On the one road, p.17
On the One Road, page 17
"I have seen you in here a time or two," the man said.
Eamonn thought he may have seen the man, but he could not put a name to the face even though it was a pleasing face, as it were. "I have been here at least that many times," Eamonn said, his lips curving. The man had said nothing to make it clear, but Eamonn caught the subtle hint of flirting in the air between them.
The man's returning grin was quick as a flash. Then he was leaning across the table, holding his hand out to Eamonn. "Arlen Mulligan."
"Eamonn O'Fearell."
"I do know," Arlen said, but he didn't release Eamonn's hand. "You are known around here."
That sent a shiver down Eamonn's spine. Just how was he known? He thought as he'd been so careful. He did not write under his own name. Even his more conservative writings would be too dangerous if Owen were to read them by some chance. Or any man he knew. He could not take this risk.
"Relax now," Arlen said. "I mean you no harm. I heard you speak down to the Black Falcon. It's very similar to what one of my favorite essayists has been writing in The Nation lately."
There was a sparkle in Arlen's eyes that put Eamonn at ease. He didn't have to ask who the essayist was. He had not been careful enough. But he didn't sense any malevolence around this man. He was not trying to set a trap. Eamonn was nearly certain of that though he could be wrong. "You go to the Black Falcon as well?" he asked. It was known as a place to meet fellow-minded men. And not other nationalists.
Arlen's eyes brightened. "Aye. I partake of their spirits as often as I can manage. Though when I have seen you there, you do not seem to be much in mind for company beyond the talking."
There was still a part of him holding out for being reunited with Desmund. They could continue to explore what they had just been finding with each other. That possibility was unlikely ever to happen. He was gone, and Eamonn needed to accept that. This was the first step.
"No, I haven't," he admitted. "But, I think tonight I am."
Arlen grinned at him, and it got Eamonn's blood pumping. "That is wonderful. I have a room above where we can speak more on the subject."
Eamonn picked up his glass and drained the remaining beer. "Sounds perfect to me." He followed Arlen up the stairs. Once they were closed in the room, he found himself pressed back against the door, a set of firm lips against his own.
"I have wanted to get you alone since the first time I spotted you."
Eamonn smiled into the next kiss. "You have me now," he said, "so what are you waiting for?"
***
MARCH 29, 1851
Bridgette walked down the side of the street, trying to avoid the sucking of the mud. The winter had left quite a mess behind. It had brought them a sense of safety, though. Few strangers passed through when the roads were churned up from the wet snow and cold rain.
There was still rain. This morning, the clouds were that deep steel grey that said it was coming. But the air was warming up. Bridgette almost wished they could go back to the weather they'd been having. They stayed cozied up in the parlor if they didn't need to go out. Her father and Torin were the only ones who did.
And Eamonn. He didn't seem to do well staying cooped up in the boardinghouse all the time. He would be fine for a few days before the restlessness seemed to bite at him. The shadows in his eyes had lessened with each passing week, and he still flirted with her. She saw Torin's unease whenever his brother poured on his charm. It did funny things to her, things she couldn't explain. But so did Torin.
And Eamonn was still writing for The Nation. Even if she did not see him scribbling late at night when they all should be in bed— though she'd seen his candle several nights when she hadn't been able to sleep herself—she'd seen plenty of his essays in the paper, still under that assumed name. She hoped it was enough to keep him and the rest of them safe.
Since he had to have them posted to Dublin, they didn't show up until weeks after she was sure he'd written them. Even if he stopped writing now, there'd be more showing up. But he didn't show any signs of stopping or slowing. She worried for him, especially after the latest one. He wouldn't only have the constabulary after him, but the Church.
That article made her wonder where he went on those nights he left the boardinghouse. His words had been vague enough that it could have been any molly house he'd talked about being raided. But it had happened to one a few streets over. Half a dozen men had been arrested and were awaiting trial even now. They were facing hanging for their acts against nature. Those had been his words, though the scathing ones around it made it seem they weren't truly his thoughts.
If anyone connected him to Keagen Aislinn, what would become of him? Not only had he been writing sedition or something that edged along it, but now he could be seen as promoting mercy for sodomites. Maybe even encouraging the act itself. Would that be enough to have him brought in front of the magistrate? It didn't matter because the seditious writing would be.
Bridgette paused as she saw she'd walked nearly right to the stable where Torin worked. She hadn't realized she planned to walk here when she left the boardinghouse, but now it felt like that had been her purpose the whole time. Even if she had been thinking more of his brother on the walk.
Guilt flashed over her at that, and she couldn't stop thinking of both of them. What kind of person was she? She had never felt like such a wanton. Neither of them had done more than kiss the back of her hand. Yet being around either of them made her feel warm and like her skin was humming. She wanted more than that kiss on her hand.
Sometimes she did not think she cared which one gave it to her. And that was wrong. What would her mother think if she knew Bridgette was thinking about this?
Forget her mother. Whatever would Da think? He sacrificed so much to keep her free. And she would throw it in his face this way?
