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The Irish Rogue

Page 3

by Judith E. French


  If a kiss was any measure, Anne Davis was a woman of fire and spirit, one that any sensible bridegroom would welcome to his bed. If giving his name to her fatherless babe would save her from disgrace and gain him the means to protect Kathleen...

  "Is that you, Michael?" Sean called sleepily when O'Ryan pushed open the sagging door.

  "Aye, it's me. Sorry to wake you. Go back to sleep." O'Ryan stepped carefully over a coughing child rolled in a blanket, felt his way around a table, and went into the narrow cell that served as a bedchamber. He didn't bother to light a candle but undressed in the dark and—still deep in thought—slipped into bed.

  On the far side of the crumbling plaster wall, the Flynn baby was shrieking, and Joseph Flynn was cursing his wife. Grateful that the bully was too far in his cups to resort to anything worse than words, O'Ryan turned his back and tried to shut out the racket.

  His sheet blankets were clean and the bare floor scrubbed spotless, thanks to Nora Cleary. But nothing could hide the odors that permeated the house, of urine, dampness, and humans packed too tightly together.

  Seven families lived in a dwelling that his father wouldn't have considered fit to stable his hounds in. And that wasn't counting himself or the daft old man who slept in the attic without heat or a place to cook.

  At home in County Clare, men said the streets of America were lined with gold. They boasted that any jack willing to work could become rich. Here, in the New World, he could hold his head high, own land, educate his children, and practice his religion beholden to none.

  O'Ryan flopped onto his belly and tried to shut out the baby's wailing with his blanket. He hadn't come here by choice; he'd landed in this port because the ship he'd stowed away on was bound for America.

  But honest Sean Cleary had sacrificed all he owned to make the journey. He'd left behind aging parents and grandparents, his job, a house and forge. And after six months in the City of Brotherly Love, all he'd gained was the taunts of little men who judged him by his accent and the place where he'd been born.

  Sean was an artist with wood. He'd learned his craft as boy and man, but no shop would hire him. These pious Quakers claimed to be men of God, but they had small charity for those who spoke differently or worshipped in a different church. Sean was one of a flood of Irish immigrants looking for work—any work at all. And what little he earned unloading an occasional ship or knocking together coffins for potter's field barely kept his family fed and a roof over their heads. His good wife Nora was far-gone with child, but when her time came she'd have to depend on the charity of a neighbor or Sean's strong hands to bring her babe into the world. For even if they managed to scrape together the money for a midwife, none would venture to this part of town.

  In Ireland, O'Ryan—a gentleman's son—and Sean Cleary the tradesman would have passed each other in the streets with barely a word exchanged. But twelve weeks on the Atlantic aboard a pest-ridden ship had changed all that. Sean Cleary had saved O'Ryan's life and become the brother that he'd never had.

  Taking comely Annie Davis to wife might offer an opportunity to help Sean and his family. And it could be the only hope of bringing Kathleen and her babe to America before it was too late.

  The problem now was how to convince the lady Anne that an Irish adventurer with a price on his head was the answer to her prayers.

  Chapter 3

  A uniformed maid drew back the velvet bed hangings, and sunshine flooded over Anne's face. "Time you were up, miss."

  "Ohh," Anne groaned. She buried her face in the pillow and tried to block out the smell of lamb sausage and coddled eggs. "Take the tray back to the kitchen," she mumbled. "I'm not hungry."

  "Mistress Mary said you should eat hearty." Gerda left the bed, filled the washbowl from a waiting pitcher, and threw open a window. "Fresh air vill do you good." Her German accent was as thick as corn pudding, her attitude almost too cheerful for Anne to bear.

  Outside on a branch, a Carolina wren scolded. Horses and carriages rolled noisily past the front of the house, and a fish-woman shouted her wares. "Oysters, mussels, fresh herring!"

  The sounds vibrated in Anne's head. Why had she ever left the bay country? How she wished that she were at home in her own bedchamber on Gentleman's Folly, as innocent as she had been three months ago. She'd been a reasonably attractive woman of marriageable age with a good fortune, a prize many suitors would fight for. Now... Now she was a liability, a shameful daughter who might well be thrown out of her home and forced to fend for herself and a fatherless child.

