A Rose in Splendor (11 page)

“But they know nothing of keeping a gentleman’s person,” Conall protested.

Deirdre’s dimple deepened. “And neither do you, Conall Sheamus Fitzgerald. You need a wife to keep you, though I doubt even a bride would look fondly upon this disaster.”

Deirdre walked to the door, turning back only when she had reached it. “What will you say to Da?”

Conall shrugged. “MacShane’s been invited. ’Twill not be said a Fitzgerald was inhospitable to a guest.”

Deirdre doubted her father’s hospitality, but she was equally certain that MacShane would not be turned back from their door.

“If you leave your door off its latch, ’tis fair certain you shall be visited by the fairies this night,” Conall said and mimed eating.

Deirdre smiled at him. “Thank you, brother.”

When she was gone, Conall heaved a sigh of satisfaction. He had baited his hook well. Deirdre was breathless with anticipation over MacShane’s visit. He and Darragh were in agreement that Deirdre should marry. With Da ailing, it was only a matter of time before the burden of the Fitzgerald women became theirs. With Deirdre wed,
they would have fewer worries. MacShane was their choice;
and, though the man himself did not know it, he had become their prize candidate in the marriage market.

Of course, if Darragh had not pushed the matter with Da, they might have been able to plan better. As it was,
they would have to deal with their father’s wrath until MacShane arrived.

’Twas time the old man saw reason. “MacShane’s the man for Dee,” Conall said aloud and was answered by a rumbling belly. “But first there’s a meal to be eaten.”

*

Deirdre struggled with the last of the lacing at the back of her gown as Brigid entered the bedroom. “Oh, good. I cannot reach the last. I really should have my own maid. After all, I am a young lady, and all young ladies of means have their very own personal maids.”

“Some young ladies of means are
mature
enough to have a maid,” Brigid answered sourly as she came, forward to help her charge. “But the likes of ye, lass, who tests her da’s temper to its limits, needs a nurse.”

Deirdre laughed. It was an old joke between them. Brigid was more than a servant, not to be turned out or demoted. She acted as Deirdre’s maid but it was well understood that she did so out of affection.

“There ye are, and ye’d best hurry to bed. Lord Fitzgerald is stomping about below, roaring like a wounded stag.”

Deirdre swung about as she pulled her gown from her shoulders. “So you’ve heard the commotion. Do you know why Da dislikes this MacShane?”

Brigid did not alter the bland expression on her full face, but Deirdre thought she saw a flash in the woman’s eyes. “I know nothing of it. But, if his lordship dislikes the man, so do I.”

“Blind loyalty is for fools and soldiers,” Deirdre said peevishly. “I did not think you took orders well.”

“Lord Fitzgerald is a man worthy of blind belief,” Brigid said flatly and reached to lift the fallen gown from the floor.

Deirdre turned toward her vanity and began pulling the pins from her hair. As she reached to place a handful of them on the tabletop, she glimpsed her right shoulder in the mirror. She twisted about even more until the full
shape of her birthmark came into view. It was bright red and the exact size and shape of a rosebud.

One of the fairies’ own
.
Conall had spoken of the fairies minutes earlier, but it was Brigid who had first spoken to Deirdre of the otherworld when, as a child, she had been distressed by the birthmark.

“Do you still believe I was kissed by the fairies?” Deirdre asked softly when she saw Brigid’s reflection above her own in the mirror.

Brigid smiled and the smile transformed her into a woman younger than the six and thirty that she was. “Aye, lass, I’d swear to it.”

Deirdre ran a finger lightly over the mark. “’Tis a curious thing, this mark. Sometimes I forget it’s there. Other times I believe ’tis the thing that links me to Ireland, the thing that will not allow me to forget that I should go back.”

Brigid unfastened Deirdre’s petticoats. “Aye, ’tis a reminder, but there’s something more important that should remind ye.” She tapped her chest. “’Tis the heart, lass.”

