by Laurel McKee
“Under dark and moonless sky, he rode into the night,” she sang hoarsely, hoping it would help keep the fear away. She licked her cracked, dry lips and went on louder, bolder. “To see his love o’er the way. The smell of flowers in the air, he passed not a care, across a bridge o’that sad day.…”
Caroline landed hard on the pile of wool as Grant dropped her. She immediately ran as far from him as she could, pressing herself against a stack of crates. She watched in numb horror as he pushed the groaning, half-conscious ruffian out the door and closed it behind him. Grant braced his fists on the wooden panels, his shoulders heaving as if he struggled to hold on to control.
“You are the one behind all this,” she said. “How could you?”
How could any man who showed such pride and tenderness over The Chronicle of Kildare be so cruel? That made no sense, of course. Plenty of men who loved art and literature had been cruel despots. But she had never imagined that of Grant Dunmore.
Philanderer, maybe. User of women, of course. Not kidnapper.
“You weren’t supposed to be involved in this,” he said.
Caroline gave a bitter laugh. “And that is supposed to make it better? The fact that you intended to snatch away only Anna?”
“I did not intend for anything like this to happen at all.” He pushed back from the door and turned to look at her. His handsome face was drawn and haunted-looking. “I only wanted what should have been mine.”
Caroline was utterly confused. “What should have been yours? How will kidnapping my sister and me correct that?”
“You can’t understand. You have always been sheltered and secure.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” Caroline said. She slid down until she sat on the wooden floor and drew her knees up to her chest as she wrapped her arms around them. “Tell me.”
He leaned back against the door and crossed his arms. At first, she thought he would just ignore her, but he said, “When I was a child, my father died, and soon after, my mother discovered his fortune was lost to gambling and ridiculous moneymaking schemes. It’s a pathetically common tale, but my mother was very proud. She sold everything she could to hide her situation from her friends. In the end, she had to do what she most dreaded.”
Caroline, pulled in by this rare glimpse of a strange and enigmatic man, straightened her legs out on the floor in front of her. “What was that?” she whispered.
“She went to her family.”
“Isn’t that what families are for?”
“Your family, perhaps,” he said with a rueful laugh. He sat down on the floor near her, but not so near that she could kick him. “When my mother married, she broke with her old Irish Catholic family. She took me with her to Adair Court to try and reconcile with her brother, Conlan’s father. She cried and begged, but it was no use. He told her that she had betrayed her family and her homeland, and he sent us away. As we left, I saw Conlan coming up the drive on his pony. That was his home, his place. His father who betrayed my mother and left us humiliated.”
Caroline could not fathom how that would feel. He was quite right—she was sheltered, despite all her reading, despite all she had seen in the Uprising. Her parents had loved her and her sisters, and she couldn’t imagine anything that would make her mother cast her out of Killinan. Despite all Grant had done, all he was still doing as he held her in this freezing warehouse, she felt a twinge of something like pity.
But she knew that he would not want her pity. He was proud, like his mother. “What happened then?” she asked.
“My uncle did relent somewhat and gave my mother money to go abroad where she could live more cheaply. We went to Italy, and she died there when I was thirteen. My uncle then agreed to pay for my schooling, when he was pressed by some of my mother’s old friends. I went to Trinity and managed to make my way from there. But he refused to ever see me, to let me be part of Adair at all.”
“Until you tried to take it from his son,” Caroline said quietly.
Grant leaned his head back against the crate with his eyes closed. She had never seen such pain on anyone’s face, carved deep in bitter lines on his beautiful face. “Adair belonged there, he was part of it. Part of Ireland, of its people. I wanted it. That was all.”
“It was his by right!”
“And I was a coldhearted English bastard to try and take it,” he said. “So I’ve been told. All I could think about was the way my mother cried as we left Adair that day, the way they turned their backs on her, and we had nothing. We belonged nowhere.”
