Dark of the Moon (33 page)

Still Connor hesitated, looking at Caitlyn.

"I'll be fine," she said again. "Truly."

He nodded, then turned on his heel, heading back toward where Rory was helping Cormac dose the shrilly bleating sheep.

"So tell me, child," Father Patrick began as they walked through the drizzle toward the house, "are you of the Church?"

By the time they had taken tea together and the family had finished supper, Father Patrick knew most of what there was to know about Caitlyn (though some things she had edited, for after all, there was no reason to paint herself blacker than was strictly necessary). At the conclusion of the meal, as the men rose to leave the table and Caitlyn started to help Mrs.

McFee clear away, Father Patrick motioned her over to where he stood with Connor and placed a beefy hand on her shoulder.

"I'll tell you both that I set out this morning thinking to save you, Connor, from a disastrous marriage. I've since changed my mind entirely. From what I've seen, it may be the making of you. 'Tis time your thoughts turned toward the future instead of the past. This is as sweet and loving a lassie as you'll find across the breadth of Ireland, and 'tis obvious you have a care for her. She'll make you a fine wife, give you bonny sons. You have my blessing, the pair of you."

"Thank you, Father," Caitlyn said, pleased and surprised at the praise, which she privately considered to be largely undeserved.

"You're a man of rare discernment, Father," Connor said with a grin, slipping his arm around Caitlyn and pulling her close against his side. "How soon can we be wed?"

"A month," Father Patrick said firmly and cocked an admonishing eye at Connor. "And by the by, I would have a private word with you, if I may, my son."

Connor winced. "The last time you called me your son, the penance made my knees ache for a week."

"I've a feeling they'll ache for rather longer this time. Come, I haven't much time."

Connor, looking resigned, took Father Patrick upstairs to the office. Not long afterward, the pair emerged on seemingly excellent terms, though Connor appeared a bit rueful. Caitlyn had left Mrs. McFee to finish the dishes and joined the younger d'Arcys in the parlor, where she passed the time by playing spinnikins with Cormac. Connor entered the room with the priest and crossed to stand behind her chair.

"Did you have to tell him about last night?" he bent to whisper with pained humor in her ear. She turned pink and cast an apologetic look up at him.

"I could not lie to a priest," she whispered back, then shushed him with a look.

Moments later, Mickeen appeared in the doorway. Connor left her side to join the little man in the hall.

"All's in readiness, yer lordship," she heard him say. She frowned in puzzlement. Before she could get up to join them, Connor was back, talking to Father Patrick in low tones.

"Is something wrong?" she whispered to Rory, who was standing nearby.

Rory shook his head. "Father Patrick will be holding a hedge mass for the people of Donoughmore. They've gathered together in the woods behind the sheep barn. That way, if word of it gets out, blame will be harder to attach to any here."

"A hedge mass?" Connor was beside her then, draping a shawl around her shoulders before taking her arm. In almost total silence, they left the house in a group behind Father Patrick.

Mrs. McFee joined them, and Mickeen, as they stepped out into the darkness. The rain had stopped sometime during the evening. The grass was wet beneath their feet, and the air was cool in the aftermath of the rain. About them the night was alive with people moving, con-verging on the thick grove of trees that flourished in a little hollow behind the barn. More people awaited them. As they recognized the priest's black robes and Connor, the peasants parted to let them through.

Someone had rolled a large tree stump with a flat top into the middle of the hollow.

Someone else had placed a length of white lace and two tiny, barely flickering candles on it. A silver chalice that Caitlyn recognized as coming from the house sat between the candles, and next to it was the flat white circle of the Host. Father Patrick moved behind the makeshift altar.

The crowd gathered around, grew silent. Someone sneezed, and there was a steady rustle of clothing as people shifted where they stood. The nearby stream gurgled; a night bird called. But it seemed as if a hush had fallen over the night.

"God's blessing on all here," the priest intoned quietly.

"And on you, Father," came the reply from many throats.

"Dear friends, we have not much time. Let us begin."

The chalice was passed, the Host shared. Forty or so people sank to their knees on the wet ground. Caitlyn, with Connor on one side and Rory on the other, knelt with the rest. The prayers were less loud than the gurglings of the stream. There was a palpable tension in the air.

