The Christmas Secret (5 page)

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean,” he said with an easy smile, “but I am shocked that I did not know that my business in Ireland would lead me to an encounter with such a beautiful angel. It is destiny, Miss O’Conner.”

Eireanne couldn’t help but laugh. And she was blushing to her roots.

“I mean it in all sincerity,” he said, his gaze casually and boldly sweeping the length of her. “I am not one to deny my appreciation of a woman’s beauty, in all its forms.”

Her blush began to turn warm. “Mr. Bristol—”

“As it happens, I have business with your brother.”

“All the way from America?”

“All the way. He has agreed to train me in the breeding of race horses.”

“Naturally,” Eireanne said, smiling fondly as she thought of Declan. “I’ve never known anyone quite as enamored of the beasts as my brother. But I was not aware that he had connections in America.”

“He is quite renowned for the horses he breeds, particularly the runners. I’ve been pleading with him for two years to accept me for a fortnight or so and teach me all that he knows. At last, he has agreed.”

Eireanne didn’t know much about horse breeding and had never cared to know. Nonetheless, the years spent with her brother had given her a cursory knowledge. “This is a curious time of year for breeding, is it not?”

“It is,” Mr. Bristol agreed. “Fortunately, it is not an impossible time. We had arranged to meet last summer, but apparently, the earl was caught up in circumstances beyond his control.”

Circumstances beyond his control? Eireanne choked on a surprised bite of laughter.

“Why do you laugh?” Mr. Bristol asked, smiling at her.

She waved her hand at him and swallowed down more laughter. If only the poor gentleman knew the truth.

Mr. Bristol was not so easily put off. “Come now, you must tell me why you are laughing.” His smile was warm; she could feel it to the tips of her toes.

“Only that my family can be a wee bit willful,” she said laughingly. “Once you meet Declan, you may draw your own conclusions.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding as if he understood her. “He is the adventurous sort, I take it?”

She grinned. “One might say, aye.”

“And what of his sister?” Mr. Bristol asked, his gaze slipping to Eireanne’s mouth once more. “Is she the adventurous sort, as well?”

Had Eireanne been Molly or Mabe Hannigan, this was surely a moment she would have seized. She had long been envious of the Hannigan twins’ easy way with handsome men. But years of being deemed less than a desirable companion had made Eireanne shy in some respects, and she was at a loss as to what to say.
Yes, Mr. Bristol, yes. I want to be adventurous, here and now, with you
.

Fate saved her—the ferry reached the western shore of the Shannon, bumping into the dock at that moment, and in Eireanne’s moment of hesitation, Mr. Bristol was at the door. “It has truly been a pleasure, Miss O’Conner. Thank you again for saving me,” he said, and went out the coach door into the rain.

Eireanne did not speak to him again before they reached Ballynaheath, but she watched him out the coach window, riding alongside the carriage and speaking amicably with Mr. Donovan, judging by the number of times that gentleman tipped his head back and laughed.

When they reached Ballynaheath, Eireanne stepped out of the coach and looked around for Mr. Bristol, but she was instantly engulfed by Declan, who swept her up off her feet and held her tight, and then Keira, who chatted excitedly while Grandmamma smoothed Eireanne’s hair from her face and studied her for any signs of change.

Chapter Three

If there was one thing that could be said for Ireland, it did not lack for appealing women. In a part of the world that seemed to Henry so sparsely inhabited, lovely women seemed to roam about in packs.

There was the earl’s wife, Lady Donnelly, who had arresting green eyes, inky black hair, and an appealing smile. He understood her to be pregnant, and she did indeed have that sort of shine about her.

Her beauty was matched by that of her younger sisters, Miss Molly Hannigan and Miss Mabe Hannigan, identical twins, who likewise possessed black hair and green eyes and were indistinguishable, from what Henry could glean, except for one lone freckle on Mabe’s right cheek. And there was Mrs. Sullivan, the earl’s maternal grandmother, who was in the autumn of her life. But never had Henry seen a more handsomely mature woman.

None of these women suffered from lack of attention.

That was something else that amazed Henry. He could not begin to guess where all the gentlemen came
from
. Ballynaheath was so removed from civilization as to be at the top of the world, yet come these men did, on horseback or carriages, alone, or in pairs, and sometimes as many as three.

Henry wondered if the flow of traffic to Ballynaheath had to do with the fact that it was such a magnificent old house. He’d been surprised to discover, when he’d landed in England, that country homes and estates in London’s Mayfair district were much grander than homes in America. In fact, his pair of rooms above the east courtyard at Ballynaheath was as fine as his room at home, and frankly, the Bristol estate at Danning Point was considered one of the jewels of all of New York.

Ballynaheath was a sprawling castle with wings that spread out on either side. It faced a rolling green vista as far as one could see, with hills and forests to the west, and moors dotted with sheep to the east. Behind it, the cliffs and the sea made for an astoundingly beautiful sight.