No, she couldn't do it. She couldn't stay away from the brothers, either. Couldn't help but flirt back with Eamonn, even when her father scowled. Then, Eamonn would say something to make him laugh. And she couldn't help but be drawn to Torin, even when he was being silent and withdrawn from everyone else. In fact, she felt even more drawn to him in those times.
She didn't know what it was about him, but she couldn't stay away.
Bridgette went to step away from the corner of the street but halted. It hadn't only been thinking about Torin that caused the buzzing along her skin. She couldn't place the feeling, but it made the hairs on her neck stand on end. It wasn't the pleasant hum Torin's presence left her with.
It felt more like someone was watching her. She smoothed her hands down the skirt of her dress and glanced around. If she was right, she did not want to seem too obvious. Why would anyone care about her? She had stuck mostly to the boardinghouse as her father had wanted. She did not wish for a similar occurrence to what had happened in Fortane.
They'd gotten a letter from Mrs. Fitzpatrick, through her cousin, telling them the constables had been around, but no one had told them anything. Only that a man and his daughter had been staying there, but they had left days before. They hadn't asked more questions, so she assumed they were free from it.
No one here, aside from Mrs. McKenna, knew what had happened. That could not be it. And she did not see who might be watching her now. She tried to shrug off the feeling, but it persisted even as she did cross the street this time.
When she stepped into the stable, she was unsure she could breathe. Then Torin came out of a stall, his shirt tucked into the waist of his trousers, and she lost her breath for another reason. His eyes widened when he saw her, and he jerked the shirt out and pulled it over his head. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "Where is your Da?"
"He sometimes allows me to breathe outside his presence," she said, then stepped back. Why was she snapping at him? He had done nothing wrong.
Torin looked around, but he seemed to be the only one in the stable. "Your reputation would be forever stained if you were found in here with me. Is that what you wish, Bridgette?"
Bridgette shook her head, though her heart had leaped. A part of her did want it. Owen would no longer want her if she was spoiled. But she would not use Torin that way. He deserved better, but she wanted it for other reasons, too. Just the touch of his fingers through the sleeve of her dress sent her breath and pulse leaping for the skies. What would his kiss do to her? Or... more? She never allowed herself to think much about what that might entail. Lately, she could not stop thinking about it.
"Then, ye should not be here." His voice dropped to that husky whisper that sent shivers up and down her spine, making her feel warm in very private places.
"I wanted to see you," she said. "Are you coming back for tea?"
"Aye." His gaze didn't leave her face. "I shall see you then."
Bridgette was disappointed. The rest of the boarders would be there as well. Probably Eamonn, too. As much as she enjoyed their conversations, it was Torin she had wanted to spend time with. She wouldn't have it alone, though. She would have to be content with it. "I shall see you," she said to him and turned away, even though her eyes were burning.
Torin cursed behind her. Her cheeks flamed at the words, but he grabbed her arm and spun her back. She gasped in surprise. He had never handled her like that. His touch gentled, and he reached up to push a tendril of hair from her face. "I do not understand what you do to me," he murmured, then pressed his lips to hers.
The kiss was quick, intense, but too, too brief. Then, he took a large step back from her. "My apologies, Miss Muldoon," he said. "I should not have taken such liberties."
"What if I wanted you to?" Her hands went to her hips. She felt flushed, and she couldn't catch her breath. His apology had felt like a stab right to her chest.
"You shouldn't. Your father would not approve."
Bridgette wanted to huff out an argument, but she did not know he was wrong. She was only weeks away from turning eighteen, but her future would still be in her father's hand. It had always felt unfair to her, but it was just the way it was. It wasn't until she had started reading Eamonn's writings that she thought maybe it didn't have to be. It was an argument he had referenced more than once. She just was not sure it would ever happen.
"I should go then," she said, even though she did not want to.
"Aye, you should," Torin said, but it sounded like his voice was strained. Almost as if the words hurt him to say.
Bridgette was halfway down the street when she heard him call to her again. She slowed and turned around. "Bridgette," he said when he caught up to her, his breath puffing out.
"What do you want?" she asked him. "I thought you still had work to do."
"I was going to come back and finish after tea, anyway. It is nothing that cannot wait. I would rather walk you to the house."
That warmth washed through her again, nearly scalding her when he took her elbow. She fell into step beside him and smiled up into his face. His cheeks turned a deep red, and he cast his gaze ahead.
Bridgette smiled as they walked toward the boardinghouse. This could be the start of something. She thought of Torin's earlier words but didn't let it put a damper on this feeling. She just hoped her father didn't disapprove.
***
OWEN FUMED AS he watched the couple walk down the street together. She was his. It did not matter where she went, how far she tried to run, who she thought she could give herself to. She would always be his.
It would not be as bad if he had not recognized the man's face. How could she think he would let her give herself to that farmer's whelp? No, neither of them would get away with this. He would make damn sure of it.
Owen stayed back until they were some distance from him. When the other O'Fearell brother stepped out of a pub just as they passed, he ducked into a storefront. He didn't want any of them to see him. Not yet. Not that he feared any of them. No, he could take care of them with impunity.
