“Are they truly ours? All of them?”
“So they tell me, sweet wife, and I am not of a mind to question it.”
“There’ll be money to be had from the selling of some of them,” Deirdre said thoughtfully.
“Aye, and leather and beef, sparingly,” Killian agreed.
Deirdre turned on him a full smile. “We are rich!”
“We are the owners of a respectable herd,” Killian amended, but he smiled as broadly as she. The fortunes of the MacShanes appeared to be changing.
Deirdre suddenly sobered. “Will O’Donovan reive the herd?”
Killian shook his head. “Oh, we may lose an animal here and there to his thieving band, but O’Donovan’s not a herder.” Unless the cow was aboard a smuggler’s ship, he doubted O’Donovan could give it a second look, but he was not about to tell Deirdre that.
Deirdre yawned broadly, using a hand to cover her mouth, then she looked at Killian with an impish grin that made the most of her dimple. “’Tis dawn. ’Twould seem time for the milking to begin.”
Killian knew she was hungry. He was hungry. “Milk
and onions?” he suggested with a cocked brow.
Deirdre made a face. “Milk and milk!”
* * *
“Sheep. Sheep would bring us a greater profit and require few men to tend them,” Killian mused aloud as he sat on the floor and drew a figure on a slate with a charred stick. Two days had passed since the return of Liscarrol’s cattle, and in that time, he had been busy planning their future. “Wool can be our regular crop with lambs for market thrown in on occasion.” He smiled to himself. The French were especially fond of spring lamb. Then, too, sheep were more easily concealed than cattle, and the wool gathered from shearing was more easily disposed of than milk and cream. He would take half his wool to market, the other half he would sell to the duchesse.
“I did not suspect that you possessed a head for business,” Deirdre replied when she had drained the last of the milk from her wooden cup.
“I do not,” Killian answered, “but any man of sense can see that a thundering herd of cattle is more likely to catch a greedy eye than a distant, elusive flock of dirty sheep,”
“Milk cows do not thunder, my love,” she answered. “They are among God’s most sedate creatures.”
Killian smiled as he looked at her milk-mustachioed face. “I stand corrected. A field of slovenly, contented cows is more likely to cause us trouble. I have talked to the herdsman named Colin, and he tells me that the cattle have been kept from the English by hiding them in the hills of the Shehy Mountains and that their milk suffers from the poor grazing provided by the winter hillsides.”
“The milk tastes as rich and sweet as top cream to me.” Deirdre licked her upper lip with a long sweeping action that caught her husband’s attention. “Honey! I want to bring the honey bees back. Can we repair the hives very soon?”
“We will repair everything in time,
acushla
,
but repairs require workers and workers must be paid. That is why I must go to market.”
Deirdre’s face brightened. “Market? May I come? I need new gowns, even just one, and shoes, and a brush and soap and—”
“And many other things that cost money which we do not have,” Killian finished for her, his face darkening. “I
am a poor husband, lass. You’ve much to tax me with and little to praise me for.”
Deirdre looked at him in surprise. “Do I complain?”
“God, no! And that is little to my credit.” He rose in a single fluid movement. “You sit in rags on the floor like the lowliest of peasants with a cup of thin milk for your daily meal and I do nothing to change it!”
Deirdre rose to her feet, shaking out the dirty folds of her ruined riding skirt. “I may not be in the height of fashion, sir, but you once told me you did not think much of ladies, those in particular who needed wooing with soft words and deeds.”
“Did I now? I must have been in a temper,” Killian said, his eyes fastening on the work of her fingers at the buttons of his shirt, which she wore in place of her ruined blouse.
“Aye, you were that,” Deirdre answered, her fingers prodding the final button open. “You had just discovered that Fey was a lass.” She began pulling the blouse from her shoulders, and though she smiled she did not look up at him. “I was furious with you for being so rude, but I could not help but be jealous that you had kept a lass in your room the night through.”
“Jealous?” Killian questioned without interest, for she had begun loosening her corset and he, too, realized that they were on this rare occasion alone. Fey had gone to check the rabbit traps.
“Aye. Jealous. I had spent years learning the very manners which you were throwing back in my face.” She lowered her corset slowly until he was gazing at one of his favorite sights. “Since then, I have given up my fine schooling as it is not to your liking.”
“You, however, are to my liking,” Killian answered with a grin as he took a step toward her. He lifted her chin with a finger and gazed smiling into her eyes. “You’ve no reason to be jealous,
mo cuishle
,”
he said, his brogue caressing each word. His hands fell to her naked waist. “As for your manners, they suit me fine, lass.”
“You mean because now I have none,” Deirdre replied
and laughed up into his face. “You’ve turned me into a shameless lass and, what’s more, I like it!”
“There’s none to compare with you, and that’s a truth.” His hands rose to cup her breasts. “No, you’re not so shameless as you may think. You please only your husband, and that you do quite amicably.”
“Is that a compliment?” Deirdre questioned doubtfully. “It makes me sound so, well, matronly.”
Killian chuckled. “Should we be lovers, forbidden by your father even to speak? Would we snatch secret moments, steal kisses and cuddles? Nae, lass, I do not see myself as a pining swain to your vanity.”
“My vanity, is it? And what would you be calling the conceit that causes you to think I would consent to snatch even one secret moment with you?” Deirdre watched his face crinkle into lines of laughter. The lines of worry had disappeared for the moment, forgotten as they dallied in a game of love. As he bent to kiss her, she gazed deeply into his eyes. The pupils had expanded to nearly eclipse the bright blue irises and the image of herself was clearly reflected in those dark depths.
He loves me
,
she thought exultantly.
He thinks of nothing but me in this moment and I will cherish every instant of it
.
