The Irish Duchess (24 page)

He frowned at the weariness he saw in their faces as the wagon rolled through the army camped on the castle grounds. The normally stoic duke had a crease across his brow that indicated pain. And Fiona, the buoyant grasshopper, was huddled inside her shawl like an old woman. For a moment, he wished he’d brought Blanche with him. She could get to the heart of the matter quickly enough.

But Blanche had no business in this hotbed of rebellion. And she wouldn’t approve of what he intended to do next. She had this irritating habit of believing the end didn’t always justify the means. He, on the other hand, did whatever was necessary to accomplish whatever needed doing. And from the looks of the pair in the wagon, someone had better take them in hand.

Whistling, Michael strolled down the massive front stairs toward the foyer. Unlike his adopted brother, the marquess, he had more faith in action than in the written word. That being the case, he’d best get busy arranging all the actors in their various places.

Twenty-three

Fiona focused on the castle ahead rather than the soldiers scuffling, cooking, and lounging about her home’s muddy courtyard. Apprehension rose at the whistles and catcalls following the wagon as it rolled past the encampment.

Even the children grew silent. The toddler in Fiona’s lap squirmed and stuck her thumb in her mouth. They had good reason to fear soldiers.

Neville appeared unconcerned by the troops. Of course, as an Englishman, he thought of soldiers as brave lads who fought Napoleon. England had no standing army camped on every corner. Ireland did, and had known the misery of armed warfare for centuries.

Biting her lip, Fiona prayed the villagers looked on these men as protectors, but she knew that many of the village folk belonged to the secret society threatening the earl’s holdings. If she looked beyond these soldiers going about their daily tasks, she’d see their guns and swords—weapons they would use against farmers armed only with pitchforks and spades. Violence hung only a child’s cry away.

Shivering, she hugged the babe in her arms. Neville threw her a look of concern and tried to draw her closer against his warmth, but she resisted. Lifting her chin, she concentrated on the castle and home.

She almost cried in relief as Michael, the Earl of Aberdare, strolled through the open castle doors, followed by her Uncle William and Eamon.

There was nothing the least lordly about this earl, Fiona noted with a smile. His thick auburn locks were almost as tousled as her own, his smile of welcome almost as large. He wore a shabby green tweed coat and mud-splattered boots, indicating he’d been examining the drainage project before their arrival. As soon as Neville halted the wagon, Michael grabbed the toddler from Fiona, tickled her under the chin until she giggled, then handed her to Sean, who had already vaulted from the wagon bed.

“And it’s a healthy, well-scrubbed lot ye seem to be,” Michael declared, rubbing Sean’s dark head. “I trust you were after enjoyin’ your little sojourn in the city.”

“Cut the blarney, my lord.” Fiona scowled at her cousin, who grinned and stood with hands behind his back as Eamon helped her from the wagon. “Had I my way, we’d be in Dublin by now.”

“And it’s a good thing you didn’t have your way, isn’t it now?” Eamon said, lowering her none too gently to the ground.

William steadied the horses as Neville climbed down. The duke assisted Mrs. Callaghan from the wagon bed, then circled the wagon to remove Fiona from Eamon’s company. Fiona scowled at the maneuver, but she had more important things on her mind than the juvenile competition between two grown men. “Have you talked to McGonigle yet?” she demanded.

Michael threw Neville an understanding look. “Nothing subtle about the lass, is there? And how do you find yourself, Your Grace? Underwhelmed by our Fiona’s civility?”

Neville tapped her cheek and smiled as if all the world was his oyster. “Grasshopper,” was his only response.

Michael greeted the reply with laughter, Eamon with a scowl.

“Well, I’m glad you found her. Now we’ll arrange for a jar to keep her in.” Turning his attention to the children milling about the yard, Michael collared two and led them away. “Come along, brats. There’s food in the kitchen.”

That caught their attention. Fiona watched as the children scampered after the earl, not in the least awed by their host’s title or castle.

She returned her gaze to Eamon. “Why the divil did ye let him bring the troops?”

Neville squeezed the back of her neck in warning, but she would have none of his caution. She tossed him a glance of irritation, but he didn’t back off.

