Laurel McKee Page 11

Eliza fell forward onto her hands, her breath rushing out of her lungs. In relief, or even greater terror? She wasn’t at all sure.

  “No, I don’t think so,” she answered.

  “You prefer to stay concealed under there, then?” he said. “Very well, I will join you.”

  Before she could even move an inch, he swung over the desk, crawling into her hiding place. He blocked her exit and most of the light, his shoulders wide as he reached up to brace his hands on the wooden ledge.

  “What the devil are you doing, Eliza?” he demanded. “Trying to get yourself arrested right in front of your sister and half of Dublin?”

  Eliza tilted back her chin. “I thought this was the ladies’ necessary,” she said. “I was mistaken.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you were mistaken at all,” he said tightly. “You knew exactly what you were doing. How did you know this office was here?”

  “I didn’t—that is, I was not entirely certain.”

  “But now you are?” He reached out, grabbing her wrists to drag her near. “Eliza, what did you find? Tell me now!”

  “I didn’t have time to find anything at all,” she managed to gasp. His arms came around her like steel bands, so tight she could hardly breathe. “You came in here too soon, damn you.”

  “Eliza, I swear…” Suddenly there was another sound from the corridor outside. Footsteps, louder than Will’s stealthy progress had been, voices, and laughter. Will’s head went up, his eyes narrowed like a forest cat sensing danger.

  “Who is it?” Eliza whispered. Someone he had alerted? Someone he was in league with? That did not seem to be the case, though, for his jaw tightened in surprised anger.

  “Shh,” he answered. “Perhaps they will just pass by.”

  But they did not. The footsteps stopped outside the door, and there was the metallic scrape of a key. It seemed Will had had the foresight to lock the door behind him.

  Eliza curled her fists into his uniform coat, holding on as if to keep from drowning. She had a flashing thought of Anna, dancing innocently below, of her family. The great scandal of her arrest.

  The information that would never get where it needed to go.

  “… this way, Lord Averley,” a man said. “The maps are here. It should take only a moment to look at the planned route.”

  “Excellent. Lady Averley will be most unhappy if I don’t dance with her at least once this evening.”

  “Lord Camden is most eager to hear your opinion,” the first man said. Their voices were louder now, thunderous in Eliza’s ears, and they were almost to the desk. There was no way she could stay concealed there, because the space was too small.

  She would go down for certain, and Will with her.

  But then Will seized her by the waist. “Don’t fight me,” he whispered against her ear.

  “What…” Her gasp was drowned out by his mouth crashing down on hers, hard and hot. He laid her down flat on her back, covering her body with his. They were tucked under the desk, her skirts spread around them in concealing white billows.

  Despite the great danger—or perhaps because of it—Eliza felt something hot and desperate bubble up inside of her at his kiss. Something she could not push away or deny. She clutched at his shoulders, arching up against him, holding tightly to keep from falling into the darkness.

  “Well,” she heard the man say, a murmur that seemed to come from very far away. “Perhaps we should return in just a moment, Lord Averley. We do so hate to… interrupt a private moment.”

  Eliza glanced past Will’s shoulder in time to catch a glimpse of two smirking men turning away—and her slippered foot sticking out from the desk, giving away their hiding place.

  They hastily departed the room, the door clicking shut behind them. Will sat up, pulling her with him as he crawled out from the shelter of the desk and rose to his feet.

  “You should get into trouble more often,” he muttered, sounding almost as dazed as she felt.

  “I can probably oblige you on that score,” she said, shaking out her skirts and smoothing her hair. That telltale feather drooped again.

  “That is what I’m afraid of. And I won’t be here to rescue you next time.”

  “I’ve been rescuing myself for a long time now!” she said indignantly, suddenly embarrassed to remember exactly how much in need of rescue she just was.

  “And doing a marvelous job of it, I see.” Will tugged his coat into place.

  She opened her mouth to argue again, but he pressed his fingertips to her lips. “We have to go now. They’ll be back at any moment.”

  “Do you think they know who we are?” she whispered.

  “Me, probably. I will surely be reprimanded for it in the morning. But I think you were, shall we say, concealed. And every lady here tonight is wearing white.”

