The Reluctant Lark (3 page)

“I don’t want a drink, Sean,” she snapped. “I feel perfectly well.”

Reilly gave her a look of stunned surprise, and Challon’s sudden laugh had a note of triumph in it that pleased her as little as Sean’s gentle coerciveness. “Have you met Mr. Challon, Sean?” she asked briskly, as she took off his tweed jacket and handed it back to him.

There was a flicker in Sean’s blue eyes. “Rand Challon?” he asked slowly. Challon nodded curtly. “How is it you know my name, Mr. Challon? I don’t believe we met before.”

“Mr. Challon doesn’t have to rely on such pedestrian things as introductions, Sean,” Sheena said tartly. “He merely looks into his crystal ball, and all things are clear to him.” She turned and sailed regally through the french doors, followed closely by Reilly. Sheena resisted an impulse to cast a backward glance at Rand Challon. She’d had enough of his mockery and amusement … and mysteriousness.

Sean’s silky voice was curious as he murmured softly in her ear, “You two were very absorbed when I interrupted you. What were you talking about?”

She shrugged. “Nothing important.” Somehow, she didn’t want to share those bewildering, intimate moments that she had spent on the terrace with Challon, even with a good friend like Sean. “It seems that Mr. Challon is a bird fancier. We were discussing the relative merits of doves and larks.”

“Good God in heaven, you must have lost your wits entirely to even think such a thing,” Donal O’Shea barked, his face flushing angrily. “My niece has given her solemn word that she will appear at the benefit concert, and appear she will!”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr. O’Shea,” Henry Smythe said a trifle pompously. “I’d hoped to convince you that it was for the good of your country to help Her Majesty’s government by cooperating. I’ve already explained that the NCI is planning to use Miss Reardon’s appearance at the concert next month as a persuasive tactic in convincing several wealthy Irish-American industrialists to contribute arms to their organization. Surely you wouldn’t want to bear the responsibility of the bloodshed that would result if they succeeded in their aim.”

Sheena focused her gaze on the brilliant bulbs that surrounded the mirror of the dressing table and tried to close out the voices of the arguing men around her.
She was so terribly tired, and there was still the concert to endure. She needed time to steel herself for the pain that was to come. Oh, God, why couldn’t they just go away? When her uncle had called and asked Sean to bring her to the theater early, she’d had no idea that it was to meet this prim little civil servant with his weird, daft tales. Why couldn’t her uncle have handled the matter himself as he usually did?

“Are you accusing my niece and me of belonging to that bloodthirsty bunch of terrorists?” O’Shea asked incredulously, his face becoming even redder with anger.

“Certainly not,” Smythe said hurriedly. “You’ve both been scrupulously investigated, and there’s appeared no trace of a connection between you and the group. I merely said that they may be using your niece for their own ends. She’s become something of a folk heroine since her brother died a martyr’s death at the university. She’s gained a tremendous following both in Ireland and Europe with those tragic little folksongs she sings. There’s even evidence that they may have spread a special cloak of protection over her activities for a number of years. Perhaps ever since her brother, Rory’s, death five years ago. An informant notified us six months ago that word had been passed that the Reardon concerts were sacrosanct to the NCI. No bombings or other terrorist activities were to take place at any function at which she appeared.”

“You’ve the typical blindness of the English,” O’Shea retorted. “Did it never occur to you that evil as they are, those rebels are still Irishmen and can be stirred by my niece’s songs like any other men?”

“Perhaps we should let your niece decide,” Smythe said wearily. “Surely the concern and responsibility are primarily hers.” He cast a rather doubtful glance at Sheena’s small, indifferent figure sitting in front of the mirror.

“My niece has complete faith in my judgment,” O’Shea said sharply. “And I won’t have you upsetting her with your foolishness.”

“I wouldn’t have taken the time to come here tonight if I’d thought I was on a fool’s mission, Mr. O’Shea. I believe you owe me the courtesy of at least consulting with Miss Reardon.”

