The Irish Countess

THE IRISH COUNTESS

Historical Romance

By Janet Quinn

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Janet Cornelow

All other reserved by author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law.

Cover art by Lex Valentine

www.janet-quinn.com

To my biggest fan, my sister Kathy. To my sons, Tom, Michael, and Robby for all their confidence, support and love. To my daughter-in-laws Jessi and Loki for their support. To Debra, my critique partner, for all her help and encouragement.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

Chapter 1

Ireland, September, 1845

 Mick O’Hurlihey strode toward the big house, his fists clenched. He’d been on the property nigh on six months now, and never before had he been summoned to the big house. Owen MacCormack, the earl’s land manager, had hired Mick to oversee Earl Fitzsimmons’ fields, but he, himself, hadn’t had the dubious pleasure of meeting the English lord.

He took in a deep breath, flexed his fingers and brushed at the front of his pants. ’Twould not do to make a poor impression on the man who held his livelihood in his hands. Mick needed to remember the moneys paid him every month and not let his ire against the English landlords cause affront in any conversation with the man.

The stone house peeked up from the gardens that surrounded it. Smoke billowed forth spewing the smell of roasting lamb. His stomach growled and his mouth watered. Even as the overseer, he would never be invited to partake of any of the delicacies cooked in the main house. Of course, since he’d been here, no cooking had occurred within those imposing walls. The earl hadn’t been in residence for years.

Quite a flurry had occurred when Earl Fitzsimmons had appeared unannounced. Only the poor housekeeper, cook, and one maid lived in the house when the man had shown up on the doorstep in the middle of the night. Before sunrise, many of the young girls in the area had been hired as servants. At least the old goat’s coming home brought prosperity to the folk, even if everyone on the estate was inconvenienced.

Mick frowned. What kind of man snuck in under the cover of night and why did he have to flee London? Might be he worked for a blighter; one who couldn’t afford to be too rough on his hired help. ’Twould make his life a bit easier, and his gall at working for an Englishman a bit lighter.

He stopped mid-stride as he came upon a garden where his path cut across the edge. A young woman, her red hair spilling from beneath a brightly colored scarf, cut roses and laid them in a basket. Tied about her waist was a yellow apron covering a light green muslin dress embroidered with sprigs of yellow flowers. Bare feet peeked from beneath her skirts as she moved; her toes testing the texture of the grass as she walked. Her hips swished as she moved from one bush to the next, dropping wilted flowers on the ground and putting the fresh blooms in her basket.

He’d never before seen this lass. In the time he’d been on the earl’s estate, he thought he’d met everyone who lived hereabouts. He couldn’t imagine the earl would have brought such a woman from England. She looked too much the Irish beauty.

His heart thudded in his chest and the morning turned warm. He wondered if her hair felt as silken as it looked and if she smelled as wonderful as the roses in the garden. What would she feel like in his arms, pressed against him?

His body responded to his thoughts. It had been a long time since he’d seen a woman so beautiful. One that he wanted and his body desired her also.

She turned her head and he followed her gaze. A young boy, no more than six, played in the dirt at the end of the garden. A smudge caressed the side of his cheek as he squealed and molded a bit of mud into a tower.

Look, Ma. The boy added to his tower.

Yes, darlin’. The woman looked for a moment and went back to her roses. ’Tis a fine tower you’re building.

Like the one on the other side of the house. He scooped up more mud and added it to his building. Wiping his hands down the front of his shirt and short trousers, he jumped up and ran to his mother. Giving her a big hug, he left a streak of brown across her yellow apron.

The lad skipped back across the lawn, then twirled in a circle. The young woman watched, laughing. Watch me, Ma. The boy curled up and did a lopsided somersault.

She clapped her hands, bouncing the basket on her arm. Very good. Try another.

The boy curled into a ball and rolled over again, landing flat on his back. He jumped up and gave his ma a bow. How was that, my Lady?

Excellent, to be sure. She walked across and ruffled his hair. Quite an acrobat you are becoming.

Mick leaned against the tree, enjoying the show, the anger at being summoned seeping away. The carefree attitude of the woman and child touched his heart, making his mood lighten. ’Twas fascinating to watch them. Her husband must be very proud of both of them. A twinge thrummed through his heart. ’Twas truly a lucky man who had this beauty for his wife.

