Nell (8 page)

Against her will, she turned her head. His eyes were the color of clouds and bright with held-in laughter. Quickly, she turned away. “Talk to me, Nell,” she heard him say. “I would hear your thoughts.”

“They are worth very little.”

He lifted her hand to his mouth. “Not to me,” he said, his lips moving against her skin. “Never to me.”

She was trembling now, and if he stopped touching her, she would die right here before this very fire, less than two days' ride from the gates of Askeaton. She would die of an excess of passion, because the man she wanted was too slow in the taking of her.

Suddenly, her shyness seemed absurd. They might be dead tomorrow, or worse, she could be given to another, a toothless lord three times her age, and Donal would forget he ever wanted a Geraldine for his bride. She pulled her hand away. “Gerald must go to Desmond,” she repeated. “My father wished it as he would wish that I stay with Gerald until his future is secure.” Her voice lowered. “He also wished for us to be wed, as I do. But I want something else, Donal.”

“What is that, Nell?”

She faced him directly and said the words she had carried in her heart since the day he'd crossed the snow and called her name before the gates of Donore. “I want us to lie together, tonight, in my tent, before we reach Desmond land.”

Not by the twitch of a muscle did Donal reveal the effect her words had on him. He wanted her so much that the wanting did strange things to his mind. His only recourse was to stay away from her, something he could not bring himself to do. She pulled at him in ways he'd never imagined. He knew he held her heart. The look on her face when he'd come to Donore told him more than words ever could, and it shook him thoroughly. Loving was new to him. Knowing she loved him changed everything. His senses were filled with her, what it would be like to claim her, taste her, fill her, mark her, watch her belly swell with his seed. A man looked at a woman with new eyes when he knew that she loved him. And now she wanted him to lie with her, before they were wed.

Donal rested his hands on his thighs and allowed the rush of desire to fill him. His heart felt loose and unsteady inside his chest. “Why?” he made himself ask. “Why now?”

She had pulled the plaits from her hair, and it framed her face, pale as moonlight. He wanted to smooth it over her bare skin and bury his face in it. With every play of light her face grew lovelier.

“Brehon law allows us to handfast, to claim each other as husband and wife for one year and a day. If at the end of that time we choose to part, it is as if the marriage had never been, and the child, if there is one, is recognized as legitimate.”

“Is it me you are unsure of, Nell, or yourself?”

A smile hovered on the edges of her mouth. She reached out to trace his lips with her finger. “Neither,” she said. “But I am Geraldine and have learned that the fortunes of fate do not always go as planned. I have never been with a man, and I want very much for you to be the first.”

His face stilled, and try as she might, Nell could read nothing behind the blankness in his eyes. “I will be your husband,” he said slowly. “If you wed with me, there will be no one else for you.”

Nell rested her hands on his chest and searched his face for the slightest sign of emotion.
So
this
is
what
he
is
like
when
his
anger
has
gone
beyond
words.
“We are not all masters of our fate, my love,” she whispered. “I know not what plans my cousin has made. But he is Sean Ghall, more Irish than English, and a handfasted marriage according to Brehon law will weigh with him.”

He had been right after all. Nell was shrewd as well as beautiful, and if they did not seek her tent immediately, he would take her here in the snow. Rising, Donal held out his hand. She placed her own in it and followed him into the darkness of her flimsy lodging. He drew her into his arms and stood for a moment without moving, his lips pressed to her forehead. His words were raw, as if he'd ripped them from his throat. “Are you sure, Nell?”

“Aye. Very sure, Donal. What do we do now?”

His mouth moved from her forehead to the curve of her throat and down. “I'll show you,
a
stor
,” he murmured, finding the spot where he knew she was most sensitive, the meeting place of her neck and shoulder.

With every touch of his mouth on her skin, the boneless feeling in her limbs intensified. A low mewling sound escaped her lips. Muffling it against his shoulder, she melted against him, welcoming the removal of her clothing and his, the movement of his hands, and the ache that grew more urgent within her as his mouth followed the places his hands touched.

Pressing her down into the fur-lined blankets, he covered her body with his, searched for her lips, and found them. He kissed her gently, and when she gasped for breath, he put all gentleness aside and filled her mouth with his tongue, coaxing and pleasuring until she knew the way of it. Beneath him, her body trembled with the ebb and flow of the tides within her.

Donal had intended to take her slowly, to make the sweet rise of her desire peak, but he wanted her too much. She cried out when he entered her. He covered her mouth, kissing away the sound, filled her completely, his seed mixing with her virgin blood where the ground was at its most fertile, waiting and ready for the union of two royal Irish houses.

“I knew it would be like this,” she murmured much later, her lips moving against the bulging muscle of his arm.

“Hmm.” He opened one eye, lifted his head to see her face, and smoothed back her hair. “What would be like this?”

