A Rose in Splendor

by Laura Parker

  “What’s got ye grinning like a man in his cups?” O’Donovan called down once more.

  “The thought of all this lovely wine in my cellar,” Killian answered.

  Four hours later, he sat at the captain’s table and surveyed his companions. Ventura, the captain, was not known to him. He looked past Ventura to the first mate and steward. His gaze moved on to O’Donovan, who had drunk enough brandy to float this tub, and then to Cuan O’Dineen, who watched them all in stony silence.

  “There you are. Your cargo in trade for mine,” Ventura said as he handed the slate of inventory past Killian to O’Dineen. As Cuan reached for it, Killian clamped a hand over his wrist.

  O’Donovan gave him a startled look from beneath his bushy red brows. “’Tis always Cuan who reads the cargo list.”

  As O’Donovan’s eyes narrowed, Killian realized that the man was not nearly as drunk as he had appeared. Perhaps it was his way of watching without being watched. He released Cuan’s arm. “Let him read it, by all means.” He looked at Cuan. “Read it aloud.”

  Cuan frowned over the slate a moment, then thrust it at Killian. “Ye read it aloud. I’ve nae finished me brandy. And be sharp, MacShane. Ventura’s a man who loves money nae less than we.”

  Killian glanced at the captain, expecting a smile of agreement, but the captain’s face was blank, as if he had been surprised by Cuan’s gesture. “With your permission?” Killian said, and Ventura nodded slowly.

  Killian glanced at the list. It contained what he might have expected. Rum and molasses, bottles of brandy and French wines, silks and velvets were listed on the duchesse’s portion of the tablet. Irish butter, hides, wool, flannel homespun, and slaucan were listed on the Irish side. He read it again, to confirm that he had missed nothing, and then looked up. “It seems in order, but isn’t something missing?”

  O’Donovan and the captain exchanged glances. “What, lad?” O’Donovan questioned through a huge yawn.

  “We unloaded at least twice as many crates as there are listed here. And why aren’t the kegs of butter and hides we loaded listed?”

  O’Donovan shrugged. “Prices vary from month to month so we added a bit to make up the difference. Ventura owed us a bit from his last cargo. Now we’re even again.”

  Killian dropped the slate back on the table. Smuggling was too risky a business for even the most honest of men to be granted credit against goods owed. Ventura might sink, be caught, or give up the trade before he could deliver. Cash and barter were the only methods of payment.

  He turned to gaze at the swarthy captain. “Does the duchesse know that you accept credit in her behalf?”

  “Base-born bastard!” Ventura swore and stood up.

  Killian accepted with equanimity the man’s baleful stare. He was much more interested in the sleight-of-hand going on between the first mate and the steward. He cocked his pistol under the table. “I would not do that,” he said softly, his gaze hard on the first mate’s face. “I will kill you and have a shot left over for your captain.”

  O’Donovan wheeled about, glaring at the pistol the first mate had pulled. “Have ye completely run mad?” he roared. He tore free his sword from its scabbard and brought the flat of the blade down across the man’s wrist. The man yelped in pain and the pistol fell to the floor where Cuan quickly scooped it up. “Get him out! Out afore I kill him!” O’Donovan roared. “Cuan, take the captain and crew up on deck till I’ve finished me meal.”

  Shoving the captain and first mate before him, Cuan led the men out of the cabin.

  “A fine display,” Killian said, his expression implacable. “I will keep my pistol drawn, you understand?”

  O’Donovan wiped his sword blade on his sleeve and shot it home into the scabbard. “Well now, laddie,” he began expansively as he reseated himself, “being as ye’re one of us, I’ll be telling ye the truth. There’s naught to do with the duchesse here. The surplus goods are mine, and what I exchanged them for is me business alone.”

  Killian laid his pistol on the table. “Weapons and ammunition?”

  “Aren’t ye the clever lad!” O’Donovan grinned but his eyes were cold. “Ye’re of a right mind for the trade, ye are.”

  “You smuggle weapons?”

  “Aye! I have done so for some little time,” O’Donovan agreed pleasantly. “And a nice tidy sum it earns me, too.”

  “You arm the Irish?” Killian questioned.

