The Irish Rogue

by Judith E. French

  Pain twisted Michael's features. "Even the village priest called her a whore and a traitor for sleeping with an Englishman. All she was, was lonely."

  He paused, and then went on, his voice heavy with emotion. "I could have saved her honor if I'd been willing to go to her bed. But I couldn't. We don't share the same blood, but in every way that counts, Kathleen is my sister. That's why I've tried to protect her, to see that she and Conall didn't go without."

  Anne closed her eyes and listened, trying to imagine how hard it must have been for a blind woman to bear a child out of wedlock.

  "In many ways, I failed them," Michael said. "I was too busy trying to drive out the British army to look after her properly. And then, when I was arrested, I put her life in danger." He paused for a long breath. "I'd been financially supporting the three of them with English gold. Somehow, she learned that I'd been arrested and came to visit me just before I was supposed to be executed. It would have been only be a matter of time before the authorities questioned her about my escape. They could have charged her with aiding a rebel and imprisoned her and Blanche as well."

  "Did she help you?"

  "No, they weren't even in Belfast. They were in County Clare. But that wouldn't have mattered. She was on record as being an acquaintance of mine. And I was an enemy of the Crown."

  She opened her eyes again. "Does Kathleen think of you as a brother?"

  "I'd be lying to you if I didn't admit that she hasn't always seen our relationship the way I have. But I owe her just the same. It was my fault that she was on the barn roof that day she fell. I'd been teasing her and—"

  "She said that she was seven years old, Michael."

  "Yes, but I was older. I should have realized what—"

  "You were a boy. A boy teasing his sister. You can't blame yourself for Kathleen's blindness, and you certainly can't blame yourself for not taking her to wife." She flung her arms around his neck. "You great Irish fool!" She kissed him so hard that the stone on her chest turned to fairy dust. "I do love you," she murmured between sobs of relief. "I hate you for doing this to me—but I love you just the same."

  "Michael! Michael! Is that you?"

  Anne broke away from his embrace to see Blanche and Kathleen hurrying down the hill toward them. "Go to them," she said, giving Michael a little nudge.

  His eyes met hers, and she read the hesitancy there. "Go on. What are you waiting for?" she cried. "I'd gladly share you with a hundred sisters."

  * * *

  That evening, shortly after ten o'clock, an elegant carriage stopped at the corner of an alley that ran down to the Philadelphia waterfront. A gentleman in a black coat and tall beaver hat stepped down onto the water-slicked street. "Wait here," he ordered.

  The coachman nodded and reached under the seat for his pistol. "Be careful, sir," he warned. "This is a bad part of town."

  His master walked away without replying. He kept to the center of the lane, avoiding shadowy doorways and the even darker gaps between sagging buildings.

  A drunken sailor clinging facedown to a flight of steps sang the chorus of an obscene sea ditty loudly and off-key. The man in the beaver hat ignored him as he had the coachman.

  At the end of the street, someone had extinguished the lamp that the watch had lit earlier in the evening. The gentleman turned left and took the first wharf extending over the harbor.

  Odors of tar, sewage, and rotting fish fouled the night air. There was no moon, and clouds hung low over the city. On either side of the sagging wooden dock, ghostly sloops bobbed on their moorings.

  Halfway down the walkway, another man waited.

  "Cove?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Were you successful?"

  "I did what you wanted. Did you bring the other half of my money."

  "How successful?"

  "We burned some stuff, shot up the place."

  "And the lady? Did she suffer an unfortunate accident?"

  "I had to hire what I could find down there on the Chesapeake. Some was more talk than fight when bullets started flying."

  "In other words, you failed in your assignment."

  "I've done plenty for you," Cove said. "I told that sheriff where to find Payne, and I risked my neck while you sat up here snug and warm. I would have killed her, if I'd got the chance. But it didn't work out that way. You want the bitch dead, you do it."

  "That's always best, isn't it?"

  Cove stuck out his hand. "You owe me. Pay up, or I might be talking to the law again. And this time, it might be your name I drop."

  "Very well. I will consider our business concluded." He clasped the Irishman's hand firmly with his gloved right hand and used his left to drive a Damascus steel blade deep into Cove's belly.

