Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Skye O'Malley de Marisco had not set her eyes on her native land in almost forty years. When Elizabeth Tudor had taken away Padraic's heriditary Burke lands, she had also forbidden Skye's return, although she had rescinded that order once so that Lady de Marisco might gain her O'Malley brothers' aid for England. Now, looking out over the beauty of Lough Erne, Skye sighed gustily.

" 'Tis the most beautiful place on earth, Adam? Is it not?"

"When it is not raining," her husband agreed. "I am too old for such damp, madame. It rains here more than in England, and I never thought I should say such a thing of any other place. How long must we stay?"

"The seas are already winter-wicked," Skye told her husband. "Go, if you will, my darling, but I must stay with Jasmine, and she cannot travel until her baby is born. It is a blessing, and yet at the same time a tragedy that Rowan has left her with this parting gift. The child is due at the end of June, the beginning of July. If it is healthy, we will return to England in August. 'Twill not be a pleasant trip, I fear, for we will be returning poor Rowan's body to Cadby on the same ship." Her eyes filled with tears. " 'Tis so unfair, Adam!"

He put a comforting arm about her. "There now, little girl, how many husbands did you bury before we found happiness? I do not, of course, wish the same fate for our granddaughter, but I know she will marry again, and find happiness even as we did."

"I hope so," Skye said, sighing. She had grown used to a peaceful life, but the last few months had been dreadful. First Fergus Duffy had arrived from Ireland with a written message from Adali and Cullen Butler. She and Adam had been astounded and heartbroken by the news he had brought. They had hurried to Ireland, even though the seas between the two lands were not particularly safe at this time of year. There they had found their granddaughter, weak and grieving for her husband. That she was alive, Cullen Butler told his aunt, was nothing short of a miracle. When, several weeks after her grandmother's arrival, Jasmine had discovered she was enceinte, her joy had known no bounds. This child would be Rowan's final gift to her. It was a sign, she told them, that she must live on, not just for his memory, but for their children.

"But you will come home to England, won't you?" her grandmother had queried her. "You will return to Queen's Malvern with your grandfather and with me, come late summer of next year, Jasmine?"

"I must go to Cadby, Grandmama," Jasmine said. " 'Twas Rowan's home. He wanted Henry and India raised there. We had spoken on it just before … before he died. We were going to return after the first of the mares foaled. We both knew that we could leave Maguire's Ford safe in Rory Maguire's hands. He will look after the plantation diligently and carefully because he loves it and it was once his family's lands."

Rory Maguire. Now there was a puzzle, thought Skye.

As soon as Jasmine had regained consciousness, Cullen had told her, they had sent to Sir George Harding, the sheriff for Fermanagh, telling him of the Marquess of Westleigh's murder and the subsequent execution of his murderer. Sir George had taken it upon himself to come to Maguire's Ford to hold an inquiry.

"I cannot believe," he had declared pompously, "that an agent of the crown acted so despicably." He had pierced Cullen Butler with a sharp look that said he distrusted a priest of the old faith.

"My lord," Cullen Butler said quietly, "I realize that you are as shocked as we were upon hearing of Lord Lindley's demise, but I assure you, the agent Feeny did commit the crime. Lady Lindley had dismissed him upon her arrival at Maguire's Ford. Before he was hung, he admitted that it was actually her ladyship that he was attempting to assassinate, not his lordship. As both the marquess and the marchioness are very beloved of their tenants, I regret we were unable to hold Master Feeny over for judgment. Having admitted his guilt, he was immediately hung, may God have mercy on his soul," Cullen Butler said solemnly, crossing himself.

"Hmmmm," replied Sir George, and then, "I should like to see her ladyship, sir. I am still not content with this matter."

"Of course, my lord, but you cannot stay for too long. Her ladyship has been devastated by her grief, and has almost died of it, poor lady."