“Why, Brigid, you sound positively sentimental.” Deirdre turned about to face the woman. “You’re not too old; you should think of marrying.”

“I’ve not met a man who could call Brigid McSheehy his wife and be proud of it.”

Deirdre frowned. “Who would not be proud to love a woman such as you?”

Brigid had already turned away and was folding a petticoat. She did not answer for so long a time that Deirdre thought perhaps she had not heard the question, but finally the nurse said, “I made a bargain, a vow, a long time ago that nothing would persuade me to neglect me duty. Men come and men go. None of them tempted me to forget me vow.”

Deirdre considered this. “So, there have been men?”

Brigid looked up, a secret smile on her lips. “Ye’re
young, lass. One day ye’ll understand that the traffic between a man and a woman need not be bound by vows of marriage or promises. There, I’ve shocked ye, as so I should. Go to bed and dream of the man
ye’ll
wed.”

Half an hour later, with a comfortable purloined portion of Conall’s supper in her stomach, the candle blown out, and the curtains drawn, Deirdre lay in bed staring up into the dark. She would not dream. She could not remember dreaming since she had come as a child to France. Yet, she did think of the great and ugly MacShane who would come riding up to her door in a few days’ time.

“I hope he’s not so monstrously ugly that I cannot be civil to him,” she murmured sleepily.

*

The wind whistled in the trees, bending and snapping their tips like flags. The wind struck the dull gray surface of the water, whipping it into mare’s tails. The wind soared and, on its back, it carried leaves, bits of grass, and the pungent odor of ancient past. Higher still, dark gray clouds scudded on its invisible shoulders. And in its wake the whistling, singing, keening wind carried the thunder of hooves.

They appeared out of the misty morning air like a black speck on the green sea of grass. As they neared, rider and horse drew more distinct until the black cape whipping high over the horse’s rump revealed the muscled thighs of a horseman.

They swept down the long slope into the valley where she stood waiting as she had every night of her life.

Her heart beat so loudly in her ears that she could no longer hear the thunder of hooves.

When he reined in before her, she could not turn away, could not move, could not deny him. She lifted her arms.

He raised his arm to fend her off. “Stay away!” he cried, his words snatched by the wind and sent keening down to the sea below them. “Stay away, in fear of your life,
mo cuishle
!”

* * *

Deirdre sat up in bed. What had awakened her? She could not remember. For a long moment she listened in the dark, but she heard nothing but her own heartbeat.

*

Brigid stood in the hallway, her candle snuffed by a pinch of her fingers.

“What happened? Why do ye nae go in to her?”

Brigid turned readily toward the sound of the man’s voice, though his features were indistinguishable in the gloom. “She’ll come to nae harm. ’Twas but a dream.”

“A dream! Ye said she did nae dream.”

Under that cover of dark Brigid clasped the tiny witch-stone that still hung about her neck. This night she had deliberately kept the charm from beneath Deirdre’s pillow to see what would happen. The dream had returned, as she had known it would. “The signs are growing stronger. The time is coming for the lass to return to Liscarrol.”

“No! No! I forbid it!”

“Ye cannot forbid the wind nor the tide…nor fate, Lord Fitzgerald.”

Chapter Five

As Killian MacShane stood wrapped in his cloak at the edge of a copse, he watched the rising sun with indifference. It was just the beginning of another day, a day he would have to live through as best he could. No different, no better than any of the days he could remember. If not for the dream, he would be sleeping still.
If not for the dream
.

The corners of Killian’s mouth lifted slightly in a self-mocking smile. He would have slept through many other nights if not for the dream. It would not let him rest. It had mocked and teased him these last eleven years. Not even life in the belly of a galley ship had earned him dreamless sleep. He never knew when it would strike and so could not prevent it. Only in waking and waiting for the dawn could he keep himself free.

