A Love by Any Measure (2 page)

He sat back and gave a low chuckle.

“You are not in a position to negotiate,” he said, a bit of taunt in his timbre. He eyed her from tip to toe, looking for jest. “Amuse me.”

“Bread,” she said simply. “Two loaves for each night you require me.”

“Why on earth would you need bread?”

“I’ve told my father that our agreement is for me to bake your bread in exchange for rent,” Maeve explained. “He has asked me to make a few extra loaves for our own table.”

“And he believed you?”

The smirk across his face suggested amusement. Saying it aloud, she realized how silly an attempt to cover up her true activities it really was.

“It seems outlandish,” she admitted, allowing herself to smile for a moment before the crushing guilt overtook her, “but he’s never had any reason to doubt me. Until now.”

The smirk that flitted across his face took her back a decade, to a time when their kinship had included summer secrets and stolen hours. He had worn that same expression then, a seal that their confidences would not be betrayed.

He leaned over so that a hand anchored on each armrest, left and right, effectively caging her. Intimately close, his head hovered mere inches from hers, a hint of brandy floating in the air between them. Maeve’s pulse tried to warn her that her body’s attempt to again overrule her better senses.

The corner of his mouth twitched again, his gaze falling to her lips.

“Agreed.” He pulled back, standing erect, before turning away. “You owe me ten seconds. Let’s to it.”

Maeve briskly bobbed her head. Crossing the room, he stopped in front of the clock and pointed at a spot on the floor.

“Stand here, if you please.”

Maeve did not please, but of course she had no choice. She wondered how she would be able to make out the ticking of the clock above the overpowering cacophony of her pulse. Squaring herself in front of the clock, as requested, she focused everything save the tick, tock, tick, tock out of her existence.

“One more thing, Miss O’Connor,” he said. “We are here by agreement. I never want you to forget, you are standing in my room right now because you chose to be here.”

As if this were my idea! she thought. She opened her mouth to scream unholy words at him, as if he was the devil himself reminding her that the sin she was committing was not his doing. The moment her mouth opened, however, the back of his hand stroked gently down her cheek, causing her body — and her tongue — to freeze.

One … Two …

He leaned in closely as his lips brushed against her chin.

Three … Four …

His gentle hands cupped either side of her face and tilted her head to the right. His lips drew near, his eyes fixated on Maeve’s mouth. The pathway he would take was made clear.

Five …

Grayson’s lips met hers gently, then firmly. She melted against him, her body again overruling her conviction as she parted her lips, allowing him to mold them beneath his however he saw fit.

Six … Seven …

Her hands drew upward, wanting to cup his cheek or find anchor on his shoulders. They wanted to touch him, somehow, somewhere, but she would not let them. They lingered instead, grasping fruitlessly in the air. He turned his head slightly and circled his arms around her, pulling Maeve hard against his chest.

Eight … Nine …

His tongue licked her bottom lip and then pushed through, tickling hers delicately. Maeve’s hands took advantage of a wave of confusion running through her body, and her fingers threaded through his midnight black hair.

Ten.

He planted one more light kiss on her mouth and turned away, leaving Maeve breathless, flushed, and wanton.

“That’s enough for tonight, Miss O’Connor.”

He wouldn’t turn to look at Maeve as she stood gasping for breath, her arms still held out before her. In the emptiness of his embrace, guilt enveloped her. This man was nothing to her, and yet he had the power to make her body betray the sanctity of her soul. He was a demon, a selfish, heartless, soulless cur who abused his power as the holder of her lease.

Maeve made a firm decision; this had been a mistake. She would not come to the manor again. She would not give Grayson the pleasure.

And she would deny him hers.

“Good evening, I said, Miss O’Connor,” he growled out, peering out the window. The finality of his tone told Maeve he would offer no other opportunity to leave peaceably. She huffed across the room, snatched her cloak from the chair and lantern from the mantel, and stormed out and up the lane.

A half mile later, Maeve nearly slapped herself for her folly. She had neglected to obtain the bread. Rory would know that she had lied in the morning. Maybe she should tell him, anyway. He should know that she made her best effort, but the price Grayson had asked proved too high. He would forgive her, or he wouldn’t, but Rory O’Connor would understand that Maeve’s intent had at least been pure: she did it for him.

She settled into bed as rain drops began to pluck at the window. The ping of the water, of its splash and slosh, made her recall the feel of his lips sliding over hers and the gentleness of his hands on her cheek.

