At the Queen's Summons (31 page)

The ship was lifted up and then plunged under. A whole army of stout barrels broke loose, rolling toward her along the crazily slanting deck. Something—the wind? a wave?—picked her up and hurled her into the sea. She flew through cold black space, and the water smacked her hard when she hit it….

A scream gathered in Pippa's chest as lakewater swamped the boat. She could barely make out the misty shoreline. The boat sat lower and lower in the water, finally tilting out of control before it began to sink.

She stopped screaming, for above the storm she heard the faint, hoarse yelp of a dog. Then the wind roared in her ears and she slid into the cold water, clinging only to a single oar as the boat was sucked out of sight.

She felt a twinge of regret, for the de Laceys had come a long way to see her. Then she felt nothing at all. The water closed over her, and beneath the surface she could not hear the storm. Beneath the surface it was quiet as a crypt.

 

At the height of the storm, two horsemen met at an abandoned shepherd's hut in the hills overlooking the lake. Aidan dismounted and led his horse into the dim shelter while Fortitude Browne, the lord constable of Killarney, did the same.

Aidan had come alone, even though he knew full well a troop of rain-drenched English soldiers waited below the hill. Browne was a man of great caution when it came to his own safety.

Aidan had disbanded his army and sent them into the hills, for that was one of Browne's first demands.

For a few moments they stood facing each other, not speaking, letting the cold rain drip down their faces. Even in the faint light of the storm-darkened evening, Aidan could see the hatred in Browne's lean, ascetic face. He had thin lips and high cheekbones, a cruel set to his jaw and hard eyes. Browne kept his hand on his sword, but Aidan did not fear he'd use it. Not here. Not now.

“You'll not believe this from me,” Aidan said, “but I am sorry Felicity died.”

“You should have thought of that when you murdered her.”

Aidan had expected the fierce accusation. “Nay, sir, I did not, but my guilt runs deep. Felicity would be alive today if we had never met, never married.”

Browne made a strangled sound in his throat and turned away, bracing his arm on the sagging lintel of the doorway and glaring out at the lashing storm. “You wanted to marry that beggarwoman. That is why you pushed Felicity to her death.”

Aidan took a breath between his clenched teeth. “My lord, we both knew she lost her reason. She took her own life. There was a witness, an Englishman like yourself.”

A light mist of steam rose from the sod walls of the hut. “Perhaps,” Aidan went on, “I am responsible for failing to see her madness.”

“You
drove
her mad, you murderer! The state of her mind is your fault!”

Aidan felt no anger, only a great weariness. “Did you
ever think of the state of her mind when you were forcing Felicity to kneel on stones or recite scripture through sleepless nights?”

Silence. The rain came so hard that it almost obscured the lake. Pippa hated storms, and now that Aidan had learned about her past, he understood why. He was glad she had gone to Innisfallen while the weather was still fair. As he himself had done, she sought solace on the lake island. Revelin would give her warmth and shelter; he would counsel her to go to the de Laceys.

Clenching his jaw against the searing pain of losing her, Aidan waited for Browne to speak again.

The older man turned back, running a hand through his thick, wet hair. “Do not sully my daughter's name by speaking it aloud. According to the letter you sent with the Venetian woman, you are prepared to accept my terms.”

Aidan sent him a humorless smile. “I would not go so far as to call your demands for my surrender
terms.
”

“You deserve to be drawn and quartered, made to die by inches.” Browne's voice shook, and Aidan felt a stab of sympathy. The man had lost a daughter, after all. She had been beautiful, unearthly and rare with her pale, perfect skin; in her lucid moments, before she had begun to hate Aidan, she had been pleasant and mild.

“So long as you agree to uphold your side of this devil's bargain,” Aidan said, “I will come along as your prisoner.”

“Excellent.” Browne went to the door and waved his arm. Four men approached, shoving Aidan up against the sod wall and clamping cold iron manacles around his wrists and ankles.

Browne led his horse out into the driving rain. He
smiled. “I shall take great pleasure in sending the O Donoghue Mór to hell.”

 

A subtle scent hung in the air. Pippa shuddered, amazed and frightened by a dream so vivid that it would include smells.

It was a scent that her every instinct recognized and responded to, for it was the sweet, unique scent of her mother.

Her mother.

Had she drowned? Was she in heaven? Philippa dragged her eyes open to banish the dream. She wasn't dreaming, but lying in a strange bed. How had she gotten here?

She blinked in the candlelight and noted, just in passing, the rich yet unfamiliar bed hangings.

Then she turned her head on the pillow and saw the woman.

Mama.

Her heart knew at last she had come home.

Seized by horror and joy and dread and relief, Philippa pushed herself up and drew her knees to her chest. She stared, and the small, dark-haired woman stared back.

Candlelight flickered at the edge of Philippa's vision. She caught her breath and closed her eyes, and from out of the darkness surged a memory so clear, it might have happened only yesterday.

Mama clasped her to her breast, and Philippa inhaled the nice laundry-and-sunshine scent of her.

“Goodbye, my little darling,” Mama whispered in a curious, broken voice. “I want you to take this with you to remind you of your mama and papa while you're away.”

Mama pinned the gold-and-ruby brooch to the front of Philippa's best smock. Then she removed the little knife that fit inside it. “I'll keep this part. It's safer that way, Philippa—”

“Philippa,” the woman said.

Her eyes flew open. “I am Philippa,” she said in a soft, wondering voice. “Your daughter.”

“Yes. Oh, yes, my darling, yes.” The dark-haired Englishwoman wrapped her arms around Philippa. The scent of laundry and sunshine was as evocative now as it had been more than a score of years ago. It was the smell of comfort, of love, of Mama.

