Rescuing Mr. Gracey (17 page)

But he would not allow himself even the slightest brush of her lips, or the luxury of inhaling her sweet scent. This was a one-week act of charity for a woman in need, he warned himself. This effort was nothing more than an assurance she and her family did not starve, no more!

Besides, his luck had been stretched to its very limit. The deceit and tales were multiplying, and Bender questioned him relentlessly. The earl demanded ever more explanations about his time. Servants seemed to look at him as if he were the weak link in the Gracey legacy.

Alec clamped his jaw shut. Though he knew he must break it off, he still had tonight.

Skirting around storage barrels, wondering at his own sanity, Alec slipped to the side of the house. He stopped, listened. All was quiet.

His heart thumped as he anticipated the evening—riding up to Dolly’s Brae just so he might walk back down again—and he smiled.
Ridiculous, Gracey. Such a huge gamble without a happy ending.

The kitchen door squealed as he slid inside the manor, as if reminding him to stop the insanity in favor of the stability of the nation.

I will rinse, grab some food, and meet Miss Mary Smyth.
Tiptoeing forward, he started up the servants’ stairs.
I will enjoy conversation and stories and smiles. I will memorize her eyes and her mouth and pretend she is mine.

Something creaked behind him. A throat cleared.

Arrested in motion, Alec felt his stomach clench.
Caught!
Ironing all expression, he swallowed his trepidation, then swiveled to face his captor.

The accustomed expression of indifference faltered. Heavy-hooded eyes skimmed Alec’s filthy shirt, manure-layered shoes, blackened hands. “Excuse me, sir,” Gibbons managed stoically. “Your father wishes a word upon your return.”

Thoughts stuttered, but Alec gave an expectedly aristocratic response. “I’ve need of a bath. Have one drawn in my room immediately and inform my father that I will meet him within the hour.”

He turned, forcing himself forward as the ramification of the butler’s discovery slammed him like a hammer against an anvil. And why did his father wish to see him? Had someone reported his travels up the hill? Had the bribe to James not been sufficient? Had he brought a threat to Mary’s door?

He rounded the stairs and braced against the wall’s support. Terror for Mary squeezed his heart. If his father discovered his activities, how would Alec protect her
?

Swiping fingers through his mud-caked hair, Alec cloaked tumultuous worries. For her sake, he must restore and maintain his arrogance. To do otherwise would only increase the servants’ gossip, especially considering his disastrous appearance.

Deliberately, he slammed open his bedroom door and gave his valet, Banks, a stern, disapproving brow and an arrogantly stony glare. After tossing his tattered shirt on the floor, he kicked off his muddy boots.

Staff flooded his room, their curious eyes swerving from his dishevelment to the valet as if pitying him the assignment. Three women, careful to keep a huge distance, scurried to and fro with buckets of steaming water. He saw their glances to one another.

They think you mad.
Perhaps there was truth to the belief.

After all, this was the first time the young master had called for personal grooming since his return. Banks, wearing a repugnant frown, waited until the women left, then carried the clothing away with two fingers. Ironically, the clothing would likely return to Mary’s laundry pile. He must remember to retrieve them first lest she recognize them.

Lowering into the heavenly warmth of his tub, Alec allowed a satisfied moan to escape. For the first time in four days, he was not rinsing in cold water. Tension melted into the water; conflicts slid off with the dirt.

Delightful images of Mary Smyth swirled through his thoughts. Last evening—sweet evening—a wondrous, astonishing moment occurred. He had said something foolish to make her laugh, his favorite thing to do, and after the reward of that charming sound, she touched his arm and stopped their progress to thank him for all he had done with the field and for her.

In the quiet moment, her eyes wide with trust, her smile gentle and giving, she allowed him entrance to her soul and, like a tiny flower bud showered with sunlight and water, Mary unfolded and bloomed.

Indescribable emotions tightened his chest—young and silly, sober and tender—unsettling and frighteningly new, all instigated by a beauty…a vibrant, enchanting woman.

