Chapter 15

Chapter 15

In the summer of 1608, in the garden of Rugaiya Begum, a young European gentleman came to speak with the late Mughal's eldest widow. She greeted him politely. He was a diversion in the otherwise drab existence of her days. He was a factor of an English trading house, she had learned.

"Why do you come to me?" she asked him. "I have no influence with the Mughal. He is not my son," she explained. Too often Europeans did not realize that Akbar had had many wives. Because she had been his first wife, they assumed she was Salim's mother.

"I have been told that you are very fond of your gardens, gracious lady," the young gentleman said. "My name is Alain O'Flaherty. I seek no favors of you, but recently there came into my possession some particularly fine rosebushes." He paused. "English roses. They flourish more freely than do the roses of India," Alain O'Flaherty said. "Knowing of your love for roses, I thought to perhaps bring these two bushes to you, gracious lady. I had to make a trip to Lahore on business matters, and though you modestly claim no influence with the Mughal, your friendship is important to me."

"What are these bushes called?" she asked him. "One is white, I see, the other red. Do they have names, good sir?" Am I growing mad, Rugaiya Begum wondered, or is this gentleman trying to tell me something?

"The white bush is called the Jasmine rose, gracious lady. Note that it bares a faintly elusive scent similar to the night-blooming jasmine flower. The red is named for the Marquess of Westleigh, a most worthy gentleman," he told her.

"Ahh," she said, and arose to examine the bushes in their porcelain tubs. Her head lowered, her fingers playing with the deep green leaves, she said in a voice so low he barely heard her, "Is my daughter happy?"

Alain nodded and replied in equally low tones, "We are cousins, gracious lady. She is married to the Marquess of Westleigh, and was, when our grandmother's fleet set sail from England last February, already great with child."

Rugaiya Begum straightened herself and said to Alain O'Flaherty, "Your bushes are of an excellent quality, good sir. You may bring me more of these English roses when they are available. I should like to see a garden full of them, Allah willing!"

He bowed. "I shall do my best, gracious lady," he promised. "God willing."

She watched him as he departed her presence. He could not know how his visit had cheered her. It was August ninth, and Yasaman, her beloved daughter, was eighteen this day. A tear slipped down the old begum's face. In all the years she had lived in India, Yasaman had never allowed a birthday to go by that she had not gifted her Mama Begum. Yasaman would never know that today she had given Rugaiya Begum her best gift of all. The knowledge that she was safe and happy once more.

The young Marchioness of Westleigh awoke early at Cadby on the morning of her eighteenth birthday to find her bedchamber filled with flowers. "Rowan, have you gone mad?" She laughed happily as her husband entered the room carrying their daughter in one arm and a squirming red and white spaniel puppy in the other. "Give me India. She will want her breakfast at once or her little Mughal temper will burst forth," Jasmine said, and bared her breast, causing her daughter to grunt eagerly in anticipation.

Rowan Lindley dumped the puppy upon the bed and handed Lady India Lindley to her doting mother. "I have been mad with happiness ever since we married, my love," he said. "I wish you would find a wet nurse for India. She takes far too much of your time, and I wish to do that."

Jasmine put her daughter to her breast and the baby suckled noisily, now content. "Soon," she promised him. "What did you get me for my birthday, Rowan?"

"You will have to wait until your birthday dinner, madame," he told her with a smile. " 'Tis a most special gift, I promise you."

"Did your going to London have anything to do with my gift?" she wheedled him. "Is this why you left me for almost three weeks?"

He chuckled. "In time, Jasmine. In good time you will know everything you desire to know, but not until tonight! For now, be satisfied with this charming puppy I have bought you. Her name is ‘Feathers,' and eventually, I am certain, she will learn not to pee on the bed." He scooped the puppy up with a rueful grin. "Rohana! A cloth!"

Jasmine shook her head at him, but she was laughing too. Rowan was always bringing her gifts of one kind or another, be it an occasion or no occasion. The one thing he would not give her, however, was jewelry, the only exception being her wedding ring.

"I could not possibly give you anything as magnificent as what you already possess," he told her honestly. "Between the separate pieces and the caskets of gemstones you hold, there is nothing left for me to give." She had to agree, but of all the jewelry she owned, the wedding band he had given her was her most treasured possession.

India's nursemaid arrived to take her little mistress. After Jasmine kissed her daughter's dark, downy head, she waved her off. "I'm starved!" she announced. "I think I may be breeding again, Rowan. 'Twill be a son this time, I promise you! We cannot allow Tom and Sybilla all the glory with their lads. My mother simply dotes upon them."

"Your grandmother dotes upon India," he replied. "Should you have another child so quickly, my love?"

"Why not?" she demanded of him. "I am healthy. Besides, my lord, you cannot seem to keep your cock in your breeches for very long when we are together," she teased him. "A puppy is but a little birthday gift. Have you nothing bigger for me?" She had not fully replaced her chamber robe, and flaunted her bared breasts at him.

"Madame, you are a shameless creature," he told her, pretending an outrage he was far from feeling. Indeed, if he was feeling anything, it was pure and unadulterated lust for his wife. His delicious, naughty, and totally uninhibited wife. The randy beast between his legs stirred.

Jasmine saw the movement beneath his nightshirt and she giggled. Though they both continued to sleep together in the nude, they dressed in the morning for the sake of their servants' modesty.

Although it would not have disturbed Rohana and Toramalli to see their master and mistress as God had fashioned them, Cadby's English servants would have been shocked. They were just now becoming used to the idea of having Adali as their majordomo. Many of the servants at Cadby had been elderly when Jasmine arrived sixteen months ago as her husband's bride. She had retired most of them to cottages and replaced them with those of her own choosing who had known no other mistress. Only the cook, a plump, middle-aged woman, remained, and she, poor creature, was completely in Adali's thrall.

Jasmine threw back the bed covers and smiled invitingly. "Come back to bed, my lord. Why the sun is even now just barely up."

"I am bound to take the gentlemen hunting," he said.

"This early?" She slipped a hand beneath his nightshirt, fondling his stiffened rod and pouch.

"Jasmine!"

"Yes, my lord?" Her fingers tangled themselves within his bush, tickling him.

"You will make me late," he protested weakly.

"You will be later if you do not come into this bed and give me a little gift," she teased mischievously. "Do I no longer attract you, Rowan, my love, that you will not dally with me of a morning?"

He glanced toward the windows. "It does look like rain," he reasoned. Her hand was driving him wild. "Perhaps a few minutes will not matter, you incorrigible little witch!" He pulled away from her and yanked his nightshirt off, then threw himself upon the bed.

Giggling, Jasmine scooted away from him, pulling her own garment fully off and sticking her tongue out at him. "I am not incorrigible," she said. "I am the very model of a good English wife!"

"Your aunt Willow is the model of a good English wife," he answered, laughing. "You are deliciously, naughtily, delightfully incorrigible." Tackling her, he flung himself atop her and kissed her soundly, sheathing himself within her even as he did so.

"Oohh, you are a terrible beast," she murmured, running her tongue across his lips.

" 'Tis a beast you like well," he teased her back, moving on her slowly at first and then more quickly as their mutual crisis drew nearer. "Ahhh, sweetheart!" he groaned as he filled her with pleasure.

"Rowan, my love!" she answered, sighing gustily with a shudder. "I adore you, husband, and I should even if you were not the most wonderful lover any woman could have!"

He lay pillowed upon her breasts for a few moments and then reluctantly arose. "I would rather remain here abed with you, Jasmine, and you know it, but we do have guests. You invited them. All of them! Even now your grandfather, your stepfather, your brothers, your uncle, and Tom are making their way downstairs that I may take them hunting this morning. As their host, I cannot fail to appear and do my duty, having done it here with you now!"

