A Rebel Without a Rogue (35 page)

She could not quite contain the shudder that racked her body at the sight. Could she truly allow such a man to lay hands on her person?

“He’s an arrogant sort,” she observed, careful to keep revulsion out of her voice. “What if he won’t accept such a bargain? If he insists on slaking his lust before he offers anything in return?”

Sean smiled. “It will be your task to see that it doesn’t come to that, now, won’t it?”

She could not smile in return. “But if it does?” she insisted.

Her uncle’s eyes dropped to the table, then shifted to the other side of the room. Unwilling to meet hers? She held her breath, waiting for his reassurance that he’d never ask such a thing of her. No true kinsman would ever ask such a thing of a member of his family, would he?

But the words never came.
 

“You wish me to prostitute myself?” she asked flatly.

Sean shrugged. “Have you not done so already? And for a far lesser cause?”

“No! It wasn’t like that. Not with Kit.”

“But Ingestrie already had the use of you, Máire, even before young Pennington,” Sean said, impatience edging his voice. “A bit late to turn overdainty, is it not?”

“Overdainty? What, because I sacrificed myself to Ingestrie for passage to London, and offered my love to Kit, now any fellow is entitled to my person? Whether I say yea or nay?”

He frowned, his green eyes finally rising to hers. “What matters who else you lie with? No decent man will have a
striapach
to wife.”

Whore.
The foulness of the word Sean had uttered with such casual, unexpected cruelty sent the bile rising in her throat. Why had she assumed his offer of shelter would come hand in hand with acceptance, perhaps even love? The memory of the brave boy who’d comforted her when their neighbors whispered or shouted
bastard
must have blinded her to the reality of the grown man before her. He might defend an innocent child, yes. But offer respect to a woman he deemed irretrievably fallen?

Why had she expected him to feel any differently than did the rest of the world?

Because Kit did
, something deep inside her whispered.

She pushed back in her chair, squaring her shoulders as she faced her uncle. “No, Sean. I won’t do it. I’m finished pretending to be who I’m not.”

He folded his arms across his chest, anger tightening his lips. “Pretending? Once a whore, always a whore,
cailín
. No matter how gentlemanlike the rogues who debauched you.”

She slapped her hands down against the table. “Kit is no rogue. And I am not a whore.”

The scowl slashing across Sean’s face made even her cold blood begin to race. “What, you would do such shameful things, and yet refuse to atone?”

“Atone? For what must I atone?”

“For the dishonor you’ve brought to the O’Hamill name!” His shout, and the fist he slammed down against the table in its wake, stilled all conversation in the room. But the harshness of his glare persuaded any eyes bold enough to catch his that it would be far safer to turn back to their own concerns than to inquire about his.

The ale twisted in Fianna’s gut. So this was what her uncle truly thought of her?

“Come, Máire,” Sean said, his voice lowered
.
He sat back down in his chair, gesturing for her to do the same. “You’ve brought justice to the Major. Why shirk now from enacting justice on a far larger scale?”

“Sean, how can you ask me, a member of your own family, to whore for you? To be so loyal to your cause that I must sacrifice every finer feeling in order to achieve it? Can you not see how hurtful it is, knowing a member of my own family holds me so cheap?”

“But why? You’re a fallen woman, Máire. You can never be pure again.” His rough hands flexed against the tankard he held between them. “And when will you ever have such a chance to make amends? Do this, and prove you’re worthy of Ireland. And of the name of O’Hamill.”

Fianna rose to her feet. “But my name is not Máire O’Hamill. Not anymore.”

Sean sneered. “And you think the McCrackens will welcome dear Maria to their table, now that she’s done away with the Major?”

“No. I’m no longer Maria McCracken, either. I’m Fianna Cameron. And Fianna doesn’t need to kill Major Pennington, or whore for you, to prove her worth to you or to anybody.”

“No. The only one she has to prove herself to is Fianna Cameron.”

Sean’s mouth hung open, but the words had not come from him.

“And anyone with eyes can see you’ve more than done so, over and over again,” Kit Pennington added with a decisive nod.

Kit drank in the sight of Fianna, thirsty as a desert nomad whose last sip of water was only a distant memory. He could spy no obvious injury from her confrontation with Uncle Christopher. But she hid her hurts well, especially the ones to her heart. Only when he had her safe back in his rooms, back in his arms, would his worry be assuaged.

If she would come. . .

“Kit, how did you—”

The scrape of O’Hamill’s chair interrupted her. “So—you’ll use me to gain justice for yourself, Máire, but betray me to the English? Now who holds family loyalty so dear?”

“No,” Fianna cried. “I didn’t betray you, Sean. I don’t know how Kit found us.”

“Sam Wooler told me how to find O’Hamill’s rooms,” Kit said, placing himself between Fianna and her uncle. “You left his note on the table.”

A cruel, derisive expression drew down O’Hamill’s brows. “But you betrayed
him
, did you not?” he hissed at Fianna. “How long do you think he’ll go prosing on about how worthy you are after he finds out what you’ve done to his uncle, eh,
cailín
?”

She jerked her head toward Kit, the life in her eyes dimming. What, did she think he’d condemn her for confronting the man who had slandered her father?

“I know precisely what she’s done to my uncle, O’Hamill. She’s taught him a painful lesson, one that I’m certain he won’t soon forget. One about both justice and mercy.”

“Mercy?” O’Hamill’s eyes burned with incredulity. “What, did you not kill him, then?

