Page 1 of The Duke’s Sharpshooter (The Duke’s Guard #14)
R ory Flaherty did not mind the rain. He’d known when he saddled his gelding earlier that at some point, between the village and Wyndmere Hall, it would start to fall. Hadn’t he and his horse caught the scent of it—and discussed it—when the predawn breeze shifted?
“Well, laddie, we’re in for a good soaking.” The answering whinny had him chuckling. “Aye, there’ll be an extra cup of oats for ye at the end of our patrol. Don’t be distracting me now.”
Not for the first time, Flaherty cursed having to wear a frockcoat, waistcoat, and the bloody cravat.
But His Grace had been immovable on the subject.
The men in his private guard were to wear their full uniforms at all times—as the duke had reminded them on more than one occasion, appearances mattered.
At least he and his brothers and cousins had had a say in the color.
They chose one that wouldn’t easily show bloodstains and would blend in with the shadows.
The duke’s guard spent a good part of their time in the shadows.
Unrelieved black from head to toe, with one small exception: the embroidered word Eire in bright green over their hearts and the gold Celtic harp beneath.
Both symbols of the land of their birth.
The O’Malleys, Garahans, and Flahertys, families, bound through marriage, had spent generations digging their roots deep into the fertile soil of their island home.
Loved ones had bled and died protecting their land in an endless cycle of hardship and toil laced with sorrow and joy.
Rory and his brothers had been as determined as their cousins to save the family farms that had withstood the loss that bled down from one generation to the next.
Following in the footsteps of so many young Irishmen, they’d left to find work abroad…
the only option left open to them. They’d learned to live without the sweet smell of the rain-washed dawn and peat fires burning, the sight of standing stones and faery forts as dawn broke over horizon, sunlight glistening off the dew-laden fields dotted with sheep.
The sound of his ma’s voice calling his da, him, and his brothers in for the hearty meal that would fuel them while they worked the land.
His throat tightened with emotion a bit too close to the surface, so he tucked thoughts of home safely away as he scanned his surroundings.
Nothing out of the ordinary on either side of the road.
The breeze stilled as he reached the halfway point to town.
Birds heralded the first few drops of rain.
He breathed in the scent, comforted. It reminded him of home.
He had expected to receive a letter from his ma last week and was surprised to receive one instead from his new sister-in-law, Mary Kate.
He’d already been apprised of the situation his eldest brother had been embroiled in involving Viscount Chattsworth with the flurry of messengers arriving from Sussex—and London.
Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed and the duke’s guard had held strong.
“Did ye ever think Seamus would marry?”
His horse snickered—or if a horse could snicker, that was what Rory imagined it would sound like.
“’Tis my opinion as well.”
Rain soaked him through to his waistcoat by the time he rounded the bend and saw the roof of the inn.
While not a small village, there was a good-sized inn, and a few shops between the innyard and the church on the other side of the village green.
It was early yet, and only a few souls were out and about in the rain, mainly the stable hands that worked for the inn’s hostler.
He raised a hand to Scruggs. The middle-aged hostler was well liked, and had a gentle hand with the horses…and children.
Children …
Flaherty’s thoughts turned once again to Mary Kate’s letter.
It had been full of news—some good, some disturbing.
He and his brothers had agreed years ago not to marry before their thirty-fifth year.
Seamus marrying a few years before then wasn’t as much of a shock as the startling news that the duke’s distant cousin, Viscount Chattsworth—the family member Seamus and two of the O’Malleys protected—would challenge Seamus’s decision to check on his recently injured wife before giving his report to the viscount.
Riding past the inn, he wondered what man in his right mind would not want to see with his own eyes that his wife was well.
For feck’s sake, the detour could not have taken more than a quarter of an hour!
His temper flared in righteous indignation on his brother’s behalf before the rain soaking into his hair cooled his head.
All of the Flahertys had tempers, and Seamus’s was the hottest of the four of them.
“’Tis lucky we were that Captain Coventry took our measure when he hired us, was pleased with and planning to use our tempers to his advantage.
” The captain’s decision to separate the Flaherty brothers from one another—and the same with the Garahans—had been a good one.
The O’Malleys weren’t as quick to rile, nor did they hold a grudge for long.
To their credit, they could be paired with any one of their brothers or cousins.
