The Widow and the Rogue Read online

  She had been invited by the newly married captain’s wife, Sarah, to join her on another day for tea. As a result, she now felt a warm feeling of happiness.

  If her late husband had been alive, there would have been a post party review of her comportment. Mrs. O’Grady would have taken out her little black notebook and dissected every real or imagined fault she’d made. She would have then gone to bed demeaned and exhausted. But none of that had occurred. She’d been warmly welcomed and accepted by the entire party.

  After they arrived back at the townhouse, Beau complimented them once again. “Thank you, for making this one of the most memorable evenings I’ve had the pleasure these past few weeks to enjoy.”

  He’d said he wanted to be worthy of her trust and become her friend. Tonight, he’d shown himself to be a true gentleman, intelligent, humorous, and respectful. And he’d exhibited a characteristic no gentleman of her close acquaintance ever had before . . . kindness. She was most fortunate to have him as her guardian and friend.

  Yes, she decided, looking dreamily at the hand he’d kissed. Her life was different now, in so many ways—but she wondered a little sadly, how long would this happiness last? Would she be forced eventually to submit to someone else’s whims? Or worse, possibly come to physical harm?

  She thought of the gunman and how close she’d come to death. She shivered at the memory, knowing it hadn’t been a mere coincidence.

  The man who’d tried to shoot her wasn’t a madman. It had been carefully planned. He’d been hiding among the trees waiting for her, and her alone. Of this she was almost certain. But why had he wanted to harm her? Was it because he personally knew her and held a grudge? If so, who was he? And what had she done to offend him?

  She frowned in thought. She could think of no one who detested her. Most men had been too bedazzled by her husband’s wealth and position to take offense when she refused their unwelcome advances.

  And as for women, one dour face did enter her thoughts, Mrs. O’Grady. But she dismissed that possibility. The disgruntled housekeeper had retired to her deeded farm weeks ago and not been heard or seen from since.

  But if it was not her, could it be someone had been hired to kill her, as Lady Fitzpatrick suggested? Possibly paid by one of her family members, as Robert believed?

  This last thought disturbed her. She knew her dead husband’s family and her uncle, Squire Lynch all too well. They were all coldhearted and money hungry enough to do it.

  Secretly, despite her outer calm, she feared a repetition of what had occurred on the green. She silently prayed if she faced danger again, she would be strong enough to fight for her life and survive.

  Chapter 6

  They left Dublin the following week. The wedding of Lady Fitzpatrick’s niece, Lady Beatrice O’Brien to Captain James Huntington, the new Earl of Drennan, was approaching. Lady Agnes was on tenterhooks in her eagerness to return to Urlingford. She wanted to ensure her niece was wed to the dashing earl in the grandest manner.

  No repeat of the gunman incident had occurred since that foggy day on Saint Stephen’s Green. The precautions were lifted, and Kathleen once again experienced the freedom of being able to take her rambling, solitary walks.

  Tim, no longer tied to a leash, thrived in the countryside. He exuberantly ran across the green hills. In no time he doubled in both weight and size, removing any remaining fears she held concerning his health.

  The wedding day of Lady Beatrice O’Brien to the Earl of Drennan was everything one could hope for. The sun hung like a bright yellow rose in the clear blue sky, and although it was early spring, a thin layer of white frost covered the ground.

  The Drennan Chapel’s pews were filled to capacity. The aristocrats were seated in a segregated part of the church nearest the altar. Many of the castle’s tenant farmers stood in back, observing the sacred rite between their master and his soon to be new wife.

  The paths leading to the chapel were decorated by the villagers with arching branches of evergreen and wildflowers. Inside the sanctuary itself green ivy tendrils decorated the end of the pews and the altar. Bouquets of Burnet Rose, a wild white rose that grew in abundance nearby, festooned the green centers.

  Bagpipes echoed across the nearby hills as Lord Patrick O’Brien, the father of the bride, greeted the invited at the door with, “Peace be with ye . . . come in friend . . . aye, ’tis a grand day for a wedding.

