A Rose in Splendor (46 page)

Her hand moved to Killian’s pistol, which she had tucked in the jacket of her riding habit. She had learned as a child how to load and prime a pistol and the lesson had come back as she had checked the loaded weapon. Yet, she was alone, and two balls would not stop half a dozen men. She had no supplies, no food, and if Killian did not return soon she would have to go for help.

“No! No! I must not brood about it!” she said aloud. If he were dead, she would know it, feel it, and she did not sense his death. She must wait, and work while she waited.

She turned and viciously dug the shovel into the last of the pile of manure that had filled the small chapel and
heaved it onto the makeshift litter she had fashioned from
a scrap of drapery that had not burned. She had been working since the morning mists parted, taking with them the breath of moisture too fine to call rain. Her back ached, but at least the pain took her mind off the gnawing
in her stomach as she dragged pile after pile of manure out into the yard and dumped it in what had once been the orchard.

Every new sight at Liscarrol made her heart ache. There was not a single piece of furniture undamaged, and seeing the once ornate plasterwork ceilings blackened by smoke and whitened with lichen filled her with sorrow. There was so much to be done that she began to doubt whether the task before her was one she could ever accomplish, yet she could not stop.

When the last of the dung was gone, she found still intact a stave-built piggin in which she could carry water from the river. She cast piggin after piggin of water onto the slate paving stones of the chapel until the room was flooded. Each trip was a goodly hike, but Deirdre did not dwell on that. She thought only of accomplishing something fine before Killian returned. She would not run away from Liscarrol. She had waited too long to return to give up so easily.

By noon, sweat rolled freely down her back and between her breasts, and her bodice stuck to her as she knelt on the chapel floor and scrubbed it with handfuls of plaited straw. She had long ago removed her riding jacket, skirts, and corset, working only in her shift and petticoats. She had no ribbon to tie her hair, and so it tumbled down her back and across her shoulders, sticking in curls against her damp arms and neck. She had become inured to the stench of dung, but the pain in her back had grown worse.

“Keep working, Dee, me lass,” she muttered to herself. “You may not have been accustomed to menial labor ere this, but Liscarrol needs strong backs and clever hands more than silk skirts and pretty faces.”

“Amen!”

Startled by the voice, Deirdre looked up sharply to see a tall but slight man standing in the chapel entrance. He stood with hands folded before him, but she glanced at the pistol on the far side of the room where she had laid it beside her clothing and muttered a French curse. She rose to her feet and reached for the shovel, which was nearby

“Who are you and what do you mean by entering my home without an invitation?”

Teague O’Donovan gazed at the young woman before him in rapt amazement. A mass of tumbling golden curls framed her face and shoulders. There was noble blood in her, he thought, though she was dressed as poorly as the lowliest bond-maid. Framed in the golden halo of sunlight pouring through the broken chapel window, she appeared a creature more of myth than reality, and he wondered fleetingly if Liscarrol was a favored place of the fairies.

He did not mean to think of it again. If not for Killian’s curious phrasing, he would not have remembered the tale of the fairy women of the Fitzgerald clan.

“You are Lady Fitzgerald,” he said without preamble.

Deirdre nodded slowly. “How do you know me?”

Teague dipped his head to shield himself from her gaze. Her eyes were too bright, too beautiful for a man such as he to look upon. But he understood now the look on Killian’s face as he had spoken of this woman. “You are the lady wife of Killian MacShane?”

The pretense of haughtiness dropped from Deirdre and she moved toward him, her shovel poised to strike. “You are one of them! You took my husband! Where is he?”

Teague shook his head. “Nae, lady. I am not one of the men who took your husband, but I have seen him. He is well.”

Deirdre bit back the angry words she had been about to speak, but she could not keep the scorn from her voice. “If you are not one of them, how is it you have seen my husband?”

Teague hesitated only a moment before producing the prayer book and rosary from his pocket. “I am a friend. I am one who is hunted with bloodhounds and who lives not in fear but in constant hiding from the Informers.”

