Never Broken (3 page)

Rory swallowed hard. He was already breaking the rules by being late. Refusing to accept a drink was considered extremely rude, even in a private setting. Here in a room filled with earls, barons, and other important personages, refusing a drink would be devastating—and William knew it.

Rory had never tasted alcohol in his life. He had seen the destructive effects wine and ale had on his violent father, and he was determined not to travel that paternal path. This was no secret, especially among family. Now he had to decide whether to break his own vow of abstention or insult the guest of honor, which in these elite circles was simply not done.

Accepting the drink from Wyndam’s outstretched hand, Rory walked to the table then stood behind the empty chair. He would toast William and his new bride, but he wouldn’t drink. Yes, he could keep his vow that way. He’d press his lips against the glass, but he wouldn’t allow the wine to pass them.

“A moment, Rory.” William’s tone bordered on the brink of snide. “I’d like you to sample the vintage. I had it imported from France. Nothing but the best for my beloved wife.” His gaze flicked to Priscilla, who smiled sweetly at her husband. “Go ahead, Cousin. I’m eager to know what you think of it.”

“William,” Sara whispered from her seat on the opposite side of Priscilla. “Please, don’t.” She shrank back at Lady Jane’s black look.

William raised his golden eyebrows. “Oh… how could I have forgotten? You don’t drink, do you?” His eyes were wide with feigned innocence. He leaned down and spoke to Priscilla, his words uttered loud enough for all to hear. “I believe it has something to do with his dipsomaniac father, darling. A real bounder that one. Loved the bottle more than his family, from what I understand. Why the tales of his escapades are legendary among the Gormley family. It’s a rather shameful legacy, you see.”

Rory’s grip tightened around the stem of the glass. He was seconds from hurling it at William’s head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sara, her bottom lip quivering. He heard his uncle clear his throat and looked to see the old man swirling his drink briskly, his eyes focused on the tiny whirlpool spinning in his glass. Rory wished his uncle would say something to shut William up, but he wouldn’t dare shame his son in favor of his nephew.

Lady Jane, however, resembled a tense cat stalking its prey. Normally she would have enjoyed William’s antics at Rory’s expense, but not in a roomful of people she desperately wanted to impress.

William straightened, the corners of his mouth lifting in a crafty smile. “Never mind, Rory. Such a fine wine would be wasted on you. I should have asked Colm instead. After all, he’s living proof the apple never falls far from the tree.”

Colm muttered an oath and started to rise, but Rory clapped him on the shoulder, forcing him down with a strong shove. He leveled his gaze at William. “Allow me to fulfill your request. I daresay we’ve kept our guests waitin’ long enough.” Quickly, he lifted his glass. “Health and long life to you both.” Turning to the rest of the table, he caught the eye of an elderly Irish landlord, one who’d been begrudgingly invited by Lady Jane out of common courtesy. The old man gave Rory a nod of encouragement, shattering his last fragment of resistance.

“
Slainte!”
he cried out, then downed the wine in one gulp and slammed the glass on the table so hard it nearly shattered. Everyone jerked in surprise. Then several of their Irish guests broke into laughter, shouting the Gaelic toast in return. Bewildered Englishmen and ladies chuckled nervously, a few mumbling the Irish word before delicately sipping their drinks. Soon they picked up their conversations as if they’d never been interrupted at all.

William sat down, his eyes narrowing at Rory. Priscilla’s eyes widened in shock before she leaned close and whispered in William’s ear.

Rory continued to stand, surveying the scene. It had only taken minutes for him to put William in his place, dissipate the tension in the room, and earn the respect of his countrymen.

It had all felt good.

With a deep swell of satisfaction, he pulled out his chair and sat down. Then he glanced at Colm, who glowered in silence as he rolled his empty goblet back and forth in his hand. Confused, Rory looked to Uncle Edwin, who refused to meet his gaze, shoving his half-full glass away from him. Then he saw Sara, and shame filled him. She said nothing, but the disappointment in her eyes caused a pain that settled deep inside him.

