Bride of Danger

Bride of Danger

Katherine O’Neal

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 1997, Katherine O’Neal

All rights reserved.

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Dedication

For Bill and Janie

and my magnificent Ollie

And my thanks to JW Manus

for her spectacular

inspiration and creativity

in producing this ebook

Reviews for Katherine O’Neal

and her sizzling historical romances:

Calling The Last Highwayman a sophisticated, sensual read, New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz said, Katherine O’Neal is an exciting writer with a fast, intense and very polished style. She has found a way to use the hard-edged glitz of Jackie Collins and set that against a historical backdrop. It could be the start of a new genre.

One of the most brilliant debut novels to come along in many months. Powerfully written, sophisticated, well researched, highly romantic, smoldering with sometimes erotic sensuality (a la Susan Johnson) and adventure.—Romantic Times

Katherine O’Neal is the queen of romantic adventure, reigning over a court of intrigue, sensuality, and good old-fashioned storytelling. Readers who insist on strong characters with intelligence will appreciate her craftsmanship.—Affaire de Coeur

O’Neal provides vibrant characters and settings, along with plenty of intrigue, daring escapes, 11th hour twists and steamy romance.—Publishers Weekly

Sensuous and spine-tingling ... Superb.—Rendezvous

PROLOGUE

DUBLIN, IRELAND

1870

No sense of danger warned the guards at the docks. The sun was setting and a soft pink hue tinged the heavy covering of clouds. The tang of imminent rain was sharp in the air, which wasn’t unusual for Dublin in the spring—or any other season, for that matter. Working briskly, casting periodic glances at the sky, the English seamen unloaded their cargo of foodstuffs, hustling before the perpetual mist could ruin the sacks of grain.

Along the quay, a motley group of Irish peasants, dressed in rags that hung from their bones, paused to stare at the sides of beef being carted from the ship. Drool was more like it, the captain of the English militia thought sourly. Their sunken eyes greedily caressing the precious provisions, they looked as if they were contemplating an impromptu uprising to snatch a bit of bread from the piled-high stores.

Might we be troublin’ ye fer jest a bite, Captain, sir? one old man asked, his voice weak with hunger.

Disgusted, the captain raised his rifle and gave a yell, scattering the startled townsfolk, who took to heel and scampered off into the narrow streets beyond.

Bloody Irish rabble, he cursed to his sergeant. There’s no end of them, sniveling like brats for our food. If I didn’t personally watch them every minute, they’d steal the ruddy mess from under our very noses.

The sergeant eyed the retreating supplicants with more sympathy than his superior. The latest famine’s reduced them to eating potato skins to keep from starving, sir. I imagine this shipment looks like treasure to those so poor.

Well, it’s not my problem, is it? My job is to see this food goes to the gentry who pay the proper coin. Look lively, now. I’ve no intention of being embarrassed again by these miscreants pilfering my charge. By God, but I’d give a lot to be quit of this filthy country.

He would have indulged in more complaints, but the crunch of wheels distracted him. Turning, he saw a large, elegant coach drawn by a matched pair of blooded horses pull up at the dock. It was driven by a dark young man wearing the bright red uniform of a lieutenant in the governor’s personal guard, with his hat pulled low over his forehead. Beside him, dressed in homespun work clothes, was an Irish servant with a deep cleft in his chin. As the carriage drew to a halt, the servant jumped down and opened the gleaming door. A moment later, a lady stepped out.

She was dressed in fresh pink finery with a bonnet of flowers completely covering her hair. A short pink veil hid her face, but as she came forth with the young man, she walked with the grace and assurance of a member of the nobility, directly toward the captain. His mouth twitched as he noted the absence of gloves on her hands—a formidable omission for a lady of quality. Belatedly the girl thrust her hands behind her back, cursing herself for her error.

What’s this now? the captain grumbled under his breath. It was his job to be suspicious of any break in routine. But he strode forth to meet them, answering the lieutenant’s smart salute.

Good evening, Captain, the young lieutenant said in a cultured English voice. May I introduce the governor’s daughter, Miss Vanguard. We’ve come with a commission from her father. I have a requisition for some of the food you’re unloading.

The captain’s gaze fixed on the girl. The governor’s household has already received its ration for the month.

These are special orders, sir.

The young woman spoke in a soft, whispery, aristocratic voice. It’s my sixteenth birthday, Captain. We’re having a party. All the landed lords will be there. Naturally, we must have the finest food available. To celebrate. You see, Captain, I shall be a woman in a week’s time.