And he still did not. Caroline could see that, feel it as cold as that winter wind on her skin. Despite his place in Society and all the ladies in love with him, he belonged to nothing. Maybe that was why he loved the Chronicle of Kildare so much—for what those ancient pages represented.
She couldn’t help herself. She reached over and gently took his hand.
His eyes flew open, and he stared at her in astonishment. She thought he might fling her away and turn back to that fearsome harshness. Then, slowly, he laid his other hand atop hers.
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” she said. “You don’t have to go on as you have. You don’t need Dublin Society. Take your books and go and study them. Find Ireland in those pages, and you will see that you are truly a part of it, too.”
“Caroline,” he said. He gave her a gentle smile, heartbreaking in its sweet sadness. “You think scholarship is the answer to everything, don’t you?”
“No, not everything. But so much that we seek can be found in the pages of books, if we take the time to look.”
“Time is the one thing I don’t have. My cousin will kill me for hurting your sister, and quite rightly. I’ve made too many mistakes.”
“We all make mistakes. Yours have just been more spectacular than most.”
Grant laughed. “What would you suggest I do to atone then?”
“Well,” Caroline said, “the first thing you should do is let Anna and me go. And push George into the Liffey. He’s caused my family problems for years. He’s no fit ally for anyone.”
“And then?”
“And then—I don’t know. Perhaps you should find a sensible wife and take her to your country estate. You could study, write books, and run your farm there.”
“Is that what you would do? If you could have any life you wanted?”
She had never really thought about it, and it gave her pause. What would she do, if she could do anything? If she was not bound by the strictures of being a woman. If she had not already set her course with Lord Hartley. “Yes. I would live somewhere quiet and pretty, where I could read and raise a family. Where I could just be—me.”
“Ah, but you know who you are,” he said. “I think I haven’t even started learning who I might be, except for my evils.”
Caroline reached up to gently touch his cheek, tracing her fingertips over the angles of his face and the sad hollows under his eyes. “I think there is more to you than that.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. Slowly, as if he fought against something inside himself, he leaned toward her, and his lips touched hers, lightly, tenderly. A sudden feeling of bizarre rightness shivered through Caroline, as if this was what she had been waiting for forever.
Then the world exploded. The door burst in, its stout wood and iron locks splintered. Grant shoved Caroline away and blocked her body with his. She glimpsed Adair, who looked like an enraged bear. His face was dark, his eyes burning.
“Take your hands off her!” he roared. Before Caroline could scream, run, or even think, he grabbed Grant by the front of his coat and hurled him across the room. Caroline leaped to her feet, her throat paralyzed.
“For God’s sake, girl, run!” Adair shouted at her, and she ran. She couldn’t help Grant as he and Adair crashed around the room in a brutal bare-knuckle fight. She had to find her sister.
“Where is Anna?” Adair demanded. “What have you done with her, diolain?”
&nbs
p; “She’s downstairs!” Caroline cried as Grant’s face turned white under Adair’s hold on his neck. “In a—a closet, I think.” She whirled around and ran down the stairs, but her path was blocked by a sudden cloud of white smoke in the corridor.
In a day of terrifying moments, she was sure this was the worst. The smoke wrapped around her throat, thick and acrid, choking her. Blocking her way to Anna.
She heard the crackle of flames, licking through greasy wool and old wood. Beyond the smoke, she could see its first incandescent flicker.
“Fire!” Caroline shouted. “Fire!”
Chapter Twenty-seven
O’er the bridge that sad day…” Anna couldn’t sing anymore. Her throat was tight and her chest ached as if it was caving inward. How long had she been singing? Hours? Days? In the darkness it was all the same.
“I’ll come back to you, Conlan,” she whispered. “I swear it.”
She choked on the words, something sharp and pungent seeping into her nostrils. Her eyes flew open, and she saw smoke curling under the door and around her feet.
“Fuilleach,” she whispered. She reached out until she could feel the door. It was warm.