"Oh, villain!" She threw a pillow at him as he left the room, laughing, to quickly bathe and dress. Jasmine lay back amid her pillows. She loved him. Aye, she did. When she had married him, she had not been certain that she was going to truly love Rowan Lindley, but after two years of marriage she knew she did indeed love him. Was it a deep and abiding love? She was not certain, but she had to admit that she was happy. Her mind turned to more frivolous things. What had he gotten her for her birthday?

The weather was lovely and warm and Jasmine had arranged for her birthday celebration to be held that evening upon the green lawns of Cadby overlooking the river Avon. Paper lanterns had been strung through the trees, and a high board and tables had been set up with a view of the river. The day being a long one, archery butts had been placed about for sport. Jasmine's brothers were playing a game with a ball, dashing around and shouting noisily.

"Have you no control over those wild creatures?" Skye demanded of Velvet. "Sandy is fifteen and certainly past games. Why is he not at court? How do you expect him to get ahead if he does not make the proper friends? He will not find them at Dun Broc."

"Sandy will be the Earl of BrocCairn one day," Velvet told her mother irritably. "He's a Scot, and not an Anglicized Scot like those who hang about the court currying favor with the king. Court has changed, Mama. 'Tis not like it was in the queen's day. I want no children of mine there. It has become a cesspit of immorality."

"My lads went to court and lived to be gentlemen," Skye said sharply. "The court has always been a dangerous place, Velvet."

" 'Tis different today, Mama, than it was in your day," was the reply.

"My day?" Sky looked mortally offended, and seeing it, Jasmine hurried to defuse the situation.

"The king, they say, Grandmama, is partial to handsome young men these days. 'Twas not always so, my stepfather tells me, but 'tis now." She sighed dramatically. "I think perhaps Mama is correct in keeping Sandy and the others from court. I would not want one of my sons—if I had sons—involved in such goings-on. Don't you agree?"

Skye looked at her granddaughter and chuckled. "You know better than any of them how to get around me, Jasmine de Marisco Lindley. Aye, I agree with you. You make it impossible not to agree with you. Ah, you would have driven old Bess Tudor mad, even as I did in ‘my day.' "

Jasmine kissed her grandmother's cheek. "I may be breeding again," she said. "I wanted you to be the first to know after Rowan. I told him this morning before he took the gentlemen hunting."

"I am not surprised," Skye replied. "You can scarce keep your hands off each other, my fine young marchioness, but should you have another babe so soon after India? 'Tis not easy, I know."

"Perhaps if India had been a son instead of a daughter," Jasmine said thoughtfully, "but Tom and Sybilla have two lads already."

"Nonsense!" Skye told her. "India is a wonderful child, and if you had none but her you would be fortunate."

"This will be a son," Jasmine said, "and then I shall rest upon my laurels for a time. I love children, Grandmama! I want a houseful of them. Besides, did you not produce Uncle Ewan and Uncle Murrough within fifteen months of each other? And Uncle Robin's little brother who died was born the year after he was, wasn't he?"

"Murrough and Ewan could not be helped. I knew no better. As for Robin and my wee John, God rest him, I was young, and I was a foolish woman in love with a fascinating man," Skye said, defending herself.

"So am I, Grandmama," Jasmine said softly. "So am I!"

Skye O'Malley de Marisco put a loving hand upon her favorite grandchild's cheek and said, "May your happiness come sooner and stay forever, my darling girl. You are so like I was at eighteen."

The gentlemen had an archery contest while the servants brought the food from the kitchens. It was more of a picnic meal than a formal dinner. There was fish caught that morning in the river, a roe deer roasting over an open pit as well as a suckling pig. There were capon and rabbit pies; beef and pheasant; beets, carrots, and turnip from the gardens; loaves of fine white bread; tubs of butter; and a variety of cheeses. Fresh fruit in large silver bowls decorated the tables: peaches, pears, apples, and grapes. There were cakes soaked in marsala wine; puddings of eggs, dried fruits, and bread with clotted cream. The best wine from Archambault filled the goblets, although some among the guests preferred Cadby's fine ale instead.

They ate in a leisurely fashion, and when at last the tables had been cleared, a moon was rising over the river, dappling the placid waters with a pearly iridescence. Jasmine's family had gifted her throughout the day. Velvet had given her daughter all the exquisite jewelry Akbar had once given her.

"I have never been able to wear it since my return, as you must understand," she said. "It is a part of my life that is so far from me I can barely remember it, but I do remember some things that might make an interesting tale for your children one day. When you were four and half months of age—India's age, in fact—your father learned that gifts were appropriate on each of the twelve days of Christmas. These emeralds were my first day's gift. On the third day he gave me this carved ivory box filled with these strands of pink pearls. The sixth morning he presented me with diamonds; on the tenth a necklace of rubies with matching bracelets," Velvet told her daughter, sliding the jewels through her fingers. "On the twelfth day of Christmas I was weighed three times. I received my weight in gold, silver, and precious gems. They are now all yours, Jasmine. They have not seen the light of day in many years. Wear them and be reminded not just of Akbar, but of me as well and the love we once shared. A love, my dearest, that gave us you."

"Mama!" Jasmine kissed Velvet sweetly. "When India is older I shall enjoy telling her that story of her grandmother and grandfather. She will be a most proper little English girl, but I do not want her to forget that other part of her heritage. That is why I called her India. It is unlikely she will ever see that land."

"Do you miss it?" Velvet asked her daughter.

"Aye, but not greatly, and less as time goes by. Perhaps if I had not had a family to come to here it would have been different for me, but even Toramalli and Rohana have grown used to England, and as for Adali, he would never go back even if he could," Jasmine said.

Wearing the rubies her father had once given her mother, Jasmine smiled. Gazing about the lawns at the small part of her family gathered tonight, she felt a deep sense of contentment.

Sybilla and Tom looked every bit as happy as she and Rowan were. Petite, elegant Sybilla was plumper than she had been just two years ago, but she did not seem to mind, and certainly neither did Tom. Her Gordon brothers were growing up so quickly, Jasmine thought, looking at them. Sandy was fifteen now, almost a man, and Charlie at thirteen was not far behind him. Neddie, chubby with baby fat at six, was as thin and wiry at eight as his ten-year-old twin siblings were.

Uncle Padraic and Aunt Valentina had left their children at home, but Bessie and Adam Burke had a third sibling, young James, a russet-haired toddler just a year old. Her stepfather Alex was showing silvery strands in his hair, but her mother seemed to grow lovelier with the passing years, even as did her grandmama. The patriarch of the family, however, seemed ageless, Jasmine thought. Her grandfather, but for his white hair, was young as ever despite his seventy-eight years.

"You are happy," Rowan said, kissing her shoulder as he came up next to her. "I am happy, too, my love, and 'tis because of you. Would you like your birthday gift now," he asked her, "or shall I put it aside for another time, mayhap?"

"No! No!" Jasmine cried, and then she said to her assembled guests, "Rowan has a special gift for me. He would not present it to me until tonight." She stood and grabbed at his pockets. "Where is it?"

He laughed. "Such insatiable greed, madame." He signaled to a waiting footman, who came forward with a silver tray upon which rested a sealed parchment. "This is yours, Jasmine, my love. A most happy birthday and may we celebrate many more together."

Jasmine reached for the parchment. "What is it?" she asked, breaking the seals. Her eyes scanned the document.

"Well?" demanded her grandmother. "What is it?"

"It is a deed to three thousand acres, a village called Maguire's Ford, a small castle in a place called Ulster. Where is Ulster?"

Skye grew pale. "It is in Ireland," she said.

There was a deathly silence among the guests, and then Jasmine said, "What is wrong? Why are you all so quiet?"

Finally Padraic Burke spoke up. "King James is giving away land that does not belong to him, Jasmine. 'Tis stealing."

"That is not so!" Alex Gordon replied angrily. "James Stuart is an honorable man."

