The Irish Rogue

by Judith E. French

  Yet, he had given his word that he would take the nine thousand dollars and go. And whatever else he'd done to regret in this life, he'd never been a liar. If Anne still wanted to be rid of him after her child was born, he'd have to go. Nine thousand would go a long way toward easing Kathleen's plight.

  "You cannot change the world. Why can't you be content with what you have?" his father had asked his mother many times in the midst of one of their bitter quarrels.

  She'd never had an answer for that question, and it was a fault that she had passed on to her only child. And that lack of acceptance of the way things were had remained in his character to this day.

  "Take the money and be grateful," his father would have advised. But he was Isabel's son, and he recognized the ache in the core of his soul. He wanted to be a part of this new land with a fierce yearning that would only grow more insistent.

  The question was, what price was he willing to pay to get it?

  * * *

  Against Dr. McNeal's orders, Anne's father insisted on joining the newlyweds for dinner. Garbed in an old-fashioned dressing robe, James Davis took his place at the head of the massive teakwood table and rang a small bell to signal the servants to start serving.

  The meal began with crab bisque and a hardtack that James referred to as beaten biscuits. To O'Ryan's taste, the bread could have stood more beating or more yeast. The small white lumps were as hard as those served aboard the Providence, the ship that had brought him from Ireland. These, however, seemed free of weevils, which was a small blessing.

  Anne sat on one side, across from him. The table seemed ridiculously large for three people, the amount of food scandalous. The servants carried around platters of roasted pork, fried chicken, and a roast of beef large enough to serve a platoon of soldiers, followed by bowl after bowl of vegetables. What he tasted was delicious, but the quantity of the feast was enough to dull his appetite. Once he would have enjoyed the rich dishes, but he'd missed too many meals and seen too many hungry people to appreciate them now.

  There was little need to do much talking. Anne's father was more than able to fill the silence, retelling the tale of the pirate attack with gusto. "Cheeky bastards!" he said, with an apology to Anne for his swearwords. "We'll have to gather a band of stout men and burn out their nests one of these days."

  "You say that, Papa, but no one ever does," Anne said. "And that's a task for the authorities, not you and Nathaniel and the other landowners. Criminals shouldn't be allowed to hide out on the islands and rob honest folk as they please."

  James scoffed. "What should be done and what is are cats of different colors. When have the authorities—British or American—ever been willing to risk their necks for the taxpayers?"

  "Who are these pirates?" O'Ryan asked. "Are they a real threat to the area?"

  "Scum," Anne's father replied. "Runaway slaves, half-breeds, deserters from the British navy, Irish outlaws, and a handful of inbred, godless riffraff. The Chesapeake islanders have always been a lawless bunch. Don't doubt there may be a few real pirates among them, but they fight among themselves too much to be any real threat."

  "Papa makes too light of the problem," Anne insisted. "These marauders are a real danger to honest folk."

  "Nothing for a pretty girl to worry her head about," James proclaimed loftily. "And certainly not a proper topic for dinner conversation," he added, completely forgetting that he had been the one to bring it up. "This is men's business. The thrashing we gave them will keep them clear of Gentleman's Folly, you can count on it."

  "But, Papa—"

  "Enough. Now tell me about Mary and the children."

  "You can't ignore these criminals," Anne said. "I don't think—"

  "Leave the thinking to me," James replied sternly. "I've spoiled her, I admit it, Michael. Had her mother lived, bless her soul, my Anne would have learned when a lady should hold her tongue." He reached over and patted his daughter's hand. "There, there, girl. Don't glower so. You know you've a tongue on you. Smile, dear, Papa loves you. Now, where's that wench with the French wine I wanted served?"

  Clearly mortified by her father's words, Anne stared into her lap, back ramrod straight and mouth taut.

  A maid produced the wine. That was followed by another course, and then yet another wine, all of which the master of Gentleman's Folly proceeded to sample without showing any ill effects.

  "Just as I told you," James said as they finished the meal with an assortment of sweets. "McNeal couldn't find a thing wrong with me. Indigestion, nothing more. The man's a quack, getting rich off inventing illnesses for his patients."