He stared at his lap. His convictions had been put to the test, and he’d failed. For what? To save face and gain the approval of people he didn’t care one whit about? Now Sara, one of the few people in the world whose opinion meant something, wouldn’t even look at him.

A man’s pride shall bring him low.
Rory had sunk low indeed.

A servant placed a small tureen of soup in front of Rory. The sharp taste of wine still coated his mouth and had yet to settle in his churning stomach. He glanced at the contents of the piece of fine china, and his gut lurched at the sight of the green contents.

He hated turtle soup.

Colm’s anger smoldered all evening. He
went through the motions of dinner, not tasting any of the rich food Brigit and her staff had spent hours preparing. The wine steward came by, and Colm thrust his goblet up to him. When his glass had been filled, he brought it to his lips and consumed almost all of it, knowing full well that several guests were keeping track of how many glasses he drank.
Let ‘em count.
He found it perversely humorous that they didn’t have anything better to do than to watch him become intoxicated. He was well on his way to doing just that.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d fulfilled their expectations. All his life he’d been compared to his father. Colm knew he looked like him, even though he couldn’t remember much of Finn O’Leary. Colm’s fiery red hair and emerald green eyes were O’Leary characteristics, as were his hair trigger temper and dim-wittedness, or so his aunt had constantly informed him.

He downed the remaining wine and signaled for another. Across the table sat a slender brunette. She’d been staring at him all evening. A pretty lass, with a pert nose and full lips, her gown cut daringly low for the current modest style. She was also English and obviously rich. He winked at her, letting his gaze linger, even though he wasn’t interested. She quickly averted her eyes, a deep crimson flush climbing up her neck and settling on her face.

He knew what she wanted. Rumors, mixed with exaggerated legend about his father, had gained Colm a reputation. Dangerous, brooding, irresistible—he’d heard these words whispered about him among the servant girls. One young woman hadn’t bothered to whisper it, instead saying flat out that being with him made her feel both dirty and wonderful.

Every one of them made him feel empty.

A servant presented dessert, but he wanted none of it. Apparently Rory didn’t either, for he made his excuses and left the room before the last silver platter of fresh fruit had been placed on the table. Colm excused himself and followed.

“Rory. A word?”

Rory ignored him.

Colm clenched his fists. William had insulted him, not Rory, and it was within his rights to retaliate. Instead, he’d been shoved down like a child. In the end, Rory had come out on top. He always did. He never had to deal with the consequences of being an O’Leary. He didn’t resemble their father at all, his dark blond hair and blue eyes a part of their English mother’s countenance. From early on, he’d forged a friendship with their uncle and Sara, and easily matched wits with William and Lady Jane. He was the good son, not the bad seed.

Digging his nails into his palms, Colm followed Rory up the staircase, stopping behind him when they reached the door to his room. Colm gripped his brother’s shoulder and spun him around. “I’m for fightin’ my own battles, you miserable sod.”

Rory eyed him warily. “What are you on about, Colm?”

“Down there at dinner. You had no right to interfere.”

“You would have hit him.”

Colm slammed his fist into his hand. “Aye, that I would have. He deserved it, insultin’ me that way.”

“And what good would that have done?”

“It would have protected our family honor.”

Rory let out a bitter laugh. “Honor? This family? You don’t believe that any more than I do.” He turned around then opened the door. “Best to put it behind you, Colm. I took care of it, so let it go.”

“I’ll not be lettin’ it go!” He grabbed his brother by the lapel.

Rory shook him off. “You’ll remain a fool, won’t you?”

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“Eighteen years old. Still livin’ here.” Rory looked around the large hall. “Still takin’ the handouts. What happens when the handouts end?”

