A Rose in Splendor

by Laura Parker

  MacShane nodded at the furious girl. “Aye, I did. And what’s more, Lady Deirdre has offered to be your guardian henceforth.”

  Fey sucked in a furious breath. “Ye said ye would nae send me away! Ye said ye’d let me stay! Ye black-hearted, whore-mongering—”

  “Shut up, brat!” Killian spoke quietly but his words struck through Fey’s vitriolic speech.

  Deirdre cast him a furious glance. Could he not see that the child was more alarmed than angry? She moved toward the young girl. “Do not be frightened, Fey. My name is Lady Deirdre. This is my father’s home and you are welcome here.”

  Fey did not even look at Deirdre. Her whole concentration was upon the man before her. A ripple of emotion crossed her face and was followed by another more violent one, and then she began to tremble. The trembling turned into convulsive sobs as she flung herself against Killian.

  “Please! Please! I’ll do anything! Do nae leave me! Please!”

  Killian brought his arms about the girl’s slight frame, his hands encountering the sharp jut of her shoulder blades beneath her skin. Her anguished tears reminded him of how as a boy he had often lain alone in the dark monk’s cell and cried out his own loneliness and despair. He had been a charity orphan, yet he had been clothed, sheltered, and wanted because he had shown the scholarly aptitude needed to become a priest. How much more terrible it must be for a child of the streets. Fey was all he suspected and possibly more, yet she was still a child and needed protection.

  “I will not abandon you, lass, even if I must leave you behind.” He cupped her chin in his broad palm and lifted her face from his shirtfront. “’Tis my word on it, girsha.”

  Fey stared at him for a long moment and then nodded. “I—I did nae mean to cry. I never cry,” she said defensively, wiping the dampness from her face.

  Killian looked across at Deirdre. “Your father is certain to be pleased when he learns that his daughter is cosseting a street urchin.”

  Deirdre flinched at the sarcasm in his voice. Did the man never do anything but cut up people with his gaze and voice? “I will not tell him, not yet.”

  Killian’s expression soured. “’Tis a bairn’s game, lying to her elders. If you will not, then I will tell him.”

  Deirdre considered her dilemma. What could she say to her father that would make him sympathetic? She looked down at the shivering, naked girl who had wrapped her arms about Killian’s waist, and as her eyes lingered on the long, vicious welts on Fey’s back fury leaped within her. Some monster had done that to the child. Fey deserved to be protected from further abuse.

  “I will tell Da the truth,” she said crisply, all doubt gone from her mind. “Oh, he will bluster and confound us with terrible oaths, but Da will not send the child away.”

  “You’ve more faith in the power of your father’s clemency than I,” Killian rejoined.

  “How do you know my father?” Deirdre questioned.

  “Ask your da,” Killian answered curtly. He reached down and unlocked Fey’s arms from his waist. “Go and dress, lass. Lady Deirdre cannot introduce you to her father in your nakedness.”

  “But—” Fey protested.

  “MacShane is not deserting you,” Deirdre interjected. “He is visiting here for a few days. That will give you time to become accustomed to us.”

  Fey’s canny gaze moved from one to the other. “If I do nae like this place, ye will give me money for Paris, as ye promised?”

  Killian’s gaze grew distant but he nodded. “Aye.”

  Satisfied, Fey smiled. “Then I’ll stay a bit.”

  *

  “Ye’re telling me I’ve hidden a thief and murderer beneath me roof this night and did not know it?”

  “Hardly, Da. The child came with MacShane and—”

  “MacShane!” Lord Fitzgerald thundered. “No doubt the man brought the murdering bastard into me house to slit our throats as we sleep!”

  Deirdre looked pleadingly at Darragh, who sat at the breakfast table with a glass of brandy in one hand and his head in the other. “Tell Da that you agreed the lass could come here.”

  Darragh groaned and opened his red-rimmed eyes a slit. “I had naught to do with it. MacShane had a lad by the throat, ’tis all I remember. Oh, and Conall offered to put a ball in his gizzard.”

  Conall, equally under the aftereffects of too much drink, nodded cautiously but did not speak.

  Deirdre turned away from her brothers. There was no help to be had from them. “We speak of a child, a small battered lass! If you saw her, Da, you would not turn her out.”

