Rescuing Mr. Gracey (25 page)

Stubbornly, she tiptoed and placed a small kiss on his cheek.

He remained frozen, but his trembling increased. Tossing away all pride, Mary leaned into him and inhaled his scent—cloves and spice and whiskey—then snuggled her head into his neck. “Thank you for the best moments of my life,” she whispered close to his ear.

He swayed. The stiff muscles quivered. His rigid posture softened by degrees. Closing his eyes, he grasped her hand and brought it to his mouth. The softest kiss brushed across the interior of her palm, branding her to him forever.

“Oh, Alec…”

Large, urgent hands surrounded her cheeks while his hungry gaze roamed over her face. His arm wrapped about her shoulder, and suddenly, Mary found herself hidden within the shadow of the hut.

“Mary,” he said, the sound a soft prayer. One memorizing finger stroked her lips. “Allow me solace on this bitter night?” he whispered

She nodded eagerly.
Oh yes. Oh yes, Alec. Kiss me.

Light pressure urged her closer. She felt the warmth of his ragged breath. She closed her eyes just before his mouth swept her lips with sweet, soft brushes. Exquisite, delicious feathering continued on one corner of her mouth, then roamed up her cheek, her nose, her forehead, tasting every inch of one side and then her ear.

The world disappeared, replaced by sensations of heat when he possessed a spot, then cold when his mouth left it for another. He was claiming every inch of her face. He touched her ear, and sweet shivers made her pant with hunger. Her fingers clutched him to her, waiting for more…more. Her breath halted, waiting.

Her body trembled. She raised excited hands, exploring his chest, his shoulders, around his neck.

He lifted her from the ground, locking her to him. “Mary, dearest heaven…” he groaned.

The kiss changed—daring, bold. He consumed her, frantically, urgently. Her heart took flight, soaring where angels sang and the earth misted and the air was scented with cloves and whiskey. She allowed him access to her soul.

Abruptly, he set her down. “No,” he growled, pulling his mouth from hers. Still supported by strong arms, she was braced against his chest.

She heard his heart, a symphony of a thousand drums, pounding near her ear while his breathing aggressively matched the rhythm. “I must stop,” he whispered. He swallowed. His embrace tightened. Silence returned.

“Alec,” she said tentatively. “May I write?”

He shook his head. “No…Mary…” Clinging as if she’d rescued him, he said, “No matter what you hear, no matter what you learn, I will always cherish our time together. And though I cannot be a part of it, I will always pray that your life is filled with happiness and children and…”

Then, as if waking from a dream, he wrenched away. “I cannot. I cannot.” He walked a pace and turned his back. He paused again. “Mary. Please don’t be angry with me.”

“How could I ever be angry? This is not your fault.”

He paced, a wild, trapped animal looking for escape. “I need you to understand, my leaving has nothing to do with you or your family.” He ran his fingers through his hair and allowed his eyes to settle on her face again. “To me, you are perfect.”

“Ohhhh,” she whispered.

His gaze shifted away; his head hung. “I fear you will hear something…a lie that will make you believe my intentions were false.”

“Alec?”

Swiping at the air, he frightened her with his frustrated tone. “I wasn’t going to do this…this…” Feverish trembling overtook his body. “I wish for you the very best life.”

She stretched her hand toward him. For a moment, she thought he would refuse to come to her, but then he rushed forward. “One more…just one.” His tender kiss filled her with his desperation.

Frightened, she buried her fingers into his hair to hold him to her. “Oh, Alec. My love,” she whispered. “Can’t we find a way…”

As if slammed by some barrier, he jerked and stepped away. “You must move on, for I will not ever return. I am freeing you to marry and live as you were destined.” He stepped backward. “Without me.”

Stabbed by hopeless daggers, her frame bent inward. She watched until he faded into the inky landscape, hoping he would wave farewell, or turn, or glance back—he did none of these

~ 20 ~

“‘My brave boys, you’re dead…’”

Mary wondered how she still lived without a heartbeat. The void, the abandonment—unexpected and hopeless—pressed down on her until she collapsed on the ground where he’d left her. She rolled into a ball and rocked for a full hour.

