Laurel McKee Page 12

  “ ‘Fare thee well to Doneen, fare thee well for a while…’ ”

  And the last notes slowly faded away, like a dying dream that couldn’t quite let go. Will stretched out his other hand, gently brushing her cheek with his fingertips. She was shocked to find her skin was damp with tears she didn’t even realize she shed. Tears from deep in her heart.

  He handed her a handkerchief, and she buried her face in the clean linen folds that smelled of him. She had such sad longings; they threatened to overwhelm her, like a winter storm. She wanted to grab Will, to hold him to her fiercely as the two of them sheltered alone against the howling winds.

  Yet there was no shelter to be had. There never had been, not for them.

  She wiped away those tears, tucking the handkerchief into her sleeve.

  “Come,” Will said gently. “Let us go home.”

  Eliza nodded, letting him put his arm around her waist and lead her through the crowd. Behind them, Edward Fitzgerald launched into “The Wind That Shakes the Barley,” but they soon left the sound behind.

  They made their way back to the Henrietta Street house in silence, up the back stairs to her dark, cold bedchamber. She had sent Mary to bed hours ago, and the fire had died down.

  That room, the one that had been her sanctuary through years of a loveless marriage, hardly seemed any more real than the raucous, rebellious ceilidh, Eliza thought as she locked the door behind them.

  But she had no time to think more, as Will caught her hard in his arms, his mouth coming down on hers. He tasted of ale and smoke, and of some bitter, dark anger. Yet she was drawn into him just the same, craved him with a fierce hunger she had never known before.

  She arched into his body, wrapping her arms around his neck until she could feel every inch of him against her, every lean muscle, the sharp curve of his hip, the growing erection of his penis through her skirts. Their tongues met, their mouths and sighs melting until she was sure they were one.

  As his knee drove between her legs, higher and higher until she straddled him, she buried her fingers in his hair, loosening the queue until it spilled over her hands and she felt his heartbeat against her breast, strong and true.

  “Eliza,” he muttered, his mouth trailing, open, wet, enticing, along her jaw and her throat. “This is madness….”

  “Yes,” she gasped. “But I can’t end it, can’t give you up. Not again. Can you?”

  “No. Never.”

  And in those two words, she heard the fearful echo of all her own pain and sadness. To make love with Will was so very sweet, the consummation of all she had wanted since she was a girl. Of all her dreams as a woman. He was her hero, her beautiful, only love. But this moment was all they had.

  So they had to make the most of it.

  Eliza stumbled back from him, reaching up to loosen her linen fichu, unfasten the bodice of her simple dress. Watching him the whole time, she shrugged the sleeves down her arms, letting the gown fall to the floor. His eyes were midnight blue and intense, his breath harsh.

  She shed her chemise and petticoat, standing before him in only her stockings. Naked in all her desire.

  She could hardly breathe, her chest aching with longing and fear. Slowly, trembling, she reached for his hand, drawing it to the vee of her womanhood, damp with her need for him.

  His fingertips combed through the curls, teasing, before finally they pressed deep inside of her. The rough friction, the press of his caress just at that one perfect spot, made her cry out. Her head fell back, her knees collapsing as his mouth claimed hers again.

  He lifted her high in his arms, twirling her around until they fell across her bed, a tangle of arms and legs, of moans and sweat.

  “You are so beautiful, Eliza,” he whispered, smoothing her tumbled hair back from her brow. As he stared down at her, tracing the angles of her face with his fingertips, she could almost believe it. Perhaps she was beautiful in his eyes, if only for that one passion-blind moment.

  “Not as beautiful as you, my Cuchulainn,” she said.

  He kissed her again, his hands sliding over her shoulders, along her arms, to capture her breasts. She groaned as he plucked at her achingly sensitive nipple, rolling it gently, plucking at it until she could bear it no more. She pushed him away, reaching out desperately to strip away his coat and shirt, tug at the fastenings of his breeches.