Sir George Harding was admitted into Jasmine's bedchamber. She sat, propped by several pillows, in her bed. She was garbed modestly but richly in a dark, fur-trimmed velvet gown, a lace-edged lawn cap upon her head. Her eyes seemed very big in her small heart-shaped face, and her dark hair made her skin seem even paler than it was. Her eyelids were purple, and there were matching smudges of purple beneath her eyes.

His brief talk with her convinced Sir George that however the Marquess of Westleigh had died, his wife was innocent in the matter. Her grief was simply too overwhelming. "I shall send an estate agent to you," he said magnanimously, but she had shaken her head.

"No, my lord. Maguire's Ford belongs to me, and did not belong to my husband. The patent is certainly filed in Enniskillen to prove the truth of my words. Master Maguire is our estate agent."

"The former owner of these lands?" Sir George was horrified.

"A relative of the former owner," Jasmine said weakly. "My husband appointed him. He has been doing an excellent job, my lord."

"I cannot allow it!" Sir George huffed.

"It is not your decision, sir!" Jasmine had said angrily, two spots of bright color appearing upon her cheeks. "The king himself gifted me with Maguire's Ford. It is mine to do with as I please! Now, get out! I am sick, and weary with my grief! I can abide no more!"

Which, Skye thought, brought her back to Rory Maguire. Polite. Deferential. Concerned. And whose bright blue eyes always strayed to Jasmine when he thought himself unobserved; but Skye had noticed.

"He is in love with her," she said to Adali one day when they were alone in the Great Hall. Jasmine and Maguire had just passed through, discussing the mares in foal.

"Yes, madame," Adali replied. "He is, but he knows better than to climb so high. Besides, she will never love him. The timing is not correct for them. So it is written in the stars."

"Still, he pines for her," Skye said. "It is sad. I will be glad when my granddaughter has delivered of her child so we may return to England." She laughed, almost bitterly. "This is my native land, and I have been denied it for so long, yet here I am longing for England. Do you ever long for India, Adali?"

"Only rarely, my lady. You see, I believe that wherever one is at a particular moment is exactly where they are supposed to be at that moment. So, if I am in Ireland now, or in England tomorrow, it would be a great waste of my emotion to long for India, would it not?"

Skye laughed. "You remind me of an old friend, Osman, the astrologer, but he is long dead. He would have said something similar to me if I had asked him such a question, Adali. Your wisdom gives me comfort in a tragic time."

The winter passed, and with the coming of spring the mares in the pastures of Maguire's Ford dropped their foals. The sight of the mothers running with their babies in the meadows brought a smile to Jasmine's face for the first time in months. Of the four foals, three were fillies and one a fine black colt with but one white stocking.

"Mine!" Lady India Lindley said, pointing at the little colt from the vantage point of her great-grandfather's arms. "Mine, Anpa!"

"Hah!" chuckled Skye, who was holding the young Lord Lindley, who had just celebrated his first birthday. "What think you, my little marquess, shall we let your sister have the colt?"

Henry put his thumb in his mouth and stared at her with large blue eyes. He appeared to be actually considering the matter.

"They are all so healthy, thank God," Jasmine said. "I wish Rowan had lived to see the success of our experiment. This is a good land for raising horses, Grandmama. Maguire should do well for us after we've gone. I shall, of course, come back at some point, but Cadby must be our home from now on. Perhaps when Henry is older he will want to spend some time here, or mayhap I shall give the land to India one day. What do you think?" It was now June, and Jasmine was large with child. Still, she had recovered both her health and her strength, and seemed to bloom with an inner beauty.

"I think India will grasp anything she can lay her hands on, darling girl. There is a great deal of the Mughal in her temperament, I suspect," and Skye laughed. "There is plenty of time to decide who is to receive what, Jasmine. For now Henry has his father's holdings, and India will one day have yours. Perhaps you should give Maguire's Ford to this new baby. Lad or lassie, it will need something of its own for either an inheritance or a dowry. Then, too, one day you will remarry and there will be other children to provide for as well."

