The Ground She Walks Upon (19 page)

He laughed. It was a deep black-humored chuckle that rumbled up from his chest. She thought he might let her go. Instead, he held her tight and whispered, "If you had answered any other way, I might not have wanted to do this." Slowly he lowered his face. In a warm breath, he murmured, "This time there is no laudanum. This time you will know whom you are kissing."

She gave one jerk of her head for him to release her, but his hand on her nape was too strong. His mouth pressed down on her own, beckoning her to succumb. She refused, fighting the kiss with every grain of her strength; still, he was winning. His lips still held hers in a warm, hungry kiss, and moment by moment, his hold on her softened as his seduction grew more powerful and she began to melt in a slow surrender.

Malachi's attempted kisses had never been like this. There was a calculation in Trevallyan's movements that strangely thrilled her. Where Malachi's brusque lovemaking had been like the rut of an animal, Trevallyan's was like being wooed ever so gently, ever so smoothly, ever so blindly, over to the devil. He was manipulative, as complex as a spider's web, and with every repealed pull of his lips upon hers, she wondered how she was going to escape the maze of his weavings.

In the end, the choice was not her own. As slowly as he had begun the kiss, he pulled back, making her wallow in every strange, mixed-up feeling he had given her. He fingered her kiss-burned lips as if his touch were salve. She wanted to spit on him, slap him, anything that would make him feel as damned and confused as she was feeling now. But she tried no retaliation. Anything she could do would look childish. He would only laugh at her, increasing her humiliation. He was king in Lir. He was God. He was even magistrate. She had no power over him. Only the power to reject. And reject him she would, for she despised him. Never more than right at that moment.

"I sent Grania a note telling her about your accident," he said softly. "The physician said you should have bed rest for a week. I've informed your grandmother about all of this. She knows when to expect you back."

Ravenna was suddenly glad for one thing. Trevallyan's vileness had diverted her from her aching head. But now she felt the room spin and she began to realize that her eyes squinted from the pain in her head.

"I won't endure your hospitality for that long, I assure you." She rubbed her temples and looked around the room for her clothes. Then she remembered again she had worn nothing but a night rail when he'd found her.

Feeling cursed, she drew back onto the pillows and said, "If you would be so kind as to have Grania send me some clothes..."

"She'll send you a gown when the physician says 'tis time for you to leave. In the meanwhile, I believe you look rather pale. I suggest you get some sleep," he stood and walked to the door, "and pray for Malachi MacCumhal's soul."

She opened one eye and glared at him. Like a fencer who wished to be the last to parry, she said, " 'Tis your soul you should be concerned with, my lord. You may be meeting your maker sooner than you think." She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth as if it had left a bad taste there. "Especially if you try to kiss me again."

She fell into a fitful sleep. Greeves entered the chamber at one point with another servant, who brought her a tray of food, but the tray remained untouched as Ravenna dozed in the enormous four-poster bed, the darkness of closed eyes the only balm for her aching head.

When she fully awoke, it was night. Candle shadows danced from the lit lusters that had been placed upon the caryatid mantelpiece, and the leaded glass of the huge windows were moist from the heat emanating from the fireplace. A servant had come and gone once more, for there was a hot pot of tea on a tray lined with pristine linen, and her pillows had been fluffed and placed in order behind her still aching head.

She wanted to get out of bed and stretch her sore muscles. She was pleased and disconcerted to find one of Trevallyan's Kashmir dressing gowns laid across the foot of the bed, should she care to use it.

"Bother him," she grumbled, and reached for the black dressing gown. Its softness amazed her, and when she wrapped it around her body she was further bedeviled by the fact that it smelled faintly of vetiver soap and something else... or rather, someone else.

She rolled up the heavy emerald-green satin cuffs and touched her bare feet to the cold stone floor. Thick ruby-colored Persian rugs with birds and the Tree of Life design were scattered across the floor, and she used them for stepping-stones to the antechamber, where a pleasant little fire burned at the hearth, and the chair-side table was stacked with ancient, well-read tomes.

After pouring herself a cup of tea, she sat in one of the two chairs. It was habit to take the lesser of two things, perhaps because of her days at the English school, so she sat in the used, worn chair first, pointedly avoiding the newer one. Yet, no matter how she tried, which way she shifted, she couldn't get comfortable. The chair had been broken in in all the wrong places. Where she needed give, it bumped out, and where she needed support, the upholstery was worn down into a hollow. It should have been a comfortable chair regardless, for even in its age, it was a fine chair and well-made, but for some inexplicable reason, it proved nothing short of medieval torture for her. Unable to bear it, she lifted herself from the seat and stepped to the newer adjoining chair. She sank into it and released a sigh of exquisite comfort. It fit just right.

