The Briar and the Rose by Laura Mills at The Romance Club http://www.theromanceclub.com

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The Briar and the Rose
by Laura Mills-Alcott
A Regency Era Historical ~ ISBN: 1594140898

"The Briar and the Rose" is based on the ballad "Barbara Allen".
Would you like to hear excerpts from "Barbara Allen"? Click here

One moment Raven is alone in the world and working as a maid in the gardens of a grand estate in Ireland; the next she finds herself handed the life of a lady by the dark and handsome Marquess of Castlereagh. Devan insists his intentions are honorable and that he only wishes to help reunite her with her family. But Raven finds herself in a constant struggle to deny the smoldering attraction between them, and in her secret heart, wishes he wanted more.

Devan, Marquess of Castlereagh, is tormented by his past and determined to live out his days in quiet solitude at his Ireland estate. That is until Raven enters his life. With the face of an angel, the body of Aphrodite and the tongue of a drunken Irishman, he's never met any woman so infuriating... so seductive... so... his match.

From historical Ireland and its mystical legends, to the elegant ballrooms of Regency London, together Devan and Raven discover the truth of the past and a passionate love so strong it cannot be denied.

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"I enjoyed The Briar and the Rose very much." ~ Dolly Parton, entertainer

"What a wonderful book. My mother was born in Dublin, and I was delighted with the care and attention to historical detail. An absolute keeper with a real sense of mood, atmosphere, and a beautiful story that touches the heart as well. Don't miss it!" ~ Heather Graham, "The Awakening"

"A definite five stars, and a long satisfied sigh for the characters, and the writer who brought both a heartbreaking ballad, and a love for all time together with a masterful stroke of pen and imagery, leaving the reader well-satisfied and definitely wondering what this amazing writer will come up with next" ~ Shadoe Simmons, The Best Reviews

"Fans of Kathleen E. Woodiwiss, HEADS UP! You do NOT want to miss out on this author!... This one will touch your heart and linger in your memory forever... Absolutely unforgettable!" ~ Detra Fitch, Huntress Reviews

"One of the best, historical romances that I've read in a while, The Briar and the Rose is definitely not to be missed. Ms. Mills-Alcott truly is a gifted writer with an extraordinary talent" ~ Sharyn McGinty, In the Library Reviews

The Briar and the Rose
History + 2 chapter excerpt

The Briar and the Rose is loosely based on the ballad “Barbara Allen” and the Irish folktale “The Briar and the Rose.”

The haunting ballad was brought to America by immigrants and passed down from generation to generation. Today, it is still one of the most widely known of the old ballads, as well as one of the most beloved.

I was so moved after hearing the ballad on the Dolly Parton album Heartsongs, that I researched the ballad, finding many versions, as well as the poem published by Thomas Percy in 1765.

“The Briar and the Rose” is a tale that has been told in Ireland for centuries, about a young woman named Mairéad, and her lover, Séamus.

In 1760 Thomas Percy, later Bishop of Dromore, visited Ireland and heard the tragic tale of Mairéad and Séamus. Being a great admirer of folklore and ballads, he recognized the story of the young lovers, and realized “The Briar and the Rose” was the origination for a ballad better known to him as “Barbara Allen’s Cruelty.”

In 1765 Percy published his collection of old heroic ballads, songs, and other pieces of our earlier poets together with some few of later date, in three volumes, entitled Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. Among the poems published was “Barbara Allen’s Cruelty.”

After Percy’s death in 1811, his diaries were discovered. In his diary for the years dated 1759-1761, he recounted the tale of “The Briar and the Rose,” including research he did while in Ireland and a visit he made to a small churchyard where he witnessed the markers of Mairéad Ní Mhorain and Séamus O’Lionáird.

While it is clear Percy mingled the Irish tale with the more commonly known English ballad in his published version of “Barbara Allen’s Cruelty,” he did not include the end of “The Briar and the Rose”:

“They buried her in the old church yard,
Séamus’s grave was nye her
From Séamus’s grave there grew a red rose
From Mairéad’s grave a briar

They grew and grew up the old church wall
Till they could growe no higher
They lapped and tyed in a true love knot
The rose wrapped ‘round the briar”

It wasn’t until after Percy’s diaries were found, and Child put together his collection of ballads in the 1800s, that “The Ballad of Barbara Allen” (Child Ballad #84) included the above verses.

