to the table and swiped the small matchbox up from beside the single candle and struck it. The strong scent of sulfur sizzled through the room. Once she’d lit the wick, she dropped her reticule and the matchbox to the splintering tabletop. “Light the fire, will you?”
Without urging, Matthew hurried over and picked up a few pieces of coal with his cracked fingers, tossed them in, and had a blaze going in the black iron burner within a few breaths. As soon as he clapped the little iron door shut, he shoved his hands into his pockets and then turned his beautiful, cheeky face to hers. If there was mischief in this world, it lay in Matthew’s handsome face.
How she loved those features. Had done since he’d been all of two, stumbling about the house with nicked knees and jam on his cheek. It didn’t matter that he was seventeen now, almost a man.
His russet hair feathered about sharp brows and cheeks hollow with lack of food, but his eyes, green as the grass of Eire, had a spark that would have lit the devil himself. Despite that gorgeous, cheeky glow, she knew all too well that under his boyish charm rumbled the hardness of a killer and a boy who’d been forced into manhood by the bitter taste of death and then more death.
A boy driven wild by his passion for justice and hunger for revenge.
She should send him on his way. Now. Without delay. Her own inner sense whispered how foolish she’d been to let him in. Matthew involved himself with dangerous men, and by letting him stay, she was opening her door to possibly their presence and, worse, their schemes. But she couldn’t boot him. Not her Matthew. Her little brother who had sat more oft upon her knee than their mother’s. Their mother who offered herself up to a God that had never answered her prayers. Prayers that had been more numerous than the sands upon the shore. Nor had that God been swayed by the sufferings she’d undertaken to save her fellow Irishmen.
Even now, if Margaret listened, she could hear the whisper of the Hail Mary, the beads clinking as Brigid Cassidy shuffled them through milk-white fingers until her skin had worn, exposing raw flesh. Margaret shook her head, determined to dispel the memory. Determined to find out just what had driven her brother to the country he hated so much.
She reached inside her skirts, pulling forth a small linen sack. It was a small affair, barely bulging with her meagerly purchased wares. “Are you hungry, Matthew?”
He rubbed his coal-stained hands together before the fire, the glow lighting his face. “And couldn’t I eat an entire cow?”
A laugh lilted out of her throat. Matthew, for all the heartbreak, with his charming smile and wheedling voice, could tease a smile out of the weepiest woman. “A bit of bread and cheese will have to do, my lad. Still, I’ve an apple for our dessert.”
He flashed her another cheeky grin. “A grand feast, then.” His hand slipped inside his frayed coat. “And perhaps a wee sip of God’s own nectar?”
She shook her head, tempted to join him but knowing the danger. “I don’t drink anymore, Matthew.”
Matthew slipped the green bottle out of his coat, holding on to it the way a child holds her dolly. “But you wouldn’t make your poor brother suffer, now, would you?”
“You go ahead.” She placed the small sack down upon the table, pushing her precious books out of the way. Sometimes she wished she allowed herself the luxury of more books, but that money went to people who needed it far more than she. “But not too much, mind.”
The cork slipping free of the bottle popped through the small space. “I’ve no desire to drink away my sorrows, love.”
She rolled her eyes, thinking on the crowds out on the streets this very night, buying nine-penny gin bottles that would rot their innards faster than it would their brains. She’d done it herself once too often, unable to bear the sorrows surrounding her. “You’d be the minority.”
Matthew blew out a disgusted breath. “Sure, and from this piss pot of a town, who wouldn’t want to drink their heads in?”
It would be so easy just to engage in the easy banter of their childhood. Even when the people had been falling about them like sheaves of wheat during the fabled harvests, they’d teased and laughed. What else could they do? But now she had to face up to reality. No matter how her brother wheedled into her heart, he was not a little boy anymore. Nor could all his teasings wash away the sort of man he’d become. She could bear the banter no longer. All at once, her breath seized in her throat with fear for him. “Why are you here?” she demanded.