But not yet. They had gotten away from him too many times, as well as that blasted Desmund O'Keefe. A bunch of Irish rubbish. He knew who was responsible for that travesty, though. He'd left Leighton in a cell back in Tipperary for conspiracy to commit sodomy. His word had been good enough for that one.
He wished the pillories were still in use. Then someone could throw a rock at the blighter hard enough to put him out of his misery.
Leighton hadn't admitted to anything, but Owen knew he was the one who had helped Desmund get away. He would see no more mercy from Owen. Or from any of the other men who rode with him. If anything, they would make his life even more miserable.
Leighton wouldn't find shelter in Tipperary or any surrounding towns. Likely not anywhere in the county.
Owen would make the O'Fearell's lives just as miserable. Bridgette would not want to be anywhere near them if that was the case. She would have nothing to do but accept his offer. She couldn't see either of these men, who now had their elbows locked with hers, as a better match than him. They could give her nothing. He could offer her everything. Though if she kept refusing, a roof and bed were the most she could expect.
He would make sure she was grateful for even that much. No one treated him like dirt beneath their feet and got away with it. Bridgette Muldoon would learn the truth of that before he was done.
Owen would bide his time for now. Watch all of them and figure out the best way to go forward. He would not stop until they had paid and he got what he was due.
CHAPTER 22
APRIL 18, 1851
Torin shoveled the last of the soiled straw into the wheeled cart and pushed the cart out into the aisle and to the back of the barn. He led the horse back into the stall, giving it a reassuring pat on the rump. The horse let out a huffing breath, then turned its head and nudged Torin's shoulder.
"Easy there, lad," he murmured. "You knock me over, and I shan't bring you any carrots on the morrow."
The horse nickered and bobbed his head, and Torin laughed. "That is what I thought."
Torin let himself out of the stall, closing the horse in, before he pushed the cart out the barn’s back door, dumping it with the rest. With the last of his evening chores done, he closed up the barn and stepped out into the street.
It had been a few weeks since he had kissed Bridgette in the barn. He couldn't say he was courting her. He had not asked her father for permission to do so. Most days, she came down, and they walked back to the boardinghouse together for the mid-morning tea or for dinner. However, those later walks were rare.
Torin had not kissed her again, though. He should not have the first time. He was not quite sure what had come over him.
And Eamonn still flirted with her. Torin wanted to punch him in the face every time he said something charming to her. He instantly felt guilty for that. Torin would be dead right now if it were not for his brother. He should not want to do violence to him. Not over a lass. No matter how important she felt to him.
Torin was unsure if his eagerness to return to the boardinghouse had more to do with his hunger or his desire to see Bridgette again. He had not found many moments to be alone with her in the parlor again. Almost none, really.
If her father did not accompany her, one of the other women boarding at the house was there. Or one of Mrs. McKenna's young daughters.
He did not mind, not really. He liked just talking to her. Enjoyed basking in her presence. He smiled and shook his head. That sounded like something Eamonn would say. Whatever was coming over him?
Torin went to cross the street, but something down the way drew his attention. A shock of blond hair, a flash of silver and gold threads on a coat. He wasn't sure which had grabbed him first, but it didn't matter now. All he could do was stare.
This could not be. No. They were safe here. They'd made a place for themselves. He had a job. Eamonn was doing some writing, a lot, by the stubby candlesticks he found in the parlor most mornings, and he always spoke of friends he met each night. They couldn't leave again.
Owen was here, so what other choice did they have? And Bridgette. Oh Lord, save them all. What would Bridgette do? She had claimed to fear being wed to the man. Would he even give her a choice?
Torin had to get to her. Before Owen found her and forced her into something she could not want. He took a lurching step forward, barely even registering the shouts and clattering from the street. Something grabbed onto his shirt and tugged him back. Two horses pulling a coach went past right where he'd been standing.
"Are you mad?" His brother demanded. "I thought even you were smarter than to just walk right in front of a bloody carriage."
"I believe it was a landau," Torin said, although his heart felt like it was pounding harder than a runaway horse's hooves.
"I do not care what kind of carriage it was. Do you care so little for your own life you would toss it right down in the street like that?"
Torin looked up to meet his brother's gaze. "Do you think that is what I was doing? That I would do that when I still have not—"
"Do not speak of that," Eamonn said harshly. "Just because we have not seen him in town does not mean he doesn't have ears here. Why would you risk it?"
"Why would you? Keagen," he hissed.
Eamonn flinched, but he didn't bother asking how he knew. Torin supposed it didn't matter if Eamonn assumed it was from reading the papers himself or what Bridgette had told him.
"I have seen him," Torin added. "Just now. That was what distracted me. I was not purposefully in the carriage's way."
"What do you mean by that?"
Torin glanced across the street again, but the man was no longer there. "He was standing over on the other side. I know it was him."
Eamonn looked around, then shook his head. "I do not see him anywhere."
