The Christmas Secret (9 page)

“What has happened?” she asked.

“With the amount of wassail that has been drunk tonight, one can only imagine,” Henry said.

Erin blinked up at him, and her lips curved into a wonderfully bright smile. “There, you see? Our Christmas is made all the more festive with a fight
and
a dance, aye?” She slipped out of his coat and handed it to him, then hurried to the terrace doors.

Chapter Six

Eireanne’s heart was pounding with the exhilaration of the kiss, her breath short. She had not expected that kiss, but Lord, she had wanted it so badly that her desire had startled her. She was thankful for the interruption, for she’d feared where it might have gone, what she might have done with her ravenous desire for him.

Eireanne stepped into the room, her hand pressed to her chest, and asked, “What has happened?” of Mr. Hannigan, who was standing near the wassail bowl and looking very rosy-cheeked and red-nosed.

In fact, it took him a moment to focus on her, but when he did, he smiled. “
Alainn, alainn,
Eireanne. There you are, then!” he said, and wrapped a heavy arm around her shoulders. “Where did you get off to?”

Eireanne’s cheeks flamed as the image of Henry and his deep brown eyes gazing at her with all that desire blazed in her mind’s eye. “What has happened?” she asked again.

Mr. Hannigan squinted. “I tell you I cannot make up or down of it. Someone found something . . .
odd.
” The emphasis on the word caused Mr. Hannigan to pitch forward a little, but he quickly righted himself.

“
Odd
?
” Eireanne repeated with alarm.

“Not a foot or an arm, if that is what you think,” Mr. Hannigan said, and he laughed jovially, his glassy eyes squinting with delight. “Yet I really cannot say what. If you’d like to know, you best go have a look.”

Eireanne glanced back. Henry was standing at the door, his gaze on her. He smiled softly, as if they shared a secret, and Eireanne’s belly fluttered. She’d been held in thrall on that terrace, had been perfectly content to kiss Henry Bristol until the fear of being accused of indecency and carted off to St. Brendan’s nunnery had stopped her—but then she’d heard the shriek of alarm or delight, and the sudden halt of music. With a wee bit of queasiness, she was reminded of the infamous rabble of a Christmas feast ten years prior, when Davy O’Malley had taken umbrage with Ryan Walsh and a brawl had erupted.

Eireanne smiled at Henry . . . but duty called. She removed Mr. Hannigan’s arm and pushed her way through the crowd, which was difficult to do, as everyone was gathered in the center of the room. When she could not maneuver her way any closer, Eireanne tapped Eugenia Tate on her shoulder. The mother of eight whirled around, her eyes shining with excitement.

“What is it? What has been found?” Eireanne asked.

“A
letter,
” Eugenia said and grasped Eireanne’s wrist. “Mrs. Hannigan found it just there, as if someone who had been dancing dropped it.”

“A letter?” Eireanne repeated. This commotion was all for a
letter?
She glanced over her shoulder again, but she could not see Henry for all the gentlemen who had closed in behind her, craning their necks to see what was happening.

“It has no seal!” Eugenia said excitedly.

“No?” Eireanne said and stubbornly pushed closer, until she could see Molly Hannigan, who was, naturally, in the middle of the excitement, holding the supposed letter up over her head as if keeping it from leaping children. “Please, do be quiet!” Molly called out. “This letter is of a very
personal
nature!”

“Intended for whom?” Keira inquired, looking confused.

“I cannot say. There is no seal, there is no
address,
” Molly said, her voice full of intrigue.

“Give it over,” Declan demanded, holding out his hand. Molly hesitated. Declan arched a brow, and Molly very reluctantly put it into his outstretched palm.

Declan turned it over and frowned. “We’d all avoid a lot of trouble and hysteria if we took the time to properly address and seal our letters, aye?”

“For heaven’s sake, what does it say?” Grandmamma asked.

“Darling,” Keira said, and smiled at her husband in a way that Eireanne had noticed could entice Declan to anything. Even now, he sighed as if he knew he was beaten, and opened the letter to read it. His frown deepened. When he finished, he quickly folded it up. “Well then,” he said. “Nothing to give concern. What has happened to the music?” he said, and gestured to the fiddle player, who dutifully picked up his bow.

“No!” Mrs. Hannigan cried, and the fiddler froze, looking to Declan. “You cannot leave us in suspense,” Mrs. Hannigan insisted, and a chorus of agreement accompanied her.

Declan pressed his lips together and looked at Keira. She gave him a hapless shrug. Declan’s eyes narrowed, and he thrust the letter toward her.

