The Falcon's Bride (2 page)

Struggling with the wind in the doorway, he tried to close the door in the woman’s face, but the wind was too strong of a sudden. The heavy gusts slamming against it seemed to have risen out of nowhere, and Thea stifled a gasp, laying a gentle hand upon her betrothed’s bottle-green superfine coat sleeve.

“Nigel, please, she’s nearly frozen stiff!” she said, drawing his eyes. “What harm to let her warm herself beside the fire for a bit before she moves on?”

“And have her rob us blind for our pains?” he asked, incredulous. “You do not know these tinkers, my pet. Like as not, the rest of her band lies in wait close by. You have one in and you have the lot on your hands. She knows the rules. Bold as brass, these cheeky thieving Gypsies, by God.” The last was spoken through clenched teeth as he wrestled with the heavy door and the woman’s remarkable strength.

“For me . . . ?” Thea persisted. “She’s old, and I see no others about. How shall she best you—a poor frail shadow of a creature against a man of your stature, not to mention the servants at your command? You could handle any situation that might arise in a trice. Please, Nigel, ’tis Christmastide.”

Nigel stared down at her, his face a study in exasperation. The faint laugh lines that punctuated his thin lips deepened in a frown that took in his eyes as well, darkening the clear, sapphire blue to cold slate.

“This is not England, Thea,” he said, as though he were speaking to a child. That he was restraining himself was clearly evident. He had a temper. She’d seen it in action, but never directed at her. Was she testing the waters, or tempting fate? He didn’t give her the chance to decide. “These creatures are like locusts,” he went on. “They swarm over the land, picking it clean as they go. They know their place, but they stray from it with no compunction whatsoever,
and it is up to us, their betters, to keep them in it. You have only just arrived, puss. You are not yet accustomed to our Irish ways. You would do well not to interfere.”

“I do not think any of that has one thing to do with Christian charity,” said Thea, defiant. “That, and that alone, is my concern. One would not turn a dog out on such a night. Besides . . . I’ve heard tell that it’s bad luck to turn a Gypsy away without a token.”

Nigel rolled his eyes. He’d given over fighting with the heavy old door and the woman in the way. Regis and several liveried footmen had come forward and laid hands upon her.

“Please? For me?” Thea asked sweetly, hugging herself and dancing in place. The biting wind was raw and bitter, tearing through the twilled silk frock that bared her arms and décolleté. Already a dusting of white had blown through the open door, spilling over the sill. She had been cold before, but now she was fairly numb.

Nigel glowered, spoiling his handsome face. “Very well,” he said, with a dramatic, arm-sweeping bow from the waist. Waving the servants off, he said to the Gypsy, “Go ’round to the servants entrance in back. Regis, tell Cook to see she’s warmed and given bread and broth before she continues
on her way
.” The last was said while dosing the woman with a meaningful glare. She turned with a nod, but Thea’s hand shot out and gripped her bony arm through the snow-caked shawl.

“Through those drifts?” she said to her betrothed. “They are knee deep!” Then, to the woman as she pulled her over the threshold, extracting a collective gasp from the gathering: “Don’t be afraid, go with Regis. He will see you’re cared for, won’t you, Regis?”

The butler’s jaw dropped. The Gypsy stared at Thea long and hard, her wrinkled lips twitching, her long gray
hair straggling out from beneath the snow-covered head scarf. Thea took a chill not bred of the frosty night, staring into eyes that resembled a raven’s—small, shiny, and black. They shone with approval.

“I’m not the one who needs ta be afraid,” the woman said with a sly wink, her voice like gravel. “ ’Tis you that needs ta hear me words, young miss. ’Tis you I’ve come ta warn.” She slid her hooded eyes the length of Nigel Cosgrove, standing arms akimbo, the toe of his polished Hessian boot tapping the rhythm of his annoyance on the terrazzo underfoot.

“That will be quite enough!” he said, slamming the door with a crack that echoed. It had suddenly become quite manageable. Dosing it, and then Thea, with a withering glance, as if the whole unfortunate business were
her
fault, he took hold of the Gypsy and steered her toward the flabbergasted butler. “Deal with this at once and have done!” he charged. “My fiancée evidently has a soft spot in her heart for strays. I am not so disposed.”

