A Love by Any Measure (6 page)

The Voyeur

Killarney had changed little, yet presented itself as a tribute copy of smaller proportion to August’s matured eyes. In his days of youth, Ireland had been exotic and formidable with its masses of people shifting about and the skeletal frame of St. Mary’s Cathedral dominating the landscape like a leviathan. In the interim, funds had been raised and the edifice completed. As the carriage passed by its front steps, he could see women pulling their daughters in and out, lecturing them on the importance of mass, no doubt.

“You haven’t said a word since Middle Lake, August.”

“Hmm?”

Caroline’s voice broke his reverie as the carriage bumped along the roughly cobbled streets leading to Burke & Woodrow, the Killarney office handling the legal and financial concerns of all Grayson holdings in County Kerry.

“What are you thinking of, dear brother?” she asked further, giving him a warm smile.

August leaned in, placing his leather-clad hands over the lace of her gloves. “I’m thinking how resilient they are. Think of all they survived, all they still endure. Makes me remember how fortunate we are, compared to them.”

“I never considered you one for compassion,” Caroline mused, turning over her hands and rubbing his fingers delicately. “May I tell you something? I think providence has brought you here.”

“Providence had nothing to do with it.”

“On the contrary. I’m a firm believer that the Lord makes paths for us to blaze, if we prove valiant enough, to compensate for those we were too weak to approach before. You couldn’t help Mother, but you can help—”

“I’m here to develop the land our estate sits on, Caroline, and if it should help out the people here or not is none of my concern,” he snapped. “It’s just a consequence of business, not charity in the least.”

Caroline eyed him inquisitively. “And yet, I notice the one cottage on which the mineral veins sit is still standing. Do not tell me you haven’t a plan for compensating its occupants. You’re negotiating with them, I’d gather, otherwise they’d have been gone by now. That is the one with the family in it you’ve spoken of, is it not? What was it, the O’Carrins?”

“O’Connors,” August quickly corrected. “Rory and his daughter, Maeve.”

At the mention of her name, he faltered and smiled, remembering their last interlude. Was that what he was doing with Maeve, negotiating? Even to himself, he acknowledged that he was becoming confused regarding his objectives with her. Through the years, idle curiosity had arisen, but he had realistically and fully expected her to have been wed when he arrived to Killarney. Upon learning that a man had yet to claim her, August couldn’t help his fantasies of what it would be like to kiss her again after so long. But he knew the Irish temperament well enough to know Maeve would as soon give him a fist in the eye as anything if he dared approach her.

When she had shown up unexpectedly at his stable, he had already decided to send Patrick O’Keefe to offer Maeve and Rory compensation for the move, even a different cottage on his lands if they wished. It was more than he was obligated to do, and certainly more than was fair given that their rent was late. But when Maeve sought him, offered her labor in place of payment until she could acquire the funds due, he couldn’t help himself. Her skin had been flush from her walk, her eyes had looked at him so pleadingly, and her beauty as she stood before him … He was a right bastard for having taken advantage of her situation, knowing full well he was only putting off the inevitable. Come tide or teacups, he needed the O’Connors out of that cottage. But Maeve. Maeve! Her kisses made him forget himself, forget his aims, forget the convoluted mess awaiting in Norwich from which he was taking temporary refuge in Killarney.

Caroline’s smug smile brought him back to the moment. They kept to silence some time before finally arriving outside the red brick building. A cacophony of carillon reverberations sounded as bell ringers across the city marked noon. Caroline waved goodbye as she continued on to the market.

Bustling clerks greeted August in the front office, but he passed them without acknowledgement, proceeding straight back to the door marked James Woodrow, Esq. He entered without knocking. Mr. Woodrow’s eyes widened as he all but jumped from his chair.

“Lord Grayson, sir, a great pleasure to finally meet Emmanuel’s progeny!”

August stopped short. “How did you know it was I?”

“Why, you are the very image or your father, when first he came to Ireland and met your mother,” Woodson responded. A fact which set August at some unease.

His pudgy, pig-nose face and bald head blanched, then blushed over. The genuflection was embarrassing in its intensity. August said nothing, instead going to the table where the papers he had requested had been readied. He slipped off his gloves and began to rifle through the collection.

“Have you been able to determine if we have the mineral rights properly secured?”

