A Rose in Splendor

by Laura Parker

  The child stood up as the clatter of boots was heard beyond the hidden door. She grabbed his sleeve and pointed. “Up there! You must climb up the shaft.”

  “I cannot,” Killian answered, too weak to rise from his knees.

  “Aye! You can! You must save yourself. I’m a friend of the wee folk,” she exclaimed and began unfastening her bodice. She leaned over until the red birthmark on her shoulder was exposed. “You see? I’ve been kissed by the fairies.”

  Killian held his breath. He knew what would happen next. The face of the child before him wavered in the torchlight, blurring and then redefining itself into the mature features of a young woman. The face that had haunted him for so long was Deirdre’s.

  Killian caught his breath sharply as she leaned toward him, beckoning a kiss with moist, parted lips, her bodice slipping down to bare the full globes of her breasts. The swift jolt of desire in his loins overrode the pain of his wounds. He had never dared touch her before, had always awakened himself with the guilty knowledge of his lust. This time he reached for her and brought his mouth down on hers.

  He did not hear the heavy pounding that broke through the door. He was lost, drugged to all sensation but that of her kisses and the undulations of her warm velvet skin under his hands. She was snatched from him without warning. For an instant, her face remained before him.

  “Save yourself! Save yourself!” she shouted at him. “You must go away or we will die!” Her cries became piercing screams of terror as she was dragged away by red-coated soldiers.

  With a roar of rage, Killian tried to rise, but his body would not obey his command. The more he fought, the heavier his body became, until he lay sprawled helplessly on the floor with her cries ringing in his ears.

  *

  Sweat oozing from every pore, Killian sat up with a start. The stillness of the night surrounded him, but the galloping of his heart filled his head with sound. Where was he? Instinctively he reached for the skean he always kept by his side, but his hand met instead the soft flesh of a woman’s thigh.

  He turned his head sharply to find Deirdre lying on the floor beside him, her naked body sprawled invitingly in sleep. He touched her, half-fearing that she was not real. The warmth of her skin made him sigh with relief.

  He rested his head in his hands and was amazed to discover that his fingers trembled. The dream. The dream had changed. Always before he had awakened with the frustration of thwarted desire. Never had he awakened to the sickening anxiety of loss that now roiled in his belly.

  She is gone from me forever.

  The dream was gone and it would never return. He could not say why or how but the feeling was unshakable. It was over.

  Killian raised his head and turned to gaze down into Deirdre’s sleeping face. How to tell her? Could he tell her?

  He stood and began dressing. He did not think of what he should say or how he could make her understand that he must leave. He would not even try. For a single night, he had believed that he had attained his heart’s desire. Now he understood that the circle of fate that had had its beginning at Liscarrol eleven years ago was complete this night with their union. In time, Deirdre would realize it herself, but he could not remain until then. If he did, he might not ever leave her. The woman-child of his dreams had beguiled him with the promise of a real love. Yet, the dream was gone and the reality was that Deirdre was not for him. He was an impoverished mercenary, a man who lived by his sword and wits. If he swept her away now, with the ecstasy of their lovemaking blinding her to the realities that lay ahead, he would be no better than a thief stealing his bride. Deirdre deserved better than he could offer. Let her remember this night of his love, for he had nothing else to give her.

  *

  Fey waited impatiently in the shadow of the hunting lodge until gray fingers of light stretched across the sky. MacShane had lain the night with Lady Deirdre. She had heard their sighs, their whispers and moans of joy, and had finally stopped her ears with her hands as jealousy raked her. She knew something of the ways of gentry and that marriage was expected to follow coupling. MacShane was bound to marry the lady. And, when he did, he would have no further use for her.

  Fey sniffed back a tear. She was done with crying. Yet, it seemed wholly unfair for a lady who had so much to take from her the one benefactor who could have made her life easier.

