What he needed was female companionship, the kind that could be bought without emotional entanglements. Once he had lain in the bed of an accomplished courtesan, no doubt his pathetic tendre for the girl would dissolve. And if it did not, if he would forever regret their brief hours and the fact that there were not more, none but he would ever know.
What Meghan needed was a trustworthy lady, preferably a married lady, to explain to her that she must not in the future concede her charms to every eager man.
As he reached the bottom of the hill he reined in to wait for the others. “Have you a married sister, Robin?”
Robin smiled beatifically as he and John approached. “Thank the saints, I do not! But I have a pair of plaguey girl cousins. Why do you want a sister of mine when you have one of your own?”
“She’s not married,” Revelin replied cryptically. That Katherine was unmarried was not the real problem. She was a young widow who had broken more than her share of hearts. Her advice to Meghan would be practical and not overly judgmental. Kathy would sympathize, send Meghan to confession, and then set out to find a husband for her.
The trouble lay in the fact that Kathy and Alison were fast friends. Kathy was a dear but had a loose tongue. If he took her into his confidence, Alison would learn of his indiscretion. He could not risk that when he meant to bring Meghan to live in his household after his marriage. Meghan was his responsibility, and Alison would unhesitatingly open her heart to the girl unless she had reason not to.
“I have a sister,” John volunteered. “She’s married these
six years, with three children to her credit. If you’ve need of a discreet lady, you’d not do better than Margaret.”
“Discreet lady? Do we speak of indiscretion?” Robin questioned. “I thought Rev was in need of a kind-hearted soul to take our Hibernian lovely in hand.”
“‘’Tis exactly my need,” Revelin answered. “Meghan must be taught how to deal with English society.”
Meghan had been daydreaming until she heard Revelin mention her name. She looked up to find his companions gazing at her.
“She’s gotten rather prettier, don’t you think?” Robin commented.
“I think your cowardice blinded you before,” John answered. “She’s the same marked pigeon, only you’re not so particular now because the squab saved your worthless life.”
“Hm,” Robin murmured as his interested gaze remained on Meghan. “Do you suppose you could teach me to say ‘thank you’ in Gaelic, Rev? I’d like to offer my sincere thanks to her.”
Revelin shook his head. “Speak to her in English. She must begin learning the language.”
“There’s our wayfarer at last,” Robin said as he looked up to see Richard Atholl topping the rise down which they had already ridden. “I must say I’m tired of waiting for him. ’Tis no reason for us to lag about because he will not come within fifty paces of the girl.”
“He’s afraid she’ll fry his giblets and send the rest of him to roast in Hell,” John added with a snicker. “God’s light, he’s a queer bird!”
“One of you should remind him that the lass he holds in contempt saved his wretched life!” Revelin spurred his horse and rode away.
Robin chuckled. “Our Rev has a temper.”
“Go on, I’ll wait for our timid parson,” John suggested. “When I’ve done with him, he’ll keep our pace!”
As Robin moved away, John crossed his arms to wait until Atholl had negotiated the narrow slope. The man’s face was gray with weariness and he seemed thinner than before.
He would break like a brittle twig in my grasp,
John thought. But he had no intention of breaking Atholl, just bending the parsimonious hypocrite to his will.
“Parson, you slow us.”
Sir Richard licked his lips nervously. “I—I feel most unwell. Is London much farther?”
John’s black brows lifted. The man’s wits were failing. “Aye, we’re a far ride from London. You should rest.” He did not wait for the man to agree but swung a leg over and slid from his saddle. Choosing a small keg from the generous provisions provided by the O’Neills, he offered it to his companion. “Have a swig, Atholl. You’ve lost the blood in your cheeks.”
Sir Richard lowered himself painfully from his saddle and reached for the spirits, taking a healthy gulp that burned like fire in his dry throat. “Devil’s brew!” he exclaimed, refusing a second swallow.
John took the keg and helped himself. “Does not the Bible say that men must sometimes fight fire with fire?”