A frown, tinged with sadness, flashed across the boy’s face. Would Papa have thought my somersault great?

Of course he would. Your papa loved you very much.

I miss him, Ma.

I know you do, darlin’. She gathered him into her arms, ignoring the mud and grass attached to the small figure. I know you do.

Why did he have to go away? The lad looked up into her face, a tear making an angry canal in the mud caked on his cheek.

Mick’s heart tightened at the boy’s pain, being familiar with it himself.

She shrugged her shoulders. ’Tis the way of things.

You miss him, too, don’t you, Ma? He looked up at her.

Of course I miss your da. Something flickered across her face belying her statement. Everyone misses your da.

Mick pushed himself upright, thrusting out thoughts of what couldn’t be changed. He smiled to himself and the sun shone more brightly. ’Twould be a good day after all. She had returned to the area because she was a widow. One so beautiful and alone with a child to raise, would only mourn for so long. He would wait and offer comfort during the waiting. He could be a very patient man.

His heart thudded, the noise filing his ears. He had no right to such thoughts. The queen’s men had seen to that.

The boy wiped away the tears and straightened his shoulders. He wouldn’t want me weeping like an old woman. He tossed his head, his dark curls falling across his forehead. I’ll make the other tower.

No, darlin’. ’Tis time to go inside. I have enough flowers and need to put them in water. The woman tucked her scissors into the basket.

But, Ma.

No. ’Tis time to go in and clean up for dinner. Cook has worked very hard and we should not be rude by being late. She held out her hand to him.

I can be late if I wish. He tossed his head again.

She tossed her head in much the same manner the boy did and her curls bounced across her back. No, you may not. Rude is not a trait a gentleman should have.

Was Papa rude? The boy took her hand.

No, darlin’, your papa was never rude. She turned toward the path.

Mick backstepped and thought to hide behind the tree at the corner of the garden, but knew he was too late and had been caught. Boldly, he stepped forward to make it look as if he’d just arrived and hadn’t been watching the touching scene between mother and son.

Oh, she gasped as she nearly collided with him. Her hand went to her throat and her basket tipped. She grabbed for the side before the roses spilled.

The boy brashly stared at Mick. Who are you?

The woman grabbed his hand and gave him a soft jerk. Were we not just talking about being rude?

Yes, Ma, but... The child’s stare never left Mick.

A spunky one, this lad. He reminded Mick of his own father. No English overlord would beat him down. A twinge of pain shot through his heart. Murder him, but not beat him down. I’m Mick O’Hurlihey, overseer.

Why are you in the garden? The boy’s tone was softer with the second question.

I have been summoned to the great house and have taken the most direct path. The seriousness and spunk of the boy amused Mick, but worried him. The boy would learn soon enough to bow his will to those above him. He, himself, had. For the most part.

The lad nodded, then pulled on his mother’s hand. We must go in to dinner, Ma.

The woman smiled, a weak, almost embarrassed smile. He is correct.

Might I escort you to the house? Mick wanted to spend a moment more with this beautiful creature whose mouth turned down in a slight pout and whose eyes flashed with a dare. He wondered what she dared and whom. He wondered what she would taste like. He wanted to kiss away the pout.

We are going the same way. ’Twould be awkward not to walk together. She strolled toward the house, pulling the child close to her and encircling him with her arm.

’Twould indeed. Mick smiled at her, wondering what she feared. Did the earl have a hold on her? His ire pricked at him and he reminded himself he must not lose his position defending a woman he did not know just because he found her desirable. He knew she would haunt his dreams. I have not seen you about before.

I have just arrived. She stared straight ahead as she walked, holding the basket of roses away from her side, making it hard for him to stay on the path next to her.

Many have just arrived to live in the big house with the earl’s return. Mick let the bushes brush against his arms, wanting to stay as close to her as he could for as long as possible. She was a vision that might disappear as quickly as she had appeared and he didn’t want that before he found out who she was and if he could see her again. So little pleasure presented itself in life.

She nodded.

It has created quite a stir. He pushed a rather thorny branch aside. Many are pleased. The girls he’s hired need the work. Others wonder why he has returned after so long.

Her back stiffened and her voice was curt. I am sure his reasons are not for everyone.

