Patrica Rice (36 page)

After the maid set the tray down and departed, Blanche finally allowed herself to go beyond the pleasantries. “Now will you tell me of this favor you must ask? Is there trouble? Tell me truthfully now. I’m not an invalid.”

With sighs of relief, Fiona and William launched into the story with all its details. Blanche eyed William with suspicion when he stated the reason for his risking life and limb, not to mention his neck, by returning to Ireland. “You would declare Michael Earl of Aberdare?” she asked as they lapsed into silence. “And he has agreed? Would that make me a MacDermot, too?”

Fiona and William exchanged uneasy glances.

Blanche smiled wryly at their reaction. Michael would make her Countess of Aberdare, Lady MacDermot. Neville would have a royal fit and swallow his tongue. An Irish countess in the family. Maybe he’d write her off the family tree.

“Well, never mind about that now. First we must find some way of smuggling Mr. O’Connor into the country. And I have some information here that you might find useful. I’d thought to use it for the benefit of you and your brother, but I can see that this plan might work better. Of course, I’m having difficulty imagining my husband as an earl, but we’ll jump that fence when we come to it. Where is Seamus, by the way? He’s not upset with Michael for claiming the title, is he?”

O’Connor looked uncomfortable and Fiona glanced at her hands rather than meet Blanche’s gaze.

Blanche could see she’d hit the bull’s-eye with that question. Well, it was of little import. She’d married Michael when he had no name. The title was meaningless. What mattered was saving Fiona’s home.

“I think we must have you enter the country as my man of business, Mr. O’Connor. Or perhaps you would prefer to be a solicitor? In either case, we must find you a new suit of clothes. Fiona, you will go as my companion. I think using your real name in the company of your uncle might be dangerous. And you look so much like your brother, that might cast suspicion on us. My companion can dress in a black bonnet and heavy shawls. No one will see you at all. Michael taught me that.”

Looking shocked, her company protested, but Blanche had anticipated that. She carried the child easily. Mary was stronger and might accept a short absence. She saw no reason a little journey by Neville’s yacht should cause any harm. And if she knew Michael, he would go straight from the mills to Ireland.

* * *

A week later, under gray Irish clouds, Blanche winced as the old wooden wagon hit still another stone, then smiled as she covered her rotund belly. Of course Michael’s child would travel well.

Excitedly, Fiona bounced beside her, pointing into the mist rising from the land ahead. “There ’tis! There’s the castle! We’re almost there.”

Blanche poked her with her elbow, and Fiona quieted. Beside them rode two soldiers of his majesty’s dragoons intent on guarding the heiress to a ducal fortune. She wondered if the soldiers also spied on her traveling companions, but so far no one had questioned them. O’Connor made a fine, smooth-talking solicitor, albeit an Irish one. An Irish solicitor would more easily handle the affairs of an Irish earl.

Fiona had played the part of sedate companion as best as her lively spirits allowed. The broad-brimmed bonnet concealed her face. Enveloped in heavy black shawls, her figure did not reveal her youth.

As the wagon drew closer, Blanche admired the castle rising out of the early morning mist. Stone turrets stood proud and high against the backdrop of a gray-blue sky. She could imagine pennants snapping from their peaks in the brisk breeze. Some earl had opened up the arrow slits in the stone walls into gracious windows that overlooked the countryside. She couldn’t think of a more romantic setting for a family like Michael’s.

As they rolled up the lane, she could see how the battlements crumbled where their stones had been hauled away for the foundation of cottages and fences, but the romance stayed. Unlike the yellowing grass and dust she’d left behind, the land here shimmered in the morning dew, gleaming emerald beneath the sun breaking through the mist. Wildflowers ran rampant in the fence rows, and she could imagine paddocks of horses whickering welcome as they approached.

The officer riding beside them approached. “Are you certain this is the place? It looks as if naught occupies the castle but ghosts.”

“There are ghosts aplenty, young man,” O’Connor assured him, whipping the reins for a faster pace. “But the earl kept the interior intact. The library is a monument of his dedication to preserving his family’s memory. The young MacDermots maintained it as best they could.”

“I shouldn’t think the new earl eager to take up a monstrosity like this,” the officer observed wryly. “I do not blame him for remaining in England.”