  Cove groaned and clutched at his midsection. George yanked the knife free and plunged it into the dying man's chest. And as he fell, George kicked him over the edge of the dock.

  The body hardly made a splash.

  Chapter 25

  The week that followed Michael's homecoming was a joyous time for Anne. The two of them walked and rode over the plantation, sailed the river and bay, and planned the future of Gentleman's Folly. He said nothing of leaving, and she was afraid to ask. It was almost the honeymoon she'd never really had.

  Michael was warm, laughing, and attentive. And the presence of his foster sister, her son, and Blanche Tully seemed to add to the sense of real family. Anne found that she genuinely liked both women and adored small, mischievous Conall. Michael's behavior around Kathleen was so obviously that of a concerned brother that Anne felt foolish and mean-spirited to have ever doubted the nature of their relationship.

  And if secret fears lurked in the corners of her mind, Anne was able to forget them each night when they closed their bedroom door against the world. Their lovemaking was both passionate and tender. Sometimes, Michael brought her grandfather's violin upstairs and sang and played just for her. Once, he even shared an original composition he had written. It was so beautiful, so haunting, that it brought tears to her eyes.

  "What is it called?" she asked.

  He smiled and rested the bow across his knee."'Annie's Song.'"

  Michael returned the violin to its case and slid into bed beside her. Tenderly he kissed her eyelids, her brow, and finally her lips. "You make me happy," he admitted as he looked deeply into her eyes. "I've never felt this way before. Never..."

  "Can I ask you something?" she'd murmured between caresses.

  "Anything."

  "What is your real name?"

  For long seconds he didn't answer, and the only sounds in the room were the rise and fall of their breathing and the crackle of wood burning in the fireplace. Applewood, she realized. Only apple could smell so sweet.

  "You ask hard questions, woman."

  "Please, I want to know. I think I have a right to know." She didn't tell him—couldn't—that her monthly time was late, and she suspected she might have good reason to know.

  If they'd made a child of their love, she wanted to be able to tell that child what his or her father's name was. It was important, vital. She could recite her family lineage back four hundred years on the Davis side to one Owen Davis from a wild holding in the Welsh mountains.

  "I'm not sure," Michael answered, so faintly that she wasn't certain she'd heard. "When my mother left my father the first time, she took me aside and told me that he couldn't have children."

  "Oh, Michael, how cruel of her," she'd said, pulling him tight against her and feeling his muscles tense with an ancient pain.

  "I loved him as much as I loved her. I didn't believe her, so I went to Father and demanded to know. He told me that in every way that mattered, I was his son."

  "It was true?"

  "True... and false. Whoever sired me, she never said. I was angry, called her names that should never have come from a boy's mouth."

  "She should have left well enough alone."

  "Aye, so I think now. But then—ah, then, An
nie. I was young and sure of so many things. I didn't believe I had a right to her husband's name. That's why I took Ryan Collins when I joined the 'moonlight boys.'"

  "And was it Ryan Collins who was arrested and nearly hanged?" she demanded. He laid his head against her breast, and she stroked his soft, thick hair.

  He caught her hand and raised it to his lips. One by one he kissed her knuckles, and then turned her palm so that he could kiss the pulse at her wrist. "When I reached America, I'd had time to think. If the only father I'd ever known had claimed me, who was I to reject him?" Michael's breath exhaled slowly. "In his memory, I took his name back again."

  "O'Ryan?"

  "Aye. Michael O'Ryan, as I was christened."

  She chuckled and shoved him away playfully. "Michael O'Ryan of Belfast?"

  "And Shannon," he admitted. "And a few other places I'd rather not mention."

  "You scoundrel," she teased. "You tricked me into thinking that O'Ryan was an assumed name when all the while—"

  Laughing, he sat up and enveloped her in a heated embrace. Pressing her back against the heaped pillows he began to kiss her in earnest, all the while trailing exploring fingers over her breasts. "I told you the truth," he murmured, nibbling at her lower lip. "If you chose to think me a liar..."

