A Rebel Without a Rogue (23 page)

“But violence isn’t the only way to right a wrong, Fianna,” he said, pulling her closer to tighten her laces. “And rarely the best way, for it only leads to more of the same.”

“Oh, and what would you do if your father’s name had been smeared in the mud, and he were no longer alive to demand satisfaction from those spreading the lies?” she tossed over her shoulder.

“I’d refuse to listen to such low gossip. Shun anyone who did,” he answered, tying off the laces and tucking them under her skirt.

She crossed to the dresser, where one of her stockings lay. “Ah, there speaks a man who has never felt the lash of disrespect. Simply ignoring gossip doesn’t keep it from spreading. Or keep those who listen to it from shunning those caught in its net.”

“All right, then,” he said, rising to pace the room, his feet and torso bare. “What of this? I’d gossip, too, but I’d tell the truth. Tell it to everyone. Holler it from the rooftops. Make a sermon of it. No, I’d print it up on broadsides and hang them all about the town. Especially across from the houses of the ones spreading the lies.”

He looked so alive, so eager, with that wide, determined smile, those arms gesturing as if he might pull in the entire world and make it believe whatever he would. A soldier of words, armed with broadsides and hammer, not pistol or sword.

Why could she not summon the scorn that such naïveté deserved? She shook her head as she reached for her other stocking, the one he’d abandoned on the counterpane, then sat on the chair beside the bed. Before she had the chance to pull it on, though, Kit knelt in front of her, a pamphlet waving from his fist.

“Do you have any of your father’s letters? You could publish them, just like Henry Hunt did after he was sent to prison for his role at Peterloo. Or you could write his life story. You said that fellow who wrote
Memoirs of the Different Rebellions in Ireland
told only one side. Why should you not tell the other?”

“A biography, of my father?” Her brow furrowed. “Who would be interested in reading such a thing, never mind printing it? No one in Ireland would dare.”

“The press in England is restricted, too,” Kit said, sitting back on his heels. “But not so tightly controlled as it is in your country. Why, I know any number of printers here who would be more than eager to pay for such an account. Do you remember Sam Wooler? His uncle publishes a radical journal, and I’m sure he’d be eager to include articles detailing the life of a man who played such a key role in Irish reform efforts. You could even have them printed as a book.”

He sat forward, his hands gripping her knees. “Imagine handing such a volume to that grandfather you’re so eager to please. Far more likely to bring a smile to his face, I’d warrant, than my uncle’s head on a platter.”

A frown began to form on her lips. But before they could shape a denial, he pressed a finger against them. “Don’t say no, not yet. Not without considering the idea first. Come, we’ll find Sam and meet with his uncle, and then you can decide.”

He slipped on her stockings, tied her garters, and slid her shoes onto her feet, all before the tingle of his touch faded from her lips. Had she ever met a man of such unbridled optimism? It would almost be worth it, indulging his fantastic scheme, if it would bring such a smile to his face. What harm could it do to grant him a day, or two at most? It would give her time enough to think, to come up with a plan for what she might do with the rest of her life, now that retribution had slipped beyond her grasp.

And so when he stood, holding out his hand to her as if he were a gentleman requesting a dance at a ball, she placed her own within it, and allowed him to pull her in his wake.

“Thank you, Mr. MacGowan, for sharing your memories of my father. I’d no idea he’d traveled to Scotland to recruit workers displaced by the Highland Clearances.”

Even now, after he’d spent more than a fortnight as her lover, the sight of Fianna Cameron’s rarely bestowed smile still set Kit’s insides all a-tumble. At present, her smile wasn’t even aimed at him, but at the garrulous older man whom they’d been questioning. Only after a moment of standing transfixed could Kit shake himself free of its enthralling charm. Poor MacGowan, however, remained impolitely fixed in his chair long after Fianna had risen.

