by Laura Parker
Deirdre looked up to see that desire had expanded his pupils, but she was not so easily appeased. “You do not look as though you tried very hard to resist.”
“What did you desire, bloody wounds and blackened eyes?”
“Aye!”
“Nae, lass,” Killian murmured warmly, nuzzling her neck once more.
“Put me down this instant!” Deirdre commanded sharply, but oddly enough she reached out to encircle his neck with her arms.
“Mo cuishle,” he murmured thickly into the hollow of her throat.
“Now!” she answered less steadily.
The grass was lushly green on the riverbank. She sank into it as easily as into a feather tick when Killian lowered her onto the ground. He was smiling at her, a new cocky grin that she had never before seen on his face.
“You’re very certain of your welcome,” she challenged.
Killian did not answer. Instead, he reached for the row of tiny bows on her bodice.
Deirdre giggled. “We stand in fearsome company. What if you’re attacked again?”
Killian opened her bodice and plucked loose the lacing that held her corset closed.
“You would not?” she whispered in scandalized tones.
The corset parted as easily as her bodice and he brushed one rosy peak with a finger. “You’re an uncommon lass, Lady Deirdre. Not many a gentlewoman would bare herself in the open light of day, however hotly passion runs in her veins.”
Deirdre tried to close her bodice but he caught her hands, laughing at her outraged face. “Lass, lass, do you not yet know when a man’s delighting in your wantonness?”
“Release me, you spalpeen!”
Killian threw a leg over her until he straddled her waist. “Does it shame you to want a man so?”
“I do not want you, Captain MacShane. You’re too conceited by far. Killian? Do not—Killian!”
His cheeks were dark with whiskers and they lightly abraded her skin as he tenderly suckled her. Deirdre shut her eyes against the pleasure as a shameful blush warmed her skin from cheeks to belly. His actions were shocking, reckless, scandalous…and very, very exciting. As his lips moved from her breasts to her abdomen, she felt his hands on her thighs raising her petticoats.
“Can ye nae manage a place of shelter that ye must be rutting under a bush?” questioned an exasperated voice.
Deirdre squealed in fright and tried to throw Killian’s weight from her but he would not budge. He looked up, more startled than frightened, for he knew the owner of the voice.
Fey stood a few feet away, her hands on her narrow hips and a look of pure disgust on her features.
“Fey, lass,” he greeted with a lopsided grin as he lowered Deirdre’s petticoats to a more respectable level. “I apologize. I had forgotten about you.”
The truth of his statement did not have the desired effect. Fey turned on her heel and stalked away.
Killian looked back at Deirdre. “I fear I hurt her feelings.”
Deirdre watched the girl’s retreating back. “We both did,” she answered quietly, “more than I had realized until now.”
She did not question why the girl should be here in Ireland. The answer of how did not seem important for the moment. Fey had crossed an ocean and the reason was as plain as the look that had been in her eyes as she gazed at them sprawled in the grass. The girl was in love with Killian MacShane.
She looked at her husband and put a hand to his cheek. “I think perhaps we should rise, my love.”
“We have not finished,” he answered with a prodding reminder.
She smiled and tweaked his nose. “Musha, my love! If we rise now, I’ve no fear but what you’ll rise again later.”
Chapter Twenty
Deirdre paused in her sweeping to adjust the strips of linen that Killian had wound about her palms to protect them from further blisters. She smiled as she remembered the look of horror on his face when she told him of her labor. He had been impressed, she could see, but a little ashamed that his wife had taken on such a menial task. After berating her for damaging her hands, he had strictly forbidden her to work. That had been three days ago. Since then she had cleaned the solar room on the upper floor, carted away most of the debris from the Great Hall, and cleaned the plasterwork of the small chapel, while Killian worked to repair the roof on the third floor. When he finished, they would finally be able to sleep in a private room, away from the tense silence of their guest.
Deirdre glanced at Fey, who lackadaisically moved her broom over the slate floor without accumulating any dust. The girl rarely spoke, and when she did, it was with a dagger-point gaze which rebuffed any attempt at friendliness.
