A Rose in Splendor (17 page)

Killian mastered his inclination to smile and gave Fey another rough shake. “Beat you, can I? At my leisure? Unconditionally?”

Deirdre reached for the knife a second time but Killian’s
hand shot out and captured her wrist. “As for you, Mistress Fitzgerald, I won’t strike you, though, by God, you’ve given me more than enough cause.”

“You’re hurting me,” Deirdre protested, but she did not try to twist free of the fingers wrapped around her wrist.

Killian released her, surprised that he had touched her. He had meant only to snatch the knife out from under her grasp. The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside the kitchen further disconcerted him.

When the Fitzgeralds’ cook walked into her domain she was brought up short by the sight of Lady Deirdre in her bedclothes confronting a tall black-haired man with a ruffian boy in his grip. Yielding to motherly instinct, she grabbed a chair and charged the stranger with a yowl of fury.

Killian stepped easily out of the woman’s path and plucked the chair from her grasp with a neat twist. The farcical elements of the moment were not lost on him. As the cook turned on him, her cap askew and her face a portrait of affront, he succumbed to the amusement that he had been holding at bay.

Deirdre stared in amazement as the masculine laughter filled the kitchen. With his head thrown back and his face split by a smile, MacShane’s hard features were transformed into handsomeness. When he looked down at her, it was as though another, younger man stood before her, his vivid blue eyes softened and warmed by a very human emotion. Without reasoning it out, she smiled back at him.

Killian sobered instantly, for the servants who had been following the cook thronged in the doorway, their faces avid with excitement. “You will excuse me, Mistress Fitzgerald. Bow to the lady, ratling, we’re off.”

After the most brief of nods to Deirdre, he turned and strode out, pushing Fey before him by the scruff of the neck.

“Whoever was that gentleman, m’lady?” Cook whispered.

“That was no gentleman, that was MacShane,” Deirdre answered, as nonplussed as the cook.

Chapter Seven

Back in his room, Killian poured water into a porcelain basin from the matching pitcher and splashed handfuls of it onto his face. It was dawn; and though he had had little sleep, he was in no mood to rest. Beside the basin lay a clean linen towel, its hem embroidered in tiny pink rosebuds. He ignored it, wiping his face on the sleeve of his shirt. No doubt Lady Deirdre would be horrified, he mused, but such amenities were rare in a soldier’s life. He had long ago become accustomed to using whatever was handy and often to going without. Hunger, abstinence, poverty, and self-denial were part of a soldier’s life.

A thought struck him. Those criteria were also a part of a priestly existence. Until now, he had not considered that, but it seemed that he had changed one life of privation and solitude for another. The boy destined to become a priest had become instead a professional soldier. Instead of saving men’s lives, he had spent the better part of the last ten years taking them. There must be some moral there, but he had no time to consider it now.

He turned his head to look at Fey, who stood in the middle of the room shifting his weight from foot to foot. The child’s wary expression altered immediately, becoming blank and smiling, toadying in nature. The change irritated Killian, and his voice was more harsh than he intended. “Well? You might as well tell me why you ran away, though it will not prevent your punishment.”

Fey’s cherubic smile widened. “’Tis not what ye think, m’lord. ’Twas only the powerful gnawing of me innards that drove me to the kitchen. The smell was too much a temptation, with me having no supper nor likely to get any.”

Fey came forward, head lowered in the manner of a cowered animal. “I would nae blame ye if ye was to beat me. ’Tis what I deserve. Only, I will nae be able to work so hard afterwards, what with the stripes on me back already.”

Her expression changed to one of hope. “Would ye nae consider beating me a day or two from now, when I’m better? I’d be good to ye, if ye’d let me. There’s things I know could make a man happy to have me.”

When MacShane did not answer but continued to stare at her with an unreadable expression, Fey’s smile faltered. What could she do to make the man want to keep her? Should she reveal the truth—a truth not even Darce had guessed? Fey’s translucent lids lowered as her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “I know how to make the gentleman below stairs stand tall. I know how to please ye better than them pox-ridden whores of the streets!”