Sheena gave a little sigh of resignation and looked away from the mirror. She’d hoped to avoid any direct confrontation with the Englishman and had tried to close herself away from the pain and memories his arrival had generated. She had realized as soon as she’d seen him who he was, even before he’d identified himself. God knows she had talked to enough of his ilk after Rory had died. Smythe was exactly the dapper, graying bureaucrat that her uncle most despised. Now it was clear that he would not go away until she’d added her refusal to her uncle’s.

“Mr. Smythe, I don’t even know what the NCI is,” she said impatiently. “How could they possibly be using me for their own ends?”

Smythe frowned. “You must have read about them in the newspapers, Miss Reardon. The National Coalition for Ireland is the bloodiest terrorist organization in Irish history. Their leaders were originally members of the IRA, but they grew impatient when the IRA efforts failed to free Ireland.” He smiled mirthlessly. “The IRA finds them as much a thorn in the flesh as Her Majesty’s government does.”

“My niece isn’t concerned with politics,” O’Shea said curtly.

“But it’s vitally important—” Smythe started.

“My uncle is quite correct, Mr. Connors. I trust him completely,” Sheena interrupted firmly, with just a hint of Irish brogue in her husky voice. “If he says you’re mistaken in your belief, then I can’t possibly do as you wish.” She looked away from him, down at her hands, which were folded on her lap. Now perhaps he’d be satisfied.

Couldn’t he see how futile arguing with Donal O’Shea would be? There was a streak of pure iron beneath that bluff kindness and loving protectiveness. He had
been both mother and father to her since she and Rory had come to him as two desolate orphans after their parents’ death. He had enfolded her in that warm kindliness and given her something to cling to in that sea of loneliness. But she’d always been aware that the strength she clung to could also be an immovable force if challenged. There had been a few times before Rory’s death when she’d issued that challenge, but it hadn’t seemed worthwhile since that hideous day in Ballycraigh. Nothing had seemed to matter after that.

She could hear them still arguing and exhorting and tried again to close them out, but it was becoming increasingly difficult. Then she heard Sean Reilly enter the conversation, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Sean would smooth over the turbulent waters with his usual easy charm.

“Arguments can be very thirsty work, indeed, gentlemen,” Sean Reilly said genially. “Suppose I take Mr. Smythe to the little bar around the corner, Donal? Perhaps you can join us after the concert for further discussion. It’s almost time for Sheena to go on.”

Smythe gave a glance of grudging approval at the good-looking young man. “Very well,” he agreed reluctantly, rising to his feet. Reilly gave him another flashing smile before ushering him, with charming courtesy, out of the dressing room.

Sheena drew a long, quivering sigh of relief as she heard the door close behind them. It was only a moment later that her uncle crossed the room, gently pulled her up into his arms, and rocked her with all the tenderness he had shown her as a small child.

“I knew that idiot would upset you,” he said fiercely. “I tried to get him to leave you out of it, but he insisted on seeing you. Blasted bureaucrat!”

“I’m fine, Uncle Donal,” she said hurriedly. “It’s just that he reminded me of all those other men in their dark business suits and their questions. All those interminable questions.”

He stroked her dark hair soothingly. “Forget it all
now, darlin’. I won’t let him talk to you again. Haven’t I always taken care of my little lass?”

She nodded contentedly, then looked up suddenly, her dark eyes troubled. “There was no truth in it, was there, Uncle Donal? That man was wrong, wasn’t he?”

“Of course he was.” He tilted her head to look gently into her face. “Now, you must put a smile on that pretty face. It’s almost curtain time,
alanna
. You’d best hurry and get dressed.”

Sheena drew a deep breath to steady the fluttering in her stomach. It was time. Uncle Donal always put “Rory’s Song” last on the program, both for dramatic impact and to make it easier for her. All she had to do was get through the next several minutes. She could do it. She had before.

She walked quietly to the center of the stage and settled herself on her stool. She didn’t acknowledge the waves of applause at her reappearance until she was settled with her guitar cradled in her arms. Then she only looked up to announce gravely, “ ‘Rory’s Song.’ ”

It was enough. The audience quieted immediately after the first excited whisper that swept through the house. Then all their attention was fixed on that fragile, black-gowned figure on stage with her huge, tragic ebony eyes and that husky voice that was tearing at their heartstrings. “Rory’s Song” was a narrative ballad, and they knew it had been written by Sheena Reardon herself, immediately after her brother’s death. It had never been recorded, and the rareness of its appearance in her repertoire made its effect doubly potent.

