Emerald Desire (Emerald Trilogy)

EMERALD DESIRE

Lynette Vinet

COPYRIGHT @2012

Lynette Vinet

First Kindle Printing

Part One

Ireland 1765

CHAPTER ONE

A full moon shone upon Dera as she hurried across the meadow. The nighttime smell of grass, wet from a late fall shower, mingled with the sweet scent of newly mown hay. She breathed deeply and smiled to herself. Soon her heart would find peace in the meadow. Soon the person for whom she longed would be beside her.

Pulling her shawl closer, she slowed her pace, but her heart beat fast. She was alone among the towering stacks of hay, alone at least for the moment. It was dark and eerie within the shadows of the stacks, but she wasn't frightened, only nervous. Countless times as a child she had followed the path over her window sill and padded across the meadow, relishing the feel of the grass, springy and sometimes soggy beneath her bare feet. The past few years of her life had revolved around the meadow. She knew every inch of it and how it looked in every season: verdant green in the spring and summer and ocher-colored in the colder months. But she loved the nights best when the haystacks were silhouetted against the inky sky like monoliths from eons past. The quiet of the Irish countryside allowed her to forget that she was little more than a servant in her uncle's home.

Dera's early years had been spent in London with her mother, a beautiful auburn-haired woman who always smelled of rosewater and swished in and out of her life wearing silk and taffeta gowns. Caroline Brennan was an actress. Most of the time, Dera was left in the care of an elderly woman named Mandy who was Dera's nurse, her friend and the person she loved best in all the world.

They lived in a small but elegantly furnished house on the outskirts of London where Caroline entertained her gentleman friend away from prying eyes. Dera never learned the man's name but guessed he was important, perhaps a member of the royal family. She also knew he wasn't her father. Once she had asked her mother who her father was. Being a consummate actress, Caroline gave a great theatrical sigh.

"Oh, what questions you ask, Dera! However, I'll be frank with you. I'm sorry to say you're a bastard. I really don't know who fathered you. Now go run and play or have Mandy give you a sweetmeat. I must rehearse my lines." She shooed Dera away with a wave of her long, slender hand as though her daughter were a bothersome fly. Being nine years old at the time and perceptive for her years, Dera swallowed the burning lump in her throat and went to Mandy for comfort.

"My mother hates me," she said in a matter-of-fact little voice.

Mandy gave her a long and level look, her craggy face softening, then kissed her cheek. "No, love, Miss Caroline is just busy. After the play gets under way, she'll take you for walks in the park just like before."

Dera shook her head at Mandy's futile attempt to reassure her. "I'd rather go for walks with you, Mandy. It's no fun with mama. She only gets dressed up to preen in her new gowns. In fact, I don't think she likes me with her because no gentlemen will speak to her. But when I wander off and look back, there's always a man there."

"Your mother is a beautiful woman. It's only natural that men would wish to meet her."

"Do you think I'll be as pretty as she when I grow up?" she asked Mandy and stuffed a sweetmeat into her mouth.

Mandy stood above her and patted the top of her head. "More so, Dera. You have the promise of great beauty. With your raven hair and large, violet eyes, no man will ever forget you once he sees you. Just wait, my sweet. One day you'll have wealth, too. The world will be yours for the taking."

How she loved Mandy! And how much she wanted to believe her! But less than a year later, Caroline's "friend" stopped coming, and when they moved to smaller quarters in a shabbier section of London, she saw her mother's cool indifference toward her turn into hatred.

"It's because of Dera no one is interested in me. How can I expect a man to offer me protection or any sort of a life with a child clinging to my skirts?" Dera heard her say to Mandy. "Besides, I can barely pay you any longer, much less support a child. There's only one thing left to do. I have a life also. Damn his fat cow of a wife! She spoiled everything with her threats. I hope never to become involved with a henpecked husband again."

Fear pricked Dera's heart. As Caroline raged about the wrongs her lover had committed against her, Dera knew that whatever she decided to do would adversely affect her. Barely a month later, Mandy woke her at dawn. She dressed her and packed her belongings.

"Where are we going?" Dera asked sleepily.

Mandy's voice was low and calm, but her hands shook as she brushed Dera's hair. "To your Uncle Timothy in Ireland, you mother's brother."

"Then I suppose I shall never see you again," Dera said woodenly.

"I don't know what the future holds for either one of us, child, but remember I love you." Mandy continued to brush her hair, not looking at the small girl’s reflection in the mirror.

"I love you, too." Neither one cried or clung to the other. For some reason, they didn't have to show their feelings. Just knowing was enough.

"I must tell mama goodbye."

"Miss Caroline is gone. You'll not see her for a time."

"Oh," Dera said. She suddenly understood that she would never see her mother again.

Caroline had deserted her, putting her into the care of her farmer brother and his young wife. Dera realized she could expect nothing else from her mother.

It was quite obvious to her from the moment she met Timothy Brennan that the pampered life was behind her. He appeared to be about forty, slightly stout, with muddy brown eyes and faded red hair. His chin was dimpled and the dimple deepened whenever he laughed, which wasn't often. He wasn't unpleasant to her, yet Dera sensed he resented having a child foisted upon him. She barely knew she had an uncle, and she doubted very much if he liked being reminded he had an illegitimate niece.

She was given the small back bedroom of his white, thatched-roof cottage. Immediately she fell in love with the view from the window, for it looked across the meadow and seemed to stretch into infinity.

