Sister of Rogues (6 page)

Lona's fingers slipped over the pocket. “May the faeries help ye,” she said.

Kier ran his fingers through his hair and contemplated what to do. He had been out all morning visiting businesses, covertly asking questions to determine how willing Irishmen were to protest the Act of Union. He was to meet with Finley this afternoon in the tower. Now Kier had another problem.

Fiona MacLeod sat across the desk from him, her slanted eyes impelling. She looked sane—not that sanity was at the top of his
to-look
list since everything about her was beguiling, including the shapely curves that even the knapsack of a gown couldn't hide—but what she said didn't make sense.

“I saw Lona on the ground. You admitted you pushed her. Now you are saying you did not? Which is it?”

“Aye. I mean, nae.” Fiona twisted her fingers together and sighed. “'Tis what I had to say.”

Kier raised a brow. “
Had
to say?” He hoped she wasn't hearing voices. Bad enough that Lona thought she saw ghosts and Dulcee muttered to invisible angels.

“'Twas Ada who pushed her.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Lona was nae walking fast enough. She was verra tired from the purge, so—”

“Wait. What purge? I saw no orders for that.”

“I doona ken about orders. The warden sent keepers to take Lona to the asylum this morn.” Fiona's grey eyes looked at him accusingly. “'Tis torture they do there.”

As if he didn't know. Damnation. If the orders—or the warden's minions—came when he was here, he was sometimes able to dissuade them from taking one of the women, but he couldn't stay home all the time. Kier didn't believe in purging, emetics or bleeding. In his estimation, the only reason those
remedies
made a patient submissive, was because the person was too debilitated to do anything else. Usually, those treatments were followed by a fasting diet, which kept the victim weak as well. He should have known by Lona's pallor something like that had occurred. Still, Kier needed to get to the bottom of this situation.

“Why had Seamus grabbed you then?” Even as Kier asked the question, he felt his fury rise again as it had when he'd seen Fiona's arm twisted behind her back and her face contorted with pain. He'd used every ounce of willpower not to rip the guard's hands off Fiona and throttle the man to within an inch of his life.

Fiona shrugged. “I pushed Ada away from Lona.”

Kier groaned. If the matron filed a report of assault with the warden, things would not go well for Fiona. “Violence is not tolerated.”

Her eyes turned stormy grey. “Ada started it.”

“Be that as it may, you cannot attack a matron of the asylum.”

Lightning flashed from Fiona's eyes. “'Twas nae an attack. I dinnae even have a weapon. If I had my
sgian dubh
, I could have taught the woman a wee lesson. My brother's claymore would be even better.”

Kier held up his hand. “Say no more.” He didn't want to think of Fiona as violent. The idea of her brandishing one of the huge Scottish swords was ludicrous. Could she even handle a knife? Kathleen threatened to murder her cheating husband on a regular basis—a feat Kier thought her capable of, but Fiona? She looked too delicate, like a wood sprite, not that they existed except in Irish children's tales. Was Fiona fantasizing about swords and knives? Kier didn't know which was worse—Fiona actually being violent or believing she could handle weapons.

“Ye doona believe me?”

Fiona's gaze was intense and Kier wondered how she'd read his emotions. He had long ago learned to keep his face impassive. “I… This conversation is not about weapons, although I wonder why you—”

“To defend myself,” Fiona answered before he could finish his question. “My brothers, Ian and Jamie, taught me.” She gave Kier a hopeful look. “Can ye send them a post? They'll come get me—or they will send my cousin, Shane. He owns a shipping line. Ye can ask for ransom—”

“You have not been abducted, Mrs. MacLeod.”

“I
have
. I doona ken why I am here.”

“Your father—”

“That mon who brought me here is nae my father. Please contact my brothers.”

Her brothers. Kier remembered something in the report Mr. Kelly had sent. According to her father, in not accepting her husband's death, Fiona's mind had turned and she thought her brothers-by-marriage were her blood kin. It would not be too much of a leap for her to think they were her protectors as well. Since they weren't here, it could explain why she thought she could handle weapons. He wished he could believe Fiona, but the idea was so far-fetched, the warden would be thinking Kier insane next—and he'd learned his lesson in trusting too easily and too soon from Lady Jane Clare.

“Perhaps you should rest, Mrs. MacLeod. You have had a very stressful day.”

