Emily Baker (13 page)

“You know a great deal about me, Mr. Lynch. But I do not feel I know you well enough to call you by your Christian name.” There was just enough sparkle of challenge in the clear gray eyes she batted at him to let him know she had forgiven him, or at least been able to put aside most of her rancor for the purposes of this trip.

“There is not much to tell.” He shrugged. They guided their horses off the main road and followed Sean and Liam onto a much narrower wooded lane.

“Come now, Mr. Lynch. Even a veteran gambler and all around ne’er-do-well such as yourself had a childhood. Grew up somewhere. Have you always lived in Dublin or its environs?”

“I grew up in Tipperary, near Cashel.” He never spoke of his history. Not to anyone. The less people know about you personally, the safer you remain.

“See?” She flashed him a bright smile. “You come from Cashel. That was not so terribly hard. What about family, parents?”

“I am an orphan. My father died before I was born, my mother giving me life. My foster parents took me in from birth. They had no one else.”

“You must have been the light of their lives.”

He wasn’t sure whether he detected a twist of irony in her words or not.

“They were good to me.”

That much was true, the love they had lavished on him made their betrayal seem all the worse when he’d finally learned the truth. He hadn’t known he was not their natural child for years. They never told him. They had been English immigrants, inheriting an estate from a distant connection and settling into their new land just before he joined their family.

“But then I grew up and moved to Dublin to make my own way in the world.”

As a child, he’d never questioned the visits to his godfather at Clancare Manor or the annual visit the earl had paid their household. Despite their personal Protestant faith, his parents had been advocates of Wolfe Tone’s propositions for religious equality and harmony. The two faiths, Catholic and Protestant, even shared the same church building in Cashel. The prejudice the English ruling class carried against the Catholics mystified him to this day, particularly as hatred fostered under the guise of religion. That much he had taken away from his upbringing at least. His hands tightened on the reins.

“Garrett?”

If she used his name to draw him back to the conversation, it served her purpose and more. Even now he wanted to hear his name on her lips just as he had when he kissed her neck last night, when she’d felt so right in his arms.

“I asked if you saw them very often? Your foster parents. Do you miss them?”

“My mother is dead.”

Her face transformed into immediate sympathy. “I am so sorry. Is it recent?”

He shrugged. “I was eighteen. Set to go to England, to Cambridge, as the man I thought was my father had done, and his father before him. I learned just before her funeral that we were not truly related.”

“Oh?”

The fact that she commented without prying made it easier for him to add, “My father and I have been estranged ever since.”

He’d found the man he still thought of as his father drunk in the chapel the night before his mother’s funeral. He’d confessed it all then—how his real father had been hung by the English soldiers, sending his real mother into early labor and then to the grave, leaving his life in doubt as well. They had fostered, but not adopted, him at the request of the Earl of Clancare who entrusted the infant son of his friend to them. They had been planning to tell him all of it and let him decide if he wanted an adoption to go forward once he came of age.

He’d reacted badly. With the arrogance of youth, he’d accused his father of lying to him all his life and stormed off to the city to drown his sorrows. Six months later the Earl of Clancare dug him out of the gutter and set his feet on his true father’s path, to take up the Green Dragon’s sword.

No matter how he regretted his parting from his foster father, he had not gone back, not apologized or tried to reconcile. He wanted there to be no connection between them should he ever be discovered as the Green Dragon, no repercussions visited on the man to whom he owed so much already.

Even now there sat a box of letters, tied together but unopened, in a lock box in his desk. He received three such letters a year, sent via the earl from his foster father. One on his birthday, one at Christmas, and one on the anniversary of his mother’s death. He’d opened the first few. He knew his father worried because he never answered, that he not only understood the cause of their rift but that he sought forgiveness as earnestly as he offered it. But Garrett could not put the man at risk as long as he was fulfilling this part of his pledge. Sean or Daniel, should they ever inherit the title, would not have that luxury, but he did and could protect his da in this one way.

The woods opened up to an expanse of rolling hills covered with green pastures criss-crossed by deeper green hedgerows.

