Irish Lady (5 page)

“Yes.”

“Have y' told Meggie?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Michael ground out his cigarette underneath his chair and leaned forward. “Have y' told Meghann McCarthy that y' know who she is?”

Again, the silence dragged out between them. “No,” French admitted at last.

“Why not?”

Miles French frowned and shifted in his seat. “At first, I wanted to know why she was involved at all. I didn't buy her story of an old family friend.”

“And now?”

French squirmed with discomfort. “I don't really know. It doesn't seem right to tell her when she obviously doesn't want me to know.”

“Do y' buy her story now, Mr. French?”

The younger man looked surprised. “Of course. I've seen her with your family. They trust her. There could be no other reason for her interest.”

“What would y' say if I told y' that Meghann is trying t' secure my release?”

“I'd say you were one hell of a lucky man, Mr. Devlin.”

“Do y' think I'm guilty, Mr. French?”

“Of course, Mr. Devlin.”

“Why haven't y' informed against Meghann?”

Beneath his wire-rimmed glasses, the lawyer's eyes misted with excitement. “Are you insane? This is the case of the century. Meghann McCarthy is the best legal counsel in England. With her help, we can win this. And if we win, you won't be the only one to benefit, Mr. Devlin.”

“Y' have everything figured out, do y', Miles?”

The young man looked very pleased with himself. “Yes. I suppose I do.”

Holding the blanket like a shawl around him, Michael stood, walked to the window and pounded for the guard. Before the door opened he turned back to address the lawyer one more time. “Do y' know what they say about the best-laid plans, Miles?”

“What's that?”

“Be sure all the players learn their lines.”

“I don't understand.”

“I'm not guilty, Miles. But y' should ask yourself why I'm the one standing for the crime.”

***

“He told you himself?” Meggie stood against the beautifully mounted Georgian window in her office, her charcoal gray jacket and skirt suitably framed against a backdrop of London fog.

“Yes, he did. Volunteered it, actually.” To Miles French, Meghann looked to be the epitome of corporate efficiency with exactly the right amount of feminine softness. He liked the way her red hair brought out the green in her whiskey-gold eyes. How would a woman like that, the wife of an English peer, know the Irish Catholic Devlins?

“Well then, Mr. French. It appears that my time has come. The next time you visit the Maze, I'm coming with you.” Meghann picked up the telephone. “Better yet, I'll go alone. There are a few things I'd like to discuss in private with Michael Devlin.”

“You had better take an oxygen mask when you do that. The reek of the place will kill you.”

Meghann felt no need to mention that she had been brought up in the slums of West Belfast, where nine families shared one latrine located no more than ten feet from the back door.

When Mrs. Hartwell brought in the London
Times
with her tea the following morning, Michael's picture was featured on the front page. He had called a hunger strike. Unless the British government agreed to his demands, all of which seemed perfectly reasonable to Meghann and therefore impossible for the government, four men would refuse all food until they starved to death.

Meghann knew that hunger strikes were common in Irish history. The early Celts used self-immolation as a way of discrediting someone who had done them a disservice. An unpaid poet or tradesman would starve himself in front of the residence of an uncaring patron, the result being either death for the tradesman and a ruined reputation for the patron or payment for services received. Bobby Sands's death by starvation made world news in the eighties.

Meghann pushed aside her cooling tea. She was well aware that in order to make the front page of the
Times
, the strikers had already gone weeks without food. God alone knew what Michael's physical condition was at this moment. “Mrs. Hartwell,” she called out.

The housekeeper poked her head through the kitchen door. “Yes, Lady Sutton?”

“Call my office, please. Tell them I've been called away rather suddenly. I'll be in touch within the week.”

“As you say, ma'am.” Not by so much as the lifting of an eyebrow did the well-trained Mrs. Hartwell suggest that Meghann's announcement, the third such in three months, was the least bit unusual.