Woodrow bumbled about. “It seems so, but I’ve had to write to London to verify the land deeds against the records. Your father met all his financial obligations, but it seems he never signed off on all the necessary documents. That can be easily rectified. Just a formality, really. I understand, though, that there are tenants on the land. Have you approached them about compensation? You don’t need to offer them much, but they could put a damper on your plans if they decide to see out the terms of their tenancy, assuming they’re fulfilling their rent requirements. I can inquire with your middleman after that later this week. I haven’t had a chance to visit Middle Lake in some weeks to review his ledgers. Do you happen to know if these particular tenants are overdue?”

August’s mind’s eye flashed back to images of Maeve’s swollen lips, of her chest heaving and her heavy breaths.

“They are keeping up their end,” he returned, suppressing the licentious images of what he could do with Maeve’s next payment. “Why? What remains of their lease?”

Woodrow rummaged through a stack of papers on his desk. “A little shy of two years,” he answered, adjusting his glasses on the rim of his nose.

August clenched his teeth. That wouldn’t work. He needed the land cleared by spring to start exploring the copper veins that ran underneath. He needed to start work on the processing facilities even sooner.

In short, now that he had entered this ridiculous, self-defeating arrangement he both regretted and relished, he was going to have to step up with Miss O’Connor to keep his timeline on track. He needed her out before the first frost set in. That allowed six, perhaps eight weeks. Maybe more bible verses were in order.

He reminded himself that so far, her reactions had been playing into a desirable outcome. Maeve resisted initially, but whenever she found herself in his arms, she lost control. The problem was, he was doing no better. Had he not sworn to press himself on her like a rogue, to make her disgusted with his brazenness? How could he do that when she was becoming so receptive, making him want to engage her even more for reasons that had nothing to do with his scheme? Certainly the initial kiss was meant only to sate his curiosity, but after that each had been undertaken with a firm purpose meant to deliver a specified result.

Hadn’t it?

He bit his lip in contemplation.

“Sir?” Woodrow asked. “You inquired about some of the local businesses.”

“What of it?”

“I have a portfolio here with possible acquisitions.”

August held out his hand, into which Woodrow placed a set of papers bound in a leather satchel.

“You were certain to select only those which fit my specifications?”

He nodded heartily. “Yes, sir. Everyday goods and services. The ‘meat and potatoes’ of Killarney, as you put it. Can I ask why you are so concerned with existing enterprise, when with your resources you could easily open competitive establishments and drive the current ones out of business?”

“I do not do this for the money,” he returned nonchalantly, as he thumbed through the profiles of a dozen opportunities. “Though breaking even would be nice.”

“As you wish, sir.”

As he lifted the next page, the name written across the top gave him pause.

“What’s your opinion on this one?” He handed the paper back over to Woodrow.

“Ah, yes, a good choice,” Woodrow agreed. “Some of the best Irish bread on the island. People always need bread, good times or not. A fine product, but management is lacking. No doubt you could remedy that quickly enough.”

“I’d like to see it,” August announced as he took the paper back. “Is it far?”

Woodrow guffawed and stuttered. “No, just shortly south of here. Do you mean now, sir? I haven’t had opportunity to make an official inquiry. I don’t think Miss O’Toole would be available on such short notice, and in any case, I can’t leave my office at the moment.”

August shook his head as he slipped on his gloves. “Nevertheless, I’ll get a better idea of its viability from personal experience. Street?”

“Greenlawns.”

“Good. I’ll be back next week to examine my accounts. I’ll let you know if I want to move forward on any of these by courier.”

The bakery was easily found and nothing out of the ordinary. It wasn’t on a main thoroughfare, but a steady stream of foot traffic on Greenlawns Court ensured an ample customer base. The building looked in good enough condition that few repairs were likely to be necessary. All in all, its potential seemed well-founded.

But August knew that was not why he wanted it, nor was it why he was going to have it.

Discreetly, he edged to the windows and peeked in, standing behind a man smoking a pipe and leaning against the glass of the shop.

Behind the counter, he spied Maeve smiling widely and talking with a gray-haired lady as she handed her a sack. When the old woman dropped her sack on the floor, Maeve all but leapt around to pick it up for her. It was evident from the frail figure of the matron that bending was difficult. She mouthed her thanks to Maeve and stroked her cheek. Maeve’s angelic smile soon reflected in August’s.

She was so beautiful when she was happy. In his presence, she had vacillated between irritation, annoyance, and lust. Lust looked good on her, but seeing her happiness was like a thick woolen blanket warming his soul. Maeve’s hair was tied back, allowing August to focus on the supple curvature of her chin and the milky flesh of her neck. He would have to take more time to explore that flesh in detail as the mounting time frames allowed him to slow his attentions.