A native of Dolly’s Brae.

Frowning, Alec refocused on scrubbing heavy dirt from his fingernails—overused, undernourished tenant farmer’s dirt that resisted leaving his hands as thoroughly as his heart hesitated to leave her.

The valet rustled behind him. Alec rose from the water and submitted to the ministrations of the arrogant servant. He stood, as he had been raised to do, and allowed the man to dry him, dress him, shave him, comb his hair.

Observing his reflection, he’d been transformed into a tailored, aristocratic stranger—but now the elegant jacket constrained him, the knotted cravat strangled his neck, the over-white linen shirt glared against the too-dark skin beneath.

He was at variance with what he was destined to be. If Mary passed him dressed like this, she would not dare a glance. Rather, she would, as he witnessed her doing every night, lower her head and walk timidly past. He shuffled uneasily, disgusted with that knowledge.

The valet stepped back, smiling approval.
Behold, the future persecutor of Irish Catholic natives.

Aligning his expression to fit his groomed image, he fled the room and hurried down the long circular staircase, then walked across the Italian marble floor that echoed his progress toward the library. Alec rolled his shoulders, readying himself for the performance that would allow him to continue to escape into that heavenly retreat.

~ 12 ~

“Then out bespeaks our Orangemen, ‘Indeed we won’t delay.

You have your men all gathered and in a manger lay…’”

Alec glanced toward the huge cherry desk that sat beneath a portrait of his mother. “Good evening, Father.” Bender sat adjacent, his squat form overwhelmed by the furniture next to him. He scowled, his forehead wrinkling like a pug dog’s.

“Good evening indeed, son. Do ya realize, ’tis been nearly a week since ya arrived home from Dublin, yet I’ve barely seen ya at dinner nor breakfast? What keeps ya so consumed?”

Relief loosened the tension in his neck. If his father had heard anything, he would not be calmly sitting at his desk. Alec slowly poured a healthy measure of whiskey, then sat opposite the political advisor. He sipped, calculating the timing for the preplanned reply.

Behind his father’s attire, his rich furnishings, even his striking good looks, was a survivor from the dirty streets and shipping docks of Belfast. He knew how to read men’s souls and dissect lies.

“I’ve undertaken a small project to revive a disastrous field using new techniques and formulations.”

Gracey’s piercing blue eyes, truth-seeking blazes, burned into Alec’s own. Suppressing the desire to squirm, Alec sipped again and forced his muscles to relax. “The experiment requires early rising and late evenings, thus my absence.” He blinked and sank farther into the leather chair. Focused on steady breathing, Alec yawned. “’Twas exhausting work, but happily, the work nears completion and, other than observation, should allow me time for leisure and conversation with you.”

“Is that so?” His father’s thick accent leaked sarcasm as impatient fingers drummed upon the hard wood top. “So pleased ya see fit to do so.”

Easy, Alec
.
Do not rile the man’s temper.
He smiled as if he thought his father joked lightheartedly, though he knew differently.

“It’s been ten years since ya left home,” his father said, rocking slowly in his thick leather chair. “With the exception of a few visits, I’ve not had time with ya these many years. I know ye’ve fancy degrees, but me hope is you’ll learn the mill before taking it over.”

Swishing his whiskey, Alec smiled. “Sadly, your dreams and my hopes have been displaced by others.”
 

His father’s chin tightened, the remark having hit its target. Thirty years ago, Gracey Sr.—barely eating, hardly educated—had inherited a failing mill from a long-lost relative on his mother’s side of the family. Within ten years, Alexander had made a fortune. No one ever discussed how he managed it, but rumors and whispers implied that bodies were buried below the Gracey fortune and the earl knew enough to force Alec into service.

Alec looked at the near-empty glass, wondering how much longer he needed to be here. “My work this week should benefit the mill, sir. In addition to the fertilizer, I tested a superior steel plow that I ordered for your fields last month, in anticipation for its use next year.” He shrugged casually. “After this week, I am happy to report the plow stood up to the assault of many rocks. An excellent trial.”