Fianna drew her shoulders back, tilting her arrogant nose in the air. The combination of strength and vulnerability in that oh-so-familiar stance sent shivers down Kit’s spine.

“I did not,” she said. “I told you true, I’ll not be using violence any longer to achieve my ends.” She took a step closer, laying a hand upon her uncle’s arm. “And, I hope, neither will you.”

“I’ll have little opportunity to do so, once you hand me over to young Pennington here,” O’Hamill said, bitterness edging his voice.

“I’ll not be handing you over to anyone, Sean. But please, give over this mad scheme against Lord Castlereagh. Killing just leads to more killing, more bloodshed. Work with us, work to persuade the people to agitate for peaceful change. It’s the only way to achieve justice for our people, our country.”

But O’Hamill paid no heed to his niece, all his attention now focused upon Kit. “How many officers of the law have you brought with you, sir?”

Kit spread his hands. “None, sir. My only intention in coming here was to find Fianna.”

“And found her you have,” he snarled, jerking Fianna in front of him as a shield. The point of a knife pricked at the pale column of her neck. “Now, what will you do to keep her?”

Kit’s body tensed. Her own uncle, threatening her? And they called Fianna a bastard—

“Now, O’Hamill, there’s no need for violence,” he said, spreading his open palms in appeasement.

“Certainly not,” Fianna concurred. A sharp elbow to O’Hamill’s gut and a hard stamp on the instep of his foot sent the knife clattering to the floor.

As O’Hamill clutched at his stomach, Fianna bent over to retrieve the fallen weapon. She ran a finger along its edge, shaking her head. “Hardly sharp enough to cut a man’s throat, Sean. You ought to keep your weapons in better order.” With a quick jerk, she stabbed the knife into the table between them.

The room around them had grown unnaturally quiet. Kit waved a hand toward the silent crowd. “Nothing here to gawk at, good sirs, just a small family squabble. All is in good order, I assure you.”

It took a few moments, but the tavern’s patrons gradually turned back to their own concerns.

“What, still here, O’Hamill?” Kit asked, placing a protective arm around Fianna. Not that she needed much in the way of protecting. Still, she might take some comfort from it, knowing she had an ally close to hand.

O’Hamill shook his head in bewilderment. “And you’ll stand by and allow this, Pennington? Allow me to stroll free, without summoning the watch or the king’s soldiers?”

“Miss Cameron has shown great mercy to my uncle today. What sort of gentleman would I be if I did not show the same to hers?”

“Please, Sean. Go,” Fianna added. “But know we will be sending a letter to Lord Castlereagh, informing him of your plans and warning him to take precautions. It might be wise if you returned to Ireland at your earliest opportunity.”

He nodded, backing away from the table.

“I’ve Theo’s carriage outside,” Kit murmured, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “Will you take a turn about the park, and grant him some time to pack before you return for your things?”

Instead of answering, she turned back to her uncle. “After I’ve had a word with Mr. Pennington, I’ll come by to pick up my valise. Perhaps it would be best if you and your belongings were gone by then?”

Sean gave a brusque nod. “Rent’s paid up through quarter day, if you need a place,” he said before turning on his heel and striding to the tavern’s door. Not entirely without family feeling, then. As long as it did not come into conflict with his cause.

 
At the threshold, her uncle turned back, staring at her as if he wished to fix her image in his mind. As if he knew it would be many a long year, if ever, before he’d catch sight of his sister’s child again.

“Good-bye,
Seanuncail
,” she whispered, hardly loud enough to hear herself. But perhaps Sean guessed in spite of it. A grim smile slashing across his face, he nodded once more, then pulled the door closed behind him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

After the din and bluster of the tavern, carriage wheels turning over cobbles sounded as silent as the scamper of a mouse. Theo must have had the coach newly sprung; in his father’s day, the ride had never been this smooth. The interior hadn’t changed, though, its seats the same azure as the Saybrook coat of arms, the velvet nap almost entirely worn away from the front-facing seat where he’d placed Fianna. He’d wanted to sit down beside her, draw her into his arms to persuade himself that she’d not been injured in the encounter with his uncle, or with her own, but he’d taken the seat opposite, wary of his welcome. For once in his life, no easy words came to his lips. What did one say to the woman one loved but had betrayed?

Kit placed his hat and gloves on the seat beside him and cleared his throat. But Fianna kept her eyes fixed on the squalid streets of St. Giles.

Perhaps action would serve better than words?

Kit reached across the coach and laid Aidan McCracken’s flintlock on the seat beside her. “Perhaps not quite true to say ‘With Christopher Pennington’s compliments,’” he said with a wry smile. “But certainly with mine.”

Fianna cradled the pistol between her hands, running a single finger over the Gaelic engraving, just as she had the first night they’d met. But this time, the movement conveyed no hint of seductive enticement. Only the deepest of sorrows.

At long last, she tore her gaze from the pistol and raised her eyes to his. “Are you not afraid I’ll turn it on your uncle again, Mr. Pennington? Or this time upon you?”

The cold formality of her words set his heart a-pounding. “Oh, Fianna,” he said, raking a hand through his hair. “What can I say to make you understand how sincerely I regret what I’ve done?”

Fianna’s lips tightened. “Regret? For what have you to be sorry, Kit Pennington?”

“For not trusting you. For lying to you, making you think my uncle was dead.”

“You thought I was a threat to him. Of course you would do anything in your power to keep your own uncle safe.”

“At first, yes. But later, after I—” Kit rubbed a palm up and down his thigh. “After we became lovers. I should have told you. I should have trusted that you’d not harm a member of my family.”