Irish Lady by Jeanette Baker Page B

stiffly, in control of herself once again. “I’m talking about desperation and futility.”
    â€œYou’re exaggerating.”
    She began clearing the dishes. “You forget that I speak from personal experience.”
    â€œWhy did you agree to stay here with me?”
    â€œThere was no one else we could trust. Your family would have been watched. There is no possibility of anyone connecting me with you.”
    â€œYou’re far more sophisticated than anyone in my family, Meghann. Did you tell them of the risk you’re taking? After all, I’m a fugitive. You could lose everything you’ve worked for as well as go to prison.”
    She stared at him. Was this Michael Devlin talking? The boy who had risked his life to find her amid the death and rubble of Cupar Street? Had he any idea what his family meant to her? “That isn’t likely to happen,” was all she said.
    He stood up. “I’m tired. Come into the sitting room and read t’ me until I fall asleep.”
    Meghann pushed a wisp of hair off her forehead with a soapy hand. “Is something the matter with your eyes?”
    â€œSomeone forgot t’ tell me I was leavin’ in a hurry. I left my reading glasses in the Maze.”
    â€œI need to ask you some questions, Michael. This won’t go away, and I can’t stay forever.”
    He brushed her protests away with a lift of his hand. “Not now. I feel like a novel. There’s some good literature in the bookcase. How about it, Meggie?”
    She sighed and turned back to the sink. “You go ahead. I’ll be there as soon as I finish the dishes.”
    After wiping dry the last bowl and stacking it in the cupboard, Meghann surveyed the bookshelf in the hallway. She was drawn to a small volume entitled The History of Ulster . Michael’s derisive taunt about her ignorance hit very close to home, although she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of telling him so. By the time she walked into the living room he was asleep. A fine sheen of perspiration covered his forehead, but when she touched his cheek it was cold. Replenishing the fire had obviously taken up whatever reserves of energy he had. She tucked a throw around him, pulled her chair closer to the fire and stared into the flames.
    The light was lovely, copper-tipped and black-centered, with the lines of deep royal blue so often seen with peat fuel, it was odd, really, the way she had no desire to do anything but stare into the center of that sweetly scented fire. Normally she wasn’t the kind to waste a minute, but just now it felt right to do nothing but sit without thinking, mesmerized by the play and dance of light against the darkening walls. Her eyelids felt heavy and she was finally warm. Through spidery lashes she saw the flames leap and dance inside the brick hearth, taking one shape and then another. She smiled, involuntarily, her fingers moved to the gold circle resting at the base of her throat. Her eyes closed and her head fell back against the chair.
    She heard rain slant into the chimney. The fire sizzled, its black center swirling and melding into a feminine form, the copper borders framing a woman’s face like braids of flame-red hair.
    She stood beside Rory O’Donnell, a child-woman with eyes as clear as glass and a delicate mobile face that with every changing nuance spoke of Ireland.
    *
    Nuala O’Donnell, Tyrone, 1588
    We faced my father together. I saw Rory swallow and step forward. He reached for my hand and whispered that we would see this through together.
    Hugh O’Neill was a massively built man, with hair the same shocking red as my own. His neatly trimmed beard was a shade darker, with streaks of white, and his eyes were the hard, cold gray of the North Sea beneath a cloudy sky. He would be a formidable opponent in any mood, but now more so because he stood in the throes of a raging temper. I glanced at Rory and felt a surge of