At the Queen's Summons (15 page)

“No,” she said through her teeth. “I won't care about you. I cannot.” She sucked in a breath and held it, willing herself to keep control. Every time she let herself dream of belonging to someone—her unremembered family, Mab, members of troupes she had joined—she had been abandoned.

“You'll abandon me, too,” she whispered, her breath fogging the glass. “But I don't care.” Aye, there was her answer. Surely there was a way to steal a few moments of splendor with him yet come away with her heart still intact. “It can be done,” she said aloud, tugging the robe securely around herself and hurrying out the door. “I shall prove it this very night.”

 

London was never truly silent, Aidan thought, staring out at the Thames. Here it was the very dead of night, and he could still hear voices and horses and the occasional hush of oars—smugglers or clandestine lovers or a party of revelers returning home late.

Sounds of merriment, sounds of suffering, sounds of business being done, crimes being committed. They all surrounded him in a great, discordant chorus that was as strange to him as forks and Protestants.

He had told no one of the summons he had received after the boating race today. A special messenger had de
livered it to him at Wimberleigh House. Apparently, news of his performance had reached the queen, and she had decided to favor him with a royal audience.

He was ready for her. Past ready. He both longed and dreaded to leave London. As soon as he had heard from Revelin of Innisfallen, he'd wanted to sail for home. Donal Og and Iago had convinced him to stay, for if he left London in defiance of the queen, matters would only grow worse. She would tell her military strategists to deploy more troops to Kerry, to evict more Irish people, to burn more Irish fields and raze more Irish forests. That was exactly what he had hoped to prevent by coming here.

Yet a fortnight had come and gone, and what had he to show for his efforts? A few trinkets, a good horse, a meeting with the de Lacey heir, a fork, for chrissake—

“Your Worship, I must speak to you,” piped a clear voice in the night.

And Pippa, he thought, turning away from the river. How could he possibly forget Pippa? His burden. His treasure.

“Yes?” he called, searching the shadows. He saw her small shape coming down the path toward him. She disappeared beneath the darkness of an arbor and then reemerged like a wraith.

A feeling coursed through him, a sort of terrible ecstasy and a sudden bright surge of hope. It was as if she were a princess of the
sidhe,
moving from her fairy kingdom into the real world.

Aye, there was something magic and fey about the girl, of that he had no doubt. Still, his ill-governed body reminded him painfully that she was a flesh-and-blood woman. He wanted her with a powerful need he felt in every bone and fiber and nerve. But he could not have her. Not
ever. He had not made love to a woman since he had married, and he couldn't, not as long as Felicity drew breath.

“Aidan?” she called softly. “Are you there?”

“Here.” Taking a few steps forward, he touched her arm.

She gasped and stiffened. He braced himself. “There now, I'd not want to end up like poor Temple Newsome.”

“He deserved worse than the dunking I gave him.”

He chuckled. “So he did. Come here. I vow I will not grab you in an inappropriate spot.”

“That is exactly what I came to talk to you about.”

Ah, God. The words alone shot a jolt of desire through him. “You
want
me to grab you?”

He heard her breath catch. It was too dark to see her face.

“Don't you dare,” she said, her voice curiously tremulous. “What I want you to know is that I am exceedingly grateful for all the kindness you have shown me. I don't even know why you decided to take me in.”

Wry amusement curved his mouth. “You gave me little choice. How could I resist the sight of you groveling at my hem?”

“I am an excellent groveler,” she said.

Though her voice was full of humor, he did not want to hear any more. He simply could not bear knowing what she had endured in order to hone such a skill.

“The fact is,” he said gently, “you are well worth saving, and I have no idea why some worthy patron did not see that long ago.”

“Stop it!” She made a jerky movement; he realized she was clapping her hands over her ears. “You are making this harder than it has to be.”

“Making what harder?”

She lowered her hands and blew out an exasperated breath. “What I came to tell you.” She spoke slowly, as if to a man of limited mental capacity.

“And what is that?” he asked.

“That I won't love you. Never. Ever.”

He took a moment to absorb the words. He wanted to laugh at her vehemence. He wanted to rage at her and weep for her. But most of all, he wanted to gather her into his arms and never let go. More fool he.

“Ah, colleen,” he said on a sigh. “What was it that hurt you so badly that you'd feel the need to say such a thing? It was losing your family, wasn't it?”

She was silent and still for a long time. Finally she said, “All you need to know is that I don't love you and I never will.”

He told himself he should feel relieved. He forced out a brief, quiet laugh. “Your love is the last thing I need.”

She tilted up her chin. “Fine. I thought as much. It makes things so much simpler.”

“So much simpler.” He felt hollow and raw. “Now that means we must be friends. The Irish have a saying, ‘If you be not mine enemy, then I count you for a friend.'”

“That is lovely.” Her voice sounded curiously thick. She sidled away from him and sat down on a marble bench overlooking the river walk. “Would you tell me about Ireland? Is it true there are wee folk in the woods there?”

He closed his eyes briefly, and a sharp yearning gripped his heart. “There are many magical and wonderful things in Ireland. Many dangerous things, too.”

Her hands covered his in a gentle caress. He was grateful for the darkness. He could reveal more of himself than he did by light of day, for the night was a great leveler, hiding flaws as well as virtues.

He thought of his homeland with both bittersweet affection and a desperate resignation. Ireland was a place of harsh splendor and alluring danger. It was a place where a man could live close to the land—or so it had been until the English had come.

“Well, then,” he said, gazing off into the shifting shadows of the garden. “On a sunny day, Lough Leane looks like a blue mirror reflecting the endless sky. The forests are emerald green. There are mountains with raging torrents, rivers teeming with salmon and trout, and in the middle of the lake, there is a place called Innisfallen.”