Matthew’s smile froze, and his pale face turned ashen. “Get a bit of food in me first, eh?”
She whipped the chunk of dark bread baked by a woman around the corner out of her sack and tore it in two. The grainy scent filled the air, and crumbles of the thick, dark bread spilled over her palms. She tossed one piece to him, then rummaged about for the small, slightly green-edged cheese at the bottom of the bag. She felt its spongy texture and fished it out. Her eyes darted to Matthew’s lanky frame, trying not to hurt at his thinness. Perhaps she should have sent him a few of her precious coins, what with the bankrupt earldom. But he had his causes too, and she’d had a strong feeling that he’d starve and use the money for his political leanings. She’d not been willing to support that. Still, he was so thin. Swallowing back her sorrow, she tossed the small block to him too. “They fed me at the asylum, lad.”
Matthew caught the cheese, his smile entirely gone now, replaced by the haunted look that seemed to have captured every Irishman. “You know what Father Rafferty says about liars.”
She tsked. “Father Rafferty can talk himself blue, for the whit I care.”
His throat worked slightly as he eyed the cheese. “Thanks, love.” And then he tore into the small bit of food, eating voraciously. His fingers moved more like an animal’s hungry paws than a man’s—or an earl’s.
Tears stung her eyes. She’d seen that often enough. All her childhood and here in London, where the rats were part of a proper meal in some parts of town. Still, it broke her heart to see Matthew acting like the wild, starving masses hoarding the streets.
When had that happened? When had Matthew lost all his genteel ways? When her father had used the majority of his funds for ships to help the peasants leave? Or when he’d made those many trips to London’s House of Lords to beg help from men who didn’t care that millions were dying.
She crossed to the bed and lowered herself down onto the unsteady frame, her corset creaking slightly. She stared at her own bread for a moment before putting it aside, her stomach roiling with sadness and suddenly a good dose of anger at how cruel life was.
Matthew’s gaze flicked to her grain-stuffed bread, a wary beastie considering a leftover bit of feed. Wondering if he could get it or if it belonged to another in his pack. “Are you not going to eat that?”
She bit down on her lower lip, sucking back a cry of fury that he had come to this. She needed to hear what he’d done back in Ireland, but she couldn’t deny him a bit of food first. Not when he looked like a starved hound. “No, Matthew. I’m full to bursting.”
As soon as he choked down the last bite of his bread and cheese, he reached for hers. Drawing in a slow breath, he turned the slice over in his palms, and then his face creased into a mask of sorrow. It was a horrible thing to behold, her brother’s face twisting up. Tears slicked his lashes and then tumbled down his cheeks. “Oh Christ, Mag Pie.”
The use of her nickname nearly undid her. It was all she could do not to throw herself down to the floor and pull him beside her so that they might cling to each other. But she stayed on the bed. Still. Unwilling to break. She’d be strong for him and she would not cry. She’d never cry or wail again. Her mother’s carryings-on had taught her the futility of such madness. “What is it?” she whispered.
He turned that piece of bread over and over until at last it began to fumble apart. “I—I—”
“Get it out, Matthew,” she said harshly. She’d learn
ed so long ago that a soft touch and a loving word changed so little and often kept the sufferer in their suffering. No. It was better to face up to the ugliness of the world.
He nodded and wiped the back of his hand over his eyes. “I killed someone.”
She said nothing. She was not surprised. She’d seen his temper flare. And yet her stomach dropped to the floor, her innards heavy as stones.
“You remember the Boyles?”
She gave a small sound of acknowledgment. She didn’t dare do anything more. She could only recall old Danny Boyle. He’d survived the famine to see two of his sons, ten and twelve years old, transported to Australia for stealing corn. After that, he’d barely been able to work his fields and feed his other six children.
“The new lord over at Axely Hall . . .” Matthew swallowed several times as if the bread was stuck in his throat. “He came in and decided to clear. The rents just don’t match the price of cattle.”
