“Aye, we must do something about that,” Killian murmured, looking away. “Get in the tub, la—lass, and
do not tell me that you’ll drown. When you’re clean, put on the clothes the lady brought you. They’ll do for now.”
“Ye’ll keep me?” Fey cried as Killian headed for the door.
“I’m not in the habit of cosseting bairns!” he answered unhelpfully.
When the door shut behind him, Fey collapsed on the floor and gathered herself into a tight ball. There were no sobs this time. The emotions careening through her were too strong for tears. MacShane would not rape her or beat her. And there was the lovely lass who had fed her, brought her clean clothes, and promised her more. Perhaps she had died, after all. Perhaps Darce had beaten her to death and she had found heaven at last.
*
Deirdre had paused at the top of the stairway after sending the maids below, her heart beating so rapidly that she knew the agitation showed in her face and gave away her feelings. She was elated, exhilarated, triumphant: all because of the flash of interest she had spied in MacShane’s blue eyes. It had not been flattering or particularly admiring…but it had been passionate.
That look had caught her utterly by surprise. Yet, why should it have? She had been raised in France in a season when all women could expect to be admired, flattered, and constantly pursued. She knew that ardor was but a polite mask for lust. If MacShane had no better manners than to reveal his baser instincts to her, it did not follow that men like Cousin Claude did not have those instincts. She had lived in a household dominated by men too long not to know better.
That was what excited her—that, and something more. He was a stranger, yet those hot blue eyes were hauntingly familiar, as something remembered from long ago. If he had smiled again she would have remembered, she was certain of it.
A tiny pinprick of pain began between her brows, the same annoying pain that had awakened her during the night. She put a hand to the point between her brows and massaged the spot. Why should thoughts of MacShane always make her head ache?
When a door in the hall behind her opened, she swung about, embarrassed to have been caught daydreaming.
MacShane strode toward her, head bent in thought. When he realized who stood in his path, he checked his pace as if annoyed.
Deirdre waited patiently for him to speak. After all, he had ignored her moments before. He ran both hands through his long, uncombed hair but it was in lamentable disarray. His shirt was spotted where water had dripped from his face, and he had not yet taken a razor to his beard. Black stubble contoured his hard jaw and set off the lines of his wide firm mouth. All in all, he looked the part of the remote, ill-tempered Irish soldier whom her brothers had warned her of, but she could not forget the sound of his laughter. It had echoed through the kitchen and startled her with the unexpectedness of its warmth. He was unlike any man she had ever known before, and that in itself was intriguing.
“Is your father awake?” he asked without preamble. “I must see him.”
“Good morning to you, too, MacShane,” she answered with a polite nod. So much for flattering looks!
The frown puckering his brow faded but his expression remained austere. “Aye, my manners are wanting. Good day to you, Lady Deirdre.”
Deirdre smiled until her dimple was on full display. His gaze was on her once more, hard and unwavering. This time there was no passion in the blue eyes, only the curious, steady gaze of a man sizing up a problem. “Da will not be about for hours yet, sir. ’Tis scarcely dawn. We may be country mice but we keep city hours. Perhaps I can help you.”
Killian glanced back down the hall. “’Tis a terrible vice of mine, imagining that I can cure the world’s ills when there’s drink warming me veins,” he muttered.
Deirdre followed his gaze. “Does your problem concern the child? I am quite good with children.”
Her coolness annoyed Killian. What had happened to the wild-haired lass with dirty bare feet who had ridden light-as-the-wind on the back of a seasoned campaign horse? Where was the wildcat in night clothes who had drawn a bread knife on him to protect a street urchin whose crimes included murdering his employer? The poised, serene creature before him was not the sort a man would confide in, nor was she the stuff of a man’s dreams from which he awoke aroused. She was a lady fit only for gentlemen who visited gilded salons and scented gardens. Well, he was no gentleman, and she might as well learn it.
“’Tis no matter for a lass,” he said curtly.
