Irish Lady (10 page)

“I would meet this husband of yours,” she said. “I shall send the missive today. You may stay at court as my guest until he arrives. Then I shall make my decision.”

I bowed my head. “You are too kind, Your Grace. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

She nodded and waved her hand in what I took to be a gesture of dismissal. Back in my apartments at Whitehall, I could barely contain my glee. Rory was coming to England. For the first time in two years I would see his beloved face.

***

The royal edict came in February. Elizabeth Tudor requested Rory's presence in London. His clothing was in tatters, and the winds from the North were icy. A guard took pity on him and found a spare blanket and boots that were too small but offered some protection against the bruising snow. By the time he reached London he had become accustomed to a horse beneath him again. His muscles had hardened, and although there was not an ounce of spare flesh on his body, he no longer looked like the skeleton my father saw when he traveled to Dublin in hope of securing his release.

Rory was taken directly to the palace where, for the first time in two years, he bathed. A velvet doublet, matching hose, and a stiff pleated collar called a ruff were laid out for him. He shocked the servant sent to help him dress, and the barber even more, by refusing to clip his hair above his shoulders. Rory would always be an Irish chieftain.

After dismissing the servants, he lay down on the bed to wait. It was then that I learned of his arrival. Flinging open his door, I threw myself upon him. He bent his head to my hair and breathed in.

“Nuala,” he whispered in wonder.

My head moved against his shoulder.

“Nuala, my love, is it you? What are you doing here?”

I looked up, my face wet with tears. “I came to ask Elizabeth to release you. She would not unless she saw you first. Oh, Rory.” My arms tightened around my waist. “I've missed you so.”

“I, too.” His voice choked with emotion, and as he lifted my face to his lips, I felt the familiar stirrings of desire that had lain dormant for such an endless length of nights and days. This was Rory, my husband, and I hadn't touched him in two years.

The fire was low and the temperature of the room dropped, but neither Rory nor I felt it. The clothes I had donned with such care lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. I cared nothing for that. Instead I touched every beautiful inch of my husband's body with the reverence of a sinner who has found salvation at last. I could have stayed there forever, worshiping him with my eyes and mouth, but he wanted more and showed me with skilled hands and seeking lips. He raised in me a flame that could be quenched in only one way. We came together in that small elegant room at Whitehall, forgetting all that had passed between us except the heat of our embrace, the piercing sweetness of our mating and the final explosion that rocked us in its grip until we slid back to reality once again.

“How long have you been here?” he asked when he could manage his voice once again.

“A bit over three months.”

He lifted my head. “Three months. Christ, Nuala, what of Tirconnaill?”

“The steward will manage until we return.”

He rested on my elbow and looked down at my face. “What if I do not return?”

I clutched him fiercely, and the color came and went beneath my skin. “You must return. Elizabeth is a woman, Rory. You must please her, pretend loyalty if you must, but please her. Do whatever it takes. I cannot bear life without you.”

He held me close and whispered against my hair. “I will try, Nuala. I will try. Will you bring Patrick to me?”

I hung my head and a tear slid down my cheek. “Patrick is dead, Rory. He caught the fever less than a month ago. I could not save him.” My throat worked and all the words I would have said stayed inside my heart.

“There is more,” I said, my voice muffled against his chest. “There was another bairn, born after you were taken. She didn't last the night.”

He pressed my head against his shoulder as much for his own sake as to comfort me. “I'm sorry, lass,” he said brokenly. “I'm so very sorry I wasn't there for you, but there will be more children. I swear it. Perhaps even now my seed has taken root in your belly.”

I smiled, kissed him on the mouth and reached for my clothes. “It grows late, and Elizabeth will not be kept waiting. I shall come to you tonight and never again will they part us.”

From the bed, he watched as I dressed and I could tell from his eyes that he wished for more time. But it was not to be. He pulled on his garters and hose and stepped into the velvet doublet. I would have helped him with the ruff, but he refused to wear it. Without speaking, we held each other close until a heavy fist pounded on the door.

“Speak wisely, my love,” I whispered as the guards took him away.

His escort, complete with helmets and spears, closed around him and together they marched to Elizabeth's private chambers. I did not learn what happened in that room until nearly a year later.

Elizabeth reclined on a long chair and she was alone. He lowered one knee to the floor, but she motioned him to her side and held out her hand. He lifted it to his lips. She patted the space beside her.

“Sit down beside me, Rory O'Donnell,” she said in a low, husky voice. “You certainly are handsome. Nuala didn't do you justice. Are you as loyal as your wife claims?”

