Nell (3 page)

Frankie grinned. She
was
an entertaining little thing, with her quaint observations, her lack of self-consciousness, and her wide hazel eyes. He felt as if he'd known her forever. “Come on,” he said, reaching for her hand. “We'll leave the bike and wade through the sheep to the chemist. Hold on tight, and don't let 'em knock you down.”

All of which was more easily said than done. Frankie's hand was a lifeline to which Jilly clung at all costs. At any moment, she felt that her arm would be ripped from its socket as she bumped and shoved her way through the moist, scratchy bodies of mewling sheep. Urea fumes crawled up her nose and stung her watery eyes. Bodies stepped on her toes and knocked against her, throwing her over woolly, wriggling backs. Each time she stumbled, Frankie tightened his grip, lifting her to her feet, pulling her along, until the next time. It seemed a lifetime before she was on the other side of Kilvara's narrow main road. Panting, she swayed slightly and wiped her sweaty forehead. As if he'd done it every day of his life, Frankie's arm curved around her back. She sagged against him, grateful for the support.

“Hey, Frankie, where y' been?” a voice called out over the noise. “Father Quinlan says it's y'r turn at mass on Sunday.”

Casually, Frankie dropped his arm from around Jilly and turned to see Sean Peterson leaning in the doorway of O'Malley's Pub. “It's y'r turn, and y' know it,” he said. “I altared last week.”

Sean grinned and shook his head. “It's Gracie's weddin' in Newry. You'll have to take my place.”

Two more boys walked out from the darkened shadows of the pub. Frankie groaned and muttered something Jilly couldn't hear under his breath.

“Who's the girl, Frankie?” Tommy Dougherty asked, swaggering out to the street to stare at Jilly. “A bit young, isn't she? What's y'r name, lass?”

Frankie scowled. “Leave her alone, Tommy.”

“I only want her name.”

Jilly hesitated. She didn't like the looks of the boy with the shocking red hair. Under the enormous brown freckles, his skin appeared unnaturally white, as if he'd been ill for a long time. “My name is Jillian Fitzgerald,” she said quietly.

Tommy Dougherty pushed back his cap and scratched his head. She was lying. Jillian Fitzgerald would not ride into Kilvara with the likes of Frankie Maguire. “And where do y' live, Jillian Fitzgerald, that we've never seen y' before today?”

“Down the road,” she said vaguely. Jilly wanted to leave. Tommy Dougherty had an insolent mouth and eyes set very close together. She looked at Frankie, but he made no move at all.

“Where down the road?” Tommy's voice taunted her.

“Down the road at Kildare.” Jilly tried to walk around him, but he blocked her path.

“Where at Kildare?”

Jilly felt the familiar churning in her stomach and knew what it meant.
Easy, Jilly.
Nell's voice soothed her.

Frankie was staring at her oddly. “I live at Kildare Hall,” she announced loudly, “and I want you to get out of my way.”

Tommy Dougherty never knew exactly how he happened to land in the street square on his bum. All he remembered was that his jaw exploded in pain, and then he was on the ground surrounded by sheep. Frankie's face was very close, and when he spoke, his voice was hard and cold like the knife Tommy's da used for butchering pigs. “She's Jillian Fitzgerald of Kildare Hall,” he said, “and she's a wee lass who's come with me to town. That's enough, I think.”

Tommy stared up at Frankie's thin brown face, read the message in his eyes, and nodded. “Sorry, Frankie,” he mumbled.

“It's not me y' should be apologizin' to.”

Nodding miserably, Tommy swallowed. “Sorry, lass. I was just havin' a bit o' fun. No harm meant.” He smiled tentatively. “Would y' like a squash from the bar?”

Jillian smiled, all unpleasantness forgotten at the thought of the fizzy orange drink sliding down her parched throat. “Oh, yes, please. Can we, Frankie? Do we have time?”

Frankie hesitated, imagining the scene were any of the Fitzgeralds to learn of Jilly's whereabouts. But then he remembered the uglier scene they'd just come away from and decided it was better to leave Jilly with memories of a free squash from the pub. “Aye,” he said, “we have time.”

