Rose of the Mists (33 page)

Sir Henry blanched. “And Revelin Butler, does he possess the moral fiber of which you speak?”

John looked the man in the eye. “Can a man of Butler’s age and constitution be blamed for taking what was so baldly offered?”

Sir Henry was surprised to read the truth of Reade’s statement in the soldier’s eyes. Butler had made the girl his whore. Of course, it was to be expected. Faith knew, the moral degeneracy of the Irish was a constant plague upon the moral fiber of his countrymen. He reached for the bell that stood behind his plate and rang it sharply. “The girl will be removed from Butler’s household at once. As for your interest in her, we shall see.”

Reade licked his lips. Blasting Meghan free from Butler’s protection was only part of his plan. “My lord, I would ask your permission to call upon the girl.”

Sir Henry looked startled. “My permission? I have no intention of cosseting the girl under
my
roof. She will be found
a room within the castle walls. As for your attentions, the girl has a tongue. She may ask for you as is her wont.”

John paled beneath his sunburn. “And if she prefers Butler’s company?”

Sir Henry frowned. He would not have the castle turned into a brothel, yet he could not prevent them from visiting in proper surroundings. “I must find a woman to act as companion to the girl. If she is as backward as you say, I may needs hire a bodyguard as well. Dublin teems with Her Majesty’s soldiers, and if the girl gives freely to a handsome face, she should be curbed.” He looked up under drawn brows. “If the girl is an O’Neill, she is a noble lady and will be treated as such.”

“If the girl were wed to an Englishman, my lord, she would be subject thereafter to his and her Majesty’s jurisdiction.”

So that was it! At last he had Reade’s measure. Sir Henry’s voice grew frigid. “Lest you forget the Crown’s full extent, the girl is already one of Her Majesty’s subjects. It is a lesson her father would not learn. As for marriage, I would put the matter aside for the present. Until the matter of Ulster is settled, she is a prize for no man who hopes to further himself with the Crown.”

John knew he had ventured too far and could have kicked himself. “As you say, my lord.” He bowed grandly. “But understand, what I feel for the girl is not bound up in the promise of dower lands.” No, he thought, what he felt and must be relieved of was a lust for her that was driving him mad, despite a strenuous night in Dublin’s most famous brothel. It had nothing to do with physical release, this clamoring, rapacious hunger for the girl. It was a need so great that he grew rigid at the mere thought of her. He would have her, again and again, until there was nothing left in his soul to be slaked by her body. But to do that, he must first get rid of the Butler lad.

Sir Henry thought rapidly. Reade must be removed from Dublin. A man of his stamp was bound to cause trouble, else.

“Sir Peter Carew, now the baron of Idrone, is in need of seasoned campaigners to put down a local uprising. An enterprising man could show himself to advantage there before petitioning the queen for favors.”

The light of understanding glowed in Reade’s eyes as he swept the lord deputy a bow and departed.

When Reade had departed, Sir Henry penned a brief note to be delivered to the Butler home in Castle Street. He wanted the girl safely away from there. He did not care about the girl’s virtue—were she any other Gael, Revelin could plow her as long and well as he pleased—but Sir Henry could not afford for a Butler to form an alliance with an O’Neill, not while the Butlers threatened to defend their land with swords. If matters continued to deteriorate in Leinster, he could not be certain that the Butlers would not call for aid from the north. If Shane’s daughter was in Butler hands, the O’Neills might feel obligated to join them in rebellion.

Sir Henry sat back and pinched his eyes between thumb and forefinger. He had known Revelin since boyhood. The young man might be shocked when he learned the extent to which his uncles had been drawn into rebellion against the Crown’s colonist Peter Carew. Then again, Butler was hotheaded enough to ride off to join them. If that happened, the O’Neill girl must be safely confined in Dublin.

“Confound this Celtic blood!” Sir Henry exclaimed aloud. Ruthless they could be, cruel and hotheaded, but to the last man they were loyal to their own.

