The Ground She Walks Upon (17 page)

So were all men the same? Did lust drive all of them?

She wiped the rain from her eyes and searched for the beginning of the road. By her calculations, she should have found it by now, but she was not as canny about the geography as she had been as a child.

" 'Tis the bride. The bride!"

The voice made Ravenna nearly jump from her skin. It was Griffen O'Rooney. He stood in the middle of an iron fence. It took her a moment to realize that the iron fence was the same one that surrounded the Trevallyan family cemetery.

" 'Tis the bride. Ye've finally come to save us!" he shouted to her.

She stared at him, his face lit by a feeble lantern he held up in his hand. Everyone called the old man mad, and he had had a penchant for the Trevallyan graveyard for as long as she could remember. On a cold, rainy night, she had no desire for a conversation with him.

She backed away, wondering how the old grave-digger had become a lunatic. O'Rooney's rantings about a bride made no sense, but she didn't expect them to. All she wanted was to find her cottage, dry herself by the fire, and crawl beneath a heavy woolen blanket.

"Doan' go!" O'Rooney shouted, his aged, unsteady form remarkably impervious to the lashing torrent around him. He began to walk to her, all the while saying, "See what tragedy we brung... we killed her... the lass and her child. If we'd only listened to the
geis...
. I had to bury her all alone, for Trevallyan could not bring himself to come to her graveside. 'Twas you he was waiting for! We should have stopped the wedding! We should have stopped the wedding!" The old man suddenly began to sob, and the sound sent shivers down Ravenna's spine. She might have tried to help the old man to his caravan, but despite his frailty, he was larger than she, and she didn't think she could handle him.

"Come back! Come back! Don't leave us!" he called to her, exiting the cemetery.

"What the bloody hell's going on out there, Seamus?" Trevallyan barked from the interior of the carriage.

"We've hit something, me lord. I—I think we've hit a girl...." The carriage driver struggled to hold the horses to keep them from bolting.

"Christ." Trevallyan thrust open the carriage door and braced himself for the cold, pelting rain. "I don't see anything—"

"Over there, I think. In the ditch," Seamus called out from the driver's perch.

Niall drew up the collar on his greatcoat and stepped to the ditch. He nearly choked when he saw a body, muddied and crumpled, and drowning in the water that gushed from the roadside.

He slid down the embankment and gathered the small figure in his arms. A wet hank of hair hid the girl's face. That she was a girl he had no doubt when he took her in his arms. The softness was unmistakable, but in the dark and the rain there was no way to distinguish who she was until he could get her to the lantern of the carriage.

"Get to the castle in double speed," Trevallyan ordered, the girl limp in his arms, the rain running in rivulets down his face. He pulled the wet, dirty form into the carriage, and the vehicle took off at breakneck speed.

He turned up the carriage lantern, heartened the girl was breathing deeply and well. Shrugging out of his heavy wool greatcoat, he wrapped it around her sodden figure, the lamplight revealing all too well how female she was. She wore nothing but a thin, translucent night rail, and though grimy with mud, it was wet enough for him to be able to gauge a small waist and shapely hips. The gown clung lithely to one of the girl's thighs and her chest left almost nothing to the imagination. He pulled the coat over her full breasts, her chilled nipples like buds straining to bloom against the thin, dirtied linen.

Leaning her against the upholstered back of the seat, he swept away the muddied curtain of dark hair. A feeling of intense anger and unease swept over him when he saw who she was. The face failed to surprise him. Somehow he knew it would be Ravenna. He had warned her not to do foolish things, not to get into trouble, and now here she was, thrown into his arms once more. She was lucky to be alive, and— his eyes swept her disreputable state of dress—she was shameless. A sickening emotion akin to jealousy seeped into him when he thought of the few possibilities for her being out in the night in such a state of undress.

He laid his head against the leather seat-back and tried to cool his temper. The girl was a hellion, and he'd known that ever since he'd found her thieving in his bedchamber. He'd hoped the English school might have tamed her—after all, she had acquired some polish there, given the chit's stiff behavior at dinner—but somehow he might have known it never would. The granddaughter of a reputed witch had to be one of the few females in Lir a man could count on to be running about in the rain in only her nightclothes.

