The Widow and the Rogue

Published Internationally by Lachesis Publishing Inc.

Rockland, Ontario, Canada

Copyright © 2014 Beverly Adam

Exclusive cover © 2014 Laura Givens

Inside artwork © 2014 Giovanna Lagana

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication

reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means,

electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,

or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, Lachesis Publishing Inc., is an infringement of the copyright law.

A catalogue record for the print format of this title

is available from the National Library of Canada

ISBN
978-1-927555-46-0 

A catalogue record for the Ebook is available

from the National Library of Canada

Ebooks are available for purchase from

www.lachesispublishing.com

ISBN
978-1-927555-45-3

Editor: Joanna D’Angelo

Copyeditor: Giovanna Lagana

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For my parents, John and Diane, who always have a book in their hands. I hope you enjoy this one.

To the wonderful team at Lachesis Publishing. Thank you for your creative contributions to this book and to the entire Gentlemen of Honor trilogy. Your work made each story a better one. Bravo!

Gentlemen of Honor Series

The Spinster and the Earl (Book 1)

The Lady and the Captain (Book 2)

THE WIDOW AND THE ROGUE

Urlingford, Ireland: 1816

Lady Kathleen Langtry awoke with a gasp. The sound of a high-pitched scream had startled her out of a deep slumber. Bracing herself, she sat up, pulling back the heavy gold bed curtains. . . .”

Heart pounding, she slipped out of bed and opened wide the wood shutters. Peering out, she tried to locate the cause of that heartrending cry. A sudden gust of cold wind blew across the lake below, rippling its dark waters. This eastern red wind, the Irish said, was capable of blasting trees and skinning flesh off men. It was dangerous, believed to be magical and powerful.

She looked down the green slope to the water. She noticed a small cluster of white beech trees lit by the moon’s pale light. Their leaves rustled noisily in the wind. Legend said the
daione sidhe,
the fairies, used the small arbor to create a magic ring of power. It helped them to conjure up enchantments—spells used to control and interfere in the lives of ordinary mortals.

Suddenly, a dense mist rose up from the water. A ghostly form began to take shape. It appeared to be a heavily veiled woman. The figure stood forlornly by the lapping water of the lake’s rocky edge, and then began to wail in a chanting, plaintive moan, “Dead . . . dead . . . dead . . .” The unearthly specter quivered, its pale arms raised in a gesture of grief. In front of her astonished eyes the shrouded being glided forward, long strands of silver hair floating behind it. Its translucent limbs moved slowly, drifting up to the moon’s bright light. In midair the spirit groaned. Its mouth opened wide to emit a soul-piercing wail. The cry escalated into a terrifying scream . . .

Kathleen shuddered, watching. She could feel her heart pounding with fear. Frightened, she hugged herself for comfort. If another person had been present, she would have undoubtedly clung to him.

The apparition’s long robes billowed in the wind. The veil covering its face glowed eerily beneath. With one final moan of pronounced doom, it cried, “Dead . . . ” one final time, then evaporated into the moonlight.

“A
ban-si.
” Kathleen breathed, recognizing the unearthly being. She rubbed her eyes, not quite believing what she had just seen.

A real banshee . . .

The female spirit was a well-known harbinger of death. The spirit held secrets only immortal beings possessed, her wail a foretelling of a person’s imminent demise.

Kathleen, like everyone else, knew that the banshee’s name was derived from the Irish Gaelic word,
van
, meaning “a woman of beauty.” For the Irish reasoned death could be both horrific and beautiful as the frightening
ban-si
spirit, signifying both an end and a new beginning.

But why was she wailing? Was someone at the manor about to die or already dead? Goosebumps rose up along her arms in alarm. She didn’t know, and it was a disquieting thought.

Chilled, she took a paisley shawl from a chair and draped it over her shoulders. She’d just been a witness to the announcement of someone’s death. It was a dreadful foretelling. And there was nothing she could do to prevent it.

The Catholic monastery, Dovehill Hall, was built upon what had once been a sacred Druid burial ground. It had been taken over by the apostatizing Roman Catholic monks centuries ago. But Kathleen had never before seen evidence of the legend that connected the hill and lake to the powerful fey . . . until now.

*    *    *

Placing slippers upon her feet, she left the safety of her bedchamber, but she was not alone. A few of the servants were holding candles aloft in trembling hands. They wandered around the dark corridors seeking each other out. Frightened, they too had been awakened by the spirit’s soul-piercing screams.

Oddly, the one person she had expected to see did not make an appearance. Where was Mrs. O’Grady, the domineering housekeeper? She should be there dourly glowering at everyone to remain calm. But she was not.

“Lady Langtry,” said one of the young maids, hurrying up to her. “You are t’ come quick, ma’am. There’s been a terrible accident. And I was told to fetch ye. Please, come with me, my lady.”

She nodded dumbly, not thinking to ask what had happened. But she could tell from the tremor in the girl’s voice that something had. She wondered if it was connected with the banshee’s wailing. This last thought sent her heart pounding with worried anticipation.

