Nell (7 page)

“Will y' be leavin' now, Frankie?” she asked anxiously.

He thought of his conversation with Robbie Wilson and shook his head. “Not just yet. The whole thing may blow over.”

She set down her spoon, leaving her soup untouched. “They're threatenin' t' close the water and sewer plants. I don't know how we'll manage. Think of the disease.”

He smiled reassuringly across the table. “I think we've seen the worst of it.”

But the worst was something not even Frankie could have foreseen. Fourteen days later, every moderate unionist who'd expressed an interest in sharing power with nationalists pulled out of the Stormant talks and resigned, but not until three bombs had been detonated in the Republic, killing thirty-three people, not until masked gunmen closed shops, took over factories, and ordered everyone out, not until all water and sewage relief had been cut off to everyone in the county, not until the hum of industry in the entire six counties had been effectively put to a stop, and not until every Catholic was convinced he would be slaughtered at the hands of Protestant death squads. At the end of those fourteen days, Ulster was as staunchly and firmly a part of the British Empire as it had ever been.

***

Frankie Maguire had left Kilvara with the youthful exuberance of a lad who believed in miracles. His original two-week stay had become two months. When he returned to the small town where he was born, he was a harder, more cynical version of himself.

It wasn't an obvious difference. Jilly couldn't put her finger on it. He went about his business as usual, working the dogs, performing odd jobs for his father. But he spoke only when he had to, and he smiled less often than he had before. The strangest change of all, and one that no one else seemed to notice, was that he no longer stuttered. Not that he ever had with her, but now, for some inexplicable reason, the speech impediment had disappeared entirely. When he spoke, it was with the cold, clear purpose of delivering a message or answering a question. Gone was their cheerful conversation amidst the fading, sepia-toned light of afternoons in the kennel. No longer did they share the witty banter of a comfortable friendship or the unexpected revelation of a sudden epiphany. Frankie had gone away from her completely.

If only he hadn't gone to Belfast. With the simple logic of childhood, Jilly rationalized that the city had changed him. Somewhere in the streets of Northern Ireland's capital, Frankie Maguire's soul wandered without its body. When or even if it would come back, she had no idea. There was nothing to do but wait.

Jilly sat on the knoll above Lough Neath absorbing the unusual heat that lay heavy and shimmering over the water. It was late summer. Soon she would leave for Kylemore Abbey. Normally, she would have lamented the end of her holiday, the loss of freedom, the structure of living her life by the ringing of bells and the hands of the clock. But this year was different. Frankie was different. She could only hope that the sooner she left Kildare Hall, the sooner she could return and everything would be the same again. She sighed, leaned back on her elbows, and closed her eyes. The drugging warmth of the sun worked its magic, and she dozed off.

Frankie released the stone and watched it skip across the lake, breaking the glassy stillness and sending concentric ripples to the shoreline. At least his aim never failed him. Neither did the dogs. He reached down to caress the bib of the collie beside him. The Fitzgerald champions were trained from birth to behave predictably, exhibiting the manners of true show dogs. Only the best came from the Kildare kennels. No incessant barking, nipping, or growling was tolerated. No bib could be muddy, no coat too dark, no ear less than perfect. All noses must be within the correct dimensions, all paws must be white, all gums a deep pink, all eyes a deep, dark brown. The Kildare collies always bred true, which was why the breeding and the puppies that resulted commanded ludicrous fees. Frankie's mouth twisted bitterly. If only his own life could be so easily arranged.

Peter Maguire could no longer perform the services required of the Fitzgerald's kennel keeper without his help, yet he had no intention of retiring. Neither did Pyers Fitzgerald, as far as Frankie knew, intend to pension his father off. It was a problem without a solution. Frankie chafed at the delay of his own plans. With every passing day, he ached to leave Kilvara and begin his life. Instinctively, he began withdrawing from everyone he cared about.

The Maguires had never been a communicative family. Peter was up before dawn, bicycling the five miles to and from Kildare, working long hours and nodding off shortly after tea. He had little time for his children. Kathleen had moved out of the Maguires' tiny cottage in the village to a room in Kildare Hall's servants' quarters. Occasionally, Frankie met his sister for an afternoon meal. But Kathleen, infatuated with Terrence Fitzgerald, knew that Frankie disapproved and was only too happy when he made his excuses.