  And she suspected that she was suffering from morning sickness.

  "Miss," Gerda insisted. "Best you eat before your breakfast gets cold."

  "Just the tea." Anne's stomach felt as though she'd swallowed a live frog. Her lacerated knees and the battered palms of her hands stung. Every bone in her body seemed about to come unhinged, and the bright sunlight made her head throb. "Close the curtains."

  She and Mary had barely had time to hug and whisper endearments last night while George hustled her into the house. Each had been grateful that the other had survived, but Anne had seen the uneasiness in her sister's eyes. Mary could never be counted on to hold firm in cases of adversity. Any moment she might cave in and tell her husband everything. And if George learned of Anne's pregnancy, he would race to inform Papa.

  Her father had always been fair, even indulgent, but he did have the Davis temper. Papa would be furious with her. He could be very stern when his children disobeyed his orders. And whatever punishment he decreed in anger, he would stand by to his grave. Papa might well disown her, and George knew it.

  She and Mary's husband tolerated each other at best. George thought that Papa spoiled her and that it wasn't fair that she, as the eldest, would inherit all his property.

  She felt that George treated Mary like a pretty object, pleasant to show off, suitable to provide him with heirs, but not his equal. Anne would never settle for such a match. Correction, she thought with a start. At one time, she had never intended to wed such a man. Now she was hardly in a position to be particular.

  Why hadn't she accepted young Nathaniel Greensboro's proposal of marriage the summer before last? She liked Nate, even if he did have a shrew for a mother and they talked about nothing but horses and fox hunting. Nathaniel's land bordered Gentleman's Folly. They had known each other since they were children, and they shared many of the same friends. Everyone had assumed she would eventually become Mrs. Greensboro. That would have been the sensible thing to do.

  No, she had to be particular. She had to wait for her true love to come along, someone who could send goosebumps running up and down her spine, someone who would devote himself to her as Papa had to her mother.

  Mama had been in her grave for almost twelve years, but her father had never even looked at another woman. He kept Mama's bedchamber exactly as it had been on the last morning of her life, and he put flowers on her grave every Sunday. He still wrote her love letters, for pity's sake.

  It was too late to marry Nathaniel. He'd wed redheaded Susannah Steele from Chestertown at Christmas. At this moment Susannah was probably sitting in the parlor planning a Sunday picnic and listening to her mother-in-law brag about breeding her prize hound bitch. Anne doubted that Susannah's stomach was tumbling like a cow on ice.

  "Miss." The serving woman cleared her throat patiently and lifted the painted teapot from its quilted cozy. Her broad, placid face beamed as she gently swished the steaming brew, poured, then added two lumps of sugar and stirred them in.

  Tea might not kill her, Anne decided. Or maybe it would.

  She closed her eyes and visualized a cup of Assam, the dark golden liquid rolling, pitching. Her determination to fight the sickness wavered. If she died, Mary could bury her at once. No one, least of all Papa, need ever know that she had disgraced the family by letting Stephen have his lustful way with her and by becoming enceinte.

  "Poor t'ing," Gerda fussed. "God vas vith you last night. Food vill give yo
u strength. Coddled eggs, bread, eel pie, lamb sausage..."

  Greasy links intertwined with writhing eels danced behind Anne's swollen eyelids. She could imagine the fat pooling on the flowered porcelain plate and spilling over the rim to drip onto the red Turkey carpet, visualize headless eels wiggling across the floor toward her.

  "No!" Flinging herself from the high four-poster, Anne dashed to the closestool and hung her head over the chamber pot. She heaved, but nothing came up. "Go away." She motioned weakly to Gerda. "Take the food out of here."

  The maid fisted broad hands on broader hips and winked knowingly. "Toast and tea. That vill ease the belly." Gerda nodded. "Touch of ague, you got, maybe. And no vonder, out in fog and rain getting soak to bone."

  Anne licked dry lips and tried to still the buzzing in her head. "Please, just the tea."

  "Vill you vant help in dressing?"

  "No, thank you. Just take that food out of here."