  "Stuff and nonsense, Papa," Anne replied. Small spots of red still stained her cheeks. "Dr. McNeal's no more a charlatan than you are."

  "Fresh air is what I need," her father grumbled. He motioned to the serving girl. "A slice of that pecan pie, and don't spare the cream." He nodded as she slid a large piece onto his dessert plate. "Yes, that's fine. And tell Daniel to saddle Greyboy and the new black." He glanced back at O'Ryan. "I mean to show you around Gentleman's Folly," he said.

  "Abraham can do that," Anne suggested. "I'd feel better if you'd go back to bed, at least until tomorrow."

  "Listen to her," James said good-naturedly. "The ladies are all alike. They'd love to run a man's life if he'd let them. No, I'll take your upstart Irishman myself. I mean to see for myself how well he can sit a Maryland steed."

  * * *

  O'Ryan saw no more of Anne until supper. James and he explored the plantation, visited the slave quarters and the plantation mill. They watched as boys checked crab traps in the river, and paused to admire the thoroughbred stallion James had bought from a breeder on the James River in Virginia. The two men walked the length of a tobacco field shoulder to shoulder and cut through a virgin hardwood forest where oaks and chestnuts grew in undisturbed splendor.

  "Your new husband likes Gentleman's Folly," James told his daughter over the light evening meal. "And so he should. This is some of the finest land on the peninsula."

  Anne nibbled at her crabcake and took a few bites of the garden greens. "I would feel better if you would rest more, Papa," she said.

  "I'm fit as a fiddle, girl. Fit as a man half my age."

  After they had eaten, the men retired to the library for a glass of port. James offered O'Ryan a pouch of tobacco. He accepted, drawing a pipe from his coat pocket and filling the bowl with the sweet-smelling leaves.

  "Oronoco, son, the lifeblood of this state. A man who won't smoke his own tobacco is in the wrong business," James said as he passed O'Ryan a light. "What do you think of the taste?"

  O'Ryan took a puff and nodded.

  "Good climate for tobacco, here on the Tidewater." James settled into an easy chair with his wineglass in one hand, his pipe in the other. "Of course, the land's growing poorer every year. Tobacco sucks the life out of the soil. I've seen it. Every year the fields produce less."

  O'Ryan smoked his pipe. A clock ticked on the mantel. A faint sound of drumming drifted in through an open window.

  Finally, James broke the silence. "I can't let you think I've forgiven you for marrying my Anne without my permission. You needn't think I'm an old fool. This was all too hastily done to be proper. I'll be watching you. Her husband you may be, but no man lays a hand in anger on either of my two chicks and lives to tell about it. Am I making myself clear? You will treat her at all times as the lady she is."

  O'Ryan nodded. "Aye, on that we are agreed. I've never struck a woman, and I don't intend to start."

  "And one more thing." The lines around the older man's mouth grew taut. "No dallying with the serving wenches, white or black. I won't stand for it. I've a rule here on Gentleman's Folly, ten lashes for lustful mischief, hanging for rape. Our women have always felt free to walk where they would, day or night, without fear of being molested."

  O'Ryan's muscles tensed as anger flared in his chest. "Do I look the kind of man to—?"

  "No, you do not," James a
nswered. "But I am a plain-spoken man. I say what I expect of you so that there will be no misunderstanding. Conduct yourself as a gentleman, treat my Anne right, and we'll have no quarrel between us."

  "Fair enough. I like you, James Davis. I see no reason why we shouldn't become friends."

  "We've one thing in common," James said heartily. "We are Anne's protectors. If you love her as I do, it will count for more with me than you being an Irishman with foreign ways." He puffed slowly on his pipe and took a sip of port. "My two girls are my greatest treasure. God knows I valued their mother more than my own life. They're all I have left of her."

  "I'll do what I can to make Anne happy," O'Ryan said. "If it's in my power."

  "That's all I can ask of any man." James raised his glass in a toast. "To your marriage," he said, "and a grandson in my arms within the year."

  O'Ryan accepted the toast with a smile, wondering if Anne's father had any inkling of how close his wish was to being fulfilled.