It was Jilly whose life had changed. To Frankie's credit, he understood that she was the one who would suffer the most by his absence and deliberately began the separation process that could have only one conclusion.

That he would suffer as well did not yet occur to him. That would come later, when his world was measured by four bare walls and a barbed-wire fence, when the scent of feminine perfume drove him over the edge, when the memory of sun-streaked hair and freckled cheeks woke him in the night, his sheets drenched with sweat, shaking and terrified that he would never see the face behind them again.

But Frankie was not born fey, nor did he believe in the sight. So he went on his way, ruthlessly exorcising from his life everyone he loved, everyone he felt was even slightly dependent upon him. His father and Kathleen were surprisingly easy. It was Jilly who held his heart, Jilly who'd defended him, Jilly who believed they would spend their lives together, Jilly who trusted him with the secrets of her soul, Jilly whose shining, ocean-colored eyes shifted between need and devotion. How could he ever say good-bye to Jilly?

Ireland, 1537

Through a causeway bordered by boglands and forests of primeval black oak, their branches laden with fresh snow, Donal O'Flaherty led Nell, his men, and the cart upon which Gerald Fitzgerald slept away his fever. Donal had seen immediately that the boy, frail and mottled with illness, could never sit astride a horse. He ordered a covered wicker basket to be filled with hay and blankets. There Gerald slept the untroubled sleep of a child while those entrusted with his life cursed at every snapping twig, every crack of thin ice, every twisted rut that threw the unwieldy cart off balance.

The journey seemed endless. Donal, who'd crossed the entirety of Ireland in four days, chafed at the delay. The countess of Ormond had eyes in the back of her head, and if she were truly Gerald's enemy, she would know of their halting progress. In a fair fight, Donal knew his men to be superior to Irish forces, but he had only a small company, and the countess of Ormond had the might of England behind her.

He frowned, turned back to look at Nell, and felt his heart contract. She had done nothing more than lift her arm to brush a loose strand of hair away from her forehead. Everything she did, the slightest movement, the way she arranged her cloak, the tilt of her head, the low, soft laughter that bubbled freely within her, filled him with wonder. Where had a woman raised amidst the splendor of Maynooth learned to accept such hardship uncomplainingly?

It was for her that he relinquished his comfort. In winter, Aughnanure was sinful in its welcome and accommodation. Fires, taller than a man, roared in every room, and wine and ale flowed. Visitors spent the season sated with drink, curled up in warm furs, their daze interrupted by an occasional hunt or wager of the dice. Were it not for Nell, Donal would be home, his head filled with nothing more than the tales of his bard relaying the past glories of his ancestors.

Geraldine or Tudor, it was all the same to him as long as neither insinuated its way into the western isles. He smiled ruefully, wondering if ever an O'Flaherty had gone to such lengths for a woman.

The sun lay low in the sky, staining the snow-covered hills and glens with shades of pink and gold. Nell watched as Donal reined in his horse and spoke to the man beside him. The man nodded, said something in return, and Donal threw back his head and laughed. Nell swallowed and looked away. She wanted Donal O'Flaherty for her husband more than she wanted anything in her life, and the depth of her wanting frightened her. Nothing was certain, not even the betrothal contracts signed by her father's hand. The last year had proven how tenuous the plans of men really were. And yet Donal had the look of one who meant what he said. Hadn't he come all the way from Galway to find her?

A wave of color rose in her cheeks. He wanted her. She knew that for certain. He'd made sure she knew exactly how much before they left Donore. Lord, she'd been wanton. But when he'd taken her wrist and kissed her where the blue veins met, again and again, she couldn't help the cry that rose in her throat. And when he'd covered her mouth to swallow the sound, his kiss had been sweet and slow and gentle. But later it was none of those things. It was rough and seeking, giving her a taste of what her mother had once told her about, the secret pleasure that men and women shared.

Nell wanted that kiss to go on and on, even when his mouth left her lips and moved to her throat and down to the rise of her breast. Through his clothing, she could feel the bunched muscles of his chest, the hard planes of his legs. Her gown was unlaced, and his tongue was tasting skin that no man had ever seen before.

Nell was sure she would never be cold again. With her face pressed against his neck and her arms wrapped around him, she begged him to take her. But he would not. Putting her gently away from him, he closed his eyes and breathed rapidly for several minutes. When he opened them, he was in control once again. His eyes were very bright and his smile assured, but his voice was not at all steady. “You do not fear the marriage bed, do you, Nell?”

