The Christmas Secret (10 page)

When she at last stilled, Henry lazily lifted his head, brushed the thick strand of hair away that had been caught between them, and smiled down at her.

Erin’s expression was one of astonishment and delight. She brushed a lock of hair from his brow, beaming at him. But then she blinked, and suddenly she leaped to her feet, wincing with a hand to her back for a moment.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“All right?” she asked, dropping her hand. “I am wild with . . . with . . .” She peered at him. “Henry, what are we about? This is madness, aye?”

“I . . .”

She leaned forward slightly, as if she feared she might miss his answer.

“I find you too alluring to be resisted, I’m afraid,” he said.

“Is this common in New York? Do ladies and gentlemen behave with no regard for respectable behavior?”

“Not in the least,” he said, far too quickly, because her eyes rounded, and she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead.

“I said that badly,” he said quickly, grabbing her shoulders and making him look at her. “What I mean to say is that, in all honestly, I cannot
resist
you. I have never in all my life met a woman I could not resist.”

She stared up at him with big blue eyes, her gaze searching. “I can scarcely resist you, either,” she said, clearly flustered. “But this is wanton madness, as there is no understanding between us . . . is there?”

He did not respond to that.

“You . . . you are bound for America in a matter of days, and I am expected to return to school and to London, and
this,
” she said, gesturing anxiously to the rock, “is insupportable, is it not?” She looked pleadingly at him. “Tell me true, Henry. Tell me what it means when a man and woman engage as we have,” she said, the color in her face rising. “Tell me what it means to you.”

Henry was taken aback by her bold questions. Images of his family, of his land, his dogs and horses, flashed through his mind. He took her hand. “Would you leave Ireland?”

“Leave?”
she repeated, shocked, and Henry realized that she’d been asking if he would stay. “I cannot leave. They need me here. Would you leave New York?”

Henry did not know what to say. So many thoughts, conflicting thoughts, rumbled about in his head.

Erin looked down.

“Erin, I beg your pardon—”

“No,” she said, and lifted her face, smiling. “You mustn’t, Henry. I was a willing participant, quite obviously.” She blushed shyly. “Yet I do not think, given our divergent paths, that we should . . . ride together again, aye?”

He understood her. He did not want to agree, but he could not look at her now and argue that she wasn’t right. He had taken advantage of her, and though he could still feel her body next to his when as much as two feet separated them, he had too much admiration, too much respect for her to want more than what he’d already taken.

“Well,” Erin said, brushing her hair back from her face with the back of her hand, “Fianna likely is having her oats now. If she returns without us, someone will come out to have a look.”

“Then we best be on our way,” Henry said. He felt heavy. Sad. He put his arm around her waist and kissed her temple. “Friends?” The word tasted like chalk in his mouth.

“Always,” she agreed and allowed him to walk with her, together as they were, to where Daigh stood grazing.

Chapter Eight

After that extraordinary afternoon, it was almost too painful for Eireanne to lay eyes on Henry; yet, on the other hand, she could not keep herself from it. She was torn between duty and desire, between feelings for a man she had never before experienced and nostalgic longings for her family and homeland.

Eireanne thought about what it might be like to follow Henry to America. It seemed an exciting, bold thing to do. But what if she didn’t care for it? What if they really did live in small houses made from logs? Then again, how could she possibly care about the accommodations as long as she was with Henry?

But when she imagined herself in America, living in a rustic little cottage with a man as virile and bold as Henry, she could almost hear her grandmother’s voice, repeating what Eireanne had heard for months now—she was the only hope of restoring honor to their name. Only she could redeem the once mighty O’Conners. Eireanne could guess that marrying an American and living in such mean circumstances would make their situation worse. It was precisely the opposite of what her grandmamma hoped for her, and besides, what of her family? Eireanne did not care to leave them. She loved them, she loved Ireland, and she feared she would not see them again if she went to America.

Aye, but she had such strong feelings for Henry. She knew, deep in her marrow, that he was the man for her. She’d known since that sun-drenched, beautiful afternoon, during which Henry had easily and blithely introduced her to a taste of carnal pleasure, that she’d fallen in love with him. It was a hard fall, too, just like the one she’d taken off Fianna’s back. She could not bring herself to look into those brown eyes and see that winsome smile and know that she could not be with him always.

So Eireanne willfully attempted to avoid Henry for the next few days. It helped that during the twelve days of Christmas, she and her family dined away from home every evening. Henry declined the invitations to join them. “He’s quite a lot to do before he returns to America,” Declan explained one evening as they all gathered to wait for a coach to be brought round.

“Is he leaving soon, then?” Keira asked.

“In a few days,” Declan confirmed.

