Call Home the Heart

by Shannon Farrell

  But Douglas Caldwell had died, and then his wife, giving Augustine free rein to despoil the estate with his gambling and devil-may-care attitude.

  Lochlainn had run away from the home that held such bittersweet memories for him, and had traveled the world, seeking his fame and fortune. He had done well enough for himself, certainly, but in his opinion Australia could never rival the beauties of Ireland, the glories of his home.

  After three interminably long years, Augustine Caldwell's summons for Lochlainn to return to Barnakilla had been the answer to Lochlainn's most heartfelt prayers.

  But what would the future hold for him now? And what was he to do with the delicate young beauty who lay unconscious on the bed? Poor girl. How had she come to be mixed up in all of this?

  But then she had loved Augustine, hadn't she? He recalled her hysteria in the bedroom a few moments before. I always did have the damnedest luck, Lochlainn thought gloomily, as he reached out to stroke her fair, petal-soft skin. He fingered her silky raven-black hair, admiring her beauty while she slept. Her complexion was so pale, she looked as though she were a visitor from another realm. Her high cheekbones, long, moderately thin nose which turned up slightly at the tip, and ruby red, full lips, might not be to every man's taste, being so ethereal, but for Lochlainn she was lovelier than words could ever hope to describe.

  He had never believed in love at first sight until he had seen this tiny nymph staring at him with her incredible amethyst eyes the day before, when he had guided his employer and his new bride off the boat from Liverpool, straight from their honeymoon in Scotland and England.

  Quite tall for a woman, though tiny in comparison with himself, Muireann Graham Caldwell had moved down the gangplank like a queen, her head held high, her limpid eyes moving neither to the right nor the left, until they'd lighted on his face. They had seemed to look into the very depths of his soul. She had taken his hand in greeting, and shock tremors had passed up his arm, until he had regained his self-control, cursing himself for being so fanciful.

  Now here she was, a widow, no doubt heir to the Caldwell estate, but probably completely unaware of the dire financial straits her husband Augustine had been in before he died.

  But surely Muireann must have married him for love? After all, how could she not have known about all of his faults? Perhaps she was just as vain, frivolous, and addicted to gambling as Augustine had been. If so, the Lord help them all, Lochlainn thought with a shake of his head, looking at the lovely face resting on the pillow with a certain degree of resentment.

  If Muireann was fool enough to have loved Augustine, she deserved whatever happened to her.

  Then he felt a twinge of guilt at the uncharitable thought. He was not normally so spiteful, but experience had been a bitter teacher.

  He leapt from the chair and began to pace up and down in front of the window, until at last he stilled to watch the sun set over the rooftops of Dublin.

  Damn it, how could a woman like Muireann, so lovely, so gracious, have married an idle, worthless, drunken lout like Augustine Caldwell?

  And what would she do with his beloved Barnakilla now?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Muireann awoke several hours later and rubbed her sore jaw tenderly. Clutching the blanket around her shivering form, she looked out the window at the snowflakes swirling, fairy-like, in the dim lamplight which glowed from the street below.

  Moving her eyes slowly around the unfamiliar room so as not to jolt her throbbing head, she saw Lochlainn sitting in a low armchair by her bedside, a small case of documents open on the low side table beside him. The expression in his unusual steel-gray eyes was forbidding as he added up columns of figures, the scratch of his pen echoing in the high-ceilinged room.

  The room was smaller than her other suite had been, but it seemed far more appealing to her, with a magnificently carved four-poster bed hung with flowered brocade curtains in blue and crimson. There were small tables on either side of the bed, and another low one with two chairs placed by the fire. In the corner by the large sash window was a screened-off area to make one's toilette.

  The most interesting and cheering aspect of the chamber was the magnificent fireplace, with a beautifully carved oak surround. A fire was glowing in the grate, and for the first time since she had left her family home at Fintry in Scotland, Muireann felt warm and secure. It was all over, she thought with relief, then quashed the guilty thought with a pang.

  Attempting to distract herself from her horrifying memories, she turned her attention to her companion.

  Muireann studied him unnoticed, and not for the first time admired his arresting masculine beauty. Hard as she tried, she could find no flaw in the enigmatic Lochlainn Roche except his arrogant demeanor. His raven-black hair, which glinted with mysterious dark auburn highlights, was thick and wavy, and just brushed the edge of his collar. He was also unfashionably close-shaven. Side-whiskers would simply have detracted from his high cheekbones and firm jaw, which showed only the barest trace of a shadow. His nose was straight and narrow, with delicately arched nostrils which enhanced his haughty appearance. But the deep cleft in his chin, and the single small dimple which peeped out whenever he moved his mouth, were intriguing.

  Muireann found herself wondering what he would look like if he smiled. Certainly he would look a bit more human, a bit less like a prowling tiger about to devour its prey. Lochlainn seemed to glower perpetually, his dark eyebrows lowering threateningly over his thick-lashed gray eyes whenever she had come into contact with him since her arrival in Dublin the morning before. For a man so handsome, he seemed utterly joyless.