The phone rang just as Meghann was leaving. When she learned that it was Cecil Thorndike, she debated with herself before picking up the extension in her bedroom.

“Meghann, what the devil is going on?”

“I'm in a bit of a rush, Cecil. What do you mean?”

“Why the sudden need for another week away from the office?”

Meghann's voice cooled. “I can't imagine why my travel plans should be any concern of yours.”

The long silence on the other end of the line unnerved her until she reminded herself that it was Cecil on the other end and he wasn't in the least bit intimidating.

“I thought we were friends as well as associates, Meghann,” he said at last.

“I'm sorry, Cecil,” she said, instantly contrite. “Please forgive me, but I really don't have time to discuss this now. I'll give you a full accounting when I return.”

“Are you all right, my dear?”

“Yes, quite. Thank you for asking.”

“What shall I tell my father?”

Meghann bit her lip. She was going to miss the flight. “Tell him I'm taking care of a legal matter for my family.”

“So that's it.” Cecil sounded relieved. “Is it one of your sisters in America?”

“Cecil, I really must go. Be a love and hang up the phone.”

“Very well. Call if you need anything. Where can I reach—”

“Good-bye, Cecil,” she said quickly and hung up.

Meghann waited until after she'd paid for her ticket before phoning the Devlins. Briefly, she explained her plan and requested that the entire family be present when she arrived.

This time she flew into Belfast, looked for a taxi sporting a red poppy to take her to the entrance of the Falls Road and then flagged down a black taxi to take her up the road to Annie Devlin's house.

The door opened before she knocked. The entire family was assembled in the shabby living room. Annie, with her beautiful manners, had prepared a lovely tea. Meghann dropped her bag and sank down into a chair with frayed upholstery. “How is he?” she asked.

Cormack leaned forward, blue eyes blazing, dark hair falling across his forehead. “We haven't seen him since he's been on the protest. He's not allowed visitors.”

Meghann frowned. “Surely we can get someone in. What about the men who are with him? Don't they have visitors?”

“They're watched very closely, Meggie,” Annie reminded her. “We can't ask anyone to take such a risk.”

Meghann stirred sugar into her tea. “How long has it been?”

This time it was Liam who spoke. “Thirty-two days.”

Meghann froze. She couldn't have heard correctly. “No.” She managed to form the single syllable.

Bernadette nodded. For the first time in her life she was unable to speak.

“Why didn't anyone tell me?”

“What could you have done?” Annie asked reasonably.

Meghann stood and walked to the mantel where a picture of the Virgin Mary stood framed in cheap plastic. “Is he prepared to die?”

“When has Michael not been prepared to die?” replied Bernadette grimly.

Meghann turned around and faced Michael's family, seven pairs of identical blue eyes. “I mean to save him,” she said quietly. “Will you help me?”

A collective sigh eased the tension in the room.

“What do you want us to do?” Davie asked.

“I'm going to bring him out.” She looked straight at Connor, the brother who most resembled Michael. “You'll have to come with me. Hopefully, it will only be for a few days. But I can't promise that.”

Annie gasped but Connor only nodded.

“But Meggie,” Annie protested. “Connor is nearly as well-known as Michael. What do y' intend t' do?”

Meghann pushed a curl behind her ears and leaned forward. Her eyes glowed, and the soft lamplight picked up the burnished red in her hair. It seemed to Annie that all the energy in the room was concentrated in Meggie's slight person. When she spoke her voice was low, deliberate, and very calm. This must be the way she was in the courtroom, assured, convincing, with an edge of repressed excitement. Annie shivered, eased down the sleeves of her pullover, and forced herself to concentrate.

“Do you know anyone who can come up with identification by Wednesday?” Meghann asked. She was not surprised when every head in the room nodded. She continued. “Michael's condition will be very poor. We must make it seem dangerously poor, so that removing him to Victoria Hospital is necessary. No one will question it if Miles French insists. Organizing an escape from Victoria Hospital will be much easier than from the H-Blocks.”