That Jasmine did not deny a possible third marriage, Skye found interesting, but then, perhaps, her granddaughter simply did not wish to argue with her.

Jasmine went into labor with her third child on the eighth day of July.

"Exactly nine months to the day of his lordship's death," Adali said fatalistically.

But unlike her first two children, this child was difficult to deliver. Skye had wisely sent to the convent of St. Bride's of the Cliffs for her elder sister, Eibhlin, who was a doctor. Eibhlin was well past seventy, but still practicing her beloved medicine. She had arrived on the first day of July and declared, " 'Tis not right, Skye. I am a bent old lady, and you still look like a woman half your age!"

Skye had laughed and embraced Eibhlin. "I will be seventy before Christmas, Eibhlin. If you do not remember how old I am, I do." The two sisters had not seen each other in many years.

Now, with Jasmine in apparent difficulty, Skye was relieved that she had had the foresight to fetch Eibhlin.

" 'Tis like it was with your Deirdre," Eibhlin declared. "The child is turned about. I can feel its little toes."

Jasmine winced as another sharp pain tore into her. "Damn!" she gasped. "It was not so terrible with India and Henry. They were born so quickly, Grandmama, and with little hurt."

"There, my darling girl," Skye soothed her granddaughter. "The little one is not in correct position, and your great-aunt must turn it about. Your aunt Deirdre gave me the same difficulty." Skye took up a cloth and wrung it out in a basin of cool, perfumed water. Then she smoothed it across Jasmine's hot brow. "Each child is different. I should know, having had eight myself."

Carefully, Eibhlin turned the infant about, but Skye saw her sister's brow furrow in concentration as she worked, and when their eyes met, Skye knew that something else was wrong.

"What is it?" she asked low.

"The cord may be about the baby's neck," Eibhlin replied softly.

Another pain washed over Jasmine, and she shrieked aloud. Tiny beads of perspiration dappled her forehead, and she gasped as if seeking breath. "I cannot bear it," she sobbed.

"I can see the baby's head quite clearly," Eibhlin said calmly. "If you will just push a bit harder, niece, this business of birthing will be over for you quite quickly." She almost sounded cheerful.

Jasmine sent her a fierce look, but she stopped feeling sorry for herself almost immediately. "This baby is a boy," she declared. "Only a lad would be so insensitive of his mother."

Skye laughed. "More than likely 'tis a girl. Girls are always quarreling with their mothers, are they not, my darling?" She chuckled once more. "I will wager a gold piece with you, Jasmine, that I shall shortly have another great-granddaughter."

Jasmine's turquoise-blue eyes twinkled. "Done, Grandmama!" she said, and then she paled and gasped once more.

"Push, child!" Eibhlin demanded. "Push!"

Jasmine glared at her, but screwing up her face, she did as she was bid, pushing with every bit of strength that she possessed. To her great relief, she could feel the baby begin to slip from her body as the spasm subsided.

"Good lass!" Eibhlin said. "We'll have it with the next push, my dear." She carefully turned the child, who was now born to its shoulders, gently untangling the umbilical cord from the little neck about which it had been loosely wrapped. "Nothing serious," she said low to her sister. " 'Twas not tight, but I knew it was there. I felt it."

"Ahhhhhhhhhh!" Jasmine cried out, and pushed again.

The infant slid from her body, and almost immediately began to wail. Eibhlin worked with an efficiency and swiftness that amazed Skye; wiping the child free of birthing blood, clearing its little mouth of mucus, handing the infant over to its great-grandmother, then snipping and tying off the cord neatly.

"You owe me a gold piece, darling girl," Skye informed her granddaughter as she wrapped the baby in its swaddling clothes.

"Let me see her," Jasmine demanded. "Does she look like Rowan? Both India and Henry do."

"I think she looks like you," Skye said, handing the baby to her. "What do you intend to call her?"