With her thoughts again able to return to the situation
at
hand, she snuggled down into the chair and searched the room. Undoubtably, her dignity would be salvaged if she opened the door and trotted back to Grania's right now, but her forehead still ached abominably, and she couldn't summon the wherewithal to plan an escape. Short of one stolen kiss, Trevallyan had been more than generous with his hospitality. He had procured a physician and had even allowed her the most luxurious room in the castle in which to recuperate. She had nothing to complain about except for her host's rather boorish behavior, and it wasn't likely that Trevallyan would be visiting her often. It was probably wise that she stay a few days. The walk home seemed interminable and would probably only do her further harm. Besides, her head still hurt abominably and there was a tender red welt across her temple where one of the horses' shoes must have met with her head.

She sank further into the chair and made the decision to accept her temporary quarters. In a few days she would feel more like herself and would be able to return home on her own. For now, she would rest, and keep her mind off Trevallyan, the thought of whom made her head pound even more.

The years went by. War with their neighbors dragged on, moving painfully on bloody, battled feet. Skya's sisters grew into women, and Grace, the younger and more headstrong of the two, was the one to first ask about Skya.

"Papa, I remember the dragon," she said one day while her father, the king, was busy with his war minister.

"My good, fair daughter, there, there, how nice. Now move along," the king answered distractedly. " 'Tis been a year since Prince Aidan has disappeared and King Turoe has just sent a note citing heinous retribution if we don't surrender his son.

"Why don't you surrender him, Father?" Grace asked with an innocent's logic.

"We haven't got him, my sweet. We don't know where the man has gone off to. Prince Aidan may have died on his travels, but his father, King Turoe, believes we hold him captive. I fear until he seizes our castle and searches it himself, he will not believe us."

"Have we sent a messenger and told King Turoe this?"

The king rubbed his finely bearded jaw in frustration. "My dear, it's not as simple as all that. I have sent messengers. For a year, I've done so, but in war one isn't always believed. Prince Aidan was last seen to the north of our kingdom, and so his people have concluded that he is held captive here at the castle. All we can do now is defend ourselves against these new attacks. Now you can see Papa is very busy, so be a good girl and—"

"Papa, did the dragon kill Skya? I had a dream about her. 'Tis been so long since I saw her—I was a child when we encountered the dragon—is that why she is no longer with us? Is she dead?"

The king looked down at his youngest daughter, who had grown into the full bloom of womanhood. He looked damned, cursed, as if he didn't know how to explain anything of the confusing world to so pure a creature as Grace. "Child—oh, if only you were still a child—your sister is gone because she had powers our people little understand and greatly fear. She lives in isolation, and there she must
live until... until"—the king seemed to find a strange lump in his throat—"well, for a very long time. Until our people understand her and accept her as one of their own." He looked away as if hiding something wet and sad in his eyes. "Go along with you, Grace. I'm very busy now."

"Where does she live?" Grace asked as she picked up her velvet kirtle and headed for the door.

Ravenna grew more and more sleepy until the glass pen went limp in her grasp and its point wept black ink onto the bottom of the page. Her head lolled back onto the plump, like-new leather chair, and she had one last thought before slumber took hold. 'Twas a curious shame so beautiful a chair had gone unused, lo, these many years.

T
revallyan entered
his apartments with a candelabra in his hand to chase away the shadows. He walked through the darkened antechamber, and to his surprise, he found his bedstead empty, the covers thrown aside in a haphazard manner as if the occupant had been in haste to leave it.

A thin light sputtered from the mantel where the luster's flames were drowned in a pool of beeswax. He raised the candlelabra to better illuminate the room, but she was nowhere to be found. Ravenna was gone as if spirited away by the moss faeries.

He looked toward the antechamber doors. The glow of coals dying in the hearth painted the small room an unnatural devilish red. When he entered it, he was unable to put his finger on exactly what was out of place, on what was bothering him. Then he froze in his tracks.

The chair. There it was.
The
chair. The one that had never been used.
She
was in it.

He stared, unable to summon the force to propel himself forward. His urge was to snatch her from the seat and shake her until her head spun. He didn't want her in that chair. The chair was special. Waiting. But not for her.
Never
for her. Yet he knew he couldn't do anything rash. If he forbade her a seat in the chair he might reveal himself to be a lunatic. And he didn't want to do that. He was a rational, intelligent man who rarely got bested. Even now, he told himself it shouldn't bother him what chair she chose to sit in.

But it did. It did.

