Lady of Seduction (20 page)

“What do you see out there, Grant?” she said.

He glanced at her over his shoulder and gave her a crooked half-smile. “Water and more water.”

“And will for some time, I expect,” she answered. “You should rest. Come and sit by me for a while.”

For a moment, she thought he would refuse and insist on keeping guard. But he nodded and crossed the small cabin to sit at
the edge of her berth. Caroline slid over to make room for him, and he finally lay down beside her. His arm came around her
waist to draw her closer, and she rested her head on his shoulder with a sigh.

When she was with him like this, somehow those dark secrets seemed far away. She felt safe with him, as if all else were shut
out by the mere nearness of him. All the fear and loneliness was gone for that one moment, along with fights, death, and disappearing
bodies.

They would surely all be back soon enough. For now, she closed her eyes and let herself rest with him.

“We’ll reach Mallorney Island by evening,” Grant said. “The captain will put us ashore there, and then the vicomte and Mademoiselle
Muret can continue on their journey south.”

“You are quite certain you won’t go on with us?” the vicomte asked.

“I have business in Dublin, which I fear won’t wait,” Grant said.

“And you are sure you will be welcome there?” the vicomte persisted. “After associating with foreigners such as us?”

Caroline opened her eyes to look up into Grant’s face. His brow was creased in a frown, his eyes shadowed, but he shook his
head. “I have to go. Besides, even if I did not
have matters to see to there, I would have to make sure Caroline got home.”

“Do you have family waiting for you, Mademoiselle?” Victorine asked.

“Not really.” Caroline thought of her mother and stepfather, and of Eliza, Will, and their son, all far away in Lausanne.
Before they could even hear a hint of this adventure, she would be safely home. As for Anna—she would certainly
not
be happy if she knew Caroline was with Grant Dunmore. Luckily she, too, was in blissful ignorance, occupied with looking
after two estates and two wild little children. Caroline’s stepdaughter and friend Mary was still on her honeymoon and wouldn’t
be home for some time.

“Most of my family is abroad,” Caroline continued. “And my sister thinks I am on a research holiday in the north.”

“Ah,
oui,
research for your project, mademoiselle!” said the vicomte. He seemed tired, too, and weak. Surely the sooner he was back
in his Parisian library the better. “It sounds so very intriguing. Can you tell us more about it now, and distract us from
this tedious voyage?”

“Yes, please!” said Victorine. “Tell us a tale, Mademoiselle Black. Do you know any romantic ones? With happy endings?”

Caroline laughed ruefully. “I know many romantic stories of Ireland, but I fear few have happy endings. Tragedy so often seems
the fate of the Celts. My work is to record as many old tales as I can and relate them to important historical moments in
Ireland. Far too many are sad stories.”

“What is one of your favorites?” asked the vicomte.

Caroline thought of all the stories she loved. The tales of Etain the fairy, who was the most beautiful woman in the world,
and the champion’s prize at the feast of Bricriu, which made her so proud to be a part of Ireland, even a small one. There
were far too many to choose from.

“When my sisters and I were children,” she said, “we had an Irish nanny who loved to tell us the Three Sorrowful Tales of
Erin. Not typical bedtimes stories for children, maybe, but we enjoyed them and always begged her to tell them again. My eldest
sister liked Deirdre of the Sorrows and her poor, lost husband. My other sister liked the Children of Lir, who were turned
into swans by an evil sorceress. I think she liked the idea of being able to fly away on grand adventures while I liked to
stay at home.”

And yet it was Anna who was at home now with her family, and Caroline who was on a great adventure full of danger and peril.
Caroline who pushed men over ledges and ran off to sea with her mysterious lover. Life was always surprising.

“What story did you prefer?” Grant said. She felt his touch against her hair, gently caressing.

She curled her fingers into his shirtfront and held on to him as if he could vanish from her at any moment. “I liked them
all, especially the tale of the fate of the Children of Tuireann.”

“Then will you tell us that one?” said the vicomte.

“I’m afraid it’s a rather bloodthirsty tale,” Caroline said. “I was a terribly fearsome child.”

“Victorine likes bloodthirsty stories as well as romantic ones, don’t you,
chere
?” the vicomte said. “Or she never would have come with me on this journey.”

Caroline laughed, then proceeded to tell it as best she could.

“Once upon a time, a man named Lugh of the Long Hand was with the high king of Ireland, when word came that their enemy the
Fomor had landed at an ally’s country and had laid waste to that land. The king was not minded to avenge this act, but Lugh
was. He gathered his three kinsmen, Cian, Cu, and Ceithen, and told them, ‘Gather all the riders of the Sidhe to me.’ They
all set out, Cu and Cei to the south and Cian to the north, to the plain of Muirthemne. But there he met with his family’s
great enemy, the three sons of Tuireann.”

Caroline closed her eyes so she could envision the old story unfolding before her.

“Cian knew he could not fight them alone, so he prudently decided on retreat. Seeing a great herd of pigs nearby, he struck
himself with a Druid rod and took on the shape of a pig himself. But the sons of Tuireann saw him and realized he was no friend
to them. Two of them also used a Druid rod to make themselves into two fast hounds, and they ran on the trail of the pig that
was not a pig. Once Cian was back to his own form, the eldest son, Brian, killed him, and they buried the body deep before
going to the battle with the Fomor.

“But Lugh soon discovered what had happened to his kinsman. He declared, ‘Ireland will never be free from trouble for this
treachery, neither to east nor west.’ He went to the high king where he found the sons of Tuireann. He begged for vengeance,
though
the sons of Tuireann declared, ‘We did not kill your kinsman, but we will pay the fine for him the same as if we did kill
him.’ They bound themselves to the king that they would pay the fine.

