On the One Road Page 7

  Eamonn wasn't about to tell Desmund that he'd begun to have a breakdown over his guilt. It would not do any good for Desmund to tell Eamonn that he wasn't at fault. What did fault matter when his brother could die? Breaking down would not be any help to his brother. He would learn to control his reactions better.

  He watched as Desmund poured the water into a kettle and stoked the fire under it. Then, he made his way back to where Eamonn still stood. He was not sure what to do with himself now. Mairead was mashing herbs together into what looked like a paste. He did not know what its purpose would be, though.

  "Let Great-Aunt Mair work," Desmund said, taking Eamonn's arm and leading him over to the table. "She knows what she's doing. Everyone around comes to her for cures for fevers and other ailments." He glanced down at his leg and grimaced. "She cannot work miracles, but she does come close at times. I should not have survived this. I'm lucky to have my life, let alone my leg."

  "What happened?" Eamonn asked.

  "Do you want to know?"

  CHAPTER 9

  DESMUND DID NOT know why he even asked the question. If he spoke to people, he steered every line of conversation away from his leg. Out this way, there were not many to ask him questions. Most of those who stopped by were more concerned with their own worries—whatever brought them to Aunt Mair—and not why he was limping around the house.

  He did not know if his aunt had told these men everything. She'd admitted to informing them of her hatred. That he had his leg shattered because of Owen Curran. He did not know how much she had said. Now he had to wait for Eamonn's answer before continuing. If he'd only been asking but didn't honestly want to know, he would not dredge up those memories.

  Eamonn reached over and laid a hand on his arm. It was an innocent enough gesture. A friend would do that. Aye, that was what they would call this. Except the fluttering in his stomach wasn't caused by the touch of a friend. He'd already tried to tamp it down, knowing it was unnatural. Knowing it could get him hanged. His great-aunt had told him about her brother, his father's uncle, who had done just that when he'd been caught in a Molly house with another man.

  And in all that time, the law had never changed. He had attempted to pursue a woman, but he could never dredge up the interest. But, he didn't want to die because of who he loved. Would Eamonn think it was what he deserved, though? He pulled his arm out from under the other man's touch. He wished he hadn't when the hurt look crossed Eamonn's face.

  Maybe he wouldn't think that.

  Desmund watched Eamonn's throat move as he swallowed, then he pulled his hand back toward his lap. "I would not have asked if I did not want to know," he said. "Your great-aunt said it was Owen Curran."

  Eamonn said the name with a twist of his lips. Like it tasted bitter. So, they had, in fact, had their problems with the man. He hadn't heard what, except he knew their parents were dead. It would not surprise him that the two were related.

  "Aye," he said carefully. "And do you know I have lived here with Aunt Mairead since I was three?"

  Eamonn nodded, but he didn't say a word. He was waiting for Desmund to tell his story. He just wasn't sure how to tell it. "My parents died in a fire. Our house burned. They did not even give us a chance to get out. Barred the door with us inside and lit the roof on fire."

  Eamonn swallowed hard again. Then, he asked, "How did you get out then?"

  "I didn't." Aunt Mairead called his name, and he glanced over. She looked at the fireplace, and he grabbed the kettle of water to take over to her. He dipped a few bandages into it, laying them out the way she liked so they'd be ready. Then, knowing there was nothing more he could help with, he went back to Eamonn.

  "What do you mean?" he asked. "You are here. So you did get out."

  "Nay, I hid. There was a room under the floor of our cottage. It was where they had meetings. Da tried to get Ma to go down with me, but she would not leave him. So, I was still there when the fire died, and a neighbor came. He kept me until Aunt Mair showed up. Then, I came here."

  Those days had been so hard, but Aunt Mairead had been a godsend. It was the first time she had helped him to survive. "I didn't have any burns. I’d been protected from the flames. But, the smoke made it hard to breathe. It's never quite recovered from that. Aunt Mair thinks that might be what dulled my vision."

