Dangerous Joy (2 page)

Yes, Felicity had doubtless been allowed to run wild, but Miles had no interest in trying to correct this neglect. He just prayed his unwelcome ward behaved herself for the next few weeks.

At a fork, a signpost told him he was two miles from Foy. As he turned Argonaut in that direction, another horseman cantered around the bend and drew up to exchange pleasantries.

"Rupert Dunsmore of Loughcarrick," the fine gentleman said, raising his silver-knobbed crop to touch the glossy beaver set with precise rakishness upon burnished pale-gold hair. Though his showy gray didn't impress Miles much, his elegant clothing-rather too elegant for riding-marked him as a gentleman. Miles had no choice but to respond.

"Miles Cavanagh of Clonnagh."

He wasn't sure why he was taking an instant dislike to Mr. Dunsmore. Perhaps it was the disdainful expression on his pale, narrow face, or the extreme Englishness of his accent. He was either English and determined to exaggerate it, or the sort of Irishman who tried to ape the invaders.

"You're a long way from home, Mr. Cavanagh." Dunsmore was eying him as if he suspected him of being up to no good. Horse thievery, perhaps?

Having been educated in England, Miles could be as English as the Regent if he'd a mind, but now he deliberately slipped into a brogue. "As far as I know, Mr. Dunsmore, the English have made no law against it. Yet."

They moved on at walking speed, side by side but not in harmony, Dunsmore having clearly decided that Miles was not worth the waste of breath. Miles could have ridden on and left the man behind, but Argonaut was due for a breather and the light was going.

"I'm for Foy, sir. And you?" he asked, hoping Dunsmore was headed elsewhere.

"Loughcarrick lies close to Foy."

Damn. "This is a fine part of the country."

"Indeed it is."

They might have continued this desultory conversation until they died of boredom if Dunsmore had not suddenly come to life. He turned sharply to look at Miles. "Cavanagh! You are not...? You cannot be grandson to old Leonard Monahan of Foy?"

"Indeed I'm not." Then before the look of relief could settle on Dunsmore's face, Miles added, "I'm his step-grandson if such a relationship exists."

"But...but then you're heir to Kilgoran!" Dunsmore looked up and down Miles's serviceable buckskins and well-used brown jacket in disbelief.

"I don't dress fine for a long day's ride, Mr. Dunsmore." Miles cast a similar look over Dunsmore's too dandyfied clothes.

Dunsmore collected himself and summoned a social smile. "Then you'll be traveling to meet your ward, Miss Monahan."

Miles despised people who were only pleasant to those of higher rank, but there seemed no point in quarreling with this specimen. "Indeed I am. You are acquainted with her?"

"Very well acquainted. We are neighbors. She and my late wife were quite close."

A prickle down the back of the neck warned Miles that there was more to the words than first appeared. "I've never met the girl."

"She is a fine young woman. Forgive me for mentioning it, sir, but it must appear strange that such a young man be given charge of her, and she an heiress, too. Her friends must be concerned."

So you rank yourself as a friend, do you? Or something more? The man was apparently a widower. One looking for a second wife? A rich wife?

"Her friends have no cause for concern, Mr. Dunsmore," Miles said blandly. "As long as Miss Monahan doesn't try to wed a fortune hunter before March, we should rub along well enough."

Dunsmore's narrow face became even more pinched. "I mean no slight, Mr. Cavanagh, but it all looks."

Before he could complete his sentence, he was pulled from his horse by a gigantic rooster. In fact, a company of animals had burst out of a copse. A goose. A ram. A horse. A bull...

Miles gathered his wits and realized they were men wearing masks and cloaks. Then a pig was on his back, cursing fluently in Gaelic and trying to drag him out of the saddle.

Miles elbowed backward and kicked Argonaut into a rear that dislodged the man. He wheeled the horse to see four men on Dunsmore, pummelling him unmercifully. He charged over to scatter them.

But two assailants grabbed him, each clinging to a leg, and Argonaut wasn't trained to this.

The wild-eyed horse began to spin and buck. Miles slashed at one creature with his crop, but the other managed to drag him off and wrestle him to the ground.

Two other men flung their weight on top of him, and he was quickly trussed. Argonaut was kicking at anything, and Miles saw a man strike him with a cudgel.

"God blast your eyes!" he yelled, struggling again, but a gag was shoved into his mouth and bound there ruthlessly. Argonaut made off down the road, a distinct break in his stride.

Writhing against the ropes binding his wrists and ankles, Miles vowed to flay every one of these rascals for hurting his horse!

But for now, he was out of the action, and the four men ran back to join the three who were beating Dunsmore. For what cause, Miles wondered, pulling against his bonds to no effect. Personal or political? These days in Ireland, it could be either.

Bruised and furious, he saw the goose thwack the cowering Dunsmore with a sturdy rod, blows designed to hurt but do no permanent damage. This affair was clearly a warning, but they must be mad to use an Englishman this way. By tomorrow, the area would be swarming with the military.

Then Dunsmore was hoisted back into his saddle, his battered beaver shoved cockeyed on his head. He slumped forward and clung to his horse's neck as the nervous gray was set to run on down the road.

Now Miles had leisure to wonder what his own fate would be. Most of the strange animals slipped off into the misty shadows, leaving the horse and goose behind.

The goose still held that rod.

"What the devil are we to do with him?" muttered the goose to the horse in Gaelic.

"Leave him here. Someone'll come by."

"It's starting to rain."

"Christ, he won't melt!"

"Connor's cottage is just over there."

"Jesus and Mary, do you want me to carry him? He's a big man. Why not just let him go if you're feeling so soft?"

"He's the sort who'll pick a fight. Look at the red hair on him. With time to cool down, he'll see reason."

Don't bet on it, thought Miles vengefully.