  * * *

  Hours later, O'Ryan threw off the linen sheet and tossed restlessly on the narrow bed. The small room was stifling. Somewhere over his head, a mosquito droned angrily. He'd already killed two; one had left a welt on his shoulder that itched incessantly.

  "Some honeymoon," he grumbled.

  The problem with this closet was that there was no cross-ventilation. It reminded him of the cramped quarters aboard the Providence.

  He beat the pillow into shape and turned onto his back. Of course, he'd shared a space this size with four other families and there'd been no window at all. No window... and no feather tick to lie on.

  He tried to push thoughts of the ocean voyage away. That bleak time was over, and there was no profit in remembering the vermin, the smell of vomit and spilled bowels, or the incessant wail of dying children in steerage. The Providence had been at best a leaking, rat-infested tub and at worst a plague ship. If the captain hadn't bribed port authorities, the boat would never have been permitted to drop what remained of its human cargo in Philadelphia.

  And the Providence had been better than prison.

  He chuckled with black humor. "I must be coming up in the world to sleep in a water closet." The mosquito attacked and he swatted it, feeling satisfaction as the insect was squashed under his palm.

  "Damn." He sat up and ran fingers through his damp, tangled hair. What kind of fool was he? Anne's father had said it, hadn't he? "Start out the way you mean to go."

  If he let Anne treat him like a hireling in the first week of their marriage, things could only get worse. Why was he sleeping on a maid's cot when she was a few feet away in a high bed in a room with four windows?

  "Cross-ventilation," he muttered. By moonlight, he located the short flannel drawers he'd taken off earlier. He thrust his legs into them, jerked the garment up, and buttoned the waist.

  He stubbed a bare toe against the bedstead as he approached the passageway between his room and the larger chamber. "Ouch!" he swore quietly, then turned the knob and found the door locked.

  He tapped firmly. "Anne. Open up."

  Nothing.

  "Annie O'Ryan, you have one minute to unlock this, or I'll break it in." He took a breath. "One, two, three, four..."

  Bare feet padded on the floorboards. "Hush! You'll wake the servants."

  "I'll wake Old Scratch himself. Let me in."

  "You knew my rules," she insisted, trying to sound as if she'd been asleep. But she hadn't. She'd been lying awake, thinking of him in the next room, wondering what it would be like to curl against his hard, masculine chest and feel his arms around her.

  Even now, her body betrayed her. With every step she could feel the texture of her linen nightgown rubbing against her sensitive breasts. Waves of heat fluttered down her belly to the damp forbidden spot between her thighs.

  Every sound seemed magnified—the hoot of an owl in the garden, the rustle of leaves outside her window. Fear, she told herself, it was only fear that made her so uneasy. Husband or not, he was a stranger.

  "Annie, listen to me. I've no designs on your body, as desirable as it may be. It's hot in here. If I'm to act your husband for the next year, I want to sleep in your room."

  "No." If she opened the door for him, he would surely expect more. And if she did, how could she be certain she wouldn't give it to him?

  "We're not going to argue about this. Either let me in quietly, or I'll do it the hard way."

  "I don't trust you." It was easier to believe that it was Michael O'Ryan she didn't trust, rather than her own will. What if she was the weak one? Wasn't she the one who couldn't forget the heat of his big hands on her? Didn't her heart race when he spoke her name in that soft, almost musical Irish that made Annie sound like a caress?

  "You've no need to fear me," he said. "If I'd wanted to do you harm, I had plenty of chance to do it the night we met."

  Her mouth was as dry as last year's tobacco leaf. Her skin felt all prickly. "You swear? On your mother's grave?"

  "How do you know she's dead?"

  "All right, just be quiet. And if you do lay a hand on me, I'll scream loud enough to bring the servants running."

  She turned the key and fled back to the bed.

  "That's more like it."

  A cool breeze off the bay stirred the curtains as he strode across the room with almost catlike grace to where she lay with the sheet pulled up around her neck. A lady would have closed her eyes to avoid seeing him, but she had lost all modesty.

