by Bliss Bennet
“And did the Lord take vengeance upon Christopher Pennington? Did your uncle die in pain, in shame? Will his name go down in history as a betrayer of his own people, as my father’s has? Or did he die a good Christian death, his family all beside him? Did he meet his end with fortitude, certain of God’s forgiveness for his crimes?”
The bitterness of her laugh, so pained, so despairing, broke something deep inside Kit. No one should ever have cause to feel so lost, so without hope.
He reached out, taking those small hands—so cold, despite the pool of sunlight in which she sat—between his own. He’d had to do it, had to hurt her, if he was to keep his uncle safe.
“I’m sorry,” he said, knowing even as he uttered the apology how inadequate it must sound.
Her head jerked up at his words, her green eyes glazed with unshed tears. “Sorry? For what do you have to be sorry, Kit Pennington? For being born a legitimate, privileged Englishman, instead of a poor Irish bastard? For burying your uncle with the honor due a soldier, not the ignominy of a traitor? For having a family that loves you?”
He cupped her face in one hand, catching the drop hovering on the edge of her dark lashes with his thumb. “For your losses, my heart. For all your terrible losses. And for my being so utterly incapable of setting them right for you.”
She shuddered beneath his palm, tears coursing down her face. Tears that he’d put there, he and his damned lead-pencil lie.
Kit pulled her tight against him, rocking her like a babe as she sobbed. How in the hell was he ever to make this right?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Warm. So very warm, the arms about her back, the cheek nestled against her temple. The chest rising and falling beneath her palm. How long had she sat with him here, down on the drawing room carpet, quiet, anchored, so blessedly empty?
Fianna burrowed her face further into the soft folds of a neckcloth, unwilling to break the spell. No, she’d simply keep her eyes firmly shut, floating, drifting, breathing in the salt of her tears, the starch of his linen, the sharp, soothing mint of the soap with which he’d washed. Time enough later to wonder what she would do, what her life could be, without the lodestone of vengeance urging her ever forward.
Her arm, caught between his body and hers, twitched with numbness. She willed it still. Kit would wake soon enough.
But he must have felt her stir. His arms tightened about her for a moment, but then, all too quickly, fell slack.
She stifled the urge to pull them back. But as he raised his head from where it rested beside hers, an involuntary sound of protest must have croaked from her throat, for his hand immediately rose to cradle her face against his chest. They sat there together without speaking, watching a beam of sun meander across the green-figured carpet.
“Will you tell me about him?” he asked, breaking the long silence. “About McCracken? He must have been an inspiring person, to win such devotion from you.”
“Aidan McCracken. My father.” How strange, to acknowledge their relationship out loud. To talk of him with someone who had never known him. Someone who did not immediately turn away in disgust at the sound of his name.
“He was a kind man,” she said at last, her words coming stiff and slow. “He liked people, thought the best of them. Even after all the horrors he’d witnessed. Foolish, some said. But still, he was kind.” Like you.
Kit circled an encouraging hand over her back.
Fianna took a deep breath, pinching her eyes shut. It was easier to speak without his clear blue eyes staring at her undeserving soul.
“So many assumed I’d been born evil—a bastard, the devil’s spawn,” she murmured. “But Dadaí would never tax me with my sins. Máire, he’d cry, pulling me up into his arms whenever he came to visit. What good deeds has my sweet cailín done today?”
“Is that your true name?” Kit asked. “Máire?”
She trembled to hear the Gaelic syllables on his English lips. “Máire was the name my mother gave me. Though no Catholic priest nor Presbyterian elder would allow me to be baptized with it.”
She felt him stiffen beneath her. In anger? Or in sympathy? But his voice was even as he asked, “Your parents never married?”
She shook her head. “Aidan McCracken might have believed with all his heart that the Anglicans, Dissenters, and Catholics should unite in order to throw off the yoke of English rule. Yet somehow the son of a prominent Presbyterian manufacturer could never quite bring himself to wed an illiterate Irish Catholic.”