  But perhaps he has good reason to be upset, she reflected tolerantly as she saw him add up endless columns of figures over and over again, running his fingers through his ebony hair in frustration. She could remember her own father doing that many times over the years, and her brother-in-law Neil Buchanan too, whenever she visited her sister Alice, now three months pregnant, at her new home in Dunoon.

  Adding up had never been her father's strong point. Muireann had always helped him with his bookkeeping, though her efforts had never been taken seriously by anyone in the family, being considered "unfeminine." At least that's what her mother and sister had reminded her of often enough over the years, applying that adjective disparagingly to every pursuit she had ever enjoyed.

  As Muireann recalled her family's criticism of her with a faint smile, Lochlainn reached the end of his tether. He threw the pen down and rose to stretch his aching back. He stalked over to the fireplace and poked the coals vigorously, then marched over to the window to gaze out at the blizzard wrapping the city in a freezing blanket of ivory.

  Muireann admired his tall physique, watching with interest as his muscles rippled through the thin fabric of his shirt. He was certainly the tallest, broadest man she had ever seen. His hard, callused hand had been large enough to take both of her own as he had greeted her and assisted her off the boat at the quay at Dun Laoghaire the previous morning.

  She had noticed their roughness, but had certainly not been repelled by the contact. Here was a man who had never been spoilt or pampered, who had never been afraid of hard work. Yet at the same time, he had a certain dignity in his bearing which proclaimed him no ordinary farm laborer.

  Well, Lochlainn was the estate manager. That had to signify he was intelligent and good with figures, didn't it? But if his hands and clothes and his brown face, which testified to many years out in the elements, were anything to go by, he was not a man to leave all the hard work to others. She certainly admired that quality. Her own father and brother-in-law possessed the same traits. She herself was not averse to hard work, though her mother had always tried to keep her a spoilt, pampered princess, the younger of two daughters born to her very late in life.

  Lochlainn heaved a huge sigh, then moved over to the bed, where he was relieved to see that Muireann was at last conscious.

  "Have you been awake long?" he asked softly.

&nbs
p; "Not very long," Muireann lied. "I've been trying to get my bearings. Where am I?"

  "You're still at the Gresham, only in a different room. The snowstorm I feared has started. I'm afraid we'll have to stay at least another night," he said, being careful not to mention anything about the events of the afternoon.

  "That's good. My head is pounding. I doubt I could travel all the way to Enniskillen after the terrible sea journey we had," she admitted, rubbing her temples.

  Lochlainn reached down to test her forehead, and noted she had a slight fever.

  "You're definitely warm, Muireann. Here, why don't I help get you get under the covers properly? Then we can see if they have any broth or soup downstairs. And I'll give you a headache powder as well," he offered, crossing over to search his small bag, which he had placed on a low luggage holder with their other things.

  She tried to raise herself off the pillow, only to slump weakly back against it.

  "Lie still, my dear!"

  "I, er, I have to use the chamberpot, but I don't think I can stand," she said sheepishly.

  "Here, put your arms around my neck. I'll carry you over to the screen." He tugged the blanket down over her bare shoulders.

  Muireann was painfully aware that she was clad only in her flannel chemise and petticoats, but her companion didn't seem to take any notice.

  She was naturally shy, but she also knew she simply had to accept this stranger's help. She was all alone in Ireland now. What she would do next she had no idea.

  But the thought of running back to Fintry to play the part of the grieving young widow was more than she could bear. She disliked being so critical of her own parents, but hadn't she married Augustine to escape from their stifling over-protectiveness, and continual disappointment that she never seemed to fit into their world or do what was expected of her?

  Her one chance of satisfying them had been to marry well. They had been delighted with Augustine Caldwell when he had turned up at a ball, and taken such an interest in her.

  Rumors had flown around Glasgow of his great wealth, his magnificent estate in Ireland. Her mother and father had actively encouraged Augustine's suit.

  Muireann, tired of letting them down, and longing for adventure, had at last agreed to Augustine's impetuous marriage proposal. She had met him on All Hallow's Eve, and been wed on Hogmanay before she could even get to know him.

  "What's wrong?" Lochlainn asked, his concern evident in his tone.

  "What? Oh nothing, I was just..."

  "You're not going to be ill, are you? You made such a grimace."

  "No, I'm not ill, just aching." She blushed, looking down at her bare arms, which she then looped around Lochlainn's neck.

  His eyes followed her gaze. But far from looking at her leeringly, his eyes widened in alarm. "My goodness, where did all those bruises come from? I didn't hurt you carrying you in here, did I?"

  "No, no, I fell on the boat a few times. It was a very rough crossing, you know, and I bruise easily," she replied hastily, trying to quell the shiver which rippled through her.

  "There you are, Muireann."

  He placed her gently on the floor by the screen and held onto one of her hands until he saw she could manage a few steps on her own.