She sighed and snuggled deeper into the upholstery, appearing completely at ease. As if the chair had been made for her.

He scowled and eased himself down into his own chair, staring. She was Satan's angel, asleep in
his
chair, her black tresses falling across the leather-upholstered arm like a widow's veil. In the demon light, she looked wickedly beautiful, incongruously innocent. Everything about her tempted him.

He squeezed his eyes closed. He would not be bested. He would not succumb. Superstition and fate, they were nothing but the products of coincidence. Intelligence was what mattered. Using his brain and not his loins would win him this fight against stupidity. And he wanted to win, didn't he?

He growled an oath.

Grace took the news of her sister's exile very hard. At night she found she had difficulty sleeping because her mind pictured Skya alone and weeping into her apron. She heard the sound of human wails in a dark woods where no human sounds were ever heard.

She awoke one morning with the determination to seek out her sister and rescue her. If that was not possible, if Skya refused to return, then Grace wanted to at least bring her sister a stein of red wine and some occasional company.

Niall replaced the paper on the table beside Ravenna's sleeping figure. A little begrudgingly, he had to admit her writing was a fine piece of work. One that showed skill and imagination, and the ability to take its reader by the hand and lead him into another world. Indeed, he wanted to read on, but he knew there was no more. The story was now just a fragment; the rest had yet to be written, but what little he had read proved an intelligence and sensitivity he didn't want to grant existed in a girl he had found running shamelessly in the night.

Reluctantly, he forced himself to look at her. He'd been rather shocked by the sight of her in the chair, but now the shock was lessening. He had bought the chair for his wife long ago, before he even knew who his wife would be. There was irony in the
geis,
if nothing else. The thing was beginning to have a personality of its own, mocking him at every turn.

He looked down at the sleeping girl. Her pink lips were parted in slumber and her heavy black lashes created smudged shadows beneath her closed eyes. She looked pale and vulnerable and in need of protection. It rather irked him to see her that way. Pale and vulnerable. Trustingly asleep in his chamber, in
his
chair, as if there were no such things as big, bad wolves.

A bit more roughly than needed, he placed his hand beneath her jaw and pushed her head up.

Slowly, the glorious black lashes fluttered open. She met his gaze with a steady one of her own. He was pleased to see the slight glimmer of fear in the violet depths of her eyes. Think what he might of the girl, he had to admit she was not unintelligent.

"You should not be out of bed," he said brusquely.

"I was not only out of bed, but on my way out the door." She pulled back from his touch, irritation enlivening her dark-angel face.

He glanced with amusement between the bed and the massive carved doorway. "And you needed a nap in between? Methinks you tire easily."

She didn't bother to answer; instead, as if a dread thought had just occurred to her, she straightened in the chair, swept back her hair, and covertly searched for the paper. When she saw it on the table, she seemed to relax.

"What have you been doing all evening?" He was pleased how the question seemed to unnerve her.

"I—I was reading. I didn't think you'd mind. You've so many books." With apprehension in her eyes, she stared at him like a mouse waiting for the barn cat.

"What have you been scribbling over here?"

He nonchalantly reached for the paper on the table. She leapt out of the seat like a wraith.

"Don't look at that! 'Tis mine!" She snatched it from his hand. To her obvious chagrin, he began to laugh.

Glaring at him, she said, "You read this while I was asleep. How dare you! How rude!"

"I thought you might be penning inflammatory pamphlets. One can't be too careful with the likes of your friends, me girl," he said, unable to stop the black laughter that emanated from his chest.

"You thought no such thing. You were snooping. At least admit your crime."

"All right. I was snooping. So what exactly are you writing? I couldn't decipher it."

She appeared wounded. "I'm writing a novel."

His laughter broke out anew. "Indeed? That's rich." He could see she despised him. Her venomous stare could kill a boar.

"And why do you mock me? What's wrong with my becoming a novelist? 'Tis a fairy tale I'm writing. I think it most suitable for women."

"You'll never get it published. Why don't you spend your time sketching, or improving your needlework like any other gentlewoman?"

"Give me one reason why I shall fail at this." She placed her hands on her hips and dared him to answer.

He stared at her, dismayed at her spirit, beguiled by her appearance. "I can give you one reason, and then a multitude," he said slowly. Despite wanting to appear aloof, he couldn't stop his gaze from flickering down her figure. Admiration—and something not nearly so pure—crossed his features as he regarded the way her curves wore his dark, masculine dressing gown. What was it about a woman in heavy masculine clothes that made her seem five times softer and more curvaceous than in her own clothes? Looking at her, he knew he would be forever vexed by the question.

"You won't get published," he stated, "because you're a female. Publishers just don't publish novels by a woman."