He was leaving, so it was just as well that Eireanne was not made to suffer sitting across the table from his charming smile. No, she was made to suffer privately the agony of his imminent departure. God help her, but try as she might, she could not stop thinking about him. He had awakened a desire in her so consuming that she could hardly eat or drink.

“What is the matter,
muirnín
?
” her grandmother asked her at breakfast. “Are you unwell?”

“Quite well, Grandmamma.”

Her grandmother did not seem entirely convinced, but she did not press Eireanne further.

If this was love, Eireanne thought, she did not want it. Love had taken her appetite, had left her wanting nothing more than to think of Henry and watch him from the little window at the top of the old turret, where she’d spent one afternoon, pining for him. She wanted to ask everyone around her how they had recognized the precise moment that they had fallen in love, and if it had felt as fluttery and filling as her love did. Or as painful.

But Eireanne stayed away from him precisely because she
had
fallen in love with him. She feared that to be with him was to want to explore more of what he’d shown her now on two occasions. She had only to look at Keira to know the sort of complications that might arise from that. Granted, Keira’s situation was entirely different from hers. And there was something to be said for falling into the lap of a handsome and wealthy earl, as Keira had done, if one was going to fall from grace.

One did not fall from grace into the arms of an American who would take her from her family and her homeland. He might as well have been a Chinaman—America seemed just as far away.

Nor did one fall from grace when one’s family wished so much more for her. Heaven above, Grandmamma never stopped speaking of it! Eireanne knew her grandmamma would be devastated if she did not end in London and make a match with a suitably titled man.

Henry was not titled, he was an American horse farmer, and hardly the match her grandmamma desired for her and the family. Still, as Eireanne gazed wistfully at Henry in the paddock with Declan, or watched him race with fearless abandon, she fretted she would never know another man like him, that she would never feel this way again. She feared her heart would never flutter madly, or that she would be bound to a man by marriage while she dreamed of Henry. That she would forever think back on his charming smile, of his complete irreverence for their social hierarchy in Galway. She would imagine him on his farm in New York, with his horses, and his wife, and a passel of golden-haired, smiling children.

Those were the thoughts in her head and the pain in her heart as she moved through the days of Christmastide.

One evening, as the twelve days of Christmas drew near the end, Eireanne and her family joined fifteen others at the O’Shays. It was one of the few invitations the family had received, but it was an invitation nonetheless, which indicated that the censure of the O’Conners had begun to thaw.

After they dined on venison they repaired to the salon, where Eireanne had taken a place on the settee next to Keira. She was lost in thought, imagining Henry in his rooms at Ballynaheath, writing letters home, as he had once again declined Declan’s invitation to join them.

Suddenly, Keira lightly pinched her wrist. “Ouch,” Eireanne said and looked at her sister-in-law with surprise.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” Keira said. “What in the devil is the matter with you?”

“With me?” Eireanne resisted the urge to fidget. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean that you stare off as if you are somewhere else entirely, and you don’t hear when someone is speaking to you. I just made an observation about Mr. Robert Quinn—an astute observation, if I do say so myself—and you did not hear a word of it.”

“I beg your pardon,” Eireanne said. “What was the observation?”

“Hardly matters now, but I said that he’d been overlooked as a potential match for either you, or Molly or Mabe.”

Eireanne groaned. “On my word, I look forward to the day when I am married and the entire world will stop seeking potential matches for me.”

Keira’s green gaze fixed on her. “Do you not wish to make a match?”

“Not with Mr. Canavan. Or Mr. Quinn, for that matter,” Eireanne said testily. “I prefer to seek my own companion.”

Keira blinked. And then she smiled knowingly. “And who would that companion be?”

Eireanne could feel the color flood her face. “No one.”

But Keira was already shaking her head. “Do you honestly believe that with two sisters, a cousin, and you, I don’t know a thing or two about women? You may confide in me, Eireanne, I will not breathe a word—”

“Ha!”

“I won’t, I swear it! I can be trusted if the situation warrants it and there are no other complications that force me to tell.”

“That is hardly reassuring,” Eireanne scoffed. “You realize that, do you not, Keira? It is not even a wee bit reassuring.”

“Tell me who it is and I will help you,” Keira pressed. “Is it one of Mr. Canavan’s companions? I find Mr. Lynch entirely appealing—”

“
No,
” Eireanne whispered hotly and put her hand on Keira’s, squeezing it. “It is no one, Keira.
No one
.”

Keira reared back slightly. She shrugged insouciantly. “Very well. It is no one,” she said, then pursed her lips and glanced away. For a moment. “I really had such high hopes for you and Mr. Canavan. He’s wealthy, he’s handsome, and he’s charming. He may one day be a baron. What more could one want in a husband?”

Respect. Passion
. “Affection?” Eireanne countered crossly. “Esteem? A fondness for similar things?”

