In Sunshine or In Shadow

by Cynthia Owens

Prologue

Ballycashel, Ireland, 1850

Her worst enemy was her last hope.

Siobhán Desmond stood before the heavy wooden door, shivering as the cold, wet autumn wind knifed through her threadbare cloak. Squaring her shoulders, she raised her hand and lifted the dragon-headed brass knocker.

You’ve no choice, she reminded herself.  You must do this. You must.

The door creaked open, the mournful sound loud as a banshee’s wail.

“Yes?”

Biting her lip to still its trembling, Siobhán gazed up at the tall, broad man with the craggy face and wintry blue eyes. A chill raced down her spine as she forced herself not to flinch from that cold, superior gaze.

Lord Percival Glenleigh.

The one man she hated above all others.

“Are you one of my tenants?”

He didn’t know her. She, her mother and father and their parents before them, had all been his tenants, yet not a spark of recognition flared in his icy gaze.

“Aye, Your Honor. Me name’s Siobhán Desmond, sir.”

“Desmond? I don’t recall the name. But no matter. One cannot keep track of all one’s tenants. Well, get on with it then, Shi…vaun. What is it you want?”

Siobhán swallowed against the surge of hatred boiling in her throat. Remember Ashleen. She would do anything, even beg scraps from this repulsive man, if it meant her daughter would survive.

“I-I’m after lookin’ for work, sir,” she murmured, her head lowered, her voice barely audible. “’Tis desperate I am. The money’s run out, and ‘tis all I can do to keep body and soul together. I’ve knowledge of cooking and cleaning, and I make lovely lace. Please, sir, I’ll do anything...”

Oh, God, how she hated the note of pleading that crept into her voice. Oh, Michael—Ashleen...

Forgive me...

“Come in, then. What did you say your name is? Shi…vaun?”

Siobhán nodded as Glenleigh ushered her into the drawing room. It felt blessedly warm inside, the fire blazing cheerily, the thick carpets soothing her bare, blistered feet. She longed to throw herself onto one of those deep-cushioned brocade sofas and sleep. It would be soft, she knew. And she could pull one of those heavy throws over her shoulders and be warm again...

If Glenleigh would hire her, she could bring these things home...

“So it’s work you’re seeking, is it?”

“Y-yes, sir. I’ll do anything, Your Honor. I can cook and clean and do mending. Just give me a chance...”

He was staring at her, she realized, gooseflesh springing onto her arms and crawling up the back of her neck like a thousand poisonous spiders. A small smile played around his thick lips as his gaze traveled from her face to the pitifully undernourished body barely concealed beneath her worn woolen cloak.

‘Tis the very green of yer eyes, darlin’,  Michael had once told her, his own blue eyes sparkling with love.  But sure, those eyes put Erin’s green fields to shame, so they do.  She forced her mind from past to present as she heard Glenleigh’s arrogant voice. “Are you clean, madam?”

“I…clean?” For a moment, Siobhán could not understand his words, then all her Irish pride rose up in her. “Aye, ‘tis clean I am, Yer Honor. We’ve not much more than a sliver of soap at home...” Her words trailed off as the real meaning of his words hit her.

This evil old man actually thought—wanted… 

With his words, all the pain and anguish she and her family had suffered washed over her as if it were yesterday. The hunger, the little ones dying. The executions.

And now this man actually thought she would sell herself? To him? And for what? A moldy crust of bread? A bag of meal? A banquet served at the enemy’s table?

No! her mind screamed. She wouldn’t—couldn’t lower herself to that. No matter what, she would find some other way to keep them all alive.

Wildly, she shook her head, her long curls bouncing about her shoulders. Yet even as she did, he reached for her, his soft, white gentleman’s hands tugging at her cloak.

“Here, now, don’t be shy, my dear. If you cooperate, I’m sure I can find some food for you—the servants can’t possibly eat all they prepare. If you’ll just come in for a moment—”

“Take your filthy English hands off me!” Was that voice really hers? Furiously, she struggled to free herself. “I’ll not be yer whore, Your Honor. I’d not be sellin’ meself so cheaply, not if you promised me a banquet in Heaven itself.”

