Maiden Voyage by Judith O'Brien
Patrick himself answered. "Please. If we are to banter about my failings as a suitor, we shall be here through next Easter."
"Now what was it again, Fitz?" She frowned, ignoring Patrick's plea. "I may have removed it from my memory, such nightmares it brought."
"Very well." Patrick tugged at a lock of her hair that was on her shoulder before turning to Fitz. "We may as well have an accurate rendition of the event. It was not my fault."
"Ah, well, there we go, Kitty. 'Twas not his fault."
"It never is," she giggled. "The girl had a distinct limp. After the first dance, the limp grew more pronounced. It was out of concern that I inquired after her health."
"That's not quite how I recall it," she said, watching Fitz in his failed attempts at keeping a straight face. "The girl in question said you asked her first about her leg, most improper, Patrick. One never discusses vulgarities such as limbs to a gently bred lady. And when she blushed and stammered, which must have been a very pretty sight, you accused her of having a wooden leg."
Fitz burst out with an explosive laugh, and Patrick crossed his arms. "Again I must plead the innocent. With all the skirts and sails and sheer acreage of cloth you women wear, your ability to perambulate, much less dance, is an utter mystery to most men."
"And it is likely to remain so, my friend. At least to you." Fitz gave him a light punch on the shoulder, and they all laughed. Finally Fitz gestured for them to sit down.
Maura was surprised that returning to the chair was a relief. Perhaps she was ill. She took a few deep breaths, glancing up to see Fitz's piercing eyes fixed on her. With a lightness she did not entirely feel, she smiled at him.
He returned the smile, but it was slightly forced. Yet he made no comment. When Patrick began to speak, he turned his attention to his friend, wiping his hand over his mouth as if to remove his concern.
"Fitzwilliam, I must be blunt. There is disturbing news which you, by necessity, must hear." All traces of the previous humor had vanished. Both men and Maura were suddenly serious.
"Continue, Patrick."
"Is your brother near?"
"Nay. I believe he is at present visiting a tailor's shop on Sackett Street. Does this ill news concern Andrew?"
"I fear it does. Andrew, and you, Kitty."
"Me?"
"Kitty?" Fitz burst out simultaneously.
"I'll be brief. There is a general knowledge in the west that Andrew seeks to take over the shipping concern."
"But how could he? My brother has not the
means."
"He has offered a large reward to any squireens who will assist him in abducting Katherine Burbridge."
Her hand reached over to Fitz, who quickly enveloped it in his own. Patrick continued.
"He has also sought the services of several priests, couple-beggers who marry for fee. In short, he means to use Kitty's rightful fortune to finance his desire to take over the company or start a rival firm."
It made complete sense, absolute sense to her. As a second son, he was forced to depend on his older brother for everything. Generous as Fitz was, it was never enough for Andrew.
She felt sick at the mere thought of being tied in wedlock to Andrew.
"I will not believe that of my brother," Fitz rasped.
"That I feared." Patrick leaned forward. "Please, there is enough evidence to prove his intentions. He has not been subtle with his inquiries, Fitzwilliam."
"He is my brother, my closest relation. He would not do such a dastardly thing, especially not to me." "You do not see him. You never have, not as others have seen Andrew." Patrick kept his voice gentle. "He is as unlike you as two could possibly be, filled with jealousy and rage and ruthless greed. For your sake, please consider the evidence I have collected."
He reached into his waistcoat and withdrew some parchments tied with a red ribbon. As he began to hand them over, Fitz dropped her hand and rose to his feet.
"I will not view contrived evidence."
"For God's sake, Fitzwilliam, listen to me! He intends to take her before the fortnight is out. Do you hear me? We are not merely discussing the future of your company, we are discussing Kitty."
"I will not hear these lies! Kitty, he should not have spoken before you. Your ears should not be insulted by malicious falsehoods."
She stood and placed her hand on his forearm. "Fitz, I do not believe they are falsehoods."
Turning toward her, his features reflected such anger she longed to step away from his wrath, but she couldn't. Instead, she spoke.
"I, too, have heard whisperings of Andrew and his covert meetings. Did you know he has been frequenting cockfights and bear-baitings? Did you know the ruffians with whom he habitually shares company? Just last week he reputedly ..."
"Silence!"
A gasp escaped from her, stunned at the ferocity of his voice. Never bad he addressed her thusly. Never.
Raising her chin, she faced him without blinking. "Andrew has always been your one blind spot. I beg of you, please take Patrick's warnings seriously. For our
sake, for my sake. Oh, Fitz, I can only plead with you."
"I cannot believe what I am hearing. Kitty, Patrick—you have both turned against me."
"Nay! Fitzwilliam, it is our very fondness, indeed our love of you that causes us to speak," Patrick began.
"Leave! The two of you, be gone from my sight!"
She felt her heart lurch, then begin a dreadful pounding in her chest, so painful she was unable to speak, although she tried. The only noise she was able to make was a strange sort of breathing, but she was unable to hear over the uneven throbbing of her heart. Each beat seemed to twist and burn, and she longed for it to cease, to stop tormenting her.