“Loving you.”

Donal was humbled. He had been rough and clumsy, and yet she had not complained. Pressing a kiss on her temple, he pulled her protectively against him. “I promise you it will be better next time.”

“When will that be?”

He grinned in the darkness. “You're a lusty wench for one so new to the game.”

His skin tasted like salt against her tongue. “Do I please you, sir?”

“More than—” Donal stopped without finishing his thought. There were voices outside the tent, strange voices. Motioning for Nell to be silent, he pulled on his clothing and slipped the dirk from his boot. He shook his head at the question in Nell's eyes and stepped out into the darkness.

Two
gallowglass
held flaming torches on either side of a small, elderly man sitting astride an enormous gelding. His brown hair, worn Irish fashion, long over the shoulders, was streaked with gray. Wrapped around his slight frame was a cloak, and Donal could see that his saddle had no stirrups.

An amused smile lit the man's crafty features. “I see that we are too late to offer assistance. The O'Flaherty has the advantage.”

Donal stepped forward. “You know my name. Now tell me yours.”

The man looked beyond Donal to the lovely girl who followed him out of the tent. “Tell him who I am, lass.”

It had been years since he had come to Maynooth, but no one would mistake him. “'Tis my cousin, Desmond Fitzgerald,” Nell said.

Donal nodded. He'd guessed as much. “Welcome, my lord. We bring you Gerald Fitzgerald, earl of Kildare.”

The earl smiled through his beard. “And his sister?”

Donal's hand tightened on his dirk. “Nell is promised to me by the betrothal contracts signed by her father.”

Again, Desmond smiled. “How fortunate for you. But now we will relieve you of your charge and save you a lengthy journey. The Lady Eleanor will come with us to see that the boy is settled. When the time is right, she will come to you.”

It wasn't what he wanted, but Donal had no right to question his logic. Nell had planned to stay with her brother until he was completely recovered. Why, then, although he tossed and turned through the night, did morning come too quickly, and why had the sight of the wicker cart as it disappeared through the woods with the girl who sat so bravely on her white mare smote his heart?

Kildare Hall, 1974

By the time Kathleen Maguire was ten years old, she made up her mind to leave Kilvara permanently. But it never occurred to her that she could be the instrument of her own desires. Young girls in Kilvara weren't raised to think they could be anything more than their mothers before them. Kathleen wasn't what anyone would call a student, but she could count to nine, and when she looked in the family Bible and saw the date of her parents' wedding and that her own birthday fell short of that date by six months, she stored it away in her mind. And when the time came, she did what her mother had done.

Kathleen never really believed Terrence Fitzgerald would marry her, but she thought he might part with a considerable amount of money if she turned up pregnant and had to go away. After all, the future earl of Kildare Hall couldn't have his by-blow living in Kilvara, no more than a minute's ride from his legitimately born children.

She had other options. There wasn't a man in Kilvara who didn't entertain lustful thoughts when Kathleen dressed up in her miniskirt on a Saturday evening. But she wasn't interested in a village man. In Kathleen's mind, Terrence was a gentleman, better educated, more well-spoken, more sophisticated, and cleaner than any slouch-hatted bloke in Kilvara. Once she'd met him on the road to Newry, and he'd given her a ride to the gates of Kildare in his car. That had been terribly risky. She'd stepped out and closed the door just before the earl and his lady came rambling down the lane in their new Volvo.

Most of the time, they met in the old hunting lodge. No one ever used it. In the dim light of the peat fire, it was almost as elegant as Kildare Hall.

After Kathleen left home to move into her room in the servants' quarters, she managed to sneak out nearly every night that Terrence was home from university. He didn't love her, but that was all right because she didn't love him, either. Kathleen wasn't looking for love. She wanted out, and the child she carried was her ticket. Not once did she consider keeping it. There wasn't a maternal bone in her body. Besides, brand-new babies were always put into the best situations, much better than any she could ever offer. Terrence's money would get her through the pregnancy and set her up in London. After that, who could tell? She might even end up in New York or Boston.

Because Kathleen saw nothing wrong with blackmailing a young man who had more money than he could ever spend, she didn't anticipate Terrence's rage when she told him of her plan. Nor did she anticipate his financial circumstance. He had no money of his own until his twenty-fifth birthday. Every purchase over one hundred pounds was approved by his father, and Kathleen wanted a great deal more than a hundred pounds.

They were at the lodge when she told him. After the first rush of anger, he calmed down and explained that he had some money left from last quarter's allowance, but it was far short of what she wanted. She was welcome to it, but three hundred pounds was all he could give. He promised to send more later if she left Kilvara immediately.