“Why, you little Irish bitch!” His fingers biting into her shoulders, he lowered his mouth to hers. Hatred surged in her heart as she twisted in his grasp, frantic to free herself. He rammed his tongue into her mouth and she shuddered with revulsion. A low moan tore from her throat.

Then, just as suddenly as his assault had begun, Lord Percival Glenleigh’s hands went slack and a harsh sound gushed from his lips. His eyes bulging, he clutched wildly at his chest. When he opened his mouth to speak, only a strangled gurgle emerged.

Siobhán watched impassively as the mountainous man fell to his knees on the lush Aubusson carpet. She stared in silence at the hand he held out in supplication.

“Please—water,” he croaked. “There—on the table—water, damn you!”

Impassively, Siobhán looked from Glenleigh to the sparkling array of decanters and glasses set on an elegant cherry wood table. They were crystal from Waterford, she knew, the best that money could buy.

Money that could have bought food to feed her starving people.

It would be easy, she thought. So easy to fill one of them, to hand it to His Honor... Memories flooded over her—her mother and sisters looking to her for food that wasn’t there,

two beloved bodies swinging from the Hanging Tree, her baby sister dying in her arms.

What had Glenleigh ever done for her?

As the Master of Ballycashel House fell prostrate on the floor, his struggles stilled, a high, wordless cry rose to Siobhán’s lips. It was a cry of rage, a cry of anguish, a mourning cry wrung from the very depths of her tormented soul.

She spun on her bare heels and ran into the dark, salt-sprayed night.

Chapter One

Winter

“Ballycashel’s been sold!”

It was Paddy Devlin, one of the few young men left in the village, who brought the news.

The small group gathered in Siobhán’s kitchen looked up as one, hope and dread mingling on every one of their faces. Siobhán froze in the act of tending the fire and turned, her heart seeming to hang suspended in her chest.

“And how would you be knowin’ this, young Paddy?” demanded Eileen O’Farrell, who’d once been her mother’s dearest friend. “Who would be tellin’ you such lies?”

“’Tis no lie,” Paddy replied with all the indignation of his seventeen years. “Sure, wasn’t it meself saw the solicitors down by the Big House, and wasn’t it Father Conor himself told the tale?”

“Then it must be true,” exclaimed Liam Brady, a spry old man who sat in his customary chair by the fire, next to Grannie Meg. He stared hard around him at the faces he’d known most of his life, many of whom he’d seen grow to adulthood, live, love and lose their families, children, parents, husbands and wives over the last few years. “Thanks be to God, this could be the salvation of us all.”

“Or the ruination of us,” added Mary Daly, a sour-faced woman who always saw the dark side of things, but would never do anyone a bad turn. “How do we know who this man is? He could be one of the absentee landlords, or sure, God forbidding all harm, he could be another Lord Percival Glenleigh.”

As Mary spat out the hated name, a hush fell over the small but valiant group of survivors of Glenleigh’s domination over their village. Uneasy glances flew from one to another. Siobhán, who’d listened without comment, stayed by the fire, trying to ignore the shivers that ran down her spine at the mere mention of their late landlord’s name.

In the past three months, shame had kept her silent. She’d not even confided in her beloved Grannie Meg.

Still the man haunted her. In the early hours of the dawn, just before the first cock crowed, sometimes she would see him, his evil, leering face bearing down upon her, and she would awaken gasping for air, trembling like a leaf in a gale.

“’Tis quiet you are, lass. Is it of the new landlord you’re thinkin’?”

Siobhán looked up from the hearth into the kind, sweet face of Nora MacGreevy, her best friend and confidante, the one girl who held all her secrets, who’d stood for her at her wedding and whom she would stand for when Nora married Tom Flynn at harvest time. She loved Nora as much as she had ever had any of her sisters, and indeed her friend was like an aunt to wee Ashleen.

“Or is it the old one?” Tom asked, a scowl marring his darkly handsome features. “Mary, I don’t think any master could be more of a devil than Glenleigh, do you? He near destroyed this village, starvin’ us, raisin’ the rent until no one could pay. And as for what he did to Michael and  Sean—” Tom broke off, casting a glance at Siobhán that was both uneasy and apologetic.

A slash of pain tore at Siobhán’s heart at the memory of her husband and her baby brother. Their faces floated before her through a rush of tears, and she rose abruptly. “I should check on the lass,” she said softly and hurried to where Ashleen slept.