"Kitty?" The voice was a man, either Patrick or Fitz, she couldn't distinguish. "Place the pillow beneath her head."
Was she standing still? No, now she was on the floor, and it was hard and cold.
Perhaps she should have told him before about the strange flutterings she would feel. But they always passed after a short time. He had other things to worry about, far more important things than a high-strung bride. That's what the physicians would have declared, and what a fool she would be to have summoned one.
With great effort she opened her eyes, and there he was, Fitz. Someone had loosened her corset, and she hoped it had been either Mrs. Finnegan or Fitz, for Patrick would tease her later, had he been the one to unbind her. She knew he would tease.
Better. Now she was feeling much better. Fitz held the rim of a glass to her lips, and she sipped, thinking it was water or tea. But he had given her spirits, and she was unaccustomed to spirits and began to cough.
"There, there," he said, as if she were a child, and he smoothed her hair.
She could smell him, that fragrance that was Fitzwilliam. Again she closed her eyes, her cheek resting against his shoulder.
Finally she was safe.
chapter 17
He was kissing her.
Maura relaxed for the moment, enjoying the sensation. But the more he kissed her, the more aware she became that something was very wrong. He was being rough, not kind and gentle. There was an overwhelming sense that he didn't really care for her, his fingernails digging into her flesh. Even his mouth was hurting, a grinding pressure rather than a tender kiss, and it was becoming unpleasant.
Too many teeth. There was an sensation of being devoured. And that's when she realized it wasn't Donal, nor was it even Fitz weighing so heavily on her.
"Roger!" Pulling away, she saw his face, partially obscured by a shadow.
"Come on, Maura," he urged. "You left the front window wide open. You knew I would come by." "It was broken. Get off me," she warned, trying to push at his shoulders.
Instead of rolling away, he began his assault on her mouth again, this time grinning as he pressed down.
"Remember this?" He moaned. She did indeed remember—his appalling habit of tickling her as they embraced.
&nbs
"Please stop."
There was no indication he had heard her.
The way she was pinned under his weight, she was unable to move.
How had she ended up on the parlor floor?
With one hand he began to yank at her blouse, but before alarm could give way to sheer terror, he suddenly rose. Another voice filled the room.
"You bastard! Get the hell off her!"
Donal. He had somehow pulled a stunned Roger to his feet.
"Who are you?" Roger stammered.
Donal merely turned to Maura, reaching down to help her up. His gaze rested on the ripped blouse, and his jaw clenched before he spoke. "Are you hurt?"
"No, I'm fine." She was unable to even look at Roger, the man she had once imagined she loved. With trembling hands she tried to pull her shirt back into place.
"I suggest you leave and not return," Donal said in a low voice.
"What right do you have to—"
"Go away, Roger," she interrupted. "Maura, I will not be treated this way." "Oh?" Donal slowly turned toward him. "I believe I could show you far more interesting treatment. And the gardai would be fascinated at what I stumbled upon—it certainly appeared to be the beginning of a
felony, at best."
Roger straightened and walked stiffly through the open door. Donal fastened the lock before turning toward her. Very gently, he placed his hands on her
shoulders.
"Now tell me, are you truly unharmed?" His voice was so soft, so full of concern, she began to feel the full significance of what had almost happened.
"I didn't want him here," she began. "I must have fallen asleep, and the next thing I knew, he was on me, his hands everywhere . . ."
"It's over now, my love." He tenderly pulled her closer, and she closed her eyes, resting her head
against his chest.
"I don't know how it happened." The tears began in earnest now. "It was so dark, and you were not
there."
"I was going to follow you, but you were so furious at me, justifiably so. I don't know what happens when I'm with you, I just seem to lose all sense and reason."
Never had she felt so safe, so secure. He began to rub her back as he held her, and he rested his cheek against her head, kissing her lightly on the temple.
"He was just there in the night. I wasn't feeling well, I had retired early."
"It wasn't that early, Maura . .." She kept talking, settling further in his embrace, her eyes closed in lethargic peacefulness.
"And as you refused to listen to Patrick, I despaired of how to persuade you. But thank God you arrived. I fear what Andrew may have done."
"Andrew? I thought his name was Roger."
"Have you seen the papers yet?"
"What papers?"
"You must see the papers. I know not what they contain, but Patrick would never mislead you."
"Maura, what papers? The only ones I know of are the papers Charles has, the ones about transferring the factory to, well, you know, me."
As he spoke he led her to the sofa, and together, almost as one, they settled. In her drowsy contentment she snuggled closer.
"I have not been completely honest with you," began, smiling as she sighed. "All this time I been battling you, but it's myself I truly battled with The factory, all the business nonsense was just distraction. One I maintained because the feelings have for you, well, to tell you the truth, they spooked me. Are you listening?"
She seemed to either nod or nestle closer.
"I'll take that as a yes."
When she didn't respond, he continued. "Part my problem, part of my self-imposed solitude, was brought on by my mother's death. We were terribly close, especially after my father died, and the rage and betrayal I felt when she died frightened me. Here I had been operating under the delusion of self-control, a sense of never losing a grip. Then I lost it completely.
