The Shamrock & the Rose (6 page)

He reached for her hand and brought it to
his lips. “It seems a bit late for that remedy, Rose.”

“Do you think me a common actress to be had
at your whim?”

“No—though the thought appeals,” he
admitted.

“Why…why I am the houseguest of the
countess, and a lady!”

Suddenly serious, Morgan O’Connell said,
“Rose, I’m quite sincere, and prepared to make it up to you. Hell,
setting aside my own reservations about your being English, I’m
prepared to marry you.”

“Merely because you are a gentleman?” she
snapped.

“That is part of it, certainly. But there is
more between us, I think, something quite unique, enough so that I
would consider marrying a woman I never would have before. In
Ireland, your being English is every bit the black mark to my
family that is my being Irish to yours. But I rather think what has
begun between us is special. Haven’t you felt it? Certainly others
in your English
ton
have married with less. Much less.”

His expression caused her cheeks to burn.
She did feel a current like a bolt of lightning whenever he touched
her. And she had to admit she wanted him to kiss her again. But a
forced marriage with the Irishman was out of the question.

“Regardless what Alvanley does, I want to
see you again,” he said as he pulled her into his arms. “Despite
our different heritages, backgrounds, social levels, even our
ambitions…I find myself unable to stay away from you.”

She looked into his sincere blue eyes and
felt his strong hands pressing into her back. Surprisingly, she did
not say no. Not outright. “I do not have many hours that are mine,
Mr. O’Connell. I have performances—”

“I will come to the theatre after the
performance tomorrow.”

“I will not be there tomorrow. Nor the next
day.”

“Then it will be the evening after
that.”

“I cannot go anywhere with you at that time,
Mr. O’Connell. You must realize that. It will be late.”

“Nevertheless, I will be there, Rose, even
if only to kiss your hand and bid you good night. Now let us see
how quickly we can get you home. We will do our best to avert any
crisis.”

* * *

Morgan paid a visit to Claremont house each
of the next two days. He’d meant what he’d said. He would do the
honorable thing. But more and more he wanted to marry Rose
Collingwood regardless of the need, though if it took this incident
to do it, to make her family consent to his suit, he was not averse
to using it.

So that she would know he had not lost
interest, yesterday he’d brought her a small enameled box
containing a carved wooden rose and a shamrock. At least Alvanley
got that part right. He thought the two fit together nicely,
nestled against the green velvet lining, much as Rose and he had in
his uncle’s parlour. He could still smell her light flowery scent
and feel her breasts pressing into his chest as he kissed her.
Riding back from the park with her perched in front of him had
nearly driven him mad with desire as her wriggling bottom pressed
against his swelling groin; it took all of his control to settle
for the kiss he’d given her when they finally arrived at his
uncle’s. Today he wanted to look into those emerald eyes that so
reminded him of Ireland.

As he walked up the steps leading to
Claremont House, out of the corner of his eye he saw a figure dart
behind a tree. Who could it be? A footman or maid? But why would
they act so quick to avoid being seen? Shaking off a concern he
could not explain, he knocked on the door and presented his
card.

“Miss Collingwood is not in, sir,” said the
butler he now knew as Cruthers.

Morgan handed him a note and said, “Please
tell her I called and give her this. And if you would, Cruthers,
remind her I hope to see her tonight.”

The note was one he’d composed himself after
several glasses of whiskey, a pathetic attempt at a valentine, he
knew.

’Tis said you are the lily fair
that springs amidst the green.
I say nay, you are the red, red rose,
passion’s sister rarely seen.
A rose with soft petals yet nary a thorn,
’tis said you have many suitors.
But only a tender love will warm your heart—
one from a shamrock true,
who counts the days till you are his
and he’ll ever be with you.

* * *

As Rose dressed for the theatre that night,
she thought about the gifts the Irishman had brought her. A
sentimental poem most recently, but she liked it. The verses
brought a smile to her face and spoke to her heart.

