A Rose in Splendor (33 page)

Fey shrugged. “This lot will nae bring me what ye need.” She waved a hand about the bedroom. “We could sell your clothes. Nae. What about yer horse?”

“I own no horse. I have the pick of the stable but none is mine.”

Fey plopped belly-down on the bed. “Ask that Comte de Quentin for the money. He’ll give it to ye. I’ve seen him mooning about these last months when he thought to get under yer skirts. Offer him a quick feel in exchange for what ye need.”

Deirdre was too depressed to be properly shocked. “The Comte de Quentin will not be visiting here again. We are no longer engaged.”

Fey braced her chin in her palms. “Truly? ’Tis a wondrous fool ye are!”

Deirdre looked across at the girl. Her hair had grown long enough to curl and pin up, making her appear the young lady of thirteen that she was; but the mutinous look in her eyes was still that of an eight-year-old ruffian. “What would you sell, if you were desperate for money?”

Fey considered this in all its possible variations. “Ye will nae let me steal. ’Tis only one thing left. I’d sell meself had I nae made a certain promise.”

This time Deirdre’s face registered surprise. “Sell yourself? To whom? Oh!” She blushed furiously. “I should say you will not sell yourself! Did Da extract that promise from you?”

Fey looked away suddenly, her lovely face marred by
fury. “MacShane asked it of me. Only, he’s nae come back.” She looked back at Deirdre. “’Tis yer fault!”

The reminder of MacShane made Deirdre blush. She had not forgotten him—how could she—but she had been too busy these past days to give any consideration to the sinkhole of loneliness that lurked within her. “I do not suppose you know where he is.”

Fey’s expression shuttered over. “What if I did?”

Hope leaped shamelessly to life within Deirdre. “You know where he’s to be found?”

Fey did not answer, would not even look up at her.

“If I knew where he was, I would write to him and ask him to come to see us,” Deirdre said cunningly.

“He knows where ye are,” Fey answered sourly. “Were he interested, he’d come back on his own.”

Deirdre’s smile dissolved. “You believe that he stays away because of me.”

“Aye, because of what ye done and what ye did nae do.”

“Why do you say that? We were quite—friendly before he left.”

“And so ye were, lifting yer skirts and rutting on the floor like some tart.” Deirdre’s startled look made Fey grin. “Aye, I saw the pair of ye coupling in that cottage back of the garden.”

Deirdre stared at the girl in shock. In all her worst fears, it had never occurred to her that another soul knew what had passed between them. The thought made her feel ill. Anger and shame rushed the blood into her face. “You little sneak! You’re a spy and an eavesdropper! Have you no shame, no respect for another’s feelings! Go away! Go away!”

Fey backed off the bed, surprised that her revelation had so wounded Deirdre. “Had MacShane been me lover, I’d nae be shedding tears over the matter,” she ventured boldly. “I’d nae be ashamed of it.”

“I’m not ashamed.” Deirdre blinked back the threatening tears. “I’m not ashamed.”

“But ye’d have married that Frenchy comte,” Fey
answered scornfully. “MacShane must have known ye’d nae be faithful.”

Deirdre shook her head, but the truth of Fey’s words could not be completely dismissed. “I wouldn’t have married the comte to please myself, but to please my father. He was so ill, and the thought of my marrying gave him peace of mind. ’Tis why I accepted the betrothal.”

“’Tis one and the same,” Fey maintained. “Married is married.”

The truth of the statement appalled Deirdre. She had never imagined herself wed to Claude Goubert, only engaged. She had come very close to removing herself from MacShane’s life forever. “Do you know why MacShane left?”

Fey chewed her lip. She did not want to answer. MacShane had been angry and protective of Lady Deirdre and the thought stirred Fey’s jealousy. “Ye gave yerself to him and being a man he took what was offered. It did nae mean he wanted to be shackled with ye forever.”

Deirdre said nothing.

“If I was to tell ye where to find MacShane, I’d have to go along.”

Deirdre looked up at Fey’s words. “You know where to find him?”

Fey hesitated. MacShane had probably forgotten that he had told her she could seek out employment in Paris with the Duchesse de Luneville. MacShane might not be in Paris but the duchesse might know how to contact him. “I know a place, but I’d have to see it to be certain ’tis the right one.”

