The Irish Duchess (41 page)

“You could have locked him in his room when he started drinking,” Fiona suggested, although her mind already explored the paths opened by her maid’s words. She knew about mean drunks. Drunkenness was simply an excuse for carrying out their loutish depredations. She’d not heard of one to abstain to prevent the act from happening again.

“Oh, and it’s that simple for the likes of you to say,” Mrs. B. said scornfully, with her usual lack of respect. “You’d not be beat to a puddle and turned off the next day. We tried it this night, Colin and I did, when we saw how it was to be. But Townsend caught us at it, he did. Evil man, that. He didn’t know us from Adam, thought we were naught but a lot of heathen peasants. We taught him better, we did,” she added triumphantly.

Fiona hid a smile behind her cup. Colin and the widow had to be almost as inept at heroics as Durham was at villainy. But they had eventually freed Michael and Effingham from the attics, after Neville’s army had already arrived. She’d give them credit for trying. “Aye, and I’m certain it is you saved our necks,” she agreed.

“Well, and that’s how it should be when we near cost it believing that spalpeen was McGonigle’s messenger. It’s sorry enough we are for that. And didn’t I try and pay for it by staying the way with him so he’d not notice it was an empty carriage he drove?”

The more emotional she became, the more the widow’s speech degenerated into the accents of her youth. The lilting phrases eased Fiona’s spirits, and the familiar half-truths and self-exculpations soothed her humor. The widow and Colin were equal scoundrels, she’d wager, always looking for the easy path, but they weren’t utter blackguards like Durham and Townsend. The two Englishmen had the advantages of a proper upbringing, making their villainy doubly evil.

“Now, if we only knew who murdered poor Burke,” Fiona murmured, setting aside her cup and wearily curling against her pillows.

“Aye, and it was Durham, himself,” the widow replied smugly. At Fiona’s questioning glance, she shrugged. “We’ve been listening outside the door. He admitted he didn’t have the coins for paying a thief, and he thought to use the village’s funds for himself since he’d gambled away his allowance. Cursed Townsend for keeping him on short shrift, blamed it all on his miserliness. Terrible, what the young have come to these days.”

Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, poor Burke, murdered by a spendthrift lordling. Remembering the tweed coat now as the one on the intruder they chased through hill and dale, Fiona buried her face in the pillows. It didn’t seem quite fair that a murderous drunk could end the life of a decent man. But then, maybe the courts would let Ireland hang the scoundrel. That would be justice indeed.

She closed her eyes and wished Neville would hurry.

***

Neville scowled as he met Colin propped on a chair outside the room he’d been told Fiona had taken. “What the devil are you doing here?” he demanded.

Colin shrugged and lowered the chair legs to the floor. “Eamon ordered her guarded round the clock. I’m just following orders.”

“Oh, and you’re very good at that,” Neville mocked. “I’ve found the man Durham sent to abduct Fiona. He said you believed him when he told you that McGonigle wanted her gone without me. Precisely whose employ did you think you were in?”

Standing, Colin crossed his arms defiantly, but there was a trace of sheepishness in his expression. “Fiona’s,” he admitted. “I tried to get her to send word to you, but she wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t go against her wishes.”

Neville rolled his eyes heavenward. Of course. These people were loyal to Fiona. It didn’t matter the color of the coins that paid them. He couldn’t fault them for that. But he could fault them for being fools. “Next time, think twice about endangering her like that or I’ll have your head on a block. Is that understood?”

Colin understood that “next time.” He still had a position. Nodding eagerly, he stepped out of the duke’s way. “I’ll not let her out of sight without word from you, Your Grace, and I’ll tell Mrs. B the same.”

That wasn’t precisely what he’d meant, but it would suffice until the young moonling was trained. All Neville really wanted was to be in that bed beside Fiona. His other duties could wait. With a nod, he dismissed Colin. “I’ll take over guard duty.”

He waited until Colin was gone before opening the door. He wanted Fiona completely to himself for a while. He had a lot of things to say, words he should have said long ago, if only he’d had the sense. He prayed she’d welcome them this late. He didn’t know what he would do if he discovered she didn’t feel the same. It might possibly drive him as mad as poor Townsend.