The driver hauled on the reins with all his might. A horse shrieked. The team reared and plunged, and the girl fell to the road, a mere breath from being trampled.

Jarred brutally from his thoughts, the man inside the carriage lunged forward and shouted, "What the devil-" just before he hit the floor with a thud. Gaining his feet with a low growl, he flung the coach door open. "Flaugherty!"

"‘Twas a girl, Lord Castlereagh," the coachman called back. "Ran right in front of me, she did."

The formidable, dark man stormed out, throwing his arms into the air as his boots hit the rain-dampened dirt. "You incompetent oaf! You cannot run these peasants down!"

"My lord, I did not run 'er over," he said in his own defense, pointing a gloved finger toward the forest. "There she goes, and not a scratch on her."

His steely gaze snapped around to follow the driver’s direction. At that very moment a woman with hair as black as midnight fled into the grove. A gasp escaped his parted lips.

"Lord Castlereagh, are you all right? You look as though you have seen a ghost."

"Katherine…" Devan exhaled a long, drawn out sigh and turned the page of his book, but the text ran together in jumbled discord until at last, in defeat, he folded the cover.

More than two weeks in London, and another three in Ireland at Dahlingham, and no relief to be found. Every day Devan, Marquess of Castlereagh, forced himself to get out of bed and get dressed. Every day he sat at his table and partook of his meals and drank his port. Each day he buried himself in inane activities, hoping to somehow liberate himself from the memory of the savage fire that broke out the night of the ball at Dakshire before he could whisk Katherine off to Gretna Green.

Without ceasing, the sound of Katherine's anguished pleas for him to save her haunted his mind day and night. He'd been unable to reach her, and at last fell unconscious from the suffocating smoke until someone pulled him from the flames, not hearing her cries.

Throwing his book to the table with a growl, he rose and paced the library floor, feeling caged and restless.

What a damnable cruelty was this life - to find love at last, and in the space of the same heartbeat, lose it forever.

A sudden glimpse of one of the servants working in the garden made him halt before the window. His frown deepened into a scowl. What an easy life it was for people like her – spending her days amidst the roses, with not a care in the world. While he spent his days trying to recall what it felt like to breathe.

The injustice of it tore at his heart, and Devan might have turned away from the site of the servant then, had there not been something strangely entrancing about her that bound his gaze. He continued to watch as she trimmed the foliage and plucked the carefully selected blossoms, placing them gently into the basket slung over her arm.

So this was the woman who made up the vases of fresh flowers that had been scattered throughout Dahlingham since his return. He recalled Mrs. Captain mentioning her in passing one day; a beggar found on the lawn, near death, with seemingly no recollection of her past.

The Marquess of Castlereagh congratulated himself on his magnanimity. It wasn't every Englishman who would take in such a person – a homeless Irish peasant who was perhaps more than a little touched in the head – and give her shelter. He knew plenty of others who would have locked her away in an asylum and been done with her.

He had to admit her arrangements were exceptionally beautiful; odd mixtures of garden flowers and wild flowers - and a single red rose in each. Her background may have been impoverished, but she had a particular eye for beauty. The arrangements were one of the few things that brightened the ancient and dismal interior of Dahlingham. He made a mental note to praise the woman’s work to the housekeeper.

Just then she finished her undertaking and made her way from the gardens. A sudden gust of wind caught her cap. Still clinging to her basket of flowers, she grasped frantically in her desperate bid to seize it, but to no avail. Lifted by the breeze, the cap flew into the air. A mane of ebony curls fell loose, and framed a complexion of ivory as she lifted her face toward him.

The cap took a fast dive. She raced toward it, but the light wind captured it again, sending it tumbling hither and yon across the ground. She took up the chase, at last overcoming the unruly cap and putting an abrupt end to its rebellion with a firm stomp of her shoe. Kneeling, she clutched the cap securely within her fingers, then vanished as she ran through the servant’s entrance.

Running his hands harshly over his face, Devan fought to regain his wit. With his very own ears he’d heard Katherine’s agonized cries as a fiery beam fell between them, stealing her from his grasp. And though he fought to make his way to her side, he fell unconscious in the thick, strangulating smoke. When he came to, there was naught he could do save watch, helpless, as Dakshire was consumed in flames.

