The Irish Bride (19 page)

Morning drifted into
afternoon, and Farrell ate the lunch that she’d ordered with her
breakfast. The café proprietor had sliced roast beef and put it
between two crusty pieces of bread dressed with a tart and creamy
French sauce she called
mayonnaise
. Then she’d wrapped up the
whole business in a napkin.

The hours drifted past and still Aidan
didn’t return.

Silly, fickle woman, she
told herself. She had resented his inescapable presence on
the
Mary Fiona
.
Now she disliked being separated from him almost as
much.

Almost, but not quite.

* * *

Aidan sat at a large round table in
the Lass of Killarney. Seated with him were three other men, all
waiting for the dealer to give them new cards. In the center of the
table was amassed a small fortune of silver and gold coins. It held
every cent Aidan owned and had won, save the gold dollar in front
of him and a half-eagle in his pocket. The combined odors of cigar
smoke, ale, whiskey, unwashed laborers drinking their pints, and a
greasy stew gurgling on the stove behind the bar wafted around him
and lingered in the corners like the smell of something newly dead.
Meanwhile, the nude in the painting that hung behind the bar—the
Lass of Killarney, herself, it was said—viewed the proceedings with
a fixed, bashful smile.

Aidan had been here all day, as
various players sat in and dropped out. Early on, his cash had
dwindled to a dangerous low, the result of bad hand after bad hand.
But two hours ago, things had begun to turn around. Now, as the
evening sun waned, the battle—and he saw it as such—had come down
to himself and these other contenders. He faced a plantation
overseer, in town on business for his employer, a stonemason who
built crypts in St. Louis Cemetery, and the current dealer, a
stevedore from the docks. Whiskey flowed freely. Some of his
opponents held their liquor better than others. One or two had made
reckless wagers that would enrich the winner. For his part, Aidan
counted himself lucky that he’d inherited a steady head.

His stomach was in a knot as tight as
any fist he’d ever made. It wasn’t easy, but he made every effort
to maintain a nonchalant countenance. A prize of almost six hundred
dollars was riding on the next turn of the card. A lot of the game
had to do with luck, he knew. But skill and judgment were involved
as well, in watching men’s faces, in picking up the clues of a
bluff. It was nerve-wracking and he wouldn’t want to earn a living
this way, but if he could win his dream, it all would have been
worth it. If he lost . . .  Well, he couldn’t
think about that now. He didn’t dare.

He picked up his new cards and watched
the top left corners of the cards as he opened them like a
peacock’s tail. Ten, nine, a six, and a pair of treys. He drew a
very careful breath. It was a lamentable hand, a nearly worthless
hand, and his heart thumped so hard, it fair pummeled his ribs.
There was but one thing to do.

When the call for bets went around
again, all but the stonemason and he were still in the game. The
man stared at Aidan over his cards. It was an intense gaze, meant
either to shake him or make him reveal something about his hand.
Aidan’s expression did not change. “I’m in for another dollar,” the
stonemason said at last, and a coin clinked onto the
pile.

“
I’ll match that dollar of
yours,” Aidan replied, giving what he hoped was a good show of
unconcern. “And raise it five more.” With a silent prayer to St.
Jude, for if ever there was a desperate situation this was it, he
added his last six dollars to the center of the table.

An endless, tense moment followed
while his opponent tried again to size him up, and
failed.

“
Bah! Have it all then, you
goddamned greedy bastard!” he growled at last, throwing in his
cards.

Shivers of relief and gratitude
sluiced through Aidan as he pulled the winnings toward him. Visions
of vast, fertile acres flashed through his brain, and beside him,
sharing it all, was a redheaded spitfire of a woman.

But general grumbling arose among the
most recent losers who’d stayed to watch the outcome, and he could
easily imagine the situation turning altogether ugly.

He was a stranger, an outsider here
among many people who knew each other. Men at the bar and at other
tables fell silent and turned their attention to him, plainly
waiting to see what would happen next.

