The Ground She Walks Upon (22 page)

"Stay. Have a drink with me and celebrate."

"No, I'm not feeling well."

He dropped his hold and watched her step away.

"Ravenna?"

She paused.

"You seem almost depressed. What makes you so?"

She didn't answer. She thought he might finally leave her in peace, but instead she found his hand at her waist.

"Sit down and have a drink with me. Come celebrate my victory over darkness and stupidity. The
geis
is done with." He led her back to the wing chair and forced her to sit.

Mutely she watched him as he stepped to a table where several decanters sat upon a silver tray. In one fluid motion, he poured a drink, bent to give it to her, and, almost as if he had forgotten who she was and believed he was having an evening in the library with his mistress, brushed her lips with his as if about to kiss her.

Shocked, she opened wide her eyes. Their faces were only inches apart. A sheepish smile crossed his face, and she saw the ghost of the young man he used to be.

"I forget myself in my delirium." He flashed white, even teeth. "I remember I
vowed that you would be the one to kiss next."

Damning him, damning herself, she licked her lips that ached for the unconsummated kiss. He was about to straighten and something tugged at her heart, almost as if she physically mourned the aborted kiss. She knew she would never understand what drove her to it. It might have been despair, or even exaltation, or merely the urge to reenact her dream. Whatever the reasons, she lifted herself to him, and with all the willfulness in her orphaned soul, crushed her lips to his.

She half-expected him to pull back as if burned. Unsure if her kiss was welcome, she placed a trembling hand on his cheek. To her intense pleasure, he broke from her lips and kissed her hand, hotly pressing his lips and tongue to her sensitive palm. Then, he pulled her hand to her side and buried his face in her neck, his mouth making an unholy trail across her vulnerable throat.

Moaning, she gave him the response he seemed to seek. She threw back her head and silently begged for more. Expertly, he complied. His fingers wound in her hair, releasing it from the ebony pins. Tilting her head back even farther, he kissed her mouth in so desperate a manner he didn't seem to care whether she could keep up with him or not. The jolt from his invading tongue sent her soul heavenward. Deep inside, she almost feared his rough, intimate kiss, but she had to have it. It seemed as necessary as her next breath and soon she grew to like it—too much—betrayed as she was by the melting of her thighs.

"What a spell you weave, witch," he groaned while his hand slid up her waist. She whimpered a futile protest, but he took possession anyway. He cupped her corseted breast, silencing her words with another soul-devouring kiss.

The heat between her mouth and his seemed to outburn the hearth. Her wool dress which had been inadequate in the cold stone passageways of the castle now seemed to itch and burn, fairly shrieking to be cast off. He bent and kissed her breasts beneath her clothing. She nearly sobbed with relief when she felt his hands at her back, inch by torturous inch, releasing the hooks that held her dress together.

"Promise me..." he whispered in deep gasps, "... you will renounce MacCumhal..."

She barely heard him. Her head nestled against his chest and her entire being filled with his scent. Malachi had smelled of perspiration and the lingering muskiness of arousal. There was no such earthiness about Trevallyan. He smelled clean and wealthy like the scent of newly bound leather books and V.S.O.P. And there was another scent as well, one more subtle, but unquestionably more powerful. It whispered of things ancient, dark and mysterious. The smell of soot from a druid fire. The lingering bite in the air of gunpowder after a duel. It was dangerous, seductive, unnatural. And she found she could not get her fill of it.

"No more MacCumhal..." he rasped. His hand slid beneath the parting of her dress and caressed the warm skin of her back. A hook or two popped as he reached for more of her, and insanely she wondered how he was going to be patient enough to extract her from the intricate armor of her clothing.

He undid five more hooks. Her dress began to gape in front as the back parted more and more. With studied slowness, he grasped the neckline and shoved it down to her bust. The fabric pinned her upper arms to her sides and exquisitely forced her to receive his kiss without the ability to push him away.

