Chapter Twelve

Paris: January, 1703

The alehouse called The Fair Lady was less than its jaunty sign proclaimed, Killian decided as he watched a thin film of grease float on the top of his fourth whiskey. The smoke-filled air choked him and the greasy smell of sizzling sausages made his stomach heave in protest. If not for the fact that he waited for someone he would not have remained. The tavern was one of the few meeting places for Irish expatriates in Paris, a place whose clientele dealt in the usual ale, women, and smuggled goods…and contraband of a very unique kind: Catholic clergymen bound for Ireland.

Killian waved away the servant girl who smiled hopefully at him in expectation of an order or a proposition. She was not as loosely laced as the two other serving women, whose breasts had strained free of their bodices, much to the delight and temptation of their admirers. She was younger, too, with real color in her fair cheeks rather than the painted kind. Still, he knew her favors could be bought cheaply and would be before the end of the night.

The waiting did not improve his mood, which had darkened steadily as the day progressed. It seemed a man could not earn an honest living in Paris.

Killian smiled wryly. Honest labor. The position he had lost to another had been purchased away. He would have done the same had he possessed the funds. Without position and backing he would get no appointment he desired. So why, then, did he not take the position offered him by the duchesse? Smuggling was a very lucrative business and the company no worse than that of most soldiers. She had even promised him a free hand.

The thought made him laugh, and those at a nearby table turned to stare at him, but Killian did not care. The duchesse did not give free rein, as well he could tell them, and a more dangerous benefactor he could not imagine.

When a man slid into the chair beside him, Killian did not immediately lift his eyes.

“Will you not greet a man who’s come this distance to see you?” the young man at his elbow asked in Gaelic.

“I’d not have come a foot in this direction had I known you would be late, Teague O’Donovan,” Killian returned sourly. “Faith! Could you think of no other place?”

“Are you afraid the lasses cannot see your ugly face for the smoke?” Teague rejoined. “They always see what they like, even when it’s covered with a fortnight of whiskers.”

“Three days’ worth,” Killian amended, still glaring at his drink. “Now that you’re here, it may be that a man can get a proper drink. I swear they store their sausages in their whiskey barrel. Look at my cup.”

“Aye, ’tis a miraculously dirty thing,” Teague agreed. “Like your coat and breeches. Och! Killian, have you run yourself to ground at last?”

Killian lifted his gaze, giving his companion a lazy perusal that made a slow smile spread over his face. “Ah, Teague, lad, you’re sporting a fine white lace collar. Are you not afraid they will nae serve you, being a priest and all?”

“Keep your voice down!” Teague admonished as he pulled his cloak closed, “or would you have my vocation known far and wide to the company? There are always spies about.”

Killian shrugged, wondering idly how much whiskey he had consumed in the past three hours. His head ached but not enough to blot out all thought, and that was what he was after. He reached for the tumbler and downed its contents in one fiery swallow. When he opened his eyes again, Teague was watching him closely. “What do you gape at, Father? Have you never seen a drunkard?”

“Aye,” Teague answered softly. “I only wonder that you’ve fallen so far, Lucifer.”

Killian’s laughter startled those nearest them, but after a curious look the company of soldiers and hangers-on returned to their concerns. “’Tis been some while since I thought of those days, Teague. You always were afraid that the devil would come and snatch you away from the monastery, while I was afraid he would not. Well, we both got our wishes, you’re a priest and I’m…I’m one of the fallen ones.”

Teague smiled. “You’re not fallen, you’re lost, and there’s a difference, Killian.”

“Ah, priestly advice.” Killian leaned forward suddenly. “Do not preach me a sermon, Father, I’m too drunk to heed it and not drunk enough to be polite about the hearing of it.”

“Ah, here she is!” he cried, grabbing the young servant girl about the waist as she passed. “Smile prettily for the man, lass. He has a certain fondness for Irish lasses, haven’t you, Teague?”