She cursed him from dusk till dawn, waiting for her morning of reckoning. Once, perhaps, they had been closer than peas in a pod, friends thicker than thieves. And now, he was so handsome, so powerful … so tempting. Could she ever learn to deny the want of him, the yearning to again be a friend, and perhaps more, in his eyes?

A small part of her wondered likewise if Owen Murphy’s kisses would prove as incinerating. Could he, with one deep kiss, steal her breath the way that Grayson had? Even in her innocence, she already knew the answer.

Yet, she had been taken in by Grayson’s affections before, only to be spurned. A lesson taught was a lesson learned, and she refused to be made a fool again. She knew precisely the cut of his cloak. Men like August Grayson thought of women like her no better than the sheep that roamed his pastures. What knew he of humility and poverty? What knew he of the true worth of an Irishman?

And what knew he of love?

The Irish Question

Norwich, England, 1854

August knew he would get more than a tongue lashing from his father if he was caught out of bed this late, but he couldn’t help his curiosity. His parent’s guest, Sir Edmund Hobbs, was an infamous personage. Even a child such as August knew of his reputation as “The English Bulldog,” though beyond that moniker, the young Master Grayson knew little.

Hobbs had dined with Lord and Lady Grayson that evening. If there was one thing August had understood without having to be told, it was how on edge his mother was over the possibility of losing her temper with their guest. It was one of the weaknesses she carried still from her roots in Ireland; she couldn’t help but turn the brightest shade of red whenever someone — usually Emmanuel — got her ire up. Lately, she’d been wearing the shade as frequently as this season’s hat.

August perched himself at the top of the stairs, concealed in shadows, so he could see in to the sitting room and pick up threads of the adults’ conversation. The flicker of fire from the hearth lit his father’s sullen features in a way that made August’s heart beat faster in fear. His mother, Eliza, sat on the mauve sofa, the needlework in her lap the focus of her labor — a distraction, August understood — while Emmanuel leaned on the edge of the mantel.

Hobbs lounged in a chair nearby, his legs crossed, the smoke from his pipe clouding that side of the room in a haze.

“And now they have this — what was it? — Pope’s Brass Band. The famine has left the whole lot of them with a gaunt look and a hunger that is from more than lack of potatoes, Emmanuel. I don’t like it, not at all. It’s inspired sympathy. Undue sympathy. The Irishmen getting so much protection with these reforms does not bode well for England.”

Emmanuel scoffed as he lit the end of his pipe, taking needy puffs before replying. “You mean that Independent Irish Party? I wouldn’t bother to worry, Edmund. It’s only proper that the whole lot of them should go about yipping, seeing as Parliament has given up so much to their cause these last few years. They’re trying to take attention while they have a stage, not realizing the audience has already arisen and gone home.”

To August’s surprise, his mother ventured to comment, her muted Irish accent standing prominently against the rhythm of the men’s conversation. “Isn’t it the right of a man to try to improve his welfare by any means at his disposal, even an Irishman?”

Both his father and Hobbs chuckled, a reaction which drew Eliza away from her needlework.

“Well, a man, yes, I agree,” Hobbs answered. “But one can hardly consider these Irish masses akin to decent society, Lady Grayson.”

Eliza’s back straightened. “I am Irish, Sir Hobbs.”

He dismissed her comment with a wave of his hand through the smoke. “A diamond in the rough, you are. Of course I don’t mean your folk when I speak of those flea-bitten fiends, madam. The peasants, the rabble — they are quite a different lot indeed. Barely human, lazy and stupid, and certainly not interested in improving anyone’s welfare, even their own, if it means honest work and sober living.”

The tension that followed was thicker than the smoke hanging in the air. Eliza’s eyes burned into Hobbs. Emmanuel, perhaps wishing to supersede embarrassment on either side of this outcome, intervened.

“You must forgive my wife, Edmund. A woman’s understanding of politics, it’s rudimentary at best, and I fear Eliza’s upbringing leads her to a mistaken assessment of her former countrymen.”

Eliza all but jumped from her seat, stabbing the stitching in her hand with the needle. Dobbs arose as was proper, though he seemed to be surveying for a hiding place should Lady Grayson front an attack.

Only her words presented arms. “Your pardon, Sir Hobbs, for my ‘stupidity’ on the matter. As my lazy nature has made me quite weary of speaking to English pokes who haven’t even the spark of compassion the Lord God gave a tick mouse, I bid you a good evening.”