Kneeling beside the pallet that held her small sleeping daughter, she struggled to hold back the flood of rage and grief threatening to engulf her. With a trembling hand she smoothed back her daughter’s tumbled red-gold curls so like her own. People always said Ashleen resembled her, and perhaps there was some likeness. Her daughter was the image of her Uncle Sean, a constant reminder of the young brother Siobhán had adored.

She heard a noise behind her, but didn’t turn, even when the gentle hand lit on her shoulder. She knew who it was—Grannie Meg, her beloved Maimeó, grandmother, her rock, her friend. Grannie Meg, her salvation when her life had been ripped apart.

“Are you all right, dear one?” The voice, faded yet still strong, demanded Siobhán’s attention. She turned, forcing a smile, and received an approving nod in return. Grannie Meg patted her shoulder briskly and, taking Siobhán’s hand in her own gnarled one, led her back out to the others.

“Is the lass all right?” Mary asked, her eyes filled with compassion despite her acerbic expression.

“Aye, she’s sleeping like an angel, Mary, thank you.” With an effort, Siobhán turned to Paddy, curiosity momentarily overriding her grief. “So tell us, Paddy, do. What else did Father Conor say about the new Master?”

“Father says he’s an American, from some place called Baltimore, although I don’t know where that is,” the boy began, obviously relieved Siobhán no longer seemed upset. “Father Conor didn’t know, either. He says the man must be rich if he can buy the Big House and all the land around it, and the tenant farms as well.”

“And what would a rich American be wanting with Irish property?” Tom demanded, sending a wink Siobhán’s way. “Could he be an Irishman born and bred that emigrated?”

“Father says he doesn’t think so. The name’s Burke, ‘tis all he knows of the man.”

“Well, we’ll just have to wait and see,” said Grannie Meg, giving a huge yawn. “’Tis time for me to be lookin’ after me bed, and the rest of you, too. And you, Tom Flynn, do you make sure ye get young Nora home safe.”

“Aye, Grannie Meg,” Tom said with an obedient smile. “Let’s be off, then.”

“Safe home,” Grannie Meg admonished.

“Safe home,” they all echoed, walking out into the dark, misty night.

Siobhán stood looking after her friends for a long time. A damp, briny breeze blew in through the half-door, and suddenly a yearning for those she’d lost washed over her so strongly that she whirled around and snatched up her cloak.

“Sweeting, what are ye doin’?” cried Grannie Meg. “’Tisn’t a night to be walkin’ out!”

“I have to,” Siobhán told her, determination resounding in her voice. “I have to visit Michael. And Sean. Please, Grannie Meg, surely you of all people understand. Will you stay close by in case the child should wake?”

Grannie Meg regarded her granddaughter, a wealth of compassion softening her worn features. Tenderly, she raised a hand and stroked Siobhán's face. “Of course I will, girl. And give the boys my love, won’t ye?”

Siobhán nodded, unable to speak for the lump in her throat. Wrapping her cloak around her thin shoulders, she hurried out into the black night.

*   *   *

Damn and blast this bloody Irish rain!

Rory O’Brien, now known as David Burke, squinted through the rain and fog, trying vainly to see the black ribbon of road unfurling before him. Not only was it nearly impossible to see his hand in front of his face, but the cursed dampness seeped through his skin to slash talons of agony through his leg.

Shaking icy droplets from his hair, he wondered for the hundredth time if this whole undertaking was insane. Why in God’s name had he chosen to come back here? Weren’t his memories torturous enough when he’d been thousands of miles away from this damned village? Wouldn’t they return with a vengeance now that he was back? And what of Kathryn? How would his daughter react to this new country, so different from everything she’d known?

The huge house finally came into view, a single candle burning in one window, and recollections crawled into his mind like scorpions.

What the hell are you doing here, boy? Get back to that filthy hovel where you belong before I take my crop to you…

No, Seamus, don’t! Please don’t hit the lad. Sure, he didn’t mean to drag the clods into the house. He’s only a little boy after playin’ in the fields. Please, Seamus, don’t…

The resounding smack! was still so real that he heard it, felt it and flinched, almost expecting to find Seamus Doherty sitting on the seat beside him, his mother sobbing as she struggled to free herself from her husband’s cruel grip.

