The Ground She Walks Upon (10 page)

"Such hatred in those eyes." Trevallyan's lips suddenly twisted in a dark smile.

She cast her gaze to the forest floor. She hadn't wanted him to know she hated him. Knowing her hatred gave him a power she didn't want him to have. He could mock her with it, and the emotion was too deep for jest.

She glanced at him through tangles of black hair. She might hate Trevallyan, but she would no longer fear him. He was no terrible ogre, she reassured herself, just a man of flesh and blood, a man with human weaknesses and frailties like her own. She looked at him again, puzzled, and tickled by a new fear she had no experience with, one that seemed to grow with every glance at him. She remembered Trevallyan as an old man. Though he had to be twenty years older than she, he suddenly didn't seem so old anymore. She was the one who had fully changed from a girl to a woman with a will and way of her own, but he was the one who seemed different. She couldn't shake the odd notion that he was actually
a
fair handsome man, and it bedeviled her as to why, when she'd been
a
girl, she'd never noticed how piercing his pale aqua eyes were, nor how handsome and hard his lips were. He was only a man. But the way he looked at her now made her feel more anxious than when she'd been caught stealing in his chambers.

His cool aqua gaze wandered down to her ruined clothing. She'd only worn a rough linen blouse and a dark blue wool skirt and apron to do the laundry. Though not valuable, the blouse was ripped on one side, revealing an expanse of shoulder, her apron was long missing, and her skirt was in tatters, punctured and ripped by canine teeth, dirtied with burrs and stray sticks from her gallop through the woods.

His gaze flickered down to her bare feet. She felt like a street urchin. No doubt he still thought her one. The Weymouth-Hampstead School for Young Ladies had failed, and she didn't know if she was happy about it or chagrined.

"Why were you walking on my land?" he asked, any gentleness in his voice gone.

She gave him a poisonous stare, the kind that made the rotten, hurtful little girls at school run away from her and call her a witch. "Your hounds chased me here. I was not on your property."

"Most of this county is Trevallyan land. If you were here in these woods, you were on my property."

She ached to tell him how unfair it was that he, one of the Ascendency, owned so much land when the Celts were in Ireland first. Instead, she kept her mouth closed and looked down at her tattered skirt.

"Trevallyan," a young man on a steed called to him. Ravenna looked up and saw that he was in a group of men who seemed to be chuckling among themselves. They gave her several raw glances, and she could just imagine the lewd comments they were making about her ragtag appearance and her obviously lower class. Anger seethed within her like a slow boiling kettle.

But then suddenly the young man smiled at her, and it was such a handsome smile she had to fight the urge to return it.

"Your unchivalrous nature is showing, Trevallyan," he said, pushing his mount forward. "If these were my lands and I had such a fair damsel in distress chased down by my hounds, I would invite her to the castle for a syllabub and my apologies." The young man doffed his cap to her. He was a blonder, younger version of Trevallyan, yet without Trevallyan's Irish accent. "The Right Honorable Chesham of Coventry, at your service, my lady. Lord Trevallyan and I are fourth cousins twice removed."

She stared up at the young man, wary of his handsome looks and charm. Hardened by her years of English schooling, she'd believed English lords like the Ascendency were the devil incarnate. Malachi had told her so once very long ago. Never had he said they would look like Adonis.

"She's been struck speechless, Chesham," said another man atop a Thoroughbred, flanked by two young squires. He had a drunken gleam in his eyes, and he swayed in the saddle. "Reginald Ramsay, at your service, fair lady. If Trevallyan will not apologize for his ill-treatment of you, then I shall do so for all the good men of England." He bowed to her and almost fell off his horse.

Her eyes widened. Their pretty words flattered her; made her soften. Like Little Red Riding Hood in a pack of wolves, she looked up at the gentlemen, anxious to repel their charm because she knew all too well they liked to have her kind for supper.

"Bonjour, mon ange noire. Je suis Guy de la Connive, a votre service,"
a third man said in a forced French accent. He was very dark, extremely handsome, and as Ravenna could see, very much in love with himself. Posing on his horse to give her his best facial angles, he said in flawless English, "Is this what the druids call a wood nymph, Trevallyan? If so, then I am suddenly very much interested in Celtic history."

