The Widow and the Rogue (12 page)

Maybe not all men were like her late husband and Uncle Lynch? Perhaps there were men in the world who were different. Men, like her guardian, who were honorable and trustworthy. A man she might count upon in times of trouble.

Beau’s eyes met hers as the young couple placed rings on each other’s fingers. She was not aware of it, but hers had become a warm shade of light blue. For a moment she lost herself in his gaze, conscious only of him.

The spell was broken when the newly married couple turned to the priest for the final blessing. They gave each other their first kiss as husband and wife. It was sweet and touching. The love and joy on the young spouses’ faces made everyone wish them a continued happy life.

A small figure dressed in brown silk leaned into Lord Patrick for support. He patted her hand. The bride’s father and aunt had been openly weeping tears of joy during the short service. Their shared dream of seeing Lady Beatrice happily married to a titled gentleman had come true.

Aye, Kathleen decided, witnessing the scene,
I have merely to open my heart to the possibility that such a gentleman might exist and wish to be part of my life
. She was almost afraid to think the next thought.
Perhaps he would love and cherish me? Not for my face, nor for my wealth, but just for me . . . Kathleen
.

The priest at the altar inclined his head.

A small lad pulled on a long rope, ringing the chapel bells in celebration of the momentous event. She watched as the happy couple walked out of the sanctuary.

As Beau passed her pew, he gave her a saucy wink. She smiled back at him, delighted by the acknowledging gesture.

The reception was held outside under striped tents. The long trestle tables were set beneath as a precaution to keep them dry in the event that the few gray clouds hanging low overhead decided to pour rain on the festivities. The tables were filled with a variety of local dishes of cooked lamb, colcannon (a mixture of whipped potatoes and cabbage), fish, garden vegetables, meat pies, and soda bread. The entire village had been invited to partake in the festivities. No one was to go away hungry.

Gifts given to the couple were displayed on a separate table. The one that impressed many, and caused some envy among the gentlemen present, was the gift given by the bride’s father, Lord Patrick. He had ensured himself that when the couple returned from their honeymoon in Italy, known in Irish as
mi na meala
(month of honey), their house would not be empty of strong brew.

He gave them enough mead (honey wine) to last through the first month of marriage and longer, although it was said the tea-drinking aunt had tried to talk the gentleman out of the gift and serving the brew at the reception.

“But, Agnes,” the father said in his defense, “’Tis tradition . . . I’ll not have anyone say m’daughter left my home empty-handed like a wandering pauper.”

“As if anyone would be saying that, Paddy,” replied the sister with a sniff. “For all and sundry know she is your only heir. She’s been running your estates for years now, and you’ve been helping pay for that decrepit pile of bricks of theirs to be fixed into something resembling a proper castle. Nay, it was a sorry excuse t’use that still of yours to make some of the devil’s brew. Aye, and don’t be telling me different. Especially after ye solemnly promised me you wouldn’t make any, after she walked down the aisle. I’m disappointed, Paddy.”

“But, Agnes,” protested the brother. “I did it for Bea’. It was for her I made the honey mead—not for myself.”

“And the spirits I see being served? Where did they come from? I suppose the wee folk left those barrels overnight?” she asked, indignant.

She indicated the young newlyweds, who sat at the head table pouring spirits into silver toasting goblets, unaware of the argument taking place. The couple sipped from each other’s glass, happily celebrating their union as man and wife.

Kathleen, who sat nearby listening to the conversation, noticed the stern lady’s face soften. The tea-totaling sister was weakening. She sensed Lady Fitzpatrick would do anything to ensure her niece’s present happiness, even bend some of her usual stubborn iron will.

The gentlemen guests, who had been gamely drinking lemonade, listened intently to the conversation. She could tell by the nodding of heads, they silently agreed with Lord Patrick. An Irish wedding without strong poteen (spirits distilled from potatoes) was deflating, and the entire parish knew his lordship’s brew was the best.

“Very well, Paddy.” The sister sighed.

The next remark she spoke was aimed at those standing nearby. “But there better not be any bodies lying about on the ground for my Beatrice to trip over in the morning—or by thunder, I’ll come after them who drink too much and bring down my own bad luck upon their sodden heads.”