Teague nodded politely at the young woman, but his fair face reddened beneath his thatch of red-blond curls.

“You’ll have to do better than that with the lasses if you mean to go abroad as a common man,” Killian said and pushed the young girl into Teague’s lap. “A schoolteacher is a handsome catch, to many a mother’s mind.” He grabbed Teague’s hands and pulled them about the girl’s waist as she balanced on the young man’s knee. “There, you’ve got the way of it. Irish ladies will have you to tea, those that can afford it. Those who cannot will find excuses to stop you and pass the time of day. But the forward lasses are the ones that will bear watching.” He winked at the girl. “They’re the ones who’ll steal kisses from unsuspecting schoolteachers.”

Before Teague could realize her intent, the girl twisted about, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him hard on the mouth.

Teague stood up, spilling the girl from his lap as he jerked her arms from his neck. Too flustered to speak he stood silently as Killian’s laughter once more rang through the tobacco-filled room. “You should not—” Teague began, only to remember to extend a hand to the girl on the floor.

“If ye’ve no liking for kissing, ’tis nae a reason to treat a lass that rough!” she said, ignoring his offer of help as she rose. She jerked at her skirts and pulled her bodice up to hide one rosy nipple that had popped free. “And ye, ye’re nae better than he!” she said, wagging a finger at Killian.

“Aye, ’tis so,” Killian agreed as he lazily fished in his pocket for a coin. When he found it he tossed it at her. “But I pay better.”

The girl’s blue eyes widened in interest and she laid a small hand on his shoulder. “Well, a lass can take a joke as well as the next. What else would be to your pleasure, sir?” The look she gave him was not mistaken by either man.

For an instant Killian wavered. Why not? What prevented him? Certainly not any concern for the duchesse’s feelings. She had none. More than likely she had found other company this night, as she had many other nights these last months. The barmaid was pretty, reasonably clean, and young. After a few months in this place, she would be much less of all three.

The throbbing at his temples made him curse and shake his head. He needed to be far more drunk than he was to still the ache, and in that condition he would be of no use to either himself or the girl. “Nae, another time,” he said and reached for his cup. “Fill this, lass, while you look for another to fill you.”

The girl’s mouth tightened at his crudity but she pocketed the coin and took his cup. She turned to his companion to make the same offer, but then her gaze fell upon the collar and cassock revealed by the man’s open cloak. Realizing that she had kissed a priest, she fell back a step and crossed herself before she turned and fled.

Embarrassed, Teague snatched his cloak closed and reseated himself. “If ’twas your aim to revolt me, Killian, then I will save you further trouble by saying that I am revolted. What has become of you? Baiting priests is a lad’s game.”

Killian looked at his monastery companion between narrowed lids. “Is that what you think I’ve done? I merely wished to illustrate a point, Teague. You’ve grandiose plans of smuggling yourself into Ireland, of going among the deprived and poor, the weary and thirsty souls in need of the Word and the Mass.”

Teague nodded solemnly, the light of righteousness shining in his face.

Killian looked away as he continued. “And how will you go? As a schoolteacher, newly sent from Scotland? ’Tis an old ploy. You have no guile, Teague. You could not handle the moment with the lass just passed. How do you expect to deal with priest hunters who’ll be alert to your weaknesses? They’ve had years to sharpen their traps and snares.”

Killian looked up at his friend with sorrowful eyes. “It would be simpler to do as many others have done. Hide in holes, in bogs. Keep your presence a secret, while you can, and when at last you’re caught, accept the transportation back to France and know that at least you tried.”

Teague shook his head. “If I’m caught, I’ll return.”

“You’ll be caught again, and the law is quite specific on the point. Hanging, drawing, and quartering, I believe, is the punishment of the second offense.” Killian reached for the drink the girl had set before him and swallowed it in a gulp. “’Tis not how I would wish to remember you, Teague, a dismembered corpse. If you must tend an Irish flock, attend these good folk.” He waved a hand toward the assembled company.