She shook her head.

“Have you done this before?”

“No.” She turned away. “Does it matter?”

He took her chin in his hand and turned her face so that she looked at him. “I think so. I would have it that you have known no other man.”

She sighed with relief and watched as his cheeks darkened.

“Have you no questions for me, lass?”

She thought for a moment and then shook her head. “I will take you as you are, Donal O'Flaherty. It matters not that you have had other women before me, as long as you have none after.”

This time, it was his turn to be relieved. He could speak honestly. “There has been no one since we plighted our troth.”

She had not expected that, but it pleased her immensely, as had the care he'd taken to keep Gerald comfortable in his basket of hay.

Now Donal was riding toward her on a black stallion that few men would attempt to ride. He pulled his
morion
off and sat bareheaded before her. “Are you tired, Nell?”

The note in his voice and his admiring glance brought fresh color to her cheeks. “No. It is too good to be riding again. I feel as if I could go on forever.”

“We may after all. The cart delays us.”

“I'm sorry.”

He grinned. “I've never seen such a lass for blaming herself. Gerald's illness could not be helped. The boy wouldn't last the journey without the cart.”

“You've been very kind to us, Donal. I don't know how to thank you.”

His eyes, intent on her face, were the gray of blanketing mist and cool rain, of smoking peat fires and deep, ice-stilled lakes. She couldn't look away. Emotions, raw and powerful, swallowed her words. Nell could no longer think. She closed her eyes and felt his hands against her throat. Slowly, his fingers caressed her skin. “I will take my thanks, Nell,” he said, “in more ways than you can imagine.”

She opened her eyes. The beautiful, chiseled lips were very close to her own. This man, this Irish chieftain, held her happiness in his long brown fingers. God help her if she should lose him.

To avoid attention, Donal led his party through the thick forests of Kilmore and Clonish, past giant yew trees, ash, birch, oak, and alder. The inconvenience of traveling through the frigid terrain of Ireland in January with a woman and an ailing child was no small thing, and Donal wondered, more than once, if he shouldn't take them out into the open to make better time. What was the point of security if his charges died of the elements? Once he looked up into the leaden sky and sent two men ahead to find the source of the smoke that circled above their heads. The men returned with news of an army of five hundred
gallawglass
camping in the bog bearing the standard of Ormond.

“Why does your sister hate you so?” he asked Nell one evening as she warmed her shivering limbs by the fire.

Nell stared into the flames for a long time without answering. Finally, she spoke, but the words came haltingly, as if she had no wish to say them. “Margaret is the oldest. She was ever my father's favorite, keeping his books, representing the Fitzgeralds in council, joining his guests at the table when no other woman was welcomed. She was so clever, our Margaret. She should have been a man.” Nell's mouth turned down. “But she wasn't, and when Garrett came back from fostering, she learned what it was to be a woman. Father took it all away from her, all the duties she once had, shaming her mercilessly when she protested. Finally, he betrothed her to Ormond, our inherited enemy, a man whose house we were taught to loathe.”

Donal squatted down beside her, resting easily on his haunches. “I've heard the marriage is a satisfactory one.”

Nell shrugged. “Margaret is very lovely and very shrewd. Ormond has need of both.”

Donal twisted a strand of Nell's loose hair around his finger. “Traits her younger sister shares.”

“I thank you, sir,” she said smoothly. “But you should know that few can compare with Margaret”

“Yet she wishes to wipe the Fitzgeralds from the face of Ireland. Why is that, I wonder?”

“Ormond ambushed the Fitzgeralds on their way to Kilbartin. Garrett killed Margaret's only son. She still grieves.”

“And seeks her vengeance,” he finished for her.

“Aye. Margaret is twisted. She does not see Gerald as an innocent child. He is our father's son and Garrett's brother.”

Donal took her hand in his, feeling the fragile bones. “What does she think of you, Nell?”

Nell tilted her head and pressed her finger to her lips, something she did when formulating an answer. “I know not,” she said at last. “More than likely, she does not remember having a sister. I was a mere babe when she left Maynooth to be wed.”

