by Laura Parker
*
Neither of them spoke, yet each was excruciatingly aware of the other as they lay side by side, not touching but not drawing away. The fire hissing behind the grate was the only sound in the room as the minutes passed.
“I hate her,” Deirdre said at last, her voice low and sad. “I hate her for loving you, for having you.”
Killian sat up, cradling his head in his hands. What could he say? How could he explain? He could not.
“Now will you run away again?” Deirdre asked, emotion edging in over the serenity of the last moments. “A fine soldier you must be, abu, retreating at every challenge.”
Killian smiled in the dark. The lady was more she-wolf than he had credited. “I have been praised for my courage in battle. They say I fear nothing and that is so. It is then that a man has his life, his fate in his hands. If he dies, he knows the moment and the cause. I care nothing for physical pain. With the duchesse, it is the same. I was attracted to her, the danger, the violence, and I stayed because it was of my choosing. But this…this is different.”
He turned to her and saw her eyes shining in the darkness. “You frighten me, acushla. When I see you, when I am near you, I am robbed of myself. How can I explain? You have bewitched me. I am no longer able to choose.” His voice roughened with desperation. “Just now. What have we done? Madness! All of it! Madness!” He rose from the bed, unthinking that in doing so he exposed his nakedness.
“I saved your life,” Deirdre said gently. “Yet you say you fear me.”
“I fear the loss of reason,” Killian replied. “If I am to believe the dream that haunted me until seven short months ago, then I have never had a choice in wanting you. Yet, in wanting you, in having you, I place you in great danger.” He brushed the hair from his eyes. “A reasonable man would not put a thing that he desires in danger. And yet I am capable of doing that.”
“By being here?” she questioned softly.
“By being here, by remaining here, and by allowing the duchesse to know that I am here with you.”
Deirdre sat up, reaching for the modesty of cover. “The duchesse knows that you have come here?”
“Aye,” Killian said grimly. “She knows or suspects, damn her, what my feelings are.”
“And you fear what she may do?”
Killian heard the caution in her voice and understood her thoughts. He turned to her. “I do not care what she may do to me. I have told you, I thrive on a certain amount of danger; it piques my appetite. She and I are well matched. Do not look away from me, acushla. My concerns are not for myself. My fear is for you.”
Deirdre stared at him, wishing that the room were not so dark. His expression was lost in the gloom and his voice was disconcertingly neutral. “You say you’re concerned for me. How do you know that danger will not come even if you are absent from my life?”
“The danger is of my making.”
Anger blazed in her face. “Then go back to the duchesse’s arms. She will forgive you. I saw it in her eyes. She will punish you, but she will forgive you. She loves you.”
“I have not touched her in seven months,” Killian said.
The joy that flared in Deirdre’s eyes was caught by the firelight and Killian felt something in him burst free. “Then you are free of her,” she whispered low.
Killian stood very still, listening to the echo rising from somewhere deep inside him. Yes, he was free of the duchesse, completely. The lust that had bound them was gone, routed by the gentle touch of an Irish lass with eyes the color of a lough at sunset. “I will never touch her again, not in that way.”
Deirdre let the sheet fall from her hand and it slid down to her waist. “Then I must be more selfish than she, mo cuishle, for I will never give you up!”
*
Fey congratulated herself as she climbed the stairs to the room she shared with Lady Deirdre. She had been below, chatting with the concierge and spinning such a sad tale of woe that the woman had promised them a room for two weeks for the price of one, which meant that she and Lady Deirdre could remain in Paris a week longer than expected. If Lady Deirdre respected Fey’s talents more, she would have realized how simple it was to solve their problems. That was the lady’s trouble; she sought the most difficult, if pious, answer to every question when most things were easily solved by guile and wit.
For instance, Lady Deirdre had not questioned the note that she had been brought. She had not asked how MacShane looked or even if he was well. She had not asked where he lived or what it was like. She had simply smiled like the silly goose she was and tried to keep back foolish tears of joy.
