Celtic Mist Ch. 13

Declan moved on to the next window. No luck. He deliberated: he could return to the hall and take on the guard openly and launch a wild attack upon the officers in the dining room --- if he made it so far. He doubted not that he could take down the guard but knew that any element of surprise would be sacrificed when he faced the half dozen armed officers emerging from the dining room. 'Twas a fool's errand, that! A dead fool.

Aye, he would need to procure some tools for picking locks and return to Rossnalough Manor.

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Yeomen's Garrison, Rossnalough Manor, west of Enniscorthy, County Wexford, Friday, May 18, 1798 (one day earlier)

Damn him! Damn him! And damn herself! How could she have let that traitorous lad take such liberties?! In the face of all the determination and discernment with which she credited herself, she had succumbed to the rogue's seductive persuasion like a mindless chit! She must have been mad!

So Michael berated herself as she walked to the Yeomen's garrison and hurried through the boot polishing. The spell that had beset her since the furtive encounter with Declan in the courtroom earlier that afternoon had broken when darkness fell and she made ready to head out to Rossnalough Manor.

As her head had cleared, she was possessed with chagrin and rage at her naïve surrender to the lad who had wronged her and her family. Ever since their flight from Kilmaedan Castle last year...ever since the night in the ruined church when she had forced him to strip, the recurring little treacheries of her amorous dreams and musings had primed her innocent body for this egregious betrayal.

Oh, God, she was a wicked lass, so she was! She struggled to blot out the memory of the voluptuous sensation of Declan's wet, velvety tongue upon her most sensitive, secret places. And just two days prior she had imagined her astonishment could not be exceeded when she had witnessed the converse exercise from the hiding place in the wardrobe: the maid using her lips and tongue to stimulate the officer's excited organ!

In the past three days, Aoife thus had bluntly learnt of these oh so lascivious acts which she had never heard of or even imagined. Heedless of her attempts to suppress them, the stirring images sprang up in her mind: the maid's lips stretched round the ruddy, fleshy pole...the man's face contorted with pleasure...Declan's strong, full lips smiling at her from the window...and then the imagined sight of what had happened under the tablecloth: those warm lips avidly buried between her legs, his nose in her red plush, his bristled jaw tickling her inner thighs.

She had been so stunned by the shocking act --- perhaps on that account she could forgive herself her failure to resist...could forgive herself for being transfixed by the quivery, throbbing sensation of his oral caresses. With a haunting ache even now rising in those parts, she dared to recall the astounding pleasure that had crowned the enterprise...why that blissful paroxysm must have been the 'spending' about which the maid Biddy had tried to enlighten her! And the spunk upon her thighs meant that Declan had spent too! Aoife's face flamed at the memory.

'Twas a shameful thing, what had happened.

Wasn't it?

All the teachings throughout her young life would hold so. But why? How could such bliss be a sin? The very transcendence of the delight seemed to Aoife incontrovertible evidence of a knowing beneficence on the part of Medb or Nature, if not God.

But what was wrong in her eyes was yielding to the temptation of that hateful...handsome young man. Her mind had to be stronger than her body's foolish inclinations. These recent incidents with Declan were distracting her from her deadly purpose.

Newly resolved, Michael made her way through the damp smelling tunnel from the stable to the manse and crept up the stairs into the space inside the walls where she had been the other night --- she was going to find Blaylock's office, so she was!

The officers should be dining at this hour. As expected, the chamber where she had encountered Declan was presently unoccupied. Leaving the panel in the wainscoting ajar for a rapid retreat, she searched the desktop and drawers. Soon she confirmed that the officer using it was not Blaylock; 'twas one Captain Pounden. She made note of any details in the correspondence that seemed of interest. Back in the passageway, she headed for the far staircase.

In her mind, she drew a diagram of the first floor of the manse. In this wing, the hidden passages gave her access to the three parlours on the north side. So far, she had established that the first belonged to Lieutenant Hunt, and the second to Captain Pounden. The far stairs led to the wall between the last parlour and the library.

As for the rooms on the opposite side of the hall, she had not found a way to gain entry to them. But, from her very first interview with Lieutenant Drury when she was granted a sutler's license, she knew that one belonged to him.

Inside the wall at the top of the far stairs, she peered through the peep-hole into the adjacent parlour. In the light from the low fire, she confirmed it to be unoccupied ere pulling open the panel in the wainscoting and stepping out. Something seemed different about this parlour, and she was initially hard put to identify whether the difference lay in the features of the room itself or how the officer was using it.