He sat in the spot she indicated, a mere inch from the exposed skin of her breasts. “I am extremely loyal, Your Grace.” Fortunately for him, she did not ask to whom.

Her hand found the column of his throat and her fingers caressed him. He moved back slightly. She frowned and lowered her hand.

“Such a handsome boy and such an unfortunate set of circumstances,” she purred, looking up through her sparse eyelashes. “Do you find me attractive, my lord?”

He stared down at her, hoping his revulsion didn't show in his carefully arranged features. She was old, old enough to be Rory's mother's mother, and the heavy paint she wore emphasized every line. What hair she had was dyed a most unnatural red, and the veins under her bald skull pulsed beneath her pale skin. She was hideous and even though the promise of freedom faded like an impossible dream, he could not bring himself to do what I asked. Rory was a warrior, not a diplomat. He told me how the heat rose in his cheeks and how difficult it was to speak. “Surely a woman who has ruled for decades has more need of wisdom than of beauty.”

“No woman is ever too old to be told that beauty still lingers. Come, my lord. Do I find favor in your eyes or do you only find children, like your Nuala, attractive?”

I was not a vain woman, but no man alive would prefer a woman Elizabeth's age over me. This woman, this queen, with her twisted lips and feral predator's gaze profaned our love. Still, he could not spurn her completely. “For a woman of your years, you are most attractive, Your Grace.”

She rested her hand on his knee, squeezing lightly. “I thought Irish chieftains were virile, primitive men. Are you such an innocent that you know nothing of what I want, Rory O'Donnell?”

“We cannot all have what we want, Your Grace.”

She flushed angrily. “I am Queen of England. Nothing is beyond me. I want you to pleasure me, O'Donnell. When the season is out, I shall tire of you. If you have serviced me well, you shall return to Tirconnaill. If you refuse, you shall go back to Dublin and serve your sentence.”

He stood and bowed low before her. “I thank you for the clothes and for the bath, Your Grace, but I must decline your offer. I am a married man and loyal to the Church of Rome. In Ireland we take our vows seriously. I cannot help you.”

Her mouth opened and she rose from her chair. A shriek more animal than human came from her mouth. “Guards. Guards. Take him. Take him and return him to Dublin.”

Meghann was becoming obsessed with Rory and Nuala O'Donnell. She didn't intentionally think about them, but somehow they managed to drift into her consciousness just before she fell asleep. From there her imagination took over, playing out a story that was vivid enough to belong on a movie screen. At first the images were intriguing. She'd even begun to write them down as she saw them. But the last two nights were different. The essence of what she saw had changed, becoming stronger, clearer, more visually graphic. She could no longer control what she saw and it frightened her.

There was something else, too. History had never been Meghann's strongest subject. She knew the highlights of the expulsion of the Catholic earls of Ulster from Ireland. What schoolchild didn't? But she was positive the nuns at St. Mary's Hall had never discussed the rape of Maired O'Brien nor Queen Elizabeth's attempted seduction of Rory O'Donnell while his wife was in the castle. Were those events a product of her imagination, or had they really occurred? And if they had, where had she heard them before? Her first spare moment in London she would visit the library.

Other than a nagging worry about her sanity, Meghann was happy, not contented or satisfied, not ecstatic or delirious, just happy, with a warm glow that began when she woke each morning, set Michael's eggs, ham, and porridge before him, toasted half a loaf of bread and spread it liberally with lemon curd and watched him clean his plate.

He was healing. His chest had filled out, and the muscles along his arms and thighs were clearly defined again. The sunken hollows beneath his eyes had disappeared, and his skin was tanned from the long daily walks she insisted they take on the beach. He had even hiked into town with her to carry groceries back. She had worried that someone would recognize him, but it was just as he had explained it. The residents of a small town in the Irish Republic knew nothing of Michael Devlin, and even if they did, they did not recognize him in this lean, black-haired stranger with the healthy tan and brilliant blue eyes.

Meghann's life in London seemed very far away, and occasionally, when she allowed her brain to relax, visions of what might have been if Michael had never joined the IRA came to mind. She pushed them away quickly, of course, but she was never able to make them disappear completely.

Other than Michael's actions the day James Killingsworth was murdered, she hadn't been able to gather anything substantial. There were witnesses, but until she interviewed them it would be impossible to tell whether or not they knew of Michael's whereabouts at the exact time of the murder. It was quickly becoming apparent that the prosecution's files were vital to building her argument.