He gave his head a hard shake, letting out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The past was over. He couldn’t bring back the dead. He alone held Ballycashel’s fate in his hands. He alone would decide if the village would prosper and thrive, or wither and die.

As the tired horse plodded up the long drive, Rory’s eyes widened with horrified anger. Where was the magnificent Georgian manor he remembered? This…this dead building was nothing but a crumbling, ivy-covered ruin!

He pulled the carriage to a halt in front of the house, and the door flew open, framing a slight figure with a candle held aloft in one hand.

The first familiar face he’d seen since he’d left Baltimore.

The last face he’d seen before he sailed for America twenty years ago.

Then, as now, his great-aunt’s gentle, lined face was soft with love; the eyes filled with tears as Hannah Gorman hurried out into the night to greet him as he alit from the carriage.

“Ah, ‘tis the lad himself!” she exclaimed happily, throwing her arms about his waist and laying her head on his shoulder. “Sure, I’ve waited twenty years to see those lovely blue eyes of yours again!”

He stood stiffly in her embrace for a moment, unwilling to hurt her, yet unable to return her obvious affection. But Hannah paid no heed to the rebuff as she turned to the black carriage and peered at the sleeping child within.

“Is that the little lass, then?” she asked softly. “The poor child, she must be exhausted. Will you not carry her inside? I’ve a room all prepared for her, right beside your own. ‘Tis little I’ve had the time to do, of course, since I only arrived at Ballycashel a week ago—”

“You’ve not told anyone of your arrival, have you?”

She started, and Rory immediately regretted his sharp tone. After all, hadn’t she been the one who’d protected his mother, as best she could, when they’d run away? She’d taken them both in, hidden them until Seamus had found them, taken them to America, and spent the rest of his miserable life terrorizing them. As Rory stared at her in mute apology, an expression came over her face that terrified him as much as his stepfather ever had. She smiled gently at him and reached up to caress his cheek with her gnarled, work-worn hand.

“Dear nephew, I’ve said nothin’ to no one,” she assured him, her voice gentle and soothing. “I’ve no idea what’s in your mind, or why you’re insistin’ on such secrecy. Or why you’re here under another name. But sure, you’re the image of your ma, Lord have mercy on her, and no doubt you’ve inherited her gentle spirit and carin’ ways as well.”

Hannah’s words, rather than reassuring him, only twisted the knife deeper in Rory’s gut. “A lot of good her ‘gentle spirit and caring ways’ did her, Hannah,” he growled. “You know as well as I do the way her life ended. But I do thank you for keeping your counsel. I’ll take Kathryn inside. Then I’d like to take a walk.” And just where had that notion come from? He certainly had no desire to traipse around Ballycashel in the teeming rain after the long drive from Galway City.

Yet neither did he wish to confront his ghosts – at least not yet.

Without another word, he opened the carriage door and gently lifted his sleeping daughter into his arms, stumbling slightly as his left leg gave under him. Damn and blast! This miserable weather had apparently affected him more than he’d realized.

He cast a quick glance at the small face, serene in slumber, her long black hair falling over his arm. Grunting with the effort, he followed Hannah into the house and up the stairs to the pretty pink room she’d obviously decorated with loving anticipation.

Hannah hurried to pull back the pink ruffled coverlet, and Rory laid his daughter down as gently as he had on the day of her birth. When the housekeeper began to pull the covers over the still-sleeping child, he shook his head. Aware that she was watching, yet helpless to break the ritual of a lifetime, he sang softly to her for a moment, then gently kissed her cheek and pulled the covers up to her chin.

Then he straightened and turned to face Hannah. “I’ll see to the horse and bring my bags up myself when I return,” he told her before abruptly turning and walking stiffly down the stairs and out to the carriage.

When he’d bedded the horse down for the night, he left the shack that was the stable and reached inside the carriage for his dicer cane. Finally, with a swirl of his black cloak, he fled the estate and all its memories.

*   *   *

Siobhán made the sign of the cross and rose from the flower-strewn grave, staring bleakly at the inscription on the simple white cross.