  Concealed beneath his body, he meant. “Surely this is not the first time a tryst was interrupted at a dull Castle reception.”

  A tiny, reluctant smile touched his lips, but it vanished into a stern frown. “Nor will it be the last. Come, we need to return to the ball before we’re missed. I promised to dance with your sister.”

  Eliza nodded. She had the troop plans anyway, and much more besides.

  Will suddenly dragged her close to him again, whispering in her ear in a hard, unyielding voice. “This is not finished, Eliza. You will tell me what you were after here.”

  She stared up at him, at the determined gleam in his eyes and the hard, shadowed angles of his face that matched his tone. And she thought of the sparks from the bonfire and of Will’s own words. We are all Irish. An idea formed deep in her mind, with the potential to be even more dangerous than breaking into the office.

  He wanted a battle of wills, did he? Fine—she would oblige.

  “Then meet me later tonight,” she whispered. “But be sure and change your coat first….”

  Chapter Ten

  Eliza, where are you taking me?”

  Eliza laughed, tugging at Will’s hand as she led him down the narrow, silent lane. Quickly, before he could find time to lecture her about the scene in the office. “You will see in good time!”

  She met him outside her kitchen door, she dressed in a plain black dress and thick knit shawl, and he in his coarse coat and cap. They took a hansom to the southern edge of town, beyond the patrols. Now they were in the district known as Porto Bello, a neighborhood of small houses that lined the canals off the road leading to Rathmines. During the day, the muddy, grimy hamlet was busy with the passage of coal barges. By night, it seemed deserted.

  Will stopped in his tracks, pulling her into his arms. “Are you luring me into an ambush, my little spy?” He laughed, but there was suspicion in his voice. Yes, of course he would expect more espionage. But she was done with that for the night.

  She wound her arms around his waist, feeling the imprint of the pistol and the dagger concealed under his coat. “I would not do that, Will. Do you trust me—as I trust you?”

  He studied her silently, his face a hard, beautiful mask. “God help me, but I do, though I certainly have no reason to.”

  “You and I must not be enemies,” she said, her throat tight. “No matter what happens.”

  “I could never be your enemy.” He kissed her, his lips finding hers in the dark, tender and perfect. It made her ache with longing, with the wild wish that she could hold on to him forever and never see this one fleeting moment end. The taste and feel of him, the way his kiss surrounded all her senses—it was transcendent.

  But it did have to end, of course, as all perfect moments must. Will rested his forehead against hers while his hands caressed her shoulders.

  “You did not say where we are going,” he said.

  Eliza smiled. “That is because it is a surprise. And we will be late!”

  She took his hand again, leading him down another narrow street beyond the canal where the bulk of barges slept. The houses, too, seemed to sleep, the windows shuttered and the doors barred. The cold
air smelled of cabbage, coal dust, and peat smoke from that bonfire.

  They were a long way from plush Henrietta Street and the stifling opulence of Dublin Castle.

  “This is it,” she said, stopping at a dwelling at the end of the lane, at the very edge of town.

  Will looked up, frowning at the whitewashed walls. “Are you sure? It looks as deserted as the others. Do you go knocking on random doors now?”

  “Of course I am sure.” Then she did proceed to knock on the door, which opened a crack. A gloved hand appeared.

  “I am new strung and shall be heard,” Eliza whispered, pressing a coin into that hand as she repeated the United Irish motto.

  “Come in,” the doorkeeper said, and Eliza slipped inside, drawing Will with her even as she felt his muscles tense and saw his hand moving slowly toward that hidden dagger.

  The small foyer was almost empty of furniture except for a small, rickety table holding a lamp. Its flickering light illuminated peeling wallpaper and a scuffed wooden floor. But they did not stay there long; the doorkeeper led them through a trapdoor at the back, where a flight of steep stairs led down to the cellars.

  Will’s sharp, blue gaze darted through the shadows. One hand held hers, but the other flexed. He said he trusted her, yet that could not come easily to either of them. This was a great leap of faith for them both.

