Virginia Henley (6 page)

So—it was Sean O’Toole to whom she had lost her heart! He must have sailed with Joseph. God help her little girl if he had a hundredth part of his brother’s Irish charm. “You are quite right, darling. There are so many FitzGerald women, and females can be very catty. I want you to outshine them all. You must wear your new velvet cloak; it will be very cold on the ship, but when you remove the cloak we want everyone to stare at you with envy.”

“Yes,” Emerald breathed, feminine to her fingertips, “that’s exactly what we want.”

“Come with me now to my chamber, we’ll go over everything I own until we find something perfect that can be altered to fit you.”

    
W
hen Sunday morning arrived, Emerald donned silk stockings for the first time in her life instead of the lace pantalets. As her mother helped her into the green velvet gown, Emerald fretted, “I have no corset, whatever shall I do?”

Amber laughed. “Darling, you have no need of a corset.”

“But what about these?” Emerald covered her upthrust breasts with her hands.

“These
will be the envy of every female in Ireland today. Trust me, I know about such things.”

From her window Emerald saw the sails of her father’s ship coming down the Menai Strait from the east. “Oh, dear,” they muttered in unison, knowing full well William Montague was impossible to please.

“Leave your father to me,” Amber said, a hard tone of determination in her voice. “There’s just time before he anchors to make sure Johnny passes muster. Tame your hair a bit more. Perhaps tie it back with a ribbon,” she called over her shoulder as she picked up her skirts and hastened to John’s chambers.

Her son wore a navy-blue superfine coat that had been tailored to fit him to perfection. His fawn knee breeches clung to his thighs without a wrinkle, before disappearing into snowy white stockings. He had chosen a brocade waistcoat in a shade of dull gold to complement the outfit. “Your neckcloth would put the Prince of Wales to shame, Johnny. You look so grown-up today.” Her words were intended to imbue him with confidence, but the navy-blue was indeed a good color for him, Amber decided as she tucked an errant lock of hair beneath his tie-wig with loving hands.

“Your father’s here. I want him to see you first because I know he can find no fault with you today. Stay beside me while I prepare him for Emerald.”

Montague came up to the house alone. He cast a critical eye over his son, and was slightly mollified to see he looked rather mature today. He was also glad to see that his wife was being obedient. When he saw there would be no last-minute pleas to take her with him, a pleasant surge of power shot through him. His eyes frankly assessed her breasts beneath the flowing morning gown.

“When I bring them home, I’ll stay the night. No need to wait up for me, Amber, my dear, I shall awaken you.”

“William,” she began softly, molding him to her seductive will without his knowing it, “I want your daughter to look like a lady today—an
English
lady. I haven’t been in Ireland for years, but I imagine the young women still run about in linen smocks, showing their ankles, as I was allowed to do. They don’t wear imported silks or brocades from some sort of misplaced pride. They only wear linen and wool, or cloth made in Ireland. But when they see Emerald in her velvet, they’ll be grass-green with envy.”

Emerald came downstairs on cue, her black silk curls dancing about her shoulders. Because she was small-boned, her father thought of her as a child. Now, however, he saw she was almost a woman. “She looks like a lady from the neck down, but her hair is as wild as a blackberry thicket. Doesn’t she have a decent powdered wig?” he demanded.

Amber saw her daughter’s eyes fill with the green fire of rebellion and spoke up quickly before there could be a clash of wills. “It’s my oversight, William. Emerald, go up and put on a wig. Your father wants you to look like an English
lady.
”

    
J
ack Raymond eagerly held out his hand to assist Emerald aboard. She allowed him to help her, then moved away from him across the deck as quickly as she could. Rebellion no longer showed in her eyes, but it still lurked about inside her. She watched Johnny shake hands with Jack, who was wearing a lieutenant’s uniform today. Jack certainly looked like her uncle, with the same thick lips. Though he had a fine athletic carriage, it always seemed to Emerald there was a trace of menace in his eyes.