  “What I doubt is that MacShane himself did not beat the bairn and bully her into this pretense, for God only knows what purpose,” her father answered.

  Deirdre sucked in an angry breath. “That is not true!”

  “Softly, lass. Your father will begin to believe that I’ve corrupted not only a poor helpless orphan but the rest of his household as well.”

  Lord Fitzgerald lifted his eyes toward the doorway and saw that a tall man in black filled it. “MacShane.”

  “Aye, Killian MacShane at your service, my lord.”

  Killian came forward slowly, aware that the entire Fitzgerald family watched him. It amused him to be the recipient of Lord Fitzgerald’s attention.

  Lord Fitzgerald eased back in his chair, his usual frown of pain replaced by the squint of a seasoned campaigner sizing up his enemy. “What brings ye here, MacShane?”

  “Justice,” Killian answered quietly.

  “Och! I’ve heard the tale of the lass that was a lad and of the murdering she’s done. Were it not for me daughter, I’d be turning the pair of ye out!”

  Killian turned to Deirdre. “Forgive me for doubting you, lass. I had thought that no one could persuade a man of your father’s nature to go against his own mind.”

  “She’s not done that,” Lord Fitzgerald answered. “She’s soft-hearted, but she’s not a fool. If Dee says there’s worth in the bairn, I accept it.”

  “And if Lady Deirdre says there’s worth in me?” Killian invited.

  “She’s not seen enough of ye to know,” Lord Fitzgerald returned testily, “and I mean to see to it that she remains in ignorance.”

  “I would be pleased if you would stop speaking of me as though I am not present,” Deirdre said impatiently. “Do sit down, MacShane.”

  “Nae, lass,” Killian answered, his gaze never leaving her father’s face. “Your father and I have business that does not need a meal between us. I will wait upon your pleasure.”

  “In the library,” Lord Fitzgerald announced and pushed back his chair. “And there’ll be no waiting upon me. Yer appearance has curdled the eggs and cream.”

  He rose to his feet and reached for his silver-headed cane. “Come along then. I’ve the morning before me and I mean to have ye gone before then.” He turned and began walking toward the door, his stump and cane making their familiar tattoo upon the floorboards as he walked.

  For a long moment Killian did not move. His bright blue gaze was fastened on the wooden stump that protruded from the man’s pants leg.

  “He lost the limb last year,” Deirdre offered under her breath.

  Killian turned sharply, unaware that she had come to his side. “He is ill but he will not admit it,” she continued. “Deal harshly with him, if you must, but clear the air between you.”

  “What do you know of the matter between us?” Killian asked coolly.

  “Nothing,” Deirdre lied.

  “I do not believe you.”

  She shrugged. “What I know is not enough to satisfy me.”

  The corners of Killian’s lips turned up slightly. “Then I believe that you know nothing.”

  Rebuffed once again, Deirdre simply turned away. Almost at once, she turned back, but he was striding toward the doorway through which her father had disappeared.

  “What will come of it?” Darragh asked his brother.

  “When Da’s in a mood, there’s no telling what wil
l be said,” Conall replied.

  “What should be said?” Deirdre demanded.

  “I wish I knew, lass, I wish I knew.”

  “Men!” Deirdre muttered, adding a profane word under her breath. “I’d best go and tell Lady Elva that Da is speaking with MacShane.”

  “Do not be led astray by way of the library,” Darragh called after her. “Da would not care for it.”

  Deirdre did not answer, for that was exactly what she intended to do. Without a pause she turned toward the library. She could not very well barge in and perch herself upon a chair. Neither man would allow that. Yet, there were ways of listening without being seen.

  She smiled as she entered the gallery that flanked one wall of the library. As a child she had clambered over every inch of the old French chateau, and one of the things she had learned to her delight was that this house was very like Liscarrol, with unexpected corners, bowers, and even a hidden alcove behind the tapestries that lined the gallery.

  After a quick look over her shoulder to be certain she was not seen, she gathered her skirts and slipped behind the huge tapestry of medieval knights and ladies dressed in their best for a day of falconing.