The most remarkable thing about Timothy to Dera was that he had married Lydia, a pretty young woman from Athlone and was very much in love with her. Why Lydia had chosen to wed such an unattractive man puzzled Dera, but she learned that by local standards, Uncle Timothy was considered prosperous since there were ample amounts of food on the table. Born a Catholic, he had decided early in life that poverty and English bigotry were not to his liking, so he had converted to Protestantism and obtained the position of overseer to the Fairfaxes, the English family who lived in the manor house.

Never one to care overmuch about religion, Dera felt it was unfair for any country to tell another which religion to practice. Once she voiced this sentiment to Timothy. Lydia gasped and the vein in her uncle's head throbbed noticeably. In a solemn tone he told her never to say such a thing again; that if anyone asked, she wasn't a Papist, though she had been baptized a Catholic, but a loyal servant to King George II.

After her arrival, she performed odd chores such as sweeping and helping Lydia clean house. As she grew older and Timothy discovered she had an inquiring mind and could read as well as do sums, he promptly taught her how to keep his account books. Dera quickly decided she preferred ledgers to cooking and cleaning, so she did the best job she could for him. The work consisted mostly of recording rents and keeping track of how much each tenant produced.

After doing the books for a few weeks, she noticed that a tenant named Flannery wasn't contributing as much as the others, so she mentioned this to her uncle.

"Humph!" he snorted. "Never used to have much trouble when old Donal Flannery was alive, but it's his young hotspur of a son, Quint, who's causing a commotion. Doesn't want to pay rent to Lord Fairfax--and really, I can't blame him."

"Why?"

"The Flannerys used to own the manor house even after the Penal Laws were enacted. But when Donal's father died, he decided he didn't want to pretend any longer. Donal repudiated the oath of allegiance the old man had taken to keep his property and declared himself a true follower of the Catholic faith. Well, the English confiscated his property, and the Flannery family was forced to live on one of the farms. As much as Donal hated Lord Fairfax, he still paid his rent. He told everyone he was happy he no longer had to keep up a pretense. Now that Donal and his two older sons are dead, only Quint, and his mother are left. It's a sad thing for Mrs. Flannery, poor old soul."

Uncle Timothy's concern for Mrs. Flannery seemed out of character somehow. Dera couldn't imagine him caring for anyone who didn't see things the way he did. "Why do you say that?"

"Because, unless the rent is paid, the old lady will lose her cottage, and that's all she has. I used to work for Donal when I was younger. He was always kind to me, and Mrs. Flannery was as sweet and pious as they come, a gentle soul. 'Tis a shame the boy is so hardheaded." He clucked his tongue and shook his head in dismay, leaving her alone with the account books.

But Dera couldn't concentrate any longer. The plight of Mrs. Flannery was uppermost in her mind. She closed the ledgers and trotted down the road to the Flannery farm. She had seen it from a distance, small and in disrepair, but in the three years she had lived with Timothy, she had never ventured near it or any of the other farms. The inhabitants always regarded her with scornful eyes. She supposed it was because she was Timothy Brennan's niece, and they thought him a traitor to their cause.

Privately, she thought he was a traitor. He had turned his back on his people and his religion to advance himself, all for an overbearing man like Avery Fairfax. On occasion, she had seen Lord Fairfax and his scrawny tree of a wife.

Lord Fairfax's attitude was always haughty and aristocratic, but there was something about him which intrigued her. Perhaps it was the way he looked down upon everyone else while seemingly trying to be kind. His wife stood constantly near him, dressed in her dark somber gowns; her face pinched and drawn as though she had just eaten lemons for breakfast. Dera didn't care overmuch for either one of them, but she loved gazing at Fairfax Manor and imagining herself inside it.

No house along the Shannon could equal it in size or beauty. Formal gardens led up to the entryway, and at the back of the house, the land sloped away to the river's edge. At night the huge mullioned windows always blazed with lights. His lordship loved festive parties, and guests from Dublin and London were lodged in rooms thrice the size of Timothy's cottage.

She ached to see inside the house which had once belonged to the Flannerys. She decided she approved of Donal Flannery's stand, no matter how much it had cost him. By birth she was at least half Irish, perhaps full Irish for all she knew. She wanted to belong to these people, to be one of them. Living in England hadn't hardened her toward the Irish and their ways. For all the poverty and restrictions enforced upon them, they were hard working. She thought they would probably be very kind, once they got over their suspicions of her. She wanted to be friends with them, so as she passed them laboring in the fields, she smiled and was pleasantly surprised when a man bowed and said, "Morning, miss."

A warm feeling washed over her. She smiled to herself as she rapped lightly on the Flannery's door. The cottage was extremely small but there was a well-tended vegetable garden on the side of the house in spite of its dilapidated condition. After a few seconds, she knocked again, but no one answered. She turned to leave when the door was thrown open, and the darkest eyes she had ever seen stared accusingly at her. She assumed the eyes belonged to Quint Flannery, and she also knew that he was the most handsome lad she had ever seen. In fact he wasn't really a lad, but almost a man, with broad shoulders that would grow broader and stronger as the years passed. His face was lean, angular and tan. The darkness of his eyes set off the color of his blond hair, the same color as the winter meadow.

For the first time in her life, she found herself timid and shy in front of another human being. Her palms grew clammy and cold; she couldn't meet his hostile gaze. She attempted to utter a greeting, say her name and tell him why she was there, but suddenly she had no voice.

"Well, what is it?" he asked her, a frown deepening the angular lines of his handsome face.