Deirdre’s pleasant feelings evaporated. She had been dismissed. “Then do not allow me to detain you.” She turned and started away before she remembered her own manners. “When your temper has improved, you may find my father in the stables. ’Tis his custom to ride at midmorning. Bring the lad with you. I’m certain Da would like to meet him.”
“The lad’s a
she
.”
Deirdre turned about and said, her voice cool, “Do not mistake me for a fool, sir. I have seen the child.”
Killian regarded her steadily, his eyes narrowed. “Aye, and what you saw was a lass.”
“How can you expect me to believe you when—” Deirdre’s voice faltered as the sound of splashing water was heard from the end of the hallway.
Killian regarded her now with a stare of undisguised amusement. “I may be rude and ill mannered, but I know when I’m looking at a lass’s quim.”
Blood stung Deirdre’s cheeks. Even Conall and Darragh would not have used such language in her presence. “You’ve nae manners, MacShane!”
The grin that had teased Killian’s mouth disappeared. “’Tis why I’d prefer to deal with your da. ’Tis your own meddling that brings you into my affairs.
“I’m a soldier, nae a courtier,” he added as he approached her.
When he was only a foot from her he placed his hands on her shoulders, and the pressure of his touch betrayed
the latent strength he possessed. He stood so close that she discerned for the first time several tiny white scars crisscrossing his brow and the regular pulse beat at the base of his throat. He leaned toward her, and for one wild moment she thought that he would kiss her.
“You’ve a way of walking, lass, that puts a man in mind of earthy pleasures. But if your virginal conscience shies at the thought of ravishment, if you need soft words and fancy manners, find yourself another.”
Deirdre took a hasty step back, breaking the warm contact of his hands. The insult was so outrageous that she could not at first find words with which to answer him.
Find herself another
,
indeed
!
He had seen through her cool manners and knew she found him attractive. What’s more, he found it amusing; no, he found
her
amusing.
Deirdre straightened her shoulders and fitted him with her haughtiest stare. He would not get the better of her. “Mind your manners, sir! I am not afraid of you, nor is ravishment likely to happen beneath my father’s roof.”
The threat had no visible effect on MacShane. He simply crossed his arms. Yet, his mouth was less hard as he said, “’Tis a relief to know it would not be ravishment, lass, yet I trust to your father’s good name that you’d come to me a virgin.”
Deirdre gasped. “You—you’re ill mannered, rude, arrogant, and quite offensive, Captain MacShane!”
Killian nodded. “’Tis a fair beginning for an insult, but you end too soon, lass. You should call my friendship with your brothers into account, remind me of your own considerable consequence, and perhaps even question my parentage. Aye, and you should not give me the advantage of my rank. It spoils the effect.” Quite to her surprise he smiled at her. “But I own, I do like you in a hot rage, lass. That I do.”
“You’re mad!” Deirdre replied.
“That’s the way of it. Now stamp your foot. You do know how?” he added carelessly.
Nonplussed, Deirdre could only stare at him.
“You’ve not the eyes of a termagant,” he said thoughtfully. “They’re as green as a
slieve
in summer.”
He must be mad
,
Deirdre thought again. What else would explain why he insulted, bullied, taunted, and then flattered her in turns? She turned away, afraid of what he might say or do next. “The child Fey will be removed from your care immediately. I will see to it myself. She may come to my room until my father decides what is to be done with her.”
Without waiting for his reply, Deirdre walked past him toward his room.
Killian followed at a leisurely pace, more than a little pleased with himself. He had routed the prim mademoiselle and awakened the wolf cub beneath Lady Deirdre’s exterior. What had Conall called her?
Faolan
.
Aye, he liked
Faolan
better than “Lady Deirdre.”
When Deirdre opened the door, Fey stood in the middle of the room scrubbing herself dry with the rose embroidered hand towel. Deirdre had only a momentary glimpse of the girl’s naked loins before Fey looked up in horror and covered herself, but one look was enough.
