by Laura Parker
“What’s the matter, Dee? You look sickly of a sudden.”
Deirdre took a deep steadying breath. “’Tis much too warm in this corner. Take me out onto the floor, Darragh. I want to dance.”
Darragh came to his feet instantly, concern showing on his face. “You should not have come. ’Tis not the season for indoor affairs. Your Frenchman is mad.”
“He’s not mine,” Deirdre protested as she took his arm and they moved to the center of the floor.
“Have you told him so, lass?”
“I have tried,” Deirdre murmured, curtsying as the dance began.
“I know how to put it to him in a way he’ll not forget,” Darragh grumbled.
“You would make a corpse of him and that’s hardly necessary. In the whole world, he’s the only gentleman willing to pay me court. I must guard my sole suitor lest I become known as a spinster.”
Darragh nodded solemnly. “Aye, ’tis there in your eager gaze, lass, that you’re too desperate by far for a husband. Do try to curb your impatience, you’re running the lads away.”
“Wretch,” Deirdre responded, but laughter bubbled up in her as it always did in her brothers’ company.
When the dance was done, Darragh relinquished her to an elderly gentleman and he, in turn, bowed to a younger man to partner her for the third set of dances. Finally, Darragh claimed her again, twirling her about the floor with more gusto than grace.
Through it all, she heard MacShane’s voice and knew when he was closer or farther away, but she did not look up. She did not need to. It was as if her ears and skin had taken on a new keenness of detection because she had denied her eyes. She heard him flatter Claude’s sister, Annabelle, felt his bright blue gaze on her repeatedly as the dancing progressed, and each time she wondered if and when he would speak to her.
Now, as Darragh spoke to him, turning MacShane’s head her way, she took a deep breath and raised her head.
“Mademoiselle Deirdre,” he said softly.
“Captain MacShane,” she replied and offered her hand. He lifted it in the quickest of salutes, his lips hovering a scant space above her fingertips. The pure black sheen of his hair reflected the light of the hundreds of candles which illuminated the room, and she had the absurd impulse to tell him so. Instead, she said, “I am delighted to see you.”
His look disconcerted her, for it seemed to suggest that she had done a very reckless thing by admitting her pleasure at his presence. “Do you dance, captain?”
She had not meant to say that, she had meant to say something that would divert him from his intense contemplation of her face. “If mademoiselle wishes,” she heard him say.
With her heart pounding in her chest, she took the hand he offered and followed him out onto the gleaming marble floor.
She wondered why Darragh did not stop them. Surely he must see that she was much too pleased, too expectant and happy with the invitation for it to be proper for them to dance together. Yet, when she turned and looked up into MacShane’s arrogant face, she knew why she had acted too rashly in suggesting the dance.
To touch him, if only this once, that was what she wanted. Did it really exist, the answer to these wild sweet urgings of her body, or was that kind of guilty pleasure found only in the dreams of silly young women who fell asleep on riverbanks during lazy summer days?
The music was a country air, a tune that would find no enthusiastic audience in Paris, and many couples left the floor. But MacShane smiled at her, and her reluctance vanished as they took up the measure.
Conversation was expected no matter how she felt, and so Deirdre said, “You are a dancer, captain, so few soldiers are.”
“I’m a Gael, my lady, and few of us are less than what pleases our lasses,” he returned in a bored drawl that Claude might have used. It was a wicked mimic, and she did not miss its significance.
“Touche, captain. I should know better than to bandy words with a man of the sod.” As they made a turn about the room, she added softly in Gaelic, “Was Cousin Claude polite to you?”
“I’ve never treated an enemy so well,” Killian answered blandly.
His choice of words amused her. “You’ve scarcely met. What could cause you to be enemies?”
Killian shrugged. “You are right, of course.”
His oblique answer further intrigued her, but she was wary of matching wits with him. “Where will your travels take you when you leave Nantes?”
“To Paris, in the morning.”
She looked up, startled. “So soon?” Instantly she recovered. “Och, we must be poor hosts indeed.”