The saying of mass was forbidden by law; to be caught at their worship would result in dire punishment for all.

Though born and baptized into the Church, Caitlyn could not remember ever having participated in a mass, but she thought she must have when she was small, before her mother had died. Her free-roarning life on the streets of Dublin had precluded any formal religious observance, although Catholicism pervaded the very air of the city's slums. She watched and listened intently. Gnarled old men knelt in prayer next to their sons and grandsons. Women with tears streaking their cheeks bowed shawled heads. Beside her, Connor's head was bowed like the rest. His hands were clasped before him, his lips moving as he intoned the prayers.

Caitlyn, glancing sideways at him as he made the sign of the cross, felt her heart swell with love, for him and for Ireland and for the Church and for everyone present. In that moment, it seemed to her that they were all part of one another, part of a living whole.

Then the last prayer was over, and they muttered, "Amen," in unison. The crowd stood up, melted away like the mist. Mickeen had brought Father Patrick's horse to the hollow; he stood with the d'Arcys and Caitlyn to bid the priest Godspeed before he rode off into the night.

Connor held her hand tightly in his as they returned to the house. She felt happier and more at peace than she had ever been in her life.

The next few days passed in a blur of blinding joy for Caitlyn. Though in fact it rained almost without ceasing, she felt as if the sun shone down upon her all the time. The only fly in her ointment was that Connor, prompted by conscience and Father Patrick, refused to continue his lessons in lovemaking until she was legally made his wife. Despite this prohibition and its ensuing frustrations, Connor, too, was unprecedentedly jovial. His brothers observed him with wary amazement as he took even the most maddening happenstance with calm good humor.

Wherever Connor was, Caitlyn was usually nearby. She followed him about the farm, assisting him when she could or more often just admiring as he went about doing whatever was necessary for the running of the farm. He was strong and skilled, a far better sheep farmer than any of his brothers, and she watched with unalloyed pleasure when, stripped to the waist, he would single-handedly throw and tie a sheep or lift one to the cart for market. The play of muscles beneath his bronzed skin could hold her transfixed for hours. Her adoration of him was apparent to all, and the object of much good-natured ribbing from his brothers whenever Connor himself was not about to take umbrage on her behalf. Caitlyn took their jesting in good measure. She did adore Connor, and now that they were to be wed, she didn't care who knew it.

For the first time in her life she developed an interest in her wardrobe. Connor insisted that she be married in a proper wedding dress, and she discovered to her surprise that there was distinct pleasure to be gained from poring over patterns. With not quite three weeks until her wedding day, she selected a simple design with a high neck and long, tight sleeves to be made up in shimmery white silk. From a trunk in the attic she unearthed a fine lace veil, and that along with a white rosary that had belonged to Connor's mother completed her outfit. Connor rode with her to the village, where Mrs. Bannion, the local seamstress, took all her measurements and promised to have the dress ready for a fitting in a week. While in the village, which she had visited frequently since she had come to live with the d'Arcys, Caitlyn learned that she had become the focus of all attention. Mrs. McFee had trumpeted the news of his lordship's shocking engagement to the world, and the world turned out to stare.

"I feel like a two-headed calf," she said with some ruefulness to Connor as he reached up to lift her from the saddle on their return to the stable at Donoughmore. She could dismount perfectly well herself, of course, but Connor was increasingly solicitous of her as their wedding day approached, and she was not about to object to anything that gave him an excuse to put his hands on her. It had been nigh on ten days now since he had introduced her to the sins of the flesh, and she was growing increasingly impatient to experience them again.

"You don't look like one," Connor said with a smile as he set her on her feet. Caitlyn allowed her hands to linger on his hard shoulders, which were damp from the drizzle they had ridden through. Though she had worn a cloak, he had disdained one, and moisture gleamed on his buff coat and black hair. His shirt and breeches were splotched from the wet, and his boots had flecks of mud all the way up to their high tops. They stood so close their bodies brushed, her hands on his shoulders, his on her waist beneath the cloak. She had thrown back her hood before he reached up for her, and her long hair, secured only by a blue ribbon at the nape, tumbled in a soft mass down her back.