“What about you, Meghann?” Bernadette interrupted. “They'll be suspicious if you announce that you're Michael's lawyer and suddenly he can't be found.”

Meghann laced her fingers together into a braid of white-knuckled, interlocking joints. “I have no intention of letting anyone know that I'm involved.”

Liam, the eldest Devlin brother, spoke. “Will French cooperate?”

“He will know nothing about this. Fortunately, Miles is a humanitarian. The right words in his ear and he'll play into our hands.”

Annie twisted the wedding band on her finger. “What if Michael refuses t' see him? It's happened twice this month already.”

“We must wait until Michael can no longer make his own decisions.”

Annie gasped. “Y' mean until he falls into a coma?”

The throbbing ache in Meghann's temples shifted to one side and increased in intensity. “The moment that happens, you must take him off the strike, Annie. You're the next of kin. The English don't want a martyr. They'll listen to you.”

“I don't know what Michael will do when he learns we've betrayed him,” said Bernadette.

“This isn't a war crime,” replied Meghann, “and it isn't IRA business. This is about murder. Someone will pay for James Killingsworth's death. Do you want it to be Michael?”

The silence in the room was deafening.

***

One week later, despite her surface-level confidence, Meghann's nails were bitten down to the pink as she waited in a small rental car off Grosvenor Street. It was past midnight and they were already fifteen minutes late. What could have gone wrong?

Miles French had asked an enormous amount of questions which Meghann had answered, for the most part honestly. But it wasn't until she explained that this case would hold no résumé-building rewards for anyone if the defendant died, that Miles agreed to authorize Michael's transfer to Victoria Hospital. The medical staff had grown accustomed to the frequent visits of Michael's defense team. If Mr. French looked a bit more stooped than he had the day before and if Mr. Bennett, his assistant, walked a bit more slowly, these inconsistencies were explained away as natural side effects of exhaustion. The poor men really had an impossible case.

Two dark shapes rounded the corner. Meghann sat up, her hand settling on the key in the ignition. She didn't turn it until the car door opened and an emaciated Michael was thrust into the passenger seat.

“Hurry,” a raspy voice insisted. “I don't know how long you have.”

Meghann didn't recognize the man in the black jacket, but she knew he was IRA and her heart sank. “What happened?”

He slammed the door and thrust his face through the window. “Let's just say that everything didn't go according t' plan. A nosy nurse is trussed up in the linen room. Go along now.”

Meghann was terrified. Had the entire city been alerted? Were British tanks already positioning themselves at the checkpoints? She stared at the ravaged being seated beside her. His eyes, now closed, seemed to float beneath their lids in overly large sockets. The shirt, purchased specifically for Connor's solid proportions and buttoned to the top, stood a good two inches from Michael's throat. Could this living carcass really be Michael Devlin? He was close to death. What in the name of heaven had she done? How could she possibly take care of him?

Forcing herself to behave rationally, Meghann eased out onto Grosvenor Road and looked for highway signs. She was past Donegall Square near the turnoff to the West-Link when Michael spoke for the first time.

“Where are we going?”

“To Donegal.” Meghann recognized the exit to the M1 and turned the car to the right.

“The Republic or the North?”

The headlights reflecting in her rearview mirror were blinding. She turned the mirror up. “Republic,” she answered shortly.

“Bad choice, Meggie. There are guards at the borders.”

“Bernadette arranged it. We're staying in a cottage near the River Eske.” She bit her lip. It would do no good to worry him. “I'll handle the guards.”

“I'm sure y' will,” he said softly, leaning back against the headrest. “Wake me when it's over.”

Meghann never knew what made her turn north toward Tyrone instead of taking the more direct route through Armagh. It wasn't as if she had missed the signs or even made a conscious decision. She just found herself there, traveling through the beautiful sheep country of what had once been the last Catholic kingdom of Ulster. She took comfort in that and in the knowledge that anyone following Michael would assume he was headed south toward the Republic.

