“Lady Seldane has already sent for a surgeon—”
“I’m going back to Curzon Street,” he said, and his voice sounded odd, far away.
“You’ll kill yourself.”
“Perhaps. But I’m not going to die beside Jasper Darnley.” He took an unsteady step away from the wall. The bullet had lodged beneath his shoulder, but it wasn’t a clean wound, and he knew it.
“Killoran, for God’s sake, man!” Nathaniel cried desperately. “The bullet might have touched a vital organ. Be still. It could have nicked your heart, your lungs...”
“I don’t have a heart,” Killoran said wryly.
“True enough,” Nathaniel agreed sternly. “Emma just ran off with it. Are you going to sit back down and wait for help, or am I going to have to force you?”
“Sentimental fool,” Killoran murmured weakly. His legs wouldn’t support him, and he slumped back to the floor. The hallway was already dark, but it was closing in upon him like a velvet throw, and he considered death to be an imminent possibility. “Promise me something, Nathaniel.”
“Anything.”
“If by any bizarre chance you’re right,” he whispered. “If I’m dying, you’re to let me go in peace.”
“Don’t be absurd, man...”
“If I call out for... anyone... you’re not to bring them to me. Do you understand? I don’t care if I’m on my deathbed, delirious and begging. You’re not to bring her.”
“Killoran!” he protested.
“Promise me. On your honor.” He reached out and clawed at Nathaniel’s plain wool coat, exerting the last ounce of his strength.
“I promise,” Nathaniel said.
Killoran released him. “You’re probably right,” he whispered.
“About what?”
He looked up at him and managed a brief, farewell smile. “I rather think Emma did run off with my heart,” he confessed. And then, he let go, tired of fighting.
Chapter 21
Seldane House, County Sligo, Three Weeks Later
The air was surprisingly warm in Ireland, with the tang of the sea all around. A more hospitable place than England, Emma thought wearily, staring at the burgeoning green. Spring came earlier here. When she left London and Lady Seldane, the London streets were still coated with an icy mist. But here in Ireland the sun shone. She could be happy here, surely.
If she could be happy anywhere without Killoran. Since she had no choice in the matter, she needed to behave sensibly. She had the rapidly recovering Gertie to keep her company and to chivy her into common sense. She no longer need fear Miriam’s stratagems, or the deranged lusts of men. She could find peace here, she was convinced. And if she cried at night, in the large, well-appointed bedroom of Seldane House, no one, not even Gertie, knew of it.
As the days passed, a certain peace settled over Emma. A sense of waiting. Seldane House boasted only the minimal staff—an elderly couple named Murphy and a recuperating Gertie, but the quiet and lush beauty of the place soothed Emma’s soul. By the second week the tears were gone, and she took long, solitary walks through the blossoming spring countryside, and tried not to count the days till her monthly courses were due.
By the second week she discovered the farmhouse. More of a ruin it was, set amidst a valley so green and ripe it was almost magical. This was the first morning the apple trees had blossomed, and the smell in the air was heavenly, enticing her to walk farther than she usually did. The sight of the old stone building stopped her.
The roof was intact, covered with a coppery-green moss. Some of the leaded windows were out, some boarded up, and the front of the house was a tangle of overgrowth. She walked up the choked drive slowly, looking for signs of life.
The gray stone house wasn’t dead, however. Merely sleeping, like a fairy-tale creature. She could feel the heat and life in the place, the heart, waiting to be brought back to life and beauty. It came as no surprise to her that the front door opened when she tried it, no surprise that despite the damp and dust of the front hall, the place felt strangely like home.
She wandered through the rooms, unashamed of trespassing. It was a large farmhouse, with room for a dozen children and more, yet there was a cozy feel to it, despite the decay. As she wandered through the rooms, she wanted to weep at the sheer waste of such abandoned loveliness.
She dreamed of it at night, was unable to keep away during the day. She never asked whose house it was, but from her inexpert grasp of the Irish political situation, she assumed it belonged to some absentee Protestant landlord. One who had no love for the land.