The room seemed too heated, the smells too thick. Alec rose and strolled across the room to the window that overlooked a landscaped garden and fountains. Sunset had burst the sky into blues, orange, purple, but Alec did not see their beauty. Rather, his gaze rested on the hill beyond Castlewellan, where an Irish lass prepared for laundry deliveries. “By next month, I should know if the fertilizer has replenished the field’s ability to increase yields. I will make that recommendation as well. My intent is to have proof sufficient to encourage all our suppliers,” he added, distractedly swirling his drink.

“Son, I know ya prefer to be in Dublin,” his father said, regret leaking into his tone. “But your time is best spent on the political matters at hand rather than the agricultural.”

Alec clenched the crystal tumbler. Forcing a smile, he turned and strode to the desk. Propping a hip atop the cherry wood, he said, “I am excited about the prospect of reviving a poor, overused field. This experiment should profit the mill, but also may be useful in helping tenant farmers improve their lot. That translates into increased profits and more votes from the landowners, thus making even the earl happy.”

All true. Alec chugged the remainder of burning gold whiskey.

His father’s brow arched. Tapping his fingers upon the cherry desk, Gracey narrowed his eyes. “Well then.” He nodded. “We’ll talk more about the progress of your experiment another day.”

Each tick of the clock amplified the remaining time until he must meet Mary. Itching with impatience, Alec managed to sit in his chair and leisurely stretch long legs in front of him.

His father also relaxed, settling farther into his oversized chair.

Tick, tick, tick…

“James and I were just talking about what we could do for entertainment this summer.” Folding his hands upon a trim stomach, Alexander rhythmically rolled his fingers. “Your mother wishes to have a ball and introduce you to the ladies of County Down—I’m sure she has a potential wife in mind for ya. However, ’tis me hope ya’ll look to political and financial advantage and not just a pretty face.”

The unexpected suggestion tensed every muscle. Alec shifted uneasily. In less than one week, every goal, every standard of pleasure had completely deviated from the expected. Instead of wicked flirtations, he anticipated snuggles beneath an umbrella on a rainy night. Instead of clandestine meetings in gardens, he hungered for sweet smiles and shy glances. Pretentious women packed inside a stuffy ball now repulsed every sensibility. Instead, he favored a petite angel with huge eyes and light freckles.

His voice sounded thick. “I’ll look over the list. You know Mother’s standards are not always mine.”

His father laughed. However, Bender’s ruddy cheeks bloomed with two angry splotches confirming the likelihood Alec needed to give him another hefty bribe.

“Also, son, you’ll be joining us tomorrow morning. The earl will be laying out the strategy for the marching season and has expressed the wish to have the golden boy lead the parade.”

Jolting to his feet, Alec stumbled away. As he struggled for air, the assault of his father’s request turned his stomach. His hand shook as he tried to replenish his drink and regroup his thoughts, but all he could see were dark memories and haunted images.

He swallowed a large, cleansing swig of whiskey as echoes of his childhood collided with the sounds of smashed windows, screams, and the smell of huts splattered with horse dung, blood, fear.

Sweat poured down Alec’s neck as he took another swallow.

“Why, Father? Why is everyone mad?”

“We’re needin’ ta remind potatoheads that they lost Ireland long ago.”

Alec’s hand tightened on the glass tumbler. The riot from twenty years ago turned the nation into a bloodbath. Catholic churches had been burned, priests murdered, women raped, and countless villages devastated. England had been so shocked at the level of violence that it had forbade the Protestant Orange from rallying by law.

However, three years ago, Parliament, led by the Conservative Party whom he represented, let the anti-marching law lapse, thus resurrecting the marching season once more.

Nausea rolled in his gut. Last year, the native Irish of Dolly’s Brae fought back. When the Orange tried to stomp over to the pass, the Irish Ribbonmen chased them away with sticks and stones and a few rifles.