So, he would pursue her! Was it only to play
the gentleman, or was he sincere? They had known each other such a
short time. Still, he did not act the stuffy man her other suitors
had, holding out a dismal future. Morgan, as she now thought of
him, was unorthodox, different. And perhaps he wanted her to be
different as well. He was a charmer, yes, and maybe more.

In addition to the poem, he had sent her a
beautiful enamel box painted with flowers that held a rose and a
shamrock carved in wood, treasures she would always have from the
man who’d given her an amazing first kiss. A reminder, too, of
their different cultures, because they could never share anything
more. What would her family say if she allowed it to be more? The
countess had not truly considered him a suitor, had she? Yet when
Rose was with Morgan O’Connell, there seemed no other man in the
world.

The day before, Sir Alex had paid her a
call. Ever the gentleman, he seemed stiff and somewhat
uncomfortable as he tried to find topics other than some battle or
another. She thought it understandable he could only talk of war;
it had been his whole life. And she had to admit he was a hero. An
MP for less than a year, he did not appear much taken with
political life. But, as he explained, his brother Sir John had
served before him, and so must he.

“My one dream has been to return to my
family seat in Scotland. I tell myself a fine wife is what I
deserve after so many years away.”

“And so you should have one, Sir Alex. After
all you have done for the Crown, you deserve a family and your
home.”

Rose considered what being wife to Sir Alex
might look like. Certainly nothing she wanted. She had no desire to
marry the man and had tried to discourage him, though she was also
glad she’d heard no gossip about herself and Mr. O’Connell. Her
mind wandered repeatedly to the handsome Irish barrister who fit
neither in Ireland nor in England. It would require much of a woman
to stand by his side through that great divide.

She thought often of his kiss in the time
that passed since he brought her home that day, and whenever she
recalled his warm lips she trembled. In his arms was the place she
wanted to be, though he had taken all manner of liberties with her.
No English gentleman would have done the same. But then, she
reminded herself, he wasn’t English. She wasn’t even certain he was
a gentleman. An Irish charmer and a rogue, that’s what he was, and
she should well remember it!

The countess entered her room to ask,
“You’ll have the footmen with you tonight?”

“Yes, Albert has promised to wait at the
stage door while Robert will accompany the carriage in front of the
theatre.”

Rose also remembered the words Morgan had
spoke to her.
I will be there.

The thought excited and comforted her.

* * *

Morgan drew his greatcoat tightly about him,
damning the cold night as he waited across the street from the side
door through which he knew Rose would emerge. As he fixed his gaze
on the dark alley, faint rays of moonlight broke through the clouds
and allowed him to see shapes and people. He recognized the livery
of one of the countess’s footmen, though the countess’s carriage
still lingered on the other side of the theatre.

He’d been wrestling with himself since
taking Rose home three days before. How did a man know when he’d
met the woman with whom he wanted to share his life? He could not
explain it, but he knew that Rose Collingwood, the woman who’d
traveled all this distance to “become” Portia, was she. There were
many things about the blonde beauty that drew him, not the least of
which was her independent attitude, quick mind and desire to make
more of herself than most women. She had courage. It mattered less
and less that she was English. Lord, how he wanted her. But he had
to convince this English daughter of a baron to marry an Irish
barrister, probably over her family’s objections.

She was definitely compromised. It was only
a matter of time before the story circulated; Roger had told him
that Alvanley began blubbering about an English rose on an Irish
horse while foxed at White’s the evening of their ride in the park,
singing a little ditty he thought quite funny, which if one knew
the incident was quite damning.

He’d enjoyed Rose’s performance this night,
once again captivated by her talent, but he’d left early to stand
at his current post to be sure he caught her as she left. Glancing
at the clouds overhead, he hoped she came out before the
threatening rain finally fell.

The stage door opened, and several cast
members departed laughing about some scene or another. Rose was not
among them, so Morgan continued to wait. The alley was soon quiet
and deserted again, all except for the waiting footman. The door
opened and Rose stepped out, a swath of light from the entrance
falling on the alley for a brief moment before the door shut behind
her. Lifting the hood of her cloak, she approached the waiting
servant.