The rumble of Deirdre’s stomach reminded her that Killian had gone to check the rabbit snares he had laid in the grassy fields beyond the river the day before. Food was their most constant problem. If they were lucky, they would have roasted mountain hare for supper.
The sound of heavy boots in the hallway brought a smile to her lips before she raised her head. “You’re back so quickly. Did you have luck then?”
The smile froze on her face as a man moved to fill the doorway. He was huge, larger even than Darragh or Conall. And hairy. Bright red hair sprouted from his head and chin, ran in tangled skeins down his massive forearms, and curled forth on his half-bared chest. A pistol was stuck in his waistband but something more surprising riveted her gaze. The jeweled hilt of the O’Neill dagger, lost when her horse disappeared, was sticking from his belt.
“Forward, the lass is, and without the bashful eye of a maiden.” Laughter bellowed forth from the giant. “Musha! Had I known I’d be made so welcome, lass, I’d have come all the sooner.”
A flush of embarrassment flooded her face as she met his leer, and she gripped her broom handle in both hands. “And who would you be, that you enter this house without knocking?”
The big man smiled expansively and lifted both arms wide. “Why, yer neighbor, lass, come to welcome ye.”
Deirdre saw now that he held a brace of pintail ducks in one hand and a reed basket slung over his other arm. “There’s ale inside,” he said, lifting the basket higher. “Butter and oakcakes, and honey as well.”
Deirdre did not answer though her stomach turned over at the thought of bread and honey; and when she glanced at Fey, the girl was looking at her with interest for the first time in three days. “We’ve little enough to offer a guest,” she began carefully, her eyes on the doorway beyond the stranger. “My husband will return at any moment. You may deal with him.”
He walked toward her, his jack boots ringing on the slate tiles. “I’ve an eye for a winsome lass and ye could do nae better than to make friends with Oadh O’Donovan.”
Deirdre’s mouth was suddenly dry. She had heard that name before, in the tavern in Kilronane. This was the man the English soldiers sought, the man they had tried to flush out by hanging others, including his own child.
O’Donovan’s smile widened until it seemed his face would split under the pressure. “I see ye’ve heard of me.”
Deirdre quickly quelled a shudder at the ghastly memory of the child. “Aye, I’ve heard of you,” she answered stonily, “and none of it was to your credit.”
O’Donovan’s red brows peaked above his nose. “Ye know the name O’Donovan and have no fear in the hearing of it. ’Tis a rare one with so much courage, for all I’m known for a soft spot for the lassees.”
Deirdre lifted her broom. “You’re not welcome here, O’Donovan.” She sent Fey a beseeching look, but O’Donovan caught it and turned to the child in breeches and coat.
“Here, lad. The ducks are nae half so fine till they’ve been plucked and gutted. Take them into the yard so the feathers will nae fly about yer mistress’s head.”
To Deirdre’s dismay, Fey took the proffered ducks and basket, and with a last smirking glance, turned to leave the room.
“Fey!” she cried, but the girl ignored her. O’Donovan’s triumphant grin provoked her
too much for her to repeat the plea for help. She squared her shoulders. “You’ve come to the wrong place for pleasure. Take yourself to where there are willing lasses.”
“Now there’s a saying, lass, that there’s no unwilling lasses, only untutored lads.”
“They lied,” Deirdre maintained stoutly, but her hands trembled slightly on the broom as he continued toward her.
“Ye’re more than passing fair, colleen dhas, but ye’ve nae the look of a bean sidhe.”
“Why do you call me that?” she asked. Her eyes darted toward the window. Had she seen a man crossing the bridge?
“They told me ye were a daughter of the Sidhe. Where are yer fairy companions, then?”
He reached for her, but Deirdre twisted away, bringing her broom handle down hard. It cracked in two where it met the hard bone of his shoulder. She twisted away but he swung her around by the shoulder to face him.
“Let me go!” she said through gritted teeth and brought her knee up sharply.
O’Donovan was adept at sidestepping such a blow and her knee harmlessly struck his thigh. “A fine try, lass, but Oadh’s nae so slow or careless as Cuan O’Dineen.”
