When Misdeeds Misfire

By Kathryn Movius

Lord Tristan Adair is a highly capable young Englishman. Born into a privileged class, circumstances have convened to make survival a grim strugglethough not in the ordinary way. He takes over the maintenance of an estate in Ireland at the request of his uncle. While there, he is made uncomfortably aware that some personmaybe more than oneis determined to murder him.
Riona Murdock has a harrowing and tragic past. Her uncle, William Murdock, had jealously coveted his brothers wife for years. He arranges for Rionas home to be burned, her father to be murdered in cold blood, and her mother to die of grief. Rionas brother is set to sail on a slave ship bound for Australia. As for herself, she gets to marry the man who played a significant part in the events which destroyed her family.
Or so her uncle tells her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546221203

Kathryn Movius

Kathryn Movius grew up in the dry mountains near Bakersfield, California. She currently lives in Kansas with her husband and six children. She has a love of English and Irish history, scenery, music, books and movies. One day she hopes to visit these beautiful countries.

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When Misdeeds Misfire

Kathryn Movius

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2018 Kathryn Movius. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/29/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2121-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2119-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2120-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017919416

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Other Titles By This Author:

The Double T’s…Cowboys At Heart

I Dedicate This Book To:

All of my wonderful family, especially Tom,

And

My wonderful friends, especially Kit, Mandy, Stef, and Sarah,

With

Particular gratitude to my illustrators, Sally Melechinsky and Maria Steinmetz

For such a perfect job!

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Chapter One

R un, lass, run!

Riona did not stop to look after the galloping horsemen but did as O’Connor urged her. She lifted up the skirts of her dark woolen dress and left the small trade store behind. As fast and sure-footed as an antelope she ran, the winter slush slippery beneath her worn boots. By road, the village was two miles; by the backwoods path it was barely a half. Hopefully she could make it in time.

It was dark but Riona’s feet pumped down the track unerringly. Adrenaline made her oblivious of the blood rushing to her head, the labored breathing of her lungs.

She emerged from the wood, stumbling over a dead branch she had not seen. Choking and gasping, she forced herself on to the quiet little huddle of huts set in a clearing lit vaguely by starlight.

She reached the windswept street and, with all the strength she could muster, she sounded the alarm.

Night raiders! Night raiders! Attack! Attack!

Slowly, and then in a flood, people burst from their homes. They asked no questions. Carrying babes or their belongings which were most dear, men and women made for the safety of the darkness.

Riona, who was nothing if not courageous, saw a woman hampered by four young children and went to help. The mother threw a grateful look in her direction and hurried across the street with the two youngest. She did not look back.

As she grasped the three-year-old’s hand, a sound made Riona check and turn. She felt the vibration in the ground and saw the warm glow of torches as the horsemen plunged into her sight. They rounded a low ridge protruding into the road and urged their horses faster: a wild, silent menace.

Riona looked at the torches and her heart sank. These bandits did not come only to plunder and to terrify. They came to destroy.

Panic leaped into visible form as the horsemen bore down on the town. Men shouted, women screamed, children stumbled and sobbed. A small mass of humanity suddenly slithered towards the darkness like a live snake, writhing with all its might to escape.

Within seconds the dim town was filled with bright flame. People still inside their burning dwellings shrieked with terror. The raiders advanced, trampling, stabbing and burning everything within reach.

Some of the townsmen had huddled together. In a pathetic force they advanced, attempting to protect their homes and their families. They fought desperately with rocks, clubs, ropes, and even tools, attempting to spook or trip the horses to get to their riders. Riona saw one man unseat a bandit with a potato hoe. They paid dearly for their courage.

The enemy swept on. Riona dove to clutch the five-year-old boy who started, in fright, to run across the road, following his mother. She was too late.

The youngster darted under the nose of a snorting, lunging charger in the middle of the first line of horses. Riona did not have time to see the rider. There was only time for impressions. She thought he was tall, slender, and somehow different from the others. But one thing she saw clearly: the man did not attempt to check his horse.

"Look out!" Riona yelled and the boy, suddenly aware of imminent peril, froze. The nervous chestnut reared up, startled. Its master laughed and jabbed cruel spurs into its sides. The horse gave a mighty lunge and leaped over the crouching boy. The rest of the group followed, rushing over the child as if he did not exist. One of the men gave a rough guffaw.

That is the way to deal with an Irish pup, Adair! he applauded.

Then they were past, leaving Riona gazing after them with shocked, blazing eyes. She could just pick out the man on the chestnut…that was why he was different. His dress and posture proclaimed him to be an Englishman. The other man had called him Adair. No doubt he was the infamous Adair they had all been hearing about.