  And Will let her undress him, lying back against her pillows as he stared up at her, wary and lustfully greedy. Watching her like a gorgeous Celtic god, waiting for his handmaidens to serve him.

  Slowly, carefully, she straddled his hips, teasing a light, caressing pattern over his naked, damp skin. She wanted to memorize every inch of him, every curve and angle of his body, so she could remember this always. Remember him, when he was gone from her.

  She rose up, sliding her cleft along the iron-velvet length of his erection, lowering slowly, slowly, until he was fully sheathed inside her, all heat and friction. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, closing her eyes to fully feel every inch of him, she rose again.

  “Eliza!” he shouted, grasping her waist to roll her beneath him in one smooth movement, not breaking their fragile, perfect connection. He picked up her rhythm, the two of them moving faster, desperately.

  “Will,” she gasped, a hot, sparkling flame rising from her core, spreading over her until she was utterly consumed by it.

  His body arched over hers, and he cried out wordlessly.

  By the time Eliza floated back into herself, he had drawn the bedclothes over them against the cold night. His arm was draped over her hips, drawing her back against his body as they drowsed, drifting together in a twilight dream world.

  Eliza smiled, stretching lazily as she smoothed her fingers down his forearm and back up again, the light blond hairs on his skin tickling her palm. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

  “Eliza,” he whispered. “Why did you take me there tonight?”

  Something in his voice made her pleasant lassitude vanish, like clouds sliding away in a dark sky. Her hand stilled on his arm.

  “What do you mean?” she said. “You used to enjoy such gatherings in Kildare, the music and the dancing. And especially the ale. Have you left behind us common Irish already?”

  “Eliza, how common can a countess be?” Gently but inexorably, he turned her in his arms to face him. A bar of moonlight fell across him, turning his tangled hair to gilt. His expression was not angry or violent, but it was quite solemn and implacable. “And this was not a gathering of friends on a country estate, as you well know. Did you know your friend Fitzgerald would be there?”

  “Of course I did not.” Eliza sat up, drawing the sheet around her. He, too, sat up, leaning against the carved headboard, his arms crossed over his bare chest.

  “I did not know Edward would be there,” she repeated. “He is meant to be in hiding, of course, but he sometimes takes ill-considered risks.”

  “He is not the only one,” Will muttered.

  No, he was certainly not, she thought sadly. It had been foolish of her to break into the office, not realizing he was following her. It had been foolish of her to take Will to the ceilidh, no matter what her hopes or memories were. Such gatherings were always peaceful, a time to dance and sing—and remember what they truly fought for.

  But Will was not just her Will now; he was Major Denton. And she was fortunate he had not turned in Edward on the spot, and her with him.

  “I suppose he is not the only one to take risks,” she said. “I should not have put you in such a position, disguised or not. And I am sure General Hardwick and his daughter do not care for you associating with me at all.”

  Will frowned. “What have the Hardwicks to do with anything?”

  “They are your friends. I swear to you, Will, I did not want to get either of us into trouble tonight. I just…”

  “You just what?”

  Eliza sighed, leaning back on the bed so she did not have to look at him. “I thought about what you
said, about how we are all Irish. Once, it seemed you loved this country as I do. I just wanted you to remember.”

  “Oh, Eliza, I do remember.” He reached down and took her hand, holding it closely, their fingers interlaced. “All those years so far away, I longed for home. For the green, cool wildness of it all. It’s a part of me, just as it is of you.”

  “Then how can you stay in the army? How can you bear to be a part of all that oppresses us, if this is your home? If you love Ireland?” she asked, aching with sadness and confusion. He held her hand, yet it seemed he was even farther away from her than when he had been in the West Indies.

  “You have not changed, my dear,” he said, his voice heavy with a sadness of his own. “You were always so full of dreams of perfection, of idealism. Of a complete sense of right and wrong and who you are.”