When Frankie went up to the bar to order the drinks, Sean went with him. “What are y' doin' mindin' the earl's daughter?” he asked.

Frankie shrugged. “She's all right.”

“She's a baby.”

“Aye.” Frankie threw forty pence on the counter and picked up two of the bottles.

Sean dug into his pocket for exact change and pulled out half a crown. “Frankie, what're y' doin' wastin' y'r time with the likes o' her?”

Frankie made his way through the tables. “I'm not wastin' time, Sean. Jilly's a wee lass who loves animals, that's all.”

“Y' knocked Tommy int' the dirt.”

“Tommy's a wanker. Jilly's nothin' to me.”

Sean released his breath. “I hope so, Frankie. She's not only a baby, she's a Prod. Don't be forgettin' that.”

Frankie handed Jilly her drink and slid into the chair beside her. “I'm not forgettin' a thing, Sean. Don't be worryin' about me. Y' know where my mind is.”

Jilly sipped her drink and spoke up. “Frankie's going to be a veterinarian when he grows up, and I am, too. I'm going to help him.”

Frankie's cheeks reddened. Deliberately, he avoided the astonished stares of his friends. “Now, don't be goin' around sayin' that, Jilly.”

“Why not?”

“Bbb-bbb”—he struggled for the words—“bbb-bbbe—” He gave up, exasperated. Whenever he most needed them, the words failed him. “You don't understand,” he managed at last. “Things can change.”

Jilly understood all too well. Frankie Maguire was ashamed of her. She stared into her drink, stirring the liquid with her straw, wishing she were home.

Frankie saw her lip tremble and hated himself. She was just a wee lass, and he'd hurt her feelings. But he couldn't have the lads thinking there was anything more to his relationship with Jilly than a trip into town. A rumor like that would cause no end of trouble. Sucking down the last of his squash, he stood up. “Come on, Jilly.”

They were nearly home before Frankie remembered the chemist. He was too preoccupied with his own ineptness and her lack of conversation to remember what they'd gone into the village for in the first place. Cursing softly, he pushed back on the pedals to stop the bike. Unprepared for the sudden braking, Jilly tumbled from the handlebars and hit the ground, hard.

Frankie whitened and dropped the bike to kneel beside her in the grass. “Lord, Jilly, I'm sorry. Are y' hurt, lass?”

She shook her head and turned away, hoping he wouldn't see the tears in her eyes. But Frankie wouldn't be dissuaded. Taking her chin in his hand, he gently turned her head. “You are hurt.” His gray eyes filled with remorse. “I'm an idiot. I forgot the chemist, that's why. Can y' walk, Jilly?”

Nodding, she stood and limped over to the bike. Frankie groaned. Jilly's silence was worse than a thousand humiliations. “I'm sorry, lass.”

“It was an accident,” she said woodenly.

“I'm sorry for what I said at the pub.”

She turned and looked at him steadily, a small, wraithlike figure with too-long legs and a curtain of silky, brown-gold hair.

“I was afraid they'd make somethin' out of it that wasn't.”

Her forehead puckered. “What do you mean?”

Frankie sighed. She wasn't making this easy for him. “Y're not old enough t' understand this, Jilly, but sometimes people my age are more than just friendly with girls. I didn't want anyone to think that about us. Y're too young, and even if y' weren't, it isn't possible.” He paused. The puzzled look hadn't left her face. “Do y' understand what I'm sayin', lass?”

She didn't. But Nell would. Nell was smarter and older. “Don't you want to be a veterinarian with me?” she ventured.

His shoulders slumped. She was too innocent for words, and he was disgusted with himself. Jilly was only eleven years old. Of course she wouldn't know what he was hinting at. “Never mind. Let's get y' home and ice that ankle. Maybe if I'm lucky, my da will still have a job in the mornin'.”

Maynooth, 1537

He was staring at her. Nell could feel his gaze from across the banquet hall. She turned to smile at him, tried to look away, and found that she could not. For the space of their exchange, it seemed that the room narrowed and shortened, the torches dimmed, the crowd silenced until it was just the two of them connected by a power source that neither could explain nor control.