  Eamonn didn't need to know all of this, did he? So why was he telling him? It shouldn't even be important. But maybe a part of it was. "I was six when I had my first run-in with the young lord. He would have been thirteen."

  The corners of Eamonn's mouth turned down. "His father brought him over from London for the summers. Torin and I grew to dread that season. He started tormenting Tor around the same time."

  "Really?" Desmund asked. "Why?"

  Eamonn lifted one shoulder, then let it drop. "Because he could. Because he's the son of an English lord. Because Torin has always had a mouth on him and didn't know when it was smarter to keep it shut, even at the age of seven."

  Desmund smiled a little at this last and glanced over toward the young man his great-aunt was caring for. "And it is still getting him in trouble, I'd say."

  "Aye," Eamonn said, his voice somber now. "It is. And he tried to exact what justice he could. And this is where it got him. I do not know that it is worth it."

  Desmund couldn't help but reach out to him. He gave his fingers a quick squeeze, then pulled his hand back again. He didn't know what Eamonn would do with the touch, but he did know it sent a strong surge through him. And he couldn't let that be known.

  All he knew to do was continue with his own story. "That first time, I had taken Great-Aunt's small flock of sheep to the stream to water them. He had a couple of other boys riding with him. I didn't talk then except to Aunt Mair, so when he asked what business I had at his stream, I didn't respond. I would have thought it obvious, anyway."

  Eamonn's lips lifted in a bit of a smirk at that. Desmund was glad to put some humor back into his eyes instead of the worry that had filled them since they returned to the cottage. "I am sure he did not appreciate that."

  "Of course not. He had two of his mates hold me while a third hit me." Eamonn winced at that, and something fluttered in Desmund's chest. He wanted to comfort Eamonn through this, which was a bit of foolishness. None of it should hurt the other man. He wasn't the one who had lived through it. "When they were done, they tossed me into the stream. And rode away laughing. I pulled myself out, waited until I'd dried then came back here. Aunt Mair knew something had happened, but I wouldn't speak about it. What could we do anyway? He had more power than we could ever dream."

  "That's what Torin said. About getting justice for our parents. It's why he went after him himself."

  Desmund nodded. He wasn't surprised by that. Everyone around here knew the truth of that. "There were other incidences, most of them of little consequence. It got worse the summer of my fifteenth year."

  "What happened?" Eamonn looked like he'd become absorbed in the story. He had said he had a love for words and tales. This wasn't a pretty one with a happy ending, though.

  And how did Desmund tell him without exposing his whole truth? "I was in town this time and had gone to buy supplies for Aunt Mair. I got shoved. I do not know by whom. But he was there. He thought the whole thing was funny. I fought back that time. And they broke me fingers for daring to hit one of them." He wiggled those fingers now. Sometimes when it was cold and wet, they still ached.

  Eamonn reached out and took them as if he couldn't help touching them. Desmund couldn't let himself think that, though. He'd made the mistake before and was just lucky nothing more than a broken leg had come of it. He took a deep breath and made himself extract his hand before he continued.

  "It was not to be my last run-in with him and his mates." Until last year. "I had seen them in town and rode back home." He left out the part where he flirted with one of Owen's mates. It had been a foolish mistake, brought on by one too many pints of ale. "It was not to be, though, as they followed me out of town."

  Desmund saw Eamonn's hand fist against the table. He looked away, or he did not think he could finish the tale seeing the other man's distress. "They caught me halfway home, knocked me clean out of the saddle. My leg snapped when I hit the ground. They still forced me to stand on it. Owen claimed I had been seen..." He swallowed hard. This part was the truth, and he didn't see any way around telling it. "That I had been seen fornicating with another man. And his mates would all swear to it. That he'd seen the strange way I looked at him. I didn't," he said fiercely, and that was the truth of it. He had never been pulled toward Owen. "But, he did not care. The magistrate would believe him over me. If I ever told what they did to me, I would hang from my neck."