"What else would you call it?" Padraic Burke said quietly. "Maguire's Ford, Alex. 'Tis Maguire land and not James Stuart's land to parcel out as he desires. The Irish are being driven off their property and it is being repopulated by foreigners—Scots and English."

Alex Gordon looked at his brother-in-law as if Padraic had just lost his mind. "What the hell has Ireland to do with you?" he demanded. "You were raised in England. You possess an English estate given you by an English queen, Padraic."

"Both my mother and father were Irish," Padraic Burke said. "My maternal grandfather was Dubhdara O'Malley of Innisfana; my paternal grandfather, the McWilliam of Mid-Connaught. I was raised in England because Elizabeth Tudor willed it so. I possess English lands because she gave them to me to replace my hereditary lands, which she stole from me and turned over to English settlers. It pains me to see the same thing happening to others who, God help them, are not even compensated for their loss, and if I were not an English-raised Irishman, Alex, I should still object to what is happening in Ireland because it is wrong!"

"Rory O'Donnell, Hugh O'Neill, and Conor Maguire left Ireland almost a year ago," Alex Gordon replied. "Barely ahead of the king's men coming to arrest them for treasonous activities, so 'tis said. Papers were found in Dublin Castle implicating them all in some new plot. Sir Cahir O'Doherty testified against them himself."

"My God, you cannot believe that dirty traitor!" Padraic Burke said. "The charges were fraudulent, as any intelligent man could see. O'Doherty lied and then revolted against the king this April past, when, having served his vile purpose, he decided his reward wasn't great enough."

"Well, he is dead now," the Earl of BrocCairn said matter-of-factly, "and the assizes just held have declared that the bulk of the land in Fermanagh, Tyrone, Coleraine, Donegal, Cavan, and Armagh be forfeited to the king because of the former owners' treasons."

"Guilty or innocent, the Irish must suffer," Padraic said.

"Jasmine's grant is one of the very first given," Rowan Lindley told them. "I was able to gain it through the kindness of the queen. A friend at court wrote me that these lands would be parceled out by the end of the year. The competition for the acreage is quite hot. The northern bishoprics of the Church of Ireland will get some. Trinity College in Dublin will have a share. The more deserving of the Irish who fought on the king's side, some former landowners, and the lord deputy must all be compensated first."

"But why did you want this land for Jasmine?" Skye finally spoke up. "The king will give much of it to the hangers-on and the adventurers who have besieged him ever since he came to the throne. I can only imagine the sort of people they will send to Ireland. It is a disgraceful project, and no decent person should want to be connected with it in any way! I was born Irish. It is true I have lived most of my life in England. Fate made it so, but my heart is Irish, and my soul is Irish and will ever be, no matter where I reside!"

"I never meant to offend you, madame," Rowan Lindley said quietly, "but I wanted a very special gift for my wife's eighteenth birthday. Jasmine has all the jewelry a hundred women could want due to her heritage. There was nothing I could think of until my friends at court told me of these lands. They are in Jasmine's name alone, not mine. I went to Queen Anne and explained my plight. It was she who gained the king's permission and his signature on the documents making Jasmine Lindley, Marchioness of Westleigh, the new owner of Maguire's Ford, and all that goes with it."

"What is the land like?" Jasmine asked, surprising them all.

"Very fertile," was her husband's reply. "A small village with a church surrounded by meadows, gentle hills, well-watered and green. 'Tis on the shores of Lough Erne. The castle, I am told, is several hundred years old, but livable."

"I shall raise horses there," Jasmine said. "We will take Nighthawk, the young stallion Grandpapa gave us as a wedding gift, and the best of the Cadby mares to be bred to him."

Skye looked distressed but said nothing. What could she say that would have made any difference in the matter? The deed was done.

Padraic Burke, however, said angrily, "How can you speak so dispassionately about raising horses on stolen lands, Jasmine?"

Jasmine looked at her uncle, puzzled, and then she replied, "Uncle Padraic, it is the way of the world that one people conquer another, and when that happens, the land exchanges hands. It has always been so in India. Has it not been so here? I seem to remember from the history lessons that Father Cullen taught me that your Irish ancestors came to Ireland from another place. The English who inhabit this land today are descendants of both Norman and Anglo-Saxon invaders who came to these shores, not of the original tribes who once populated it. Nothing is graven so deeply in stone that it cannot be changed.

"Your Irish lands were taken from you, and Clearfields, the lands you now possess, once belonged to someone else. What happened to them? Did you ever consider them or their feelings?" Jasmine turned to her husband. "Thank you, Rowan. I am thrilled with my gift! I have never had one better in all my life." She then kissed her husband, and turning about, looked at her family defiantly. "I shall keep my new lands."

Skye shook her head. "Her damned logic is flawless," she said, "and I find I cannot argue with it." She gave a sharp bark of a laugh.

"Mother!"

"Do not glower at me, Padraic Burke. God, how like your father you look at this very moment! Jasmine is correct. As long as O'Donnell and O'Neill and Maguire remained, their lands were theirs. By fleeing, they forfeited everything. 'Twas winner take all, and Scottish James did."

"They made it impossible for the chieftains to remain," Padraic answered his mother. "When O'Neill submitted to James Stuart in 1604, the English, though allowing him to retain the lands, took control by installing all the adjuncts of English government. They appointed sheriffs for each county; coroners; justices of the peace. They weakened the authority of O'Neill and the other earls. My God! What could they do but leave? There was no other choice!"

"How typically Irish of you, my son, but Irish pride offers little comfort to the widows, the orphans, the dispossessed. There are always choices, Padraic," Skye told him. "When Elizabeth Tudor stole your lands, and broke her promise to me, I made her give you English lands, that you not be dispossessed, and vulnerable.

"O'Neill and his cohorts could have stayed, but they departed because times were changing and they did not want to change with the times. They left their people alone, helpless, to struggle on while they reestablished themselves in comfort in Rome. The Irish, God help them, cannot survive on tales of their former greatness, Padraic. If they continue to live in the past, allowing the bards with their songs of Celtic heroism, and the Church with its narrow view of life, and the English in their arrogance to rule them, Ireland will never know peace again, nor will her people be truly free."

"Your mother speaks wisely, Padraic," Valentina Burke told her husband. "Remember that the survival and prosperity of this family has always been first and foremost in her mind and heart." She turned to her niece. "When will you go and see your new acquisition, Jasmine?"

"Not until after the baby is born," Jasmine told her. "This one will be a son, I am certain of it!"

"I felt the same certainty when I was carrying little Adam after Bessie was born," Valentina told her, and suddenly the tension surrounding Rowan Lindley's gift was dissipated.

Several musicians came from the house and, settling themselves, began to play the spritely tunes that were the accompaniment to the country dances so favored by the family. Partners were chosen and the evening progressed upon a more pleasant note.

On Rowan and Jasmine's second wedding anniversary, Lord Henry Thomas Lindley made his first appearance. He was a healthy, ruddy baby with a large appetite and sweet disposition. Although, like his elder sister, he possessed a headful of dark curls, his eyes were blue like his mother's. India Lindley had their father's golden eyes.

"You see," Jasmine said smugly. "I told you I would give you a son this time! Is he not the most beautiful baby you have ever seen?" She touched her son's cheek, and he turned his perfect little round head toward her breast, nuzzling at her. "Just like his papa," she teased Rowan with a smile.

Rowan Lindley gazed down at his son. The boy was big, they said, and yet he looked so small. Bending, he kissed his wife first and then the baby's soft head. There were tears in his eyes as he said to Jasmine, "Thank you, my love." He could scarce believe his good fortune. After all those years with his tragic first wife, he had finally found happiness with Jasmine and their children.

The Marchioness of Westleigh nursed her son for a month before turning him over to a wet nurse, a young farm wife carefully chosen by both herself and Adali, The majordomo knew all the local gossip down to the smallest detail and was able to tell his lady that Mistress Brent had lost her new baby to a spring flux but was healthy herself and produced excellent milk that had already nourished three other children. The wet nurse was required to live at Cadby, but as her husband had both a mother and a younger sister in the house, he did not mind.