"Mrs. Captain. Mrs. Captain! Come here at once!" he bellowed, his impatient voice reverberating throughout the halls of Dahlingham.

In less than a trice, the housekeeper entered the library, holding the hem of her dress and white apron from the floor, huffing and puffing as a result of the mad dash made at his command. “Yes, my lord?" she wheezed with a quick curtsy.

Devan spun to face the housekeeper, at last tearing his attention away from the gardens. "Mrs. Captain," he bit out, his teeth clenched, his voice uncompromising, "she works for me, does she not?"

"I do not care about her chores. At this moment I wish to meet this woman who has been living under my roof. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

Humbled, and quite thoroughly reminded of her position, Mrs. Captain dipped hastily again. "Yes, my lord."

The housekeeper hurried from the library, and Devan returned his stare to the empty garden below, where the apparition first emerged, and stole a shaky breath.

Once he could inspect her closely, he was certain the woman would not resemble Katherine in the slightest. There was only one Lady Katherine, and she was lost to him for eternity. This servant could be little more than a shabby imitation.

Hearing a scuffle and whispers in the corridor outside the library, he shifted his attention toward the doorway, just in time to see a young woman stumble into the room. He squinted dubiously at the maid, who quickly regained her balance and stood at attention in her colorless uniform of gray and white, her hair tucked fully inside the white cap once more, hands clasped together tensely in front of her, and gaze cast to the floor.

The sight of the woman bound his stare as he walked slowly along the shelves of books to his favorite gold velvet armchair. He lowered himself into the chair, leaned his head against one hand, and grappled his chin with the other while contemplating the woman. The gray dress she wore was too large and made her appear a child playing dress-up. The oversized cap covered her hair and shadowed her features.

Beneath his intense gaze, she shifted her weight nervously from one foot to the other, waiting his command.

Warily, her hand rose to pull the cover from her head. Little by little, black waves began to tumble across her shoulders, until at last completely freed from the confines of the cap. Vividly reminded of the hair he had entwined his fingers through just moments before the fire, Devan shut his eyes and stole a moment to savor the memory.

Rising from his chair in silence, Devan folded his hands behind him and circled the woman until at last he paused in front of her. "Look at me," he ordered, unable to prevent the gripping urgency he was feeling from seeping into his voice.

She lifted her head. Long black eyelashes fluttered to reveal eyes of deep lavender-blue that locked upon his and refused to release him. There were no other eyes in the world like those he now stared into!

Forcing his raging heart to slow, Devan pushed back the sudden urge to take the woman in his arms. He drew a deep breath. "What is your name?"

The seconds dragged like eternities. Her gaze fell away, and in a voice little more than a whisper, she said, "I d-don't know me given name, me lord, but ‘tis Raven I be called."

The lilt of her Irish brogue was like a dagger being first thrust into his heart and then twisted. And it proved what he had, in reality, already known. Spinning on his heel, he returned to stare out the window, refusing to look further into those haunting eyes. "Miss, uh, Raven, you are dismissed."

He listened to the soft patter of her feet as she made her way quickly across the library, and it was not until he heard the door close fast behind her that he let go the breath he'd held since confronting the face of his beloved Katherine.

Surely, this was fate's punishment - flaunting this...this Raven in front of him, a constant reminder. Fate be damned! She was a servant, nothing more.

It occurred to him that he could send her away immediately and be done with her. But it seemed a rather severe conclusion. It wasn't her fault she bore the features of the one who possessed his heart, even in her death. And what would happen to her if he turned her out? Would she, too, perish, and would he have to bear that guilt as well?

There were servants who had been at Dahlingham for years whom he'd never seen, and he would simply make certain this woman did not cross his path again. He would speak with Mrs. Captain as soon as possible to see to the matter for him.

Within moments the effeminate Tourish entered the room with a low bow and click of his heels. Devan rolled his eyes, too tired and distraught to comment on the irritating mannerisms of the little man. "I will have my supper in the library."

His meal proved utterly tasteless, and Devan pushed it aside after only a few bites. A thorough soaking in brandy sounded far more appealing, so he poured the amber drink, and fell back into his armchair.