Deirdre stilled. Cuan had been with the men who captured Killian. He was one of O’Donovan’s comrades.
“Aye, I know what ye’re thinking, lass, and ye’re right. Yer man and I have crossed paths afore.”
Deirdre had not been listening to his words, only watching for the moment when he tensed for action. She was not the daughter and sister of soldiers for nothing. When his grip tightened to draw her close, she went limp so that her weight was suddenly full against him. Her right hand closed over the hilt of the O’Neill skean and her left sought his pistol. An instant later, she flung herself away from him with all her might.
She came free with a suddenness that left half the bodice of her blouse in his hands as she tumbled backward onto the floor. Her left elbow struck the slate with a painful jolt, and the numbing pain made her drop the pistol.
“Och, lass, ye’re a fighter, and that’s the truth of it!” O’Donovan declared cheerfully as he threw away the torn cloth. “Mayhaps there’s more of the Gael in yer blood than I’d allowed.”
He glanced at the skean she clutched. “Ye would nae cut a man, lass: Ye’ve nae the stomach for it.”
Deirdre flashed her weapon. “’Tis an O’Neill blade and one that would not fail its owner.”
To her surprise, a puzzled look came into the huge man’s eyes. An instant later, a stricken look replaced it and he fell back a step.
“The mark!” He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and then pointed at her shoulder. “I said I’d nae believe until I saw it for meself.”
Deirdre glanced quickly at her torn sleeve and the rose mark revealed through the rend. The priest had reacted the same when he saw the mark. She looked up. “What does this mean to you?”
“’Tis the sign of the otherworld,” O’Donovan replied, making with his fingers the sign to warn off the spirits. He was not a religious man, and found the mealymouthing piety of men like his cousin Teague O’Donovan worthless, but he was an Irishman. The Sidhe was strong in the wilds of the west. Living in the bogs and mountains of Munster, he had seen things more astonishing than the pitiful miracles that Christianity proclaimed but could not produce to order. “I did nae know ye for a beanfeasa,” he said defensively. “And ’twas no insult I offered ye in wanting to kiss yer lushmore lips. Ye’ll nae be holding it against me?”
Deirdre glanced once more at the doorway and joy lit her face. “Killian!”
O’Donovan swung about to find Killian standing behind him with his pistol drawn.
“MacShane, lad!” he greeted expansively. “And looking as well as ye might. I was just welcoming yer lady wife.”
To Killian’s surprise, relief flickered in the man’s gaze. His gaze swung from O’Donovan to Deirdre and his features hardened as he saw her torn clothing. “You’ve a curious method of conversation, O’Donovan. I do not believe my wife approves of it.”
O’Donovan shrugged. “Ye cannot blame a man for amusing himself when the temptation presents itself. ’Twas only to pass the time till ye arrived.”
Killian eyed him casually. “Is that what it was?”
O’Donovan glanced at the still angry young woman and then at her mark before his gaze slid away. “I’m nae a man to overstay his welcome.” He sidestepped toward the door. “Liscarrol has fallen on hard times, anyone can see. I brought ye just now a fresh brace of ducks and drink enough for both ye and your lady wife.”
Killian frowned as he regarded the huge man. Where was O’Donovan’s bluster, his swagger, his evil temper? And why was he watching Deirdre as though he expected her to turn into a wolf and bite him? “And here I thought you’d come to see me.”
O’Donovan nodded, his gaze continually flicking back and forth between the two. “Ye outfoxed me, that ye did, MacShane. And I’ve had another thought on the matter of our business dealings.” He grinned. “Half for you, half for me and the lads.”
Killian’s frown deepened. “For a careful man, you’re damned careless with your speech. Come out to the stables. We’ve kept my wife from her cleaning long enough.”
“You cannot mean to entertain him, even if it is in a stable?” Deirdre asked.
“Dee, my love, kindly keep your sweet mouth shut,” Killian answered and pocketed his pistol. “O’Donovan?” He gestured toward the stairwell.
“He’s the man the English seek!” Deirdre challenged.