The captain blanched at this forward bit of banter. Taking the proffered orders, he looked them over with a practiced eye. They were, indeed, signed by Governor Vanguard himself. Still reluctant, he cast another glance at the governor’s daughter. She was reported to be a beauty, though he’d never before seen her up close. It was difficult to tell, with the veil hiding her face. But he detected a delighted smile beneath the veil. Ah, the enthusiasm of youth, he thought, feeling suddenly old.

Perhaps you’d care to join us, Captain. I’m sure my father would be most happy to extend an invitation, were I to ask.

It was highly irregular, but the captain wasn’t averse to being invited to the governor’s house. Perhaps he could put in a plea for transfer back to England. Still, he hesitated. The governor had never before issued such an unusual request.

He took another moment to study the lieutenant, who was watching him closely. The man was tall and dark, with vivid green eyes that must have set many a maiden’s heart to fluttering. But there was something about that youthful face ...

You’re awfully young to be an officer, he noted.

The lieutenant snapped to attention. Sandhurst, sir. Class of ’69.

I see. Very good, Lieutenant. We have to be careful. These Irish are always about with their long faces and tragic airs. They’d happily slit our throats for a mouthful of Yorkshire cheese.

The lieutenant’s glowing eyes narrowed in an aristocratic sneer. Let them eat rats, for all I care. The governor wants this food for his daughter’s ball, and by God he’ll have it.

At this, the servant at his side shuffled, then muttered, Ye could feed the whole of the starvin’ city on what the governor’s about squanderin’ on his guests.

With a swiftness that startled the captain and made the girl start, the lieutenant smacked the servant’s head a vicious blow. Insolent peasant! Glancing apologetically at the captain, he added, What do you expect from these hayseed ruffians? You may rest assured, sir, that this man will be dismissed for his insubordination. God knows there are enough surly scamps to take his place.

Giving a look of grudging admiration, the captain relented at last. You, men, load the requested foodstuffs in the governor’s coach. And be quick about it.

At once, the food that had been on its way to the warehouse was transferred instead into the vast interior of the coach.

When the conveyance was loaded, the lieutenant saluted and expressed his thanks. We’ll be certain to tell the governor of your cooperation.

Preening, the captain held out his hand to the girl. After the briefest hesitation, she took it. There will be an invitation for you directly, she promised in her whispery voice.

Suddenly, the captain froze. Gripping her hand tightly, he turned it over. There, on her palm, were rough calluses. Hardly the hand of a lady.

His eyes shot up and met those of the lieutenant. Bloody curs. Who are you?

At once, the lieutenant grabbed the captain’s rifle and rammed the butt into his head. Some of those Irish rabble you so despise, he boasted, come to make fools of the cursed English crown.

As the captain staggered, the servant sprang to life. He slugged the officer full in the face, knocking him cold, before turning on the sergeant and kicking him in the gut. The sailors, alerted to trouble, came running, and a lively ruckus ensued. The counterfeit servant and lieutenant fought them with the brutal force they’d learned on the back streets, felling each of the sailors in turn as the girl ran with all speed for the coach. She’d just climbed aboard and picked up the reins when the last of the sailors was knocked to his knees. The lieutenant knocked him over the head with the rifle, then he and his partner raced for the carriage. It was already moving when they leapt aboard. Whipping the horses into a frenzy with the reins, the girl sent them clattering up the quay and into the street beyond.

The sky was darkening and the awaited rain began to fall lightly as they galloped through narrow alleyways, knocking aside passersby along the way. When they were a safe distance from the docks, the man who’d played the lieutenant took the reins and the girl snatched the flowered bonnet from her head, laughing gleefully as she tossed it aside. A wealth of flame-red curls tumbled to her shoulders and was whipped back by the wind.

Saints preserve us, she cried in her native Irish brogue. We’ll eat like kings for a week!

They were laughing as they headed through the Georgian streets with their imposing row houses. The impostor lieutenant pulled the coach to a halt in a deserted alley and took the hated military hat from his head, raking long fingers through his midnight-black hair.

My, but weren’t you grand, then. He raised his voice, mimicking her earlier tone. ‘I’m to be a woman in a week’s time.’ Wanton lass. How the man must have been droolin’ in his cups. And you little more than a suckling babe.

Suckling, indeed! she cried heatedly. I’d like to see a suckling put on a show the likes of me own. If not for these cursed hands, we’d have fooled the bastard right to the end.

Never mind your hands. ’Tis proud you’ve made me this day.

