A Rebel Without a Rogue

by Bliss Bennet

  Yes, that would be a story to engage a reader’s sentiments. Well used to hearing of the barbarities committed by the Catholics in Ireland, the English were, but not so familiar with the ones inflicted by their own kind.

  Had Kit’s uncle ordered his men to participate in such acts? Taken part himself? Or merely stood by and allowed Irish Protestants to deal with those who protested the English oppression his uniform so clearly symbolized?

  Fianna frowned. Fanning the flames of outrage toward a dead man would do little to help her tonight, would it? Fianna set the letter to the side, opening one written by Aunt Mary:

  2 June 1797

  It is a great pity the people do not always keep in mind that they should never do evil that good may come of it. What is morally wrong can never be politically right. Have you not observed that since the assassinations began the cause of the people (which had before been rapidly gaining ground) has gradually declined? When we once deviate from the path of rectitude it is difficult to return.

  Fianna shuddered, her aunt’s words an eerie echo of her barely averted argument with Kit. Or, if she were to be truly fanciful, a prophecy of warning sent by a kindly pooka, if a fairy horse could write as well as speak.

  Well, she’d always known she’d have to keep the details of her quest to rehabilitate her father’s good name a secret from Aunt Mary if she wished to gain her aunt’s acceptance. Had her father agreed with his sister about what constituted justice? Or had he, like his daughter, believed that a vitally important end might justify a dubious means?

  “Writing of Aidan’s, is it, then?”

  Fianna shot to her feet, clutching the letter close to her chest. How in hell had Sean O’Hamill entered Kit’s rooms without her hearing him?

  “Did I startle you, cailín? Or did someone walk over your grave, as the English are wont to say?”

  “Sean!” Fianna could not quite meet her uncle’s eyes, her body strangely awkward and unsure. Should she offer him a smile? Her hand? An embrace? Would he welcome any such presumptions of intimacy? Or draw away in disgust?

  Settling on a cautious nod, she folded her hands in her skirts. “But how did you get in?”

  “Oh, I have my ways,” he said, taking a step into her chamber. “As you well know, we O’Hamill are a resourceful people.”

  “Of course we are. But I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” Not after she’d written to him telling him of her mistake in believing Major Pennington still alive.

  “Of that I’ve little doubt,” he said, glancing about with curiosity. He bent down to pick up a cravat—Kit’s—that had fallen on the floor. With a grimace, he set it down on the dresser. “As your last note made no mention of your current abode.”

  “Of course it did not,” she said, her chin tilting high. “After the way you snarled and snapped at Mr. Pennington the last time you met? What, did you expect an invitation to dine? Like a cur in the streets, you were, and I a bone he’d snatched from your jaws.”

  “Ashamed of your uncle’s manners, are you, Máire? How little family feeling you have.”

  “Family feeling?” Fianna said, shaking her head. “I was simply afraid you’d toss about more insults, or worse yet, start a brawl, and ruin my chances to find out what I needed to know.”

  “But why should you care if I brawl with young Pennington, now that you’ve no need of his help?” he replied, stepping closer to her. “I’d think a proper caílin would be glad to see a strong Irishman’s fist in the face of the blackguard who stole away her honor.”

  “Not every situation calls for a violent response, Seanuncail.”

  Her uncle’s eyes narrowed. “What, do you seek to unman us, just as the English do? Demand we suppress our pride, our patriotism? Stand idly by and watch while our women are violated as shamefully as is our country? Does not the despoiling of our womenfolk call for a strong fist?”

  “You think me despoiled, do you?”

  “Have you not been forced to trade your virtue in order to achieve justice? And now, when justice has slipped beyond your grasp, is not that damned Pennington still keeping you here, forcing you to cater to his voluptuous pleasures?”

  “No one has forced me to do anything, Sean.” Her fist beat against her chest once, then again. “I chose to make an arrangement with Mr. Pennington, and with Viscount Ingestrie before him, in order to achieve my ends. I chose, Seanuncail. I. A bitter bargain, to be sure, but one that I made of my own free will. And my choice says nothing about you.”

