Lions and Lace (39 page)

Alana colored with excitement. She could hardly remember the last time she'd held a baby in her arms. When the child was placed there, so warm and soft and fragile, her heart tugged with love and protectiveness. "When did she arrive? I don't remember any of the servants expecting," she said.

"Mr.
 
Eagan found the lass. The mother
,
 
Caitlín
O'Roarke
, was stuck in a lift with him. Mr. Eagan delivered her."

"I
don't believe it!"

"Oh, it's true, Mrs. Sheridan. And Mr. Eagan, he's in love with the child, don't you know. He can't do enough for her—or her mother. Brought her here and gave her a job, he did—that is, when she's
feelin
' up to it."

"I always knew Eagan was a good soul.
I
could see it in his eyes.
He
's got such warm, caring eyes."

"Yes, Mrs. Sheridan." Margaret stroked the baby's dark downy head. "Well, I'd best bring the child back below-stairs. . . ."

"Let me come with you. I'd love to meet her mother. And I want to hold her for a little while longer." Alana smiled at the baby. "What's her name?"

"Siobhan," Margaret whispered.

"What a beautiful name. Well, little
Shivhan
, let's take you back to your mama." Margaret held the servant's door, and they took the steep steps to the lower quarters.

Through a maze of passages and servants' rooms, they arrived at the mother's bedroom to hear an intense voice coming from it. "In a few days, after you're stronger, you can be up and around. Until then, when the doctor has given you permission, you will stay here."

Alana and Margaret entered the room just as Eagan picked up a young woman in a white cotton nightgown and placed her gently back in bed.

"But I should be
workin
'," the girl said, her face pale from her ordeal of giving birth, her eyes wary of her surroundings, obviously suspicious of her good fortune.

"No, Eagan's right," Alana broke in. "You can't even think about working now when you've this dear child to care for." She smiled down at the bundle in her arms.
Shivhan
was fast asleep.

Caitlín
looked at Alana in awe. By her dress, Alana was clearly the lady of the house.
Caitlín
couldn't seem to believe she would bother with the likes of her.

Eagan made the introductions and said, "That's telling her, Alana. The baggage won't stay in her bed." He looked down at
Caitlín
, Caitlin chanced a glance back at him, and suddenly Alana was struck by the intangible bond between them. If she didn't know better, she'd think Eagan was rather taken with this girl he'd saved from a life of shame on the streets. And she'd think that shy, smiling glance Caitlin gave Eagan was filled with hero worship.
Maybe something more.

Eagan nodded to Alana. "I must say, Mrs. Sheridan, you look good with a babe in your arms. Trevor should take note."

Alana paled and blushed at the same time—if that was possible. Eagan's comment frightened her and compelled her. The possibility of a child was beyond the realm of her and Trevor's relationship, and yet, because of the other night, it was more of a possibility than she cared to think about.

The baby saved her from having to comment.
Shivhan
startled, awoke with a cry, and Alana's attention turned to her. She rocked the newborn in her arms. "I think
it's
dinnertime," she said softly.

Caitlín
offered to take the infant, but before Alana could hand
Shivhan
to her, a voice sounded from the doorway saying something in Gaelic. Trevor stood there, sporting a new walking stick, an Irish blackthorn. He'd just bathed. His hair was still wet, slicked back as if with
Macassar
oil. His jaw was freshly shaven, his vest a brilliant scarlet, his paper collar crisp, white, and new.

Again he said something to Caitlin in Gaelic. It made the girl nervous, and she turned her eyes warily to Eagan. Trevor laughed.

"Must you frighten her? She's just had a baby." Alana didn't know where she'd found the courage to say that, especially after Trevor's gaze captured hers, his eyes recounting all the passion, guilt, and fury that they'd spent on each other two nights ago. He lowered his gaze to take in the picture of her holding the baby. Approval crossed his face, then worry, then anger, in that order.

"I only asked the girl if she were some kind of Celtic princess. I expect so, since she's holding court here in her room."

Alana could tell he'd been drinking. He didn't look drunk, but there was something in his eyes, an unnatural gleam. The baby wailed, sensing the tension. Alana rocked her. She stepped to the mother and said, "It must be suppertime. Margaret, will you stay here and see if
Caitlín
needs anything? I'll take away the men, so she may feed
Shivhan
."

"Yes, Mrs. Sheridan."

"Gentlemen," she said woodenly, "will you follow me upstairs?"

Trevor didn't say a word, so Eagan spoke up. "I've got business downtown." He looked at Trevor. "She's all yours, Brother o' mine." With a salute and a fond look at
Caitlín
, Eagan left the tiny servant's room.

Caitlín
struggled with
Shivhan
, waiting for privacy before baring her breast. Alana angered at Trevor's lingering. She gave him a lethal stare,
then
left the room.

"Wait." He caught up with her in the corridor. He took hold of her arm just as a maidservant curtsied and scurried by, clearly unnerved at finding the master in the help's quarters.

"What!" she hissed, snatching back her
arm.

"We have to talk."

"You're drunk. And isn't this a little tardy? What's there to discuss?" She laughed bitterly, unable to civilize her pain. "Oh yes, I suppose it's time to orchestrate our Grand Lie for our annulment now that Mara's taken with the duke."