She looked up at Johnny, feeling warmed by his praise. The three of them—Johnny, Daggett, and Mylene—had grown up in the same orphanage and they’d been thick as thieves for most of their lives. Mylene was just fifteen to the boys’ seventeen, but she could hold her own with them, as she’d proved on many an occasion.

Beside her, Daggett—the servant—was rubbing his head. Did ye have to knock me so hard, then, Johnny? ’Tis a right bump ye’ve given me, and no denying.

Oh, poor Daggett, Mylene crooned sarcastically. Ye’ve a softer head than ye’ve led us to believe, I’m thinking. And himself bragging to all who’ll hear how he can best any man with his fists.

And so I can!

Now, now, Johnny admonished. We’ll have none of that. ’Twas a fine job we did, and the orphanage will sup for our efforts. There need be no bickering amongst the likes of us.

Daggett clamped an appreciative hand on Johnny’s shoulder.

Johnny’s right, so he is, Mylene said. And ’tis sorry I am for me own lack of sympathy. There, now, Daggett, if I rub yer head for ye, will ye favor me with a smile?

She reached over to smooth his sandy hair and was rewarded with a playful cuff to her own riotous curls.

The night was black as they headed toward the Liberties and the orphanage. This was the worst part of town, the filthy streets crumbling with desperate poverty, where the city’s poor—starving, diseased, and degenerate alike—scratched and clawed what meager existence they could.

Daggett reached back into the coach and pried forth a loaf of bread, tearing hunks from it and passing them along. They dug in, mercilessly teasing one another between bites, pointing out faults in the job they’d pulled and making suggestions for how to better their technique next time around. It was done in jest, but the suggestions were secretly taken to heart. One small slip could mean the difference between life and death.

They were chuckling when they turned the corner and came upon a crowd outside one of the haphazard night shelters that served as temporary bedding for the poor. The people gathered there were holding tallows, speaking in hushed tones.

Johnny halted the coach. What goes on here, man? he asked one of the onlookers.

The O’Brien child is dyin’. Starvin’ to death, and not a crust to feed the poor lad.

Mylene scrambled down and pushed her way inside. There, on a squalid pallet on the ground, a three-year-old boy lay dying in decay. His family of nine was gathered about him, weeping helplessly. None of them looked far from the grave. The small shelter reeked of death. The child’s mouth was black, his eyes rolled back in his head.

When Mylene looked up to find Johnny by her side, there were tears of pity in her eyes. Oh, Johnny, she whispered. Couldn’t we give them some of what we’ve just taken? Just enough to—

Harshly, Johnny interrupted. Would you be feeding the whole of Dublin then, and see our own starving children perish like this one for our neglect?

She knew he was right, but it broke her heart just the same. Just then, she spied the bulge in Daggett’s jacket, where he’d thrust the bread. In a gesture of defiance, she snatched the remainder of the loaf and offered it to Mrs. O’Brien. The woman took it and blessed her. But Mylene read the unspoken message: It’s too late.

Come, Johnny urged gently. They’ll be looking for us.

Outside, Mylene felt the old terror clutch her heart. I’ll be hating this poverty till the day I die, she swore. Then, looking back, she added in a desolate tone, But at least they’ve a family to console them. Which is more than can be said for the lot of us.

She felt hands of iron grip her shoulders and wheel her around. Startled, she looked up and met the fierce passion blazing in Johnny’s eyes. "We’re your family, he growled. Don’t be forgetting it."

Family. These two orphan boys, these ruffians of the streets, were the only family she’d ever known. They were her brothers, her confidants, the best friends anyone could hope for in this world. In a rush of emotion, she grabbed them both and clutched them to her. Aye, she said, her tears mingling with the raindrops to wet their close-held heads. How could I forget?

* * *

St. Columba’s orphanage was housed in an old abandoned warehouse on the banks of the river Liffey in the most destitute section of Dublin. The main room had been partitioned into two barrackslike wards—one for the girls, the other for the boys. A small kitchen and office had been pieced together, paid for by funds raised in the church next door, the domain of Father Quentin, priest and patron of St. Columba. What little heat there was came from three tiny, rusted stoves, fueled by coal in the odd occasion when it could be begged or borrowed, and peat from the surrounding countryside when it could not. It was a shabby, barren place, kept clean by the nuns who ruled by threats of damnation and long birch branches that could cut the orphans’ flesh with strategic whacks.