With that, she turned and marched towards the stairs. August scrambled to his feet, barely making it to the safety of his room before his mother’s footsteps passed by his door. The cadence, normally carrying on to the end of the hall where his parent’s room lay, stopped in front of his door instead. When he chanced to crack the door, he saw there his mother, crumpled, crying silently, woe made manifest.

“Mother?”

She caught sight of him and went still, her eyes wide. “August? Goodness, why are you up still, mo chroi?”

He opened the door further, creeping into the hall. When his mother opened her arms in invitation, he curled in to her lap, as though still a tiny child, and not the eleven-year-old.

Eliza’s hand smoothed over his hair. “You don’t think I’m stupid or lazy, do you, dear?”

His head shook vehemently. “No, and I’d pound anyone who dared say that of you.”

This brought a smile to Eliza’s teary face. “Yes, that’s the Irish in you. Ready to fight, ready to stand.”

“And ready to make a fool of his father as well, Liza?”

Neither Eliza nor August had heard Emmanuel climbing the stairs. His temper burned close to the surface, fuming over his countenance. He must have contained himself just long enough to see off his guest, but in the departure had amassed his anger.

“Emmanuel, I do apologize. It wasn’t my intention to em—”

The Lord’s hand took her scalp in its grasp, pulling her to stand as August fell from her lap and on to the floor.

“Do not be confused. I am an Englishman, and you are the wife of a Lord of Britannia, and our children are just as Eng—”

“Just as Irish as I am!” Eliza screeched.

She didn’t have a chance to raise her arm in defense before Emmanuel’s hand made contact with her face.

“Never,” he growled at her, using a grip of her hair to fling her into the wall. “Never dare insult my children with that slur again. What to do with you, Liza? I’ve tried compassion. I’ve tried gifts. I’ve even tried overlooking your bizarre Fenian pride, and all you’ve tried in return is my patience. My children are not Irish! And neither are you.”

Emmanuel’s fearsome gaze turned next to August, shaking like a wee willow in the frame of his door, watching the scene with terror. Across the hall, a slow creak drew all their attention. Sleepy-eyed Caroline looked so small, so fragile, that before he knew what he was doing, August had cut an agile path around his father, grabbed his mother’s hand, turned his five-year-old sister back around, and locked the three of them securely behind Caroline’s heavy wooden door.

“Mother, are you hurt?” he whispered as Emmanuel continued to slur his mother’s lineage in brash, haughty tones.

She shook her head, pulling a trembling Caroline into her chest, trying to stop tears that were threatening to break. “August, I’m so sorry you had to … It’s just, when your father … The things he said, and that horrid man—”

“—and teaching our son that damned language of yours, that heathen tongue! Don’t think I’ll let you fill Caroline’s head the way you did our boy! Our son, who will someday be a Lord! An English Lord!”

August put his hands over his mother’s mouth, stopping her needless excuses. “Don’t worry. It’s plain to see who’s being uncivilized now.”

Our Daily Bread

Killarney, Ireland Autumn 1866

“August!”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

Rory O’Connor leapt up in shock at Maeve’s indecipherable scream and warily eyed his daughter above, as though he suspected the state of her sanity or sobriety. If there was one thing Maeve fell short on, handling a drink may well be it.

Eyes wide and breath wild, she panted and stared, and stared and panted. When at last she realized she was in the familiar comfort of her own bed, her expression eased. Leaning over the edge of the loft, Maeve tried to assess her father’s reaction.

“Was I … ?” Her voice trailed off as she ran her fingers through her long, chestnut hair. “ … crying?”

Rory took a sip of his tea and smacked his lips. “A wee bit just now. Bad dream?”

Her smile threatened to belie the truth. The dream … Flashing images of emerald eyes and firm red lips, a swish of ebony hair, the tracing of soft fingers over her cheek …

Maeve gave a quick, deceitful nod and came down the ladder.

“Know what I think?” Rory queried. “You caught a chill. It’s not your way, going out after dark. Your constitution’s not built for it. Weak lungs, just like your poor ma.”

Maeve smirked as she poured herself a cup of tea, relieved to have so convenient a diversion presented to her. “She had no problem yelling at you.”

Rory erupted into laughter, and Maeve found herself smiling right along. He doubled over, smacking his knee before his peals transformed into a full-on coughing fit.

Maeve leaned over and examined her father closely, running her hand over his forehead and thinking him warm. “Perhaps I’m not the only one who caught a chill.” Glancing out the window, she noted the overcast sky. “You should stay in today. The sheep won’t die from one day’s rest.”

