“Mama should let us wed now,” Fortune snapped. “Then there would be no cause for gossip.”
“Yer mam is wise. Where’s the harm in waiting if you truly love one another?” he demanded of her.
Fortune tossed her head in a gesture that was oddly familiar to him. “The harm may be in my belly if Mama makes me wait too long!” Then she dashed from the stables, heading for the castle steps.
Kieran Devers held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I will not seduce her,” he promised the older man.
“Nay, but she’ll do her best to seduce you,” Maguire said with a shake of his head. “I had a younger sister, Aoife, who was just as headstrong as the lady Fortune. You had best be on yer guard, Kieran Devers. You could find yerself on yer back being ridden hard by that young vixen. A virgin she may be, but she’s also an impudent wench.”
The two men parted, Kieran Devers going into the castle. Rory, however, left the stables, and walked to the small gatehouse that Jasmine had given him years ago. He had not lived in it until she returned to Erne Rock, but it had long ago been furnished with family heirlooms dear to his heart; and Bride Duffy had seen that it was kept clean and aired should he ever need it again. Entering the house, and seeing his things, he was overcome with nostalgia. He climbled to a little attic beneath the pointed roof. There in a trunk was a rectangular box made of ashwood, its corners banded in silver. Removing the box he brought it down into the main room on the first floor of the gatehouse that served as his day room. A servant had already lit a peat fire against the damp.
Setting the box down on a table near the fireside chair, Rory poured himself a small dram of smoky whiskey. Then sitting down he sipped it appreciatively for several long moments before setting the tumbler aside, and reaching for the box. He had not seen, or opened this particular box in years. It contained individual miniatures of his family. Looking on them gave rise to a deep sadness, for Rory Maguire remembered that time long ago when his family had been in possession of Erne Rock, and Maguire’s Ford. They had held their modest holding for several hundred years for their more powerful Maguire kin.
When their chieftain, Conor Maguire, had left Ireland with the northern earls over twenty years ago, Rory Maguire’s father, mother, younger brother, along with his three sisters, and their families, had followed. He had been the only one not to go for he could not bear to leave their people to the mercy of the English. It had only been God’s blessing, or the devil’s luck, that their new English master turned out to be Jasmine Lindley, marchioness of Westleigh; and that she, even knowing his history, had made him manager for her new estate.
He had been able to remain in his home. While some might have been too proud to humble themselves as he had, Rory believed he had done the right thing in staying. His parents were buried in France, far from their native soil. What had happened to his sisters and their families he did not know. His younger brother, Conan, had gone to Russia and become an officer in the Tzar’s Imperial Army. He had last heard from Conan ten years ago. He might even be dead for all Rory knew. The box with its miniatures was all he had left of his family.
Slowly he raised the box’s lid. There were the seven oval miniatures, each sitting in its little recessed velvet indentation. He smiled seeing his father’s face for he realized he now looked like his father although he hadn’t seen it when he was younger. There was his mother with her elegant long nose, and bright blue eyes. And there he was at eighteen, and Conan, the second son, and next to the youngest at fourteen. His sisters, Myrna, the eldest of them all at twenty-one; Aoife at sixteen, and Fionula at twelve. Those had been happy times, he thought sadly as he prepared to close the box.
But then suddenly his eye returned to Aoife. The artist had painted her in what had once been to him a familiar pose—an impatient toss of her head. It was a gesture he hadn’t seen in years . . .
until today.
Rory lifted the miniature from its case, brushing the thin layer of dust from it. He stared unbelievingly at the face staring back at him. It was Aoife’s face, yet he had long ago forgotten it.
It was also Fortune Lindley’s face.
But he had not until now recognized the two faces as identical, yet they were without any doubt one and the same.
Reaching out he grabbed the tumbler in his fist, and swallowed its remaining contents down in a single gulp. He felt as if he had been felled by a giant blow.
How could it be?