Every morning, a maid appeared at Henry’s door with fresh water and hot chocolate. Every afternoon, Matthew, a footman, appeared to tend to whatever Henry might need. Henry was kindly invited to dine with the family at supper, and to help himself to the kitchens and the family’s cook for whatever he might require during the day.

And then there were the horses. God in heaven, for a man who valued horseflesh, there was no place on earth quite like Ballynaheath. It was a patch of heaven, and Henry wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if Gabriel had descended from the heavens to trumpet him awake each day.

The earl’s horses had lines such as Henry had never seen on any other horse. They were tall, with muscular, lean builds and glowing coats. The earl—Donnelly, as most called him—had explained to Henry that he’d begun his collection of horseflesh from the Continent and England, choosing carefully, then breeding with an eye toward the best physical structure for racing.

Every afternoon, Henry went out into the paddock with Donnelly and the horses, to ride, to watch, to learn. Henry had only gone a few days when he could stand it no more: he challenged the great Earl of Donnelly to a race.

The earl’s eyes lit up like an enormous candelabra Henry had seen in London. “It’s a race you want, is it?” he asked, his grin telling.

There began their habit of racing every afternoon. Donnelly was quite spectacular on the back of a horse, but Henry had been reared in a saddle as well. Most days, the earl won. But as Henry began to learn the path they raced each day, he managed a win or two of his own.

Every afternoon, one or more of the ladies would happen by wherever they might be working to sit on the fence and giggle and chatter as they worked and then stay to watch the race. Donnelly would grumble when he saw them coming. “Have a care, Mr. Bristol. The lot of them roam about like a pack of wolves looking for their next meal.”

More often than not, the lassies, as Donnelly referred to them, were accompanied by a gentleman or two, all of whom tried, usually in vain, to speak to the earl. “They think to ingratiate themselves,” Donnelly said. “As if that will do them a wee bit of good.”

But Donnelly had more patience for the little gallery of onlookers than he would admit. He could never seem to hide the small hint of a smile when the ladies appeared. Henry was not the least bit reluctant and hoped he’d be planted in a grave before he stopped admiring beautiful women whenever the opportunity presented itself.

One afternoon, Henry and Donnelly heard the small crowd before they actually saw them. They turned to see the twins and Erin walking briskly down the path toward them, their dark heads together, laughing, while behind them, two gentlemen strolled behind in a much more subdued manner.

“Ach, for the love of God,” Donnelly sighed as he squinted up at the group. “Canavan has returned from the Continent, then,” he said. “I should have known he’d come straightaway to Ballynaheath, the bloody rooster.”

Henry had no idea who Canavan was, nor did he care. His gaze was on Erin, and he could not help his smile.

“I’ll give you a piece of advice, lad,” Donnelly said, turning Henry away from their little audience. “Keep your distance from Molly and Mabe Hannigan. A prettier pair of lassies you never did see, but they’ve got the blood of the devil running in their veins.”

“The devil,” Henry repeated uncertainly.

Donnelly grinned. “Are you so young, then? Have you never met a woman with the devil’s blood? God hope you never do.” He paused, and added thoughtfully, “Although every man ought to have at least one good roll with the devil’s blood, aye?”

Henry laughed. Donnelly had misunderstood his smile; it was not for Molly or Mabe Hannigan, no. It was for Erin—or however the devil she said her name.

Henry loved the horses, he loved the racing, and he also came to love the nightly suppers. Molly and Mabe Hannigan, along with their parents, were permanent fixtures at Ballynaheath now that their sister had married the earl. It was somewhat puzzling to Henry—he had seen the Hannigan estate while out riding one day, and if there was a house that could rival Ballynaheath, it was that one. Yet the twins missed their sister, and the parents missed their daughters, and therefore, they had taken to dining at Ballynaheath, and if too much was drunk, they stayed overnight. Furthermore, if any of the gentlemen who had called on any of the ladies during the day were fortunate enough to be at Ballynaheath when supper was served, they were invited to dine as well.

The result was a full table, which meant that Henry could rarely wedge as much as a word into the conversation. Nor could he ever manage to seat himself near Erin. He wanted to speak to her, to hear her lilting voice, to watch her eyes sparkle when she laughed. The seating arrangements, however, had something to do with social hierarchy. Henry finally resorted to bribing a footman with a pouch of American tobacco he’d intended as a gift for the earl to gain better seating. That got him closer to Erin, but not close enough. He had to content himself with watching her, and horning in on the conversation when he could manage.

He never tired of watching his angel of mercy. She was as beautiful as she’d been that night on the ship, with the long brown hair that curled down her back. At times, loose strands would curl around her neck. Her sky blue eyes sparkled in the light of the candles that graced the table. When she laughed, her eyes crinkled in the corners, giving the impression that she laughed often.

She often glanced at Henry, too, most especially when someone said something astounding, and they would smile at one another in surprised unison. It made Henry long to be alone with her and hear her laugh. He would never abuse Donnelly’s hospitality, but he wished more than anything for a few moments alone with the lass.