Were it a terrible nightmare, he might shake free of it. Were it an omen of his death, he would meet it bravely. Were it a memory of past grief, he would outlive it. It was none of these. It was a childish dream, a dream of fairies and magic and goodness and beauty. It had haunted him until his spirit was weary with yearning for what could not be. Yet it would not leave him.

The blue-gray mist over the field drifted past, scored pale yellow where the first rays of dawn filtered through it. Even as he willed it away, wisps of the dream, like the seeking fingers of the mist, wrapped themselves about his mind until, for an instant, the dream was with him once more.

The face that haunted him was the face of a child and yet it was not. With tangled curls the color of ripened grain and wide gray-green eyes as calm and deep as peace, she sought him out, beguiling him with the promise of peace and belonging.
Something of his own
.
That was what she represented. In all his twenty-eight years he had never possessed anything of his own. And yet, in the darkness of night, a creature of dreams aroused in him a need for love so strong that he feared her.

Killian tossed his head, an unconscious gesture that flung a lock of black hair from his eyes, and then rubbed his brow with a gauntleted hand. That was his guilty secret, a thing he could not reveal in a confessional where he freely admitted the deaths he had caused on the battlefield, his lust, his weaknesses. This longing for the love of a phantom was too foolish a thing for a man of his age to admit, even to himself. That was why he awakened whenever the dream came over him. He was too ashamed to submit to its seductive pleasure.

The snort of his horse momentarily attracted his attention. The war horse was all he had left to show for his years of service in the French army. His superiors had not believed he would simply walk away. After all, he was a hero. It was of little consequence to him. In the end, they could offer him nothing that he wanted or needed. They had need of a man with his skill, they had told him, and that had made him smile as he walked away.

All his life, people had had a need for his talents. He was an efficient soldier. He killed cleanly, swiftly, and reliably. They would miss his ability to defeat the enemy, but none of his comrades knew or cared for Killian MacShane, the man. They feared him. He saw it in their eyes and knew that they had heard the exaggerated tales of his birth and upbringing. In the beginning, he had enjoyed
the awe those tales inspired, but now he realized that they had only isolated him. He had had enough of killing. He had had enough of loneliness. From now on he would work to fill the need within himself to possess something of his own.

He raised his head as the sun’s corona edged above the horizon. By midday, he would arrive in Nantes.

“Nantes.” Killian said the word aloud. Perhaps it was his journey to Nantes that had prompted last night’s dream. That, and the prospect of meeting Lord Fitzgerald again.

Killian’s frown deepened as he mused over the confrontation before him. In some mysterious way, the beginnings of his dream were bound up in his chance encounter with Lord Fitzgerald many years before. He had been only a lad then, a wounded, frightened boy who had seen the worst that war could offer in a homeland that was not his birthplace. And for his trouble he had been betrayed. Aye, he would begin at the beginning, with Lord Fitzgerald of Liscarrol Castle.

He wrapped his cloak tighter about himself. As for the dream, its effect would fade with the rising sun. It always did.

*

Southern Brittany was a low flat land, little of which was readily amenable to farming. It was on the coast that most Bretons made their home, and their livelihoods came from the sea. Nantes, on the banks of the Loire near its confluence with the Atlantic, was a center of trading where sailors and fishermen rubbed shoulders with the rest of the world. In good times, the streets of the city were lined with folk selling their catch. In bad times, it was filled with men offering their services for any price. Yet, good times or bad, the streets were filled with the disconsolate: the beggars, the lame, the abandoned.

Killian held his gaze above the milling throngs as his horse threaded a path through the streets. It was midsummer, the catch was going well, and the city prospered. The
stink of fish and mussels and crabs filled the narrow, humid lanes as vendors cried out their wares.

“M’sieur! M’sieur!”

A tug on his pants leg made Killian look down into the filthy face of a child not more than twelve years of age. The urchin tightened his grip on Killian’s leg as he extended a grimy hand.
“Un peu sous, m’sieur! Pour Mama et les bebes! Un peu sous!”