Cautiously opening the door and examining the darkness beyond, Neville slipped inside. Startled by a movement in a far corner, he reached for the sword he’d kept at hand.

A familiar whisper stopped him.

“It’s about time, then, your worship. She’s been dead on her feet for hours. The poor lass needs her sleep, she does, but she kept waiting for you.”

Mrs. Blackthorn. Damn. A body would think that out here in the midst of rural solitude, one could shake this squadron of servants. Scowling, Neville jerked his head toward the door. “Get out.” What little patience he may once have possessed had dissipated entirely.

Mrs. B. huffed. “Well, and if that’s the gratitude one can expect, I’ll be serving my notice now, Your Grace. I’ve only the duchess’s best interests in mind, I’m sure. She needed someone to talk to, and you weren’t here, I’ll remind you.”

He was never here. He was always somewhere else when it came to Fiona. That would stop soon enough. “Get out, and if you’re not with us in the morning, I’ll send someone to hunt you down.”

Finally taking the hint, the widow hurried out.

Sighing with relief, Neville set his candle down on the table and pulled off his coat and waistcoat. In the lamplight he could see his wife’s thick auburn braid against a white gown. She wore a frilly cap over the rest of her curls. Fiona never wore caps.

He supposed she protected herself and the babe from the damp chill of this place. She wasn’t entirely irresponsible, was his Fiona. Irrational upon occasion, impulsive mostly, but not irresponsible. Smiling, Neville stripped off the rest of his clothing and slipped between the heavy covers beside her.

“I love you,” he whispered in her ear as he slid his arms around her.

She snuggled closer into his warmth without waking.

“I love you madly and I’ll go insane if you ever go off on your own again like that.” Settling into the feather ticking, Neville tugged her into the angle of his arm and shoulder and played with her breast. “I don’t ever intend to leave your side again.”

“I heard that,” a soft voice whispered. “You mean to drive me mad, do you?”

Neville caught his breath, but a giggle and a small hand stroking his chest reassured him. Sometimes, he wasn’t entirely sure when she was jesting. He’d had far too little humor in his life. Through the fabric of her gown, he cupped her breast and played with the aroused crest. “You’re already there, my love,” he whispered in return. “I mean to drive you back.”

She pinched his bare side. Neville yelped, pushed her back against the mattress, and swiftly covered her with his length.

She surrendered to his plundering mouth immediately. And she surrendered a good deal more before the night was done.

It was even odds which one was the captive.

Forty

“Sean! Sean! He’s back!” Screaming children poured into the courtyard of Aberdare Castle.

The crowd swarmed around Neville’s horse, surging toward McGonigle who was holding the lad in front of him.

People, young and old, streamed from the castle and the hedgerows and from down the lane until a crowd of laughing, cheering, weeping adults and children packed the muddy yard. Atop his gelding, Neville swept the crowd in search of the one figure he longed to see more than any other. To his disappointment and concern, she was nowhere in sight.

McGonigle lowered the boy into the arms of his wife, who hugged him so hard, Sean could do no less than cling to her neck and bury his head against her pillowy breast and weep.

Neville choked back his weakness at the sight. He was a duke. Dukes didn’t need soft shoulders and welcoming arms, even when they’d saved a child from hanging. He’d only done his duty. He didn’t need a mob to tell him so. He needed only one slight woman.

He’d left Effingham and Aberdare behind in Dublin to deal with Townsend, Durham, and the law. If the noble pair had any say-so, they wouldn’t have opposition from Townsend or anyone in the madman’s family for a long time to come. Neville’s position in the cabinet would be affirmed. But that didn’t matter to him at the moment.

He hadn’t wanted to leave Fiona, but they’d needed his authority in Dublin to release Sean, and Fiona had wanted to stay with her people at Aberdare while they patched their lives together again. He’d promised to pay for repairing the looms. Perhaps she was with the men who worked on them.

From the ground, Eamon muttered in disgruntlement. “She’s up there, your noble lordship.”

Ignoring the man’s rudeness, Neville cast a glance upward, where a movement on the castle ramparts caught his eye. The heart he would have sworn he didn’t own leapt at the sight of a billowing cloak disappearing through the tower door.
Fiona
. Fiona had been watching from the ramparts for his return.

