The Shamrock & the Rose (7 page)

* * *

By the time they arrived at Claremont House,
Rose had fallen asleep in his arms. He carried her through the
front door and, barely acknowledging the alarmed Cruthers, took her
into the parlour and laid her on the sofa. A fire warmed the
room.

The countess entered shortly thereafter.
“What has happened?”

Rose began to wake. Morgan explained from
where he sat beside her, holding her hand. “A man waited in the
shadows at the side of the theatre, and when she came out after the
performance attacked Albert and tried to take her. Fortunately I
was there.”

“How dreadful!”

“Countess,” said Rose. “Mr. O’Connell
rescued me.”

“I believe he did, my dear,” the countess
said. Walking forward, she saw their joined hands and stared
pointedly at them, then at Rose still reclining on the sofa. “You
are well, my dear?”

Rose sat up but kept Morgan’s hand. “I am
fine.”

“I was not quick enough to save your
footman,” Morgan admitted.

“Give the girl some brandy, Mr. O’Connell,”
the countess said with a small smile, “and I’ll see to Albert.”

Morgan poured Rose a glass as the older
woman departed. When she had taken some, he raised her hand to his
lips and pressed a kiss on her knuckles.

“It seems you need looking after,” he
began.

“Do I?”

That was more than just gratitude in her
eyes, he believed. He hoped. “Yes, and I’m just the man to do it.
You have a spirit I cannot resist. I believe I love you, Rose
Collingwood, so you’d best marry me. My shamrock and your rose. I
like them together. I like
us
together.”

Desperate to kiss her, he took her in his
arms and pressed his lips to hers. His kiss must say what words
could not.

* * *

Rose gave in to Morgan’s strength and the
comforting warmth of his embrace. She didn’t seem to be able to
tell the Irishman no…but she didn’t really want to. He was
intelligent, dashing and daring. He was the adventure she’d come to
London to find—or at least the start of it. She realized that
now.

His lips teased hers and she opened to him,
accepting not just his kiss but the man himself. His hand caressed
her breast, and though an alarm sounded in her head at that
unprecedented intimacy she was unable to find the will to protest.
No man had ever touched her in this way, but with Morgan it felt
right. Her hands rose to his nape and she pulled him close.

“I assume you are sealing a promise to wed
with that kiss,” said a stern voice.

Morgan pulled slightly away, but he still
held Rose in his arms, and they turned their heads as one to the
doorway where the silver-haired dowager stood, a decided crease
between her brows.

“As far as I’m concerned,” he said, “we are.
With your approval, of course. Though Rose has yet to give her
assent.”

“That, I daresay, after what I have
witnessed, is a mere formality,” the countess admonished.

“But Countess—,” Rose protested.

“My dear, when you allowed Mr. O’Connell to
kiss you in
that
manner, you gave him your ‘yes.’ Aside from
that, I have yet to inform you that Alvanley is circulating some
tale that the two of you were seen in a compromising position in
the park. Atop Mr. O’Connell’s horse.”

Horrified, Rose glanced from the countess to
Morgan.

“I told you,” Morgan said, “and, if the
countess approves, I am ready to send for the vicar this very
moment.”

The countess smiled. “There is no need for
such haste, Mr. O’Connell. I think a fitting day for the wedding—so
that Miss Collingwood’s mother might attend—would be the day the
Irish celebrate the feast of St. Patrick next month. It will allow
me time to prepare a proper wedding.”

Morgan turned back to Rose. Letting her go
to grasp her hand he said, “Rose? Will you have me?”

“She’ll have you, O’Connell,” said the
countess emphatically.

“I want to hear it from her lips,” said
Morgan.

His gaze was fixed upon her. Did she want to
be the wife of the Irish barrister? Rose knew it could mean one day
living in Ireland. If she chose this Irishman, it might well take
all she had to stand by his side. Just like the words she’d heard
so many times in
The Merchant of Venice
, the words written
on the lead chest
:

“
Who chooseth me must give and hazard all
he hath.”

Nodding her head, she smiled. “Yes…oh
yes.”

He kissed her then, right in front of the
countess, who sounded a loud “Humph!”