Realizing he might not even get out
the door, much less back to the safety of the hotel, Aidan called
to the barkeep, “Jack! Jack, a bottle of your best whiskey to each
of these fine gentlemen, with my compliments.” After tucking the
money away, he rose and turned to them. “My thanks to ye for a
grand evening, and for being such entirely grand lads
yourselves.”

The gesture had the desired effect,
and the grousing diminished to grudging but sincere murmurs of
thanks.

Jack arrived at the table with five
bottles of whiskey, including one for Aidan, and five glasses.
Aidan slipped him his payment, and after the bottles were uncorked
and drinks poured he said, “Sure and a toast to you fine boys. May
ye be in heaven half an hour before the divil knows you’re
dead.”

Good natured chuckles rolled over the
group, and they downed their drinks in one gulp. The liquor, heavy
and full-bodied, tasted almost as good to Aidan as Sean O’Rourke’s
poteen.

“
When my wife finds out I
lost me pay again, she’ll hang me hide on the front door,” the
stevedore observed with a grim face.

“
If you drink enough of
this, you won’t remember a thing about it,” the stonemason replied.
This time the laughter was more hearty, and Aidan breathed a quiet
sigh of relief. He might get out of here alive yet. Only the
plantation overseer remained unsmiling and unimpressed.

“
Ye’re all right, O’Rourke,
for a newcomer. Which county do ye hail from?” the stevedore
asked.

“
From Skibbereen in County
Cork.”

“
And is a murdering mick
from Skibbereen man enough to buy a drink for his better?” a voice
called from a corner table.

A silence as profound as a grave’s
fell upon the Lass of Killarney, and all heads turned toward the
man who had posed the insult.

Slowly, Aidan turned as well, just as
Noel Cardwell rose from his chair. He could scarcely believe his
eyes, so remote had seemed the possibility of ever seeing his old
landlord again. But there he was, resplendent in his fine clothes
and looking so out of place in this workingman’s pub, Aidan
wondered how he had dared to venture inside. It had to have been
either stupidity or unshakeable arrogance that brought him here.
And maybe they were one and the same. The place was filled with
Irish and other men who had fled to America to escape tyrannical
governments or masters.

“
My
better
?” Aidan repeated, his voice as
cold and clear as an Atlantic-borne wind.

The low grumbling began again and this
time, angry looks were cast at Noel, who bore little resemblance to
the languid, spoiled landlord’s son Aidan had known in
Ireland.

“
I don’t drink with any man
who thinks he’s better than everyone else. And I surely won’t pay
for such an intolerable dishonor,” Aidan said. Apparently, he
wasn’t the only one here to whom the thought had
occurred.

Noel drew himself up to his full
height, which still put the top of his head at Aidan’s eye level,
and strolled to the table. “I’ve come to take you back to answer
for the murder you committed.”

“
It was no murder, ye lyin’
scum. It was an accident and you know it. Even my wife has forgiven
me for the death of her brother.” For a moment, Noel’s haughty mask
slipped and he saw behind it a howling lust at the mention of
Farrell. Jesus God, he thought, she was in danger as well. A raging
desire boiled up inside Aidan, the same one that had made him take
on Michael Kirwan and his hired ruffians, a desire that urged him
to plant his fist squarely in the middle of Cardwell’s smug
face.

Around him, the grumbling grew into a
hum of angry voices. Only the sullen plantation overseer demurred.
“You don’t know how things work down here, do you?” he said to
Aidan. “When the master speaks, you jump.”

From the corner of his eye, Aidan saw
the bartender quickly moving glasses and bottles from the back bar
to cupboards below. Aidan hadn’t really wanted anything to do with
a man who made his living ordering slaves about, but if he could
take the bastard’s money and put it to better use, he’d do
it.

“
I have no master, at least
not on this earth, and never will again in this life.”

“
By God, if you worked for
me, I’d have you whipped for your impertinence,” the overseer said,
full of Aidan’s whiskey and his own foolhardy
importance.

