Patricia Rice (2 page)

When she finally raised the courage to lift her head
from her hiding place, she looked blindly through the icy sheets of
rain, and at the sight revealed, screamed until insensibility overcame
her.

The huge beast loomed overhead like an avenging god.
The icy, masked visage glowered with eyes of fire. His curse was deadly
as he reached for the miscreant who dared witness his nighttime
depredations.

James Morgan O’Neill de Lacy III stood in the
crumbling shadows of his home and choked back shame and rage. Although
he had not yet achieved his full manhood, his fists were large and
murderous as he clenched them at his side. He strained not to raise them
to the heavens and rail at his fate, or to let the hot, furious tears
cascade down his face.

The elder de Lacy watching his struggles stayed
silent, his lined visage an etching of pain as raw as the boy’s. His own
black hair was streaked with gray, and the shadows of his beard did not
disguise the deep creases of suffering in his weathered face. He had a
legacy of anguish to pass on, and it twisted in his heart as he watched
his elder son’s shoulders shake with just this first sample of it.

“You’re the eldest, Jamie,” he said. “And not to put
too fine a finish on it, you’re the one with the fists and the fire to
be a grand soldier. Your grandfather would be proud of you. The day will
come when you will ride in here with Charlie’s men and drive the
murtherin’ redcoats out, but until that day, we must see you safe. Your
brother will hold the lands for you. Sean can be trusted, and he’s not
the sort to be a soldier.”

Sean was meant to be a priest, but neither of them
spoke of that. Priests had been outlawed, along with everything that
made them Irish, Catholic, and proud. Sean would become a Protestant,
and hold the lands against the day the Irish rose again.

It churned in Morgan’s gut, and the red rage of
hatred rose in him again. For years they had been teaching him patience.
He had hidden in the hedgerows with the other children, learning from
the outlaw priests, soaking up his heritage, and being told the day
would come when he would ride his lands as unfettered lord. And this was
what it had come to. Exile.

“I should have killed the bloody bastard. At least
he would not have Queen Maeve now.” He mourned the horse almost as much
as the forthcoming loss of his home. He had been there at her birth,
trained her since a filly; they had been a part of each other. The
lovely black mare was the only thing of value he had ever owned, and the
damned English robbers would take her from him too. And they called it
the law!

Though his son still spoke with loathing in his
heart, de Lacy knew his heir had gained control of himself again. He
clasped Morgan’s shoulder and shook it slightly. “He’ll not keep her.
We’ll see to that. And you damned well did near kill the lad. That’s why
it’s time for you to go. They’ll be wanting your head if you stay.”

Morgan knew that with his mind, but he could not reason with his heart. This was his land.
His
.
He knew every acre, every leaf, every life that stirred in these
rolling emerald hills. He belonged here, not with the soldiers in
France.

His grandfather had died over there, a fugitive from
his own home because of the bloody, dishonorable British. James de Lacy
I, along with all the other brave Irish patriots, had volunteered exile
in the promise that the British conquerors would not punish those who
remained. And look what that promise had come to!

It seemed the only thing the British laws now
allowed a Catholic to do was to starve in the hills. They weren’t even
allowed to die in the cities, for they had been barred from most of
them.

But the law burning in Morgan’s chest right now was
the one causing his fists to curl and his bile to rise. A Catholic could
not own a horse worth more than five pounds. Queen Maeve had been worth
a hundred or more and he would not have sold her for a thousand. But
when the bastard redcoat offered five pounds for her, he had to sell or
leave their lands liable for confiscation.

Morgan’s shoulders slumped as the humiliation of
that defeat ate at his insides. Even though he had beaten the insulting
bastard to a pulp, he had been forced to surrender the mare when the man
pulled out a five-pounder and waved it in his face.

His father had promised she would be saved from the spurs of that inept idiot. He would have to be satisfied with that. For now.

***

That day was in the past now, just another black
moment in a long line of cruel memories. Jack didn’t know why it had
come to mind, other than that he must have been as young then as this
child was now.

