The Irish Rogue

by Judith E. French

  "Do you believe I've come for a reward?" he asked.

  "No." She busied herself with her own cup. "Then what..."

  She raised her gaze to meet his. "I'm not sure why you—That is, I was overwrought. I never intended to—"

  He cut her off. "I want to make you a business proposition."

  "What?" Her hand trembled and drops splashed over the side of her cup as she set it on the tray. Anne forced herself to hide the disappointment she felt. He had come to demand a reward for saving her. The man she thought of as a knight in shining armor had all-too-human failings. "Yes, well, you certainly deserve financial compensation. But I'm not the one to apply to. My father takes care of all the plantation's—"

  "I want to marry you, Anne Davis."

  Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth to speak and nothing came out but a tiny squeak. She drew in a ragged breath and swallowed, trying to regain her composure.

  "I'm offering you my name and protection," he continued. "I believe the term is a 'marriage of convenience.'"

  Tears welled up to cloud her vision, but she would die before she'd let one fall. "Marry you?"

  "Let's be honest with one another," he said quietly. "You need a husband, Anne. You need a father for your child."

  She looked down at her clenched hands. "I don't know you," she murmured.

  "I am thirty-six, born within sight of the River Shannon, and I am of sound mind and body. I have never been married. I ride well, dance tolerably, and play a fair hand of cards. I've never struck a woman, and I think I could be a decent father."

  "And what..." She searched for the right words. "You said, 'Let's be honest with one another.' What do you get from such an alliance?"

  He shook his head. "Annie, Annie. You've a good head on your shoulders. Do I look like a man of wealth?"

  "You're a fortune hunter—no better than Stephen."

  He chuckled. "Far better. I've never lied to you."

  "No." She sighed and glanced away. What was wrong with her? Wasn't this exactly what she had told Mary she would do? Why did it sound so cold coming from O'Ryan's mouth? Had she secretly hoped for some romantic declaration from this golden stranger?

  "You have Stephen to thank for your problem. I'm offering you an honorable way out of it."

  "Yes." She studied his handsome face. "You are not... I mean..." She felt lightheaded. "My father—"

  "Your father can have no objections to your marriage to me that he would not dismiss if he knew the circumstances."

  "Which he can never know," she said. "He expects me to marry a gentleman of means."

  O'Ryan shrugged. "I imagine he does. I can pass as a gentleman. I am, in fact, the grandson of an earl. But the means..." He gestured hopelessly with broad hands.

  His nails, she noticed, were neatly cut and clean. They were strong hands, seemingly too hard and callused for a gentleman of leisure. The backs of two lean sun-bronzed fingers bore the thin white traces of a deep scar.

  "You do not seem the type of woman to deceive a man," he continued, jerking her from her reverie and drawing her attention back to his eyes. "I know you are carrying Stephen's child, and I don't care."

  If I marry him, I'll feel those virile hands on me every day, she thought. Still, she could not speak the words that would bind her to him, perhaps for the rest of her life. It was all too soon, too frightening. She'd never known a man who could cause her to summon up such notions.

  "Would another suitor be as accepting?" he asked.

  "You could never reveal that the baby is—"

  "If we marry at once, there won't be any lies. There can be no question of legitimacy. Even in America some babes must be born early. We have a saying in County Clare: 'A second child takes nine months; a first can be born in two.'"

  Anne covered her face with her hands. The room was suddenly too warm, the fire in the hearth unbearable. Waves of heat rushed under her skin, and her stomach began to protest again. "Stephen knows I'm with child. As does my sister. I told her last night."

  "Stephen will be silent as the grave. Your sister I cannot be so sure of. Is she to be trusted?"

  "I think so. Yes. Once I am married, I can secure Mary's oath. If she swears on our mother's grave, she will never tell." She had used that ploy a dozen times on Mary when they were children. "But I have not agreed to this... business—"

  "Partnership," he supplied.

  "Of the mind only. At least until the baby comes. I couldn't—"

  He laughed and stretched out his long horseman's legs. "I am a man of good humor, Anne, not a saint. I would expect the usual rights of a husband."