Mick laughed. Aye, but ’twould take the little joy out of the situation if we could not wonder. The rumors are his wife has driven him from court in disgrace. Others say he wants to check on his holdings, thinking Owen MacCormack steals him poor.

Her head jerked to the side and she paused in her step, then continued. You, sir, should be careful about the gossip you spread.

Oh, but the stories that go with the gossip...

She whipped around. Lifting her chin, she glared. The kitchen entrance is that way. She inclined her head. Lowering her voice, she hissed, Such stories are best left to pubs and too much liquor. They are not tales to be told in front of a child.

Mick gave her a slight bow, forcing down his anger at her loyalty to the earl. For an Irish lass, she seemed far too accepting...unless the earl had a hold upon her. You are correct, fair lady. I offer you my apologies. His voice came gruffly.

She stomped off, pulling the child after her and disappearing through glass doors.

He watched her disappear and his irritation left with her. She must protect her son against the English overlord and if that meant she bowed to his will, he couldn’t fault her. He’d been forced to bend his will to keep those he loved safe. It galled him, but his experiences made him understand what she would do.

He stood for a moment, remembering her face. He smiled. It wouldn’t be such a bad day, even though he’d been called to meet the earl. Meeting the fair lady had brought a brightness that the overlord wouldn’t be able to dispel. He wished he’d gotten her name so he could call it tonight in his dreams.

Ciara MacCormack Fitzsimmons thrust the basket of roses into a maid’s hands. Put these in water. She scooped Edward up onto her hip, lifted her skirt and sprinted up the stairs. Getting caught smudged and barefoot by the overseer had damaged her plans. Setting Edward on the landing, she smiled. Can you find your way to the nursery?

He puckered up his face. Of course.

She kissed his dirty cheek. Then quickly, go to Nanny. I must change.

Are you going to talk to that man? He stared at her with clear blue eyes, his arms folded across his chest.

Yes, sir, that I am. She hadn’t the time to explain. Mr. O’Hurlihey would be waiting for her and she didn’t want to give him any more advantage in their discussion, though maybe leaving him to cool his heels might make him realize she was in charge now that her husband had died.

Being caught unawares hadn’t helped her resolve to run the estate. The fluttering in her stomach didn’t help either. It could be nerves, but it had started the moment she’d laid eyes on the man. Even before she knew who he was, but she had no time now to dream about a handsome stranger. One with broad shoulders that would be wonderful to nestle her head against. Or strong arms that would hold her tightly against his broad chest. He’d smelled of the outdoors, of meadows and growing things.

Not like the earl who had smelled of stale smoke, sweat and cheap cologne. Mick was a man she could love. A man who made her heart race and her temperature rise. She placed her hand against her stomach, trying to calm it. She had to play the part of the lady, not a lovesick girl.

Why?

Why what? She blinked at him.

Ma. He sounded exasperated. You are not paying attention.

I beg your pardon. She hoped she didn’t blush, but then Edward was too small to understand what she was thinking.

Why are you going to talk with that man? He placed his hands at his waist.

She wanted to laugh, but refrained. Sometimes, he seemed so grownup. Edward, I have no time now. She patted his head. Find Nanny. She turned toward her room, pulling the scarf from her head.

But, Mother.

At supper. I shall have cook serve supper early and you may join me in the dining room. She glanced over her shoulder as a broad smile grew on Edward’s face. Then we shall discuss estate matters and Mr. O’Hurlihey.

Edward bowed dramatically. Yes, my Lady. I shall be glad to take supper with you. He skipped down the hallway.

Ciara laughed. Her late husband might have thought she’d born him an English son, but no one could deny the love of the theatrical in the child. That came from the Irish side. From her. Her son.

Entering her room, she pulled off her apron and dropped it on the floor, shaking her head. She couldn’t believe she’d been caught in the garden in disarray on her first day home. Edith, quickly. Bring my green wool.

Edith stepped out of the small dressing room off the main bedroom. The dark-haired woman glared at Ciara and then examined her. Tilting her chin upward, she said, You have the look of a common farm girl.

Ciara pulled herself up and looked the taller woman in the eyes. You would do well to remember that the earl is no longer alive so you might tattle on my every indiscretion. Not only that, you are no longer in your beloved England, and should I decide to dismiss you, I feel no obligation to pay your passage home. Nor give any reference. She had every intention of letting Edith know that she and not the earl was now in charge.