Cautiously, she reached out her hand to touch his forehead. His temperature felt normal and his chest moved in and out, a testimony to the strength of the life force within him. How could anyone so thin still breathe? He stirred, and she moved her hand back to the wheel. It was almost time to pull over and wait for a decent time to pass through the border checkpoint. A solitary car with a woman driver and a half-starved man attempting to cross over into the Republic at three o'clock in the morning would be like waving the tricolor in front of Ian Paisley. Michael would be back in Long Kesh and God alone knew what would happen to her.

Not for the first time, Meghann reflected on the insanity of her actions and what it would mean if she was caught. She looked at the man sleeping soundly beside her. He slept as if he were safely inside Buckingham Palace, an honored guest of the queen. She shook her head, saw the turnout, and pulled the car off the road and down an incline behind the hill. The car was completely hidden from both sides of the road. Meghann reclined the seat, pulled a blanket from the back, clutched the golden oval that had settled in the dip of her throat and slept.

A song woke her. The voice belonged to a woman, and her lyrics were pronounced in the unusual Irish spoken on the Aran Islands, thick with
h
sounds and heavily accented vowels. Meghann could make out only half of the words, but the melody was beautiful, the voice clear and high like a choirboy's at Midnight Mass. She glanced at her watch and looked around. It was six o'clock in the morning and Michael was still asleep.

Quietly, Meghann opened the door and stepped outside into the long wet grass. She breathed in lungfuls of fresh, sea-scented air. The voice was closer now. With one anxious backward glance to be sure Michael hadn't changed position, she walked toward the sound. The hill rose, dipped, and rose again. Meghann walked steadily for several minutes, following the voice to another rise. There, she saw a huge, flat boulder with coppery lichen running down its northern side. Leaning against the rock was a young girl, still in her nightgown, playing what looked like a lute. Caught up in her song, the girl hadn't yet realized that she wasn't alone.

Unwilling to explain why she was walking the hills at dawn, Meghann started to back away, but her movement must have startled the girl because she looked up, her fingers motionless on the strings. Meghann relaxed. She was a child, barely into her teens, and she was very lovely. “You play beautifully,” she said in her best schoolgirl Irish.

The girl straightened and tucked the instrument under one arm. “Thank you,” she replied in the same tongue.

Meghann stared at her curiously. She looked familiar and yet she would never have forgotten such a face. There was something unusual about this child, something more than the absurd way she was dressed and the fact that she wore no shoes even though it was bitterly cold.

She was small and wraithlike, with a delicate gamin's face and hair so gloriously long, thick, and red that it looked like a living thing. But it was her eyes that kept Meghann silent, that caught at her breath and held it when she would have spoken. Those eyes had seen things that a child should never see. Staring into that ageless green gaze was like taking the first step into a journey that, once begun, could never be abandoned.

“Who are you?” she whispered. Effortlessly, the crystalline silence carried her words across the distance that separated them.

The girl's expression changed to one of amazement. “I am Nuala O'Donnell, of course. Who are you?”

Meghann hesitated. “My name is Meggie. Can you tell me if there is another way into Donegal?”

“Aye.” Nimble as a mountain goat, Nuala turned and climbed to the top of the boulder, pointing her finger to a spot somewhere to the northwest. “Follow the River Eske away from the main road toward Tirconnaill. You'll be safe enough from the English.”

Somehow the child understood what Meghann had been afraid to voice. “Thank you,” she said again, but Nuala had slipped behind the rock and disappeared. Disappointed that she hadn't offered a proper good-bye, Meghann walked back toward the road and Michael.

The lurching of the car over the rocky, unpaved pony path woke him. “Where the devil are we?” he asked thickly.

“We've crossed over the border into the Republic by way of Tirconnaill.”

He frowned. “What did y' say?”