Teague smiled at him tolerantly. “I will go. You’ve known me half my life. When my family sent me to France to study I did not speak a word of the language. I thought I would die from loneliness until we met. Even so, you know returning to Ireland is all that has kept me a sane man. Well, now I’m ordained. I must return home and serve as my vows direct me.”

“You’ll go home and die,” Killian mumbled. The whiskey had struck his empty stomach like a hammer on a cymbal, and his body vibrated with the shimmering warmth that preceded a loss of conscious thought. “Go home and die! Why plague me with its anticipation?”

Teague watched his companion a moment longer before he wet his lips nervously and said, “There is a reason I asked you to meet me here.” He leaned forward until he was nearly stretched across the table. “You’re correct when you say I’d be no more than a bairn among wolves. But you, Killian, you’d be a wolf among wolves.”

Killian smiled benevolently. A wolf among wolves; he liked the sound of it. But what was Teague talking about? He was no priest. “I am no priest.”

“No, but you’re a soldier, and Ireland is as much in need of temporal as spiritual emboldening.” He lowered his eyes. “I am much a coward, Killian, but you’ve always had the heart of a lion. Had you listened more to the call of your vocation, you might be sitting here in my place.”

“I did listen, lad,” Killian countered, wondering how much longer Teague would sit beside him with that fair innocent face that made him seem half his twenty-eight years. “I was called to slaughter France’s enemies, and that I have done in abundance, on any and all occasions until my hands are red. I have lived war until I am weary of it.”

Teague gripped his wrist. “I knew that you were weary of your life, Killian. I felt it! ’Tis why I wrote you. You need a mission, something holy and worthy of your best effort.” His voice fell to a whisper. “You have been much in my prayers when I have needed guidance. Again and again, you came to my thoughts as I knelt and prayed for the strength to do what I must. Finally, I realized what the Holy Mother was telling me. I need your strength to help me in this sacred mission. Come with me to Ireland. I leave tomorrow night, and there’s funds enough to pay your passage. Come and do the Lord’s work, Killian!”

Killian shook off Teague’s hand and stood up, his head feeling as though it floated a foot above his shoulders. “Bad cess to you! I am no confidant of priests. You could do no worse in choosing a Reformation minister as your companion. I cannot help you. I cannot help myself!”

He turned and lurched out through the doorway, uncaring that people turned to stare openly at him. His head no longer ached. It no longer felt attached to his body. But the reflexes of years of training never leave a man.

As he entered the dark crowded lane, he felt a hand brush him, a wandering hand that sought his money purse. Without pausing in his stride, he grabbed the offending member and bent back its fingers until they snapped and the would-be thief screamed in pain and vanished into the night.

No one came near him after that. Indeed, the crowd parted before the tall black-haired stranger whose blue eyes burned too brightly in his tight, angry face.

*

Charlotte Maria Yvette Mont Clair, the fifth Duchesse de Luneville, eyed her late dinner companion balefully. Only Killian MacShane would have dared this gross insult to her sensibilities. Not only had he failed to appear on time, he had failed to appear at all the four preceding evenings. He sat now in his street dirt, his black hair matted and uncombed, his cheeks unshaved, and his head held in grimy hands. Worst of all, he smelled of the tavern. His breath was a hot expulsion of whiskey fumes that ruined the delicious aroma of her dining table.

As her slim fingers, bejeweled with sapphires and gold, toyed with the ivory-handled fruit knife beside her plate the duchesse contemplated what she should do. Once she would have had MacShane thrown out for such audacity. She would have ordered him taken into the stables and chained there until his drunkenness wore off. When she felt he had suffered enough, she would have sent footmen to wash, shave, and dress him before they escorted him to her bedchamber.

The duchesse smiled, making a thin curve of her small pink mouth. On those few occasions when he had suffered the consequences of her wrath, he had been contrite afterward, offering her in the form of urgent lovemaking a little of the secret desperateness that ruled him.