  It was dark behind the tapestry and she had to feel along the dusty length of the wainscoting to find the latch. The spring-loaded catch gave way under her nimble fingers and a panel yawned open, its depths darker than the gloom of the alcove in which she stood. Dust tickled her nose but the faint sound of voices drew her into the dark. With a finger under her nose, she leaned forward and pressed her ear against the bare paneling of the library wall.

  Chapter Eight

  Lord Fitzgerald lowered himself painfully into the chair behind his desk. Killian noted the maneuver with interest. Lady Deirdre was correct: the old man was not well. The thought did not please him.

  When he had put his cane aside, Lord Fitzgerald braced his hands on the edge of the desk and said, “Why have ye come here, MacShane?”

  “Did you so dread my coming?”

  “Dread has nothing to do with me feelings about ye, lad,” Lord Fitzgerald answered shortly.

  “Then dislike, perhaps?” Killian suggested, but Lord Fitzgerald did not reply. “For myself, I feel a bond with the Fitzgeralds. After all, I owe you my life.”

  “Ye repaid that when ye saved mine,” Lord Fitzgerald answered stiffly.

  “And you hate every reminder of it,” Killian returned pleasantly. He looked down at the man’s cane propped against the desk. “You might have done better to reconsider offering me a captaincy in your brigade two summers ago. I might have saved you that.”

  Lord Fitzgerald bristled. “Ye upstart braggart! I’ve thirty years as a fighting man to me credit. ’Tis longer than ye’ve been alive!”

  “True, but it does not change the present. Your fighting days are over, and your sons are little comfort while they ply their trade hundreds of miles away. You should marry your lovely daughter to a man of sound Irish stock. She would breed you an army of grandsons that you could command to your heart’s content.”

  Lord Fitzgerald leaned forward in his chair, his canny eyes hard on the younger man. “Me lovely daughter, did ye say? And would ye be putting yerself forth as a suitor?”

  Killian seemed to consider this possibility but his face darkened suddenly and he gave a tiny shake of his head. “Nae. She’d not consider a man without a ‘m’lord’ to his name. I’m a commoner. There was a time when a man’s clan name was enough to make him the equal of kings. Now, the name MacShane gains me little respect.”

  “A man who can trace his ancestry back to the great O’Neills of Ulster can claim himself an equal at my table any day,” Lord Fitzgerald maintained.

  The pretense of indifference left Killian’s face and voice. “I’ve known you for a tyrant and a traitor, m’lord. Do not tell me that a gimpy leg has turned you sentimental!”

  Lord Fitzgerald heaved himself up by his arms, ignoring the pain stabbing through his leg. “No man speaks to me like that in me own home!”

  “What will you do, have me ejected by lackeys, for, by God, you cannot do it yourself!”

  His face crimson with rage, Lord Fitzgerald reached for the pistol that he kept primed in his desk drawer and laid it on the desktop. “’Tis as ye say, lad. I cannot flog ye. A ball in the chest will have to do.”

  Killian glared at him. “Aye, that’s more like it. Only a coward keeps a pistol ready in his own home. How many other ghosts do you fear, old man?”

  “Is that yer last word?”

  Killian smiled his contempt. “I won’t be done until you’ve heard me out.”

  Lord Fitzgerald nodded. “Have yer say and then get out.”

  “I will tell you a story, m’lord. You know the ending but not the beginning. It began in ninety-one with the siege of Kilkenny. Did you once know the O’Dugans of Ballyvourney? Sean O’Dugan was my cousin. We fought at Kilkenny. Oh, we did not fly an English king’s banner, but we took the part of James over William because we were Irish and full of hope. We were both seventeen and as green as any grass the Good Lord ever saw fit to raise from the earth. When the battle was lost, we were not offered amnesty. Unlike you, m’lord, we had to run and hide and fight our way home. We were rabble, we were rapparees.”

  Lord Fitzgerald shook his head. It was an unfortunate turn of events that he could do nothing about then or now. “Formal treaties are for formal armies.”

  “So they said,” Killian answered. “But I am not finished. Sean and I were within five leagues of home when soldiers loyal to William of Orange appeared. The sight of an Orange banner was more than Sean could endure. I told him it was madness, two against twenty, but there was blood in Sean’s eyes. He’d lost his father and two brothers at Kilkenny. You know the rest of the tale.”