Draining his glass, a familiar numbness wafted over him. The less felt, the better. Another three or four drinks should be enough to quell the melancholy, possibly even put him into a deep sleep that would last the entire night - something he had yet to achieve since the fire.

Rising, he refilled the crystal chalice. In one great gulp, he threw that drink down. His body lost some of its tension. He filled his glass for the third time. Drink in hand, he went to the window, and pushed back the green velvet draperies shut earlier to block the annoying glare of the setting sun.

Another swallow of the brandy. Leaning against the pane, he stared down at the very place he'd first seen her gathering flowers.

As if responding to his silent wish, she suddenly emerged from the shadows, dressed in no more than a nightrail. Just where did the little chit think she was going at this time of night, dressed that way? Meeting her peasant lover, no doubt.

Besieged by a discomforting possessiveness, he set his glass aside and stormed from the library, intent on following the woman, and perhaps finding the reason he needed to let her go without contrition. After all, a servant of Dahlingham could not be permitted to carry on with villagers like a common harlot!

Out into the gardens he stomped, determined to find them and remove her from the grounds that very evening.

“Let her lover be the one to look into those imposter eyes,” he muttered, just as he was about to step onto the walk that led to the lake.

But before his boot hit the cinders, he heard splashing. Halting in place, Devan peered through the darkness. In the distance, he saw her, the gentle radiance of the moon shimmering over her nakedness. And she was alone.

Crouching low, he stole from the shelter of the roses and down the cinder path, at last taking cover behind a tall oak, where he could secretly witness the woman who played like a child, diving in and out of the water, splashing, singing and laughing.

The coolness of the night air and the sight of Raven's glistening body brought back his brandy-dulled senses. Her every movement was deliberate, graceful, unlike the frightened waif of earlier in the evening, who could scarcely step without tripping. Drawn into her frolic, he watched her massage the soap through her long, dark tresses. Then, arching her back, she revealed her full breasts to the moon as she immersed her head into the water, then rose, only to dive again beneath the surface, rendering him helpless to do anything but watch, entranced by the scene being played out before him.

Too soon, she stepped from the pool, and slipped back into her nightrail. Then, twisting the water from her hair, she pushed the disheveled tresses into place.

Devan ducked low as she approached, and stopped breathing when she suddenly halted only a few paces beyond him.

Though her glance did not shift in his direction, her breath fluttered, body tensed. "Surely me lord can find more amusing entertainment than the bathing of his servitress in the loch," Raven admonished coolly. Then, with a haughty lift of her chin, she marched away.

It was not until she was well within the boundaries of the Dahlingham walls that he rolled over onto his back, brought his hands behind his head and allowed a grin to ease across his face. Gazing at the stars above, at last he surrendered to roaring laughter.

That night, for the first time, Devan's dreams were not filled with scenes of the fire nor the sound of Katherine's cries. Instead, it was Raven who called out to him, from beneath the hood of a black wool cloak, sitting astride a tall white mare in the meadows of Dahlingham, surrounded by mist. He could not see her face, and she spoke in the native tongue. But he was certain it was she, and just as certain it was he she beckoned.

Through the forest he fought to clear a path, branches and brambles tearing furiously at his clothes and flesh. But try as he might, he could not make his way to her, for the end of the wood was always just one step beyond him, and the meadow from whence she called further still.

Waking from the nightmare, his shirt soaked with sweat, Devan struggled for enough air to fill his lungs. He reminded himself that it was only a dream, but it felt so real and left him with a discomforting sense of helplessness.

Rising from his bed, he paced the chamber, hands balled into fists of frustration and his jaw set. He could find no logical explanation to the vision, nor the way it had made him feel – vulnerable, shaken.

At that moment, had he known which of the dozen or more chambers of the first floor she occupied, he’d have sought her out. But what would he say?

There was something about the woman - more than her resemblance to Katherine. Precisely what he did not know. But there was no question he would not rest easy until he discovered what it was about her that fueled his dreams and tore at his heart.

"Rogue!" Raven hissed, scraping the bar of soap across Lord Castlereagh's shirt. She immersed the shirt into the iron tub with such force the soapy water splashed out and drenched her from head to toe. Drawing her sleeve across her wet cheeks, it occurred to her that she could forego the rinsing altogether and watch him scratch his way through till the next laundering.