It wasn't nearly enough. She followed him out of the lodge and clung to his arm. He pushed her away. Kathleen lost her temper and threw herself on him. He stumbled on a stone, slippery from the afternoon rain, and fell heavily. She waited for him to get up, but he never did.

“Terrence, are you all right?” Kathleen squatted on the ground beside him and jostled his shoulder. “Terrence, get up and stop y'r jokin'.” Still nothing.

With all her strength, she rolled him over, and her eyes widened with shock. A deep gash marked his forehead, as if an ice cream scoop had dipped into his head. There was very little blood. Kathleen bent down and rested her ear against his chest.

Sweet Jesus. Terrence was dead. Wild with fear, she ran away from the lodge, through the forest of black oak and pine, down the road toward Kilvara.

Peter Maguire was still at the pub, and Frankie had just turned out his light when Kathleen burst into the room sobbing, her hands rusty with dried blood, her words incoherent.

Frankie gripped her shoulders and shook her. He had been wanting to shake her senseless for a long time. “Christ, Kathleen, whatever's come over you?”

Neither his words nor the bite of his fingers had any effect. Her breathing quickened. Her eyes rolled back, and a painful wheezing sound came from her chest. Frankie knew what that meant. Kathleen was asthmatic. Unless he acted quickly, she wouldn't be able to pull the air into her lungs. Raising his hand, he slapped her cheeks, first one and then the other.

She gasped, coughed, and breathed deeply, taking in gulps of air for several minutes. Then she sagged against his chest. “God, Frankie,” she rasped. “I've gone and killed him. Y've got t' help me. I've killed Terrence Fitzgerald.”

Frankie's heart felt as if a giant fist had taken hold of it and squeezed. “What happened?” he asked in a voice that couldn't possibly be his.

She told him, leaving nothing out—the clandestine meetings, her pregnancy, her request for money, Terrence's answer, and the way he looked when she last saw him, with his head split open and his chest still.

Frankie's head spun with the horror of it. What to do. What could he do? “Wash y'r hands,” he ordered in a voice that demanded obedience. “Go back to the Hall, and stay in your room until I send word.”

“What are y' going t' do?” she whispered.

Frankie pulled on his trousers. “I'm goin' to the lodge to be sure he's dead.”

“Don't go, Frankie,” she begged him. “He's gone. I know he is. No good will come of y're goin' back there.”

He found his shoes and stepped into them. “Never mind, Kathleen. Just do as I say.”

She turned toward the door, but his voice stopped her. “Y'll have t' go away from here. Don't tell Da. Father Quinlan will help you.”

Kathleen flushed and nodded. “I'm sorry, Frankie. You were right. I'm so sorry.”

He nodded and searched for his shoes. “Go along now. I'll see y' soon.”

Frankie's first stop when he reached the Hall was Jillian's bedroom. She was reading a forbidden novel and at first paid no attention to the rain of pebbles on her window, but when the sound persisted, she pushed open the sash and leaned out over the ledge. Her mouth dropped open. Frankie never came to Kildare Hall at night. “What is it?” she whispered loudly.

He held his finger against his lips and motioned for her to come down. Jilly pulled a jumper over her nightgown, stepped into her slippers, and hurried down the wide staircase. The door to the library was slightly ajar. She could hear the drone of her father's voice. He must have been reading something to her mum because it went on without interruption. Jilly glanced at the clock. It was only ten. They wouldn't check on her for at least an hour. She considered going out the front door but decided against it. The pantry would be better. After sliding back the bolt, she slipped out the door and ran to the garden at the back of the house. Frankie sat by the gate leading to the pasture. She knew at once that something was terribly wrong.

He gripped her shoulders. She winced at the pain. “What is it, Frankie?”

“I need y'r help, Jillian.”

He used her full name, something he rarely did. “I'll do anything for you, Frankie,” she said, and meant it.

“I need you t' lie for me.”

“All right.”

The fierceness in his expression dissolved. “Bless you, lass, for not asking why.”

She stood completely still, staring up at him, bearing the weight of his hands, all of her heart in her eyes.

He couldn't stand to look at her. A harsh moan rose from somewhere in his throat. He dropped his hands and turned away.

“Frankie,” she whispered, “are you in trouble?”

His voice sounded like the rustle of dry paper. “Aye. Terrible trouble.”

Jilly's lower lip trembled. She reached out to touch him and stopped midway. “It can't be that bad. Together we can sort it out.”

“Not this time, lass.”

Her heart ached for him, and fear, more profound than any she had ever known, rose within her. “What can I do?”

He turned, and she stepped back, dismayed at the bloodless color of his skin.

“I need you t' go to Kathleen and bring her back to y'r room. Keep her there with you until someone sees the two of you together. Be sure they know she was with you the entire night.” She opened her mouth, but he held up his hand, allowing no interruptions. “Make up a reason for her being there, any reason, and stick t' it no matter who questions you. Do y' understand?” His eyes, silver in the moonlight, held her spellbound. She nodded.