Sir Richard covered his eyes with his hands, shaking his head mournfully. “There’s a curse on me! I’m losing flesh. My garments hang from me as if from the skeleton I shall soon become!”
“I’ve no remedies for curses, but I’ve common sense to aid me,” John grumbled under his breath. He stared at the man, torn between contempt for his weakness and concern that he was on the verge of collapse just when he was about to prove useful. “Sit down before you fall. The others will not roam too far ahead.”
Too weak to argue, Sir Richard found a seat on a nearby boulder.
John took a second swig from the keg, and then corked it. “I’m
glad for the chance to speak with you alone. There are things which I would rather Butler and Neville not hear.” He leaned near Atholl. “We’ve much to gain from our experience. And we owe our luck to the O’Neill lass.”
Sir Richard shuddered. “Plague me not with that witch’s name!”
“Evil may turn a good deed if wielded by an honest hand.” When Sir Richard’s wintry eyes lifted to his face, John knew he had the man’s attention at last. “Do you know who she is? I will tell you. The girl is the daughter of Shane O’Neill. Shake the cobwebs of fear from your mind and think of the implications!”
Sir Richard’s expression was disbelieving. “How could… Nay, you’ve been lied to.”
John thundered an oath and thrust his ruddy face closer. “Would I consider a tale that had no bottom to it? Turlough himself claimed the girl as his cousin’s child. It was the talk of the camp. I heard it from one who spoke a little of the Queen ’s English. ’Tis said Shane put the girl aside as a changeling when she was born—”
“The devil’s spawn!” Sir Richard interjected.
“Damn the devil!” John roared. “The blood tie is what counts. Shane got her on a gentlewoman. The queen recognizes handfast. It will serve as well as marriage for our purpose.”
“Which is…?”
“If the girl is brought under the queen’s protection, the Crown will gain a stake in its claim to Ulster. Think back, man. Did not King Henry the Eighth resort to kidnapping in order to raise sons of Irish noblemen as faithful servants of the English Crown?”
“The charge was never proved,” Sir Richard answered reprovingly. “You’d best guard your tongue.”
John nodded. “I concede the need for discretion, yet it happened. And does not Turlough’s own nephew Hugh O’Neill, the rightful heir to Shane’s earldom, reside even now under
English protection at Penhurst Castle? ’Tis common knowledge that the lad is no more than a forced guest of Sir Henry Sidney. The lord deputy of Ireland must nurture hopes of using the boy, when he is grown, to contest Turlough’s claim to Tyrone. We may succeed with a claim in Ulster much sooner. The girl is old enough to wed. Turlough himself vows for the purity of her bloodline. If she were married to an Englishman, he would thus be entitled to claim her rights to O’Neill lands. That is a prize worth considering.”
Sir Richard stroked his scraggly beard; the dullness had left his eyes. “Do you believe young Butler nourishes such hopes?”
John recoiled. If he did, then Butler was in danger of losing his life, but Atholl must not suspect it. “Upon his return to England, Butler is to be betrothed, with the queen’s consent. Some other man must marry the girl.”
Sir Richard gazed up at John. “One such as you?”
“Why not?” John stood up and began pacing. “I’ve the military experience to raise and maintain an Irish army in the queen’s name. She gives that right to men like Peter Carew who are too old and stupid to accomplish the task. Yet, he was given lands any portion of which would set a man up as finely as a duke. Once assured my claim, I would pacify Ulster within a score of months.”
“Ambitious plans,” Sir Richard murmured.
“Aye, ambitious. Is there a man abroad who does not look covetously upon this green land? There,” he said, pointing to the surrounding country. “Those forests could be cleared to raise corn and wheat. Over there, that rise is a perfect site for a fortress. A small standing army could protect the eye’s distance.”
“All of this for want of a witch.” Sir Richard slowly shook his head. “’Tis a temptation she has visited upon you. This thirst for riches ’tis her thrall upon you.”
