Lady of Seduction (22 page)

“Old Fergus over there, he’s going out in the morning,” she said, and gestured toward a grizzled man sleeping by the fire.
“He can probably take you as far as Killorgin, if you have the coin.”

“I can pay,” Grant said in a hard voice. “But he doesn’t look like he can even stumble out the door much less steer a boat.”

“He’s more spry than he looks. No one else wants to go too far out, not when they hear tell the French might be
coming.” She leaned closer over the bar. “You’ve been out on the waters, aye?”

“From one of the outer islands.”

“See anything suspicious out there, did you?”

“There weren’t any other vessels at all.”

“Aye, not in this weather, I think. Not unless they have some special sort of errand.” She gave the bar a swipe with her rag,
as if she tried not to appear too curious. “One of the boys here came back from the mainland not long ago. He said that an
Irishman had recently come back from Paris and was traveling through Kildare trying to find some old allies and persuade them
to raise their forces. Men have been gathering from all over Wicklow, Wexford, even Carlow. I don’t condone such behavior
myself. This is a peaceful tavern. But you should heed the warning if you’re traveling that way.”

“We’ll be sure to avoid the southern route then,” said Grant. He laid some coins on the bar. “If you would give Mr. Fergus
my message when he wakes I would be most obliged.”

He went back up the rickety stairs and unlocked the door to their rented room to slip quietly inside. Caroline still slept
peacefully on the bed, the sheets wrapped around her like a cocoon.

Grant slowly sat down beside her, watching her as she slept. She smiled in her dreams, her face serene as if she had only
good visions tonight. He didn’t know how she could rest so deeply after all that had happened. The fire, LaPlace, fleeing
the island—and yet she looked like she slumbered in her own luxurious feather bed without a care in the world.

He had promised that he would take care of her and keep her safe. But he was doing an extremely poor job of
that so far. All he could do now was get her home again, back to that life of the library, tea parties, and balls.

Once he did that, he could go back to Muirin Inish or maybe to another, even more isolated island. He could emulate the ancient
hermits and live in a cave. But even there he feared he would never forget Caroline Blacknall. He would lie on his stone bed
and dream of the softness of her skin, the springtime smell of her perfume, the way she called out his name as she found her
pleasure. And the calm, steady way she looked at him with her large brown eyes, as if she could see everything he tried to
hide from the world—and even hide from himself.

“You’ll be my curse forever, Caroline Blacknall,” he whispered to her. But he would not be her curse. Once in Dublin, he would
leave her to regain her life and never see her again. No matter how hard that was.

She stirred in her sleep. A little frown creased her brow, but she didn’t wake up. Grant tucked the bedclothes closer around
her and lay down beside her on the narrow mattress. She nestled against him with a sigh, and he put his arm around her shoulders
to hold her close. Her hair brushed against his neck, soft as silk and smelling of sea air and roses.

He feared it would be damnably hard to leave her in the end.

C
aroline came awake, startled. She had no idea where she was. The room around her was dark and unfamiliar, smelling faintly
of fish, stale ale, and salt. Someone was stumbling down the corridor outside, bumping into the walls as they went and singing
an off-key sea chantey. Her heart raced in her chest.

She sat up and felt someone’s hard arm against her hip. Then she remembered. She was at an inn on Mallorney Island—with Grant.

She slowly lay back down and breathed in deeply. Grant still slept beside her, fully clothed. The sky outside the grimy window
was dark, but turning a lighter gray at the edges. Soon it would be morning, and they would have to be on their way to—where?
What was their next step, their plan?

Caroline carefully slid out of bed so as not to wake Grant, wrapped a sheet around her for a robe, and fumbled around until
she found the candle stub and managed to light it. There was still bread and cheese on the tray on the room’s one table and
a ewer of now warm ale, and she
found to her surprise that she was quite famished. Adventure seemed to create a hearty appetite.