“Let me out!” she screamed, pounding on the wood. The smoke was thicker now, and she pressed her sleeve to her face as she coughed. “Let me out!”
Was this the end then? Had she survived the Uprising only to die in this tiny cupboard? She thought of her mother and sisters, of Eliza’s baby to come, of Conlan and how much she loved him. She thought of the green, cool meadows of Killinan. Would she never see them again?
“No!” she cried. No, her life would not end here. She had too much to do, too much to live for. She threw her whole body against the door. Pain shot through her shoulder, but she pushed it away and threw herself forward again and again.
The door was suddenly flung open, and she stumbled forward. She would have fallen if a pair of strong arms hadn’t closed around her and lifted her high.
“Anna,” Conlan shouted. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, sobbing. It was him! Her warrior, her Celtic god. He had never looked more a lord of the Underworld than he did now, with his face blackened with smoke and his hair standing on end. She had never seen anyone so beautiful.
“I’m not hurt,” she managed to say. The smoke was a miasma out here, great billowing clouds, and she could hear the snap of flames. Somewhere in the building, timbers crashed down.
“We have to get out of here,” Grant Dunmore shouted. Anna glimpsed him over Conlan’s shoulder, half-hidden in the poisonous clouds. His coat was gone, his shirt torn and face bloodied.
“Where is Caroline?” she screamed at him. She twisted in Conlan’s arms but he wouldn’t let her go. “What have you done with her?”
“She ran outside to sound the alarm,” said Conlan. “She’s safe, which is more than I can say for us.”
“Go!” Grant called. He pushed them ahead of him, and Conlan hoisted Anna higher as he ran. The heat and smoke were almost unbearable, and Anna’s head swam as if she would faint. Conlan kept running, though, his strength never flagging.
Through a doorway, Anna glimpsed George’s crumpled body next to the broken glass of a lamp. But he soon vanished, consumed by flames, and Anna could feel Conlan’s lungs heaving in his chest. She buried her face against his shoulder.
At last, they fell out into the night, the icy wind a blessing on her singed skin. Just as Conlan stumbled through the gate to the river, lowering her to the ground, part of the roof collapsed with an explosive roar.
Anna slumped over, retching. The fresh, icy air blew away the smoke from her throat, but she still felt sick. She couldn’t stop shaking with the memory of how close they had all come to death.
“But we didn’t die,” she whispered. “We’re still alive.” And that thought made even the cold, hard stone beneath her and the ice pelting her skin feel glorious.
“Anna, my love, are you hurt?” Conlan said roughly. He knelt beside her, his hands gentle and careful as he touched her shoulders. His face was illuminated in the garish light of the flames, and his clothes were torn and stained.
She threw herself against him, wrapping her arms hard around him. “I’m not hurt,” she sobbed. “I just—I thought I might never see you again.”
He held her close and kissed the top of her head, her cheek, her nose. “I’ll always come for you, my witch. Always, no matter what.”
“Anna!” she heard Caroline cry. She twisted around to see her sister racing along the embankment. She wore Grant’s black coat over her rumpled dress, but her head and feet were bare. Caroline threw herself at Anna, and Anna held on to both her and Conlan, laughing and crying all at the same time. Caroline was safe; they were all safe. It felt like awakening from a nightmare into a clear, bright new morning.
“What happened when they separated us?” Caroline said, her voice tight as if she gasped for breath.
“Nothing happened except I was locked in a smelly cupboard,” Anna said. She carefully examined her sister for any injury, but Caroline seemed unhurt, blessedly free of blood or new bruises. “George is dead. And Grant…”
Anna had forgotten about Grant in the excitement. She glanced along the embankment. Curious onlookers had begun to gather, but there was no Grant. The other ruffians were gone, too. “I thought he was right behind us.”
A crashing noise echoed from the warehouse as another section of roof collapsed. Windows shattered. Anna spun around to the fire just in time to glimpse a tall silhouette in one of the lower windows. He was quickly engulfed in a cloud of smoke.
