Fey pondered the thought. “Aye, I’ll think on it. When the job’s done, where am I to find ye?”
“That’s just it, you’re not to follow me either.” He frowned as she started to protest and Fey fell silent. “You’ve a rare opportunity in remaining with the Fitzgeralds. There’s Lady Deirdre, who will be kind to you because you will remind her of me, and lasses can be amazingly sentimental about that sort of thing. You’ll have the run of a grand house and servants to see to your needs. You may even learn to be a lady from Brigid, if you so desire.”
All of this appealed to Fey but the last. “I’ll nae have that old pisspot spit on me!”
Killian smothered a laugh. “’Tis up to you. Do you prefer the alleys of Nantes to this?”
“Only a fool would,” Fey answered reasonably.
“Aye. And you’re not a fool,
geersha
.”
The shrewdness left Fey’s face as Killian lifted his
belongings from the bed, and she was once more a lass of eleven. “Ye’ve done well by me, and me with nothing to offer ye in thanks.”
Killian turned and smiled at her. “You may repay me by remaining here and learning all they can teach you. When next we meet, you’ll be so grand a lady you will not even nod to a common soldier the likes of me.”
“That’s a lie!” Fey protested and launched herself against him. “That’s a lie! Please! Please take me!”
“Shh,
geersha
,
you’ll wake the house.” Killian bent to pry her arms from about his waist, but when he had freed himself she grabbed him by the neck and jerked his head down as she rose on tiptoe to put her lips on his.
Killian held still under her kiss, for to pull away would have wounded her beyond enduring. Finally, her grip slackened and her mouth moved from under his. Her eyes were bright in wonder and then the light dimmed and she pulled away from him and spun away, hunching her shoulders in defense. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
He straightened and looked down at her, his expression bemused. What could he say that would not further shame her? “Are you telling me you’re sorry that I do not please you, lass?”
Fey looked back over her shoulder, her whole heart in her eyes. “Nae, ye please me fine.”
“And you me,” he replied. “You’ve a great deal to offer some man, lass. Keep yourself worthy of him.”
“I will,” Fey whispered as she watched him stride to the door and disappear through it. She would do anything to win his affection.
After a moment, she ran to the window and stood watching until, ten minutes later, she saw a dark figure on horseback appear in the field behind the stables. She watched him until he was a speck and her tears dissolved it.
*
Even before she opened her eyes, Deirdre knew that she was alone. For a moment, she pretended that she was
waiting for Brigid to arrive with her first cup of chocolate. Brigid would enter, draw open the draperies on another perfect morning with buttery sunshine and the hum of bees and the scent of flowers, and she would wonder what the day held for her. Lady Elva would want to plan the ball they had talked of. Perhaps they would talk of a guest list, of who should come and who should be omitted. She would mention Cousin Claude’s gathering and Monsieur Orsiney’s horrid table manners.
Deirdre’s sigh ended in a sob. No, she would do none of those things this morning.
She had awakened at dawn to find MacShane gone. Even as she hurried to the house she knew that she was too late. She felt his loss as an ache inside herself, an emptiness that had nothing to do with bodily hunger. His room was empty, his horse and saddle gone. He was gone and she did not know why.
She closed her eyes to prevent tears from slipping down her cheeks, but they would not be checked. MacShane had gone without explanation or the reassurance that he would return. There was no one she could turn to, no one in whom to confide. Thankfully, Brigid had not yet awakened. If Brigid knew what had happened during the night, she would go to Lord Fitzgerald.
“No,” Deirdre whispered to herself. She would tell no one. For whatever reason, MacShane had left her. She would not trap him by a false cry of rape.
She stood at her bedroom window hugging his coat to herself. It was all she had left of him. She would one day have more.
“You belong to me,” she whispered to him though she knew he could not hear her. She would not believe that he was gone forever. During the hours of the night they had forged themselves as one, and nothing, not even MacShane himself, would be able to break that union. Brigid said that he was the man for Deirdre and she believed it.