She never knew whether he received in equal amount that which he so generously gave her. She suspected not. She sensed that he held himself in reserve.

In the nine years she had known him, she had been tormented and frustrated by that part of himself that he always held back, kept detached, a secret shut within an inner shell that nothing could touch. The search for the key to MacShane’s inner self was one of the few challenges she felt worthy of her pursuit. As a woman, it tantalized her. As his lover, it beguiled her into forgiving him over and over.

She raised her eyes to the doorway where a pair of footmen stood in attendance. Their sapphire-blue livery with golden embroidery momentarily diverted her attention. They made a handsome contrast to the sky-blue wall panels and pink marble pilasters of her newly redecorated room. Even the Duchesse de Montage had remarked upon her choice of pale pink silk draperies which added to the drama of the chamber. Oui, she was quite pleased.

She turned to MacShane to urge him to praise her latest project, but one look at him erased the thought. She doubted that he realized where he was.

“Mon cher, you must burn that horrible coat. It smells of—of the bourgeois!”

Killian lifted his head from his hands and winced as the light of two dozen tapers struck his eyes. He must have dozed, he thought, for he did not remember returning to the hotel de Luneville. Yet, as he raised his eyes he saw the duchesse in all her splendor regarding him with displeasure.

As always, she was robed in sapphire cloth, velvet on this winter evening. About her throat and wrists and cascading from her ears were elaborate diamond and sapphire jewels. Sapphires winked on every finger of every hand. Nothing, however, could detract the observer from the face of the duchesse herself. It had once been a beautiful face. Much of the skin was still flawlessly smooth and lily white, which made the disfigurement all the more hideous.

From her left temple a long puckered scar jagged wickedly down across her eye to the middle of her left cheek. The eye itself was covered by a jeweled patch which sported a single five-carat sapphire of the deepest blue in its center.

“I will tolerate many things, mon cher,” she said sweetly. “Gross negligence of one’s person and insufficient care for my feelings are two things I will not abide.” Unconsciously her hand had risen to her left cheek, where she traced the scar made nearly invisible by rice powder. “You should be horsewhipped. Shall I see to it?”

“Whatever pleases you, duchesse,” Killian answered indifferently.

“Then I believe I should order it done, but for the fact that you would enjoy the pain too much.” She laughed delightedly at his baleful glare. “I know you well, MacShane. You are too vain a man to mask your handsomeness in that most vile garb and fill your head with the piss that passes for spirits among the commoners. Unless,” and she leaned forward to touch his hand. “Unless, cheri, you seek to punish yourself.”

She sat back with a look of distaste. “Merde! Can you never forget your years in the monastery? What imagined sins do you seek to redress? If you must suffer then do so, mon cher, with a little elegance.”

Her hand curled against her scarred cheek in the gentlest of caresses. “Shall I introduce you to those who know how to exact exquisite pleasure from pain?”

Killian looked away but not before she spied a glint of something—interest or disgust?—in his eye.

“I, myself, do not indulge in the madness of the flesh that yearns for pain before the pleasure of Venus can be achieved. Yet, it is popular enough in certain circles. What do you think, mon cher? There are ways, I’m told, of deriving the ultimate humiliation of one’s soul without so much as a loss of a single drop of blood or the turning of a hair.”

Her hand fell to cover the jewels decorating the deep décolletage of her bodice, trembling slightly as she imagined him writhing in the ecstasy of some perfect agony delivered by an expert hand. A delicious tremor began in her middle and sped to her groin as she considered the acts of debauchery which might drive him to such frenzy that he lost control and revealed his innermost secret self. She must be there, to comfort, to pleasure, and to master once and for always this difficult man.

“I know of one place where nothing will be denied you. Shall we go there, cheri?” she whispered in a husky betrayal of her emotions.

