A Masquerade in the Moonlight(142)
“Please, Grandfather,” Marguerite pleaded. “And you wouldn’t be left here alone. Donovan has already told me he would be delighted for you to visit him in Philadelphia for as long as you wish—and even see a red Indian while you’re there. Finch is welcome as well, if he would like.”
“Don’t let yourself get nudged into this, my son. She’s not an easy creature to live with, you know,” Sir Gilbert said, looking to Finch for confirmation. The butler grinned his agreement. “She’s headstrong, willful, stubborn, and has the temper of a hedgehog. A rare handful.”
“Why, you horrible old man,” Marguerite exclaimed as Thomas began to laugh. “I ought to cut off your gin for a fortnight!”
“See what I mean?” Sir Gilbert asked smugly. “Hey, there, Marco. Where are you going?”
The Gypsy had removed the blade, wiped it on his breeches, and returned it to Donovan before lifting the earl’s lifeless form up and over his shoulder. He and his burden were already heading in the direction of the gardens.
Marco turned to look at everyone in turn, his expression solemn. “This is a time of happiness, and it should not be hindered by the continued presence of this lump of offal. I’m taking him where he belongs.”
“A bit of fuel to feed your fire, Marco?” Thomas asked as Marguerite led him to her grandfather’s leather chair, wishing the stupid, brave man would sit down before he fell down. “The poor earl perished in a fire. Terrible pity. Such a sad loss. Yes, that would be easier than having to call in the local authorities and answer a lot of questions, wouldn’t it?”
“I didn’t hear that, my friend, because you didn’t ask it,” Marco said, smiling. “For many years the Rom have been welcomed here, when we are welcome very few places. A dank gray mist that has lain too long on the land is now being burnt away, never to be seen again, and the sun will soon shine down on all of us once more. That’s enough for me. It should be enough for you.”
“It is, Marco, it is,” Marguerite said earnestly, pushing Thomas into the soft chair. It would take her years to explain the logic of the Gypsies to him, and now was not the time to begin. “He—none of us—will be asking anything else. Go with God, Marco. And thank you.”
The Gypsy nodded, then slipped off the way he had come, leaving Dooley to murmur quietly, “I’d give my eyes to tell Bridget’s ma about this. But then she’d never believe me anyway, now would she?”
Later, much later, once Thomas’s wound had been properly cleaned and bandaged and Sir Gilbert, Finch, and Dooley had retired once more to their chambers, Marguerite sat on the edge of his bed and watched him try to find a comfortable position in which his side did not pain him.
“This will never work! This bed might as well be made of rocks for all the rest I’m getting, and I haven’t slept in so long I think I’ve forgotten how,” he exclaimed testily, pushing himself up against the pillows. “Come here, aingeal. If I can’t sleep, we might as well talk.”
She did as he asked, lying down beside him beneath the coverlet, her head on his chest. “What would you like to talk about, Donovan? Or do you merely wish to apologize once more for saying all those terrible things to Laleham?”
“You’re going to make me pay for that for a long, long time, aren’t you, sweetheart?”
She smiled. “Years, and years, and years, Donovan. You can count on it.”
His chest moved beneath her as he chuckled softly. “What was it your grandfather said, darlin’? Willful? Stubborn? Yes. But there was another one. Now what was it? Ah, I remember now! You have the temper of a hedgehog! That was it, wasn’t it, my love? Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should be putting a little more thought into this business of marriage. After all, I’m only a young man—little more than a lad, actually—with places to go, things to do—”
“There’s still two loaded pistols lying on the desk in Grandfather’s study, Donovan,” she reminded him, lifting her head to look up into his laughing blue eyes.
He traced her smile with the tip of his finger. “Neither one of us will ever get in the last word, will we, aingeal? We’ll still be spitting and clawing while our grandchildren toddle around at our knees.”
“And still loving, Thomas,” she pointed out, snuggling against him. “Never forget the loving.” She waited a moment, believing he’d say something, then realized his breathing had become deep and even.