How could Lady Fortune Lindley and his sister, Aoife, have the same face? The same gesture? The same flaming red-gold hair that in all the family only he and Aoife possessed?
Fool!
The voice in his head mocked him. You know the answer to your own question. Did you not lie with Jasmine Lindley all those years ago?
Fortune is your daughter.
He groaned as if he had been injured. His mind raced back twenty-one years ago. The marquess of Westleigh had been murdered. His wife had fallen into a fit from which she could not be aroused. She had cried out for her husband to love her but one more time. She was dying, or so Adali and the priest had claimed. They sent him to make love to the delirious woman in hopes she could be drawn back from the brink of death. While he had loved her secretly from the first moment he had seen her, he had known she would never love him.
Rory remembered he had been shocked by the suggestion made to him. Especially since the priest harried him every bit as much as Adali, who could be forgiven, being a foreigner. Still, he could not resist the opportunity they offered him to make love to her, even if she would never know that he had done so. They had not had to struggle too hard to convince him, he realized. And if she lived he would have the secret satisfaction of knowing he had saved her. If she died, he would die too. So he had done their bidding, and then slipped from her chamber back into the shadows of his loneliness. But Jasmine had survived, finally awakening the following morning. Discovering she was with child several weeks later, they had all rejoiced that her beloved Rowan Lindley, who had himself made love to his wife the night before he was killed, had given his darling this final gift of a third child.
But Fortune was not Rowan Lindley’s daughter. She was Rory Maguire’s daughter.
Who else knew? Did Jasmine? No! She would not know because she never knew of his part in saving her life. Adali would know. His damned sharp eye would miss nothing. And Father Cullen? Aye, he probably knew too! And they had managed to keep it from him all these years. Had he not felt the need today to look upon his family’s faces again he might have never known the truth. And now that he did, what was he to do with it? He pocketed Aoife’s miniature before closing the box and setting it aside. His hand ran through his red hair in a gesture of despair.
What was he going to do?
A serving girl entered his day room with a covered tray. “Master Adali sent you some supper, my lord, since you did not come to the hall. He asks if you are well.” The girl set the tray down on a small table and lifted the linen cloth from it.
“Tell Adali I am not well, and would see him before he retires this night,” Rory Maguire said. “And I would see Father Cullen too.” Then seeing the horrified look on the servant’s face he laughed. “Nay, lass, I am not dying. Just under the weather a bit. I need the priest’s advice on another matter. Be discreet as you do my bidding, for I would cause no unnecessary disturbance.” He gave a wink.
The girl hurried out giggling, and Rory looked at the meal on the tray. Trout. Several slices of beef. Bread. Butter and cheese. A dish of new green peas. He ate out of habit, but he tasted nothing. Pouring himself more whiskey he drank it down. He was cold. So damned cold.
He had a daughter.
A beautiful daughter who was the image of his favorite sister. A daughter who would be absolutely horrified to learn she was not the posthumous child of the marquess of Westleigh. He sighed. For twenty-one years he had kept the secret of Jasmine’s survival after Rowan Lindley’s death. It had not been easy, but he had done it, putting Jasmine from his mind, although she had always remained in his heart.
It had been a burden, but he now had an even heavier burden upon his shoulders. The knowledge of Fortune’s true parentage. How could he not have known her? But Aoife had been gone from him so long, she had faded from his memory. They had all faded. He had put the box with the miniatures in his attic because it had been too painful being reminded of happier times and the loving family he had once had, and then lost. He might have gone with them, but he had refused to be driven from Ulster. He remembered how his mother and sisters had wept as they departed Maguire’s Ford. The memory of it pierced his heart even now, some twenty-five years later.