Kit exchanged an amused glance with Sam Wooler as they waited for MacGowan to regain his wits. Once Kit had told Sam of Fianna’s connection to the Irish rebel McCracken, Sam and his printer uncle had done everything they could to help advance the project of writing the man’s life history, including inquiring amongst all their radical acquaintances for any who might have known him. Over the past fortnight, Sam had brought several such men to meet with them in Kit’s rooms, including MacGowan, who had once worked in the McCrackens’ Belfast mill. As he had promised his uncle, he’d kept an ear attuned for word of political plots, but neither MacGowan nor any of the other fellows with whom they’d spoken had even mentioned the United Irishmen or their rebellious cause.

The old Scot had not been intimidated by his Mayfair surroundings, nor by the questions of a woman with the beauty and imperiousness of a monarch, as had most of the other men Sam had found. No, for nearly two hours MacGowan had told stories of Fianna’s father without pause. But the sudden warmth of her smile, so unexpected in the midst of such a cool, collected face, seemed to have finally tied the poor man’s tongue.

“How cruel, that tenants of such long standing could be summarily displaced, just to give their lands over to the grazing of sheep,” Kit finally interposed.

MacGowan shook his head, as if waking from a spell, then scrambled upright. “Aye, sir, terrible cruel. Never thought I’d see the day when a laird would care more for a dumb animal than for a hardworking crofter. Nothing like your father, miss, those mean, miserly men who cleared us from their lands,” he added, swinging back to Fianna like a compass point drawn to the north. “He never promised Belfast’d be anything like the Highlands, not like those false sayers who swore we’d grow fat on the land they forced us onto. Barren as an old crone’s womb, wasn’t it, though? Better to emigrate than to starve, McCracken said, and gave us his word that work at the mill in Ireland would pay well enough. And so it did.”

 
The more he learned about Aidan McCracken, the more Kit’s admiration for Fianna’s father grew. That a man such as the one described by MacGowan—an intelligent, capable man who interacted with the poor with a rare ease, who did something, rather than just lamented over the plight of the displaced—should in the end succumb to the temptation of violence filled Kit with frustration and regret.

How much more painful must be Fianna’s feelings? Confronted by that habitually impassive expression with which she held the world at bay, many might believe she felt nothing at all. No trembling mouth, no furrowed brow, ever betrayed her. But each time she heard some new piece of her father’s past, he saw her grow ever more imperious, her jaw tighter, her chin raised just that bit higher. As if by sheer will alone she could deny the slashing hurt of his loss.

And yes, there, his hand had risen without his even thinking to move it, coming to rest in the small of her back, offering the comfort she’d never admit to wanting, nor deign to request. She didn’t pull away from his touch, though, but instead curved into it, her body warm, even a bit yielding. A small sign of the trust they were beginning to build?

He allowed his hand to trace one reassuring circle, then another, against that curve before letting it drop to his side. He held the other out to their visitor. “Thank you for sharing your stories with us, Mr. MacGowan. You have no idea how helpful you’ve been. Please, let me summon my man to retrieve your hat.”

Kit returned from seeing MacGowan on his way to find Sam and Fianna elbow deep in foolscap. “Do you think you can deliver the first installment by Tuesday week?” Sam asked, pushing his spectacles back up his nose with an ink-stained finger. “My uncle’s saving several columns in the April edition for it.”

“Perhaps, if all these notes I’ve taken can be arranged into some semblance of order,” Fianna answered, staring down at the papers on the table in front of her with a fierce frown. As if she couldn’t quite believe that they, like all good minions, hadn’t already anticipated her needs and sorted themselves out accordingly.

Lord, he must be far gone, to find such imperiousness so dear.

“Good, good. Now here’s the sample you gave me last week, back to you with some suggestions for amendments,” Sam said, adding yet another sheet to her stack. “You present your ideas well, but don’t be afraid of evoking your readers’ sensibilities. You want them to feel the passion McCracken held for Ireland, his anger at the injustice with which his fellow men were treated. Then, when you begin to write about the rebellion, they’ll have some sympathy for why he felt compelled to violence. See, as you do here.”