The Gypsy dug in her heels. “Not before I speak me piece!” she said. “And there’s no need ta cross me palm with coin o’ the realm for it, neither—but it ain’t for the likes o’ the rest o’ you lot, what I’ve got ta say. . . .” Wrenching free, she staggered back, cupped her wrinkled hands around her mouth, and whispered in Thea’s ear.

The Gypsy’s breath was hot and foul, smelling of garlic and the ghost of strong ale. Thea shuddered as it puffed against her skin, and at the words themselves. The blood drained away from her hot cheeks and she scarcely breathed. The only sound then was the thumping of her heart and the wail of the wind outside, plaintive and forlorn, like a woman sobbing her sorrows in the night.

The Gypsy had scarcely stopped speaking when Nigel seized her arm, none too gently, and remanded her to the
reluctant butler’s custody. “See her fed and send her off!” he gritted through clenched teeth, “before I change my mind entirely. My patience is at low ebb—I warn you, one and all.”

“Remember what I’ve told ya,” the Gypsy said as Regis led her away. “Ya heed me words, young miss . . .” She said more, but out of range, and Thea turned back to the others, perplexed. While she didn’t understand the woman’s message, the urgency in its delivery was crystal clear.

“So this is Theodosia,” a high-pitched female voice shrilled over the discordant murmur leaking from the gathered servants. The speaker stilled them with a hand gesture.

Nigel took a firm hold of Thea’s arm, his anger palpable, and she sketched a curtsy.

“Yes, my lady,” she said, “but I prefer to be called ‘Thea,’ if you please.”

“Mmm,” said the countess, “how common. Well, I do
not
please. I shall address you as ‘Theodosia.’ It is a fine name—a respectable name. No need to cheapen it with a sobriquet.” Then, to Nigel, as if she weren’t there: “She needs taking in hand. She is not mistress of Cashel Cosgrove yet, m’boy. See to it. Now, then! If we are finished with theatrics for the moment, our supper grows cold.”

The countess turned, jutting her elbow for Nigel to latch onto and lead her into the dining hall. He obliged, and James, silent throughout the strange occurrence, seized Thea’s arm and inclined his dark head close.

“Steady, little sister,” he said in a whisper as they followed behind. “Your cheeks are positively crimson. Don’t let the old peahen get your goat.”

“So much for good first impressions,” Thea said dourly. “She’s dreadful, isn’t she?”

“Quite so, but you will charm her.”

“I don’t think I want to, James.”

“Stuff! You’re not marrying the countess, Thea. It’s Nigel that matters, and the chap’s quite smitten.”

Smitten, yes, but not bowled over
, Thea decided, monitoring Nigel’s bearing. Granted, she’d overreached herself, but he hadn’t defended her in a gentlemanly fashion. Instead, he had berated her before the servants—before
his mother
. She glanced behind. Regis and the Gypsy had disappeared in the shadows, and she drew a ragged breath feeling very alone all of a sudden. Even her brother was inclined to side with her betrothed. It did not bode well.

“What was all that back there?” James asked, calling her back to the present. “What set you off like that? Surely you realize you were out of line.”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Thea admitted. “It seemed so heartless to evict the poor creature in such a storm. That would never be the case at home. I am not liking Ireland, James.”

“Taradiddle! You’ll get used to it. ’Tis the winter that’s put you off; it’s heavenly in these parts in spring and summer. The land hereabouts is wild and beautiful then. The hunting is top notch. Edgar Farbershire bagged two awesome stags in the wood south of Drogheda last season. And the fox hunting! I shall be your perpetual gentleman guest, sister dear.”

“Nigel stands to inherit Cashel Cosgrove,” Thea went on, scarcely having heard. “He means for us to
live
here meanwhile . . .”

“Have you talked to him about your misgivings?” James asked, clouding.

“I don’t know as I have misgivings exactly. It’s just that . . . Oh, I know, he is the catch of the season amongst the crop of second sons in the offing. He’s from one of the richest families in the ton, he’s handsome—everything a girl could want in a husband. But . . .”

“But you aren’t in love with him. Is that it?”

“Father says that will come in time. You know how he wants this match. The Cosgroves are high in the instep. He means to tap that resource. And Mother! She has visions of
following the drum
, as it were, of coercing Father into buying a property hereabout, and setting up housekeeping as far from his doxy as she can range herself. She thinks that will end the affair. No! I shan’t go into Mother.”