  O’Donovan squinted to bring Killian’s face into view. “I would nae have thought ye a partisan in politics, MacShane. ’Tis the porridge of men like O’Dineen. I say take what ye can from the present and let the future rot. If the fools are set on fighting after the battle’s lost, then bad cess to them, I say! A man’s entitled to find his death any way he chooses.”

  Killian considered this. “That is a dangerous philosophy.”

  “Aye,” O’Donovan answered and leaned back in his chair. “I consider ye a clever man, MacShane.” He paused to pour a long swallow of brandy down his throat before continuing. “But there’s something a clever man often forgets. He’s nae so clever but there’s others about as clever.”

  “A threat,” Killian said softly.

  “Nae, lad, a warning. There’s English looking for ye concerning a matter of cattle ye tried to sell on market day, I’m told.”

  “You informed on me.”

  O’Donovan shrugged. “The English are sorely tempted to hang me every once in a while. Fresh meat keeps them occupied.”

  “You bastard.”

  “Aye, that I am, God rest me mother’s black soul!” He waved a hand. “But to yer problem. It could blow over, the business of the cows. But were ye to be found smuggling ammunition to the rapparees, well now, a man couldn’t rightly talk himself out of the hangman’s knot behind that, I’m thinking.”

  Killian’s face was as granite. “Would murder not be simpler?”

  O’Donovan chuckled. “Nae. I listened to you and there’s sense in what you said. The duchesse would nae like ye turning up dead, and I’ve need of her ships to do me business.” He gave Killian a sly look. “The men we captured the day ye came to Liscarrol were full of news. They said you were the duchesse’s new man, come to take over the Irish trade.” Killian said nothing. “To my way of thinking, we could work together and both profit without the duchesse knowing the difference.”

  “I could kill you and take my chances,” Killian answered.

  “But ye won’t, MacShane, because if I die, ye die; and your lady wife will be left to face charges of being a smuggler’s bride, my men will see to it. I would nae want to see her lovely neck stretched upon a gibbet. O’ course, she might pixie her way out of it. She has the mark, and a man cannot know the power of a beanfeasa. But, being that ye love her, ye will do nothing.”

  Killian carefully reached for his pistol. “Have you informed on me already?”

  “Only the cows,” O’Donovan answered, seemingly indifferent to the gun Killian held. “’Twas only to be a wee demonstration of me power. I did nae think ye’d discover me weapons business so soon. Now, well, ye must deal with me or else.”

  “Who else have you informed on?”

  O’Donovan seemed not to hear the question. “Liscarrol has been mine these last years. Did ye nae wonder that the stable stands so well against the elements when the rest was rack and ruin? We keep our supplies there between smuggling runs. Lost a few of the lads to the English a short while ago but the rest are as eager as ever.” He grinned. “The hangman’s knot cannot long dull the gleam o’ gold.”

  Killian felt the bile rise into his throat but he thrust the feeling aside. “Why did you let the English hang your child?”

  O’Donovan glared at him. “The lass was a sad mistake, but I had naught to do with it.”

  “Am I free to leave the ship and take one of the smacks back to Ireland?”

  O’Donovan nodded. “Every bit of it, lad. And good luck to ye! Ye’ll be needing it.”

  Killia
n stood up, grinning broadly “Bad cess to you!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “He’s an ugly little brute,” Fey observed from her position at Deirdre’s shoulder.

  “He is not. Dary’s quite a handsome lad…for his age,” Deirdre answered. She added the last qualifying phrase somewhat doubtfully, for the child they had fished from the river three days earlier was much too thin for her liking. No chubby pink cheeks or dimpled chin for him. His tiny face was sallow and withered like an old man’s, and his ribs were visible through his skin. “Mrs. Mooney says that he will need a month of proper fattening before he resembles one of the cherubs.”

  “Mrs. Mooney should know,” Fey answered. “She’s a great cow, she is. Them udders of hers could suckle a calf!”

  Deirdre looked up in disapproval. “Can you say nothing that does not torment, ridicule, or injure?”

  Fey shrugged. “He’s ugly and she’s fat. ’Tis the truth, nothing more nor less.”

  “Mrs. Mooney graciously consented to come and live at Liscarrol with her new baby that Dary might have milk. I think she deserves a great deal of respect and courtesy. You nor I could do what she is doing.”