“Ha. Deserves worse, the villain!" Her smirk faded quickly. Mrs. Captain would have her head for such a crime. She would care not that he’d sneaked up upon her without announcement while she bathed, without even so much as an apology.

But Raven cared. Though she may be a mere servant in the arrogant marquess’s household, it did not give him the right to take such liberties, and she vowed to flog him with his own wet shirt if he ever thought to try it a second time.

With a sharp flick of her wrist, she dipped the soapy shirt in the rinse water but twice - just enough to remove the lather from the surface of the material, but not enough to take it from the fibers.

"At least one will give him a fitting rash." The thought of the itching marquess brought with it a wry and vengeful grin.

At Collette’s alarmed shout, she turned to see the wild-eyed maid, arms flailing in the air as she raced across the lawn. Meeting her half way, Raven took her by the shoulders. "God Almighty, Collette! Calm yerself. What be the matter with ye?"

"Maime wants to see you right away. She's in a frenzy and spittin' out commands all over the house and she's havin' your chamber cleared out!" Her blue-gray eyes were wide, frantic, as her trembling hands clung to Raven’s dress. "What have you done?"

Mrs. Captain could not possibly have seen the half-hearted rinsing she'd given the marquess's shirt, and there was nothing else she could bring to mind that might raise the old housekeeper's ire. "On my life, I can’t think of anything."

"Best you go and see if there isn't some way to make amends, even if the deed is not of your doing. A far cry better it is than living as a pauper in Dublin."

Raven rushed off, prepared to face whatever Mrs. Captain had to throw her way. There was no question the housekeeper had taken a strong dislike to her from the day she awoke at Dahlingham. It was only Collette’s insistence that prevented the old woman from casting her into the street. But no matter how hard she labored or how great the care she took to perform each task perfectly, she could not win the woman's favor. More than ever she wished she could remember her clan - if she had one. Then she could run away from her and the wretched Marquess of Castlereagh. But in truth, she had nowhere to go, and by the time she approached the door to her chamber, Raven was determined to throw herself upon Mrs. Captain's mercy, if indeed she had any.

"Mrs. Captain, I - " she began with her first foot inside the doorway, but was abruptly cut off.

"No time for your talk, girl!” the housekeeper said firmly while she threw the linens from Raven’s bed into a pile on the stone floor. “Change out of that filthy dress and get yourself into a fresh one."

An irrevocable tear trickled down Raven's cheek. "Please don't turn me out, Mrs. Captain."

The woman spun and faced Raven fiercely, her eyes slits and her hands set firmly on her wide hips. "Turn you out? Oh, nooo, my dear! I'll not be turning you out today!"

"It seems you made quite the impression on Lord Castlereagh three days past in the library. Precisely what took place between the two of you?"

"'Twas little more than his lordship askin' me name, ma'am, and I said no more than that."

The old woman glared incredulously. "You mean to say you spoke naught but your name, and that alone is the reason he moves you upstairs?"

Staring sternly down her long nose, brows knotted, she pursed her lips tightly together. "Lord Castlereagh has ordered that you, and what little you possess, be moved to the third floor immediately."

Stunned, she drew her sleeve slowly across her face, drying the streaks left by her tears. "I'm to be an upstairs maid?"

"Ha! You little fool. The maids who work upstairs sleep in the attic. You are being given a third floor suite, which means you won't be working for your keep." And then with a rueful sneer, she added under her breath, "At least not as a maid."

The realization of the insinuation suddenly set in. Now it was insult that stung her eyes, and Raven stubbornly crossed her arms and matched Mrs. Captain’s glare. "Ye can tell his lordship that I'll not be workin' on me back!"

Shoving a clean gray dress into Raven's hands, the old woman shook a fat finger in her face. "You'll not be putting my position in jeopardy, is what you'll not be doing. You shall, however, change that dress and you may quibble with him yourself, once I've escorted you upstairs."

Only the once, when she was called before Lord Castlereagh in the library, had Raven visited the ground floor of Dahlingham. Even then she had not actually seen much, for Mrs. Captain had dragged her quickly up the stairs, straight down the corridor, and pushed her harshly into the library. This time, Mrs. Captain escorted her to the drawing room, demanded she sit, and left her alone to face the man who evidently intended to force her into a life of iniquity.