He lifted the lifeless body from the ditch, shocked
by the slightness of her weight. She scarce weighed more than a sack of
flour. The sleet had turned to snow and she would freeze to death before
morning. He shouldn’t have terrified her into fainting. He could have
sent her on her way then.

His little sister must have been this size when she died. He hadn’t been there to protect her. No one had been.

Conscience warred with logic. Conscience seldom won,
but he was weary this night, and cold, and the memory of his family
broke loose shreds of heart he hadn’t known in years.

Jack hoisted her into the saddle and gave the
stallion the signal to move on. He couldn’t linger longer to argue with
himself or he’d have the sheriff to argue with too.

The child moaned, and he felt the rumbling in her
belly. The road to London crawled with beggars but he seldom encountered
little girls. It did not relieve his hatred to know the British system
was as unkind to its own as it had been to his.

When he reached the cottage, he dismounted with the
child under one arm. He felt her stiffen into wakefulness, but
apparently one glance at his fearful visage was sufficient to send her
into the vapors again. Patting the stallion, he carried the child’s limp
form into the darkness of the hut and deposited her on the bed. His
horse came first.

When he returned and lit the lantern, Jack
discovered his unwelcome guest had curled into a ball in the center of
his bed and fallen sound asleep. He was hungry, cold, and impatient for
his supper, but he raised the lantern just for a moment to examine his
hostage from this night’s evil deeds.

He was no judge of age, but her pale face was very
young. The hood of her cloak had fallen back to reveal a tumble of
tangled brown hair that offered a hint of red. The high, almost
aristocratic cheekbones reminded him painfully of his sister, and the
knotting in his stomach was not entirely from hunger.

Jack turned away. Memories did not sit easy on an
empty stomach. He resisted the urge to reach for the bottle of rum on
the shelf. He knew the dangers of drink.

The child had not stirred by the time the fire had
warmed the room and his supper boiled in the pot. He wondered if she
were dead and wandered back to check the pulse at her throat. Her skin
was icy to the touch, but he could feel the thread of life still beating
beneath his fingers.

He wasn’t a man who cared about anything anymore.
The child could die and he would dig a grave and bury her out back and
not think about her again. But as long as she was alive, he supposed he
ought to do something to keep her that way.

The fire cast flickering shadows over the wattled
plaster of the walls and the rough-hewn beams as he sought a spare
blanket and prepared a pallet by the hearth. A single table, chair, and
bed made up almost the entirety of the room’s furniture. The wide plank
floor had room enough to spare for one small pallet. Removing the
child’s muddy cloak, Morgan covered her with an old one of his own.

He studied her tiny form beneath the enveloping
material and wondered what in hell else he was expected to do to keep
her alive. He had never taken care of another soul besides himself,
unless he counted his horses.

Adjusting the pallet a little farther from the stone
hearth and the fire’s menace, he scowled and went to check on his
horses. He had been a damned fool idiot to bring her here, but as the
snow hit his face, he knew he could have done nothing else.

***

Faith stirred and moaned, then tried to stretch her
cramped legs. She ached in every fiber of her being, but she had grown
accustomed to the pain. She was warm. There must be work to do.

Darkness did not deter her from rising. She could
not remember where she was or how she got there, but a lifetime of habit
forced her out of the cozy cocoon of her covers to stir the fire.

Next she needed to heat water, but if she had been
shown the pump or well, she could not remember it. Ignoring the
emptiness in her middle, she used the fire’s meager light to search out
pail and kettle. Unable to locate her own cloak, she donned the one that
had covered her. It dragged along the plank floor, but it was warm, and
she was cold as soon as she left the hearth.

The snow had stopped, leaving a crystalline covering
that crunched beneath her feet in the dawn’s gray light. A large
structure loomed against the midnight black of the trees. Barns meant
animals, and animals needed water.

