The Irish Duchess (3 page)

Numb, Fiona listened to the babe wail and wondered how they would feed it. And the other children. What could one old woman do to feed those six children and a babe? The priest would take them away. They had orphanages in Dublin. Perhaps the children would have some chance of survival there.

Even as she thought that, she heard the children sneaking into the hut, weeping and clinging to their grandmother. Stairstep, all of them, each one a head taller than the next. The eldest was but nine. Some had their mother’s red hair, others had the dark curls of their various fathers. If not for the dirt, they’d be a handsome lot.

Guilt ate at Fiona’s innards as the old woman rocked the wailing babe and the next youngest wept. Sean, the eldest, looked at her anxiously. It was well past their supper times. They’d come to expect their mother’s frequent lying-ins. They hadn’t quite realized this one was permanent. They waited for an adult to provide.

Driven by curiosity, one of the neighbors arrived, took one look at the corpse on the pallet, and throwing Fiona a sympathetic look, herded the children toward the door. “I’ll send Maureen to lay her out. Ye get yerself home now, Miss Fiona. I don’t know what’s to become of these chicks, I really don’t.” Shaking her head, she ushered them out.

“I failed her, I did,” the old woman wept from the corner. “I tried to bring her up right, but what’s a mother to do? There’s naught for us here. I used to weave the most beautiful cloth, but they’ve taken that away. And even the wool is worthless now. How’s a mother to support her babes, I ask? They’ve destroyed us all, the royal bastards.”

The bitterness fell from her lips with the resignation of much repetition. Fiona knew the tale only too well. “My cousin’s trying,” she whispered, as much an apology as she could offer. “But he can’t move mountains. And he can’t spend all of his wife’s money on charity. Whoever heard of a landlord paying tenants to use his land? It’s not done.”

“We know, lass. Don’t fret yerself. The earl’s made all the difference, giving the men jobs and their self-respect back. He can’t do everything. We’ll manage. Ye go on home now.”

Glancing around the dismal cottage, Fiona felt the rage building again. She had traveled to England, seen the great houses and the glittering chandeliers and the wealth. It wasn’t fair. Why should so few have so much, and so many have so little? It wasn’t because they hadn’t tried. Every attempt at saving themselves had met with the booted feet of the bloody rich crushing them back into the soil. It was time the nobles paid for their sins, but not the way the men in the tavern hoped to do it. Violence wasn’t the answer.

Clenching her teeth and straightening her weary shoulders, Fiona started for the door. “I’ll find a way, Mary. There’s wealth enough out there to be had, and I’ll have it someday, if I have to marry a bloody English lord to get it.”

Had the worn leather hinges of the door allowed for it, she would have slammed her way out. As it was, she stalked into the lowering rays of the sun in a guilty fury that would have murdered the first man crossing her path. Sensibly, no man in the village left the shadows of their doorways while Fiona MacDermot stalked the streets.

***

“Fiona, where the devil have you been? We’ve been looking for you for hours.” Seamus clattered down the stairs, waving two sheets of expensive paper in his hand. “We’ve got letters from Blanche.”

“Lady Aberdare,” Fiona corrected wearily, pushing past her brother and up the massive front stairs toward the security of her room and a hot bath.

“She doesn’t stand on formality,” Seamus replied without heat, following her up. “She wants you to join her in London, says it’s much too boring otherwise, and Michael has business in the Lords, so she can’t leave. She says she’ll give you a come-out. You can find yourself a wealthy husband who can finance my campaign when I graduate.”

Fiona snorted inelegantly at this specious bit of selfishness as she continued trudging up the stairs. “Marry a wealthy widow and support your own campaign.”

“You can’t disappoint Blanche after all she’s done for us. I’m to escort you to London when I return to Oxford. It’s time you left the muck of this place and become the lady you’re supposed to be.”

Seamus was her elder by two years, but Fiona had decided long ago that his brains were ten years younger. “I am not supposed to be a lady!” she shouted down at him where he hesitated on the landing. “And I’m bloody well not returning to that den of iniquity they call London!”

“You have no choice,” he shouted back. “Michael has sent the fares and Uncle William has already arranged our transportation. We’re to leave the day after tomorrow.”