“Nay—nay, there won’t be,” quickly reassured Lord Patrick, visibly brightening.

He bent over and kissed his sister warmly on the cheek. “You’re a grand one, ye are, Agnes—the best of all sisters.”

Smiling, Lady Fitzpatrick, shooed him away.

“Ye best be off and see to opening some of those barrels ye hid by the wedding cake. By the sour apple faces our gentlemen guests are wearing, one would think we were serving them ditchwater instead of lemonade.”

After the toasts and speeches, a sudden commotion was heard. A group of oddly dressed men entered the clearing, waving their arms up and down, dancing with bells, and playing music on drums, pipes, and fiddle. They were dressed in women’s clothing and wore pointy masks made of twisted straw to disguise their faces.

“The straw boys have come,” said one of the village women across from her, laughing as one of them made a saucy gesture in her direction. “Aye for sure now, I recognize one of them. That’s my eldest, Jeremy, wearing his sister’s old petticoat and my moth eaten nightshirt.”

“And there’s Brian.” The lady seated next to her noticed. “Musha, musha, I hope his father doesn’t see him. He was supposed to stay home and tend the fire as punishment for missing mass yesterday. Not take part in any tomfoolery today.”

One of the straw boys dressed like an old man went up to the bride and began to dance with her. Another, disguised as an old woman, twirled around the groom to bring the couple good luck and a happy long life.

The straw boys began taking guests by the hand as a fiddler gaily played. An unusually tall straw boy stood before her. He bowed and silently held out a hand, indicating he wanted her to dance with him.

She placed her hand wordlessly in his. He led her to the others and twirled her into his arms. She lightly placed a hand on his shoulder. His muscles felt strong and firm beneath her fingertips as they whirled in a tight circle. She looked into the straw boy’s mask and his intelligent blue eyes met hers. She knew him—and it thrilled her.

They joined a group of revelers and linked with the other dancers into a large circle. They danced together, separated, and rejoined. Quickly, the straw boy spun her around and around. The music’s tempo quickened until she began to laugh, giddy with delight.

“Please,” she said, waving her hand in the air like a fan. “I need to catch my breath. I’m afraid I shall fall down. My head is spinning.”

Solicitously, he stopped.

He led her to a bench underneath the courtyard’s lone tree. They sat together, resting quietly, enjoying each other’s company as they observed the others who continued to dance.

“This is beginning to itch,” he said, lifting the mask a little to scratch.

Looking around, she noticed that several of the other straw boys had already removed theirs. “I think it’s safe for you to take it off . . . Beau.”

“Ah, much better,” he remarked, setting it aside.

His blue eyes twinkled down at her. He ran a hand through his blond curls. Bits of straw fell, but a stray piece remained.

She lifted her hand and gently removed it.

The fiddler played a slow waltz. Couples danced boxed steps, smiling at the bride and groom who stood in the center. Enviously, she looked over at the newlyweds. They appeared to be very much in love.

“May I have the pleasure?” Beau asked, holding his hand out to her.

Giving a slight bow of the head, she stood.

Together they slowly danced under the wide spread branches of the old oak tree. The feel of their two bodies touching caused her to glow inside. Every part of her tingled, aware of his firm touch.

What would it be like if he kissed her right now, with his arms wrapped around her? Would all of her senses come alive? She looked up at him. She noted the line of his lips as they curved into a smile, the sharp roundness of his masculine chin, the way his deep blue eyes sparkled like a bright light bouncing off a dark river when they looked into her own. Aye, she suspected it would be quite unforgettable.

It was as the last notes of the waltz faded that the dark clouds above, which had been threatening all morning, finally rumbled. Light drops of rain fell. Guests quickly grabbed food and other items, hurriedly seeking shelter under the tarps and the castle’s large keep.

But she stood with Beau silently, waltzing a few more steps—uncaring of the rain—dancing to their own rhythm of their beating hearts.

He bent his head and gently brushed his lips against hers.

Her heart thudded heavily as his arms tightened around her waist. She willingly leaned into him, fitting her body against his. The warmth she’d first felt caught flame. It coursed through her body as their mouths joined.