"Fortune," Jasmine replied. "I lost her father through a turn of bad luck, but by good fortune we had made love the night before, and 'twas then I must have conceived her. So she shall be Fortune Lindley, I think. Since I know that cousin Cullen will want to baptize her himself, even though I shall raise her in England's church, I will add Mary to her name, which should please him. Lady Fortune Mary Lindley. What think you Grandmama? Aunt Eibhlin?"

" 'Tis a good name," Skye said, and turning away, wiped her eyes. "I am becoming a sentimental old woman," she grumbled, "but seeing a child born never fails to fill me with amazement and awe."

"I have brought more children into this world than I can even remember, and I, too, feel the same way, sister," Eibhlin admitted.

Jasmine gazed down at her daughter. She had to agree with her grandmother. There seemed to be nothing of Rowan in the baby, but then Fortune was so newborn that it was difficult to tell. The child had stopped howling now and was sleepily observing its mother. Jasmine smiled at her. "Welcome, Lady Fortune Mary Lindley," she said softly. "I'm sorry you won't know your papa, for he was a wonderful man, but I shall love you with all my heart, as will the rest of your family."

"Give her to me," Skye said, reaching out for the baby. "Rohana and Toramalli are desperate to see this child, as is the rest of the household. You've been in labor all of yesterday and the whole night past with Fortune, but 'tis morning now. I can hear already India outside the door to these rooms. She will want to see her new sister."

Rohana and Toramalli, who although they had been in their mistress's bedchamber during the birth, had had little to do with it, crowded in to see Fortune.

"She has the Mughal's mole, as you do," Toramalli remarked to Jasmine.

"And your blue eyes, my lady," Rohana said. "Your lady grandmother is correct. She looks like you, but for her tawny hair, which I think is a small inheritance from her father."

"Her hair is more red than tawny," Toramalli remarked.

"Her grandmother, Velvet, has auburn hair," Skye said. "Aye, she's more de Marisco, I think, than anything else." She gathered the infant up and hurried from the room to display it to its great-grandfather, its siblings, and Adali, all of whom were waiting eagerly for news of the newest member of the family.

"I think Jasmine must have looked like this as an infant," Adam said, cradling the baby in his arms. He gently touched the tiny beauty mark Fortune carried between her nostril and her upper lip.

"See! See!" Lady India Lindley demanded, and her nurse-maid lifted the little girl up to inspect her new sister. "Baby," India said, sounding a bit disappointed. "Dia wanted a pony, Anpa."

"And so you shall have one when we return home to England, Mistress India," Adam promised. "What color pony do you want?"

"Black!" India said without hesitation,

"A fine, fat black pony, my pet!" he promised her, and then turned to his wife. "Fortune seems a healthy lass. Can we travel within the month, Skye? Ireland is a fair land, but I long for Queen's Malvern."

"Jasmine must gather her strength before we can travel, Adam," Skye told her husband. "I think six weeks, if she and Fortune remain healthy, and then we may begin the journey back to England."

Eibhlin visited with her sister for a few days following Fortune's birth, and then she prepared to return to St. Bride's.

"Be careful," her younger sister cautioned her just before her departure. "The English have an iron grip on Ireland now, and 'tis not likely they will let go. I thank God St. Bride's is off the beaten path, but what happened in England to the monasteries and the convents all those years ago could just as easily happen in Ireland. Religious houses have been burned before. King James is a nice enough fellow, and given the choice, he would allow full freedom of religion. Those around him, though, for whatever their reasons—greed, fanaticism, or ignorance—prefer the chaos that religious dissent brings. Be watchful, and I will send you whatever news I can."

"I will be dead long before there is any change, and I praise God for an easy deliverance," Eibhlin said. "There is a canker growing in my breast, Skye. I will live a year or two at the most."

"Eibhlin!" Skye was horrified by her sister's blunt words.

