Pay the Devil

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As he tightened the girth, there was the scrape of a shoe behind him and he turned quickly. Joshua was standing there, reproach large upon his face. ‘Damn your eyes for an old night-owl,’ Clay told him.

Joshua sighed. ‘What you do nights is your own affair, Colonel, but going by what’s happened already, you’d be doing me a favour if you took this.’ He held out a belt from which was suspended the Dragoon Colt in its black leather holster.

Clay took it from him and buckled it about his waist. ‘Anything for peace. I swear you’re more fussy than an old woman.’ He swung up into the saddle. ‘Now go back to bed – that’s an order.’ He clicked his tongue and the mare moved out of the stable door and across the courtyard before Joshua could reply.

When he reached the rim of the valley, he paused and looked about him. The dog still barked hollowly in the distance, the sound somehow bringing back to him so many hot summer nights in Georgia, when, as a boy, he was unable to sleep and had longed to do just this.

He urged the mare into a canter, and as they came out onto a stretch of springy turf, broke into a gallop. It was an exhilarating experience as he crouched low over her neck, the wind cold on his face. They must have covered a good mile when he started to rein in and halted beside a clump of trees.

He leaned down and gently rubbed the mare’s ears. ‘You beauty!’ he said softly. ‘You little beauty!’ And the mare tossed her head and rolled her eyes as if understanding what he said and liking it.

A horse whinnied from somewhere nearby, and as the mare replied, he hastily turned into the trees and dismounted. Several horsemen appeared over a small rise no more than twenty or thirty yards away. They paused and he heard one of them say quite clearly, ‘It was a horse, I tell you, and not far from here.’

Clay placed a hand over the mare’s muzzle and waited. One of the men laughed. ‘You’re jumpy tonight, Patrick, and that’s the truth of it. What’s there to be worrying about, with Burke and his men waiting at the north end of the estate for poachers who’ll never turn up?’

They moved forward and a string of pack animals followed them from behind the rise. Clay waited until they had disappeared over the skyline a quarter of a mile away before following them.

As he topped the rise, a strong wind started to blow in his face and he ran his tongue over his lips, tasting the salt and knowing that he must be very near to the sea. The string of horses had disappeared and he paused and examined the landscape.

The moor itself was clearly exposed in the bright moonlight, but a narrow valley cut through it, dark with shadow, and he realized that this was the route they had taken. He started to move forward again and reined in sharply as a stone rattled somewhere behind him. He turned in the saddle, but there was no one there.

He waited for a little while, but nothing moved and he shrugged and took the mare down the slope, her hoofbeats silent on the turf, and entered the valley.

A well-defined path lay clearly before him and he urged his mount into a canter, eyes probing the darkness ahead. Ten minutes later, the track started to drop steeply and he stopped. Somewhere below, the sea surged against rocks and he heard voices.

He took the mare straight up the sloping side of the little valley and emerged onto a flat spread of turf that ran gently down to the cliff edge a short distance away. He dismounted and walked forward cautiously.

The bay was crescent-shaped and beautiful in the moonlight. A schooner lay a hundred yards offshore, sails furled, the tracery of her rigging like black lace against the night. He flung himself down on his face and peered over the edge of the cliff. It dropped cleanly to the beach below, the valley path appearing to be the only route down.

The horses were standing at the water’s edge and several men were unloading a longboat with a skill which argued a long experience at the task. They appeared to be enjoying themselves, and there was some horseplay as two of them waded through the surf to the boat. A laugh drifted up, clear in the night air.

‘At least we now know where Cohan obtains his excellent brandy,’ Clay mused softly, and at that moment, the cliff edge started to crumble beneath his weight.

A shower of stones and earth rattled down the face of the cliff to the beach below and the men grouped round the boat turned in the same second and looked up toward him. A piercing whistle cut through the night, and as he scrambled to his feet and turned to run, someone fired a shot, the bullet droning into the night.