She choked back her own anger, knowing it wouldn’t serve her. “And?”
Matthew lifted his face, the tear tracks glistening in the weak candlelight. “He sent in the army to evict them.”
It was nothing she hadn’t heard before. But she felt the fury building within her. A fury that did her no good, but it was there all the same.
“The youngest, Nancy, she’d been sick with the consumption. Poor girl only had days . . . Couldn’t barely catch her breath for the coughing. And I’d come to lend my support. She was such a sweet little thing. And—”
Margaret closed her eyes. “Whom did you kill?”
“A lieutenant. He knocked Nancy down when she couldn’t move fast enough. Called her a lazy, stupid cow. They burned down the cottage.” Matthew’s face whitened with the memory. “And the rage. It just came upon me. I fetched up one of the cottage stones and dashed it at his head.”
“Oh, Matthew,” Margaret gasped. With one blow, her brother had ruined his life . . . Not that he hadn’t already been on a dangerous path.
Matthew’s hands curled into fists. “You can’t say I didn’t do right in helping Nancy. In fighting injustice.”
She wanted to scream. Her entire body was trembling with anger and helplessness. “Will it help them?” she forced herself to say quietly. “Murdering British soldiers? You know what happened after ninety-eight.”
Matthew’s eyes narrowed. “They were right!”
“They were dead!” The words lashed out of her. She’d not been alive during the last big rebellion. But it had been a disaster and had ended in hideous executions and worse conditions for her people. “They murdered them, Matthew, high lord and low pikeman alike.”
“And what would you have me do? Stand by while—”
She bolted off the bed and grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to look into her eyes. “I would have you live, Matthew. I would have you live.”
“Then you must help me now, sister mine.” He placed the ravaged piece of bread down on the floor. Tears still gleamed in his eyes. The tears of the disillusioned. Of a child truly seeing how the world worked. She sighed and let go his shoulders.
The moment she did so, Matthew reached for his whiskey bottle and drank. “I can’t go back to Ireland. Not now. ’Tis too dangerous for the moment.”
She propped her hands on her hips, marveling at his logic. “And so you’ve come to London?”
He took another pull of the whiskey, then wiped a hand over his lips. “’Tis better to hide in the open, so London it is.”
“Perhaps, Matthew, but how shall I help?”
“I need a place to hide, protection.” He recorked the bottle and then looked sheepishly at the faded Jameson label. “Money. I need money.”
Margaret closed her eyes for a moment, wishing she could vanish back to those carefree days when she’d been small. When the world had been beautiful. When the fields, studded with stones, had swept down to the sea and people had still smiled despite the manageable hardships of life. A time when her father’s face had not been plagued with doubt and failure. “What would Da say to this?”
Matthew shoved his bottle back in his jacket and looked to the coal burner. “Da was a weak man.”
“He was a good man,” she corrected. Matthew had never seen him strong. He’d seen only his broken nature as he’d struggled. For he’d had no real power against starvation and the English belief that the Irish were too lazy to feed themselves, not even as a lord. None. Not a jot. And he’d worn away as he watched all his efforts to help the death in their county diminish and become as nothing.
Abruptly, the Earl of Carlyle’s face came to mind. He’d offered her power. Money. More money than she could ever hope to have, even if she spent the rest of her life saving Powers and dozens of heirs like him.
The old man had even mentioned her brother. Had he known? Had he heard whispers her brother was in trouble and was willing to help? If he had, how could she turn him down? She couldn’t. She’d be a fool.
It was a traitorous, devilish thought, though. With money and the earl’s support, there was power. Wicked to even think it, but wasn’t this world wicked? And hadn’t she done her best to accept it and make do?
“Mag Pie?”
“I’m thinkin’, Matthew.” Oh, she was thinking all right. She was thinking of selling her soul for others. Carefully, she studied Matthew’s face. What a different man he would have been if but a few powerful people had truly cared and then actually done something about that care.