  “It may say nothing of the uncle of Fianna Cameron. But it’s O’Hamill blood that runs through your veins, Máire. And a smear on my honor if I allow a daughter of the blood to succumb to the blandishments of a deceiving Englishman.”

  He pulled at the valise that poked out from beneath her bed, lifted it to the mattress, and opened it wide. “Come, what reason have you to stay?”

  Fianna reached out a hand to pull the valise closed. “What reason? Come, and I’ll show you.”

  He followed her to the drawing room, where her papers lay in piles upon the table. She picked up the first few sheets of the manuscript and thrust them into his rough hands.

  “We are working on it together, Mr. Pennington and I,” she said as Sean’s eyes quickly scanned the ink-smeared pages. “A history of my father, his life and his beliefs. A book that will tell the truth of Aidan McCracken and will restore his good name. Perhaps not here in England, but in Dublin, and in Belfast. Mayhap through the length of Ireland. A book that will make my grandfather proud.”

  Her uncle looked up from the pages, his mouth a grim twist. “But your grandfather has left Ireland behind, Máire, for the wilds of America. And he never learned to read, as well you know.”

  “You deliberately misunderstand me, Sean. You know I speak not of Grandfather O’Hamill, but of my father’s father. My McCracken grandfather.”

  Sean grimaced. “You think to make dour old McCracken take pride in you?”

  “You think I cannot? Because I’m a bastard? A whore?” The nails of her fingers burrowed deep into her palms.

  He lowered the manuscript sheets down on the table, shaking his head. “The fault lies not in you, cailín. It lies in himself. Ah, did I not tell Mairead, when that pinched sister of Aidan’s came with her fancy carriage and fine promises, no McCracken would ever care for you as an O’Hamill would? What matter how many fine frocks or fancy books they could give, if they never welcomed you into their hearts?”

  “But I can prove my worth, Sean. I can!” She grabbed up a sheet of the manuscript, shaking it close to his face. “If not by bringing my father’s killer to justice, then by telling his true story and restoring his good name.”

  Sean’s expression was grave as he grasped her trembling hands between his. “Máire. What family worthy of the name demands a child prove her merit before granting her its love?”

  His words sent a cascade of icy memories tumbling through her brain. Cold, unsmiling slip of a girl, the women of Belfast had whispered when she first came to live with her father’s family. Fae-born, the more superstitious murmured, hands restlessly tracing the sign of the cross as they jerked their menfolk away from the sight of her strange, uncanny beauty.

  Unnatural. Changeling.

  Bastard.

  No one in her father’s family had stood for such ignorant talk, staunch Presbyterians that they were. She’d been so very grateful—frightened, reserved child that she’d been—for the stern, haughty McCracken glances that instantly quelled slander and gossip in Belfast’s streets and kirk.

  But had her aunt, her grandfather, any of her McCracken aunts and uncles, had they ever troubled to wonder what might lie beneath the impassive face of the girl they’d plucked from her mother’s side when she was but six years of age? Had they ever told her those whispers were untrue? Ever told her she was worthy of their regard? Of their love?

  Fianna shook her head, once, twice, trying to cast off the doubts Sean’s words had raised. But h
adn’t Kit said almost the same, suggesting that Aunt Mary had lied to protect herself from her own unkindness, insisting that Mairead agreed it was for the best to leave her child behind?

  Had she been wrong all these years, then? Wrong to work so hard, to plan and scheme, to prostitute herself, even, all in the hopes of winning her father’s family’s regard? Should a true family accept all its members, love them all, no matter how unworthy?

  Might it not be her, but the McCrackens, who were unworthy?

  But if she did not, could not, belong to the McCrackens, then what chance did she have of finding a family at all? Fianna pulled out of her uncle’s grasp, turning away from the pity in his eyes.

  “Why should you care what the McCrackens think of you, Máire? Does not O’Hamill blood run red through your veins?” A heavy hand came to rest against her shoulder. “Come. More important work lies in store for you, cailín, than wreaking vengeance on a dead man. Devil Pennington may be gone, but London still teems with the enemies of Ireland.”

  “And you think to turn enemies into friends?” she asked, turning to face him.