She would be thankful he would be kept busy giving orders to the crew. He had a way of attaching himself to her like a barnacle whenever he was in her company. She dismissed
all thought of her distasteful cousin as her brother joined her. “Johnny, I can’t believe we are setting sail for Ireland!” This morning before she awoke, Emerald had once again experienced her beautiful dream. The delicious sense of anticipation had stayed with her, and the joy she felt went beyond happiness, for she knew that soon, soon she would come to him. He was her perfect Irish Prince. She whispered his name with heart-scalding hunger. “Sean, Sean.”

“When we leave the strait, I hope it isn’t rough. I don’t want to disgrace myself in front of Father,” Johnny’s voice cut into her reverie.

“Take some deep breaths, here he comes.”

“Oh, God, Emerald, do something to draw his attention from me.”

She squeezed his hand and turned to face her father. “That’s a very smart uniform you are wearing, Father.”

“A uniform lends a man a great deal of authority. Few challenge that authority. Remember that, John. It won’t be long before you’re wearing one. We’ll make a man of you yet, never fear, boy.”

From the tail of her eye Emerald saw Johnny’s gorge begin to rise. Deliberately, she leaned out over the rail, knowing just what the result would be. The wind snatched off her wig and sent it careening away across the crests of the waves. “Oooh,” she wailed woefully, “that was my very best wig.”

Her father’s jowls turned the color of turkey wattles. He took her roughly by the arm, marched her to the top of the companionway stairs, and pointed to a cloth bag hanging in the stairwell. “Do you know what is kept in that bag?”

Emerald shook her head, her voice deserting her completely.

“It’s a cat-o’-nine-tails. Do one more thing to displease me today and I’ll let the cat out of the bag!”

She sagged with relief when he let go of her arm. It
isn’t fair! Why does someone always have to draw his sting?
And yet she felt no small measure of satisfaction that she had saved Johnny from a savaging and rid herself of the hideous headpiece into the bargain.

    
S
hamus spotted Montague’s sails and went down to the jetty to make sure there was ample space to dock and unload the
Defense.
When he greeted his partner in crime, Shamus hid his amusement at Montague’s Admiralty uniform.
He needed it for courage to bring in the guns.
“Ye arrived without let or hindrance, I see.”

“As always,” Montague replied with his usual touch of English arrogance. He cast an envious eye over the two new ships. “Are these yours, Shamus?”

“They belong to my sons. The taller ship is Joseph’s; the black and silver, Sean’s,” he said with pride.

“Speaking of sons, I’d like you to meet mine. This is John and this is my daughter, Emerald. Jack you already know.”

Shamus shook hands with John and bowed gallantly to Emerald. Very little escaped Shamus’s shrewd eyes. He had seen the little lass blush at mention of his sons. “A thousand welcomes to our home. The celebration is well under way; the gardens are overrun with young ‘uns like yerselves. Go up to the house and enjoy.” He turned back to Montague. “Yer crew can unload the cargo onto the dock. There’s plenty lads about if they need a hand.”

As usual Montague showed no curiosity regarding the cargo’s final destination, which was likely the reason the two men had been able to deal together so long. William seemed only interested in the gold the shipment would bring him, and that was the way O’Toole wanted it. Montague left Jack to oversee the unloading and accompanied Shamus to the house.

“I didn’t bring much ammunition for the guns, but I can supply you with a shipload next week.”

“Good enough.” Shamus nodded. “Get it as far as Anglesey, and we’ll do the rest.” When William looked relieved, Shamus chuckled inwardly; he’d bet a penny to a pinch of shit the ammunition was already on Anglesey. Montague was too big a coward to transport a cargo of explosives that could blow him to kingdom come. Wicked Willie had too many sins on his soul to meet his Maker with equanimity.

