Never Broken (2 page)

The hands on Rory’s pocketwatch
indicated
the dinner party would be starting shortly. Upstairs in his room, dressed in his formal black suit and stiff white cravat, he planned to wait until the very last minute before joining the crowd in the dining room below.

He snapped his watch shut and tucked it into his pocket. He sat down on the edge of the bed, tapping a steady tattoo on the wooden floor with the heel of his shiny, black boot. In the two days since his arrival, he’d managed to avoid any major conflicts. In fact, he’d been pleased when Uncle Edwin, who’d apologized profusely for not being home to welcome him personally, asked Rory to join him that first evening for a brandy. Rory refused the brandy but consented to a lively discussion.

When Sara had joined them a short while later, it reminded him of one of the few pleasant memories he had growing up at Gormley Manor—the studies and dialogues the three of them often had together. He had sorely missed them while he’d been gone.

Another happy surprise was that he’d had minimal contact with Lady Jane, who was more high-strung than usual. Her touchy behavior forced the entire household to be on their guard in her presence. Rory had steered clear of her, saying very little whenever his assistance was required, which, mercifully, seldom happened.

But now he couldn’t avoid her or anyone else. Downstairs, dozens of people were crowded into the Gormleys’ stately drawing room, sipping their drinks and making empty small talk. He wondered if Colm would be among them. He still hadn’t seen his brother, who seemed to have disappeared from the manor, probably off in some nearby inn or pub house.

Rory closed his eyes.
I’m not my brother’s keeper.

He stood, straightened his tie, buttoned his jacket, and fortified himself for the inevitable.

When he arrived, he scanned the drawing room. He found Uncle Edwin in the corner with three impeccably attired gentlemen, his uncle appearing politely bored with whatever inane topic the men were conversing about. Sara was on the opposite side of the room, speaking with two baby-faced young men, the smile on her face tight and forced. His new cousin-in-law Priscilla, her slender hand firmly resting in the crook of William’s arm, chatted with another group of elegant people. William appeared every bit the gentleman.

Then Rory caught sight of Lady Jane.

She wasn’t engaged in witty repartee with her guests. She was headed straight for him. Threading through the crowd, she offered a false smile here, a strained laugh there until she stood in front of him, her cheeks nearly the same hue as her plum-colored gown.

His temples throbbed.

“Where is that miserable lout of a brother of yours?” she said, her voice low and controlled.

“I’ve no idea.” Rory gritted his teeth.

A female guest passed them, her ears and neck covered in glittering jewels and wearing a gown that probably cost more than his entire University education. Lady Jane pasted on a smile. “So very glad you were able to come, Lady Pembrooke.”

Lady Pembrooke peered down her crooked nose and nodded at Lady Jane. She ignored Rory entirely.

When she left, Lady Jane took Rory by the arm and led him out of the drawing room. “You will go out, find that blighter, and bring him back here. Dinner will be served shortly, and I cannot have an empty chair at the table.”

“Send a servant.”

“I cannot spare one, and I certainly won’t send Sara or Edwin. You will have to do it. Or do you forget to whom you owe your livelihood?”

Her eyes narrowed, and Rory was struck by how much she resembled her daughter—or rather an older, bitter version of Sara. “Nay, for I always have you to remind me.” Turning from her, he headed for the front hall.

She caught his arm. “Do not fail me, Rory. You will regret it if you do.”

He tugged free from her grip and left.

Moments later, Rory opened the solid wood door that led to Uncle Edwin’s sprawling garden. The sun had dipped low in the sky, streaking the horizon with warm slashes of pink, lavender, and gold. A slight breeze teased the lush plants and flowers, causing them to gently sway in the cool evening air and release their pleasant fragrance.

He intended to spend a short time in the garden, enough to make his aunt believe he was searching for Colm. Blast him, Rory thought as he wound his way down the path, taking his time as he stepped on the smooth gray flagstones until he reached the middle of the garden. It opened into a peaceful courtyard, bordered by Uncle Edwin’s most valuable rosebushes and several short, leafy trees. In the center of the courtyard was a small, oval pool, the water shimmering in the fading sunlight. Two marble benches were located on either side of the pool. He considered sitting on one when he heard footsteps approaching from across the yard, halting him in his tracks.

