A Rebel Without a Rogue by Bliss Bennet Read Free Book Online

Anglo-Irish Protestant antiquarians have become quite interested in the past of the country they oppress. We might even find a scholar who knows enough Gaelic to tell you what your mysterious words mean.”
    No, not Kit Pennington’s words, but Father’s . Not long after Aunt Mary had taken her away from her mother and brought her to Belfast, during that short time she’d lived in the McCracken home before they’d sent her away to school, she’d found it, her dead father’s pistol, buried in the attic of Grandfather McCracken’s house. Deep in a box, it had been, hidden beneath the neatly folded letters Aunt Mary had exchanged with her brother the year he’d been held in Kilmainham Gaol, accused of fomenting rebellion. She’d taken care to conceal the letters, and the firearm, from prying eyes after she’d stolen them away to her own room. Not out of fear of being connected to the disgraced rebel to whom they had belonged, but from a fierce, angry desire to keep the only mementos of her father she possessed solely to herself.
    She’d never dared ask anyone what the words he’d had engraved upon the pistol meant.
    Kit Pennington rose, holding out his arm once again to her. How could anyone smile with such ease, as if he were certain nothing in the world would do him harm? No, he had no idea that the pistol belonged to her.
    Together, they made their way across the room to where the party of gentlemen had begun to confer over a pile of books and manuscripts.  
    With a bow and a genial smile, Pennington introduced himself. “Pardon my interruption, good sirs, but I was given to understand the most knowledgeable antiquarians in all the city met here. Might we have a word?”
    For all his youth, he had the easy assurance of the aristocrat born and bred. How simple he made it seem, evoking both deference and curiosity from the group of scholarly men with his confident bearing and friendly mien. If she’d been by herself, she’d never have been able to set them at their ease so quickly, nor to gain their respect or trust.
    “You’ve an intelligent informant, then, sir, at least if your interests lie in the history of the land to our west,” one of their number replied, removing his glasses and bowing in return. “Artemus Callendar at your service. Have you an inquiry you wish us to undertake? An old manuscript you wish to have copied?”
    “A task far less daunting, I promise. Just a line or two of translation, if any amongst you can read Gaelic.”
    “What, that jargon still spoken by the unlettered vulgar?” muttered a man from across the table, casting a scornful glance in her direction.
    Although Pennington’s countenance remained cordial, the muscles beneath her hand tensed. Had he taken umbrage on her behalf? Fianna gave his arm a light squeeze, warning against alienating their best chance of finding the answers they sought.
    Mr. Callendar frowned at the sharp-tongued man, then smiled in apology. “I’m sorry, sir, but Gaelic is a difficult language to master. We tend to rely upon native scholars and scribes when a bit of treasure still locked up in the Irish language needs unraveling. But few such men choose to leave their homeland, alas.”
    “What of that political fellow, the one from Cork, come to raise funds for the destitute?” another member of the group asked.
    “Ah yes,” the rude gentleman acknowledged. “That sly gent, who made the utterly ridiculous claim that the barbaric Gaels valued learning as much as they did military skill.”
    “Yes, that’s the one,” Callendar said, with a slap of his hand on the table. “And he said he’d come again today, did he not? Now, what was his name?”
    A chorus of “O’Hanlon?” “No, O’Hanley?” “You’re wrong, I’m certain it was O’Hara!” flew about the room, the antiquarians squabbling over the name like fowl over freshly strewn feed. Kit Pennington cut his eyes to hers, quirking a sardonic eyebrow.
    How long had it been