Killian did not answer. Until the moment she asked him, he had made no definite plans. Now that he had received satisfaction of a sort from Lord Fitzgerald, there was nothing to keep him in Nantes. If his curiosity was piqued to learn whether the absurdly lovely lass by his side bore any resemblance to the wanton of his riverbank daydream, then it must go wanting. Perhaps he was more like other men than he had thought. The insistent press in his loins was becoming an embarrassment and a trial. For the first time since arriving at the Fitzgeralds, he thought of the duchesse.
They continued in silence another set of steps, Deirdre’s heart pounding from anxiety and her head swimming with the heat. MacShane must not go away, not yet.
Deirdre moistened her suddenly dry lips. Words trembled on her tongue. She did not want him to go away, not while they were yet strangers. Why were the words so difficult to say? They rang in her ears yet she could not speak them. Suddenly the room’s candles brightened, their light blinding her. She blinked twice and MacShane’s blue eyes came into focus, staring down at her with the same intensity that so daunted her. She reached out to him, her hand curling tightly on his sleeve. “Lead me from the floor, captain,” she whispered breathlessly. “I am fatigued.”
“Of course, mademoiselle.” He led her to a chair beside an open door, and when she was seated, he signaled for a cup of punch from one of the servants. “Mademoiselle must drink this; it is cool and your cheeks are flushed,” he said smoothly in French.
She took the cup, grateful that he thought nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
“Cousin Deirdre, are you ill?” Claude questioned with great concern in his voice as he reached her side.
“She is fatigued,” Killian answered flatly.
Claude looked up at the plainly dressed man. “Perhaps you should have noticed this earlier and not subjected her to the strenuous exercise of the dance.”
“Please!” Deirdre said more loudly than was polite. “I am exhausted; my head aches abominably, and I need fresh air.”
“Dee, lass, you’ll be stamping your foot and holding your breath next,” Darragh said without concern as he joined them. “She’s a rare temper when she’s tired.”
Claude nodded politely. “Of course. Cousin Deirdre, may I offer you my accompaniment for a turn about the garden?”
“She should go home,” Darragh answered for her.
“But of course.” Claude bowed to Deirdre and offered a slight nod to her brother, but his eyes were cold as they met MacShane’s. He did not, however, allow his feelings to overrule his manners. “Would you care to indulge in a game of chance, monsieur? There are several gentlemen so engaged in the library.”
“No, monsieur,” Killian answered absently, his eyes hard on Deirdre’s pale face.
“Then you’ll be coming with us,” Darragh cut in swiftly.
Deirdre rose to her feet only to find MacShane’s arm offered before Darragh’s. She took it, trembling as he pressed her hand against his side. When they entered the front hall, Darragh suddenly stopped, planting his feet like a bull. “I’m that mad! I forgot to fetch Conall! See to my sister.”
Too late Deirdre realized that Darragh was leaving her alone with MacShane. She looked about a little desperately, but no other guests had chosen to leave before supper was served. The absurd desire to cry seized her, but she willed it away. She could not say why she was so
afraid. What harm was there in a moment shared? “So you go to Paris,” she heard herself say, her voice sounding strained and faraway.
“Aye.”
He bit off the word, leaving her no entrance to further conversation, but her tongue would not be stilled. “I’ve heard that Paris is beautiful in autumn but too warm in summer. Nantes is lovely in summer.”
Deirdre closed her eyes when only silence answered her. She wished she had said nothing, wished she had stayed behind in the ballroom, wished that she were not standing alone in the foyer with a man who made her tremble.
“Why must you leave?”
He reached out for her; and before she fully understood the reason, she felt the stunning surprise of his mouth on hers.
It was not the kiss she had dreamed.
There was nothing subtle or sweet about the savage heat of his mouth. He engulfed her. His hands found her waist, pulled her tight between his spread legs, and then rose again until his thumbs hooked under the soft fullness of her breasts.
