Sister of Rogues (2 page)

Wesley adjusted his cravat and smoothed his waistcoat. It felt good to be wearing proper clothes again. He might have to keep his alias of Walter Avery in Dublin—where he would visit his
daughter
to make sure she stayed an inmate—but at least he could walk among proper society again and assume his rightful place.

Wesley glanced down at the bloodied heap on the floor and smiled benignly. “You do understand, sir, why I killed you? I am sure you will agree it is always better to leave no witnesses.” Then he closed the door and descended the steps to where the carriage waited.

Fiona woke feeling groggy, her stomach roiling as she fought off a wave of nausea. Her head ached and she had trouble focusing as objects swam in and out of her vision and the room moved around her. It took her a moment to recognize the familiar pitching of a ship and another to realize she was in the dimly lit interior of a cabin. But why? And how had she gotten here? She tried to sit up in her bunk only to discover her arms were bound to the rails of the bed. Panic washed over her. What had happened?

She heard muffled voices outside the door. One sounded American and authoritative, the other French, albeit with a hint of a British accent.

“Your daughter should eat something,” the American voice said.

“She has bouts of seasickness,” the other answered, “but perhaps some tea would be good.”

“I'll have some sent down.”

“No need. I will go and get it myself.”

The voices faded away along with the footsteps and Fiona stared at the low ceiling. Her woozy mind stuck on the conversation. Whose daughter was seasick? The best thing for that was fresh air and a solid horizon to look upon. Someone had told her that or maybe she had experienced it…she really couldn't remember. But why was she on a ship in the first place?

The door opened and a middle-aged man with a wiry build and brown hair entered. He set a tin mug of tea on the small table bolted to the wall and undid the leather straps binding her to the bed. Fiona struggled to sit, nearly overcome by dizziness. “Who are you?”

“
Ma enfant
. You do not remember me?” he asked.

Fiona started to shake her head, but that made everything around her swirl and her stomach roiled again. “Should I?”

“Such a pity what happened,” he replied and handed her the cup. “Here, drink the tea. You will feel better. We can talk later.”

Fiona took a sip and wrinkled her nose at the tangy bittersweet flavor. “This tastes awful.”

The man shrugged. “Americans do not know how to make tea properly. Nevertheless, drink it.”

Fiona took another sip. Surprisingly, her head seemed to ache less. She took several more swallows and then set the mug down and rubbed her wrists. “Why was I tied to the bed?”

“For your own safety. I was afraid you might hurt yourself, given your state of mind when I found you.”

“Found me? Where was I?” Fiona tried to think, but her mind was not cooperating. Her vision started getting fuzzy around the edges too. “I cannae remember…I think…I was in a garden…”

“Completely understandable,” he answered, “considering you tried to kill yourself last night.”

Fiona blinked at him, not sure she'd heard correctly. “I tried…what?”

“Do not worry about it. You were found in time.” The man stood and moved to the door. “I am taking you somewhere very safe.”

Fiona tried to keep him in focus. “Who are you?”

“My name is Walter Avery.” He smiled and opened the door. “I am your father.”

Her father? Her father had died in a carriage accident years ago. What was going on? Fiona tried to stand, but her legs wouldn't support her and she fell back on the bunk. Where was she going? Someone had tried to kill herself…no, that wasn't right…what had the man said? She tried to think, but her mind was drifting and her eyelids were too heavy to stay open. Maybe she was having a bad dream, and when she woke, everything would be all right.

Definitely, everything was not all right. Fiona stumbled alongside Walter Avery, the brightness of the day hurting her eyes as they approached imposing stone walls and an equally intimidating steel-barred gate beyond which stood a massive grey building. She vaguely recalled the American captain's concerned voice as she shuffled off the gangplank and was put in a carriage with its curtains drawn, but she didn't remember what he had said.

Fiona wished she could think more clearly, but her brain was just not functioning. A guard swung open the gate and another escorted them into the building. Inside, the entryway looked as forbidding and dour as the outside. Starkly furnished with a scarred wooden bench and plain walls, she wondered what kind of a place this was. A long, dimly lit corridor led into an even darker interior.

