The Shadows (15 page)

“How involved are you, lass?”

“Involved? Involved in what?”

“The Fenian Brotherhood.”

“Why, not at all. It’s a club for men. That’s why they call it the ‘Brotherhood.’”

“What else do you know of it?”

“If you have questions about the Fenians, you should ask Patrick. Though I don’t guess they’d have you as a member either, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“They only want rich men, is that it?”

The way he was looking at me . . . I thought of yesterday, how I’d been pressed against him and then how he’d stared at me in my dream, and I wished he would leave. I said meanly, “They want heroes, not stableboys.”

But he didn’t even react. He just kept looking at me as if he couldn’t look away. “What has Devlin told you, lass? What are their plans?”

“Why would he share them with me?”

“Because you’re to be his wife.”

“That’s not . . . yes. Perhaps.” It flustered me that he’d said it. That he knew it. “It’s not settled yet.”

“So still time to back out?”

“Why would I want to back out?”

“You’re young yet to bind yourself.”

“I’ll be seventeen in twelve days. Which is
not
too young to be married, not that it’s any of your concern. And if I have to marry, then why not Patrick? He loves me. He
knows
me.”

“You have to marry?”

And I felt this urge to tell him all of it, as if he would understand, as if he always had.
Always?

“What makes you so sure he knows you?” he asked intently, stepping toward me.

He was too close. He was solid and stunning and I wished he would touch me, and that thought shocked me so much I said forcefully, “Why are you asking me these things? My life has nothing to do with you.”

He went still. I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “You know, you remind me of someone. Someone I lived near in . . . I guess ’twould be County Kildare now.”

“My family is from Allen.”

“Ah. Perhaps a relation then.”

“Perhaps. My grandmother once said we were related to nearly everyone there.”

I waited for him to say something else, but he only gave me a look that made me want to look away.

“Thank you for returning the book,” I said carefully, stepping back. “Now I think you should leave. I’ve things to do, and I can’t believe the Devlins would appreciate you being here instead of in their stables.”

He started. “Aye. I should go. Stables to muck, girls to twist about.”

I couldn’t help smiling.

“You should smile more often, you know.”

Then he turned on his heel, and was gone.

Dinner was intimate: Patrick and his family, me and mine. Mama had asked a neighbor to watch over Grandma, so she and Aidan were both here, and even the fact that Aidan reached far too often for the wine couldn’t mar my happiness.

“Have you decided on the venue for Grace’s debut?” Mrs. Devlin asked my mother.

Mama said, “Oh, I think someplace small.”

“Small!”

“Grace needn’t have a large one, Mama, if she’s already got a beau,” Lucy put in.

Patrick smiled warmly at me. “I agree with Lucy. It should be small.”

“In any case, I’d thought a violinist enough music,” Mama said.

“There must be room for dancing,” Aidan said, taking another sip of his wine. “Or no one’ll come.”

Mama said firmly, “Small is better.”

I glared at my brother, who seemed oblivious to what my mother wasn’t saying—that small was all we could afford, even with Mrs. Needham’s
kind
support.

Lucy said, “Half the boys we know are terrible dancers anyway. They’d ruin Grace’s toes before the night is out.”

“My dear,” Mrs. Devlin murmured.

“Well, it’s true. And I don’t know why a debut should matter so much. Wouldn’t we all be better off if we didn’t display ourselves like so much . . . horseflesh?”

I stared at Lucy in amazement. She’d spent the years leading up to her debut going through every
Godey’s Lady’s Book
, debating the cut and color and embellishment of her gown, worrying over what flowers should decorate the tables and where the candles should be placed to show her blond hair to its best advantage. I had never known anyone who cared so much for debuts as Lucy Devlin.

“It’s all so old-fashioned, don’t you think?” Lucy went on relentlessly. “We should be free to choose a husband from the whole world instead of those few who deign to answer an invitation.”