Fiona's eyes widened. “Ye doona believe me. If ye will lend me a sword, I will spar with ye in the courtyard and place a wager on my winning.”

In spite of himself, Kier smiled at the imaginary picture. “Swords have very pointed tips, Mrs. MacLeod. I can hardly allow one of my guests access to one.”

Fiona considered him for a moment, then arched a slim brow. “I suppose ye will nae let me throw a knife either?”

Kier's grin widened and he shook his head. Oddly enough, he was enjoying the bizarre conversation, although what a pity that such a beautiful woman was delusional.

She stood suddenly and walked to the door, turning around as she opened it. “I am nae the one who is barmy,” she said and slammed the door behind her.

Kier stared at the door, stunned. Fiona had somehow read his mind again. How did she do that?

He tapped his fingers on the desk, wondering what he should do. Should he try to establish contact with these
brothers
of hers? When he first accepted inmates, the warden had warned him not to believe anything they said, since illusions were part of the illness. If these relatives-by-marriage existed and the
cousin
was the one who brought Fiona to Ireland by ship, that pretty much testified to the fact that these
relatives
wanted nothing to do with her.

Still, it wouldn't hurt to send a post. The warden's notes said Fiona came from Carlisle. He could send letters to her
brothers
there. Taking a piece of parchment from a stack on his desk, Kier dipped his quill in the inkwell and began to write.

Chapter Five

Well, she'd had her chance to talk to Kier alone and it had done no good. Fiona plopped down on the hardback chair she'd dragged over to the window that overlooked the sloping street behind the structure. Probably when this castle had been built—it looked as old as some of the ones in Scotland built after the Viking raids—the
street
had been a grassy hill with flat fields beyond. Now, brick buildings of assorted ages lined its crooked descent.

What in the world had made her talk to Kier about swords and knives, let alone ask for the weapons? Even if he thought her sane, which he obviously didn't, no man south of the Scottish Borders would understand that Highland women often trained for defense against invaders. The tradition dated back to Boudicca, the warrior queen who'd inspired the Romans eventually to build Hadrian's Wall—a story told many times in front of warm hearths on cold winter nights. Fiona's brothers made sure she and both her sisters could protect themselves, but Kier would probably think Fiona even more of a lunatic if she tried to convince him of that. She'd already learned in London women weren't supposed to have knowledge of much other than planning balls and dinners.

She should have used her time, even with Seamus standing guard in the hall, to tell Kier her side—again—of the wildly fabricated story that had brought her here. But how could she make him believe her when she could not prove anything?

Fiona lost track of time as she sat deep in thought. Dusk was falling when she heard the key turn in the door's lock. She tensed, expecting Ada in retribution mode, but it was only Erin with a plate of bread and cheese.

The maid set it on the table. “The master wanted to make sure ye had food.”

Fiona eyed the plate and then looked at Erin. At least the girl wasn't hurrying away. “Thank ye. Please doona be afraid of me.”

Erin tilted her head to one side, studying Fiona as she might a strange bug and then she smiled. “I saw ye give the bread to Lona. I don't think ye are crazy.”

Fiona wished she could hug the girl. “'Tis a relief to hear ye say that. Am I being kept in my room because of what happened this afternoon in the courtyard?”

Erin shook her head and went to the door. “The master gave orders that all ye lun—er, guests—be kept in your rooms this eve.”

Probably wise of him. Lona would still be weak and Fiona had no wish to exchange words with Kathleen again, to say nothing of confronting Ada. Fiona's sister Shauna always advised when tempers ran high, to give everyone time to calm down. Fiona's own nature was to tackle problems head-on, but she now saw the wisdom in Shauna's remarks. Time flattened harsh waves after stormy seas, although Fiona suspected what was brewing here was more than just troubled waters.

“May I ask ye something else?”

Erin hesitated, her hand on doorknob. “What?”

“These purgings…do they happen often?”

“Often enough.”

“'Tis hard to believe Mr. O'Reilly approves them.”

“He does not. That's a fact.”

Fiona frowned. “Then why does he allow it?”

Erin peeked out the door to check the hall and then whispered her reply. “He tries to stop it, but when he leaves, Ada sends word to the asylum and they come for one of the lun—guests.”

“For nae reason?”