“Lead the way,” she said and gathered her shawl more tightly around her.

The girl ran ahead through the crowd of servants standing in the corridor. A few had already begun weeping. Sensing the urgency of the situation, she started to run as well, pursuing the girl through a series of corridors and doors leading to the oldest part of the hall. She slowed as they entered the east wing. It connected to the ruined monastery and its nearby round stone tower.

The girl stopped, opening wide a heavy door. They crossed a flag-stoned terrace. On one side, it overlooked the ruins and on the other, the lake. Kathleen spotted a group of people clustered in a tight circle below. Some of the servants held candles or lanterns, casting a glow over a figure. A body lay on the ground. But who it was, she could not see.

“Be careful,” the girl warned as they descended a narrow staircase.

She took heed. The steps leading down were well-worn and slippery. They were once part of the ruined monastery. There wasn’t any protective railing to keep one from falling—only open air.

A brisk wind whipped through the nearby trees, scattering dead leaves in a swirling motion. She wore a thin chemise under her shawl. She shivered. It would be a wonder if she did not catch a chill—the night air was bitingly cold and damp.

She leaned into the thick wall, her hands touching the stone for support. She didn’t wish to lose her balance. She glanced down. The ruins below housed a cemetery and a medieval chapel, both built in the Eleventh Century. The marble crosses and raised tombstones of dead monks glowed forebodingly in the moonlight. If she missed a step, she would quickly be joining them.

Carefully, she descended, step by step . . .

She breathed a small sigh of relief upon reaching the last one. Her feet rested again on solid ground.

“Here we are, ma’am,” said the girl, leading her to the circle.

The servants drew back. She entered the enclosure. Immediately, she recognized the person lying in the center.

It was her husband, the elderly Lord Bangford Langtry.

*    *    *

The local surgeon approached. He put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry . . . he’s dead, Lady Langtry” he said, shaking his head. “He must have fallen backwards into the chapel. Heavens knows why a man in his fragile condition should decide to try and use those unsafe stairs. It is quite beyond my understanding.”

He pointed to the staircase located on the other side of the terrace.

It was similar to the one she had used to come down. There was no protective railing. It led from the top of the high, round tower, one of the oldest buildings connected with the hall and ruins, to the monastery chapel below.

The
cloigtheach
tower, as it was known in Irish, soared three stories above the ground. It had a conical-shaped roof and was higher than the tallest tree in Urlingford. It was built to protect the monks from fierce Viking raiders.

Local legend said the tower held mystical qualities associated with the positioning of the moon and stars. It was much like the ones stargazers used for astrology, mapping out the future through constellations, but until tonight she had experienced no unearthly connections. This was the first time a powerful spirit had made its presence known. And it appeared in order to make a terrifying prediction. One connected with death.

Shattered glass lay around her dead husband’s body. Bangford had lost his balance and fallen straight through the huge, stained-glass window of the chapel. He’d been impaled by thousands of shards—a sudden and gruesome ending to his life.

She walked into the sanctuary. Glass crunched beneath her slipper-clad feet. An angel’s smile looked up at her from the chapel floor. Try as she might she could not conjure up any feelings of grief. She was in shock, overcome by jarred nerves and fright. An enveloping numbness possessed her.

Standing before the chapel’s simple wooden cross, her thoughts dwelt upon the first time she’d met her husband.

Lord Bangford Langtry had been a collector of rare and beautiful objects. At the age of fifteen, she attracted the attentions of the wealthy connoisseur. Much as he did with his other valuable objects, his lordship obtained her through a third party, her greedy uncle, Squire Lynch.

For years the unfeeling spendthrift had been acting as her legal guardian. Little by little he recklessly squandered away her inheritance. When he sold off the last of her deceased parents’ silver, any remaining shred of moral sensibility he possessed had vanished along with her inheritance.

Unfortunately, he discovered a new way to pay off his many debts. And this scheme involved her, his only living relative. He decided to sell her off to the highest bidder as a child bride, giving a feeble excuse.

“Because you’ve become too costly to clothe and feed, m-m’dear,” he stuttered as his tailor placed the finely embroidered waistcoat around him. “I’ve decided to find you a husband. One who will be able to t-take care of you p-properly.

“But, Uncle, I am but fifteen,” she reminded him. The minimum age for legal wedlock in Ireland was sixteen.

“And-a-half . . . I’m f-fair certain we can find some way around the issue of your tender age. Nay, there is no need to thank me,” he said, waving a heavily bejeweled hand in the air. “I am only doing my duty as any good guardian would. On the m-morrow I have arranged for you to meet your prospective groom.”

“But I—”

“It is settled, Kathleen. You are to be married to the man I have chosen for you. I am your legal guardian. I know what is best for you.”

Refusing to hear another word, he strode off to meet his solicitor. There in the legal chambers, he signed the binding marriage contract, coldly inking in her name.