Colm’s chest heaved. His brother had no idea what was really going on, what had kept Colm from arriving at William’s fete until the last minute—what had kept Colm from sinking into complete despair. He’d made the purchase of a lifetime, but he wasn’t going to share that information with Rory. Not yet. “You’ve no right to assume, Rory. You’re off in Dublin—”

“Tryin’ to do somethin’ with my life. Unlike you.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re like…”

“Like who?” Colm knew the answer, but a spiteful part of him wanted to hear Rory admit it.

“Like our father.” Rory’s jaws clenched. “Your temper. Your drinkin’.” He looked away. “You don’t remember what he was like.”

“I remember enough.” Colm crossed his arms over his chest. “You’d want I’d be more like you.”

“That’s not what I’m sayin’.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “You’re so self-righteous. Always doing the ‘proper thing.’ Constantly savin’ the day. You even break your word and you still come out smellin’ like a rose. What’s it like to be so bloody perfect?”

Rage flickered in Rory’s eyes, and Colm thought briefly that his brother might actually hit him.

But as quickly as the anger appeared, it vanished. Rory backed away. “You’re right, Colm,” he said flatly. “I’m the perfect man. I proved that tonight, didn’t I?” He walked into his room then turned and faced his brother. “Now I’ll have to live with it.”

Lady Jane circulated through Gormley Manor,
making sure all her guests were settled for the night. With the exception of a few servants who were refilling the oil lamps in the hallways, the house was silent. Satisfied that all was well, she sat on a velvet-cushioned bench in the great hall near the staircase, leaned against the wall, then closed her eyes.

Despite the ill behavior of her nephews, the evening had been a success. She sighed, exhaustion seeping through every pore, along with a strong dose of anger that she struggled to keep contained. She should have known that her family—or rather her sister’s family—would cause trouble.

She opened her weary eyes. Would she ever be rid of Rory and Colm? Not if her husband had anything to say about it. He had insisted she take them in when they showed up, bedraggled and starving, on their doorstep. He made sure they had the best of everything and were treated as his own flesh and blood. Yet when they caused problems, as they had tonight at dinner, he never said a word.

She brushed the folds of her skirt and silently cursed her husband’s generous nature. Then her movements stilled, for it wasn’t Edwin she was truly upset with.

Her own feelings were the target of her ire. Feelings she should never have had. Feelings that should have gone away a long time ago.

Jane heard footfalls on the staircase and looked up to see Rory hurrying down the steps, his baggage in hand. She rose from the bench and intercepted him at the bottom of the stairs. “Where are you going?”

“To Dublin,” he replied evenly, his jaw clenched.

She eyed him for a moment. As usual, she never failed to see her sister in the man—and never failed to be reminded of Margaret’s betrayal. Her hands clenched. “You cannot leave.”

“I cannot stay.”

“What am I supposed to tell our guests?”

He moved past her. “Whatever you like. I don’t care.”

Gripping his arm she said, “You would shame your family?”

Rory turned toward her. “William had no difficulties embarrassing me earlier tonight.”

“That was of your own doing.” She moved in front of him. “You and Colm.”

“Let me by, m’lady.”

“You will not speak to me so cavalierly—not after everything I have done for you and your brother.”

“You mean what Uncle Edwin has done.” His expression softened slightly. “Give him and Sara my regrets.”

“You will be the only one with regrets if you take one step further.”

He shoved past her as if she were a mere servant.

“Come back here,” she hissed. The last thing she needed was to wake the guests with another humiliating display.

“Nay!” Rory spun around, his normally placid face contorted in anger. “I am done with this place—with this family. I am never coming back.”

“Keep your voice down.” She moved close to him, her tone low but still filled with anger. “You would live off your uncle’s good will even as you disrespect him?”

“I believe Uncle Edwin will understand.”

“And Sara? You would hurt her as well?”

Rory scoffed. “Don’t pretend to be worried about Sara’s feelings. You’re more concerned about your and William’s reputations than any slight Sara might feel.”

“How dare you—”

“Cease the charade, m’lady. We both know you’re glad to be rid of me.”