Killian shook his head, freezing his expression to keep from revealing the revulsion he felt. He had known the duchesse a long time. Yet, he had only to look at her to be reminded that she was a decadent creature at heart, a woman capable of giving herself on a whim to her stablemen or exacting a grisly revenge for some slight upon her person. She was the rare lady who wielded the power of her dead husband’s fortune, a proud and predatory aristocrat who obeyed no law but her own, and it was that her pleasure was the law.

“Ask Henri to accompany you,” he mumbled. “I am in no mood for the circus.”

The duchesse’s gaze slipped sideways to the doorway once more, where the taller of the two footmen stood, his handsome swarthy features powdered as pale as her own. It was no secret that Henri was one of her lovers. Occasionally, Jean, the second footman, joined them in her bed. But it was Henri with his broad back and his bullish proportions that she preferred when Killian was absent.

“Are you jealous, my Irish stallion? You may have your place at a moment’s notice, provided you bathe and shave, and beg my forgiveness.”

Killian raised his head. She was very angry; it glittered in her one good eye. If he was not careful she would, indeed, have him horsewhipped. He rose and bowed low. “A thousand pardons, duchesse. With your permission—”

“You will sit down!” she cried, her voice like a whip. “Fool! Charlatan! Do you think I do not know that you—” She paused, her attention turned to the footmen. “You! Out! Both of you!”

When they were gone she turned back to MacShane, who swayed on his feet. “So tell me, my stallion, what has gelded you?”

Killian nearly smiled. If only she knew how far she was from the truth! “I prefer the seductive kiss of brandy these days.”

“You prefer the stupor of forgetfulness,” she replied. “Do not mistake my interest for sympathy. I have seen you at your worst, mon cher, and that is when you are most dangerous. I have not forgotten the day we met.” Her smile lifted her enameled brows on her lineless forehead. “It is rare that a lady has so revealing an opportunity to judge the worthiness of a prospective lover.”

Killian shook his throbbing head. “Must we speak of the past?”

“Oui, we will speak of it because it pleases me. And you will sit because it pleases me, n’est-ce pas?”

Killian dropped back into his seat, not out of fear but because to remain or to leave was a matter of indifference to him.

The duchesse saw his indifference and was pleased. She did not want him bested or afraid. Too many in her circle of acquaintances feared her. Her staff did as she bid out of terror. Only MacShane remained intractable. His courage had first drawn her to him.

She had gone to Calais nine years earlier to survey a ship she intended to purchase. She had offered the beggar nearest her a purse as she alighted from her carriage. It was not until he stood up and tossed the purse of money back at her that she had turned to look at him. His back still oozed blood from a recent beating, but his legs and shoulders were strongly muscled. His face, though filthy, was well made and his loincloth fit tightly a most pleasant bulge. But it was his sapphire eyes, so much like her own, glaring impotent rage, that had made her purchase his freedom.

“Do you remember what you called me?” she asked in amusement.

They had played this game of remembrance too often for Killian to feign ignorance of her thoughts. “A dissolute aristocrat with more money than honor, more pride than piety, and more beauty than heart,” he answered dully.

“Oui. It was those last words that won your freedom from the galley ship,” she answered softly and raised her hand again to her scarred cheek. No one had called her a beauty for such a long time. And then, a mere commoner, the lowliest of slaves, had called her beautiful. “’Tis strange, I knew you meant what you said. I would have given twice, no, twenty times what it cost me to buy you!”

“You have since been repaid,” Killian reminded her.

“Oui.” Her fingers encircled the inch-and-a-half jewel-encrusted orb which had been added to her necklace and she lovingly rubbed it. Inside the orb was the eye of the man who was responsible for the loss of her own. “You are stubborn and proud, cheri, but I will always forgive you because you paid me back in a way that gives me pleasure each time I am reminded of it.”