A young woman appeared through the trees, several long stemmed roses in her hand. He could tell by her drab brown dress, food stained apron, and dingy white bonnet that she was a servant girl, one he didn’t recognize and probably hired by Lady Jane while he was in Dublin.

Apparently unaware of him, she moved to the nearest bench and sat down, placing the roses carefully beside her. She bent forward, removed one of her shoes, then slowly massaged her foot.

He stood only a few feet away from her, feeling like a voyeur. A gentleman would turn around and leave, but he willed himself not to move and, heaven help him, he couldn’t take his eyes from her.

His breath hitched when she suddenly sat up. Had she caught him? Then he relaxed when he saw her dark eyes flutter closed as she pulled off her bonnet, letting it hang down her back by the strings. She hadn’t spied him after all.

Her hands went to her hair, and she quickly pulled out the pins that had held it in a tight bun at the top of her head. The dark tresses, black as a raven’s wing, cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes still closed, she untangled her locks with her fingers, then moved her hand underneath the layers and began to rub the base of her scalp.

He watched her, unaware he’d been inching closer to the courtyard until the toe of his boot struck the edge of a flagstone. As his body pitched forward, he struggled to regain his balance, stumbling into the open area of the courtyard.

With a shriek, she jumped up from the bench, several strands of her hair falling into her face. She seemed frozen in fright, her eyes darting back and forth as if she couldn’t decide whether to run or scream again. Rory acted before she made up her mind.

“I’m sorry, lass, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He straightened his jacket, his cheeks hot and probably the same shade as the roses she’d cut.

“N-nay sir, ’tis not your fault.” Her eyes, still round, blinked in rapid succession. “I-I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be here.” She bent over, snatched her shoe off the ground, then slipped it on her foot. With another fluid movement, she swept her hair up, shoving the pins in place.

Her gaze flew to the ground as she gathered the roses, a thick lock of hair escaping its binding and hitting her shoulder. She hooked it behind her ear. “It won’t happen again, sir, I swear. I couldn’t help it. ‘Tis so beautiful here, and my feet were hurtin’ terribly.”

Her rambling English was laced with a heavy Irish accent and a great amount of remorse, and her hand clutched the rose stems so tightly he feared she would impale her fair skin on the thorns. Overcoming his own embarrassment at being caught peeping, he moved toward her as she continued to offer him excuses.

“‘Tis all right, I assure you,” he said, then spoke in Irish. “My uncle would be pleased to know you enjoy his garden.” He unfolded her fingers from the rose stems and took them from her, noticing two tiny spots of blood on the pad of her thumb.

Her gaze followed his. She put her thumb to her lips for an instant, then dropped her hand to her side. She looked at him. “You speak Irish?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Aye. I thought m’lord Gormley was an Englishman.” She had switched to Irish now, her voice musical as she spoke, her words flowing more easily.

“He is.” Rory couldn’t take his gaze off her. Her eyes were nearly as dark as her hair, round and wide, framed by long thick lashes. Her skin was as white as fresh cream, except for the two pink splotches on her cheeks.

He tore his gaze from her face and cleared his throat, gesturing to the bench behind her. She hesitated. Then to his delight she sat.

“I shouldn’t be here, you know,” she repeated as he joined her. She glanced at her lap, fidgeting with the pocket of her apron. “I’m supposed to be out cuttin’ a few roses for Mr. O’Hare. He’d said some of the flowers in the hall were wiltin’ and m’lady Gormley wouldn’t abide that.”

Rory laid the roses across his thighs. “I assure you, Uncle Edwin wouldn’t mind.” Right now he didn’t care what his uncle thought. He wanted her to stay.

She looked at him for a moment. “Why are you out here, sir? The dinner should be startin’ soon.” She let out a small gasp as she raised her fingers to her lips. “Oh, pardon me, sir. I ’ave no right to ask you such a question. Forgive my rudeness.”