“Then your real name—it’s not McCracken?”
What might her life have been like, if her parents had married? If she’d been born a McCracken, rather than an O’Hamill? If Grandfather McCracken had openly claimed her mother as daughter-in-law, had given her the protection of the McCracken name, would Mairead have stayed in Ireland? Or would the memories of her dead lover still have been too painful, the sight of his child too much to bear? Even then, would her mother have left her behind?
“True name, real name?” she scoffed. “What matters the name, if no one cares enough to claim the person who owns it?”
“Would your father have claimed you, if he’d not died?”
Fianna rubbed a fold of Kit’s neckcloth between her fingers. “I like to think he would. Would a kind man reject his own flesh and blood?”
“Kind,” he echoed, doubt in his tone. “I can’t help but find it difficult to picture a man of kindness leading peasants into armed conflict.” Kit’s thumb stroked down and up her temple, soothing away the sting of his words.
“But he was more than just kind,” she protested. “He threw himself wholeheartedly into everything—political debates, discussion about the family’s linen manufactory, arguments over how to alleviate poverty and injustice. He had high spirits, and charm, and more courage than anyone she ever knew, his sister always told me.”
“Not a peasant, then. How did such a man come to agitate on behalf of the poor?”
“He’d been sent to Scotland, to recruit workers for the family’s cotton mill,” she said, her words coming with more ease as the old stories flooded her mind. “And when he returned to Belfast, he started the first Sunday school for the impoverished. Not just Presbyterians, but anyone who wanted to learn how to read and to write, so they might gain knowledge for themselves, no matter what religious sect they embraced. He believed with all his heart that if Christians living in Ireland would only join together, they could throw off the tyranny of English rule.” She smiled, even now so proud of his boldness, his vision. “That’s why he helped to found the Society of United Irishmen. Because he believed in a genuine brotherhood of man, irrespective of religion.”
“But what of the violent protests of the Catholics? The burning of cottages, the destroying of crops, the brawling and killing? Did he condone it? Did he participate in it?”
“Ah yes, the English do so like to believe it was only the Catholics who turned to violence.” When had her voice grown so bitter? She took a deep, calming breath. “But the Protestants did their fair share of maiming and killing, too, though the government-run newspapers never reported it. And of course, whenever culprits were caught and tried, Protestants were always found innocent, while Catholics ended up in gaol or sentenced to death. The magistrates were all from landed families, weren’t they? Protestant families, who would convict a Catholic on the flimsiest of evidence. No, my father did not participate in mob violence, but he did extend substantial sums to meet the legal expenses of the unjustly accused.”
Kit sat in silence for a long while, considering. “But he did participate in the rebellion,” he said. “Did more than participate, according to my uncle. In the north, he was its leader.”
“Yes, but not out of liking for the role,” she said. “The man originally appointed general of Down was arrested before the uprising began, and then the general for Antrim resigned. My father didn’t ask for the post; the men proclaimed him their leader.”
“And then he led them to
their downfall. And to his own.”
She sighed. “He believed in Ireland, in its people. So much so that he was willing to die for them.” To die and leave his family behind.
Kit shifted then, his hand moving from temple to chin as he tipped her face up to his. “As was my uncle,” he said, his words quiet but firm. “Willing to die, for England and its people. Should a man of honor, one only performing his duty when he oversaw the execution of a rebel leader, be put down like a dog run mad? What kind of justice is that?”
Fianna shook her head. How could the eyes of a man who had reached the age of twenty-four still shine with such trust? Such steadfast belief in the honor of a man she knew to be anything but honorable?
Something dark and wild inside whipped her, urging her to strike against such blindingly innocent trust. To make him keen with the same sense of abandonment and loss that had driven her all these dark years. All she need do was tell him how his uncle had lied about her father after his execution.