Obviously the operation was not being as carelessly conducted as he had imagined, for, as he swung a leg over the mare’s back, three horsemen appeared over the rim of the valley and galloped toward him.

He gave the mare her head and she responded well. As they reached the first swell of the moors, he leaned low over her neck, urging her on with coaxing words. He could hear the cries of his pursuers behind him, and the mare hardly faltered as she scrambled up and over the rise.

He was now passing over unfamiliar ground, and as the moors started to lift on either hand, he realized that he had entered a narrow valley. He glanced back over his shoulder. The first horseman was no more than fifty yards behind him and he urged the mare forward, allowing her to pick her own way over the boulder-strewn ground.

A moment later, he cursed and reined in sharply. He had reached a dead end, a blank wall of stone that lifted forty or fifty feet into the night, with a stunted thorn tree growing at the top if it. On either side, the valley slope was as steep as a house roof.

He was not afraid as he heard the first of his pursuers enter the valley, simply annoyed that violence should be forced upon him. He drew the Dragoon Colt, moonlight glinting on its brass frame, and waited as he had waited so many times in the past, with no fear in him now that the moment was at hand.

A gay mocking laugh that was somehow familiar floated down from the clifftop, and he turned in the saddle, arm extended to fire. The rider he had first seen from his bedroom window no more than an hour earlier, had appeared beside the thorn tree.

‘Let the mare try the slope if you want to save your skin, Colonel,’ a clear voice called. ‘She can do it, I promise you.’

Clay didn’t hesitate. His pursuers were almost upon him. He fired once into the air to hold them and urged the mare toward the steep side of the valley.

She responded magnificently. He leaned low over her neck, placing his weight forward. A few feet from the rim of the valley, she started to slip on the wet turf. He jumped from her back, grabbed the bridle in one hand and scrambled up, pulling her after him. A moment later, they were over the top.

‘This way, Colonel,’ the rider called, turning away, and Clay swung into the saddle and galloped after, ignoring the cries of rage which came from below as his pursuers realized that he had eluded them.

The moor stretched before them in the moonlight, sloping gently up toward the hills, and the mare crossed it at a dead run. Clay looked back over his shoulder and saw the three riders appear over a rise several hundred yards in the rear. There was a familiar hollow feeling of excitement in his stomach and he concentrated on overhauling his companion.

The mare covered the ground effortlessly, and slowly the gap narrowed until the two horses were almost abreast. The unknown ally wore an old tweed jacket and broad-brimmed hat pulled low over the eyes. Clay caught a sideways glance and heard a laugh and then they were plunging down into a wide, tree-filled valley following a sandy track.

The rider swerved into the trees and Clay followed, twisting and turning, receiving a thorough soaking as wet branches whipped against him. They emerged into a broad meadow, took a low fence together, landing in a spatter of mud on the other side, and reined in before a ruined stone hunting lodge.

Clay slid to the ground and stood beside the mare, running a hand gently over her heaving side. ‘I’m obliged to you, sir,’ he said.

The other held up a hand in warning and motioned him to silence. They could hear hoofbeats approaching rapidly as their pursuers followed the track. Within a few moments they passed, and after a while there was silence.

The rider still sat motionless, head forward, listening to the hoofbeats die away into the night, then turned to Clay with a gay laugh. ‘The poor fools will run for a mile before it occurs to them that we might not be out in front after all.’

The voice was clear and sweet like a ship’s bell across water. Clay frowned and took a step forward. As he did so, his unknown rescuer turned towards him, uncovering with a flourish and allowing a long switch of dark hair tied with ribbon near the crown of the head, to fall freely to shoulder level and beyond.

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ Clay said softly.

The face that smiled impishly at him in the moonlight was that of a young girl of no more than eighteen years. She was small and slightly built, the man’s riding coat too big for her. The eyes were unusually large and set too far apart for conventional beauty, the nose tilted above a wide, generous mouth. There was about her an irresistible appeal, an attraction that was as immediate as it was compelling.