She would be if she had dictated the terms of his expulsion from the manor. Leaving in the middle of the night like a thief was beyond the pale, and no doubt calculated to cause her and William acute mortification. “I’ll tell them I sent you away,” she said, desperate for a way to gain the upper hand.

“Fine.” He started to walk away.

“I’ll tell them you left in a drunken stupor.”

He halted, his back to her.

“I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re as craven as your brother—as your father used to be.” She saw Rory’s shoulders tense. The insult hit home, as she intended.

But it didn’t stop him from leaving. He pushed open the front doors of the hall and disappeared into the night.

Jane thought to go after him then reconsidered. He more than likely had a carriage waiting for him outside. She’d managed to keep their argument quiet for the most part, and she wouldn’t lower herself further to continue it in front of the driver.

She looked down at her fists, noting for the first time how much her knuckles ached. She flexed her hands, but the movement didn’t alleviate the tension in the rest of her body. She wouldn’t carry through with her threat to paint him as a drunkard. No one would believe it anyway. Now, if it were Colm…

Bringing her fingertips to her temple. she closed her eyes against the pain, squeezing her head and her heart at the thought of Rory’s brother. He was a constant reminder of his father, of a past she wanted to forget but never could—not as long as her nephews were around and not as long as she continued to see Finn O’Leary so clearly in his youngest son. Not as long as she still hated the man who had broken her heart so many years ago, who had seduced her sister and cast Jane to the side as if she were nothing. Less than nothing.

She straightened, wiped her damp eyes, and made sure the front doors were tightly closed.

“M’lady?”

She turned at the sound of one of the lower servants, a young man she’d recently hired from one of the local peasant villages. “What?” she snapped.

His eyes widened. “Just wonderin’ if everythin’ is all right, m’lady.”

“And how is that any business of yours?” She glared at him. “You would do well to learn your place, lest I terminate your employment at once.”

Shaking his head, he started to slink away. “My apologies, m’lady.”

Jane lifted her chin and headed upstairs. She would come up with a viable excuse for Rory’s absence. In truth, he would hardly be missed by anyone important. If she were lucky, Colm would follow suit.

But she was never that lucky.

He’s beautiful.

Shannon thought it an odd word to describe a man, but all the other descriptions that ran through her mind seemed inadequate. She marveled at how blue his eyes were, brighter than the Irish sky on a clear summer day. With a deep sigh, she imagined drawing her fingers through the golden layers of his hair, then trailing them down the sides of his square jaw, reveling in the feel of his skin. He smiled, and she focused her gaze on his mouth, her lips tingling at the thought of his kiss.

He walked toward her, his movements agile and smooth, the fine cut of his black suit accentuating his trim build. His eyes met hers, but she didn’t look away. She kept her gaze on him without embarrassment. That seemed to please him, his smile widening as he extended his hand to her, a flawless white rose between his thumb and fingers. As she reached for it, she heard him call her name. Shannon… Shannon…

“Shannon! Wake up! Are you wantin’ to lose your job after only one day?”

Shannon peered through slit eyes at Ciara Mulroney standing above her. The young woman held a single tallow candle in a brass holder, the flickering flame illuminating the distressed look on her face.

Shannon sat up, shaking off her hazy vision. “What time is it?”

“’Tis almost dawn. The other servants have gone already.”

Ciara thrust the candle in Shannon’s hand. “You must hurry, or Brigit will be most upset with you,” she said before scuttling out the door.

Shannon scrambled off her cot, cringing when a large drop of melted wax landed on her bare foot.

She’d have to thank Ciara later for her kindness. The Gormleys had employed them as domestic help for the week, and the last thing she needed was to lose this job. Twelve maids slept in one tiny room on the bottom level of the manor, their cots lined up in rows of four. When Shannon banged her shin into the side of one of them, she took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. It wouldn’t do to show up for work both late and injured.

