A Love by Any Measure (11 page)

“Please don’t say that.”

“What?”

“That it was nothing,” he clarified, beginning to close the distance between them, pulling her hand up against his cheek and leaning into it. “In that moment, it was everything to me.”

There was no space between them, not between their bodies, nor between their hearts. He kissed her the same way as all those years ago: warmly, swiftly, and chastely. His hands laced through her hair as he followed with a similarly styled kiss on her forehead.

“If only you knew the thoughts that ran through my head that night,” he muttered, laying little kisses on the corners of her mouth. “If only you knew how often I still think of that night.”

She turned a gentle gaze to his, the heat of desire rising up through her again. Maeve planted her lips firmly on his, working against them with unyielding motions. “Tell me now?”

He answered with an even tighter embrace, running his hands down her back and pulling her hips into his frame.

“I thought … if I wasn’t Lord Grayson’s heir, and you weren’t my father’s poor tenant, you’d be exactly the girl I would—”

“Maeve!”

The voice was weak and battered, but unmistakably Rory’s.

They found him after a minute’s search, lying a few steps off the path, his right leg half buried in leaves and earth. Maeve threw herself on the ground beside him as August took off his coat and covered Rory’s chilled body.

“Da?” Maeve asked worriedly. “Are you hurt?”

When August tried to pull Rory’s foot from the hole in which it was lodged, Rory let out a cry, forcing August to release it.

“I think his ankle is broken,” he declared, though the amount of blood visible seemed an odd accompaniment to such an injury. He ran his hand over Rory’s forehead. “He’s burning up. We have to get him out of here and in bed or the fever will do him in.”

“What happened?” Maeve begged, examining the trapped appendage and trying to figure a way to free it. August snaked his arm around Rory’s shoulders and slowly sat him up before pulling him to a straight stand a moment later. The angle allowed the leg to slip free, and Rory pulled it up as though he were a wounded hound.

“My hat blew off so I went a chasing it and fell into this hole,” he explained meekly. “Thanks be to Heaven for your help, Lord Grayson. I won’t be forgetting it.”

“Your hat?” Maeve sounded incredulous. “Way up here in the woods? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Just how drunk were you?”

“None of that, Maeve O’Connor! You’re still not too old for me to take over my knee, you know.”

August said nothing, though Maeve noticed his bashful smile. Rory was not an overly large man, but he held dominance over August enough to cause significant strain under the weight. Maeve took up her da’s other arm and hooked it over her shoulder, relieving August of the sole stress as they dragged him back over the paths they had traversed, toward Gwen. Every so often, Rory let out a groan or a cry, causing August to move more swiftly while muttering something reassuring in his ear.

When at last they reached the mare again, August heaved Rory over the saddle, leaning the Irishman’s body onto Gwen’s back. They walked down from the woods, emerging on the outskirts of the back pastures. In the valley below the rolling hills, Shepherd’s Bluff stood like a testament of opulence, and the tiny dot of the O’Connor cottage looked like a pebble in the field. Maeve turned towards the pebble, but August coaxed Gwen in the opposite direction.

“Where are you going?” he asked amusedly, flashing his warm smile and soft eyes.

Maeve answered hesitantly. “You said yourself we need to get him rested up. So let’s take him back to the cottage. I’ll get a fire going straight away and boil some water.”

“That will take at least thirty minutes,” he kindly rebuked. “If ‘as soon as possible’ is to be properly heeded, and as we are equidistant between my house and your cottage, then we will take him to the house, where I’m sure Caroline has preemptively readied a pot of tea.”

“Are you suggesting I let you whisk him off, leave my father alone, tossing in fever and pain all night?”

August clicked his tongue and took up her hand as Rory slept through the gentle rock of the mare’s gait.

“Not at all. You’re coming, too. We have plenty of space and I will entertain no argument to the contrary. Rory will need you there. And I … ” He seemed to search for the right words, finally deciding upon, “I would not be opposed to your presence as well.”

Maeve nodded and acquiesced, his hand tightening around hers. Maeve knew not why the small gesture moved her so, but a sense of relief and comfort overcame her. She beckoned to his side. August reacted just the way she had hoped, lapping his arm over her shoulder and pulling her in. While she had grown expectant of the quiver of anticipation his touch brought, now it was tempered by the warmth she also felt.

“What were you about to say? Before Da called out?”

“Was I to say something?” His tone was sarcastic, suddenly distant.

A disappointed smirk erupted across Maeve’s face. She pulled away from him, and he made no attempt to prevent or reclaim her. “I suppose not. My error.”

“No, the error was mine. I never should have … ” Everything, he thought. “I sometimes forget myself in your presence. My apologies if I seemed to imply there was ever something … Well, what was, was and what is, is. Your father was always kind to me. Please allow me to honor that kindness by seeing to his convalescence.”

How could she deny such compassion, even if not meant for her?

“Of course. Honor my father, honor me.”

The Clock Pauses

Three knocks in rapid succession on the door of the stock room of the Jolly Root Pub, then two more paced at length. Just as had been agreed.