‘Who the devil are you?’ he demanded. ‘Diana the Huntress or the Goddess of the Night?’

She tilted back her head and laughed, the moonlight full upon her young face. ‘I had heard that Southern gentlemen were renowned for their chivalry, Colonel, but this exceeds all my expectations.’

Responding to her mood, he removed his hat and bowed gravely. ‘Colonel Clay Fitzgerald, at your service. You have the advantage of me, ma’am.’

‘Oh, no, Colonel,’ she said. ‘I much prefer to remain Diana the Huntress or even the Goddess of the Night for just a little while longer. Women are incurably romantic.’

He started to replace his hat, and as he did so, she touched her mount with the spurs so that it bounded forward across the meadow, cleared the fence with room to spare and plunged into the shadows of the trees. A silvery laugh floated back to him, and as he swung a leg over the mare’s back he knew that he was too late.

He reached the track in time to see the girl and her horse briefly silhouetted against the sky as they topped the rise at the head of the valley, and then they were gone.

When he reached the place himself, there was no sign of her. He took a cheroot from his case and lit it carefully, hands cupped against the slight breeze from the sea. He frowned, wondering who she could be, and then a slight smile came to his face. If her performance tonight was anything to go by, she would not leave him long in doubt.

He cantered back toward Claremont, enjoying his cheroot and the stillness of the night. When he reached the ridge above the house, he paused and gazed toward the distant mountains of Connemara. They made a spectacle to take the breath away, and the moonlight silvering the sea filled him with the beauty and wonder of it.

He had made the mistake of coming to Ireland in search of peace, but already he was glad he had come. The thought of tomorrow filled him with a vague, restless excitement, and as he took the mare down toward the house, there was a smile on his face.

3 (#ulink_1f45eaf5-980a-5169-bc00-d9ac7ee95356)

The morning was grey and a light rain was falling as Clay rode out of the courtyard and followed the track that led up through the trees over the top of the moor.

In one of his old military saddlebags he carried the package he had been asked to deliver to Shaun Rogan, and as he rode, head bowed against the rain, he wondered idly what it might contain.

Of the man who had given it to him, he knew little. He had met O’Hara casually at a party at someone’s house in New York, and during the conversation his intended trip to Galway had been mentioned. Later in the evening, the man had asked him to deliver the package and Clay had agreed, thinking he would probably hear no more about it. When he boarded the boat on the following day, it was waiting for him in his cabin, with a polite note thanking him in advance for the favour.

There was already a suspicion at the back of his mind that O’Hara had used him and that the package was something out of the ordinary. From what he had seen of the Rogan family already, there could be little doubt that the contents were of a dubious nature.

He dismissed the subject from his mind for the moment and gazed about him. The mountains were shrouded in mist and visibility was poor, but yet there was a freshness to everything that gladdened the heart, and the air was like new wine. He started to whistle softly between his teeth and urged his mount into a canter as the rain increased in force.

As Kevin Rogan had promised, the track ran for some three miles across the moor and then dipped unexpectedly into a wide valley. Below him in the midst of a clump of old beech trees an ancient, grey stone farmhouse was rooted into the ground.

The place seemed prosperous and in good repair, with neat, well-kept fences to the large paddock. As he cantered down toward it, a woman moved out of the porch, a pail in each hand. She paused and looked toward him, then she put down the pails and stood with one hand shading her eyes.

She was tall and gaunt, her face wrinkled by a lifetime’s care. The hair that showed from beneath the shawl which covered her head was iron grey. She gazed up at him, no expression in her faded blue eyes, and Clay touched the brim of his hat. ‘Mrs Rogan?’ She nodded and he went on, ‘My name’s Fitzgerald. Is your husband at home?’

She shook her head, and said in an unfriendly voice, ‘He’s away for the day.’

‘Might I ask when you’re expecting him?’ Clay said.

She picked up her pails. ‘He comes and goes. You’ll be wasting your time if you wait.’ Without another word, she turned away and walked across the courtyard to a cow byre.

