Uncertain Magic

  Monsieur Armand’s hissed instructions sent Martha and the cottiers to abandon their tea and return to work. Faelan gave some orders as they left, and Roddy had the impression that he would have liked to accompany them. Instead he sat down with Roddy and Earnest at the hand-hewn table as befitted a decent—if not gracious—host. Roddy didn’t think it was politeness for a minute. She knew his weakness. Tea would include some of Armand’s hot buttered scones and fresh pastries.

  “Really,” Earnest said, with a mocking glance around after Armand and Martha withdrew. “This is the first stare. Are you sure the pig wouldn’t like a seat closer to the fire?”

  Faelan broke off a piece of his scone and tossed it to MacLassar—something which Roddy had never seen him do before. The piglet, grown now longer than his forearm, gulped the morsel and sat down next to Faelan’s chair. He held out another bite, teasing with it until MacLassar rose up with his feet braced on Faelan’s thigh and begged. Only the faint curl of her husband’s lips indicated there was anything unusual about his actions at all.

  Earnest took up the bait as readily as MacLassar went for the scone. “Christ, Iveragh—at least feed the filthy thing outside.” He shoved his chair back from his untouched plate and strode to the tiny window. “My sister might as well be living in a barnyard.”

  “MacLassar,” Roddy said with dignity, “gets a bath and a rub of lavender every other day.”

  “Which is better than you do.” Faelan flipped another piece of scone, this time toward Earnest’s boots. MacLassar trotted over and began a loud, grunting snuffle around her brother’s polished toes. “When was it—a fortnight ago, that you visited Maire O’Connell?”

  Earnest turned in horror. “Good God, you’re not saying it’s been a fortnight since she’s had the opportunity to bathe?”

  “We don’t have a proper place here,” Roddy said, trying to make herself sound as prim as possible. “Surely you can see that, Earnest.”

  “Then why in the Lord’s name are you here? When Papa allowed you to marry this—” He stopped that phrase at a calculated spot, not quite ready for open warfare. “—to marry, I’ll tell you, he had no notion he was sending you to hold court in a pigsty!”

  Roddy stood up. “It’s not a pigsty, Earnest. It’s a perfectly clean kitchen that happens to have a perfectly clean pig in it. MacLassar belongs to me, and I can assure you that in spite of Faelan’s display”—she gave her husband a withering look—“he doesn’t approve of my keeping him.”

  Faelan leaned back in his chair and crossed his feet among the delicate cups on the table. “Not at all, my dear. You may keep all the swine you like. I merely suggested that a pig who thrives on French brandy is an expensive pet, although I can imagine it might add an interesting flavor to the final product.”

  “Quite,” Earnest said feelingly.

  Roddy pressed her lips together, and pushed Faelan’s boots from the table with one angry shove. “Leave off—both of you. MacLassar’s just as clean as any of your silly hunting dogs that run tame in the house at home, Earnest. And twice as smart, I’ll wager.” She turned on Faelan. “And who got him started on brandy, I’d like to know, after we ran out of port?”

  Faelan shrugged. “A man has to have some intelligent conversation along with his claret. After the ladies retire.”

  Earnest glanced at Roddy. She kept her barriers in place. What he thought of her husband was plain enough. That Faelan was doing all he could to reinforce the opinion was also clear. She gave an impatient sigh and sat back down. “Come and have some tea, Earnest. I assure you the cup’s been boiled.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he did. He poured the fine, thick Kerry cream without comment and then looked at Faelan over the cup rim. “I had the pleasure of meeting your mother recently,” he said. “In London.”

  Faelan had been sugaring his tea. He did not pause in his idle stirring.

  “She was on her way here,” Earnest said.

  Faelan’s spoon clattered. He steadied it and laid it beside his cup. “Was she? In spite of the rebels behind every bush?”

  “Because of them. She was coming to fetch Roddy away.”

  “Indeed.” Faelan’s black lashes lowered as he sipped at his tea. “And you’ve been given the mission now.”

  “Yes. She feared she might not be welcome.”

  “Neither are you,” Faelan said bluntly, “if you’ve come to kidnap my wife.”

  Earnest frowned. “I won’t take Roddy against her wishes, of course—”

  “Then you might ask what they are.” Faelan’s cup hit the saucer with a clash as he stood up. “I’ve noticed a singular lack of that little politeness in this discussion, Delamore.”

  With a restless move, he strode to the fuel bucket and threw fresh turf on the fire. Earnest watched, and there was something in his face which made Roddy loath to look behind it to the reason. She glanced away, controlling her gift with sharp discipline.

  “I’ll ask her, yes,” Earnest said. “But I think she should know all the facts before she makes her decision.”

  Faelan squatted before the hearth. He tonged the turf into order and reached for the swab in the brass pot of oil.

  “Your mother says that you’re not…well.”

  The oil splashed against the turf. Flames leaped, throwing a furious red glare onto Faelan’s face, creating light and satanic shadows. With a deliberation that was agonizing, he replaced the swab and tongs by the hearth, and turned slowly to the table.

  Earnest glanced at Roddy, a look that asked her to open her gift, to listen to him. He knew she was barriered—for too many years he’d lived with her talent to miss the signs, the need for full conversation in place of the clipped and spare exchange of thought and words that marked a deeper link. Whatever was in his mind he did not wish to say aloud.

  She refused him. She wanted to rush out of the room, to run away from what he would tell, in words or silence.

  “Do you understand me, Roddy?” Earnest asked.

  Her skin grew hot with the flush of panic. For six months, this had lain untouched. ’Tis best not to think of it, Faelan had said, and she had not. She’d come back from the ring of stone missing three days of her life and gone on, building as if those days had not existed. It was easy, with Faelan to help her, to collude in the pretending. He knew how to do it.

  He had experience.

  The fire darkened. Faelan stood still, silent, with the waiting glitter of a cornered wolf in his eyes.

  “Roddy,” Earnest probed softly.

  “No,” she said. She stared stubbornly at her cup. “There’s nothing wrong with Faelan.”

  “Look at me, Roddy.”

  “No!”

  “Damn.” Earnest came to his feet. “You tell her, then, Iveragh. You tell her she’s not safe with you. God’s mercy, man—think of what you risk with these…fits, or whatever you would call them. If you care for her at all, let her go with me.”

  “If you take her against her will,” Faelan said, “I’ll kill you.”

  Earnest exploded at that. Roddy’s barriers tumbled before the blast of his frustrated temper. “Ah, you would, wouldn’t you—you godforsaken bastard! In cold blood in my bed, I haven’t a doubt. It’s my belief that you’re as sane as any other hound out of hell, but if it takes proving you’re a madman to get my sister out of your hands, then I’ll have your mother and your uncle and God Almighty on the stand to have you locked in the blackest pit in Bedlam.” He crossed the room and grabbed Faelan’s lapel. “Do you know what I saw before I left London, Iveragh? I saw your mother get the news that a Miss Webster had been pulled out of the Thames. Dead, brother-in-law. Drowned. Cast herself off Westminster Bridge. Care to tell my sister why? Or do you hide behind your mother’s excuses—that you ‘forget’; that you walk in your sleep or some such folderol.” Earnest’s mouth curved into a grimace. “Walk in your sleep,” he sneered, and let go of Faelan with an excitement of disgust. “You must have villainous dreams,
Iveragh.”

  Roddy was on her feet, pushing Earnest back. “Leave him alone! You don’t know anything!”

  Earnest gripped her elbow. Come with me, Roddy, he pleaded. Get out of here.

  “No!” she said furiously. “I won’t go. I’m not afraid of the people here—they’d never hurt us. Never. I know that, Earnest.”

  “The people be damned,” Earnest shouted. “It’s this—”

  He broke off as a heavy pounding came at the door. In the heat of the moment Roddy had been aware of nothing but her brother’s fury, but now the agitation seemed to spread as her gift expanded. Outside she heard the scuffle of many feet as Martha shoved open the heavy wood.

  “Beggin’ your pardon. Beggin’ your pardon, Your Lordship, but Mr. O’Sullivan says to tell you there’s redcoats coming up the hill!”

  Chapter 19

  For an instant the scene seemed frozen, with the cottiers crowding behind Martha in silence and Roddy and Earnest standing in suspended confrontation. Then Faelan moved, swinging out the door and pushing through his workers, leaving Roddy and her brother in front of the glowing hearth.

  Roddy picked up her skirts without a word and dashed after Faelan. She knew Earnest followed close behind, his tirade forgotten in sudden fear that he was too late now to rescue his sister from anything.

  It was a picture of eerie familiarity in front of the great house, with Faelan standing on the steps with the wind in his face. This time, though, instead of the gathering of tenants and cottiers facing him, they were turned away, looking down the hill, watching uneasily as the company of redcoats approached.

  Unlike the easygoing militia that had bivouacked and held halfhearted maneuvers for a few months on the road to Glenbeigh, this detachment marched with the discipline of experienced soldiers. Roddy tried to count, and lost the number after she reached a hundred rows of three abreast. Along with a mounted officer at the column’s head were two riders who appeared to be civilian. As they neared, Roddy drew stiff in recognition.

  Mr. Willis and Rupert Mullane. And with them, in full uniform and complete control of his horse, was the captain who had danced with Fionn on the night of the fairy ball.

  Roddy felt for a moment that she could not breathe. It took no talent at all to read what was in their faces, these men who came with guns and soldiers at their backs.

  Earnest stood behind Roddy, his hands tense and protective on her arms. As the scarlet company halted in front of the house and re-formed under hoarse shouted orders, she felt MacLassar come trotting up belatedly. He plopped down on the step beside her. The crowd of cottiers was growing as more laborers came straggling up from the fields below.

  It was a complex shift of mood and emotion that came to Roddy through her gift: too many people and reactions to seem more than a babble rising in intensity. She caught the ugly turn of feeling as Willis was recognized, and a spurt of pure violence toward his deputy, Mullane.

  Faelan had seemed a devil once, but now the memory of Mullane and his horsewhip burned stronger than any fading fears of their new lord. Oh, aye—Mullane. He was the bully buck. He was the rogue. Didn’t he raise the rack rent, and put a man out if it pleased him? Didn’t he come beddin’ an honest man’s daughter, and hold the cattle and bid ’em out to strangers, and pull a man off his own wee harvest to do the big men’s work?

  They looked at Mullane and hated, and Mullane looked back and feared.

  Within the turmoil of the crowd, Roddy could glean no more from Rupert or Mr. Willis than that angry nervousness. Their reason for riding with the redcoats was lost in the swell of emotion.

  The officer rode forward. The tumult of voices quieted, though the buzz of heated thought did not.

  For a long minute of silence, he looked at Faelan. Roddy kept her eyes down, terrified, wishing her husband would fade back in the crowd, try to prevent the inevitable recognition. But he stood there, alone on the stairs, as striking and arrogant as Finvarra himself.

  Finvarra. King of the Fairies of the West.

  The captain had long suspected he’d been made a fool. Now, facing this mansion and Faelan’s unmistakable blue gaze, he knew it as certainty.

  Anger blazed in the officer, agonizing memory of the embarrassment he’d suffered, the ridicule from higher authority, the final indignity of transferral to another command when he’d persisted in broadcasting his folly. But now, as then, there was no way to call the fantastical bluff without exposing himself to scorn.

  “Captain Norton Roberts,” he snapped. “Under command of General Sir James Stewart. I’ve orders to effect the surrender of all arms, pikes, and ammunition in this district.”

  The crowd stirred, a mixture of fear and defiance. Faelan simply waited.

  His calm, faintly mocking smile fueled Roberts’ temper. The captain spurred forward to the foot of the steps as he had done once before. “You are Lord Iveragh?” he demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I place upon you the full responsibility of collection. We have reports that three hundred pikes and four thousand stand of smuggled arms have been concealed in this neighborhood. You have twenty-four hours from this moment to lay them before me.”

  The fear spread suffocating fingers from Roddy’s stomach to her throat. Twenty-four hours. God, oh, God—where had Geoffrey taken the guns?

  “I do not accept any such responsibility,” Faelan said.

  “I’d advise you to reconsider that, Your Lordship. My orders are to free-quarter my men. If the arms are withheld, I turn them loose to forage.”

  Almost imperceptibly, a muscle tightened in Faelan’s jaw.

  The captain caught that betrayal. His frown transformed to a wicked grin. “In fact, Your Lordship…I venture to predict we’ll lay the country waste.”

  Mr. Willis started forward. “There’s no need for that, Captain. I’ve lodged the information. An arrest, a simple arrest, is all that’s necessary.”

  If not for Earnest’s support, Roddy thought her knees would have collapsed beneath her.

  Captain Roberts glanced at his informant with unconcealed annoyance. “We’re here to recover the arms, Mr. Willis. There’ll be no arrests without due process.”

  “But I’ve proof of his connection with Cashel—I’ve shown you the message I intercepted. That seditious rogue is hidden here now—” Willis flung out his hand. “Look at this place. It commands the whole bay. Iveragh’s fortifying it, by God—he’s gathered every ruffian in the district in to speed the process. The law’s in your hands, man. Arrest him. Tear the house apart and you’ll find Lord Cashel, I swear it. One judicious arrest, and you’ve cut off the dragon’s head.”

  “I am not Saint George, Mr. Willis.” Captain Roberts was sour and chagrined, but he was no hothead. He disliked Willis, and after the experience of the fairy ball, he was exceedingly tired of having people point out his supposed errors of perception, most particularly in public. “I shall carry out my orders as I see fit, without recourse to your schemes of petty revenge. Notes can be forged.”

  Amid the threatening murmur from the crowd, Willis flushed with shame and rage. “He’s a damned traitor, with his damned cropped hair and French airs—”

  “Mr. Willis.” Roberts’ voice slashed across the other man’s. “I’m well aware that Lord Iveragh has put you out of a comfortable living. That hardly renders him a traitor. I think you’d be advised to keep a civil tongue before you find His Lordship has you up on charge of libel.”

  “Thank you,” Faelan said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Captain Roberts glared at Faelan, a look that warned. The officer had set himself a goal now, and that was to play Faelan as neatly as he himself had been played that night of the fairy ball. The officer knew the elaborate distraction had hidden something. Roberts was just as convinced of Faelan’s treason as Willis, but the arrest of a peer on such flimsy evidence as vague notes and cropped hair could backfire all too easily.

  The captain had seen the newly planted
fields and the livestock and stores of food and grain that Lord Iveragh had imported. Roberts guessed with deadly accuracy that for Faelan the potent threat of free-quarters would be a more subtle and devastating victory than Willis’ clumsy efforts.

  As the officer sat there on his horse, well pleased with himself and his plans, Roddy felt her talent slip away. She turned, though she did not have to, knowing already that Senach was near.

  He stood behind Faelan on the stairs, his blank gaze focused out beyond the redcoated company to the sea.

  Roberts’ horse moved restlessly. Then suddenly it shied, rushing into Willis’ and aiming a kick that barely missed. In a thunder of hooves the other horses began to twist and rear, reeling out of control toward the scarlet row of soldiers. Discipline held the line until Willis lost his seat and his mount careered right through the column, knocking men aside and narrowly missing a murderous kick at the color-bearer’s head. The soldiers broke and scattered. Roddy screamed, struggling in Earnest’s grip as she saw a man take aim with a pistol at the officer’s raging mount.

  The animal quieted instantly.

  The soldier paused, looking up from his sighting as if he weren’t sure whether or not to fire. But Roberts was in control again, and the man apparently thought the better of shooting a horse out from under his senior officer.

  Willis and Mullane were both on the ground. In a sweep of bannered tails and thunder, their mounts fled away down the hill.

  Mullane struggled to sit up, but Willis lay twisted and utterly still. Another infantryman knelt over him, and looked up at his captain.

  “Sir. He’s gone and broke his neck, sir.”

  Roddy put her hands to her mouth and closed her eyes.

  “Jesus,” Earnest said under his breath.

  She heard Roberts ride forward again. “Lieutenant!” There was a peculiar, controlled note in the captain’s voice. “Have him taken inside.”