Countess of Scandal

by Laurel McKee

  He wanted a battle of wills, did he? Fine—she would oblige.

  'Then meet me later tonight," she whispered. "But be sure and change your coat first...."

  Chapter 10

  Eliza, where are you taking me?" Eliza laughed, tugging at Will's hand as she led him down the narrow, silent lane. Quickly, before he could find time to lecture her about the scene in the office. "You will see in good time."

  She met him outside her kitchen door, she dressed in a plain black dress and thick knit shawl, and he in his coarse coat and cap. They took a hansom to the southern edge of town, beyond the patrols. Now they were in the district known as Porto Bello, a neighborhood of small houses that lined the canals off the road leading to Rathmines. During the day, the muddy, grimy hamlet was busy with the passage of coal barges. By night, it seemed deserted.

  Will stopped in his tracks, pulling her into his arms. "Are you luring me into an ambush, my little spy?" He laughed, but there was suspicion in his voice. Yes, of course he would expect more espionage. But she was done with that for the night

  She wound her arms around his waist, feeling the imprint of the pistol and the dagger concealed under his coat

  "I would not do that, Will. Do you trust me—as I trust you?"

  He studied her silently, his face a hard, beautiful mask. "God help me, but I do, though I certainly have no reason to."

  "You and I must not be enemies," she said, her throat tight. "No matter what happens."

  "I could never be your enemy." He kissed her, his lips finding hers in the dark, tender and perfect. It made her ache with longing, with the wild wish that she could hold on to him forever and never see this one fleeting moment end. The taste and feel of him, the way his kiss surrounded all her senses—it was transcendent.

  But it did have to end, of course, as all perfect moments must. Will rested his forehead against hers while his hands caressed her shoulders.

  "You did not say where we are going," he said

  Eliza smiled. "That is because it is a surprise. And we will be late!"

  She took his hand again, leading him down another narrow street beyond the canal where the bulk of barges slept. The houses, too, seemed to sleep, the windows shuttered and the doors barred. The cold air smelled of cabbage, coal dust, and peat smoke from that bonfire.

  They were a long way from plush Henrietta Street and the stifling opulence of Dublin Castle.

  "This is it," she said, stopping at a dwelling at the end of the lane, at the very edge of town.

  Will looked up, frowning at the whitewashed walls. "Are you sure? It looks as deserted as the others. Do you go knocking on random doors now?"

  "Of course I am sure." Then she did proceed to knock on the door, which opened a crack. A gloved hand appeared.

  "I am new strung and shall be heard," Eliza whispered, pressing a coin into that hand as she repeated the United Irish motto.

  "Come in," the doorkeeper said, and Eliza slipped inside, drawing Will with her even as she felt his muscles tense and saw his hand moving slowly toward that hidden dagger.

  The small foyer was almost empty of furniture except for a small, rickety table holding a lamp. Its flickering light illuminated peeling wallpaper and a scuffed wooden floor. But they did not stay there long; the doorkeeper led them through a trapdoor at the back, where a flight of steep stairs led down to the cellars.

  Will's sharp, blue gaze darted through the shadows. One hand held hers, but the other flexed. He said he trusted her, yet that could not come easily to either of them. This was a great leap of faith for them both.

  "Are you planning to buy this place?" he muttered in her ear. "Because I think it would be a poor investment."

  "Shh!" Eliza said, trying not to laugh. At the end of the stone cellar corridor, another door opened, and they stepped into a different world. A world of light and noise and bright, whirling merriment

  Countless lamps and candles burned on a scene of dancing, one so very different from the staid Castle minuets that it seemed like a different planet Couples spun down the length of the room, skipping and leaping, their feet beating out a thunderous pattern on the stone floor. At the far end was a platform where the musicians sat, no fine orchestra but fiddles, flutes, and bodhrans.

  "I'll tell me ma when I go home, the boys won't leave the girls alone! They pulled my hair, they stole my comb, but that's all right till I go home. She is handsome, she is pretty, she's the belle of Belfast city. She is courting one, two, three, please won't you tell me who is she!'"