Well, she would have no part of it! She may have no money or clan, and she may have temporarily misplaced her memory, but she was not about to let him use her as his…

Her gaze scanned the drawing room. Never had she witnessed such grandeur - at least not that she recalled. Yet there seemed an unmistakable familiarity to it all.

Waxed and polished wood floors covered with thick wool woven carpets were a drastic contrast to the bare stone floors of the servants’ quarters she’d occupied these last weeks. Burnished marble made up the face and mantle of the fireplace, while brilliantly shining brass gleamed from the doorknobs, candlesticks and lamps. Above her, the hundreds of resplendent crystals of the chandelier sparkled with tiny dancing rainbows, as rays of sunlight streamed through the Cimmerian velvet draperies of the long windows. The tables and trim were polished mahogany, and the chaise and chairs were covered in gold and deep wine-colored velvets.

Such a room was more regal than anything her imagination might have conjured, and under different circumstances, it would have been a welcome change from the bleak, sparsely furnished servant’s chamber. But now it was a place to be feared.

Her gaze rose to the large, intimidating portraits lining the walls. Those who once roamed Dahlingham, with their solemn faces and ancient eyes, seemed to scrutinize her unrelentingly, and threaten to call out to the current lord if she attempted to escape her elegant prison.

Lord Castlereagh took a seat across from her, in the largest of all the chairs in the drawing room, startling Raven, who had been so engrossed in the scowling ancestors that she'd not heard his entrance. She fisted her hands nervously in her lap to prevent them from wringing, while he contemplated her in silence, appearing nothing less than a vile wolf, anticipating the taste of the lamb he was about to slay.

Even more frightening than the prospect of becoming his prey was the unexpected flush that prickled her skin when she shifted her stare and at last met his fathomless black gaze.

She'd scarcely looked at him that day in the library, and had only sensed his presence and then caught his shadowed form out of the corner of her eye that night by the lake. But now, to gaze at him – thick onyx waves that fell in disarray across his forehead until his fingers harshly pushed them to the side, deep golden sun tanned skin that sharply contrasted the stark white of his shirt, and dark mysterious eyes, relentless, glinting dangerously as they drifted lower, boldly caressing each time they paused over her body. And even though she knew the man intended her nothing but harm, she found herself suppressing the strangest urge to… sigh.

In the library, she'd stared mostly at his boots, and had not realized just how very tall he truly was. His black trousers hugged well-muscled thighs, and his wide shoulders looked as though they could carry the world upon them. Three buttons of his white, starched shirt had been carelessly left undone, revealing a chest lightly sprayed with black. Large hands gripped the arms of his chair loosely, and she thought, despite their size and probable strength, they would be gentle when they touched her.

Shaking herself quickly free of such errant and perilous thoughts, she took a deep breath to quell her racing heart. And then came a healthy dose of disgust – with herself. For to feel such things for this man was worse than anything he could possibly do to her.

"As I am certain you have been told," he began, his voice commanding, yet soft, "I have ordered you moved from the servants’ quarters into your own suite."

Startled again when he spoke, she swallowed hard, scooted taller in her chair, and shifted her eyes to study the intricate design of the carpet, rather than the marquess who now had her thoroughly unsettled.

Lord Castlereagh exhaled with a sigh. "I despise gray, and have therefore provided you several dresses, which will be suitable enough attire until I can have more made. You will take your meals with me, and spend your evenings with me."

Raven forgot all about the oriental carpet as his words snapped her attention fully back to him.

He cleared his throat and dragged his hand roughly over his hair. "Anything you need you are to inform Mrs. Captain, and she will see it is granted you. Have you anything to say?"

Though she’d prayed her intuition would be proven wrong, she now knew, without question, that her worst suspicions were true. He intended to make her his whore! Unbidden tears welled until his solemn face was a blur, her chest tightened painfully, and Raven struggled to catch her breath. Biting down hard on her trembling lower lip, she focused on that pain, rather than that tearing at her insides.

