Sea of Fire Page 13

  He handed her a lamp and started up the steps. “There’s a bedchamber to the right of the stairway. Mine is to the left. Several more are located on the floor above. Take your pick.”

  She considered the second level as it would be farther from Christian and almost as fast changed her mind. Should the need arise for her to exit quickly, the room on the first level would be best. At the landing, she turned to her right and Christian to the left.

  She hurriedly set about to change her clothes, and had just hung her gown in the wardrobe closet when a knock sounded on the door. Frantically, she dressed into the friar’s robe. A knock sounded again and prompted her to make last-second adjustments as she dashed to the door and opened it. She knew it was Christian, but his appearance startled her just the same.

  “Perhaps you were expecting someone other than Brother Joseph,” he said and pirouetted in front of her quite unlike a friar.

  She laughed. “Do you think we should give you a belly?”

  “This cap and robe are torture enough. I’ll pretend to be from the order of friars who periodically fast.” He glanced at her head. “Get your cap on, Brother John. Time is a wasting.”

  “Brother John?” she tilted her head.

  “Aye. Can you imagine the Josephs and Johns in Dublin alone. Should anyone inquire about the Brothers John and Joseph, they’d have a lot of brothers to muddle through before they learned a particular two don’t exist.

  “Good point, Brother Joseph.” She smashed her locks into the cap and pulled her hood low over her head and face. “Lead the way.”

  He held out his hand for her to take. She did so and they descended the staircase.

  The idea of what this must look like—two friars holding hands—apparently crossed his mind the same time it had hers.

  He squeezed her hand and said, “I think this is safe until we get outdoors.”

  She laughed, and in a somber tone said, “Brother Joseph. We must remember we are representatives of our monastery, serving our Lord. We need to act accordingly.”

  “Brother John,” he said and released her hand when they reached the entryway. “I hadn’t given much thought to that aspect of wearing this garb.” He proceeded to put out the lamps until the house was dark save for the moonlight which shone through the library and draperied windows. Unexpectedly, he gathered her close to him, kissed her soundly and released her. Not waiting for her reaction, which she was not quite sure of anyway, he opened the entry door and motioned for her to exit. He grinned at her before he said, “I’m afraid by the time this charade is over, our dear Lord may come down from the heavens and personally ask us to leave the order.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “You better go the rest of the way without me,” Christian told Elizabeth, who was walking at his side.

  “Aye. Where will I find you afterwards?”

  “Start walking as if you were actually going to your home. I’ll catch up to you. And, don’t worry. Roderick will never know.”

  Not worry, indeed. God in heaven, she prayed Roderick would be none the wiser. She continued towards the cemetery near St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where she was to meet the man. Had Christian not been nearby, her nerves would have been far more strained. A cemetery at night was a place where the dead should be—not a place for the living to hold a meeting.

  She approached an iron gate. Thankfully, as she opened it, the gate didn’t creak and add to the already eerie atmosphere. She shivered—partly due to the chill in the air, partly from dread. The earlier winds had miraculously subsided, though the air was thick with the threat of rain.

  She scanned the rows of mist-clouded monuments. How was she supposed to find a monument with the name Byrne engraved on it and in the form of a seraph, a six-winged angel, without going up and down each row? She hated this and everything that had to do with Roderick and Adam. Blast them both. She cautiously proceeded down the row of headstones nearest her, suddenly overcome by guilt. She should be ashamed of herself. Her father probably had suffered more. Would their lives ever be the same? Thus far, no solution had presented itself except for Christian. Yet, he was limited himself.

  She rounded the last monument in the row and turned up the next pathway. The mist shifted momentarily, enabling her to see across several rows. A dark figure waved to her from the distance. Roderick.

  The sooner she received her orders from him, the sooner she might leave this ghoulish place. She lifted her robe in order to pick up her pace. Her foot hit a rut. She tumbled and fell, inwardly cursing her clumsiness. It wasn’t until she stood, that she saw Roderick approach from no more than thirty feet away. How odd though. He wore a friar’s robe just like hers.

  She yelled to him. “Why the robe?”

  He waited until he was much closer, and replied, “For the same reason you are, Brother. Is it not what a friar dons these days?”

  The moment she heard the voice, she knew it wasn’t Roderick.

  “I’m sorry,” she softly said, yet in a much deeper tone, hoping he’d think he imagined a woman’s voice. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “I’m Brother Patrick. I’m staying at the church and couldn’t sleep. The cemeteries are always so peaceful.”

  She kept her head low and the hood pulled as far around her face as possible. “I’m Brother John. I, too, could not sleep.”

  “You seemed like you were expecting someone,” he inquired.

  “Nay. Nay.” How was she to get out of this mess? Roderick was probably watching her predicament with amusement.

  “Brother John. I don’t mean to pry. It is not the way of a friar. You are clearly distressed though. Would you like to come back to the church to talk?” He briefly rested a hand on her shoulder.

  “Nay.” she said, understanding that Brother Patrick was not going to be dismissed so easily. “I’m not upset over anything.” She began her story. “In fact, this is a place of solace for me. A fellow brother that I was quite fond of is buried here, so I come often, but only at night.”