"They've published some women. And women may like to read what I write. I write about heroines."

"You're ignoring the fact that the chaps in London aren't going to take you seriously. Publishing is an ancient business, run by men. They don't care to read what women like. All that romance. Why, I shudder to think about it."

"But if there was money to be made, they would publish a woman."

He heaved a sigh, wondering how he could make this small, fragile, bulldoggish female understand. "Women may indeed want to read novels such as yours, but they'd best settle on penny gothics because that's all there will ever be for you ladies. No man wants to read about a woman. That is, unless she's the victim of a tragedy."

"I've tragedy in my novels."

"Then why don't you take a
nom de plume.
Niall Trevallyan is a nice name."

Her expression seemed very far away, as if she were already having reveries about her success. "No, I shall write under my own name, 'Ravenna.' I shall become a great novelist, and if the literary community laughs at me and disparages my work because my heroines triumph over their tragedies, and over men, then so be it. I shall be beloved by my readers."

"Silly girl. You will lose that battle."

" ' A wild wish has just flown from my heart to my head, and I will not stifle it.... I do earnestly wish to see the distinction of sex confounded in society....' " Ravenna stared at him, and added, "... and in publishing."

He groaned. He couldn't believe it. Where had this child been spawned? He couldn't quite pin her down. Just when he thought he had her character assessed, he discovered another facet of her character he'd never counted on. "Don't throw Mary Wollstonecraft at me. And where did you read all her nonsense anyway?"

"One of my teachers had
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman
in her room. She let me read it whenever I was invited to tea."

He stared at her, confounded. Ireland was rumbling with rebellion for the Home Rule, and yet, here was this little ember of a woman talking of equality between the sexes. Perhaps 'twas a good thing she was a bastard and not raised papist. He couldn't wait to see what Father Nolan would have to say about her outrageous thinking. Wickedly, he made a mental note to invite the father and Ravenna both to tea. Already he had several incendiary comments tucked away in his head to ignite that little tete-a-tete.

"I shall get published, just you wait, Lord Trevallyan."

Her determination impressed him. "They will never accept you."

"Perhaps not men. But that's only half the population."

" 'Tis the only half that matters."

"Now."

She tossed him a quiet, secretive smile that could have seduced Saint Patrick to stroll through the fires of all hell.

His stomach rolled into strange knots as he watched her clutch the satin lapels of the dressing gown to her breasts and walk to the coal-lit hearth.

She was nothing like he had thought she was. Every time he had her caged, he only had to look behind him and she was there, taunting him to capture her once more.

"Is this career as a great novelist going to save you and your grandmother from poverty, or will you marry Chesham instead?"

She extended her hands toward the glowing coals, her composure unruffled by his thinly veiled insult. "What business this is of yours, I shall never know, but since you insist upon prying into my life, I will tell you. I pray my work gets published, but Grania and I do not depend upon it. We receive a stipend every month from my father."

"Father...?" He nearly choked. "But you don't get that money from him. You don't even know who he is." He could have kicked himself once the words were out.

Her eyes glittered like a cat's. Angrily, she said, "My father loved me dearly, Lord Trevallyan. Though he hadn't the chance to marry my mother, he nonetheless saw to my care and upkeep. Grania won't admit where the money comes from, but I know just the same that it is my father who has provided for me. He loved me."

Now that's a
real
fairy tale, he thought, silently watching her, but she was so poignantly defiant about her father's love, nothing short of a pistol to his head would have made him admit at that moment that it was he, not her disreputable father, who had paid for her upkeep all these years. "My guess is that he did not deserve such a devoted daughter," he said softly.

She seemed pained, as if struck by regret. "No. I think he must have deserved much better."

There was a long moment as they both stared into the fire, each seemingly absorbed in his or her own thoughts.

Finally, she whispered, "Have they caught Malachi yet?"

Niall looked at her melancholy profile until it was burned into his mind. "They say he has escaped into another county. No doubt his cronies'll get him shipped to America. You'll probably never see him again."

The pain in her eyes made him suck in his breath. Anger grew and consumed him. It licked like flames at his heart. Especially when he saw the crystalline sparkle of tears in her eyes.

"What do you see in MacCumhal?" he demanded cruelly. "He's a rotten character. He'd only have gotten you into trouble; worse yet, he might have gotten you killed. He's gone, and I say good riddance. He saved us the length of rope we might have wasted to see him hanged." He stared at her, oddly exhilarated by the anger in her gaze. When she said nothing, he couldn't resist the temptation to push her over the edge. "I see you sorrow at his departure. You cry because you did not have an end like your mother's."