He heaved a strangely burdened sigh and appraised her condition, doing his best to ignore the picture she had made before he wrapped her in his coat: the way her breasts rose and fell with each rhythmic breath, the way the sodden fabric caught between her legs, outlining a dark, seductive triangle, tantalizingly veiled. He did his bloody best to force it all from his mind and assess the damage.

There were no bones broken. When he had assured himself of that, he drew his attention to a small red gash on her forehead. It was the only mark on her, and where, no doubt, one of the horses had nicked her with an iron shoe. She moaned as he touched it, a very good sign, and he decided it was not likely to be serious.

She fell against him as they clambered over the old moat bridge and entered the bailey. He stared down at her red, moist lips parted in unwilling slumber. Limp in his arms, she slept like a princess waiting for a kiss.

Of course, the girl would be Ravenna. He knew it not so much because she was one of Lir's truly unpredictable creatures, but because destiny seemed to be throwing her at him whether he wanted her or not. He didn't believe in the
geis
and he never would. Still, there were times such as now when he wondered if there wasn't an odd little force at work in Lir.

" 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,' " he whispered to the still girl in his arms.

Then he tipped his head back and laughed. He had almost had a moment of weakness, but it wouldn't signify. He was a modern man who would defy that stupid
geis
to the end. He would never fall victim to it. There wasn't a woman in all of the United Kingdom fine enough for him to beg for her love, and this wounded, bedraggled, disgraced creature certainly wasn't the one to make him do it.

With malicious glee, he threw a gauntlet to the gods.

Ravenna dreamed
of Malachi. She lay in a bed of blushing rose petals as soft as silk pillows, and her childhood friend stood over her, watching her as she slept.

"Drink this," he whispered. "The doctor gave you some laudanum for your aching head. You must take some more."

She raised herself up on one arm and took the heavy silver goblet. It occurred to her that Malachi owned no silver goblets, but she wasn't bothered by incongruities in a dream.

"Now rest," he told her, his accent more refined than she remembered.

She lay back against cushions she had mistaken for rose petals. Malachi still watched her, this time from a seat on the edge of her bed. He was and had been her only friend. In school, she had clung to his friendship as a child clings to an old, worn-out rag doll. He'd changed, but now he had returned, and she was glad that this Malachi who sat near her was unlike the Malachi on the cliffs.

He took the goblet. His head close, too close, to hers.

And suddenly the kiss she hadn't wanted on the cliffs she now seemed to desire. Forgotten dreams of this man returned to her, and she ached to feel hard lips pressed upon her soft ones; yearned for a strong, gentle hand to run down her back and take her by the waist and pull her against him. In her own penned tales, she told of sweet love, but in her reveries, as now, the need for it burned like a fire tame innocence could not extinguish.

She needed one tender kiss. But it had to be from the right man. It must come from the right man.

Was Malachi that man? If not him, who other would there be in Lir?

She gazed at his face, amazed at the planes and lines she didn't remember him having before. But they were handsome planes, and the lines were cut deep with character. They drew her to him.

He was not the Malachi she remembered. Though he had grown to be a man, Malachi had spoken on the cliffs like a child. He had raised his hand to her like a man of no account. Yet she knew the Malachi before her now would not do that. There was wisdom in his eyes, an intelligence wrought of emotional pain that would dictate his behavior. This man was, in truth, a man fully matured. One which she had feared Malachi hadn't yet become.

She reached out from the haze of her drugged sleep and touched his cheek. It was smooth, well-groomed, warm. Sensuously hinting of beard.

He watched her, not moving. And perhaps because he wasn't moving, and forcing things upon her she wasn't ready for, she found herself riding with the impulse. She took his jaw in her weak grasp, raised herself up, and pressed her lips against his.

His reaction pleased her. His body went rigid and his lips turned wooden and implacable, but as she crushed her lips over his in an ever increasing amount of passion, he seemed to melt like an icicle in the spring sun. After a long, almost painful hesitation, his hand deliciously entangled itself in her hair, and then her kiss became more fervent, and she thrilled with the power of turning stone-cold lips warm and pliable with desire, letting them sip from hers until his greed widened like the rings from a stone dropped into a pond.

