The Irish Rogue

by Judith E. French

  "Are you always so sure of yourself?"

  "Usually. At least where ladies are concerned."

  "You are the most conceited man I..." On impulse, she seized a pillow and threw it at him. He caught it in midair and hurled it back.

  Giggling, Anne dived for another.

  O'Ryan took a flying leap and landed on top of her with such force that one leg of the bed gave way and they both slid off the far side in a tangle of arms, legs, and bedding. The pillow that Anne had intended to use as a weapon was trapped beneath them, and it had burst open, showering them in feathers.

  "You're mad!" she squeaked. Gasping for breath, she tried to wiggle out from under him. He trapped her in the circle of his arms and kissed her soundly.

  "Take that, wench," he teased.

  "Michael!"

  A feather landed on her nose and she sneezed. "Let me up! The servants will think—"

  "Damn the servants," he answered huskily. "I have you where I want you, Annie, and you'll not get away without paying a forfeit." He nibbled at the lobe of her ear and whispered a deliciously wicked suggestion.

  "Feathers? What do you take me for?" she demanded between kisses. The length of his leg pressed between hers, and she could feel the heat of him through the thin silk of her gown. Already, a restless hunger stirred in the dampness between her thighs and her bodice seemed too tight to contain her breasts.

  "You're all woman," he rasped as his hands stroked and teased and explored.

  "In midmorning? In full light of day? Have you no shame?"

  "None at all."

  And, apparently, neither did she.

  Chapter 15

  Dawn was an hour away when Abraham spotted what he'd been looking for, a leaning fence post next to a lightning-struck poplar tree. "This way," he said to his wife. "There's an old Quaker preaching house up there in the woods, hasn't been used in years."

  "Are you sure you know where we goin'?" Ivy asked anxiously. Fear made her clumsy as she tried to walk while shifting the pack on her back, and she put one foot down wrong, twisting her ankle. She inhaled sharply and clenched her teeth against the pain. It wasn't a serious hurt, just bad enough to remind her that she ought to keep her mind on what she was doing if she didn't want to spoil their chance at getting away.

  But she was still terrified. All night she'd listened for the sounds of hoofbeats behind them, certain that their escape had been discovered, positive that they'd be captured, separated forever.

  Ivy had never been beaten in her life, not unless you wanted to count the swats her mama had given her on the backside when she sassed or ran off to play without doing her chores. She was afraid of being whipped, but not nearly as afraid as she was of what they might do to Abraham.

  Running away was a terrible crime. No one at Greensboro Hall had ever tried, not in her lifetime. She'd heard stories about slaves from other plantations: some had been caught and beaten or sold south; others simply vanished and were never heard of again.

  Ivy reckoned Abraham must be worth nigh as much as Miz Anne's fancy stud horse Jersey, maybe more. Common sense should tell a body that white folks ain't gonna waste all that money by whippin' him half to death or feedin' him to the dogs. Coin came too dear on the Tidewater.

  If they were caught, she would likely get a lickin' and maybe be sold off. But Abraham... heaven only knew what would happen to her man. One thing sure, he'd never lay eyes on her or their baby boy, not in this life. And that scared her worse than anything else.

  She'd never thought much about being a slave. It was the way things was, like the sun comin' up in the morning and goin' down at night. Sure, she'd listened to Abraham's dreams about goin' North and livin' free. But she wasn't sure what "free" meant or how much she'd like it. All her days, she hadn't had to worry about where her next meal was comin' from or whether she'd have a sound roof over her head. If she was sick, she could stay in her bed, and once when she was little, Miz Greensboro had called the white doctor to take a fishhook out of her foot.

  Old Miz Greensboro had been hard to please. And once in a while, she'd threaten to cuff you. Sometimes she would, but the slaps didn't hurt much, and Ivy could always think of a way to get even without payin' the price. She could accidentally cut some of the seams on Miz Greensboro's new gown so that they'd split wide open when she sat down, or she could spill her good powder and put cornstarch in its place. She could put a dead mouse on the mistress's best shoe and spiders in her soup.