Keira’s smile deepened. “Thank you,” she said sweetly and read the letter herself. “Oh
my
.”

“For heaven’s sake, do not toy with your guests, darling,” Mrs. Hannigan warned her daughter. “What does it say?”

“It is a
love
letter!” Keira announced. She might as well have said it was full of dirty treason, for the ladies gasped and the gentlemen frowned accusingly at each other.

“A love letter!” Molly cried with glee. “For whom? There must be
some
indication?”

“There is none,” Keira said, turning the vellum over. “It does not say for whom these sentiments were intended, and neither is it signed. It’s almost as if the writer had not finished the letter.”

“Let us see!” Mabe insisted, clambering to see it, but Keira held it away from her. “Come now, Keira!” Mabe complained. “We must know who wrote it!”

“But how can we know?” Keira asked laughingly. “It is unsigned.”

“I know!” Mrs. Hart said loudly and raised her thick arm. “We will have all the gentlemen write a sentence from the letter, then compare it to the penmanship in the letter.”

“Why do you assume a gentleman wrote this?” Keira asked.

“Of course a gentleman penned it,” Molly said. “What lass in this county would have the courage to send it? We should do as Mrs. Hart suggests,” she said eagerly.

“We shall
not,
” Declan said. “Whoever penned that letter did not intend to be publicly tried for it. For all that is good and holy, put the thing into the fire and let us return to our celebration.”

But no one paid Declan the slightest heed—they were far too interested in the letter. “Read it!” some gentleman bellowed.

When Eireanne looked around to see who had shouted, she caught sight of Henry. He smiled playfully, slyly pointed to her and waggled his brows, as if to suggest she had written it. She laughed and shook her head, then pointed at him. Henry pretended to consider it, then nodded, bowed low, and peeked up, grinning.

“Aye, aye,
read
it,” another man brayed.

“Shall I?” Keira asked coyly, and the almost thirty souls shouted at her that she must.

“All right, all right,” she said laughingly.

“Keira,” Declan started, but Grandmamma was quick to shush him, and he clamped his jaw shut and looked toward the ceiling in what Eireanne knew to be an act of supreme control.

With a giggle of delight, and a dramatic clearing of her throat, Keira read, “ ‘My love,’ ” and the guests twittered and fussed like a flock of birds.

“ ‘Where shall I begin?’ ” she read.

“At the beginning,” one stubborn male voice called out, and while a few gentlemen laughed, the ladies hissed at the man to be quiet.

Keira continued, “ ‘I suffer. I suffer the misery of keeping my affections secret, and my misery knows no end. When I see you, my heart fills my chest and my throat. I cannot speak for fear of confessing my true feelings, yet I must keep my countenance plain so that no one suspects. I see you laugh with gentlemen, and my heart constricts so tightly I cannot find my breath. I suffer.’ ”

“He will not suffer long with a heart so weak.” Eireanne started; Henry had snuck up behind her. “Would you not agree?” he asked softly.

Eireanne smiled. “I cannot fault his effort, but he might have explained why he must keep his countenance plain,” she whispered.

“Good point,” Henry agreed.

“Perhaps the author of this letter is married,”
Mr. Cahill suggested idly, saying aloud what several in the room were surely thinking.

“Heavens, Mr. Cahill!” Molly exclaimed. “I should think not!”

Mr. Cahill shrugged indifferently.

“Perhaps the
receiver
of the letter is married,” Mr. O’Shay countered.

“Good Lord, that is even worse,” Mabe scolded him.

“There is more,” Keira said, and the women shushed the men to hear it. “ ‘I pass the windows hoping to catch a glimpse of you on your morning walk, and I am filled with anxiety until I see you,’ ” Keira continued. “ ‘Yet once my eyes have seen the beauty that is you, only then may I rest and return to the day’s duties.’ ”

“
Dia,
” Declan muttered.

“We shall solve this straightaway,” Grandmamma said. “Who among us has a morning walkabout?” she asked, and raised her hand.

Almost every woman in the room raised her hand as well, and Grandmamma looked perturbed by the show of hands. “That will not do,” she said. “Surely someone knows—”

“Let us hear the letter!” someone boldly called from the back of the room, and Grandmamma gasped at the effrontery to keep her from speaking.

Keira cleared her throat once more, drawing all attention back to her.  “ ‘I long to tell you that I have fallen very much in love,’ ” she read. “ ‘Yet I cannot think how I shall relay to you my esteem without consequence. I suffer.’ ” She lowered the vellum.

No one spoke for a moment. Some ladies gazed wistfully at Keira. Many guests peered suspiciously at whoever happened to be in their line of sight.