Fey smirked as she thought of what she had found. MacShane, despite his priggish prosing against sin, was the lover of a wealthy older woman. No doubt, Lady Deirdre would return from the Duchesse de Luneville’s residence humming a very different tune. Well, it served her right, thinking that all she had to do to have a man was want him.
“He’d have been mine had she kept shy of him,” Fey muttered.
The sound of voices inside halted her outside the door to her room. She recognized Deirdre’s voice at once. It took her longer to recognize the second voice, but when she did, her face drained of color. MacShane was inside, in bed by the sounds of it, with Lady Deirdre.
Fey turned away, screwing her eyes up until the tears could not escape. “Damn them!” she whispered huskily. “Damn them both!”
Chapter Fifteen
Killian lay on his back in the pool of morning sunlight, his hands folded behind his head. Had he ever been more at peace with himself? He could not remember it. A few short hours ago, he had dreaded entering this room. He had expected to find inconsolable hurt, recriminations, tears, rage. He had braced himself to offer labored explanations, to endure more anger, regrets, and apologies, and ultimately to face Deirdre’s rejection. It had not been like that at all.
He turned to gaze at the woman who lay next to him and contentment flooded him. She lay on her back, one arm thrown above her head, her other hand clutching the sheet that did not quite hide the rosy peak of one breast. She was asleep, unaware of his warm regard and of his feelings of love, of tenderness, protectiveness, and fear.
Fear was what had awakened him from the deep dreamless sleep of peace. Would she be there when he opened his eyes? She was. The peace had flooded back, only to wash away again. In its wake had come new concerns. Would she regret the night? No, she would not. She had come to Paris to find him. She had not told him so, nor was he so arrogant and conceited as to assume this. He simply understood her better now. She had no guile, no falseness, no protection of pride to keep her from seeking that which she desired. It was he, not she, who was humbled by her search. He did not deserve to mean so much to this lovely woman.
He smiled as she stretched, kitten-like, releasing the sheet. She was all beauty and warmth and softness. From the brilliant waves of her golden hair to the roses-and-cream complexion of her young body, she was all things sweet, pure, clean, and good. And she wanted him.
The joy of that knowledge was sweet-piercing to the heart of him. He did not know what love was. He had had little experience with it, but surely this serenity which swept over him as he gazed down at Deirdre, surely this was close.
I must marry her, Killian thought. Dear God! How would they manage? He had no income, no prospects, nothing to offer her.
Once more peace ebbed from him. He was nothing—no, less than nothing, because he had set out since the summer to ruin himself. The quest to drown his despair with whiskey had become the summation of each day’s rising. He did not feel it now, but would it last?
Back and forth, his emotions swam on the tidal action of his thoughts. He was bound to her, had been since that fateful day nearly twelve years earlier when as a green boy of seventeen he had given his life into the hands of a serious-eyed lass of seven. She had been there for him all along. At any time he might have presented himself to the Fitzgeralds and found the answer to his dreams. Yet, he had wait
ed.
Because I was afraid.
Killian bent and touched his lips to her cheek. He was a danger to her but he understood now that he could not run from it. If he spurned her, he might set in motion events which would endanger her, and he would not know what they were or where they struck. If she stayed within his reach, at least he would be able to defend her against whatever evils his nearness spawned.
“I have never feared danger, acushla,” he whispered as his lips moved to cover her mouth. Dear God! Make me worthy of this love, make my arm strong enough to defend her, my heart courageous enough to join against all her foes.
Deirdre awakened to his kiss. She knew only a moment’s hesitation before welcoming the warmth of Killian’s mouth and the fiery heat of his tongue. And then he lifted his head, and his laughter, free and easy, filled her ears.
She waited in patient confusion for him to explain himself, but he did not, and when he looked down at her once more, she did not mind.