The glare remained on Edith’s face for a second, then retreated to her eyes. She huffed as she marched back into the dressing room.

Ciara followed her. She unfastened the buttons down the front of her blouse and left it in a heap on the floor, her skirt pooling on top of it. Her heart raced at the thought of the overseer. I need a fresh petticoat. She fumbled with the waist and finally dropped the mud-stained garment next to the others.

You should wait for help. Edith pulled out a petticoat and dropped it over Ciara’s head.

A noise at the dressing room door startled Ciara. A young woman with long blonde braids stood with her hands clasped on the edge of a tray, her knuckles turning white. Yes?

I brought tea, mum. The girl curtsied, an awkward movement that nearly upset the teapot and made the cups rattle in their saucers as they slid toward the edge.

That was very nice. Pour me a cup, please. I shall have it when I am through here. Ciara smiled. Suddenly, the house was filled with girls. Some of them she knew, but most she’d never before seen. She couldn’t believe that in the seven short years she’d been gone, so much had changed. What is your name?

Brina, mum.

From now on, I want you to work with Edith and learn what a lady’s maid does. Ciara smiled. Not one of the girls the housekeeper had hired were trained as such. Not that Ciara couldn’t do without one, but she’d rather become accustomed to having help dressing.

Humph. Edith pulled on the strings to Ciara’s stays. These need to be tighter for the green wool. She gave a vicious yank, nearly pulling Ciara on top of her.

Ciara righted herself. Turning, hands on her hips, she glared. You will kindly give me warning. She stomped to the doorway and grabbed hold of the frame. Now you may pull. Not yank.

In a moment, Edith had Ciara dressed and her hair pinned up. She looked herself over in the mirror and decided against any jewelry. She didn’t want to look the part of the pampered countess, but rather a woman who could discuss farming, which she could do. She would need to take care and not lose her thoughts when she stared into his face, a countenance warm with a smile. I need my slippers.

And clean stockings. Edith glided across the floor to the dresser.

No time for stockings. Mr. O’Hurlihey had already been waiting longer than she liked. She rubbed her dirty feet against the rug and shoved them into the slippers. Brina, I know a back way down to the study exists. She picked up the cup of tea the young girl had poured and sipped it. Please show me.

Skulking about one’s own house. Edith tsked and glanced at the ceiling.

Ciara gritted her teeth. She’d rather be skulking than make a grand entrance down the front stairs. She wanted to be safely seated behind her late husband’s desk before she had to face her overseer. If she were to protect her son’s interests, she would need all of her skill and courage. Courage came more easily from behind the massive wooden desk.

It would have been easier still if the overseer wasn’t such a fine specimen of a man. The kind she’d dreamed about on lonely nights during her exile in London.

Her heart thudded against her stays, blocking off her breath. She sucked in a slow breath, trying to push the thoughts of Mick’s lips against hers out of her mind. She’d never be able to conduct business if all she could do was dream about being in the man’s arms.

Mick paced the hallway. He’d been ordered to appear to discuss how the estate fared, but obviously, his time was not considered important. The earl put as little as possible into his farm land and hired as few men as he could. His only interest was the money that lined his own pockets.

Which meant Mick put in longer days than most of the other men. Right now, fences needed mending to keep the cows from the grain seedlings. The acres to the north were only half harvested.

He gritted his teeth. Could he get the old man to put some repairs into the houses where the non-tenant workers’ families lived? The estate only had a few, but their cottages were worse than the tenant farmers, whose labor the estate used. Many had leaking roofs. A few looked ready to fall down in the next good wind. He’d asked MacCormack about the matter, but he’d been told the earl didn’t much care and if he valued his job, he’d keep his concerns to himself.

He needed his job. Too many people depended upon him. He’d have to see how things went. If he broached the subject carefully, maybe he’d get something.

Mick ran his hand along the rosewood table in the hallway. Not a speck of dust. He wanted to laugh. The earl had come for a visit, so every available young girl had been employed to clean the place. The earl wouldn’t live with a leaky roof.

He balled his hands into fists. Where had the maid got to who had told him to wait? He wanted to know how long he’d be left standing. He’d be missing his dinner and that prospect increased the ire that dwelled just below the surface. As his stomach grumbled, he grimaced. From what he’d heard, the earl liked his victuals and the old man was probably wolfing down his dinner now while Mick went without his. The English lord always thought of himself first. His workers were beneath his thoughts.