She was the first to break eye contact. The mere act sapped her strength. She swayed and leaned against the man beside her.

Garrett Fitzgerald looked down at his niece and slipped his arm around her waist. “Tired, Nell?”

She shook her head. “Lord Grey came all the way from Dublin to speak with Father. I won't be able to sleep unless I know the reason.”

Garrett hesitated. “Go to bed, Nell. We won't know anything until tomorrow.”

From the corner of her eye, she could see Donal O'Flaherty slide out from behind his bench and walk toward the door. Where was he going? “How do you know?” she asked her uncle.

Garrett tugged gently on Nell's thick golden braid. “Your father will want to see all of us if he's called to London, and your mother has already gone to her chambers for the night. A banquet is hardly the place to discuss politics.”

Nell sighed. More than likely, no one would tell her anything until it was over. An unmarried woman's place was below that of her father's
gallowglass,
mercenaries who sold their services to the highest bidder and made up the bulk of the Fitzgerald army. Margaret, her older sister, had entertained notions beyond those of most women, and her reward was banishment from her family and marriage to Ormond, a man twice her age.

Thoughts of Margaret were rarely pleasant. Nell stifled a yawn. Perhaps it was time to seek her couch. The day had been long and the wine potent. Dipping her fingers into the trencher she shared with Garrett, she found the last piece of honeyed pear and slipped it into her mouth.

Garrett grinned and stood to let her pass. Nell's fondness for sweets had not lessened with maturity. Still standing, he watched as she crossed the room without incident and disappeared behind the enormous carved doors. Only then did he sit down to resume his meal. During the last year, Nell had developed the curves of a woman. She was safe enough at Maynooth while her father and uncles were present, but Garrett had seen the eyes of more than a few of the Irish lords linger on her graceful figure as she moved about the castle. He wanted there to be no doubt that Gerald Og's youngest and loveliest daughter had the full protection of her family.

The hall was dimly lit, and the twisting stair passage had no light at all. Nell paused to find a candle and hold it to the flickering torch flame. The pool of oil in the well was black and evil-smelling. She wrinkled her nose. The wick caught. She lifted the edge of her skirt, twisted the hem around her wrist, and moved toward the stairs.

His voice stopped her. “'Tis early yet for retiring.”

Slowly, she turned. Donal O'Flaherty stood near the open door, his lean height framed by the indigo blue of the darkening sky. “You left early, too, my lord.” Her voice was huskier than usual, but he wouldn't know that.

He stepped into the circle of light thrown by the torch. “'Tis flattering to have a beautiful woman notice my absence, but I am an Irish chieftain, lass. I have no English title. You may call me Donal.”

Lord, he was handsome. Nell had been weaned on legends of King Conor and
Emain
Macha.
If anyone fit her image of a true Irish warrior, it was this splendid young man with his striking high-boned face and dark gray eyes. She flushed and lowered her candle. “Good night, sir.”

Instantly, he was at her side, his hand on her arm. “Don't go yet, Eleanor. Come outside with me and see the stars. The moon is nearly gone, and there are no clouds tonight.”

She stared at the lean fingers curving around her wrist and wondered if his flesh burned as hers did. “Call me Nell. There are always stars in Maynooth,” she said quietly. “Are there none in Galway?”

“Galway is on the sea. Except for late summer, there is usually heavy fog.”

Nell looked up, and her breathing altered. He was very close. “It sounds like a gloomy place, your Galway,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “The fog comes at night and before the dawn. Otherwise, 'tis a magical land of blue water and white sand. You will be happy there.”

It was the first time either of them had acknowledged their pending betrothal.

She swallowed and looked away.

“Nell?” The sound of her name on his lips was like a soft caress. “Come outside with me and see the stars.”

When he spoke in that voice, persuasive and low as if he wanted nothing more in all the world, she would have gone with him anywhere. He took her hand and led her outside, across the courtyard and out the gates, to sit on the hilly bank below the castle. The sky was completely dark now, and the stars were a spangle of glittering silver across the inky blackness.