He snapped straight up when he realized the path of his thoughts. Wasn’t he engaging in this undertaking in order to force Maeve not to want to continue? He did want to be rid of her, didn’t he?

Maeve returned behind the counter, taking up a large wooden tray in her hands while shifting about. August pulled himself into the street a bit, keeping his view, and embarrassingly bumping into a dirty-faced Irishman in sooty clothes. The blond-haired, blue-eyed commoner tipped his cap apologetically.

“Pardon.” August smiled and dipped his head respectfully.

“My fault entirely,” the stranger returned, moving past.

As Maeve’s eyes landed on this new arrival, a nervous giddiness overcame her features. She rushed forward as he picked her up and twirled her, before setting her down and taking her hand. Maeve turned to another shopgirl and mouthed something, and the girl gave her a go-ahead gesture.

August quickly swiveled away as Maeve and Blue Eyes left the bakery, hand in hand and looking quite content. He waited until they were a safe distance ahead, and then followed.

The couple settled on a bench on the edge of a public thoroughfare. They didn’t notice August as he strolled behind them and leaned against a lamp post, his face turned, of course, in the opposite direction, but still keeping them well within earshot.

“Owen, what are you doing here?” Maeve started.

August’s blood boiled. Of course, Owen, the fiancé.

“Jared stopped by to have his mare reshod. He mentioned you seemed weary,” he answered in a compassionate tone. “Is it Rory?”

“Oh goodness, no!” she exclaimed. “At least, not directly. I don’t know how else to say this. Truth is, we’ve run through all our reserves now, and Grayson’s decided to charge interest.”

August’s teeth gnashed before the anger relented. Well, it was true, in a roundabout way.

“I think he’ll have Patrick evict us,” she continued.

“That’s horrible!” Owen exclaimed. “Damn English! Your da is getting better, though. Maybe he can work?”

“Aye, that may well be,” Maeve agreed, her voice sounding dismissive. August could almost see the sadness fill her brown eyes as she mournfully continued, “Or perhaps it’s time to let go of our hopes for the cottage, and Da and I could move in to town with you.”

August gripped his arms in frustration, trying his best not to call out. Maeve live with this Irish cur? Sleep under the same roof — perchance, the same bed with the bastard?

Then again, why should it matter? Maeve was nothing to him. And, he reminded himself, her leaving had been the whole point. Yet the pang of unease wouldn’t leave him. As August heard the blue-eyed man babble, he couldn’t deny that his heart betrayed his intent while Owen continued to argue.

“Maeve, dearie, that would look bad,” he told her gently. “What would everyone say if I had you living with me before we’re wed? Come now, only two months, maybe three, and then we’ll be together, just we two.”

“And Da,” Maeve added.

“Of course, and Rory,” Owen agreed. “You’ll be my sweet little wife, the queen of my castle. I’ll make sure you keep your good name until then. If it’s just a question of money, I could—”

“No!” Maeve interjected, cutting him short. For a moment, pride surged through August, and he felt relieved to see his Maeve keep her dignity with Owen wherein she could not with him.

His Maeve? Well, she had bound herself in an agreement to him. They had a contract, and he expected her to see out the terms. But hadn’t he come up with the contract wanting her to break it? Wasn’t that the whole point of this exercise?

“It’s not about money,” Maeve continued. “I think I can convince Grayson to show some flexibility. Besides, the more you save, the sooner we can wed.”

“You really want to marry me badly, don’t you?” Owen asked, the influence of a broad smile coming through in his timbre. “Falling in love with me now?”

August couldn’t breathe as he waited for her answer.

“I think … ” she stuttered. “I-I think I could. I will, in time. You are a good man. I hope I prove worthy.”

There was guilt in her voice, and he knew he was responsible.

“Of course you are,” Owen assured her. August chanced a glance over his shoulder to see him reaching timidly to stroke her cheek. Against his own volition, the imaginary tick-tock of a Comtoise clock started reverberating through him. “I have to get back to the shop.”

August allowed the couple some number of paces before discreetly pulling himself away from the lamp post and following at an undetectable distance. At the corner, Owen gently leaned over and quickly kissed her cheek.

And then, it happened: a single, self-shattering declaration moved silently across his lips.

Mine.

August could take no more.

Woodrow’s eyes flashed in panic when August burst into his office, the hard-set brow of determination etched in his features.