Michael Patrick Desmond

Beloved Husband and Father

“I loved you so,” she whispered, her tears mingling with the rain on her face. “But it wasn’t enough, was it? You always needed something more. Even when Ashleen came, there was always something missing for you, wasn’t there? I’m sorry we couldn’t be enough for you. Perhaps if we had...”

Unable to continue, she moved to another grave, and raw anguish tore at her. “Oh, Sean, my love, why did you have to do it? Why did you have to follow them? Was it Michael’s words of encouragement? Was it the men from the next village? You didn’t deserve what happened—sure, weren’t you only an innocent boy after a bit of a lark? Oh Sean—Michael, how could you?”

Her voice rose to a keening wail as she dropped to her knees before her brother’s grave, mindless of the dampness that seeped into her worn gown. Memories whipped her like a cruel wind.

We’ve got to run. Glenleigh’s found out. I’ll come back for you and the lass, my love, I promise.

I’m sorry, Siobhán. I know I promised Da I’d look after you. I’ve let him down. I’ve let you both down. But Michael knows a place we’ll be safe.

Don’t be tellin’ her anything, lad. It’ll be safer if she knows nothing. Don’t tell them anything, a mhuirnín—my darling—not ever that we’ve been here.

It hadn’t mattered, she reflected. For in the end Glenleigh’s men had caught up with them. Taken them away from her, from Ashleen.

Blinded by tears, she turned to hurry away, almost colliding with a tall figure who seemed to have materialized from nowhere. 

“I say, Miss, are you all right?”

Startled by the unfamiliar voice in these all-too-familiar surroundings, Siobhán gazed upward and locked eyes with the devil.

Chapter Two

For a moment neither spoke. Siobhán looked up, up into the shadowed face of a stranger. She could make out only his eyes, which blazed dark in the black night. Swathed in midnight from cloak to boots, he towered over her in a most intimidating fashion.  One hand gripped an ebony cane—his other was concealed in the folds of his cloak.

Even his voice was dark, an intriguing blend of Irish lilt and soft drawl.

“I do beg your pardon.” He spoke quietly, as if unwilling to be heard by anyone other than her. “I did not mean to startle you, but you seemed to be in some distress.”

Siobhán gaped at him, trying to make out his features in the lightless night. Long, dark hair brushed his broad shoulders and blew across his clean-shaven jaw, and as he pushed it away, he was forced to lean heavily on the cane held tightly in his left hand.

A suffocating sense of fear swept over Siobhán as he moved closer to her. She hadn’t been this close to a man since…

“Don’t touch me!” she cried out, her voice trembling. She backed away from him, stumbling, and he reached out and caught her arm. “Who are you?”

Rory held the strange young woman in a firm grip, his gaze boring into hers. “I might ask you the same question. Stop struggling!” he commanded as she twisted in his grasp. “I assure you I am not in the habit of molesting strangers I stumble upon in graveyards. There now,” he went on as she stilled in his arms, every line of her body tense and vibrating. “You’re a suspicious woman, aren’t you?”

“Who are you?” she repeated furiously. “You’re a stranger ‘round here! I’ve never seen you before. What do you want here?”

Rory couldn’t help grinning. Where was that fabled Irish hospitality he remembered? Certainly there was nothing welcoming about this shrew—although her soft curves and blazing eyes spoke of passions long kept under control.

Then again, he reflected darkly, if she was one of Lord Percival Glenleigh’s tenants, perhaps she had good reason to be suspicious of strangers.

He couldn’t reveal his true identity to this wounded woman. Despite her beauty, she’d obviously suffered. It showed in the tearstains revealed by the emerging moon, in the trembling of her soft red mouth, in the defiance of her eyes.

“My identity is unimportant,” he said smoothly. “I caught sight of you—and thought perhaps you needed help. I see I was mistaken.”

He turned to go but, unused to the rock and moss surface of the graveyard, he stepped directly into a rut that sent him stumbling to his knees, his cane skittering into the night.

“Damn and bloody blast!”

As he scrabbled blindly in the long grass for his cane, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw the woman kneeling next to him, concern now etched on her porcelain features.

“Let me help you.”

Pride and anger made him shake off her hand and rise awkwardly to his feet, wincing at the resultant slash of pain. He strove desperately for his most arrogant tone as he said, “If you would be so kind as to fetch my cane, I will leave you to your memories.”

