A Rose in Splendor by Laura Parker Page A

have her. They fear the sharp edge of her tongue.”
    “’Tis not true,” Deirdre answered, her pride smarting. “Le Comte de Quentin finds me quite acceptable company.”
    “Monsieur le Comte, is it?” Conall asked. “Once he was ‘Cousin Claude’ to you. But of course, he was a mere lad and you were all brambles and petticoats. Now he is Monsieur Goubert, le Comte de Quentin, thanks to his merchant grandfather’s good fortune in landing the only daughter of an impoverished aristocrat.”
    He leaned back in his chair and lifted the cloth to look under the table. “I see the good sisters have put you to the habit of wearing shoes, but I wonder that they left you with the habit of dressing your hair like a haystack. As la Comtesse de Quentin, you will need to do better.”
    Deirdre smiled sweetly at him though the barb stung her. All her life she had hated her wild wavy hair. “’Twould seem I’m destined to marry a poor but honest Irish lad who’s not so afraid of the English that he fights every battle but the one he was born to meet.”
    The table fell silent and she immediately wanted to take back her words but she could not. Her father’s scowl had returned, his thick brows knitted low over his nose. She glanced at her brothers in appeal but they had suddenly found their dinners fascinating and were busy over their plates.
    “Ye always were a lass to speak her mind,” Lord Fitzgerald said into the uncomfortable silence. “There’s no need to task yer brothers with such harsh accusation. ’Twas I who made the choice to leave Ireland.”
    He indicated the length of the table before them with a sweep of his hand. “Life in France has been good to us. There’s meat and bread and wine before ye, and more luxury than was available at Liscarrol since before that bloodthirsty Roundhead Cromwell set foot in Ireland.”
    Lord Fitzgerald’s face grew fierce when he spoke of the English ruler, for he was old enough to remember much more than did his children. “There comes a time when every man knows he’s fought his best and the day is lost.” His frown deepened as he remembered that dark time and his lips thinned into a determined line. “I’ll nae apologize to any man for what I’ve done!”
    Deirdre stared down at her fingers laced tightly together in her lap. What could she say? I’m sorry seemed so inadequate. Before she could even utter that weak expression of her mortification, she heard Darragh say, “Well, I, for one, am grateful.”
    Deirdre lifted her eyes, amazed that her brother would deliberately make things worse by heaping more coals on her head. Smiling reassuringly at her, he continued, “I am grateful to know that the good sisters of the Ursuline convent have not convinced the lass that all she need do is smile prettily and cozen a man to earn a husband.”
    “Aye,” Conall said, winking at her. “Perhaps ’tis nature’s way of protecting her beauty. As for Ireland, you’re welcome to me share of it, Dee. There’s more to keep me in France than ever.”
    “I see a lady’s fine hand in the writing of that declaration,” Darragh suggested in a lazy drawl.
    Conall shrugged. “There’s a lass or two I’ve managed to keep out of your view, thank God.”
    Darragh’s smile widened into a grin as he turned to his sister. “If ’tis a fighting man you want, I’ve the lad for you. He’ll arrive before the end of the week. If he cannot fill your heart’s desire for a brawling bruising soldier, then none can.”
    Deirdre was intrigued. “Is he Irish?”
    Darragh loosed a guffaw. “Is he a man, you might as well ask!”
    “Well, I am asking,” she persisted.
    Conall leaned forward, his eyes moving from his brother to his father and back. “I thought we agreed to ask Da first.”
    Darragh grinned. “Curse you for a timid soul, Conall. There’s no harm in a visit.”
    Lord Fitzgerald put down his fork, his sharp eyes watching Darragh. “Who is it ye invite that yer