Land of a Thousand Dreams (16 page)

Aware of Finola's rapt attention, Morgan continued to hold her hand as they listened. As was always the case, she seemed lost in the music, utterly absorbed and removed from her surroundings. Her wide blue eyes glistened with something akin to ecstasy, and the muscles along the long, slender column of her throat pulsed almost in unison with the singer, as if Finola were trying to sing in her silent voice.

There was much in the girl's delicate beauty and graceful demeanor to hint of the enchanted swan, Morgan thought. Like the lovely creature of the myth, Finola had been robbed of her identity. Her memories, her home—all that once must have been cherished and familiar to her—were now gone. Bereft of family, deprived even of name, she had been cast out, cruelly banished to a world where strangers made up her only existence.

Sorrow clutched Morgan's heart as he studied the girl beside him. At least the mythical swan had been left with a voice, a voice that could speak and sing and pray. But the lovely Finola's only voice was the silent song that smiled out from the depths of those morning-sky eyes.

Later, in the library, Morgan and Finola sat near the hearth, across from each other. The heavy rose-colored drapes had been drawn against the night. A fire snapped and hissed in the vast stone fireplace that covered almost one entire wall of the room. Squat candles burned low, dappling the room and its inhabitants with gold and copper hues.

Morgan was finding it unexpectedly difficult to broach the question he had intended to ask. The girl's beauty was enough to numb even a songbird's tongue. Clad in a simple blue gown that he had not seen before this night, Finola sat staring into the fire as if entranced. Her magnificent hair, falling free almost to her waist, had caught the glow from the fire and now shimmered with the radiance of silvered gold.

As if sensing his gaze, Finola suddenly turned, capturing him with a questioning smile. Not for the first time, Morgan knew a sharp stab of regret and futile longing. While he had faced the truth that he could never be more than a friend or a brother to her, the lovely Finola aroused in him an affection, a yearning he had known for no other woman save Nora Kavanagh.

He had become fiercely protective of the voiceless young beauty, almost obsessed for her safety and well-being. Yet there were times when he had all he could do not to fantasize about losing himself in the incredible blue of those eyes or wonder what it might be like to bury his face in that glorious golden hair.

Shamed by what he sensed to be a forbidden—and futile—desire, he felt his face burn, and he quickly turned away.

The differences between them were simply too great to allow for anything other than friendship, no matter how much he might secretly desire more. For one thing, he was obviously years older than Finola, and although that in itself might not ordinarily be a hindrance, their situation was anything but ordinary.

That she trusted him he did not doubt. Indeed, he suspected that she bore him at least some small affection. At times, the girl seemed
too
trusting, too vulnerable—almost childlike in her eagerness to please and her ready acceptance of him, and of others as well.

Not surprising, perhaps, given her life. A life with no memory of the past, an existence closely sheltered and protected by the women who had taken her in. Like a delicate flower whose bloom had been forced and nourished in the hotbed, she had known no other environment apart from warmth and tranquility and tender care.

All the more reason to be careful of her feelings, gentle in the handling of their friendship. At another time, in another place—as a whole man—he might have dared to love her, might have even hoped his love would be returned. But now…

Morgan's mouth tightened as he glanced down over his useless legs beneath the lap robe. There would be no other time, no other place. He was bound to this infernal wheelchair, a cripple, with nothing to offer but his friendship and a kind of security, if she would have it. That he was still a man with a man's desire, a man's normal passions, must not be allowed to make a difference.

Their eyes met, and, disconcerted by the warmth and expectancy in her gaze, Morgan looked away. There was no denying that Finola's presence in his life made him despise the cursed wheelchair even more.

Finola had sensed the
Seanchai'
s eyes on her. Just as quickly, she sensed his discomfort when she turned to him. In the instant before he looked away, she had encountered something in the deep green of his gaze that caused her heart to swell with a fierce desire to comfort him. She had seen something—some private torment, some secret wound—that sent a wave of dismay shuddering through her.

Shaken, Finola studied the big man in repose. Throughout most of the evening, he had worn the face of youth, the rare, boyish expression that was at once both exuberant and uncertain—and only one of the myriad colors of the man. The sadness so briefly reflected in his gaze was seldom seen and, when caught unawares, quickly concealed.

In the months since the poet had befriended her, Finola had come to realize that he was a man of many facets, none of them simple. He could be both stern and indulgent, somber or buoyant. She had seen the tenderness of his great heart in his treatment of young Annie, had felt the heat of his rage when he thundered at the injustice inflicted upon his friend Smith O'Brien. Other times, he would bait the good-natured Sandemon with merciless humor; yet for Artegal, the secretive footman, he seemed to bear only a cynic's scorn.

