Laurel McKee Read online

  She ran to the window, leaning out to stare as he lithely climbed down the tangled vines until he could leap to the roof of her portico and swing to the street. The light had turned pearl gray now, and a cold wind swept down the street like an angry ghost. The cart and the men were gone, a minor skirmish in a bigger war.

  Will tugged his cap down over his bright hair and gave her a jaunty salute. “We will meet again soon, my lady, I promise. Try not to miss me too desperately.”

  Despite herself, Eliza wanted to laugh as he ran off, disappearing into the shadows. Perhaps, deep down inside, there was a spark of her old Will. The one who always made her laugh, teased her out of her seriousness. The one who made the dark world brighter. And she feared it was that spark that could be her undoing.

  She shut the window, locking it securely and pulling the curtains tightly against the growing light. Then she turned back to her silent room, her gaze alighting on the secret drawer of her dressing table. The one where the United Irish badge hid, its green ribbons glowing.

  “I am new-strung,” she whispered, “and shall be heard.”

  That was when she realized the papers on her desk were gone.

  Will made his stealthy way through the deserted Dublin streets. It was eerily silent; even the hardiest of merrymakers had gone home, leaving the elegant lanes empty. The sharp whistle of cold winter wind was the only sound. That, and the sound of his own blood in his ears.

  He felt tautly alert, as just before a battle, that moment when every sense was heightened, the very air crystalline and sharp around him. The instant when the world grew still—just before it exploded.

  It was a battle about to be joined by a formidable foe, indeed—Eliza Blacknall.

  Will shook his head, kicking out at a broken bottle with his scuffed boot. He wasn’t entirely sure what he had expected when he broke into her bedchamber, climbing up the ivy to slither in the window and hide under her very bed. Such poor security for the house of a rumored United Irish partisan.

  Perhaps he thought that once they were alone he could finally make her listen to reason. To his warnings. Make her see the danger and folly of the path she had chosen. But he proved to be the fool, for once he was near Eliza, he forgot all but her. His Eliza—the girl who had taught him the ecstasy and pain of love.

  Was he now in danger of remembering those old lessons all over again? He feared he was. The old clumsy, youthful, wild passion between them was still there, sharpened and honed by the years and ready to catch fire again.

  Yet, he had to face a conflagration of a far different sort now—the fires of rebellion and war. They threatened to consume Ireland, the country he loved, and Eliza with it. Worse, it seemed she fed those flames herself.

  If he did not stop her, he would lose her again—forever this time. He would not let that happen. Even if he had to fight her every step of the way.

  He had come to the embankment along the Liffey, and he stopped to stare down into the night-black waters. They looked thick and inky, lit only by the reflected gleam of a few faded stars. Boats were moored there, more than usual at that time of year, waiting to carry the frightened populace to safety in England.

  If only he could just kidnap Eliza and toss her in the hold of one of those vessels! Send her to safety whether she would have it or not. But he knew that would never work. She would swim all the way back across the Irish Sea if she had to.

  Thus, he needed a new strategy. A new battle plan.

  He took the paper from his coat pocket, the scrap he had snatched off Eliza’s desk while her back was turned. It seemed to be a scribble, but for a mere scribble it was dangerous, indeed—a page labeled for the Northern Star, the United Irish newspaper printed secretly somewhere in Belfast and passed around the country.

  … call for an equal and just distribution of the benefits of our country, this particular article said. An equal and full representation of all Ireland’s people and an end to absentee landlords who care nothing for our traditions and our populace. It was accompanied by a pencil cartoon of a fat landlord grinding tenants under his boot.

  And the article was signed By A Lady.

  Will crumpled the scrap in his fist, tossing it into the river. There were many ladies in Ireland who thought to aid the United Irish and their allies, the Defenders, by hosting salons where sedition was the conversation of the day. By controlling gossip and rumor and by passing messages. But those words seemed to have one specific lady’s stamp. And if he realized that, so would others.

  “Oh, Eliza,” he muttered. “My dear girl. What must I do to stop you once and for all?”