The three adventurers were met by a rush of noisy children who’d been peering out the single window, awaiting their return. As Johnny and Daggett carried in the pilfered parcels, the young ones descended on them, crying out their excitement at such unaccustomed riches. They ranged in age from three to twelve, clean youngsters dressed in rough brown uniforms fashioned from the discarded robes of neighboring monks. In spite of their clean state, they nonetheless sported the same hollow-eyed look of all the children of the ravaged city. Their noses ran—a condition of the perpetual cold—and some coughed raggedly from consumption. But nothing could dim their enthusiasm as they fingered the bags of provisions, tearing them open even as they were heaped upon the kitchen table.

As the young men brought in the food, Mylene squatted down, describing the feast they’d have to the group of enraptured children, who hung on every word. In the midst of drawing a colorful picture of the pudding she’d make for them, she glanced up to find Father Quentin standing in the doorway.

We’ve done it, Father, she announced proudly. And a grand haul it was.

Father Quentin, dressed in the black robes and collar of his station, was an elderly man with thick white hair and a ruddy face. He was an anomaly among the priests of Ireland, who used their illustrious status and the fear they inspired to subdue any hint of the rebellious spirit they felt might eventually rob them of their power. In contrast, Father Q, as he was affectionately called, was a rampant Irish nationalist who worked quietly and secretly to bring about the freedom from England he felt was the only hope of his beloved land. To this end, he’d defied the church and his own bishop by educating his orphans in Irish history, covertly breaking the law by teaching them the old language and making sure they knew how to read and write.

It was he who’d found Johnny, Daggett, and Mylene on the mean streets and taken them in. Discovering early that they were exceptional, he’d trained them carefully over the years. He’d taught them the speech of their captors, instructing them to assume various roles that could aid his cause. Through their efforts, they’d supported the orphanage by whatever means were available. If those means sometimes flew in the face of the law, Father Q discreetly looked the other way. What were English laws, when he had so many mouths to feed?

But tonight he was unusually quiet, even grave. Alerted, Daggett dropped a sack of meal, and together the three of them faced the priest.

What is it, then, Father? Johnny asked.

Mylene added, Are you not pleased?

The priest ignored the query and looked at them each in turn with serious blue eyes. I’ll have a word with you in my office. Sister, see to the food.

Exchanging nervous glances, the three followed him into his office. It was meagerly furnished with a desk and chair and a potbellied stove, which glowed invitingly with a peat fire. Mylene, sensing his mood, resisted the impulse to go to the stove and warm her hands.

They waited in silence. Father Q’s gaze wandered behind them, and as it did, the office door closed. Turning, they saw a man standing in the shadowed corner of the room.

He was as arresting a specimen as they’d ever seen. Not tall, he nevertheless gave the impression that he was a large man, a man whose presence filled the room. He was of middle age, darkly magnetic in a rough-hewn way, with a hooked nose and pockmarked face. His eyes, intent and unflinching, had dark circles under them, making him look as if he never slept. He carried about him an air of fatalism that was tragic and captivating all at the same time.

Father Q spoke in a voice filled with respect. I’d be presenting Shamus Flynn.

It was as if the breath of life had been sucked from the room. God in heaven, Shamus Flynn! The notorious leader of the seditious Fenians. A legendary character who’d been chased underground by the fearsome price on his head. He was a decidedly treacherous man, a rebel in the raw, the most wanted man in the English books. They’d heard of him all their lives. His exploits were whispered in every Dublin pub. But no one had ever seen him. Even they, who knew the back streets of the city like no one else, had never so much as seen the man. Nor were they certain he existed. They’d come to believe he was a figment of heroic imagination, perpetuated to give a crushed populace hope.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Daggett whistled beneath his breath.

Even Johnny—who feared and admired nothing and no one—was staring at this phantom as if the Blessed Virgin had just made an appearance.

These are the three I was speaking of, Father Q said. Johnny, the thinker and planner with the golden tongue. Daggett, our warrior. There’s not a better lad at military strategy—excepting yourself, of course. And Mylene. She’s our chameleon. She can become anything that’s required of her, and can charm the secrets from the soul of the tightest-lipped man on earth. I don’t have to tell you, Mr. Flynn has come at considerable peril to himself.

What are your back names? Flynn asked with the economy of speech of a hunted man.

Mylene flushed with shame. We haven’t any. We’re orphans, now, aren’t we?

She’s a tongue on her, Flynn noted with suspicion.

They assume last names as needed, Father Q said. I’ve told them time and again they’re welcome to my own.

