The rapscallions romance, p.1
The Rapscallion's Romance, page 1
The Rapscallion’s Romance
Wanton Wastrels - Book 1
Tabetha Waite
Copyright © 2021 Tabetha Waite
Cover Design by The Midnight Muse
This title is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever, including but not limited to photocopy, digital, auditory, and/or in print, without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations for a review.
Also by Tabetha Waite
Ways of Love Historical Romance Series
How it All Began for the Baron (Christmas prequel novella)
Why the Earl is After the Girl (Book 1)
Where the Viscount Met His Match (Book 2)
When a Duke Pursues a Lady (Book 3)
Who the Marquess Dares to Desire (Book 4)
What a Gentleman Does for Love (Book 5)
Season of the Spinster Series
Triana’s Spring Seduction (Book 1)
Isabella’s Secret Summer (Book 2)
The Spinster’s Alluring Season (Book 2.5)
Alyssa’s Autumn Affair (Book 3)
Korina’s Wild Winter (Book 4)
Wanton Wastrels
The Rapscallion’s Romance
The Marauder’s Mistress
Sensual Scandals
A Jolly Little Scandal (0.5 prequel)
An Innocent Little Scandal (Book 1)
A Promising Little Scandal (Book 2)
A Dangerous Little Scandal (Book 3)
Novellas
The Harlot’s Hero
Frozen Fancy
The Piper’s Paramour
His Yuletide Dove
How to Choose the Perfect Scoundrel
Novels
Behind a Moonlit Veil
The Secrets of Shadows
Kiernan Fantasy Series
The Kingdoms of Kiernan (Kiernan – Book 1)
Shared Worlds
Vanquished (K Bromberg’s Driven World)
Collections
An Everlasting Amour (A collection of short stories)
An Everlasting Christmas Amour
An Everlasting Regency Amour
An Everlasting Regency Amour – Volume 2
Lords & Lace
The Regency Abduction Club
Christmas in Cumbria
Tempting a Lady
Heyer Society (non-fiction essays)
The Garden Wedding (children’s book for charity)
For Kathleen Drymon and Kathleen E. Woodiwiss, who wrote two of my all time, favorite adventures! I have always yearned to write a hero as dashing as the Falcon, or as mysterious as Lord Saxton.
And for Nadine Millard, an amazing author who doesn’t mind that I call her “Irish.” Someday I’m coming to visit your fabulous Emerald Isle!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Afterword
About the Author
Chapter One
October 1866
* * *
The wind ripped through the sails as the steamship, Algonda, swayed and rocked along the waves. Gliding easily through the waters of the Celtic Sea with a swift speed, the vessel was oblivious to everything in the rest of the world except for getting to its destination. It seemed to mock the open sea in its quest to reach land once again.
Fallon O’Malley stood at the railing as the wind ripped through her long hair and wished that she could feel a similar freedom. After her week-long journey from Carraroe to Dublin by coach and then by ship across the Celtic Sea, she would be stepping onto English soil for the first time. She was leaving her safe haven in Ireland, the land of her birth. All of that was behind her now, for a new journey was beginning in a country she had always considered as the enemy.
Clutching the railing even tighter, Fallon exhaled deeply and reflected on the days before her voyage. They had gone by in such a blur as she’d prepared for her journey that she’d seldom had time to take a breath. The one thing she’d known for certain was that she would soon be docking in Southampton to live with an aunt she’d just recently discovered had even existed. It wasn’t until her grandmother had died that she received the letter which would change everything. Her very life seemed to be unraveling before her eyes and she didn’t like it.
She had always considered herself to be a strong, independent woman who handled any problem that came her way. She had survived the great potato famine when she was just five years old. It had struck her hometown of Castlebar in 1851 with all the strength of a plague and she had witnessed more pain and suffering in the aftermath to span several lifetimes. Everyone she knew had succumbed to starvation or typhus, and yet, for some reason, she had been spared such horrors when hundreds of thousands had perished. Until that point, Fallon had led a happy life, but unfortunately for her parents, it had been the end of theirs.
After Eoin and Moira O’Malley died, Fallon was scared and alone, but somehow, she managed to find a courage deep inside of herself to do what she could to help the villagers around her, bringing water to those in need or sitting with the sick to hold a hand in comfort. She picked food from the garden and spread ointment on wounds for those who begged for mercy and wished to die, their sole tie to earth remaining by a single thread of hope.
Weeks turned into months until finally the death count began to falter. When the infection appeared to no longer be a threat, the Crown lifted the quarantine that had been in place and her grandparents had arrived to retrieve her. Michael and Abigail O’Malley said little about the trials she’d faced as they took her home to their farm in Carraroe on the coast. Fallon never knew if it was because they couldn’t speak of the grief they had over losing their only son, or because they didn’t want to upset her further by discussing it.