As she ate a chunk of the bread, she noticed the valise at the edge of the table. Grant had packed his mysterious papers in
there, along with
The Chronicle.
She knew very well she shouldn’t open it—look what had happened to poor Pandora. And snooping had gotten her into enough
trouble on this adventure. But surely he wouldn’t mind if she just peeked at the book. It had been so long since she saw it
last.

Caroline slowly lifted the lid and peered inside. Packed on top were the things Mademoiselle Victorine gave her before they
parted, a dress and shawl, clean stockings, a pair of kid slippers, and a hairbrush. Beneath these were the oilskin-wrapped
papers. Caroline ignored those and took out the book in its box.

It wasn’t a large volume, but it was a precious one. She carefully unfolded the cloth tucked around it to reveal its worn-soft
green leather cover embossed with a twisting, writhing Celtic dragon with little emerald eyes. A tiny gold clasp set with
more rough-cut emeralds held it closed.

She gently opened it to a chapter in the middle. It was a tale she had not seen before, a story of the Dragon of Adaislan,
beautifully illustrated with illuminated images in reds and blues and yellows so brilliant that they could have been painted
yesterday.

It was a fascinating tale.

In all the lands of Kildare, there was one that surpassed all others in beauty, that which lay between Killinan and Kilmoreland.
Fertile green fields, orchards laden
with fruit, streams rich with purple-silver salmon, restful shady woods filled with the song of the rare pure-white sparrow
lay in this glorious kingdom. The inhabitants lived long lives of peace and plenty. This rare kingdom was called Adaislan,
and it was unique in all the land for it was ruled only by a queen and no king.

That was surely near her own family’s home at Killinan!

Grant rolled over on the bed, and Caroline read the rest of the fascinating story in silence, studying the illustrations of
the queen and her court of beautiful women in trailing medieval gowns and the dragon that guarded her land.

It was Queen Keira who ruled Adaislan at the time of our tale. She received the lands from her mother, who received them from
her mother before her and onward into the mists of lost time. It was the goddess Cliodna who granted it to their ancestress
and decreed that it would be the realm of queens and a prosperous place.

Yet Queen Keira required a princess of her own to be her heir and thus contracted to wed the prince of another kingdom, Sean
of Kilmarrin. Prince Sean accepted the terms of this union and agreed to never make a claim on the throne of Adaislan. At
first, the marriage was a happy one, and Princess Ava was born, heiress to the two lands of her parents. The marriage was
not blessed with more princesses, and one day Queen Keira died. She was to be succeeded by Princess Ava, then a beauteous
and kind maiden of fifteen summers.

Yet her father dissolved this succession and sought to seize Adaislan from his daughter by the force of his
armies. The goddess Cliodna saw what was becoming of her fair gift and was sore unhappy. She undertook to send one of her
fiercest warriors, a dragon of massive size and fiery breath, to defend the lands of Adaislan and its true queen. For Adaislan
could only and ever be ruled through the female line or terrible destruction would follow.

Caroline looked up from the book with a puzzled frown. It was a lovely fairy tale, the story of the dragon who went on to
defeat the king and turned into a handsome prince to marry Queen Ava and rule by her side until the day their own daughter
succeeded them. She had heard versions of it before, but never quite like this one.

Brother Brendan, who wrote
The Chronicle
, was very specific about the location of Adaislan and that it was always ruled by queens and passed down through the female
line. She knew there had actually been a Killinan back then, where her own family’s lands lay, and a Kilmoreland, which lay
on the other side of Adair Court. She had read about them in her studies, their history and folklore, though she hadn’t found
anything about dragons. But Brendan was fond of mixing legend and historical facts. It made his tales a fascinating puzzle
for any scholar.

If Adaislan—Adair—was indeed ruled by women—what did that mean?

Before she could finish reading the story of the dragon, she heard Grant stir awake on the bed. He sat straight up, his whole
body tense as if ready to leap into battle—until he saw her there at the table. He relaxed a bit, but his eyes were still
wary.

