Irish Lady (30 page)

Miles rubbed the sole of his right shoe over the pavement. “You're a very intelligent woman, Meghann, but you're only half right. I'm not your villain. I was told from the beginning how this case was supposed to turn out. It was all arranged. That's all I knew. I believed Michael was guilty. I would have gone along with the plan until I realized they were out to get you too. You surprised everyone by stepping in and taking over the defense. Because you couldn't be controlled, they wanted to do much more than discredit you. They wanted to charge you with aiding an escaped convict. I couldn't go along with that and still live with myself. Michael knew what was happening long before I did. He sent for Thorndike, counting on the man's devotion to you.”

She stared at him for a long moment, noting the flush staining his face and the way his eyes met hers, steadily, honestly. He had a conscience but she couldn't like him, not after what he tried to do to Michael. “It appears I owe you an apology,” she said stiffly, “and a thank you.”

“It isn't necessary.” He hesitated.

“Go on.”

“I think you should consider leaving England. There won't be much for you here anymore.”

Her face was very still and she looked somewhere over his shoulder. “Perhaps you're right. Good-bye, Miles.”

He watched her drive away. Something about the way she said good-bye alerted his instincts. Meghann McCarthy was brilliant in the courtroom and out, one of those rare attorneys who went the extra mile and verified every piece of information that came across her desk. It would be a shame if she gave up the law for good. His thoughts flew back to the courtroom and the way the two of them had looked at each other before Michael was taken back to his cell. Miles shrugged. It was late. If he hurried, Finchley's pub would still be serving bar meals.

***

The house she'd rented was a narrow Georgian structure located on a tree-lined street at the end of Lisburn Road. It wasn't as elegant as her London flat, but it was charming and comfortable. Meghann felt more at home in Belfast than she ever had in London.

She poured boiling water into the teapot, arranged a plate of cheese and crackers, a pitcher of milk, sugar, and a cup and saucer on the tray and carried it into the sitting room. A bay window overlooked the park. Meghann set the tray on a side table and curled up in the window seat. Slowly, her hand inched up to the locket at her throat. She resisted, reaching for her tea instead. “After all,” she said to herself, “I can't rely on you forever. It's nearly over. I won't need you anymore.”

“That's true.”

Meghann jerked, nearly upsetting her tea. “You can't be here. I'm wide awake and I never touched the locket.”

Nuala sat down on the floor and clasped her knees. She looked very tired. “The locket won't help you anymore, Meghann. My time here is over, my purpose served. Michael will go free. 'Tis up to the two of you to decide how the rest of your lives will turn out.”

She sat silently, absorbed in her own thoughts. Meghann, filled with questions, did not interrupt. Finally Nuala shook herself and asked, “What is it that you're always drinking?”

Meghann looked down in surprise. “Why, it's tea. Don't tell me you've never had it.”

“No, never. Describe it to me.”

Meghann lifted it to her lips and sipped slowly. How did one describe tea? “It's hot,” she began, “but not too hot. I've added sugar and milk to make it sweet and ease the bitterness. It has an herbal flavor and it's quite comforting.”

Nuala nodded. “You've done well. It sounds wonderful.”

Meghann set down her cup. “Will I see the end of your story?”

“Aye. But first I must prepare you. We've grown close, you and I. Not every story has a happy ending.”

“Will you tell me why you came to me?”

“You already know why. I came to help you save Michael Devlin.”

Meghann shook her head. “Martyrs have died in the name of Irish freedom for centuries. Why did you choose Michael to save?”

Nuala's eyes misted over and she looked somewhere beyond Meghann to another time. “On our way to Rome, Rory and I made a child, a daughter. When she was grown, Rory sent her back to Ireland to wed the McCarthy Reagh of Kilbrittain. Niall's son also grew. Generations passed. Bloodlines mixed.” She sighed and focused the power of her green gaze on Meghann. “I never knew either of my children, but I know you and I know Michael, children of my children's children. You have brought me great pleasure and even greater pride. I thank you for that.”

Meghann could barely see through her tears. Without thinking, she reached for Nuala's hand. When she touched human flesh, she stared in surprise.

Nuala smiled. “It happens sometimes.”