His eyes had never been more brilliant. The summer sky was not so vivid a blue. But it was his face, softened by happiness, that made her heart contract in love. The deep lines were erased by his happiness, the solemn man replaced by the carefree man of her imagining. “I love you.”
Killian’s expression became serious. “Marry me.”
Deirdre’s eyes widened. “Yes! Yes, oh, yes, yes!”
*
“But it is madness!”
Deirdre tightened her laced fingers as she watched Killian’s expression harden in anger. She had sent Fey on an errand in order that they might speak in private. She had been ashamed to the roots of her hair when she learned that the girl had slept on the floor outside their door while she and Killian shared the intimacy of the bed. Fey would not accept an apology or Killian’s offer of renting another room for her. She had slipped away in sullen silence, and, for the moment, Deirdre was grateful. She and Killian had much to discuss.
“I must do this,” she said quietly. “You may come with me or you may remain in France. I will go home to Liscarrol and bury my father’s body in Irish soil.”
“You’ll never get through the English blockade. You have no papers. You’re Catholic. You may not even claim ownership of Liscarrol under the new Penal Laws. If you do not sell it to this Protestant cousin of yours, you will be forced to forfeit Liscarrol, with nothing to show for your bravado.”
Deirdre shook her head. “I will not sell Liscarrol, nor will I lose it. I refuse to accept that.”
“Because your nursemaid has fits and ‘sees’ the link between you and some wretched lass a hundred years dead?”
Deirdre refused to be roused. “Because, my darling simpleton, because I will do what I must in order to save my home. My home, Killian. Can you not understand that?”
Killian’s face drained of its color. “Nae, lass, I cannot understand what I’ve never had. An orphan child calls no place home.”
Deirdre rose to her feet and grasped one of his hands in hers. “I did not mean that, and you know I did not. Please listen to me. I have sworn that I will wed no man but you. Liscarrol will be your home as well as mine.” She smiled a cajoling smile. “In truth, the moment we are wed, Liscarrol becomes yours. ’Tis my bride’s dowry to you.” A strange light came into his eyes, and his expression altered from one of anger to one of high speculation. “What is it, Killian?”
Killian shook his head, shuttering his eyes with lowered lids. “Why is this so important to you?”
Deirdre made a helpless gesture with her hands. “I cannot explain it. Have you never felt driven by needs that you cannot name?”
“Too often,” Killian answered.
“Then?”
“Does this mean so much to you that you are willing to thwart me, even postpone our marriage, that you may call Liscarrol your home once more?”
“I would rather we called Liscarrol home,” she answered lightly. Then, seeing that he was serious, she added, “Even if it meant we should never wed. I cannot explain, even to myself, but I must do this. I have waited for a man who would help me win and hold Liscarrol. That man is you.”
Killian stared hard at her. “Then I will help you. But you must swear, and think well on this, you must swear to accept me in everything that I do. You must not question or forestall me in any matter, regardless of how bitter or distasteful you may find it.”
“You frighten me,” Deirdre answered.
“Aye, and I should. You will not like my methods, but I believe I know a way to save Liscarrol.”
“What is it?”
“Nae, lass, you must trust with blind faith, if you are brave enough.”
A gust of fear blew through Deirdre, a clammy gust that slid down her spine and eddied in her stomach. “You will not leave me?”
“Never that!” More kindly he said, “If you ever change your mind, if ever you wish to abandon the battle and return to France, I will cease at once and bring you back.”
Deirdre nodded. “Then join the battle, my love. I am ready.”
Killian looked down at her with a mingling of pity, tenderness, and horror at the bargain they had struck. Into “the valley of the shadow of death”; did she realize that that was what she asked for? No, she could not, not yet.
As for himself, once more he was called upon to champion another’s desires. She had a use for him. That was not the same as love. All his life, people had found uses for his talents. From the monastery to the battlefield to the duchesse’s bedroom, he had served wants not governed by his own needs. Something of his own—at last he had found it. But was loving Deirdre enough when her love for him was not enough for her?