Rory laughed. “’Tis of no consequence. I’ve been sent to look for someone.”

“Oh. Then I must let you return to your task.” She moved to stand, but he put his hand on her arm.

“I like what I’ve found here better.”

The pink glow on her cheeks deepened, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she sat back down and met his eyes, giving him a smile sweeter than any of the treats prepared by Lady Jane’s cook. “Thank you, sir.”

“Nay, not sir.” He extended his hand to her, and his pulse quickened when she slipped her small hand into his. “Rory O’Leary.”

“O’Leary? You’re an Irishman, then?”

“Aye.” Slowly he let go of her hand, his fingers lingering on hers a little longer than necessary. “Well, an Irishman by half. My mother was English.”

“Was?”

“Was,” he repeated but didn’t elaborate. He didn’t want to speak of his family right now, didn’t want to spoil what was turning into a much better evening than he’d anticipated. “What’s your name, lass?”

“Shannon Cahill.” She shyly averted her gaze and cast a glance around the garden. “’Tis truly a wondrous place, this is. Like a fairytale.”

“I would have to agree.”

“All these roses, for instance. They are so beautiful—white, red, pink, even the unusual light orange ones over there. And their scent.” She plucked one rose from the stems on his lap and brought it to her nose, breathing in deeply. “’Tis heavenly.”

“Aye, ’tis that.” He wasn’t referring to the flowers. What was it about this woman that made his head spin? Inside the manor there were dozens of young ladies, all dressed in expensive velvets and satins and dripping in diamonds and gold. Yet here he was, completely besotted by a peasant girl. As she looked at him, her deep brown eyes sparkled more than the brightest jewel in Ireland.

The stray lock of her hair had fallen forward, brushing her cheek and chin. Without thinking he tucked it behind her ear, letting his finger trail down the side of her face. He heard her breath catch.

“Mr. O’Leary!”

The sound of one of Lord Edwin’s footman immediately erected a wall between them. She jerked away and leapt from the bench.

“Mr. O’Leary?” The footman called again. “Are you here, sir?”

The sparkle faded from Shannon’s eyes at the word sir. “It was wrong of me to stay.” She backed away from him.

“Don’t leave. Please, wait while I go speak with him. I’ll only be a moment.” He stood, forgetting about the flowers still in his lap. They spilled to the ground. He bent to pick them up. The footman called out again. “A minute, Seamus!” he yelled, wincing as he stabbed his finger on a thorn. When he’d collected them all, he stood, seeking out Shannon.

But she was gone.

The depth of his disappointment surprising him, Rory searched the garden to no avail. Knowing he couldn’t dally any longer, he rushed back to the house. His aunt would be furious, yet he couldn’t help but smile. Incurring her possible wrath had been well worth it.

However, when he saw the empty drawing room, a sick sensation washed over him. As he neared the dining hall, he heard the clinking and clanking of crystal stemware, priceless china, and silver utensils. Dinner had started, and he’d committed a sin of decorum by interrupting everyone. He glanced at the stern-faced footmen standing guard at the doorway, then tugged at his shirt collar. The instant he crossed the threshold, the noise ceased as all eyes turned toward him.

A thin layer of perspiration formed on his upper lip. His uncle and Sara each had a closed-mouth half-smile on their faces. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lady Jane, her thinly veiled glare violent enough to peel the wainscoting from the wall. And seated next to an empty chair, one probably meant for him, was Colm. A sly grin formed on his brother’s lips as he lifted his glass of wine in a cheeky salute.

“A capital idea, Colm.” An aristocratic voice came from the end of the table.

Colm frowned and lowered his glass.

“We should have a toast.” William rose, lifting his crystal goblet high. The burgundy fluid reflected off the patterns in the glass. “I don’t believe you’ve had the opportunity to congratulate my new bride, have you, Rory?” he asked, a hint of mockery in his tone. He signaled to one of the servants. “Wyndam, a drink for this good man, if you please. I’d be honored if my dear cousin would present the first toast.”