“But the fine was a heavy one, a great fearsome task indeed. He wanted the three apples from the Garden in the East of the
World, which could take away wounds and sickness with one bite. The magic pigskin of the King of Greece, the spear of the
King of Persia, the two horses and chariot of the King of Siogair, and the seven pigs of the King of the Golden Pillars. And
that was not all! He also wanted the dog of the King of Ioruaidh, which was the most beautiful of dogs and the most powerful
in the hunt, and the cooking-spit of the warrior women of Inis Cennfhinne. Last but not least, they must find the hidden,
sacred hill of Miochaoin and give three shouts from its summit before being caught by its guards.

“And they traveled away on their task, leaving their father sorrowful and lamenting. They used their useful Druid rod to turn
into hawks and steal the apples from the garden. Then they went in the guise of Irish poets, which were famous throughout
the world, to the court of the King of Greece to steal the magic pigskin. They were discovered and there was a terrible fight,
but in the end they killed the king and moved on to find the spear of the King of Persia. Once again they went in disguise
as poets and once again they killed the king. The sons of Tuireann seemed indestructible, especially after they retrieved
the chariot and horses and the herd of pigs, defeating all before them in battle.

“But they could not defeat magic. When Lugh heard they were close to completing the ransom, he put a spell of forgetfulness
on them so they would not remember the rest of their tasks and would long for home. They turned back to Ireland and were reunited
with their father, only to be sent again to complete their quest. They got the cooking-spit, thanks to their handsome faces,
but when it came time to shout from the hill of Miochaoin, there was a great battle, for the hill was sacred and shouting
was forbidden.

“The three sons of Tuireann were grievously wounded, but they made it to their boat. And once they saw their home again, they
died. Their father cried and lamented over his sons, that had the making of a king of Ireland in each of them, and he, too,
died, and they were all buried in one grave in Ireland’s sacred earth.”

Caroline opened her eyes at the end of the tale, still wrapped in vivid images of an ancient and brutal land where men were
set impossible tasks and died brave deaths. The vicomte and his daughter were asleep, sunk deep in exhaustion, but Grant watched
her with his unreadable dark eyes. She couldn’t help but feel that they were also setting off on some unknown, unwinnable
quest.

“Try to sleep for a while,” he said. He took her hand and drew her back to lie cradled beside him on the berth. His arms wrapped
around her waist.

“Will we find the magical spear?” she whispered. “And shout from the hill? I feel like our adventures are like theirs now.”

He kissed the top of her head and said, “Time enough for our quest in the morning. Sleep now,
gaolach
.”

Caroline closed her eyes again and drifted into an uneasy slumber, where there were dreams of danger and adventure—and a warrior
with magical eyes who kept driving her onward into the endless night.

C
aroline waved until the boat slid out of sight over the horizon. The vicomte and his daughter were gone, on their way back
to France, and Caroline was alone in the world with Grant.

“They can’t see you any longer,” he said. “They’re too far away, and it grows dark.”

She laughed and gave one more wave before she turned back to him. She surely should be frightened and ready to flee from him
at a moment’s notice. Yet instead, she felt free and strangely exhilarated. All the things that held her tethered to her old
life, to her old self, were far away, and she could be or do anything she wanted. And she wanted to see what would happen
next on this journey, with Grant.

“I hope they make it home safely,” she said.

“You should be more worried about your own safe arrival home,” he said. He took her hand, and they made their way to the path
that wound from the small beach up to the light of Mallorney Island’s village.

“You could probably find a boat here to take you back
to the mainland,” he continued. “And hire a companion for the journey.”

“You promised
you
would see me safely back to Dublin,” she said. “And I intend to keep an eye on
The Chronicle
. You can’t hide it from me again.”

“Stubborn woman,” he growled.

“Not half so stubborn as you, Grant Dunmore.” She swung around to face him. “What is your urgent business in Dublin?”

He was silent for a long moment, and she could feel the tension in his hand against hers. “It’s growing cold. We need to find
a place to stay for the night and hire a boat for tomorrow.”

Caroline shook her head. “Very well. But you will not escape me for long. It’s a long voyage to Dublin, Grant, and I am with
you every step of the way. You will have to talk some time.”

He gave a reluctant laugh. “Consider me warned then. But I caution
you,
Caro—you may not always like what you learn.”

They walked on in silence and found the town’s inn, a ramshackle building whose whitewash was flaking away from the walls
and windows were cracked. It seemed to be the only place to stay, though, and was quite popular, its public room crowded and
noisy. It smelled of fish, spilled ale, smoke from the green wood in the grate, and damp wool.

The eyes of the hardened fishermen and the harried barmaids followed them suspiciously as they made their way across the room.
It seemed Mallorney Island never saw many strangers, as the landlady mentioned no boat had been seen approaching. She was
full up with regulars.

But Grant’s coins soon convinced her that she did have
one empty room, and she would even send up one of the maids with a tray of food and some water for washing. The room was a
small space under the eaves, but Caroline found there was a window to let in fresh sea air and a lock on the door.

The bed was a narrow one, piled with rough blankets, and the only other furniture was a rickety washstand, a table where the
maid left their food, and two straight-backed chairs, which crowded the cramped space. Yet after the long night and day she
had just passed, it looked like a luxurious refuge.

“It’s not much,” Grant said, “but we call it home.”

Caroline wrapped her arms around his neck and went up on tiptoe to kiss him. His lips parted against hers, and he tasted of
the salt air and that dark sweetness that was only Grant and that always drew her to him. The aching exhaustion of their hasty
voyage faded away, and a sparkling excitement swept over her. She felt so very
alive,
and she wanted to grab on to it and never let it go.