  “Not with everything,” she said. She obviously had no sense of right and wrong when it came to him. “But for too long, Ireland has been in chains. And they tighten every day.”

  She climbed out of bed, snatching up her dressing gown from a chair and wrapping it around herself. The velvet and swansdown were not much of an armor, but it would have to serve. Will sat up in bed, watching her warily.

  Eliza took up a book from the stack on the mantel. “Paine says, ‘All men are born equal and with equal rights.’ That surely also means ‘equal political rights,’ the right to elect an assembly to write a constitution and then govern by it, as the Americans do. Free of the English taking advantage of our resources, burning up our country and leaving us with the dregs.”

  She stared down at the volume in her hands, the worn leather binding soft. “The Penal Laws, the embargo on exportation, the unjust imprisonments. Absentee landlords who ruin their land and people out of greed—it has gone on too long. Ireland must be free to find her own destiny.”

  The gold lettering on that cover blurred, and she found to her chagrin that she was crying. That got her nowhere. She had been strong for so long; she had to be so now. Too much was at stake.

  Will followed her out of the bed, twisting the sheet around his waist. Slowly, gently, he took the book from her hands. “I, too, have read Paine. His ideas are beautiful simplicity, I admit, and America is enviable in what they have accomplished. There are injustices from Westminster and the Castle; I cannot deny it. But violence will not gain what you want.”

  Eliza impatiently wiped at her cheeks. “I do not advocate violence!”

  “Then you agree that to work from within the political system to effect reform is better? Is indeed the only way to bring about change, as your family’s Whig friends declare?”

  “Only a very small proportion of the Irish are even allowed in Parliament,” she protested. “And they are all Ascendancy, Protestant aristocracy. Their interests are served by kowtowing to Westminster, in blocking any expansion of political power. Only a complete change will set Ireland free.”

  Suddenly deeply weary, her head aching, Eliza sat down, rubbing at her temples. Will knelt beside her, his hands braced on her knees as he gazed up at her steadily, sympathetically. How very calm he was—damn him!

  “Complete change of the sort your friend Fitzgerald advocates would come at a very high price,” he said. “Indeed, it already has in the north. Murder, burnings, looting—on both sides.”

  “Once Dublin Castle is emptied and there is a National Convention, a republic—”

  “And how can that be without violence? Without the suffering of innocent people—people like Anna and Caroline.”

  “Oh no.” Eliza shook her head, trying to snatch her hands away from him. But he held fast. “You cannot involve my sisters.”

  “But they are involved. We all are, if it comes to rebellion and civil war. I have seen battle, Eliza my dear. The blood and pain, the terrible suffering. It never leaves me, and I would do anything—anything—to save you from those horrors.”

  Eliza feared she would cry again, weep at the hidden passion in his words. At what he must have suffered, her beautiful, darling Will.

  “It will not be that way,” she whispered. “Not here.”

  “It is always that way—especially here,” he said. “Ireland has long been watered with blood and suffering. I could not bear it if even a drop of that blood was yours.”

  Eliza bent her head to kiss the rumpled silk of his hair, inhaling deeply of his scent, his essence. Trying to memorize everything about him, about this moment. The blood spilled would more likely be his. Warfare was his profession, and he was determined to do his duty.

  And she could not bear that. Could not bear to think of his bright glow extinguished.

  He turned his face up to hers, capturing her lips with his. Their kiss was tender but tinged with desperation and longing. With the terrible knowledge of time and love slipping away.

  Will threaded his fingers through her hair, holding her to him as their tongues twined and tasted. He rose up on his knees, leaning into her as if they could become one in truth, could absorb into each other and never be apart.

  His kiss slid from her lips and along her arched throat as he parted her dressing gown. The tip of his tongue tasted the soft curve of her breast, flicking over her nipple as she gasped. Her eyes closed, her body falling back in the chair, but he showed no mercy. He pressed his open mouth to her abdomen, to the cluster of pale freckles on her hip.