Erin shrugged. “They say for healing.”

“Did it look like Lona was
healed
today?”

“Lona made Ada angry over seein' the ghost the other day.” Erin hesitated and then dropped her voice so low Fiona had to strain to hear. “Ye made the matron mad today too. Ye must be careful.” With those parting words, the maid turned and hurried out.

Fiona had no doubt she'd made the matron mad today, although she was pretty sure the irony of the word
mad
was lost on Erin. Whoever Walter Avery was, he had concocted a story that only made Fiona's protests corroborate the theory that she was insane. The warden at the asylum would be no help, since he was well paid for Fiona's
care
. Ada held power at the castle and she was wily enough to use it only when Kier was away—and Fiona had wasted her chance to get Kier to listen to her side.

The really dangerous lunatics weren't the one who were locked up.

What could she do besides bide her time and be alert for any means of escape? Fiona sighed and looked out the window and then blinked.

Two shadowy figures seemed to materialize from the castle wall and then disappear into the darkness of the street below.

“Ye seemed a wee bit distracted tonight,” Finley said after Kier and he had met with several Irish businessmen wanting to know how the O'Connell's trip to France had gone without alerting the English to their interest. “Is there a problem?”

Keir shook his head, although he didn't know if Finley saw the gesture since they were standing behind a building where the street lamp didn't shine. “Nothing that concerns our cause.”

Finley grinned, white teeth flashing in the dark. “Then it must be a woman.”

“Aye,” Kier replied, momentarily lapsing to his childhood brogue. Or maybe it was because he was thinking of Fiona's soft Scottish burr. How easy it would be to forget proper English grammar with her. For that matter, forget talking completely…but he wasn't about to let his mind take him where his body wanted to go. “That's the truth of it times four.”

His friend whistled. “Ye have four women on your mind?”

“Aye,” Kier said again, “but not how you are thinking.”

“I've the time for the story and a pint or two.”

“I wish I could, but I need to get back, before the hounds of hell are unleashed.”

“That bad, is it?”

Briefly, Kier told him what had occurred that day. “I find myself disagreeing more and more with the methods used at the asylum, even though the women staying at my house may have problems.”

Finley smiled. “I'm thinking the wee hellcat ye called Fiona might be a bit more of a problem than the others.”

“She does not act worse than the others.”

“'Tis not what I'm saying.”

“I treat her the same as I would anyone staying in my home,” Kier said gruffly.

Finley's grin broadened. “Ye may
treat
her the same, but ye cannot be denying what is in your heart.”

“My heart?” Kier almost choked. “Are ye—you—daft, man? Or did that time in France make ye—you—go soft?”

“The French do like to put a flourish on their words,” Finley said amiably, “but 'tis the Irish who brandish their hearts without fear.”

“My heart is just fine inside my chest.”

“
Ummph
.” Finley eyed him. “Ye should not judge all women by Lady Litton.”

“I don't want to talk about that conniving woman or what she did.”

“Fair enough. But I've known ye for five years. The fire went out of ye when Lady…when the woman left. Just now, I saw the spark of it back in your eyes when ye spoke of your wee hellcat.”

“She is not
my
hellcat.” Kier ran his fingers through his hair, wishing thoughts of riding the wee hellcat in his bed didn't keep intruding. The more he saw of Fiona's fiery spirit though, the stronger the fantasy grew. “According to the warden, the lady is so deep in grief for her dead husband that she cannot even admit she was married.”

“Are ye sure of that?'

“She denies being married.”

“'Tis not what I meant. Are ye sure she is a lunatic?”

“Why would she be here if she was not?”

Finley shrugged. “Sometimes a person is put away for another reason.”

“Like what?”

“I do not know. Just be sure ye have all the facts.”

All the facts. By St. Patrick. Kier wasn't sure of anything concerning his lovely wee guest. And that was the truth of it.

Wesley Alton smiled at the stone-faced guard, not caring the man only grunted in response. It spoke well of the asylum that its employees didn't cater to gratuitous gestures. A feeling of fulfillment swept over him as he briskly walked into the warden's office and took a seat.