“Look at the gentlemen in this room,” Henry whispered to Eireanne. “Some of them clearly do not comprehend why the ladies gaze at them so, and others clearly do not wish for any gaze to be turned to them.”

Eireanne stifled a giggle. “Still others seem confused as to what all the suffering is about.”

“All right, all right,” Declan said testily. “You’ve had your reading. Now then, shall we return to a happy Christmas?” He nodded at the fiddler, who instantly began to play. Declan took the letter from Keira and put it away in his coat pocket.

“So, then,” Henry said. “For whom do you think the letter was intended?”

“Mabe,” Eireanne said instantly. “It seems to me that is something Mr. Canavan would do to create intrigue, and he is clearly smitten with her.”

“Oh?” Henry asked, offering her his arm. “Rumor has it he is smitten with you.”

“
Ach,
a lot of nonsense, that is,” Eireanne insisted. “Molly and Mabe know my predicament, aye? They don’t want me to feel left out, I think. I have become their personal mission.”

“You need no help,” Henry said firmly. “I have another theory.”

“Do you?”

“Molly or Mabe wrote it.”

Eireanne laughed.

He arched his brows. “What do you find so amusing? Do you think them above scandal?”

“If I did, I should be the only one in all of Ireland who believed it.”

He laughed. “If you will not at least consider the possibility that they wrote it, I must consider the possibility that perhaps
you
wrote it.”

Eireanne snorted. “A woman did not write that letter. Perhaps
you
wrote it.”

She expected him to laugh, but Henry surprised her. His gaze dipped to her lips. “Would that I had.”

His words caused a rush of blood to her heart. Henry suddenly looked to the dance floor, his charming countenance returned. “Now then, if you wish to be entirely amused, you should accept my offer to dance.”

“
That,
sir, is a proper diversion,” she said.

They danced a jig, with Henry doing his best to keep up, and Eireanne unable to control her laughter. But when the dance ended, she was swept away by Keira and put to the task of keeping Ryan Walsh company.

She didn’t see much more of Henry that night, but when the guests left, and the chairs were righted and the cups picked up, she retired with the memory of that surprising, delicious kiss to keep her company in her dreams.

Chapter Seven

Because her thoughts were filled with Henry, Eireanne forgot about the letter entirely until she joined Declan and all the Hannigans for breakfast the next morning. The Hannigan women could speak of nothing but.

“I don’t know why you give it so much thought,” Mr. Hannigan said gruffly. He looked, Eireanne thought, a little green around the edges. “The bloody thing was entirely overwrought.”

“It was charming, Pappa,” Keira argued.

“
Charming
.” Declan snorted. Disdainfully.

“Charming or not, the question remains, who was it intended for?” Molly asked and looked down the table to Eireanne, who was helping herself to eggs.

Eireanne paused. “Why are you looking at me?” she asked self-consciously. “It was not intended for me.”

“How can you be so certain?” Mabe asked.

“For many reasons,” she said calmly and put down her fork. She was accustomed to Molly and Mabe—when they latched onto an idea, it would take a thunderbolt from the heavens to knock it loose. “To begin, I have been away. Secondly, I am not the most eligible woman in Galway, and in fact, some may argue, the least eligible—”

“Surely now that Declan has married, he no longer taints you,” Keira said hopefully.

“
Taint
her?” Declan echoed with a withering look for his wife. “That seems rather harsh.”

“Don’t sulk—we are among family here, and we all know it is true.”

“Is that so?” Declan drawled, looking at his wife. “It would seem to me that if anyone has done any tainting here, it would be
you,
my sweet.”

“Aye, I have tainted!” Keira pertly conceded. “I am not the least bit afraid to own to my mistakes.”

“Please,” Molly said, casting a look of exasperation at her older sister. “We were speaking of Eireanne and not your astonishing love affair with Donnelly.”

“And I was saying the letter was not intended for me,” Eireanne said quickly. “It was more likely intended for one of you.”

“Oh no, no,” Molly and Mabe said in unison, and Molly added, “have you not seen how Mr. Canavan gazes at you? I think he wrote it.”

“I have never seen Mr. Canavan so much as glance in my direction,” Eireanne said.

“That’s because he is afraid of showing his true feelings,” Mrs. Hannigan said and laughed.

“There, you see? He has not suffered in showing his true feelings for Mabe.”

“That letter was not for me!” Mabe said, rather emphatically.

“Look here,” Declan said, standing up. “We will never know the truth, will we? So it seems that all this nattering on about it is wasted effort.” He moved around the table to Keira, leaned down, and kissed her. “Good day,” he said and strode out.