Trevallyan closed his eyes, no longer able to look at the sleeping girl in his bed. The shock of what had happened still left him immobile, as if a net had fallen from the heavens, capturing him. What the bloody hell had happened? He hadn't even seen it coming. One second, he was helping her sip from a goblet and the next, he was on her like a wolf, taking her mouth as if he'd never kissed before.

Against his will, he forced himself to look down at her. Ravenna slept in the ancient Trevallyan bedstead, the mud had been gently wiped from her face and her hair had been toweled dry. The physician had heavily drugged her.

Hell, he thought, clawing for any source of comfort, she probably hadn't even known whom she'd been kissing.

But he knew, came a little voice. Because he'd done it. Allowed it.
Participated.

The very idea was like a kick in the gut. Of all the girls he should find himself kissing, this girl was the last one he wanted. When a man was bound and determined to thwart his "destiny," it certainly seemed a fatal error to take destiny in his arms and kiss her as if he'd been aching to do it for days.

His ire increased with every slow, peaceful breath that issued from her parted lips. He'd told Greeves he felt responsible for the accident, which was why he had insisted she be put into his rooms so that he could personally keep an eye on her. Now he wondered about the elaborateness of the lie. In truth, he felt no guilt over what had happened on the roadside. By all sanity and reason, he should have hauled her back to her grandmother's house and let the old witch tend to her aching head. But he hadn't, and the reason eluded him. Vexed him. He still didn't know why Ravenna had been out there on the road. According to the messenger he'd sent to the cottage, Grania hadn't even known the girl was gone. Ravenna had not been running around at night in a rainstorm, half naked, because she was seeking help for her grandmother. She'd been out there because she had gotten into some kind of trouble.

His
angry gaze turned to a stray black curl that had slipped across her forehead, making her look vulnerable and even younger than she was. Against his will, he reached out and caressed it. Again he wondered at the insanity that had made him bring her to the castle. The idea brought a thunderous furrow to his brow.

If he'd believed in
geise,
he might indeed believe he and this beautiful sleeping girl were meant for each other. After what had transpired this night, he had no problem envisioning himself with her. Her nubile charms, quite deliciously exposed beneath the mist of her wet night rail, had found an appreciative audience. It was said lust and love were inextricably intertwined. If he lured her to his bed, would he find the magic of both in the
geis?
He smiled a little wickedly, a little wryly. Lust he'd known before. And while it was a strong and pleasant instinct, it held no magic. It needed love.

So it was love or nothing. Lust would bring him about as far
as
his marriage and all his attempted marriages had brought him.

He frowned, the lines deepening on his cheeks. He could get Ravenna into bed and to the altar. Money and power had historically made it easy to throw aside the smooth skin as Count Fabuloso possessed and create instead the desire for an older face. Arabella, his last fiancee, had never mentioned their age difference. She'd been clearly well-schooled by her mother, and if love could be faked, Arabella had performed well.

But love could not be faked. That was the essence of its definition. Love was real; it could not be bought nor manufactured. In the end, neither he nor Lady Arabella could keep up the pretense.

So he could capture Ravenna, he could seduce her, he could marry her. Regardless, the
geis
stated that it was she who should fall in love with him, a troublesome idea even if he did believe in
geise,
for in his mind was the inescapable truth that had left him empty-hearted all these years. He wanted to love and be loved in return.

This time, falling in love himself might not be so difficult, he thought darkly as he stared down at the lovely young woman asleep in his bed. But inducing the same sentiment in her could be problematic. He could give her expensive baubles and dresses that might win her affection, but they would never win her love. With love, all the obvious methods were doomed to fail. Even the idea of becoming a countess couldn't make her give her love to him. He was all too familiar with the type of woman who could do brilliant portrayals of "a woman in love" in order to acquire such things.

And then there was Malachi MacCumhal.

Unwittingly Niall's eyes flashed with jealousy. He'd seen how she had looked at the lad as soon as she recognized him in the hall. There was a softness in her eyes he could never imagine her turning toward him. If she wanted a lout such as MacCumhal, he was at a loss as to what might turn her head.

Anger gripped his insides with all the strength of an ironsmith. The
geis
was utter nonsense, and he could not be dictated by it. Even now, when he thought of the night of Ravenna's momentous birth, he cringed at the stupidity of the old men who still believed they saw things when all that they saw was lightning and shadow. Slowly the fury eased from his body like an outgoing tide. The girl sleeping in his bed was not his concern and never would be.