Turning her palm face up on his knee, Donal traced the lines with his forefinger. “For generations, the O'Flahertys have been Christian, but many in the west still cling to the old religions. Do you know what the druids tell us, Nell?”

She shook her head. It was only her hand that he touched so intimately, but still it was difficult to concentrate. She noticed that Donal O'Flaherty was a man for touching. It was the way he gave of himself and the way he held back. The very thought of what that meant sucked the air from her lungs.

“They tell us that we are all equal in importance,” he said in his beautiful, reverent voice. “Trees, rocks, the grain that grows in our fields, the cattle, dogs, sheep, and humans. No one is more important than the other, because all things come from the earth, who is mother to us all. It is the female from whom all things come, and for that she is to be worshipped. Do you know what it is that I am telling you, Nell?”

“No.”

“Margaret was foolish to wish herself a man. We men wage our battles, steal our neighbors' cattle, and increase our holdings for our sons. What is that compared to what a woman can do? Only a woman can bring forth life, and that is the greatest of all feats.”

She looked up at him, her hazel eyes filled with light and awe. “Are you a druid, Donal?”

“I'm an O'Flaherty, descended from pirates and mermaids. All of us have a bit of the druid in us.” He grinned, and once again Nell wondered how a man, strong and hard as tempered steel, could be called beautiful. Donal O'Flaherty, with his fey, mist-drowned eyes and scooped-out cheeks, was the most beautiful creature she'd ever seen. It wasn't right that a man should look like that.

Nell tried to speak and couldn't get past the lump in her throat. Something was wrong. For some time now, her dreams had been troubled. The Irish part of her, the part she'd inherited from her mother's people, told her to beware. This man, this life she craved to the point of desperation, was not to be.

She wanted nothing more than to cling to Donal, to go with him, to bind him to her in the most primitive of ways. Everything she knew of men told her that he desired her. But he would not be seduced. Donal wanted her for his wife, and he was more traditional than even he knew. They would wed first in his church and then at Aughnanure in the old Brehon way of the Irish.

Nell rubbed her arms and shivered. What if her destiny and her desire took separate paths? What if she never knew what it was to have Donal O'Flaherty for her husband? A darker thought consumed her. What if the man who took her maidenhood was other than the man who sat beside her? Would Donal still want her? His words came back to her.
I
would
have
it
that
you
have
known
no
other
man.
Women had little control over their lives or the men who shared their beds.

But they were together now. She could tell him what was in her heart.

Nell wet her lips. “I want to come with you,” she whispered. “Desmond may be my kinsman, but he was not my father's friend. What if he refuses to honor the betrothal contract?”

She had voiced the very thought that occupied Donal's mind. Nell was beautiful, and a beautiful woman was a strategic weapon in the hands of the wrong man. Donal knew enough of the Munster Fitzgeralds to worry. The earl of Desmond was an ambitious man. Now that the House of Kildare was destroyed, Desmond's position in the world of Irish politics had improved. There were rumors that he saw himself as the future king of Ireland.

Donal frowned and looked at the basket where Gerald slept. Hadn't the first Henry Tudor done the very same thing? By murdering the Plantagenet princes in the tower and marrying their sister, he had joined the houses of Lancaster and York, ended the Hundred Years War, and secured his position as king of England. Suddenly, Donal's chest felt very tight. In bringing Gerald and Nell to Askeaton Castle, he was playing right into the earl's hands.

“We are two days from the borders of Desmond,” he said slowly. “'Tis risky, and our food supply is low, but we can make our way back through the forest and across the ridges of the Paps. If we do not tarry, we might make O'Flaherty land in four days.” He looked away. “The boy will suffer, Nell, but he may survive. With Desmond, his chances are no better.”

“My father sent us to him. Surely he knew his cousin better than you.”

Donal shrugged. “Perhaps. But the great earl is dead. Those who once swore oaths of loyalty have sought other protectors. Such is the nature of Irish politics.”

“Gerald must go to Desmond,” she insisted.

A puzzled frown marked Donal's brow. “You said you wanted to come with me. Did I mistake your meaning?”

This conversation was not going the way she'd intended. Shaking her head, she stared into the fire. No power on earth would make her look at him.

“Nell.” His voice, smooth as silk, raised the goose bumps on her arms. This was a man who knew something of women. She felt him lean in to her. His breath was warm against her cheek. “Nell, look at me.”