He let out his breath in a long sigh as if he'd been holding it for a long time. “Sweet lass. I knew y' wouldn't fail me. Go now, and do as I say.”

He watched her climb the terraced steps, watched her turn and wave before she disappeared around the corner of the house. Then he sprinted through the meadow to the line of trees separating the woods from the pasture. He slowed to a walk. Frankie wasn't familiar with the wooded areas of the Kildare estate. Carefully, he made his way through the inky darkness toward the lodge. In the distance he could see a glow from the window. Kathleen must have forgotten to turn out the lights.

Then it hit him. At any moment now, he would stumble upon Terrence Fitzgerald's corpse. The burning began in his chest and spread throughout his body. By the time he knelt on the stone steps of the lodge and pressed his hand against Terrence's throat to feel for a pulse, he was almost incapacitated with the pain of it. Light from the wood-paneled sitting room spilled out over the slabs falling on the lifeless form of Jilly's half-brother.

Frankie sat back and rested his hands on his knees, careful not to touch anything. Terrence looked far less formidable in death than he had in life. His eyes were open, and his face seemed younger, more vulnerable, his expression almost appealing, much as he must have looked as a child before wealth and dissipation had changed him into the spoiled, sullen young man Frankie remembered. Despite Terrence's faults, Frankie had never wished him dead. It was bad luck to wish someone dead. The thought of Jilly's face when she learned of her brother's fate made his heart ache.

A thought occurred to him. Kathleen was carrying Terrence Fitzgerald's child. She would be a mother, and Frankie would be an uncle. The idea appealed to him. The baby wouldn't be born under the best of circumstances, but then who was? With Da's help, they would raise it. Maybe the Fitzgeralds would help. Or maybe it would be better if they never knew. They might even try to take the child away from Kathleen. With their money and their lawyers, they could probably manage it.

He should leave immediately. Frankie glanced down at Terrence. Giving in to a compassionate impulse, he leaned over the body to close his eyes.

A voice, colder than mountain runoff, froze his hand in midair. “Hold it right there, lad. Don't move another inch.”

Frankie couldn't have moved if he tried. A hand on his shoulder pressed him down into the ground and held him there. Dirt worked its way into his mouth, and still the man's iron grip kept him in place. Out of the corner of his eye, Frankie could see the flannel brogues and worn boots of the Kildare
ghillie
as he knelt to examine Terrence's body. A low whistle came from his pursed lips.

“You've done it this time, Frankie,” Kevin Feeney said. “What did he do t' you, lad?”

Anything he might say would incriminate Kathleen, and there was the baby to think of. Frankie remained silent.

Feeney's grip tightened around his arm, and he hoisted Frankie to his feet. “Come along, now. You've some questions to answer. I expect they'll want to see you up at the Hall.'”

All the way through the silent forest and across the meadow, Kevin Feeney kept up a light, calming flow of conversation. He also kept a tight grip on Frankie's arm.

With each step that he took, the magnitude of the responsibility he'd taken on himself weighed on Frankie, slowing his steps. The words, never ready when he wanted them, failed him once again. Struggling, he tried to make Feeney understand. “I didn't do it, Mr. Feeney.”

“I hope not, lad. The truth will out. It always does.”

Frankie heard the doubt in his voice and despaired. If Kevin Feeney, one of his own, didn't believe him, what chance did he have? Cursing his own stupidity, he thought quickly. What reason could he possibly make up to explain his presence at the lodge? His mind was blank. He would be accused of murder. If he claimed he was innocent, there would be an investigation, and Kathleen would be questioned. He wasn't the only one who had noticed her preoccupation with Terrence. Frankie knew what he had to do. He hoped the law would take his age into consideration and go easy on him. But then it was a Protestant law, never easy on those not of their own persuasion.

Light that should have been welcoming blazed from the windows of the second- and third-floor rooms in Kildare Hall. The
ghillie
told Frankie to sit on the stoop. He pounded loudly on the door. A servant answered. The
ghillie
whispered something to her, and she ushered them both inside.

Frankie's legs could no longer stand his weight. He half sat, half slid into a wooden chair, resting his elbows on his knees. Minutes later, a frowning Pyers Fitzgerald, resplendent in a gray smoking jacket, walked down the stairs. The
ghillie
cleared his throat and led him away from Frankie.

Frankie knew the exact moment that the
ghillie
told Fitzgerald that his son was dead. The man gasped, swayed, and braced himself against the wall. Again the
ghillie
spoke, but the words were too low for Frankie to hear. Fitzgerald nodded, and Feeney reached for the phone. Frankie's brain could process no longer. He blocked out everything, concentrating on the throbbing ache in his chest.