Scarlett (116 page)

Scarlett’s laughter was in her eyes only. “You’re not mistaken about that,” she said.

Colum climbed up onto the bar in Kennedy’s. “Now stop your yawping, all of you. What more could the poor woman do, I ask you? Did she forgive your rents or did she not? And did she not give you food for the winter? And more grain and meal in the storehouse waiting for when you run out of what you’ve got. It’s ashamed I am to see grown men pulling their mouths into a baby’s pout and inventing grievances as excuse for having another pint. Drink yourselves into the floor if you want to—it’s a man’s right to poison his stomach and addle his head—but don’t be blaming your weakness on The O’Hara.”

“She’s gone over to the landlords”… “prancing off to the lords and ladies all summer”… “hardly a day goes by she’s not tearing down the road racing the black devil lord of Adamstown”… The bar was aroar with angry shouts.

Colum shouted them all down. “What kind of men are they that gossip like a bunch of women about another woman’s clothes and parties and romances? You make me sick, the lot of you.” He spit on the top of the bar. “Who wants to lick that up? You’re not men, it should suit you fine.”

The sudden silence could have produced any kind of reaction. Colum spread his feet apart and held his hands loosely in front of him ready to form fists.

“Ach, Colum, it’s that restless we are with no reason to do a little burning and shooting like the lads we hear about in other towns,” said the oldest of the farmers. “Get down from there and get out your
bodhran
and I’ll be the whistle and Kennedy the fiddle with you. Let’s sing some songs about the rising and get drunk together like good Fenian men.”

Colum literally jumped at the chance to calm things down. He was already singing when his boots hit the floor.

There beside the singing river, that dark mass of men were seen

 

Far above the shining weapons hung their own beloved green.

 

“Death to every foe and traitor! Forward! strike the marching tune

 

And hurrah my boys, for freedom, ’tis the risin’ of the moon!”

 

It was true that Scarlett and Luke raced their horses on the roads around Ballyhara and Adamstown. Also over fences, ditches, hedges, and the Boyne. Almost every morning for a week he forded the cold river and strode into the morning room with a demand for coffee and challenge to a race. Scarlett was always waiting for him with seeming composure, but in fact Fenton kept her constantly on edge. His mind was quick, his conversation unpredictable, and she could not relax her attention or her defenses for a minute. Luke made her laugh, made her angry, made her feel alive to the ends of her fingertips and toes.

The all-out racing across the countryside released some of the tension she felt when he was around. The battle between them was clearer, their common ruthlessness undisguised. But the excitement she always felt when she forced her courage to its reckless limits was threatening as well as thrilling. Scarlett sensed something powerful and unknown, hidden deep within her, that was in danger of breaking free of her control.

*   *   *

Mrs. Fitz warned her that the townspeople were disturbed by her behavior. “The O’Hara is losing their respect,” she said sternly. “Your social life with the Anglos is different, it’s distant. This racketing around with the Earl of Fenton rubs their noses in your preference for the enemy.”

“I don’t care if their damn noses are rubbed bloody. My life is my own business.”

Scarlett’s vehemence startled Mrs. Fitzpatrick. “Is it like that, then?” she said, and her tone wasn’t stern at all. “Are you in love with him?”

“No, I’m not. And I’m not going to be. So leave me alone, and tell all of them to leave me alone, too.”

Rosaleen Fitzpatrick kept her thoughts to herself after that. But her instincts as a woman saw trouble in the feverish brightness of Scarlett’s eyes.

Am I in love with Luke? Mrs. Fitzpatrick’s question forced Scarlett to question herself. No, she answered at once.

Then why am I out of sorts all day on the mornings he doesn’t show up?

She could find no convincing answer.

She thought about what she’d learned from the letters of friends responding to her mention of him. The Earl of Fenton was notorious, they all said. He possessed one of the greatest fortunes in Britain, owned properties in England and Scotland as well as his estate in Ireland. He was an intimate of the Prince of Wales, maintained a huge town house in London where rumored bacchanals alternated with famously elaborate entertainments to which all Society schemed for invitations. He had been the favored target of matchmaking parents for over twenty years, ever since he had inherited his title and wealth at the age of eighteen, but he had escaped capture by anyone, even several noted beauties with fortunes of their own. There were whispered stories about broken hearts, shattered reputations, even suicides. And more than one husband had met him on the duelling field. He was immoral, cruel, dangerous, some said evil. Therefore, of course, the most mysterious and fascinating man in the world.

Scarlett imagined the sensation it would cause if an Irish-American widow in her thirties succeeded where all the titled English beauties had failed, and her lips curved in a small, secret smile that faded at once.

Fenton showed none of the signs of a man desperately in love. He intended to possess her, not marry her.

Her eyes narrowed. I’m not about to let him add my name to the long list of his conquests.

But she couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him.

F
enton whipped his horse into a burst of speed and passed Scarlett, laughing aloud. She bent forward, crying aloud to Half Moon to go faster. Almost immediately she had to pull back on the reins. The road curved between high stone walls, and Luke had stopped up ahead, with his horse turned to block the way.

“What are you playing at?” she demanded. “I could have crashed right into you.”

“Exactly what I had in mind,” said Fenton. Before Scarlett understood what was happening, he had caught hold of Half Moon’s mane and drawn the two horses close. His other hand closed over the back of Scarlett’s neck and held her head immobile while his mouth fastened over hers. His kiss was bruising, commanding her lips to open, drawing her tongue between his teeth. His hand forced her to succumb. Scarlett’s heart pounded with surprise, fear, and—as the kiss lasted on and on—a thrill of surrender to his strength. When he released her she was shaken and weak.

“Now you’ll stop refusing my invitations to dinner,” said Luke. His dark eyes glittered with satisfaction.