The fourth man grunted his agreement. He was handsome also, beautiful in truth, the very model of manhood. Even without the poses of Guy, who had made a great effort in his introduction to pronounce his name the French way, "Gee," with a hard G, this fourth man was perhaps the most handsome man she had ever seen.

"Is pleasure to meet you," the man said with an Italian accent that was so thick it had to be authentic. He swept back a long hank of blond-brown hair with a practiced jerk of his head. "Long, long time I ride in wood. Wait for girl look like you."

He paused as if waiting for a reply. She merely watched him, mesmerized by his incredible looks, astounded by his bad, inscrutable English, stumped that such a beautiful male creature could have such a dull cast to his gaze, a reflection, she feared, of the intelligence within. He made her recall the bluestocking wit, Mrs. Fitzherald, who once said, "I'm not fond of handsome men—one always fears they'll be dumb."

"Is compliment to girl," the Italian said, prompting her for more of a response than her awestruck stare. He began to look annoyed, and finally she smiled, relieved. If the Beautiful Creature could feel insulted, then at least he wasn't as dimwitted as she feared.

"This is Count Fabuloso," Guy smoothly introduced. He waved back the tall, well-built count, who dwarfed the stallion beneath him. The two men jockeyed forward as if fighting for position in front of Ravenna.

At these shenanigans, Trevallyan's bad humor seemed to get worse. He said in a contemptuous tone, "Chesham, tell your friends that they needn't fall over themselves to ingratiate themselves with this chit. She's unharmed except for some torn clothing, and she's on her way home where she belongs." He looked at her, waiting for her to leave.

She pulled herself upright and stared him in the eyes. If Grania had taught her the Evil Eye, she would have turned him into stone. "My skirt is ruined, Lord Trevallyan. Your hounds did the damage. As I have paid for my mistakes, so must you pay also. You owe me for the cost of my clothes. I'll not be going until you pay me."

He laughed. A rather dark, nasty sound. "What? You think I carry my gold with me when I go hunting? I'll send Greeves over with some coins tomorrow,"

"Tomorrow,"
she scoffed. "You English aren't honorable with your debts. Everyone knows that."

He grabbed her arm with a grip of surprising strength. "To begin with, I'm Irish," he answered, his voice ominous and hard, "as Irish as you and your kind are. The Celts aren't the only ones who've been here for hundreds of years. Secondly, have no fear I'll pay. No doubt the cost of the shabby clothes you wear is less than I pay my sculleries for an hour's time."

"I might not have your wealth, Lord Trevallyan," she spat, "but if you do not make reparation for this wrong, then I declare you a man without honor." She jerked her arm from his hold. Stepping back, she gave him one last disparaging look before she turned to go.

"Wait!" Lord Chesham called out.

She glanced over her shoulder, her expression one of expected disillusionment.

"Niall, tell the girl we must make reparations for what we've done to her," Chesham announced slyly. "I think dinner at the castle might set her a-rights, what do you think?"

Trevallyan stared at his cousin as if he'd just declared himself mad.

Ravenna stood deadly still and glanced at both men. Chesham's offer of dinner was beyond condescending, especially since she could tell by his manner and the way he and his cronies snickered among themselves when they thought she was not looking that they thought her little better than a scullery from the castle kitchen. Still, it amused her to see Trevallyan put in such a tight spot. To refuse Chesham's dare would make him look like an ogre. To accept was clearly his most despised nightmare.

"What say you, Niall?" Chesham prompted.

She watched Trevallyan seethe. If his reluctance hadn't been so insulting, she might have been amused. Finally, wanting to end the whole affair, she turned to go once more, but Trevallyan's voice, devoid of warmth or grace, rang out behind her.

"You would be most welcome to attend dinner tonight at the castle."

She turned, unable to hide the shock that surely crossed her features. Trevallyan looked as if he'd just been forced to stay an execution he'd been wishing for, but Chesham looked as pleased as a cat before a saucer of cream.