“Well of course, darling,” Keira said. “That all comes in time. I think Mr. Canavan would be very affectionate.”

Eireanne hadn’t even noticed Mr. Canavan this evening. She looked at him now, where he stood in a circle of admirers, as he always did. He happened to lift his head and saw Eireanne gazing at him. He smiled politely and looked away.

“Oh no,” Keira said suddenly.

Eireanne looked to where Keira was looking and saw that Ciona Dunne had taken a seat at the pianoforte. Mr. O’Shay was arranging sheet music before her.

“Now we all will be made to suffer,” Keira whimpered.

“Be kind, Keira.”

“I want to be kind, but it is bloody awful. Where is Declan?” she murmured and looked past Eireanne. A smile lit her pretty face when she spotted her husband, and Eireanne envied it. “You will excuse me, won’t you, darling? Declan will hold me up when I faint from tedium,” Keira said, and with a smile and pat of Eireanne’s knee, Keira rose. Eireanne watched her glide to where Declan stood, and she saw the look on her brother’s face. She’d never seen his expression quite like the one he reserved for Keira, and it tugged at her heart. Declan had found his peace. He had found his companion and he was very much in love.

Eireanne was certain she would never have that kind of love.

As Ciona Dunne began to play her piece, Eireanne imagined feeling the lift of happiness every time Henry walked into the room.
Stop,
she chided herself. It was a hopeless, painful exercise.

When Ciona had finished her painful aria, she sat poised to play another, but Molly Hannigan gasped from somewhere near the bookshelves and pointed to the floor. “Look!” she exclaimed, and rose off her seat to pick up a folded vellum.

“What? What is it?” Mrs. O’Shay asked with the nervous dread of someone who suspected a rodent had just dashed across her expensive carpets in front of all her guests.

“A letter,” Molly said with delight and turned it over in her hand. Her face immediately brightened. “It is not addressed!”

“I’ll have a look at that,” Mr. O’Shay said, striding forward, his hand out.

Once again, Molly was clearly disappointed that she was not allowed to read the letter.

Mr. O’Shay opened the vellum and frowned intently as he read it. When he finished, he looked up with a scowl. “Who has dropped this? I will know the culprit who has dropped this on my floor!”

“For heaven’s sake, my love, it is a letter, not a rancid bit of meat,” Mrs. O’Shay said. “What does it say?”

“What does it say?” he repeated loudly. “I will tell you what it says—it is another one of
those
letters,” he said with disgust and cast his arm out wide with the letter, fluttering it at his wife.

She took it gingerly from his hand. “Shall I read it?”

“I don’t know why you would,” he said gruffly. “It is a poorly scribed poem.”

“But surely not so poorly scribed that we will not hear it?” Molly asked carefully.

“I’ll just have a look,” Mrs. O’Shay said and opened the letter.

Eireanne thought Molly was on the verge of levitating, so anxious was she to see the contents of the letter. Personally, Eireanne would have been quite content to hear no more of love letters. It was all too painful.

“Ah, but it is sweet,” Mrs. O’Shay said approvingly.

“Read it!” someone called out. “Let us judge this poem.”

The guests laughed.

“Very well,” Mrs. O’Shay said. “ ‘My darling, my heart soars when your smile I see. My eyes sing with your image in my dreams—’ ”

“His eyes sing?” Mr. Hannigan said. “Sounds rather uncomfortable, does it not?”

“Pappa, please,” Mabe said. “It is
art
.”

“ ’Tis a lot of rubbish is what it is,” Mr. Hannigan rumbled.

“Please!” Mrs. Gallagher, an elderly widow, thumped her cane loudly on the floor to gain attention. “Kindly allow Mrs. O’Shay to finish!” And with that, she leaned forward, eager to hear the rest of the poem.

“Thank you, Mrs. Gallagher. Where was I? ‘. . . image in my dreams’ . . . aye, here we are. ‘My love may be completed with only one thing. Your eyes, your heart, your smile must turn to see me.’ ”

“I hope the rest of her turns as well,” Mr. Quinn said, and the gentlemen in the room laughed.

“My sympathy to the poor dear who receives this poem,” another man said. “Can you imagine the disappointment at finding that the one who esteems you most has singing eyes?”

“You miss the point, sir. It is not the words as much as it is the meaning,” Mrs. O’Shay argued.

“I beg your pardon, madam, but words do indeed matter, and if this chap cannot summon any better than that, one can only suspect what other flaw of intellect he possesses.”

“I know of one,” Mr. Canavan said. “He believes that poetry is to his advantage.”

The men in the room laughed roundly at that.

Eireanne rolled her eyes as Mabe sat next to her. “I cannot disagree,” she said to Mabe. “It is quite awful.”

“I didn’t think it was awful in the least,” Mabe said, a bit defensively.