Chapter Two
Eileen struggled to hold on to her temper—at least until Flaherty had roused from his faint.
He had seemed sincerely upset that his misjudging her had led to others doing the same.
It all came down to what people saw, and judged, because of her overly generous curves.
Her mum had been full figured as well, and beautiful inside and out, though precious few of their neighbors took the time to get to know her, either.
Da still maintained the womenfolk were jealous of Mum. Could that be true of her as well?
Why did people judge with their eyes only—ignoring their hearts and minds?
She let the comments of others, especially the man she’d pulled from the waves an hour ago, wash over her.
If wishes could come true, she’d have a slender figure, mouse-brown hair, and protruding teeth—then no one would notice her, and therefore no one would judge her.
Pleased when she called up the picture she’d created in her mind a decade ago, she realized she should have added long, narrow feet to complete the image.
Her lips twitched as she held in her laughter.
It would be far better to be ignored because of one’s homely looks, wouldn’t it?
Then villagers would not have believed that she had used her curves to entice, lure, and barter with men to get what she wanted.
Not one of the good people of St. Ives knew what she wanted!
Her eyes welled with tears. What she truly wanted was her mum alive and well, not lying in a grave.
Her life had irrevocably changed the day her mother died, all her hopes and dreams seeming dashed forever.
Eileen had witnessed firsthand the devastating blow her father suffered as he watched the love of his life slip away, despite the herbals and remedies Dr. Wolcock had prescribed.
Since then, her days had seemed to run into one another, an endless sameness while she cooked and cleaned.
In the last few years, she had started working at the Mermaid’s Glass tavern with her friends the Doyle sisters.
Every now and again, her father would let her help him on the nights when a ship arrived.
Shoving those memories deep, she concentrated on her task of bathing Flaherty’s brow until he either opened his eyes or the physician arrived.
To distract herself, she considered reminding the broad-shouldered, deep-chested mountain of a man—the bane of her existence for nearly a year—that he’d suffered a fit of the vapors and fainted once he regained consciousness. That ought to nick the man’s pride.
Judging by what she had gleaned by watching and listening to him these last few months, she doubted he would remember her pulling him out of the water earlier, let alone pledging to right the wrong he’d done and repairing the damage to her reputation by marrying her.
As if any of the villagers would forget the rumors!
Eileen sighed as his brow furrowed. Was he in pain?
She dipped the cloth in the cool water. Wringing some of the water out, she gently bathed his brow.
Mayhap she would wait to tease him about collapsing at her feet.
She slowly smiled. It would have far more impact if she did so in front of O’Malley, or her father and a few of his men.
Flaherty grew restless. Without thinking, Eileen brushed the tips of her fingers across his brow to soothe him.
He needed to lie still, or his wounds would start bleeding again!
He was cooler, but still unconscious. Her worry trebled—surely he should have started to come to by now.
She had taken care of his visible injuries, and had blushed the entire time she searched his broad torso—front and back.
She hadn’t found any other wounds, though she had found plenty of scars: some slashing, a few that would indicate he’d been shot, and a few that made it appear he’d been whipped at some point in his life.
She had been so upset at the mere thought of it that she’d pressed her lips to the scarred lines crisscrossing his upper back.
Another bleak thought popped into her head: had he damaged his brain when he bashed his head against the jagged rocks along the shoreline?
Her hands trembled. She should not care about the man, though his earnest confession, and apology, had touched her heart.
But it was his offer to marry her, before her father had inadvertently jarred the wound in his shoulder, that had taken the sharp edge off her resentment toward the handsome Irishman.
Now that her anger had abated, she had to admit that Flaherty’s rugged features, and his physique, had plagued her dreams more than she cared to admit.
His devotion to his cousin Finn, his wife Mollie, and their darling babe Boadicea had softened her attitude toward him.
This time when she dipped the cloth into the cool water, she wondered if she should lean over him and let the water drip on his face or neck.