Riona felt that if she held her breath any longer she would explode. She exhaled with one gusty sigh, dreading what the next moment would discover. She rushed forward in the flickering light, dragging the crying little girl behind her. She grasped the boy’s shoulder and looked into his terrified eyes. He was scared and filthy but, with the exception of some bruises and cuts, he was miraculously unhurt.

Come, sweetheart, get up, Riona said, kindly. We must find your màthair. Riona, scanning the immediate onlookers, could not see the children’s mother anywhere. She must have assumed they were following and not waited for them.

Riona guided the children to a safe place over the ridge where she could watch the burning town and keep out of sight. The raiders did not stay long. No doubt they had other villages to burn that night.

Half an hour later Riona rose stiffly to her feet. Come, she told the sleepy children, I will take you back now.

They slipped their cold little hands into hers and trudged wearily down the hill. By the time Riona reached the first building she saw that a bucket brigade had already formed. Some of the houses were beyond hope. Those with a remnant still to save were being attended to by grim men and women with full buckets of stream water.

Riona stood, the boy and girl on each side of her, a dark silhouette against orange and yellow flame. Looking around her she thought, yet another town burnt to ashes. The English are not content with humiliating us and taking away our freedoms and our livelihoods, they must also destroy our homes. These good, poverty-stricken people will have to build back what they have acquired over a lifetime…things which have been destroyed in less than an hour. Crops, livestock, stored goods and homes had all been trampled or scattered or burned. It was unbearable.

Where is your house? Riona asked the boy, leading them down the churned up street.

Over there. He pointed to a house half-devoured by fire. The flames were out but the wood was still smoking. A woman sat despondently on the doorstep, weeping.

"Màthair!" cried the little girl. The children rushed to meet her.

For the next two hours Riona busied herself helping in any way she could. She lit fires in grates or in the open air to keep out the winter cold. The wounded were carried into one house left untouched by the hungry flames. Riona did what she could for them. As she went about, staunching the flow of blood and bandaging up wounds she tried not to look at the five silent figures lined up against the far wall. They were the death toll of this night of evil. Her heart ached for their families.

It was well after midnight when she trod wearily back along the path she had come down so headlong a few short hours before. The February night sky was clear and cold. There was no moon but stars winked brightly in the heavens. The earth was peaceful, still with the silence of early morning. It was exquisite…or would have been had not the deeds of men wrought such destruction in the face of all that beauty. The splendor of the night was deceiving for on the ground stalked death and terror.

Probably because she was so weary, Riona was feeling discouraged and depressed. Ever since she and her brother Keith had been old enough to keep a secret they had helped in the crusade of Ireland against the English. This was not the first town she had seen demolished. The English and the Protestant Irish—those who had traded away faith and country for worldly gain—trampled the rights of the impoverished Roman Catholic Irish. They drained every last ounce of profit from the land. They pillaged and burnt and murdered as they pleased, guarded by the cloak of their secret Societies. Being Irish—that in itself seemed a crime, but if you were Irish Catholic matters got even worse. Anything of value to a human soul—land, animals, property, education, religion—all were forbidden to the Irish man, woman or child who was Catholic.

All this suffering and slavery was the fault of the English, that accursed Race, thought Riona. She remembered the cold-bloodedness of the Englishman only that night, trampling a child under hoof without reproof of conscience. Yes, definitely an accursed Race! A spark of anger lit. Her resentment grew, fueled by her memories, until it became a slow burning fire of its own. It was directed at the one Englishman whose reputation embodied all England was to her: the infamous Englishman, Adair.

–––

Do not think of double-crossing me, Murdock.

The voice, low and challenging, was barely audible in the raucous hubbub of the Irish pub but it was obvious that his companion had heard. Steely-blue eyes, hard and piercing, regarded him from across the table. Then his companion threw back his head and laughed loudly.

Snow lay thick outside the close little tavern isolated deep in the wilds of northern Ireland. A huge fire burned in the central hearth, which was made of native stone. That, and the heat of human bodies, made the room’s temperature stifling. The tavern patrons seemed to answer mostly to the description of, literally, rough-looking customers. This was no Irish peasant pub but rather one which catered to pirates, mercenaries and the low-life English who were, usually, their masters.

Many hostile looks were cast over crude mugs of ale at the two well-matched men in the corner booth. One of these was easily seen to be an Englishman. His clothes were made of the finest materials, with all the embellishments allowed at the time to be fashionable. His cravat was a froth of delicate lace and his coat displayed enormous cuffs with flashy embroidery. Nevertheless, the neat cut of his boots, the finery of his breeches and his impeccable waistcoat did not suggest, as intended, elegance and affluence. Rather, he looked ridiculous in his present company, like a strutting bird of paradise amongst a flock of grackles. He was a tall man, at least six feet. His build, though powerful, was lean. His peers were accustomed to notice when he passed them, their attention arrested by his commanding figure. His black hair was pulled back from a white face which seldom saw sun and wind. Incongruous in so pale a face, his eyes were black, dissipated and greedy.