That she damned well was not. She had Aileen’s children to worry about. Someone must find them food and homes. And the other women without menfolk in the village would starve this winter if she did not find some means of providing for them.

Mr. O’Donegal was supposed to teach them the old ways of preparing the flax they grew this summer so they could earn coins by weaving cloth. She had hope that quality linen might save the village, once the money they’d raised at the festival bought the looms. Burke would see to that on trade day.

Fiona heard her Uncle William calling her from the study above. The emotion of the day finally hit her with the impact a cannonball. She couldn’t face him now. She simply couldn’t.

Without further thought, Fiona took the back stairs two at a time, rushing out through the kitchen and past the startled cook, heading for the stable. Once upon a long time ago the earls of Aberdare had kept the finest stables in all of Europe. Those horses were long since lost, and the new earl resided in England and had little use for more. But they still had two fine mares eating them out of house and home. Fiona had practically grown up on the back of them. They were her one comfort in times of distress.

The roan tossed her head and nickered in greeting as Fiona grabbed a bridle.

***

Neville’s duties kept him from traveling often. He had never visited Ireland for pleasure, and had certainly never expected to be fascinated by greenery lush to the point of opulence. Dusk created dancing shadows over the rolling fields he could well imagine peopled by cavorting elven folk. The mist and the lowering sun spun even the animals in the field into creatures of imagination.

The blows to his head must have warped his brain. The persistent headache had faded recently, lulling him into a false sense of well-being. The pain returned full force now, after an exhausting day of riding rough roads and losing himself in the byways by failing to understand the directions given when asked. If he didn’t find Aberdare shortly, he’d be forced to sleep in the hedgerows.

Glancing toward the setting sun in hopes of seeing civilization ahead, Neville nearly fell from his saddle as a silhouette of a fey creature on horseback flew from the woods, hair streaming in silken lengths behind her. He imagined a lady centaur, or a fairy thieving some poor farmer’s best mare.

Not once did he consider that the animal had taken control and endangered its rider. Even through the lengthening shadows Neville could see slim limbs and confident hands guiding the racing animal over potholes and ruts and into a breathtaking leap over a crumbling rock wall. The amazing sight not only tore the breath from his lungs, but aroused a lust he’d neglected for so long, he scarcely recognized it for what it was.

Forgetting headache and weariness, he steered his mount on a connecting path with the wayward rider’s. Despite her apparel, he knew the equestrian was female. She was a woman wearing breeches. Perhaps she had a liberal view of other things besides attire.

Her mount nearly collided with his in the shadows of the trees as she raced across the road he traveled. She reined in, rearing her horse to a halt. “Who the devil are you?” she demanded imperiously.

Instead of grinning at her brash introduction, Neville scowled at the familiarity of a voice he hadn’t heard in years. “Fiona MacDermot! You damned well haven’t gained a particle of sense since I saw you last.” So much for any brief hopes of pleasure.

The feminine figure stilled, then as recognition dawned, she responded in outrage. “His bloody majesty, it is! And a fine damned ending to one of the worst days of my life this is. If it’s paying for me sins I am to have the likes of you about, then I’ll do penance and never sin again.” She swung her horse around and started to ride away.

Realizing she could lead him to Aberdare, Neville grabbed her reins, earning a crack across his gloved hand with her riding crop for his imposition. He snatched the weapon from her grasp before she could strike again. “Bigad, I can’t believe Blanche wants a hoydenish creature like you anywhere near her. What the devil are you wearing?”

“Why, and it’s me finest skirts, I’m sure,” she replied mockingly. “Do not the ladies of London know the fashion?”

Neville had the distinct recollection of his urge to beat her the last time he’d seen Michael’s cousin. She had the tongue of a harpy and the soul of a demon. She’d been a skinny nineteen and wearing rags and baggy gowns. He couldn’t remember her ever looking like a woodsprite with curves to match the lushness of his surroundings. The only thing that kept him from an unholy state of lust was her stench.

“What have you been rolling in? A sty?” he asked unrepentantly, ignoring her mockery.