“
I
ordered them out here,” Eamon replied coldly. “What else was I to do when no one knew where you or the duke were to be found, and with McGonigle and his lads threatening to burn the place to perdition? Your uncle was half out of his mind with fear. You shouldn’t have done that to him, Fiona.”

“It’s not myself you should be worrying about. It’s the village and the—” She glanced at Neville as his grip tightened on her nape. “And you have a better idea, my lord duke?”

“Inside,” he said pleasantly, lowering his hand to her back and steering her toward the door.

Hemmed in with Neville on one side, Eamon on the other, William bringing up the rear, and Michael ahead, Fiona knew how a hunted fox felt. She had bolt holes, if she could reach them. She just wasn’t certain if bolting was the answer this time.

She pushed her worries aside while they dined on steaming bowls of lamb stew and shepherd’s pie. For the first time in a week, Fiona felt full—and sleepy.

She couldn’t give in to the exhaustion. Too many people, too many things, needed her attention. She tried to persuade Michael to send for McGonigle but he threw her a roll and continued discussing pasturage with Eamon.

Neville added his cryptic comments upon occasion, but no one found it strange that he concentrated on Fiona. At her frown of worry, Neville tapped her hand reassuringly.

Fiona drew her hand away. “I don’t need coddling.”

“Not coddling.” He refilled her wine glass since the castle didn’t have sufficient servants to do it. “Don’t worry.”

“Oh, and I should eat, drink, and be merry while the army sits on our doorstep and McGonigle wanders the night with his torches,” she scoffed.

“Earl’s problem, not yours,” Neville said firmly. “Your problem...” He sought the phrasing, gave up, and pointed at himself. “Me.”

“And am I not after knowing that?” she muttered. “One big, huge problem after another.”

He grinned, held his hand flat to his head, then drew it across hers, indicating the difference in their heights. “Not big.” He pointed at Eamon, who towered above them all. “Big.”

Fiona couldn’t help laughing at his antics. She’d never seen the reserved duke quite so outgoing. The blow to his head may have addled his speech, but it had certainly made him more personable. She dreaded the moment he regained all his faculties and remembered how she’d run off on the eve of their wedding.

But she couldn’t wish him to stay addled forever either. As hard as she tried to distract others from the duke’s lack of speech, sooner or later, one of his enemies would discover his disability. She didn’t know what would happen then.

The inhabitants of Aberdare Castle had never stood on the formality of ladies withdrawing while the gentlemen enjoyed their brandy and cigars after a meal. Truth be told, the lengthy dining hall was too drafty for lingering. Tired of having her more pressing matters ignored while the men discussed farming, Fiona headed for the library with its roaring fire.

“Shouldn’t you be lookin’ after the children?” Eamon demanded as the other men rose, glasses in hand, and followed her.

Fiona didn’t turn around as they joined her by the hearth. “And you could do as well as I can, Eamon O’Connor, if you’re that worried about them. I’ve a thing or two to say and I’ll not be leavin’ until I do.”

She heard Michael’s chuckle and her uncle’s sigh, but no sound from Neville. Perhaps seeing her here, where she was more herself than in London luxury, he was having second thoughts about his nonsensical marriage demands. She had seen enough in London to know ladies did not behave as she did, and she had no intention of changing.

“Out with it, Fiona, my own,” Michael said as he leaned against the mantel where an assortment of his juggling tools rested. “You’ll burst at the seams if you don’t have your say, but it’s up to bed with you after. You look weary enough to fall asleep on your feet.”

William took his favorite chair beside the fire and lit his pipe. Eamon pulled a chair into the shadows across from him, stretching his long legs so his feet rested on the hearth. They looked as if they’d settled in for a long winter’s night.

Neville’s hand rested on the high back of her chair, for all the world like a king with his queen, despite the lowly homespun garments she’d bought for him in Sligo. With his other hand, he swirled brandy in his glass, but he’d not drunk much of it. For a change, his attention seemed elsewhere than herself.

“We need to talk with McGonigle,” she said.

“And so we will.” Michael idly spun one of the brass balls on the mantel. “But he’s not so foolish as to walk into an armed camp. I’ll see him myself in a bit.”

She hadn’t thought it would be that easy. She proceeded hastily to her next demand. “You have to take me with you. I know the man. He’s arrogant, narrow-minded, and bull-headed, but he’s acted the part of leader here for years when there was none such. He means well, even if he is wrong-headed.”