It might rouse him enough to have him swipe the water off his face.
Would he open his eyes then? If he remembered what he’d said, would he change his mind and glare at her?
Or worse yet, would he forget what he’d promised and fall back into the habit of raking his gaze from her head to her toes and, for a heartbeat, lingering on her bosom?
Surely if he remembered her ignoring his advice about Judson’s men, he would be back to frowning at her.
Not that she wanted to encourage any of them.
She knew what nefarious and horrible deeds they had done, and would continue to do, whenever a ship ripe for the wrecking sailed too close to shore.
She shuddered. Not one of Judson’s men valued life… They killed without remorse.
What if Flaherty didn’t remember apologizing for the way he acted, for his words voiced loud enough inside the Mermaid’s Glass for everyone to hear? He had hinted that she was available, and worse, had made it sound as if she were a woman of loose morals.
Her heart sank. What difference would his apology make at this point, when the entire village believed Flaherty’s insinuations were true?
The villagers already had preconceived notions about her character because of her face and form.
She had been found guilty—without even realizing she had been judged solely on her generous figure.
Da’s comment had surprised her. She had no idea that he’d heard the rumors, nor had she planned on telling him, on the outside chance he had yet to hear any of them.
She should have known that Mr. MacManus or Mr. Rafferty would have heard in passing, and Mr. Doyle definitely would have heard from his daughters who worked with her at the tavern.
Any one of her father’s men could have overheard and told him.
If Da had not needed the extra coin to keep their larder full over the winter, she would not have taken the job working at the Mermaid’s Glass.
But it was the only job available to her—she had asked—and of the two taverns in the village, Eileen felt safest working there.
One or two of her father’s men usually stopped during the nightly rounds of the village and beyond—while they were either waiting for a ship to arrive, or for the coast to be clear, so smugglers could safely offload their cargo and distribute it.
Her father’s men gleaned the latest rumors and news while lifting a mug or two of ale.
As of late, everyone in the village had been on tenterhooks, waiting for news of when the newest excise official would arrive.
After Buxton, the excise man who had nearly succeeded in hanging Finn O’Malley, not one of the villagers would be as ready to trust another of the king’s men—whether they worked for the Excise Office or the Customs Office.
Sooner or later the Crown’s man would give in to the temptation to line his pockets with coin taken from Ruan, the French smuggler who delivered goods to men like her father.
It was during the all-too-frequent lean times that their enterprising ways put food on their tables between fishing and plying the free trade…
smuggling. She had even helped drive the wagon on occasion to help offload goods in the dead of night.
No one could calm a fractious horse quicker than Eileen Doonan.
She leaned closer, tempted to brush her lips to the edge of the bandage she’d wound around Flaherty’s hard head, but thought better of it and straightened. She would wait until Flaherty was awake and fully aware of what he was saying. He could change his mind and reconsider his promises.
She was so unsettled at the moment—so unlike her normal unflappable demeanor—that she wondered if mayhap the time he’d spent under water had affected his brainbox. More than one local fisherman who’d gone overboard in foul weather, and stayed submerged too long, had never fully regained his memory.
Her heart constricted just from thinking about that happening to Flaherty. Like it or not, she did admire the way he had enlisted the aid of the villagers and Ruan to save O’Malley.
Bound and possessed not to give in to the worry that he would succumb to wound fever, she alternated bathing his brow with soothing it with featherlight strokes of her fingertips across one eyebrow and then the other.
Her mother had soothed her that way as a child, and the memory warmed her heart as she continued to minister to the unconscious man.
Flaherty had not been in the sea, nor the elements, long enough that fever should be a worry—had he?
Then again, by all accounts, her mother should have been strong enough to fight off the dangerous fever, and, if she had, would still be alive today.
Proof that Eileen was not in her normal frame of mind arose when she realized wound fever could be just as fatal as one brought on by a chill that took hold of one’s lungs.