The smell of the roasting lamb was stronger inside and made his stomach ache. Roasted potatoes waited for him while the earl dined on lamb and who knew what other delicacies. He wanted to put his fist through something, but that would lose him his position, so he would wait.

The tension in his shoulders increased. He shoved his hands into his trousers so no one could see his fists. He stared at his shoes and tried to bring a picture of the redhead into his mind. He needed his temper under control when he met the earl. He needed to remember to look at his feet and not challenge the earl’s authority. Tomorrow, he still needed to be the overseer. Even if today he missed his dinner.

The maid materialized in front of him like a sprite. He stopped mid-stride.

Follow me. She walked down the hallway.

Mick grumbled under his breath as he strode after her. She opened a door for him and he stepped around her. Holding his displeasure in check, he inclined his head toward the figure sitting behind the desk, then stopped and stared.

It couldn’t be. A beautiful woman with red hair sat smiling at him. The woman from the garden.

She smiled, even if it was quivering, and pointed toward a chair. Please sit.

Mick stared from the doorway. He swallowed twice, then coughed. I was expectin’ to meet with Earl Fitzsimmons.

Ciara folded her hands on top of the desk, perching on the front of the chair. She straightened to make herself larger, but the chair seemed to want to swallow her. Swallow her like the earl had tried to do. I am the Countess Fitzsimmons. The earl you were expecting died a fortnight ago. This man’s eyes threatened to swallow her.

The new earl? He crossed the room.

Is not of the age of majority. He might be nothing more than a child, but he was hers. No one would hurt Edward. He would grow to be Earl Fitzsimmons and be a fine earl who ruled fairly. She would make sure of that. Until then, she would ensure his holdings were safe.

He sat in the gold brocade wing chair she’d indicated, seeming to fill the chair and spilling over it. His knees bent upward, his legs too long. A great, huge man was Mick O’Hurlihey. His blue eyes had a twinkle to them, even though his expression was sober, confused.

You are the one who sent for me? He crossed his arms, but held her gaze steady with his.

Yes. The message she’d sent had been for him to come to the house this afternoon, not at dinner time. However, I was not expecting you until later.

A smile twitched at the edges of his mouth. His fingers rubbed the fabric on the arm of the chair. The girl you sent said immediately.

One of the new girls. Ciara shrugged her shoulders. They will learn in time. She would have preferred having this meeting later, after she’d had time to ready herself. She wished he’d stop staring. He looked as if he wanted to devour her and it set her skin to tingling. She wanted his fingers to still. She could imagine how they would feel against her skin as he continued to draw circles. A shiver ran up her spine.

They’re not used to being in service to the big house. His gaze traveled from the top of her head down to the desk and back up to her face.

The wool dress now seemed too warm and she wished she’d chosen the linen. I am quite aware of that. Because the message was given wrong, you have been left waiting and I am sure you have other things which need attending. She placed her hands palm down on the desk and took a steadying breath. She chased him from her mind. Now, I want a report on how the crops are doing.

Fine. He placed one ankle on top of the other knee, a smile playing across his face.

She studied him a moment. So he saw this as a chance to exert his authority since she was a mere woman. He would have to reckon again. Fine is the answer of a tomfool, not a man respected enough to be the overseer.

He sat up straight. A muscle in the side of his face twitched. What would a woman, a lady, be knowing about farming and crops?

She lifted herself to a standing position so she could glare down on him. He might have a comely face, but he would learn that she was the countess. Mr. O’Hurlihey, it would be best if you remembered you are but a hired hand. One easily replaced by any of the many farm workers about who would love to be able to provide a few luxuries for their families by the coin with which you are paid.

Luxuries. ’Tis barely enough to keep body and soul together. His voice was rough, angry. The smile disappeared.

She stopped and stared. She’d really wanted to look at the books the earl had kept before she met with Mr. O’Hurlihey. I do not believe my...the...that Earl Fitzsimmons would not pay a fair wage.

She held his gaze. Who hired you and set the wage?

Owen MacCormack. His voice came in a flat tone.

Uncle Owen. Who’d sold her to the earl.

Chapter 2

 Who else would the late earl trust but