Irish Lady (16 page)

Michael dragged Meghann into the church, pushed her to the floor and covered her body with his. Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours. He couldn't tell. Meggie was warm beneath him but she hadn't moved in a long time. “Meggie?” he whispered into her ear. “Are you alive?”

Her head moved up and down. He breathed a sigh of relief and reached down to help her up when he heard pounding and angry voices at the door. “Bombay Street is burning, Father,” a man shouted. “Ring the bell. We need more help. Ring the bell.”

The cry was taken up by a dozen more voices. “Ring the bell. Help us, Father. Ring the bell.”

Father McLaughlin's resonant voice silenced them. “I've called the barracks. The army is already on its way. We can't risk the bell. They'll hear it in the Shankill and come for us.”

Michael had seen British troops assemble on the Falls Road, separating the Catholics of Clonard from the Catholics of Springfield, sandwiching the Protestants in between. He shook his head at the foolishness of a British captain who couldn't read a map. There was only one solution.

“Stay here, Meggie,” he whispered urgently. “I'm going t' ring the church bell. Don't move until I come back.”

Again the brief nod. She was conscious. Hopefully she understood.

The door near the altar led to the belfry. Michael climbed the stairs two at a time until he reached the bell. Grasping the rope, he pulled with all his strength. The clear, piercing chimes peeled through the smoke-filled air of the Falls, across the Springfield Road barricade and the silent streets of the Shankill until even the meager showing of tourists, safe in their lodgings on Malone Road, stopped their conversations and listened.

“Mother of God. We're in for it now.” Father McLaughlin crossed himself and ran to the belfry door.

As it turned out, nothing on that unholy night had been as effective. For the first time since the riots began the British Army marched toward the sound of the bell and came upon Cupar Street, heart of the war zone. Hardened men raised on stories of Irish terrorism took one horrified look at the devastation, dropped their weapons and stepped forward to wield fire hoses, lift the injured to stretchers, bandage wounds and flag down automobiles to evacuate the homeless.

The rope tore through the skin on Michael's hands. Blood ran up his arm and into his shirtsleeves before he dropped the rope and fell back against the narrow wall. His slight body shook with pain and rage and something new, something that Catholics from the Falls rarely experienced.

Father McLaughlin, his round head and frayed Roman collar appearing above the trap, recognized it immediately. Michael Devlin, fists clenched in the fighting stance that all lads in the slums learned soon after taking their first steps, appeared lit from inside with pride.

The priest climbed into the belfry, pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. “As I live and breathe, it's Mick Devlin. What in the name of heaven are you doing, lad? Was it you who pulled the bell?”

“Aye, Father, I did.”

“You're a brave lad, but I fear they'll be down upon us in no time.”

“There's nothing worse can be done, Father. They've burned out Bombay and Cupar Streets. Half of Kashmir is gone, and most of the houses on the Springfield Road.” His eyes burned. “Meggie's family—” he stopped unable to continue.

“Dead?”

Michael nodded.

“What of the little girl?”

“Downstairs on the floor.”

“We'd better see to her.” The priest clasped Michael's shoulder affectionately. “Come along now, lad.”

Meghann was exactly as Michael had left her, with her face pressed into the crook of her elbow. Her pallor and the stillness of her body worried the priest. It wasn't until he lifted her into his arms that she moaned and buried her face in the folds of his neck. He offered up a prayer, thanking God that she was unharmed except for the hidden wounds afflicting her heart. Father McLaughlin had spent enough time in the confessional to know that she would heal, except for the scars that would mark her forever.

They passed only one patrol on the silent, burned-out streets and were allowed to pass without questioning. Perhaps the sight of a schoolgirl in a plaid jumper with flame-lit coppery hair, a sharp-cheeked boy, his mouth tight with pain, and a Catholic priest whose level gray eyes brooked no interference, shamed them. Or perhaps it was simpler than that. Perhaps they'd waged enough of King William's war that day, wanting nothing more than a dram of whiskey, a bowl of hearty stew, and the comfort of a strong pot of tea.

Annie Devlin took one look at her son's face and another at Meghann's and reached out to pull them all, girl, boy, and priest, inside the well-lit room. Clucking under her breath, she bustled about lighting the stove, filling the bath, and pulling out clean sheets and a quilt to make up Bernadette's old room.

Not until Father McLaughlin, restored by a sweet bun and a pot of tea, left for the monastery and Meghann was washed and sent to bed did Annie sit down beside Michael and demand to know what happened.