All in all, the week since he'd arrived in Dublin with the MacLeod bitch had been extremely satisfying. What little of the English gentry that remained in Dublin since Parliament had been dissolved were more than happy to accept him into both the Kildare Street Club and Daly's. They even hailed him as a war hero when he had—most modestly after subtle manipulation of conversation—mentioned that he'd been the French spy, Gerard Fontaine, who had helped Arthur Wellesley win the battle of Vitoria. Wesley had conveniently left out the fact that he had been caught while spying
for
Napoleon but managed to convince his captors he was on the English side of the war.

Using the alias Gerard Fontaine would separate him from Walter Avery and any connection to the asylum or the woman who was an inmate there. Yes, all in all, Wesley was most pleased with himself. Once his visit with the warden was over, he planned to spend the evening at one of the clubs, celebrating.

Although Daly's had fallen into some disrepair since Kildare's had become more popular, Wesley preferred its old elegance. The gilt on the chairs was worn, the aurora-silk seat covers faded, but the marble chimneypieces were intact, a symbol of its one-time grandeur. He reveled in the refined atmosphere—French cognac served in heavy crystal snifters amid the hazy smoke of expensive cigars. This was his rightful world. He had been meant to hold the title and lands that his father's young widow inherited, except that Ian MacLeod had foiled Wesley's plans by marrying the woman.

But he would have his revenge. MacLeod's sister would be only a fragmented shell when Wesley was through with her.

He smoothed the fine wool of his frockcoat, admiring the softness of the weave that contrasted drastically to the scratchy, cheap clothing he'd worn in London. He was entitled to the finer things in life—and Dublin was a city ready to be exploited.

“I did not think I would see you so soon,” Mr. Kelly said as he entered the office. “Is something wrong?”

Wesley didn't bother to stand, although he assumed a concerned expression. “I wanted to inquire about my daughter before I left for France. It will be a good fortnight before I can return and I wanted to check on her.”

“Ah, yes, you said you did business in France,” Mr. Kelly said as he took a seat behind the desk. “Fiona seems to be doing fine.”

“Fine?” Wesley didn't want to hear
fine
. He wanted to hear a report of Fiona rebelling and subsequently being beaten.

“Well, relatively speaking. She did push a matron a few days ago.”

Wesley shook his head in mock despair. “I am afraid my daughter has quite a temper, but it has gotten worse with…with the present situation. What kind of punishment did she receive?”

Mr. Kelly searched through papers on his desk. “She was confined to her room.”

“Without food?”

The warden glanced at the note. “I believe she was allowed to eat.”

“Was she beaten?”

He shook his head. “Mr. O'Reilly frowns on beating women.”

“Who is O'Reilly?”

“He is the gentleman at whose home your daughter is lodged.”

“Home? What kind of home?”

“A residential place just down the road.”

“My daughter is not here?” Wesley felt rage beginning to build. “Why is she not in a cell here in the asylum? She needs the treatments you mentioned. All of them.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Avery. Your daughter is well-cared for. A trained matron—one who has had experience in such places—oversees her. I am alerted to any situation that arises.”

Wesley didn't want assurance. “I prefer that she be moved into the asylum.”

“At the moment, the women's ward is full. Also, when a woman of…substance is admitted, we try to give her better accommodations. You are, after all, paying for them.”

“Can't you put her in a cell by herself?”

Mr. Kelly frowned. “The only cells we have open are in the men's wards. Surely, you wouldn't want that?”

Barely managing to control his anger, Wesley rose. “We will discuss this again when I return from France.”

“Of course.” Mr. Kelly laid the paperwork down and rose as well. “Good day.”

Nothing was good about the day. Not anymore. Wesley fumed as he stomped off the grounds, not acknowledging the guard this time. Why wasn't the sly little bitch not chained to the wall in a cold cell like he had been in Bedlam? Damn it all. He'd been treated like a rabid animal until he'd managed to escape.
Damn it all
. He'd expected to see Fiona wild-eyed and already half-crazed. Instead, she was being kept like a damn guest in someone's house?

Maybe the MacLeod bitch had whored herself into better accommodations? Wesley's disposition brightened a bit. If that was what she'd done, it would be just another step to her total ruin. Men raped whores…he'd done enough of that himself. The act wouldn't be pleasant. Maybe it was just as well he'd made up the bit about a trip to France. Two weeks of the little whore being used by men like that guard would be pure justice and it would give Wesley time to think…and plan.

Because the current situation would not do. It would not do at all.