“How long have you been awake?” he said.

“Not long. I thought I heard something in the corridor, and then I couldn’t go back to sleep because I was hungry.”

“Something in the corridor? Why didn’t you wake me?” He got out of bed, as graceful as an uncoiling jungle cat, and went to
peer cautiously out the door.

“Because you need your sleep, and it was nothing. Just a drunk stumbling about.”

Grant closed the door again and turned to look at her. His arms crossed over his chest. “It’s a long way to Dublin, Caro,
and who knows what we’ll encounter on the way. I want you to wake me from now on if you hear anything at all.”

That seemed a bit overly cautious to Caroline, but he looked so serious that she nodded. “Of course. Come and have something
to eat. The bread isn’t too bad, and there’s some ale left.”

He sat down across from her and reached for the ewer and an empty pottery goblet. “I found someone who can take us to the
mainland in the morning,” he said. “We should be ready to go as soon as it’s light, though God only knows if he will be.”

Caroline nodded and carefully closed the book. “Where will we go next?”

“If we have good luck, we should make it to Killorgin by evening. Then we can try and find out what’s happening and plan our
safest route to Dublin.”

“They have an ancient tomb near Killorgin,” she said. “I hear that it’s very well preserved and the carvings are extraordinary,
though I have never seen it.”

Grant laughed. “I doubt we’ll have time for much sightseeing, Caro my dear. We’ll have to make for Dublin as quickly as possible.”

To Dublin—where they would part and never see each other again? Caroline felt the oddest sinking sensation. Dublin was far
away, though. Surely much could happen before they got there.

“Perhaps there might be time for one tiny little peek at a ruin or two,” she said.

“Or perhaps you’ve been reading
The Chronicle of Kildare
again and it’s giving you the urge to see the old sites,” Grant said, gesturing with his goblet to the book in her hands.

“Yes, I was reading the story of the Dragon of Adaislan,” she answered. “It must mean something, if I could just decipher
it.”

Grant’s jaw tightened. “It’s just an old tale concocted by a bored and fanciful monk.”

“Well, I like it anyway,” Caroline said. She wrapped
The Chronicle
up again and carefully replaced it in the box. “And I promise I did not look at the papers. I only took out the book.”

“Caro.” Grant put down his goblet and reached across the table to catch her hand in his. He gave it a gentle tug, making her
look at him. “Perhaps it would have been best if you
had
looked at them.”

She shook her head. “No, I want you to trust me—as much as you can. If you want to keep your secrets…”

“Trust has to go both ways, does it not?” he said. “I’ve certainly given you no reason to trust me. You must have suspicions.”

“Oh, Grant,” Caroline said sadly. She covered his hand with her other one, holding them together. “I often feel I know you
not at all. I catch a glimpse, I think I know something, and then it all changes.”

“I know, and I am sorry for it, Caroline. Truly I am. You are the last person in the world I would ever want to hurt. But
I see now we will have to work together if we are to get safely home.”

She felt a cautious leap of excitement. Was he going to confide in her at last? “You know I will hold anything you tell me
in confidence.”

“I know that. But some of these secrets are not mine—they affect many others, and there are those who would stop at nothing
to get them. I can’t tell you all of it, but I can assure you of this—I am not a spy for the French.”

“No?” she said softly.

His mouth tightened. “I can’t tell you all of it as the tale is not mine alone. But I can tell you this. I heard that Robert
Emmet and some of his friends were back from Paris, trying to find all the United Irish leaders who had gone into hiding or
tried to lose themselves in the everyday world. They wanted them to gather their old forces and be ready to rise on a French
landing. But they refused to divulge any detailed plans or show any proof of French intentions. The French are the most uncertain
of allies, out for their own ends alone and apt to pull out at any moment. To be vulnerable to them could prove as bad as
English rule in the end. My contacts know this—and they know Ireland is still wounded from ninety-eight, the English noose
still too tight. She’s not ready for another rising.”