  Chapter Four

  You’re very quiet today, Eliza,” Anna said, spreading marmalade on her breakfast toast.

  Eliza gave her a weak smile. How could she tell her sister she had not slept at all last night, because first she hid a fugitive in the cellar, and then she kissed her childhood love until she collapsed with foolish lust? Just remembering it made her feel faintly uneasy as she watched Anna attack her meal with gusto.

  “I’m a bit tired, I confess,” Eliza said. She reached for the teapot, hoping the Indian brew would soothe her stomach. “Perhaps that is because someone kept me at the assembly rooms all hours.”

  “Oh, pooh!” Anna protested, licking a drop of sticky marmalade from her finger. “We left before the party even started.”

  “It was after two in the morning!”

  “You sound like Mama. What is the use of living in Dublin if one can’t fully enjoy its delicious diversions? One might as well be buried at Killinan, a fate you seem determined to consign me to.”

  Eliza sipped at her tea, remembering how frantic and frightened everyone seemed of late. How uncertainty hung in the air like the sword of Damocles. “You will be safer there.”

  Anna frowned, her pretty face suddenly solemn. “Is something really going to happen here, Eliza? Just like they say?”

  “Like who says?”

  “Just… everyone. Lord Morely was telling me last night that there’s a plot to burn the city and all the great houses nearby. That we’ll all be murdered in our beds.”

  “Morely is a great fool, and he must have been a drunk one to tell such tales to impressionable young ladies.”

  “Impressionable, stupid young women who read too many horrid novels, you mean?” Anna said in a strained voice.

  “My dear, you are certainly not stupid,” Eliza protested. And, indeed, her sister was not. But she was sensitive and romantic. “Far from it. It just seems that everyone has forgotten any rules of civility of late, and reactionaries like Morely are the worst.”

  “He was foxed, to be sure,” Anna said. “Everyone was last night, I think. Yet I don’t remember you being so mightily concerned with civility, Eliza.”

  “What do you mean?” Eliza asked stiffly, pouring out more tea.

  “Back home at Killinan, before you married Mount Clare, you used to ride hell-for-leather all over the county. Traipsing through mud, drinking ale in tenants’ cottages—Mama was in despair over you.”

  Eliza had to laugh. “Poor Mama! She did try so hard with me, disgrace that I was.”

  “And you became a countess!”

  “I became a countess,” Eliza murmured. She stirred idly at her tea, remembering those lovely days of running free, listening to tales of old gods and goddesses and great Irish heroes by crofters’ peat fires.

  Kissing Will Denton in the woods.

  “Well,” said Anna, “I don’t think we should stay trapped in here, no matter if rebels are waiting to pike us in the streets. The sun is out for once, and we need fresh air. Shall we walk on St. Stephen’s Green? Maybe do a bit of shopping?”

  Eliza bit her lip. It did sound tempting, a breath of air to clear her head after last night. But she had work to do, a pamphlet she had promised to finish writing. She had to start it all over again now, thanks to her carelessness with Will. “I am not sure that is such a good idea, Anna. There is so much to do….�
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  “Oh, come now!” Anna cried, jumping up from her chair to run around the table and grab Eliza’s hand. “Whatever there is to do can wait. The sun will certainly not last, and if I must go back to Killinan, I want to enjoy every moment in town. Besides, I promised Mama I would bring her the newest music from London.”

  Eliza laughed. “Oh, very well. A morning walk, and work this afternoon.”

  “And dancing tonight!”

  An hour later, Eliza found herself dressed in a woolen walking gown and her warmest fur-lined cloak, strolling with her sister along Grafton Street toward St. Stephen’s Green. She had long ago learned that going against Anna was futile, and in truth, she relished the exercise. City life was making her soft; she doubted she could ride hell-for-leather or walk all over the countryside now.

  St. Stephen’s Green was the favorite site in Dublin for strolling and riding or for just being seen, and the rare winter sunshine had lured everyone out. As Eliza and Anna turned through the gates into the park, they saw they were not alone. The graveled pathways were crowded with chattering, laughing groups and their barking lapdogs.