Eibhlin, however, smiled serenely. "You and I, of all our sisters, have lived our lives as we chose to live them, Skye. We let no man tell us what we might do or not do. I am one of only three women physicians in Ireland today. My life has been filled full aiding the ill, bringing new souls into this world, easing the burden for the dying, seeing my skills heal the sick. Life has been a joy for me, and I praise God with every bit of my being that he allowed me such total happiness and complete fulfillment. Now I am dying. Have I the right to complain over it? I am seventy-four years old, sister. It is a venerable age. Why, neither our sisters Moire, Peigi, or Bride lived to such an age!"

Eibhlin patted her sister's hand comfortingly. "Do not grieve hard for me, Skye. When God wills my time at an end, I go gladly, serving Him with my obedience, as I have ever tried to serve Him. Mourn me a little in your heart, Skye, for I know you will do it even if I forbid you, but do not mourn me too long, little sister. There is nothing to weep over. I have had it all my way, and how many of us can say that? Not even you, Skye O'Malley. Not even you!"

Watching her sister ride off down the road upon her small brown mare, Skye knew that she would never again see Eibhlin O'Malley in this life.

"Where the hell have all the years gone?" Skye muttered irritably to herself. "How can Eibhlin be dying? How can I be facing my seventieth birthday? And God's nightshirt! Adam will be eighty next month! I am beginning to have an aversion to mirrors, as did old Bess Tudor. Admittedly I look better for my age than I should, but already I am beginning to feel the hot breath of old age in my aches and pains. Yet inside my head I am yet young, and filled with the juices of life and living! I am not, damnit, ready to be old!" She grimaced. "I will never be old," she decided firmly. Looking back to the road where Eibhlin and her horse were even now disappearing out of sight, Skye whispered softly, "Godspeed, Eibhlin O'Malley, until we meet again." Then she stamped back into the castle, her step firm, her skirts swinging about her.

Fortune Lindley was baptized in the village church of Maguire's Ford by Cullen Butler. The baby's godparents were a particularly clever choice on the part of her mother, Skye thought. Bride Duffy, in her absolute best, and only, gown, was Fortune's godmother. Rory Maguire was her godfather. They stood proudly by the ancient stone baptismal font as the child was welcomed into the Christian community. A shaft of sunlight came through the narrow little stained-glass windows that were the church's pride and touched the infant's head.

Skye looked hard. Fortune's hair, which was generous for a girl, was a rich red-gold. Velvet had never had hair like that, Skye thought. Velvet had been dark-haired, in fact, when she had been born. It was only when she was about six months of age that her black hair had fallen out and regrown a rich auburn. Fortune Lindley's hair was not auburn, nor anything like it. I must be getting old, Skye thought. Why did I not notice before that my great-granddaughter's hair is red-gold? Why, 'tis the same color as Rory Maguire's.

Skye stiffened. What was she thinking? There was nothing between Jasmine and Rory Maguire. Absolutely nothing! Aye, the young fool loved Jasmine, but she was totally, completely, unaware of it. She was still in love with Rowan Lindley, and would be for a time. Skye knew the pattern of grief that followed the loss of a beloved husband. Yet where had that red-gold hair come from?

In the days that followed Fortune's baptism, while they prepared to depart Ireland and return to England, Skye could not help but wonder about the new member of her family. Her eyes would stray to the young Irishman and then back to the baby. With each passing day, the more convinced she became that Fortune Lindley was not Rowan Lindley's daughter. What she could not decide was how such a thing could have happened. Jasmine did not seem like a woman with a guilty secret. She was always speaking to her children about their father, and even to the baby. There was apparently no deceit in her.

"Am I growing dotty?" Skye wondered aloud to herself. This was not a secret she would burden Adam with, but she needed to speak with someone about it. Adali. Jasmine had no secrets from him. He knew everything, but would he tell her? "I will tear his fingernails out one by one if he does not," Skye muttered darkly.

The night before they were to leave, she waited until they were alone in the Great Hall. Everyone else had gone to bed.