  “Why only at night?”

  “Well,” she paused. “You’ll not believe me if I say.”

  “I will. I will. You can tell me, Brother John.”

  “You won’t think I’m loony?”

  “On me sweet mother’s grave, nay.”

  “He comes at night.”

  “Who?” Brother Patrick asked, having not got it.

  “The friar I come to visit.”

  “But he’s dead,” Brother Patrick said in a tone of disbelief and something more. Perhaps it was fear, or maybe Brother Patrick was a tad on the superstitious side.

  “Only his body is dead. His soul wanders the cemetery. ‘Tis him all right. Only, he’s naked as an egg. That’s why I asked about the robe.”

  “Brother John. It can’t be a good omen to see a man floating around the cemetery naked as ... as an ...” His voice became throaty. He cleared it. “Leave us go to the altar for prayers.”

  “Brother John stays here,” boomed a deep voice from what seemed to be within a nearby headstone.

  “Lord have mercy on us,” Brother Patrick made the sign of the cross. He lifted his robes and ran in the direction of the church, mumbling the Lord’s Prayer.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t think our friar friend will find the cemetery as appealing at night any longer,” Christian said. He stepped out from behind the talking headstone.

  “If I wasn’t so surprised to hear your voice, I would have laughed until it hurt, I’m sure. How long have you been watching and listening?”

  “Naked as an egg?”

  Thankfully, the darkness hid what she was sure was a blush. “ ‘Tis all I could think of. Thank you for your help. I thought he was Roderick.” She scanned the rows of monuments. “You better go before Roderick sees you.”

  “He’s already gone. I saw him first. When he spotted the friar and next you, he fled. The coward won’t be back.”

  “What will we do?”

  “Go home an
d get some rest. He’ll contact you. You can count on it.” He stood in a comfortable position with his hands behind his back.

  “What an evening,” she said in a tired voice. “You realize this little episode will spread like wild fire through the church and monasteries.”

  “Poor Brother Patrick,” Christian said. “Until anyone sees or hears for himself what he has, I’m afraid most will consider him daft, unless they’re equally as superstitious.”

  “I feel bad. Can’t we do something?” she asked.

  “As much as I like to be naked, don’t expect me to do any parading.”

  She elbowed him in the ribs. “I didn’t mean that.”

  “That hurt,” he rubbed his side. “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s go in the church and check on Brother Patrick. We can be witnesses for him. If there are three of us who say all the same, he’ll not be scorned.”

  “And just what is my reason for being at the cemetery?”

  “You came with me.”

  “ ‘Tis that simple?” he asked.

  “Aye. I’ll talk. I’ll tell them you can’t speak,” she explained excitedly. Now, she was anxious to help Brother Patrick.

  “How does that sound?” she asked.

  When he failed to answer, she glanced up at him. He mimed that he could not speak. She shook her head at him and hurried along until they passed through the iron gate and secured it behind them.

  On opening the heavy doors of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, she saw Brother Patrick at the far end of the nave. He sat in the first pew before the altar. She padded down the center aisle and waved to Christian to follow. Short of the first pew, she stopped and softly called to him, “Brother Patrick. Are you feeling better?”

  Instantly, the friar rose from his kneeling position, made the sign of the cross again, and stood before them. “ ‘Tis a frightening event we’ve witnessed. No one would believe it.”

  “That’s why we’re here. We’ll tell whoever you wish that we heard the same voice,” she encouraged.

  “Thank you, Brother John, but it won’t be necessary. I don’t plan to tell a single person about this. After some thought and prayer, I put my faith and trust in our God. I’ll not question it further. For whatever reason, I heard what I heard and that is that. It is over.”

  She was surprised at the change in the friar, but not at his faith. After all, the direction he had chosen demanded discipline and strong will.

  “We bid you farewell, then,” she said and grabbed Christian’s arm to leave.

  “Wait. There are two additional pallets in the chamber where I am sleeping. You and your friend are welcome to use them.” He turned to Christian. “I appreciate your willingness to come to my defense this evening. Who may I thank?”

  “He’s Brother Joseph,” she chirped out. “He doesn’t speak.”

  “I see,” Brother Patrick said. He tilted his head in thought and added, “You’ve been chosen to be special. Thank you again, Brother Joseph.”

  Christian rapidly bobbed his head up and down several times like a half-wit to indicate agreement.

  Brother Patrick gave a compassionate smile, and said, “Farewell.”

  “Farewell,” she answered in return.

  When she and Christian were safely outdoors, she spoke in a whisper. “I said you were mute—not an idiot. Did you want Brother Patrick to wonder how you entered the monastery?”

  “I couldn’t help myself. Chosen to be special. Indeed.” He shoved down his hood and yanked off the cap.

  “What are you doing? What if you’re seen?”

  “Right now I don’t give a damn. This cap is hot, and the wool, particularly in this hood, itches like hell. I have to get this robe off.” He grabbed her by the hand and dragged her along.

  At last, when she could handle his fast pace no more, she stopped and panted. “I must rest,” she said between breaths.