  The very rich, as well as the poorest of the poor, attended. Peasants who lived in roadside mud and straw huts known as scalpeens, stood humbly outside.

  These impoverished peasants hoped to catch coins the newlyweds would toss after the service for good-luck. Later they would be invited to eat at the long trestle tables set outside. It did not carry any weight with Lord Patrick how rich or poor they were. He intended to share the joyous event of the marriage of his only child with the entire village.

  Upon seeing the beautiful bride walk up the stone steps of the chapel, men took off their hats in respect, and ladies curtsied. The bride was about to become the new mistress of Drennan Castle. She was a powerful landed lady, one of the few remaining Irish gentry. They owed their living and the well-being of their families to her and the Earl of Drennan. Their good fortune was the villagers’, as well.

  Lady Beatrice O’Brien’s wedding gown rivaled Princess Caroline of Brunswick’s in embroidery, but instead of silver over silk, the Irish bride wore white lace over the rich fabric. The wedding gown had been crocheted by cloistered nuns from the local convent.

  The bodice was embroidered with seed pearls. The flowing cathedral train depicted the heraldic emblems of the two families being joined. The rose and the shamrock were entwined together, delicately stitched in silk thread.

  The bride’s long black hair was swept up into a braided crown, delicately curled tendrils hung down from each side of her lovely oval face. The veil, which covered her hair, was held in place by a family heirloom, a tiara made of silver flowers and leaves, embedded with large pearls.

  “Her gown was not finished until a few minutes ago,” whispered a young farmer’s wife standing nearby. “I saw her aunt, Lady Fitzpatrick, sew the last stitches of the hem herself, wanted to make certain they were in place before her niece entered the chapel to ensure the marriage was a lucky one.”

  Taking her father’s arm, the bride, the lady once known despairingly as the Spinster of Brightwood Manor, stepped inside the chapel.

  The congregation stood.

  It was with a mixture of happiness and a touch of sadness, Kathleen watched her walk down the aisle. Kathleen had recently helped Lady Beatrice escape a forced marriage to a dastardly villain, who’d kidnapped Lady Beatrice in order to get his hands on her money. But she had not been able to help herself, years ago, being too young and unknowing of the world, to do the same.

  She could not help but think of how different her own wedding might have been. If her parents had not died by typhoid fever, she might have married a man of her own age and choosing—someone who would have loved, honored, and respected her. Instead, she had been manipulated by her uncaring uncle into being leg-shackled to a controlling, old man.

  Aye, she sighed, as the bride walked by, my life would have been a very different one. I would have had the freedom to choose my own path. Possibly, I would not have felt so alone and unloved.

  She looked towards the altar where the groom, the dark and handsome Earl of Drennan, stood wearing his dress uniform as a captain in his Majesty’s Army. The scar on his left cheek wrinkled as he smiled.

  He wore a long sword that hung down by his side, a weapon he was very familiar with. Handsome though the groom was, the man who held her attention was the light-haired Corinthian standing by his side. Acting as the earl’s best man, Beau Powers was, as always, impeccably dressed, in a double breasted morning coat.

  She wondered as she looked over at the handsome magistrate . . . perhaps I will now be able to find a husband with whom I can share companionship, as well
as love? She remembered all the small kindnesses and protection he had provided her. In her reticule she carried the fan he had given her as an unexpected present.

  Maybe not all men were like her late husband and Uncle Lynch? Perhaps there were men in the world who were different. Men, like her guardian, who were honorable and trustworthy. A man she might count upon in times of trouble.

  Beau’s eyes met hers as the young couple placed rings on each other’s fingers. She was not aware of it, but hers had become a warm shade of light blue. For a moment she lost herself in his gaze, conscious only of him.

  The spell was broken when the newly married couple turned to the priest for the final blessing. They gave each other their first kiss as husband and wife. It was sweet and touching. The love and joy on the young spouses’ faces made everyone wish them a continued happy life.