  The sight of MacShane in the doorway surprised her, for she had heard no one stir inside. Yet there he was, fully clothed. He stood staring at the dawn, his head lifted to catch the breeze, and Fey felt a stirring deep inside her unlike any she had ever before experienced. It was more an ache than a pleasure, and she wondered fleetingly if she was sickening. But then he glanced back into the darkened interior, and the ache inside her twisted, sharpening the pain, and she realized that the source of her ailing was MacShane.

  She thought he would go back in or that the lady would come to him but neither thing happened. After a long pause, MacShane walked out into the dawn, his stride long, rapid, and purposeful.

  Fey waited until she was certain of his direction and then she rose from her hiding place and hurried after him.

  She was surprised to see him enter the Fitzgerald house through the front door. After what had occurred during the night, she expected him to sneak back inside. She smirked as she thought of Lady Deirdre still sleeping in the lodge, unaware that her lover had deserted her. So, MacShane was not so different from the other men Fey had observed over the years. Once lust was satisfied, they all sought their own company above the woman’s.

  She hesitated to go in after him. There had been much movement in the house the night before. The strange incident in Lady Deirdre’s room when Brigid had succumbed to a fit had almost made her feel sorry for the old thing, almost. They had completely forgotten that Fey had been given a bed in the alcove behind the dressing screen. They did not know that she had heard their strange conversation of dreams and fairies and magic.

  Lady Deirdre did not know that she had been followed, that there were others, too, abroad, and that Fey was not the only one to spy on the lovers in the rose garden.

  When she had realized that Lady Deirdre’s brothers had followed the pair, she had nearly cried out in warning to MacShane. But, curiously, the men had not challenged MacShane, nor had they intervened when the two kissed. They had simply disappeared back the way they had come, and she would swear she had heard their laughter on the breeze.

  Fey gazed at the second-story window of the room that belonged to MacShane and was rewarded with the flicker of light that signaled he was inside. Her eyes moved down the line of windows but all the other rooms were in darkness. After a moment’s thought, she grabbed two handfuls of the tangled vines that cleaved to the house and began to climb.

  The knock at his window surprised MacShane until he turned and spied the shadow dancing upon the window panes. When the window was opened, he reached out and grabbed Fey by the arm and lifted her into the room. “What do you think you’re doing hanging about like a monkey on my windowsill? God’s death! You’re naked!”

  Fey pushed down the hem of her nightgown, which she had tied about her waist to aid her climb, and then fixed him with a withering glare. “I came to say goodbye.”

  “Now?” Killian asked in faint annoyance. “Geersha, I’m too weary for games.”

  “Aye, and so ye should be, with no sleep and plenty o’ night’s work behind ye.”

  MacShane slanted a sharp gaze at the lass. Her dark hair was slick and damp, her bare feet muddy. Her face was lightly crisscrossed with scratches like the ones she might have received had she crawled through thorned bushes…rose bushes. “You followed me. Damn your eyes, you little sneak!”

  Fey held her ground but her knees trembled as his anger rolled over her. “I do nae care what ye done, ye could have swived and buggered the lot of Fitzgeralds and I’d nae care.” She paused to sniff back a suspicious sob. “Ye once offered me money. I’ll be taking it now.”

  MacShane
had had little experience with women, children in particular, but he did recognize jealousy. That emotion played over the lass’s face, giving away the source of her animosity. That she had followed them and knew what had occurred did not bother him as much as what she had overheard. “Why did you follow us?”

  Fey shrugged, an obstinate look filling her eyes. “I did nae follow the lady. I followed ye. I won’t stay here. I’m going away.” She looked about and noticed for the first time that MacShane’s saddlebags were lying open on the bed and that they were full. “Ye were going away! And ye weren’t going to tell me, were ye?”

  MacShane debated lying and thought better of it. “Aye. I am going as I told the lady I would.”

  “She knows ye’re going and she will nae stop ye?” Fey asked in frank disbelief.

  Killian was silent.

  A quick grin split Fey’s face. “Then I’m going, too. ’Twill nae take me a minute to dress.”