* * *

They were wed on St. Patrick’s Day with many
friends and family in attendance. Fitting for the occasion, Rose
wore a satin gown of Paris green, which pleased Morgan’s Catholic
relatives, it being the day for the wearing of the color. Her
betrothed, delighted, remarked that the hue matched her eyes.

Rose’s mother had traveled south to be with
her, and of course Morgan’s uncle Maurice was there as well as
Morgan’s two younger brothers. His famous cousin, Daniel O’Connell,
sent a letter approving the match, and acknowledging another
Protestant in the family. Morgan’s friend Roger, whom Rose had met
since they’d become engaged, brought a lovely young woman named
Judith that he introduced as his fiancée. Mr. Colman from the
theatre and Lord and Lady Ormond, whom the countess had introduced
to her when she’d first arrived, also joined in the
celebration.

When the ceremony was concluded, the
countess was the first to congratulate them.

“You take good care of her, Mr. O’Connell.
I’ll be watching that you do!”

“I will do it and gladly, Countess,” said
Morgan. “I have many plans for my lovely English Rose.”

Lady Emily Picton was next to hug Rose and
wish her well. “Now that you are wed, I think I must be the last of
the countess’s single friends to hold out against matrimony.”

“I was caught by a man’s smile,” Rose
replied, looking at her new husband fondly.

“I never shall be,” insisted Lady
Picton.

“You won’t stand a chance if Lady Claremont
is set upon a match for you,” said Rose. “She can be quite
determined.”

Lady Picton just smiled confidently and
waved as she sallied forth into the crowd.

The countess had insisted upon giving them
an elaborate reception, held in her grand room. Both Alvanley and
Sir Alex came, and with good grace they added their wishes for much
happiness. Rose was glad she couldn’t hear whatever it was Alvanley
whispered to Morgan. All she heard was Morgan’s reply: “But she is
mine now.”

After the dinner feast, but before the
guests had drunk the last glass of champagne, Morgan swept Rose
upstairs. He carried her over the threshold into the bedchamber
prepared for their wedding night, bathed in soft candlelight where
a fire crackled. As he set her feet on the rug, Rose saw the white
linen sheets in the large four-poster bed turned down and the
entire bed covered with red rose petals. On a small table near the
fireplace was a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“I have eyes only for you, sweetheart,”
Morgan answered in a voice that unmasked his Irish lilt. Turning
her in his arms, he took the pins from her hair and let her long
tresses fall down her back. “Ah, the hair I have longed to run
through my fingers.” Then, as he did: “It’s like soft Irish
rain.”

He slipped her gown over her head then
unlaced her corset. “These must go.” Left with only her chemise, he
turned her again and stared. “You are so beautiful, my love.”

Rose shivered as Morgan brushed his warm
lips over the tops of her shoulders and up the side of her neck
where he nibbled on her earlobe. His hands lifted her chemise and
tossed the offending garment to the floor, but nervous and
altogether naked she felt herself blush and brought her arms up to
cover her breasts.

“I see the problem,” he said, and quickly
doffed his clothes.

The sight of his bare male body was a shock
to Rose’s innocence. Broad muscled shoulders narrowed to slim hips
just as the dark hair on his chest narrowed to a thin line leading
to a wealth of dark hair that lay at the base of his…
oh my
!
His man’s flesh stood erect and was so large as to frighten
her.

“That has been my condition since our ride
in the park,” he said, grinning. “Do not be alarmed. Soon it will
bring you much pleasure, wife.”

Rose
was
alarmed, but he gently
pulled her arms from her chest to wrap around his waist, drawing
her breasts against his warm, hard chest. He kissed her, and their
two bodies melded together as his tongue leisurely stroked hers.
She’d never tire of his kisses.

Forgetting she had never been with a man
before, Rose brought her hands up to circle Morgan’s neck. His own
hands swept down her back in response, to her bottom where his
palms covered her buttocks and pulled her more tightly against his
aroused flesh. He was now her husband, Rose reminded herself with
delight. Her breasts tickled at the feel of his warm skin.

“The bed, I think,” he whispered in a husky
voice.