  “Are you planning to buy this place?” he muttered in her ear. “Because I think it would be a poor investment.”

  “Shh!” Eliza said, trying not to laugh. At the end of the stone cellar corridor, another door opened, and they stepped into a different world. A world of light and noise and bright, whirling merriment.

  Countless lamps and candles burned on a scene of dancing, one so very different from the staid Castle minuets that it seemed like a different planet. Couples spun down the length of the room, skipping and leaping, their feet beating out a thunderous pattern on the stone floor. At the far end was a platform where the musicians sat, no fine orchestra but fiddles, flutes, and bodhrans.

  “ ‘I’ll tell me ma when I go home, the boys won’t leave the girls alone! They pulled my hair, they stole my comb, but that’s all right till I go home. She is handsome, she is pretty, she’s the belle of Belfast city. She is courting one, two, three, please won’t you tell me who is she!’ ”

  Eliza’s toes tapped in time to the infectious old song, her spirits rising.

  “What is this place?” Will asked, staring out at the raucous scene with narrowed eyes.

  “A ceilidh, of course,” she answered. She grabbed two pottery goblets of ale from the table of refreshments and handed him one. “Do you not remember them from Killinan?”

  “Of course I do. Your mother forbade you to go.”

  “You know I went anyway,” she said cheerfully, sipping at the dark, strong ale.

  “Nothing has changed, I see.”

  “No. I still love this music, these people, above everything else.” She nudged him teasingly with her elbow. “Admit it, Will. This is a much better party than any at the bloody Castle!”

  Will laughed. “I think that can hardly be denied.” He took a cautious drink. “But how did you know where to find it? I’m sure it’s not always in the same place.”

  “Certainly not. I knew because of the bonfire.”

  “The bonfire?”

  “Oh, come, Will, this is a party. I want to see more dancing and less talking!”

  “Far be it from me to disappoint a lady.” He laid aside their goblets and seized her hands, drawing her into the midst of the dancers.

  “ ‘Let the wind and rain and the hail blow high, and the snow come tumblin’ from the sky! She’s as sweet as apple pie, she’ll get her own lad by and by…’ ”

  He caught her around the waist, lifting her high and twirling her around and around until the lights blurred and she laughed helplessly, her head swimming. He sang along lustily with the chorus. “ ‘She is handsome, she is pretty, she’s the belle of Belfast city! She is courting one, two, three, please won’t you tell me who is she.’”

  And Eliza saw that, truly, he had not forgotten. Like her, he remembered the glorious freedom of those long-ago ceilidhs, when they sneaked out of their houses and ran across the fields at Killinan to some crofter’s loft to dance and sing. And she would remember this one, too, in the cold, dark days ahead. He lowered her until her toes touched the floor, only to raise her up again. Eliza clung to his shoulders, throwing back her head in the glory of the movement.

  As he spun her again, she stared down into his blue eyes, laughing as he sang in his off-key tenor. “ ‘Let them all come as they will, for it’s Albert Mooney she loves still!’ ”

  The song ended, and he slowly, slowly set her on her feet again, his hands sliding down to her waist to pull her close. “I see this is, indeed, an ambush—a test of my stamina,” he said.

  “You cannot fail now,” Eliza answered, “for I hear another reel coming on.”

  And they danced on and on, twirling and stomping through reels and jigs and moving instinctively to the old rhythms. As if it had been mere days and not years since they had last danced together like that. Last felt the rhythm of their homeland pounding in their blood, binding them together, tighter and tighter.

  She could be young again as they danced, young and hopeful and free.

  But the music ended, the jig winding to its inevitable conclusion, and she was no longer the young, romantic Eliza Blacknall but Lady Mount Clare. The scandalous countess rolling the dice of her future.

  Yet, for the moment, she had Will’s smile, open and happy as he led her from the dance floor. Did the music make him feel young, too? Did it remind him of old hopes and dreams, of that feeling of being Irish, down deep in the blood and bone? She hoped so. Oh, she desperately hoped so.

  “I think you have passed the test quite well,” she said as they searched for more ale, still hand in hand.