She was almost grateful to feel the release of her corset hooks, allowing her breath to come easy and fast as his teeth grazed her collarbone and his tongue burned in the valleys of her throat. The corset fell away and her dress fell with it, settling around her waist. She wore only a flimsy chemise, and he wasted no time before he pulled it off one shoulder to expose the half-moon sliver of a pink nipple.

He bent to her. His palm rested on her bare shoulder, then slid slowly downward seeking its treasure. "Promise me..." he whispered.

She moaned, confused, unsure.

His hand slid farther. Her heart pounded in her chest, drumming for his touch. Still, she prayed he would slow down. Anxiety shot through her at the thought of him touching her breast. No one had ever done such an intimate thing before.

He lowered his head and tugged on the chemise. He tugged again revealing more crescent of nipple. "Renounce MacCumhal," he blackmailed. "Tell me of his crimes and renounce him." His mouth opened, and she gasped. Panic ran through her heated, thrumming veins like cold mercury. By instinct, she knew the point of no return had arrived at her doorstep, but she could not renounce Malachi, she would not. Not even by the means of this sweet torture.

"I was with him. Tis the truth and I can't say otherwise," she moaned softly.

He looked at her, his face taut with lust.

She held his head, begging for him and pushing him away at the same time. She didn't want them to quit; in truth, the thought made her want to wail with the injustice of it. If he would only take her swiftly and hard, she wouldn't be forced to think about all that was wrong in what they were doing. With an overwhelming awe, she finally understood why Sadie had let the stable boy have his way with her. There were some people in the world who drew hapless others to their sides. It was inexplicable, but nonetheless real. She wondered if she had just discovered Trevallyan was the light and she, the doomed moth.

"Renounce him. Tell me you had no part in his crimes. Or I'll find him and see him hanged." He held her gaze, violence in his own. He fingered the edge of her chemise and his knuckles dug into the flesh of her breast. She despised the way her chest rose and fell with an unladylike passion. Any second, he looked as if rage would make him tear her clothes off and shame her to the core of her being.

Half-sobbing, she pulled back, clutching at her gown to keep herself covered. "Are you so vengeful you would see a man hanged because I did not do your bidding?"

His breathing was hard and angry. "I would have you erase these pictures in my mind—these pictures of MacCumhal taking you on a hilltop—"

"No! 'Twas not like that!" She pushed him away, holding her unhooked bodice to her chest.

"Then what was it like?" He began to stalk her, unfettered rage and jealousy twisting his features. "Did he take you in a barn, did he whisper pretty things to you in the hay? Or did he steal into an alley and lean you against the wall and..." His voice began to falter.

"Why must you make me sound so unclean?" She wiped tears from her cheeks. "I'm not a whore, yet you want to force me to admit I'm one."

"I've tried to protect you. I warned you about Chesham. I've tried to make you worldly and educated... still you take up with the likes of MacCumhal." He ran an angry hand through his silver-blond hair. "... and I find you running nearly naked through the rain after a rendezvous with him..."

"We were children—"

"No longer, no longer," he cursed as if damning his own misery even more than hers.

She covered her face with her hands. "I abhor what you've made me. I see that I'm nothing but an underling to you, a pauper who's been placed in your path at every turn." She looked down at her unfastened bodice and began to weep. "One who you've finally found some use for...."

Coldly, he stared at her, at her mussed hair, her raw, kiss-roughened lips, her loose gown. He seemed to enjoy every punishing word, as if it cemented his own wavering convictions. "You might be right."

She shook her head, hurt as never before. Through her misery she heard him whisper, "Just take the pictures from my mind, Ravenna. I see you with MacCumhal and I despise it."

Sobbing, she pulled her gown into some semblance of modesty. Then without a look back, she fled the library, and ran until her side ached, until her breath grew tight and painful in her lungs. After a few moments, the door in the keep loomed before her. It was the same one she had used to flee Trevallyan so long ago. But she was now no longer a child who could run from her troubles. Her heartache would go with her, and she knew it. Still, she opened the door and with a gasp of freedom, she ran into the night, and toward home.

