Sons of an Ancient Glory (42 page)

Something in the simple, straightforward question hit him like a blow. He glanced down at his hands, saw that he had rolled the socks together into a tight ball. “Aye,” he finally answered, “I expect I would.”

“And would you find it demeaning, to help me so? Or would you do it gladly?”

“Gladly, of course! It's just that—”

“Well, then,” she said evenly, coming to kneel in front of him. “I haven't had a great deal of experience with men's socks, of course, but I believe I can manage.”

Feeling foolish entirely, Morgan opened his hand. She glanced up at him, and there was the hint of a smile in her eyes as she took one of the socks and carefully put it on his foot.

“The other one?” she said, looking up at him.

He handed her the other sock, watching as she smoothed it up over his foot. Her hands looked surprisingly strong and sure as she proceeded next to slip his shoe onto his right foot. For an instant he could have sworn he felt her touch, but that was nonsense, obviously; his feet were as useless as his legs.

For a fleeting instant, Morgan's imagination called up a sensation of what her touch might be like, if he
did
have feeling in his feet and legs.

The effect was startling. He shut his eyes for a moment against the bittersweet joy of imagining her touch, took a deep breath, and fought for control.

When he opened his eyes again, her slender fingers still rested on his foot, smoothing the fabric around his ankle.

He found it impossible to take his eyes from her hands, could not help but wonder that she managed to turn such a small ordinary act into a work of grace.

Impulsively, he reached out to touch the golden crown of her head. Her hair was like warm satin, as he had known it would be.

She seemed to hesitate for a heartbeat, then went on lacing his shoes.

“There,” she said quietly when finished, sounding as if she had accomplished something of real consequence. Looking up, she smiled shyly into his eyes.

Reluctantly, Morgan dropped his hand away from her hair. “Thank you,” he choked out, wanting more than anything in the world at that moment to gather her close and hold her. But the awareness that such an overture might repulse her or even frighten her was like a knife through his heart, and more than enough to restrain him.

“I will help you again tonight,” she said, “and each morning.” Suddenly she colored, as if she had hinted at some intimacy. She looked past him, saying in a low voice, “You mustn't mind my helping you, Morgan. It's such a small thing…”

She made no attempt to finish her statement, and sensing her sudden awkwardness, Morgan forced a light note into his own voice when he spoke. “Well, then—after all this exertion I am eager for breakfast. Shall we go down?”

Still caught up in a torrent of emotions as they entered the dining room, Morgan felt bemused. He supposed conventional couples might think him demented, to take on over such a small thing as the moment he had just shared with Finola upstairs. Nevertheless, he did not believe for an instant that, even if he were to spend each day with her for the rest of his life, he would take a precious second of their time together for granted.

Finola knew she was being foolish entirely, to make so much of it. No doubt the common act of helping him with his shoes had meant nothing more to him than a moment of awkwardness for his own incapacity. And no doubt the touch of his hand on her hair had been nothing but an affectionate pat, much as one might stroke a well-behaved child.

But for her, it had been more. For a moment, at least, she had actually felt like his
wife
, indeed had managed to pretend that she helped him with his shoes
every
morning, and that his gentle hand on her hair had real meaning as a touch of marital affection.

Seated to his left at the table, she kept her gaze carefully trained on her plate, though each bite she lifted seemed to stick in her throat. She had been unable to meet his eyes since they sat down to breakfast, fearful that he might detect the clamor of her emotions.

How would he respond if he were to discover the depth of her feelings for him? Would he be embarrassed? Awkward? Appalled? She was convinced that most of the time, when he thought of her at all, he thought of her as he might have a younger sister, or perhaps, even worse, a daughter!

He showed her the same fondness, the same genuine affection, he offered Annie. He was ever courteous, always thoughtful, infinitely gentle. He seemed to enjoy coaxing a smile from her, or outright laughter, and, as with Annie, he obviously delighted in drawing her into a lively exchange of ideas and opinions.

Yet, there were times…rare, unguarded times…when she caught him looking at her in a different way, a way that made her mind spin and her heart skip. She would look up and find the deep green gaze settled on her with all the intensity of a caress. Or at other times, she would turn and find him studying her with such infinite tenderness she lost her breath.

At such times, he would appear flustered and would quickly look away, leaving her to wonder if she had only imagined the subtle difference in his gaze.

He confused her, disturbed her, sometimes even dismayed her, with his manner of treating her as his ward rather than as his wife—or at least as a
woman.
Yet, in a way she could not explain, she belonged to him. She had long ago given him her heart of hearts, and the fact that he had no awareness of the gift changed nothing. For the truth was that she could no more have resisted loving him than she could have stopped breathing.

“Have you seen Sister or Annie yet this morning?”