She wanted that house, with a covetous longing that surprised her. For no reason whatsoever, the house reminded her of Killoran. Of the Killoran she thought she’d seen beneath the drawling airs and graces, beneath the mocking words and clever tricks. It reminded her of the Killoran she’d given herself to. And would again, if he only wanted her.
But he hadn’t wanted her, ever. She needed to remind herself of that painful, unpalatable fact. She was simply a means to an end, and when revenge had come to fruition, he’d dismissed her, walking away without a backward glance. He’d left her to Lady Seldane’s kind heart, never thinking of her again.
Well, she wouldn’t think about him. She would think, instead, of this house. A woman could love a house as well as a man, couldn’t she? A house wouldn’t break your heart. A garden wouldn’t make you weep. She would find some way to claim this house as her own, with its horse barns and lush fields and overgrown gardens, and then she would be invulnerable.
She was unable to resist the house and, once there, unable to resist touching it. The broom she found was old and shredding, but she still managed to sweep the rooms free of dust and leaves and debris. The curtains at the windows were tattered and torn, and she simply pulled them down. The Irish sun was spring-bright, even through the filthy, broken panes.
She knew how to work—Miriam had taught her that much. And she worked long hours in the abandoned house, sweeping out the fireplaces, scouring the kitchen, burning the filth and accumulated trash from wasted years.
She wanted that house. As much as Killoran had wanted revenge, as much as Nathaniel had wanted Lady Barbara. Lord, she wanted it almost as much as she wanted Killoran. And since her first choice, her heart’s desire, was forever out of her reach, she intended to do anything she possibly could to attain her second.
She had money. Obscene amounts of it. With no one left alive to make any claim on it, money she’d never wanted, never used. She would use it now. She could wait to ask Lady Seldane for help, or write to Nathaniel. He and Lady Barbara would return from their wedding journey before long, and he could assist her. She would find the absentee landlord, buy this house, and make a peaceful home for herself. For the time being, she was safe, and happy. For the time being, she didn’t think about Killoran above once every hour. Twice at the most.
Life was definitely looking up. Was it not, it should have been an endless trip. In truth, to Killoran, it felt far too short. He sat in the post chaise and listened to Barbara and Nathaniel make disgustingly sentimental noises at each other, and in the back of his mind was an utter dread he’d forgotten existed.
He didn’t want to go back. He’d sworn to himself that he would never set foot on Irish soil again, once his parents were dead, and he’d kept that promise, one of his few points of honor. Not that honor was involved. More likely self-preservation.
He’d thought he was well past it all. Past the rage and hurt, past the desperation and resentment, until the damned boat landed, far too soon for his peace of mind.
Spring came earlier to Ireland than it did to England—one of the few benefits. The daffodils were already blooming by the side of the road, the blue sky overhead was kissed with warmth, and everywhere around him, he heard the lilting voices of his youth.
He’d always sworn nothing and no one could make him go back. That he would never care enough for anything that might make him return to this troubled land and t
his troubled people.
He’d broken that vow, one more among many. He’d cheated at cards, not to win but to lose, but cheating it was. He’d found mild affection in his black heart for not only a rowdy old lady but also a heroic young man, who had more decency in one finger than Killoran possessed in his entire body. He’d taken pity on a lost soul like Lady Barbara, and he’d relinquished Emma when every fiber of his being longed for her. He’d fallen in love with her when he didn’t even believe in love.
He had no idea where she was, and he was grateful for that fact. During the long days and nights when he’d been feverish from the bullet wound, he’d called out for her, but Nathaniel had kept his promise. Emma was long gone, and Killoran hadn’t cared whether he lived or died.
He’d lived, surprisingly enough, even though he didn’t really care to. He was still weak, and pale, and the journey hadn’t done much for his constitution. The two newly-weds did little for his state of mind. “I fail to see why you’ve brought me with you,” he said testily. “You could have seen the house without me. Though why you should want to buy an abandoned farmhouse in County Sligo is beyond me. The land is good only for horses, and you’ve never shown much interest in them.”