  "Oh." She nibbled her lower lip. She wasn't sure if that part was good or bad. "I thought that with a baby..."

  "You are an innocent," he answered. "Your child will come to no harm by normal pleasures of the bedchamber."

  She shook her head, unable to meet his eyes. How could he speak of such intimate matters when... No, she must preserve some semblance of proper behavior. She must have safeguards against her own carnal nature. If a mere kiss could confuse her so, what would happen if they carried lovemaking to its natural conclusion? She might do anything.

  "No. I can't agree to those terms. That would make it a true marriage, not one arranged solely for profit, and—"

  "Why don't we see what happens?" He leaned toward her. "I am not a man to use force against a woman. If we can share a chamber and you choose to remain chaste..." He left the rest unsaid.

  She glanced down at her restless hands, and then back to O'Ryan's amused features. She was unsure what to do. What he'd suggested was crazy, but it might work. If he really was the grandson of an earl, even being Irish wouldn't keep him from being accepted by Tidewater society.

  "You're afraid," he dared her.

  "No, I'm not afraid of you," she lied.

  "Then prove it, Annie, and say you'll be my wife."

  "All right. I mean—I'll think about it." What they were proposing would satisfy society's rules, but what of her own? Stephen had made promises that he never intended to keep. Why wouldn't O'Ryan do worse once he had control of her future?

  "I could have joined with that river scum last night, Annie. I didn't. That should tell you what I am."

  She swallowed. He did seem to be a good man. Who was she to say that a blessed angel hadn't sent him to rescue her from this mess as well as the brigands?

  "If, and I say if, I go along with this," she said, "It must be for a specific length of time, until after my confinement and the christening. I have money from my grandmother. I could give you that. You could return to your native country for a visit and never return."

  "And then?" His jaw tightened, and the steely gaze was suddenly shrewd. "I would abandon you and my child?"

  "Oh no. You're much too honorable for such action. You would have... an unfortunate accident. A dear friend—a relative perhaps—would send a letter telling of your fall from a horse."

  "I die?"

  She smiled. "Instantly."

  "Without pain, I hope." Mischief glinted in his eyes.

  "Oh yes," she agreed. "On your way home from church."

  "And I said that you weren't deceptive."

  "I'm not, about important things."

  "Just killing off an unwanted husband."

  "You could have the marriage annulled. Say that I'm crazy, that we're cousins. I don't care. Just treat me kindly until after the child comes, then take the money and get out of my life."

  "Leaving you free to marry again," he answered.

  She stood. "If you'd care to think about the matter. I'll give you until tomorrow to—"

  "How much money are we talking about?"

  "Nine thousand dollars."

  "Cash?"

  The room had become stifling. If she didn't open a door or window, she'd faint. "American silver," she replied. "And I'll throw in several building lots in Baltimore city. Grandmama left me those as well. I'm of age. Once we're married, it will be natural that I
would want to put the land in your name."

  "Annie, Annie, you're a clever woman."

  "Don't call me Annie. My name is Anne, and I never gave you leave to call me by it." She offered him her hand. "Can I expect your answer by the morrow, Mr. O'Ryan?"

  He laughed. "You may have it—" He broke off as a loud male voice sounded from the entranceway.

  "That's George," Anne said. "He—"

  The parlor door crashed open, and her brother-in-law charged into the room. "What's amiss here?" he demanded. "How dare you entertain this upstart Irishman in my absence! I'll have—"

  "We haven't been introduced," O'Ryan said, standing and giving George the slightest civil nod. "I am Michael O'Ryan of Belfast. And I must ask you to keep a civil tongue in your head when addressing Miss Davis."

  "How dare you?" George blustered. "This is my house and—"

  "So I've gathered, sir. But that gives you no right to be disrespectful to Anne."

  "My wife's sister? How dare you refer to her by her given—"

  "You obviously haven't heard, sir," O'Ryan replied calmly. "I am pleased to tell you that Anne, Miss Davis, has just done me the honor of accepting my proposal of marriage."