She found a trough frozen and covered in snow, and
she broke the ice. A whinny from inside the barn reminded her that the
animals would need to drink too, and she filled her pail and carried it
to the closed door of the barn. Opening the massive panels almost proved
too much for her limited strength, but her parents had taught her that
the weak must come first, and animals were always weaker than humans.

Her head spun from the effort, but she rested a
moment before picking up the pail and entering the darkness. Perhaps if
she worked hard enough, the owner of this grand barn would allow her to
stay.

To her surprise, the only inhabitants of the
structure were four horses, a cat, and a few hens. The horse in the last
stall was a magnificent beast so large as to be terrifying, but he only
whickered gratefully as she offered the pail of water. Timidly she
patted his long, soft nose, and he pushed against her hand, searching
for treats. She smiled and wished she had aught to offer, but she did
not.

She had always wished for a pet of her own, but they
had moved too often, and her parents had protested the nuisance of yet
another mouth to feed. Recalling the hatred that had marred her life,
Faith knew any pet would have been a victim. Her parents had known too,
but she had been too young to understand.

Petting the scrawny cat that curled around her
ankles, Faith went in search of the hens’ nests. She hadn’t had eggs in
months. Would the owner mind sharing his breakfast if she cooked it?

The thought made her mouth water and her legs
tremble as she tucked the precious ovals into her skirt pockets. Closing
the door and refilling her pail, she stumbled through the growing dawn
to the tiny cottage. It was smaller than the barn, but the snow gleaming
on its thatched roof and the ice frosting the tiny windowpanes painted a
fantasy image coated with sugary icing. Or perhaps just her hungry
stomach turned to thoughts of food.

She crept through the doorway, hesitating to wake
whatever inhabitants there might be. She had slept in so many strange
places these last weeks that she had grown accustomed to making her own
way around other people’s houses and lives. The peat she had thrown on
the fire had begun to burn, and the warmth greeted her as she slid off
her wet shoes and hung her cloak on a peg by the door.

She was still shivering in her torn stockings, but
she hung the kettle over the fire and took the eggs from her pocket and
looked around for the larder. A few pots and skillets hung on the
mantel, and a crude cupboard in the corner uncovered the bare rudiments
of a meal. Whoever lived here did not spare much time or money on fancy
food. There was nary an herb or spice of even the most common kind. A
sack of meal, a tin of tea, a rasher of smoked bacon, a stale half-loaf
of bread, and a pot of lard constituted almost the entirety of the
pantry.

But that was enough to make a breakfast that would
fill her stomach, if allowed. Since no one had come to hinder her
actions yet, Faith boldly set about making the kitchen her own. Surely
no one would complain to find a meal waiting.

She conscientiously avoided looking toward the bed
cupboard in the shadows across the room. She had never seen a bed quite
like that, but she recognized it for what it was from the soft snores
within. At one time it had possibly possessed doors to keep out the cold
drafts of a winter night, but not even a curtain blocked the opening
now. It nearly filled the entire wall, and if she thought about it, she
would have to wonder what kind of giant needed that size of bed.

***

The smell of bacon cooking made his mouth water, and
Jack conjured up memories of steaming pots of coffee, fresh cream, and
baking bread. His stomach rumbled, and he awoke enough to know that last
night’s greasy stew hadn’t filled his ever-empty belly. He would have
to ride down to the inn and sweet-talk Molly out of a bowl of porridge.

The idea of a bowl of Molly’s lumpy porridge did not
quite satisfy the image of Jack’s dreams, but it would have to do. He
had learned the bare necessities of cooking to keep from starving, but
he didn’t enjoy it. And he was too hungry to plunder his larder for its
meager contents now.

Swinging out of bed, Jack realized he had slept in
his shirt and stockings last night. What imp of hell had caused him to
do that?

Nearly bumping his head on the cursed bed roof, he
swore irritably and groped for his breeches. Only then did he realize
that the floor was almost warm, and he wasn’t shivering with the predawn
cold of a dead fire. The smell of cooking bacon became more than a
dream, and as he donned his breeches, his gaze sought the source of this
miracle.