“Now’s yer chance ta show us yer stuff, Maura,” Liam called. With a laugh she set off, and in a few minutes they were all letting the freedom of a good gallop liberate them from their worries.

 

 

“The tinker and his family found the girl here,” Ray, the innkeeper at the Forked River Inn just outside Bray, pointed to a spot on the map. “Here, between Rathdrum and Glendalough. They were going to turn her in for confinement as a crazy woman until Father John took her off their hands.”

“Then we will split up and make inquiries at those towns on the morrow.” Garrett studied the map of the towns at the feet of the Wicklow Mountains.”

“Agreed,” Liam said. “There’s Devil’s Hill near one and Devil’s Peak near the other. Seems right that one of these must be near what we seek.” He clapped his hand on Ray’s shoulder. “Thank you, cousin. Ye’ve done very well by us. A delicious meal in yer finest private dining parlor, comfortable beds awaitin’ us, the information we need—”

Garrett raised his glass to salute their host. “And the best whiskey this side of the island.”

After they drained their glasses, the innkeeper blushed at the praise and shrugged. “What else can I do? Ye’re family. Now, if ye don’t mind I’ve got other guests ta tend to. Enjoy yer evening. I’ll see ye all in the mornin’.” With a cheery wave, he left them in the alcove of his bustling tavern and turned his attention to a patron who looked about to throw a fist at his companion.

“We’d best get back to the parlor and fill in Sean and Maura.”

“Aye,” Liam said. “Afore the furnishings start ta fly, too. Ray’s never been one ta back down from a fight.”

Garrett could not resist making the observation plaguing him since Liam mentioned his cousin. “Ray is not a name usually associated with an old Irish family name like yours.”

“Aye. And his tavern is nowhere near a river. What’s yer point?”

Liam’s laughter joined with Maura’s as he opened the door to the dining parlor their host had set aside for them. He headed straight to the decanter still on the table. Maura and Sean were sitting opposite one another in front of a peat fire. Sean was leaning forward in his chair and she was curled in the corner of a caned settee with her feet tucked under her and her hair down.

“That was a wonderful story. I never had a nurse who told me tales of olden days. My mother read us the Old Testament at bedtimes. Do you know any more?”

The delight in her voice and the sparkle in her eyes made an arresting display. Garrett halted in the doorway. Her appeal and his jealousy that it was Sean who received the benefit of her smiles clashed.

Sean caught sight of Garrett and his eyebrow edged up. “Ahh lass, my tongue’s grown weary. But here is Garrett. He had a nurse that stuffed his head with the same tales when he was a lad. Mayhap he will favor us with the legend of the Green Dragon.”

“The Green Dragon.” She looked at Sean, then Garrett, then back to Sean. “My maid favors the tall tales told about him. No outlaw can be that good or that noble. If he exists, he is but a man.”

“If he exists?” Sean and Liam’s amused reactions were sure to make her suspicious.

“And therein lies the beauty of his story, or so my nursery maid insisted.” Garrett strode over to the hearth and poked the peat fire to a better flame while he talked. “In the days of old, when the three kingdoms reigned, the King of Desmond had three knights pledged to do his bidding in a fealty beyond that of his other loyal clansmen and allies. The Black Knight, the White Knight—”

“And the Green Knight?” she supplied.

He glanced over his shoulder as she turned and rested her head on her hands at the edge of the settee’s arm. “Aye. Only now he is known as the Green Dragon because of the signet ring he wears and the mighty sword he wields in battle.”

“A ring with a carved emerald dragon on a field of gold? And a sword hilt fashioned like a dragon’s tail?”

“That’s them. So far your maid strikes the legend true.”

He kept his attention focused on the glowing flames in the fireplace, not the look in her eyes. “The titles were reduced to ceremony only after the Normans came to our shores. As were the times of the High King. Titles changed, families dwindled and died out. Only the Green Dragon’s fealty remained constant: to obey his lord and protect the people from terror, plunder, and all enemies. To help the less fortunate, rescue those in peril, and serve the cause of justice.”

He straightened and hung up the poker. “The title passes with the ring and sword wherever the High Lord directs, but the fealty remains.”

