Rescuing Mr. Gracey (37 page)

Her brave eyes, wide as the moon on a summer night, locked on him. His fingers captured her icy ones and, with a little tug, brought her the rest of the way into the cavernous room.

Alec knew a sort of urgency to settle her. With light pressure, he guided her toward the overstuffed furniture that faced a crackling fire. In between the two chairs was a square table with checked squares embedded into the top. He’d ordered hot cocoa—her favorite—in the hope she’d come. Smiling, he poured a cup and handed it to her.

Careful. Go carefully.
“I’ve debated the best solution toward rebuilding our communication. I know you’ve likely erected a wall of suspicion, and I deserve that.” He watched her brow arch.

She was not sufficiently prepared to hear all that needed to be said. Alec shifted his strategy along with the position of his chair. His fingers captured hers, stroking in slow downward motions.

Waving a hand over the table, he said, “I believe you may enjoy this game, for it is full of intrigue and strategy. It is called chess,” he instructed lightly. “As in life, the players must defend themselves against the opponent’s intentions, all the while building a strategy to capture the king. Now you shall have the white characters. Perhaps we may refer to them as the army of King James who will battle the black William of Orange…which, of course, is my side.”

Mary frowned, but he could see the corners of her mouth threaten to turn up. Encouraged, he continued. “We both have equal men and a fair playing field,” Alec teased. His hand brushed her fingers as he explained each character on the board and their different abilities. “Shall I write it down for you, Mary?” he asked, his hand now moving up toward her wrist.

She lifted one brow. “I believe I can manage to remember, sir.”

“The game ends when the king cannot escape. Remember, as in life itself, the real power rests with the queen.”

Her lashes fluttered up, allowing him to see a spark of laughter. He gave her a one-sided grin that never failed to mellow her mood.

Mary leaned forward. A lovely rose scent drifted across the table and weakened him. “Are you intending to repeat the original battle where poor James was outmaneuvered and outgunned by the black William?”

Alec laughed outright.
Sweet Mary. Though quick-tempered, she forgives just as fast.
“Like the original battle, Mary, the game will be won by the best strategy, but I promise to be very gentle when you are defeated.”

She blinked at the challenge. Her pursed lips caused him to chuckle. “Well then,” she said with a slightly sharper tone. “’Tis time we determine who devises better strategies.”

Mary was too quick a study. Alec suspected she either already knew how to play the game, or his tumbling thoughts dismantled a decent offense whenever her delicate finger stroked the white knight or massaged the king’s crown.

He swallowed, his gaze traveling up the soft length of her hand, her slender arm, her creamy shoulder, her neck, long and scented, he knew, with light roses. Cinnamon strands of hair fell from her loosely knotted bun and lingered along that favorite spot. His mouth watered, remembering how sweet, innocent, delectably delicious she tasted.

“Excuse me, sir. I believe ’tis your move.”
 

He shifted.
Indeed.
Forcing his attention back to the board, he cleared his throat and frowned, confounded over what move had been made.

He leaned forward, hunching closer. Her bishop threatened his queen. How in blazes had she managed that?
The clever little sprite.
He rubbed the back of his neck.
Concentrate or be humbled, Gracey.

Soft rain pattered on the windows, the wood fire occasionally popped and crackled, and he was so content, it frightened him. He heard her rustle, her hands again fingering a piece. His concentration ebbed, and quickly, he moved his knight to protect the queen. Not brilliant, but enough to recover.

Her sigh, a soft, distracted sound, drew his interest. Her small frame curved inwardly toward the board; her smoky lashes fanned over creamy, blushed cheeks. Every part of her, every movement, fascinated him. She nibbled her lower lip, causing her dimples to pop in and out. Her tongue peeked out, moistening her soft, delectable mouth.

A groan escaped before he could call it back.

Her eyes flicked up. They met his. He allowed her to see his hunger. Her breathing increased. His stomach tightened.

She shuffled and reset her posture, her head lowered. “Sir, do ya attempt to distract me thoughts by your scrutiny?”

“Hardly, mistress. You clearly possess all advantage.”