“You are a priest!” Deirdre dropped the shovel. “Oh,
Father, you must help me!”

Teague took the outstretched hands she thrust into his when she reached him. Blinded by the fierce blend of joy and fear on her lovely face, he looked down at her hands only to flinch as he saw the raw, oozing blisters that had
broken open on her palms. “But you’re bleeding, dear lady!”

Embarrassed, Deirdre pulled her hands free. “Forgive me, Father. I will wash.”

“Nae, child. There’s no shame in the results of honest labor in the Lord’s service. I will help, and when we are done I will bless this place, making it as holy as it is clean.”

“Tell me first of Killian,” Deirdre replied, flushing under the priest’s gentle regard.

Teague nodded. “He worries that you are terrified at being left alone.”

“I was terrified that he might have been killed,” Deirdre answered. “For myself, I am well enough.” To give lie to her assertion, her stomach grumbled loudly.

“I have a cure for that,” Teague said, smiling shyly at her. “I have orders to feed you.”

“You have orders?” Deirdre echoed. “I do not understand. Why is Killian not with you? Are you truly his friend, or only a spokesman for the men who dragged him away?”

“I come in peace as a friend to you both.”

“That is not a definitive answer,” Deirdre replied. “As a man of God you cannot stand on the side of thieves and murderers.”

“You speak harshly of that which you do not understand.”

“I know what I have seen and what I have learned to believe is true.”

Teague turned away from her vibrant anger. Though he could admire her beauty as one did an exquisite sunset or flower, she was curiously lacking in sexual appeal for him. She was as headstrong and determined as a man, but neither her beauty nor her will unsettled him. Her gaze did. She snared him with her green eyes, pulled him toward her in a way that spoke of unnatural power. She had eyes that sought to see into a man’s soul.

The priest lifted his eyes, his gaze straying to the bared skin of the lady’s left shoulder.

A bright crimson mark lay on the pale skin, its convoluted configuration the shape of a perfect rose.

Teague shut his eyes tight, murmuring a prayer of protection against spirits, but when he opened his eyes again she was still before him, her sea-green gaze clouded with concern.

“Are you ill, Father?” Deirdre asked, surprised by the sudden pallor in his thin face. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

“Your mark. How came it upon you?”

Deirdre turned to look at her shoulder and blushed a fiery shade as she realized that she stood before a priest in only her petticoats. With a belated sense of modesty, she snatched up her jacket. “Forgive me, Father. I expected no one.”

“Your mark,” he repeated. “How did it come about?”

“The mark on my shoulder? Why, I was born with it. ’Tis the kiss of the fairies to mark their own,” she said airily, repeating what Brigid had so often told her as a child.

To her amazement, the priest fell back a step and crossed himself. “What is it, Father? What have I done? You do not take me seriously? I am a good and faithful Catholic, I promise you.”

“I must go!” Teague cried, backing away from her. “I brought you food. And I will see that Killian is released, but you must leave here. Times are hard and men are desperate. Some will sell their souls to protect what little they have. You must leave before the word spreads.”

“Wait! Father!” But the priest was gone. She heard his canvas-wrapped feet pelting down the stairwell.

She paused when she reached the doorway of the house, for it was obvious that something had frightened him and he would not heed her pleas. What had she done that would scare off a priest?

Before she could further ponder his strange actions, she noticed the aroma of boiled beef wafting through the air, and she turned to find a reed basket set before the hearth. Inside it she found oatcakes, a slab of butter, and a few scraps of boiled meat.

She ate with her hands, and though the beef was almost too tough to chew, the oatcakes were damp, and the butter
was sour, she ate with relish until the twist in her stomach eased.

*

Killian sat with his back to a tree. His arms had been stretched behind him, around the trunk, and bound. His feet were tied at the ankles, and a thick knot of cloth had been stuffed into his mouth, and a gag had been tied to keep it in place. He was alone in the forest. His captors had melted away just after dawn like shadows retreating before the blaze of the sun. It was mid-afternoon, and the wretchedness of his situation was borne in full upon him.