His mouth was warmly persuasive on hers, and as she spread her palms across his chest, she knew a moment of perfect peace. Too often in recent weeks, they had been at odds. Now, for this moment, they were in perfect harmony.
The woman who entered the Great Hall was surprised but not amazed to find a half-nude young woman in the arms of the new owner of Liscarrol. This would be the lady wife of whom she had heard but had not seen. She waited politely at the door for the embrace to end, a steaming kettle in one hand and a trencher in the other. But when it seemed that this was the beginning, not the end of a moment of pleasuring, she cleared her throat loudly, for she was impatient to be gone and the pot was heavy.
Deirdre gasped and turned away so quickly that Killian bumped his chin on her head and groaned as his tongue crunched between his teeth. He turned his head toward the
intruder, pulling Deirdre close to hide her breasts against his chest.
“I did nae mean to intrude, m’lord,” the woman said humbly, “but ’tis a matter that will nae wait.” She held up the trencher. “’Tis
cabaiste Scotch
and a rare treat it is in this weather. And there’s mulled wine come from an unbroken bottle found in the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” Killian said over his bruised tongue. There was no reason to ask where the wine had really come from. He had searched every inch of Liscarrol looking for anything left intact. A bottle of wine would never have escaped notice. “Set them by the door.”
The woman did as she was bade and then turned back with a smile for the young couple. “May yer wife come to the birthing bed afore Samain. ’Tis easy to see she’s a bonny lass.” The woman paused, her broad pleasant face paling visibly.
“What ails you, woman?” Killian asked.
The woman pointed a finger at Deirdre. “I was told the truth of it, but, well, a body must see. I’ll go now,” she added as she turned and hastened out the door.
“What was that all about?” Deirdre questioned.
Killian looked briefly at her shoulder, remembering Teague’s tale of fairy marks, and shook his head. Once Deirdre, too, had believed in fairy magic. They were both better off without the reminder.
“I do not know. Simple folk are often embarrassed before nobility. Perhaps she realized her blessing was out-of-place.”
Deirdre looked down at her exposed breasts pressed full against his coat and then up at him. “Out-of-place? Hardly, my love, when you’re as lusty as a bull!”
To her delight and amazement, a bright pink flush suffused his cheeks a moment before he bent and kissed her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Deirdre lay awake in the dark. The dream that had been absent since their first night at Liscarrol had come back. Her palms were clammy and her heart pounded in long heavy strokes that shook her body. He was out there, waiting. She could feel him drawing her from her bed, and yet she was paralyzed with fear. Killian lay sleeping beside her but she did not reach out to him. She did not want to tell him that she believed a specter that looked just like him waited beyond the door. He would think her foolish or mad, or both. Yet, the impulse to learn if it was true was too strong to resist.
She rose, the chill of the night reaching out for her as she walked barefoot toward the door. Killian and two of the herdsmen had set the great doors on new hinges. The bolt was heavy but the door opened easily once it was lifted.
It was not yet dawn; but the mantle of night was green-tinged at the edges, and phosphorescent mists illuminated the path of the dark river and veiled the mountains. She crossed the yard toward the stable, knowing that this was where the specter would reveal himself. She remembered the last occasion. He had been more real than
fantasy. She had touched, had felt the solid reality of his leg and boot. He had been a lover enticing her toward him, and then a demon striking out at her. The back of her right hand tingled at the memory of the whip’s lash and she rubbed it against her skirts. She should turn about, should flee the desperate phantom who had sought her out over and over through the years, but she could not.
The stable was not empty. From inside came the faint glow of a turf fire about which were curved the sleeping bodies of the herders and their families. Deirdre paused in the doorway. The phantom would not be here. He would come out of the mists down the mountains. She waited, her back to the night, but the only thundering she heard was the pumping of her heart.
A minute passed. Two. Five. The night was still, holding its breath against the first stirring of dawn.
In relief mixed with disappointment, Deirdre turned back toward the house. She had been so certain, so confident that someone, something, waited for her in the violet and gray darkness.
The figure came out of the mists to her right, a frail wraith in woman’s clothing.
Deirdre froze, her blood chilling.
The creature came forward slowly, limping as she carried a ragged bundle in her arms. Her face was in shadow and Deirdre had the unsettling impression that the apparition was faceless. “Who are ye?” it cried in a strangely thickened voice.
Deirdre fell back a step.
“Who are ye!” she repeated in a desperate rasp.
“Lady MacShane,” Deirdre murmured.
The creature paused, half in shadow, its bare womanly shaped legs showing white as candle wax in the twilight. “Be ye a Fitzgerald of Liscarrol?”
Deirdre nodded slowly. This questioner was not a part of her dream, nor had it ever been.
The creature leaned toward her from the waist and thrust her bundle forward. “Ye must help me! Heal me! Ye’ve great powers,
bean sidhe
!
Help me save me child!”
Deirdre fell back another step. Though she knew the
herders slept in the stable behind her and could be summoned with a single loud cry, she whispered the words, “I do not know you. I do not know what you want of me.”
The woman moved forward awkwardly, her limp more pronounced. “Ye do know! ’Twas said the powers of sight were yers. See me,
bean sidhe
!
See me and heal me!”
As she stepped from shadow Deirdre saw that a hood had cloaked her face, but when the hood slipped back a visitor from Hell stood before her.
The face was distorted beyond recognition. The brow, chin, and jaws were swollen to twice normal and blackened. The right eye was lost in the bulge of distended flesh, and her mouth was smeared into a permanent grimace of pain. The odor of rotting flesh wavered sickeningly from her.
Deirdre gasped in revulsion and clapped a hand over her mouth as she spun away from the nightmare.
“
Bean sidhe!
”
the creature called as Deirdre ran toward the house. “A blessing!” came the last feeble cry that was more a wail than speech.