Fey’s gaze flew to MacShane as he appeared in the doorway. “Ye gave me away!”
MacShane nodded at the furious girl. “Aye, I did. And what’s more, Lady Deirdre has offered to be your guardian henceforth.”
Fey sucked in a furious breath. “Ye said ye would nae send me away! Ye said ye’d let me stay! Ye black-hearted, whore-mongering—”
“Shut up, brat!” Killian spoke quietly but his words struck through Fey’s vitriolic speech.
Deirdre cast him a furious glance. Could he not see that the child was more alarmed than angry? She moved toward the young girl. “Do not be frightened, Fey. My name is Lady Deirdre. This is my father’s home and you are welcome here.”
Fey did not even look at Deirdre. Her whole concentration was upon the man before her. A ripple of emotion crossed her face and was followed by another more violent one, and then she began to tremble. The trembling turned into convulsive sobs as she flung herself against Killian.
“Please! Please! I’ll do anything! Do nae leave me! Please!”
Killian brought his arms about the girl’s slight frame, his hands encountering the sharp jut of her shoulder blades beneath her skin. Her anguished tears reminded him of how as a boy he had often lain alone in the dark monk’s cell and cried out his own loneliness and despair. He had been a charity orphan, yet he had been clothed, sheltered, and wanted because he had shown the scholarly aptitude needed to become a priest. How much more terrible it must be for a child of the streets. Fey was all he suspected and possibly more, yet she was still a child and needed protection.
“I will not abandon you, lass, even if I must leave you behind.” He cupped her chin in his broad palm and lifted her face from his shirtfront. “’Tis my word on it,
girsha
.”
Fey stared at him for a long moment and then nodded. “I—I did nae mean to cry. I never cry,” she said defensively, wiping the dampness from her face.
Killian looked across at Deirdre. “Your father is certain to be pleased when he learns that his daughter is cosseting a street urchin.”
Deirdre flinched at the sarcasm in his voice. Did the man never do anything but cut up people with his gaze and voice? “I will not tell him, not yet.”
Killian’s expression soured. “’Tis a bairn’s game, lying to her elders. If you will not, then I will tell him.”
Deirdre considered her dilemma. What could she say to her father that would make him sympathetic? She looked down at the shivering, naked girl who had wrapped her arms about Killian’s waist, and as her eyes lingered on the long, vicious welts on Fey’s back fury leaped within her. Some monster had done that to the child. Fey deserved to be protected from further abuse.
“I will tell Da the truth,” she said crisply, all doubt gone from her mind. “Oh, he will bluster and confound us with terrible oaths, but Da will not send the child away.”
“You’ve more faith in the power of your father’s clemency than I,” Killian rejoined.
“How do you know my father?” Deirdre questioned.
“Ask your da,” Killian answered curtly. He reached down and unlocked Fey’s arms from his waist. “Go and dress, lass. Lady Deirdre cannot introduce you to her father in your nakedness.”
“But—” Fey protested.
“MacShane is not deserting you,” Deirdre interjected. “He is visiting here for a few days. That will give you time to become accustomed to us.”
Fey’s canny gaze moved from one to the other. “If I do nae like this place, ye will give me money for Paris, as ye promised?”
Killian’s gaze grew distant but he nodded. “Aye.”
Satisfied, Fey smiled. “Then I’ll stay a bit.”
*
“Ye’re telling me I’ve hidden a thief and murderer beneath me roof this night and did not know it?”
“Hardly, Da. The child came with MacShane and—”
“MacShane!” Lord Fitzgerald thundered. “No doubt the man brought the murdering bastard into me house to slit our throats as we sleep!”
Deirdre looked pleadingly at Darragh, who sat at the breakfast table with a glass of brandy in one hand and his head in the other. “Tell Da that you agreed the lass could come here.”
Darragh groaned and opened his red-rimmed eyes a slit. “I had naught to do with it. MacShane had a lad by the throat, ’tis all I remember. Oh, and Conall offered to put a ball in his gizzard.”