"I hate giving little Hal to someone else," Jasmine fussed.

"You have no choice if we are to visit your estates in Ireland," Rowan told her. "I can go alone if you desire, my love, and you come next year. Henry is too young right now to travel with us."

"I know," she sighed. "Hal will be safe with Mistress Brent. Adali and Rohana are here to oversee his and India's safety. I want to go to Ireland with you, Rowan. 'Twill be the first time since the children came that we have had time alone to ourselves," she told him with a mischievous smile. "Do you not want to be alone with me?"

Rowan Lindley smiled and shook his head. "Incorrigible," he lamented. "You are simply incorrigible, madame, and I hope that you will never change. To think of you turning into the very model of your aunt Willow terrifies me." Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her dark head. "I love you, Jasmine, but then you have always known that I did, from the moment I first laid eyes upon you that May morn."

Jasmine closed her eyes and reveled in his warm strength. He loved her and she loved him, more than any man she had known. Her grandmother had never explained to her that a deep and abiding love is one that grows with each passing day with a sharing of joined lives, with the birth of wanted children. How could Skye have explained that to her? She had to learn it herself by living it.

The Marquess and Marchioness of Westleigh departed Cadby in late June, traveling north and west to Holyhead, where they embarked upon the Cardiff Rose for Dun Dealgan, which the English called Dundalk. The vessel had been refurbished that it might carry the Marquess of Westleigh's great traveling coach; his carriage horses; the stallion Nighthawk, son of Adam de Marisco's great stud Nightwind; and six young mares of the best breeding stock.

" 'Tis a short voyage," Michael Small assured them, "and the weather is better than I've seen it in years here in the Irish Sea. We'll be there in two days' time, m'lady. So you're to live in Ireland are ye?"

"Not all year, Captain Small," Jasmine told him. "Cadby is the Westleighs' seat, but 'tis said Ireland is a fine place for raising horses. The Irish are said to be good with them."

"Aye, so I've heard," the ship's captain replied. Good with horses and good at fighting, he thought silently.

"This is the very boat that brought me from India," Jasmine told her husband nostalgically. "Toramalli, Rohana, and I shared this cabin for all those months. It was our little home."

"And it got littler with every mile of sea we traversed," Toramalli said dryly. "The day we reached London, it was snowing and as damp a cold as I had ever felt piercing my bones, m'lord, but I was delighted to leave the Cardiff Rose, for all she'd brought us to England in safety. I certainly never thought to set foot upon her again!"

He chuckled. " 'Twill be but a little while, Toramalli, or so Captain Small assures me. You're becoming a most traveled woman."

"Humph," came the reply, but Toramalli was smiling. She and Rowan Lindley had become fast friends.

As they sailed into Dundalk Bay, there was a light rain falling. The Cardiff Rose, which normally would have anchored in the bay, was made fast to the dock so that the coach and horses could be off-loaded. The agent appointed by the crown to oversee the estate until its new owners arrived was awaiting them.

As Jasmine and Rowan disembarked, he came forward, a small, thin wisp of a man with sharp features and colorless hair, with eyes to match. He bowed, perhaps a bit too obsequiously, and identified himself. "My name is Eamon Feeny, m'lord. Welcome to Ulster. I stand ready to serve yer lordship in any way that I can." He bowed again and smiled, showing a mouthful of rather bad teeth, and as an afterthought, snatched the cap from his thinning hair. "I've brought a coachman for ye."

"Very good, Feeny," Rowan Lindley said, "but before we proceed further, you must understand that the Maguire's Ford plantation belongs not to me, but to my wife, Lady Lindley. Unless otherwise instructed, you will accept her authority in all matters pertaining to the plantation. Do you understand?" The marquess regarded the agent carefully. He did not like the look of the man at all, but what the hell did James's government in London know about the agents it appointed in Ulster? Very little, the Marquess of Westleigh suspected. Unless this Feeny proved himself a decent sort, he would have to go.

Feeny looked aghast at the Englishman's words. A woman in charge of Maguire's Ford? It had to be a joke. Women were good for several things—cooking, sewing, fucking—but a woman capable of overseeing an estate? It simply wasn't possible. He cocked his head questioningly at his new master and said nervously, "Lady Lindley in charge?" Of course it was jest. The Englishman had to be testing him in some way.

The marquess, however, nodded his head slowly at the horrified royal agent. "Aye," he drawled.

"Is the coachman familiar with the roads, Master Feeny?" Jasmine asked. "How long will it take us to reach Maguire's Ford? I am told the castle is habitable. Is that so? And you have, of course, engaged servants for me, haven't you?"

Feeny gaped at her like a fish out of water, and it was then that Jasmine noticed a very tall young man with a shock of red-gold hair standing nearby. As their eyes met, he stepped forward and bowed to her with an elegance that would have befitted a courtier at Whitehall.

"Rory Maguire, m'lady. I've been engaged to drive yer coach. There's not a road between here and Lough Erne that I'm not familiar with, I assure ye. 'Twill take two days of hard driving if we start now, and three if we don't." He bowed again to her, his blue eyes twinkling.

"Then we had best get started now, hadn't we?" Jasmine said. "But I prefer to ride one of my horses rather than sit in that stuffy coach. Can you ride, Rory Maguire?"

"Aye … m'lady."

"And you, Master Feeny. Can you handle the coach by yourself? Of course you can!" she answered for him. "Handle the coach?" Feeny sputtered, outraged. "Madame, I am the royal land agent, not some stableyard servant!" The woman was obviously featherbrained, and shouldn't be allowed to make any decisions outside of her house and garden. He pulled himself up straight and looked disapprovingly at Jasmine. To his shock, however, she did not wither beneath his stern condemnation; rather, those strange blue eyes of hers grew hard for a moment as she looked at him.

Then she turned to her husband. "Rowan, you take Nighthawk and I'll ride my Ebony. Toramalli, you will ride in the coach. Master Feeny, take care—Toramalli has been with me since my birth and is very dear to me; you must treat her as you would your own child." Jasmine smiled brightly at the royal agent. "Choose yourself one of the mares, Rory Maguire," she told him, "and use her gently. With luck, her children will soon be gamboling in Irish meadows and growing fat on green grass."

Rory Maguire was unable to suppress a grin. The English lord must really have his hands full with this spirited filly. He cast a surreptitious glance at Rowan Lindley from under his outrageously thick eyelashes as he was choosing his mount. The man looked hard. She was obviously no English rose, but the Irishman could see that Lord Lindley had a soft spot in his heart for his beautiful wife. And who was she? She had the look of Ireland about her, and yet there was something else there as well.

Jasmine thanked Captain Small for a safe voyage.

"I can get you back to England anytime you want to go, but the seas get nastier between England and Ireland as the year grows older. Not all voyages are as smooth as this one," he said.

"I may want my children once I see what kind of conditions we face at Maguire's Ford," Jasmine told him. "I do not like leaving them for a long period of time, and we must really remain a year or two if we are to begin a successful breeding farm."

"Before September if you can, m'lady, else it will be too hard on the little ones," Captain Small told her, and then he bowed respectfully.

The coach horses were being affixed into the carriage traces by two young grooms who had come with them from Cadby.

"The mares can be attached behind," Jasmine told them. "Do not drive too quickly, Master Feeny. I do not want my little beauties winded." She patted each of the mares affectionately.

Mounting Ebony, Jasmine smiled at her husband and then looked to Rory Maguire to lead the way. They were but a few miles from the bay when the sun began to shine, but several miles farther on the day clouded over and it once again began to rain. It was not really a heavy English rain. Rather, it was a fine mist of a rain.

" 'Tis what we call a soft day," Rory Maguire told them.