“I want to see the rest of your story, Nuala. May I see it now, please?”

“My story is finished, love, but I'll tell you a bit of Rory's. His lasted longer than mine. Will that do?”

Meghann nodded and watched the expressions flicker across Nuala's face.

***

Her name was Chiara and her every feature and limb was the image of me, from the brilliant green of her eyes to the flame-red fall of her hair. Rory didn't want to love her. I think he was afraid of loving anyone again and that was his reason for remaining distant. But from the beginning she stalked him, throwing herself into his arms, running across the marbled floors of the palace I had worked so hard to make beautiful before my time in this mortal world was finished, leaving him alone with the flame-lit child created in my own image.

It was very hard in those early years watching my husband reject the child he should have adored. Then came the day he wished to be alone to ride the boundaries of his estate, a dry land that made those of Irish descent dream of silver lakes and pelting rain.

Chiara would have none of it. She was barely three, a red-haired tyrant with every servant in the palace under her thumb. She stamped her foot, spat out hurtful words, and threw herself on the ground at his feet, sobbing as if her heart would break.

Rory watched until her tears must have smote his heart, for he picked her up and set her in the saddle before him. To her credit she did not once complain on that silent ride. During those hours he came to know something of this child we made together.

The O'Neill came once to Rome, took one look at his granddaughter and crossed himself. “'Tis the spirit of Nuala, Rory,” he said. “Can you not see it in her? Look at her hands, her face, the way she speaks. God help you. You must send her to Ireland for a husband. This land where the sun weakens the mind and muscle does not spawn men strong enough to tame the woman she will become.”

I think it was then, at that very moment, that Rory realized the gift he had been given. This child of light and laughter was as close to me as anyone would ever be.

And so he and Chiara became inseparable. Her mind was sharp and her heart a warm and forgiving one. He would tell her of me and of the children we had lost. One day he even told her of the half-brother he had forced me to give up.

Her small chin quivered. He saw the tears in his daughter's eyes and was ashamed. But she crawled into his lap, rested her head upon his shoulder and forgave him.

She was nineteen when he sent her to Ireland to her grandsire, the O'Neill of Tyrone. It was another year still before she became the bride of the McCarthy Reagh. It was a love match, she assured him, and Rory was content. For he knew that of all people, Chiara, like her mother, was a woman meant for loving.

*

Crumlin Courthouse, Belfast, 1995

The public gallery was filled to capacity. The judge arrived in his long black coat. “All rise,” the bailiff said.

Meghann stood automatically and sat down again. She was very anxious for this to be over.

Justice Flewelling did not mince words. “This trial was a travesty, a waste of this court's valuable time. Not only is the evidence linking Michael Devlin with the murder of James Killingsworth sketchy at best, but it was scurrilously obtained. I am not satisfied that Mr. Devlin was not assaulted, and the Crown has failed to exclude the possibility that the assault was inhuman and degrading. I repeat what Lord Lowry, the Lord Chief Justice, observed in
Regina
versus
Hetherington
: ‘Our criminal law demands that not only the evidence but the means of obtaining it be above suspicion.' Mr. Devlin, you are free to go, and this court apologizes for your inconvenience.”

Michael looked at Meghann in disbelief. She was not so reticent. Throwing her arms around his neck, she kissed him full on the mouth. “I love you,” she said before stepping back to allow his family to surround him.

Hilyard, Maine, six months later

Michael dusted the snow from his shoulders, opened the door, stepped inside, and wiped his feet. He hung up his jacket and walked toward the warmth and tempting smells coming from the kitchen. The blond wood floors gleamed with wax and care. Frost rimmed the windows, and the scent of lemon mingled with onion, pot roast, cinnamon, and sage. Engulfed in an enormous apron, Meghann stood at the stove stirring with the same concentration she gave to her studies.

“Smells delicious,” he said.

She smiled and turned to see him framed in the doorway. “It's pot roast on top of the stove instead of inside. How was it today?”

“It was grand, Meggie. I like teaching. Every one of the boys has a fine mind.”

She smiled doubtfully.

“What's wrong?”