  White folks might think they were the bosses, but it wasn't always the truth. Dinners could be burned or oversalted, butter could be left out to sour, and flies could get in the milk. Not that Ivy was mean-hearted. She wasn't. She'd give a good day's work so long as she was treated right.

  She liked Miz Anne, and she'd thought Miz Anne would make a fair mistress. She'd made Ivy housekeeper right off. That was hard work but a good job, and that meant lots of people looked up to her. What with Abraham bein' close by and getting to sleep with him every night, things had been lookin' good, real good.

  All that had changed when Abraham said they had to run off North. She'd been uneasy about the decision, but she hadn't tried to talk him out of it. He was hers under God. Nobody had said, "Ivy, you take this man." She'd made that choice herself, and she owed it to them to hold up her half of the bargain.

  Abraham was the smartest and the best husband any woman ever had. If he asked her to follow him through fire, she'd hitch up her skirts, grit her teeth, and step out. She reckoned that this run for freedom was about the same as walkin' over live coals. It could hurt you bad, but you'd feel blessed if you got to the other side alive.

  He took her arm and helped her through the high weeds. Some briars caught at her bare legs, but she paid them no mind. So long as Abraham's hand was on her, she wouldn't complain about anything.

  Still, Ivy couldn't help stumbling over a rough spot. She would have kept from falling herself, but Abraham was quick. He steadied her against him.

  "You're tired. Let me take that bundle for you," he offered.

  "I'm fine," she protested. He was tired, too. She could hear it in the gravelly sound of his voice. And he was carrying his tools and the cooking pot as well as his Bible and a lot of other stuff. She'd wanted to travel light, taking nothin' but hope and a belief that the Lord would see fit to help them through to the Promised Land.

  But Abraham wouldn't budge. "I'll not see us starve or have you catch your death on the damp ground," he'd insisted.

  She could see where he'd need his carpenter tools to earn a living for them once they got to Canada. But it all added up to a heavy load. And she was strong, in spite of carrying the baby. She'd not ask him to tote her fair share, not so long as she could put one foot in front of the other.

  The Quaker meetinghouse was a dark shape against darker trees. Abraham left her while he circled around the building, looking for a way in. He said that the door was nailed shut to keep out varmints, and tearing it open would only leave a plain trail for anyone tracking them.

  For a while there was only silence and the thumping of her heart. Then she heard a flapping sound, like wings, and something gray passed close overhead.

  Ivy swallowed hard as sweat broke out on her face. She couldn't hear anything but crickets and frogs. She wanted to call out to Abraham, but she didn't dare.

  She heard a dull snap and the squeak of rusty iron hinges. There was a soft thump and then nothing for several long minutes. Ivy's arms prickled. Where was he? Where was Abraham? She didn't believe in haunts. At least she didn't think she did.

  Thick branches swayed and rustled as a salt breeze blew through her hair. They'd come a long way tonight, but the bay was still on their left, not more than a mile away.

  Abraham's whisper from right behind her made her leap half out of her skin, no matter how she had longed to hear it. "I found a rotten shutter along the far side," he whispered. Abraham moved quiet, like an Indian. Old Henry said that Abraham had a lot of the old African
ways.

  "Put your arms around my neck," he said. "There's a fallen tree. I don't want you to trip over it."

  She started to protest, but he lifted her, baggage and all, and carried her around the church.

  "Careful," he warned as he approached the window. "It's high. Let yourself down easy."

  She wiggled over and reached with her toes for the floor. When she couldn't find anything solid, she shut her eyes and let go. A cloud of dust rose up around her as she landed and backed away from the opening.

  Abraham followed close behind, pulling the ruined shutters closed from the inside. Together they cleared some old benches and spread blankets on the floor. Then he stretched out and she lay down beside him.

  "You hungry?" she whispered. Her eyelids were scratchy, weighed down by the miles of walking. The roof and the walls felt good around them, and the familiar smell of the blankets made her feel safe inside.

  "Later," he said.

  Ivy curled in his arms, laid her head on his shoulder, and savored the joy of what they had together. She wouldn't think about tomorrow or even the next hour. For now, she was happy and content with Abraham's steady breathing in her ear and his little'n tucked warm in her belly.