As Kathleen saw them approach she gave her father’s arm a warning squeeze and stepped forward to greet Montague. “Welcome to the celebration, William.” When she offered him her hand, he took it to his lips, openly assessing the beauty of her face and form. She knew the Englishman found the FitzGerald women highly attractive. It was no wonder he’d lost his head entirely when fifteen-year-old Amber had cast her lure his way.

“I didn’t come alone. I’ve brought my son and daughter to acquaint them with their mother’s side of the family.”

“And about time, too, but where is Amber?” Kathleen asked pointedly.

“She sends her regrets; her delicate constitution makes a sea voyage a penance,” William said smoothly.

If she can stomach you, she has a constitution of iron, and as to penance, I suspect she pays that every day of her life.
“I’ll go and find them and make sure they are enjoying themselves. Father, pour William a double; by the sober look of him, he’s a deal of catching up to do.”

Edward FitzGerald and William Montague hadn’t had dealings together in years, at least none that Montague was aware of, the earl thought wryly. He had given Montague one of his brother’s daughters in marriage, knowing full well the little minx wouldn’t take no for an answer. Amber had seduced the English aristocrat, all right, but only by
being clever enough to refuse him sexual liberties until he’d proposed marriage.

Edward poured him a glass of smoky Irish whisky. “Yer a fortunate man, Montague. Ye have something I was denied, a son.” His firstborn, Kathleen, had been a twin, but her brother had been stillborn. “The daughter was inevitable, every FitzGerald dead or alive has produced one, but the odds were against a son.”

“I understood you were one of twenty-three children. Your father obviously produced sons.”

“Not many, and none save me who survived. One died in infancy, another three lived long enough to produce daughters before their early demise.”

“So all the male FitzGeralds who crew the merchant ships are third generation,” Montague concluded thoughtfully.

“They are indeed,” said Edward, raising his glass. “A toast to grandsons! Where would we be without them?”

William Montague cursed himself for a fool. The FitzGeralds were so numerous, he’d never given the succession a thought. Why had it never dawned on him before that Shamus O’Toole’s eldest son was Edward FitzGerald’s heir and the next Earl of Kildare? A plan almost full blown came to him. Why not betroth his daughter, Emerald, to Joseph FitzGerald O’Toole? Perhaps a daughter could be of some use after all.

E
merald caught her breath at the magnificence of the Georgian mansion in its perfect setting.
So this is Castle Lies
, she thought with a shiver of anticipation as she scanned the throng, looking for a certain face. When she did not find it, she took her courage in both hands and approached a group of young FitzGeralds. “How do you do? I am delighted to make your acquaintance.”

There was a moment’s dead silence as the girls’ eyes fixed upon the intruder and swept over her velvet-covered high breasts.

“Well, now, if it isn’t the queen of England,” said Fiona. The other girls laughed maliciously.

Emerald bravely swallowed the taunt and tried again. “I’m a FitzGerald on my mother’s side … I’m half Irish.”

“Which half would that be? The top half?” Fiona drawled as two young men ogled Emerald’s breasts.

“Sure, if she’s Irish, she must be one of the little people,” Dierdre suggested.

The warm blood drained from Emerald’s cheeks. Never had she been more painfully aware of her small dark appearance.

“What’s your name, then?” one of the girls asked. “The lady’s name is Emerald,” a deep voice said from behind her.

Emerald turned and looked up into Sean O’Toole’s dark laughing eyes and suddenly it didn’t matter that the girls had been cruel to her. Nothing mattered except
he
was there, laughing down at her, close enough to touch. She tossed her dark curls over her shoulder and gave him a radiant smile. “Happy birthday, Sean.”

He grinned, remembering their last encounter. Her admiration for him was plain for all to see. His heart skipped a beat. A dose of hero worship on his birthday was no unpleasant thing. His gaze traveled over the green velvet gown that showed off her feminine curves, then he bent and whispered, “This fashionable lady is never Emerald Montague? How did you become a woman in one short week?”

She laughed up into his face, clearly delighted that he thought her grown-up.