Sons of an Ancient Glory (64 page)

Finola's chin came up. Ignoring the girl's stunned expression, Louisa groped for the wisdom the situation seemed to call for. Given the poor child's state, there seemed nothing for it but to be direct.

She had seen how things were for quite some time now, of course: the furtive glances that passed between them, the longing gazes when one thought the other wasn't looking, the way his entire countenance brightened when she entered a room, and the way his smile could reduce the girl to utter speechlessness.

Louisa drew a long breath, thinking, not for the first time, that convent life did not always adequately prepare one for dealing with the real world.

Louisa took one of the girl's hands, enfolding it between both her own. “I want you to listen very carefully to what I'm going to tell you, Finola. In a way, I'm breaking a confidence, but I believe the moment calls for it. I think you have a right to know about a conversation that took place between the
Seanchai
and me before you were married.”

Finola's eyes grew wider and more incredulous by the minute as Louisa, mincing no words, recounted the discussion that had occurred between her and Morgan Fitzgerald the night he had asked Finola to marry him.

Louisa couldn't quite suppress a smile as she recalled how she had brashly challenged the
Seanchai'
s motives that night. Still clear in her memory was the fiery response her forwardness had evoked.

“Not that it's any of your affair,”
he had raged,
“but I happen to love Finola…very much!”

Upon hearing of this exchange, Finola clamped a hand to her mouth. Thinking she finally detected a faint glimmer of hope in those marvelous blue eyes, Louisa pressed on.

“I had questioned him, you see, on his right to bind you to a marriage in which there could be no real union. With his customary forthrightness,” Louisa said dryly, “he gave me to understand that he was indeed altogether capable of a real union. I believe his exact words were: ‘My legs may be paralyzed, but I am still a man.'“

Finola's hand slipped away from her mouth. Her eyes were enormous. “Then it's not that he can't…I wasn't sure…” She turned crimson and quickly looked away.

“Oh, he was quite…assertive about that particular point,” Louisa said, her mouth quirking. Then she grew serious, for she knew the rest of her story was of the utmost importance to the girl. Gently, she explained how the
Seanchai
had assured her that he would never “force himself” on Finola, that he would expect nothing from the marriage: He only wanted to protect her and take care of her.

Gripping Finola's hand even more tightly, Louisa's eyes met hers. “I shall never forget the way he looked at me at the end, or what he said: ‘In
my
mind, Sister Louisa, this is not a marriage of convenience, nor is it a lie or a sham. I will be a true husband to her, as long as I live—or as long as she desires it.'”

Louisa paused, expelling a long breath. “Oh, child—your husband loves you with all his huge heart! But he will never, never touch you unless you let him know it's what you want. It's up to you, don't you see? Beyond all doubt, the man will open his arms to you in a moment, once he knows how you really feel.”

Louisa stopped. Suddenly she realized that she might be encouraging this fragile young creature to bolt headlong into a relationship she was ill prepared for. What if Finola was not yet strong enough to handle all the implications and demands of marriage—especially marriage to a man as complex as Morgan Fitzgerald?

Louisa sighed, reluctant to voice her doubts, yet for Finola's sake, unwilling to ignore them. “Certainly, you can rest assured he loves you. But, Finola…
alannah…
you have been through a great deal in your young life. You say the
Seanchai
has had much pain…but so have you, dear. And although I have witnessed enormous healing and great strength in you these past months, I can't help but wonder—”

Louisa broke off. Did she really have the right to try to influence Finola's judgment? Although she often thought of her as a child, she was
not.
She was a woman, had given birth to a son—and she loved a man. Loved him deeply, so it would seem.

“Finola…are you quite sure that you are ready…that you are
able…
to give yourself to a man, even the
Seanchai
? Oh, child, be
sure
! Be sure that you are prepared to give your all, for I suspect a man like Morgan Fitzgerald will settle for nothing less than everything.”

For a long time they sat, Louisa holding Finola's hand, as the girl stared down at the bed, scarcely breathing. When she finally looked up, Louisa saw there were new tears glistening in her eyes.

“Can we ever truly be sure of anything, Sister?” she asked softly. “I know only this: that I love Morgan more than everything, more than life itself. I know that I want to be so close with him that we are as one person. I want to spend the rest of my life in his presence, if possible. I want to take away his loneliness, and make him laugh, and give him back as much of his manhood as a woman can ever give a man.”

For an instant her voice faltered. But her face was radiant in the candlelight as she seemed to gather the strength to go on. “I want to have Morgan's children. I want to make a home for him, a home of peace and light and love. And, yes, I believe I am able to give whatever may be required of me in order to be the wife he needs and deserves.”

Louisa struggled to still the trembling of her lip. Unable to restrain herself, she clasped Finola by the shoulders. Through her own tears, she studied the clear, blue gaze that seemed to reflect a new strength and assurance.

“Then go to him,” she said, her voice none too steady as she once more gathered Finola into her embrace. “And tell him how you feel.”

Finola's heart hammered with a mixture of hope and dread as she stood at the closed door that connected her bedroom with Morgan's. With her hand on the doorknob, she hesitated, suddenly seized by uncertainty.

What if Sister Louisa were mistaken? What if she had read something into Morgan's feelings that wasn't there at all?