  “Friends?” For the first time, a hint of passion shone from his dark green eyes. “Nay, there’d be no redeeming such as they. Say instead, wipe the filthy stench of their tyranny from this island, and from our own.”

  “Murder, Sean?”

  “Nay, not murder. Justice! And you will be its herald, Hibernia and her harp calling to the sons of Ireland to pull their tyrants down.” Sean grasped her arm, urging her back toward the bed. “Come, I’ll tell you of our plans while you pack your bag.”

  Fianna took a stumbling step toward Sean, then pulled back against his grip. “But what of Kit—of Mr. Pennington?”

  “What of Mr. Pennington, indeed? Or, say rather, what of Mr. O’Hamill?”

  Fianna could not see the man who stood behind her. But even when it was hardened by suspicion, there was no mistaking the sound of Kit’s voice.

  How was she to explain why she was alone in his rooms with the man he’d once accused of being her lover?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “A wise man would remove his hand from Miss Cameron’s person. Are you a wise man, Mr. O’Hamill?”

  Kit had never heard such ice in his own words before. But the sight of Sean O’Hamill’s thick, rough hand gripping proprietarily about Fianna’s arm—damnation, he wanted to break each and every finger. Especially after the older man jerked Fianna roughly behind him. As if it were Kit, and not himself, who posed her the greatest threat. Kit stepped farther into the room, waiting for the man’s reply.

  “Wiser than you, I’d say, Mr. Pennington,” O’Hamill said at last, his chest thrust forward at a belligerent angle. “At least I make damned sure I’ve the right to touch a woman before placing hands on her. A pity you cannot say the same.”

  Kit’s eyes narrowed. What right did O’Hamill have to touch Fianna? She’d never spoken of him, not once in the days since she’d welcomed Kit to her bed, and he’d not pressed her about it, knowing little but ill to come from the waking of a sleeping dog. Yet here the burly Irishman stood, laying hands on Fianna and casting aspersions on Kit’s character with all the authority of a judge.

  What was the man to her? Not a husband, nor a lover, as he’d once suspected, not when she’d given herself to him so freely, with such joy. Kit looked more closely at the man’s green eyes, the familiar set of that stern mouth—

  “Miss Cameron—she is your sister, O’Hamill?”

  “No. Miss O’Hamill is the child of my sister. My niece.”

  “Your niece?” Kit felt his blood rising. “And here I thought it an uncle’s sacred duty to keep a sister’s child safe from harm. Particularly when she has no father to offer his protection and guidance. But perhaps it was your idea that she trade her honor for a chance at vengeance. Were you the one who set her in Viscount Ingestrie’s way?”

  O’Hamill growled, low and menacing. Kit’s shoulders tensed, readying for the man to spring. But Fianna wrenched free of her uncle’s grasp, setting herself between them. “Sean had nothing to do with my meeting Ingestrie, Kit. Nor with my decision to use him to get to England. I’d no idea Sean was even in England, not until we met him with Mr. Wooler.”

  “But after?” Kit replied, his eyes not on her but on O’Hamill. “You knew your niece was being kept by Ingestrie, but made no move to help her? Excuse me if I find your paternal instincts distinctly lacking.”

  “She made no mention of any such relationship,” the Irishman bit out, shaking off his niece’s restraining hand. “Now that you’ve informed me of it, though, you can be sure he’ll pay the price for sullying the honor of the O’Hamill. No man has the right to touch her, not without my permission.”

  Fianna gasped, her eyes snapping green fire as she gazed back and forth between them. “The only man with the right to touch me is the one I allow to do so. At this moment, I’m not inclined to grant either of you the privilege. Sean, go now. And do not come again unless I summon you.”

  “Máire, you cannot—”

  “No.” Only one word, but uttered with the absolute authority of a woman who had long forged her own path through life. “No more. After I have concluded my work here, I will consider the merits of yours. Now leave us.”

  O’Hamill stared at her for a long moment, then at Kit, before turning on his heel and striding to the door. But before leaving, he wheeled around, his finger jabbing toward the manuscript pages lying on the table.