  Eliza's toes tapped in time to the infectious old song, her spirits rising.

  "What is this place?" Will asked, staring out at the raucous scene with narrowed eyes.

  "A ceilidh, of course," she answered. She grabbed two pottery goblets of ale from the table of refreshments and handed him one. "Do you not remember them from Killinan?"

  "Of course I do. Your mother forbade you to go."

  "You know I went anyway," she said cheerfully, sipping at the dark, strong ale.

  "Nothing has changed, I see."

  "No. I still love this music, these people, above everything else." She nudged him teasingly with her elbow. "Admit it, Will. This is a much better party than any at the bloody Castle!"

  Will laughed. "I think that can hardly be denied." He took a cautious drink. "Bui how did you know where to find it? I'm sure it's not always in the same place."

  "Certainly not I knew because of the bonfire."

  'The bonfire?"

  "Oh, come, Will, this is a party. I want to see more dancing and less talking!"

  "Far be it from me to disappoint a lady." He laid aside their goblets and seized her hands, drawing her into the midst of the dancers.

  "Let the wind and rain and the hail blow high, and the snow come tumblin' from the sky! She's as sweet as apple pie, she'll get her own lad by and by...'"

  He caught her around the waist, lifting her high and twirling her around and around until the lights blurred and she laughed helplessly, her head swimming. He sang along lustily with the chorus. "She is handsome, she is pretty, she's the belle of Belfast city! She is courting one, two, three, please won't you tell me who is she.'"

  And Eliza saw that, truly, he had not forgotten. Like her, he remembered the glorious freedom of those long-ago ceilidhs, when they sneaked out of their houses and ran across the fields at Killinan to some crofter's loft to dance and sing. And she would remember this one, too, in the cold, dark days ahead. He lowered her until her toes touched the floor, only to raise her up again. Eliza clung to his shoulders, throwing back her head in the glory of the movement

  As he spun her again, she stared down into his blue eyes, laughing as he sang in his off-key tenor. "Let them all come as they will, for it's Albert Mooney she loves still!'"

  The song ended, and he slowly, slowly set her on her feet again, his hands sliding down to her waist to pull her close. "I see this is, indeed, an ambush—a test of my stamina," he said.

  "You cannot fail now," Eliza answered, "for I hear another reel coming on."

  And they danced on and on, twirling and stomping through reels and jigs and moving instinctively to the old rhythms. As if it had been mere days and not years since they had last danced together like that. Last felt the rhythm of their homeland pounding in their blood, binding them together, tighter and tighter.

  She could be young again as they danced, young and hopeful and free.

  But the music ended, the jig winding to its inevitable conclusion, and she was no longer the young, romantic Eliza Blacknall but Lady Mount Clare. The scandalous countess rolling the dice of her future.

  Yet, for the moment, she had Will's smile, open and happy as he led her from the dance floor. Did the music make him feel young, too? Did it remind him of old hopes and dreams, of that feeling of being Irish, down deep in the blood and bone? She hoped so. Oh, she desperately hoped so.

  "I think you have passed the test quite well," she said as they searched for more al
e, still hand in hand

  "I'm surprised I remember those steps at all," he answered, seizing two goblets before the thirsty crowds could descend.

  "I don't think a person can forget, not once the music is truly inside you."

  "Eliza!" someone shouted. "You are here!"

  She froze, her goblet at her lips. She glanced at Will, who was peering over her shoulder at the man who hurried toward them. The man who was meant to be in hiding, but it seemed he was as incautious as ever..

  Edward Fitzgerald caught her in his arms, lifting her from her feet as he kissed her cheek. His short, dark hair was disheveled, and his green neckcloth was askew from the dancing. His hazel eyes were bright with his love of subterfuge and a good Irish reel.

  "I could not miss this grand music," Eliza answered, trying to warn Will with her eyes to say nothing. "How are you keeping, Edward?"

  "Well enough, as always," he said, snatching up a goblet "Pam says she saw you before she went back to Kilrush."

  "Indeed. I wanted to be sure she needed nothing, that she was in good health."