"Is it always like this, Maguire?" the marquess asked.

"Aye, most days, m'lord. Ireland is both a magical and a most confounding place, or so the English have found," was the bland answer from the young man.

"Are you the Maguire of Maguire's Ford?" Jasmine asked, coming directly to the point. It was one thing to talk about invaders and lands changing hands, she thought, but it was another to come face-to-face with your property's former owner.

"There are many Maguires in Ulster, m'lady," he told her. "The former owner of your lands was Conor Maguire himself. He departed Ireland almost a year ago. You'll not be embarrassed in any way, I assure you." His blue eyes remained fixed on some distant horizon.

They rode for several hours before Rory Maguire led them into a farmyard. A tall young girl, her eyes lowered, ran out with tankards of ale while a smaller child followed, carrying a tray upon which were slabs of freshly sliced bread covered with cheese.

"There's no inn such as you are used to," the Irishman told them. "I arranged with this farmer's family to feed you at midday."

"I must get off my horse," Jasmine said, and Rowan quickly dismounted to help his wife. "Is there no place we may sit ourselves, Master Maguire, while we eat? It is beginning to rain again, and while I do not mind riding in the rain, I do object to picnicking in it." Jasmine shook her damp green velvet riding skirts irritably. She hated riding sidesaddle, and wet skirts were the most damnable inconvenience.

"We can eat inside," Rory Maguire said, "but 'tis a poor place, like many in Ireland. It may shock yer ladyship."

"Your solicitude is commendable, Master Maguire," she told him, annoyed. This coachman was behaving in a manner far above his station, but then she had been warned that the Irish were an overproud race.

The farmer's house was stone with a thatched roof. Inside they found a dirt floor and a single fireplace around which were gathered a very pregnant woman and several children. The inhabitants looked wide-eyed at the visitors, and the woman drew her children closer as if afraid. There was but a single table in the room and several benches.

"I should like to sit by the fire and warm myself, please," Jasmine said to the woman, who looked at her terrified when she spoke.

"She does not understand you," Rory Maguire said. "She speaks only the Irish tongue." He then turned to the woman and from his mouth came what sounded like a stream of gibberish to the English lord and his wife. The woman answered back, and then the Irishman said to them, "Mistress Tully bids you welcome to her home and asks that you sit by her fire. She apologizes for the meal, but 'tis all she has."

Jasmine smiled at the woman and her children and, settling herself on a bench by the fire, replied, "Tell her, Master Maguire, that I appreciate her hospitality. Her bread is the best I have ever tasted."

He repeated her words to their hostess in the Irish tongue, and the woman asked him, "What manner of Englishwoman is this, Rory Maguire, who asks to come into my house instead of just barging in and then thanks me?"

"Her ladyship is the new owner of Maguire's Ford, Sosanna Tully," he told her. "I've just met her myself, but I'd say she's not quite what we expected to have at Maguire's Ford." Then he grinned at Mistress Tully and set about demolishing the food.

When they had finished and were ready to leave, Rowan Lindley asked, "Has the woman been paid for her kindness, Master Maguire?"

"Usually English travelers just take, m'lord, no offense, but 'tis truth," Rory Maguire responded. "If, however, you were of a mind to give her a little something, 'twould help. Her husband is no longer with her, and she's been struggling along alone. Her bairn is due any minute now, as you can surely see."

"Where is her husband?" Jasmine asked.

"Sean left Ireland with his chieftain last autumn, m'lady."

"Leaving his wife and children behind?" Jasmine was outraged.

"She would not leave the land," was the answer. "There are many like her now. Women alone with their children, tending their farms as best as they can. As long as their men are alive, they cannot take new husbands, and so they struggle on alone. As long as she can pay her rent to her English landlord, m'lady, she'll survive. Mistress Tully is luckier than most. Her farm is on the road to Erne, and she feeds the travelers passing by. Sometimes she takes them in overnight. It helps her to manage while her children work the land."

Rowan Lindley pressed a coin into Mistress Tully's hand. Jasmine saw the glitter of gold and smiled, remembering Mistress Greene at the Rose and Crown.

But Rory Maguire spoke up. "Do not give her gold, m'lord. She will not be able to pass the coin for fear of being called a thief. If you would be generous, let her have whatever coins of silver or copper you have in your pockets. Those she can exchange with ease."

"Tell her to keep the gold for an emergency," Rowan Lindley told the Irishman, and then he gave the woman several additional coins, those of copper and silver as Rory Maguire had suggested.

The Irishman explained to their hostess, adding, "The man's a damned fool, I'm thinking, Sosanna Tully."

"Nay, he's a real gentleman, Rory Maguire, and his wife a woman with a heart. Thank them for me." Then she bobbed a curtsey at the Marquess and Marchioness of Westleigh, favoring them with a slight smile as well. "If more English were like them, life might not be so hard."

"And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride in grand style, Sosanna Tully," he answered her with a grin. " 'Tis not likely to happen."

They spent several more long hours upon the road, until Jasmine was frankly quite tired. "Does it never get dark in Ireland?" she demanded irritably of their guide. As much as she disliked riding inside the coach, she would have welcomed it right now, but to her great annoyance, it was nowhere in sight.

" 'Tis summer, m'lady, and we have long days, marvelous twilights, but very short nights," he told her with a small smile. She had a temper, did she? The woman had to have Irish blood in her.

"Where are we to stop the night, Maguire?" Rowan Lindley asked.

"I've arranged for you to stay with Sir John Appleton and his wife, m'lord. 'Tis just over the next hill," was the reply.

Jasmine felt slightly more cheered by that revelation and looked about her with more interest. The on again, off again rain had disappeared, and the day was really quite beautiful now. About them the green hills rolled gently away toward the horizon. There were vast meadows of grass that boded well, she thought, for their enterprise. Here and there a single gray stone tower rose up, but none seemed inhabited. Occasionally they rode through a cluster of cottages, and wherever those cottages appeared there was always a small square with a cross in its center and a church. The land, however, seemed sparsely populated.

Sir John Appleton was a portly gentleman with a fat red face. His wife was equally plump but pasty-faced. They welcomed their guests effusively, ordering their servants about harshly, fretting over the fact that the coach had not arrived as of yet.

"They'll be here in good time," Rory Maguire assured them.

"Who is this person?" Sir John demanded.

"Our guide," Rowan Lindley replied.

"He is Irish," Sir John said suspiciously.

"This is Ireland," the Marquess of Westleigh answered, amused.

"Young, able-bodied Irishmen in Ulster who did not flee with their traitorous masters are usually troublemakers," Sir John said ominously. "What is your name, fellow?"

"Rory Maguire, if it please yer lordship," and the younger man bowed in a servile manner, bobbing up and down several times.

"Maguire? 'Tis a common enough name in this country," Sir John said, mollified somewhat by the seemingly humble manner of the man before him. "Well, Maguire, you may sleep in the stables and cook will give you your supper in the kitchens."

"Aye, m'lord, thank ye, m'lord, very good, m'lord," Rory Maguire responded and backed himself out of Sir John's presence.

"A sly fellow, I can see, and not to be trusted, but then none of these Irish are," Sir John told his guests. "Won't have 'em in the house, even as servants. No! No! Not even as servants!"

"They make terrible servants," Lady Appleton confided to Jasmine. "Lazy, dirty people, and they'll steal anything that isn't nailed down, they will. Are you bringing your servants from England, Lady Lindley?"

"Only a few," Jasmine said. "I had intended employing local people for the most part. I felt that it would be best."

"Oh no, my dear!" Lady Appleton said in a concerned and motherly tone. "If you do not bring your own people, then you must hire only English, or Scots at the worst, but frankly I think them not much better than the Irish, for all our dear King James is a Scot."

They sat down to supper and, as the meal was served, Rowan Lindley asked his host, "Where is your home in England, sir?"