He was trying to note anything that might identify the men, but the light was fading fast. The horse was heavyset and perhaps a foot taller than the goose, but the goose was tall enough. Their nondescript clothes were largely hidden by their cloaks. The animal heads both hid their features and muffled their voices.

The horse came over. "I'm going to loose your feet so you can walk to shelter. Give me any trouble, boyo, and I'll knock you out and drag you."

Miles believed him. The horse helped him to his feet and steered him through a gate and over to a decrepit bothy just as the slight drizzle turned into steady rain. The cottage lacked glass or shutters on the windows and the door hung at a crazy angle to the opening, but it was dry inside. Miles was pushed down onto the ground and his feet were tied again.

"Someone'll come by later to let you free. If you're wise, you won't make trouble then or later."

At that moment, Miles would have tried to strangle anyone who loosed him, so he did see their point. Time probably would calm him a little, but he sent silent curses after them as they left him in the damp, musty dark.

He slumped back against the stone of the empty hearth, counting his bruises. There weren't too many. It was presumably just bad luck that he'd been with Dunsmore, and the rascals had been as gentle with him as they could.

He assumed they were the Farmyard Boys, who'd been operating around the eastern counties for the past few years, visiting sharp retribution on any landlord who oppressed his tenants or on any Irishman who sided with the English. True, the English yoke lay heavy on Ireland, with harsh laws and twenty-five-thousand soldiers to enforce them, but these vigilantes were not the way to improve anything.

All the same, if Argonaut were all right, he'd let the matter pass.

As darkness sank from dusky to deep, Miles's forbearance thinned. His bonds chafed his wrists. He was turning numb in some places and cramped in others. The gag stretched his lips and leached all the moisture from his mouth.

He began to shiver, for it was a chilly January evening.

Damn their black hearts! Despite the pain, he began to work at the ropes around his wrists, hoping to loosen them enough to wriggle his hands free.

When he heard a sound outside, he stopped. About bloody time, too!

Then he wondered why he was so sure the person was coming to help. He was, after all, a witness of sorts...

The broken-hinged door creaked open, showing a dark shape backed by the lighter gray of a misty night. The shape crept forward, scarce making a sound other than the brush of a cloak against the dirt floor.

Something was put down with a clink.

A weapon?

Uselessly, Miles tensed for combat.

Chapter Two

It was a lantern, for a window was opened to spill golden candlelight into the shanty. The light haloed around the cloaked figure who had just placed the lantern on a wormy shelf on the wall.

Something in the cut of the cloak and the shape of the hands told him his reliever was a woman.

He let out his breath in relief. A clever move, for no matter how angry he was, he was unlikely to take it out on a woman. What were the odds that she was a pretty winsome piece, to boot?

She pushed back the hood of her cloak to prove him right-thick red curls, a heart-shaped face, and stunning dark eyes full of warmhearted concern.

"Oh, you poor creature!" she declared hands clasped before an ample bosom like the more maudlin type of Madonna. Her voice marked her as a peasant, but it was a pleasant voice all the same.

He would have said something polite if he hadn't had a damn gag in his mouth. Was she simple? She continued to just stand there looking at him in melting sympathy.

He made some protesting noises, and she gasped. "Oh, your mouth, sir! Indeed, sir. I'll have you free in just a moment, sir. Don't concern yourself!"

She ran over to undo his gag. But instead of going behind him, as would be sensible, she stretched from the front, bringing her chest to within inches of his face. He was practically smothered by soft warm flesh and the sweet perfume of roses.

"Oh, they've tied this rag so tight, the monsters! How could they be so cruel?"

She leaned even closer.

Saints preserve them both but it was a very well-endowed chest, and she was wearing an old-fashioned laced bodice which confined only the lower part of her breasts while pushing them up. The generous upper part was covered only by a shift made fine by many washings.

Miles was not really in a situation to be thinking amorous thoughts, but his body reacted all on its own to this excess of magnificence.

For a peasant she smelled remarkably sweet, too, with a warm womanly scent and that delicate touch of rose. She was undoubtedly lacking some of her wits, though, for she was still struggling to free him by stretching her arms around him.

Why the devil didn't she just go around the back?

He tried to say something but only achieved a choking noise.

Still fumbling behind his head, she looked down at him, her beautiful eyes only inches away. She had long dark lashes so thick they seemed tangled with soot, but in this light there was no way to tell what color her irises were. They looked coal-black, which gave her an expression of unending concern.

He reminded himself that this was illusion, and that she didn't seem to have enough wit to come in from the rain.

He mumbled again, practically snarling at her.

"Oh, dear, oh dear. You poor man. Are you in terrible pain? Oh, I have an idea! Let me try to do this from the back."

She shifted around and sat him forward. Within moments, the gag was off.

Miles worked his aching jaw and tried to find saliva to moisten his mouth. "Drink?" he croaked.

"Oh, sir. Of course, sir!" She pulled a flask out of the pocket of her old-style full skirts and uncapped it. "Sure, and this'll revive you in a wink, sir! " She held it to his lips and tipped.

Instinctively, he swallowed, but then he jerked back so most went down his front.

"What ails you, sir? "Tis the finest Irish whisky! I swear it on my mother's grave!"

Miles coughed. "I'm sure it is, my dear. But it's not the thing for the thirst I have. Is there no water?"

She leapt to her feet, her hands—now around the flask—once more clasped to that bosom. "What a fool I am, to be sure! I'll not be a moment, sir."

She dashed to the door, then froze as if caught in a terrible dilemma. She frowned at the flask in her hand, then at Miles, then left-pouring the contents on the ground as she went.

Miles lay there, stunned. Definitely simple. It might be true that there was nothing else in which to carry water, but why the devil hadn't she just finished untying him so he could make his own way to the stream?