When Ravenna
arrived back at the cottage, she found Grania by the fire, warming her stiff old bones. She entered the keeping room quietly, glad that Grania couldn't see her disheveled appearance, nor the hurt in her eyes.

"Ye've come back!" Grania exclaimed, her hand shaking with excitement and age as she reached out for her granddaughter. "I've longed for ye, child. Tis been lonely here..."

Ravenna dropped to the floor and placed her head in Grania's lap. "I'll never leave again, I promise." She did a poor job of hiding the tears in her voice, for she could see Grania's expression turned mournful.

"Malachi sent ye a message, child. He wants to see ye. His friends at the market will take ye to him."

Shaken by this news, Ravenna grew silent. Finally she whispered, "Is he the one for me, Grania? Malachi's in bad trouble. He's hiding—I fear he's done something terrible. Tell me, I must know." She clutched at Grania's skirts waiting for the answer.

"The man for ye is the man ye love."

"I love Malachi. I would do anything for him, as I know he would do for me. But still..."

"Ye are not in love with him."

"I don't know." She lifted her emotion-ravaged face. "Lord Trevallyan told me about his
geis.
You knew it all along, didn't you?"

"Yes, child."

"Am I the girl?"

Grania did not answer.

"I don't believe in superstition. They call you a witch, Grania—they always have—and I laugh because I know you are no witch, that there are no witches. I just want to know, whether the
geis
is fulfilled or not, do you think I'm destined to love Trevallyan?"

Grania laid a gnarled, beloved hand on Ravenna's face. "Child, I cannot tell ye sooch things. I have me visions and many times they come true, but I cannot will them to come to me when I need them. If ye are destined to fall in love with Trevallyan, then ye will do it."

"And can nothing change the path of destiny?" she almost sobbed.

"The will can change destiny. If you do not want to love Lord Trevallyan, then you will not."

Reverend Drummond looked out at the church's summer fields of potatoes. Lir was beautiful at this time of day. The land was cast purple and green beneath the haze of a Celtic twilight. Atop the hill of the rectory, Drummond listened for the roar of the sea in the distance.

Millie Sproule, a maiden cousin who had taken Mrs. Dwyer's position when the old woman had died, had dragged his favorite armchair out onto the rectory lawn. There sat his ancient figure, taking his tea, enjoying every moment. He was a man in the sunset of his life, watching the day disappear beneath the Sorra Hills.

In pastoral harmony, the form of Michael O'Shea appeared in the distance, hoeing and tending to his plants with all the care of his father. His four brothers had long since departed for America, but now six of Michael's sons worked the fields, as Michael had done before them.

Reverend Drummond had found peace. The emerald splendor of the landscape was balm for his Ulster soul. Nothing was more satisfying to a loyal subject of the Crown than to see his land tilled and fruitful. Donations would be good this year from the looks of the abundant landscape.

"Wha's he doin'?" Millie Sproule whined, still not adjusted to the quirks of the people though she had been in Ireland more than five years now.

"What's who doing?" asked Reverend Drummond, cursing his age. His eyesight wasn't worth a damn these days, and every time Millie had to raise her annoying voice in order to explain something to him, he felt as feeble as Griffin O'Rooney.

"Why, Mr. O'Shea. 'E's on his knees, diggin' up all his potatoes. I daresay they haven't gotten big enough for him to start harvestin'. Why... Go on! Look at him! He's running around like a madman, diggin' up them potatoes!"

Those potatoes,
Drummond thought, fighting the urge to correct her. Millie Sproule, to his familial shame, spoke like a tavern wench.

"He's shoutin'! Go on with you, look! They're all a-runnin'! Even McKinnon is dropping his hoe and comin' 'round the
ogham
stone."