“He is on his way here as we speak,” Blanche reminded them. “But business detains him. Of course, we do not have proof of his ownership as yet. That’s why we are here. The American branch of the family did not revere family records so much as the Irish branch. I’ve observed this in other Americans. Tradition means little to them, it seems.”

To Blanche’s relief, the soldiers grabbed the topic of Americans in general and carried it until they reached the castle. She did not wish them questioning Michael’s ownership or motives too closely.

O’Connor had disappeared into the bleak interior before the remainder of the party could pick their way over the rocks and through the tangle.

As they entered the cavernous darkness of the foyer, one of the soldiers found a torch and lit it. Fiona could undoubtedly lead them to the library, but as Blanche’s companion, she could not reveal her knowledge of the estate. Besides, Blanche had the feeling that O’Connor had hurried ahead for a reason.

“How fascinating!” she chirped. “We must explore! Sally, you have read all about medieval castles. Which way do you suggest?” With that disingenuous direction, Blanche gave Fiona the reins. If her instincts were correct, Fiona would lead them on a wild goose chase for the rest of the morning.

Blanche, the rebellious, had emerged again.

Sitting on a rough chair in the far corner of a dark tavern, a felt cap pulled over his hair, Michael observed all newcomers while burying his nose in a mug of ale. He sipped cautiously, but the taste alone prevented overindulging.

His eyebrows shot up as a slender lad slipped in and blended with the shadows in the opposite corner of the room. Seamus wasn’t half bad. He just damned well shouldn’t be anywhere near here right now. If anyone noticed their resemblance, suspicion would raise its ugly head quick enough.

Of course, at the moment, even the lad hadn’t detected him. So he hadn’t lost all his talent yet. The cap disguised his hair, and the soot-blackened beard disguised his coloring. Seamus probably looked for a haughty fribble in gentleman’s clothes.

Barnaby’s messenger finally dragged in. The man’s narrow-eyed gaze darted all about as he sidled up to the bar and called for a tankard. Michael wondered where Barnaby had gone to find such a scrawny, filthy specimen of humanity, but he supposed if one lived in the gutters, one could find rats.

The weasel on two legs standing at the bar would lead him directly to Barnaby. Michael hadn’t contemplated what he would do with Barnaby yet, but wringing his neck sounded most satisfying. He might be more creative when the time came. Choking him until his eyes bulged out, then dangling him from the roof had appeal.

Michael’s go-between joined the weasel at the bar. When the go-between shoved a sealed note instead of money in the weasel’s direction, Michael prepared for a brawl. He relaxed when Barnaby’s man merely uttered a string of oaths, grabbed the note, and shoved his way toward the door. Taking that as his cue, Michael slipped out the back entrance, down the alley, and with a direction from an urchin stationed on the corner, followed Weasel at a safe distance as he wove his way through the crowded market.

Just as he noted the man’s direction, he was distracted by the sight of a striking golden head in an open carriage rolling through the crowded street.

Michael walked into a fish cart. Stumbling, he caught the cart’s edge, dislodging no more than a trout or two. Flipping the fishmonger a coin, he raced through the throng of chattering housewives and cooks in the direction of the carriage. Finally reaching the carriage on a crowded corner where a dray blocked the intersection, Michael gasped with both dismay and joy.
Blanche was here!

Michael elbowed an old woman out of his way and dashed into the street. Hopping onto the driver’s step, he grabbed the carriage side, and lunged into the interior as the horses jerked into movement again.

“Michael!” Blanche screamed, while the woman beside her simply screamed.

With a grin, he dipped his cap and settled into the narrow space at her feet. “I shall cheerfully strangle you, my lady, just as soon as I’ve warmed my weary eyes on your beauty. My God, Blanche, you’ve taken years off my life. What the devil are you doing here?”

He couldn’t stop grinning at her laughing eyes, more blue than the skies today.

“Looking for you, of course. I tired of waiting for you to come home, so I decided to bring home to you.”

Michael rolled his eyes and shoved his hands through his dirty hair. “Now is not the time to prove your intrepidness, my lady. I want you and...” He glanced at the other passenger, and grimaced at discovering Fiona watching him from beneath a gawdawful bonnet. “I want you and your devil maiden to hie yourselves from here as quickly as you can. I haven’t time to round up guards and keep you safe day and night. Go back to Dorset. I’ll find you there as soon as everything is settled.”