The fierce wind roused her, buffeting against her as if to urge her away. Never, not in the filthy heat of the fields, or the coldest winter without food, had she known this kind of desperation. Yet she must get up, go inside, continue on.

If only God would grant her a miracle so that she would not have to face her family tonight, she thought, lifting the latch to her hut.

No miracle occurred this night. Instead, excited smiles beamed at her.

“So, Mary. Shall we be talking to Father Morgan about posting marriage banns?” her mother asked. Her family laughed.

You must move on, move on…

“No, Mam.” Watery eyes found a crack in the hard-packed clay floor. If only she could shrink down and crawl into that dark space. “There won’t be any banns.”

Sounds of shock and fear banged off the rickety furniture, the mud walls, the empty cupboards. Tonight, the dream died for all of them. They, like she, had taken a leap of faith and believed it possible that a man like Mr. Alexander Jordan could enter Dolly’s Brae and not leave a path of destruction behind.

The oppressive crush of people, spinning with blurry shapes, caused her to cave inward. She brought her clenched hands to her face to hide the flood of silent tears.

Her mother rushed forward. “Oh, darlin’ girl, come and sit by the fire. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.” Folded against her mother’s breast, Mary gulped and shuddered.

Little Joe dived for Mary’s legs and hugged them as if to absorb her pain. “I sorre…I sorre, Mary.”

“Say the word, Mary, and me and Mr. Jordan will be having a word,” Patrick said, his fists ready.

“’Tis no’ his fault,” she mumbled.

Maureen stroked her head. Someone had wrapped her in a thin comforter. “
An bhfuil aon imní ort. Beidh gach a bheith go maith.
”

Mary’s chin quivered. “How, Mam? How will it be well again?” She swallowed the torrent of emotion that kept pushing out from her heart, begging for release. “He didn’t belong with us…with me,” she said bitterly. “We all knew he was an illusion, but he made it so easy to pretend.” Folding over, she wrapped her arms around her waist. “Doesn’t belong…”

Joseph lifted her within his sinewy arms and carried her to his chair as if she were a small child. Rocking her, he offered sips of ale. “There, there,” he said. “Tomorrow is Sunday, a day of rest. We shall attend Mass and look to the Lord to refresh our spirits from this grave disappointment.” He sighed, and she heard his own disappointment there. “We rarely understand the crosses that come our way, but know, in the end, good will come from them.”

He kissed her hair, then signaled for the family to pray a family rosary. Mary listened to the rhythmic prayer. The numbing effect calmed her trembles.

Afterward, he carried her to the small cot and covered her with the thin comforter. She rolled in a tight circle and begged for sleep’s release.

Weary questions nearly strangled her. How had her world—beautiful and full of promise—disintegrated to such a chaotic nightmare?
The passionate kiss, tortured words, the difficulty parting all indicated affection.

Yet he would not even allow her to write.

Hours later, exhausted, Mary focused on the banging of a lonely tree limb against the thatched roof. She inhaled heady smells of wet grass and refreshing rain, and soon, she surrendered to sleep.

Alec entered the church, stunningly handsome, wearing formal evening wear—black trousers, a tailored black-tailed jacket over a cream-colored vest, a fine linen shirt, all complementing the handsome man.

The attire suited him well, she thought, but also opposed the worn, faded clothing of the village. Everyone noticed, pointing fingers, judging him. He ignored their remarks. Instead, he smiled at her, warming her.

She waved, her heart skipping happily, but then he disappeared. She stumbled from the church, racing after him. He had entered the earl’s forest. The darkness frightened her, but then he appeared again, wearing worn-out farmer clothing.

She wondered at his odd game, but ran toward him. Night fell, and he was pushing the laundry cart. He tucked her beside him under the umbrella. Protected, cherished, content, Mary hardly noticed when a passerby approached, but Alec forced them both into an alley.

