Oh, that had been the worst of it from the beginning, the discovery that “Lord Ash” was a creation, a fabrication, no more real than her pen and ink one, but crafted with a far more malicious intent, and not by Gabriel alone, either. How, in all these years, had no one managed to catch a glimpse of the pain-filled eyes behind that mask? Or why, among all the women he had purportedly known, had he chosen to reveal himself to her?
But perhaps he didn’t have a choice in the matter, any more than she seemed to have.
Her fingers tightened on the handles of her valise. All her bravery had deserted her. She found herself wishing he would not ask to hear more.
“Good morning,” he called to her as he approached, looking infuriatingly better rested and less rumpled that she, although she had been the one to enjoy the benefits of a proper bed. Dare she hope that with all that energy he would elect to continue on horseback and leave the carriage to her?
But after he handed her into the coach, he followed and settled in across from her like a sultan awaiting his entertainment. “What adventure now befalls poor Róisín?” he asked as soon as the driver had chirruped to the horses.
Masking a sigh, she dug the manuscript from her bag. After she had delayed as long as she could, shuffling through the stack of paper twice as she pretended to look for her place, she began.
“The next morning dawned cool and bright, and Róisín’s harp was tuned and ready with the sun. With every bard that played and sang, the trembling of her fingers increased. How could she presume to play before them?
“When her turn came, she tilted her instrument against her breast and plucked the first notes of the keening melody she had written, weaving together the stories of Deirdre and Meadhbh and all the strong women who had made Ireland proud.
“She did not win the competition, of course. She was, as Cathal had said, only a woman, and the only woman who competed, at that. But she won the hearts of many of those who heard her, a prize more valuable to her than gold.
“She also won the attentions of Lord Granville, which value I shall leave it to the reader to determine.”
From that point on in the story, myriad scratches and scribblings made her own hand more difficult to decipher. More slowly, she read of how Granville showed an interest in Róisín’s song and the history that lay behind it. Her friends whispered that his interest was pretended. The women of her village shook their heads and declared that even though St. Patrick had long ago driven all the serpents from the green isle, Róisín still ought to be able to recognize one when it slithered across her path.
Meanwhile, in her innocence, Róisín imagined she might turn a stranger to Ireland into a friend.
“Where in God’s name are Cathal and Fergus while this preening dandy attempts to have his way with their sister?” Gabriel demanded, dashing Cami’s hope that he had begun to doze.
“Do you know what had happened just a few months earlier in Belfast?”
He waved the question away in obvious annoyance.
“Several young men, men who spoke with great admiration for the revolution in France, met and formed a society they hoped would bring together both Protestant and Catholic in the cause of an independent Ireland. After the festival, they took the harp as their symbol.” Between the sentences she left a little prompting pause, willing him to put together the pieces.
“The United Irishmen, you mean. So this festival was a real event? And they were there, recruiting members to their cause?”
“Yes.”
The answer did not seem to satisfy him. “So the Maguire brothers are off raising a glass to freedom while their sister—”
“Their goals are the same, Gabriel,” she said, holding up one hand to settle him. “To make English eyes see Ireland in a new light. And besides…” It was her turn to study the landscape as it slipped past the window. “It’s only a story.”
“Well, go on with it, then,” he grumbled, folding his arms across his chest.
Reluctantly, she took up her pages once more. To earn Róisín’s sympathy and trust, Granville plied her with stories of his troubled childhood and misspent youth. It was here where the character had ceased to be based on a man from Cami’s past and had become a version of the man before her now. A man whose father had died under mysterious circumstances, who had been raised by a cruel uncle, and whose skill at hazard had led him to commit more than a few cruelties himself.
“Hazard?” Gabriel’s mouth was twisted slightly to the side as if he had ground the word between his teeth before spitting it out. “I thought you intended to craft the image of a clever rake, Miss Burke, not a boy shooting marbles with his chums.”
Had she really once quibbled with Felicity’s description of him as dark? A thundercloud was building across his brow. Of all the things she had expected him to find objectionable, a villain who diced had been the least of her worries.
He had let her read without interruption, without even much change in his expression, until that moment. Before she could think of a suitable reply to his critique, the carriage gave a lurch, drawing their eyes to the window. She had not noticed that the scenery beyond it had been growing increasingly rugged, while the road had narrowed until it was barely wide enough for the coach.
Gabriel swore under his breath.
“What is it?” she demanded. “Is one of the horses injured? Have we damaged a wheel?”
“We should be so fortunate.” He shoved himself back into his seat, folded his arms across his chest, and shook his head. “No,