“Thank you, Dee, for the announcement, but we’ve no Englishman to interest in the matter,” Killian replied in the same maddening tone.
When they were gone, Deirdre tucked the O’Neill skean into her waistband and bent to pick up the ruined broom. With a mutter of disgust, she cast it aside. How dare Killian behave toward that depraved creature as though he were some country squire who had come calling. What business dealings could they possibly have together?
From the corner of her eye, she saw Fey on the stairs. “Just one minute!” she called as the girl tried to sneak up the stairwell.
Fey paused and swung about. “What will ye be wanting then?”
“Why did you run away and leave me?”
“When?” Fey questioned in a bored voice.
“You know very well when—when O’Donovan came.”
Fey shrugged. “I did as I was bade.” She looked up quickly, a flash of enmity in her eyes. “Ye’ve said I do nae do as I’m told often enough. Ye do nae think I hear ye whispering to MacShane in the dark. Well, I do!”
Deirdre blushed. Much of what she and Killian whispered in the night was too private to be repeated in the daylight. “I’ve never said a harsh word against you, and well you know it. I’ve even taken your part against Killian.”
“Ye’ve nae need to take me part against MacShane. If he’s angry, he’s right!”
Deirdre regarded the girl’s flushed face anew and what she read there appalled her. The girl hated her enough to wish her harm. “You think a great deal of MacShane,” she said softly.
Fey’s mouth tightened into a silent knot.
“You told me once you wished you were old enough to attract his eye. You still do, do you not?”
Fey dropped her gaze to her boot tips.
“And you hate me for being the lass he loves.”
Fey’s gaze swung upward in sharp wariness.
“I do not blame you,” Deirdre continued. “I would hate as well any other woman Killian chose to love. ’Tis a bitter thing to love a man who does not love you back.”
“Shut up! Shut up!” Fey cried, flying from the steps with her fists raised. “Shut up talking about MacShane loving ye!”
The force of her body nearly knocked Deirdre from her feet. She flung her arms about Fey, pinioning the girl’s arms at the elbows to keep the pair of them from toppling to the floor. Fey did not stop struggling. She kicked Deirdre’s ankles and beat her back with hard small fis
ts, but Deirdre held on until Fey turned and sank her teeth into her shoulder.
With a gasp of pain, Deirdre flung the girl from her.
“Ye do nae deserve him!” Fey raged, her chest heaving up and down and her eyes blazing. “Ye did naught to earn his love when ’twas me who saved his life!”
Deirdre’s own heart was pumping like a piston and her ankles throbbed too much for her to think of the wisest, most mature thing to do. She reached out and grabbed Fey by the shoulders and shook her as hard as she could. “You will never, never hurt me again! Do you understand?”
Tears burned in her eyes and she gulped back a sob as she released the girl. “Have you learned nothing of manners in the year you’ve lived with me? What is to become of you if you go about biting people and bruising their ankles whenever you are angry.”
Deirdre paused suddenly, stunned by the triviality of her words. She spoke as if to an unruly but well-reared child, not a cast-off orphan who had killed a man before her thirteenth birthday. “Fey, Fey,” she murmured as she sank to the floor in defeat.
Fey watched her a moment in silence, wondering if Deirdre would faint, but she merely wiped away a tear and sat staring at the floor.
“Ye’ll be telling him what I done,” Fey said after a long silence.
Deirdre shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. O’Donovan did not hurt me.”
“But he might have,” Fey replied.
“Aye,” Deirdre answered wearily.
“And ’twould be me fault. MacShane should know.”
Deirdre looked up. “Then you tell him.”
Fey jumped. “Me? Why should I?”
“Because it would be the grown-up thing to do.”
Fey screwed up her face and spat a string of colorful Spanish epithets she had learned at the dockside of Nantes. “Ye bloody stupid cow!” she finished. “’Tis always the same. It’s ‘be a lady, Fey,’ ‘be sweet, be pleasant, be good, be stupid, be quiet,’ be what everyone else thinks I should. But it does nae mean I do not feel things. I love MacShane and ye took him from me!”