She was confused. They were at the lake, not an alley. Alec fed her cheese and bread, chicken and wine. Someone called from the forest, but she paid no heed.

“Mary, you know how much you mean to me,” Alec said.

The voice became insistent, making her nervous. Bright blue eyes imprisoned her, and she could not think, could not move. He reached for a bit of her hair and whispered, “You’ve captured my heart.”

She smiled, a flush rising upon her cheeks as she hoped for a kiss. Heat from the sun became unbearable, and she was so thirsty. He tucked her beneath the umbrella.

“If only I could meet your family,” Mary finally shared.

“Best be forgettin’ that hope. Ya know ’tis no’ possible.”

She laughed at his ridiculous accent. “But why, kind sir? Won’t they like me?”

The voice from far away became louder and more persistent. Mary turned toward the urgent sound and thought she heard him say, “I would marry you.”

She stopped breathing. “What…what did you say?”

“You see, my family is Anglican,” Alec said, shrugging with resignation. He studied the water. “Your family will not accept me, nor mine you.”

She was spinning round and round and round as his voice warbled nauseatingly. “What do ya mean? I…I thought ye were a Catholic.”

A scowl upon his face, the voice merged with his own. “You knew I wasn’t a native. You allowed yourself to fall in love with me, didn’t you? That is going to make it harder, you know. You really should not have done that.”

As she dropped from the whirling wind, her head hit something painful. She grasped his shirt to hold the world still. “What…what do ya mean? I thought you cared for me…”

He faded, like a spirit that haunts but cannot be touched. “Mary, I am sorry you love me.”

“No. No. No.” Terrified, she tried to scream, but something strangled her throat. “Do not say that.” Mary began crying, pleading through a muffled tunnel. “I will make it better.”

She was trying to get up, but a weight prevented her. “Alec…I love ya.” All she saw was mist. “Don’t leave me.” The angry wind knocked her flat.

Mary awoke shuddering like a newborn colt and realized her head was buried beneath her pillow.

Anglican.
Clammy hands wiped perspiration from her forehead. Bending, she rested her head on her knees, replaying the horrifying dream. But was it a dream? Threads of information bound together to make whole cloth, and suddenly, she knew the truth.

He was Protestant.

She wanted to scream and run and never look back. What had he done? How could he tell vicious lies…make her fall in love?

Fearing she would be sick, she padded into the small kitchen. Dipping the wooden cup into the water pail, she sipped water, then plopped into a chair near the fire. Mary stretched her frozen, shaking hands toward the dying embers, sorting and acknowledging what had been ignored.

Fine food, flax farming, linen production, access to the best equipment and highest-quality fertilizer, Patrick’s job, Bridget’s passage to America, the extra money for the Gracey laundry unfurled into a bright orange flag.

Mary jolted to her feet.
The Gracey laundry!
Swaying, she covered her cry with her hands.
He’s a Gracey.

“Mary, are you all right?” Joseph whispered from the far corner of the hut.

Panic dried her mouth. “Aye,
Dadai
. I was just thirsty…” she whispered.

Mary stumbled back to bed, then curled into a tight knot. Burying her face, she groaned with the bitter wind.

Had her father revealed any information about July twelfth? Was her family now in danger? And what of Patrick’s job? Now that Alec broke with her, did that mean that the job at the mill ended too?

Mary flew from her bed and fell to her knees. Making the sign of the cross, she whispered a desperate prayer that God protect her from Alec Gracey.

~ 21 ~

“‘Some holy water I’ll prepare…’”

The Gracey garden was illuminated from above by silent white light that jagged through the colliding clouds. A deafening boom followed, shuddering the earth like the footfalls of an angry giant.

Alec tilted the bottle of whiskey and drank again as he weighed the wisdom of taking refuge beneath the tree. The harsh wind and sprays of cold water were no longer noticed, but perhaps the lightning could kill him.