Unbalanced and excited, frightened and dizzy…so dizzy, Alec touched her tiny hand, stroking as lightly as a feather.

She did not withdraw. Her hand trembled, but the twinkle in her eyes confirmed the truth. Within the orange shadows of the room, her face flushed, and the sprinkle of freckles appeared. Heated, baser instincts threatened to overwhelm him. He imagined casting aside the table’s barrier, locking her within his embrace, tumbling her restrained hair, and…

“I believe I’ve checked you, sir.”

His mouth dropped open. Unbelievably, she had trapped his king with her bishop. Befuddled, he glanced back up. Her triumphant expression made him smile. He returned her smile with a slow, deliberately seductive grin. “You play with me, mistress. You know the game well.”

“Do you fault me for my…cleverness?” Those delicious lips, pink, sweet tasting, pulled up teasingly. “So you admit defeat, then?”

His laugh echoed off the dark-paneled walls. Mary’s smile brightened, and sunshine warmed his insides. Any clarity scattered. Her face almost glowed, and he could see an erratic pulse at her neck. “I should have easily won twenty minutes ago, but you send my mind into disarray.” He glanced down, studied the board, and then, with one swift move, captured her bishop with his queen. “You must always watch the queen, Mary. Checkmate.”

Her eyes widened. His queen, though all the way across the board, sat in a diagonal, unrestricted path to her king.

He laughed heartily. “I apologize, but I must warn you, I am too competitive to lose anything that I seek to win.” He winked and whispered, “Besides, I cannot rewrite history.”

Mary raised a brow. “I look forward to the time when Ireland’s history may be reset and the rightful winner proclaimed. However, like all good Irish, I’ve learned how to accept defeat gracefully.”

The knock on the door startled and frustrated Alec. “Come in,” he said.

“I apologize for the interruption, sir. Your father requests your immediate presence. He says the matter is urgent.”

Alec scowled. Rising, he extended his arm to Mary and escorted her to the winding stairs. “I hope you will dine with me and my family this evening? After, I wish to show you something that I find most compelling.”

She looked at him quizzically, but he urged her forward. “I will see you within the hour?”

He watched her, admiring her grace, her poise. Clasping his hands behind him, he prayed she would not refuse.

She hesitated and turned. He read her thoughts, her concerns. He witnessed a thousand emotions pass over her face, and it terrified him. He gave a relaxed, confident smile, though his stomach tightened in a knot. “Until you return.”

You can do it, Mary. Be brave.

~ 35 ~

“And cry ‘Dolly’s Brae no more.’”

Lurking like a bloated rat, Mr. Bender hid within the shadows of the upstairs hall, snatching Mary’s arm before she could scurry away from him. She gasped, but knowing Alec was within a scream from her, she bravely tried to snatch it back. “Unhand me.”

His freckled face sneered. His puffy hand painfully twisted her closer. “Guess who’s coming to dinner, m’dear?” he whispered, his hot breath stale with cigars and whiskey.

Mary managed to stumble free and step paces back. She tilted her chin and stuffed shaky hands inside her dress folds. “I am not your dear. Excuse me.”

He blocked her exit, trapping her against the wall, his bloated stomach touching her. “The earl,” he whispered, then burst into laughter. Her heart thundered erratically. “Can’t wait for him to meet the Smyth trash from Dolly’s Brae.”

Nausea swelled her throat closed. The walls squeezed as a vise; the floor bucked beneath her. Tilting her chin, she managed to scoot out from under his bulk.
Lord, help me.
Mr. Bender’s harsh laugh scratched her nerves like a nail upon a metal surface.

A chambermaid appeared and stood at the entrance to Mary’s bedroom. “Excuse me, milady. Mr. Gracey left instructions to have you downstairs at half past.” Once inside her bedroom, however, Mary collapsed in a chair and held her head in shaky hands.

Betsy patted her shoulder. “There, there now, miss. That Mr. Bender scares everyone. No need to worry, miss. Mr. Gracey ain’t gonna let ya be bullied by him.”

Closing her eyes, Mary begged the contents of her knotted stomach to stay down.

Betsy continued, “The young Gracey ain’t been cooperative with Mr. Bender’s demands, and so he is irritated and shovin’ his weight about. Lord knows he’s got plenty of that.”