"I can't imagine!" Though his eyesight wasn't what it once was, Drummond could make out the blurry figures of men running toward O'Shea. They were in a panic. "Get me out of this chair. I've got to find out what's happening." The reverend held on to Millie Sproule's arm. He rose from the chair and forced her to lead him down the rectory lawn to the tilled fields below.

Slowly they made their way through a furrow of potatoes. Men were running to Michael O'Shea. When the reverend and Millie reached his side, they found Michael on his knees, his head bent low in defeat.

" 'Tis the blight, it is," someone in the crowd whispered in despair.

Reverend Drummond broke through the crowd to see the plants. They were dusted with a downy mildew. The tubers in Michael O'Shea's hand that should have been the size of rocks were instead the size of acorns.

"Famine is come to Lir," another man announced, his voice full of doom.

There was a long, oppressive silence, and then Michael began to weep.

"My good man," Reverend Drummond put a hand on Michael's shoulder. " 'Tis only a bit of blight. All is not lost."

"Famine is everywhere in Ireland, why not in Lir, too? We're just as downtrodden by the English as in Derry," an angry man spat at the reverend.

"See here now," Drummond defended himself. "The famine is not England's doing. And it is most certainly not
my
doing. The crops are not all doomed. Harvest what you can, Michael. I'll see that your family's fed."

"Blight can't come to Lir. It can't," McKinnon keened as loud as if he were at a wake.

"We've been lucky here in Lir," Drummond said. "The famine has not touched us. If we see a bit of what the others see, we should count our blessings it's not worse."

"It's not over yet, Reverend." The angry man looked at Drummond.

Drummond didn't recognize him but thought he was one who ran with Malachi MacCumhal. "Sir," he said coldly, "if blight has come to Eden, 'tis best to go to the serpent with your complaints."

"You are the serpent, Reverend."

"Nay. I am not." Drummond leaned on Millie Sproule's arm. He turned to go, but before he did, he said, "We were born of Eden. But no more. You men take to the serpent if you must, but I shall denounce it."

"What's he saying?" one man mumbled in Gaelic.

"He's a crazy old Anglican. Leave him be," McKinnon answered in the same language.

Meanwhile, Drummond took the exhausting walk back to the rectory, his every thought consumed by the Trevallyan
geis
and the babe, Ravenna, Niall had held in his hands so many years before.

"My Lord Trevallyan, you know why we're here." Drummond sat stiffly in the Trevallyan library, flanked by the aged, bent forms of Father Nolan and Griffen O'Rooney.

"The blight has come to Lir. Famine awaits at our doorstep. Have you made any progress with Ravenna?" Father Nolan's hand trembled on his cane as if it were a sign he feared the answer.

Trevallyan agitatedly ran a hand through his hair. "Enough of this. I beg of you. Are you to blame this entire famine on one girl?"

"Not on the girl! Never on the girl! 'Tis our fault. We never should have let you marry," Griffen O'Rooney chimed in. He sat a bit away from the group. His clothes were dirty and tattered, and his nails were bloodied where he had dug in the graveyard, attempting to plant flowers where no flowers would grow.

Trevallyan watched him with unease. It was clear he thought the old man mad and didn't want him in his library.

"He's right," Drummond broke in. "Ravenna's not to blame. You are the one who must win her love."

"She knows about the
geis.
I told her. She doesn't believe it and neither do I
."
Niall poured himself three fingers of whiskey. He meant to sip it, but the next time he looked down, the glass in his hand was empty.

"Can you not win her love, me boy?" Father Nolan asked softly. "With all your money, have you not the means—"

"My money be damned, 'tis not enough." Trevallyan laughed, bitterly. "The task is impossible. I'm twice the lass's age, not a boy to be begging for favors. She's taken up with MacCumhal, and there's naught to be done about it."

"But have you really tried with her?"

Trevallyan looked at Drummond with ice in his eyes. If the minister had known him better he might have thought the ice was hiding hurt. "I have approached her. That is all I will say. I've done my part. She doesn't want me. Let us go on without this
geis."