But between them gaped decades of estrangement. Philippa broke away. Lark de Lacey seemed to sense her need to adjust and let her go.

A moment later, a man stepped into the room. Lark went to meet him, taking his hand and bringing him to the bedside. At first Philippa thought it was Richard, but then she saw that this man was older, though golden and handsome as no other man she had ever seen.

Papa.

She sat perfectly still, while they stood unmoving, staring at her as she stared back. A storm of feelings swept over her: shock, confusion, disbelief, rage, helplessness and a terrible impotence.

But no love.

When she looked at them, she simply saw two handsome strangers with tears coursing down their cheeks.

Finally she found her voice. “You are Lark and Oliver de Lacey, the Earl and Countess of Wimberleigh.”

“We are.” Lord Oliver's eyes were blue. Not the deep flame-blue of Aidan's, but a lighter color, shining with tears as he took her hand and pressed it to his heart. Then he gave her his special kiss: cheek, cheek, lips and nose,
always in that order. And her heart began to remember the gentle touch of this man.

“Welcome home, Philippa, my darling daughter.”

 

“He's been condemned to die?” Donal Og asked the contessa in a low whisper. He had ridden fast and hard from Ross Castle, and the smells of rain and wind clung to his clothing and abundant blond hair.

She regarded him silently, solemnly, unable to speak until she conquered the lump in her throat. She did at last, swallowing with effort, and took his big hand in hers. “I tried my best. Wimberleigh tried. Fortitude Browne refuses to retract his accusations against Aidan.”

Donal Og ripped his hand from hers and drove his fist into his palm. She winced at the force of the blow. The lamp hanging from a hook in the stables lit him strangely, making him appear even larger and more forbidding than usual. She had arranged to meet him here, in secret, near the Killarney residence of Oliver de Lacey.

“All my cousin ever wanted,” Donal Og said slowly, “was to be left in peace. His father would not permit that. Nor would Felicity. Even now that they are dead, they grip him in a stranglehold.”

Her heart wept for him, wept for them all. “My love, I am so sorry.”

He grasped her shoulders, pulling her against him. “I must go to Aidan, break him free of his confinement—”

“No!” she broke in. “Ah, Donal Og, I feared you would try this. It is the one sure way to get both yourself and Aidan killed. He won't go with you, and you will be caught.”

“I'll force him to go with me. I'm bigger than he, always have been.”

“You are bigger than everyone. But think with your brains, not your brawn. If you spirit Aidan away, Fortitude Browne will water all of Kerry with innocent blood.”

Donal Og clenched his jaw savagely and glared at the roof. “God, ah, God, kill me now so I do not have to see this through to the end.”

She pressed a shaking hand to his cheek. “Find your strength, beloved. You will need it.” A wave of frustration broke over the contessa. She had used all her skills, all her charm, all her considerable powers of duplicity, to convince the constable to show mercy. “All I could wrest from Fortitude Browne,” she confessed, “was his assurance that no one else would be put to the sword.”

He paced the floor. “I should put
him
to the sword. Consign him to hell with his crazy daughter.”

“Stay the impulse. Fortitude Browne is crooked; we simply need proof.” And we need it, she thought urgently, before he carries out his sentence against Aidan. “I will write again to the lord deputy in Dublin.”

Donal Og released his breath in a deflated hiss. He opened his arms and gave her a weary smile. “Come here, my sweet.”

She went willingly, finding comfort in the embrace of a man unlike any other she had ever known.

“What is to become of us?” he whispered into her hair. “Shall I disappear like a wounded wolf in the wilds of Connaught, where even the Sassenach fears to go?”

“I have a better idea. Wimberleigh has outfitted one of his ships for you and all the others who wish to leave. It's provisioned for six months, and an expert crew will take you anywhere you choose.”

He chuckled. “Iago will be pleased to hear that. He'll have us bound away for the West Indies before the week is out.”

“Is that such a horrible fate?”

He held her tightly. “It is if it means leaving you, my sweet.”

From the dregs of despair, she summoned a ray of hope. “Is there some law that says I cannot come with you?”

He stared down at her, thunderstruck and finally, cautiously, joyful. “You would do that? You would follow me into exile?”

“I would follow you to the ends of the earth if need be,” the contessa said.

“Ah, sweet Rosaria. That is probably where I shall take you,” said Donal Og.

 

In the morning Pippa rose and dressed after a surprisingly sound sleep. As she washed and dressed, she pondered the extraordinary events of the day before.

Her muscles ached from battling the storm, and her mind was filled with all that had happened. According to Oliver, an English patrol had spied her fighting her way to the shore. Alerted by the hounds, one man had dived in just as she'd gone under. She had been half drowned, unconscious. They had brought her directly to the manor house.

After seeing her parents, she had taken a little broth and wine, then fallen into a deep sleep.

The hall of the Killarney house was lofty and sun washed. The aftermath of the storm left the surrounding gardens glistening and green. She was not surprised to see a tall, long-coated hound cavorting in an orchard. A borzoya. Papa raised them. And now she remembered that the handsomest of each litter was called Pavlo.

All three of them—Oliver and Lark and Richard—shot to their feet when Philippa entered the room. Her gaze took them in with a slow, troubled sweep.

“Will you break your fast with us?” Lark asked.

“I'm not hungry.” Philippa heard impatience in her voice, so she tempered it with a forced smile. “Thank you.” With cold hands she unpinned the brooch and pushed it across the table toward Lark. “I'm told this was once yours.”