“What’s come over you?” James asked, studying her. How clear and violet his eyes were. Were hers really as bright? She hoped so. Everyone always praised them, but Divine Providence had a way of favoring the male of the species before the female when it came to looks, and she’d always thought him handsome, and herself drab by comparison.

“Nothing,” she lied. His look told her she hadn’t gotten away with it, and she sighed. “All right,” she said. She had never been able to flummox him. “He could be more attentive, James, and I didn’t care for the way he embarrassed me in company just now.”

He laughed. “Is that all? I was set to take you to task myself, and would have done if he hadn’t. That independent streak of yours is legendary, sister dear. It was refreshing when we were young, but we are not children now, and these are not accustomed to such . . . outspokenness in a young lady of quality. All Irish aren’t bog-stomping muck savages. The Irish aristocracy strives more diligently than we English to rise above a negative image. You needs must behave, unless you fancy putting on your caps. You’re one and twenty after all. You’ve had two seasons with no takers. Is that because you are choosy to a fault? Have you set your standards too high? You’ll never convince me that you’ve been passed over because of your looks.” Avoiding his gaze, Thea didn’t answer. “Well,” he went on, clearing his voice, “you aren’t likely to do better than Nigel Cosgrove now and everybody benefits. You ought to thank
your lucky stars that Father interceded. You were well on your way to becoming a proper spinster.”

Thea supposed so, though she didn’t say it. James wouldn’t understand. He was a man after all. Men looked at such things differently. Besides, how could she tell him that, while she longed for a man who would revere and cherish her, she secretly fantasized giving her virtue to a man possessed of lusty passions that would awaken her own, like the heroes in the scandalous novels and poems she wasn’t supposed to be reading? The gentlemen she’d met during her two failed seasons either showed promise in one of those areas or the other, never both. Nigel had come close to her heart’s desire at home, when he was courting her and on his best behavior, but now . . .

They had nearly reached the dining hall, and the mere thought of sitting at table with the countess now was having its way with Thea’s resolve. The way Nigel danced attendance—albeit with disdain—to his mother was nauseating. He reminded her of a trained bear she’d once seen at Astley’s Amphitheatre: dancing along obedient as you please at the end of its chain with the slightest tug, but a dangerous killer once shot of it. It was clear who ruled the roost, and he obviously resented it. Was this why he was so insufferable with everyone else? She shuddered.

“You’re trembling,” James remarked. “You took a dreadful chill back there. Shall I go up and fetch your shawl?”

“No, no, it’s just that . . . I do not relish facing the countess after . . . you know . . .”

“Mmm. Can’t say as I blame you, but it must be done. Enough now! Bear up! You’ve got some serious fences to mend, my girl.”

“You’re a good brother and a capital friend, James Barrington,” she murmured fondly, squeezing his arm.

“And well I know it,” he replied with a wink. Then he
clouded. “Look here, what did that blasted Gypsy say to you?” he asked. “You went absolutely white—like you’ve just done now.”

The dining hall arch loomed larger than life before her, and so there wouldn’t be time to tell it even if she were willing. Instead, Thea laid a finger over her lips and put on her bravest face as her brother handed her over the threshold. The Gypsy’s cryptic message would have to wait. She was still trying to sort it out herself. She’d sensed something untoward the minute she saw the woman trudging through the snow from her chamber window, and the chill that riddled her now had nothing to do with the cold in the drafty old castle.

“Never mind,” her brother agreed. “ ’Tisn’t important, it’s over. You’ll never see the odious old crone again.”

But entering the drafty dining hall on her brother’s arm, Thea didn’t believe that for an instant.

Chapter Two

Thea was ill at ease all through that first dinner at Cashel Cosgrove, though no mention was made of the earlier incident with the Gypsy. Nigel seemed distant through the first two courses. It wasn’t until they’d cleansed their palates with fragrant lemon and rosewater ice before the meat course that he took part in the conversation. It probably wouldn’t have happened at all, thought Thea, if James hadn’t inquired about the history of the castle. She almost wished he hadn’t. She was set to cry off and beg to be excused from the table once he’d gotten past the Great War of 1641 in his narrative. He was giving an account of Oliver Cromwell’s march on Drogheda, when a name was mentioned that froze her spine rigid in her chair.
Drumcondra
. After that, wild horses could not have dragged her from the table.