She stood very still, scarcely able to breathe with the tension. Her hand gripped, then released, the doorknob, then grasped it again. Rapping lightly on the door, she waited. When there was no response, she turned the knob and stepped cautiously into the room.

Flames dancing in the fireplace and the oil lamp by the bed provided the only light in the room. Morgan was propped up in bed, asleep.

Finola advanced quietly, on tiptoe, to stand beside the bed. His eyeglasses had slid part of the way down the bridge of his nose. A deep wave of copper hair fell idly across his forehead. In his nightshirt, with one massive fist curled against his chest, the other hand covering the book he'd been reading, he looked years younger, like a boy caught up in his dreams. A very large boy, blessedly unaware of his vulnerability.

For a moment, Finola stood watching him, listening to his even breathing, savoring this rare opportunity to study him unobserved. His hair and beard were burnished copper in the glow from the firelight. The strong, almost arrogant set of his jaw was softened by sleep, and the faint lines that webbed outward from his eyes were less pronounced than usual.

Standing there, drinking in the sight of him, Finola could almost catch a glimpse of the boy he might have been. The image was bittersweet and wrenched her heart. She wished she could have known him then, before his tragedy…and her own.

But she had not come here to mourn the boy she had never known. She had come to offer herself to the man he had become.

Her heart pounded, her pulse raced. Stepping closer, she gently removed his eyeglasses and placed them on the bedside table. Carefully she slipped the open book from under his hand.

Then she saw what he had been reading, and she felt as if she would die for the love of him. Her eyes traveled to his face, then back to the Scriptures, marked at the parable of the Prodigal Son.

Tears rose to her eyes—tears of joy, and love as she placed the Bible next to his eyeglasses. Bending over him, she tenderly brushed the wave of hair off his brow. He flinched, the hand on his chest jerking. His eyes came open slowly, and as Finola watched, his gaze cleared and came to rest on her. He blinked, then again.

“Finola?” His voice was thick and husky with sleep. “Is something wrong?”

Finola shook her head, saw his eyes follow the movement of her hair, which she had left unbraided.

He lifted a hand to his face as if to remove his eyeglasses.

“I put them on the table,” she told him, smiling.

He studied her. “Gabriel…is he all right?”

“He's been asleep for hours.”

He nodded, still watching her with an uncertain expression as he pushed himself up a little in the bed. When Finola sat down beside him, he drew back as if he'd been struck.

“Well,” he finally said, a little too loudly, “this is…a pleasant surprise. I was afraid you wouldn't visit me tonight, after the great oaf I made of myself in the dining room.”

“I was lonely,” Finola said quietly. “I wanted to be with you.”

Something glinted in his eyes, just the flicker of a question.

“My bedroom is cold,” Finola said with a fleeting glance at the robust fire across the room. “I'm afraid I've never quite learned to build a proper fire.”

His eyes went to the fire, then came back to Finola. She could see the reflection of the flames burning out at her.

The blood pounded in Finola's head as she leaned toward him, taking his hand. “May I stay with you tonight, Morgan?” she asked simply, holding his gaze.

His eyes darkened, lingering for a moment on her face, dropping to the satin ribbon at the throat of her dressing gown. For an instant, he appeared stricken. “I'm not sure I understand…” he said softly, his voice still husky.

Finola drew in a deep, ragged breath. “Morgan, do you love me?”

“What?” He sounded as if he were strangling.

“Do you
love
me?” Finola repeated, clinging to his hand. “As a woman?”

He looked everywhere but at her, the fire in his eyes leaping higher. “Must you ask?” He gave a short, choked attempt at a laugh. “I seem unable to appear anything but foolish in your presence. What sort of affliction could it be but that of a man in love?”

He paused, fixing his gaze upon her. “Yes, Finola
aroon
, I love you—with all my heart and soul, I do love you.”

His hand trembled violently in hers. The strength of his emotion startled her. “Morgan…look at me. I want to tell you something, and I want you to look at me when I say it.”

Slowly, he dragged his gaze to her face. She saw it then—the sweet, reluctant admission of love in his eyes, mingled with an old hurt and perhaps the beginning of a faint light of hope.

Briefly, Finola pressed her fingers against his hand, then released it and stood up. Swept up in the thrill and relief of hearing his confession of love at last, she felt her own hands tremble now as she slipped her fingers beneath the ribbons of her dressing gown.

Her eyes never left his face…his beloved face…as softly, speaking in the Irish, she told him the secrets of her heart, her love for him, her desire to belong to him. As she spoke, she slipped the dressing gown from her shoulders to stand before him in the ivory satin nightdress she had chosen just for tonight.

Morgan caught his breath, and his head sank back against the pillow.

“I love you, Morgan,” she said again, reaching out toward him. “And I am asking you to make me your wife…”

At first he made no move, but simply bathed her in the glow of his love-softened gaze. Then, he rose up on one elbow and reached for her hand, pressing her palm to his lips in a gentle, lingering kiss. “Are you sure, Finola
aroon
? Please, be very, very sure, for once you are truly mine, you will be mine forever. I would die before I let you go.”

Finola freed her hands just long enough to extinguish the lamp, then turned back to him. As she slipped into the bed beside him, the ivory swan pendant he had given her as a wedding gift escaped her nightdress. Clasping it in one hand and putting her other hand to Morgan's heart, she brought her face close to his and began to repeat, again in the Irish…