Eireanne stood, too.

“Where are you off to?” Molly demanded. “We are discussing the letter.”

Did the Hannigans never go home? Eireanne smiled. She would not dream of telling them that she would ride with Henry today. She could well imagine what scandal they would make of it. “I have grown weary of the
letter,
” she said dramatically, and laughed at their protests as she went out.

Likewise, Henry had forgotten about the letter; his thoughts that winter day were very single-minded, and they were all about Erin. The day was brilliant, awash in sun and a temperate air, with a few fat clouds meandering across a blue sky.

Henry had saddled his favorite horse in the Ballynaheath stables, and he understood from a young groom that Erin preferred a feisty little mare with a glossy black coat. He had just saddled the mare when Erin appeared at the entrance to the stables, wearing a form-fitting dark brown riding habit and a hat that was perched jauntily on her head.

She stood a moment peering around the stables, but the moment she saw him, her face lit into a glorious smile. That smile sank deep into Henry. He bowed. “Your mount, mademoiselle.”

“Fianna!”
she cried and stroked the horse’s nose. The horse nudged Erin, pushing her back.

“And a happy fianna to you,” Henry said.

Erin giggled. “That is her name. Oh, I have missed you,” she said to the horse, nuzzling her neck. “I haven’t been on her back in months. I hope someone has ridden her. She likes to run, and she can become cross if she’s not allowed to.”

“Then we will allow it.”

They led the horses out of the stable. Henry cupped his hands for Erin, and she sprang up onto the sidesaddle as if she’d done it many times before. “Oh my,” she said, looking back at his mount. “You will ride Daigh?”

Henry looked at the stallion. It was a beautiful, strong horse.

“His name means ‘fire,’ ” Erin said and laughed.

That prompted Henry to grin up at her. “I am beginning to understand that you and your brother believe if one is not Irish, one cannot ride a horse properly.”

“Well,” she said with a playful shrug, “I’ve not seen anyone ride quite like an Irishman.”

“Is that so,” he said dryly, and swung up on his mount. “Shall we determine today who is the better rider?”

Erin’s smile brightened. “I am certainly up to the challenge if you are, sir.” She reined her horse around. “Do you intend to stand about admiring yourself all afternoon, or shall we ride?”

He grinned. “After you, Miss O’Conner.”

They rode out of the gate and down the forest path on which they’d walked a few days earlier. But when the landscape opened to the moors, swept clean of vegetation by the winds from the sea, the horses seemed grateful to stretch their legs and pranced alongside each other. Henry glanced toward the sea. He intended to make some astoundingly witty remark and laugh with Erin, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw her fly past him. She was bent over the neck of the mare, her riding habit flying out behind her, her hat lost.

Henry’s heart surged. He dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks, asking it to catch the little mare. But Erin was a fine rider and veered sharply into his path, forcing the stallion out wide. He laughed and spurred the horse again. They raced neck and neck across the moor. Henry gained on her, and when the mare began to tire, he urged one more burst of speed from the stallion and pulled ahead of Erin. Still grinning, he wheeled his horse about, doffed his hat, and bowed over the neck of his mount.

Erin laughed. “You had me at a distinct disadvantage, a mare to a stallion!”

“I saw no disadvantage, miss.”

“Put me on the back of a stallion and I shall give you a proper race, sir.”

He laughed and touched her shoulder with the tip of his crop. “I have no doubt that you would, and that you would win.”

They talked about horses as they rode along the open moors with the vista of the sea beside them. The scenery was quite spectacular, Henry thought. New York had its own beauty, but the coastline of Ireland was something to behold.

It was made all the more beautiful by Erin O’Conner. The brisk air had given her a glow. She chatted easily, pointing out landmarks to him, and instructing him as to the history of Galway and Ballynaheath, from which her ancestors had hailed for centuries.

They reached another copse of trees that marked the start of a trail leading down to the water’s edge.

“Is it safe?” Henry asked.

“Of course! It’s one of the few places one might access the water,” she said and led him down the path. Their pace slowed on the beach. The air was brisker here, and the beach short and rocky. They paused to look out at the sea.

“When I was a boy,” Henry said, “I wanted to be a sailor. I had this idea that I would take my dogs and horses and sail round the world.”

“A grand ambition,” Erin agreed. “I always thought I should like to have an orphanage.”

“An orphanage,” he repeated.

“Aye,” she said. “They would all be my friends and they would never eat gruel again. I reckoned Ballynaheath large enough. But Grandmamma would not allow it.”

“You may realize your dream yet,” Henry said. “Ballynaheath is big enough for several orphanages, I should think.”

