Rescuing Mr. Gracey (35 page)

Alec laughed, and the luscious sound gave her a gooey sensation. “Patrick often thought up devious plots and tricks. He is a charmer and…” She flicked a knowing glance at him. “Well, I don’t need to tell you that charmers manage to convince the innocent into devious plans.” She couldn’t help smiling when he gave her an offended glance. “Well, in case you don’t know about the power of a charmer, he convinced me that stealing an apple from the grouchy man down the street was a good idea. Oh, and then there was the time he had me set a muddy trap for a bully. But we always got caught. My da told me he said a prayer that the good Lord let us get caught so that we may stay on the safe and narrow road.”

He chuckled. Mary nibbled her lower lip, fighting an unexpected wave of loss, dread. She averted her gaze when tears leaked from her eyes. “Patrick is a gentleman. He always took the brunt of any punishment.”

Alec’s long hands enclosed her face, turning her toward him. His thumb caught a wayward tear.

Stop, Mary Smyth. Don’t ruin the day.
She inhaled and exhaled.
“I would sneak my dinner to him to ease my guilt,” she continued in a rush. “In Patrick’s eyes, extra food more than paid the price for a sore bum.”

Alec kissed her forehead, inhaling the scent of her hair. “Tell me about your favorite holiday.”

Like a wave that began small, emotion expanded from her stomach to her chest. She closed her eyes. Looking at Alec was too torturous. “Well, I’m most fond of Christmas.” His fingers, so adept at soothing, fanned under her neck, then combed the length of her drying hair.

Oh, how she wanted to collapse into him, sighing with want and desire, pulling him close to her body and never letting him go. She hugged her legs tighter. “For a part of my early childhood, Mass was illegal, and then we were suspicious that we would be arrested. Our community designed a secret signal. A tall candle in the window signaled to a passing priest that the house welcomed him. The youngest daughter, or the daughter named Mary, either one was tradition, got to light the massive candle in the window.”

She dared a glance at the man who continued to stroke her hair. His eyes, so gentle, so caressing, never strayed. She moistened her lips. “Since I am named Mary and the youngest daughter, there was never a question as to who the candle lighter must be. I still light a candle each Christmas in remembrance of the times of persecution.”

His magical hands moved to her shoulders, rubbing sweet, relaxing circles. One roaming hand left her back and enclosed her hand. Unexpectedly, he brought her fingers to his mouth and kissed her fingertips.
Lord, I will never survive him.

Her breath, little puffs of expectant air, echoed in her ears. Hesitantly—her voice wobbly and too soft—she continued. “Before bed, we place little cookies or cakes upon the table and sweep the floor and leave the door open a crack in case heavenly visitors need a place to rest.” He slid one of her fingers just inside his mouth. A hollow ache fluttered when his tongue flicked the tip.

She wanted her fingers there, wet and warm and so very cherished. “Somehow, the cookie or cake always disappears. I suspect Patrick pretends to be St. Joseph.”

Alec burst into laughter. Surprisingly, he had been listening. Stretching his body, he lay down upon his side, one knee bent, his arm angled to support his head.

He did not relinquish her hand, though. Instead, his thumb made small distracting circles on her palm. He contributed to the discussion. “My mother loves decorating at Christmas. Everyone comes home—sisters and their husbands and children, aunts and uncles. There is celebration, food, drink, songs. Christmas morning, we join the servants and their families and exchange little gifts. Afterward, my family cleans up, and the servants get the day off.”

“As a servant, I can appreciate the lovely tradition.”

“Actually, my mother insisted long ago.” His crooked smile returned. “My father gives my mother most anything she wants.”

“I do like your mother. She has treated me very well. Your father also has certain…charm.”

His smile broadened. Suddenly, he gathered her into his arms and, with gentle force, had her lie next to him. “My father’s quite smitten by you. You’re teaching him about his prejudice without him even realizing it.”