“There he is!” Anna screamed, pointing at the terrible sight.
“No,” Caroline whispered. She lurched to her feet, her eyes wide and glassy with shock. She took a stumbling step toward the inferno, but Anna grabbed at her skirt and pulled her back.
“Stay here, both of you,” Conlan commanded. As Anna watched, horrified, he ran back to the warehouse. It happened so swiftly she couldn’t even cry out in protest before he was gone.
She clung to Caroline, both of them staring numbly as the fire grew and grew in strength, consuming the whole structure. The crowd around them grew, and a bucket brigade formed to try and save the nearby warehouses, but Anna hardly noticed any of it. She could only see that doorway to hell where Conlan and Grant disappeared.
She had just got him back. How could he be gone now?
“They’ll come out of there,” she whispered.
“They have to,” said Caroline.
And then at last, she glimpsed a shadow behind the flames. Conlan staggered out with Grant slung over his shoulder. Conlan fell to his knees just beyond the reach of the smoke, coughing fiercely. Grant slid to the ground and lay there, perfectly still.
Anna ran to them with Caroline right behind her. Conlan seemed unhurt, just gasping for a breath of fresh air.
“Is he…” Anna said as she knelt beside Conlan. She saw that Grant still breathed, though the rise of his chest was shallow under his singed shirt. But his neck and the left half of his famously handsome face were raw with blistering burns. Once he was conscious, the pain would be terrible. Despite all he had put her through, the terrible things he had done and bad choices he had made, Anna’s heart ached.
Caroline slowly fell to her knees beside Grant. Her shaking hand touched his hair, easing the smoke-darkened strands back from those livid red wounds.
“He’s not dead,” Conlan said. “But he needs a doctor and to get in out of this cold. We all do.”
Anna nodded. She felt so numb, so weary. And her feet were freezing. “Why did you go in after him?”
Conlan closed his eyes for a moment, his face creased with pain. “Because—he is my cousin.”
“Yes,” Anna said. “Family is important in the end, no matter what.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Katherine gently tucked the bedclothes around Anna’s sleeping figure. The sunlight streamed through the repaired window, t
urning her daughter’s hair to pure spun gold. She had tried to draw the curtains closed, but Anna stopped her before she fell asleep.
“No,” she had murmured hazily, under the effects of the doctor’s laudanum. “I want the light.” So the curtains stayed open. Katherine would have given her the sun itself if she wanted it.
She didn’t know what exactly happened in that warehouse. Anna and Caroline gave only jumbled accounts of locked rooms, escape attempts, and fire. Her imaginings were terrible enough, though the doctor assured her they were unhurt. Just cold and tired.
Unlike Grant Dunmore, who was badly burned and had been taken off to the country, not expected to recover. She could pity him, but she could not find it in her heart to forgive him.
She gently kissed Anna’s cheek. The bruises would fade, yet she feared the memories would take longer to go away.
She tiptoed from the chamber and peered into Caroline’s room next door. Caroline slept, too, her books scattered around her on the bed as if she had sought forgetfulness in their pages. Katherine closed them and piled them on the floor before tucking the blankets around Caroline and leaving her to her dreams.
She went down to the drawing room, feeling restless and unfocused. There was nothing more she could do for her daughters now. They slept as peacefully as they could. The house was quiet, the servants going about their tasks in silent efficiency. No doubt Smythe had instructed them not to disturb her today.
She wished they would disturb her, though! Some minor household crisis would distract her from her restless thoughts. They were too well-trained, and there was nothing for her to do.
She drifted into the library, which was also perfectly tidy. A fire burned in the grate, and the settee where she had kissed Nicolas, sat before it. She turned away from those memories and went to the desk.
Caroline’s sketchbook sat there, open to a drawing of Anna. It was a fine, assured work, one that not only showed how Anna looked but the spirit in her eyes, the mischief in the curve of her smile. In the short time Nicolas had been teaching Caroline drawing, she had made great progress.