“Innisfallen.” She tasted the word. “An island?”

“Aye. The island is home to canons of the order of St. Augustine. My boyhood tutor, Revelin, lives there.” Aidan had spent hours on the isle, sitting against the cool stone wall of the abbey and letting the holy silence of the place surround him and cushion his dreams. Revelin was as vast and imposing as the Almighty Himself.

“And Ross Castle?” she asked. “Iago said you displeased the queen by completing the building.”

A ghost of the old pain wafted over him. “Ross Castle was my father's dream. But
my
penance.”

The words were out before he could stop himself. Curse the darkness and the false sense of security it gave him. When would he learn that no place was safe to bare his soul? Was this strange Sassenach woman enchanted, then, able to draw confessions from a reluctant heart?

He snatched his hands away and drove deep furrows into his hair with his fingers.

“Don't stop talking to me,” she said. “Please. I want to know. What do you mean, penance?”

She must be under an enchantment, he decided. For he heard himself say, “After my father died, I felt duty bound to complete the castle even in defiance of English law. My
father refused to see that our people were losing the fight to stay free of the Sassenach. Year after year I watched him raise armies and lead them off to die. Year after year I listened to the keening of widows and orphans left to starve because my father refused to compromise with the English.”

“Aidan,” she said, “I'm so sorry.”

“Don't sorrow for me, but for those who fought and died, those they left behind.” He dropped his head into his hands and thought of the awesome price he had paid to stanch the bleeding wounds of his people. “Their strength has reached its limit. The English Lord Constable is in place in Killarney town, and so long as we rebel, he'll deal with us harshly. For myself, I would fight to my death, but I cannot ask that sacrifice of my people.”

“Your father did,” she stated.

“Aye.” The flood of memories washed over him: the shouting, the pleading…the violence. God in heaven, they had been like mortal enemies rather than blood kin.

“What will you ask of the queen?” she asked.

“Mercy, and some measure of self-rule. If I can negotiate a lasting peace, there will be less bloodshed.”

“So you are willing to pay the price of your pride.”

“To save lives.” He shot up and started to pace. “Damn it, I have no choice.”

“My lord, what know you of Elizabeth the queen?”

“That she is intelligent, manipulative and vain. That she is capricious in her decisions. That she is the most cunning and powerful monarch in Christendom.”

“She has a famous temper, I can tell you that. One time, Tom Canty went to beg a favor on behalf of the brewers' guild, and she ended up fining the guild.”

“Why?”

“Because Tom went to her with his hat in his hand. My lord, if you humble yourself before the queen, she will scorn you.”

“Would you have me declare war?” he asked, giving a harsh laugh.

“No.” With a quiet swish of her robe, she got up out of the shadows and came to stand before him. The moonlight limned a strange, pale beauty in her face. By night, her appeal had a wistful quality too subtle to be seen by light of day.

“Aidan,” she said, “I know I make sport of you with my lofty titles, but here is the truth. You are descended of ancient kings, a ruler in your own right, the O Donoghue Mór, a chieftain.”

He felt a curious melting of emotion in his chest. Words, he told himself. She spoke mere words, yet they affected him profoundly. He told himself she was a homeless waif, her opinions did not matter, but her statement made a splendid sense, and his soul thirsted for the faith she had in him. God knew, he had never gotten it from Felicity.

“I am,” he said with his old assurance, “the O Donoghue Mór.” He swept her up into his arms and whirled her around. Her laughter floated on the night wind and echoed across the river. Like leaves on a breeze, they subsided and settled to the ground, where the soft, damp grass cushioned them. He propped himself on one elbow and gazed down at her laughing face. Then, casting off the last of his hesitation, he kissed her hard and thirstily, drinking courage and wisdom from her startled lips.

She lifted herself into his kiss, arching her pale throat, winding her arms around his neck. Her loose robe fell open, and he was lost in a world of thoughtless sensation.
His hand slipped in between her robe and shift, finding the sweet curves of her body. She had a slim waist and gently flaring hips, strong smooth legs that moved restively when he caressed her thighs.

Yet somewhere, buried deep beneath his passion for her, was a spark of honor that told him to stop.
No.
He squeezed his eyes shut, plunging the spark back into darkness. He would have these moments with her, even if he had to steal them.

She was an innocent in many ways, so open to his caresses, so needful of his affection. And he was a life-scarred warrior, hungry for the trust she gave him, for her complete, unquestioning certainty that there was goodness in him—even though he knew better.

She touched his hard, scarred chest with one finger and drew back to whisper, “I did not come here for this.”

“But I'll not let you leave without it.” And with that, the last spark of his conscience died utterly. He brushed his hand up over her midsection and cupped one of her breasts. She made a whimpering sound in the back of her throat and raised herself higher so that her breast fit into the palm of his hand. Desire scalded him.

“God, Pippa,” he said in a choked voice. He had not anticipated the force of his passion. He shared the same terrible wanting he sensed in her. Suddenly his own desire, his own pleasure, became that which pleasured her. He kissed the side of her throat, lingering over her gently fluttering pulse, tasting the faint spice of sandalwood on her soft, creamy skin.

He moved lower still, using one hand to brush aside the laces of her shift. The garment gaped wide, baring her breasts to the night air. She caught her breath, then whispered, “It's cold.”

“I'll warm you, love.” He lowered his head to one
breast and his hand to the other. She made no sound, but her flesh seemed to sing to him as she arched into his embrace. He wanted to cover her like a stallion, to lose control and draw cries of ecstasy from her. God, it had been so long…too long…And then the spark of honor flared back to life, as he had known it would. No matter what the reason, he had made a vow to Felicity, and his insidious correctness reared its self-righteous head.