Now I understood. It was about Derry, of course. I opened my mouth to make some comment about horseflesh and stableboys. Then I remembered how I’d felt standing so close to him in my kitchen, and I let the words die on my tongue. I hadn’t told her about his visit, and I didn’t intend to. She would think only the worst—of me, not of him.

Patrick threw his napkin aside and rose. “Mama, Mrs. Knox, if you don’t mind, I thought I’d take the opportunity to show Grace the collection.” He looked at me. “That Celtic horse you mentioned.”

I’d mentioned nothing of the kind, but gratefully I pushed
aside my thoughts of Derry. “Oh yes. I’m eager to see it. Mama, do say yes.”

“We’ll just be down the hall,” Patrick added.

Mrs. Devlin said, “Patrick’s obsession—and his father’s. I vow those relics consumed Michael’s every waking moment. You must not encourage Patrick, Grace.”

“I only want to show them to her,” Patrick said, laughing.

Lucy said wryly, “Shall I chaperone?”

I flashed her a glare, which she ignored, and then I looked pleadingly at my mother, who said, “No need, I think, if it’s just down the hall. I do hope I’m not making a mistake in trusting you, sir.”

Patrick pressed his hand to his chest. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

He took my hand, tucking it into the crook of his arm as he led me out of the dining room.

His warm breath tickled my ear as he whispered, “I thought we should never escape.”

“You mean you haven’t a Celtic horse to show me?” I teased.

“I’ve something better,” he said, taking me into the study. Once we were there, he started to close the door, and then he left it ajar. “Perhaps we shouldn’t give them reason to think poorly of us. Though if it were up to me, I’d lock it tight—Ah, what’s this? Don’t tell me I’ve made you blush.”

There was no point in denying it.

“Who knew that Grace Knox could go so pink?”

“If you tell anyone, I’ll murder you in your bed.”

“I wouldn’t dare. Especially because I can think of a few things I’d rather you do there.”

I had walked right into it. Now my face felt on fire. I looked away, and then his fingers were at my jaw, forcing me to look at him, and his expression was so full of longing, the heat in my cheeks spread to the rest of me. He bent to kiss me, and again I shivered as his lips touched mine; again I wanted to pull him so close he couldn’t escape.

His mouth moved to my jaw. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t tease. It’s only that I’d despaired you would ever think of me as anything more than a friend.”

“You know I do,” I said, marveling at the truth of it. “But I think friendships, too, are important, don’t you? I would hate to be the kind of wife who plays no part in her husband’s real life.”

He drew away. “His real life?”

I wished I’d said nothing; I wanted him to go on kissing me. But he was looking at me in a way that made me want to answer honestly. “I would want to know how he feels about things. What he thinks of the world. What his passions are.”

“It’s what I want as well.” He released me. “Now look about you, and you can readily see what my passions are.”

The study had been his father’s, and I had been in it as a child. It seemed much the same, dark with leather and the smell of tobacco and old wood; there were piles of books lying about, which had not been true when his father was still alive. At one end was a fireplace of cherry and black marble, flanked by fat leather chairs and solid tables with clawed feet.
The curtains—deep-brown velvet with heavy tassels—were drawn back from windows that let in the evening, and the brass gas sconces glowed warmly. The room was welcoming and comfortable; I felt at home in it, even though it was purely a man’s room.

A large desk was at the other end, and beside it were the display cases—at least four, and above them box frames, each holding a piece of Celtic antiquity. One held a hammered bronze mask, another a silver torc—a crescent-shaped necklace—with a bull’s head decorating each end. There was a small stone relief carved with the goddess Brigid, showing her trinity: maiden, matron, and crone. Beside it was an illustration of the Morrigan, the Irish goddess of war. Like Brigid, the red-haired Morrigan had been depicted in her three aspects. She was the Morrigan, but she was also Badb the battle crow; Nemain the Venomous, the inciter of frenzy; and Macha the Hateful, the collector of souls. There were ravens perched on her shoulders and severed heads, death and destruction all around her—

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Patrick had come up behind me. He leaned over my shoulder, pointing at the picture, so close I felt his warmth and smelled his clean, citrusy cologne.