“It wouldn’t be fair for you to sell the place to me unless you saw it one last time. What are you afraid of, Killoran? It’s just your past.”
“I could still kill you,” he mused. “I may be weak, but I’m still treacherous. Perhaps the new widow would enjoy a jaunt to Paris, after all.”
Barbara ignored him. Indeed, she seemed to have eyes for no one but her new husband, and her glowing happiness was absolutely nauseating, Killoran thought. The sooner he got away from them, the better.
Unfortunately, until he sold his last remaining possession, he had no money. He had sworn he would never return to Ireland, but also that he would never part with the last trace of his Irish heritage, the old stone farm that was all that was left of his mother’s inheritance.
But he was breaking that last vow as well. He would go back to the ruined decay of the old horse farm, and he would sell it to Nathaniel for whatever pittance he offered. And then he’d be gone, to the Continent, to a short, sweet life of gaming and an early death. He found he had something to look forward to, after all.
When Emma climbed the stairs in the old house, it was already late in the afternoon. The place was growing steadily more habitable as she worked through the long days, and while she knew she should be getting back, she couldn’t bring herself to leave. Gertie had settled in quite happily, content to sit by the fire and regain her strength, and as long as Emma appeared reasonably happy, she didn’t bother to ask her where she spent her days. The Murphys were too well trained to question her, but if she failed to return, they would come looking for her, and she wanted no one to enter what she’d come to think of as her house.
She was growing fanciful. She would dust and clean, haul water and scrub, and in the afternoons she would stretch out on the wide, slightly mouse-chewed mattress in a big bedroom upstairs and sleep. And she would dream. Dream of a time when the house was bright and clean and sturdy, dream of a bed with linen sheets and a man beside her, and the other bedrooms filled with the noise of children. The tumbled-down farm buildings would be in repair; there’d be sheep and cattle and horses, beautiful horses. She would learn to ride, and she wouldn’t be afraid.
The apple trees would grow heavy with fruit, and so would her belly. The horses would breed, the house would come alive again, and all would be well. And the man who lay in the bed beside her would hold her in his arms, tight against his body, and he would laugh.
Had she ever heard Killoran laugh? In sheer, unadulterated joy? She doubted it. He had no joy in him. The man who would share this house, share this bed with her, would be filled with love and laughter. He would be nothing like Killoran at all.
And she wouldn’t want him.
She always woke up weeping. This house was not for her; this life was not for her.
She lay down on the bed, one last time. It was coming to an end, and she needed to let go. Of childish hopes, of a house that wasn’t hers, of a dream that could never be. Tomorrow she would make plans to return to London. She would find a husband, someone kind, and she would have babies to fill her empty life. There was no baby from her night with Killoran, and that was one more grief.
Tomorrow she would face life once more. But for now, she would dream one last dream.
“I want to get this over with,” Killoran snarled, flinging himself into a chair with only a faint grimace of pain.
“What’s your rush, Killoran? This seems a decent enough inn, and it’s growing dark. We’ll drive out there in the morning and inspect the place; then you can be on your merry way with a bank draft in your pocket. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“That’s what I want.”
“Then sit back, man, and enjoy yourself,” Nathaniel urged with heartless jollity. “I’ve ordered us a bottle of claret, and if the smells emanating from the kitchen are any indication, we’ll eat well enough. The rooms looked clean, the beds well aired…”
“I doubt you and Barbara notice the condition of the beds you share,” Killoran said in a sour voice. “And unless things have changed greatly in the last dozen years, the Miller’s Thumb has not only a decent cellar but also an excellent cook. You’ll enjoy your sojourn here.”
“You know this place, then?”
“I’ve been here. What would you expect? It’s the only inn within a dozen miles of my family home.”
“Then I imagine you’ve sampled the beds.”
“What happened to that saintly boy who arrived in London besotted with Miss Pottle?” Killoran inquired in an acid tone.
