The Spinster and the Earl (12 page)

“Lady O’Brien,” he greeted her. “Just the person I wished to see.”

Her heart did a funny little leap. Despite her anger, he looked dangerously attractive. Noticing how dirty her hands had become reminded her to be careful. He was the enemy, the same despicable rogue who’d tricked her into coming here in the first place.

She wiped her hands on a clean rag. Hands on her hips, she confronted him. “So, my lord, what humble task would you be setting me onto next? Digging a duck pond for your carriages to wash in, I suppose?”

“You’ve done splendid wonders to my silver. A shallow pond to clean carriage wheels would be rather nice. ’Twas not work that I was thinking upon,” he said, eyeing the dirty turban covering her hair and the small brown smudge on the tip of her pert nose. “But rather, my lady, food of the nectar—”

“Now you want me to feed you, as well.” She gasped, ready to throw her dirty rag at that haughty roughhewn face. The bleeding spalpeen!

His grin broadened at her show of shrewish temper. “Nay, nay, you mistake, sweet lady,” he protested, laughing as he put his hands in front of him as if her angry accusations were sharp-edged daggers. “I merely wished for you to join me in the partaking of this hamper.”

He brought forth from behind his back a large wicker basket.

“A lady from the village showed up here about five minutes ago. A Mistress Ryan she said her name was. She’s a tenant of yours, is she not? She asked me if I’d like to share this with you.”

Beatrice’s tightly clenched hands returned to her side. The wonderful smell emitting from the hamper was admittedly heavenly. Her mouth watered and any insane thoughts of refusing were immediately put aside by her stomach’s loud, rumbling acceptance of the invitation.

“Mistress Ryan is my tenant, Your Grace. But I shall do as she suggested and invite you to partake with me this hamper,” she said in her grandest lady of the manor voice, her dirty turban slipping as another errant strand of thick black hair tumbled out, falling over her right eye.

“The pleasure, dear lady, is all mine.”

He bowed, a merry twinkle in his dancing blue eyes. “I’ll meet you by the south portico in, shall we say, half an hour’s time? Thus giving us both ample time to make ourselves um . . . more agreeable.”

She nodded, thinking it would take her at least that long to remove the first layer of heavy soot that covered her face, let alone the rest of her. Hurrying to her chamber, she had a basin of hot water sent up with a bristled pig’s brush.

’Twas delicious to feel the sticky grime wash away with the rough scrub of her serviette. She felt as though quite a bit of the dust covering the castle had found its way onto her. She dreamed of what a luxury it would be to have hot water whenever one pleased. But as it was still day and the servants were all busy with the reparations being made, it would be wrong to request a hip bath.

The chamber that she’d been given was a pleasant one. Whereas most of the castle seemed on the point of moldering away, this part of the keep had miraculously withstood the test of time. It was through Druscilla that she learned the reason why.

Her companion had managed to wheedle her way back into her mistress’s good graces once more by being one of the first servants from Brightwood to volunteer to accompany her ladyship to the castle. She chattered merrily away as she helped her ladyship undo the back of her gown.

“’Tis said to have been the only part of the castle not built on the fairy ford,” the maid gossiped. “And your chamber, my lady, was said to have been once occupied by— oh no, I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“In the name of all the blessed saints, what are you blithering on about? What is it you shouldn’t be telling me?” she demanded.

“Why, what I wanted to say, ma’am, was that . . . well, the rooms used to be one of the late earl’s fancy pieces,” the blatherskite blurted out without any further constraint. Her mistress might be a bit of a hoyden, but she was still the vanithee of Brightwood Manor, a high born lady of one of the few remaining Irish nobility in the Urlingford parish.

“You didna say,” Beatrice whispered with wide, shocked eyes. Her reputation would be in shreds if word leaked out about where she slept. Original or no, she’d not have all and sundry wondering if she was the new earl’s light-skirt.

“Aye, my lady. ’Tis said one of them wicked earls kept his French mistress here,” confided the companion grimly with a sharp nod. Her own innocent, brown eyes gazing warily about as if a sinful orgy were about to unfold on the middle of the bed.

“Musha, if that be so. . . .” blanched Beatrice. “’tis impossible for me to remain here. But where, oh where, shall I move myself to?”