He hadn’t heard her repeat the words he’d whispered to her in her sleep, but then, in all probability, she hadn’t heard him say them either. They’d simply made love that night and fallen into exhausted slumber. And in the morning, there had been ten dozen other tasks and people awaiting them. There hadn’t been time.

He would have to make time. He wanted her to know what she meant to him, but he didn’t know how to go about saying it. As it was, he felt as if he’d slit his chest and exposed his insides for all to see. Even the crowd of excited, congratulatory villagers bustling in the courtyard had sense enough to step out of his way as he dismounted and hurried toward the castle entrance. They knew how he felt. Why couldn’t Fiona?

Neville strode briskly into the dim interior. He would inspect the looms in the Great Hall. Fiona would know to find him there.

“Neville! Neville!”

He halted in the gloom of the foyer and glanced up the high stone stairs at the slender figure racing down, cloak billowing behind her. As she hit the first landing, the faint rays of sunlight through the leaded glass windows played red and gold in the auburn of her hair. Did he imagine it, or was that excitement alighting his wife’s face as she hurried down, her eyes sparkling and her lovely lips parting with dancing laughter? Was all that light and love for
him
?

Gulping, he glanced over his shoulder, certain Aberdare or some other had entered. But the door was closed and no one else occupied the hall. She had called
his
name.

Blood pounding, Neville took another stride forward. No one had ever greeted him like this. Surely it was just his own desires that read more into her greeting than was there. This was Fiona, the brat who had run from him, taunted him, loved him, and left him. He could never know for certain.

“Neville, you’re home!” Without further warning, she flew from the last step and into his arms and smothered his face in kisses.

Had he not needed to protect her from a tumble, he would have fallen backward in surprise. Instead, Neville braced himself, squeezed her waist so hard it should have broken, and swung her in circles of pure delight, his heart near to bursting.

“I love you,” he whispered against her wayward hair. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Her lips descended on his without the least shyness. There was nothing shy about his Fiona, and that knowledge filled his heart to overflowing.

“You are an arrogant, impossible man, my noble duke,” she murmured against his mouth, “but I love you into eternity and beyond. Thank you for Sean. Thank you for the looms. Thank you for being arrogant and impossible.”

Fiona’s laughter warmed Neville more than the sun on the hottest day of June. She was a wicked spoiled woman, but she was
his
wicked spoiled woman. He nibbled at her ear and held her off the floor. “I’ll thank you for the nearest bed, my lovely wanton wife. It’s been too long already.”

Her laughter trilled through the castle air, tinkling even the iron chandeliers. Sweeping her up in his arms, Neville took the stairs two at a time. He didn’t think he’d ever known joy before. He knew he’d never known love. He didn’t know if the two were related, but he was about to burst from an excess of both. He recognized only one way to release these reckless tides.

From the upper library, a sturdy figure limped out, an ancient leather volume in his hands.

“Fiona, Your Grace!” Fiona’s Uncle William waved the book in excitement. “Look at this.” Fiona buried her face against Neville’s neck and groaned. “Not now, Uncle, please. I’m welcoming Neville home.”

Rapt in his own world, William paid no heed as he hurried toward them, still waving the open book. “I’ve been looking into your father’s antecedents, Fiona, just for the fun of it, you understand. I can trace his family back...”

Halting before the young couple, he looked momentarily puzzled at the sight of Fiona in the duke’s arms. Finally understanding that perhaps he should hurry his tale, he pointed at the open page. “It says right here, your father’s family produces at least one set of twins in every other generation. Your mother didn’t have twins, Fiona.”

He said this last with such excitement that his audience stared at him with momentary incomprehension.

And then it sank in.

Their eyes met. Neville grinned wickedly as understanding dawned on Fiona’s face. “A herd of heirs, my dear,” he whispered before she could even open her mouth, “lots and lots of little heirs.”

Indignantly, she tossed her head. “And heiresses, I’ll remind you. I’m probably carrying two right now, I’ve grown so fat already.”

“Shall I measure how fat you’ve grown, my lady?” He headed down the hall in the direction of the bedroom he remembered so well.