  Fey smirked. “Do ye think ye will grow as great and round as Mrs. Mooney when MacShane’s seed has taken root? And yer udders, ye’ll need a wheelbarrow like Mrs. Mooney!”

  Deirdre turned back to Dary. “One day your mouth will get you into trouble from which no one will be able to save you.”

  Fey watched her fuss over the wizened babe a moment longer and then swung away toward the door. No one had time for her anymore. As much as she hated to admit it, she missed Deirdre’s company even when they did not speak. Now, with the babe in the house and MacShane gone, she might as well not exist.

  She walked out into the yard, considering what she should do. She still had enough money to return to France. Darce’s death would be forgotten now. She could go back to Nantes and…and…

  She kicked viciously at a stone and yelped as she stubbed her toe.

  “Oinseach! Why’d ye do that!”

  Fey looked up, her dark eyes blazing. “Go away, ye cow-eyed bosthoon!

  “Still as evil-tongued as ever,” Enan said sourly. “Were ye a proper lad, I would have me licks on ye.”

  Fey lifted her fists. “Would ye try now?”

  Enan’s lips twitched. “I’d never strike a lass.”

  “Well, I’ve nothing against striking a big stupid lad,” Fey cried, and with one well-aimed fist she landed a solid blow to Enan’s middle.

  She heard his oooph of surprise but he did not double up under her blow. He merely sucked in a great breath of air and then expelled it as laughter.

  “Ye’ve a fair hook there, but I’d nae advise ye to do that again,” he said when his laughter subsided.

  Fey looked at him doubtfully and then, shrugging, dropped her fists. “’Twas me best punch,” she admitted begrudgingly. “Learned it from a Portuguese seaman.”

  “Did ye how? And were ye his doxy?”

  Fey stiffened. “I was not!”

  Enan shrugged. “I just wondered, what with ye dressing like that. Me ma says only doxies and such wear men’s britches in public.”

  “What yer ma knows would nae fill a thimble,” Fey shot back.

  For the first time, Enan’s expression hardened into anger. “I will thank ye to keep yer mouth respectful when ye speak of me ma, or lass or no, I’ll make ye sorry ye ever spoke!”

  The usual mutinous look marred Fey’s features as she said, “I do nae care if ye never speak to me again.” She spun on her heel and marched away.

  She was surprised that he followed her. She had struck him, insulted his mother, and made him angry. By all rights he should never speak to her again. She spun around just before she reached the bridge. “Why do ye follow me?”

  Enan shrugged, his slow, almost shy smile making the most of his ordinary face. “Ye’re a strange girl, that ye are. I’m nae so attracted to lasses as lasses go. But ye, ye stomp about in them boots, swaggering enough to make a bull blush, and where ye go, ye spread anger and bad feelings. I’ve a cause to wonder why ye’re so miserable.”

  “’Tis no business of yers,” Fey answered, but she was a bit unnerved to have herself summed up so poorly.

  “Me ma says—” He eyed her warningly before he continued. “Me ma says ’tis only one thing can make a lass so miserable for so long and that’s a man. Did ye lose yer beau?”

  “I’ve nae beau and never have.” Fey turned away but not, she knew, before he saw the blush creeping into her face.

  “Me ma says yer foster mother could get yer beau back, were she of a mind. There’s charms and potions known only to a beanfeasa that can make a lad fall in love with the lass what wants him.”

  “She would nae help me,” Fey answered in a small voice. “She’s won him for herself.”

  “’Tis MacShane ye love?”

  She did not mean to say it; it just slipped out; and Fey cringed instinctively against the laughter she expected to accompany her admission, but she heard nothing. After a moment she unhunched her shoulders and looked up at him.

  Enan was staring at her, his bright eyes wide in amazement. “Ye love the master? Mavrone! ’Tis a sad thing, that. Only, tell me, why would ye be wanting him?”

  Fey’s mouth fell open. “Are ye mad? He’s strong and fine and brave and kind and—”

  “And old,” Enan finished with a self-satisfied grin. “All them qualities are good ones, but what’s to separate him from many another, like meself, for instance.”

  “Yerself?” Fey questioned scornfully.