'Twas somewhat larger than the other two parlours --- there was that --- and it had more bookshelves, filled from floor to ceiling with leather bound volumes. Upon closer consideration, Michael realized that the room had an air that she could only describe as more masculine than the first two she had explored. Although every bit as luxurious, the details of the moldings, furniture, and wallpaper were simpler and lacked the daintiness and ornateness seen previously. From her experience as a maid at Drumlevy Manor, she guessed that prior to the property being commandeered by the Yeomen, this room had been the private study of the male owner.

There were also far fewer ornamental objects on the mantel, shelves, and tables, but whether that reflected the former lord's taste or was a modification by the occupying officer, she could not tell.

The fireplace was on the wall directly opposite the hidden panel in the wainscoting. There was a clock on the marble mantel, and above it a large painting of a beautiful young woman dressed in a diaphanous white robe of the Greek fashion, elegantly provocative in the amount of bared flesh and her unfettered bosom. Her vivid auburn hair and curved figure reminded her of Clodagh, and Michael's lips tightened bitterly as she continued her survey.

Two items she felt with certainty were additions of the current occupant: a map of County Wexford upon the wall above the hidden panel and a large, padlocked oak trunk against a wall near the window --- its blunt, plain construction incongruous with the rich surroundings.

The polished wood desk, situated some eight feet in front of the hidden panel and facing the fireplace opposite, offered further insight into the officer. There was, as in the other rooms, the ominous fur-crested and feather-plumed black helmet on a stand --- but otherwise there was a stark contrast between this and the other officers' desks. Whereas the others had a fair disarray of letters, documents, books, and various items such as coins, gloves, pipes, and snuff boxes, the nigh barren top of this man's desk testified to the stringent character of its present owner. Apart from the helmet stand, the only other items on it were an ink well, quill holder, and sealing wax kit.

The unknown officer would not yield up his identity so readily as the others, would he now?

She tried the desk drawers. Again, in contradistinction to his fellow officers, they were locked...wait...all save one. The shallow center drawer slid open. Inside, tidily arranged, were writing paper, blotting paper, a letter knife, additional quills, and sealing wax. But on top of the stack of writing paper she found two other items. The first was a schedule of the stagecoach to and from Dublin, and the second...aye!...'twas a letter! Michael unfolded it in all eagerness, tilting it so the light from the fireplace fell upon it.

The heavy, elegant paper was headed with "The Island House, Killincooly, County Wexford" and dated one week prior. "My Dear Sir," it began. 'Twas a brief correspondence in which the writer expressed pleasure at the recipient's recent return to Ireland and congratulated him upon the advancement constituted by his new commission in the Yeomanry. The writer expressed his hope to soon have the honor of addressing him in person as Colonel Blaylock. He alluded to some evidently past ruffled feelings regarding a wager over a prizefight in Gorey town, and as testament of his earnest hope for a renewal of their friendship, offered an invitation to dine at the Island House --- Blaylock and all his fellow officers of the Enniscorthy Yeomanry Corps. It was signed "William Bolton, Esq."

Michael's eyes gleamed and her heart raced --- aye, she had at last found Blaylock's lair!

The dilemma of what to do next was fast settled by a noise from the direction of the hall door. She swiftly replaced the letter, closed the drawer, and darted back into the wall. Watching through the peep-hole, she soon realized that whatever the noise had been, it had not been Blaylock returning. She studied the room through the tiny hole for several minutes --- further planning was essential.

On the walk back to Enniscorthy between the stone walls of the fields, she glimpsed among the silhouetted tree tops the crescent moon low in the night sky. The thin golden arc mirrored her smile at her success tonight.

But so much more was there to do! Thinking on the arrangement of Blaylock's office, Michael considered the fact that she so far had only smuggled her dagger into the garrison. Now was the time to find a way to bring the pistol in...aye, she needed to be fully armed ere she launched her attack.

An owl hooted in the darkness. Her troubled thoughts returned to the episode at the courthouse. 'Twas evident now that Declan was aware of her two disguises. How the Devil had he discovered them? How long had he known? She felt a right fool, so she did.

An idea occurred to her: was that why he had not reported her spying to Blaylock? Whatever impulse had induced him to spirit her away from Kilmaedan Castle back in September --- be it protective or self-seeking --- had it now shielded her from Blaylock's discovery? Or...if Declan had indeed renewed his association with his former commander, perhaps he had chosen to avoid any reminders of their past falling out.

No matter the answers to her queries, Aoife was overwhelmed with chagrin and could not face seeing Declan again that weekend at the farm. How could she ever meet those green eyes again without dying of shame? Both knowing that his tongue had been on her private parts and that she had spent upon his face?

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