  Lord Fitzgerald frowned. “Yer cousin was captured and hanged by the English, but you escaped and hid in my barn.”

  As if the threat of the pistol had vanished, Killian braced his hands on the desk, leaned forward, and thrust his face into the old man’s. “Could you not find pity for a lad who’d taken shot? Did you think me less than a dog because I was a rapparee, a commoner with no title or wealth?”

  “What gibberish do ye speak?” Lord Fitzgerald demanded. “I saved yer life, did I not? Took ye in, hid ye, and all the while knowing that if the English found ye, my womenfolk would have been imprisoned and I hanged.”

  “And yet you took the chance. Why? ’Twas common knowledge that Liscarrol had been stripped of its wealth. Were you sharp to the ways of making money for a fresh start abroad?”

  Killian gave the room a careful appraisal before looking again at Lord Fitzgerald. The lines of his face, made harsher by his anger, seemed hewn of granite. “I’ve heard the French pay well for galley hands. Was that why you saved me, to sell me as a galley slave for a few pieces of gold?”

  Lord Fitzgerald snatched up his pistol. “’Tis a lie! I’ve never traded with slavers, and that’s God’s own truth. Do nae make me kill ye, lad. ’Twould be a waste.”

  Killian held his gaze as he reached into his pocket, withdrew a paper, and tossed it on the desk. “Read the answer to your lies, old man.”

  Lord Fitzgerald lowered his pistol and picked up the paper. After a start of surprise, he read steadily to the end. When he was done, he raised his eyes. “I know nothing of this. I saw ye as far as Calais. There were French soldiers recruiting Irish lads for service. I signed ye up. ’Tis what I did meself once I’d settled me family.”

  “This bill of sale carries your signature,” Killian maintained, his light eyes burning in his sun-darkened face. “Do you know what they do to a man condemned to the galleys? He’s bound hand and foot in chains with five other men to a fifteen-foot oar. They shave you; hair, beard, even eyebrows.”

  He touched the spot where a thin white scar angled up from the black wing of his eyebrow. “I learned not to object after the first time. We sat in our own filth for weeks at a time, a loincloth to cover o
ur nakedness. One day the overseer killed the man next to me, beat him to death. I never knew his name. He never spoke to me. After that there were four men to do five men’s work.”

  Lord Fitzgerald’s color had faded. He was a campaigner, knew more of the atrocities of which men were capable than most, but the life of a galley slave was anathema to a man of his ilk.

  “I had nothing to do with that, lad.” He sat down heavily. “They promised me ye’d be given a place in one of the Irish divisions.”

  Very slowly Killian rolled up each shirt sleeve and presented his wrists. “Shackles take no time at all to rub a man’s wrists raw.”

  Lord Fitzgerald nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on the welts of scar tissue that encircled those strong wrists before he raised sad eyes to MacShane’s face. “As God is me witness, I never knew.”

  Killian absently began to rub the healed skin as if his wrists pained him still. “My desire to murder you kept me alive for the six months I rowed to Egypt and back.”

  “How did you escape?”

  Killian’s voice was dangerously low as he said, “Does it matter? I escaped. Anger’s a powerful motivation, and I used it to my advantage. There are people willing to pay handsomely for men with unsqueamish natures. The nobles of the French court, for instance, have use for men like myself.”

  A bleakness crept into the older man’s face. “You became an assassin?”

  “Nae, not an assassin.” Killian’s smile was not pleasant. “A noblewoman hired me as her personal guard. She paid me well and I stayed in her employ until I learned many trades.”

  “I’ll not say what I think of a man who’s kept by a woman,” Lord Fitzgerald observed censoriously. “Yet ye did not remain, and I suppose that’s to yer credit.” He watched MacShane closely as he said, “I’m innocent of yer charges.”

  “Are you now? If you are not guilty of selling me into bondage, then why did you not want me here?”

  “Only a fool fails to recognize an enemy, though he may not know the reason,” Lord Fitzgerald responded cautiously. He was not about to reveal his reasons for fearing MacShane’s presence in his home. “But I am curious. Why have ye waited this long to confront me?”