  "I'll win us free, Ivy," Abraham promised. "I will."

  "We're free now, ain't we?"

  "Really free," he insisted. "Free where nobody will ever keep you away from me again."

  "Umm-hmm," she murmured as he talked on about how much she'd like Canada and how he'd see their child learn to read and write. Sleep teased at the corners of her mind as she listened. She sighed, not willing to give in just yet, wanting to remember this perfect time... this feeling.

  "I'll die before I go back," he said.

  She wondered if that meant he'd kill to keep from letting it happen, but she didn't want to ask him. Instead, she took his hard hand and slid it inside her blouse to cup her breast.

  "Do you know how much I love you, woman?" he said as he caressed her gently.

  "About as much as I love you." She smiled in the darkness and gave up the fight to stay awake any longer.

  * * *

  By Friday, word had passed to the neighbors that two of Gentleman's Folly's slaves were missing. First Nate Greensboro and then two other planters had ridden by to ask O'Ryan what they could do to help.

  "The longer you wait, the bigger head start they're getting," Roger Council said. Council was an outspoken fellow with a head of oily black curls that spilled out from under his old-fashioned tricorne hat. Married with a large family of equally vocal children, he farmed thirty acres just beyond Greensboro Hall.

  Council didn't own any slaves, but he'd told O'Ryan that he was saving to buy two field hands to do the heavy work. Considering the yeoman's ragged appearance and the condition of his swaybacked horse, O'Ryan didn't believe that Council would be purchasing slaves anytime in the foreseeable future.

  "I appreciate your concern," O'Ryan said, dismissing the man with as much tact as he could summon. "Neighborly of you."

  "Got to stick together," Council replied, offering a battered snuff tin.

  O'Ryan declined.

  The farmer sniffed and sneezed twice, then wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve. "Wanted you to know that I rode in and informed the sheriff. They'll be caught, don't you fear, Mr. O'Ryan."

  "I have no doubt."

  O'Ryan sent him on his way with a pork shoulder from yesterday's butchering and went back into the house to find Anne. "The sheriff knows that Abraham and Ivy are missing," he said as he entered the library.

  Anne looked up from where she sat at the desk. An odd expression crossed her face, and he noticed a sheet of paper fall from her fingers. Her eyes were red, as though she'd been crying. He knew she'd visited her parents' graves earlier in the day. And he knew there was nothing he could say or do to soften her loss.

  She flushed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry into your..." She raised her chin, suddenly defensive. "I'm not a sneak. I came in here to look for something of Papa's and I found..." She looked down at the unfinished letter he'd been writing when Grace informed him that Council was in the yard.

  "Your point?" he asked.

  "Nothing." Anne's flush spread down her throat. "I simply didn't wish you to think that I was reading your private correspondence."

  "If it were private, would I have left it in plain view?"

  Woodenly, she smoothed a sleeve of her gown. "Did you contact the sheriff?"

  "No, our neighbor Council did us the favor."

  Anne's lips tightened. "Papa disliked that little man."

  "Your father was a good judge of horses and of men."

  "Yes, he was." And Papa had liked Michael, she thought. He hadn't wanted to approve of her husband, but the big Irishman had won him over. And if Papa had thought him worth something, just maybe...

  "Did you see me with Jersey this morning?" O'Ryan asked. "He's in top shape. I think—"

  "You think he's fast enough to beat those other horses in tomorrow's race."

  "I do."

  "He's the fastest animal we've ever had here at Gentleman's Folly. Papa..." She paused while the sharp pain of losing her father echoed through her. Each morning she woke thinking about him. The days ahead stretched out so empty for her, knowing she would never hear him laugh again, or offer his advice.

  "It's hard," O'Ryan said. "But in time, I promise you, it will get easier."

  "You think I'll forget Papa?" she asked in disbelief.

  He shook his head. "Nay. You could never do that. But you'll find yourself remembering the good times. His love made you strong, Annie. You'll always carry it with you." He touched the place over her heart lightly. "There."