“I had no idea it would look like this,” Donal said in a hushed voice.

Nell's eyes widened. He really had wanted to see the stars. It wasn't just an excuse to be alone with her. “Have you never been here before, my—I mean, sir?”

“I have a name, Nell.”

She drew up her knees and clasped her arms around them. “I know.”

He waited, but she remained silent. “I have been to Dublin, often,” he said at last, “but never by way of Kildare.”

“And what do you think of Dublin?”

His mouth tightened into a thin, angry line. “'Tis an English city ruled by Englishmen. Were I never to see it again, I would not be sorry.”

She waited for a full minute before speaking, and when she did, Donal knew that he had offended her. “Perhaps you think this is an English house as well, sir, and are just as displeased with us?”

He could barely make out her profile, a dark silhouette etched against a darker sky, framed by wings of pale hair. He lifted her hand from the grass and pressed her palm against his lips. He felt her tremble, and it reassured him. “Yours may be an English house, Nell, but nothing about your family offends me. In fact, I am particularly pleased with the company.”

“I know you didn't want to marry me,” she said bluntly.

He frowned. “Who told you that?”

“You did.”

“You are mistaken, lass. I have never seen you before this morning.”

She nodded her head. “We met once before at the Beltane fires. It was there that you spoke of your hatred for the English.”

The puzzled expression on his face deepened. Surely, he would have remembered a beauty like Nell. “I do not recall such a conversation,” he said slowly. “Are you sure it was I?”

Nell laughed. No woman, no matter how young, would forget such a man. “Completely sure.”

Donal let go of her hand, leaned back in the grass, and tucked his arms behind his head. “Tell me more of this Beltane and why the daughter of an Englishman would attend such an event.”

“My mother is an Irish princess, descended from the house of Munster. Beltane calls out to her Irish blood. Three years ago, she decided I was old enough to accompany her.”

“Did you take part in the ritual?” he asked casually, his eyes on the orbs of light above him. Brehon law did not require it, but he preferred that his future wife be a virgin.

“Nearly, until you rescued me.”

Suddenly, it came to him, and he whistled long and low. “By the beard of Christ! It was you, the English lass whose father would have forced me into marriage.”

“Apparently, it was all for nothing. Despite my warning, you are fairly caught, Donal O'Flaherty.”

It was the first time she'd called him by name. It was a good sign. “What of you, Nell? Is this marriage to your liking?”

She looked him full in the face, this man descended from King Conor's warriors of the Red Branch. Could he possibly be serious? No woman in her right mind would refuse him. His hands were open and relaxed, one behind his head, the other resting on the ground at his side. Nell imagined those hands on her skin and shivered. “Yes,” she said simply.

Her answer shook him. She was direct and honest and incredibly lovely. He wanted to touch her, to run his hands over the bones of her face, the bridge of her nose, to open his mouth and trace with his tongue the edges of her lips and the column of her throat. His longing was deep and possessive, more profound than sexual. He wanted to mark her as his own so that all other men would know she was promised to him. “Will you come home with me to Aughnanure?” he asked bluntly.

She looked startled. “We must be wed first.”

Her hair was liquid silver in the starlight. His hands clenched. “When will that be? Soon, I hope.”

Nell smothered a laugh and stood, brushing the grass from her gown. He was not so very different from other men after all. “We have tried to make your visit comfortable, sir. Is your chamber not pleasing?”

He watched the graceful movements of her hands, felt the dark blood of desire fill him, and rose to stand beside her. “My chamber is most pleasing, Nell. I can think of only one thing that it lacks.”

Again he was very close. Her hands lost the will to move. She stared up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “What are you thinking, Donal O'Flaherty?”

“How hard it is not to kiss a Geraldine.”

Nell looked at the hard line of his mouth. Embarrassed, she turned away, cheeks burning. She felt his hand on the nape of her neck and something else, something new. The tides within her body announced that she was a woman. The dance had begun.

“Nell,” he murmured against her hair. “My beautiful, beautiful Nell.”

He smelled of wool and smoke and turf and horse. His voice was pure magic. “Come home with me, Nell. There is a priest there. Come home with me to Aughnanure.”