  Yet, even here there was some measure of peace, Eliza thought, linking arms with her sister as they strolled along. The watery pale light gleamed on the elegant buildings lining the square, making the gray stones shimmer. Frost still overlay the grass, but there seemed the promise of warmth in the breeze. The promise of new beginnings.

  Eliza smiled, feeling quite absurdly optimistic as she listened to Anna’s bright chatter. Until suddenly, in the distance, she heard the unmistakable sound of drumbeats. Everyone near them fell silent, tensely alert as they turned toward that martial echo. Even Anna was quiet, holding tightly to Eliza’s arm.

  Over the horizon, along the wide, main thoroughfare of the park, came a sight Eliza would vow had come straight up out of Hades. The drummers were followed by standard-bearers, carrying the king’s gold lion on red, and the regimental colors of the Thirteenth Regiment of Foot. And behind them was the regiment itself, perfectly aligned ranks of marching red coats with glinting gold lace.

  St. Stephen’s Green was often the site of military show, but usually it was the slightly clumsy maneuvers of local militia and Volunteers. It was a chance to show off their specially designed uniforms and flirt with the pretty girls, a lighthearted indulgence of the Irish love of show.

  But this was different. This was a real British regiment of real soldiers, their gleaming new weapons on obvious display, their faces hard, etched with focus. They would not be easily dismissed or defeated.

  Their appearance, on the main parade ground of Dublin, was meant to show the intent of the Crown and its vessel, Dublin Castle. The hammer blow was coming, and the United Irish had to be prepared.

  And at the head of those neat red columns, mounted on a jet-black horse equally caparisoned for war, was Major William Denton.

  Eliza studied him as he rode by, the lean, sharp lines of his face shadowed by the brim of his helmet. He stared straight ahead, unsmiling, and in that armor of red wool, he was not at all Will.

  The grim parade seemed to go on and on, an endless barrier between them and a free Ireland. Even Anna, who could usually be counted on for a comment about handsome officers, was silent as she leaned on Eliza’s arm.

  “At last,” a man growled behind them. “It seemed like the king and Prime Minister Pitt had deserted us to defend ourselves against the rabble!”

  “Better late than never, I suppose,” another man said. “Though I hear the Thirteenth is to be sent north.”

  “And leave the streets of Dublin open to murderers!” a woman said shrilly.

  “If the north continues to burn, Dublin will certainly be next, my dear,” the first man said. “Perhaps when the regiment leaves, we should, too?”

  “And go where?” the woman said, panic in her words. “No place is safe at all.”

  “Are they right, Eliza?” Anna whispered.

  Before Eliza could answer, someone at the edge of the growing crowd started singing. “ ‘Oh, croppies, ye’d better be quiet and still. Ye shan’t have your liberty, do what ye will. As long as salt water is formed in the deep, a foot on the neck of the croppy we’ll keep.’ ” “Croppies Lie Down”—the worst of the latest round of British songs—was about killing “croppies,” men who cut their hair short in sympathy with the United Irishmen.

  Eliza felt the gathering, so quiet and solemn when the regiment appeared, now growing restive and angry. What was it Will said at the assembly rooms? That they were all dancing on a powder keg, and it took only one match to set it alight.

  And she grew angry at these people who cared only for their own privilege and not for the suffering and injustice of others.

  She took Anna’s hand and drew her through the crowd. They pushed their way past until they were out of sight of the regiment, who now set up their maneuvers on the frosty grass. Near the gates, she glimpsed the man who sang that hateful song. He was a beardless youth who would doubtless run and hide at the first sign of any real fight.

  Even as she considered marching over there to push him to the ground, she knew he was not the real enemy. He had no power. It was that well-trained, relentless regiment they had to beware of.

  But Anna had no such restraint. She snatched her hand from Eliza’s, hurrying toward the singer with fire in her blue eyes. A crowd had gathered, some to cheer him on, some with angry expressions, and she shoved her way past them.

  Eliza dashed after her sister, her heart pounding. This was not the moment to call attention to themselves! Timing was everything these days, and any trouble could ruin it all. The tiniest misstep could be their last.