  Then he slid the velvet cloth back from her legs, parting her thighs wider as his finger slid inside of her.

  Eliza closed her eyes, every sense focused on that one delicious spot, on his touch. He gently parted her wet, petal-like folds, and she felt the slide of his tongue, tasting her very essence. Teasing her.

  “Will!” she cried, clasping his hair to push him away—or to pull him closer.

  It seemed even more intimate than their sex had been, his mouth on her, tasting, savoring, giving such wondrous pleasure she could hardly bear it. She had never let anyone do that before, and now she knew why—it bound them together in trust. It was overwhelming.

  Her head arched against the cushions of the chair as her release swept over her, wave upon wave of pure, hot pleasure.

  He kissed the soft skin of her inner thigh, the sensitive little spot just behind her knee. His hand slid down her leg to her foot, until he could press its arch to his bare chest, staring up at her in a silence that thundered louder than any words.

  He pressed his lips to her ankle before letting her go, collapsing back to the floor with his arm over his face. Eliza sank down beside him, drawing him against her as he rested his head on her shoulder. She listened to the rush of his breath, the beat of his heart. He was alive; they were alive, and together. It was perfection.

  But when she closed her eyes, feeling his hot skin under her touch, she saw blood. Rivers of it, drowning them both in its suffocating tides.

  Chapter Eleven

  The foyer of the Henrietta Street house had surely never seen such chaos, Eliza thought. Trunks and band-boxes were stacked high, an impenetrable mountain range traversed by hurrying servants striving to carry them all out the door. Outside in the street waited the baggage cart and the carriage to take Anna back to Killinan.

  Eliza tried to keep herself busy counting the trunks, tried not to think of how big and echoing the house would be when her sister was gone. She would be alone then, with her fears and hopes and worries. With thoughts of Will.

  Anna came clattering down the stairs, tying the ribbons of her cloak over her wool traveling dress. She held a packet of books in the crook of her arm, and her maid followed with the locked box containing Mama’s precious tiara.

  “Do you have everything, sister?” Eliza asked. “All your new purchases?”

  Anna laughed, gesturing to the heaps of trunks. “If I forgot anything, I doubt I shall miss it for days! It will take a fortnight to unpack. But I have Mama’s and Caro’s gifts in this case here; that’s the important thing.”

  Eliza kissed her cheek, holding her close. Anna hug
ged her back, and Eliza remembered Will’s words. Innocents would suffer. But not her sisters, never that. Eliza would protect them with her own life if need be.

  “I have loved having you here with me, Anna,” she said.

  “Even when I was a nuisance at the gaming tables?”

  “Even then.”

  “Well, I have loved being here. We see too little of you at home, sister, and we miss you.”

  “That will change soon. I promise.” Eliza kissed Anna once more and let her go. “Remember what I said—take care of Mama and Caro.”

  “I will, always. But what of you, Eliza?”

  “I will take care of myself.”

  “I know you will, but you don’t have to. Come back to Killinan with me, please.”

  Eliza laughed. “There would be no room for me, with all these trunks! I will come in a few weeks, when the Season is over.”

  Anna’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “Because you love the social whirl so very much?” she said doubtfully.

  “Something like that.”

  “Of course.” Anna smoothed on her gloves and straightened her hat. “Say good-bye to Will Denton for me. It was lovely to see him again.” And then she was gone.

  Eliza stood at the window, watching until Anna turned the corner and there was only the usual morning bustle on the street. Then she went back upstairs to her chamber, locking the door securely behind her before going to her desk. There was much work to be done here, indeed, but not on the “social whirl.”

  She had a task to finish before she could beat any kind of retreat to Killinan.

  Anna leaned back on the carriage seat, gazing out the window as the miles bounced by. The grand, wide, pale streets of Dublin had given way to the sooty outskirts and then to open countryside.