"Adali, I would speak with you," Skye told him.

He came immediately, deferential and polite as always. "Yes, my lady? How may I serve you?"

"You can tell me the truth, damnit!" Skye said.

"What is it you would know, madame?" he asked her warily.

"Why does my great-granddaughter, Fortune, remind me so of Rory Maguire, Adali?" Skye demanded bluntly.

"Because he is her father," Adali replied as candidly. There was no use lying to this glorious woman, Adali knew. She would accept nothing but the truth.

Skye let her breath out in a long hiss. So there it was. No deceptions. No evasions. She accepted the rather large goblet of wine Adali now poured her, and sat down heavily in a chair by the fire. Motioning him to sit opposite her she said, "Explain this phenomenon to me."

Choosing his words carefully, Adali told Skye how he and Cullen Butler had engineered their plot to save Jasmine's life. He concluded by saying, "I tell you honestly that I felt sorry for the young Maguire. He truly loves her, yet realizes that there can never be a marriage between them. He would always be torn between this land and her. If war comes to Ireland again, and I suspect from what I have seen here that it will, they would be on different sides of the issue. She is loyal to England's king, but he cannot ever really be."

"No," Skye said. "He cannot."

"The princess never suspected our plot, nor does she now, my lady. When she announced she was with child again, it did not occur to me that the one brief encounter with the Irishman would bear fruit. She had made love with her husband the night before he was murdered, and regularly prior to that last night. It was not until I saw the child that I realized the truth of what had happened. There is much of her mother in little Fortune, but more of her sire, I fear. It is good that we are returning to England. There will come a time when, if Rory Maguire and Lady Fortune Lindley are in the same room together, there will be no denying their relationship. Still, I saved my mistress's life, and that is to the greater good, I believe, my lady."

"Aye," Skye agreed, "it is, Adali, and as long as we can keep Fortune from Ireland, who is to know? India and Henry are too small to clearly remember Maguire. Jasmine, although pleasant to him, pays him very little heed, poor fellow. As long as I harp upon Velvet's auburn hair, if the question of Fortune's hair comes up, we will be safe. Rowan Lindley's tawny-blond hair had a bit of red in it, I think. Perhaps her hair will grow darker with age," Skye considered. "But if not, I shall tell all who listen that Fortune resembles my late mother."

"Will you tell the good father of your knowledge, my lady?" Adali asked Skye.

"Aye," Skye responded, "I will. Perhaps I can ease his sore conscience in the matter, Adali, for his religion will yet be warring with his more practical side in this matter. Does he know that Fortune is Maguire's child? Oh, poor Cullen!"

"Aye, he knows," Adali said. "He noticed the hair almost immediately. It has troubled him greatly, but he will say nothing, for he feels the baby is an innocent and must not be harmed. Besides, as everyone, including my lady, assumes that Lord Lindley was Fortune's father, he will not stir up a hornet's nest."

"I will go and speak with him now," Skye said, placing her goblet on the stone floor and arising. "Thank you, Adali, for your candor. I feared I was growing old, and foolish."

"Your eye will ever be sharp, my lady," Adali told her. "You love my mistress even as much as I love her. You will never hurt her."

Skye found her nephew in his cottage and faced him with the truth. Her words at first brought a flush to his cheeks, and then he grew pale with his distress. "Do not wallow in your supposed guilt," she scolded him sharply. "You and Adali did exactly what needed to be done in this matter. To have allowed Jasmine to die would have been criminal. Thank you for having the courage to act as you did, my dear Cullen." Then she kissed his cheek.

"Why is it that you make what I know to be a moral wrong, right, Aunt Skye?" he asked her with a small smile.

"Standing by and allowing someone to die without doing your utmost to save them is a far greater crime than anything that is legislated by our society's supposed morality," Skye told him.

"Are you saying that the Church can be wrong, Aunt?"