  Enan blushed but he held his ground. “I said, for instance. I’m nae a beauty but I do not put the rooks to flight. I’m strong. Saved ye from drowning, didn’t I? And I’m brave and kind, when necessary.”

  “And young,” Fey finished in derision.

  “Young and healthy,” Enan amended. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  Fey eyed him coldly. “I do nae love ye.”

  “How would ye know?”

  Fey’s dark brows winged up to disappear behind her bangs. “That’s a fair stupid question even from ye.”

  Enan’s cheeks reddened even more but he would not quit the field. “Ye say ye love a man that belongs to another. Ye say ye love him for qualities I possess, and then ye say ye don’t love me but ye do love him. ’Tis easy to see who’s the stupid one.”

  “MacShane doesn’t make fun of me,” Fey fairly shouted at him.

  “Ah well, he has me there. He’s the better man, I see it now.”

  Fey kicked him in the shin with her boot and he howled; but when she tried to run away, he let go of his ankle and gave chase, catching her before she had gone more than a few steps.

  “Let me go! I’ll scratch yer eyes out!” Fey cried as he hauled her backward against his long slender frame.

  His hand on her waist turned her about until she looked up into his laughing face. “Well now, I’m a brave man and nae so afraid of a few scratches.” He ducked his head quickly and suddenly his mouth was on hers.

  Too stunned to move, Fey remained still under his kiss. Even when he lifted his head, she stood staring up mutely at him.

  “Is that the way of it, then?” Enan questioned in mild surprise.

  “Way of what?” Fey asked.

  “To shut yer lovely mouth, colleen dhas. A kippeen or a pogue, I did nae know which it would take to do the trick.” He grinned cockily. “’Tis glad I am to know ye prefer kissing.”

  Fey balled up her fists but Enan gave her no chance to use them. He dragged her slender body once more against his, and to the surprise of them both she lifted not fists but gently curling hands that cradled his head and brought his mouth down once more on hers.

  Fey did not know much about kissing; but she had watched Deirdre and MacShane at the exercise often enough to know that it was pleasurable, and she was not di
sappointed. A cow herder Enan might be, but he knew a thing or two about kisses. When they finally broke apart, she was smiling and he was gazing at her with new insight.

  “Ye’re a fair fey creature,” Enan said huskily. “But I would nae grieve over MacShane any longer. Ye’ve a beau, if ye want.” He glanced down at her. “But only if ye wear skirts like a proper lass. I do nae want the countryside thinking Enan Ross is sweet on a lad!”

  Fey stared at him, not knowing what to think of the strange emotions tumbling through her. If she did indeed love MacShane, how could Enan’s hot hands and warm kisses make her feel giddy and happy and hungry for more?

  She pushed out of his arms and he let her go. She lifted her chin. “I do nae need yer charity. Keep yer kisses!” As she turned and walked away, she heard his gentle mocking laughter and knew that he knew what she had felt in his arms. The sound of horses was faint but both of them turned together as the pounding rode the wind toward them. Enan recognized them first. “English!” he cried and grabbed Fey by the wrist, dragging her after him. “Go to the house and tell Lady MacShane. I’ll call me da and the others. There’s trouble in the wind!”

  Fey did as she was told, but Mrs. Mooney was there ahead of her. Deirdre turned with a worried frown to her as she entered the Great Hall. “Did you see them, too?”

  Fey nodded. “Bloody red coats and all. Enan says it means trouble.”

  “Perhaps it’s my cousin Neil,” Deirdre answered. “Killian wrote him to say we married. Perhaps he’s come for a visit.”

  “With English soldiers?” Mrs. Mooney questioned doubtfully.

  Deirdre sighed. “I don’t know. Whoever it is, we must greet them. I wish Killian had returned.”

  The two other women shared her wish.

  “Ye’d better give Dary to me,” Mrs. Mooney said, reaching out for the boy. “And I would nae mention him to the others, yer ladyship.”

  “I mean to ask about the lad’s mother,” Deirdre replied. “She may have worked for someone they know. She would be easy to identify. I want her tombstone to have a proper name.”

  “Were ye to get her proper name, ye’d lose the lad,” Mrs. Mooney warned sternly.