Flynn looked them over in silence. What he saw was a striking dark-haired young man with an air of keen intelligence and a face devoid of the florid peasant features that marked so many of his countrymen. The other, the sandy-haired youth with the devil’s thumbprint in his chin, looked more like a Roman legionnaire than an Irish orphan. In spite of his awe, he returned Flynn’s stare with a surly, stubborn pride. The girl was too thin to be dubbed a beauty, though she had clear blue eyes and a pouty mouth that held possibilities. With some food to coax the proper curves, she might make a fetching piece at that. None of them flinched beneath his autocratic stare. A promising sign.

I’ve been told about your escapade this day. You’ve told me truly, Father. They’re as good as your boasts.

They’re the best. I’ve never seen the like.

And why is it, Johnny asked, that we’ve been brought on the carpet to be inspected like country wares?

Flynn said, in his tired voice, A great honor is being done you this day. You’ve been chosen—the three of you—to use your talents to serve Ireland on a larger scale.

You’re old enough now to leave the orphanage, the priest added, though how we’ll manage without you is beyond me.

Leave? Mylene whispered.

Although you don’t know it, you’ve been trained for a specific purpose. Now that purpose is moving to a new stage.

What purpose would that be? Johnny asked.

Flynn took the floor. Together with us Fenians, your Father Q has been working on a grand plot to free Ireland. ’Tis time you took your proper places in that plan. We’ll not force you. If you do this, it’s of your own free will. But if you accept, there are no questions I’ll be answering. You obey with blind devotion or you’re of no use at all. Have I made myself clear?

Again it was Johnny who spoke. What will you be requiring of us?

That I’ll not be telling you. I’ll say only it will require the three of you to split up, to be trained with care, to be sent to England, and to be placed in vital positions, the functions of which you’ll learn as you go along. Mind, it will take years of your lives. At least five—mayhap as many as ten—before you’re ready to carry out your ultimate missions. But when you’re ready, my fine patriots, you’ll be instrumental in freeing our homeland from the cursed yoke of English tyranny.

His speech had roused them. They could hear the voice of the leader in his quiet, urgent tones.

You’re the most important element of this plot, the priest added. Because of you, we’ll have hope of a new day.

What say you? Flynn demanded.

The three friends looked at one another, trepidation mingling with the excitement pumping through their veins. The picture of the O’Brien child was still vivid in their minds. Too many O’Briens. And so little hope.

Johnny read their acceptance. Mylene would risk her life to feed a starving child. And Daggett, though less compassionate, worshiped Johnny and would stand by his decision.

We love our country, Mr. Flynn, Johnny answered for them. We’d see our countrymen work and eat like men instead of rats. And taste the dignity of freedom on their tongues. When do we start, then?

At once. Mylene is leaving on a ship for England tonight.

Tonight? they cried as one.

Tonight. To be ripped from the only home she’d ever known. To be sent to enemy territory, alone and unprepared. Mylene felt the fear of it clutch her throat like a fist.

But it’s too soon! I’m not ready.

You’ll be ready by the time you land. Our man will brief you along the way.

Along the way to what? In a panic, she looked at Johnny and read the same shock on his face.

Flynn’s gaze was hard, uncompromising. You’ll wear what you have on. Leave whatever possessions you have. You’ll not be needing them where you’re going. As for good-byes, have done with them. My man will be by in a quarter hour. See that you’re ready.

With that, he slipped out and, like the phantom he was, vanished into the night.

* * *

The three of them went out to the banks of the Liffey, unmindful of the rain. There they stood, staring numbly out at the rushing river, their stunned silence speaking volumes.

A quarter hour to say good-bye to ye, Mylene lamented. Yer me brothers. How can I do without ye? How can I find the strength?

Daggett took the treasured knife he kept hidden in his waistband and handed it to her. Keep this under yer skirts, girl. ’Twill give you all the strength you need.

Typical of Daggett, the warrior.

She turned to her other companion.

Can I do this, Johnny? Truly?

Quietly, he said, I’ve every faith that ye can.

Just then, they heard a footfall. Father Q was at their backs. Mylene fought the panic that threatened to choke her. Pride came to the fore. She mustn’t let them see how terrified she was. They must remember her as brave and strong.

She turned to Daggett, a lump of tears in her throat. Take care, then, she said, hugging him.

Then she was facing Johnny. Her confidant in times of despair. How could she say good-bye? Reluctantly, she stood on tiptoes to give his cheek a sisterly kiss. But his arms came hard about her back. Held close, she could almost feel the pumping of his heart. She became aware of