“We should reach the cottage shortly. Someone should be there. I'll leave immediately in order to establish my alibi, but I'll be back, and then we can really get to work—”

“That's not what I meant.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Y' said we were in the Republic by way of Tirconnaill.”

“That's right.”

Michael grinned, a tight terrible pulling of thin flesh over prominent bones. “Good Lord, Meggie. I hope your sense of direction is better than your geography. Tirconnaill no longer exists. The last time it appeared on Irish maps was before the Flight of the Earls in the seventeenth century.”

“That's impossible.”

Michael shrugged. “Check it out yourself. By now y' must be an expert at research, although I'm appalled t' find an Irish woman so woefully ignorant of her own history.”

“History is not my specialty,” she said stiffly.

“Neither is it mine, but I still know it,” countered Michael.

“It's possible that the residents still refer to the area in the old way.”

“I doubt it. Where did y' come by that interesting bit of information anyway?”

“A young woman told me. Her name is Nuala O'Donnell.”

This time Michael didn't laugh. Instead, he studied her profile thoughtfully. “It's possible, of course,” he said. “This is O'Donnell land and the name is not uncommon in Tyrone.”

Intent on maneuvering the car back onto the main road, she barely paid any attention to him. “I did it,” she said when they were on smooth ground again. “I actually got us around the checkpoints.” She looked over at Michael. “I'm sorry. What were you saying?”

“You're an odd one, Meghann McCarthy,” he said wearily. “Nuala O'Donnell of Tirconnaill died nearly four hundred years ago.”

For a single frozen moment she allowed the words to wash over her, to carry her along and sweep her up in the chilling, eerie sensation of a circumstance too bizarre to be coincidental. And then her own sense of the absurd resurrected itself and she laughed. “Don't be ridiculous.”

Michael shrugged. “I'm merely repeating historical fact.” The effort of holding his head up became too great and he leaned back against the seat.

“Don't tell me you've become superstitious in the last fifteen years.”

He spoke with his eyes closed. “All the Irish are superstitious, and I've become many things in the last fifteen years.”

Meghann changed the subject. “Are you hungry? Your mother made soup. It's in the thermos.”

“No. I haven't been hungry for a long time.”

Meghann's hands tightened on the wheel. “I didn't smuggle you out to watch you die.”

Michael opened his eyes and turned toward her without lifting his head. “Why
did
you smuggle me out? In the excitement of the moment I forgot t' ask.”

She ignored the sarcasm in his voice. “I need time to build a case, and I can't do it by talking with you for thirty minutes once a month. We need witnesses who saw you at specific times during the day. I need authority to request copies of the files. There must be a reason why you're the only suspect. Motive is extremely important in a case of this nature. Motive must have been established. Without access to the prosecution's files, I'm in the dark.”

Michael was uncharacteristically silent.

“Can you tell me anything at all?”

“No,” he said shortly.

“Are you all right, Michael?”

“Tell me why you're coming out for me, Meggie.”

Heat colored her cheeks. “I've already explained all that.”

“It will mean professional suicide. You could drag the Thames for clients and no one would hire you. Everything you've worked for will be gone.”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence. The next time I organize a prison break it will be for someone who appreciates me.”

Michael swore weakly and stared out the window at the gray skies of Donegal. He hadn't meant to hurt her. Oh, Christ, maybe he had. The best he could hope for was that she would give up on him before anyone found out about her involvement. No one could win this one, not even Meggie.

He was so very tired. It didn't really matter what they did to him. All he wanted was to sleep. Lord, she was blethering on again. The woman had a mouth that wouldn't quit. Odd that he didn't remember Meggie as a talker. She had been a quiet little girl and a serious young woman. It must be the British influence. All Brits were thick as champs because they never listened. Michael believed in listening. He had never learned anything new by talking. Pity. Meggie was a taking little thing. Too thin, but still appealing. Her kissing needed improving, but that was to be expected. After all, she'd married a Brit. He wouldn't mind having a go-round with her again, but then it wouldn't bother him if it never happened. Nothing bothered him much anymore. All he wanted was sleep, sweet, uninterrupted sleep.