She had seen the passionate heat that fired his eyes that first day and had known that he would be useful to her in many ways. She was not surprised when he did not accept her invitation to her bed at once. He had suffered much and was too proud to admit even that need.

And so I waited until both your back and your pride healed. And then you came to me, mon cher, you came! As he would again, when he had exorcised his latest demon. “I have received news at last of the Cygne,” the duchesse announced in an abrupt change of topic. “She was nearly boarded by a British man-of-war off the Cornish coast. Her capitaine escaped only by throwing half my cargo overboard to increase his speed.”

Killian looked across at her, his interest snared at last. “What fool captain took his ship along the coast of Cornwall? Was he not aware that all ships leaving the Irish coast put out to sea?”

“All smugglers,” the duchesse amended genially. “As to my capitaine, I have it on rumor that he carried more than my trade in my ship’s hull.” Her fingers tightened into a fist over the gold orb as she said, “I will not be bested or made the dupe of any man’s folly!”

Killian did not ask what had become of the foolish capitaine; he knew that by the duchess’s order the man was dead. “Who will captain the Cygne next?”

“I have a generous offer for a loyal man, one who knows the language and the people of Ireland. You.”

The last word chilled Killian’s blood. He knew her. The disfigurement of her beauty had followed an incident that was true to her nature. The trauma of the scar had refined her spirit into that of a heartless predator who thrived on danger, intrigue, and triumph. They kept an uneasy truce because she had not yet bested him. He knew what she expected of him and in that they had both been satisfied…until recently.

“I will not go to Ireland for you.” He said it quietly and waited.

The duchesse considered his words. Few times in the past had he refused her requests. “I am thinking of taking up the African slave trade,” she mused aloud, her eye on his face. “The profit is better than in the Irish wool market, and the English are less bothersome. Perhaps you would prefer to command the ship which I am considering purchasing. It is anchored in Nantes.”

“I would not,” Killian answered.

“Do you not like Nantes? Mais oui, I remember. You spent less than a week there last summer. I have heard that it is a rural, backward place. Ma foil I do not think I shall go, then.”

“You have considered traveling to Brittany?”

The duchesse lifted a gilt-edged envelope from the salver by her plate. “A wedding invitation from the Comte de Quentin. He is to be married after the Easter season.”

The announcement galvanized Killian, sobering him instantly. “The Comte de Quentin!” Too late he saw the flash of triumph in the duchesse’s good eye and knew that he had been baited. Damn her, he thought, how can she know of that?

The duchesse nodded. “Since your return from Nantes you have been different, cheri. Being a woman, I could reach only one conclusion: there is another woman involved. No, I should call her a girl. A woman does not tie a man’s organ in knots. She uses it up!”

Her laughter was charming. “You must be honest with me. Is your mal de coeur caused by the virtuous betrothed of this petty comte?”

For a moment she thought he might reach across the table and strike her, so hotly did rage blaze in MacShane’s eyes. Then, miraculously, the murderous look was gone, replaced by a wintry indifference to match the January wind.

Her spies had provided her with the name and description of the young daughter of the Irish officer who called himself Lord Fitzgerald. A shrewd intuition had put the pieces together. Jealousy burned in a white-hot flame as she thought of MacShane in the arms of the girl. What could a child know of giving a man pleasure? No doubt, MacShane had done nothing more than steal a few kisses before she snatched away her rosy lips. And he, as much a fool as any man, must think himself in love because the sweet meat of her virginity had been denied him.

The duchesse looked away, her bosom rising and falling quickly in her agitation. “She will disappoint you. All innocents disappoint the ones in whom they arouse passion. I disappointed my first lover.”

Killian glanced at her and for the first time in many months genuine amusement warmed his features. “Did I disappoint mine?”

The duchesse smiled before she turned and saw his face. “You did not and you know it, you preening cock! But tell me about this young virginal goddess whom I should like to tear to shreds in my jealousy. Did she yield you her maidenhood, or do you lust for it still?”