"Oh," Sir John replied, "I had only a little house in London. I was recently knighted by the king himself for my services to the crown."

"And what were those services?" the marquess asked.

"I was secretary first to the old Lord Burghley himself and then to his son, Sir Robert Cecil, the Earl of Salisbury. When I was knighted, I was given this plantation of five hundred acres here in Ireland," Sir John explained. "Our daughter and her husband will be joining us next year, as will our son, who is a merchant in London."

He made himself sound quite important, the marquess thought, and the less knowledgeable might have been impressed. Rowan Lindley was not, for he knew that old Lord Burghley and his son had at least half a dozen secretaries to serve them.

"I shall be so glad to see our children," Lady Appleton twittered. "There is no social life here at all, and we have been so lonely since we arrived. One can hardly be friends with the Irish. Why, most of them don't even speak English, and when they do, one can barely understand what they are saying. A most ignorant people, but what can one do? We have served England our whole lives and now we have come to Ireland to help civilize it for the king."

Jasmine choked on a mouthful of soup and cast her husband a despairing glance. Later, when they had finally escaped their host and hostess and lay abed, she said, "I have never heard such arrogance! If all the English coming to Ireland are like them, no wonder the Irish don't like us. It is not easy to be a conquered people, but to have to take such abuse from one's conquerors in addition is untenable, Rowan. I do not want to treat the people on our land like that."

"You will not, Jasmine. I know you well and your heart is kind. You will try your best, but be warned, my lady, that there are those who will not respond even to your kindness and will be your enemies. Do not be surprised by them. Be hard. For those people will only understand you if you are. 'Twill not be easy, and most like Feeny do not think a woman capable of managing a large estate. I, however, know you can."

The coach arrived shortly after they had gone to bed, and they heard Toramalli creep into the dressing room off their bedchamber where she was to sleep.

"Toramalli." Jasmine called her in. "Have you eaten?"

"Aye, though that dough-faced creature who is the lady of the house was not of a mind to feed us so late, until I told her my mistress would be very angry to learn we were mistreated."

"I had begun to fear for you," Jasmine said.

"We are lucky to be here and alive," Toramalli answered, her dark eyes showing her annoyance. "That Feeny fellow is the most incompetent man who ever lived, m'lady. The grooms finally had to take the reins, and I, God help me, was forced to ride with the fool while he puffed himself up like a frog and croaked of his importance in the scheme of the world. Please, m'lady, let the coachman sit upon the box tomorrow even if you ride, else I kill that Feeny fellow!"

Rowan chuckled from beneath his coverlet. He had rarely heard Toramalli discourse so passionately about anyone other than her mistress. Rolling over, he grinned at the servant. "We'll make him run behind the coach with the mares tomorrow, Toramalli, I promise you," he said.

Toramalli giggled and, curtseying to her master, went to her bed. " 'Twould be a good thing if he did," she was heard to say as she closed the door behind her.

"She adores you," Jasmine said with a smile.

"As much as her mistress?" he teased her.

"No one," Jasmine said firmly, "could love you as much as I love you, James Rowan Lindley, my dearest, darling lord and husband."

"Then show me," he replied wickedly. "I will wager these bedsprings have not been well sprung in ten years or more, madame, if ever."

"Have you not had enough of riding for today, my lord?" she said mischievously, already purring beneath his caressing hands.

"With you for a mount, I could ride forever," he declared.

"Well, perhaps a short trot about the park," she considered, "but remember, my lord, that the dawn comes very early in Ireland, or so Master Maguire would have us believe. Ummmmm, Rowan! Ahh, yes!"

He had unlaced her chemise and fastened his mouth about a nipple. Slowly his tongue encircled the nub, flicking at it teasingly. She murmured softly beneath his delicious ministrations, her fingers kneading at his tawny head, feeling the prickle of the hair upon his neck rising with his arousal. She arched against him, murmuring with pleasure as his hands began to caress her body.

"Flawless," he groaned, lifting his head and meeting her gaze. "You are absolutely flawless, my love." He nuzzled against her slightly rounded belly, alternately kissing and tasting the flesh while his hand fondled a plump breast.

"Did you not have enough supper, my lord?" she teased him.

"There was no sweet," he replied mischievously, "and I cannot sleep without a sweet. Any sweet will do, of course!"

"Oh, villain!" She smacked at him playfully. "Ohhh, Rowan!" she then cried as he entered her in a single stroke. She was surprised by the suddenness of his action. "Ohhh, my love!"

He moved smoothly upon her, his mouth finding hers and kissing her passionately. Jasmine sighed happily, letting herself relax, drifting with the delightful sensations that each stroke of his mighty manhood evoked within her. Mindful of her admonition that the dawn came early, he brought her to complete fulfillment, taking his own pleasure at the same time; and then together they fell asleep, limbs entwined.

They departed Lord Appleton's house shortly after first light. Rory Maguire sat upon the coachman's box, to Toramalli's great satisfaction. Master Feeny had his own mount, for which Jasmine thanked providence.

"Look at the way he saws at that poor beast's mouth with his reins," she said to her husband. "He is surely no horseman."

Hearing her, Rory Maguire grinned to himself. Feeny was a pitiful specimen to begin with, but seeing him upon a horse was a comical sight at the least. Rory whipped up the carriage horses, knowing that the English milord and his beautiful wife would have no trouble following.

"We'll be home by suppertime, my beauties, and there will be a fine dry stable for you and a full measure of oats."

It rained all day. It was a chilly, steady downpour that turned the road to mud, but Rory Maguire was a skilled driver and brought the horses along at a steady pace. Finally, he drew the great traveling coach to a halt and waited for the mounted party to draw abreast. "Just over the next hill is Maguire's Ford, m'lady. There isn't much to it. Just a wee village and a small bit of a castle, but the land has good grass. 'Twill be a grand place for your horses, I promise you."

"Maguire! Do not get above yer station," Master Feeny said sharply. "Ye were hired to drive the coach. 'Tis not yer place to tell his lordship about Maguire's Ford. I shall do that."

"Do you come from Maguire's Ford, Master Feeny?" Jasmine inquired. The little man annoyed her with his airs.

"Me? Gracious no, yer ladyship! And if I did, I'd not admit it, for 'tis a poor place to come from, I'm thinking. No, no! I was born and raised in Belfast. 'Tis a fine civilized town, Belfast!"

"If you were born in Belfast, Master Feeny, then pray, how can you tell me anything about Maguire's Ford, which you indeed seem to hold in great contempt? A closed mind, I have found, is seldom a good judge of anything, but perhaps I mistake your words," Jasmine said.

Rory Maguire swallowed back his laughter. The little crown estate agent was clearly almost apoplectic with his outrage, but he dared not voice it. Ye'll not be with us long, I'm thinking, the tall Irishman predicted.

"M'lady, I have carefully inspected the plantation and its premises thoroughly. I can tell you whatever you need to know, I assure you," Master Feeny insisted. "Indeed, I know my duties better than most. There has never been a complaint about Eamon Feeny."

"Let us move on," the Marquess of Westleigh said quietly. "I am most anxious to see Maguire's Ford, and I know my wife is as well."

At the top of the next hill they stopped once more. Below, a beautiful body of water stretched out before them, blue and inviting in the sudden late afternoon sunshine.

" 'Tis upper Lough Erne," Rory Maguire told them. "The lough bisects Fermanagh and runs the length of it, turning into a river of the same name that pours out into Donegal Bay at Ballyshannon."

"It's lovely," Jasmine told him. "In India my home was also on a lake, and beyond it were great snow-covered mountains. Your green hills are softer and somehow more friendly."

"India? What and where is that place?" he asked.

"It is a land across the eastern seas, six months in traveling time from London," she told him. "I was born there."

"Are ye not English, then, m'lady?" Rory Maguire was puzzled.