Meghann drove past the town center and into the castle car park. She turned off the motor and waited. Michael was asleep again. He slept a great deal, but then it was probably good for him. If only he would eat.

The River Eske pooled into a small lough that had once served as the castle moat. The landscape was lovely in a wild, remote sort of way. The castle itself had been remodeled by an Englishman, but if Meghann remembered her history correctly, Donegal had originally been the ancestral home of Rory O'Donnell, one of the last Catholic earls of Ulster. Rather than have an Englishman inhabit his castle, he'd gutted and burned it before leaving for Italy. She had an overwhelming desire to see inside the walls.

Through the rearview mirror, she saw a young woman with black, short-cropped hair cross the street and enter the park. Her long, denim-clad legs covered the distance to the car in smooth, efficient strides. After a cursory glance at Michael, she motioned for Meghann to roll down the window. “Step outside,” she ordered in a curt, authoritative voice. “Bring your bag with you.”

Meghann did as she was told. The woman climbed into the car and turned the key, gunning the engine. It sputtered, hesitated, and caught. “There's a blue Saab waiting for you by the monastery,” she said. “Leave it in the dropoff lot at Shannon.”

“How will I know where to find you?”

“That's not my problem.”

“Wait.” Meghann called after the moving car. “Will you be the one caring for him?”

Without answering, the woman rolled up the window and drove out of the park, leaving Meghann staring helplessly down the road after the disappearing car.

She stood there for a long time, reliving the events of the past six hours, unable to muster the energy to move. Fatigue washed over her. Her hand reached for her brooch. The smooth gold felt unusually warm. A solitary curlew circled and called overhead. The wind rose and lifted the hair from her cheeks. Just ahead loomed the castle walls. Soft insistent whispers urged her toward the portcullis gate.

Summoning the last reserves of her strength, she walked to the entrance, paid her fee, and passed through the gate of Donegal Castle. The pamphlet was brief. The castle had originally belonged to the O'Donnells. After the Flight of the Earls in 1607 it had fallen into the hands of an English family, the Burkes.

The gardens were completely empty. To the right, a twisting staircase beckoned. Ducking her head, she made her way up the narrow steps to a large refurbished chamber that was once the Great Hall. A massive oak table set with trenchers and goblets dominated the room. Somehow, Meghann knew this wasn't what she had come for. Continuing up the stairs, she bypassed several smaller rooms until she came to the end of the hall. Disappointed, she turned back. There was nothing of Ireland or the O'Donnells in this refinished, glossy-coated mansion.

Absorbed in her own thoughts, she almost missed it, the sharp turn where none was before, the roughly hewn walls, the narrow, low-ceilinged hall, the glow of a hot peat fire, the leap and gutter of torches throwing light on a laden banquet table and rush-strewn floor. Meghann had the childish urge to rub her eyes. Something was wrong with her. Shadows moved along the walls and then, assuming shape and dimension, stepped away, taking their places on the low benches. Warm laughter, slurred voices, and odors, pungent and human, filled her senses.

The hearth dominated an entire wall, a blazing fire throwing arcs of light across the room. Caught in a ruddy beam, silhouetted against its glow, a man dressed in period costume was fingering the same instrument that Meghann had watched Nuala O'Donnell play earlier that morning.

Her heartbeat drummed in her ears. It had to be a reenactment, and yet she was the only audience. The players, caught up in their drink-induced camaraderie, seemed unaware of her presence. Meghann found a stool in the shadows and sat down, her eyes on the musician and the small crowd that took their places around him.

His voice was rich and clear and soon the only sounds in the chamber were his words and the lilting notes of his music. Meghann closed her eyes and listened. The man was very skilled. Her breathing quickened as he sang of a mighty castle, secret glens, silver lakes, and the treasures found to the east in the O'Neill kingdom of Tyrone.