But what use would it be to disillusion him? With Major Pennington dead, there’d be no chance now of forcing him to retract his lies against her father, no chance of redeeming her father’s good name. No chance of returning in triumph to claim her rightful place amongst the McCrackens, of winning a true welcome from her grandfather, or from any of his kin.
Fianna lowered her head, pulling free from Kit’s embrace. Had she truly become so spiteful that she’d undermine an honest man’s loyalty to his family? Simply because she had lost the chance to earn the loyalty of her own?
It was more than spite, though, wasn’t it? But even if he knew his uncle had not been quite as honorable as he once believed, would that make her any more so in his eyes?
No. She had sunk low, to be sure. But even she could not bring herself to hurt an innocent so.
She rose, crossing to the window to lay her forehead against a pane. But the sun had moved away; the glass held no warmth.
What to do now? Crawl back to Ireland in defeat? Or throw herself on the mercy of Sean O’Hamill?
No matter which she chose, she could no longer remain here. Not after revealing herself so painfully to Kit.
She took a moment to make certain her mask of impassivity was firmly in place before turning back to him. “I thank you for your hospitality, sir. But I fear you must have long been wishing my absence. If you give me a few moments, I’ll pack up my belongings and be out of your way.”
She took a few steps toward the passageway, but before she could reach the door, Kit moved to stop her.
“Oh no, Máire,” he whispered, catching her by the shoulders. “No more pretending, not between us.”
“Fianna,” she bit out, shrugging free of his hold. “Máire no longer exists.”
But he caught her up again, shook his head in denial. “Fianna. Máire. It’s not the name that matters. Only what’s between us. Don’t pretend you don’t feel it.”
Her body urged her to step closer, to shelter once again within the confines of his arms. A Mháthair Dé! She willed herself not to move.
“Something between us? Whatever could you mean?”
He answered not with words but with touch, his fingers burning a path across her collarbone, then up the column of her neck. Was it anger that made the blue of his eyes spark like the hottest fire? Or something far more dangerous?
“We never did discuss terms,” she continued, forcing her voice to splinter like ice beneath a boot. “But since you’ve not had the satisfaction of taking your pleasure of me, you needn’t worry about compensation. Or perhaps you wish me to repay you for my room and board?”
He made not the slightest flinch at the coarse reminder of what they truly were to each other. Instead, he took a step closer, capturing her face between his palms.
“Oh, you like it when that’s all the world sees, don’t you? The icy fae queen, with no feelings to call her own. So high above us all, so unmoved by anything as mundane as a human emotion.” His thumbs traced across her cheeks, catching against the trails of salt her tears had left behind. “But my waistcoat, still damp from your crying, knows it for a lie. No, that proud, disdainful mask won’t fool me any longer, Fianna Máire McCracken Cameron. If you leave, at least be honest enough to acknowledge that it won’t be because I wish you gone.”
“More fool you,” she said, praying her voice did not tremble. “But why should I be witless enough to remain?”
“For me. For this.” And he lowered his face to hers.
The softness of her, the warm, yielding curves of her body—a dream, damn near a revelation, she’d been, the Fianna Cameron who had cried out her sorrows, then fallen asleep in his arms. And when she’d trusted him with the truth of her father, her small form nestled close against his chest, Kit had felt immense, boundless, as if he could drag down castles with his bare hands, save all the innocents of the world from every iniquitous blow. Anything, if only it were done on her behalf.
She intended to use you. To betray you. To murder your uncle, family fealty rebuked.
But she acted out of justice, and a loyalty to her family as keen as your own, conscience countered.
He’d tried to reconcile the two, asking her to consider what justice might look like from his uncle’s point of view. But the challenge had sent that warm, feeling Fianna fleeing, even while her body remained in the room. Something wild and desperate clamored inside him then, an urge to grab her and shake her, that wintry fairy seductress who’d banished the woman he truly wanted. He wanted her back, no, needed her back, that woman who felt. Not because his uncle suspected her of treason. Not even because he’d promised the Colonel to use her to track down the Irish assassins. But because the loss of that Fianna had felt too much like other soul-withering losses he’d not been able to prevent—Benedict, to the Continent and his art; his father, to wasting disease and death; Theo, to grief and the blinding oblivion of drink.