Either way, it didn’t take long for Fallon to adapt to her new life and the terrible things she’d witnessed eventually began to fade, although the loss of her parents would be keen for the rest of her life. She loved her grandparents, but unfortunately, more misfortune would befall her family.
For years, Ireland had tried, and failed, to become an independent republic from British rule. From the United Irishmen who were inspired by the Revolutionary War in America to the establishment of the Young Ireland movement, to the Irish Republican Brotherhood founded by the radical James Stephens, her beloved homeland had suffered its share of unrest. Together with his cohort, John O’Mahony, they fled to Paris in exile to avoid arrest after the last uprising attempt. Afterward, O’Mahony left for America to try and gain support from their fellow Irish Americans in what he called the Fenian Brotherhood, named for the warrior Fianna of Gaelic folklore.
During this time, Stephens eventually made his way back to Ireland and upon arriving in Dublin, began what many would refer to as his 3,000 mile walk where he reconnected with fellow loyalists. Over the years, he had regained a strong following and even started a paper in Dublin entitled, Irish People, a call for continued rebellion, for which her grandfather had gladly joined. He was a courier for the paper and distributed it all over Ireland.
And Michael O’Malley wasn’t the only patriot who wanted to see an independent nation from the Crown’s rule and the wealthy landowners who continued to fatten their purses and bellies from the endless hours of hard labor put upon their poor tenants. The Brotherhood was meant to be a cause for equality and freedom, but eventually turned out to be a cry for revenge for many.
Fallon was always concerned when her grandfather left their cottage, but it wasn’t until the Royal Irish Constabulary, the Dublin police force under Crown rule, finally seized the paper’s office the previous autumn, resulting in the arrest of several leading figures of the Brotherhood, that her grandfather had been caught in the crossfire and killed.
With a deep sigh, Fallon closed her eyes as the salty sea breeze caressed her face. She had mourned her grandfather’s loss, and his demise still caused her chest to ache painfully six months later. However, it was a sensation she had grown accustomed to and her eyes welled with tears as the combination of grief and homesickness fell upon her.
Fallon closed her eyes and pictured herself near the ramshackle cabin on that grassy hillside for the last time, standing in front of the grave that had become the final resting place of Abigail O’Malley. She found it difficult to breathe when she realized her dear confidante would no longer be there to offer a hug, or to give advice.
In an instant, Fallon had become an orphan without family.
Or so she’d imagined.
“Fallon? An bhfuil tu go maith, lass?” Father Grady O’Leary’s calm, Irish tongue had been sympathetic, as he paused beside her the day of her grandmother’s funeral, concern etched upon his features.< br />
No doubt he was contemplating the young woman standing so quietly and staring at the fresh hump of dirt with such solemn features and how she didn’t even resemble the same spirited girl he’d always known.
Looking up at him with bleak eyes, Fallon’s heart had swelled with emotion toward the cleric. He had been like a second grandfather to her all these years. Michael and Abigail O’Malley had been active in the Catholic diocese in Carraroe where he presided and after news of her grandfather’s death, the priest had become a frequent visitor to their cottage, offering what aid he could after such a devastating blow.
Over the years, his hair had grown more gray and thin, but he was still as kind as she’d ever known him to be.
“Taim ceart go leor, Father.” She attempted to reassure him, returning the gaeilge tongue with a smile. It was still native for many Irishmen, even though the Crown preferred the growing need for an English-speaking people. “I truly can’t express my gratitude for all that you have done for my grandmother and I. I am indebted to you.”
Father O’Leary had taken Fallon’s hand in his and patted it gently. “You owe me nothing. I admired Michael and Abigail.” He paused as if he wanted to say more, but in the end all he said was, “I’ll leave you to your solitude.”
He started to leave, but was interrupted by hoofbeats as a messenger galloped toward them. Fallon had recognized Stewart Parnell as one of the former couriers for the paper, for he had visited her grandfather on occasion. However, most of his time was spent in England delivering messages to fellow Irish supporters while dividing his time between a crumbling estate in County Wicklow on the other side of the island and attending Magdalene College in Cambridge.
Parnell reined in the horse, which danced in a circle, tossing its head amid snorts before finally settling. “Good day, Miss O’Malley. Father O’Leary.” He nodded to each of them respectfully.
“Good day, Mr. Parnell. Have you come to pay your respects?” Father O’Leary asked.
Parnell had the grace to appear slightly chagrined, although he took a letter from his pocket. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Miss O’Malley, but I fear I’m here on another matter. I’m tasked with delivering an urgent message to you. It’s a telegram from Southampton.”