“And when will that be? After the baby’s born?” Blanche asked scornfully. “I’ve tolerated a lot from you, Michael O’Toole Lawrence MacDermot or whatever name you choose these days, but I’ll not tolerate more. Let Neville handle the mills. He owes me that. It’s time you came home. Let me see your hands.”

Obediently, Michael held out his hands. “Blanche, my love, take my word for it. You cannot stay here. It’s not safe. You will terrify me into an old and gray-haired man if you do not leave at once.” Michael glared at Fiona. “I don’t know what you’ve told my wife, but you’d best find some way of persuading her out of here if you know what’s good for you. Join me in Ireland, if you must, but leave Manchester now.”

“Oh, we’ve already gone to Ireland,” Blanche replied blithely. “Mr. O’Connor is quite convinced he’ll prove you the next Earl of Aberdare. Have you told Neville yet that I’ll be an Irish countess? It should give him an apoplexy, at least.”

Michael snorted at the image conjured by her words. An Irish countess, indeed. Neville would become an old and gray-haired man, too.

“I would not break the news to him just yet, my lady. He’s in over his head as it is and probably scouring the streets in search of me as of this minute. You cannot know the seriousness of the situation.” He thought perhaps one didn’t discuss topics like killing a former man of business with pregnant ladies.

“I’ll not leave here without you,” Blanche informed him. “Shall we deliver you somewhere?”

Crossing his arms over his knees, Michael rested his head against them. “You may as well ruin my identity entirely by taking me back to your inn. I should imagine you’ll cause a stir when you take someone looking like this to your room.”

Blanche grinned impudently. “I’ve always wanted the reputation of a wanton. Shall I order a bath brought up when we arrive?”

Oh, gad, how he loved her, even when she drove him insane. Bowing his head in acceptance of this mad acknowledgment, Michael rested his head on his arms all the way back to the inn. He wasn’t ready yet for anyone to see his eyes.

* * *

Scrubbed and naked, Michael tugged his wife into his arms, and sought the sweetness of her lips. Tenderness and lust surged through him as Blanche responded, throwing all her heart and soul into the kiss.

“This is insane,” he whispered against her mouth as he cupped her breast. “I do not know if I can do this without hurting the babe, but I want you so much it will soon make a cripple of me.”

Laughter bubbled as Blanche pressed closer. “Dillian assures me we can. I shall show you her letter when we return. It’s a masterpiece of metaphors. She ought to write books for women.”

Michael shuddered at the thought. “No, thank you. You may keep that particular masterpiece to yourself. If I must learn more about feminine anatomy, I should like to do it through experience.”

He felt like a rutting bull as he pressed her toward the bed, but he was well beyond stopping now. Like a fragile flower, Blanche drifted in his arms, bending to his needs without protest. Resting her against the mattress, he rubbed his hand over the gentle slope of her belly through the sheer muslin of her nightshift. He shuddered with the exquisite joy of touching her with his bare hands.

“You’ve grown more wondrous beautiful since I saw you last,” he murmured in amazement. “I cannot believe you willingly carry a child of mine. Just watching it grow beneath your heart like this takes my breath away.” He eased the gown up, pulling it over her head so she was as naked as he.

Their eyes met, and Michael saw hers smoked with the same desire he felt. He eased her legs apart although he had not yet lifted her entirely onto the mattress. He thought they might fit more easily this way, so the burden of her belly did not intrude. Her eyes widened as she recognized his intent, but she capitulated the moment he bent and took her breast into his mouth. She gave a cry of pure pleasure and tilted her hips upward to rub against his shaft.

Michael heard her cry his name as he drank deeply of one aroused crest and moved to the other. The sound of his name on her lips drove him mad, but he wouldn’t rush this moment. He would have only this once before he must send her away again.

Wrapping his arm around Blanche, he lifted her hips more securely on the bed, then knelt to take her with his mouth. Her high keening cry of pleasure decimated what control he retained. Bursting with need, Michael straightened, and plunged home.

Blanche came apart in his arms. Weeping, clutching his arms, pulling him deeper with the strength of her contractions, she drove him into a frenzy of desire. Holding her, desperately striving for gentleness, Michael fell into the dizzying spiral of her demands. Lost in her pleasure, he thrust deeply, measuring his rhythm to her cries, until finally he exploded to the music of Blanche’s joy.