John caught the wistful note in the man’s voice and replied, “Is it less dangerous than the lust she inspires in Butler? You
have seen it, the naked longing that looks out from the lad’s eyes whenever he gazes upon her. Her flesh is ripe for mischief.”
John moved closer, his voice coloring with the dark timbre of desire. “Have you not glimpsed a naked thigh when she dismounts? Her skin is like fresh cream. It shimmers lewdly. Does she not at every opportunity press herself, wanton that she is, to Butler? In the saddle, I’ve seen her hands reach—”
“Enough!” Sir Richard rose abruptly, his long face stained by two brilliant spots of color. “Enough of such wicked talk. You tempt yourself and me with the false beauty of that Hell-bound she-serpent.”
John drew a deep breath. It was true. A sheen of sweat had broken out on his brow. He must have her. He must! “There’s a way of drawing her venom, Atholl. Marriage with a true Christian Englishman is the antidote. Butler is too weak a vessel. He is infected by Irish blood. He will succumb to her and she will drag him into everlasting damnation. A true Englishman can defeat her, beat her into submission if necessary. I would strip her of every false pretense, bare her sins and rout them by force.”
“Yes, yes!” Images stirred behind Sir Richard’s closed lids, images that he could not give voice to for fear of his soul. “Smite the devil within her! Flog the evil out of her. Purify her soul with mortification!”
John wiped the sweat from his face, amused by the trembling man before him. So, he had found another of the parson’s weaknesses. The image of Meghan stripped and helpless had its attraction, but he doubted Atholl’s methods would be his own.
“We must be clever, Sir Richard. The girl has so enticed Butler that he’s loath to leave her side. We must lure her away, and you must help me. Distract Butler at the noon meal and I will begin my campaign to win her trust. Perhaps she can be
persuaded to ride with me awhile. I know all the whore’s tricks and will play them against her. ’Tis she who will be snared by her own lust.”
“And that will save young Butler’s soul,” Sir Richard said. “I came to save a lost soul. ’Twas my only desire for this journey.”
“You will accomplish that in aiding me,” John replied.
*
Though it was still spring, the warmth of the sun was felt beneath the rare, blue-vaulted sky. Having shed her mantle while walking, Meghan paused to gaze up at a stately oak. It was a temptation she knew she must resist. Revelin had lectured her at the noonday meal about the differences between being a child and being a lady. One of them had stuck in her mind:
A lady was genteel.
The very word made it sound like a difficult thing to accomplish. Ladies did not climb trees, he had told her as an example.
Meghan lowered her gaze. So many things were changing so quickly that she could not keep them straight in her mind. One thought had preoccupied her more than all the others. She was no longer a nameless bastard, a changeling without parents. She was the daughter of Shane O’Neill. She had had a mother and father and was even a member of the Irish nobility. She was someone important.
Meghan hugged herself. Perhaps now she had a chance of winning Revelin’s love. Revelin liked ladies; he had said so. So, she must try to become one to please him. He had not told her that, but she was not stupid. She must learn to speak English and act as English ladies did.
She must forget the past. That meant never mentioning the vision that had occurred at Lough Neagh. Revelin had said she had dreamed it. That was not true, but if he wanted her to pretend that it had been a dream, she would. She would do anything to please him.
A friendly, wet muzzle nudged her behind the knees, and Meghan squealed in surprise.
Ualter barked and circled around to jump up on her.
“Ach! Get down, ye great beast!” Meghan cried as she staggered under his weight. The dog obeyed instantly, and Meghan shook a finger at him. “Bad dog!”
“He’s rightly named, that brute. Ualter means ‘wolf.’”
Meghan looked up and saw John standing there, his thumbs hooked into his belt.
“Aren’t you afraid he’ll gobble up a tender morsel like yourself?” His dark eyes moved slowly over her until they came to her bare legs. “I’m certainly tempted.”
She did not understand his words, but she did not like the look in his eyes. He was a murderer, though she had not confided that to Revelin because he would not have believed her. As he grinned at her, she shook the wrinkles from her
leine
so that the shapeless garment better covered her.