The Irish Duchess (37 page)

***

“I take it since you’re here, that you didn’t go directly to Fiona after the vote,” Michael said idly, tucking his hat under his arm, out of the river breeze. He scanned the yacht’s deck almost with disinterest.

Neville ran his hand through his hair, shoving loose strands out of his eyes as he glared at his cousin-in-law. “We couldn’t have won today if Fiona hadn’t twisted arms last night. She only did it so we can hurry back to Aberdare. I had to make certain the yacht was stocked for our journey before I fetched her. Fiona isn’t exactly a seafaring man.”

“No?” Michael’s gaze caught on the figure of a cabin boy scurrying up a rope ladder to the top mast. “Tell that to Fiona, then. She’s not in her room, you realize.”

Neville felt himself pale. “What do you mean, she’s not in her room? I locked her in there myself. Don’t say things like that. I’m a wreck enough as it is.”

Michael grinned into the fading sun. “I see that. She’s got you bound and gagged, hasn’t she? I wish you well of her.” He headed toward the companionway.

Neville grabbed the earl’s coat collar and hauled him back. “Where is she?” he shouted against the brisk wind.

Michael turned him a shrewd look. “Where do you think she would go?”

“Nowhere! She wouldn’t leave without me. She knows I’m only protecting her.”

Having satisfied himself that sufficient stores were aboard, Effingham returned to the deck, took instant stock of the situation, and removed Neville’s grip from Michael’s collar. “You should never have locked Fiona in. You may as well have dared her to escape.”

“We can’t leave until we find her!” Neville turned to signal the captain.

Michael caught his arm. “The tide’s turning. It’s time we’re off. I have a village under siege, your bloody worship. We’ve fulfilled our part of the bargain, now it’s time you fulfill yours. The damned ship leaves as scheduled. Fiona can take care of herself.”

Driving his free arm sharply backward, Neville aimed for Michael’s ribs.

Aberdare dodged the blow but released Neville as the sails unfurled. Neville swore under his breath. He raised his hand to signal the captain to halt, but ran afoul of Gavin’s powerful grasp.

“We’re sailing now and not twelve hours from now. You won’t find Fiona unless she wants to be found. You’re wasting time,” the marquess admonished.

“You know where she’s going, your noble worship,” Michael added wryly. “You may as well arrive ahead of her.”

They spoke sense, Neville knew, but terror still reigned. He could jump. The Thames was so thick with foulness at this point, he could likely walk across.

But Michael’s words gradually took root in his fear-addled brain. Fiona would head straight for home. He couldn’t find her in London, but he could find her in Ireland. Surely, now that the reform bill was law, Townsend would have no further use for her. It was just the normal dangers of travel she faced. She would seek a ship...

A ship
. Slowly, Neville swung his gaze to observe his immediate surroundings. She would seek a ship. At the docks.

No wonder the damned earl was so casual about leaving his female cousin loose in London. Neville swore a litany of curses and began a systematic search of his own damned ship.

He started with the traditional hiding places for stowaways. Torn equally between fear and fury, he rampaged from hold to cabins to galley, sending grown men fleeing from his wrath. He’d known an occasional brief anger, but nothing to the extent of this. He thought he might strangle Michael in Fiona’s place if he did not find her.

Neville burst up the companionway onto the deck. They were reaching the mouth of the Thames already, and the captain had ordered full sail. With the tide and the wind in their favor, the yacht skimmed over the water, aborting any hope of returning to London. Despair washed over him as land dwindled from view.

He had meant to take Fiona with him. He just wanted her safe while he was otherwise occupied. He’d hoped she would sleep until he returned. He’d kept her awake most of the night. Surely she understood what he hadn’t said.

Stupid. Women needed
words
. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Neville fought the unfamiliar burning behind his eyes and tried not to worry.

But the whitecaps on the water reminded him of the orchids Fiona had worn in her hair last night. The tiny flowers weren’t half so delicate as his wife, nor nearly as beautiful. The sun lowering in the western sky couldn’t compare with Fiona’s magnificent hair, the hair he’d buried his hands in last night as he’d kissed her senseless. And she’d kissed him back, with passion and desire and all the things he’d craved in a wife.