That was the last remark the man made.
A fist flew and connected with his face, smashing his nose, and the
fight was on. Chairs and tables were overturned, sending glasses,
mugs, and alcohol in all directions. As strong as was his desire to
stay and finish off the overseer and Noel Cardwell himself, Aidan
knew that this was his best chance to escape. To carry six hundred
dollars through the streets of New Orleans was a risky proposition,
and right now, getting out of here was more important than knocking
Cardwell on his arse.

If this man he’d known as a pampered,
overdressed peacock had developed enough ambition and energy to
follow Aidan and Farrell all the way to America, he couldn’t take
any chances.

They had to get away.
Tonight.

* * *

Noel looked around at the distasteful
wreckage of the pub where he’d endeavored, and rightly so, to
corner Aidan O’Rourke. The ne’er-do-well Irish scum had always been
known to like a good fight, and Noel had retreated to his corner,
expecting some burly oaf to do him the favor of taking O’Rourke
down. Or at least to see him arrested by the constables for
disorderly conduct. But no constables or police arrived, and when
the brawl began to wane, he realized that the subject of his search
was not even present. He stood and looked around the small pub. Men
staggered to their feet, nursing split lips, black eyes, broken
noses, and other injuries, but Aidan O’Rourke was not among
them.

Damn it all. The benighted bog-trotter
had slipped away during all the commotion.

Cardwell thumped a fist on the table.
O’Rourke had gotten away from him again, and therefore, so had
Farrell Kirwan. Noel had made the grueling trip from Queenstown
across the ocean, a miserable journey during which he’d been
confined to his quarters with unrelenting mal de mer, made worse by
an intolerably proud and righteous sea captain who barely
acknowledged him. Then, as if that weren’t insult enough, he’d
finally arrived in this hot, swampy city only to be forced to
frequent every low-end pub in town in search of his quarry. Now,
after at last locating O’Rourke, he’d sat here for hours, watching
the proceedings from a dark corner, waiting for the right moment to
confront him, suffering the association of men who weren’t fit to
shine his boots, only to have O’Rourke vanish like a wisp of
smoke.

Goddamn
it all. Noel thumped the table again.

As he sat there, one of the men
O’Rourke had gambled with approached the table, holding a white
handkerchief to his face. His nose was misshapen and swollen, and
his shirtfront bore the bloody evidence of its recent injury. “Beg
pardon, sir.”

“
Whatever do
you
want?” Noel asked,
tired, and offended by the man’s presence. Across the room, the
bartender had begun righting tables and sweeping up broken
glass.

“
If you’re looking for
O’Rourke, sir, I know where he is.”

Noel looked up. “Oh,
do
you.”

“
Yes, I know several things
that might be useful to you.”

Noel pushed out a chair with his boot.
“Sit down, then.” The man sat. “And you are?”

“
The name’s Seth Fitch. I’m
the overseer at Magnolia Grove plantation.”

“
Ah, yes, of course. I am
Lord Cardwell.” It wasn’t exactly true, yet, but it would be
eventually. That the man practically genuflected upon hearing the
title was most gratifying. Instantly, Noel sensed a kindred spirit
in Fitch. Or at least one who recognized the difference between the
classes and the natural order of things. Little more than a greasy
yeoman himself, at least Fitch was a notch above the other riffraff
in this place. Plus, he obviously held Noel in proper esteem, and
it salved Noel’s ego after the earlier scene with O’Rourke. He
pushed his bottle of brandy and a glass across the table to the
man. Fitch nodded and poured himself a healthy measure.

“
It’s a damnable state of
affairs when a man of your position is assaulted by baseborn
thugs,” Noel said with mock sympathy.

“
These foreigners come to
America, believing that cock-and-bull story about equality. And
they expect to be treated so.” He snuffled noisily through his
broken nose, which was crusted with dark, dried blood. Gingerly, he
poked a handkerchief-wrapped finger into each nostril, bringing out
more blood. Noel averted his gaze from the disgusting
display.