The Irishman addressed as Murdock was a pleasing antidote to the Englishman. His swarthy, blunt-boned face was hard and would have been handsome if the cruelty of the animal within had not left its mark. His steel-blue eyes were wild and fierce, a strange contrast to the darkness of his face and hair. He was dressed in durable but well-cut togs of a nondescript color, with no such frippery as a fop attached to them. His clothes emphasized his fine broad shoulders and attractively matched his hard hands and weathered tan. His very presence was overbearing, though he was an inch shorter than his companion.

The Englishman repeated gruffly, Do not think of double-crossing me. It will get you nowhere and you will live to regret it.

Double-cross you, Englishman? the man called Murdock jeered, contemptuous, and confident in his own strength. Oh, I would not dare. You—you intimidate me so!

The man went off into another loud guffaw but the last words had been savagely said.

The Englishman insisted, We made a deal. I am the one taking the risk here; I must be certain you will carry out your end. He took a deep draught of ale, as if to fortify himself at the thought.

Murdock gave him a cursory glance. It was the cunning of the Irish wolf against the wariness of the English greyhound. Do not worry, Adair, he said, bored. I want the girl even less than you want your nephew.

She will come through as you have promised? Adair persisted, failing to be reassured. Even when she knows…or if she does not know…the difference?

Did I not say you may depend upon it? growled Murdock impatiently. Within the year we shall both have what we most desire.

If you fail, the Englishman threatened, I shall have your head.

And I, drawled Murdock, shall have yours.

–––

Riona awoke to find a broad beam of sunlight shining on her face. She stared grumpily at her closed door, from which a succession of hard, hyper knocks came, and sat up.

"Oh, what is it, Keith?" she grumbled. She pressed warm hands to her gritty eyes.

Riona! Her brother called mischievously. "If you do not get up this second I shall eat all the potato cakes and I will leave none for you."

Come on in, Riona invited, tired of hearing the staccato rapping. She pulled a warm shawl over her nightgown.

Keith barreled in with all the grace of a charging rhino. He plopped down on her sagging bed, swinging his feet gaily. Riona eyed him fondly.

He was a cheerful youth, standing two inches short of six feet. A year younger than the nineteen-year-old Riona, he took more after his mother than his sister. He had his mother’s sparkling green eyes and impetuous nature. His hair was a light copper sprinkled with blond. He possessed a quirky, reckless grin that was at once attractive and all his own. His nose was straight and he shared his sister’s stubborn chin. His endless energy was matched only by his unquenchable optimism.

It’s almost mid-morning, Riona! he accused, with zest. What do you mean by staying in bed, my sloth?

Oh, Keith, how can you say so? Riona laughed, punching him playfully. You must know I crawled home long after you went to bed!

Not so, contradicted her brother, tossing a nut into his mouth and chewing like a squirrel. Where were you?

Riona was brushing her long brown hair. O’Connor got news of a raid and I went to warn the victims, she said briefly. I stayed to help.

Hmmm. Keith chewed thoughtfully for a moment. What town was it?

McCallow Glen. It is basically gone, Keith. Maybe half a dozen buildings untouched. The rest—charred remains.

Keith nodded, accepting this. At least we got a hit of our own in, he said, with satisfaction.

Riona, braiding up her hair, glanced at him with misgiving. She knew that look in his eyes. What did you do? she demanded.

Keith laughed. Our cousin Gerard Finley and I took a little trip into Derry. You remember that man in town who was bragging about catching Father Doyle and what they were doing to him?

Riona nodded, a flicker of renewed pain in her deep blue eyes. Tha. Simply because he was not properly registered and had been smuggled in from the seminary in France to help with the shortage of priests here.

Gerard and I decided to make them look bloody fools. The priest was being held in the Englishman Adair’s quarters—

Adair again! Riona interrupted, angrily. Is that wretched man the root of all our evils? How I hate him!

Now, calm down, Riona, Keith advised, shocked. I know he’s bad—one of the worst, but—

You did not see what I saw, Keith, Riona interrupted again, fiercely. "He ran a mere infant over with his horse. When the animal balked he spurred it forward!"

What! Keith exclaimed, shocked. You mean he was at McCallow Glen last night? He took part in the raid?

Tha, Riona affirmed bitterly. He led it.

Keith grunted. I wish I had been there.

Have you seen him, Keith? Riona asked curiously. I had only a glimpse of his back.

Tha, I’ve seen him, Keith replied. I was hoping he’d be around when we got Father Doyle out of his clutches but he wasn’t. He must have been raiding still. He shrugged. Oh, well. We will get him next time.

So you did get Father Doyle to safety? Riona asked, excited.