She’d already inspected the other rooms in the castle and greatly despaired of finding a replacement. The only other habitable chamber was near the servants’ quarters and it was even less acceptable for her, being dreadfully dank and a prime spot for catching deadly inflammation of the lung. She shook her head with resignation. She’d have to make do with this room. And to be sure, that didn’t prove to be such a tiresome task.

The chamber had a lovely view of the valley, decorated in graceful Louis XV furniture, one of the few rooms that had any furniture or decorations to speak of. The drapes were in faded shades of light pink with silver and white flowers. It proved to be quite pleasing to the eye, even in its tea-stained appearance. If one of the late earls had kept a mistress here, Beatrice had to admit, the soiled dove had had the good taste of a discerning Beau Brummell.

She gestured to Druscilla to help her into a gown, a resounding gong in the hall warning her that time was slipping by. With the help of her maid, she changed into a green walking gown edged in fine lace.

Short country sleeves and a square bodice made the top half of the simple empire gown, the straight skirt falling down from the waist. Her hair was brushed up and a cascade of black curls framed her face. She draped her favorite long black shawl bordered with military tassels around her shoulders, letting the long fringe dangle becomingly down her back.

Pinching her cheeks for color, she picked up her dark green parasol and hurried out to the south portico terrace.

The earl stood with his feet wide apart, hands on hips, waiting impatiently for her appearance. He had changed into a fresh, white linen shirt and tight leather breeches, clothes that most of the working men laboring on the castle wore. At first glance one could easily have mistaken him to be one of the common laborers from the village. But the arrogant tilt of his head told all that here was the proud lord and master of the castle, the Earl of Drennan.

Unwittingly, she returned the charming smile he gave her in greeting.

He gestured towards where the picnic had been spread on a patch of verdant lawn near the portico wall. Ever the soldier, ex-corporal in arms, Joshua Davis stood to one side vigilantly awaiting his captain’s orders.

The earl handed her down onto a cushion, a large wool blanket spread out beneath her. With a nod to his man, he ordered the food to be served.

The delicacies that the admirable Mistress Ryan created for the hamper melted in Beatrice’s mouth. Ever aware of the lord of the castle’s presence, she glanced at him between bites of succulent shepherd’s pie.

For an Englishman, she had to admit, he was not unpleasant to look upon. The leather breeches molding to his muscular thighs, which required no extra wax padding, bespoke of a man used to physical activity. They may make him into an earl of the realm, but that could not change the fact that here was a man with the soul of a soldier, a leader of men. She had to admit to herself that enticed her.

They talked about the repairs that had been made that day, and to her surprise, she relaxed under his smile. It sent warm flutters through her, as the wall she had carefully built around her heart crumbled a little.

“The south wing where we are now shall be completely redone. ’Tis the part which needs the least attention,” he said, pointing to the area where most of the reparations had already been made. “As for the west wing to our right—”

“The ruins,” she said with a familiar shudder. It was over there that she had seen the old earl on the fateful night that she’d picked up the magic coin.

He nodded, picking up a twig with which to draw a crude map of the castle’s keep. “I shall have to let that part of the castle go.”

He drew an X through it.

“Why?” she whispered, half afraid, wondering if he knew of the leprechaun’s curse upon the castle.

“It’s unstable. We’ve tried rebuilding the walls there, but each time one’s completed, it collapses. The foundation shifts beneath like quicksand. My ancestors should never have built on that part of the hill.”

“Oh.” She breathed, relief flooding her with warmth and confidence. Fleetingly, she looked up at him. Staring at his mouth, she remembered the kisses that they had shared. They had not been such disagreeable experiences. Mayhap, she admitted, they’d been passionately exciting.

“There’s something middling strange about that wing,” he said, bringing forth his lucky piece from his pocket. He began tossing it up and down.

“Strange,” she echoed, staring at the coin as it flipped up, a gleam in the sunlight.

“Aye. Most of the men I’ve hired from the village refuse to go near there. Some superstitious folderol. They say the castle is cursed.” He laughed, thinking of the quaint tale. “By none other than the fairies themselves!”

“But—but ’tis true,” she said, and the minute she heard her own words, she clapped a hand over her mouth.