Siobhán stared at him for a moment, then turned to retrieve the walking stick. Silently, she handed it to him, able to study his face now that the moon had risen from its bed of clouds.

His hair was black, curling a little in the damp night. Absurdly long lashes curved toward his high cheekbones, revealing eyes that were dark and roiling with emotion. His face was deeply tanned, as if he spent many hours out of doors, yet conversely, he had the look of a gentleman about him. His weathered face was lined with old pain.

Silently he took the cane in his left hand, his other hand still hidden by his cloak. Why? She ruthlessly pruned the bud of curiosity, feeling wretchedly disloyal to Michael’s memory.

“If you’re a stranger to these parts, as you say, you’d best beware of uneven ground. The roads around here can be treacherous, sir.”

“I thank you for the advice, ma’am.” Sketching her a courtly bow, the mysterious dark stranger turned and limped away.

Siobhán stared after him, a shiver crawling up her spine. Who was this dark man, and what did his appearance so close to Michael’s grave mean?

*   *   *

Rory couldn’t seem to settle. Upon returning to Ballycashel, he’d hastily unpacked the few things he’d brought with him—comfortable clothes, books, and his favorite canes. The rest, he hoped, would arrive tomorrow, or a day or two later at the latest.

After he’d checked on Kathryn and found her still sleeping soundly, he prowled restlessly about the house, looking into one room after another with a growing sense of horror.

The once-magnificent library was a shambles, rare books scattered across dust-covered chairs, their bindings encrusted with mold. The dining room table was set as if for a large dinner party, the silverware tarnished, scraps of furred food still on the plates. Only a small corner of the dining room had been cleaned, probably by Hannah. The kitchen itself, though, was spotless.

The ballroom, once the scene of glorious dances where his mother had served so slavishly, echoed silently, haunted by dozens of gaily twirling ghosts.

He’d purposely left the study for last. Cautiously pushing the door open, he found it exactly as it had been on the final day he’d been at Ballycashel. He saw again the evil sneer on Glenleigh’s face, heard the satisfaction in his cold, aristocratic voice.

“I’m sorry, Doherty, the rent on your cottage hasn’t been paid in over a year. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave—tonight.”

“But sir, I’ve a wife and child.” Seamus Doherty’s whining voice grated again in Rory’s ears. He clenched his fists in remembered rage, for at ten years old he hadn’t been too young to understand the implications of his stepfather’s words. “And, sure, ye’d be knowin’ that well, wouldn’t ye, Yer Honor? After all, wasn’t it yer own whelp ye were after riddin’ yerself of?”

But Seamus had gambled carelessly, and a ferocious and terrible scowl had creased Glenleigh’s brow as he glared at the little Irishman with the big head.

“I’ve no idea to what you are referring, Doherty. Is this some twisted plot to blackmail me? I had intended to offer you transport to another county, perhaps even a few shillings to put toward the voyage to America, but now I see that would not do at all. Begone from your cottage by nightfall or I will burn the place down with you and your family in it!”

He’d run then, back to their tiny cottage to warn Ma. She’d gathered together their few pitiful possessions and taken him to her Aunt Hannah. Hannah had taken them in, had tried to protect them.

Nevertheless Seamus had found them.

A harsh groan escaped Rory’s lips, and he ground his fists into his eyes to rid himself of the ghosts. Seamus, his mother, and Lord Percival Glenleigh were all dead. His beloved wife,

Charlotte was dead. There was only Rory and Kathryn now. And of course there was Hannah. She’d been his salvation once before. Perhaps now she could bring hope, both to him and to the village.

He glanced out the window. A pale, watery sun was just beginning to fight its way through the dawn gloom. Was it too early? No, Hannah was sure to be an early riser. She always had been, according to Rory’s mother. He jerked at the bell pull. Almost immediately he heard a knock on the study door.

“Come in!”

Hannah came into the study, a look on her face that Rory didn’t care for. The warmth in her eyes, and the joy in her smile, reminded him all too painfully of the past.

Before he could speak, she hurried to take his hand. “Ah, Rory, me darlin’, if ye’re not the spit of yer ma! I saw it last night, and isn’t it all the more pronounced in the light of the morn?”