  And then they were concerned with other matters than his name and never quite got back to the subject until breakfast the following morning. There, Kathleen and Blanche joined in the conversation.

  "I once visited a Ryan Collins in prison," Kathleen said with a barely suppressed giggle. "Poor fellow. Quite homely, he was."

  "Ghastly," Blanche agreed. "But he was an enemy of the Crown and a ruthless rascal."

  "What came of this rascal?" Anne asked as she passed the honey.

  Kathleen shrugged. "Hanged, I believe."

  "He was not hanged," Michael insisted, blue eyes twinkling. "Being a fellow of stout heart and wit, he escaped in the very shadow of the gallows."

  "I suppose he took ship for the colonies?" Anne suggested.

  "Alas, no," her husband said. "Gallant lad that he was, he dove into the river and drowned. Seems he'd forgotten that he couldn't swim a stroke."

  "He drowned," Anne said.

  "Oh yes. A tragedy," Michael went on. "And the tide was so swift that they never found his body."

  Kathleen chuckled. "You are insufferable. Don't believe a word of what he says, Anne. He's always been like this. If you keep on, he'll convince you that you are a Collins."

  "He drowned, I tell you," Michael insisted. "There was even a witness."

  Anne lowered her head in mock exasperation and covered her face with her hands. "Cormac Payne?"

  "It might have been," Michael agreed. "Now there was another stout fellow of courage. He—"

  "Enough!" cried Kathleen. She tossed a biscuit and struck him full in the forehead, and they all laughed and laughed until Gerda came into the dining room to see what the commotion was all about.

  "You explain it," Michael said. He kissed Anne and bid the others a good day. "I'm off to Swan's Nest to buy a bull," he said. "Sean's coming with me. And I'll be home in time for the evening meal." He turned and winked at Gerda. "Cook something good, and don't let my bride anywhere near the kitchen."

  Later that morning, Anne, Kathleen, Blanche, and Conall joined a group of women and children in the orchard. Blanche spread a blanket on the grass for Kathleen and tied a rope around Conall's waist. Kathleen attached the other end to her wrist so that she could keep tabs on her son while Blanche helped with the apple picking.

  It was a glorious autumn day, with white fluffy clouds above and the smell of ripe fruit in the air. Since she couldn't see to assist in the harvest, Michael's sister made herself useful by sorting apples, dividing the perfect fruit from the bruised or insect-damaged.

  Two older Irishwomen cut away the soft spots and tossed apples into separate baskets, some to be ground and pressed into cider, others to be peeled for applesauce. Gerda and her assistants prepared and carried the midday meal outdoors so the workers could take their dinner in the orchard.

  By afternoon, more than half the apples had been picked, and the laborers had lost all shyness with one another as Kathleen led them in singing round after round of ballads and riddle songs. Her voice was a clear, flawless soprano that rose above the rustle of the wind and the faint cry of the shore birds.

  ... What is whiter than the milk?

  Sing ninety-nine and ninety,

  And what is softer than the silk?

  And I am my true love's bonny.

  The women and youngsters, Irish and Marylanders, black and white, joined in lustily for the chorus.

  Oh, you must answer questions nine, Sing ninety-nine and ninety, Or you're not his, but one of mine, And you'll n'er be your lover's bonny.

  Anne clung to a ladder, her feet on the next-to-highest rung, and reached for a shining red apple. Her hair was braided in a single plait and covered with a handkerchief; her skirts were rucked up. Her blouse was torn and smeared with rotten fruit, and yellowjackets buzzed around her head. She couldn't remember ever working so hard or having such a good time at apple picking.

  "Miss Anne!" Charity came running. "Miss Anne. You gotta come right now. The sheriff and Mr. Whitfield and Miss Mary are at the landing. I think Sheriff Clough, he's come to arrest Mr. O'Ryan!"

  * * *

  Anne smoothed her hair and her skirt and petticoats as she ran toward the dock. She dashed through the sheepyard and past the strawberry patch. Just before she ducked through the hedgerow and onto the bay path, she stopped, took a deep breath, and tried to regain her dignity.

  Sheriff John Clough, Anne's sister, and her brother-in-law were only a few yards away, striding toward the house. A half-dozen somber men, strangers all, followed closely on their heels.