Mary gave him a side-glance. “’Twill change once he knows what church I attend.” She glanced at her hand enclosed within his, protected, warm. They stayed there, lying upon the ground, she next to him, quiet and meditative. She began to wonder, if she stroked his arm, would his black hair remind her of soft rabbit fur like her da’s, or uncombed lamb’s wool like her brother Michael’s? Her fingers ran over the short path from his wrist up to his elbow.
Rabbit.
If she snuggled her chin into the curve of his warm neck and pressed her lips there, would he taste of spicy clove or warm leather? A slight turn of her head, a short lift of her chin, and Mary’s lips found his neck. She heard him gasp, felt him swallow as her lips touched his warm skin.
Spice.
He remained still, so very still. Boldly, she next wondered if she pressed a little closer, would his arms draw her close so that she might rest her head upon his wide chest? Testing the theory, she was very pleased when his arm, as if beyond his will, pulled her close.
Yes.

A beautiful, intimate song played on her heart. “Would you be surprised if I told you that I’ve had to reset my opinions about Protestants?” she said, stroking her fingers over his arms again. “Your friendly staff and even your father forced me to confess I have carried a terrible prejudice about your people.” She caught his surprised gaze. “Our faiths have been very hard on each other, considering how close they are in belief. If no other good may come from our…acquaintance…perhaps both you and I at least have a better understanding of each other.”

For a moment, he reflectively stared at her. “Tell me about your worst time, Mary. I wish to know everything about you,” he said.

Mary shook her head. “’Tis best not to tell you that story, Alec.”

A dark frown creased his forehead. His expression reflected regret and sorrow, but then a smile burst from his lips. “Do you realize that you called me Alec? Ha-ha, I am saved…finally.”

Her brows arched. “Did I now? Well, ’twas a mistake, you can be sure.”

~ 32 ~

“Never bow down to images…”

Alec loved the way she peeked at him from beneath an umbrella of dark eyelashes. Truthfully, he found everything about her fascinating—the nervous flutter of her hands, the blush of her face, high cheekbones, and upturned nose. He adored the shy appearance of brown freckles. He loved her hair—delicious ginger, ablaze with yellows and reds and browns—all sparkling with a rainbow of light.

But her innocent and devastatingly sweet exploration of him had been, without question, the most exquisite sensation of his life. She did not even realize how that innocent movement of hands collapsed his will. He hung on to sanity by the tiniest thread.

“I need to be getting home again,” she said without warning.

Alec’s heart stopped. The unexpected declaration, so gently spoken, punched his chest. “Mary, I want you to stay…”

Her eyes met his, fear and sorrow flashing together. “’Twill never be, Mr. Gracey.” Her small hand swept the scenery. “This does not belong to me.” She shrugged and cast her gaze back toward the water. “’Tis an illusion, like the Dublin wall erected to hide the dying natives from your queen.” Her expression childlike, disappointed, she looked down. “So, ’tis with us…you and me,” she whispered.

Murderous hands tightened around his throat. Alec sat erect to stop the trap from squeezing shut. “Come into my world,” he said urgently. “I will protect you and your family from any of that pain.”

“What are you suggestin’, sir?”

Alec recoiled.
Idiot.
She scrambled to her feet. The whole plan teetered, nearly collapsed. Perhaps a bit of humor could rebuild a bridge. “Mary. I did not mean to let loose the formidable Irish temper.” He laughed desperately.

She tossed him a fiery glare. She seemed unreachable granite, rock pressed by too many centuries of attack and persecution. “Do ya laugh at me, sir?”

Definitely not.
“Mary. I…I only…”

Her fist hammered the air. “We Irish Catholics are used to people mocking us and vomiting hatred with vile insults, all the while forgettin’ we are the oldest Christian faith.” Tears wet her lashes, but she batted them away. “But I was no’ tinkin’ you’d be one of them.” The squeaky sound of her voice shattered him.

As if approaching a wounded animal, Alec stood and reached cautiously forward. “Mary, let us begin again…” She backed away.
Fool. Where is your smooth diplomacy?
Whipping frustrated fingers through his hair, he growled, then dropped his hands.

“Yar government…” Mary pointed an accusatory finger as a weapon. He forced himself to stay still. She stood rigid, stiffened by her bitter history, burning with rage like dry timber engulfed in flames. Silently, he allowed centuries of Irish resentment to exhaust itself. “Imposing laws and stealing what little we have…ever pushin’ and persecutin’…not even givin’ us a say in our lives. And ye want me to come hither and be a part of it?”