He had strongly disagreed with the northern earls who had deserted their homes, and their people; for more people had been forced to remain than had been able to go. He had thought the earls selfish. He remembered arguing with his father, whose loyalty to his cousin, Conor Maguire, was greater it seemed than to his own immediate family. Only his mother’s intervention had kept the two men from coming to blows. In the end, of course, his father’s will prevailed. The family left Ulster in the earls’ wake, but Rory Maguire had remained to protect, as best he could, the people of Maguire’s Ford. That he had been able to was nothing short of a miracle, but in doing so he was bereft of a family. He had never married because he had fallen in love with Jasmine, and no other woman would do. She, of course, had never known the depth of his affections. Now, suddenly, he had a family; but how could he ever claim his daughter without causing Fortune and her mother irreparable harm?
The serving girl returned to take his tray, saying, “Both Master Adali and the priest will come, m’lord. Yer really all right, aren’t you? Her ladyship asked that I inquire.”
“Just a small flux upon my belly, lass,” he told her with a smile. “I should be right as rain by the morrow.”
“I’ll tell her ladyship,” the girl said, picking up the tray and leaving him alone once again.
He was not alone for long, however. Both Adali and Cullen Butler entered the room one after the other.
“Yer ill,” the priest said. “The servant girl told my cousin.”
“My illness is one of the soul, Cullen Butler,” Rory responded. Reaching into his pocket he withdrew the oval miniature, and handed it to the priest.
Cullen Butler looked at it casually. Then he asked, “Where did you get this charming miniature of Fortune?” He handed the oval to Adali.
The majordomo looked at the small painting, saying quickly, “This is not the Lady Fortune, good Father. She does not bear the princess’s birthmark between her left nostril and her upper lip.” He looked directly at the Irishman. “Who is it?”
“My younger sister, Aoife,” Rory Maguire replied.
“Of course,” Adali said quietly. “The resemblance is utterly amazing, my lord Maguire. Both are beautiful women.”
“You knew?”
Rory’s tone was accusatory.
“I knew,” Adali said.
“And you, priest? Did you know also?” Rory’s voice was hard.
“I knew,” Cullen Butler admitted, “may God have mercy on me, on us all, Rory Maguire.”
“But
she
does not know?”
“How could she?” Adali answered him. “She knew nothing of what transpired between you that night. Therefore she would not know the truth of her daughter’s parentage. Nor would you have known but that you found that miniature of your sister.”
“How could you have kept this secret from me? How could you have not told me that I had a daughter?” Rory asked his two companions brokenly. His blue eyes were filled with pain, and wet with his tears.
Cullen Butler looked stricken, but Adali was far more pragmatic than the guilt-ridden priest. “And if we had told you, Rory Maguire,” he said, “what would you have done? What could you have done?
Nothing!
Who would have believed the manner in which my Lady Fortune was conceived? The knowledge of her true sire would have brought shame upon my princess, and the stain of bastardy upon Lady Fortune. You could have never expected to be a part of Lady Fortune’s life, my lord Maguire. What happened twenty-one years ago was known to but four people. Madame Skye saw the truth, and questioned me. I did not lie to her. She is dead these seven years now, and only we three remain with our knowledge. What you did was a noble thing, my lord Maguire, and because I knew that you loved my princess I used you to save her. I felt no shame in my actions, nor should you have.
“I never knew my Lady Fortune would grow up as she did. I hoped that she would never see this place again, or you. But my princess has been determined for some years now to give this daughter Maguire’s Ford. It was not up to me to tell her no, and it was only by unfortunate happenstance that you discovered the truth. I am sorry for you, my lord Maguire. ’Twilll be a heavier burden for you to bear than any you have ever had before, but bear it in silence you will, or I will kill you myself. I will not have my princess, or her child, hurt by anyone. We will soon be returning to England, and that will be the end of it.”
“Aye,” Rory said quietly, “there is nothing I can do but sigh over the daughter who doesn’t know she is my daughter; but that will not be the end of it, Adali. You cannot expect me to go on as if none of this ever happened. In the future I shall expect a letter from you twice a year telling me about my daughter, and how she gets on. That is only fair under the circumstances.”