  Chapter 4

  Gentleman's Folly Plantation Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake Bay

  Anne stood nervously on the deck of the sloop Bay Belle and watched as her father's landing came into sight. On her left hand, she wore her grandmother's wedding ring, and her marriage lines were securely tucked into her silk reticule.

  Her sister Mary and Sean Cleary had been the only witnesses when she and Michael O'Ryan exchanged vows before a Methodist minister. The ceremony took place a week after O'Ryan proposed to her in George's parlor. The Irishman had wanted them to be wed at once, but she had insisted that he be fitted for a suitable wardrobe, and she paid for his fine new clothing with her ruby earrings. If they were to pass her bridegroom off as a gentleman, he had to dress like one.

  Anne wasn't sure what Papa's reaction would be. Certainly, he would be angry and hurt that she had married without his knowledge. But since he and her mother had eloped against the wishes of both sets of parents, she hoped that he would forgive her in time.

  George had been so enraged that she hadn't wished to return to Mary's house after the brief ceremony. Instead, she had stayed with a widowed friend of her sister's until O'Ryan could arrange passage to Maryland for them. She hadn't asked where he'd slept, hadn't cared. She'd known only that they hadn't been alone together since he'd given her a wedding kiss on the church steps. And that suited her fine.

  Being near her new husband was unnerving. Anne couldn't deny her physical attraction to him, and that terrified her. Her sexual involvement with Stephen had proved that she possessed a reckless nature when it came to matters of the heart. And if she allowed her new husband physical intimacies, she might become as entangled emotionally as she had with Stephen. She simply could not trust her own judgment.

  She must rely on reason rather than fall prey to feminine weakness. She had done what she had to do. She'd secured a husband and saved herself from ruin. Now all she had to do was to maintain the deception, to convince Papa and the others that this was a real marriage and that she loved O'Ryan.

  So far he'd played the part of devoted bridegroom well. He'd acted the perfect gentleman on the journey, giving her privacy and seeing to her welfare. She continued to experience stomach discomfort at midmorning, but otherwise the trip had been a pleasant one. The weather had favored them with clear skies, enough wind to fill the canvas, and calm seas.

  The first day's sailing had taken them down the Delaware River to the small town of Lewes, where they'd found a sloop bound for Baltimore. From that bustling town, it had been easy to hire a captain to cross the bay to the Eastern Shore and Gentleman's Folly.

  Now only a few hundred yards from their destination, Anne disregarded fashion by removing her straw bonnet, closing her eyes, and tilting her face up to enjoy the sensations of sun and breeze on her face. How she loved the mingling scents of fresh-turned earth and bay. She didn't have to see the huge oaks that divided green tobacco fields from marsh or the brown cattails rising out of the shallows to feel their timeless peace.

  A red-winged blackbird's cry, the lapping of waves against the hull of the sloop, and the taste of salt on her tongue were as familiar to her as her own reflection in a mirror. They were the threads that wove the tapestry of home, of Papa and the redbrick mansion house that she'd lived in since the day she was born.

  "It's a fair sight," O'Ryan said, coming up behind her.

  Startled from her reverie, Anne glanced at him. "Yes, it is." When she looked, the scene was much as she had imagined in her mind: a long wooden dock resting on cedar posts, a tobacco packing house not far from the water's edge, and a dirt lane leading up the hill into a grove of chestnut trees.

  Such an ordinary sight, she thought. So ordinary and yet so precious. Her heartbeat quickened as she thought of home.

  "Wait until you see the house," she said with almost childish excitement. "Grandfather built it after the English troops burned the old one during the Revolution."

  "You colonials have had your share of troubles with the Sassenach, true enough." He draped an arm around her with the ease of a man who was used to having his way with women.

  Anne inhaled sharply and stepped back to put distance between them. Her fingers trembled as she replaced her bonnet and tied the wide lavender ribbon under her chin.

  "You're as flighty as a yearling colt," he teased.