He snorted. Good thing, as there were eight O’Malleys—four from Cork and four from Wexford.
The men in the duke’s private guard were beholden to Coventry as well as the duke.
Working long hours with little time away from their duties hadn’t bothered them.
Time away was time to think of home and dream of when they’d someday return.
Dreams were for children. Flahertys were known to be fertile as well as hot tempered.
He slowly smiled, as pride filled him. If he knew Seamus, his brother had already planted the seeds of the next generation of Flahertys. Rory looked forward to becoming an uncle.
Passing by the shops, he noted all was quiet, as expected.
The shopkeepers in the village opened their establishments midmorning to provide a service to travelers staying at the inn.
The habit proved to be economically sound, as most were doing a brisk business by eleven o’clock in the morning.
At this hour, not a lamp had been lit, nor curtain drawn back to greet the day.
“Not everyone enjoys the rain like we do, laddie.” His horse snuffed in response.
Flaherty did not expect to see anyone out and about this early, and was immediately on guard when a shadow shifted by the base of one of the tall oaks by the corner of the graveyard.
His gelding reacted to the reflexive tightening of Flaherty’s quadriceps.
He was ready to defend, or chase down a vagrant.
“Who goes there?” The shadow shifted, and Flaherty got a better look at the figure as it turned to flee. “Stop! By order of the duke!”
The figure obeyed. Flaherty dismounted and strode toward whom he deduced to be a lad, given his height. “Turn around and show me yer hands.”
To his shock, the wide green eyes, smallish nose, and full lips were decidedly female. Her face was a bit too thin, as if she had not had enough to eat recently.
“Are ye after riling me, lass? Show me yer hands.” She lifted one small hand. Frustrated, and for a moment concerned, he asked, “Have ye only the one, then?”
“I have two. The other one’s busy.”
He snorted, and tried to cover his laughter. “Well now, if it’s a blade or pistol ye’re hiding beneath yer cloak, ye’d best turn it over to me now. Then I’ll escort ye to the constable. The duke won’t be happy if ye’re here to cause trouble.”
When she didn’t move, he sighed. “Me name’s Flaherty. I’m one of the Duke of Wyndmere’s private guard. What’s yer name, lass, and who have ye come to visit?”
She relaxed her stance. “I do not know anyone in the village. I’m looking for work.”
Flaherty’s frustration doubled. “Did ye arrive by mail coach?”
“We did.”
The coach would have come and gone by now. He glanced around her, and behind himself, though he would have heard if anyone were behind him. “Ye’re trying me patience, lass. State yer name, and show me yer other hand and be quick about it!”
“Temperance.”
“Well now, ’tis a fine quality to have, but I’m asking yer name.”
She lifted her chin and narrowed her rain-drenched eyes at him. “ Mrs. Temperance Johnson.”
“Ah, so when ye said we, ye meant yer husband. Why didn’t he leave ye at the inn, where ye’d be warm and dry?”
The fire in the lass went out. “He’s dead.”
When she shivered and wavered on her feet, Flaherty reached out a hand to steady her. “Ah, lass. I’m sorry for yer loss. Is that why ye’re sitting in the rain alone, at the edge of the graveyard?”
Her eyes met his, and something shifted inside of him, as if to make room for the feelings he normally controlled. Compassion, and the need to protect, surged through him.
A muffled cry, like the sound of a small animal, had him staring at her cloak. Had it moved? And then it hit him— eedjit , she was protecting a babe!
“Come with me over to the inn. I’m well known in the village, and have the duke’s approval to aid anyone I deem in need of it in His Grace’s name.” She tried to shift out of his hold. “Here now, Temperance, I’m after helping ye. Ye need to get dry, mayhap to feed yer babe. How old is he?”
“ She just turned four. Her name’s Madeline.”
Worry lanced through Flaherty. Why was the lass hesitant to accept his offer? Normally people cried out to him for help.
He was about to ask when a tiny hand pushed the cloak aside. “Mum, I’m hungry.”
Utterly charmed by the curly-headed tot in Temperance’s arms, Flaherty smiled. “Well, now, wee cailín , I’ll escort ye and yer ma to the inn for tea and cake.”
“That’s not my name.”
“You have to excuse Madeline,” Temperance said. “We’ve traveled a long way, and I am too weary to walk back to the inn.”