  Gerda shrugged. "As you vish, miss. And this?" She pointed to the forest green coat draped carelessly over the back of a chair. "It may be that the gentleman vill send a servant to collect his—"

  "Leave it." She waited until the door closed behind Gerda's ample form, then fingered the folds of O'Ryan's garment thoughtfully. The cloth and the cut were fine; the buttons were good silver. But the garment had seen much wear, and it was far from the latest fashion. If Michael O'Ryan was a gentleman, he was not a wealthy one. She caught a hint of the Irishman's scent and lifted the coat to her face.

  Anne reeled as an intense flood of vivid memories engulfed her senses. Instantly, she felt herself wrapped in O'Ryan's muscular arms. Once again, as if in a dream, she tasted his demanding kiss, heard the strength in his deep Irish laughter, thrilled to the powerful thud of his heart beating close to hers.

  Startled, she dropped the coat. Her breath came in short, quick gasps as she stared down at the palms of her trembling hands, half expecting that they would blister from the heat.

  When her fingers did not redden, and the odd notion faded, she scoffed at her own foolishness. Pregnancy must do strange things to a woman's mind, she decided, if a stolen kiss from a mysterious stranger could unnerve her so. Absently, Anne rubbed the nape of her neck, dispelling the odd prickling sensations, and chuckled aloud. Doubtless, she would never see her mysterious knight again.

  The thought was strangely disconcerting. What was wrong with her? This should have been the first day of her marriage to Stephen Preston. Where were her tears for him? How could she have been so convinced that she loved Stephen and then dismiss him from her heart so easily? Was she as shallow as George insinuated?

  How could she possibly wish for further contact with O'Ryan after her shameful behavior? She'd not only admitted her sin with Stephen, she'd allowed O'Ryan liberties, even participated in them, kissing him in full view of George and the servants. She'd given Michael O'Ryan every reason to think her a lewd and common trollop.

  "It proves what Papa said," Anne murmured softly into the empty room. She was a foolhardy woman, ready to spin fancies over any rogue who glanced her way.

  A dizzy spell swept over her again, and she stepped away from the forest green coat and made her way back to the tea table. A few swallows of the strong Assam tea did help. She slowly drained the cup, then poured herself another and took it back to the bed.

  She finished the last drop and stretched back against the pillow, wondering if she would bother to get dressed. She didn't want to listen to more of George's scolding, and her brother-in-law would hardly intrude on her in her dressing gown.

  "Auntie Anne!" The bedroom door flew open and a small freckle-faced girl rushed in, the ties of her spotted muslin gown flying loosely behind her. "There's a big man. On the front step. He talks funny."

  Anne's heart skipped a beat.

  "Miss Margaret!" The children's nanny appeared, breathing hard. "Sorry, miss," Jane said as she bobbed a curtsy in Anne's direction, then reached for the four-year-old.

  Giggling, Margaret scrambled under Anne's bed.

  "Come out of there, you little scamp. You know your mother told you that you were not to trouble your aunt this morning."

  "I'm not! The big man wants Auntie Anne." Margaret came out the far side and climbed up on the bed. She bounced several times and then cuddled against Anne.

  "I am sorry," the red-cheeked nanny said. "I was changing Miss Lucy's nappy and—"

  "And Margie escaped again." Smiling to cover her nervousness, Anne rose from the bed, bringing the little girl with her. "It's all right, Margie's never a bother. She's my shadow, aren't you, dumpling?"

  Margaret nodded and giggled again.

  A bubble of hope made Anne almost giddy. "Is there a gentleman at the door for me?"

  "Yes' m," said Jane. "Somebody askin' for you, he was, but Mrs. Troyer wouldn't let him in. She told him to come back at a proper hour. Doubt he's a gentleman. What gentleman would come calling in hat and waistcoat? Some tradesman, no doubt, one that don't know his—"

  Michael O'Ryan. It had to be him. "Was he tall with an Irish accent?" Anne asked, feeling her cheeks grow warm.

  "Didn't see him, miss. But I heard him. Yes, I do say he was Irish. No need to fret yourself. Mrs. Troyer's not the kind to let just anyone in this house, not with the master away." Jane stopped long enough to take a breath and scoop up the little girl. "Back to the nursery with you, sweet."

  "Only if I can have a gingerbread," the child bargained.

  When the nursemaid nodded, Margaret clasped her arms around Jane's neck.