*

“Damn Reade for his presumption!” Revelin crumpled the parchment and threw it into the huge fire that blazed from the hearth in the salon. He had planned to attend Sir Henry Sidney in the morning, had in fact made the appointment. Now he was ordered to appear at Dublin Castle at nine o’clock in the morning with Meghan in tow.

“Reade is concerned for Meghan’s protection, is he?” Revelin’s laughter was bitter. Reade had shown no interest in Meghan’s welfare on the ride to Dublin. Reade must be planning to use Meghan to…to do what?

Revelin ran a hand through his newly shorn locks. While waiting to discover what miracles Mrs. Cambra would perform on Meghan’s appearance, he had turned himself over to the barber and tailor. When they had left him he felt like a new man. The suit of clothing he wore was a welcome change from the mud-splattered leather jerkin and hose of the last weeks, and he had been eager to see Meghan’s reaction. But all that was forgotten now.

He moved from the hearth to the long table that had been set with two places, but he did not really see the silver and gold place settings. Reade was up to something; in some way he thought he stood to gain by luring Meghan away from Revelin.

“Well, I’ll not step into the trap until I’ve learned a little more.”

“Sir?”

Revelin signaled to the footman who had been waiting patiently at the door. “Who gave you the letter?”

“A member of the castle guard,” the man replied.

“Did he expect a reply?”

The footman smiled. “I told him you had given orders you were not to be disturbed. He didn’t like it, but there was naught he could do.”

“Good man.” At least his staff remained loyal. In these days of bribery and stealth, a loyal household was more valuable than lined pockets. “I don’t suppose you told him I would be out for the remainder of the day?”

“Had you told me to say so, I would have, sir.”

Revelin saw the man’s face fall. “You’ve nothing to charge yourself with, Owens. ’Tis my fault the missive came into my hands. If I had thought beforehand, I would not have opened it. If I disobey now, I stand in contempt of the lord deputy. On the other hand, I could not have disobeyed that which I had not seen.”

The footman looked at the fire. “I do not see anything, sir. The letter is fair to disappeared. Might have been a draft. ’Tis a fine windy day. A piece of parchment, left on a tabletop, ’tis not a certainty but what it was swept up the chimney and burnt to a crisp!”

A look of revelation came over Revelin’s features. “The very thing! An innocent man could stroll into Dublin Castle alone on the morrow with a free conscience.”

“That he could, sir.”

“Suddenly I’m famished. Inform Mrs. Cambra that dinner will be served immediately upon Mistress O’Neill’s arrival.”

The footman bowed smartly and left.

Revelin poured himself a glass of port, feeling again the excitement of the afternoon.
He loved Meghan.
Each time the thought struck him anew. His only serious experience with courting had been with Alison. Meghan was hardly the type to be wooed with sonnets, a minstrel’s tune, and scented gloves. What could he do or say to her that was proper for their short acquaintance?

He smiled wryly as he realized the absurdity of his concern. He had tumbled her on the banks of Lough Neagh without benefit of pledge or words of love. Why should he now wonder how to treat her?

Yet, he did. All his actions before had been fostered by impulsive emotions. He had not meant to make love to her. He had not meant even to kiss her that first time. Or perhaps he had. From the moment he had awakened to find himself safe, not drowned, with his head pillowed in her lap, he had sensed that she was his destiny. That was why he had scoured the countryside like a madman looking for her. He could not believe that he would not see her again. The circumstances that had brought them back together were incredible, yet he had taken them for granted. Now he shivered in reaction to what might have been. She might have been
killed had he been a mile farther away or too tired to chase Ualter.

“Saints forbid!” he murmured feelingly. She was so lovely, so utterly unaffected of manner. He had never known a simplicity of personality like hers. She was clever but more than a little fey with her belief in fairies and myths. And, of course, there was her belief in visions.

He frowned. He would have to caution her against mentioning them to the people she met in Dublin. They would not understand, and she had suffered enough from the ignorance of others. Oh, they would gossip about her birthmark and her heritage, but he would be there to guide and protect her until she was strong enough to face them all without fear or shame. After all, she was not a coward.