Stone-faced, Michael spared her nothing. Words describing the horror of the night that would make television screens the world over, with the exception of those in British living rooms, tumbled from his lips.

Two of Meghann's sisters working in hotels outside of Belfast had escaped their parents' fate. But the boys were dead, two gone up in flames trying to run the barricade into the Falls and another blown up by his own petrol bomb as he lobbed it over the Peace Wall.

It was never really decided that Meghann should stay with the Devlins. She simply settled in, and by her eleventh birthday it seemed as if she had always been there. The boisterous Devlin boys minded their manners with Meghann as they never had with their older sister and some of Meggie's serious dignity wore off with the constant barrage of teasing and practical jokes administered by Michael and his brothers. Sometimes Annie would see an expression flit across Meghann's heartbreakingly expressive face that would make her bite her lip and blink quickly. But it never lasted for long. No one born in the Falls grew to adulthood without experiencing a good deal of personal tragedy. Still there was a serene, otherworld quality about the little girl that made Annie feel protective, more than with her own children.

As Meghann grew, so did her love for learning. It was quite clear that she would go on to university and, as Michael was already there, the two spent a great deal of time poring over the books. Annie smiled fondly at the two of them, their heads together, Meghann questioning, Michael pondering before answering her. It was good to see children enjoying their schooling. She had given up hope of any more of her children learning anything but the basics. With the exception of Bernadette and Michael, none of them had shown any interest in books. Not that there was any point in a Catholic educating himself in Northern Ireland. Learned or not, there were too many Protestants anxious to fill the best jobs. If Annie had looked beyond the pleasant sight of her son and goddaughter attempting to better themselves, she would have seen what was still an unformed notion in the girl's mind.

Meghann was fourteen years old to Michael's eighteen, but already she felt the tension between them and knew, long before he did, that it was only a matter of time before he noticed it too.

While Meghann was gentle, unobtrusive, and enviably serene, she was also intelligent and singularly focused on whatever goal she set for herself. She wanted Michael to notice her, and she knew him well enough to understand that he wouldn't be pushed. The realization that little Meggie McCarthy was growing up must come from him. He was his own man and would not appreciate an adolescent girl setting his pace for him. Meghann didn't mind waiting. After all, she was quite young and would most likely improve as she grew older.

But Michael posed another problem. He was tall and lean as a deer rifle, and his sharp-cheeked, square-chinned features set beneath startling blue eyes were attracting a great deal of attention among girls his own age. It would not do to have him become attached to someone else before she had time to grow up. It was time to act, even if nothing could come of it until later.

And so it was that Michael, on his way home through the entry from Blaehstaff's pub, came upon Malachy Conlin kissing Meghann McCarthy as if he had been doing it for a very long time. Rage swept the shock from Michael's brain and within seconds a very bruised Malachy, blubbering that he would never do it again, ran home holding his nose.

Breathing as if he'd run a great distance and not all from trouncing Malachy, Michael turned on Meghann. “What in bloody hell were y' doing?”

Keeping her eyes on his face, she shrugged. “No one has ever kissed me before. I wanted to know what it was like.”

“We kiss y'all the time.”

She looked at him disdainfully. “I wanted t' know what it's like when a man kisses a woman.”

Under his breath he muttered a word that Meghann had never heard. “Malachy Conlin isn't a man.”

“No.” Meghann rubbed the toe of her shoe in the loose dirt. Pink-cheeked at her own daring, she looked up at him through her lashes. “But you are.”

He stiffened warily. “What does that mean?”

She spilled it out in a tumble of words. “If y' don't want me kissing Malachy, why don't you kiss me instead?”

He stared at her as if he couldn't believe his ears. “You're a child,” he managed. “It wouldn't be right.”

“I suppose not.” Meghann picked up her books, dusted them off and started to walk away. “I'll ask someone else.”

“Meggie, wait.” Michael's hand was on her arm. “If y' really must have it, I'll be the one.”

Delighted that his capitulation had come so quickly, Meghann repressed a smile, lifted her lips and waited.

Strong hands gripped her upper arms and Michael lowered his head. “Close your eyes,” he said hoarsely.

She closed them and his lips touched hers in a chaste salute. The firm pressure unnerved her and after a moment she stepped back, blushing furiously.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Is that always the way it is?” she asked curiously.

“Why?”

“Malachy's kiss was different. His mouth was open and he—”

Michael groaned. “Meggie. Have y' no shame?”

“Is kissing shameful?”

“No,” he said, furious at his own inconsistency.

“Then why should I be ashamed?”