Life became meaningless. I remember walking down a street in Munich just after I returned from her funeral, and I was angry that everyone else was going about their business, as if nothing was wrong. I had an urge to scream at a woman who was laughing in front of a market, to trip the merrily romantic couple.
"It was a sense of outrage, I suppose. 'How can they go about their business when my world has just collapsed?' So I regained my self-control, vowing never to let myself into such a vulnerable position again. And then I met you."
Pausing to take a deep breath, he closed his eyes. "I love you, Maura. I love you so much that when I heard today some American was in town to see you, I lost my self-control. I love you so much I would rather argue with you than be away from you. I love you so very much that I can't imagine a future without you. It would be blank, desolate—a vast, endless nothing."
She seemed to move, and he waited for her answer. And waited.
"Maura? Have you nothing to say?"
Still she remained silent. And then he heard it, quietly at first, so softly he held his breath to prevent missing a word.
She was snoring.
Only after a jolt of frustration did he begin to chuckle. Of course, she would sleep through the most passionate declaration he had ever made. Of course, she would snore in response to his revealing his heart.
Of course, he would have to repeat the entire scene at a later date, preferably when she was conscious Before he fell asleep he had one final thought: At least he'd had a dress rehearsal.
He awoke in a panic.
She was ill, and something else. What was the other thing that had him so confoundedly upset?
"Kitty." He kept his voice so low, he thought only he could hear.
"Yes?" And then he saw her face, beaming in what he could only realize was love, her extraordinary eyes on him.
How had he gotten on the other side of the room, leaning against a fireplace mantel?
Glancing down, he was startled to see fawn-colored breeches and leather boots that came to his knees. He reached back to scratch his head in confusion and was met with hair, lots of hair, pulled back into a ponytail with . . . what was it? ... a leather tie.
A leather tie?
"I do hope they find him soon," she said.
"As do I," he replied without thinking. "I am ashamed of the way I behaved, ashamed and utterly anguished."
"Do not blame yourself, Fitz." She looked so fragile in the gossamer gown, her delicate face more pale than usual. That was to be expected, of course. After what had happened the night before, it was a wonder she was able to sit so calmly.
"How long have you known about Andrew?" He hadn't meant to ask that question. Part of him hoped she somehow had not heard. Yet he had to know. It was a compulsion to discover how truly blind he had been to his own brother's nature.
maiden voyage
"Oh, my love." She sighed as she spoke, a gauzy, ephemeral sound that caused his heart to race just slightly. At once he was at her side, kneeling by her chair, clasping one of her fragile hands in his.
"Can you ever forgive me? That I doubted both you and Patrick... I cannot think of it without loathing."
"I would have been sorely disappointed had you not doubted us. Andrew is your brother, and our suspicions would drive a wedge between the two of you."
"But when did you know?"
"About Andrew? Fitz, he has always been thus. You alone saw him through a haze of love. Even your father feared for his character. Do you recall the night his favorite hound was found dead on the lawn?"
"Of course I do. Boru was my favorite as well."
"Andrew killed him."
He tightened his hold on her hand but said nothing, allowing her to continue. "Your father overheard Andrew boasting to the stable boy about how he slit the hound's throat with a dinner knife."
"Why didn't he tell me? Father. He should have told me."
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"A dinner knife," he mumbled. "I do recall that some silver was replaced around the same time that Boru was found. I myself fetched it from Thomas Read's shop on Crane Lane."
"Your father told me he could not glance upon those knives without thinking of Andrew or poor Boru."
"Why did he tell you this? You and not me?"
"It was when his health was failing, Fitz. He knew of our feelings toward each other. I suppose he had known for a long time. Your father wanted me to know about Andrew's dual nature, should he grow up in such a way. He feared for you, your father. He knew you only saw the good in Andrew."
"What a complete fool you must think me."
"No." She leaned forward, and he rested his head on her breast. "Had you been any different, had you been suspicious or mistrustful, you would not be my Fitzwilliam."
He closed his eyes as she stroked his hair.
How would he ever be able to protect her?
Marry her. Marry her now before the big planned ceremony. That was the only way to prevent his brother's plan, the one he thwarted—only just—the night before.
By God, he would protect her. And forever she would remain his.
In her sleep she could feel him holding her, and it was wonderful.
As she began to waken, she could even feel him breathing deeply and evenly, and when she moved, he tightened his hold, as if she would escape.
A lovely dream. She resisted the urge to wake as long as possible, delaying the moment when she would open her eyes and find herself alone. If she could only fall asleep again, just for a while, and continue the dream of being in love, of being loved.
"Maura," he whispered, and she jumped.
"Donal!"
They were on the couch in the parlor, a piece of furniture so narrow and uncomfortable that it was difficult to sit without looking around the room for a less jarring place to rest. From the way they were lying, they must have slept there all night.
Maura sat up slowly, disentangling herself from his grasp.
"How did you get here? I thought you hated me." She hadn't meant to say that, but the last thing she remembered he was furious at her.