Revelin shook his head in wonder as memories assailed him. She had risked her life more times than most men who were not at war. She had saved all their lives. Yet, now Reade saw her as a pawn in some new scheme of his own making.

“Not while I live!” Revelin muttered, and then turned toward the sound of a knock at the door.

Mrs. Cambra stepped inside in response to Revelin’s hail, her plump hands clutching the front of her long apron. “’Tis the best I can do on such short notice, Sir Revelin. The lass needs a month of training. Rude she is, begging your pardon, and wanting in modesty.” Her face blazed fiery red as she remembered Meghan’s scandalous behavior of the morning. “Sorry I am, Sir Revelin, that I could not do more.”

“Well, let’s have a look at her,” Revelin responded, the housekeeper’s profuse apology having steeled him for a fiasco.

Mrs. Cambra reached back to open the door. “Come in, lass.”

Meghan negotiated the doorway with not a little trouble. The wide skirt of her gown would scarcely pass through the opening, and the heeled shoes she wore wobbled dangerously as she crossed the polished wooden floor.

“Stand straight!” Mrs. Cambra barked, and Meghan stiffened her spine with a grimace. She was nearly choking from the weight and tightness of the garments she had been forced into, and was about to say so when she saw the second person in the room.

“Revelin!” she cried in delight; then, mindful of Mrs. Cambra beside her, she checked her impulse to approach him. Instead she bent her knees in an awkward curtsy. When she rose, her face was contorted with the exertion and the difficulty in breathing.

Revelin could not quite believe that Meghan stood before him. She looked every inch a lady of the English court. Strangely, that did not please him. He walked toward her with a frown on his face. The woman who stood before him did not seem to be the same wild young girl who had ridden astride for half the length of Ireland. The figure did not even appear to be Meghan’s. The dark red velvet gown she wore accentuated a waist narrower than Meghan’s naturally slender one, and Mrs. Cambra had filled in the low square neckline with a muslin partlet to hide the thrust of her bosom. His eyes moved lower, noting that beneath the turned-back, bell-shaped outer sleeves and ruffled puffed under sleeves her small hands were curled into tight fists.

His gaze rose to her face. Her hair had been parted in the middle and drawn back behind a black velvet hood of the French design. A black velvet veil fell down her back hiding her tresses. He stared at her face. Even that looked different. She was so pale that she did not seem real. Then it struck him. Mrs. Cambra had covered her with rice powder in hopes of disguising her birthmark. His heart turned over. Poor sweet Meghan, what had he subjected her to?

“You are free to go, Mrs. Cambra. Mistress O’Neill and I are perfectly content to deal together alone. My lady?” he said, offering Meghan his arm as the housekeeper closed the door behind herself.

Meghan did not move. She had been holding her breath, not in fear or anxiety, but because she was afraid something
would burst if she took a deep breath. “Revelin,” she whispered under her breath. “Please, ye must help me!”

Concern furrowed his brow and he dropped his arm. “What is wrong, Meghan? Are you ill?”

Meghan nodded, spacing her words carefully for fear of running out of breath. “I…cannot…breathe…properly. She said…were…whalebones…and steel…in me corset!”

The plea for help and the look of consternation on her face drew a sympathetic chuckle from Revelin. So that was the trouble! “Sweet child, I forgot you’re not accustomed to corsets and farthingales. Please, sit down.”

Meghan gripped his arm and inched her way across the treacherously slick floor. “Me back’s about to break,” she whispered breathlessly, “and me feet are pinched something horrid!” She dropped into the chair, only to leap straight up out of it again with a gasp. “It bit me!” she declared, beginning to pull at the stays at her waistline.

Oh Lord! He must not laugh at her, Revelin thought, not when she had submitted to this “beautification” on his orders. But he could see that he must do something when she raised her eyes, dark with confusion and a touching need to please him, to his.

“Sit down, slowly this time,” he counseled, and bent on one knee before her. The first thing he did was lift her skirt, petticoats, and farthingale. Any other woman would have cried out in protest at this liberty, he thought in amusement. Meghan only bit her lip, muttering, “Whatever it is ye’re about, be quick, Rev!”