  A small figure dressed in brown silk leaned into Lord Patrick for support. He patted her hand. The bride’s father and aunt had been openly weeping tears of joy during the short service. Their shared dream of seeing Lady Beatrice happily married to a titled gentleman had come true.

  Aye, Kathleen decided, witnessing the scene, I have merely to open my heart to the possibility that such a gentleman might exist and wish to be part of my life. She was almost afraid to think the next thought. Perhaps he would love and cherish me? Not for my face, nor for my wealth, but just for me . . . Kathleen.

  The priest at the altar inclined his head.

  A small lad pulled on a long rope, ringing the chapel bells in celebration of the momentous event. She watched as the happy couple walked out of the sanctuary.

  As Beau passed her pew, he gave her a saucy wink. She smiled back at him, delighted by the acknowledging gesture.

  The reception was held outside under striped tents. The long trestle tables were set beneath as a precaution to keep them dry in the event that the few gray clouds hanging low overhead decided to pour rain on the festivities. The tables were filled with a variety of local dishes of cooked lamb, colcannon (a mixture of whipped potatoes and cabbage), fish, garden vegetables, meat pies, and soda bread. The entire village had been invited to partake in the festivities. No one was to go away hungry.

  Gifts given to the couple were displayed on a separate table. The one that impressed many, and caused some envy among the gentlemen present, was the gift given by the bride’s father, Lord Patrick. He had ensured himself that when the couple returned from their honeymoon in Italy, known in Irish as mi na meala (month of honey), their house would not be empty of strong brew.

  He gave them enough mead (honey wine) to last through the first month of marriage and longer, although it was said the tea-drinking aunt had tried to talk the gentleman out of the gift and serving the brew at the reception.

  “But, Agnes,” the father said in his defense, “’Tis tradition . . . I’ll not have anyone say m’daughter left my home empty-handed like a wandering pauper.”

  “As if anyone would be saying that, Paddy,” replied the sister with a sniff. “For all and sundry know she is your only heir. She’s been running your estates for years now, and you’ve been helping pay for that decrepit pile of bricks of theirs to be fixed into something resembling a proper castle. Nay, it was a sorry excuse t’use that still of yours to make some of the devil’s brew. Aye, and don’t be telling me different. Especially after ye solemnly promised me you wouldn’t make any, after she walked down the aisle. I’m disappointed, Paddy.”

  “But, Agnes,” protested the brother. “I did it for Bea’. It was for her I made the honey mead—not for myself.”

  “And the spirits I see being served? Where did they come from? I suppose the wee folk left those barrels overnight?” she asked, indignant.

  She indicated the young newlyweds, who sat at the head table pouring spirits into silver toasting goblets, unaware of the argument taking place. The couple sipped from each other’s glass, happily celebrating their union as man and wife.

  Kathleen, who sat nearby listening to the conversation, noticed the stern lady’s face soften. The tea-totaling sister was weakening. She sensed Lady Fitzpatrick would do anything to ensure her niece’s present happiness, even bend some of her usual stubborn iron will.

  The gentlemen guests, who had been gamely drinking lemonade, listened intently to the conversation. She could tell by the nodding of heads, they silently agreed with Lord Patrick. An Irish wedding without strong poteen (spirits distilled from potatoes) was deflating, and the entire parish knew his lordship’s brew was the best.

  “Very well, Paddy.” The sister sighed.

  The next remark she spoke was aimed at those standing nearby. “But there better not be any bodies lying about on the ground for my Beatrice to trip over in the morning—or by thunder, I’ll come after them who drink too much and bring down my own bad luck upon their sodden heads.”

  “Nay—nay, there won’t be,” quickly reassured Lord Patrick, visibly brightening.

  He bent over and kissed his sister warmly on the cheek. “You’re a grand one, ye are, Agnes—the best of all sisters.”

  Smiling, Lady Fitzpatrick, shooed him away.

  “Ye best be off and see to opening some of those barrels ye hid by the wedding cake. By the sour apple faces our gentlemen guests are wearing, one would think we were serving them ditchwater instead of lemonade.”