For an instant she was too amazed to resist. When she did try to push him away, somehow the hands she raised in protest found anchor on his neck; and the breath she expelled in anger became entangled in his. He drank in her mouth, dragging a heavy breath of air in with it and then, to her complete astonishment, his tongue flickered across her lips.
It lasted only a moment, the feelings and sensations slipping away almost before she could record them.
Suddenly cool night air flowed between them.
Killian stared down into her sweet face with eyes still closed and lips still parted in invitation and felt a curious tug of emotion which he could not name.
“I did not mean to do that.” His heavy voice was strangely husky. “But then, surely you’ve been kissed before, lass.”
Deirdre opened her eyes, her wonder reflected in pupils so wide her green eyes appeared black. “Nae, I do not think I have,” she whispered.
“Then ’tis a lesson you’re certain to repeat,” he answered and broke away. “Goodbye, acushla.”
She did not really see him go. He simply walked out of the door and melted into the darkness of the night.
Chapter Ten
Deirdre dozed on the carriage ride home, wedged comfortably between Darragh and a very unhappy Conall, who had seen his well-warmed desire for Madame Perot come to nothing as his fraternal duty to see his sister home intervened.
“One of us would have done as well,” Conall grumbled.
“Two of us are better,” Darragh answered. “Unless I miss me guess, the house will be full of intrigue this night. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”
“Intrigue?” Conall scoffed. “You speak nonsense.”
“’Twas not nonsense I spied in MacShane’s eyes. ’Twas lust, brother, a need so great he nearly gave himself away.”
His interest piqued, Conall glanced at his sleeping sister and then said, “’Tis come to that already, has it? Damn quick, it was.”
Darragh shrugged. “Did I not say MacShane was the lad for our Dee?”
“Aye, incessantly. Still, I had me doubts. MacShane was reluctant, and our Dee, while pretty enough, is not so much a wanton that a man’s prick rises at the sight of her.”
“Watch your speech, brother!” Darragh cautioned.
Conall smirked. “Why should we not speak the truth? You can be certain ’tis lust that moves MacShane to seek a woman, the same as any other man.”
“And that, brother, is why you’ve come home with me.”
“He would not!”
Darragh grinned, his teeth gleaming in the darkness. “Maybe aye, maybe nae. ’Tis up to us to make certain he does not have a moment in which to seduce the lass.”
“Perhaps,” Conall said, “’twould not be so bad a thing, were it to happen. They’ve had nary a moment alone, and Da is not so fond of MacShane that he will come easily to the point of making him a son-in-law.”
“Aye. Da will curse and swear and threaten until he’s blue in the face, but you’re forgetting Dee. She has Da wrapped neatly about her finger. He’ll bluster, but he’ll concede to the wisdom of seeing his daughter wed.” Darragh nodded to himself. “I would not be surprised to learn Lady Elva’s in the family way again. Dee needs a man to take care of her, too.”
Conall glanced at Deirdre’s sleeping face. “Do you think we rush the matter? After all, Dee’s had little enough time to consider MacShane. The choice should be hers.”
“Curse you for a soft-headed man!” Darragh said irritably. “Blind was it you were to them on the dance floor? ’Twas some rare sight. MacShane watched her like she was the first lass he’d ever set eyes on, and him in the discovery of his manhood. And she behaved no better, trembling and skittish as a filly with the first smell of a stallion in her nostrils she was.”
“As bad as that?” Conall asked mildly.
“Aye, ’twas a miserable display,” Darragh groused. “Shocked I am that even a Frenchman should allow such doings in his home.”
“Then ’tis settled. Who’ll broach the subject of marriage with MacShane?”
For the first time neither man had a ready answer. They looked at each other and then down at Deirdre.
“Nature taking its course would not be so terrible,” Conall ventured softly after a long pause. “There’s you and me to look after her best interests. A blind eye, if it comes to it, might serve us well. MacShane will do right by her, I’m thinking.”