A guard opened a door to an office furnished almost as bleakly and gestured them inside. “The warden will be with ye shortly.”

Warden? Was this a prison?

And then Fiona began to hear the sounds.

They were muted sounds, as though wolves howled in the distance, followed by higher-pitched keening and something vaguely akin to a shrieking wind blowing through the Highland mountain passes in winter. Then, quite clearly, as though a door had opened, came the sounds of cursing and screaming. Footsteps approached in the hall and soon a burly man appeared in the doorway.

“Mr. Avery, I assume?” he asked. “I am Mr. Kelly, the warden.” He looked over to Fiona, appraising her much as one might a horse for sale. “This is your daughter?”

Fiona wrinkled her forehead and looked around.

“Yes,” Wesley answered. “As you can see, she is quite confused.”

Mr. Kelly sat down at his desk, reached for a packet and shuffled the papers until he found the one he wanted. “You sent me some background information. Let's just review it to be sure I have all the facts.”

“Certainly.”

“Your primary residence is Carlisle?”

“Yes, although I spend most of my time in France on business…which is why I cannot take care of my daughter.”

Mr. Kelly glanced over at Fiona and then back to Wesley. “She has been living on her own while you are gone?”

“Well, there have been servants, of course, but yes.” Wesley looked contrite. “If I had been home, Fiona would never have been allowed to marry that renegade.”

Fiona's ears perked. “What renegade? I am nae married.”

One of Mr. Kelly's eyebrows rose. “You do not remember marrying…” he glanced at the paper, “…a Brice MacLeod?”

“Nae. My maiden name is MacLeod.”

As Mr. Kelly looked over to Wesley, he shrugged. “She is confused. Her husband—such as he was—got into a fight a few days after they wed and died. My poor daughter has not been able to come to terms with that.”

Fiona turned to stare at him. “What are ye talking about?”

Wesley ignored her question. “Sometimes, she thinks her brothers-by-marriage are her actual brothers. Other times, Fiona thinks Brice is still alive.”

“Ye are lying!” Was the man mad? None of what he was saying made sense. Fiona turned to Mr. Kelly. “'Tis a pack of lies. I doona even know who this man is.”

“You do not know who your father is?”

“Of course I ken who my father is. He was killed in a carriage accident a long time ago.”

“She is talking about her husband's father,” Wesley said. “It is just one of the symptoms of how she slips out of reality.” He gestured to the ball gown Fiona was still wearing. “That was her wedding dress. She keeps wanting to wear it.”

“My wedding…” Fiona's mind began to clear as her memory returned and she remembered what had taken place. “'Tis a ball gown. I was in London attending a party. I had agreed to take the air with Brice—”

“So you do remember your husband?” the warden asked.

“Nae.” What was wrong with the man? She'd already told him she wasn't married. And why was the other man—Walter Avery—claiming to be her father? Her gaze focused on a plaque on the desk she hadn't noticed before.
Dublin Lunatic Asylum.
She felt her eyes widen in shock. “Why am I here?”

“Your father thinks you need confinement, and I agree.”

A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in her throat. “He is nae my father!”

Mr. Kelly turned to Wesley. “I think I have seen enough evidence to make a case for committing her to the asylum. Cases of insanity due to extreme shock or loss are not uncommon. We do a series of purges and emetics as part of our treatment and bleeding as well, to balance the humours. Sometimes, we are successful within just a few months.”

“I have the means to keep her in your care for as long as necessary,” Wesley said and gave him a steady look. “I will spare no expense to make sure she gets the right treatment.”

The warden held the look and then smiled. “I think we can be agreed upon that. Your daughter will not be released until she is completely well.”

Kier O'Reilly watched as the heavyset matron from the asylum next door half-dragged, half-wrestled what appeared to be a furious she-cat of a female into the foyer of his house. This one looked as unkempt as the other three women housed here. Her dress—what appeared to have been a pale blue, satin ball gown—was torn, wrinkled and stained. An unruly mass of raven hair as dark as his cascaded over her face, obliterating her features, although the feral snarl coming from her throat left no doubt that her face would be filled with rage. It wasn't surprising, considering the circumstances under which his
guests
usually arrived.