Michael was baffled. He'd completely lost control of their conversation and worse, he couldn't think of a single reason to dissuade her from what she was determined to have from him. He only hoped no one saw them together. His mother would kill him and there would be no end to his brothers' teasing. “All right, Meggie,” he said at last. “I'll show y' the proper way of it.”

Dutifully she lifted her lips again and closed her eyes.

He took the books from her arms and dropped them beside her. She waited for the grip of his hands on her shoulders but it never came. This time one arm circled her waist to pull her close and the other reached behind her to cradle the back of her head. She felt the beat of his heart against her chest. His sure fingers sifted through her hair as if he'd explored the way many times before.

This time the kiss was neither chaste nor sweet nor warm. It was electrifying and insistent, his lips moving against hers, his tongue sweeping through her mouth, tasting, filling, pleasuring, seducing until she forgot everything, even the need to draw breath.

When Michael lifted his head and saw her swollen mouth and dilated pupils, he realized what he'd done. Every schoolgirl between ten and marriage believed that tongue-kissing was a mortal sin. Meggie probably thought she was going to hell. “My God, Meggie,” he breathed. “I'm sorry. I never meant—”

She shook her head and pulled away, hoping he couldn't see what he'd done to her. “Don't.” She sounded nothing like herself. “It's all right. I asked you. I didn't know—”

Michael waited for her to finish, but she never did. Turning, she ran through the entry and into the street without a backward glance. He picked up her books with shaking hands and slowly followed her home.

Meghann remembered other riots in the Falls, the later ones much worse than the bombing of Cupar Street. But none affected her as much as the one that had left her orphaned. In 1972 the loyalists had gone on a rampage, evicting Catholic families, burning schools, and bombing churches while the British Army watched from the sidelines. This Rape of the Falls, as it came to be known, caused such devastation that entire streets were leveled to the ground. The Housing Authority erected high-rises that forever changed the flavor of the community and became slums far worse than the tenements and row houses had ever been.

Cupar Street was never again inhabited by Catholics or Protestants, and eventually the row houses were torn down and a twenty-foot brick wall known as the Peace Line was erected. There was no more shopping in the Shankill for Catholic mothers, and never again did Protestants and Catholics socialize outside their own neighborhoods. Wrapped in the secure cocoon of the Devlin family and later in the haze of her feelings for Michael, Meghann healed, or so she thought. Bernadette Devlin had brought out the truth on their last walk through the Falls. Meghann had never reconciled Cupar Street. Perhaps it was time.

She unplugged the kettle and slipped on her shoes. There were very few personal belongings in her office. Except for her books, which she would have packed and delivered later, one trip to the car would do it. Tucking Michael's files into her briefcase, she walked out of the office, through the beautiful mahogany doors, and down the steps to the car park without encountering anyone.

Placing her things in the back, she slid into the driver's seat and turned the key. The engine turned over. Maneuvering the car down the exit ramp, she stopped at the guard tower and waited until the gate opened. A crowd carrying banners had gathered outside the building.

Perplexed, Meghann inched the car forward and tapped her horn, hoping the people would disperse. Instead they surrounded the car, shouting, pressing banners painted with horrid slogans against the windows and pounding on the bonnet.

Two guards rushed out from behind the gate, brandishing billy clubs at the crowd. In seconds they cleared the driveway and Meghann quickly drove through the angry demonstrators. She turned back briefly and stared at the white banner draped below the impressive logo advertising the offices of Thorndike and Sutton. In gaudy red letters three feet high, the words
IRA
Murderer
leaped out at her through the rain.

Grimly she concentrated on her driving and moved ahead with the traffic. Her press conference had ended little more than an hour ago. The British Broadcasting Networks hadn't wasted any time. She wondered if Michael would see it or if this, too, would be banned in Northern Ireland.

Turning down the elegant streets of the Mayfair district where she kept her flat, Meghann drove into her garage, gathered her belongings, and walked through her back door to find Mrs. Hartwell in a state of distress. Although she knew perfectly well why the woman was sitting uncharacteristically idle at the kitchen table with a handkerchief pressed to her nose, the housekeeper's sense of dignity would be offended if formality was not observed.

Meghann sighed and set her belongings on the table. “What is troubling you, Mrs. Hartwell?”

The woman could barely form the words. “Mrs. Fields from upstairs told me but I wouldn't believe it, not until I saw it all over the telly.”

“I assume you're referring to the Michael Devlin defense.”

She nodded.