“Mary, I only hoped…”

“Ha.” Her hands flapped like an angry bird. She whirled in tight circles. “Let me guess how ya tink to manage that.” Her finger touched her chin, and her aqua eyes widened deliberately. “I have it. I could recant me faith and me family and come live with yar father, perhaps join in the Orange march.”

Alec folded his arms tight against his chest. Looking up to heaven, he prayed for inspiration.

“No. I’m tinkin’ of a better idea. I’m tinkin’ ye should leave yar riches, yar family, food, and faith.” She laughed, a blend of hysteria and desperation. Her chest heaved, her fists balled defiantly. “Aye. Leave all dat and come live with me. We’ll tuck ya inside me overcrowded hut… I tink we may find a spot beneath the rafter by the table.” Her voice cracked, and panic trickled in. “But ya’ve got me, so I’m tinkin’ ya’ll be happy.”

As her posture melted like a wax figure under too much sun, she clenched her teeth with pain and squeezed her eyes shut. “Would ya like that, sir?” she whispered. “Mayhap there’ll be a potato ta share with ya if the blight don’t take it first.” The fearless fighter disappeared. Her head hung. Her shoulders shuddered.

His heart shattered. “Mary…sweet Mary.” He tried to approach, but she batted him away. Ignoring the harmless taps made by her fists, he wrapped her within his supporting arms and absorbed the quakes that emanated from her.

He stroked her wet hair from her face. “Mary,” he whispered. “Please. There must be a way.”

Her scream terrified him. “No. I cannot have you.” She clutched his shirt even as she pulled away. “I cannot have you.”

Alec folded the shivering little elf closer, closer. Surely his heart could warm her, could heal this horrible wound, distrust, fear. He kissed her temple and stroked her hair, rocking her as if she were a small child. “Your God and mine are the same, Mary. Our tenets and leaders may be different, but our God drew us to each other. He designed me to love you.”

She buried her head in his chest. “Love?’ she hiccupped.

“Mary, you must know I love you.” He enclosed her face inside his palms and brushed her tears with his thumbs. Gently, he kissed her swollen lips. “I’ve waited my whole life for you, and I will not allow politics to deny me.”

Her eyes grew large and soft. Her lower lip slid between her teeth. Her shoulders relaxed by the tiniest degree.

“There is a way for us,” he murmured over her lips. He snuggled closer and kissed her, tenderly, gently. In her sigh, he heard the release of agony. He kissed her closed eyes, then brought her against his chest. Carefully, he reproached her reason again. “As a member of Parliament, as an Anglican, I can effect change for this nation, for the native. All you need do is pretend to convert long enough for me to win and…”

She jerked back, her face drained of all color. A vicious slap knocked his head to the side. “Get thee behind me, Satan.”

He caught her, and when she struggled to be free, he scooped her feet off the ground and carried her away from the horse. He would not let her flee. He would not let Ireland destroy his love, even if he must take them both to another country.

“Put me down!” she screamed.

“Yes, Alec. Put her down.”

~ 33 ~

“For God (you must) adore…”

Alec whirled, shifting Mary’s weight so she slid down behind him. His arm insisted, pushing her back, his fingers clamped unyieldingly, protectively, his body shielding hers. He tensed, alert, wary, reminding her of a dangerous hunter.

Mary peeked from behind Alec’s solid frame, immediately recognizing the hefty man on horseback from that first day at the lake. The narrowed eyes of the short man connected with her, his glare narrowing, threatening. Disgust spread over his expression, and his lips thinned in a sneer. Mary shivered and slipped behind Alec again.

“When did you get back, Bender?” Alec said.

Once more daring a quick look, she saw the redheaded man’s cheeks blotch with fury and frustration. As she gripped Alec’s shirt, a fear inside her belly grew larger.

“I’ve just arrived,” he finally offered. “I thought I would ride out and greet my friend, Mr. Gracey—a good Protestant candidate for the earl and whose father is the county leader for the Orange.” His green eyes shifted, pausing as they landed on each item scattered on the ground—the blanket, the basket, their rumpled clothes, and bare feet.