A Rose in Splendor (24 page)

Deirdre nodded him away and then lowered her gaze, concentrating on the open fan in her lap. It was her favorite accessory. Painted upon the delicate vellum stretched over sticks of mother-of-pearl was a miniature of Liscarrol. Darragh had commissioned the fan in Paris for her sixteenth birthday. She stared at it, smiling at the French artist’s whimsy which had placed a topiary garden at Liscarrol’s left and an artificial pond in the foreground. Neither of those existed at Liscarrol. But every detail of the house itself was correct. The massive gray walls of the Norman castle held a dominant place in the middle of the painting.

“That bored are you, lass?”

Deirdre looked up with a smile. “Darragh, I did not think social evenings much to your taste.”

Darragh sat down beside her. “’Tis true,” he admitted freely in Gaelic. “I’ve little fondness for French society. I
prefer me air perfumed with horse manure and the green grass.”

Deirdre agreed. The press of sweating bodies coupled with an abundance of perfumes and powder scents had nearly overwhelmed her. “I suppose one becomes used to it after a time.”

“MacShane agrees with me, but I thought he could do with a bit of entertainment, seeing that Fitzgerald hospitality is not at its most charming.”

Deirdre looked up again in spite of her resolve to keep her eyes from MacShane, and another shiver of anticipation sped through her. He looked splendid in his severe costume of black. He was conversing with the comte in French, the deep murmur of his voice reaching her beneath the rustle and chatter of the room.

“What’s the matter, Dee? You look sickly of a sudden.”

Deirdre took a deep steadying breath. “’Tis much too warm in this corner. Take me out onto the floor, Darragh. I want to dance.”

Darragh came to his feet instantly, concern showing on his face. “You should not have come. ’Tis not the season for indoor affairs. Your Frenchman is mad.”

“He’s not mine,” Deirdre protested as she took his arm and they moved to the center of the floor.

“Have you told him so, lass?”

“I have tried,” Deirdre murmured, curtsying as the dance began.

“I know how to put it to him in a way he’ll not forget,” Darragh grumbled.

“You would make a corpse of him and that’s hardly necessary. In the whole world, he’s the only gentleman willing to pay me court. I must guard my sole suitor lest I become known as a spinster.”

Darragh nodded solemnly. “Aye, ’tis there in your eager gaze, lass, that you’re too desperate by far for a husband. Do try to curb your impatience, you’re running the lads away.”

“Wretch,” Deirdre responded, but laughter bubbled up in her as it always did in her brothers’ company.

When the dance was done, Darragh relinquished her to
an elderly gentleman and he, in turn, bowed to a younger man to partner her for the third set of dances. Finally, Darragh claimed her again, twirling her about the floor with more gusto than grace.

Through it all, she heard MacShane’s voice and knew when he was closer or farther away, but she did not look up. She did not need to. It was as if her ears and skin had taken on a new keenness of detection because she had denied her eyes. She heard him flatter Claude’s sister, Annabelle, felt his bright blue gaze on her repeatedly as the dancing progressed, and each time she wondered if and when he would speak to her.

Now, as Darragh spoke to him, turning MacShane’s head her way, she took a deep breath and raised her head.

“Mademoiselle Deirdre,” he said softly.

“Captain MacShane,” she replied and offered her hand. He lifted it in the quickest of salutes, his lips hovering a scant space above her fingertips. The pure black sheen of his hair reflected the light of the hundreds of candles which illuminated the room, and she had the absurd impulse to tell him so. Instead, she said, “I am delighted to see you.”

His look disconcerted her, for it seemed to suggest that she had done a very reckless thing by admitting her pleasure at his presence. “Do you dance, captain?”

She had not meant to say that, she had meant to say something that would divert him from his intense contemplation of her face. “If mademoiselle wishes,” she heard him say.

With her heart pounding in her chest, she took the hand he offered and followed him out onto the gleaming marble floor.

