“The hell you would,” he returned with blunt coolness. “I saw your face just now. There’s nothing that would please you less than going back to that high-pressured hothouse in there.”
“You’re very sure of your powers of perception,” she said caustically. “What makes you think that you can read a perfect stranger with such ease?”
“Do you know that you have practically no accent at all until something upsets you?” he asked absently. “Though, of course, your mother was American, wasn’t she?”
Sheena felt a jolt of surprise, and her eyes widened. “How did you know my mother was American?”
His smile was a flash of warm sunlight in the bronze darkness of his face. “There’s not much that I don’t know about you, little dove. We’re far from being strangers. I think you realized that tonight, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sheena said, her dark eyes wary.
“I think you do,” he said. “I believe you first discovered that I was following you in Miami.”
“San Francisco,” she corrected, her head whirling in confusion at the bewildering statement. “Following?” she asked faintly. “I thought it a mere coincidence. I had no idea that I had such an ardent fan.”
He shook his head. “I was at your first concert in Houston, and I’ve been at every one since, but I can’t say that I’m a fan.” He grinned ruefully. “To be honest, I hate your performances with a passion.” His face lit with amusement as she raised her chin haughtily, her dark eyes blazing with outrage and hurt. “Just settle down, little dove,” he went on soothingly. “It’s simply that I’ve never believed in attending funerals, even with a lovely thing like you as chief mourner. I have a passion for life and the living, not for death.”
“If you’re quite finished insulting me, I’ll leave you now,” Sheena said, her voice shaking with rage. “By the way, Mr. Challon, I couldn’t care less what you have a passion for!”
“You will, dove. I assure you that I intend to make you conversant with all of my passions.” He smiled gently. “As for leaving me, I’ll let you go in a few minutes, at least for a time. I’m not trying to cage you at present, little bird. I just thought that it was time I made my first approach. I could see that you were getting a bit uneasy when you finally realized that I was on your trail.”
“You’re absolutely crazy,” she sputtered. “They ought to lock you up and throw away the key. You can’t follow someone around just because it amuses you to do so.”
His grin widened in frank enjoyment as he looked down at her furious face. “When you’re as rich as I am, you’re not called crazy, just eccentric, sweetheart. And you’ll find out that I can do pretty well as I please.”
“Not with me you can’t! Besides, why would anyone want to follow a total stranger around the country?”
He smiled lazily. “I’m tempted to tell you, but I don’t think you’re ready for it. Let’s just say that I’m doing some very important reconnoitering before I launch my offensive. I knew after your second concert that I was going to have a hell of a battle on my hands, and I took pains to make sure that I had all the ammunition needed to fight it.”
“Battle?” she asked dazedly. “What battle?”
“Not now, love,” he said softly, his eyes glowing amber gold. “You wouldn’t understand at the moment.” Gently he cupped her cheek in his hard, warm palm. “Let’s just say I’m planning on turning my mournful dove into a lark.”
“You’re completely mad,” she whispered. She was suddenly acutely conscious of Challon’s vibrant nearness, the pulse that was beating in his strong bronzed throat, the heady scent of warm male flesh mixed with the clean odor of soap. Standing isolated between the curtain of gently falling rain and the barrier that the glass french doors formed between the two of them and the noisy party a few feet away, it was almost as if they were in a private world of their own.
Sheena shook her head to clear it. Was she as insane as he was? Why was she feeling this melting, boneless warmth in her every limb? Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer for no better reason than that golden, intimate look, which seemed to wrap her tenderly yet securely in its velvet web.
“God, but you’re a temptation, sweetheart,” Challon said thickly, his eyes accurately reading and interpreting the telltale glow in her jet black eyes. “If I hadn’t promised myself that I’d try patience and gentleness first, I’d whisk you out of here and take you home with me.”
She could feel her cheeks turn warm, and she looked away hastily. “It might not be entirely your decision to make,” she said tartly, lifting her chin haughtily. “I’m not accustomed to letting strange men carry me home like some sort of trophy.”
Challon chuckled, his lean cheeks creased with amusement. “Yes, I know, little dove. I’m going to have to exert all my expertise to overcome that convent upbringing.”
“How did you …?” she started, then trailed off helplessly. Was there nothing the man didn’t know about her?
“Tell me,” he asked suddenly, “are you doing ‘Rory’s Song’ tomorrow night?”
She felt a little ripple of shock. “Of course I’m doing it,” she said. “Not that it concerns you.”
“Everything you do concerns me, Sheena,” Challon said quietly. “But I admit that this particular decision comes as no surprise to me. It fits the pattern quite neatly with what I’ve observed in the past three months. Don’t you ever question any edicts issued by your dear uncle? Do you really enjoy being a lovely mindless puppet?”
“Puppet!” she exclaimed, furious. “You have no idea at all of what you’re saying. My uncle loves me, and he only does what’s best for me.”
“Would a man who loves you dress you in mourning black and send you up on stage in front of thousands of people to rip your soul to shreds?” Challon asked grimly.
“It’s not like that!”
“Oh, isn’t it? Then what is it like, Sheena? Tell me what you feel when you’re out there in front of that mob who only want to taste your tears and touch your agony.”
Her huge dark eyes misted. “Please,” she pleaded huskily. “I don’t want to talk about it. Won’t you just go away?”
He shook his head, his golden eyes tender. “Never again, little dove. There’s always pain before healing; you’re wounded, and I want to be there to kiss it better.”
“Sheena, what are you doing out here?” Sean Reilly’s voice, unusually sharp, cut through that breathlessly intimate moment. He closed the french doors behind him and approached with his usual silent grace. “It’s pouring, and you know how bad the dampness is for your throat.” He whipped off his tweed jacket and draped it around her solicitously, the movement deftly separating her from Challon.
Challon observed the ploy with lazy amusement. “It’s my fault, Reilly,” he said mockingly. “I assured her that she wouldn’t melt. It seems that I stand corrected.”
Reilly shot the older man an annoyed glance before turning to Sheena and smiling. “It’s a crazy, wild girl you are,” he scolded gently. “Come along inside, and I’ll get you a drink to ward off a chill.”
“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.”
Two
“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.”