"But the blight—" Drummond interjected.

"The blight has nothing to do with this." Niall refilled his glass, his jaw set in anger. "Besides, no one in Lir shall starve. We'll destroy the potato crops and use the land for cattle if we have to, until spring, when we can replant corn. You know I'll use all the Trevallyan lands and money to protect the well-being of this county."

"But who will protect you, my lord?" Father Nolan asked.

"Why do I need protection?"

"Your money is not limitless. You will lose thousands of pounds on your crops alone if the blight continues. Too, there are rumblings of rebellion. Some in this county would see you dead."

Trevallyan met the father's gaze with a steady one of his own. "If you're speaking of MacCumhal and his ilk, then let it be said right now that I am not afraid. If they're thinking of lynching Ascendency in Lir, let them think again. I will not be lynched. I am as Irish as they, and I've the God-given birthright of this land."

"Centuries ago when the Trevallyans took this land, their payment was the
geis.
You have not fulfilled yours, Niall," the priest said softly.

"She does not love me." Fury stained Trevallyan's cheeks. He looked at the priest with eyes that gave away no emotion. "What else is there to say? She's given her heart to another."

"But I hold the heart—I hold the heart—" Griffen began to rant in the corner.

Disgusted, Trevallyan rang for Greeves.

When the butler arrived Trevallyan pointed to Griffen and said, "Take him to the kitchen and see that he is bathed and fed. I do not want to see him in the graveyard anymore tonight. Lock him in one of the servants' bedrooms if you must, but see that he is taken care of."

Greeves nodded and motioned for Griffen to follow him. Griffen did, but before he left, he turned to Trevallyan and said, "I hold the heart. If you need it, 'twill be yours." Mournfully, he followed the butler out of the room.

"Christ," Trevallyan muttered, disgust and despair etched on his face.

"I must be leaving too," Drummond announced. "Millie is waiting in the carriage and it's grown cold this evening." Wearily, he reached for Trevallyan's hand. Trevallyan helped the old man up. "My boy, 'tis doom I fear I see. I do not want to trust superstitions, but so much has happened... I cannot help but believe them sometimes." With a sigh, he picked up his shawl and slowly crept from the room.

Trevallyan was alone with the priest. A silence passed between the two men like the silence of father and rebellious son.

"There will never be another meeting of the council. Peter Maguire, rest his soul, should have been here tonight," Father Nolan commented softly.

"What you've held on to all these years is gone. I'm sorry, but 'the truth will out.' " Trevallyan leaned his head on the mantel. He looked tired, as if he'd been fighting a war he could not win.

"Have you fallen in love with her yet?"

The question seemed to startle Trevallyan. His head shot up, and he stared at the priest. "Why do you ask me such an inconsequential thing?"

"Inconsequential? No. It is anything but that."

"Why do you ask?"

"Your anger makes me think it, that's why. If you didn't care for the girl, these questions, this
geis,
would leave you dispassionate. You're far from that, my son."

Niall turned away, as if he didn't want the priest to read the expression on his face.

"What say you, my lord? Do you think of her often? Does the thought of Malachi MacCumhal kissing her make you feel murderous? Does she appear in your dreams when you long to forget her?"

Trevallyan would not turn to face him.

That was all the answer Father Nolan needed.

The old priest leaned shakily on his cane and made to depart, but before he did, Trevallyan asked in voice hushed and solemn. "If it's true, if I do find myself falling in love with the girl, what do you make of it?"

"It fills me with pity, my lord, and it makes me believe in
geise."
The priest stared at him. Slowly, he said, "They may take away the Trevallyan riches and the Trevallyan lands, but there is no greater curse than to love someone you cannot have. We Celts are a strange people, as you know from your own flesh and blood, Niall. If we wanted to curse the Trevallyans, we could have found no better way." He nodded to the morose figure standing at the mantel. "God bless you and keep you, my lord."