"Mara's seen Granville again?"

"What a coincidence. We saw him in the park. Imagine."

His gold-green eyes lit with anger.
"Fine.
Let Mara see him. As I said, I've my own ways of handling him."

"As usual, you've got everything under control. So if you'll excuse me—"

"No." His hand tightened on her arm; his voice turned soft. "We've got to talk."

She pulled at the manacle of his fingers. "I know this will come as a great shock to you, Mr. Sheridan, but I don't want to talk to you."

"Well, you must talk to me. And where will it be—here in the servant's passage or upstairs in the privacy of the drawing room?"

"You've obviously been drinking. I don't have conversations with
drunk
men. There's nothing to discuss."

He pulled her closer. She smelled the liquor on his breath, but her desire for him struck her like an arrow, his smell of whiskey and soap seducing her.

"You say there's nothing to discuss, but you're wrong," he rasped, obviously trying to be more rational than his drunken state would allow him to be. "Let's just begin with your physical condition. . . ."

She stiffened, her cheeks flaming with anger and embarrassment.

He added, "The symbolism of little Siobhan in your arms hasn't escaped me. Are you ready perhaps to be holding your own in nine months?"

His words cut her. He made a mockery of their relationship and their lovemaking. To him, the possibility of their having a child seemed like nothing but an inconvenience. She let loose her fury. "Oh, and that would destroy your plans, wouldn't it." He tried to interrupt, but he couldn't break through her indignation. She continued. "I can just see you, saddled with a Knickerbocker child. How revolting! No wonder you're panicking. Do you want me to pay a visit to Madame
Restell
?"

"I'd kill you if you visited that woman."

She didn't doubt he meant it. Suddenly she was filled with so much irrational anger that all she wanted to do was beat him until she dropped with exhaustion. He was the
cause of all her problems, and that he dared instruct her on anything but how to help Mara was more than she could endure. She tried to pull away again to avoid a scene, but he wouldn't let go. She pulled again and again until her anger overflowed.

Out of control, she slapped him hard across the cheek— once, twice, three times—while he just stared down at her, hard and dispassionate. "Are you done?" he asked rigidly when she began to cry.

"I hate you," she whispered through her tears, now not caring if the whole world saw her. "I can't wait for that annulment."

"That annulment may not be possible."

"Why?" she lashed out, crazy from anger and her soul-wrenching hurt. She wanted to love this man, but everything he did drove her to despise him. He toyed with her like a cat with a mouse. The rules changed constantly until she could no longer endure the emotional upheaval.

"The babe that was in your arms should tell you why."

"I won't be having
your
baby."

He chuckled blackly. "Oh? And how do you know that? Does that pristine womb of yours reject die idea of spawning a child by the likes of me? Well,
more's
the pity, because you may have no choice." He jerked her against him. "And don't get any ideas in that sophisticated society head of yours. I'll know if you're pregnant even if I must monitor your laundry and interview your maid daily."

"You crude man."

"That's right. I am a crude man.
A pagan in this civilized world of yours.
Don't you ever forget
it.
"

"How can I?" she retorted, hysterically wrenching her arm from his hold. "You remind me of it at every turn. No wonder you can't buy acceptance. I don't care how much money you have—nothing could sweeten your kind of hypocrisy and prejudice. You've mastered those two things all too well. But then, why should that surprise anyone, since you're a victim of them yourself!"

"I'm no victim," he growled.

"Oh?" she said, staring boldly into his eyes. "I think that's exactly what you are. You're a victim of society, Trevor Sheridan, so you think that gives you some divine right to hurt anyone in your path. But what you're really a victim of is your own twisted thinking, and because of that, you'll be a victim forever."

He looked as if he wanted to raise his brand-new walking stick and hit her with it. Instead, he shoved her away. "No one could take such a woman as you. You're just like a diamond, Alana, beautiful but cold.
More's
the pity you don't like diamonds, because they do become you all too well." He shook his head in disgust and looked at her. "This marriage is a curse and has been from the beginning."

"Yes, it's a curse, and I can't wait to escape it!" she cried.

"Then don't cross my path again," he said ominously. "If you play temptress as you did the other night, I'll see you back in my bed, and if we escape this time without a babe, you may bank on the fact that next time you'll not be so lucky."

"Even if I have your baby, I'll leave you! And being Catholic, you've more to fear from a divorce than I!" She stared at him, the ghost of a triumphal smile on her lips.

He crossed his arms and accepted her challenge. "You don't
understand,
á
mbúirnín
.
There's no way to divorce me. Our marriage vows are binding till
death do
us part. No matter if you run, you'll still be my wife,
And
unless there's an annulment, you'll remain my wife until you breathe your last breath and are cold in the grave."

She stared at him, shocked by the enormity of his words. If she was pregnant and there could be no annulment, she could move from Trevor Sheridan's household, but she would never be free to marry, to have any children but his, to be with any man but him. And how could she have his children, how could she endure his intimate caress, when he looked at her with only anger and hatred?

Deathly pale, she turned and walked away, trying desperately to absorb this latest soul-wrenching news. It was ironic, but the symbolism of her dream had finally come true. She knew who her shadow man was. But instead of saving her, Trevor Sheridan was the last thing she saw before she drowned in the sea of his wealth.