Aye, that we did. We slipped into Derry with no one the wiser and took out the two guards, grabbed the key and carried Father out over our backs. It was easy! He frowned. Poor Father could not move much. He had been beaten and tied up and left in the cold with nothing to eat or drink. We took him to the Dentley’s.

The English landlord that sometimes shelters our Catholic priests even though they are members of the Church of England? Riona asked, awed.

Keith nodded. They will take good care of him. He chuckled. Adair will never think to look for him there!

The Dentleys must be very good people, Riona said thoughtfully, sitting down beside her brother.

Tha, they have a decent sense of what is humane and what is inhumane, regardless of what race or creed a person belongs to, Keith agreed. Father Doyle has a price of 500 pounds on his head, too, he added reflectively, for helping some Irish fugitives to escape to America. He stowed them away on ships.

Oh! Riona clapped her hands. How thrilling!

Tha. I would like to do that. He stood and stretched enormously. I’ll leave you to dress. Those potato cakes are calling me.

He bounced out of the room and Riona turned to the wash stand. She splashed her face with the icy water. Changing quickly into a worn wool dress of an indiscriminate dark color, she pulled a light woolen sweater across her shapely shoulders. With a satisfied sigh, she tripped down the stairs for breakfast.

As she walked through the narrow stone hall Riona looked about her with pride. The pieces of furniture, few and far between, were old and shabby but every single one had a history behind it. There were no crude wood-carved tables and chairs in their house. Her ancestors had been sailors. They had sailed the seas fearlessly and they had ventured far. One vase and table had come from China. There were paintings from France and lace curtains from Spain. Several ornate dishes had come from Germany and the once-rich draperies from–yes, from England. Several pottery and kitchen pieces had come from Italy, including a marble-topped table. The thin, faded rugs on the floors had come from Turkey. Lying for generations, they were now too worn to imagine how fine they must once have been.

Riona caressed an ornately carved wooden stand displaying a vase of wild roses and fern. Her fingers followed the carpenter’s chisel, in and out of garlands of acorns and leaves and basket-weave. She loved their house, their history. She wished her family could be more like their ancestors of old, daring and adventurous. Not beaten into poverty and deception, living day to day with their wits, pretending to be free when they were not.

Riona’s mother was at the table, sipping weak tea. She wore a graceful, pale-green linen dress that became her admirably. The resemblance between her and her son was striking. Except that her hair was irresistibly curly and her expression playful rather than reckless, they might have been twins. She looked up as she heard Riona’s footsteps and gave her a mirthful smile.

Hello, my dear. I have kept some potato cakes warm for you. They are probably a bit dried out now. Try some tea. Your uncle brought it this morning.

Uncle William? Riona asked, disdainfully. She went to the fireplace in the kitchen and selected two cakes keeping warm in a pan there. She called a cheerful good morning to the woman working at the other end of the kitchen but received no answer. Going back to the table, she said, I wonder we accept his cowardly and ill-gotten gifts.

Her mother smiled a little but did not reply. Riona ate hungrily.

Aunt Clothide seems to be gloomier than ever today, she remarked between mouthfuls.

Saorla Murdock glanced ruefully towards the kitchen. Tha, poor thing. She had a headache last night, on account of going out in the wind to gather some peat for the fire. And this morning— she looked sidelong at the kitchen door, —this morning she needed a chicken killed and the boys let it get away from them. She was very set on making chicken soup.

Riona’s smile mirrored her mother’s humorous smirk. Poor Aunt. Nothing seems to go right for her. She took a sip of tea and asked, as she finished off the last potato cake, "Where is Athair?"

He had to go into Derry with your uncle. Her mother twinkled irrepressibly. It seems a certain priest escaped custody last night. They have organized a search your father must participate in.

Riona threw back her head and laughed. "How shocking! I am sure Athair will be one of the most zealous searchers."

They pushed up from the table and carried the dishes into the scullery. Riona’s Aunt Clothide was there, chopping carrots up for a stew she had boiling in a huge black kettle.

I never knew someone who could make potatoes taste yummy in as many ways as you can, Aunt, Riona said cheerfully.

Hmph! pronounced Clothide, thumping things around on the wooden table. "If you ask me, this double game you are playing is too dangerous. You do it all mighty well but that William always was a rotten one. And he knows your father too well. If we ever get what’s coming to us we will wish we were just another enslaved potato-eater!"

Riona wrapped her up in a hug. "Oh, Aunt Clothide, you dear! She laughed. Always an optimist."

The so-called optimist grunted and waved a dripping spoon towards the door. You tell all those children to come get their food, she ordered.

Riona nodded and walked out into the damp morning air. She took a deep, glorious breath as she looked lovingly around.

The land, located in northeastern Ireland, had been Murdock land from the days when the Ard Ri of Ireland, one of Riona’s ancestors, had settled it.