Meghann sat down beside her. “I am a barrister, Mrs. Hartwell. Someone has to defend him.”

The older woman shuddered and for the first time forgot that Meghann was her employer and the widow of a peer. “But why you? This can't be good for your reputation or your career.”

Meghann was very near the edge of her control. She had expected criticism from her associates and the press. The angry mob at the office disturbed her more than she cared to admit, and now her own housekeeper was aligned against her.

A real tear trickled down Mrs. Hartwell's cheek. Meghann softened and reached out to cover the woman's hand with her own. “We've been together a long time, Mrs. Hartwell. Surely you know that I never do anything without giving it a great deal of thought.”

“I cannot bear this, Lady Sutton,” she sobbed into her handkerchief. “I truly cannot.”

“Perhaps this is a good time for a holiday,” Meghann suggested. “Your sister is in Devonshire. Why not ring her up and tell her you're coming for a visit?”

Mrs. Hartwell brightened. “Yes. That's a marvelous idea. The very thing. And when I return this will all be over.”

Meghann nodded. “I hope so. In any case, I'll keep you informed. Take the rest of the day, Mrs. Hartwell. I'm sure this has been a difficult time for you.”

“Why, that's very good of you, Lady Sutton. It has been a rather unusual day.” She hesitated. “If you're sure. What will you have for dinner?”

“I'm dining out,” Meghann lied and stood up, reaching for her briefcase. “Lock the door and ring me when you reach Devonshire.”

“Of course I will.” She nodded emphatically. “I wouldn't want you to worry with everything else on your mind.”

Twenty minutes later Meghann was relieved to hear the front bolt snap into place. Mrs. Hartwell was gone. She had been David's choice and, out of respect for his memory and because she knew the woman would have difficulty finding another position at her age, Meghann had kept her on. What she should have done was pension her off long ago. It was a strain living with a person who wasn't a family member. She'd always been an introvert, a loner Michael had called her, happier with her own company than with anyone else.

Perhaps it was because she was Irish. The British were accustomed to servants. They thought nothing of discussing the most personal details of their lives in front of domestics as if the men and women who served them had neither eyes nor ears nor feelings. Meghann wasn't comfortable being waited on by hired help. With their lined faces and rough hands, most of the women reminded her of her mother. She wanted to close the distance between them, sit down at the table and chat over a cup of tea. That was out of the question, of course. Class differences were observed in England. Perhaps she wouldn't hire anyone at all. Her mother had cared for a family of nine. She'd managed by herself before. Surely she could do it again. In fact she welcomed it.

With new resolve, Meghann tightened the sash of her robe and marched into the kitchen to open a tin of soup. The tray she carried into the living room looked particularly appetizing. Curling up in a chair near the fire, she sipped her wine and remembered her last day with Michael. Soon, very soon, she would see him again. The thought sustained her. Nothing else really mattered. Once it had all been important, her career, the money, the clothes, the luxuries she'd always dreamed about. But that was before Donegal. Now, she'd give it all up to spend the rest of her life in a cottage by the ocean and listen to Michael Devlin read poetry.

The warmth, the strain of the day, and the alcohol took their toll. Unconsciously she rubbed her mother's brooch. Dizziness swept over her, probably the effect of a glass of wine with too little food. She leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes.

*

Nuala, Tirconnaill, 1596

Once again Rory and I were blessed with twins, girls this time, healthy and more alike than any I had seen before. Tiny rosebud mouths closed around my breasts, sucking greedily until at three months, when I was exhausted and they were round and plump as Christmas partridges, I brought in a wet nurse and returned to my duties as chatelaine of Dun Na Ghal Castle and countess of Tirconnaill.

For the first time, Rory was home for my confinement. His look of wonder at the tiny bairns no bigger than the palm of his hand was worth a kingdom to me. Apparently the birth of his daughters had a sobering effect on him. For the length of the season he rested easily at home and he was not so consumed with thoughts of revenge against Elizabeth. When he left Dun Na Ghal to take up arms against the English, it was with great reluctance. Perhaps he had grown soft with the comforts of his home, or perhaps he had a premonition of what was to come. Whatever the reason, he parted tenderly from the children and from me. A fortnight passed before I received his missive telling me he would be delayed a bit longer. My father had insisted on raiding the English-occupied castle at Lorne, and Rory's men were the best warriors ever to be seen in Ireland.