“It's just that they seem hard to handle.” She wiped her hands on her apron, lowered the flame, and crossed the floor to where Michael stood. Slipping her arms around his neck, she pressed her lips against his cheek for a quick kiss. “I don't understand why you want to teach hoodlums when there are students out there who really want to be in school.”

He measured her waist with his hands, taking pleasure in the added inches. “They're not hoodlums, love, just boys who've lost their direction. Besides, we need the income, especially now. Have you been out today?”

“I have. Winter is beautiful here,” she admitted.

“The loveliest place outside the Glens of Antrim.”

“I'm afraid for you.”

He found her mouth and kissed her lingeringly. “Don't be. I grew up in Belfast, remember? The only difference between them and me is a purpose.”

She sighed and rested against him. “I wish the hours weren't so long.”

“I thought you needed the time to study.”

Meghann shrugged and pulled away. “Help me set the table.”

He removed two plates from the cupboard. “At lunch I stopped in at the library to read the
Belfast
Telegram.
The IRA has admitted to the murder of James Killingsworth.”

Meghann frowned. “I suppose the truth would be too much to expect. What will happen to everyone who believes their motives are pure?”

“Someday it will end, the killing will stop, and then the real work will begin. A way of life has grown up around the Troubles. Peace will only be the first step.”

She sighed. “We're a long way from home, Michael. There's nothing in the local paper at all.”

“Aye. Meanwhile, I like it here, Meggie. There's something to be said for water that comes from the tap at just the right temperature.”

“What a wonderful reason to emigrate from all you love and know,” she teased.

“Americans are a friendly sort, especially to the Irish.”

Meghann carried the salad bowl to the table, wondering, not for the first time, how Michael could be so unaware of his personal appeal. She was profoundly grateful that he had taken a position at a boys' correctional facility instead of a girls'.

After the food was dished out and they had taken their places, she resumed their conversation. “I'm not so interested in studying law anymore. There really isn't much point. I won't be practicing for a long time.”

“That's up to you,” Michael said reasonably. “Is something bothering you, Meggie?”

She shook her head, avoiding his eyes.

Michael looked at her, a worried frown forming on his forehead. When they finished eating, he cleared their plates, walked back to the table, and held out his hand. She took it and followed him into their cozy family room. He pulled her down into his lap and she curled around him, fitting herself to his relaxed length with the ease of familiarity.

“You never told me about the woman who scared Andrew Maguire into silence,” he said after he'd kissed and caressed her into a contented doze.

“Yes, I did,” she murmured.

“Not completely. Only her name and her relationship with Andrew.”

Meghann hesitated. “I don't know if I should tell you everything. Maybe Georgiana wouldn't want me to.”

“Keep her confidence, love. It isn't important.”

“On the other hand, she doesn't keep anything from her husband.”

Michael waited for Meghann to finish arguing with herself. It didn't take long.

“I told you they were lovers,” she began. “What I didn't tell you was that Andrew was married when Georgiana got pregnant. She told him and he insisted on an abortion. He didn't have any money, and she'd gone through her allowance for the year.” Meghann swallowed and rubbed her rounded stomach, uncomfortable with the role she'd played in the drama. “I gave her the money from my supplement and went with her to have it done. From then on Andrew avoided her completely. It broke Georgiana's heart.”

“The bastard.” A white line had formed around Michael's lips. He splayed his hands protectively over the bulge of her stomach. “Saint Andrew of Belfast. I imagine he couldn't very well allow his image t' be spoiled, not even if it meant murderin' one of his own. No wonder he was terrified when she showed up in the courtroom. Poor lass.”

“She's happy now, Michael, really. She has a lovely family.”

The tight look disappeared from Michael's face. “Now will y' tell me what's bothering you?”

Meghann twisted her hands nervously. “Do you really like it here away from your home and family?”

“My family is here.”

“What about Ireland?” she burst out. “Can you turn your back on it the way we have and watch what's happening from thousands of miles away? Don't you miss it, Michael, the talk in the pubs, the people you grew up with, Davie and Connor and Bernadette and Annie?”

“It sounds as if
you
miss it.”

She shook her head. “I'm the one who lived in England for eighteen years. I'm asking you the same questions you once asked me.”