  “No.” Killian grabbed Fey’s arm as she hurried toward the doorway and spun her effortlessly about to face him. “No, lass, you cannot come with me.”

  “Why?” Fey demanded. “Because of her?”

  “No, because it would not be right. You don’t understand and I don’t expect you to, but some things cannot be, no matter how badly you may want them. When that happens, you must learn to accept it.”

  “Would she nae agree to wed ye?” Fey’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “She wanted ye badly enough. I heard her mewling for ye, panting like a bitch in heat. She wanted ye then, and I cannot believe ye did not service her until she had her fill.”

  “You’ve a gutter tongue, lass. ’Tis none of your business what passed between the lady and me.”

  Killian reached out and caught her lightly about the neck, but the pressure of his fingers at her throat made Fey go utterly still. “You’re not to tell a soul what you heard or saw or suspected of the night’s events. Is that very clear?”

  Fey had thought this man capable of violence but not cold-blooded murder. Now as she stared up into his eyes silvered by violence, she knew that she had misjudged him. Unlike Darce, who had bullied and struck out in indiscriminate rage, MacShane’s anger was a very real and specific threat. He would snap her neck if he thought it necessary to protect the lady, and in that, Fey read the beginning of the end to her own hopes and plans. MacShane loved the lady.

  “If she means that much to ye, I’d nae harm her,” she choked out.

  The words brought the beginnings of a smile to Killian’s lips. “You mean that, do you?” Fey nodded reluctantly. “Then you can be of help to me, if a help it is you want to be.”

  “Anything!” Fey said too quickly, for she saw the flash of amusement in his eyes, a flash that changed the silver back to blue.

  “You must overcome your inclination to offer a man ‘anything,’ lass.” He reached into his coat and withdrew Fey’s skean. “Lady Deirdre will not be pleased when she learns I’ve gone. I would not have her do anything foolish like try to follow me. If you’re as clever as you’d like me to believe, you should be able to keep her from doing just that.”

  “I could tie her up, or hide her away for a few days,” Fey suggested with a sly smile.

  “And have that pair of Irishmen brothers of hers on your heels? No, lass. You must be more clever and subtle than that.”

  Fey pondered the thought. “Aye, I’ll think on it. When the job’s done, where am I to find ye?”

  “That’s just it, you’re not to follow me either.” He frowned as she started to protest and Fey fell silent. “You’ve a rare opportunity in remaining with the Fitzgeralds. There’s Lady Deirdre, who will be kind to you because you will remind her of me, and lasses can be amazingly sentimental about that sort of thing. You’ll have the run of a grand house and servants to see to your needs. You may even learn to be a lady from Brigid, if you so desire.”

  All of this appealed to Fey but the last. “I’ll nae have that old pisspot spit on me!”

  Killian smothered a laugh. “’Tis up to you. Do you prefer the alleys of Nantes to this?”

  “Only a fool would,” Fey answered reasonably.

  “Aye. And you’re not a fool, geersha.”

  The shrewdness left Fey’s face as Killian lifted his belongings from the bed, and she was once more a lass of eleven. “Ye’ve done well by me, and me with nothing to offer ye in thanks.”

  Killian turned and smiled at her. “You may repay me by remaining here and learning all they can teach you. When next we meet, you’ll be so grand a lady you will not even nod to a common soldier the likes of me.”

  “That’s a lie!” Fey protested and launched herself against him. “That’s a lie! Please! Please take me!”

  “Shh, geersha, you’ll wake the house.” Killian bent to pry her arms from about his waist, but when he had freed himself she grabbed him by the neck and jerked his head down as she rose on tiptoe to put her lips on his.

  Killian held still under her kiss, for to pull away would have wounded her beyond enduring. Finally, her grip slackened and her mouth moved from under his. Her eyes were bright in wonder and then the light dimmed and she pulled away from him and spun away, hunching her shoulders in defense. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  He straightened and looked down at her, his expression bemused. What could he say that would not further shame her? “Are you telling me you’re sorry that I do not please you, lass?”