Still, it was pleasant to do nothing but read and walk, cook simple meals in this lovely kitchen, and share dialogue with Michael. For the most part his defenses had come down and he was the old Michael, the boy she'd grown up and fallen in love with, a bright witty conversationalist whose sense of humor eased their political differences and whose quick understanding often finished sentences for her. Occasionally, she would look at him and there would be something in his eyes, a guarded expression, a hint of suspicion that she couldn't penetrate. Not that she tried very hard. Meghann had no desire to rehash those confusing years before she left Belfast when she wasn't sure of anything, including her own emotions.

She stacked the rinsed plates and reached for a towel, mechanically wiping them dry. He was probably reading at this very moment. He read constantly, more than anyone she'd ever known, and Irish men were known for their reading. The reading rooms in the Linen Hall Library were filled to capacity with men from the Falls perusing newspapers, novels, periodicals, and essays written by the finest minds in the British isles. Often they read the day away, drinking copious amounts of sustaining tea, with an occasional step outside for a smoke, a Guinness, and a bit of conversation. Few were employed, and none would think of caring for their brood of children while their wives worked. For some reason, women from the Falls rarely had trouble finding work.

Meghann wiped down the counter, folded the towel into a precise square, hung it on the rack, and walked into the cozy living room. Sure enough, Michael was reading. On her last trip into town she'd purchased a pair of reading glasses for him. They weren't prescription, of course, but they seemed to do the trick. He wore them constantly and never complained.

Unobserved, she watched him. His hair had fallen over his forehead, and his brow was creased in the frown he wore when concentrating. He needed a haircut. Perhaps she should offer to give him one. She hesitated. He looked so peaceful sitting there by the fire, his feet on the low table, a pot of tea by his side. How long had it been since he was able to relax, with nothing to do but read and sleep and walk and decide what kind of sandwiches to eat with his soup?

“How about a walk?” she said, breaking the silence.

Michael lifted his head, removed his glasses and smiled. “All right.”

Meghann's heart swelled, and warning bells sounded in her brain. Slowly, slowly, she reminded herself. After all the heartache and all the years that came after, she refused to fall apart over a smile.

“I'll get our coats,” she stammered and hurried up the stairs.

Michael watched her retreating figure curiously. Meghann wasn't usually tongue-tied. He stared for a minute at the page he'd been reading, but the words made no sense to him. He was thinking of Meghann and how she'd cared for him, persuading him to eat her food, cooking delicacies to coax his appetite, buying glasses so he could read comfortably. She was as good at what she did for a living as she was at domestic chores. For reasons he couldn't explain, he didn't mind answering her questions. She was a good listener. Whether or not she was truly interested, she listened to his stories with the same flattering intensity as she did his answers to her questions. It was comfortable living with her, even natural, eating, sharing conversation, walking on the beach.

Not everything was perfect. For a long time he hadn't been able to put his finger on it, but today, for the first time since he'd gone on the hunger strike, he recognized what it was, the edge that wouldn't allow him to relax completely.

When Meghann stood in the doorway in her faded denims and fisherman's sweater, her hair loose and glowing with the russet tones he remembered from childhood, desire, repressed and long dormant, rose within him. He wanted her, just as he always had, and it was still impossible, just as it always was. She'd left him before just when he'd felt secure about her feelings for him. There wasn't a prayer of a chance that she'd want him now, with Killingsworth's murder over his head. There was no life for him outside the Six Counties. There was probably no life for him anywhere at all.

She came down the stairs wearing her parka, carrying his. Without speaking, he stood and allowed her to slide it up his arms and over his shoulders. Leaving it unzipped, he walked to the door and held it open for her. They walked side by side without touching until a gust of icy wind blew with such force that Meghann was propelled backward.

Michael reached for her hand, laced her fingers with his and drew both hands deep into his down-lined pocket. Meghann's cheeks were pink from the wind or embarrassment, he couldn't tell which, but she didn't pull her hand away. It felt good to have her lean on him, good to have enough strength to support her. He knew that she would leave as soon as he could manage on his own. But he intended to postpone that day for as long as possible.

Meghann broke the silence. “It's cold for this time of year.”

He nodded in agreement. “Aye. Shall we go back?”

She laughed. “No. Walking on sand is good for you. It will bring the rest of your strength back. We'll be warm if we move a bit faster.”

“Y' don't want me t' have a relapse, do you?”

Burrowing her right hand deeper into his pocket, she reached over and slipped her left hand through the crook of his arm. “There's no danger of that. You're completely recovered, Michael. I've never seen you look better.”

“Then why are you staying?”