“Aye. ’Tis no surprise to most when a young bride makes the mistake of birthing her first bairn a wee bit early,” Darragh answered and resettled himself. “As we all know, the others are sure to come at decent nine-month intervals!”
*
“Was it a fine evening then?” Brigid asked as she drew Deirdre’s gown over her head.
“Aye,” Deirdre answered sleepily. “I danced with half the male company, including MacShane.”
“And how did that please ye?”
Deirdre avoided the woman’s eyes. “He’s a fair dancer, for a man so unfamiliar with civilized things.”
“Some dancing’s less civilized than other dancing,” Brigid replied. “Turn this way and I’ll have ye out of that corset in a trice.”
Deirdre did as she was told, glad to be able to turn her back on Brigid, for she had a question to ask. “MacShane tells me that he once visited Liscarrol.”
“Did he now?” Brigid said noncommittally.
“’Twas in ninety-one. Do you remember him?”
“Those were dark times, lass. Many a stranger came and went, and so much the better that we forgot they did.”
“He should have been difficult to forget, what with his black hair and bright stare,” Deirdre offered as bait.
“He could nae have been more than a bairn himself. ’Tis oftimes surprising to see what nature refines from dross,” Brigid countered.
Deirdre turned around as she was freed from the corset. “Are you certain you’ve never set eyes on MacShane before?”
“I’d nae swear to it,” Brigid replied in a manner that brooked no argument. “Hurry into bed, lass, afore ye catch yer death.”
Annoyance rippled through Deirdre’s expression. “MacShane came to Liscarrol the day we left. He and another lad had been chased by English soldiers and the English had captured and hanged his friend. How can you not remember that?”
Brigid looked at her charge, her eyes oddly bright. “How would ye be knowing of such things, lass?”
“Da told me,” Deirdre lied, crossing her fingers behind her back. “Now do you remember MacShane’s visit?”
“Aye, I remember it.” Brigid hesitated. “What do ye remember, lass?”
“I?” Deirdre frowned in confusion as she slipped off her remaining petticoats to stand in her shift. “You know I remember nothing of those days. Da says ’tis because of the fever I caught at sea.”
“Aye, we said that,” Brigid said quietly. “But memory is a tricky thing. It often comes galloping back, given
the right mount.”
“Is MacShane the right steed?” Deirdre asked glibly as she scrambled into bed.
“Maybe aye, maybe nae,” Brigid replied. “Go to bed, ’tis no time for chatter.”
“If only I could remember,” Deirdre murmured, and it suddenly seemed very important that she should. When she had danced with him she had done so with an indefinable sense of elation and trepidation. When they conversed they had teetered on the brink of something of great importance; she had felt it. But then he had spoiled it by his boorish behavior and his careless kiss. She was a lass from whom he had snatched a token, nothing more.
She glanced at Brigid, who picked up her hair brush. Perhaps she should tell her a little of her dream.
“MacShane asked me if I had saved his life. ’Twas so strange a question. He spoke of fairies and magic.”
The crash of the perfume bottle surprised Deirdre, for Brigid was seldom clumsy. “You’re butter-fingered this night, Brigid. Brigid? What’s wrong? You’re white as a sheet!”
Brigid did, indeed, feel as though her blood had frozen in her veins. She looked down at the shattered glass oozing the oily expensive perfume but it was the play of the candle’s flame upon the crystal shards that held her spellbound. The light danced, colored gold, green, red, and blue, upon the sharp edges until a pattern began to form.
She heard Deirdre’s voice faintly, questioning and calling her name, but she could not draw back from the trance.
She was not a strong beanfeasa. The years away from her homeland had weakened her powers even further. When as a child her family had sent her to learn the uses of her power, she had not progressed well. She could scarcely remember from day to day the recipes for elixirs and potions. She forgot the names of herbs and their uses. By accident, her mentor had discovered that bright light reflected from a shiny surface drew her into a trance and in those trances lay her powers.
Brigid closed her eyes and slipped down into the cool colors.