Their leader rose and crossed the room, opening the door cautiously, his pistol in his hand and at the ready. Precautions were wise. One never knew who among them could truly be trusted and who, if offered money or otherwise discovered by the Brits, would turn traitor.

When the Woodsman entered, however, the leader relaxed and sheathed his weapon.

“You’re late,” he accused the Woodsman. “I thought O’Connor was coming with you.”

The Woodsman scowled. “He’s been delayed.”

“Delayed?” Rory O’Connor wasn’t the latent type. “By whom?”

The Woodsman shuffled in and closed the door behind him. “Not whom. What. And the what is a bullet.”

Without another word, he tossed the Confederate-issue pistol on the table in front of where O’Keefe sat, arms crossed.

“Son of a bitch,” Patrick growled. “Well, let it never be said that Rory wasn’t willing to put himself on the line for the Brotherhood.” He picked up a half-filled glass of watered-down whiskey and raised it. “To Rory O’Connor, best of us all. Slainte!”

Caroline met them at the door, a lantern hanging from her hand and a heavy shawl drawn over her shoulders. Under the moonlit sky, August had traversed the distance to Killarney and back in the space of two hours, bringing Dr. Johnson despite his fervent protests.

“How is he?” August asked as they passed over the threshold.

She led them up the stairs by the light of her lantern. “Whimpering a bit, and his fever seems to be getting worse. Maeve’s not left his side.”

August smiled. Of course Maeve wouldn’t have.

They opened the door to find a flushed and sweaty Rory O’Connor, eyes open, watery and fixated on the ceiling. Maeve had pulled a chair to his side and held his hand, speaking lowly in the gentlest of soothing tones.

“ … Owen, says he to me, ‘Maeve, there isn’t enough cloth in all of Ireland … ’ Oh, Lord Grayson.”

August lingered in the doorway, giving her a weak smile but simultaneously feeling her discomfort at being caught mentioning her fiancé.

Dr. Johnson, an aged, plump Welshman, no longer possessing a full head of hair, took to Mr. O’Connor’s side with a swiftness that belied his stout frame.

“Child, if you will please let me examine him in private.”

Maeve looked to her father, asking for his leave with her eyes. He nodded meekly and she kissed the backside of his hand before going. Caroline and August followed her out, Caroline coiling an arm around Maeve’s shoulders and drawing her near.

“You’re being a darling to him.”

August was slightly taken aback by the familiarity with which she spoke, as though they were childhood chums suddenly reunited. While Maeve and August were, in fact that, Caroline had never been permitted an opportunity to visit Ireland in her youth. Yet here was his baby sister, seemingly bosom friends with his secret lover. It could either bode well for him, or be the beginning of Maeve’s descent into social ruination, depending on how Caroline warmed to her and what she should come to learn of the arrangement.

Maeve looked to Caroline with a gratitude that was nearly palpable. “Thank you for staying with us, and for being so welcoming.”

Caroline excused herself, claiming she was tired. When August heard her door close in the distance, he looked to Maeve with full sympathetic awe. She was clearly unnerved. She fidgeted and bit on her lip tensely, shifting her eyes back between the floor and August’s gaze.

“Thank you.”

The weak utterance sounded more like an inquiry on her lips, and it was then that August noticed the subtle shake of her body.

“Why are you trembling, Maeve?”

She shrugged. “Oh, I didn’t realize … It’s just … what to do.”

“You’ve said thank you, and if it is of comfort to you, you’re more than welcomed.”

“No, not that.” Her eyes rolled and her cheeks filled in red. “What I mean to say is … the doctor. I didn’t know that’s where you had gone off to. I … That is, Da and I cannot afford … I’m already indebted to you for the rent, and the doctor bill … ”

His stomach turned when he carried out her thought. Maeve had found a way to “pay” her rent, and now she must be wondering if she would have to present an offer for Dr. Johnson’s services. The thought was disgusting and abhorrent. August tried to tell himself that it was the modicum of morality he must have somewhere peeking its head, not that he would be insanely jealous knowing Maeve had been touched by someone else. He was already trying to rationalize not stalking down Murphy daily.

“I will pay the doctor,” he assured her. “I had no expectation of your paying, in any way.”

“I like hearing you say that.” His head cocked to the side in confusion. “My name.”

A tiny thrill went through him as he reached out and stroked her cheek.

“As do I,” he assured, laughing softly. “Maeve.”

As she leaned into his hand, he was reminded of the truth: something had irrevocably shifted between them. At least he felt so, and he was fairly certain that she did as well. In the woods, he had all but admitted that his vague childhood memories of her had created the image of his ideal woman against which every female who had traipsed into his existence had since been measured. How would Maeve have reacted? Her eyes were bright and welcoming in the moonlight, but August began to realize that it may very well be due to the fact that she saw him only as the landlord and master that made her so eager to appease. Perhaps he was confusing her physical desire for him — which he would admit was an illness to have befallen others — with a deeper stirring of emotions.