Lifting her effortlessly, he walked to the
bed and laid her on the rose petals, pausing to let his blue eyes
sweep over her form. She shivered as though he touched her. Then
suddenly he was next to her, drawing her close, his chest flush
with her breasts, and his body touching hers to their toes. He
kissed her deeply, his tongue stroking hers and his hands roaming
her hip and down her thigh, and she felt a warm wetness between her
legs. When his hand swept over her breasts, a fire burst forth
wherever his fingers touched.

“Oh…,” she moaned.

His thumb had teased the sensitive flesh of
her nipple until he replaced his thumb with his tongue. Her body
was sensitive to his every touch, and she clung to him, combing her
fingers through the dark curls on his head. He seemed to hear her
plea, and he took her nipple into his mouth and sucked gently while
slipping his leg between hers. She lifted her hips to embrace his
leg, wanting she knew not what.

* * *

Morgan had wondered what kind of a lover his
virgin bride would be. She had been so responsive to his kisses
that he was certain he would not be disappointed—and he was not.
Her passionate response was driving him mad.

He had an overwhelming need to plunge into
her warm, willing flesh, but Morgan also knew he must slow his
ardor until she was ready or all she would remember was the pain of
their first joining. So while his mouth moved to her other breast
to once again feast on her sweet flesh, he stroked her inner thigh
with his hand, moving slowly in circles toward the bud that would
call forth her initial pleasure.

Returning his lips to her mouth for another
kiss, his fingers tested her readiness. He heard a small gasp, and
to reassure her he whispered, “This will bring you pleasure, my
love, as I prepare you to receive me.”

He had barely touched the sensitive nub when
she began to move her hips against his hand. After a few slow
strokes, her breath came in pants and she moved against his
fingers.

“Now, my love, let me show you,” he said. “A
brief moment of pain and then pleasure.”

Rising above her, he settled his hot, hard
member against the tight entrance to her woman’s passage. Slowly,
he entered her. Slowly, slowly… Then, unable to hold back any
longer, he plunged into her and past the barrier.

She stilled and tensed, and regretting the
pain he said, “Try and relax and all will be well.”

He kissed her then, to draw forth the
honeyed cream. It took but a moment. He thrust again until he was
deeply lodged within her, and now he could not retain the
stillness. His passion demanded he move, and he did. So did she. In
no time she lifted her hips to meet his thrusts, and they moved
together, finding a rhythm that flooded him with pleasure as he
felt the tension build. Her release, when it came, struck deep in
his soul. Their sweat-soaked flesh melded together as his seed
flooded her passage.

Still joined, he kissed her damp forehead,
brows and temples. “I love you,” he whispered.

Her sweet face was surrounded by tousled
blonde hair lying in wild disarray on the pillow. Rose petals stuck
to her skin in places, reminding him that she was his but also an
Englishwoman, his Rose. They would have their difficulties, he
knew, times when his heritage might plunge her into conflict with
all she held dear, times when his family would be so at odds with
the English she would feel their disdain. But together they would
overcome. He knew that as surely as he knew Ireland would one day
be free of British rule.

She opened her eyes at his words, and the
green of a spring meadow looked back at him. A small smile crossed
her face.

“Morgan,” she said softly. “Is it always
like this? So…magical? Well, I mean, except for the pain.”

“No, not always,” he admitted. Then he gave
her the smile that she had drawn from his soul and promised, “But
with you, my fair Portia, I believe it always shall. There will
always be this passion between us. And, like mercy, it ‘blesseth
him that gives and him that takes.’ And as Portia’s lover says,
‘Madam, you have bereft me of all words. Only my blood speaks to
you in my veins.’”

And so it did. 

Author’s
Note

The issue of emancipation for Catholics
consumed England for many decades, beginning in the 18th century
and continuing until the Catholic Emancipation Act in 1829. Prior
to that, Catholics could not, among other things, attend Cambridge
or Oxford, or hold public office or serve in Parliament.
Ironically, the Prince Regent opposed Catholic Emancipation even
though he married (illegally) Maria Fitzherbert, a twice-widowed
Roman Catholic who was arguably the love of his life. He did not,
however, veto the new law in 1829, pressed by the Whigs and opposed
by the Tories.