Kier sighed. He was twenty-six years old and held the title of earl, but he had been reduced to housing inmates from the asylum because the damn English had taken away his grandfather's wealth during the Ascendancy, not to mention much more recently that the cleverly diabolical Lady Jane Claire Litton had taken his savings.

Nor was Kier thrilled to have an armed guard at his front door and an Amazon of a matron in charge of the women, but putting up with them gave him the income he needed. He'd ride into the gates of hell himself before he'd allow a British lord to claim his ancestral home—one that dated back to Strong Bow himself.

“Let her go.”

The asylum matron looked at him as though he were the one who had lost his wits. “She'll be wreckin' havoc, that she will.”

“Let her go,” he said again, “and remove the manacles.”

“Ye are daft for certain,” the matron replied as she shook her head, “just don't be placin' the blame on me for yer belongings bein' destroyed.”

“I will acquit you of that responsibility.”

She shook her head again, inserted the key to remove the hand shackles and stepped back quickly.

The woman snarled again and tossed her head back.

Kier started. The woman—a very
young
woman—was beautiful. The wild mane of black hair contrasted with the ivory porcelain of her face. Her features were delicate—high cheekbones, a small, straight nose, full, rosy lips—but it was her eyes that held him nearly spellbound. Pearl grey, almost silver now as they sparked with anger, and slanting slightly upwards at the corners, they gave her an ethereal appearance. Kier had the oddest sensation she could be part fae.

Except he didn't believe in the wee folk. The Sidhe were no more real than leprechauns. If those creatures existed, he'd have his pot of gold and not be playing host to asylum inmates.

“What is your name?”

She tossed her head again and jutted her chin, sparks still lingering in her eyes. “Fiona MacLeod.”

Even her voice was musical, pitched low and a bit breathless due to her recent exertion. For a fleeting second, Kier wondered how breathless she'd sound in the throes of lovemaking. Then he inhaled sharply. He had no business letting his mind wander in that direction.

“Mrs. MacLeod. I would welcome you to my home.”

“Welcome?” She looked around. “I am your prisoner, nae?”

Kier winced. He didn't like that term any more than he did
inmate
, although, in truth, they were pretty much the same thing. “If you follow the rules, you will be allowed freedom to move about, Mrs. MacLeod.”

“'Tis nae Mrs. I am nae married.”

Kier frowned. “I was given to understand you were a recent widow, grieving in a most desolate way.”

“'Tis lies.”

The matron rolled her eyes and handed Kier a fat envelope. “Her papers. Mr. Kelly said she's as bad a confused case as he's seen.”

“Ah,” Kier said as he took the envelope. “Well, we will go over this later when Mrs. MacLeod has had some time to get adjusted.”

“Adjusted to what?” Fiona demanded. “I want to go home.”

“Hopefully, in time you will—”

“Just be countin' yer blessin's the asylum's women's room is full,” the matron interrupted. “The lunatics stayin' here are not as crazen as some.”

“I am nae a lunatic.” Fiona turned her pleading gaze to Kier. “I was abducted from a ball I was attending. I awoke on a ship. Some man I doona ken says he is my father and tells a tale that I married and became a widow. “'Tis lies.”

Behind her, the matron tapped her forehead. “Confused,” she whispered.

Kier looked into Fiona's beguiling eyes and felt himself getting lost again as though he were wandering in swirling grey mists. By St. Patrick himself. What kind of a spell did the lady weave? Kier knew from experience that the inmates often created alternative worlds for themselves, filled with whatever their fancies conjured. If Mrs. MacLeod's grief were so great she could not admit that her husband had existed, Kier would have to tread carefully so her condition did not become worse than it already was.

Fiona MacLeod was as bewitching as the faeries he did not believe in—and the last thing he needed was to be attracted to a woman assigned to his care.