Until MacShane came she had had only one passion in her life: Liscarrol. Now there were two.
“I will have them both!” she told the dawn.
Chapter Twelve
Paris: January, 1703
The alehouse called The Fair Lady was less than its jaunty sign proclaimed, Killian decided as he watched a thin film of grease float on the top of his fourth whiskey. The smoke-filled air choked him and the greasy smell of sizzling sausages made his stomach heave in protest. If not for the fact that he waited for someone he would not have remained. The tavern was one of the few meeting places for Irish expatriates in Paris, a place whose clientele dealt in the usual ale, women, and smuggled goods…and contraband of a very unique kind: Catholic clergymen bound for Ireland.
Killian waved away the servant girl who smiled hopefully at him in expectation of an order or a proposition. She was not as loosely laced as the two other serving women, whose breasts had strained free of their bodices, much to the delight and temptation of their admirers. She was younger, too, with real color in her fair cheeks rather than the painted kind. Still, he knew her favors could be bought cheaply and would be before the end of the night.
The waiting did not improve his mood, which had darkened steadily as the day progressed. It seemed a man could not earn an honest living in Paris.
Killian smiled wryly. Honest labor. The position he had lost to another had been purchased away. He would have done the same had he possessed the funds. Without position and backing he would get no appointment he desired. So why, then, did he not take the position offered him by the duchesse? Smuggling was a very lucrative business and the company no worse than that of most soldiers. She had even promised him a free hand.
The thought made him laugh, and those at a nearby table turned to stare at him, but Killian did not care. The duchesse did not give free rein, as well he could tell them, and a more dangerous benefactor he could not imagine.
When a man slid into the chair beside him, Killian did not immediately lift his eyes.
“Will you not greet a man who’s come this distance to see you?” the young man at his elbow asked in Gaelic.
“I’d not have come a foot in this direction had I known you would be late, Teague O’Donovan,” Killian returned sourly. “Faith! Could you think of no other place?”
“Are you afraid the lasses cannot see your ugly face for the smoke?” Teague rejoined. “They always see what they like, even when it’s covered with a fortnight of whiskers.”
“Three days’ worth,” Killian amended, still glaring at his drink. “Now that you’re here, it may be that a man can get a proper drink. I swear they store their sausages in their whiskey barrel. Look at my cup.”
“Aye, ’tis a miraculously dirty thing,” Teague agreed. “Like your coat and breeches. Och! Killian, have you run yourself to ground at last?”
Killian lifted his gaze, giving his companion a lazy perusal that made a slow smile spread over his face. “Ah, Teague, lad, you’re sporting a fine white lace collar. Are you not afraid they will nae serve you, being a priest and all?”
“Keep your voice down!” Teague admonished as he pulled his cloak closed, “or would you have my vocation
known far and wide to the company? There are always spies about.”
Killian shrugged, wondering idly how much whiskey he had consumed in the past three hours. His head ached but not enough to blot out all thought, and that was what he was after. He reached for the tumbler and downed its contents in one fiery swallow. When he opened his eyes again, Teague was watching him closely. “What do you gape at, Father? Have you never seen a drunkard?”
“Aye,” Teague answered softly. “I only wonder that you’ve fallen so far, Lucifer.”
Killian’s laughter startled those nearest them, but after a curious look the company of soldiers and hangers-on returned to their concerns. “’Tis been some while since I thought of those days, Teague. You always were afraid that the devil would come and snatch you away from the monastery, while I was afraid he would not. Well, we both got our wishes, you’re a priest and I’m…I’m one of the fallen ones.”
Teague smiled. “You’re not fallen, you’re lost, and there’s a difference, Killian.”
“Ah, priestly advice.” Killian leaned forward suddenly. “Do not preach me a sermon, Father, I’m too drunk to heed it and not drunk enough to be polite about the hearing of it.”
“Ah, here she is!” he cried, grabbing the young servant girl about the waist as she passed. “Smile prettily for the man, lass. He has a certain fondness for Irish lasses, haven’t you, Teague?”
