Dawn of the Golden Promise (17 page)

He squeezed her fingers. “She will be,
alannah.
She needs some quiet now, and rest, that's the thing. You will look in on Gabriel?”

Annie nodded, jumping at a loud crash of thunder. Again Morgan pressed her hand in his, sensing the fear she was trying to suppress. “Perhaps you should come up, too? No doubt the storm has made your little brother and Lucy anxious. It might be well if you would stay with them until it passes.”

As his gaze scanned the room, he noted that Tierney and Jan Martova were nowhere in sight.

That night, Morgan left Finola alone only long enough to speak with the doctor, who had come when summoned. “You're sure she will be all right?”

“She should be perfectly fine after she has a rest,” Dr. Dunne said. He hesitated. “You're quite certain it was the penny whistle that brought this on?” Morgan nodded. Even in the dimly lighted hallway he could see the bafflement in the surgeon's eyes.

“I can't think it was anything else. Had you been here, you would understand. It was as if the thing had attacked her.”

“And she has told you nothing since?”

Morgan hesitated, undecided as to how much he wanted to explain just yet, even to the physician. “Only one word…a name. Someone who…once caused her great distress, I think.”

The doctor looked at him. “The man who attacked her?”

Morgan felt the old, bitter anger break over him. “There is reason to believe,” he said tightly, looking away, “that she might have been assaulted…more than once. The first time…when she was quite young. Little more than a child.”

The surgeon uttered a sound of dismay. “And you believe she has begun to remember?”

“I think it is a possibility, yes.”

Their eyes met. For a moment neither spoke. “Will the laudanum help her to sleep?” Morgan finally asked.

“It will. And I've left more with Sister Louisa, should there be a need. She knows the dosage. I'm afraid there's really nothing else to do just now, except to keep a close watch. I will stop by again tomorrow to see how she's doing.” He paused. “If you don't mind my saying so, Morgan…”

Morgan looked up. The doctor was eyeing him with the appraising look of a medical man.

“I don't like your color. You look quite exhausted.”

Morgan waved off his concern. “I'm perfectly fine. Thank you for coming out on such a mean night, James. I appreciate it.”

“I hope you've given some thought to the surgeon in America?” the physician ventured.

“This is hardly the time to be planning a crossing,” Morgan snapped.

Immediately he regretted the sharpness of his tone. “I'm sorry, James. I didn't mean to be short. But it's
not
the time.”

“Quite right.” The doctor stepped back, although he continued to study Morgan a moment longer. “Send for me if you need me,” he said gently, then turned to go.

After the doctor left, Morgan lay unmoving, holding Finola in his arms. At times she seemed to doze, fitfully. More often she sobbed or flailed her fists, as if warding off a blow. Once or twice she murmured something incomprehensible, then grew still.

He could almost feel the conflict raging inside her, as if she were fighting to remember. Or was she trying
not
to remember?

There was little he could do for her, other than to hold her close and attempt to comfort her as best he could. James had said it would be better if she remembered only a little at a time, but she seemed to be overwhelmed by an entire tide of memories.

Morgan felt the struggle draining her strength, both physically and emotionally. Yet now that the memories had finally come, he was reluctant to try to stem the flow. As he held her, he battled his own torrent of conflicting emotions.

Tonight he had finally caught a glimpse of just how devastating the return of her memories could be. Even with his lack of medical expertise, he sensed it could be dangerous for her to remember too much too soon. How much should he—could he—tell her of what Cassidy had uncovered in Drogheda?

Morgan found himself gripped by the same dread, the same dark apprehension, as before. It was
fear.
Fear for Finola, and for himself.

Beyond what all this might mean to her emotional health, he could not deny a very real fear for its effect on their marriage, their love. Already there were times when he sensed her pulling away from him. He tried not to believe that his physical condition could be responsible for her occasional restraint, tried not to dwell on the reality that Finola was a beautiful young woman tied to an older man in a wheelchair. He tried not to wonder if her passion for him had begun to wane.