“And you and your dogs could hunt turkeys for us,” Erin suggested.

He laughed. “I will agree to it straightaway, as it is quite apparent I shall never be a sailor.” He gestured to the sea, recalling his misery. “I dread the day that comes when I must put myself on a ship and cross again. How strange that the waves can seem so soothing when one is on land, but so treacherous when one is upon them.”

Erin didn’t speak; she kept her gaze on the sea.

Henry regretted speaking of it—the reminder that he would be leaving seemed to suddenly dampen the mood of this perfect afternoon. Every time he was with her, Henry could see even more clearly how unique Erin was. He would never forget her. But he was painfully aware that there could be nothing more than a friendship between them. Ireland was her home, the place she desired to be. She had told him that, and he could see the love she held for her family and Ballynaheath. He loved his family, and they depended on him to manage the family farm.

Henry had come to Ireland to learn about breeding exceptional horses, not to have a love affair. Nevertheless, he wanted to believe that he could return here from time to time to see Erin. But then he glanced at the sea moving before him and was reminded of his debilitating seasickness.

The tide was beginning to come in, and Erin suggested they make their way back to the top of the cliffs.

They had just reached the top when Erin glanced back at him, smiling. “Lovely, isn’t it?” she said, and at the same moment the crack of a distant gun echoed across the calm winter day. The sound of it startled her mare; the horse bolted so quickly and so hard that Erin was knocked heel over head from the saddle. She tumbled down in a swirl of dark brown riding habit and hair, landing on the ground beside Henry’s mount.

“Erin!” Henry cried and leaped down to help her.

Erin pushed herself up and stared after her mare, who was racing through the trees. Erin tried to gain her feet, but she stumbled in the attempt, and Henry instantly swept her up into his arms. “Are you hurt?” he demanded.

“Put me down—Fianna is bolting!”

“I won’t put you down until I know you’ve not broken a bone,” he said sternly as he walked to an outcrop of rocks, where he put Erin on the ground. “Have you any pain?”

“Pain?” she repeated, her brow furrowed. “Only in my pride,” she said. “That blasted mare. I had forgotten how skittish she can be.”

Henry put his hands on her ankle and felt gingerly.

“Really, I am really quite all right,” Erin said, but he ignored her and tested her shin, then her knee. Erin gasped softly.

“Is it tender here?”

“No, I . . .”

He glanced up; Erin looked stricken. “I can’t breathe.”

But she was breathing. “Can’t you?” He moved his hand a little higher on her leg. “Perhaps you’ve had the wind knocked from you.”

Erin shook her head and drew a breath. A long tress of her hair fell from its coif and draped itself across her bosom.

He paused, his hand on her leg. “Erin?”

She looked at his hand on her leg, then at him again, and Henry felt that same sort of jolt he’d felt last night when he’d touched her, the thrum of a powerful current running between them. His body responded to that current, almost without thought. In a moment, his arms were around her, her mouth was on his. Desire had erupted in a conflagration, burning through him. Henry wanted to touch every inch of her with his mouth and his hands, and he didn’t give a damn that they were there in the open, with the sound of the sea crashing against the cliffs at his back, his horse God knew where.

Henry moved his hands to her bosom, cupping her breasts through the fabric of her clothing. A sigh of longing escaped her, and Henry moved his mouth to her cheek, to her neck, as he worked the tiny buttons of her riding habit, then filled his hand again with her breast as his tongue filled her mouth.

Erin was an eager participant, much to his great pleasure. Her hands found his neck and shoulders, then slipped inside his coat, untying his neckcloth, undoing the buttons of his waistcoat.

Henry couldn’t help himself—he grabbed the hem of her gown, his hand seeking bare skin. He moved his hand up, pressing and kneading in rhythm with his seeking mouth. He eased her back onto a smooth plane of rock. Then he moved to her breast, freeing it from the blouse she’d worn beneath her coat and taking it into his mouth.

Erin gasped. She pushed against his erection, moving against him so tantalizingly that it was almost unbearable for him. He slipped his hand deeper beneath her skirts, to the juncture of her thighs, and with his fingers, he sank into the damp heat between them, sliding deeper still.

With a groan, Erin arched her back, shifting so that he could explore her. Henry was desperate to oblige her, and stroked and suckled until Erin began to writhe beneath him. She hooked a leg around him, and her arms splayed on the rocks beside her as he stroked her to fulfillment. She cried out softly as she fell away, her hands sinking into his hair, holding his head to her breast, arching against him, and making that sound of utter pleasure that all combined to drive him to the brink of madness.