He would do well to practice indifference with Fiona if she insisted on behaving like a common hoyden. Let her come and go as she pleased. What difference could it make to him?

But it did. He’d hoped that she would be pleased if he expressed his gratitude for her aid by setting sail immediately for her home. He’d thought of making love to her in the gently rocking berth below. He’d planned on marching into Aberdare like a knight with sword drawn, freeing the village from the dragon in exchange for her love and laughter. He was a damned arrogant fool.

He didn’t have to do it all himself. Fiona wanted to march with him.

His gaze drifted upward to the ghostly sails billowing against the evening sky. The yacht was built for pleasure and the platform on the mainmast was mostly decorative, with a polished brass rail. It had no purpose. But he could see a dark figure sitting there cross-legged, leaning against the timber. None of the men had any reason to be up there. Perhaps Michael...

That wasn’t Michael. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Neville willed that stubborn figure to look at him. Surely even Fiona would have sense enough not to risk their child like that. Terror for her safety warred with elation at finding her. He would wring her neck.

As if his thoughts had truly winged upward, the slight figure rested, elbows on knees, and leaned forward.

Even through the dusk, Neville could see Fiona’s laughing eyes. His spirits soared to insane heights at the realization that she was safe and here with him, even as his temper turned murderous. He would kill her as soon as he got his hands on her.

Wrapping his hands around the prickly hemp of the rigging, Neville hauled himself upward, occasionally glancing ahead for the reward of Fiona’s laughing gaze turning to one of alarm.

“I surrender! I’ll come down. Just get off that rope, Neville, please!” she cried.

“I think I’ll cut the rigging and keep you up there,” he snarled in return.

“You’ll kill yourself! I’m coming down. Watch. I promise.” Fiona firmly secured the rope as she anxiously watched him.

Good. Let her suffer some portion of the torments he’d suffered these last hours. Unrepentant, Neville continued climbing. “Don’t you dare climb down,” he yelled at her.

Ignoring his warning as usual, she threw her breeches-clad leg over the railing, caught her foot in the knot, and began her descent.

Heart slamming against his chest in fear as he watched her scurry down , Neville cursed and slid down his rope as fast as he could go. The burning pain in his hands couldn’t compare with the terror in his heart as her rope swung wildly in the evening breeze.

“Fey-onah MacDevil Perceval, I’ll kill you for this!” he shouted against the rising wind, just before his feet hit the deck and his legs almost buckled under him.

“Aye, and I’ll be murtherin’ you in your sleep should you lock me behind closed doors again!” she screamed back.

Before Neville could reach for her, Fiona darted across the deck and down the hatch, out of sight.

Without caring about his abused dignity, Neville raced across the deck after her.

Behind him, the crew snickered.

Thirty-six

Neville found Fiona without much trouble. Hiding places were few and far between on a yacht, and she hadn’t bothered looking for one. She sat cross-legged on the berth he’d hoped to use for much more pleasurable purposes than a confrontation. Her defiant posture with arms crossed and chin tilted warned him this would definitely be a confrontation.

“Don’t you ever dare lock me in again,” she growled the moment he entered.

Neville slammed the door behind him and leaned against it, crossing his arms as he did so. “I can throw commands around too,” he said calmly. “Don’t you ever run away from me again.”

Her eyes lit like emerald fires. “I did not run away from you. I ran to you, your noble worship. You’re just not after havin’ the sense to see it.”

Neville sighed at this roundaboutation. They would never see eye to eye because they were never on the same level of the whirlwind she spun around him. Maybe if he stayed fixed in one spot, she might eventually bounce to his level once in a while. He fought the urge to smile at the image. She’d damned well terrified him. She would pay for that.

“You endangered our child as well as yourself while running around the streets of London alone, then climbing into the tops. Will you ever grow up?”

Wounded, she flinched as if he’d struck her. But her tongue wouldn’t surrender. Straightening, she glared. “No, I think I won’t. It’s exceedingly boring having two stuffed shirts in the house. Our child must know there is some fun in this life, that it’s not all duty and responsibility and propriety.”