"I certainly am," she replied spiritedly, "and many before me have said it, and many after me will too. The Church and its laws have been made by men, Cullen Butler. Men are fallible. God is not, mind you, but men are. 'Tis far better to use one's common sense!"

The priest laughed aloud. "You will never change, Aunt Skye, will you? Independent in mind and spirit always."

"And do you think God will condemn me for it, Cullen?"

"Nay, Aunt. He knows your heart is good. As he made you, and has let you go your merry way for so long a time, I must assume he is satisfied with his handiwork. Try to keep Fortune out of Ireland, Aunt. If she grows up favoring her father, and they are ever seen together, 'twould, I fear, be a great embarrassment to us all."

"Do you think he suspects?" Skye asked her nephew.

"Nay." Cullen Butler shook his head. "He was, of course, happy that his actions produced Jasmine's recovery, but he still carries a burden of shame at having done what he did. You see, he truly loves Jasmine, though I'm sure he realizes a union between them would be impossible."

"He should marry," Skye said. "A good woman would ease him."

"Nay, Aunt. The political situation is too unstable in Ireland. Rory has lived his whole life with it. He has seen his family and his overlord forced to leave here. He no longer has the possession of these lands, but husbands them for an English landlord. In another short generation or two that could lead to difficulties between his descendants and Jasmine's. Nay, 'tis better he remains single, devoting his life to Maguire's Ford, its people, and the horses. They will all survive under the protection Jasmine's ownership affords them."

"And what will you do, Cullen, and what will you advise the people here to do when the bigots finally rear their heads again? They will, you know, my lad," she told him.

"I will tell each one of my parishioners to follow their conscience," he said quietly.

Skye snorted at him impatiently. "By that you mean adhere to the teachings of the Holy Mother Church and be slaughtered, Cullen. For shame! I expect better of you, my lad. You will have to advise these people how to survive. If there are two branches of a family, brothers perhaps, or a sister and a brother, one branch must follow the teachings of the Church of Ireland, and the other branch will remain as they have always been. In this way no family may be wiped out entirely. If the two faiths live side by side, there can be no mystery about either. Ignorance, my lad! Ignorance is what turns people against one another!"

In the morning, Skye sought out Rory Maguire.

"Do not be a patriot, Maguire, but if you must, disassociate yourself from Maguire's Ford first," she warned him quietly.

The Irishman shook his red-gold head. "I am weary of fighting," he said, "yet I could not run as the others did. I love this place too much to ever leave it. Your granddaughter has been more than kind to me in allowing me to remain. I promise you that I will not fail her."

"You have more courage than the others," Skye told him. "Running away was the easy way out. Remaining, and finding a way to make peace, even if the peace was not to your liking, was far harder, Rory Maguire."

"You learned the same lesson, I think," he said with a smile.

"Many years ago, and 'twas not a lesson easily learned for me," she replied, returning his smile and giving a small chuckle. " 'Twas Adam who became my rock and my salvation, I tell you honestly."

Jasmine came to them. She was dressed in her traveling garments, a burgundy silk skirt, and a jacket for riding. She wore a small starched ruff at her throat, and the long sleeves of the jacket were edged in ecru-colored Irish lace. Her hair was parted in the center and affixed in its usual chignon. She was today, as she had been that first day Rory Maguire had seen her, the most beautiful woman in the world.

Jasmine smiled at him. "Grandmama has, I have no doubt, given you instructions to follow, Maguire. I will not overrule her for her advice is always good. I will add, however, my own small admonition to take good care of the horses. Nighthawk, his wee brood of mares, and the babies must be carefully watched over. Put Nighthawk to those two mares who did not conceive last year, and see what happens. There will be a vessel arriving at Dundalk shortly with several other mares. You will be sent word. Bring them home yourself, and breed them to our stallion as soon as they are rested and over their journey."

"What of the little colt, my lady?" he asked. "Shall we geld him in the spring? And what shall we name him?"