  She hoped he was right.

  "It's one advantage a woman has over a man," he added thoughtfully. "She can shed tears for those dear to her that she's lost. A man who did so would be considered weak. So he must bury his hurt."

  "You don't think me foolish, forever running to their graves with flowers?"

  "I think you a good and loving daughter. It does you credit, so long as you use what your parents gave you to make a life for yourself. They would want that, above all."

  "I suppose so," she agreed. "Yes." She exhaled softly and straightened. "Yes, I know so. And it is comforting to know that they are together again." She looked up at him. "Do you believe that?"

  "Aye, I do."

  "What do you weigh?" she asked suddenly, thinking again of the coming race.

  "Upward of thirteen stone. Why?"

  "Not all of the horses will be ridden by their owners. At least two that I know of will have jockeys, very small men."

  "I'd thought of that. But none of the boys on Gentleman's Folly have the skill to—"

  "I do," she said, rising and placing both hands on the desk. She leaned toward him. "You've seen me in the saddle, Michael. You know that I have good hands."

  "You're a superb horsewoman. And a good fifty pounds lighter than I am. But a race is no place for a woman. It's dangerous and—"

  "Only dangerous if I fall off. And I haven't done that since I was four years old. I can do this, Michael. I can."

  "By all that's holy!" He shook his head. "How can you ask me to let you take such a risk when—"

  "No. Listen to me. Gentleman's Folly is my home. If we lose it, I lose far more than anyone. We need whatever money you can raise from this race, and we need to win. I think it's common sense to give Jersey every advantage."

  A crooked grin spread over his face. "You'll cause a scandal, Mrs. O'Ryan. You'll be the talk of Talbot County."

  "And the sheriff auctioning off my plantation wouldn't?" She laughed with him. "No one has ever said that the riders had to be male." She went to him and grasped his forearm. "At least let me ride him today. See if I can handle him."

  "You should have been a lawyer, Annie. You never cease to surprise me."

  "Good. You need a good setting down now and then, sir."

  * * *


  An hour later, wearing her oldest riding habit, Anne allowed O'Ryan to help her onto Jersey's back.

  "Keep a firm hand on the reins," he ordered.

  "I've ridden him before. You don't have to tell me." She tightened her knees and clicked softly to the animal. The big chestnut stepped out smoothly, calm as a kitten once the saddle was on his back.

  Anne circled the paddock once at a walk, then urged the animal into a trot. O'Ryan continued to make suggestions. The thought crossed her mind that what they were about to do might be the smallest bit unfair to the other contestants. Might not Nate and some of the others hold back their own horses and try to keep her from coming to harm? She pushed that notion aside. If she could save Gentleman's Folly, she'd have years to atone for her actions.

  "Open the gate," she called to O'Ryan. "I want to take him out into the big pasture."

  "Wait until I saddle up," he said turning back toward the barn. "I'll come with you."

  She waited until he was inside then waved to the boy hanging on the fence. "Daniel! Open the gate!"

  The boy glanced from Anne to the doorway where O'Ryan had vanished.

  "Now!" Anne said sharply.

  Daniel hurried to do as she ordered.

  Anne touched her crop to the stallion's rump and gave him his head. The animal leaped forward. Clods of dirt and grass flew up as he galloped away from the farmyard toward the open meadow.

  Wind tore at Anne's hat, but she had tied the ribbon securely under her chin and it didn't blow off. She leaned forward in the saddle, taking joy in the sheer beauty and power of the big horse.

  Soon the far pasture fence loomed up ahead of them, but Jersey sailed over it without missing a stride. She wanted to get away from O'Ryan, away from the house. She needed to be alone—to try to think.

  She rode on, taking a little-used path down toward the beach. There, she reined him in as a great blue heron took flight and winged over her head. They crossed the small strip of sand at a trot, and she urged the horse into the lapping waves of the Chesapeake.

  When she was a child, she and her father had ridden here, splashing through the incoming tide, laughing and shouting as though they hadn't a care in the world. She needed those memories now, needed the solidity that had come from knowing who she was and what was expected of her.