Neville slammed his head backward against the door and stared at the bulkhead, wishing he could knock himself silly without need of finding someone to cudgel his brains out. “Fine then, we shall raise a herd of heirs to believe it’s all right to dangle from the chimneys and slide down the roofs instead of paying attention to their studies and learning how to run the estate. I’ll be the dull bore who does that.”

“The ones who would dangle from chimneys will dangle regardless of your opinions,” she informed him. “And the ones who would study will do so despite whatever influence I might have. And you may as well prepare yourself. The one who dangles from chimneys could be your heir and the one who studies could be your daughter. Do you think you can personally rearrange your children to your liking?”

His entire world had descended into chaos from the moment Fiona stepped into it. He might as well acknowledge that he would never achieve any level of order ever again. At that acceptance, the tight, terrified knot inside him sprang free.

Neville returned his gaze to his willful wife. If he was perfectly honest, he would admit Fiona wasn’t truly beautiful. Her features were much too strong and sharp, her eyes far too knowing, her magnificent mane of hair much too unruly. But it was just that combination of imperfections that made his blood race.

His gaze drifted lower to the bosom straining against her boy’s shirt. For the first time in his life, he undressed a woman with his mind, and from that point on, his mind had little to do with anything.

“Well then, our studious heiress may run the estate for our feckless heir,” he proposed, advancing toward the berth.

She dropped her arms and eased backward. “You’ll not settle our argument like that again, your noble worship. I’m not your fine mistress to run into your bed whenever you dislike losing.”

“I haven’t lost this argument. I’ll hire a gaggle of governesses and a throng of tutors to keep the herd of heirs off the roof. You, I’ll manage myself, in bed with any luck, on the floor, if necessary, or anywhere else we deem appropriate.” He caught her as she tried to dodge him. Gently, Neville pushed her back against the mattress.

“Don’t you dare,” she warned, falling back against the pillow beneath his greater weight.

“Don’t I dare what?” he asked mildly. Without waiting for an answer, he leaned over and applied his mouth to hers.

Maybe they should never talk, he thought as Fiona’s lips responded heatedly beneath his pressure. They communicated much better this way, while prone and inside one another’s clothes. His palm slid beneath her coarse shirt and he groaned at the glorious feel of silken flesh.

She didn’t bother fighting him. Her fingernails dug into his arms through his coat and practically shredded the material as his tongue marauded the interior of her mouth. Within minutes, her hips rose in search of his.

With no compunction whatsoever, Neville reached down, ripped her breeches buttons loose, jerked the fabric out of his way, then leaned over and kissed her there, where he’d imagined her bare just moments before.

Fiona screamed like a wildcat, dug her fingers into his hair, then shuddered and thrust upward so he could take her more thoroughly.

He’d never done this to a woman before, had never really imagined it until Fiona came along. One did not normally do such things to a wife. But this wife...

Excitement exploded in Neville’s veins as she thrust and twisted and begged for more of what only he could provide. Perhaps there were advantages to having a woman who climbed up masts.

Releasing his sex from the tight restraints of his trousers, he took what she offered so boldly. Beneath him, Fiona cried out with her own release. He knew, without an ounce of conceit that she would cry out again before he was done with her. She gave him something he’d never known he’d possessed, and the power of it freed them both.

***

Watching the misty green rising on the horizon, Fiona shivered and wrapped her cloak tighter. “What will you do when we arrive?” she asked in what, for her, was a subdued tone. Neville had turned her brain to mush again, and she hadn’t quite shaken off the effect.

“The army is camped at Aberdare. They’re too late to save the looms, but they’re protecting it against further attack. We need to catch the men who destroyed them and give them something better to do than burn the means others have of making a living.”

Neville stood beside her, not touching but keeping a distance while in the public eye. They both knew what happened when they touched.

“You’ll not do it with an English army,” she answered wearily, expecting her protest would go unremarked.

“You have a better suggestion?” The tone of his voice implied she would not.

She’d given it a great deal of thought these last days. The people she knew in the village had wanted the looms. They would not have burned their own livelihood. Even McGonigle on his worst day would not have destroyed the means for his own mother to make a living, even to make one of his damned rebellious points. The people of Aberdare were bitter, not stupid.