“Why?”

“I don't want you to resent me for making you turn your back on Ireland.”

Michael reached out and played with a wisp of auburn hair that curled below the lobe of her ear. “I haven't turned my back on Ireland, Meghann. I'm reevaluating, that's all. A child does that sometimes, makes a man reevaluate his priorities. I want t' be a good parent, and revolutionaries don't make good parents. Y' haven't forced me into anything.” He grinned. “If I remember correctly I had to convince you that it was time t' have a baby.”

“You aren't disappointed that she's a girl?”

“Lord, Meggie, what makes you think that?”

She shrugged. “Men always want sons.”

“Not this one.” He rested his hand on her stomach. “I grew up with seven brothers and a sister. Bernadette was always my favorite until you came along.”

Meghann released her breath. “Promise me you'll tell me if you ever want to go home.”

“I promise.” He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. “Is there anything else?”

“You won't believe me.”

Under his hand he felt the child flutter. Meghann's eyes glowed gold like liquid sherry in her lightly freckled face and her hair was now the deep russet of her youth. His golden girl had given him a life he'd only dreamed of. “Trust me,” he said gently.

“I miss—” She hesitated.

“Yes?”

“I miss… my mother.”

He frowned, perplexed. Meghann had never mentioned her mother, not in all the years since her death.

“I suppose that's natural with the baby coming.”

“She's not my mother exactly—”

He waited and still she didn't speak. “Meghann, unless you explain yourself I can't help you.”

She struggled to find the right words to explain. “All my life I've had someone with me. Ever since Cupar Street. She's taken care of me. I saw her in my dreams and sometimes even when I was awake. I felt her, but I didn't know who she was until just recently, during your time in prison and your hearing. She saved us, Michael. She told me what to do. But now she's gone and I miss her. I feel orphaned all over again.”

A log snapped in the fireplace. The room was sinfully warm and Meghann felt delicious in his lap. He tightened his arms. His head slipped to her shoulder.

“You don't believe me.”

The glow disappeared and his head snapped to its original position. “I didn't say that.”

“You didn't say anything.”

He sighed. Pregnant women were highly emotional. He would tread carefully. “Who am I not to believe you, Meghann? The Irish are a superstitious people. Our entire history is based on legend and myth. I can't say that what you believe isn't true.”

“Her name was Nuala O'Donnell. We talked about her in Donegal. Remember?”

He did, vaguely. “Aye.”

“She's my ancestor and yours, too. Remember the night we left Victoria Hospital? I told you that Nuala O'Donnell had given me a way around the checkpoints and you told me she'd died hundreds of years ago and that there was no longer a Tirconnaill.”

Now he did remember and the Celtic part of him, the part that had given him his love of literature and his gift for language, sat up and took notice. “Why has she left you?”

“Her story ended. She died and you were saved. I think she believes that I don't need her anymore.”

“Do you?”

“Perhaps not,” Meghann confessed.

“'Tis the natural way of things,” he said gently, “to have your parents pass on.” Again he rubbed her stomach. “Soon we'll be parents ourselves. I wonder if I'm old enough.”

Meghann laughed. “I should hope so. If you aren't now, you won't ever be. Besides, it's too late.”

“I wouldn't take it back for all the world, Meg, my love. If someone had told me three years ago that we'd be here, together, like this, I'd never have believed him.” He brushed the hair back from her temple and kissed the spot reverently. “You gave up everything to start fresh with a wayward lad like myself. Not many are so lucky.” He grinned. “Come now. Cheer up. I even have a name for the lass.”

“What is it?”

“Chiara. 'Tis an old family name. Do y' like it?”

Meghann looked into the brilliant blue of her husband's eyes. “I love it,” she said. “It's the most beautiful name in the world.”

He bent his head and breathed in the scent of her hair. Later, when the time was right, when she was curled around him in that enormous American bed, he'd tell her about the book contract, a book about the streets of Ireland where they'd grown up, a book unlike any other he'd written. He'd tell her about the way the words came to him more easily than they ever had and about what never would have been if she hadn't walked back into his life, demanding that he accept what she had to offer, making him fall in love with her all over again.