Jasmine thought a moment. "My father was Indian. My mother is half English, half Irish. I suppose that makes me Anglo-Irish and Indian."

"I knew that there was Irish in ye," he said, chuckling. "Would ye happen to know where yer grandmother came from, m'lady?"

"My grandmother is an O'Malley from Innisfana in Connaught," Jasmine said. "I do not even know how far from here that is, do you?"

"An O'Malley!? O'Malley is a famous name in Connaught," he told her. "Your grandmother's home is several days' ride, on the sea." Then Rory Maguire caught himself. They should not be speaking like friends. He pointed down the hill. "There is the village of Maguire's Ford, m'lady, and the castle just beyond it on the lough. Can you see it?" He gently urged the horses on again, leading them down the hill.

They entered the village and it was oddly silent.

"Where are all the people?" Jasmine called to Master Feeny. The stone cottages were obviously deserted, and weeds were growing in the little kitchen gardens. There were no barking dogs, nor cattle, nor sheep to be seen.

"I have had them driven off, m'lady. You'll not be wanting Irish in your village. It can be repopulated as soon as you desire with God-fearing English or Scots settlers. There are plenty waiting to come."

"You drove my villagers off?" Her voice was high with her outrage. "Where are they expected to go, Master Feeny? Certainly there were whole families—women, children, oldsters—and you drove them off? How long ago? Get them back at once!"

"They were Irish, m'lady," he said, in a tone that implied she was a silly woman and could not possibly understand.

"This is Ireland, you pompous fool!" Jasmine shouted furiously. "Now answer me! Where are my villagers?"

"In the bogs, in the woods, I suppose, m'lady. 'Tis not my business to keep track of a bunch of peasants," he protested rudely.

"Go back to Belfast, Master Feeny," Jasmine said coldly.

"What?" The estate agent looked startled.

"Go back to Belfast," she replied. "Your services are no longer required by me. You are dismissed. There is no law that says I must keep you on, and if there were, I should defy it!"

"My lord, I must protest," Master Feeny said, red-faced.

Rowan Lindley shrugged his shoulders. "I told you, Master Feeny, that Maguire's Ford belongs to my wife. Her wishes will be law on this plantation, and there is nothing I can or will do about it. In any event, I believe her right in this matter. It was very foolish of you to drive the villagers away."

"They are Irish malcontents," Feeny attempted once again to explain. "They will cause trouble with their ungovernable attitude and their wicked popery rebels."

"You are a fool, Master Feeny," Jasmine said angrily. "I condemn no one before I have given them a chance, and as for their wicked popery, I agree with our late queen. There is but one Lord Jesus Christ. The rest is all trifles.' I do not believe there is but one correct road that leads to God's front door. I think there are many roads!"

" 'Tis mightily tolerant of you, your ladyship," Master Feeny said nastily, "but the priests will be no more tolerant of your silly attitude than a preacher from the Church of Ireland would be. As for the villagers of Maguire's Ford, if you allow them back here, they will defy you at every turn and cause you nothing but trouble. Do not say I did not warn you. You'll see!"

"You may stay the night, Master Feeny," Jasmine said coldly. "In the morning be on your way." She turned away from him and said, "Rory Maguire, I have no doubt you know exactly where the people of Maguire's Ford have gone. Find them as quickly as possible and tell them to come home. I have need of them, and I will be fair to all who give me their honest loyalty. Those who cannot had best be on their way, for I will deal harshly with insurrection of any kind."

"They'll want a priest," he warned her.

"They can have one. I even have one in mind for them," she said with a small smile, and then she lowered her voice so only he might hear her words. "My great-uncle, Michael O'Malley, is the bishop of Mid-Connaught. He will supply me with a cleric."

"Michael O'Malley is one of the few important churchmen who has remained here in Ireland despite the English," Rory Maguire said admiringly. "Most have fled to Paris or Rome." Then he caught himself. Jesu. The woman had a way of putting a man at his ease. He had to be more careful. "Let me bring you to the castle, m'lady, m'lord. Then I shall go out and see if I can find your villagers. They'll not have gone far despite Master Feeny. They've all lived here for generations and would not know where else to go."

"Does the castle have a name, Master Maguire?" Jasmine asked him as she rode beside the coach through the village.

" 'Tis called Erne Rock, m'lady. You see it sits upon a wee promontory and is surrounded by the waters on three sides. From the lough 'tis said to resemble a rock, and hence its name, Erne Rock Castle," he told them. "You will soon see how one might gain such an impression,"

"How old is the castle, Master Maguire?" Jasmine queried him.

"Oh, I couldn't be certain, m'lady, but 'tis said to have been here for over two hundred years or more. It began as a tower house, the customary type of home for the Irish gentry, and was added on to over the years until it became what you see before you."

The coach drew up before Erne Rock Castle. It was a small building, but obviously it had been well-maintained over the years. Its entry was across a drawbridge that lay over what appeared to be a moat. Upon closer inspection, however, Rowan Lindley could see that the narrow land side of the castle had been dug open, allowing the lough to surround it. When the drawbridge was raised, the castle was fairly impregnable. He smiled admiringly. "Clever," he said softly. "Very clever indeed."

The Marquess of Westleigh encouraged his horse onto the drawbridge and over it into the courtyard of the castle. The others followed. Like the village, the castle was also deserted. "Did you drive the house servants off as well, Feeny?" he said wryly to the estate agent. "You'll get no supper, I fear, if you did. Though my wife is expert in many things, the culinary arts are not among them."

"The servants were ordered to remain, my lord, I swear it!" the beleaguered Feeny protested. "Their disobedience just proves my point. These Irish peasants are not to be trusted."

"Master Feeny," Jasmine said, aggravated by his attitude. "Are you not Irish yourself?"

"I am a Belfast man, m'lady," Feeny replied proudly, as if that should explain everything.

"Belfast is in Ireland," Jasmine answered solemnly, "or it was the last time I inquired. Is that not so, my lord?"

"Aye," Rowan drawled. "You are correct, my love."

Maguire climbed down off the coachman's box and, opening the carriage door, helped Toramalli out. "If I might have the loan of a horse, my lord," he said to Rowan, "I'll go and track down the poor souls who belong to Maguire's Ford for ye and tell them to come back."

"The castle will be open, I assume," Rowan Lindley said.

"Aye, my lord, it will be," was the reply.

"Then go along, Maguire," the marquess instructed him.

Rory Maguire untied one of the mares from behind the coach and, without even bothering to saddle the creature, swung himself upon its back and rode out of the castle courtyard, guiding the animal with his knees, a hand gripping the mare's mane.

"Yer mad to trust that one!" Feeny said. "He'll murder you in yer beds before 'tis all done, I'm certain."

"Where did you find him, Feeny?" the marquess asked, curious. Rory Maguire was no servant, or farmer for that matter, Rowan Lindley knew. He was too well-spoken, and his hands, although hard, were not a workman's hands. Feeny, of course, would not have realized any of that. He had not the wit.

"He was just here, m'lord, when I arrived to take possession of Maguire's Ford in the king's name," Feeny told the marquess. "He seemed more intelligent than the others. When I offered him employment, he was happy to take it. Still, he's Irish and you must be careful."

"Hmmmmm," Rowan Lindley replied, and then he said, "Come, Master Feeny, we must get the horses into the stable and the coach unhitched. You may help me. Jasmine, my love, you and Toramalli go into the castle and see just what it is you have been given by Jamie Stuart. Having never been to Ireland, I just took what I was offered. It does not seem to be a bad bargain, though I feared it might be. Come along, Feeny! The horses."

Eamon Feeny seethed with his outrage as his stubby fingers struggled to undo the buckles and straps that fastened the horses to the coach. What kind of people were these English lords? Certainly unlike any he had met before. No real gentleman would unfasten his own coach animals and lead them whistling into the stables as this Marquess of Westleigh was now doing. And what kind of man allowed his wife to give orders to others, except, of course, female servants?