Clay watched her until she had disappeared inside, a slight frown on his face. Then a voice said quietly from behind, ‘You mustn’t mind my mother. She doesn’t take kindly to strangers.’

The man who had spoken stood in the doorway of the stables and cleaned his hands on a rag, eyes calm in a lean, intelligent face topped by the familiar Rogan hair.

Clay walked the mare toward him, and smiled. ‘Dennis, Marteen, and Kevin I’ve met already in that order. Who might you be?’

The other smiled. ‘I’m Cathal, Colonel. The quiet one of the family. Kevin said you might drop by sometime today.’

‘Your father’s not at home, I take it?’

Cathal nodded. ‘Pressing business in Galway. He and the boys won’t be back until late tonight.’

Clay leaned forward and looked inside the stable door. There were at least thirty horses ranged on both sides in neat stalls, and he whistled softly. ‘You’ve got some good stuff there.’

‘We should have, Colonel. We breed them.’ Cathal ran a hand over the mare’s muzzle in a familiar manner and spoke softly to her. ‘But not one of them to match Pegeen, here.’

Clay raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You know the mare well, then?’

Cathal smiled. ‘The joy of your uncle’s old age. If there’s a better mount between here and Dublin, I’ve yet to see it. Miss Joanna’s taken good care of her.’

Clay resisted the temptation to ask the obvious question and there was a slight pause. Cathal Rogan made no attempt to continue the conversation, and after a while, Clay smiled. ‘Well, I’ll be moving on. Tell your father I’ll call again tomorrow.’

He wheeled Pegeen away from the stable entrance and Cathal said, ‘I understood Kevin to say you had a package for us, Colonel?’

‘For your father,’ Clay said over his shoulder. ‘And I prefer to deliver it personally.’ He cantered through the gate and followed the track back up toward the head of the valley.

When he reached the top, he paused and looked down toward the farm. Whatever else they might be, the Rogans were certainly an inhospitable clan and strangers were definitely not welcome – that much both Cathal Rogan and his mother had made plain.

As he started to turn away, there was a movement in the trees beyond the farm. He leaned forward and waited. A moment later, half a dozen horsemen galloped through the beech trees and entered the yard.

The woman came out of the cow byre, carrying her pails, and one of the men swung to the ground and approached her. They stood talking and Clay saw her shake her head vehemently and then the man pushed her so that she staggered back, dropped her pails and fell to the ground, milk spilling across the cobbles.

He wondered what had happened to Cathal Rogan, and in the same moment saw him run from the other side of the stables to the rear of the house. As the woman picked herself up from the ground, he appeared in the doorway, a shotgun in his hand. He raised it to his shoulder and one of the men rode his horse up the front steps, crowding him against the wall and kicked the gun from his grasp.

Clay didn’t hesitate. He took Pegeen down the steep grassy slope of the valley toward the farm, ignoring the track and leaning back in the saddle. They reached the bottom safely and Pegeen scrambled up out of the hollow onto the track and galloped past the paddock toward the yard.

One of the riders was still on his horse, but the others had dismounted. Cathal Rogan backed against the wall, as four of them moved in on him while the other started to turn the horses out of the stable. He fought desperately, but within seconds was sliding to the ground under a barrage of flailing fists.

One of the men lifted a heavy boot into his side and Mrs Rogan screamed and ran forward, clawing at his coat. He flung her to the ground with a curse and turned back to Cathal.

Clay arrived at that precise moment. He ran Pegeen in amongst them, scattering them to each side and lifted his boot into the man’s face. He screamed once and staggered back against the wall, sliding down to the ground without another cry.

Pegeen danced daintily on her hind legs, swirling to meet the man on horseback who moved toward them with an oath. Clay found himself facing Sir George Hamilton’s agent.

Burke’s face was dark with passion and his eyes sparked fire. ‘By God, Colonel, you go too far,’ he cried. ‘Stay out of that which doesn’t concern you. We’re here on Sir George Hamilton’s business.’