He turned his head as a bee buzzed past. Spring was beginning. Through the brown moldering leaves at his feet poked the tightly curled tips of fronds. A rare red squirrel darted around the corner of a nearby tree, its feathery tail flicking nervously before it disappeared. If not for the fact that he was bound to a tree, he might have enjoyed the idyll, Killian thought.

But he was bound. The blood had drained from his arms until they were numb, and his shoulders ached where his arms were wrenched in their sockets. O’Donovan had not said when he would return, only that he hoped his “guest” would prove more tractable when he did. It would be torture to be left for a few days. And, of course, that is what O’Donovan intended.

Killian swallowed his anger, gagged on the cloth in his mouth, and coughed, straining against his bindings until tears started in his eyes. He gagged, fighting to catch his breath, but he could not. His chest heaved, and blood pounded in his temples and behind his eyes until tears flowed onto his cheeks. He was choking to death.

The slipping free of his arms from the tree did not register with him at first. Instinct directed him to tear the gag from his mouth before he realized that he had been freed.

He gasped for breath several times before the pounding of his heart eased. “Teague, rot you, why do you not show yourself?”

“Mayhaps because ’tis not Teague who saves ye,” came the answer in a light boyish tone.

Killian whipped his head around, but no one stood beside the tree. He reached down to work the knots at his ankles, saying, “Show yourself or be damned!”

“Kind words for a savior,” came the teasing reply. “Shall I leave ye then?”

“Do as you like,” Killian answered grimly.

High feminine laughter filled the silence of the glade. “Ye looked a fine sight, trussed up like a swine to the slaughter.”

Killian stilled, the last knot momentarily forgotten. “Fey?”

Fey leaned around the tree trunk. “Well now, and here I’d thought ye had forgotten about wee sad Fey. And she, thinking ye would nae welcome her coming, nearly passed ye by.”

Killian took in at one full glance the thatch of dark hair once more sawed short by a dull blade, the boy’s jacket and breeches, and the distinctive smell of fish. “What are you doing here, lass?”

Fey grinned and pocketed her skean. “Do ye care, seeing as how ye were in need of a friendly face?” She gazed contemptuously about the unoccupied area. “Left ye quick as that, has she? Well, no matter. She weren’t worth the trouble ye took with her, and that’s a fact.”

Killian jerked the last knot free and rose to his feet, only to have the sting of returning blood to his lower limbs make him grab the tree for support.

“Ye’re growing slack and fat as a slug.” Fey observed in malicious delight. “If that’s what taking a wife does to a man, I’ll nae have one.”

“You’ll not have in any case, lass,” Killian reminded her.

Fey turned crimson beneath her mop of hair. “Ye know what I mean.”

Killian took a step and then another, testing his legs. “I
won’t say I’m not glad to see you, but I wonder how it came about all the same.” Fey set her mouth in a familiar stubborn line. “So, keep your secret. You came when you did and that’s enough for now “

Fey shrugged. She owed him nothing and that was what she would give him. “Where are yer companions?”

Killian cocked a black brow. “How do you know that I had companions?”

Fey shrugged again. “Like as not, ye didn’t truss yerself up that way.” She grinned suddenly. “Did yer lady wife grow tired of yer simpering and leave ye as a gift for the wee folk?”

“Deirdre!” Killian set off at a run, calling over his shoulder, “Come with me!”

When she realized that Killian was leaving her behind, Fey ran after him cursing a blue streak. Always it was the same: he thought of no one but Lady Deirdre. “When ’tis I who saved yer bloody life, ye
spalpeen
!”

*

Deirdre saw him a moment before she recognized him. She had been resting, gazing out from the minstrel’s gallery at the patch of forest beyond the river, when a man suddenly appeared. He was shirtless, his black head an inky spot against the soft green grass as he sprinted across the valley toward the bridge which led to Liscarrol.