  "And you found her as big as a house, I'm sure! We'll have another pretty little one soon." He gave Will a curious glance. "You brought a friend, I see."

  "Aye, this is Will," she said. "He is a great aficionado of jigs, I think."

  "And of beautiful ladies, too," Edward said, offering his hand to Will. "How do you do, sir? Any friend of Eliza Blacknall's is welcome here—and at any other gatherings you might care to attend."

  Will slowly shook Edward's hand, solemnly, carefully. Eliza held her breath, thinking of those hidden weapons. "I fear I only have the energy for music and Eliza at the present—Lord Edward."

  Edward's gaze narrowed, as if he recognized Will, or was close to it. "We have no 'lords' here, not now. But music—now, that is always welcome, indeed." He suddenly whirled around, pushing his way through the crowd to leap up on the platform.

  "My friends!" Edward cried, everyone turning toward him eagerly. Such was his charisma wherever he went— everyone wanted to be near him and hear what he said. Follow him. It was what made him an effective leader.

  And his rejection of his own aristocratic privilege was an inspiration to Eliza.

  "There is an old Irish custom, or so my mother tells me," Edward said, "that a newcomer to a gathering must grace the company with a song."

  He grinned at Eliza mischievously, beckoning. "Perhaps this good man shall lead us in a tune?"

  Eliza took Will's hand in hers, not sure what he would do. She knew this was not some sort of a test, some bizarre oath. Singing and music was merely the way of such gatherings, as surely he remembered. But things were different now.

  His fingers tightened on hers, and he did not look at her. Instead he studied Edward, his body tense. Without a word, he let go of her and strode to the platform, climbing up with the ale-drinking musicians.

  "You know 'Cliffs of Doneen'?" he asked roughly.

  As if sensing his authority, the musicians immediately took up their instruments again, launching into the plaintive tune.

  '"You may travel far from your own native land, far away o'er the mountains and the foam. But of all the fine places that I've ever been, sure there's none can compare with the cliffs of Doneen,'" Will sang, and though his voice was unpracticed, it was deep and pleasant, the words poetic. The jostling crowd grew silent, watching him with rapt faces.

  Eliza made her way slowly to the foot of the platform, gazing up at him as he sang those lyrics of leaving home, leaving the place one loved above all others. There was a melancholy to it, a strange beauty that was lacking in more practiced performances. The song seemed to come from somewhere deep inside of him, a secret, hidden well of loneliness.

  "Take a view o'er the mountains, fine sights you'll see there. The high rocky mountains o'er the west coast of Clare. Oh, the town of Kilkee and Kilrush can be seen, from the high rocky slopes round the cliffe of Doneen,'" he sang, and held out his hand to her. She took it, letting him lift her up beside him as her voice rang out to join his.

  "Fare thee well to Doneen, fare thee well for a while, and to all the dear people I'm leaving behind. To the streams and the meadows where late I have been, and the high rocky slopes round the cliffs of Doneen" they sang, and slowly everyone else joined in, first a lone voice here and there, until all the room was alight with song and with tears.

  "'Fare thee well to Doneen, fare thee well for a while...'"

  And the last notes slowly faded away, like a dying dream that couldn't quite let go. Will stretched out his other hand, gently brushing her cheek with his fingertips. She was shocked to find her skin was damp with tears she didn't even realize she shed. Tears from deep in her heart

  He handed her a handkerchief, and she buried her face in the clean linen folds that smelled of him. She had such sad longings; they threatened to overwhelm her, like a winter storm. She wanted to grab Will, to hold him to her fiercely as the two of them sheltered alone against the howling winds.

  Yet there was no shelter to be had. There never had been, not for them.

  She wiped away those tears, tucking the handkerchief into her sleeve.

  "Come," Will said gently. "Let us go home."

  Eliza nodded, letting him put his arm around her waist and lead her through the crowd. Behind them, Edward Fitzgerald launched into 'The Wind That Shakes the Barley," but they soon left the sound behind.

  They made their way back to the Henrietta Street house in silence, up the back stairs to her dark, cold bedchamber. She had sent Mary to bed hours ago, and the fire had died down.