  O'Ryan was all bare, ridged chest, wide shoulders, and craggy features in the moonlight. His curling hair gleamed silver-gold, and she caught a glimpse of his flat, taut belly. Her pulse bucked and raced as he approached the bed. He's beautiful, she thought. My beautiful husband.

  But not really her husband, she told herself. Theirs was a marriage in name only, a relationship that could only be complicated by sharing this bed.

  "You smell like lavender," he said.

  His words were as sweet as honey, but she knew she had to be strong. "I allowed you in the room," she whispered coldly. "I didn't say you could come into my bed." She didn't know if she could stand to have him so close without having him closer.

  He chuckled.

  "You could sleep on the floor." She wondered if he was naked below the waist.

  "Not likely. But you're free to do so if you wish."

  "I am with child. No gentleman would ask a lady to—"

  "I am no mooncalf, Annie. Are you so enamored of my good looks that you cannot sleep beside me without being overcome by lust?"

  "That's nonsense. And stop calling me Annie! My name is Anne. Anne, do you understand?"

  "You are a bit of a scold, aren't you," he chided. "And you act so meek in front of your father. 'Yes, Papa, no, Papa.'"

  She didn't answer. It had never been something she was proud of, just the way things had to be.

  "Which side of the bed is mine?"

  "Please, take a quilt and a pillow and make your bed on the floor."

  "Not a chance."

  "I warn you, I've got a weapon. Touch me and—"

  "I thought you were going to scream. Now you say you mean to attack me."

  "Not this side. The other side." The mattress sagged under his weight. "Stay on your half if you know what's good for you," she warned, trying not to think about how much she wanted to go into his embrace.

  He laughed. "So you can't bear to leave me."

  "I'll not be driven from my own bed by a... a Patrick-come-lately." She turned away, drew her knees up tightly, and covered her head with the sheet.

  He stretched out. "This is much better."

  "Go to sleep," she snapped. "You weren't satisfied until you got in here. Now you're here. Stop talking and go to sleep."

  She lay motionless, listening to the sound of his breathing.

  "What is it?" he ventured after a few minutes.

  She started. "What? What's what?"

  "What kind of weapon do you mean to use against me? A
pistol? Saber?"

  She didn't reply.

  "A butcher knife?"

  "No."

  "Pitchfork?"

  "I've a candlestick, if you must know, but it's brass and heavy enough to split your skull."

  He chuckled softly. "Go to sleep, wife. On my mother's grave, I vow I will not lay a finger on you tonight."

  "Good."

  "Tomorrow you may wish to renegotiate."

  Her answer was one that no lady should utter. He laughed. "Whatever the next year brings, Annie, it won't be dull, I promise you." No, she thought. It won't be dull.

  Chapter 6

  The first streaks of dawn were beginning to color the sky when a rooster crowed outside the window. O'Ryan came instantly awake. He sat bolt upright and looked around, then realized where he was and glanced over at his bride, sleeping just beyond a wall of pillows.

  Anne, clad primly in a long-sleeved white nightgown, lay curled on her side, facing him. Her left hand clutched the sheet, pressing it tightly against her breast. Her right arm was flung over her head. One slim ankle and high-arched bare foot peeked out from under the covers at the far edge of the bed.

  Her hair had been twisted into a single plait and tied with a ribbon. The thick braid spilled over her face, hiding most of her features. Her tresses were dark in the shadowy confines of the big bed, but he could still smell her faint lavender scent.

  He raised himself on one elbow and gently moved the braid aside. She stirred slightly and sighed, but her eyes remained closed and her breathing told him that she was still wrapped in deep slumber.

  He resisted an urge to touch her face, to run his fingers through the wild tendrils that had escaped the braid and curled around the sides of her cheeks and over her temple. He tried not to think of what it might be like to kiss her eyelids and feel the tickle of those winglike brows against his skin.

  Anne's hair felt like strands of silk against his fingertips, and he longed to tug the ribbon free and spread her tresses like an auburn curtain against the pillow. But he didn't. He merely studied her heart-shaped face as the gray light turned to gold and sunlight poured through the open windows.