Fianna glanced at the lines in question, her brows narrowing. “Are logical, rational arguments not enough to persuade, Mr. Wooler?” she asked, her eyes pointedly turned away from Kit.

Kit bit back a grin. He knew the exact line to which Sam must have pointed, for it had taken him nearly an hour to persuade the logical, rational Fianna to include even that one small appeal to readerly pathos in the sample that she’d penned. Not one to give much credit to emotion, at least not in the cold light of day, was Fianna Cameron. How she’d scoffed when he’d wagered her a kiss that Sam would praise the passage he’d insisted she add. And how very delicious it would be to claim that kiss from a woman far more comfortable reasoning her way through life than trusting her feelings. She might prefer to hide them—or to hide from them—but with each kiss they shared, he could feel them bubbling ever closer to the surface.

“The author’s expertise, and the logic with which he presents his facts, can both help to persuade. But it’s the appeal to sentiments that seals the deal,” Sam said as he rose to his feet. “Ask Kit if you’re having difficulties; he’s a dab hand at it. My uncle even considered offering him a regular column in the paper at one time—The Radical Aristocrat, or some such nonsense, I think he planned to call it.”

“He did?” Kit exclaimed. “Why did I never hear of it?”

“Because I knew a fellow as ambitious as you would never be content with such a mean task, Kit. Besides, we need you in Parliament. You never would have caved to Tory pressure on the army estimates resolution the way Norton did on Wednesday. Does your brother have no control over the man?”

Kit stared out the window, fighting back a scowl. Even if he’d been too busy with Fianna to read the accounts of parliamentary doings for the last week, why should he be surprised by this news of Norton’s latest disloyalty? Or of Theo’s inability to curb it?
 

But that was beside the point. He wouldn’t stand for anyone criticizing a member of his family, not even someone as well intentioned as Sam Wooler.
 

“Come, Pennington, you know I meant no disrespect,” Sam protested as Kit grasped his elbow and pointed him toward the door.

“I believe you have another appointment, Mr. Wooler?” Kit said, giving his friend a light but decisive push toward the passageway.

Sam stumbled, but turned with a chuckle. “Who would ever believe such a good-natured fellow capable of so much haughty disdain?” he quipped. “It must be your influence, Miss Cameron. Teach me, too, one of these days, how to make a man quake in his boots with just one look?”

With a quick bow to Fianna and a wink to Kit, the impudent fellow darted out of the room, cravenly pulling the door shut behind him.

Kit darted to the door to pursue his friend, but a sound he’d never heard before brought him to a halt.

Laughter? From Fianna?

As the silvery peals came closer, he almost feared to move, as if catching sight of a mirthful Fianna might be tantamount to spying on Melusine at her enchanted bath, a sight so forbidden that it would send the fairy a-fleeing, never again to be seen by mortal eyes. But when he felt her breath on the back of his neck, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from turning and pulling her tight to his chest. Superstitious of him, perhaps, to keep his eyes pinched shut. But who but himself would ever know?

At long last, her laughter finally stilled, although she remained tucked against his waistcoat. “Most would say you’re lucky to have such good friends, Kit,” he heard her whisper. “I know it’s not luck, though, but the worthiness of your own character that has won them to you.”

His arms tightened at the wistfulness in her voice.

“Do you truly think him interested in my father’s story?” she asked. “Or has he just agreed to print it as a kindness to you?”

Kit bent his head and rubbed a cheek against her temple. “It’s you who are doing him a kindness, Fianna. And not just one for Sam, but for your own countrymen, too. It will go a long way toward discrediting the ridiculous idea that Irish Catholics’ fanatical hatred for the English, and for their Protestant countrymen, was the sole cause of the rebellion if you can show that it wasn’t only Catholics, but Protestants such as your father, who objected to the repressive policies of Anglo-Irish magistrates. And that would be a good first step toward easing the remaining restrictions on Catholics’ civil and political rights.”