  "Send someone after him," Anne said. "That's the brave man who risked his life to save Mary and me from those ruffians last night. I must speak with him. Hurry, before he gets away."

  Jane nodded again. "I will, miss."

  "And send Gerda back. I need someone to help me dress. I cannot receive him in my dressing gown." Hastily, Anne threw open her wardrobe, took out a robin's-egg-blue muslin, scrutinized it, then tossed it aside and chose another dress. "Gerda," she called. "Where are you?"

  "Comin', miss."

  Minutes later, dressed and hair arranged to her satisfaction, Anne descended the front stairs in time to see the grumbling housekeeper admitting a tall, fair-haired man.

  Anne had almost reached the middle landing when the gentleman looked up. For an instant their gazes locked, and her breath caught in her throat as the slow fluttering began in her chest once more.

  O'Ryan's eyes were a startling, clear blue, as vivid as a Chesapeake summer sky. His forehead was broad, his nose straight, and his chin square. He smiled at her, a slow, brilliant flash that revealed white, perfectly formed teeth and a dimple on one cleanly shaven cheek.

  She swallowed, trying to ignore her hammering pulse and the gooseflesh that rose on her arms.

  He was bigger than she remembered, with shoulders that filled the doorway, close-fitting fawn trousers, and high leather boots that covered a horseman's long, shapely legs. His thick hair was the color of ripe wheat and slightly curly. He could be anywhere in his thirties, but no matter his age, he had a face that would make an old maid weep with regret.

  "Is this a bad time?" he asked.

  "No." Her voice was throaty. "It's... it's not a bad time." What was it about him that made her suddenly at a loss for words? "You've come for your coat?"

  She noted that he wore a matching waistcoat with a spotless stock tied at his throat. His arms were lean, and his biceps strained against the seams of his starched white shirt. Worn silver buttons gleamed at his cuffs and down the front of his old-fashioned double-breasted waistcoat.

  O'Ryan smiled, and she felt a fluttering sensation in her chest. Her lips tingled as she remembered the pressure of those sensual lips slanting across her own.

  "I wanted to be certain you'd recovered from your adventure," he said as he passed his hat to George's scowling footman.

  Ignoring the obvious disapproval of the servants, Anne led the way into the east parlor and closed the door securely be
hind them. She was determined to be firm with Michael O'Ryan, no matter how devilishly attractive she found him to be. If he made a single reference to their shared kiss or made one suggestive statement, she'd have the servants toss him out on his ear.

  "How—how did you find me?" she asked, handing him his coat. "We parted at the corner last night." She hoped he hadn't noticed that her palms were damp, and that her hands trembled ever so slightly.

  He smiled again, and his blue eyes sparkled merrily. "I asked your neighbor's gardener where the bold and lovely Annie Davis was visiting."

  Sweet heaven, the man could charm the leaves from the trees. Using her first name was a total breach of etiquette, and she certainly had never been called Annie. But how could she complain without seeming ungrateful? "Forgive me my attire, sir," she stammered. "I wasn't expecting—"

  "Had I known you'd receive me alone, I would have come sooner."

  She averted her eyes. "George and Mary are at services. Please, have a seat. Can I offer you refreshment? Tea?"

  "Coffee?"

  "Yes, of course." She pulled the bell cord, gave her instructions to the maid, and sat across from him. He'd shrugged into his coat, settled into a high-backed chair, and crossed his ankles. Whatever his fortune, it was obvious to Anne that O'Ryan wasn't impressed by George's wealth.

  "I trust you slept well," he said.

  "Yes. And you? You had no problems after you left—"

  She stopped in midsentence as Mrs. Troyer knocked then pushed into the room with a tray and an assortment of cakes. Gerda followed with a pot of coffee and another of Oolong tea, Mary's favorite.

  "Anything else?" The housekeeper's small eyes peered suspiciously at O'Ryan.

  "No, thank you," Anne said. "I'll pour." When they were gone, she served O'Ryan. "Have you reconsidered my offer of a reward?" she blurted out as he added cream to his coffee.

  His eyes twinkled.

  Her cheeks felt as though they were on fire.

  "Other than the one I took last night?" he teased.

  Anne didn't think she'd ever seen a man with eyes so vividly blue. He seemed to be looking through her rather than at her.

 

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