I held Brian in my arms on the battlements, marveling at how heavy he was and how much he had grown in the past year. He wanted to see all of Tirconnaill, and I could think of no better place to show him than here at the castle's highest point, cold and dangerously windy though it was. I pointed west toward the sea, directing my son's gaze toward the turquoise water under a summer sun, and then north to the wild beauty of grass-covered marshland alive with fowl. To the south was Galway and the Aran Islands where Liam Flaherty ruled like the kings who were his forefathers. To the east as far as the eye could see was farmland colored in shades of palest gold to deepest green.

My eyes stung with senseless tears. Brian would never rule this land of his ancestors. Rory and I would be fortunate to live out our lives here. Even now the English noose was tightening and time ran short. More and more Irish chieftains were expatriated, their lands forfeit to the surging Protestant tide sweeping across our homeland. We were more fortunate than most. We would survive. I made sure of it. Every harvest season secret deposits of gold were sent to Rome in preparation for our exile. No one knew of my deception, not even Rory, and were the tables to turn in our favor I would gladly donate every crown to Holy Mother Church.

Brian's expression was grave for one so young. His eyes, the same brilliant blue as Rory's, were narrowed and intense. “Does all of this belong to us?” he asked solemnly.

I hesitated, searching for an answer that was true and yet not raise impossible hope. “Aye, for now,” I managed.

Young as he was, Brian knew me well. “When will it not be ours?”

Pressing my cheek against his round one, I spoke gently. “Everything changes, my love. Perhaps your destiny lies elsewhere. Would that be so very bad?”

He looked up at me with his father's expression and my heart sank. “This is O'Donnell land,” he said firmly. “One day it will be mine.”

“What of Sean and the girls? Where would you have them go?” Brian puffed out his rounded cheeks importantly. “Sean may stay here or go to Ballymurphy. The girls will marry.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked, astonished. Surely such thoughts were beyond the understanding of a small boy.

“Da said it. He made me tell him, over and over again, how it would be.”

I was conscious of a flash of anger so intense that it shook me. Rory should know better than to put such ideas in the mind of a child. It was the strength of my rage that led me to turn my back on the portcullis gate, to carry my child inside, out of the light and down the stairs to the nursery where his maid dozed by a weak fire.

If I had waited but another moment, I would have seen Niall Garv's men creep silently over the hills like a scourge of the blight. Without warning they filed through the open gates into the courtyard and surrounded the castle, sealing off all escape routes.

He found me in my sitting room, wrapped in wool against the chill. I stared into the flames, so deep in thought that I heard nothing of the commotion in my courtyard. Not even the sudden draft stirred me. Not until he walked to the hearth and stood before me, fully within my line of vision, did I realize he was there.

“You're too late, Cousin,” I said wearily. “Rory has already gone.”

The corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. “Again you misjudge me, Nuala. I come to bear you company while your husband is away.”

His eyes glittered like obsidian in his darkly tanned face, and I was afraid. Still I brazened it out. “Your errand is wasted. I need no company. Rory needs you more than I.”

“Rory and I no longer fight on the same side.”

I stood and faced him, pulling the shawl tightly about me. “Surely I misunderstand you,” I said icily.

He shook his head, his eyes never leaving my face. “I pledged my allegiance to the queen at Falkirk.”

“Rory will kill you,” I whispered, “and if he does not, my father will.”

Niall laughed and tossed his bonnet onto a low table. “I think not. I hold his wife and children hostage. Rory is not a fool. He knows that I would not harm you, but I have no such scruples regarding your children. He will not attempt an attack.”

“You don't know Rory.”

He grinned and she wondered, not for the first time, why a man as handsome as Niall Garv O'Donnell would want another man's wife when any maid in Ireland would be willing to share his bed.

“I know Rory well enough,” he said. “'Tis you I would know better.”

“You are a traitor.” I tried to walk past him, but his hand snaked out and grabbed my wrist.

He spoke through gritted teeth. “I do not give you leave to retire, my lady.”

“'Tis my house. I leave when I wish.”

He drew me toward him, circling my waist with his free arm, pulling me against him.

I refused to show my fear. “Please, don't, Niall,” I said in a low firm voice.

“Don't what?” He pulled me closer until I felt the length of his body through my gown. Bending his head, he brushed my lips. “What is it, Nuala? Shall I not kiss you?” His mouth hovered no more than an inch from mine. “Holy God, you are beautiful,” he muttered, before closing the distance between us.

I turned my head and felt his lips against my cheek. “Please,” I begged. “'Tis past time to see to the children.”

He released me so quickly that I stumbled against him. “Go to Rory's brats, Nuala, but prepare yourself. I will come to you whether or not you are willing.”