Sparring with the duchesse had lifted the liquor fog from Killian’s mind. If he gave away too much, piqued her bloodlust for conquest, he knew that Deirdre might well become the focus of the duchesse’s rage. “Of whom do we speak?”

“Are you afraid to speak the name Deirdre Fitzgerald? Does the thought of her cause you pain?” she questioned silkily. “Melancholy does not become a man of your ilk, mon cher. Yet, I admit her attraction for you. The daughter of a nobleman of your native land, a lady who can converse with you in that heavenly Gaelic you so admire and will not teach me, she is a novelty for you. She, of course, is attracted to the bete faroache in you, my Irish savage.” She smiled wickedly. She could well imagine the girl’s reaction to Killian MacShane. She, who was wiser, more experienced, older…older.

For the first time in many years, the duchesse felt the cool breath of uncertainty against her elegant neck. She must be very careful not to make a fool of herself in her display of jealousy. She sensed that Killian was not the sort of man to be amused by it, only annoyed. “So, if you must have her, she shall be yours. Shall I have her brought here for you? You could use her as you wish and still return her to her home and her fiancé well before Good Friday.”

“Generosity always has a price,” Killian replied.

“Mon cher, you wound me.” She faked a pretty pout. “I offer you, my favorite, a gift, a token of my esteem, and you would have me place a price on it.” She looked down to hide the flash of annoyance in her eye. She had wanted him to snap up her bait, for then she would have been certain that his interest in the girl was carnal. “If, as you say, you doubt my sincerity, then you may name the terms.”

Killian stood up, fully aware that he drew battle lines between them with the words he spoke. “If I were enamored of a lady, I would never think of asking my mistress to procure her for me.” He hesitated as he saw her face register shock. Perhaps she deserved better. “The fault lies not with you, duchesse. ’Tis I who have changed.”

The duchesse watched him until he reached the doorway. “If you leave my home, mon cher, I will never forgive you.”

Without hesitating, Killian opened the door and walked through.

“Zut! The fool thinks he’s in love!” she exclaimed to the empty room. And then she began to laugh.

She had had his faithful attention for nearly ten years, a young man who had brought her his virginity and loyalty like a knight from an age long dead. She was in her thirty-eighth year, wealthy beyond reckoning, an adventuress in a duchesse’s clothing, a debauchee and a dilettante because it pleased her. What new challenge could life offer her once MacShane was gone?

She smiled and fingered the golden orb at her breast. “We are not yet finished, Killian MacShane, not you and I.”

*

Deirdre Fitzgerald was to wed.

The thought lay heavily in Killian’s mind as he rode out of the de Luneville courtyard and into the blustery winter night. The bright lacy snowflakes that jeweled his black cloak had turned the midnight to twilight, lighting his way toward the Rive Gauche, where he knew people who would give him a bed for the night.

Deirdre Fitzgerald was to wed.

He did not feel the cold. He had drunk enough whiskey to make him insensible, yet he rode upright, his muscles answering his slightest command. He felt more alert than at any time in the past six months.

Deirdre Fitzgerald was to wed.

Even in the small hours of the coldest night, life thrived on the Parisian streets. A nymph du pave hailed him in a throaty voice from a doorway as he passed, and his body answered with a dull throb that he did not heed.

Deirdre Fitzgerald was to wed.

This night was no different from any other night, he reasoned. He had been alone before and since he had met the duchesse. He had known fear and hunger, pain and loneliness. He had thought his life over more than once. He had been penniless before.

And yet there were virtues in these last months of his existence. There was no money left from the cashiering of his commission, spent in what had seemed pleasant diversions. He had learned more ways of curing a hangover than ever before. And, best of all, he was free of the troublesome dream that had plagued him for eleven years.

Why, then, did his heart ache? Why did he feel himself to be the most solitary creature on God’s earth? Why was there this strange wetness on his cheeks?

Because Deirdre Fitzgerald was to wed.