He shook his head. He must not think like that. It would destroy everything. What Deirdre wanted he would stake his life to get for her. “We will begin by finding a priest, but before that I must make a call.”
“Upon the duchesse?” Deirdre asked.
Killian’s smile was tinged with irony. “But of course.”
“Do not sell your soul for me!” she called after him.
Killian did not answer, for that was, in part, exactly what he planned to do. He needed work, and the duchesse had offered him the job of overseeing her smuggling operation out of Ireland. If the position was still open, he would find a way to persuade her to give it to him.
He shut his mind to the thought that he had lost once again the battle to govern his own future. Perhaps it was never meant to be.
PART THREE
The Return
All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born.
—Easter 1916, W. B. Yeats
A power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe.
—The Fairy Thorn, Samuel Ferguson
Chapter Sixteen
Deirdre awakened gasping for breath, her heart pounding heavily in her chest. Danger! Danger! Danger! The word galloped through her thoughts in accompaniment to her pulse. Cold beads of sweat rolled down her forehead and others trickled down her spine, pasting her night rail to her back. Icy fingers of dread lingered as she gazed about frantically for the sight of familiar objects in the gloom. Still caught in the nightmare’s grip, she recognized nothing. This was not her bedroom in Nantes, nor was it the room in Paris which she had rented for the past four weeks. The tiny enclosed space had no windows or light.
The sudden pitch and roll of the mattress beneath her made her grab the side of the bed with a squeal of fright. The room righted itself immediately and settled back into the shallow rise and fall that she had not been aware of until now.
She was aboard ship.
Memory came flooding back as she reached for flint and struck a spark to light the lantern that hung at the bunk’s head. The ship was a Dutch merchant vessel bound for the Irish city of Cork. The golden flame of the lantern spread light before the retreating darkness and struck a warm gleam from the surface of the wide gold band on the third finger of her left hand.
Deirdre stared at her hand, happiness washing ov
er her. That morning, she had stood before a priest and wed Killian Mainchin Aodh MacShane.
Unease wriggled across the surface of her new calm. How strange that when her happiness was at its peak, she should awake shuddering in the grip of a nightmare.
She gazed uneasily at the dark corners where shadows lay piled high. Was she being watched? The darkness seemed alive, alert to her very breath. She pulled the covers up over her and pressed herself back against the bulkhead.
The opening of the cabin portal made her heart skip a beat. When Killian emerged from behind it she scrambled from the bedding and launched herself into his arms.
“Mo cuishle!” Killian exclaimed as he reached out to steady her, “you’re shivering.” He bent to catch a glimpse of her face. “What is it, asthore? Did something frighten you?”
Deirdre lifted her head reluctantly but did not relax her grip upon his waist. She felt very foolish as she gazed up into his concerned face. Would he think her a child or, worse, unhappy, if she complained of nightmares? “Aye, something frightened me. You were not here.”
A frown of doubt furrowed Killian’s brow. “Truly? Nothing more?”
Deirdre hugged him closer until her cheek was once more against his shoulder. “Is that not enough? I am a bride but a day. Am I not to be skittish, even foolish, when it comes to the whereabouts of my husband?”
“Aye, asthore. ’Tis reason enough.” He was edgy himself, his mind full of the venture before them. In a few days, they would be docking in Ireland, where the future was far from certain.
Deirdre raised her head. “Why did you leave? Did I do wrong to fall asleep? After all, we did, we had…” She could not finish as a knowing look entered his eyes.
“Aye, we did and we had, lass, and never was a man more satisfied than I,” Killian finished for her, gentle laughter in his voice. His arms closed around her, lifting her feet from the floor. “But then there’s a madness in my blood that never stays satisfied for long. I daresay you’ll never be safe from me when there are quiet hours before us and you blush so rosily and look quite pleased by my lustful ways.”
