As she hurried toward her horse, her heart racing wildly, she began to cry. She had dreamed it, had dreamed it all, the day, the rain…and MacShane.
*
Deirdre pushed open the door to her room, her mind full of what she had dreamed, and was brought up short by the sight of a young girl sitting at her vanity.
Gowned in pink taffeta, the girl was tugging a brush through her short, dark curls. When she caught sight of Deirdre’s reflection in the mirror, she turned about and Deirdre found herself gazing into enormous, luminous dark eyes that belonged to Fey.
“How could I have ever mistaken you for a lad?” Deirdre remarked in wonder as she came forward.
“I’d as lief ye had,” Fey muttered, a mutinous expression creeping into her features. “As for that pisspot ye call a nurse, I’ve a thing or two to say about her.” She stood up and cast the brush aside. “Look at what she’s done to me!”
“You look lovely,” Deirdre said.
“I look like a prize pig on market day.” Fey tugged at her waistband. “Old pisspot took me breeches and trussed me up in a corset. Under these skirts me arse is as bald as the day me mother whelped me. I cannot go to Nantes
dressed the like. Some swab would have me off me feet and his prick betwixt me legs afore I could cross the street!”
“I suppose so,” Deirdre murmured distractedly. “Where is Brigid?”
“Old pisspot? She’s gone to get a bar of soap. Says I need me mouth washed out. Does she do that to ye?”
“Not very often,” Deirdre answered, determined not to allow the girl to make her laugh, for it would only encourage her outrageous behavior.
Old pisspot
!
How vexed Brigid must be.
Deirdre pulled off her riding jacket. “I must change in a hurry. Since Brigid’s not here, will you unlace me?”
Fey complied reluctantly and when she was done, Deirdre stepped out of her gown and scooped it up, flushing guiltily as she spied grass stains on the hem. It was a dream, she reminded herself, but a sudden warmth gathered in her middle at the very reminder of what she had dreamed. She did not feel very confident about facing Brigid at the moment, and the woman was certain to cluck at her about the stains.
“Ye’ve ruined that gown,” Fey remarked.
“Aye. Brigid will be furious,” Deirdre responded.
Fey watched Deirdre cross the room in her petticoats, sizing up her narrow waist and full hips and bosom. Having had time to think about MacShane’s betrayal of her, Fey had come up with the only answer that made sense to her. MacShane lusted after the lady. Fey’s mouth tightened ominously as she speculated on the reasons for the grass stains on the lady’s gown. Perhaps he had already helped himself.
“Were ye out riding with MacShane?”
The name so startled her that Deirdre bumped her head on the armoire as she spun about. “What did you say?”
Fey’s expression soured. “He has eyes for ye, I saw that
the minute ye was together. He should give ye a rare old
time, being as he’s that well hung.”
All the color drained from Deirdre’s face. The child’s speech was as appalling as her innuendos.
Fey’s expression hardened as she observed the lady’s distress. She had guessed right. “I should have said ye were out riding MacShane, and from the looks of it, ye didn’t waste clean sheets when the grass would do as well.”
“You have no idea what you’re saying,” Deirdre replied dry-mouthed.
Fey shrugged. “Ye’ve the look of a tupped ewe, that’s what I know.”
“You impudent little guttersnipe!” Deirdre exclaimed indignantly.
“MacShane’s a man, and a man must have his pleasures.” Fey stroked her hands down over her still-flat breasts until they rested on her hips. “I’m nae so prettily made as ye, but I’ve seen other lasses get udders and hips as they grow. Once I’m rigged, MacShane will look at me the same.”
Deirdre turned away from the lustful gleam in the girl’s eyes. Fey was only a child. She could not possibly know what she said. And yet…
Deirdre turned back, her skin tingling with alarm. “Did MacShane say something to you? Did he tell you that he had lustful—?”
“That he did not!” Brigid closed the door behind herself and came forward. “I’ve already questioned the lass, and she told me Captain MacShane did nae lay a hand on her. I checked. Though God only knows how, the lass is still intact.”
“Brigid!” Deirdre said hoarsely, wondering how much the nurse had overheard. “You’re back.”
“That I am.” Brigid stared meaningfully at Fey. “And I’ve a fat bar of soap for a dirty mouth. If ye’d leave us, Miss Deirdre, the lass and I have a spot of business to see to.”