Sheena took a deep breath, her fingers stroking the strings of her guitar automatically. The first poignant note, as charged with emotion as a lightning bolt, soared over the darkened theater.

“
As he lay dying, my Rory asked me why
.

I could find no answer, though God knows I tried.
”

She would only sing the words, Sheena thought
desperately. She would not think. She would not remember. But of course she did, and at last she allowed the memories to flow over her in an agonizing tide as they always did.

She was in a state of numbed shock for weeks after Rory’s funeral, and she’d written “Rory’s Song” only as an emotional outlet for her bewilderment and pain. She had written a few songs before and enjoyed singing them in her uncle’s coffeehouse in Ballycraigh. When she first had sung “Rory’s Song,” it had been as a catharsis to release her pain in a desperate protest against the blow that had struck Rory down. It had not given her the release she craved, but she found that it had an incredible effect on her audience at the small coffeehouse. She was immediately approached to perform in concert and to her surprise, her uncle had given his wholehearted permission.

“It’s only right that they remember what a good, brave lad your brother was, Sheena,” he said with vigorous certainty. “While you sing ‘Rory’s Song,’ they’ll never be able to forget.”

Under her uncle’s direction, her career as a folksinger had taken off at a meteoric pace, and it wasn’t long before he was forced to sell his coffeehouse and devote himself full time to his duties as her manager.

At first she received a certain amount of relief out of singing “Rory’s Song.” But as time passed and caused a healing scab to form on her initial pain, she found that singing the ballad opened the wound anew each time she sang it. She was always left as shaken and pain-racked as the morning Rory died.

This night was no exception. As the last, husky, pain-filled notes left her throat, there were silent tears running freely down her cheeks, and her dark eyes were as desolate and lost as those of a small child crying out in the night. She sat unmoving on her stool as the silence was broken by the sudden storm of applause that rolled in waves from the audience.

She felt numb with agony as she slowly rose to her feet and walked off the stage like an old, old woman.

Donal O’Shea was waiting in the wings, and she headed blindly for him like a sleepwalker. But suddenly he wasn’t there before her any longer. O’Shea’s square, sturdy figure was pushed roughly aside, and she was enfolded in strong, steely arms that cradled her with fierce possessiveness. Her head was pushed into a powerful, muscular chest, and she was hazily aware of a familiar heady scent. Challon, she thought confusedly, as she clung to the blessed security of his rock-hard body. What was he doing here?

Evidently several other people were wondering the same thing, for she heard a babble of outraged voices over the strong, muffled beat of Challon’s heart. He apparently was paying little attention to their protests, for his arms didn’t slacken, and his hand on her hair began to stroke her with the tenderness of a mother soothing a hurt child.

It must have been a full two minutes before he pushed her gently away, his amber gaze searching her face keenly. “Okay?” he murmured.

She nodded hesitantly, curiously unwilling to give up that blissful feeling of security, which was the greatest she had ever known.

“Good,” he said briskly, and instead of releasing her, he pulled her into the curve of his arm as he turned to face a bristling Donal O’Shea and an equally annoyed Sean Reilly.

O’Shea stepped forward belligerently and placed a proprietary hand on Sheena’s arm. “Come along, lass,” he said, frowning. “You’re so upset you don’t know what you’re about.”

“Don’t touch her, O’Shea.” Challon’s voice was as deadly as a laser ray. Sheena looked up in startled amazement at the change that had taken place in Challon. The amber gold eyes were no longer concerned and gentle but lit with the predatory hunger of a jungle animal as they glared at her uncle. “You let her go out
there and tear herself to pieces!” he said fiercely. “I’m tempted to break every bone in your body very, very slowly.”

O’Shea’s face reddened with anger, and he muttered a curse beneath his breath. He growled, “Let’s see you try it, me lad.”

Reilly stepped forward, and there was a warning note in his voice as he said hastily, “Donal, I don’t believe you’ve met Mr. Challon. Rand Challon?”

“I don’t care who the hell he is!” O’Shea shouted. “He can’t talk—” He broke off, and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Rand Challon?”