He handed the missive to her and for a moment, Fallon was taken aback. She quickly scanned her memory for any reason she might be contacted from someone in England of all places, but then she recalled her grandmother speaking about Moira’s estranged sister shortly after Fallon had come to live in Carraroe. It sounded as though the relationship had been strained for many years and since it was seldom mentioned after that, Fallon had nearly forgotten of her existence, having pushed this faceless woman out of her mind.
But now, curiosity caused Fallon to accept the missive and once the courier had gone, she took a deep breath and ripped it open. Scrutinizing the perfect script carefully, she felt as though the breath had been knocked out of her lungs.
She glanced up at Father O’Leary and said woodenly, “It’s from my aunt, Francine Shaw. She writes to say she has just received word of Abigail’s death and has sent me a ticket of passage to board the Algonda. It sails from Carraroe within the week. She wishes to offer me a home, and I’m to join her, and her daughter, Eliza, in Southampton.”
The wind swept a bit of sea spray across Fallon’s face and shoulders, eliciting a shiver along her spine as she was drawn back to the present. Even now, she was reminded of that cold feeling of dread that had swept over her as she’d said those words aloud. To live in a country that she had always yearned to despise…
She wasn’t sure she could leave, but in the end, it was Father O’Leary who had convinced her to go, suggesting that maybe it was time for a fresh start, that this was God’s plan and she should follow His path. Fallon hadn’t looked upon the situation with the same promising outlook, but she’d reluctantly agreed.
However, as she stood upon the bow of the ship, watching as Ireland faded into the hovering mist of the sea, the green rolling hills and mighty rock cliffs swallowed into the void, she had to wonder if she hadn’t just made a terrible mistake.
Perhaps her life wasn’t a certain path she must take, but a series of torturous events that fate must twist into her life? Through all the sadness and despair, she had endured during her twenty years on this earth, the one thing that had remained constant was the love of her homeland. As continued unrest moved into British occupied Canada in recent months, under the tutelage of O’Mahony, Fallon had heard that Stephens was currently in New York in an attempt to change tactics. It might seem as though the rebellion had come to a halt, but it was still very much alive.
Naturally, Fallon considered that a new uprising was very possible, and even if it might be a lost cause like the rest had been, she yearned to do something that mattered. Perhaps she could be a spy in England—someone like the Raven, the Irish avenger who had escaped capture thus far, all while aiding the Brotherhood these past several months.
However, without the proper avenue available to her, she had no choice but to bide her time and see what awaited her across the sea. But she vowed that the one way she could truly honor her grandfather’s sacrifice and her grandmother’s memory was to not stand idly by. She intended to make a difference somehow.
Thus, Fallon clenched her jaw and hugged herself as she walked away from the ship’s rail and headed down to her quarters below deck.
Chapter Two
“Fallon, we’re preparing to dock.” Captain Sean Flannery knocked on her cabin and entered just as she had finished packing the last of her things into her trunk.
As she firmly set the lock in place, she turned to him and said, “Thank you, Sean.” On impulse, she reached out and gave a hug to the burly, red-haired Irish seaman that she’d known since childhood. He was a native of their small village of Carraroe, but quite a bit older, and in recent years she hadn’t seen him much as he’d gone into trade as a respectable merchant.
“Will there be anyone here to meet you?” he asked.
Fallon frowned lightly. “I’m not sure. If you could just arrange for my things to be brought ashore—”
“I’ll see to it personally,” he said with a broad, friendly smile as he reached down and picked up the trunk in question without the slightest groan or hesitation. But then, she realized that he was used to such hard, manual labor.
As he headed down the ship’s corridor with Fallon following behind, she couldn’t help but feel a certain sort of affection for him, even if it was purely platonic. He’d also been a good friend to her grandfather before his passing and she wondered, during the certain times when he’d come to their cottage for a brief visit if he had begun to look at her as more than a friend. However, because of their marked age difference, he had never pursued anything more than a casual friendship and she was glad for it. She wouldn’t wish to put either of them in an awkward situation when she didn’t feel anything more than a gentle fondness toward him.
Fallon descended the gangplank behind Sean, not sure what to except upon her arrival, but one thing stood out from the rest, and that was all of the commotion that surrounded them. It was a bustling port, and nearly as congested as Dublin’s harbor had been. Southampton certainly put her little part of the world to shame. But considering England was one of the most powerful countries in the world, she couldn’t say she was surprised, if not slightly bitter because of it.
But intending to keep an open mind and push aside her grievances, she thought of the small photograph she had sent ahead, wondering if anyone would even recognize her in the midst of so much chaos. It was the solitary likeness of her that she had possessed, taken several years ago when a passing fair had been traveling through the area. She always wished that her grandparents had partaken of the novelty, but they had only been able to afford one portrait and they chose one of her.