  “The carriage is not far. Hold on,” he continued with her in tow until they reached the vehicle.

  She plopped down in the seat rather unladylike. “I ... don’t think ... I’ll ever ... catch my breath.”

  “Ready,” he yelled out the window to the driver, and next faced her. “You were good,” he said, and smiled at her before he tugged his robe up over his head and off. “Whew. That’s better,” he said and relaxed in his seat.

  He wore a simple lawn shirt opened halfway to the waistband of his breeches. He was damp with perspiration and the shirt clung to his muscled chest. He exuded maleness and a power which consumed the inside of the carriage.

  She tried not to stare, but she couldn’t help herself. Like a magnet drawn to metal, her eyes stared at his chest, his legs and ...

  “Doesn’t your robe itch?”

  Thankfully, he interrupted. Her gaze and thoughts were becoming dangerously improper.

  “Aye. Some.” She lowered her hood, removed the cap and fluffed her flattened lacks. Certainly, he didn’t expect her to completely disrobe.

  “What are you wearing underneath?” He cocked his head curiously.

  “ ‘Tis none of your concern and not polite of you to ask.” God in heaven, he could make her uncomfortable.

  He gave a broad smile. “Always on your guard—aren’t you?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Relax.”

  “I am.”

  “Little liar,” he said and blatantly stared at her.

  “Stop watching me like that.”

  He ignored her. Blast him.

  Hunched over, she popped up from her seat, intending to smack him in the nose with her fist. The warning glare he gave her forced her to sit back in place. When she did, he flashed her a lopsided smile before he rested his head against the back of the seat and closed his eyes.

  Now, perhaps she, too, might have some peace until they reached his town house.

  * * * *

  Exhausted as Elizabeth was when she snuggled under the bed linens, sleep failed to come. She and Christian had wished each other a good night well over two hours ago. She was still wide awake at nearly three in the morn. She kept thinking about Roderick and what he would say the next time she met with him. Would he be angry and blame her because they had missed their meeting? Would he plan something even more horrible for her to do? What if he had seen Christian? Doubts nagged and chipped away at her until she wanted to scream. Lying in bed was like a feeding ground of negative thoughts for her mind. She decided to rise and search for some reading that would promote sleepiness.

  She lit the lamp and first searched the bedchamber for an old Hibernian Magazine or Dublin News left behind by a previous guest, or a stray book that had failed to get reshelved in the Traynor library. Nothing.

  Rain gently pattered against the windowpane, instantly giving her second thoughts about prowling around Christian’s home—for that was what she’d be doing. After all, she was a guest, though not because they were friends or even lovers. She laughed out loud at this last notion— Christian her lover. What she knew about Christian suggested that his beloved would not spend the evening alone.

  She rested on the edge of the bed and remembered when she had spent the night in his bedchamber. He had forced her down on the bed and pressed himself against her to block her escape. Yet, he hadn’t hurt her nor did she believe he would have. Her instincts told her he would be a gentle, yet demanding lover.

  Images of Mary Margaret drifted to mind, and she experienced a pang of envy over the woman’s relationship with Christian. Next instant, she chastised herself for such foolishness. She didn’t even like Christian. It was the sole idea of having someone special care for her that appealed to her. She had hoped that person would be Adam. Silly lady. The last person she needed to replace him with, was his brother. She sighed. She’d risk a trip to the Traynor library to occupy her mind with other thoughts.

  She slipped into her wrapper and grabbed the lamp. Tiptoeing, she made her way downstairs to the library and set the lamp down on an o
versized, carved mahogany desk. Behind the desk were wall-to-wall shelves with stacks of books. Her intention was to take the first book that sounded dreadful and return to her room.

  Instead, through her peripheral vision, she noticed a doll sitting in a child-sized chair. This was strange decor for a gentleman’s library, unless a child spent a great deal of time here. She reached for the doll, which was a miniature version of an adult.

  Adam had never mentioned children. Adam never told her anything. Did he have a child, or was his secrecy solely a means to get to her father? Her father had made it clear that Adam had information to share about himself, but he wished to do so in time. Were children part of this information? Somehow, she couldn’t picture Adam as a father. Especially, after he abducted her father.

  She placed the doll back in the small chair when a startling revelation presented itself. Christian had never said he wasn’t married. Though Mary Margaret was his mistress, he still could have a wife and children. A mistress was acceptable to some wives, but one would never be to her. If he was married, where was this family? The notion that he might be wedded depressed her.

  There was so little she knew about the Traynors. Perhaps that was why she began to study the paintings on the walls and to examine the bric-a-brac on the tables and shelves throughout the room. Something was bound to give her a clue about the kind of family the Traynors were.

  Her hopes were dashed, however, for if any painting or object meant anything other than the obvious indication of the family’s decorating taste, only the owners knew. Still, Adam may have been tight-lipped, but Christian had no reason to be. He should fully tell her what she wanted to know.

  Without further contemplation, she grabbed the lamp and marched upstairs towards Christian’s bedchamber, plagued with curiosity. If she couldn’t sleep, by all that’s holy, he wasn’t going to sleep either—at least not until he answered every one of her questions.