With eyes false and pleading, Chesham said to her, "We would be honored, Miss...? What is your name, fair maiden, if I may ask?"

She blushed to the tips of her toes, feeling like the fool Trevallyan thought she was. Defiant about using a trumped-up last name, she stared at the men and said evenly, "My name is Ravenna."

"Ravenna. Of the black hair. Beautiful." Chesham dismounted, every motion a smooth play of seduction. He took her hand and made a grand gesture of kissing it in front of the others. She knew her face had to be the color of cherries. "I especially would be honored, Ravenna, if you would dine with me tonight."

"You're really overdoing it now," Trevallyan said, his expression filled with disgust.

Ravenna looked at the young Lord Chesham and Trevallyan. Both were blond men, but one had the face of an angel, the other the face of the devil. Trevallyan's anger goaded her to defy him all the more. He was clearly most put out that Lord Chesham had forced him to invite her to dinner. To him, she was nothing but a low-born Irish bastard, just as the Weymouth-Hampstead girls regarded her.

So she
would
eat at the castle, she thought rebelliously. She would take them up on the invitation just to prove to the lot of them that she was good enough to do such things. Despite her birth, she was good as anyone else in County Lir.

Then she thought of Kathleen Quinn.

The exalted Kathleen, with her beautifully-plaited blond hair pinned to her nape. Kathleen, in her sky-blue silk dress, she pictured sitting grandly in the banquet hall of Trevallyan Castle, conversing easily with an English lord. Kathleen would have been accepted by the girls at the Weymouth-Hampstead School. A woman like Kathleen was the kind to have dinner at the castle. Not a misfit like Grania the Witch's granddaughter.

"I must be going," she said softly, ending the matter. She hadn't really wanted to eat at the castle anyway. Besides, she had nothing to wear but the scratchy wool dress she'd worn to Peter Maguire's funeral, and that was hardly festive enough for a dinner party with the peerage.

"Will we see you tonight? At eight perhaps?" Lord Chesham asked, taking her hand and pulling her back. "I'll have Trevallyan send his coach for you."

"Move along, Chesham," Trevallyan nearly barked. "The girl has declined. She has no business at the castle in any case."

Not her kind,
she finished his thought for him. Her violet-blue eyes met Trevallyan's; her own sparked with defiance. "I'd love to have dinner with you, Lord Chesham."

Trevallyan shook his head in despair. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Chesham's face break out in a grin. The others sat their mounts and watched the proceedings unfold like a match between the Christians and the lions.

"Good. I'll have Trevallyan break out his best cognac for the occasion," Chesham purred.

"I'm afraid, Lord Chesham," she said, turning to him, "that your host won't be so hospitable. 'Tis fine to chase the people of this county with his hounds. 'Tis another thing altogether to invite them to take bread at the table of the Ascendency."

Her gaze slid to Trevallyan. She waited for his anger.

He hid it well. Calmly, he faced her, and if not for the wicked light in his eyes, she would have never suspected it.

"'Tis untrue what you say about me, Ravenna. So come to dinner. Let me prove to you the kind of Ascendency you have in County Lir." His gaze flickered over her figure, lingering restlessly on the blouse that was torn and dirty. He lowered his voice until it was for her ears only. "Yes. Come to the castle. You're no child any longer. Come to dinner. 'Tis time you and I have out with it."

She looked at him, confusion flitting across her face.

Trevallyan began to laugh. The men on their horses danced around them as if they were anxious to be a part of the conversation. Ravenna could take no more.

She lifted her chin and looked straight at Lord Chesham.

In her best imitation of the Weymouth-Hampstead haughtiness, she said, "The coach may pick me up at eight."

She gathered her torn and dirtied skirt and walked from the clearing toward the main post road. Refusing to even think of Trevallyan, she stared at her angry white-knuckled fists and filled her mind with pictures of Chesham and his unbelievably handsome cohorts. But then she noticed the gold serpent ring, which she now wore on her third finger. Against all sanity, she began to wonder if Trevallyan still wore his ring and if the two rings were as similar as she remembered. She hadn't noticed his ring in their encounter in the woods, but if nothing else, the night ahead promised there would be ample chance to find out.