  That room, me one that had been her sanctuary through years of a loveless marriage, hardly seemed any more real than the raucous, rebellious ceilidh, Eliza thought as she locked the door behind them.

  But she had no time to think more, as Will caught her hard in his arms, his mouth coming down on hers. He tasted of ale and smoke, and of some bitter, dark anger. Yet she was drawn into him just the same, craved him with a fierce hunger she had never known before.

  She arched into his body, wrapping her arms around his neck until she could feel every inch of him against her, every lean muscle, the sharp curve of his hip, the growing erection of his penis through her skirts. Their tongues met, their mouths and sighs melting until she was sure they were one.

  As his knee drove between her legs, higher and higher until she straddled him, she buried her fingers in his hair, loosening the queue until it spilled over her hands and she felt his heartbeat against her breast, strong and true.

  "Eliza," he muttered, his mouth trailing, open, wet, enticing, along her jaw and her throat 'This is madness...."

  "Yes," she gasped. "But I can't end it, can't give you up. Not again. Can you?"

  "No. Never"

  And in those two words, she heard the fearful echo of all her own pain and sadness. To make love with Will was so very sweet, the consummation of all she had wanted since she was a girl Of all her dreams as a woman. He was her hero, her beautiful, only love. But this moment was all they had.

  So they had to make the most of it

  Eliza stumbled back from him, reaching up to loosen her linen fichu, unfasten the bodice of her simple dress. Watching him the whole time, she shrugged the sleeves down her arms, letting the gown fall to the floor. His eyes were midnight blue and intense, his breath harsh.

  She shed her chemise and petticoat, standing before him in only her stockings. Naked in all her desire.

  She could hardly breathe, her chest aching with longing and fear. Slowly, trembling, she reached for his hand, drawing it to the vee of her womanhood, damp with her need for him.

  His fingertips combed through the curls, teasing, before finally they pressed deep inside of her. The rough friction, the press of his caress just at that one perfect spot, made her cry out Her head fell back, her knees collapsing as his mouth claimed hers again.

  He lifted her high in his arms, twirling her around until they fell across her bed,
a tangle of arms and legs, of moans and sweat

  "You are so beautiful, Eliza," he whispered, smoothing her tumbled hair back from her brow. As he stared down at her, tracing the angles of her face with his fingertips, she could almost believe it Perhaps she was beautiful in his eyes, if only for that one passion-blind moment.

  "Not as beautiful as you, my Cuchulainn," she said.

  He kissed her again, his hands sliding over her shoulders, along her arms, to capture her breasts. She groaned as he plucked at her achingly sensitive nipple, rolling it gently, plucking at it until she could bear it no more. She pushed him away, reaching out desperately to strip away his coat and shirt, tug at the fastenings of his breeches.

  And Will let her undress him, lying back against her pillows as he stared up at her, wary and lustfully greedy. Watching her like a gorgeous Celtic god, waiting for his handmaidens to serve him.

  Slowly, carefully, she straddled his hips, teasing a light, caressing pattern over his naked, damp skin. She wanted to memorize every inch of him, every curve and angle of his body, so she could remember this always. Remember him, when he was gone from her.

  She rose up, sliding her cleft along the iron-velvet length of his erection, lowering slowly, slowly, until he was fully sheathed inside her, all heat and friction. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, closing her eyes to fully feel every inch of him, she rose again.

  "Eliza!" he shouted, grasping her waist to roll her beneath him in one smooth movement, not breaking their fragile, perfect connection. He picked up her rhythm, the two of them moving faster, desperately.

  "Will," she gasped, a hot, sparkling flame rising from her core, spreading over her until she was utterly consumed by it.

  His body arched over hers, and he cried out wordlessly.

  By the time Eliza floated back into herself, he had drawn the bedclothes over them against the cold night His arm was draped over her hips, drawing her back against his body as they drowsed, drifting together in a twilight dream world.

  Eliza smiled, stretching lazily as she smoothed her fingers down his forearm and back up again, the light blond hairs on his skin tickling her palm. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder.