Dangerous Joy (6 page)

"If you act the goose, cailin, I will treat you like one."

She hissed, almost like a goose. "Don't try to govern me, Miles Cavanagh. I am not a 'little girl.' I am a dangerous woman."

And watching her swish out of the room, Miles believed her.

He'd go odds she'd been the goose among the Farmyard Boys.

Chapter Four

Miles was still pondering these matters as he strolled down to the Shamrock to check on Argonaut. The people he passed greeted him cheerfully with no hint that they had been part of the attack the night before. He knew only too well, however, the screen the Irish peasantry could put up before authority. They didn't know him yet, and he'd get nothing out of them until they did.

It could be that none of the men touching their forelocks and wishing him good day were members of the Farmyard Boys. Often these groups came from out of an area to deliver `justice' and then dispersed, making it less easy for the authorities to find them. It generally went hard on the local people, though, since the frustrated army would turn its soldiers loose on the population in revenge.

Miles could understand the anger that drove these `patriot' groups and sympathize with the way the peasantry supported them. Ireland had been cruelly mistreated for centuries. But improvement, when it came, would be through peaceful means-legal means-not through local acts of violence. He would have thought a woman as intelligent as Felicity could see that.

In the Shamrock stables he found Mick Flaherty rubbing down a draft horse.

"Ah, good mornin` to you, your honor!" said the sturdy, middle-aged man. "And a fine mornin' it is, to be sure."

"It'll be fine if my horse is fine, Mr. Flaherty."

"I think you'll see that he is, sir," the man declared, leading the way to the stall. "Still some swelling, of course, but nothing to last. Hey, my fine fellow! You're in prime trim, aren't you?"

The last was addressed to Argonaut, who was greeting the groom with deep devotion.

Miles drew the horse's attention to himself and received a rather more offhand response. He inspected the damage and led Argonaut into the yard to study his movement. A slight hesitation, but nothing to suggest a deeper hidden injury. The groom was right. Chances were that Argonaut would heal completely.

He slipped some guineas into Mick Flaherty's hand. "Thank you. A job well done."

"Oh, 'twas nothing anyone couldn't do, your honor." But the guineas disappeared into his pocket.

"Some people just have the gift. I hope you'll continue Argonaut's care while I'm here. And if you're ever looking for work, come to Clonnagh."

"God bless you, sir, and it's an honor to be asked, Clonnagh being famous the width and breadth of blessed Ireland! But I'm set to live my life in Foy Village, as my father did, and his father before him, if the Good Lord and the English devils permit. There's no place equal to the one where a man has lived all his days."

"True enough." Miles returned Argonaut to Flaherty's care, thinking that was one of many reasons he wished his uncle, the Earl of Kilgoran, a long life. He had no wish to leave Clonnagh and take over the earl's great estate near Kilkenny. He even wished the old man would take a wife and sire an heir, though since the earl was past sixty and bedridden, it seemed unlikely.

Miles's affection for Clonnagh was another reason he encouraged his mother and stepfather to live there—to keep the house alive for the good half-a-year he tended to spend in England, first hunting, then enjoying London or house parties in the country.

It was the hunting which mainly drew him, however, and he was reminded that a willful Irish witch seemed likely to keep him away from it.

Miles left Mick putting a new dressing on Argonaut's leg and headed for the inn, hoping to enjoy some free talk which would help him handle his problem.

The rotund young innkeeper hurried forward. "Horse well, my lord?"

"I'm no lord," Miles said with a smile, taking in the man's genuine anxiety. He, along with many others, must be wondering whether Miles was going to bring trouble on them. He switched to the Gaelic. With his casual clothes, he hoped the people here would begin to think of him as one of their own.

"I'm Miles Cavanagh of Clonnagh, grandson-by-marriage to old Leonard Monahan of Foy Hall."

The innkeeper shook his hand warmly. "Brian Rourke, sir, and honored we are to have you here."

"Thank you, Mr. Rourke. Argonaut is healing. I've arranged for your stable boy to care for him during my stay. He seems skilled."

"Indeed, sir, Mick is a rare hand with horses. Old Mr. Leonard would have him up to the hall if ever a serious problem came up. It's a gift, you know. A fairy gift."

"I have no doubt of it."

"And can I get you something for your thirst, sir? I've good ale, or some smooth whiskey."

"Ale will be welcome."

When the foaming mug was set before him, Miles took a draught and complimented the innkeeper. Then he glanced around the low-ceilinged, smoke-darkened room. This early in the day, there was only one other person there, an ancient man hunched by the peat fire.

"My father," the innkeeper said. "Hardly ever budges from the spot."

"He's fortunate to have his spot, here in the place he's lived all his life." It was a guess, but a safe one.

"True enough, sir, and I'll feel blessed to be the same in time, if the Good Lord and the English devils permit it."

It seemed a common enough phrase in these parts, but the fact they used it in front of Miles showed they were willing to trust him.

"Have you had much trouble with the English here?" he asked.

"Not much, sir, not much. We've kept pretty quiet, Saint Patrick be praised."

"A quiet life is a blessing, that's for sure." Miles took another deep draught of the rich ale. "If I were you, though, I'd not want last night's trouble-making on the doorstep."

The innkeeper became very interested in polishing a pewter pot. "Sure an` no one wants that kind of thing, sir! Terrible, terrible. And not men of these parts."

Then how did Miss Felicity Monahan come to be embroiled? Miles wondered. "I'm sure not," he said out loud. "But they must have had a reason for singling out Mr. Dunsmore."

The innkeeper shook his head. "Truth to tell, sir, Mr. Dunsmore has been singling out himself by his wicked ways ever since he came back from Dublin."

"That was recently?"