“Thus we are arrayed and armed.”
Sean supplied.

“Aye. The motto from Amergin’s chant, rooted in the before times.”

“Garrett. She’s fast asleep.”

He turned. Sure enough her eyes her closed, her breathing soft and even.

“Get the door.”

He scooped her into his arms, shushing her as she made a very sleep-laden protest. She fit there like she had been made just for him.

The last thing Maura remembered from one of the most oddly enjoyable days she’d ever had was being laid gently down on a soft bed with a coverlet pulled over her and a soft brush of lips on her temple.

As the door clicked shut, she snuggled into the pillows and smiled. “Thus we are arrayed and armed.”

Soft Irish grass spilled in every direction, curving and sloping in lush variegating shades of green bordered by dark hedgerows twined with honeysuckle and clematis. The Wicklow Mountains dominated the horizons, purple on blue, scattering the lazy clouds drifting in the sky near their summits.

Maura took a deep breath of the rich air. There was nothing like the open countryside. Peaceful, constant—rife with memories of childhood and freedom. Of innocence. How she did miss it.

“Over there.” Garrett’s voice drew her attention back to him and the small glade where they would await his men. “We can tether the horses in the trees. The shade will lower our chances of drawing unwelcome attention while we await Sean’s report. Here’s hoping they had better luck than us.”

She nodded, and they cantered to the spot. They were early yet. Their own inquiries had proved maddeningly fruitless. She could only hope Sean and Liam would find more information in the village they visited. The scope of the search they would have to mount if they needed to stretch farther away from this point was daunting.

Time stretched in front of them until full nightfall. She was unused to so much time on horseback since she’d left her home to go to Dublin. Dared she hope for a few hours’ respite? Images of an afternoon spent with Garrett under the trees, as if they were some heathen king and queen of old, guarded by loyal men while the fate of their country rested in their hands flitted through her mind.

She rubbed a hand over her forehead at the fanciful thoughts that must hold their roots in the tales they’d told her last night. She had to be far more exhausted than she’d imagined. That’s what made her so susceptible to their charms, to his.

She had hired this man and his friends because it had seemed the most expedient course given the urgent nature of her quest. Nothing more. Theirs was a business arrangement. That was the way she wanted it. That was the way he wanted it, too. With the exception of simple directions, he’d barely spoken to her since they’d revealed so much of their backgrounds to one another.

They reached the trees and he reined in his mount. She followed suit. A light breeze shivered through the trees, and the leaves whispered and chattered together overhead.

“Stay here.” He didn’t wait for her nod of assent. He dismounted and walked away, sure of her compliance. How could he be so sure of her when she was so full of questions about him? He’d told her of his childhood, but he remained a mystery.

Garrett scouted the area within and without the glade, peering into the hidden depths of darkened tree branches and thick trunks. From this distance, with his back to her, she could study him without making him uncomfortable for the scrutiny.

He worked so naturally and efficiently, as though his actions were part of his everyday routine; she was intrigued despite her determination to limit her interest in him. When this inquiry was done, when they had found the girl and reported what was going on to the authorities, they would have no need to see one another.

Still, he was a fine figure of a man as he crouched to look around a rocky outcropping. He stripped off his gloves and dipped his hands to catch water from a small wellspring at its base.

He was far different from the proper, well-dressed gentleman who had filled her hallway the night of Freddie’s card party only days before. Had that really been such a short time ago? Lifetimes seemed to have come and gone since then. He looked just as at home on horseback, or assuring their safety in a hidden glade. He carried so many layers of mystery.

Too many.

She should not have indulged herself by studying him as he studied their meeting place. She sighed and rubbed her head again.

Garrett turned at that moment and his gaze caught hers. He smiled an easy carefree smile that hid so much. “Weary, are you?”

Again, so thoroughly observant.

“Come with me.” He approached her mare with an easy stride and held his hands up to her. “You have time for a rest before my . . . friends return with any news from their inquiries.”

The slightest of pauses, but she clearly heard the unspoken word
men.
“There’s a goodly patch of grass within, just awaiting your company. The water is fresh and clear.”