  "I'm not flighty." It did make her uneasy when he touched her or stood too close. His shoulders were too wide, his gaze too volatile. No matter his charm, she had the feeling that beneath that impeccable attire and easy humor lurked more of a pirate than an earl's grandson. And she had no wish to allow him inside her outer line of defenses.

  "In 1814 they burned Washington and attacked Fort McHenry across the bay," she continued hastily, trying to cover her nervousness with chatter. "Papa was with the militia and thought we might lose the house again. He sent word for Grandmother to take Mary and me and flee inland to friends in Delaware. But she wouldn't. Instead, she flew a British flag from the dock, and invited the enemy to dinner. They stole our poultry and pigs and went away without destroying anything."

  O'Ryan scanned the shore, taking in—she was certain—the wide fields and rich brown soil. "Was she an English sympathizer?"

  "No, she was a Baptist."

  O'Ryan's blue eyes clouded with puzzlement.

  "It's a family joke," she explained. "Whenever Grandmother was unreasonable, Papa said it was because she was a Baptist." Anne spread her gloved hands, palms up. "Grandmother said that she didn't have any cannon, so she stitched up a flag and used that to defend Gentleman's Folly."

  "Your neighbors didn't object?"

  "The ones who lost their homes did, but she answered that they were sorry they hadn't thought of it first. Besides, she had Jacob and Jonah serve the meal. They were twelve and just coming down with mumps. Grandmother said that if God was listening to her prayers, half the British navy would come down with mumps before they got home to England."

  "It's good to hear you laugh, Annie. You're much too serious for a bride." He removed a spotless handkerchief from his pocket and brushed her cheek with it. "Stand still," he ordered. "You've got a smudge on your chin."

  "I do not." Again she retreated, uncertain if he was teasing or simply making an excuse to touch her. "You haven't seen me at my best," she replied quickly. "I haven't had much to be happy about in the last week."

  "I'll keep my bargain, fair Annie," he promised. "See that you do the same, and we'll both get what we want out of this—"

  "Arrangement," she finished, trying not to take up the challenge she read in his eyes. It was ridiculous. He wasn't doing anything that she could reasonably protest, but Michael O'Ryan was altogether too masculine, too intense for them to share the close quarters of a sloop without coming
into intimate contact. It would all be different once they reached home. There, she would be on familiar ground. She could be in control of her actions, and of his.

  "Aye, it's a good place." He smiled and looked back at the rich, green land. "Nearly as beautiful as County Clare."

  "Just don't get too fond of it," she reminded him. "You'll only be here until—"

  "Until you don't need me anymore?" His amused glance became a wicked grin.

  She turned her face away from him and watched as the mate furled the sail and the sloop drifted the last few yards to the mooring post. The lean young waterman leaped onto the dock with a heavy line and snubbed the boat securely.

  O'Ryan was in the process of unloading her luggage when Anne noticed that some of the dock's decking was scorched black. A dinghy lay submerged in the shallows on the far side of the dock.

  A flash of uneasiness washed through her. "Something's happened here—" she began, then broke off as she saw a man galloping pell-mell down the slope on a bay hunter.

  "Miss Anne! Miss Anne!" he called. "Thanks be! You must come up to the house right away." Reining in the spirited horse, he dismounted, dropped the reins, and hurried toward her.

  "Abraham, what's wrong?" she demanded.

  Sweat ran down the slave's ebony-colored face as he jerked off his hat. "Master James is taken bad with his heart. That island scum attacked us last night and—"

  Anne went all hollow inside. "The bay pirates?"

  Abraham nodded. "They brought two boats in to this dock just before dusk. Must have been nine or ten of them. Master James shot one, and I ran one through with a pitchfork. They burned the cow barn and killed two of our hounds. Master James—"

  Her heart hammered in her chest. "Was my father hurt in the raid?"

  "No." Abraham's heavy-lidded eyes were full of concern. "Aunt Kessie's having a hard time keeping him in the bed, but she thinks it's serious. You'd best hurry, Miss Anne. He's been callin' for you."

  * * *

  Minutes later, Anne sat on the edge of her father's bed, clutching his callused hands in hers. "Papa, Papa, I should have been here with you."