“Sure, and would your nobleness know what a pig smells like? Let go my reins. I’m going home.”

“So am I, and I’m not letting you out of my sight while I do it. There are brigands in these woods this time of night.”

“Do you need me to protect your precious hide?” she asked with grating innocence. “Sure, and a fine nobleman like yourself might look out for the dirty Irish bastards who’d steal the hair off your head did you let them.”

“Shut up, Fiona, and start moving. I always knew my cousin was dicked in the nob, but now I’m certain she’s lost all wit to ask the likes of you into her home. Michael should put a snaffle on you.”

“A snaffle! Damn you for an arrogant...”

Neville jerked her rein when she tried to twist her horse away. “Stop it, Fiona. Behave like an adult for a change. If you’re old enough for a come-out, you’re old enough to mind your tongue. I’ll not have you embarrassing Blanche if she insists on your company.”

“I’ll have you know I’m twenty-one and long past the age for a come-out. I want no part of the lady’s invitation. Lady Aberdare is all that is kind, but I have no such opinion of London society. So you and my brother may return to merry old England without me.”

“I don’t think it works that way,” Neville replied grimly. “I gave my word I’d escort you to London safe and sound, and I have no intention of going back on it.”

The ache in the back of his head pounded in earnest at this reminder of his obligation. He was here as a kind of holiday, a break from his duties after the painful and humiliating incident that had left him bleeding and unconscious in the street. He’d never quite understood why the scoundrels had left him alive. He might have been happier had they not.

As it was, the overwhelming concern of everyone from the lowliest maid to the prime minister himself had driven him out of London. He’d dallied at Anglesey rather than make the journey to Ireland as he’d been instructed, but he hadn’t been able to put off the task any longer. He was here now, and he was leaving in two days’ time. And the imp from hell and her brother were going with him.

For Blanche’s sake, Neville would take Fiona to London in a sack if necessary.

Three

Halting on the castle’s stone staircase the next morning, Fiona gritted her teeth and studied her nemesis.

The duke loomed in her path, blocking her way to the medieval front doors. Tinted light from the recently restored leaded glass windows splintered his arrogant features into shards of color and shadow. Dukes didn’t even look like normal people, she mused. His hair wasn’t brown, but golden brown; his eyes not gray, but silver. Even his odious quizzing glass glittered like a large diamond. Compared to the men she knew in their bulky woolens, hands callused with hard work, the duke appeared a polished gemstone, all sparkle and fire. She had never quite thought of the studious duke as a man of physical power, but he mirrored the morning light like a knight in sturdy armor.

Fiona feared he would not take opposition lightly.

“You cannot leave here looking like that,” were the first words out of his mouth.

“If I left looking like anything else, people would not recognize me,” she replied, testing the duke’s measure. She wished she’d never come across him last night. Perhaps he’d still be wandering the dirt roads or found his way back to Dublin.

She stepped deeper into the shadows of the massive stairway. Like many of her forebears, she knew how to get around insurmountable objects.

“We leave on the morrow. Shouldn’t you be packing your trunks?” Neville advanced across the foyer, his gaze never once leaving the place where she stood.

Fiona had never recognized authority and didn’t accept it now. With a look of disdain, she observed his polished boots and blindingly white linen. “You may have use of all the trunks you need. I’m not one for wearing frills and furbelows.”

“Fiona!” her uncle bellowed from above. “Is that you I hear? Mary’s after scouring the halls for you. Get yourself back here now!”

The fiendish smile on the duke’s angular face did little toward appeasing her temper. “Coming, Uncle,” she called sweetly. With a swirl of her long braid, Fiona turned and dashed back up the stairs.

Her Uncle William seldom left the library long enough to actually track her down, giving her years of experience at avoiding his careless supervision. Slipping through the shadows of the formal dining hall, Fiona ran out the servants’ door in the rear. Practically skipping with pleasure at deceiving those who would deny her her freedom, she dashed down the narrow back stairs.

She had things of importance to do this day. She didn’t need the interference of her well-meaning family. The earl and his wife had her best interests at heart, she knew, but sending the haughty duke after her was a fatal mistake. She wouldn’t travel one footstep in his company.