But what ebbs must flow once more, and again he felt the anger rising in his chest.

He should get rid of her. He should send the pest away, he thought, his gaze resting on her damp, parted lips.

She had kissed him and made him feel things he had not wanted to feel. He should banish her from the county, transport her to Antrim to work in one of the Great Houses there.... But she had kissed him. And suddenly the thought of sending her from Lir was becoming untenable.

His finger traced her fragile jawline and moved downward in a line between her lightly clad breasts. It stopped at her belly and he drew imaginary circles over the silk counterpane, moving in a spiral down to her blanketed hips. He lusted after her. There was no point in denying it, for any man would lust after such a creature whom he'd seen wet and nearly naked. He longed to sink sweetly between her thighs and taste once more her honeyed lips and skin.

But he wouldn't. It was best that he had no business with her. He wanted a woman to love. A wild creature such as she was no kind of woman to make him a companion.

"My lord...?" A cough broke out behind him. Niall turned and found Greeves in the doorway.

"What is it? Has the doctor returned already?"

"No, my lord..." Greeves looked almost pained. He made a sad, stately figure when he grabbed the empty sleeve of his frock coat as if for security. "It seems there's been mischief in the next county. Lord Quinn is here along with several of the townsfolk. I believe this needs your attention right away."

Niall glanced down at Ravenna one last time. Her color was good and she slept with long, even breaths. There was no urgent need for him to stay in attendance.

"Get Fiona to come here and watch over her. And tell her not to talk," he snapped as he grabbed his waistcoat and jacket.

"Very good, my lord. I hope..." Greeves looked behind him as if spooked. "I hope there isn't too much trouble."

Niall tossed him a look of agreement, then glanced back at Ravenna. He thought about that stupid
geis
and then, like a train helplessly bulleting in one direction, he thought about the kiss.

The blinding glare of morning poured through an enormous window in front of the bedstead. Light hit Ravenna's head like a ball peen hammer. She squeezed her eyes closed and burrowed once more into the comforting darkness beneath the satin quilt like a bat seeking its cave.

Then memory assailed her and she released an audible groan. She wasn't home. Home didn't have satin quilts and lavender-scented sheets. Her cottage also didn't have windows that went from the floor to the heavens, letting in an abominable amount of sunshine.

She recalled her disappointing meeting with Malachi and the subsequent encounter with Griffen O'Rooney in the Trevallyan graveyard. She'd run from Griffen into... a carriage. That was it. She hadn't seen it, for she would have avoided the thing if she had. She'd been disoriented and she'd slipped beneath the horses' flailing hooves. And whoever had found her had brought her to his or her home for recovery.

She slowly took her aching head in hand and crept again from beneath the covers. Grania had to be worried sick about her, and if strangers had found her on the road, they might not know whom to notify.

She eased herself to a sitting position and prayed for a gun that could shoot out the light. But no matter the physical pain, she knew she had to gather herself together and return to Grania. Grania was too old a woman to take the strain of fearing for her only kin.

Using care in her movements not to jar her throbbing head, she leaned back against a mountain of downy pillows and willed her eyes to open despite the assault of sunlight. Slowly, she raised her eyelids until the room no longer appeared as if she were viewing it from the bottom of a pond. The bedstead, the brocaded green curtains, the stone walls, all came into focus at once, and realization dropped on her like a net. Her breath caught in her throat. She was back in Trevallyan's bedchamber.

She remembered all too well this room from that fateful day of her childhood. The Cromwellian doors still gleamed with beeswax, the windows of the tower still pointed at the top in Gothic tracery. In the antechamber beyond, one chair by the hearth looked well-used—even more worn than she remembered—while the other, though it had been years since she had laid eyes on it, still looked as if it had left the cabinetmaker's yesterday.

Her eyes closed with the horror of it. Lord Trevallyan's coach must have been the one she had encountered on the rain-swept road. Fragmented pieces of memory came back to her. She'd been hurt, and he must have brought her to the castle. Now she was in the last place she had ever wanted to be again. In his bedchamber. And not only a visitor to it, but an intimate one at that, for she lay in his bed, as she had no doubt lain for hours, and she wore only...