  “How dare you?” Anna’s voice rang out, clear and indignant over the out-of-tune song. “Such vulgarity, and in a public place!”

  For an instant, the man’s song faltered at the sight of Anna’s blond beauty and her fiery anger. Then his face flushed red, and he sang out louder, others joining in.

  Anna opened her mouth again, just as Eliza caught the edge of her cloak. Over her sister’s head, she glimpsed a familiar face at the edge of the crowd. Mr. Boyle, her go-between to the hidden Northern Star printing press.

  Oh, that was all she needed, she thought. Double the trouble. How could she tell anyone a British officer stole her pamphlet notes from her desk?

  “Anna, this is not the time,” Eliza whispered quickly. “Just ignore him.”

  Anna looked at her with startled eyes. “How can I ignore a song about killing Irishmen?”

  Mr. Boyle vanished into the crowd, obviously deciding this was not the moment for any messages.

  “The moment will come, sister,” Eliza said. “But not now. Not over something so trivial.”

  “Trivial?” Before Anna could say more, there was a new vibration in the air, a new murmuring as the thick crowds parted.

  Still holding on to her sister’s cloak, Eliza twisted around to see a flash of red from the corner of her eye as Will made his determined way on foot through the crowd. They all parted before him immediately, a hush falling. He strode directly to the man who led the singing and grabbed him by the front of his coat. Eliza saw the flash of an orange badge pinned there, the sign of the Loyalist Orangemen.

  “There are ordinances against disturbing the peace here,” Will said firmly, giving the man a shake. “I must ask you to depart immediately.”

  The formerly arrogant man turned pale at the sight of an officer, but he muttered, “I break no laws by singing, surely.”

  “You incite violence in a public place, which is against the Insurrection Act.” Will gave a humorless smile that made even Eliza shiver as he shoved the man toward the gates. “Go sing your drunken ditties in a tavern somewhere, boy. This is not the time or place.”

  The man backed away. “Perhaps not. But soon enough it will be, yes, Major? Soon you’ll make the Liffey run with croppy blood.”

  Will turned on his heel, not deigning to answer. He didn’t ev
en seem to notice the onlookers. His grim stare landed on Eliza, and there was no mercy there.

  She felt cold, icy cold, under that pitiless blue-green gaze, and she tugged her cloak closer around her as he marched away.

  She rushed toward the gates, pulling her sister with her. The man’s song had faded down the street, but the memory of it was too vivid. And Mr. Boyle waited at the gates.

  “Lady Mount Clare,” he said with a bow, his craggy face hidden by the broad brim of his hat. “Quite the spectacle, is it not?”

  Eliza glanced back over her shoulder. No one paid them any heed, but they could not be too careful. Even work as seemingly innocuous as writing and printing pamphlets could lead to arrest and death.

  “Anna,” she said, trying to keep her tone light, “why don’t you go ahead to the bookshop? It is not far, and I will be right behind you.”

  Anna gave her a doubtful frown, but she did go, quietly for once. Quiet was never a good sign with her sister, but Eliza had no time to worry about that now. She had only a moment to hear whatever Boyle’s message might be.

  “Indeed, it is a spectacle, Mr. Boyle,” Eliza said softly.

  “One we will see much more of in coming days,” Boyle answered. He reached inside his coat, bringing out a small, sealed paper. “Will you be so kind as to deliver this to our friend Fitzgerald?”

  “Of course,” Eliza said, sliding the note into the fur muff over her arm. “Is that all?”

  “For the moment. Your latest work has been a great success.”

  “I will have more in a few days.”

  “After the queen’s birthday ball?”

  “If all goes well.” And if she could stay out of Will’s way…

  “Let us hope.” He gave her another bow. “Good day, Lady Mount Clare.”

  As he left, disappearing into the milling crowd, Eliza tried to take a deep breath. She felt a sudden burning on the back of her neck and whirled around to find Will staring at her. His eyes fairly glowed with anger, even across the distance of the park. Had he seen the exchange, then? Did he know the significance of it from her stolen papers?