“Ye damned bawd, and with cold fingers into the bargain!” Fey cried. “Ye’ll nae lay hands on me again!”
Though defiant, Fey paled as Brigid advanced on her. Lady Deirdre she did not like, but Brigid she feared because the woman did not fear her back. She treated her like a child and for that she hated her. “Miss Deirdre’s just changing after a bit of a tumble,” she said suddenly, her dark eyes full of guile. “MacShane had something to do with it.”
You damned little sneak!
Deirdre thought as Brigid turned to stare at her. The girl had successfully turned Brigid’s attention away from herself. “Fey is teasing, Brigid. I rode quite alone.” She turned and lifted the nearest gown from the armoire, hoping Brigid would be satisfied.
“He’s a dangerous man, is MacShane,” Fey continued. “I would nae go far with him, Lady Deirdre. ’Afore ye know it, he’ll be showing ye the way of the blanket hornpipe, and have ye thinking ’tis proper.”
“
Ochone
!
Ye dirty-mouthed little slut!” Brigid cried. “I’ll scrub that filth out of ye, see if I don’t.” Shaken out of her customary self-possession, she grabbed Fey by the hair and dragged her toward the basin.
Terrified, Fey fought back, kicking and scratching, even butting the woman with her head. But Brigid was strong and larger and held on grimly to the twisting, thrashing girl.
“Brigid, Brigid, please,” Deirdre said desperately. She had suffered a similar fate at Brigid’s hands when she was ten. Fey would lose, and though she deserved it, Deirdre could not stand to see the girl hurt again.
Brigid looked up blankly from her struggle. “Not to worry, Miss Deirdre. I’ve sorted out worse cases.”
Deirdre smiled her best smile. “Surely you might allow her this one mistake.” She glanced pleadingly at the girl. “Fey will promise to be as docile as a lamb after this, won’t you, Fey?”
Fey jerked free of Brigid and stumbled back a few steps, breathing hard. She did not agree, but neither did she deny Deirdre’s words.
Reluctantly Brigid placed the bar of soap on the washstand. “’Tis against me better judgment,” she said with a last hard glare at Fey. “So, I’ll be taking up the matter with Lord Fitzgerald.”
When she was gone, Deirdre turned to Fey. The girl had turned a pasty gray shade. “Oh, Fey, I’m sorry!” She
threw her arms about the girl. “We mean you no harm. You’ll never be beaten here, I promise you that.”
Fey struggled out of Deirdre’s embrace, her face white but her eyes hard as stones. “I’m nae afraid of a beating. I’ve took worse than she can give!” She doubled up her fists and was glad to see Deirdre back away. “Ye’ll nae keep me here against me will. When MacShane leaves, I’m going with him. And when herself comes back, I’ll be ready for the old pisspot.”
“Do not call her that!”
“I’ll call her what I like. And call ye what I like, come to that!”
Deirdre knew she could not allow the girl to best her. She dropped her gown and balled her hands into fists. “My brothers taught me to fight when I was a lass. ’Tis certain I’ll remember something of it.”
Fey blinked in amazement at the lady before her. “Ye would nae strike me?”
“I’ll try very hard to if you strike me first,” Deirdre said determinedly.
“MacShane would nae like it,” Fey said less certainly.
“Aye, he would not. So what shall we do, bloody each other’s noses or decide that we must be friends? Even Brigid can be made to forget her anger.”
“Who?” Fey questioned blankly.
“Old pisspot,” Deirdre replied, and turned quickly away to keep the child from seeing her smile. She picked up her gown and stepped behind an ornate screen to dress. “I’m going to visit my stepmother. You stay here!”
Fey stood irresolutely, her fists still clenched. If she struck the lady, what would MacShane say? He would not like it, of that she was certain. As for the lady herself, she was not at all what Fey’s notion of a lady should be.
“She’s that mad!” Fey exclaimed after a moment and turned away in disgust
Chapter Nine
“I thought you’d deserted us,” Conall greeted as Killian rode into the stable yard. “You were gone some while, MacShane. Did the ride clear your head?”