“Where is it?”

Fey had learned from experience never to give anything away. She looked down at the ruby glittering on her broken-nailed finger. “What’s it worth to ye?”

Deirdre swallowed her agitation. “I will not buy the information from you. The ring is yours.” So saying, she scooped up the remainder of her meager jewels to carry them back to the open box on the dresser.

Fey watched her in disbelief. No one gave away something for nothing. “He’s in Paris. Only, I forgot the place exactly.”

Deirdre nodded as she carefully placed her trinkets in the box. “Then we must go to Paris,” she said softly.

“With nae money?” Fey scoffed.

“We must find some,” Deirdre answered.

*

The dream place was familiar, the stable yard of Liscarrol. Was it dusk or dawn? Pewter-lined clouds had shouldered their way across the sky, lending to the day an eerie twilight. Beneath the smoky sky, the green hills lay like frozen waves among the mist, stony-crested and green-sloped. Nearby, the last of the Liscarrol oaks groaned under the assault of the wind.

Deirdre lifted her face to the wind, gasping in the bog-scented air. This time the air raked her face with new intensity. The rain that stung her cheeks was colder than before.

The horse and rider appeared out of the mist, the rider’s black cape whipped high over the horse’s rump. There was determination in their flight but not panic. She could not help but admire the rider’s skill as he rode down the long slope into the valley where she stood.

It was familiar, all of it, achingly familiar and yet new. There was joy as well as dread in his coming. When he reined in near her, she could not turn away or deny him. She ran toward him, her arms lifted in welcome.

As she expected, knew he would, he lifted an arm to warn her off. “Stay away!” he cried, his words clipped short by the wind. “Stay away in fear of your life,
mo cuishle
!”

This time panic did not jerk her into wakefulness. She ran after him; even as he turned and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks she cried out, “Do not go! Wait! Wait for me. Killian! Killian!”

* * *

Brigid shook Deirdre until she awakened.

For a moment, her gray-green eyes were misted by the vision, then gradually they cleared and a smile softened Deirdre’s mouth. “I remember! I remember the dream, the one I thought I’d forgotten. ’Tis about him, Brigid! ’Tis about MacShane. He came to Liscarrol the first day I dreamed it! And later, aboard the ship bound for France, I dreamed it again! He was in trouble, terrible trouble, and he was afraid to let me help him!”

Brigid drew the younger woman against her bosom. “Aye, ye dreamed, ye’ve dreamed that dream every night of your life.”

Brigid reached into her neckline and pulled free the stone on the string. “Do ye see this, lass? ’Tis a witch-stone. I’ve put it under yer pillow these many years to keep the vision from driving ye mad, but the time has come when ye must face yer fate.”

She picked up a cloth bundle that she had brought to the bedside. “I’ve been waiting this last fortnight for the dream to come full-blown to ye. Once last summer, I thought the time had come, but when MacShane went away, the dream faded. Now that you’ve remembered it, I will give ye this.”

She carefully unwrapped the cloth to reveal an ancient skean, a dagger of Celtic design. In the candlelight, its keen blade gleamed blue-white but for the dull brown streak along one edge. The hilt was decorated in gold, enamel, bronze, and rock crystal with a huge amethyst stone at its center.

“’Tis the talisman of the bloodred rose,” Brigid whispered, awed by her own words. “None may fairly own it but a true child of the blood. ’Tis yers.”

Deirdre drew back a little from the pagan artifact. “Mine? Why should it belong to me?”

Brigid smiled triumphantly. “The birthmark, lass. On
your shoulder. ’Tis a very special sign. ’Tis the Bloodred Rose of Ulster. Ye were born with a powerful force at yer disposal, and the gift of sight to guide it.”

Deirdre stared at the overly bright gleam in Brigid’s
eyes and was suddenly afraid. “You do not mean that. ’Tis a jest.”