Firm hands settled on her shoulders and turned her around. His face was divided by light and dark, one side shadowed, the other bled pale by starlight. She could no longer think clearly. He was two of her, or nearly so, with wide shoulders, a deep chest, the narrow hips of a horseman.

Neither moving nor speaking, he waited. The choice was hers. Not for others, perhaps, but for him it would always be.
Come
home
with
me
to
Aughnanure.

Slowly, tentatively, her hand moved across his squared-off jaw, his mouth, the sharp line of his cheek. “Yes,” she said softly, sealing her fate. “I'll come with you to Aughnanure.”

His head bent. She had waited a lifetime for the feel of this man's kiss. His lips were firm and pleasant, tasting of rain and wood smoke. One arm circled her waist and drew her to him, while his hand cupped the back of her head, holding her still, his tongue teasing her mouth until she opened for him.

Heat bubbled within her. She pressed against him, her body molding against his, filling his empty spaces. When she could breathe again, she laughed, a low, musical trill in the velvet night.

Reluctantly, his hands moved from the curves of her breasts to settle on her waist. He breathed as if he had been running. “What is it, lass?”

“You didn't want me, not in the beginning. I know you didn't. But you want me now.”

Donal looked down at her lovely, laughing face. “Aye,” he said softly, “I want you now.”

Gerald Og, ninth earl of Kildare, stood in the small hall at Maynooth and looked at the black-haired boy holding his daughter's hand. He had been right to approach Donal O'Flaherty. The O'Flahertys were fierce fighters. “From the fury of the fighting O'Flahertys, may the Lord deliver us” was the motto inscribed on the gates of Galway City. O'Flaherty chieftains were chosen by rites of ancient Brehon law rather than the English practice of primogeniture. Only the fittest, elected by popular vote, became an O'Flaherty chieftain.

Perhaps it was best, mused Gerald Og, his shrewd gaze taking in the young man's muscular legs, his deep chest, wide shoulders, and the hard, uncompromising gray of his eyes. Surely, this man was a fit mate for Nell. Gerald reached out and placed one hand on Donal's shoulder, the other on Nell's. His eyes twinkled. “Your match pleases me. May it please you as well. I leave for London in the morning. The wedding will take place when I return, in four months' time.”

He saw Donal's brow darken and continued quickly. “Henry grows impatient for my report. Unless he is soothed, Ireland will know the taste of English steel. I go to keep the peace. We will all benefit.” He waited for the boy to object, but other than a brief tightening of the lips, Donal remained silent. Gerald was more than pleased. The lad knew when to keep his own counsel.

Lifting his daughter's chin, he looked into her eyes. “Take care of your mother, lass. She worries when I am away. Send Thomas to me. You must watch him carefully. I'll not have everything I've worked for destroyed because his patience wears too thin.”

Nell smiled. Thomas Fitzgerald was her older brother. His revolutionary tendencies were a source of frustration to his father and uncles, but she adored him. They had spent many happy hours growing up together in the woods and glens of Maynooth. “I'll find him for you, Father.” She looked up at her betrothed. “Will you come with me, Donal? I would like for you and Thomas to meet. You have much in common.”

Gerald coughed and turned away, holding his hands near the hearth fire. If ever two young men were opposites, they were Donal O'Flaherty and his oldest son.

The O'Flaherty was the elder by two years, and never had two years made more of a difference. Thomas was blond like all the Fitzgeralds and slim as a reed. Every fleeting emotion was revealed on his expressive face, and too often the sulky petulance of an indulged childhood was evident in his manners.

There was no trace of childhood in Donal O'Flaherty's lean, chiseled features, and his true feelings were completely hidden behind the schooled indifference of his expression. At the age of sixteen, he had been unanimously elected chief of his clan, and by nineteen, he'd earned a reputation as a shrewd battle strategist and a courageous fighter. Wise beyond his years, he insisted that the O'Flahertys stay as far away from the Pale as possible, refusing to incur England's wrath by engaging in the common practice of plundering English carracks as they crossed the Irish Sea.