Shannon set the candle on the small wooden table near her cot, reached for her dress, then hastily pulled it over her head. How could she have overslept? At home, she was always the first one awake, well before the rest of her family. She yanked on her shoes and grabbed her apron off the peg on the wall above her bed. Only then did she realize her hands were shaking.

The dream. It had seemed so real, so perfect, so romantic. Even now Rory’s image was clear, his smile sweet, exactly as it had been in the garden last evening. She wanted the warmth enveloping her body to last forever.

As she tied the apron in place, she noticed black streaks smeared across it—the residue from coal she’d scuttled yesterday. In addition, her woolen dress reeked of dried sweat and food stains.

Her face burned.
Is this how I looked last night—how Rory saw me?
The sweet sensations lingering from her dream disappeared. Why had he even bothered with her, when she looked and smelled like an ash heap? But he had stayed. He had smiled. He had switched from speaking English to Irish for her benefit. It was nonsensical that the nephew of an English aristocrat would show the least bit of interest in a peasant from Ballyclough.

Unless he wanted something from her. Unless he assumed, because of her station, she was a trollop and would do anything to gain the attention of a handsome, wealthy man.

Stop!
She shut her eyes against the thoughts. She was wasting time speculating. Rory was, no doubt, surrounded by plenty of young ladies—beautiful, rich young ladies with sweet-smelling hair, flawless skin, their slender bodies dressed in silks and satins and jewels—things she could only dream of. Certainly one, or more, would catch his eye, and he would soon give no thought to the meeting in the garden.

She grabbed her bonnet, blew out the candle, then headed for the door, refusing to let her mind wander further down that distressing path. She didn’t want to ruin what had been a blissful moment. She would keep the memory of meeting Rory O’Leary tucked deep in her heart and dreams.

“Och, lass, don’t be showin’ up here late again. I’ll not be handin’ m’lady any reasons for her to complain ‘bout the servants ‘round here. She’s been findin’ enough faults on her own.”

Shannon’s chest heaved. She had sprinted up the stairs to the kitchen and dashed through the servant’s entrance. Now out of breath, she couldn’t speak.

Brigit sharply scrutinized Shannon’s appearance. “Straighten up yer skirt and bonnet,” she commanded, then softened her tone. “Are ye hungry, lass?”

Shannon nodded as she smoothed out her apron.

“Well, when ye can breathe again, there are some scones and milk on the table by the pantry.” She pointed with one stubby, work-reddened finger.

Her mouth watered at the delicious aromas wafting through the kitchen—bread baking, meats stewing and cooking, onions and herbs being sliced and chopped. Her stomach growled as she inhaled it all. “Thank you.” Shannon adjusted her head covering and scampered to the pantry.

Upon nearing the table, she saw a tray of pastries next to a pewter carafe. She picked a scone off the top of the pile and took a small bite—the delicacy so light and moist, she had to force herself not to shove the entire thing into her mouth at once. A peek into the nearby vessel revealed the frothiness of fresh milk, and she hurried to the cabinet containing the servants’ dishes. She spied a tin mug on the bottom shelf and reached for it.

“Did ye hear about Rory O’Leary?”

Shannon froze, her fingertips brushing the cool metal. She looked over her shoulder. Two scullery maids sat at a table a few feet behind her, chopping piles of potatoes, carrots, and turnips. She cocked her head, straining to hear their conversation.

“Nay, Fern. What ‘bout ‘im?”

“He’s gone back to Dublin.”

“When?”

“Late last night, after all the guests had gone to bed.”

“Surely yer pullin’ me leg. M’lady wouldn’t stand for that.”

“’Tis true, Maire. An’ yer right, she didn’t stand for it. When she tried to stop ‘im, he told m’lady he hated this place an’ everyone in it, and he wasn’t comin’ back.”

“That doesn’t sound like ‘imself. He’s always been a gentleman. I can’t imagine ‘im tellin’ m’lady somethin’ like that.”