  “I’m surprised I remember those steps at all,” he answered, seizing two goblets before the thirsty crowds could descend.

  “I don’t think a person can forget, not once the music is truly inside you.”

  “Eliza!” someone shouted. “You are here!”

  She froze, her goblet at her lips. She glanced at Will, who was peering over her shoulder at the man who hurried toward them. The man who was meant to be in hiding, but it seemed he was as incautious as ever.

  Edward Fitzgerald caught her in his arms, lifting her from her feet as he kissed her cheek. His short, dark hair was disheveled, and his green neckcloth was askew from the dancing. His hazel eyes were bright with his love of subterfuge and a good Irish reel.

  “I could not miss this grand music,” Eliza answered, trying to warn Will with her eyes to say nothing. “How are you keeping, Edward?”

  “Well enough, as always,” he said, snatching up a goblet. “Pam says she saw you before she went back to Kilrush.”

  “Indeed. I wanted to be sure she needed nothing, that she was in good health.”

  “And you found her as big as a house, I’m sure! We’ll have another pretty little one soon.” He gave Will a curious glance. “You brought a friend, I see.”

  “Aye, this is Will,” she said. “He is a great aficionado of jigs, I think.”

  “And of beautiful ladies, too,” Edward said, offering his hand to Will. “How do you do, sir? Any friend of Eliza Blacknall’s is welcome here—and at any other gatherings you might care to attend.”

  Will slowly shook Edward’s hand, solemnly, carefully. Eliza held her breath, thinking of those hidden weapons. “I fear I only have the energy for music and Eliza at the present—Lord Edward.”

  Edward’s gaze narrowed, as if he recognized Will, or was close to it. “We have no ‘lords’ here, not now. But music—now, that is always welcome, indeed.” He suddenly whirled around, pushing his way through the crowd to leap up on the platform.

  “My friends!” Edward cried, everyone turning toward him eagerly. Such w
as his charisma wherever he went—everyone wanted to be near him and hear what he said. Follow him. It was what made him an effective leader.

  And his rejection of his own aristocratic privilege was an inspiration to Eliza.

  “There is an old Irish custom, or so my mother tells me,” Edward said, “that a newcomer to a gathering must grace the company with a song.”

  He grinned at Eliza mischievously, beckoning. “Perhaps this good man shall lead us in a tune?”

  Eliza took Will’s hand in hers, not sure what he would do. She knew this was not some sort of a test, some bizarre oath. Singing and music was merely the way of such gatherings, as surely he remembered. But things were different now.

  His fingers tightened on hers, and he did not look at her. Instead he studied Edward, his body tense. Without a word, he let go of her and strode to the platform, climbing up with the ale-drinking musicians.

  “You know ‘Cliffs of Doneen’?” he asked roughly.

  As if sensing his authority, the musicians immediately took up their instruments again, launching into the plaintive tune.

  “ ‘You may travel far from your own native land, far away o’er the mountains and the foam. But of all the fine places that I’ve ever been, sure there’s none can compare with the cliffs of Doneen,’ ” Will sang, and though his voice was unpracticed, it was deep and pleasant, the words poetic. The jostling crowd grew silent, watching him with rapt faces.

  Eliza made her way slowly to the foot of the platform, gazing up at him as he sang those lyrics of leaving home, leaving the place one loved above all others. There was a melancholy to it, a strange beauty that was lacking in more practiced performances. The song seemed to come from somewhere deep inside of him, a secret, hidden well of loneliness.

  “ ‘Take a view o’er the mountains, fine sights you’ll see there. The high rocky mountains o’er the west coast of Clare. Oh, the town of Kilkee and Kilrush can be seen, from the high rocky slopes round the cliffs of Doneen,’ ” he sang, and held out his hand to her. She took it, letting him lift her up beside him as her voice rang out to join his.

  “ ‘Fare thee well to Doneen, fare thee well for a while, and to all the dear people I’m leaving behind. To the streams and the meadows where late I have been, and the high rocky slopes round the cliffs of Doneen,’ ” they sang, and slowly everyone else joined in, first a lone voice here and there, until all the room was alight with song and with tears.