She wondered why Darragh did not stop them. Surely he must see that she was much too pleased, too expectant and happy with the invitation for it to be proper for them to dance together. Yet, when she turned and looked up into MacShane’s arrogant face, she knew why she had acted too rashly in suggesting the dance.

To touch him, if only this once, that was what she wanted. Did it really exist, the answer to these wild sweet urgings of her body, or was that kind of guilty pleasure
found only in the dreams of silly young women who fell asleep on riverbanks during lazy summer days?

The music was a country air, a tune that would find no enthusiastic audience in Paris, and many couples left the floor. But MacShane smiled at her, and her reluctance vanished as they took up the measure.

Conversation was expected no matter how she felt, and so Deirdre said, “You are a dancer, captain, so few soldiers are.”

“I’m a Gael, my lady, and few of us are less than what pleases our lasses,” he returned in a bored drawl that Claude might have used. It was a wicked mimic, and she did not miss its significance.

“
Touche
,
captain. I should know better than to bandy words with a man of the sod.” As they made a turn about the room, she added softly in Gaelic, “Was Cousin Claude polite to you?”

“I’ve never treated an enemy so well,” Killian answered blandly.

His choice of words amused her. “You’ve scarcely met. What could cause you to be enemies?”

Killian shrugged. “You are right, of course.”

His oblique answer further intrigued her, but she was wary of matching wits with him. “Where will your travels take you when you leave Nantes?”

“To Paris, in the morning.”

She looked up, startled. “So soon?” Instantly she recovered. “Och, we must be poor hosts indeed.”

Killian did not answer. Until the moment she asked him, he had made no definite plans. Now that he had received satisfaction of a sort from Lord Fitzgerald, there was nothing to keep him in Nantes. If his curiosity was piqued to learn whether the absurdly lovely lass by his side bore any resemblance to the wanton of his riverbank daydream, then it must go wanting. Perhaps he was more like other men than he had thought. The insistent press in his loins was becoming an embarrassment and a trial. For the first time since arriving at the Fitzgeralds, he thought of the duchesse.

They continued in silence another set of steps, Deirdre’s
heart pounding from anxiety and her head swimming with the heat. MacShane must not go away, not yet.

Deirdre moistened her suddenly dry lips. Words trembled on her tongue. She did not want him to go away, not while they were yet strangers. Why were the words so difficult to say? They rang in her ears yet she could not speak them. Suddenly the room’s candles brightened, their light blinding her. She blinked twice and MacShane’s blue eyes came into focus, staring down at her with the same intensity that so daunted her. She reached out to him, her hand curling tightly on his sleeve. “Lead me from the floor, captain,” she whispered breathlessly. “I am fatigued.”

“Of course, mademoiselle.” He led her to a chair beside an open door, and when she was seated, he signaled for a cup of punch from one of the servants. “Mademoiselle must drink this; it is cool and your cheeks are flushed,” he said smoothly in French.

She took the cup, grateful that he thought nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

“Cousin Deirdre, are you ill?” Claude questioned with great concern in his voice as he reached her side.

“She is fatigued,” Killian answered flatly.

Claude looked up at the plainly dressed man. “Perhaps you should have noticed this earlier and not subjected her to the strenuous exercise of the dance.”

“Please!” Deirdre said more loudly than was polite. “I am exhausted; my head aches abominably, and I need fresh air.”

“Dee, lass, you’ll be stamping your foot and holding your breath next,” Darragh said without concern as he joined them. “She’s a rare temper when she’s tired.”

Claude nodded politely. “Of course. Cousin Deirdre, may I offer you my accompaniment for a turn about the garden?”

“She should go home,” Darragh answered for her.

“But of course.” Claude bowed to Deirdre and offered a slight nod to her brother, but his eyes were cold as they met MacShane’s. He did not, however, allow his feelings to overrule his manners. “Would you care to indulge in a
game of chance, monsieur? There are several gentlemen so engaged in the library.”

“No, monsieur,” Killian answered absently, his eyes hard on Deirdre’s pale face.