Rory cast her a downward glance as he threw his jacket over his shoulders.

“Sheep don’t care. It’s only we meek mortals that think all manner of life should halt when the rain falls.”

“But you’re just getting better,” she argued, tugging on his jacket in a useless attempt to hold him back. “You spend the whole day out in the rain and you’ll be down with consumption come morning.”

Pushing his hat over his head, he made for the door. “I’ll be fine. I’ll just take them out for a few hours and be back. Make up some soup for your dear da tonight?”

The morning passed without much incident, and with nothing else of consequence demanding her attention, Maeve found herself seated in a chair by the fire, peeling potatoes and slicing onions. She groaned at the realization that there would be no bread; her rush to depart Shepherd’s Bluff the night prior had seen to that. All their funds of late had gone in savings towards the rent. Grain prices were high these days, and the O’Connors hadn’t been able to buy flour for weeks. As though the fact that she had failed to make Grayson keep his end of their arrangement, simplistic as it was, wasn’t enough to irk her, Maeve also felt pangs of guilt. For the second time in as many days, she had crafted a lie and served it to her father. She played it over in her head, testing its veracity, and decided her story would sound plausible enough. She had tripped on the way home, she would say, and the bread had landed in some mud on the side of the path.

In the relative silence of the cottage, with only the occasional crack of a log on the fire and ping of steady falling rain on the roof, Maeve’s mind turned traitor and recalled images of the previous evening. Grayson was not only a selfish rogue for offering his trade-in-kind, he was a horrible whiffler as well. She hadn’t been difficult and, in fact, felt she more than held up her end of their arrangement. Why, then, had he suddenly seemed so indifferent to her very presence? He may be a Lord, but he was not a gentleman, she concluded. He merely took his piece, then took his leave.

And worst of all, he had actually made her enjoy it.

Not his disdainful treatment of her afterwards, but the kiss. The kiss which now seemed etched in her mind like the smell of roses and feel of the sun in summer. The way his lips moved over hers, the way he tasted teasingly of brandy, the feel of his hand threading through her hair, pulling her closer, closer …

Maeve crossed herself thrice at the realization of how her breath and pulse were racing. God might forgive her, but only if she did not allow the devil’s progeny to taint both her soul and her heart. How could she go again? She wouldn’t. Instead, she would do what she should have at the onset: go find Owen and tell him that Grayson would file with the magistrate to revoke the lease, and that she and her da needed to move. Surely, being formally engaged, the appearance of them living together before they wed would not be so scandalous. Not nearly as scandalous as the alternative, for certain.

A knocking on the door brought Maeve from her reverie.

Patrick O’Keefe, Grayson’s middleman, stared out at her from under a broad-brimmed hat dripping with rain. A huge mass of a man replete with muscle and brawn, his patience with the O’Connors’ tardiness waned. Compassion only went so far, and consternation tended to take reins from there. Whereas his size once had made Maeve cower, she now only found annoyance in Patrick’s biweekly visit to collect the pittance of rent Maeve scrounged together per their compromised installment schedule.

“Maeve,” he greeted cordially, though his expression evidenced intrigue.

She had no patience to pretend with him this day. “Patrick.” He continued to stare silently, shifting his eyes to the fireplace suggestively. “Well, fine,” she acquiesced with a huff. “Since you came all the way down, you might as well come in and dry a bit.”

Patrick shook off his hat and jacket and loped through the room, negotiating the low roof and tightly packed furnishings to take a seat by the hearth. Maeve sat across from him and eyed him suspiciously as he lowered his side pack to the floor.

“I haven’t the money, if that’s what you’re here for again.”

He gave her a sideways smile. “No need. Grayson informed me that you had agreed to an exchange. He came to see me this morning and told me not to bother you about rent, then asked me to give you these.”

Patrick leaned over to his sack and pulled out two perfect loaves of fresh soda bread with a folded scrap of paper tied by twine to one. Overcome with a combination of incredulity, disgust, and utter joy, Maeve eyed the loaves — and more so, the paper — as Patrick arched his body the distance between them, placing the lot in her hands. She quickly rose to put all three items out of sight. Let not Patrick O’Keefe think for one moment she was about to take out that note in front of him.

“Don’t you want me to read it to you?” he asked curiously, confirming her suspicion.

Maeve vehemently shook her head. “I can read. Aug … ” The name in the familiar died on her tongue. “Grayson taught me when we were children, and I’ve kept up the hobby.”

Patrick leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me, why would the Lord of the manor be so concerned about one of his tenants having bread?” he questioned in a tone that presented suspicion.