Rory stiffened at her touch. “I have asked you not to call me that, Hannah,” he told her sternly. “My name here in Ireland is David Burke, and I would have you remember it. If I am to accomplish anything in Ballycashel, my true identity must never be known.”

“Ah, lad, ‘tis sorry I am. A mere slip of the lip by an old woman, ‘tis all. Now tell me this, ” she added, her tone growing serious. “Do you really think you can fool them all? I don’t mean the young ones – most of them were mere babes when you left. But what about the older ones—Meg Kilpatrick, Eileen O’Farrell and Liam Brady? There are few enough of us left, yet they might still remember the wee lad who used to sing and dance for them.”

“Despite my resemblance to my mother, there are few enough other similarities. And after all,” he added dryly, “I am their new lord and master. I rather doubt they will question me.”

“But why must you remain a secret to them, lad? ‘Tis not as if you’ve come to throw them off their land and turn their fields to the sheep and the cattle.”

“Are you so sure of that?” Rory demanded, his voice quiet and intense as he gazed hard at the older woman. “Maybe that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

“I do not believe that. You couldn’t be Mary O’Brien’s son and be so cruel.”

His voice grew silkier, more dangerous. “Ah, but what of my father? Or should I say fathers? If ever there was evil incarnate, it dwelt in them.”

“Aye, ‘tis true, and they both left their mark on you. ‘Tis useless to deny it, lad. I saw what the master’s rejection did to you just as plainly as I saw what Seamus Doherty’s violence did. Are you tryin’ to tell me,” Hannah demanded suddenly, “you would ever lay a hand on that beautiful wee lass upstairs? That you would throw a helpless family off their land simply because they spent the few coins they had on food rather than on the rent? That you would ever deny a child of yer own flesh and blood?”

A wave of bleakness swept over Rory David O’Brien as he thought of the sins of both his fathers—his natural father, who’d denied the very existence of his illegitimate son—and his step-father, who’d beaten Rory from the moment he was able to walk. The evil flowing through Rory’s veins poisoned everyone he came into contact with.

“I don’t know,” he told his aunt in a low, agonized tone. “I honestly don’t know. I only know I must take this charade to its conclusion—whatever that conclusion may be.”     

Hannah gazed at him, compassion softening her features. “I do know, lad. I knew you for ten years and, whether you believe me or not, I know the man you’ve become. You’ve suffered, ‘tis true, but you’re stronger for it. And I saw you with that child. Ye could no more raise a hand to her than cause a fish to fly.”

Oh, how he wanted to believe her! But then, how could he explain the curse that sat on his shoulder? First his mother, then Charlotte, had suffered for his sins. Certainly Kathryn had not escaped unscathed. No, perhaps he would never stoop so low as to strike a child. Yet a chill permeated his very bones as the eternal question returned to haunt him—could he protect his daughter from the evil that eternally shadowed him?

Shaking off his dark thoughts, he turned his attention to matters at hand. “I wish to visit the village priest, preferably before early mass. I have matters to discuss with him that will affect many of his parishioners.”

“Father Conor will be delighted you’ve come!” Hannah exclaimed, clasping her hands together before her. “Will you tell him who you really are?”

Rory sighed with exasperation at her obviously well intentioned meddling. “I will tell him I am David Burke, the new owner of Ballycashel, and that I would like to hire a staff to run my house and estate. I shall ask him for recommendations for a groom as well as a governess for Kathryn. I have no one—save you,” he added with a courtly bow in Hannah’s direction that had her blushing like a schoolgirl, “whom I can trust here.”

“Sure, the good father would never violate the sanctity of the Confessional!”

“Perhaps not. But you’d be wise to remember, Hannah, that there’s many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip. I am taking no chances.” He turned to go, then added, “When Kathryn wakes, see to her needs. Perhaps you could find some books for her to read, or toys in the nursery that might keep her amused until I can find a suitable candidate for a governess.”

“And if she asks where her da is?”

The words were flung out in a challenge that stiffened Rory’s shoulders. His hand tightened convulsively on his cane.

“Tell her I’ve gone to buy her a pony. It’s the only thing she’s ever asked for—other than her mother.”