He’d held his recklessness in check until, in that cold, impassive voice, she’d announced her plans to leave. Instead of watching her go, as a wise man, a rational man, would have done, he found himself kissing her, demanding, daring, begging that feeling human to chip her way free of the sídhe’s icy hold.
But for the longest time, her lips remained cool and still beneath his own. He might almost have been fooled, but for the race of the blood in her throat, her pulse pounding so quick beneath his stroking thumbs. So very skilled at self-protection, she was, this woman with as many masks as she had names.
“You think to hide from me?” he whispered, pulling back to stare into her unrevealing green eyes. “To pretend you’re nothing but a fair face? A fae without a soul?”
Dark, narrow brows arched in disbelief. “Is that not what all men want? A beautiful, empty shell? Pretty but vacant, ready to be filled with their own low desires?”
Kit scoffed. “What man would want the simulacrum, after once having glimpsed the substance of you?”
“My substance? Be glad you’ve not had more than a glimpse of my substance, Kit Pennington. It’s not nearly so attractive as the veil that conceals it.”
“But I have seen it, Fianna.”
She tried to jerk free of his arms, but he held tight, willing her to listen.
“I’ve seen the passionate, caring woman you work so hard to deny. I’ve seen your beauty and your anger, your independence and your loyalty. How much you care for your family. How you fight against what you feel. For me. For us.”
His hands rose to frame her face, his fingers lightly brushing back the wisps of hair by her temples. “I see you,” he whispered. “I want you.”
“Then take me, and be damned,” she whispered, yanking down on his neckcloth, pressing her lips to his.
Kit sank deep into the welcome of her mouth, reveling in a heat closer to the hearths of heaven than any fires of hell. Hot, and lush, and sweeter than anything he’d ever imagined, a pyrotechnics of taste and touch. With a gasp, his hands slid down the sharp blades of her shoulders, as
if he might somehow pull the flaming whole of her entirely inside him, set himself alight on her flame.
The feel of her firm breasts against his chest sent his cock surging, pressing for attention into the softness of her belly. He pulled back, embarrassed, afraid she’d shy away at the evidence of his arousal. But instead, her arms rose to twine about his neck, drawing him even closer. Why did he keep forgetting she was no inexperienced girl, but a mature woman, one who’d warmed Ingestrie’s bed, and perhaps many others’?
Experienced, perhaps, but she held her body with passive pliancy, offering herself, demanding nothing. Take me, she’d said; had she commanded past lovers to do the same? Had they simply taken, accepting what she offered, giving nothing in return? No wonder she’d been able to manipulate Ingestrie, if he did no more than greedily seize the reflection of his own desires, without any consideration for hers.
No, their exchange could not be one-sided, not if he wanted Fianna to stay beyond the time it took for his own passion to be sated. He needed not just to take, but to give. To startle her beyond her protective self-possession, push her outside that clever mind. Bind her to him with pleasure and with need. Make her care, as he was growing to care for her, so it would become anathema to do him, or any member of his family, harm.
And so he forced himself to slow, to turn the seductive weapons she’d used last night on him against her. Tiny nibbles against a lip. Fingertips that skimmed over the lightest hairs on exposed skin, then glanced away. Breaths that teased against the tendons of the neck, the sensitive lobe of an ear, fleet and thrilling as a whispered confidence.
Her body stilled, grew taut. With pleasure? Or in fear?
“I’m right here,” Kit murmured, tracing his tongue over the curve of her ear. “Be here, too. Be with me.”
She gasped, a shudder tremoring down her spine. Kit pulled her closer for a moment, then drew back, just enough so she might see the truth of what he wanted from her, wanted for her, in his face, in his eyes.