“Then you’ll be coming with us,” Darragh cut in swiftly.

Deirdre rose to her feet only to find MacShane’s arm offered before Darragh’s. She took it, trembling as he pressed her hand against his side. When they entered the front hall, Darragh suddenly stopped, planting his feet like a bull. “I’m that mad! I forgot to fetch Conall! See to my sister.”

Too late Deirdre realized that Darragh was leaving her alone with MacShane. She looked about a little desperately, but no other guests had chosen to leave before supper was served. The absurd desire to cry seized her, but she willed it away. She could not say why she was so afraid. What harm was there in a moment shared? “So you go to Paris,” she heard herself say, her voice sounding strained and faraway.

“Aye.”

He bit off the word, leaving her no entrance to further conversation, but her tongue would not be stilled. “I’ve heard that Paris is beautiful in autumn but too warm in summer. Nantes is lovely in summer.”

Deirdre closed her eyes when only silence answered her. She wished she had said nothing, wished she had stayed behind in the ballroom, wished that she were not standing alone in the foyer with a man who made her tremble.

“Why must you leave?”

He reached out for her; and before she fully understood the reason, she felt the stunning surprise of his mouth on hers.

It was not the kiss she had dreamed.

There was nothing subtle or sweet about the savage heat of his mouth. He engulfed her. His hands found her waist, pulled her tight between his spread legs, and then rose again until his thumbs hooked under the soft fullness of her breasts.

For an instant she was too amazed to resist. When she
did try to push him away, somehow the hands she raised in protest found anchor on his neck; and the breath she expelled in anger became entangled in his. He drank in her mouth, dragging a heavy breath of air in with it and then, to her complete astonishment, his tongue flickered across her lips.

It lasted only a moment, the feelings and sensations slipping away almost before she could record them.

Suddenly cool night air flowed between them.

Killian stared down into her sweet face with eyes still closed and lips still parted in invitation and felt a curious tug of emotion which he could not name.

“I did not mean to do that.” His heavy voice was strangely husky. “But then, surely you’ve been kissed before, lass.”

Deirdre opened her eyes, her wonder reflected in pupils so wide her green eyes appeared black. “Nae, I do not think I have,” she whispered.

“Then ’tis a lesson you’re certain to repeat,” he answered and broke away. “Goodbye,
acushla
.”

She did not really see him go. He simply walked out of the door and melted into the darkness of the night.

Chapter Ten

Deirdre dozed on the carriage ride home, wedged comfortably between Darragh and a very unhappy Conall, who had seen his well-warmed desire for Madame Perot come to nothing as his fraternal duty to see his sister home intervened.

“One of us would have done as well,” Conall grumbled.

“Two of us are better,” Darragh answered. “Unless I miss me guess, the house will be full of intrigue this night. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

“Intrigue?” Conall scoffed. “You speak nonsense.”

“’Twas not nonsense I spied in MacShane’s eyes. ’Twas lust, brother, a need so great he nearly gave himself away.”

His interest piqued, Conall glanced at his sleeping sister and then said, “’Tis come to that already, has it? Damn quick, it was.”

Darragh shrugged. “Did I not say MacShane was the lad for our Dee?”

“Aye, incessantly. Still, I had me doubts. MacShane was reluctant, and our Dee, while pretty enough, is not so much a wanton that a man’s prick rises at the sight of her.”

“Watch your speech, brother!” Darragh cautioned.

Conall smirked. “Why should we not speak the truth? You can be certain ’tis lust that moves MacShane to seek a woman, the same as any other man.”

“And that, brother, is why you’ve come home with me.”

“He would not!”

Darragh grinned, his teeth gleaming in the darkness. “Maybe aye, maybe nae. ’Tis up to us to make certain he does not have a moment in which to seduce the lass.”

“Perhaps,” Conall said, “’twould not be so bad a thing, were it to happen. They’ve had nary a moment alone, and Da is not so fond of MacShane that he will come easily to the point of making him a son-in-law.”