  “Mad, it is, cailín, to think a few bits of writing will win you a place in the heart of any McCracken. Although not as distempered as fancying young Pennington here will carry you off to church and wed you out of hand, as I’m fearing you’ve fooled yourself into dreaming.”

  “Mad, perhaps,” she answered, her eyes never wavering from her uncle’s. “But my choice, Sean. My choice, not yours.”

  O’Hamill’s lip curled, a scar at its edge puckering white.

  Kit’s jaw tightened, but Fianna laid a restraining hand on his arm before he could make a move in O’Hamill’s direction. He looked down at it, then up into her eyes, seeing not the command she had issued to her uncle, but the vulnerability of a plea. Kit reined in his burgeoning temper, just barely. To compensate, he snaked a possessive arm about her waist, a silent challenge, but a challenge all the same.

  A vein pulsed at O’Hamill’s temple as he picked up a battered cap from where it lay on a side table. “So be it, niece. But when this fine Christian here tires of you, and tire of you he will, come to me, Máire O’Hamill. For I’ll never turn a child of Aidan and Mairead’s away from my door.”

  His eyes narrowed as he jammed the cap onto his head. “Even one who allows the honeyed promises of a Englisher to make her forget what she owes her family and her country. She’ll remember soon enough, she will, once his promises prove as false as the devil’s.”

  He slammed the door with such force, the echoes reverberated right through the floorboards.

  When had Fianna picked up his hand in hers, carefully uncurled his fisted fingers from around the gorse branch, the one he’d plucked from an early-flowering bush, anticipating the pleasure it would give her? And when had he forced one of its pointed spines so deep into his palm?

  “Do you commonly go about stealing limbs from unsuspecting hedgerows?” she asked, dabbing at the welling blood with a lace-edged handkerchief. The handkerchief he’d given her, to replace the one she’d ruined wiping the scrape of the young Irish sweep. Would she leave him before he could gift her another?

  “Do you believe him? Am I as false as the devil?”

  “Hush, now,” she crooned, wrapping the handkerchief tight about his hand. “You’ve made me no promises, Kit.”

  “No? Not in word, perhaps. But certainly in deed. Whenever a man lies with an unwed maid, the act itself is a promise. At least if the man cares anything for his honor.”

  “But I care so little for my own. At least if my uncle is to be believed.�
� Her tight, pained smile made Kit’s own lips thin. How deeply her uncle’s words had cut.

  “And I was no maid when you took me to your bed, as you well knew.” Fianna kept her eyes lowered as she tied the linen about his hand in a tight knot. She grazed the tips of her fingers over her handiwork once, then again, before pulling them away. “Come, shall I find a vase and some water for this dangerous excuse for a bouquet?”

  Kit caught her hands between his before she could move away. “Do you want to leave, then? I won’t stand in your way, if that is what you truly want.”

  Fianna bent her head, her eyes avoiding his. “Why must you always push so, Kit? How can I know what I want, what I feel, before I’ve had a chance to think everything through?”

  “Feelings aren’t always subject to reason, Fee.”

  “But they must be,” she said, jerking her hands free of his so she might pace across the carpet. “They have to be. How else may one protect oneself from wanting something one can never have?”

  “What can you never have? A family?”

  “Yes,” she cried. “A family, one that looks out for its own, cares for its own. Loving and loyal, a family that cares about the happiness of its members. That helps them achieve their goals. A family like yours.”

  The corner of Kit’s mouth turned up. “I think you overestimate the bonds of Pennington family affection, Fee. At least the filial ones.”

  “What?” she cried, her forehead furrowing with disbelief. “Do not tell me Saybrook refuse to support you over that disloyal Mr. Norton?”

  For the first time, Kit saw a flush blaze across Fianna’s face. Not one of shame, or of pleasure, but of anger. Cold, unfeeling Fianna Cameron, angry on his behalf? The disbelief that had been congealing inside him since leaving Theo’s townhouse slowly began to thaw.

  “Yes. Or, at least, no, Theo is aware of Norton’s growing tendency to side with the opposition, and that steps need to be taken to stop it.” He raised one corner of his mouth, hoping the smile conveyed self-deprecation rather than self-pity. “But he is not convinced that I am the man to take Norton’s place.”