“His Grace says you’re not to get out of bed. Not for any reason.”
“His Grace is too certain that I will obey his orders. Now, help me.”
Maigdlin’s worried face creased with a sunny smile. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The magistrate finally crumbled under Hart’s commands. Hart’s pugilist footmen and the constable dragged the young man back to Kilmorgan, with Fellows accompanying them, and brought the culprit to Hart’s study.
The constable dropped the lad into the chair in front of Hart’s desk. It was a comfortable, padded chair, reserved for Hart’s important guests. Mackenzie ancestors glared down from the walls in the huge room, the deceased Mackenzies all swathed in the same dark blue and green plaid as Hart. Their gazes seemed to fix on the young man cringing before them.
Hart leaned back against his desk and looked at him too. Hart was still tight with rage, the bile of it in his mouth. When he’d seen the blood, and Eleanor falling, he’d experienced a horrible helplessness he never wanted to feel again, a knowledge that, no matter how hard he fought, he would lose her. Now, this instant. As he had Sarah, as he had Graham.
The assassin was a child. He couldn’t be more than thirteen, fourteen at most. He had a clear white face, his skin almost translucent, the hue of Celtic tribes from northern Ireland or the Hebrides. He had black hair badly hacked short, eyes like blue glass, ruddy cheeks, and an expression of abject terror.
Hart said nothing. He’d discovered long ago that silence made a fine weapon. Forcing someone to wait and wonder what Hart was thinking gave him the upper hand from the outset. The youth stared back at him, his defiance and bravado evaporating under Hart’s gaze.
“What’s your name?” Hart asked.
“He won’t give it,” the constable said from the far end of the room. “Not even when we hit him.”
Hart ignored him. “What is your name, lad?”
“Darragh.” His voice was faint, scratchy, but with an unmistakable lilt.
“Irish, are you?”
“Erin go bragh.”
Hart left the desk and moved to a chair that stood against a window, the plainest seat in the room. He carried the chair back to the desk, set it down, and sat on it himself, leaning forward, arms on thighs.
“There are no Fenians in this room,” he said. “None of your mates, or the boys you grew up with, or the men who took you in and gave you the gun.” A new, American-made Smith and Wesson revolver, which must have cost a pretty penny. “Right now the only thing between yourself and the constable—and my men, who I guarantee are itching to beat you into oblivion—is me.”
Some of Darragh’s bravado returned. “I’m not afraid of them.”
“I would be. My men used to be prizefighters, some of the finest Britain has produced. Most are bare-knucklers, and they aren’t worried about following rules. The matches they fought weren’t always legal.”
Darragh looked more uncertain, but his chin stayed up. “Ye deserve to die.”
Hart nodded. “Many people think so. Some people want me dead because they’ve hated my family so long that it’s tradition, but I admit I have more enemies than friends. Why do you think I deserve to die?”
“All th’ stinkin’ English deserve to die until the Irish are free.”
“I’m not English, and I happen to agree.”
“Ye don’t. You threw out th’ only Englishman who was pulling for us, tore Irish Home Rule to pieces.”
“Is that so, lad? Tell me what the Irish Home Rule bill is.”
The boy wet his lips and flicked his gaze away. “English words. They don’t mean nothing now.”
“No one bothered to explain it to you, did they? They shoved a gun at you and told you that you’d fight for the glory of Ireland. The gist of Home Rule has been in every newspaper every day for the last few years. All you need to know about it has been there.” Hart waited until Darragh’s gaze swiveled to his again. “But you can’t read, can you?”
“Ye deserve to die,” Darragh repeated.
“Your friends sent you on a fool’s errand. They knew you’d get caught, whether you succeeded in shooting me or not, and probably killed. Here is another English word for you. Expendable.”
“They didn’t send me! I was honored to come.”
“Did you know the Queen of England would be here?”
A mute shake of the head.
“Your friends would have known. You’d never have made it out of this village alive, Darragh. You still might not. People are very touchy about those who put the queen in danger. Me—I’m just a politician and a right bastard. No one would miss me. But though the queen might be the devil to you, plenty in England, and even Scotland, love her and are very protective of her. If they thought for one moment that you’d come here to shoot the queen, they’d have ripped you apart on the spot. You’d never have made it to trial, let alone the gallows.”
“I’d have died with honor.” It was a whisper.
“No, you’d have died in terror and humiliation. You are finished. Your friends will find the next eager young man ready to do their bidding and buy another pistol for him. Your sacrifice has been for nothing.”
“That’s not true. Ye don’t know ’em!”
“I might not know their names, but I know men like them. I used to be the same, once. I thought the Scots could arm themselves—with me to lead them—and wrestle Scotland back from the English. Then I realized that the power of words was much stronger. I put away my sword, and here I am.”
“You’re a lying bastard. Ye joined them.”
“No, I didn’t. They only think I did.” Hart allowed himself a smile, then he wiped away the smile and sat forward again. “The trouble is, I can forgive you for shooting at me, Darragh. Both times. That was you in London, wasn’t it?”
Darragh nodded, and swallowed.
“I understand why you did it. Once upon a time, I might have tried the same. But what I can’t forgive you for is shooting my wife.”
At the change in tenor of Hart’s voice, Darragh’s look of fear returned. Hart saw him understand that now Hart’s rage was personal.
“It wasn’t meant to happen—”
“Tell me who your friends are, Darragh. They’re the ones to blame for my wife lying on the floor in a pool of blood, in her wedding dress, no less. They won’t escape my wrath.”