“You’ve managed to teach me the error of my ways. What can I say? Marriage agrees with me. I expect fatherhood will agree with me even more.”
“Christ, man, how can you know?” Killoran exploded. “You’ve been married for only two weeks.”
“It won’t be for want of trying,” Nathaniel said.
“I don’t know if I can stand another minute in your company,” Killoran growled. “You’re enough to make a man spew his guts out.”
“Do you find other people’s happiness a little hard to take, old man? You sent her away, you know.”
Killoran ignored his second comment. “I can tolerate happiness. Simpering ecstasy is another matter. I’m going for a walk.” He pushed away from the table just as an old man entered the room, bearing a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“Stay and share a glass with me, Killoran,” Nathaniel pleaded. “I promise not to be too happy.”
The old man set the tray down on the table with a clatter, his mouth agape, his eyes filled with sudden tears. “Your lordship,” he mumbled in a quavery voice. “Is it really you?”
The silence for a moment was absolute, as Killoran considered denying it. “It’s me, Ryan,” he said finally.
“Saints be praised,” the man cried. “You’re finally back home where you belong.”
“This isn’t my home,” he said sharply. “I don’t belong here anymore...”
“It weren’t your fault, my lord,” Ryan said earnestly. “Haven’t you learned that in your years of exile? You were young and hotheaded, and a true Irishman…”
“And my parents were killed because of it.”
“It weren’t your fault,” Ryan said again. “They caught the lads who did it, you know. Hanged them down in County Wicklow, and left their bones to rot.”
“They had come for me, not my parents,” Killoran said savagely. “And I was away from home, playing schoolboy pranks that got them murdered.”
“Don’t you go blaming yourself for the evil that infects this land. We need you here, my lord. The people need you. Ireland needs you. Don’t abandon us again.”
“I’m sorry, Ryan. I’m here to sell my land to my friend. And then I won’t be coming back.”
Ryan looked toward Nathaniel. ??
?Another English landlord?” he said softly. “You’d do that to your own people? I don’t believe you. When you walk the land, breathe the good Irish air again, you’ll know you can’t leave us.”
Killoran stared at him, brimming with despair and frustration. Ryan was an old man, ageless even years ago when Killoran was a young lad, wild and full of ideals. He knew too much, and it took all Killoran’s hard-won cynicism to fight off the effect of his words.
“I’ve come here for the last time, old man,” he said. “I’ll see the old place, I’ll breathe the air, and I’ll walk the land. And then I’ll sell my property to an English landlord and never set foot here again.” And he walked away from him, out into the early evening air.
He walked slowly, the casual, lazy pace of an English gentleman with time on his hands. Until he was out of sight of the inn. Then he began to move more swiftly, ignoring his damnable weakness and the pain in his shoulder.
He still remembered the back way, across the meadows, down through the thicket, past the stream that was swollen from spring rain. Suddenly, after waiting so long, he could wait no longer. He had to see the house, to prove to himself that it no longer mattered. The past was past; he had no ties to the land, the country, his long-dead family. He could let it all go.
He wasn’t sure what he had expected. Twelve years of neglect weren’t enough to send the roof tumbling in, walls collapsing. At first sight, in the twilight, it looked the same. Until he moved closer and saw the broken, boarded-up windows, the tangle of undergrowth creeping up the sides of the house. For a moment he stared as the setting sun illuminated the upstairs windows, and he felt nothing but a blessed emptiness.
And then it came back, a swamp of feeling, washing over him. His mother, laughing, beautiful; his father, in shirtsleeves, out in the paddock with the horses.
The grand manor house up North had been burned. With his parents inside, torched by Protestant bullyboys in search of a trouble-making young aristocrat who should have been grateful his rank protected his Catholic blood. His parents had burned to death and he had left, never to return. And all that remained of his inheritance was this, the farmhouse where he’d grown up, where he’d known happiness, before his father had been thrust into a title he’d never wanted, and they’d had to leave this place for death and disaster at the hands of their enemies.