"Aye, me lord." Stealing a moment, she looked away and steadied her voice. She could not permit him to see her alarm, lest he realize the extent of her fear and use it to his own advantage. At last, when she was confident she could look to him with the same calm control he exhibited, she met his gaze squarely. "I have much to say on the matter.”

Gathering her courage, she rose boldly and marched to stand in front of him, sporting her best imitation of an austere Mrs. Captain, placing her hands on her hips and looking him dead in the eye. "I will walk meself out of yer house naked, without a single farthing in me hand, and sleep in the streets of Dublin with the rats before I become yer mistress!"

He brought his hand up to mask his expression, then shifted in his chair, all the while meeting her glare. "So...am I to understand you do not wish to be my, uh, mistress?"

"And precisely what would you propose I do with you, if you are not to be my..." A beguiled expression danced within his eyes as he let the word fall lightly into the air. "Mistress?"

Raven had not expected to have a choice of positions. Pondering his question for but a moment, her arms dropped to her sides. "If it please me lord, I would prefer to go back to me laundry and garden and me chamber below."

Leaping all at once from his chair, he towered over her. "It does not please me!" he thundered.

She felt as though she was on the brink of the scene she'd envisioned only a short while earlier, and as she stared into that black, ominous gaze, the lamb knew beyond doubt that the wolf could devour her were it his desire, and there wasn’t a solitary thing she could do to prevent it.

Refusing to back down, Raven swallowed her fear and proudly lifted her chin. "I may not be a fine London lady, me lord, and ye may not think I be worth more than the life ye be intendin' fer me, but I will not be allowin' ye to take the only thing in the world that belongs to me!"

His expression retained its hard lines, but his tone softened. "And just what might that be, pray tell?"

"Why, me lord," she answered thoughtfully, her words now hushed to little more than a whisper, "‘tis me self."

The way her quivering lower lip protruded into a pout when she spoke… the flickering of those long sooty eyelashes above the large round eyes the shade of the violets she placed in the vases... the child-like naiveté about her, mixed with a passionate spirit and unerring pride. It all brought him to the brink of tenderness toward the woman. But before his contemplation got the better of him, he shielded himself against her. He was not supposed to feel anything, nor would he permit himself to feel.

Perhaps a fitting lesson in deference was in order? Before the thought fully registered, he found himself pulling her tightly against him. "I am lord of this manor, and I claim ownership of anything or anyone within these walls. If it be my will to take you as my courtesan, then you will suffer my pleasure, and suffer it gladly."

"Lord Castlereagh, please," she choked on the tears that now streamed freely down her porcelain cheeks.

Fear had replaced the fierce pride in her eyes. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly against his chest. Desire stirred. Her lips had tempted him too long, and Devan suddenly found his mouth pressed to hers.

Flattening her palms against his chest, she pushed hard against him in a valiant effort to emancipate herself from his arms. He held her closer, while pulling the cap from her head and freeing the raven tresses that had been hidden from him.

Drawing her nearer still, he grasped her hair within one hand and drew her head back, his tongue urging her lips to part. The struggle ended, her body resigned itself to his possession, and she opened to his kisses with a passion he had not expected.

It would have been easy to indulge in the ecstasy the encounter promised - that everything within him now longed for. But he summoned his control, pushed her away and stormed across the room.

"If I wanted you as my mistress," he ground out, facing the wall, so she could not witness his turmoil, "I would take you here and now. But that is not what I want from you." He reached over and rang the bell.

Devan did not alter his gaze from the wall. "Mrs. Captain, you will accompany our guest to her suite now."

"You will allow her a choice of servants. She is to be bathed and served her supper within her chamber this evening, but I expect her dressed and ready to partake at my table first thing in the morning."

"And you will instantly make it known to my entire staff that from this moment on, this young woman is to be referred to only as Miss Raven. She is to be treated with the utmost respect and allowed whatever she desires."

At last he turned on her, his face grim. "Am I speaking French, Mrs. Captain? Or are we of an understanding?"

The new title seemed as bitter as poison to Mrs. Captain’s tongue, and as apparently displeased as the young woman was to be stolen from her life as a servant, the satisfaction that hinted upon her kiss-swollen lips did not go unnoticed by him. He stood motionless, watching as the housekeeper and Raven disappeared from the drawing room. Then, with a sigh, he threw himself into his chair.