For a moment she looked confused. “I hadn't thought of leaving,” she began, “but I suppose—”

“What?”

“I'm comfortable here. It feels like I'm on holiday.”

“How long until I go t' trial?”

“Three more months.”

“Will there be a trial if I don't return?”

Meghann nodded. “Yes. But it won't look good if you don't.”

“What shall I do, Meghann?”

She thought a minute as if none of this had occurred to her. When she answered he knew that it had and that she had spent considerable time thinking about it.

“You'll have to return to the Maze. You were in no condition to leave the hospital on your own. There can be no doubt that you were kidnapped. If you give yourself up it will go easier for you.”

“When do y' suggest I do this?”

“Not for a while. Stay here for another month at least, maybe two. That will give me a month to interview witnesses and look over the prosecution's files and another month to come up with a strategy for your defense.”

“You'll be watched.”

“Yes.” She didn't voice what they both knew, that she wouldn't be able to return to Donegal.

“So you're leaving.” His eyes were narrowed against the wind and he looked straight ahead.

“Not just yet.”

The moment her words registered, the tension left his body. She wasn't leaving, at least not now. He could relax. This time he would have time to prepare for the moment when she walked out of his life and resumed the one she preferred.

Michael felt her hand tighten on his arm. He stopped and looked down at her wind-tossed head. She leaned against his arm. Carefully, so there would be no misunderstanding his intentions, he drew her into the circle of his arms. She came willingly and pressed her face against his chest. He bent his head to catch her muffled words.

“I don't want to leave,” she confessed. “I wish this would all go away and we could stay here forever, just the two of us.”

He couldn't believe his ears. “Do y' mean it, Meggie?”

Her head moved up and down against his chest.

“What about your practice, your friends, the life y' have in England?”

She shrugged her shoulders, and a helpless, unintelligible sound came from deep within her throat.

Michael wrapped his coat around her and zipped it so that she was pressed tightly against the wall of his chest, absorbing his warmth. His chin rested easily on her head. Her body against his was a bit of heaven that he never thought to feel again. Every inch of him ached for what might have been. He wanted desperately to kiss her but refused to risk losing what they had slowly, painfully, fought their way back toward. He needed her presence more than he needed sex. When the time came for her to leave, perhaps he would rethink his position.

Meghann inhaled the clean scent of soap on Michael's skin. The wool of his shirt scratched her cheek. She burrowed closer, ignoring the retreat messages sounding in her brain. She refused to think about phrases like
compromising
her
professionalism
or
personal
involvement
with
a
client.
The assault on her senses was too much to resist. This was Michael, and it had been so very long since she had thrown caution away and taken what she wanted. When or if it would happen again was something she couldn't think about. Turning her face into his shirt, she found a space between two buttons and opened her lips against his skin. She felt his shudder and the surging heat against the nerve endings of her mouth and knew that he wanted what she did.

“Meggie,” he rasped, barely clearing the words from his throat. “Don't do this unless y' mean it.”

She moaned a low protest as he put her away from him, breaking the contact of her lips against his skin. “We've somethin' to clear up between us before this goes any further,” he said firmly.

Meghann put out her hand to stop him. “Don't ruin it,” she began.

His arms tightened. “You left me without a word. How could y' do that, Meggie?”

She shook her head. “I don't know.”

“That isn't good enough.”

“It has to be. That's all there is.”

He shook his head. “I asked you t' marry me, Meggie. I waited for you t' call. For years I waited, goin' over that day again and again in my mind. Did I say somethin'? Did I scare you? It was your first time. I know it was. How could y' leave after we'd been together like that?”

She wanted to explain. He deserved an explanation. But there wasn't one, at least not a good one, not one that would make him nod his head and say, “Oh, yes, now I understand.” Wetting her lips, she tried to tell him what was in her heart. “I hated Belfast, Michael. Can you imagine hating the only place that's ever been home?” She shook her head. “I just never fit in. After I left your family, I had no one. People were either part of ‘the Troubles' or they ignored it. Everyone expected me to be militant because of what happened to my parents and my brothers. But I didn't feel militant. All I wanted was to be away from a place where people judged you by your last name and what school you attended. I loved you, Michael, but I hated your politics. You expected me to accept them and I couldn't. I knew that if I said good-bye, or told you where I was, you would come after me. I wanted you so much that I was afraid you would convince me, and then I'd never be out of it and we'd both be miserable. I didn't love David Sutton the way I loved you, but I knew that if I married him, I could never go back to you. I know it wasn't admirable or brave, but I wasn't either of those things. I'm not now.”