The woman was obviously a witch. An evil, ungodly creature who would tolerate popery. A foul creature who had lured her husband into his besotted state with her beauty, and probably ensorceled other men as well. That Rory Maguire looked as if he'd like to get his hands under her fine silk skirts. Ohhh, yes! He saw this Marchioness of Westleigh for what she really was. She could not fool Eamon Feeny. If it were not for Lady Lindley, he would still be retained as land agent of Maguire's Ford. Ahh, the shame of it! That he, Eamon Feeny, should be dismissed from a position—and by a woman! He would be a laughingstock in all Belfast if he returned now. The damned woman had ruined him! What was he to do? He glared fiercely after Lady Lindley and her serving wench.

The two women entered the dwelling to find a warm home with well-polished floors on the upper level and well-swept stone floors on the main level. There were two fireplaces in the Great Hall, which was not much bigger than the Family Hall at Queen's Malvern. There were fireplaces in all the bedchambers. The furniture was golden oak, well-rubbed with beeswax over the years. It had a comfortable look and feel to it.

"Well," said Toramalli, "I'm surprised. From all I had been told, Ireland is a barbaric place, and yet it seems not so, m'lady."

They were standing in the largest of the bedchambers. Jasmine was looking out over the fields through the lead-paned windows, watching Rory Maguire as he rode away. "Hmmm, what, Toramalli?" she said.

Toramalli followed her mistress's gaze and then said, "This Ireland is not so awful after all, is it? I think you should send for the children. Adali and Rohana would like it here too." Then she giggled. "That Master Maguire is a handsome fellow, m'lady, isn't he? I never saw hair so red-gold, and those blue eyes of his are just like the sapphires in the Stars of Kashmir necklace, aren't they?"

"I did not notice his eyes as you did, Toramalli," Jasmine teased her serving woman. "His hair, however, is something else. I think you could probably see him coming on a dark night with that hair."

The object of their discussion had now disappeared from view. Rory Maguire rode like a man who knew just where he was going, and in fact he did. Entering a wood, he stopped the mare and whistled several times. He was answered by another whistle, and a young boy came forth from the thick trees.

"M'lord! Yer back, then. That's a fine mare yer riding!" The boy reached out and ran an appreciative hand over the mare's neck.

"Indeed, and I'm back, Brian lad. Is everyone just where I told them to go? I've brought the new English landlord with me." He gave an amused chuckle. " 'Tis a fine lady, my lad. What do ye think of that?"

"A lady?" The boy's mouth fell open and then he said, "Naaah! Yer jesting with me, m'lord! 'Tis no lady!"

"Aye, Brian, it is. Lady Jasmine Lindley, the Marchioness of Westleigh. She's a rare one, I can tell ye, even on our short acquaintance. She's sent that Belfast man packing already. He's to go at first light, she says."

They moved deeper into the woods until finally they came to a clearing within which was the half-camouflaged mouth of a large cave. All about them, suddenly, people appeared, calling out to Rory Maguire, nodding and smiling. He dismounted the mare and tied it to a tree. Then he gathered the people together within the mouth of the cave and spoke to them.

"I want ye to all go home now," he said. " 'Tis safe, I promise ye. I should not tell ye otherwise."

"Have the English gone then, m'lord?" a voice in the crowd asked him. "Are we safe from the English, and are the earls back, then?"

"Nay, Fergus, the English are not gone. I've brought the new landlord of Maguire's Ford to Erne Rock myself this day."

" 'Tis a lady, he says," Brian burst out, unable to contain such important news.

There were murmurs of discontent among the Irish gathered before Rory Maguire, but he held up his hand and said to them, "It is indeed a lady who has been given these lands. A beautiful young woman whose grandmother was an O'Malley. She says she will be fair to all who give her their loyalty, and I believe her. She will return a priest to the church, and she has sent that Belfast man on his way."

"Maguire's Ford belongs to the Maguires," the man called Fergus protested. "How can ye, the lord of Erne Rock, give it over so easily? When the earls return—"

"They will not return," Rory Maguire said bleakly.

A low keening began among the women.

"Do not say it, my lord," Fergus begged, tears in his eyes.

"O'Neill is in Rome and the others are with him," Rory Maguire said quietly. "O'Donnell has died of a broken heart, they say. I heard it at Dundalk from a ship's captain just in from Spain. They will not return. I knew it the day I rode to Lough Swilly with my kinsman and overlord, Conor Maguire, to bid him farewell. I could see it in his eyes that he knew it too. O'Neill and his wife Catherine, their sons; O'Donnell, his brothers, and his sister Nuala; my cousin Conor. They knew as they set foot on that French ship and gazed out over the waters at our blessed hills that they would never see Ireland again. They will not return, my lads. Not ever."

Many in the crowd surrounding Rory Maguire wept openly and unashamedly at his words, and then Fergus said, "We can still fight the English, my lord. We can still fight them!"

"To what purpose?" Rory Maguire asked him.

Fergus and many of the other men looked astounded at their lord's words. This was Rory Maguire, as fierce a fighter as any man would want for a son. What was the matter with him? What was he saying?

He saw their puzzlement and told them, "We have been fighting the English for over four hundred years or more, my lads. O'Neill, O'Donnell, Conor Maguire, and their ilk have left us in a grand gesture of defiance, but we must remain. Do we remain to live or to die? If we attempt to fight the English as we have always fought them, then we die. If ye would die, Fergus, then drown yerself in the lough and save yer family further misery. If ye would live, however, then listen to me.

"My branch of the Maguire family have held this land and Erne Rock for the Maguire chieftains since the beginning. I will not leave ye, nor will I leave my lands. The English landlord says she will not mistreat ye. I truly believe her. If ye do not return to the village, she will be forced to repopulate it with Scots or English. She has brought a stallion and several mares as fine as this one I rode. She means to raise horses on my lands, and she means to stay. I mean to stay as well."

"Does she know who you are, my lord?" a voice inquired.

"Nay, but she probably suspects. I know her husband does," he told them with a small smile. "The man is no foppish courtier, but I believe he will let me be as long as I do not challenge his authority and I continue to be useful to him. I could almost like him, lads, if he were not so damned English."

There was a great deal of murmuring among the crowd, and then one of the women spoke up. "I'm going home now," she said loudly in firm tones. "I've lived at Maguire's Ford my entire life, and my family before me for so many generations we cannot count. I'll not be kept from my home any longer, and that's an end to it. Children!"

"I'll not have it," Fergus answered his wife angrily. "I'll not have my children raised in a heretical faith, woman!"

"Did I not mention that there will be a priest in the church?" Rory Maguire said slyly. "I know I did, but ye were not listening."

"A priest?" Fergus was disbelieving.

"I told ye that our new landlord has an O'Malley for a grandmother. She says her great-uncle is Michael O'Malley himself, the Bishop of Mid-Connaught, and that she'll request a priest of him for our church. If she does this for us, then she proves her good faith, doesn't she?"

"Wellll," Fergus considered.

"And when have I ever lied to ye, lads?" Rory Maguire demanded.

"He never has!" Fergus's wife, who was called Bride, spoke up and, hands on ample hips, looked around her. "Can any of you deny it?"

"Nay!" came the collective reply from the crowd.

Bride gathered her children about her and, with a toss of her head, walked from the clearing. "I'm going home," she repeated, and to no one's surprise the other women, with their children, began to follow after her. Bride had always been a leader in the village.

"Put out the fires in the cave, lads," Rory Maguire said quietly, "and let's all go home. Fergus? Ye'll come?"

"Ye, my lord, I'll come, but if there's any trouble from this new English landlord, I'll be cutting a few English throats and not have a moment's guilt over it, I tell ye."

Watching from the windows of the master's bedchamber, Jasmine de Marisco Lindley was not in the least surprised to see the villagers begin streaming forth from the woods.