His lips curved upward in a charming smile. Desire curled in her stomach and tightened her breath. Too easily he sparked these responses in her. Too easily and too frequently. Did he know how he affected her?

She forced out her breath and leaned forward slightly to rest her hands on his shoulders. Just a touch. Then his hands were at her waist. So firm. So secure. Despite the dangers, she wanted to surrender herself—into his arms, into his bed. Did he know how much she wanted him? There was no logic. No good could come from such surrender, but the desire was still there, still simmering from the other night.

Her desire was like fine wine, aged to perfection, rushing through her without direction, with only one purpose: to chase away all reason. Did he know the havoc he wreaked on any claim she once held to common sense?

He pulled her from the roan’s back as though she weighed less than nothing. What was he thinking behind his mesmerizing eyes?

She closed her own eyes and slid into his arms.

Her breath hitched, like an untried girl experiencing passion for the first time. What was wrong with her? She’d never felt this breathless in a man’s arms before.

Her feet touched the ground after what felt like a thousand rapid heartbeats.

“Thank you.” Her thoughts scattered like leaves. He did not release her. She could think of nothing beyond the heat of his hands on her. The scent of hawthorns twined with the breeze. Her lips tingled with the memory of his mouth against hers.

“Thank you,” she repeated and looked up into his unreadable dark gaze.

“Indeed.” He offered one word only. Low and filled with unnamed emotion.

Almost imperceptibly his hands squeezed her waist. She was certain he would kiss her again, in the raw magic of this secluded glade. Her heart leapt, her body tensed in anticipation. Waiting. Wanting.

After a timeless moment, he released her. She reached out and supported herself with a hand on her mare’s saddle for support.

Disappointment stung, abrading her pride. She almost laughed. She’d come within a whisker of giving herself to this man a second time, a man she barely knew, giving herself with no commitment, no promises. His rejection had been as unexpected as her unspoken offer. Did he know? Did he realize how foolish she felt?

She pushed away this line of thought, determined not to dwell on things that obviously were not meant to be. She turned to him again.

“As long as we have time on our hands, tell me more about the stories your nurse told you when you were a child.” Those stories of the Fian of old must be the basis for her fanciful thoughts earlier, of an ancient band seeking shelter in this very spot.

“As you like.” He held out his arm to escort her to the aforementioned patch of grass as though they were still in her townhouse and not amidst green Irish splendor and uncertainty.

She sat, her skirts billowing outward around her and he leaned on an elbow to begin his tale.

 

 

“Your turn. I have told you of my childhood . . . tell me something of yours.” He asked a half hour later, after he set her giggling at his exploits as he had rounded up the village lads and had them storm the garden wall of the rectory in imitation of one of the Fian battles.

“Mine?” She sobered almost immediately, wondering if he’d acquiesced to share his story all along only to lead her into subjects she’d rather not discuss. Her youthful past was her own.

“Aye.” His dark gaze was intent on hers. All of Ireland’s best greens were locked in that gaze, as though the very heart of Erin beat inside of him.

“Are you looking for the sad tale of my past, Mr. Lynch?”

“Aye, if that is the tale you wish to tell. You already told me about Dublin. But what about before? What about your childhood? What haunts the back of your eyes and makes them sad?” His answers and questions were soft. No demands. No intrusions. Just a willingness to listen. And a too-astute guess regarding the location of her darkest moment.

“It isn’t,” she told him, even as raw memories tore loose inside her. She could feel his gaze on her hot face and knew she wasn’t handling the conversation well and was hiding nothing from that all-too-observant perusal. She’d told him far too much already. She wasn’t ready to share her father’s death, her mother’s disgust, and the firm distance held between her and her younger brothers. Not with him. Not with anyone.

“I . . . it just isn’t,” she ended, repeating herself.

“Aye.” Quiet acceptance. “Here I am scorching you with questions when I know all you really need is a wee bit of rest.”

He shrugged out of his jacket and bunched it together. “Lie back, Maura. Rest your mind and your spirit. It has been a very long day. I’ll fetch you a drink of cool water, shall I?”