"Indeed, sir. The earth had scarcely settled on Kathleen Craig's grave than her husband was off, with as much of her money as he could get his hands on. Now he's back trying to squeeze more out of his poor tenants."

"Hence the little reminder."

The pot received another thorough polish. "I suppose that could be it, sir, indeed it could."

It was reasonable that Mr. Rourke wouldn't reveal knowledge of the attack, but Miles thought the man's doubt about the reasons behind it might be genuine.

"He's very English," he mused.

Rourke replaced the pot on a shelf and turned to lean on the bar. "That's true, sir. English through and through. But I hope no Irishman would be so unchristian as to attack a man merely for the misfortune of his land of birth. Why at times you could be taken for English yourself!"

The blue eyes were guileless, but the words could be either a warning or a threat.

Miles deflected them with a smile. "I had the misfortune to go to school in England, Mr. Rourke, and they whip the correct tone and manners into you there. But I have not one drop of English blood in my veins."

"Ah, blessed you are, then, sir. Blessed, indeed."

So, Dunsmore's unpopularity wasn't entirely for being a harsh landlord, or even for being an English twit. So what the devil was it?

"He seemed a pleasant enough man, for an Englishman," Miles ventured.

"He has a fine polish to him, true enough," said the innkeeper blandly. "Like the shine on still water in the summer sun."

Miles choked on his ale. Pond-scum, in other words.

When he had his breath back, he said, "I understand he made a fine marriage here."

The innkeeper turned to straighten a row of tankards. "Indeed he did, sir. He does seem to have a way with the ladies."

Interesting. So there's something in the matter of Dunsmore and women. That's what Miles feared.

He fished for a bit more enlightenment. "If Miss Craig used her estate to buy a handsome man's charm, perhaps she had a fair bargain..."

"A fine estate for a little charm?"

It wasn't the innkeeper, though. It was a female voice behind him, also speaking the Gaelic clear and true.

Miles turned to face his ward.

"You do hold women cheap, do you not?" she accused. She was dressed now in a severely-cut, blue wool walking dress and looking active again. What had she been up to? Was he going to have to watch her every moment of the day and night?

"I don't hold women cheap at all, Miss Monahan. In fact, I generally find them quite expensive." At the flash in her eyes, he hastily added, "But a fine estate and loneliness is no luxury."

"No one in these parts is lonely, Mr. Cavanagh. We care for one another."

"Some people need more than the kindness of neighbors. And if you are all so considerate, why did not some other man marry Miss Craig, since it was marriage she wanted?"

Miles thought that was the end of it, but the old man by the fire let out a paper-dry wheeze of a laugh. "Marry Kathleen Craig! Ugly as the church gargoyle and a tongue like a rusty blade. And proud besides. She wouldn't take any man not of her station, and none of the gentlemen here were desperate enough."

"Hold your tongue, Mr. Rourke!" Felicity snapped. "Kathleen might not have been a charmer, but she was kind underneath. She just needed loving, rather than the treatment she received because she was bone-thin and had a cast in one eye."

Miles hid his grimace in draining the last of his ale. He was as charitable as the next man, but it would have taken more than a moderate Irish estate to tempt him to a lifetime with Kathleen Craig. The interesting question, though, was whether Felicity was defending Miss Craig or the man who had married her.

"Then," he said, "if Mr. Dunsmore offered her love and kindness, perhaps it was a fair bargain."

"Perhaps it was," Felicity said with enough firmness to suggest doubt.

Old Mr. Rourke spat into the fire. "That Dunsmore doesn't have the kindness of a sharp rock on a cold day. Spoke ill of her behind her back-and to her face, too, I wouldn't be surprised."

Miles remembered something `Joy' had said. "And yet they had a son."

"True enough, sir, true enough. And a lovely lad is young Kieran."

Felicity suddenly paced toward the small window and back again. "For Kathleen, Kieran was worth any price. Any. She didn't want marriage so much as a child, and Rupert gave her one. The last three years of her life were the happiest she'd ever known. On her deathbed, she wept because she had to leave him. Kieran, I mean..." Her voice faded.

"You were there?" Miles asked gently.

She turned sharply to face him. "Of course I was there. She was my friend."

It seemed a most unlikely friendship.

"On her deathbed, she begged me to watch over the child. So you see, I cannot leave him to go to England."

Miles had no intention of discussing their personal plans in front of the village gossips. He rose. "The lad has his father and doubtless a nurse or two. But we can discuss this later. Now, if you would be so kind, I'd enjoy a tour of the village."

For a moment he thought she would refuse, but with a sigh of irritation, she led the way out into the village street, giving a terse commentary as they went.

Miles found it an interesting tour, not for the village, which offered nothing unusual, but for what he learned of Felicity Monahan.

Thus far he had encountered a wanton, a shrew, and the illusion of a proper miss, but it would seem that Felicity's repertoire might include a sweet-natured lady. She was clearly held in respect and affection by the people here. Everywhere, she was met with smiles and tidbits of personal information. Children ran to greet her, sharing small animals, pretty stones, or a piece of carefully executed handwriting.

He gathered she had started a small dame school in the village and provided the necessary books and slates.

Though his wayward ward tried to maintain a chilly facade with Miles, it proved impossible. Her hair began to spring from its tight arrangement, and her cheeks flushed with color. She would frequently turn to him with the remnants of a glowing smile, and then her beauty knocked the breath right out of him.

Lord, but she was right. She was a dangerous woman.

They left the village and walked along the lane toward the Foy Hall stables. Miles tried to preserve the joyous glow, but almost immediately Felicity reverted to chilly antagonism.

"I wonder what it is you want me to believe of you, Felicity, and why."

She continued to stare ahead. "Why should I care what you think of me, Mr. Cavanagh?"