Perhaps it was, indeed, only the pain, the memories that had haunted and yet evaded her, that sometimes made her withdraw. Surely the violence inflicted upon her body and soul might cause some reluctance, if not actual aversion to intimacy, even with a man she loved.

And he did not doubt that Finola loved him.

But now…now he knew the hideous truth. Could he really bring himself to risk damaging what he held precious beyond all price…Finola's love? Could he tell her?

She stirred restlessly in his arms, and Morgan studied the exquisite face he had come to love more than life—a face now contorted with some silent anguish, some lonely struggle he found himself helpless to ease.

He drew her even closer, pressing her face against his shoulder, concealing the pain that threatened to obscure her loveliness. Outside, the rain continued to pelt the house, but the wind had diminished to a steady moan. Remembering many a night from his own troubled past when he had shivered beneath a cold rain on a lonely road, Morgan buried his face in the spun gold of Finola's hair and gave thanks for the shelter of her love…and the divine love that had brought them together.

Yet somehow he did not
feel
sheltered, not even with Finola's sweet warmth in his arms and a fire burning low across the room. Instead, he felt inexplicably chilled, his nerves drawn taut, his pulse too erratic by far.

“Garonne…”

Morgan started at the sound of the French name on her lips. He eased back to look at her. Her eyes were open, her expression stricken as she met his gaze.

“What is it,
macushla
?” he whispered, gently brushing a strand of hair away from her temple. “Who is this ‘Garonne'?”

Her nails dug into his shoulders as she clung to him, but she made no reply.

The rainstorm had passed, leaving only a gentle dripping from the eaves and an occasional distant groan of thunder. But Morgan remained vigilant, his nerves on edge. He almost felt as if another storm were approaching, coming from a distant place…but coming quickly.

Sandemon stood staring out into the rainy night, becoming more unsettled with every hour that dragged on.

Not once this night had his mind grown still enough to sleep. There was no peace in his spirit, no quiet in his soul.

Part of his agitation, he knew, was due to the mysterious seizure of Mistress Finola. He had heard her broken sobs and moans of distress coming from the bedchamber, had heard as well the muffled efforts of the
Seanchai
to comfort her. So intense was his concern that it had been all he could do to leave them to themselves and not interfere.

Concern for the young mistress, however, was not the only burden on his spirit, nor was the rainstorm entirely to blame for his sleeplessness. Indeed, the rain had slackened, easing to a slow and steady pattering as the storm moved on.

But outside Nelson Hall something else—something dark and cold and threatening—rode the night wind. Something lurked in the darkness. Sandemon could feel it—palpable and foreboding.

Suddenly he shivered, then moved even closer to the window, straining to see outside. But the moon and stars were hidden, the night dense and black. Nothing moved in the darkness.

Turning, he looked around the room. The cold was pervasive, drawing in on him. Again he shivered. The need for warmth and light seized him, and he crossed the room to stoke the fire, then lit a second lamp.

It wasn't enough. Going to stand in front of the fire, Sandemon gripped his hands together, waiting for the heat to warm his bones, waiting for the Light to banish his sense of encroaching dread.

Finally, after a long time, he began to pray.

11

But when the days of gold dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy,
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed, without the aid of joy.

EMILY BRONTE (1818–1848)

M
organ's heart nearly broke as he lay holding Finola, watching her by the dim light of the candle next to the bed. Her anguished sobs came from deep within, as if her very soul were rising up in torment.

How long could she go on like this? She was obviously exhausted, and yet the weeping continued, the deep, heartrending groans of a spirit in the throes of a mighty battle.

He desperately wanted to comfort her, to soothe and calm her, to still the inner storm that buffeted her fragile body and racked her mind. But he could do nothing.

All he could do was wait and stay beside her during this dark night of the soul, praying that somehow his presence would give her the strength to endure this torture.

Morgan had never felt so utterly helpless. He feared for Finola, and for himself. What would this revelation do to her…her mind…to her life…to
them
?