From time to time, someone would inquire about America. Henry was happy to oblige their curiosity and felt proud to speak of his family, who had been in New York for four generations, and of their farm and the work he did there. They seemed to most enjoy tales of the War of Independence. Henry had a few, as his grandfather had been a participant, and the Irishmen hung on every word of how the Americans had defeated the British troops.

“I have always marveled,” Mr. Hannigan said, “that the Americans could defeat one of the most powerful forces on earth.”

“My grandfather liked to say that the Americans who fought were a pugnacious lot,” Henry said. “They were willing to attack in ways the British had never seen before, and the British were unable to adapt over time. It was as if the Americans always knew what the British would do before they knew it themselves.”

“No doubt the light cast from the brass of all their buttons gave them away,” Erin said with a devilish smile, and the Irish seated at that table laughed heartily.

Henry told them about the family’s brickyard and the farm. He discussed his affinity for horses, and how it had begun at the age of three, when his father had put him on the back of a horse. He regaled them with the wretched tale of his crossing, making those weeks of illness amusing for the benefit of his hosts.

And, naturally, he told them how he’d first met his angel of mercy, Erin O’Conner. “She saved me,” he avowed.

“You must never sail without a potato soaked in Irish whiskey,” Mrs. Sullivan warned him. “It is the only cure for seasickness.”

“I do not believe the potato cures, Grandmamma,” Donnelly said. “I rather think it creates more ailments than it serves.”

“Do not pay him any heed,” Mrs. Sullivan said to Henry. “I hope you will do as I suggest, for we cannot send Eireanne along to save you, can we?”

Perhaps not, but Henry didn’t mind entertaining that thought.

Erin did not fare as well as he when the conversation was directed at her. Her family enjoyed putting an endless list of questions to her in their eagerness to hear all her news. Henry gathered she’d been away three or four months, and that it was her first time abroad. He understood from the references to their father’s passing that she was four to five years younger than he. He gleaned that her mother had died in childbirth bearing her, and that her family—her grandmother in particular—wished for her to reside in London when her schooling was complete, and become the wife of a titled English gentleman. There were quite a lot of references made to that plan, so many that Henry was grateful such pressure did not exist in his world. It seemed to him that Mrs. Sullivan had put the weight of the entire Donnelly name and standing on Erin’s slender shoulders. Henry rather thought that finding a suitable person for whom one could develop an actual fondness seemed difficult enough as it was without having to worry about who was what in the greater social hierarchy.

What Henry did not care for was Molly and Mabe’s chatter. Certainly he liked
them
well enough—it was hard not to admire their spirit, or their beauty. They could be quite impudent, but charmingly so. Their chatter tended to center almost exclusively on who was determined to marry whom.

One night, Henry found his appetite curbed when a happy Molly announced that she knew of a gentleman that was rather interested in Erin.

“Honestly, Molly,” Lady Donnelly said. “You seem to know the secret desires of every gentleman in Ireland.”

“Not
all
of them,” Molly said.

“Not
any
of them,” Mabe countered.

“My dears,” Mrs. Hannigan said, her voice full of warning, but her actions were entirely focused on the succulent duck they were enjoying.

“Mabe, please,” Molly said. “You agreed with me this very afternoon when we’d come back from the paddock.”

Mabe shrugged indifferently.

“Are you going to tell us who it is?” Lady Donnelly asked. “Or shall we play a guessing game?”

Molly glanced around the table, a sly smile on her lips. It was obvious that she enjoyed being the one to know these things. “A game is a grand idea, Keira. But you will never guess.”

“Then please God do not require us to do so,” Donnelly sighed.

“Mr. Canavan!” Molly announced excitedly, ignoring Donnelly.

“Canavan,” Mr. Hannigan said loudly as he speared a healthy portion of duck onto his fork. “You surely do not mean the Canavan whom Lily chased halfway across Europe.”

“She did not chase, Pappa,” Lady Donnelly said. “She merely took advantage of a circumstance that allowed her to see Italy, as she’d always wanted.”

“She
chased,
aye?” he insisted
. “
I tell you, in my day, a proper young lady waited until a gentleman came to speak with her father before she talked of such things.” He looked as if he was winding up to go on about his day, but Mrs. Hannigan put her hand on his arm without looking up from her meal. Mr. Hannigan stopped and glanced at her hand. “Well, it’s true,” he muttered and popped the duck in his mouth.

“Mr. Canavan has no interest in me,” Erin said. She had turned an appealing shade of pink, and Henry suppressed a smile at her shyness. Frankly, he was surprised that every eligible man in Ireland wasn’t pounding on her door.

“You are too modest, Eireanne,” Molly said. “Did you not see the way he gazed at you as we had our walkabout?”

“He had his gaze firmly affixed on Mabe,” Erin corrected her, and Mabe nodded enthusiastically with that assessment, as if she was quite used to hearing it.