  After the toasts and speeches, a sudden commotion was heard. A group of oddly dressed men entered the clearing, waving their arms up and down, dancing with bells, and playing music on drums, pipes, and fiddle. They were dressed in women’s clothing and wore pointy masks made of twisted straw to disguise their faces.

  “The straw boys have come,” said one of the village women across from her, laughing as one of them made a saucy gesture in her direction. “Aye for sure now, I recognize one of them. That’s my eldest, Jeremy, wearing his sister’s old petticoat and my moth eaten nightshirt.”

  “And there’s Brian.” The lady seated next to her noticed. “Musha, musha, I hope his father doesn’t see him. He was supposed to stay home and tend the fire as punishment for missing mass yesterday. Not take part in any tomfoolery today.”

  One of the straw boys dressed like an old man went up to the bride and began to dance with her. Another, disguised as an old woman, twirled around the groom to bring the couple good luck and a happy long life.

  The straw boys began taking guests by the hand as a fiddler gaily played. An unusually tall straw boy stood before her. He bowed and silently held out a hand, indicating he wanted her to dance with him.

  She placed her hand wordlessly in his. He led her to the others and twirled her into his arms. She lightly placed a hand on his shoulder. His muscles felt strong and firm beneath her fingertips as they whirled in a tight circle. She looked into the straw boy’s mask and his intelligent blue eyes met hers. She knew him—and it thrilled her.

  They joined a group of revelers and linked with the other dancers into a large circle. They danced together, separated, and rejoined. Quickly, the straw boy spun her around and around. The music’s tempo quickened until she began to laugh, giddy with delight.

  “Please,” she said, waving her hand in the air like a fan. “I need to catch my breath. I’m afraid I shall fall down. My head is spinning.”

  Solicitously, he stopped.

  He led her to a bench underneath the courtyard’s lone tree. They sat together, resting quietly, enjoying each other’s company as they observed the others who continued to dance.

  “This is beginning to itch,” he said, lifting the mask a little to scratch.

  Looking around, she noticed that several of the other straw boys had already removed theirs. “I think it’s safe for you to take it off . . . Beau.”

  “Ah, much better,” he remarked, setting it aside.

  His blue eyes twinkled down at her. He ran a hand through his blond curls. Bits of straw fell, but a stray piece remained.

  She lifted her hand and gently removed it.

&nb
sp; The fiddler played a slow waltz. Couples danced boxed steps, smiling at the bride and groom who stood in the center. Enviously, she looked over at the newlyweds. They appeared to be very much in love.

  “May I have the pleasure?” Beau asked, holding his hand out to her.

  Giving a slight bow of the head, she stood.

  Together they slowly danced under the wide spread branches of the old oak tree. The feel of their two bodies touching caused her to glow inside. Every part of her tingled, aware of his firm touch.

  What would it be like if he kissed her right now, with his arms wrapped around her? Would all of her senses come alive? She looked up at him. She noted the line of his lips as they curved into a smile, the sharp roundness of his masculine chin, the way his deep blue eyes sparkled like a bright light bouncing off a dark river when they looked into her own. Aye, she suspected it would be quite unforgettable.

  It was as the last notes of the waltz faded that the dark clouds above, which had been threatening all morning, finally rumbled. Light drops of rain fell. Guests quickly grabbed food and other items, hurriedly seeking shelter under the tarps and the castle’s large keep.

  But she stood with Beau silently, waltzing a few more steps—uncaring of the rain—dancing to their own rhythm of their beating hearts.

  He bent his head and gently brushed his lips against hers.

  Her heart thudded heavily as his arms tightened around her waist. She willingly leaned into him, fitting her body against his. The warmth she’d first felt caught flame. It coursed through her body as their mouths joined.

  “Now ain’t that a pretty sight,” a sneering voice said thickly, nearby.

  Turning her head, she noticed a pale, choleric looking man observing them. He was slouched drunkenly over one of the trestle tables, wearing an eyesore of a bright yellow morning coat. His clothes were in soiled disarray.