“Now ain’t that a pretty sight,” a sneering voice said thickly, nearby.

Turning her head, she noticed a pale, choleric looking man observing them. He was slouched drunkenly over one of the trestle tables, wearing an eyesore of a bright yellow morning coat. His clothes were in soiled disarray.

Much to her dismay she recognized her uncle, Squire Lynch. She had not seen him since the reading of the will.

“I heard tell you had a bit o’ trouble in Dublin, Kathleen,” he continued. “They say a man tried to sh-shoot you and a wretched monster of a dog saved your hide. What a damn shame . . . as one of your remaining relatives, I would have happily taken your place at Dovehill Hall.”

Lifting a tankard of ale, he drained the contents. Some of it dribbled down his pointy chin. Pounding the center of his chest with the side of his fist, he loudly belched.

“K-kept her for your own, Powers?” he commented. “You wanted the blunt for your own pocket. I daresay—so I, nor anyone else, could have any.” He smiled his yellow teeth at her in a leer. “Now you’re his light-skirt, are ye, m’dear. First you were Langtry’s, now you are this common tradesman’s—”

“The devil you say,” Beau said, his eyes narrowing. His right hand clenched into a fist. He took a step forward, as if he’d like to give the other man a good right hook to the jaw. But he hesitated and looked over at her. Her face showed a mixture of fright and worry. She had not expected this ugly confrontation on what should have been a happy occasion.

The rain was beginning to pour heavily down. He took off his coat and put it around her shoulders. “You had best go inside. We don’t want you to catch a chill. I have something I need to discuss with your uncle before I join you.”

Reluctantly, she turned and headed towards the keep. She did not know what was about to happen, but she sensed his anger towards her uncle. It was palpable.

Retribution was not far away. It was obvious Uncle Lynch was once again deep in dun territory with gambling and tailor’s debts. He undoubtedly had come to the wedding to ask for her help. But now it was too late.

His snide remarks had drained away the small amount of compassion she might have once felt. She was reminded that it was he who had leg-shackled her to old Lord Langtry. And it was he, as a result, who had condemned her to years of loneliness, and imprisonment.

Aye, let Beau deal with him
, she decided grimly.

If he gives him a facer, I’ll not be one to scold. I’ve had more than my belly full of my uncle. It was because of him my innocence was taken away. And I’ll not be forgetting that anytime soon
. Thus resolved, she went inside to join the other guests.

The remainder of the guests had already dried out and begun a sing along. The tune of
The Rose of Killarney
was belted out by the gentlemen gathered. The groom, having put his sword to good use, delicately fed whiskey soaked wedding cake to his lovely bride who sat happily on his knees.

A few minutes later, Beau joined Kathleen.

Wisely, she did not ask what had passed between the two men. She could tell from his grim expression, her uncle might be wearing a shiner around his eye the next time he dared to make an appearance.

But it was not to be. In the morning as two servants took down the sagging wet tents, a man was found lying on the ground. A straw boy’s mask had been placed over his head, hiding his face.

“We best be getting him up and about before Lady Fitzpatrick sees him,” said Tommy, one of Lord Patrick’s servants. “She’ll be after my master’s hide if he’s still here when her niece and the earl leave today.”

“Aye, I wouldn’t want to be the one to cause her ladyship to lose her temper,” agreed the other, leaning over the man to shake him awake.

But the gentleman would not be roused. And turning him over they were soon to discover the cause . . .

The mask fell off.

A face with blue-tinged skin, and bulging eyes, greeted them. He was not breathing. He was as cold as ice.

“Blessed Saint Christopher . . . it’s Squire Lynch . . . and it looks as if he’s dead.” Tommy gasped, startled by the sight of the man’s blue face.

“Look there . . .” The other pointed to the squire’s coat. “A shot has gone straight through his heart.”

“He’s been murdered,” Tommy said, stating the obvious. They turned frightened faces towards each other and ran to the castle.

The village’s constable and priest were quickly sent for. Prayers were said over the deceased’s body and an inquiry was made concerning the murder. It was revealed by the servants that they had last seen Squire Lynch alive and holding his swollen left eye after Beau rejoined the party.