Mary released a small laugh and was rewarded by Betsy’s huge smile. “Now, we best hurry if we’re to be ready,” she said, unbuttoning Mary’s dress. “He’s so taken with ya, miss. And the staff is glad of that, ’cause he’s settled down from the strange behavior of a’fore.” She lowered her voice and nearly whispered, “Most of us were tinkin’ the young master was a bit touched in the head when he first got home. Aye, he had plenty of strange comin’s and goin’s, half the time showin’ up in the evening a’wearin’ filthy clothes as if he were a Paddy beggar.”

Mary stiffened, reminded once more of who she was and who she was not. The dress fell to the floor, and Betsy guided her toward the wardrobe. “But after ya arrived and healed him from da terrible sickness, the young master stopped his wanderin’ and started actin’ like the heir to the Gracey fortune.”

Mary sank.
Now you’re the one acting out of place, Mary Smyth. You’ve traded places…

Betsy continued to bustle about the room and then lifted a shimmery green dress. “This will cheer ya, miss. Sure and just look what the young master done got for ya, miss.”

Mary knew her eyes widened. The dress, made from silk and chiffon, picked up every shade of color reflected with light. She gulped at its sequins and sparkling beauty.

“Aye…I’m tinkin’ da same ting.” Betsy chuckled and shook her head. “Da young master says to me, ‘Betsy, Miss Mary be needin’ a dress that ain’t borrowed.’ So he instructed me ta give yar measurements ta the seamstress.” As she clucked her tongue, Betsy’s efficient hands dropped the dress over Mary’s head. The soft delicate fabric felt like flower petals after a rain. She looked so odd—a laundress dressed as a princess—the sensual dip at the neck, the bell at the hips that hugged her small figure and complemented every curve.

“Oh my, miss. ’Twould be easy to have a heart full for that dark angel what knew exactly how ta make ya look like a princess.”

Mary Smyth, native laundress, did not own a dress like this. This luxury came off the backs of her people. Biting hard on her lip, she tried to push back the bitter Catholic history. Yet it came, uninvited, swamping her thoughts with such violence, she groaned. Outside this home, women rocked starving babies, fathers cried helpless tears.

Mary rose, her hands smoothing the waist. Tonight, she would wear the beautiful dress, allow Alec to introduce her to the earl, and eat dinner with the wealthiest man in County Down.

Come tomorrow, she’d be home, and all this would be a bittersweet memory. Unexpected tears arrived, stinging Mary’s eyes. She had made up her mind at the lake to tell her father about the plans for Dolly’s Brae and help him plan a counterattack, giving the names of all the players, to prevent disaster and protect her home, even if it meant the downfall of the Graceys.

Averting her gaze, she nibbled her lip lest she crumple in a tortured heap. Betsy did not see Mary’s conflict. “And the lad’s mum’s always speakin’ so well of ya.” Having buttoned the last tiny button, Betsy guided Mary toward the vanity, where long, soothing strokes of a brush were applied to her hair. “He even instructed ’bout yer hair. He says, ‘Betsy, see that her hair is down this night.’”

Betsy stepped back to survey her work. Mary’s hair was pulled behind her ears with diamond clips holding it from her face. Diamond earrings and a matching necklace framed her face, while jeweled slippers added to the overall image of magic inside a shimmering rainbow.

“Aye. Such a sweet lass what stole the master’s heart.” Betsy wiped a tear from her eye, surprising Mary with her emotion.

Spontaneously, knowing she would not see the kind lady after tomorrow, Mary hugged her. “You have a wonderful gift of tending others, Betsy.”

“Oh now, mistress…there, there now. Yar a good girl, ye are. Pleased the master found ya.”

These people, this home, had changed her. She no longer thought of them as her enemies. Though they professed different tenets of faith and held misguided notions about her people, Mary had learned that the Protestants, at least in the Gracey household, tended to be much like her own friends and acquaintances. Loving, nurturing, and generous, and even fun-loving traits surprised her.

Having gained that important and humbling lesson, Mary knew her time with the Gracey household had proved worthy.