  Fey looked back over her shoulder, her whole heart in her eyes. “Nae, ye please me fine.”

  “And you me,” he replied. “You’ve a great deal to offer some man, lass. Keep yourself worthy of him.”

  “I will,” Fey whispered as she watched him stride to the door and disappear through it. She would do anything to win his affection.

  After a moment, she ran to the window and stood watching until, ten minutes later, she saw a dark figure on horseback appear in the field behind the stables. She watched him until he was a speck and her tears dissolved it.

  *

  Even before she opened her eyes, Deirdre knew that she was alone. For a moment, she pretended that she was waiting for Brigid to arrive with her first cup of chocolate. Brigid would enter, draw open the draperies on another perfect morning with buttery sunshine and the hum of bees and the scent of flowers, and she would wonder what the day held for her. Lady Elva would want to plan the ball they had talked of. Perhaps they would talk of a guest list, of who should come and who should be omitted. She would mention Cousin Claude’s gathering and Monsieur Orsiney’s horrid table manners.

  Deirdre’s sigh ended in a sob. No, she would do none of those things this morning.

  She had awakened at dawn to find MacShane gone. Even as she hurried to the house she knew that she was too late. She felt his loss as an ache inside herself, an emptiness that had nothing to do with bodily hunger. His room was empty, his horse and saddle gone. He was gone and she did not know why.

  She closed her eyes to prevent tears from slipping down her cheeks, but they would not be checked. MacShane had gone without explanation or the reassurance that he would return. There was no one she could turn to, no one in whom to confide. Thankfully, Brigid had not yet awakened. If Brigid knew what had happened during the night, she would go to Lord Fitzgerald.

  “No,” Deirdre whispered to herself. She would tell no one. For whatever reason, MacShane had left her. She would not trap him by a false cry of rape.

  She stood at her bedroom window hugging his coat to herself. It was all she had left of him. She would one day have more.

  “You belong to me,” she whispered to him though she knew he could not hear her. She would not believe that he was gone forever. During the hours of the night they had forged themselves as one, and nothing, not even MacShane himself, would be able to break that union. Brigid said that he was the man for Deirdre and she believed it.

  Until MacShane came she had had only one passion in her life: Liscarrol. Now there were two.

  “I will ha
ve them both!” she told the dawn.

  Chapter Twelve

  Paris: January, 1703

  The alehouse called The Fair Lady was less than its jaunty sign proclaimed, Killian decided as he watched a thin film of grease float on the top of his fourth whiskey. The smoke-filled air choked him and the greasy smell of sizzling sausages made his stomach heave in protest. If not for the fact that he waited for someone he would not have remained. The tavern was one of the few meeting places for Irish expatriates in Paris, a place whose clientele dealt in the usual ale, women, and smuggled goods…and contraband of a very unique kind: Catholic clergymen bound for Ireland.

  Killian waved away the servant girl who smiled hopefully at him in expectation of an order or a proposition. She was not as loosely laced as the two other serving women, whose breasts had strained free of their bodices, much to the delight and temptation of their admirers. She was younger, too, with real color in her fair cheeks rather than the painted kind. Still, he knew her favors could be bought cheaply and would be before the end of the night.

  The waiting did not improve his mood, which had darkened steadily as the day progressed. It seemed a man could not earn an honest living in Paris.

  Killian smiled wryly. Honest labor. The position he had lost to another had been purchased away. He would have done the same had he possessed the funds. Without position and backing he would get no appointment he desired. So why, then, did he not take the position offered him by the duchesse? Smuggling was a very lucrative business and the company no worse than that of most soldiers. She had even promised him a free hand.

  The thought made him laugh, and those at a nearby table turned to stare at him, but Killian did not care. The duchesse did not give free rein, as well he could tell them, and a more dangerous benefactor he could not imagine.

  When a man slid into the chair beside him, Killian did not immediately lift his eyes.

  “Will you not greet a man who’s come this distance to see you?” the young man at his elbow asked in Gaelic.