"He's useless to us gelded," Jasmine replied. "I know that once he matures a bit more his father will be jealous, but you must keep them apart. When he reaches maturity, put him to stud as well, but not just with our mares. Nightbird will grow into a handsome and swift fellow. We'll race him in two years, and then those wishing his offspring will come to us, Maguire." She laughed. "Am I not clever?"

"If he proves a winner," her grandmother chortled, "you are clever. If he does not, it is another matter, eh, Maguire?"

The Irishman grinned. "Aye, m'lady, it is." Then he turned back to Jasmine. "Nightbird, is it, then?"

She nodded. "His mother is Swallow, his father Nighthawk. I think Nightbird is a good name, Maguire."

"May we please get going," Adam de Marisco grumbled, sticking his silvery head from the coach. "I'd like to get home before winter!"

They all laughed at his impatience, but Skye nodded to Rory Maguire, and with a footman's help clambered up into the coach to join her husband.

"Godspeed, my lord, and my lady," Maguire said.

The priest came up to them. "Good-bye, Aunt, Uncle Adam. Go with God," Cullen Butler said.

"Yes! Yes!" Adam could be heard agreeing with him from inside the carriage. "God's nightshirt, let us be on our way!"

Thistlewood, who had come to Ireland with his master and his mistress, grinned down at them. "We cannot sail until we're all in Dundalk," he noted, "but I'd best go before his old lordship has a fit." Gathering up his reins with an expert hand, he cracked his whip over the horses' heads and they were off.

Jasmine ran to the second coach, and, satisfied that her children and their nurses were comfortable, told India's nurse, "Now, when Fortune becomes hungry, you have but to call to me and we will stop, Martha."

"Aye, my lady," was the crisp reply.

Adali, Rohana, and Toramalli took up a third coach, and there were three baggage carts as well behind them. Satisfied that all was in order, Jasmine mounted Ebony and looked down at Maguire.

"You are a true and faithful friend, Rory Maguire. I shall not forget you, and your good heart. I need not ask you to watch over Maguire's Ford and her people. They are more yours than mine, if the truth be known, but I know you will not break your trust with me, or the memory of my beloved husband. I thank you for the loan of your family's vault in which his body has lain until two days ago. Now I shall take him back to Cadby to lie in his native soil."

"I will never forget you, my lady," Rory Maguire told her. "I will indeed watch over this land for you, and your children." He took her hand in his, his lake-blue eyes devouring her face for a swift moment, and then he kissed her gloved hand reverently. "God grant you a safe passage to England, my lady. I hope you will return to Ireland soon. If all the English were like you, madame, we should be friends with them instead of bitter and deadly enemies." He released her hand.

"Farewell, Cousin," Cullen Butler said, making the sign of the cross over them all. "I hope we will meet again, but if we do not, I thank you for my little stone church."

"Watch over them all, Cullen," Jasmine told him, and then turning her mare, she led the caravan of carriages and carts off down the road after her grandparents' coach.

They watched her go, each man wrapped in his own thoughts. Cullen Butler wondered if Ireland would remain at peace now that the English were settling Ulster in such great numbers. Or would there be bitterness that continued through the next hundred generations? Antipathy between Celt and Anglo-Saxon seemed to be a way of life, ingrained into their very souls. Yet there was no real difference between them. The priest shook his head. He did not understand it at all.

Rory Maguire thought the eyes would fall from his head. He stared intently after the departing people and horses, silently desperate to keep her in his sight. Farewell, my only love, he thought sadly. Farewell, my heart. He felt the tears pricking at the back of his eyes. I will not cry! Men do not weep like disappointed maids. Then, as they reached the bend in the road, he saw Jasmine turn in her saddle a moment and wave at them a final time before disappearing around the curve in the path. Waving after her energetically, Rory Maguire, the lord of Erne Rock Castle, scrubbed vigorously at the tears slipping down his handsome face with his other hand.

Men did not cry.