The gold coin stopped its flight and landed neatly into the palm of his hand. He turned and looked at her as if she’d been senselessly struck by a stray moonbeam.

A tinge of color pinkened her cheeks. Merciful hour, how was she to set about explaining that? She lowered her lashes over her eyes, not able to meet his penetrating blue stare.

He placed a hand beneath her chin and forced her to look into his eyes.

She trembled, her heart thumping loudly in panicked fear. The moment to confess about the cursed night she’d picked up the magic coin was now upon her. What was she to say? How could she tell him of the curse?

A little figure dressed all in black appeared ominously at the top of the stairs leading down to the portico lawn. Startled, they both turned to see the tiny black apparition approach them.

A woman’s voice boomed out, “What the devil do y’think you’re about? Take your hands off m’niece, or by the Holy Mother of God, I’ll have ye up before a priest!”

Beatrice paled and softly groaned. She closed her eyes, trying to will the black apparition to disappear.

“What is it?” whispered the earl.

“Mavrone, ’tis she . . . Herself, my aunt and godmother, Lady Agnes Fitzpatrick,” she said with an unfamiliar hiccup of dismay. She watched the tiny vision charge down the stairs, long dark wisps of black silk and lace flying upwards like the wings of a small invading bat.

The little woman dressed in widow’s weeds was none other than her father’s eldest sister, the widow of one of Ireland’s most famed sea captains, Lady Agnes Fitzpatrick. She was the only person in all of Ireland who could force Beatrice to behave like a proper young lady and settle down.

“She’s—she’s your aunt?” the earl asked hollowly with relief. For half a moment, he’d thought she was one of the wee folk come to prove him wrong, and to rain vile curses down upon his head for doubting in their existence.

Unnerved, he stood to meet the much feared lady in black.

“Aunt Agnes,” she said, taking a deep breath, “May I present to you the Earl of Drennan . . .”

“I know who he is, Bea’,” said the formidable lady, cutting short the introductions. “You are the English lord my brother has given permission to court my niece.” She sternly eyed James as he bowed over her hand.

“My brother informs me that you served in the Infantry in Spain, instead of the Royal Navy, Your Grace?”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Indeed . . . I shall overlook the mistake for my niece’s sake.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said James smiling, equitably regaining his composure.

“Aye, it is,” replied Agnes, touching a locket that contained a miniature portrait of her missing husband. “For no finer men exist than those who serve his majesty on the open seas. Now, Beatrice, I’m dreadfully tired from my journey and would like to rest. Please take me in.”

“Of course, Aunt Agnes,” demurred the niece, while mentally wishing her interfering relative anywhere but there.

“’Tis a fine tick mattress this be,” said the tiny black figure sitting on the end of a four-poster bed. Aunt Agnes moved her widow’s weeds out of her face and smiled at her niece as she tested the tick beneath her with one firm push of a small plump hand.

“I’ll take this room, Bea’ darling. It suits me fine,” she said. “That is, of course, if it be agreeable with you, dear.”

“As you wish, Auntie. Though, ’tis really none of my concern. For sure now, I’m only a guest here m’self,” demurred Beatrice, not wishing to argue with the tiny whirlwind, knowing full well that if she had said she wanted the room for herself, her aunt would summon her at unseemly hours of the night. And when she did, the tiny lady would sound a wee bit like Goldilocks trying to find the right bed.

She could hear her say in that sweet voice of hers, “Beatrice darlin’, would ye mind getting a heavier coverlet for your aged aunt? M’bones are chilled.” Or, “Bea’, sorry to be making such a sorrowful nuisance of m’self. But would ye kindly fetch some planks? Me back’s achin’ again.” And so forth all night, until she finally handed over the desired bed to the headstrong, diminutive lady.

Nay, she best try and save herself late evening trips down the hall by giving her aunt her own bedchamber, a good night’s rest being more precious to her than a comfortable bed.

“Auntie dear, would you care to sleep in my room? I’m certain it’ll be more comfortable for you than this small chamber.”

“Nay,” spat the tiny lady. “Tested it already. That bed of yours be made for a pair of soft-bodied lovers. Not a tall fit for a wizened old dwarf such as m’self, darlin’.”