Teague nodded politely at the young woman, but his fair face reddened beneath his thatch of red-blond curls.
“You’ll have to do better than that with the lasses if you mean to go abroad as a common man,” Killian said and pushed the young girl into Teague’s lap. “A schoolteacher is a handsome catch, to many a mother’s mind.” He grabbed Teague’s hands and pulled them about the girl’s waist as she balanced on the young man’s knee. “There, you’ve got the way of it. Irish ladies will have you to tea, those that can afford it. Those who cannot will find excuses to stop you and pass the time of day. But the
forward lasses are the ones that will bear watching.” He winked at the girl. “They’re the ones who’ll steal kisses from unsuspecting schoolteachers.”
Before Teague could realize her intent, the girl twisted about, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him hard on the mouth.
Teague stood up, spilling the girl from his lap as he jerked her arms from his neck. Too flustered to speak he stood silently as Killian’s laughter once more rang through the tobacco-filled room. “You should not—” Teague began, only to remember to extend a hand to the girl on the floor.
“If ye’ve no liking for kissing, ’tis nae a reason to treat a lass that rough!” she said, ignoring his offer of help as she rose. She jerked at her skirts and pulled her bodice up to hide one rosy nipple that had popped free. “And ye, ye’re nae better than he!” she said, wagging a finger at Killian.
“Aye, ’tis so,” Killian agreed as he lazily fished in his pocket for a coin. When he found it he tossed it at her. “But I pay better.”
The girl’s blue eyes widened in interest and she laid a small hand on his shoulder. “Well, a lass can take a joke as well as the next. What else would be to your pleasure, sir?” The look she gave him was not mistaken by either man.
For an instant Killian wavered. Why not? What prevented him? Certainly not any concern for the duchesse’s feelings. She had none. More than likely she had found other company this night, as she had many other nights these last months. The barmaid was pretty, reasonably clean, and young. After a few months in this place, she would be much less of all three.
The throbbing at his temples made him curse and shake his head. He needed to be far more drunk than he was to still the ache, and in that condition he would be of no use to either himself or the girl. “Nae, another time,” he said and reached for his cup. “Fill this, lass, while you look for another to fill you.”
The girl’s mouth tightened at his crudity but she pocketed
the coin and took his cup. She turned to his companion to make the same offer, but then her gaze fell upon the collar and cassock revealed by the man’s open cloak. Realizing that she had kissed a priest, she fell back a step and crossed herself before she turned and fled.
Embarrassed, Teague snatched his cloak closed and reseated himself. “If ’twas your aim to revolt me, Killian, then I will save you further trouble by saying that I am revolted. What has become of you? Baiting priests is a lad’s game.”
Killian looked at his monastery companion between narrowed lids. “Is that what you think I’ve done? I merely wished to illustrate a point, Teague. You’ve grandiose plans of smuggling yourself into Ireland, of going among the deprived and poor, the weary and thirsty souls in need of the Word and the Mass.”
Teague nodded solemnly, the light of righteousness shining in his face.
Killian looked away as he continued. “And how will you go? As a schoolteacher, newly sent from Scotland? ’Tis an old ploy. You have no guile, Teague. You could not handle the moment with the lass just passed. How do you expect to deal with priest hunters who’ll be alert to your weaknesses? They’ve had years to sharpen their traps and snares.”
Killian looked up at his friend with sorrowful eyes. “It would be simpler to do as many others have done. Hide in holes, in bogs. Keep your presence a secret, while you can, and when at last you’re caught, accept the transportation back to France and know that at least you tried.”
Teague shook his head. “If I’m caught, I’ll return.”
“You’ll be caught again, and the law is quite specific on the point. Hanging, drawing, and quartering, I believe, is the punishment of the second offense.” Killian reached for the drink the girl had set before him and swallowed it in a gulp. “’Tis not how I would wish to remember you, Teague, a dismembered corpse. If you must tend an Irish flock, attend these good folk.” He waved a hand toward the assembled company.