Scarlett gathered her wits. “You presume too much,” she said, hating her breathlessness.

“Do I? I doubt it.” Luke’s arm curved along her back and held her against his chest while he kissed her again. His hand found her breast and squeezed it to the border of pain. Scarlett felt a surging response, a longing for his hands on all her body, and his brutal lips against her skin.

The nervous horses moved, breaking the embrace, and Scarlett was nearly unseated. She fought for balance on the saddle and in her thoughts. She mustn’t do this, she mustn’t give herself to him, give in to him. If she did, he’d lose interest as soon as he conquered her, she knew it.

And she didn’t want to lose him. She wanted him. This was no lovesick boy like Charles Ragland, this was a man. She could even fall in love with a man like this.

Scarlett stroked Half Moon, calming him, thanking him in her heart for saving her from folly. When she turned to face Fenton, her swollen lips were stretched in a smile.

“Why don’t you put on an animal’s pelt and drag me to your house by my hair?” she said. There was precisely the right blend of humor and contempt in her voice. “Then you wouldn’t frighten the horses.” She urged Half Moon into a walk, then a trot, heading back the way they had come.

She turned her head and spoke over her shoulder. “I won’t come to dinner, Luke, but you may follow me to Ballyhara for coffee. If you want more than that, I can offer you early luncheon or late breakfast.”

Scarlett murmured softly to Half Moon, urging hurry. She couldn’t read the meaning of the scowl on Fenton’s face, and she felt something very like fear.

She had already dismounted when Luke rode into the stable-yard. He swung a leg over and slid down from his horse, throwing the reins to a groom.

Scarlett pretended not to notice that Luke had commandeered the only groom in sight. She led Half Moon inside the stable herself to find another boy.

When her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she stopped in her tracks, afraid to move. Cat was in the stall directly in front of her, standing barefoot and bare-legged atop Comet, with her small arms outstretched for balance. She had on a heavy Aran jersey, borrowed from one of the stableboys. It bunched over her tucked-up skirts, and the sleeves hung past the ends of her fingers. As usual her black hair had escaped its braids and was a mass of tangles. She looked like an urchin, or a gypsy child.

“What are you doing, Cat?” said Scarlett quietly. She knew the big horse’s edgy disposition. A loud noise could spook him.

“I’m starting to practice circus,” said Cat. “Like the picture in my book of the lady on the horse. When I go in the ring I’ll need a parasol please.”

Scarlett kept her voice even. This was more frightening even than Bonnie. Comet could shy Cat off, then crush her. “It would be more fair if you waited to start next summer. Your feet must feel very cold on Comet’s back.”

“Oh.” Cat slid onto the floor at once, next to the metal-shod hooves. “I didn’t think of that.” Her voice came from deep in the gated stall. Scarlett held her breath. Then Cat climbed over the gate with her boots and wool stockings in her hand. “I knew the boots would hurt.”

Scarlett willed herself not to grab her child in her arms and hold her safe. Cat would resent her relief. She looked to her right for a groom to take Half Moon. She saw Luke, standing quietly and staring at Cat.

“This is my daughter, Katie Colum O’Hara,” she said. And make of it what you will, Fenton, she thought.

Cat looked up from her concentration on tying her boot laces. She studied Fenton’s face before she spoke. “My name is Cat,” she said. “What is your name?”

“Luke,” said the Earl of Fenton.

“Good morning, Luke. Would you like the yellow of my egg? I’m going to eat my breakfast now.”

“I would like that very much,” he said.

They made a strange procession; Cat led the way to the house, with Fenton walking beside her, adjusting his long stride to her short legs. “I had my breakfast before,” Cat told him, “but I’m hungry again, so I will have breakfast again.”

“That strikes me as eminently sensible,” he said. There was no mockery in his thoughtful tone of voice.

Scarlett followed the two of them. She was still unsettled by the fright Cat had given her, and she had not yet quite recovered from the moments of passionate emotion when Luke kissed her. She felt dazed and confused. Fenton was the last man on earth she would have expected to love children, and yet he seemed to be fascinated by Cat. He was treating her exactly right, too, taking her seriously, not condescending to her because she was so small. Cat had no patience with people who tried to baby her. Somehow Luke seemed to sense that and respect it.

Scarlett felt tears fill her eyes. Oh, yes, she could love this man. What a father he could be to her beloved child. She blinked rapidly. This was not the time for sentimentality. For Cat’s sake as well as for her own, she had to be strong and clear headed.

She looked at Fenton’s sleek dark head, inclined toward Cat. He looked very tall and broad and powerful. Invincible.

She shivered inwardly, then rejected her cowardice. She would win. She had to, now. She wanted him for herself and for Cat.

Scarlett nearly laughed at the scene Luke and Cat presented. Cat was totally absorbed in the delicate business of cutting off the top of her boiled egg without shattering it; Fenton was watching Cat with equal concentration.

Suddenly, without warning, desperate grief drove Scarlett’s amusement away. Those dark eyes watching Cat should be Rhett’s, not Luke’s! Rhett should be the one fascinated by his daughter, Rhett the one to share her breakfast egg, Rhett the one to walk beside her, matching his pace to her small steps.

Painful longing carved a hollow in Scarlett’s breast where her heart should be, and anguish—so long held at bay—flooded in to fill it. She ached for Rhett’s presence, for his voice, for his love.

If only I’d told him about Cat before it was too late… If only I’d stayed in Charleston… If only…

Cat tugged at Scarlett’s sleeve. “Are you going to eat your egg, Momma? I’ll open it for you.”

“Thank you, darling,” said Scarlett to her child. Don’t be a fool, she said to herself. She smiled at Cat, and at the Earl of Fenton. What was past was past, and she had to think about the future. “I have a suspicion you’re going to have another yolk to eat, Luke,” Scarlett laughed.