Morgan had nearly reached them when a dark
figure crept from the shadows and lifted what appeared to be a
cudgel. Rose screamed, the cudgel fell and the footman crumpled to
the ground. The dark figure grabbed Rose’s hand and uttered words
that made Morgan think him deranged.

“Aye, a fine replacement for me lost Sarah.
The same—”

Morgan tore her assailant’s hand from Rose,
causing him to turn. He threw his fist into the man’s face and was
surprised when the blackguard fought back. Fists like a
dockworker’s, huge and callused, slammed into Morgan’s ribs. He
grimaced at the pain but was ready for more. The two grappled, each
trying to gain mastery.

“No!” Rose shouted as the blackguard landed
another punch, and she hit him in the head with her small fists. It
was enough to knock the man sideways, and Morgan seized the
advantage to regain his balance. A moment later the villain reached
into the pocket of his cloak.

“Rose, stand aside!” Morgan yelled. He had
seen the glint in the dark figure’s hand, and now he circled
carefully, avoiding his foe’s quick slashes with a knife. Given
those dark, menacing eyes and that fixed jaw, Morgan could tell the
man knew how to wield the weapon.

But Morgan had grown up in the neighborhoods
of Killarney, and notwithstanding his educated family he had
acquired skills by sparring with his brothers and cousins as well
as boxing for sport. Holding his hands wide, he feinted right then
left, appearing to reach for the knife and confusing his attacker.
Then a sharp kick from his boot knocked the blade from the man’s
hand and Morgan flew at his disarmed foe with his fists, knocking
him to the ground and not stopping until his enemy lay still.

Panting from the exertion, Morgan leaned
back on his heels. From behind him Rose exclaimed, “You
were…magnificent!”

Rising, Morgan took her in his arms. “Are
you all right?”

“Yes, I think so.” Her words belied her
shaking.

“You’re safe now, Rose,” he said, drawing
her close and kissing her temple. “You’re safe.”

“Oh, Morgan, if you hadn’t been here… It was
so terrifying! And you…you saved me!”

The possibility the man could have abducted
her was a kick to the gut. Morgan didn’t want to think about losing
her to anyone, let alone a madman. He would marry this woman and
keep her safe; their families’ prejudices be damned.

Rose looked down at the footman lying on the
ground, but Morgan restrained her, not wishing her to see the
blood.

“I must see to Albert,” she said.

“No, Rose. Allow me.”

Before Morgan could reach the footman, the
coachman and a second footman arrived; they had gotten worried
after Rose failed for so long to appear. Morgan briefly explained
what had happened, and the footman knelt before Albert the moment
he was certain Rose was unharmed.

“He’s still breathing,” they were told. It
was very good news.

Morgan held Rose more tightly. She was still
shaking, perhaps from the cold as well as from fright. He needed to
see to that.

“You’re safe now, Rose,” he promised. When
she leaned her head on his shoulder and began crying he whispered,
“Shhhhh. It will be all right now.”

Her attacker was still unconscious. The
coachman and Robert the second footman agreed to summon help from
the theatre to deal with him before seeing the injured Albert back
to Claremont House.

Morgan asked Rose, “Did you recognize
him?”

“I cannot be certain,” she said, “but he
looks like one of several men who have been in the front row at all
of my performances.”

“He said something about you replacing
another. Perhaps he lost a woman who looked like you…? It matters
not. The magistrate will deal with him. Come, I must get you out of
the cold and home. We can take my carriage.”

All the way back to Claremont House, Morgan
held Rose. She had stopped crying but appeared exhausted.

“You were quite brave tonight, my love,” he
announced. “You striking the man gave me the time I needed. Not
many women would have done that.”

Rose looked taken aback. “Why, I had to! I
could not allow him to hurt you.”

“Ah, my brave Portia.” He smiled and kissed
her forehead, relieved she was safe.

“I was rather brave, wasn’t I?” She had a
satisfied look on her face, and it was all he could do to stifle a
laugh of pure joy.