“Aye, of some things,” Killian answered and swung his leg over to dismount. Mostly he had allowed the fatigue of a sleepless night to overcome him in the shade of a tree near the Loire. His talk with Lord Fitzgerald had left him dissatisfied, but thoughts of a very different nature had kept him company until the slanted rays of the sun fell across his face and awakened him.
“I’ll not ask how your conversation went with Da. I heard a good measure of it, as did the rest of the house,” Conall informed him. “I will tell you that Da has been in a rare mood since.”
Killian did not answer directly. His mind had been too full of other thoughts these last hours. He noted Conall impatiently flicking his riding crop against his leg. “Are you riding out?”
“’Twas my intention. At breakfast Deirdre made me promise to accompany her to see our cousins, the de Quentins, but the mad lass rode out earlier in the day and has yet to finish dressing.”
“Perhaps she had another appointment to keep,” Killian said quietly as he turned his horse over to the care of the stable boy who appeared at his side. Without haste he added, “Is the Comte de Quentin a particular friend of Lady Deirdre’s?”
“Cousin Claude has always doted on the lass,” Conall agreed, his expression bland. “Lady Elva believes that he will offer for her, though Dee will not have him.”
“Can you be certain? The gentleman is a comte.”
Conall laughed. “That’s how little you know our Dee. She’ll have only an Irishman, she will. She’s sung that tune these last eleven years till our ears are weary of the ditty.”
“But a man of property and noble birth—”
“Gains no advantage with our Dee.” Conall cast a speculative eye on his guest. “You show a rare interest in the affairs of my sister.”
“The Fitzgeralds do not tread softly in their new homeland,” Killian answered coolly. “Much is heard of you, and gossip is always of interest to your fellow countrymen.”
Conall considered this. “Aye, ’tis so. But I’ll not have any man or woman speak ill of Dee.”
“There’s no disrespect in wishing a lass luck with a man of wealth and title,” Killian answered, though he was reluctant to pursue the conversation. “Most mothers dream of such a match.”
“Ah well, that’s the rub. There’s no mother to matchmake for Dee. Lady Elva does her best but she’s not even a match for Dee.” He chuckled at his own wit. “Now Dee’s mother, there was a lady a man might prefer for his bride.”
Conall looked about to be certain they would not be overheard and then leaned closer to Killian, a grin on his broad face. “A witch she were, or so they say. For all Lady Grainne was noble born, there was a wantonness in her the likes of which I’ve never seen before or since. Black-haired she was, and red-mouthed. I was all of twelve but I knew I was a man when she walked within me view.” He made a rude gesture with his hand and chuckled. “Da always was a man for the lasses. Dee’s the result.
Wirra!
The poor soul did not last. She gave up her
life birthing Dee. ’Tis Brigid, Lady Grainne’s kinswoman, who’s reared the lass.”
Conall paused to stroke his chin, his merry blue eyes darting away from and then back to Killian’s somber expression. “I know what you’re thinking: why’s he telling me the story of Dee’s birth?”
He rested a hand on Killian’s shoulder. “I’ve had it in me head for a year or more that you should meet our Dee. She’ll not be easy to win, but you’d not have it any other way, I’m thinking.”
Killian’s expression grew remote. “I’m not the man for the lass.”
Conall grinned. “Many a man has made that hopeless vow concerning a lass.”
“And a few have meant it.”
Conall dropped his hand from MacShane’s shoulder. “Well, then, you best be warned that Dee is not a lass to be trifled with. Do not give her false hope. I’ve seen in her eyes a certain partiality for you. She’s a stubborn, willful brat at times; but she has heart and spirit, and I’ll not have her hurt.”
“A man cannot always spare a lass’s feelings,” Killian said, “but I promise she’ll not know grief on my account.”
Satisfied, Conall nodded. “Then I’ll warn you away from her nurse, Brigid, only because I’ve a liking for you. She’s not the way to Deirdre, in any case. She’s calls herself a
beanfeasa
,
with her charms and such. Be careful that you do not arouse her suspicions. Ah, here comes the lass, and dressed like she’s going to a ball.”
As Deirdre entered the stable yard she gave a final tug to the black silk kerchief that held her lace fontange in place. She had chosen her blue taffeta gown with its tight bodice and low neckline because it made her feel beautiful. Yet, when she recognized the man who stood beside Conall, she suddenly felt less certain of herself. “Captain MacShane,” she said in surprise.