  "They could not just take his word for it," Eamonn argued. "To prosecute, they would have to have two witnesses to the act and proof it had been... finished." His face colored, and he glanced down at the table. "I have read the law in full. It's difficult to prosecute, but they will get you on a lesser charge."

  A buzz ran over his skin. Why did Eamonn know this? Why would he have read over a law such as this? Unless it was important to him.

  "I did not know that. But I doubt it would have mattered. He would have found a way. They used clubs on me that time. My leg was broken in four places, I busted my ribs and broke my arm, too. Everything healed but the leg. If not for Aunt Mair, I would not be able to walk on it."

  Eamonn reached over and took his hand again. He looked wary but almost like he was unable to resist touching. His thumb brushed along the back of Desmund's hand. He looked right into Eamonn's eyes, staring at him. There was definitely something in them. Desmund couldn't breathe, and he leaned closer.

  "Be careful with yourself, lad." He jumped at his aunt's voice, not realizing she'd left Torin's pallet. He looked at her, but her gaze had gone to Eamonn. "I have found my nephew broken more than enough times. I do not want to again. Ye should sit with your brother. He is sleeping restfully now. Let me know if that changes, though."

  Desmund thought Eamonn might argue with her. But after a moment, he withdrew his hand and moved over to where their pallets were set up. Desmund scowled up at his aunt. "That was unnecessary," he said softly. "We were only talking."

  "That is not all he has been thinking of doing with you," his aunt practically hissed. "I do not want to bury you as well, lad. Just keep that in your mind."

  Desmund would undoubtedly be doing that since he did not want it either. But, what was he to do? Simply be alone for the rest of his life? It looked like that was all there was for him.

  CHAPTER 10

  OWEN PRESSED A hand to his side as he moved a little too quickly. He'd been confined to his bed for too long already. It was time to get moving. He dropped his hand and stood straighter before stepping into the parlor. He did not need any of his men to see him lowered by his pain. It was bad enough that Garret had been the one to find him wounded on the doorstep. How would they respect him if they saw him in that way?

  It would not happen again. He would make sure of it. Once he had those two Irish rats in the deepest pit he could find.

  Owen jerked his head at the servant, who was filling several glasses with sherry from the decanter. The man recapped it and hurried out of the room.

  "Really, Owen," Leighton drawled from his spot on the sofa. "Was that necessary? The man was only doing his job."

  "Do not question me," Owen ordered. It seemed like Leighton did that an awful lot these days. If it continued, Owen would show him the error of his ways. It would be messy, so he'd prefer if it didn't come down to that. "I would rather not have any extra listening ears in here."

  Another of his men, Pierson, snorted. "He's just a servant, Owen. Who would he tell?"

  "Do not be so daft," Owen said, grabbing a glass from the sideboard and striding to his chair that everyone had—rightly—left empty. They knew better than to take his chair. Even if they didn't have a problem drinking his whiskey. "He hears what we say, and he tells the other servants. They tell servants in another house, and it gets around, and if something goes wrong, the blame comes back to us. None of you want that, do you?"

  They all shook their heads, and Owen was sure it was stark fear that swept through Leighton's eyes. He only knew some of his secrets. What were the others he tried to hide from Owen? He should understand better than to try. His proclivity for other men certainly wasn't one of them. He knew if he did anything to cross Owen, he would use that information against Leighton. So he was one he never had to worry about.

  "That is what I thought. Now, tell me, how did you let those criminals get away after they left me bleeding in front of my own home?"

  Owen watched as several of them paled and began to stammer out excuses and apologies. He didn't want to hear any of them. But he let them stagger along, anyway. Then, they'd see any absolution as a strong mercy. Finally, he held up a hand to bring them to a stop. "It matters not any longer. They are free when they should not be. We are going to fix that, though."

  Another flash of... something in Leighton's eyes. Maybe he did have to watch the other man more closely than he thought. He'd do that but finding those cretins needed to take priority.

  "Are you going to have us tell the constables what we know?"