As Fey’s small hand reached out to touch the placket of his breeches, Killian recoiled as before a hot poker and shoved the child away. “Good God!” he whispered coarsely. “A catamite! Is there no end to your infamy?”

“I did nae…mean to…anger ye,” Fey said in quick gasps that ended in dry sobs. “’Twas only…I wanted to please ye.”

The raw edge of Fey’s voice tightened the knot of anger in Killian’s stomach. He was not a Puritan, but the boy’s proclivity for depravity was straining the limits of his tolerance. Yet, what could he expect from a lad he had picked up on the docks?

His expression remained hard but his voice was mild as he said, “I apologize for staking you. ’Tis not your fault
that you’re steeped in every sort of devilment known to mankind. Did your master send you to ply that trade among sailors?”

Fey’s face did not alter.

Killian swore under his breath. “How old are you?”

Fey shrugged, the old sly gleam returning to her eyes. “I’m small for me age. I can be ten, or eight if ye’d like.”

Annoyance flashed in Killian’s face. “What I want is for you to be yourself, if you can remember who that is.”

“I’m eleven…I think.” Fey’s face grew thoughtful. A moment before, she had been about to reveal the truth about herself, but it seemed inconsequential now. “What’s to become of me?”

Killian’s black brows lowered even more. “How should I know? Oh, I’ll not have you hanged, if that’s what worries you.”

Fey eyed the man before her in frank appraisal. “Ye will nae beat me?”

“I may take the flat of my hand to your britches if provoked,” Killian amended.

A quick grin lit her face. “Then I will stay with ye!”

“No.” Killian shook his head. “You cannot do that.”

“I’m strong, and wily. I could cook for ye, clean for ye—”

“Steal for me?” Killian interjected softly.

Fey’s eyes widened, and then her lovely smile blossomed full. “Ye’re having me on!”

“Aye, that I am. I’ll string you up myself if ever I catch you stealing again!”

His voice had taken on a menacing edge but Fey did not back away this time. “Ye’ll have me, then?”

“No,
bouchal
.
Killian dug into his pocket, pulled out his purse, and emptied half the coins into his hand. “Take this and find yourself lodgings at an inn on the main highway to Paris. Buy yourself a bed, a joint of lamb, and a bottle of ale. When you get to Paris, ask for the apartments of the Duchesse de Luneville. Say that MacShane sent you. You’ll be given work there, and perhaps one day we’ll see each other again.”

Fey listened in polite silence, her eyes averted from the
gleaming gold. She had no intention of leaving this man. If she stayed with him, she would not be put on the street to beg or endure merciless whippings or days of starvation.

Yet, Fey was too steeped in the greed and avarice of men not to suspect that she would need to offer him something in return for his generosity. But what could it be?

With the jaded vision of a street urchin surveying her prey, she gazed at the tall strong man. He was splendidly made, handsome and virile—her hand had briefly touched strong evidence—but one never knew about a man’s tastes. “Do ye nae like the ladies, m’lord?”

“My name’s MacShane,” he answered shortly. “I prefer women. Ladies are terribly tiresome to woo.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” a cool voice remarked from the doorway behind them.

“I knocked twice,” Deirdre said as she advanced into the room. “I heard voices, so I did hesitate, but water cools quickly in the morning air and the boy should scrub while it’s hot.” She turned to nod at the pair of servant girls who followed her, one of whom carried a pair of steaming kettles and the other an iron washtub from the laundry.

“I brought the child a fresh pair of britches and a shirt. They belong to the stable master’s son.”

The slight emphasis she put on the last words was not lost on Killian, but he only rested his hands on his hips, amazed at the change that had taken place in her in so short a time. Dressed in a wine-red manteau, her hair caught up off her neck and covered by a small linen cap, she appeared a very proper young mademoiselle. Killian’s gaze flickered to her feet. She even wore slippers.