“Do I still … owe you time … while Da’s … ?”

The sincerity in her eyes brought a chuckle from August, and she relaxed a little in the wake of his joviality.

“No,” he answered. “I could not ask you to do such a thing when your father lies ill just a few doors down from my room.”

Her entire frame relaxed and her hand slid over his, an expression of utter gratitude coloring her features. Without thinking to do otherwise, August smiled brightly in return, taking her hand to his lips and delicately kissing the flesh of her wrist.

Neither seemed ready to acknowledge it, but it was there.

August was quick to break the tension. “If you’ll allow me to say, though, I didn’t think you were so displeased with my actions the other night,” he teased, meaning nothing more than jest, but consequently having inspired in her some degree of shock.

She pulled back. “It’s not that at all,” she whispered. “It is that … my time has come upon me, and I wouldn’t think such actions would be … ”

“Oh. No need, I understand. But know this: I will demand no time from you, regardless, while you are our guest. I am not that much of a tyrant.”

Her gaze admonished him. “You are not a tyrant at all. You only think that ‘Lord Grayson’ ought to be, but I suspect the boy who spent a day shearing sheep with Da, despite how much he hated it, is there somewhere still. He was noble and self-sacrificing, and I think Lord Grayson could learn a thing or two from my August.”

Coldness overcame him as he dropped her hand, and though they were standing mere inches apart, August ran half a world away in a blink of an eye.

“If only you knew, Maeve. If only.”

She made to embrace him, to regain and affirm the ground she thought they’d gained. August allowed a moment’s indulgence before pushing her gently away. Her confused and hurt expression made him feel the same.

“This house by day has a dozen hungry eyes matched to forked tongues. While you are here, we must take special care not to let our … kinship be misconstrued by the gossips. I don’t want something getting back to your fiancé. You are still planning on wedding him, are you not?”

The business-like manner of his words sobered her.

“Of course,” she answered, matching the matter-of-factness of his tone. “So how do I treat you while I am here? Lord Grayson in repetition grates my nerves.”

“Around Caroline, you may still call me August. Otherwise, the formal title is advised, especially at tea later.”

“Tea? What tea?”

He looked at the ceiling as though the answer was there. “It was Caroline’s idea. She’ll be there, of course. And Patrick and Patty, as well. Oh, and some Yankee, so that ought to give us a good deal of discussion. Just think of it as a garden party. Now,” August opened the door to the room which would be hers until fate took her elsewhere, “I’ll go inquire after the doctor. I’m certain your father only has a minor injury and a bit of exposure. A week or two in bed and I’m certain he’ll be as healthy as a horse. You should try to sleep.”

She gave in without much resistance, spent beyond her ability to deny it. As she entered, her eyes went straight to the bed, carved ornately of oak and fitted with linens worthy of royalty. August’s mind suddenly filled with visions of what Maeve would look like sprawled on those linens, stripped down to the flesh, as he tasted her every asset. Tonight, however, he would be content to know that she slept in comfort beneath his own roof and not on the flimsy palette of her sleeping loft in the cottage a mile away.

Returning to Rory’s room, August found the doctor emerging.

“Lord Grayson,” he replied stoically. “I think the young lady’s father will be fine in a few weeks.” He noticed then that he was wiping his hands on a kerchief, leaving the cloth streaked with crimson. “The fever should pass with rest, comfort, and proper diet. He is a little delirious at the moment, but that too should pass. Luckily, the shot passed right through without breaking any bones. There shouldn’t be any permanent damage.”

“Shot? I’m sorry, but you must be mistaken. Mr. O’Connor wasn’t shot. His leg stuck in a hole and he twisted his ankle. Perhaps he was punctured by a stick in his fall?”

Dr. Johnson shook his head. “I think I know the difference between a stick and a bullet, Lord Grayson. He’s asleep now, and best to leave him until morning if he’ll deign to rest that long. I’ll show myself out. Good night.”

As August undressed and crawled under his own bedding a short time later, he focused on the ticking of the Comtoise clock, its steady rhythm creating the tempo at which he let the day’s events parade out across his consciousness. Maeve needed help and she ran to him. When he had seen her talking to Caroline, he thought her desire had driven her to Shepherd’s Bluff early. He wanted to answer it fully, or as fully as she would let him without removing her knickers. But when he learned of the situation, his impulses switched in a moment from wanting to hold her to needing to help her.

Then, by the waterfall, she had looked for a moment as though …

Nothing can ever come of loving Maeve O’Connor, he sternly lectured himself. Nothing but heartbreak and despair. He would ruin her, just as his father had ruined his mother.

And then, there was Norwich.

Yes, Norwich. Even if he should be able to move Heaven and Earth and find a way to be with Maeve, Norwich was immutable. He shuddered at the recollection of what awaited his return. Not wanting to allow his mind to wander up that tangential road, August forced his eyes closed and drifted off into visions of a lovely Irish gal standing by a cascading waterfall in moonlight, dressed in a gown of pure white.