“Aye, and I’ve ascertained that much for myself, Fiona,” Michael said kindly. “Why don’t you go up and get some sleep and leave me to my problems? You’ve taken on enough of your own without adding mine to them.”

Neville watched Fiona’s shoulders slump, could almost feel her nervous energy evaporate, replaced by a peculiar vulnerability. These last days he’d seen her as a strong, competent woman, one who took responsibility for all within the circle of her command. And she was very good at it. But it appeared Michael’s words had deprived her of something she needed. Neville puzzled over that as the argument continued.

“I’d be there, if you don’t mind, Michael,” Fiona said quietly. “I’ve things to ask of him.”

“Ye’ve no business dealin’ with the likes of that, Fiona MacDermot, and well you know it. You’d do well to study the role of duchess from now on.” Eamon gave Neville a piercing glance. “Speak to her of her place, your honor.”

Neville grimaced at this nagging thorn in his side and pressed Fiona back in her seat before she decided to slice him as well as the thorn. “Her place... beside me,” he replied with as much studied concentration as he could summon with Fiona squirming beneath his fingers. To his relief, she stilled at his words. Frigid with fear, was more like it.

Neville sensed Michael’s unnerving intelligence focused on him. If he had to face the earl alone, he would be stripped of the cover Fiona had provided him these last few days, and he knew he wasn’t prepared for that. He didn’t want it generally known that the Duke of Anglesey had lost part of his mind. And he didn’t want Michael rescinding his permission for Fiona to marry now that he was a semi-idiot.

“I’ll have a word with you about that,” Michael said dryly. “But not now. The both of you look weary unto death. Fiona, if not for your own sake, then for the duke’s, go to bed.”

“Not until I’ve had my say,” she said firmly.

Neville didn’t want to let her go without him, but the proprieties stood in his way. The earl would have his head should he try to follow Fiona to her room.

To hell with the earl. Gripping Fiona’s shoulders tightly, Neville spoke before the earl could. “The children,” he said with as much authority as he could manage.

“McGonigle and his wife have no children of their own.” Fiona stepped into the breach left by his disability.

Neville exhaled a small breath of relief. He didn’t think he could have explained it in a million years, even with his speech intact.

“The McGonigles have the largest house in the village,” she continued. “I want to persuade McGonigle to keep the orphans together. Don’t you see? If he’s busy feeding babes, he’ll not have time to roam the night looking for trouble.”

Silence descended upon the room, except for the crackle of the fire. His headache returning, Neville wanted nothing more than to take Fiona to bed and sleep, but he feared he would have to fight Michael, and possibly Eamon, if he wanted to accomplish that goal.

Defiantly, he took Fiona’s hand. “Come, to bed.” Neville squeezed her fingers and pried her from the chair.

“I don’t think she needs your help, Your Grace,” Michael said from near the mantel where he now juggled several balls. “I think we have a thing or three to discuss, and the orphans are just a small part of it.”

“Not tonight.” Neville thanked the heavens for the brevity and authority he’d wielded all these years. They served him well now. There were three men in this room who could easily kill him for leading Fiona out of the library, but not one of them stirred in protest. Perhaps they thought he’d return once seeing Fiona to her room. Not bloody damned likely. He wouldn’t give her the opportunity to escape before he’d found a priest or vicar and sealed their vows.

“Is your memory returning, Your Grace?” Fiona asked quietly as they traversed the dark halls to the children’s room.

He didn’t know why she asked. He didn’t know how to answer. To him, it seemed irrelevant. He knew who he was. He knew what he had done these last few days. He knew what needed doing in the immediate future. That was enough for now.

“Why ask?”

She threw him an enigmatic glance. In the light of the single candle, he could see only dark-lashed eyes, pale cheeks, and full lips posed in a thoughtful pout.

“Because you’re behaving like a husband, my lord duke, and if you had a clear memory, you would know that cannot be.”

Neville winced at the sudden pressure in the back of his head. He didn’t want to hear this. He knew what he wanted. He wanted her. He didn’t want to consider any objections. His memory of certain events might be a little hazy—he figured he could recall them if he truly wanted, but he didn’t—only he knew himself quite well. He didn’t take innocent young misses to bed without paying the price.