Brigid’s gaze slipped back to the light dancing along the skean’s edge, her eyes unfocusing as a trance overcame her “’Twas many years ago, more than ten times ten. A female child born, cut from the womb of a dead woman. A changeling she was, touched by the fairies with a red mark, the sign of the otherworld. She was the natural daughter of the Shane, the O’Neill of Ulster. The lass was hidden away, lest she do harm to others, or others to her. One day a golden-haired stranger came to Ulster and stole the lass’s heart. She followed him to the Pale, and beyond. ’Tis said she saved the lives of the Butlers of Kilkenny and that because of her, the clan of O’Neill will never die.”

She looked up at last. “’Tis your fate, in the mark on your shoulder. Yer mother knew she carried a special child. ’Tis why she died so willingly. Born of a dead woman, do you nae see?”

Deirdre shuddered and pushed away the skean. “No. ’Tis a wretched story, that of dead women and marked bairns. I won’t believe it. I’m not an O’Neill.”

Brigid merely smiled. “Yer father was not of the O’Neill line but yer mother was a direct descendant of Meghan Fitzgerald O’Neill herself.”

“Meghan?”

“The first to bear the mark. Her mother was a Fitzgerald, as ye are, and her father an O’Neill. Ask yerself: what name does the man ye love bear? MacShane! Son of Shane O’Neill, as any Irishman can tell you. With him the circle will be complete.”

Deirdre pulled her knees up and hugged them protectively. “I dream of Killian MacShane because I love him. There’s no magic in that.”

“Aye,” Brigid concurred. “’Tis as ye predicted that day in the stable of Liscarrol. The fairies sent ye a black-haired lad for yer very own.”

Deirdre shook her head. The dream of Killian had touched her deeply. It was as if he had just ridden away from her a second time. She did not want Brigid to claim a share in something so personal.

“Each time ye dream, ye have called out, ‘Wait, wait for me.’ What does he say to ye?” Brigid questioned.

“He says, ‘Stay away, in fear for your life,
mo cuishle
’.”

Brigid sighed. “There’s dangerous times ahead for ye. Would that I could aid ye, but ye must do this alone.” She reached into her bedclothes, pulled out a small purse, opened it; emptied its contents onto the bed. Two dozen gold coins winked back from the bedding. “’Tis for yer voyage. Ye must find MacShane, or perhaps he will find ye. Ye must both return to Liscarrol or it will be lost.”

Deirdre grabbed Brigid’s arm as she rose to leave. “You cannot expect me to journey to Liscarrol alone. You must come with me!”

Brigid shook her head slowly. “There’s Lady Elva with a child on the way. ’Twill come before the end of the month, there being a full moon then. I’m needed here. I’ve done all I can for ye, Deirdre Butler Fitzgerald. Ye must travel yer path alone. Do not fail yer task.”

Deirdre snatched back her hand in anger. “You talk like a madwoman. What have I to fear at Liscarrol besides the English?” But Brigid did not answer; she turned away.

“Find MacShane,” Brigid called over her shoulder before she closed the door behind herself.

“Aye,” Deirdre whispered. She gathered up the coins Brigid had left behind. She would find MacShane.

Chapter Fourteen

The wooden wheels of the post chaise slipped and bounced over the narrow stone-paved street of Paris. Within it, Deirdre moved a leather curtain and peered anxiously out at the night.

“Ye’ll nae be spotting him in the street,” Fey muttered. “’Tis too miserable a night for strolling. Me feet are froze clean through.”

Deirdre pulled the curtain closed over the chill February night. For nearly a week, they had traveled the road that led from Nantes to Paris and both were thoroughly miserable and exhausted.

Deirdre groaned softly as they struck another jarring bump and wiggled about in hopes of finding a more comfortable position for her back. There was none. “I’m bruised from feet to ears!”

Fey snorted. “’Tis me bum that’s bruised. I may never sit again. Should have waited for spring.”

Deirdre clenched her teeth as they were jolted again. That comment had served as Fey’s answer to every wretched moment of their journey. From poor lodgings at inadequately provisioned posting houses to mud-clogged roads, which had cost them a wheel and half a day’s journey time in
repair, to the freezing cold that fur rugs could not defend against.

“You need not have accompanied me,” Deirdre said righteously.

“Aye, and ye’d nae have found MacShane,” Fey tossed back.