  "I'll go ask for more coal for the fire. You must be freezing."

  Muireann marveled at his kindness and delicacy in going out of the room to talk to the serving girl in order to get more coal, then tapping on the door to see whether it were safe for him to return.

  Lochlainn tugged down the covers on the bed and fluffed the pillows up against the carved headboard. He went back to the small wash area to fetch Muireann again.

  He laid her gently on the bed, and pulled all the covers right up to her chin.

  "Shall I get you something warmer to wear? I'm sorry about your gown, but it was ruined, and..." Lochlainn trailed off with an awkward shrug.

  Muireann paled slightly, but made no reference to the frock. "I have a heavy flannel nightdress, lilac-colored, in that small black bag there," she indicated.

  He brought the valise over to her, and helped her locate the nightdress and tug it over her head. She managed to pull it down over her ankles with a bit of wiggling and some help from Lochlainn, who seemed most assiduous in his attentions considering he seemed so manly and grim.

  He tucked her in again, and after fluffing the pillows once more, stroked her tousled ebony hair back from her face, and said with a small smile, "There now, better?"

  "Much better, thank you," she said, lifting her amethyst eyes up to his.

  Though Lochlainn Roche was a complete stranger whom fate had thrown in her path, somehow she felt at peace with him. He might be somber and arrogant looking, but he had treated her with every degree of consideration.

  At some point she had to start trusting someone. She was all alone here. She desperately needed an ally. Who better than her dead husband's estate manager?

  "Here, now, take this draught," he said, offering her a glass of water, in which he had mixed the powder from a small packet. "Your head will feel better in no time."

  Their fingers touched as he handed her the glass. He retained his grip on it to make sure she didn't drop it as she drank the potion down. He put the empty tumbler down on the bedside table, then poured out a plain glass of water for her in case she was still thirsty.

  "I'll just go see what's taking that girl," he said as he rose from the edge of the bed, where he had had been sitting gazing at Muireann admiringly for several seconds before he had caught himself staring.

  He brought in the tray himself a few moments later. Several moments after that a second tap at the door signaled the arrival of the maid with some hot water bottles. She put six into Muireann's bed all around her. Lochlainn blushed when he noted that she didn't pull out the trundle bed from under the large four-poster.

  He waited until the maid had gone before answering Muireann's silent inquiry. He stooped to pull out the trundle bed for himself, but before she could make any comment, he moved back to her side. He put the tray on her lap, and handed her a napkin to drape over her nightgown in case of any spills.

  "Because of the storm, they're short of rooms here. I don't like the idea of leaving you on your own tonight. Not when you're obviously unwell. I hope you don't mind, Mrs. Caldwell," he said stiffly.

  "No, not at all, Mr. Roche," she said with a shake of her head, before taking a spoonful of the tasty broth.

  "Have you eaten yourself?" she asked after a moment, meeting his eyes once more.

  "Yes, ages ago," he lied smoothly, managing to mask his surprise at her concern.

  In truth he hadn't wanted to spend the money, and he was too disturbed by the day's events to feel hungry anyway.

  He continued to stare at her, puzzled by her behavior. She seemed so unaffected, unworried by what had happened. Yet she had been absolutely hysterical only a few hours before. Was this normal? Or was she simply hiding all of her tumultuous emotions, too embarrassed to let anyone see her grief?

  Looking at her delicate yet well-shaped chin and nose, her candid eyes, and noting her sure movements and carriage, which he had first noticed at the quay at Dun Laoghaire, he suspected she was a spoilt, pampered society woman, but one with a mind of her own. It was probably pride more than anything else which would prevent her from revealing to anyone just how she felt.

  While Lochlainn could not pretend to feel any grief for Augustine, at the same time he knew how harmful it would be to try to bottle up all of one's misery inside oneself. He decided to broach the subject of Augustine's death as delicately as possible in order to test her reaction.

  He waited until she had finished the soup and he had put the tray outside their room.

  "Mrs. Caldwell, I know it's late and you're obviously upset and tired, but some decisions are going to have to be made about Augustine and the funeral," he remarked quietly.

  Muireann's chin began to quiver. Her voice cracked in several places as she sa
id, "I've never had to deal with any of these sorts of affairs before. What would you suggest?"

  He took her tiny hand in his own. "I think you have to do the whole thing quickly and quietly. There's no question of a wake under the circumstances. We might have some difficulty in even persuading a priest to bury Augustine in a churchyard."

  Her hand trembled as she heard his words, but she looked at him frankly and nodded her agreement. "Ought we to bring him back to Enniskillen with us?"

  He shook his head. "No, no, it would be worse there."

  Lochlainn didn't want to tell her that they had barely enough money to pay for their hotel room and food, let alone the cost of transporting a coffin back to Barnakilla.

  "If you'll allow me, I shall speak to one of the priests up here, Father Brennan, an old family friend who now has a town parish, and see if he would be so kind as to take care of the matter. If you're not up to it, you don't have to attend."