from his bones. He blinked, trying to forget the pain of it. “And then we must have a drink to Ireland.”
“We’ll make a list of toasts.” Francis laced his way through the small crowd standing outside the pub, avoiding the dung on the cobbles and the trail of some unidentifiable liquid that was no doubt piss and spilled gin. He glanced over his shoulder. “And we’ll drink to them all.”
Matthew pressed in as they crossed the threshold of the public house. The din of drunken voices and shrieking fiddle made any conversation nigh indiscernible. “Are the others in London yet?”
Francis kept pushing forward as he whispered sotto voce, “They’re arriving on separate boats, and Eamon is coming from France. So within the next month, my son, we shall be in the business of revolution.”
A thrill danced down Matthew’s spine. This was what he’d dreamed of for as long as he could remember. Some boys dreamed of sailing, and soldiering, or growing up to be fine men. His dreams had taken form in the desire to tear down the hallowed halls of privilege. “To glory and freedom, then?”
Francis elbowed his way up to the bar, signaling to the barman with two fingers for two pints. As soon as two dark tankards of black-as-sin ale were set before them, their tops frothing with creamy foam, he lifted his and his face turned most solemn. “Aye. To freedom.”
Chapter 9
P owers’s eyelids were seared to his pupils. In fact, his entire body was on fire, turning his muscles into jellied masses under his itching skin. He choked down a rasping breath, wishing to God he could just fade off and never have to face the world again. But that was hardly his general temperament, and he was not about to give his
wife
the satisfaction of watching his complete destruction.
Stoically, he girded himself, then peeled his eyes open.
Some kind soul had shut the drapes. So the room was blessedly dark. Though he was grateful, the dimness did little to alleviate the feeling that someone had ripped his flesh from his bones and then attempted to paste it back on with the insides out.
Christ, what was happening to him? In all his life, he had always controlled every aspect of his person. Nothing had been out of his grasp. Nothing had been unmaneuverable, unchangeable, but now? Somewhere, he’d stepped over some invisible line, which had catapulted him to a different level of the destruction he had immersed himself in some time ago.
He flexed his feet, stretching his toes, the very motion agonizing. An unwelcome reminder that he was indeed alive. His throat ached with the omnipresent desire for water . . . And he was sweating and shaking.
Shaking.
Christ, the sheets were damp from it. Had he run from here to Greenwich without his knowing? He strained to recall how he’d gotten into this bed, an unpleasant though not unfamiliar activity. He searched through the recesses of his opium dreams, looking for images.
One came up fast and hard. A dark angel, wings unfurled, come to deliver him to his fate. Always in the past that fate had been one of fire and damnation. For some reason, this time the recollection didn’t riddle him with resignation, but rather he was experiencing a mournful sort of hope, which made no sense whatsoever.
The angel’s hair had been a lick of flame around her ivory visage, and she had called out to him just before the gates of perdition. She’d dragged him back, not allowing his broken body into that fiery pit.
Suddenly, his stomach jumped up toward his throat and he forced down a jumbling nausea. That angel . . . He groaned. Maggie. The angel had been Maggie, and he’d acted like a complete lunatic at their nuptials. How impressed she must be at his ability to prove his sanity.
It was galling. All his arrogance. Shame coated his skin. Just a few hours ago, he’d stood in that cathedral like a swaggering fool. So certain he didn’t need her help. That he didn’t need anyone’s help.
And one
“We’ll make a list of toasts.” Francis laced his way through the small crowd standing outside the pub, avoiding the dung on the cobbles and the trail of some unidentifiable liquid that was no doubt piss and spilled gin. He glanced over his shoulder. “And we’ll drink to them all.”
Matthew pressed in as they crossed the threshold of the public house. The din of drunken voices and shrieking fiddle made any conversation nigh indiscernible. “Are the others in London yet?”
Francis kept pushing forward as he whispered sotto voce, “They’re arriving on separate boats, and Eamon is coming from France. So within the next month, my son, we shall be in the business of revolution.”
A thrill danced down Matthew’s spine. This was what he’d dreamed of for as long as he could remember. Some boys dreamed of sailing, and soldiering, or growing up to be fine men. His dreams had taken form in the desire to tear down the hallowed halls of privilege. “To glory and freedom, then?”
Francis elbowed his way up to the bar, signaling to the barman with two fingers for two pints. As soon as two dark tankards of black-as-sin ale were set before them, their tops frothing with creamy foam, he lifted his and his face turned most solemn. “Aye. To freedom.”
Chapter 9
P owers’s eyelids were seared to his pupils. In fact, his entire body was on fire, turning his muscles into jellied masses under his itching skin. He choked down a rasping breath, wishing to God he could just fade off and never have to face the world again. But that was hardly his general temperament, and he was not about to give his
wife
the satisfaction of watching his complete destruction.
Stoically, he girded himself, then peeled his eyes open.
Some kind soul had shut the drapes. So the room was blessedly dark. Though he was grateful, the dimness did little to alleviate the feeling that someone had ripped his flesh from his bones and then attempted to paste it back on with the insides out.
Christ, what was happening to him? In all his life, he had always controlled every aspect of his person. Nothing had been out of his grasp. Nothing had been unmaneuverable, unchangeable, but now? Somewhere, he’d stepped over some invisible line, which had catapulted him to a different level of the destruction he had immersed himself in some time ago.
He flexed his feet, stretching his toes, the very motion agonizing. An unwelcome reminder that he was indeed alive. His throat ached with the omnipresent desire for water . . . And he was sweating and shaking.
Shaking.
Christ, the sheets were damp from it. Had he run from here to Greenwich without his knowing? He strained to recall how he’d gotten into this bed, an unpleasant though not unfamiliar activity. He searched through the recesses of his opium dreams, looking for images.
One came up fast and hard. A dark angel, wings unfurled, come to deliver him to his fate. Always in the past that fate had been one of fire and damnation. For some reason, this time the recollection didn’t riddle him with resignation, but rather he was experiencing a mournful sort of hope, which made no sense whatsoever.
The angel’s hair had been a lick of flame around her ivory visage, and she had called out to him just before the gates of perdition. She’d dragged him back, not allowing his broken body into that fiery pit.
Suddenly, his stomach jumped up toward his throat and he forced down a jumbling nausea. That angel . . . He groaned. Maggie. The angel had been Maggie, and he’d acted like a complete lunatic at their nuptials. How impressed she must be at his ability to prove his sanity.
It was galling. All his arrogance. Shame coated his skin. Just a few hours ago, he’d stood in that cathedral like a swaggering fool. So certain he didn’t need her help. That he didn’t need anyone’s help.
And one
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