“Beautiful and terrible,” I said.

“See the severed heads? The Celts believed the soul resided in the head, and so taking the head of an enemy not only gave them power, but kept that soul from reaching the Otherworld.”

I shivered. “What did they do with the heads?”

“Displayed them on stakes, mostly. As warnings to their other enemies.” His voice lowered. “Sometimes I dream about the Morrigan.”

I turned to him. “So do I! Terrible dreams. Lately quite often, nearly every night. I think it might be because my grandmother—” I broke off the moment I realized what I’d almost said.

“Your grandmother?” he prompted. “I heard she wasn’t well.”

“Yes. She’s . . . she’s quite ill.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

I saw the compassion in his eyes, and I wanted to tell him about her madness.
And if you do, it will ruin everything.
“Oh, let’s not talk of this now. What did you want to show me?”

“All of it. Everything I am. Some of these things have been in my family for generations.” He touched a bronze statuette resting on the top of the case. “This is the horse I told you about. And there, inside, see the serpent bracelet? It’s perfectly wrought, even for how primitive it is. And that raven statue too.” He smiled ruefully at me. “Though I wouldn’t want to see it in my dreams. And this—do you know what this is? I think it might be my favorite.” He pointed to another framed drawing, one different from the rest—not paper or parchment, but what looked like tree bark, very thin and a bit shredded. On it was painted a man with dark hair holding a pile of red berries, which he was offering to a woman who knelt beside him, her blond hair cascading over her shoulders.
The painting was faded and hard to see, bits of the bark missing altogether.

“It’s very old,” Patrick went on. “Do you recognize it?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Should I?”

“It’s your namesake. Grainne. And Diarmid, offering her berries from the magical rowan tree in the forest of Dubros.”

“Oh.” I caught my breath. “Oh yes, of course.”

Patrick’s gaze held me. “Grainne was the daughter of Cormac, the High King of Ireland, and she agreed to marry Finn, the leader of Cormac’s band of elite warriors and bodyguards. But at the great betrothal feast, she became frightened of Finn and so she asked his lieutenant, Ossian, to take her away. He refused. So she went to Diarmid Ua Duibhne, the most handsome of the Fianna. He refused as well. But Diarmid had a gift that had been given to him by one of the children of the
sidhe
, a lovespot that made any woman who saw it fall in love with him.”

I let him tell the story I knew very well—it was one of my favorites. I loved the sound of his voice, the way he looked at me. “The
ball seirce
,” I breathed.

“The
ball seirce.
And even as Diarmid turned Grainne away, she saw it and fell in love with him. Grainne laid a
geis
upon Diarmid that compelled him to take her away from Finn. That night, she put a sleeping potion in the wine of all the warriors but Oscar and Ossian, and with their help, she and Diarmid stole away.

“Finn was furious when he discovered the theft of his betrothed. He followed Diarmid and Grainne zealously, for
years, determined to win her back and destroy the one who had been his friend. Finn sent all manner of magical beings after them. He called on every alliance he had. But Diarmid defeated them all: the three sea-champions and their armies at the hill of Curra Ken Amid, the evil hounds of Slieve Lougher, the giant of Dubros. Ossian and Oscar, troubled by Finn’s temper, did what they could to help Diarmid and Grainne, and sometimes they were aided by Diarmid’s foster father, the love god, Aengus Og.”

Patrick’s voice kept me captive. I’d always dreamed of my own Diarmid, the white knight of my fantasies, who would fall in love with me and spirit me away, braving all threats and evils to be with me. A fantasy, yes, but Grainne
was
my namesake. It was easy to imagine how it had been, how breathless and exciting.