  Owen didn't bother glaring at the man who had spoken out of turn. Instead, he simply said, "No need to get constables involved. We will find them and make sure they get the punishment they rightly deserve."

  ***

  BRIDGETTE CAME DOWN into the parlor to find Sheilah replacing the wilting flowers with fresh ones. The other young woman was humming something light and soft. Bridgette couldn't quite recognize the tune, but it sounded happy. She hadn't gotten to know the landlady's daughter too well yet. Every time she saw her, she couldn't help feeling resentful. She knew it was not the other girl's fault that Bridgette's father was upset with her. And yet she couldn't help linking the two.

  Sheilah looked over and smiled tentatively at Bridgette. "How are you this fine morn, Miss Muldoon?"

  Not her fault, Bridgette reminded herself before she snarled out a response. Not that her father had harshly reprimanded her. Or that he had practically imprisoned her in this house. As many times as Bridgette told herself Sheilah could have covered for her that day, she'd never asked it of her. She had not confided in her at all. So, no, it was not her fault. It was Bridgette's. She needed to be honest with her father — she would lose her sanity if she had to spend another full day cooped up in here — and come to a bargain with him. She'd always been able to succeed at that before. She hoped things hadn't changed so much she could no longer do that.

  "I am well," she answered. "Something seems to have put you in a fine mood early this day."

  Sheilah smiled and twirled the stem of a flower between her fingers. "Murtagh is coming to join us for dinner this evening."

  Bridgette could not help smiling at the way the other girl's cheeks flushed a pretty pink. "And that differs from most other evenings?"

  "Do not tease," Sheilah said, still smiling. "He will be leaving this weekend and not returning for weeks."

  Bridgette could nearly feel Sheilah's ache over that. She did not know what it was to miss someone like that. She had never had anyone but her father and mother. Losing her mother was different, as there was no chance of her returning. And she had never loved someone the way Sheilah loved her Murtagh. Bridgette was not sure she ever would.

  "Does he leave often?" she asked, even though she'd been determined not to befriend the other girl.

  "Aye. Every three months. Gone for two weeks, at the least. They must resupply their stock for his father's shop."

  Bridgette understood that. Her father had bought most of his supplies from traveling merchants, but he had to go on his own resupplying trips at times. She reached out and grasped the other girl's hand. "He will return before you even know he is gone."

  Sheilah smiled at her, a steadier one than she'd first given her. "If only it could be so. I miss him the moment he is gone, and that is when he lives only three houses down. These trips are an eternity."

  Bridgette took the flower, put it in the vase, and pulled Sheilah away. "Then, we will keep it from being so."

  It seemed they both had things they had to make the most of.

  ***

  BIRDHILL, COUNTY TIPPERARY, Ireland

  August 4, 1850

  Eamonn woke from his spot beside Torin's pallet to a hand on his leg. He lifted his head from his chest and stared down into his brother's eyes. His awake, alert eyes. Something they had not been in more than a day.

  "Oh," he cried, startling them both by the look in his brother's eyes.

  Torin opened his mouth, but only a croak came out. "Water," Eamonn said. "You probably need water." He jumped to his feet and then looked around. The cottage was still dark. But, Mairead had said to call for her as soon as he woke. So he did just that.

  Mairead came from her room, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. "Did something happen then?" she asked.

  "Torin woke up. Should I get him water?"

  "I will check him, but aye, go get some for him. I am sure he will be thirsty."

  Torin looked like he would speak, but Mairead put a finger to his lips and then pulled at one of the poultices she'd put over his larger wounds. Eamonn turned away and got a water dipper from the bucket sitting in the kitchen. They'd used a lot to wet rags for Torin's forehead, taking shifts to sit with him.

  When he and Desmund had been free of that duty, they'd spent time together. They hadn't touched each other, not even letting their arms brush. Not after Desmund’s tale and what he'd heard Mairead whisper to Desmund as Eamonn had gone to sit with Torin. He did not want to see something happen to the other man. He just wished he did not have to choose between what he wanted and what he needed for survival.