It seemed as though forever passed before darkness settled over Ireland. Ever since she quit his drawing room, Devan had tried to focus his thoughts on anything but the woman who now occupied the suite of chambers next to his, but to no avail.

He made his way up the winding staircase, intent to seek the salvation of slumber. Pausing before her door, it occurred to him the maids had left her chamber some time ago. By now she was bathed and all traces of the servants’ quarters had been replaced by the sweet scent of the rose water he’d supplied to her room, and her flannel nightrail replaced by the gossamer gown Tourish had found in his mother’s trunk in the attic.

Envisioning Raven alone in her chamber, he recalled what it felt like to hold her in his arms and her passionate response to his kiss.

Hastening down the corridor, he threw open the door to his suite, closed it fast behind him and ignored the door adjoining her rooms to his, as he threw himself onto his bed. Of course he would not visit Raven this night nor any other night. Her sole purpose and use to him was to put an end, or at least a reason, to the peculiar dreams he'd had since their first encounter. Nothing more. The last thing he needed – or wanted – was an entanglement with the little Irish hellcat.

Sleep was elusive, and so he simply stared into the flame of the candle on the table beside his bed, contemplating the mystery of Raven. The key, he decided, would be to uncover her past. Though he’d spent the better part of his childhood in Ireland, he was convinced now he had never truly known her, for Raven was not the sort of woman a man forgot. Yet every time he gazed into her eyes, he felt as though he’d somehow always known her.

Could this feeling of familiarity, the strange dreams, and even the desire that still stirred within him, be merely the result of her uncanny resemblance to Katherine? No, he thought, pushing back the sudden vision of Katherine, as she appeared that night at Dakshire, that came to mind, and with it, the familiar dull ache. Though it would certainly be a simple enough explanation, there was nothing simple about what he felt toward Raven, and these feelings were for her alone.

All at once he heard the creak of a door. Leaping to his feet, he flung open his door and peered down the corridor, catching but a glimpse of Raven, fully dressed, a shawl draped loosely over her shoulders, before she disappeared down the stairs.

First instinct was to bellow a command forceful enough to bring her to a dead halt. But he quickly decided against it and held back a few moments before following her out the servants’ doorway.

As he stepped outside, he caught sight of her silhouette moving hurriedly into the stables. But just as he approached, the red bounded through the gate, and had he not dived out of its path, his own steed would have run him down.

Racing into the stable, Devan caught hold of the first horse he came to and hoisted himself on to his back, praying after all the years of sitting in an English riding saddle, he could stay atop the beast without one. Grasping the mane for dear life, he jabbed his boot heels firmly into his mount’s sides. The horse reared, almost unseating him, and then leaped to the chase.

They raced along the road that led to Dublin, the chill of the night air piercing his skin and stinging his eyes. What did Dublin at this hour hold for the woman who claimed no family nor memory to speak of?

At length the answer came, as the sound of fiddles and pipes rose through the night and Raven turned the red toward the pier. Knowing now her destination, Devan guided the blood into the shelter of the trees, then made the rest of his journey on foot.

The music grew louder. A great fire threw an orange and red glow about the harbor. Devan stepped back into the shadows, lurking just beyond the light. At the far side of the circle stood Raven, in a dress of sky blue muslin that seemed out of place amidst the drab tones of the garments worn by the peasantry. Her long sable curls were invisible against the night, except when she happened to move, just so, and the locks reflected the hues of the fire.

Raven did not dance with the others, but a smile eased across her lips and a particular gleam sparkled in her eyes as the storytelling began – the folklore of the Irish he’d heard from the servants as a child. When the tales of faeries and magic were over, the dancing began again. But the music, for Devan, was the sweetness of Raven’s laughter that rose quite beautifully to his ears.

He watched uneasily as one of the men approached her, and felt a particular satisfaction when she turned him away. Apparently, he was not the first who’d failed to win her favor, for his friends received him back into their circle with laughter and jeers. And Devan listened as each, in turn, related his moment of rejection by the lovely Mairead.

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Emmy Rossum	Emmylou Harris	Dolly Parton
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The Briar and the Rose History + 2 chapter excerpt

The Briar and the Rose
History + 2 chapter excerpt