Out of habit, Margaret crossed herself. She’d long ago ceased believing in God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, but something inside her now made her wish that God had not left her people so coldly, so cruelly, and so wholly. Maybe if he hadn’t, her brother would be a beautiful boy still, with a bright future awaiting him instead of a hangman’s noose. “I’ll help you, Matthew. God help me, but I will.”
Chapter 5
The iron door swung open. Margaret summoned her courage and stepped over the threshold into the grim morning light that spilled in through the slit of a barred window hovering just under the stone ceiling. “My lord?”
“Ah. At last.” His voice cut across the small space, echoing up from his big frame still strapped to the bed. His long silver-blond hair splayed over the pillow, and as he attempted to turn his head, the lush strands slipped down the sides of the bed like captivating icicles. “Devil woman.”
Though she felt no merriment and he couldn’t see it, she cracked a half grin. “Aye. ’Tis me.”
He relaxed his head, his face staring straight up, forced into submission by the leather belt, and yet nothing was submissive about his tigerish body. “To what do I owe the honor of this illustrious visit?”
He smirked, a slight pursing of his seductive mouth. “Come to cure me? Or did you wish to say my name again?”
She didn’t rise to the slight dare. A man like himself could engage in endless debate. In her tragic experience, the smarter the man, the harder he was to cure. For he could argue all in sundry and always win around to his way . . . but in the end, he lost. Lost first his tortured heart, then his soul, and at last, his broken body. She didn’t want that for him.
But that wasn’t why she was here anymore. No angel was she.
Even so, her fingers itched to untie him. First she needed to speak, lest she lose her courage. And for this, she felt it best he remain restrained. Even the best of men might not react in the most positive light to her intentions. “Forgive me, but I must discuss a matter of import with you.”
“I’ve a pressing schedule for the day,” he drawled. “Please do come back when I have a free moment.”
This time, a faint twist of amusement managed to tingle through her. Odd man that he was, she felt a strange kinship to him and his determination to not be cowed. “Sorry that I am to hear it, I will have to insist.”
He let out a long-suffe
ring sigh. “Who am I to disappoint a lady?”
How was it possible that a man strapped to a bed in an asylum could be so . . . so fascinating and not as some bizarre specimen? An evocative and compelling force came from his sinfully big body. “I thought you the gallant sort.”
At that, he snorted. A strong, derisive sound. “Will you at least have the courtesy to undo the strap at my head? I’ve been staring at the ceiling these many hours. It is a most uninspiring view.”
“Of course.” She quickly crossed to the bed and leaned over him. Yet when she looked down upon his face, she froze, her hands midair. His eyes, shocking blue, blue as razor-sharp diamonds, stared up at her, assessing, penetrating, full of fury . . . and a strange brew of calm.
Given that he’d been laced on morphine, his clarity was remarkable. There wasn’t the bleary tragedy that usually lurked in her patients’ eyes. Oh no. His were stripping her bare straight down to her soul.
But how long could that last? On a continual diet from the doctors, how long would his bold defiance survive? For some time, she imagined. And then? Then he’d begin to shatter, this gorgeous, noble beast howling and flailing itself at his bars. Once she’d seen a tiger in the London zoo. An animal from Bengal. All fierce with wild yellow eyes and teeth that were daggers in themselves. It had paced and let out sounds that had made her soul quake. Its muscled body had thrashed about, but there had been one moment. One moment when she could have sworn it looked full in her face. Souls connecting. Eyes begging, pleading to be freed from his hellish prison. Demanding death before this kind of dishonor. Tears had dashed down her cheeks, but she hadn’t looked away. She’d watched the madness reclaim its eyes. Watched it hurl itself against the bars, twisting its length into unnatural shapes in its fury.
That would be Powers if she didn’t get him out of here. And for some indescribable reason, that felt like the greatest possible sin.
“Madam, are you deaf?”
The Dark Affair Page 4