Morgan Fitzgerald was a man with shadows in his heart and sunlight in his soul, and Finola had come to realize that the very essence of the man—what made him real, what made him great—was far too complex for her ever to comprehend completely.

His was the soul of the wounded warrior, the stricken chieftain at odds with his world. Yet he could quickly turn and be caught up in the throes of an ecstasy with life itself.

The hero was fallen, his armor chinked, even rusty in places, yet he wore his mantle of nobility with ease and grace. His eyes might be pained and battle-weary, but there still burned a radiance of spirit, a hard-won faith that shed its glow on everyone about him.

To Finola he had become friend and benefactor, sage and brother. Instinctively, she knew she could trust what he was and accept what he offered without ever once questioning his intent.

He turned back to her now, and Finola smiled at him with fondness. He smiled a little in return, his expression brightening.

“There's something I would ask you, Finola,” he said, leaning slightly forward in the wheelchair. Despite the fact that she could hear his voice and understand, he had taken to making signs with his hands even as he spoke. His way of sharing her own means of communication had put Finola at ease early in their friendship; now it endeared him to her still more.

“Don't feel that you need answer me right away,” he added. “I know you will need to give it much thought, for it would mean an important change for you.”

Puzzled by his apparent uncertainty, Finola continued to smile in encouragement.

Still the
Seanchai
hesitated, his gaze moving to the fire. “I would hope that you might consider…moving here, to Nelson Hall,” he finally said. “We will be needing trustworthy persons to help with the scholars, and I know I can depend on you. But I would ask you to keep company with Annie as well. She admires you greatly.” He turned back to her with a rueful smile. “I had hoped that she and Sister Louisa would become close, but the child insists on antagonizing the nun at every turn. I find myself wondering if they will ever do more than vex each other.”

Finola sat staring at him, thinking she must have misunderstood his words.

“I would arrange wages for you, of course,” he went on, confusing her still more. “You could choose those responsibilities you most enjoy.”

“I don't…understand,”
Finola finally managed to sign, at the same time mouthing the words.
“You're asking me to come and stay here…at Nelson Hall?”

Inexplicably, the
Seanchai
flushed. “Forgive me!” he said, leaning forward still more. “I should have explained! It would be entirely proper and respectable, I assure you. You could have rooms next to Annie's, if you like, and, of course, there will be other women on the premises as well—Sister Louisa, Mrs. Ryan, the day maids.”

Still bewildered, Finola frowned. Staring into those brilliant green eyes, she found it difficult to comprehend his meaning.

He reached out as if to touch her hand, then stopped. “I assure you, Finola, I intend only friendship, nothing else. I enjoy your company, of course,” he added quickly, “but more than that, I'm concerned—for your safety, your protection. I am thinking such a move might be beneficial to both of us.”

When Finola made no reply—for, indeed, her head was spinning at his astounding suggestion—he added, “I don't mean to offend, lass, but the place in which you're living…it might not be altogether safe.”

At last Finola understood. And, of course, he was right. Hadn't Lucy and the others warned her often enough about the mean streets below, that she must avoid them at all costs?

Rough, brawling men shouted and fought one another in the darkness. Scarcely a night passed that the sounds of scuffling and breaking bottles did not awaken Finola at least once. Sometimes the angry shouts and menacing voices kept her awake long into the night.

She no longer left her rooms after dark, certainly never alone. This had not always been the case. Until some weeks past, she had thought little of coming and going as she pleased. But these days, because of Lucy's incessant warnings and the
Seanchai'
s obvious concern, she seldom ventured from the inn, even in daylight.

Wanting to ease his mind, she signed this to him, adding,
“You need not worry. God's angels are always near to protect me.”

His eyes searched hers, and Finola's heart leaped as the tenderness in his gaze reached out and drew her in.

“And no doubt,” he said softly, “you are very dear to God and His angels. Yet I ask you to consider my suggestion, all the same. As a favor to me. Will you? Please, Finola?”

Impulsively, Finola reached to squeeze his hand, nodding her assent without really understanding why it should be so important to him.

Late that night, a raw wind blew up, sweeping through the Dublin streets like a wintry gale. The two sailors across the street from Healy's Inn were hunched down deep in their coats, standing under the eaves of the tinsmith's shop as they argued.