She had taken off her gloves and bonnet earlier when they had sat. The cool softness of the grass beckoned. He placed his hands on her shoulders and that betraying burn of fire flamed to life in her belly. She couldn’t look at him.

Then his gaze was on hers.

She could spend her life in that gaze.

The sadness of that thought burned a trail over her already hot skin.

“Rest,” he said again. “All will be well.”

He pressed gently, tilting her backward.

She went without resistance as he coaxed her down onto her back amidst the scents of green grass and dark earth. Her head rested on his jacket suffused with the deep scent of man and wool. Her heartbeat quickened further. The dark green of the whispering leaves overhead made a perfect backdrop for the vibrant, glinting green of his eyes as he leaned over her, bracing his arms at her sides.

“Ah, Maura Fitzgerald.” Her name escaped him in a sad whisper. “Truly.”

“Truly what?” She whispered softly in order not to disturb the tension throbbing so eloquently between them.

“You make it hard for a man to think.” One corner of his mouth drew up in a self-deprecating grin. His smile tore at her heart, at the raw emotions he’d somehow drawn from the secret corners she’d tried to lock them in. She wanted him. And if she truly was a wanton as her mother so surely believed, what was there to hold her back?

She slid her hands to his arms, so staunch and firm on either side of her and pushed them slowly upward. He didn’t move. The sparkle in his eyes brightened. Emboldened she slid her fingers to his mouth, tracing the firm fullness of his lips—remembering them, longing for them against her own.

“Then don’t think,” she whispered and cupped his cheeks. “Don’t think.”

Wordless, she tugged at him ever so slightly. He bent toward her, his gaze never leaving hers, waiting for some sign that she meant exactly what she indicated. He was a gentleman, despite her open offer. He was the oddest mix of action and gentleness, determination, decorum and demand. And she wanted him desperately.

“Garrett.” His name whispered from her on a satisfied sigh as he closed the final distance between them.

At last his mouth touched hers, hot and firm. She’d never wanted a man more than she did at this very moment. She never wanted any man as she did this one. Her body fairly sizzled with desire.

For a long moment he did naught but kiss her, soft firm pressure. Their breath mingling as the trees rustled above them.

Then he groaned and pressed his tongue to her lips; she opened for him on an answering moan, tasting him as he tasted her, open and reckless in a flash of wild heat that threatened to reduce her to cinders. She was out of her element, spinning out of control far from anything that would help her manage the situation.

At this moment, control didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but this man, this time, and the need burning so hot to life inside her.

His mouth slanted over hers. She’d never realized a kiss could be so intimate, so complete, as though their very souls touched in the mating of tongue to tongue. Rigid barriers she’d held for so long were melting inside her. Waves of exquisite heat and desire undulated deep within her, firing her blood.

She slid her fingers into his hair. She wanted to be his with a depth she had never felt with any other man. She would be his in a fresh and different way—deeper, hotter, more complete, as though in truth he would be the very first to touch her.

He made short work of the buttons on her riding jacket and blouse with her assistance. No stays stood between them in anticipation of the day or more spent in the saddle.

Cool air spread over her skin, followed in quick succession by the heat of his palms as he cupped her through the silken softness of her chemise.

“Too beautiful.” He whispered the words against her mouth. “Too damned beautiful.”

She kissed him, long and hard as pleasure surged through her. His hands tangled in her hair as he cradled the back of her head and returned her kisses, pulling her curls free.

He kissed a hot trail over her neck before blazing down to her breasts. He tugged free the ribbon that gathered her chemise neckline and exposed her flesh completely. Without preamble his mouth closed over her nipple. She gasped at the feel of him, tugging and suckling, enjoying her so fully even as he trapped the other breast in his hand to roll and tease.

Passion sizzled over her nerve endings. He turned slightly, pulling her half atop him so she was feeding him her breast, her hair spilling around them. She could do naught but arch her back and enjoy the white hot desire simmering through her as her hands clutched his shoulders.

He transferred his attentions to her other nipple, leaving the first bared and wet, throbbingly sensitive and open to the air as he concentrated on the second. She bent and pressed kisses along his hairline.