  "Miss Anne," the sheriff said as she stepped out in front of them. He was a big man, and she had to look up at him. Graying and severe in appearance, John Clough was impeccably dressed, as always.

  "Good afternoon, John. Mary." She stepped forward and kissed her sister on the cheek. Mary, her pregnancy now obvious, seemed ill at ease. Her eyes were red and puffy, as if she'd been weeping. "It is good to see you, sister," Anne said.

  Then she glanced at George. "You catch me at a disadvantage. We were just getting in the last of our apple crop. I wasn't expecting company."

  "Is your husband at home?" Clough asked sternly.

  "We know he's been here. You may as well give him up," George said.

  "Mr. O'Ryan?" Anne tried to look unconcerned. "If he'd known you were coming, I'm certain he would have stayed at home. Can I help you with something?"

  The sheriff frowned. "I'm afraid this is quite serious. It would be best if we spoke directly with Mr. O'Ryan."

  She glanced at Mary. "I don't understand. How does this matter concern George?"

  "This is hardly the place for this conversation. Can't we go to the house—?" Clough began.

  "You and my sister are always welcome at Gentleman's Folly," Anne said, cutting him off. "But my brother-in-law isn't. I would appreciate it if you'd tell me what this is all about."

  "Your husband Michael O'Ryan is an imposter," George said. "His real name is Cormac Payne, and he's wanted on a charge of murder on the high seas."

  "Absolutely ridiculous," she replied. "I don't know who this Mr. Payne is, but Michael is a well-known gentleman. I believe this is more of your nonsense, George." She glanced back at the sheriff. "George wants to control this plantation and—"

  "I do control this land," George corrected. "I hold the mortgage on it, and I demand my money immediately."

  "You're lying," Anne flung back. "He's lying. Sheriff, you know that Obediah and Stoddard Rawlings—"

  "Rawlings and Rawlings belongs to me," George retorted. "I've owned the establishment for some years."

  "Mary, is that true?" Anne demanded.

  Mary nodded as tears rolled down her cheeks, smearing the ligh
t dusting of face powder.

  "The debt is mine," George insisted. "It's obvious to me that my wife's sister is totally unsuited to manage my property." He pointed at her. "I have serious doubts about her mental condition, since she's clearly under the influence of this criminal."

  "Unfortunately, Miss Anne, it is my duty to arrest Mr. O'Ryan and turn him over to the authorities in Philadelphia for trial."

  "He's not Cormac Payne!" Anne argued.

  "I hope not," Clough replied. "In that case, he should be able to clear himself of these accusations. If not—"

  "This is all a mistake!"

  "Yes." George smiled unpleasantly. "It is a mistake, and you've made it."

  * * *

  Anne looked out her bedroom window for the hundredth time. Below, in the garden, she saw one of George's hired men leaning against a piece of marble statuary.

  So much for her idea of jumping out the window and going to warn Michael that the sheriff was waiting for him.

  She hugged her arms against her chest and paced the floor. She'd been furious when George had ordered both her and her sister up to her room and locked them in, but she couldn't waste energy fuming over that. She had to think of a way to stop Michael from walking into a trap.

  Mary lifted her head from the pillow and sat up on the bed. "Oh, Anne, I'm so sorry about this," she said. "This is all wrong."

  "Wrong? Of course, it's wrong! It's craziness. George is doing this for money."

  "Have you considered that he might be right?" Mary asked gently. "That Mr. O'Ryan might be this Cormac Payne—this murderer?"

  "He's not!" Anne seized Mary's hand. "Can't you see? It doesn't matter if he is or not, not to me. I love him!"

  "You thought you were in love with Mr. Preston and he was—"

  "It isn't the same, Mary. O'Ryan—Michael's not the same. He's really a good person. He cares about me. And no matter what he's done, I won't let them arrest him and take him away."

  Mary grimaced, and Anne released her hand. She was sorry to have hurt her. Mary didn't look well at all.

  "Men can be very difficult at times," Mary said. "Even George."

  "Even George? Especially George. He's a greedy, ill-tempered—"