“As said he, we agreed to a work exchange,” she answered stoically. “I make his bread, he forgives our rent.”

“I take it that’s what you were doing there last night?”

Her breath caught, but only for a moment. She feigned confusion instead, but her insincere, uncertain expression only drove Patrick on.

“Patty was up feeding the baby. She was certain she saw you coming down the lane and past our cottage. Said you looked in quite a huff.”

Her sins were piling higher by the moment, compounded by each lie and half-truth. She wasn’t certain Sunday was going to come quickly enough to save her soul as it was.

“As stated, a work exchange,” Maeve retorted. “I bake Grayson’s bread.”

“So you’re telling me that you, the same girl who refused to come to my and Patty’s wedding because it would have meant being away from Middle Lake for a whole night, is traipsing a mile up the road after dark to satisfy Grayson’s desire for … bread?” he asked, his head cocked to the side. She nodded, even as she told herself he wasn’t buying it. “You know, Patty always tells me what good friends you are. She speaks so highly of you and Rory, tells me constantly how strong you were when your ma died, how you took over the household and kept Rory from going mad with grief. You’re known about these parts as a woman of her word, pure as the day is long. Take my advice, Maeve, don’t get taken in by Grayson. He’s no good.”

Reddened over in her fury, her words were barely restrained under an irate cloud of insult. “Whomever I choose to bake bread for is none of your concern, Patrick O’Keefe! If Lucifer himself should pay me an honest penny for a loaf, there’s no need of you to take notice. Now, your piece is said and your task is finished, so I’ll thank you to be on your way.”

The words slapped him in the face as his eyes winced. Patrick threw back on his coat and took up his side pack, tossing it over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized sincerely. The compassion evident in his eyes introduced a pang of guilt in her chest. “I’m sure you’re just doing what’s necessary. Like us all.”

“That I am.”

He smiled widely as he opened the door, tipping his hat back over the top of his head. “Of course.”

He stepped out into the rain, but as she started to close the door, he turned and caught it with his hand.

“Oh, one other thing?”

“Aye?”

“Do let me know how you like the bread. I’m of the opinion that Patty’s is one of the best in County Kerry, though I tend to play favorites.”

Maeve knew she looked quite aghast — and guilty — as she pushed him out of the way and slammed the door closed. Patrick might not know exactly what was going on, but he certainly knew that the bread alibi was a lie.

By the time Maeve had worked out her anger in laborious frustration, the cottage was proper enough for a visit by the Queen. By mid-afternoon, the rain had tapered off, though the sky stayed dark and cloudy. Rory returned before dusk with nary a word, ate his soup with slices of Patty’s bread, and went straight to bed.

This left Maeve in a precarious state. She couldn’t take out her dwindling rage beating the rugs into submission; she wanted to keep the doors closed and let her da get some rest. With nothing else to distract her, she threw on her cloak, took the letter from where she had concealed it under her bed roll, and took off for the lakeshore.

The air soothed her. She began to take some comfort in the realization that Patrick might not know anything for certain. After all, he had no proof, and Maeve had her good name to stand witness if anything should be accused in public. Yet she chastised herself for her stupidity; she shouldn’t have gone to Shepherd’s Bluff with a lamp. It drew attention, and the middleman’s cottage was too near the lane leading from the road. She resolved that when she should go next, the lamp should be left behind. She knew the road well enough, and moonlight and starlight could be her guide a good measure of the time.

As she lingered by the lakeshore, however, she saw suddenly how her own thoughts betrayed her heart and resolve. Hadn’t she decided not to return? Hadn’t she sworn to herself the previous evening to repent? The whole cavalcade had already caused her to lie to her father twice. In the wholeness of the universe, the Almighty could forgive a few fibs, but what of the other things that were sure to transpire with time? Would He forgive that as well?

Could she forgive herself?

If it wasn’t so potentially tragic, she would have laughed. He sent bread. He sent her two loaves of bread. She kept telling herself there was nothing to it except for him seeing through his side of the bargain. Even a scoundrel could be a man of his word, no matter how devious the intent. So why should such a small gesture be so overwhelming?

With a sigh, Maeve took the paper from her pocket and opened it.

Tomorrow, at dusk.

As her fingers traced over the twist of each letter and her heart sped, it occurred to her. She was in worse straits than before. He was already doing it to her again: reeling her in, earning her kinship, using her as a comfort. And just as before, it was only a matter of time before he betrayed her.