When Morgan's question snapped her out of her thoughts, she felt for an instant as if he had read her mind, and she flushed guiltily. “Sister—oh, yes! I talked with her first thing this morning, in the nursery.”

“You told her about Sandemon?”

“I did, and she suggested she might speak with Annie. I expect she already has.”

Morgan nodded. “It will go hard with the lass. She still tags after Sandemon like a faithful pup.”

“I plan to keep her busy, helping me with Gabriel. And perhaps, you could set her to doing things for you, as well?”

“Aye, a good idea.” He studied her for a moment. “You're very good with Annie, you know. She adores you.”

Finola smiled at the thought of the feisty, dark-eyed Aine. “I'm quite fond of her. Indeed, if ever I had had a little sister, I would have wanted her to be—”

Finola broke off, struck by what she had just said.

“What?” Morgan leaned toward her. “What is it?”

She looked at him. “It just occurred to me,” she said, her voice unsteady, “that for all I know…I
might
have a little sister…somewhere.”

He took her hand. “Does it still bother you very much, Finola, not knowing the past?”

She stared down at their clasped hands, thinking about his question. “Perhaps not as much as it once did. But it's very strange, not really knowing who I am, where I came from—if I have family, if they miss me.…”

She glanced up at him, saw understanding and concern brimming in his eyes. “I'm not unhappy, Morgan. But…I can't help but wonder. I suppose I shall always wonder.”

He nodded, squeezing her hand. “So long as you're not unhappy.” He paused, then added, “You
do
have a family,
mavourneen.
You have me, and Gabriel—and Annie—”

Finola smiled at him. “And Sister…and Sandemon. I would say I have a very large family! And I do love you all!” she added impulsively. Quickly, she looked away, feeling her face heat as she realized what she had said.

It's true…I do love you all…but especially you, Morgan…especially you.…

A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o'er the hill,
And there is glory in it and terror on the wind.

E
VA
G
ORE
-B
OOTH
(1870-1926)

L
ate that afternoon, Annie stood on what had come to be called the “safe” side of the stream, watching the Gypsy wagon on the other side.

Although the distance between her and the wagon wasn't actually so great, it might as well have been miles.

She had been standing there, with Fergus beside her, for nearly an hour, hoping Sandemon would come outside. She wanted to tell him she missed him, that she was praying for him.

Of course, Sandemon would insist that she pray with equal fervor for Tierney Burke and the Gypsy. Frowning, she resisted the thought. “This entire calamity is Tierney Burke's fault, after all,” she said to Fergus. The wolfhound looked up, tilting his head as if to consider her remark.

“Him and his deceitful ways! Well, it seems to me he and his Gypsy cohort got just what they deserve.”

She should have ratted on Tierney at the beginning, should have gone to the
Seanchai
or to Sandemon that first night when she had seen him sneak away from the house, loping down the hill without ever looking back. So sure of himself he had been!

If only she hadn't been so determined not to tattle. Just look what her silence had allowed.

If anything happened to Sandemon, she would never forgive Tierney Burke!

Or herself…

The sun had been swallowed by some heavy-hanging pewter clouds, and the air had suddenly taken on a sharp edge. Annie shivered inside her coat but made no move to go back to the house.

There was nothing to do inside, after all. It seemed that everyone was occupied, except for her. Sister was helping Mrs. Ryan pack a food basket for Sandemon and the sick boys. Finola was helping the
Seanchai
transcribe notes from Father Mahon's journal. And baby Gabriel slept most afternoons straight through.

Since it was a Saturday, she had the luxury of free time to herself. There were no recitations or extra studies, and she had completed her chores before midday.

On a normal day, she would be glad for such a delicious pocket of time to fill however she liked. She might plop on the window seat in the library with a book, or perhaps practice her sketching. Sometimes she helped Sandemon with one of his many projects. He was forever making something new—a toy for Gabriel, an additional desk for one of the classrooms, a tool of some sort.

Sister would frequently nag at her about using her time for one of the endless “domestic arts,” implying that she should conduct herself more like a young lady.

“You are growing up, Miss,” she would say, with one eyebrow arched. “And as the daughter of a great man, you must learn to conduct yourself accordingly.”

Annie had conflicting emotions about this business of growing up. Some things about it didn't appear too disagreeable, at least not entirely. She liked wearing new clothes well enough, especially when Finola helped her choose the patterns. Occasionally she suffered Sister's attempts to “discipline” her hair, but she liked it much better when Finola dressed it for her. Sometimes it was fun, pretending to be a fine lady with dozens of handsome suitors vying for her hand, though these days she quickly tired of playing make-believe.

If she could expect that she would ever be anything but plain and spindly-legged, she might feel a bit more eager to come of age. Finola was good to assure her that she would one day be “stunning,” but it took only a close look in the mirror for doubts to rise again.