"I wish we were wed already," she said, her eyes and voice wistful. His hands tightened on her waist, and he pulled her a step closer. Her breasts in their prim bodice were pressed against his chest. His eyes slid down to her mouth, to where her breasts swelled against him, then back up to her eyes.

His smile widened, then crooked. "Ah, now that's quite an admission. Did I not tell you that you'd like lovemaking?"

She let go of one shoulder to give him a soft, playful smack on the cheek. Her hand lingered, enjoying the just slightly abrasive feel of his jaw. Although he had shaved that morn, bristles were already making their presence known again.

"Aye, you did, you conceited creature."

"Was I wrong, then?"

She eyed him. There was a glint in those aqua eyes that excited her. Her hand slid sideways across that bristly- skinned jaw so that her thumb just touched the edge of his mouth.

"No, you weren't wrong," she assured him, dropping her eyes and then flicking a veiled look up at him. The glint in his eyes brightened while the centers went dark. Caitlyn felt her heartbeat quicken. His skin beneath her hand seemed to heat. Her thumb moved, stroked the line where his lips joined.

His lips parted, drew her thumb into his mouth. Gently his teeth bit down on the edge of her thumb. Caitlyn's breath caught on a little gasp. She watched him nibble on her thumb and felt her knees weaken. Then she pulled her thumb away, going up on tiptoe to press her lips to his mouth. It was firm and warm beneath her lips, faintly moist from where he had nibbled on her thumb. His hands on-her waist tightened, and she could feel the tension in him. Still he made no move to do what she wished.

"Just a kiss, Connor," she coaxed against that unyielding mouth. His lips parted slightly as he drew an unsteady breath.

"Oh, aye. Just a kiss.'Tis easy for you to say," he muttered, but he was unable to resist her blandishments any longer. He pulled her so close against him that she could feel every muscle and sinew of his hard body. She could feel the man part of him huge and insistent against her, feel the racing of his heart, the faint tremors that shook the arms that held her. Her arms went around his neck, her hands in his hair, and she kissed him again with hungry passion, reveling in the taste and feel of his mouth. With a quick, unsteady indrawing of breath, he slanted his mouth across hers, his lips and tongue hard and greedy as they took her mouth with an urgency that left her gasping. Caitlyn felt as if her bones would melt from the heat of his mouth.

"Enough of that, now." He put her away from him so suddenly that she had to clutch at his shoulders for balance. His voice was hoarse, his eyes afire with need, but the hands that held her from him were hard and steady.

"Connor!" she moaned.

"We'll wait till we're wed."

"Three weeks!"

" 'Tis not an eternity. You're to be my wife, and I'll not treat you like a doxy in the meantime."

"But I want you to treat me like a doxy! As long as 'tis you, I don't mind at all!" They'd had this argument before, and his insistence on being noble made her want to stamp her foot with frustration.

He frowned down at her. "You're not helping, you know."

"If we're to be wed, I don't see what difference it makes whether or not we wait for the actual official ceremony. In the eyes of God, I consider us already husband and wife. Do you not, Connor?" This argument, which had occurred to her on the spur of the moment, was so perfect that she had to restrain a triumphant smile. Let him get around that, if he could!

"I . . ."

"Yer lordship! Are ye about? I've news! There's— Oh. Sorry." Mickeen burst into the stable, looking excited about something, then stopped dead as he saw Caitlyn in Connor's arms.

He frowned, discomfort and disapproval plain on his face. Like Mrs. McFee, Mickeen felt that Caitlyn was no fit wife for the Lord Earl of Iveagh.

" 'Tis all right, Mickeen. We're through here. Why don't you go on up to the house, puss, and change out of those wet shoes, and let me get some business conducted for a change?" This last was addressed with mock gruffness to Caitlyn as he released his hold on her waist and, with his hand on her rear, gave her a little shove toward the stable door. Caitlyn, charmed at this bit of impudent familiarity, smiled saucily at him over her shoulder as she obediently started to take herself off.

" 'Tis gold, yer lordship! Gold!"