Aware of the hard blue gaze on her, Deirdre crossed the room in a slow, elegant glide to deposit on a chair the clothes she carried.

When MacShane had disappeared with the child she had not known what to do. She could scarcely have run after them and demanded to know what he intended to do with the boy. Nor had she thought it wise to wake her family and bring them into this odd business. Her father did not
like MacShane. He would put the darkest of interpretations upon MacShane’s involvement with the child who had broken into their kitchen and drawn a knife on her. Then she had hit upon the idea of bringing the child fresh clothes and bandages. It was the perfect excuse to go to MacShane’s apartment, and the child was badly in need of someone’s attention.

She had hurried so to dress that she had torn one of the new Parisian silk stockings Conall had brought her. But MacShane would not know that. Neither would he be aware of the rapid tattoo of her heart nor see the tremor of her knees beneath her morning gown. This was her home. MacShane could not say or do anything to prevent her from looking after the child.

She turned to him and held out a small stoppered bottle. “’Tis horse liniment. O’Grady swears by it as a panacea for every kind of abrasion.”

MacShane did not reach for the bottle but continued to stare at her.

Undismayed by his rudeness, she turned to Fey. “Have Captain MacShane put this on your back when you’re bathed. ’Twill sting, but you’re a brave lad and can bear it. O’Grady used it on my scraped knees whenever I took a tumble as a bairn. When you are dressed, come down to the kitchen for breakfast. Cook is expecting you.”

Without a backward glance at MacShane, Deirdre walked out of the room followed by the two Fitzgerald servants.

Killian stared at the empty doorway. Lord Fitzgerald’s daughter had just flirted with him!

Fey, too, had been impressed by the lady’s composure. “She’s nae afraid of either of us,” she murmured a little in awe.

“Then she should be!” Killian grumbled and turned to the child. “Well,
spalpeen
?
There’s your bathwater. Faith! You reek of fish and dung.”

Fey looked at the tub of steaming water in horror. She could not undress before him without revealing her secret. “Ye cannot mean me to step in there? I’ll boil.” She began backing away. “I won’t do it!”

Killian caught Fey before she reached the door and
hauled her kicking and screaming toward the washtub, peeling away her clothing as he went. “You will bathe, my lad! Hold still! I won’t—!
Mille murdher
!

Fey slid out of the big man’s embrace, her face pale with alarm. “I was going to tell ye, I swear it!”

Killian stared at Fey, his eyes moving slowly from the child’s face back down the length of the young body. “You’re nae a lad! You’re a
lass
!”

Fey grabbed her torn britches from the floor and held them before her naked loins. “I never said I was a lad. ’Twas ye who called me that!”

“You let me believe,
ma girsha
,
didn’t you?”

Fey’s eyes flickered toward the bed and away. He was very angry with her, but perhaps she might still be able to persuade him to keep her. She lowered the garment she held, a forthright look in her dark eyes. “I said I’d be good to ye, I meant it! I’d do anything for ye.
Anything
!”

Killian lifted a hand only to lower it again as the child before him flinched. “I’d not take you for all the gold in Nantes harbor, you thieving, lying little whore!”

The accusation stung her as none of his other words had. “I’m nae a whore! I do not like the trade.”

Killian’s voice was wintry. “Have you tried it?”

Fey shrugged, hugging the scraps of cloth tighter against her thin frame. “A lass has little else to offer. But a lad can beg on the streets. He can sweep up in shops, run errands. With a protector he can keep shy of the worst sort that would force themselves on him.”

The anger washed out of Killian as Fey summed up her life and her reasons for masquerading as a boy in those few sentences. “How long have you been on your own?”

“Four years.” Fey gave a shuddery sigh as her muscles relaxed. It was hard to remember to trust this man when she had not trusted anyone for so long. “I did not think it made much difference, me being a boy. Only now…” She looked down at her chest, where only the most discerning gaze would realize that breasts were beginning to bud.