Redemption - Leon Uris [109]
The study spoke to him. It spoke of Desmond Fitzpatrick’s peacockery, cocksureness, the courtroom matador. Oh, for sure, they made love in this room, he thought, but not to each other. They made love to Ireland.
With all her renown as a great beauty, Atty was ill at ease as a female, Conor thought. He sensed that Des needed her as a partner and she needed him, but not as man and woman…as compatriots.
Conor’s charm drew her in. She felt as though he were undressing her with his mesmerizing manner. Little tiny flicks of conversation told her that he knew she and Des used one another as crutches. And what of this big fellow before her poking up the turf?
Conor Larkin was frightening, that’s what. Here was a man, she knew from Seamus, who had waited his life for his love, and he possessed this Shelley girl. Only he could shine in his woman’s eyes. God, Atty thought, Conor’s grief over the loss of Shelley is as deep as my grief over the loss of a husband of sixteen years and three children.
Jack Murphy had owned her once, but only for a fleeting moment. She knew when she asked Jack to show her the hidden side of herself, he would soon be gone. That would not happen with Conor lad.
In a sudden flick, innocent and curious, Atty invited him to her bed. When the powerful blacksmith’s arms enfolded her, she had never felt the likes of it.
Conor let her down, lovely. He still loved Shelley. He and Atty would have a long life together in the movement and she was not a woman he would take lightly.
Part of Atty was furious. Mainly, she was furious at her own shamelessness. She was also flabbergasted at his honesty, and she felt he spoke the truth about his respect for her. That was nice, very nice. Even at her moment of rejection, she had only good feelings toward him. She did not like seeing him hurt and even wanted him to find his Shelley girl again. Having never fostered such feelings before, Atty was rather pleased with herself. He told her he wouldn’t take her lightly, and she damned well knew she could not take him lightly.
He continued to hold her softly, and in their quiet she had a moment of strange revelation. They lived life on the brink, a life filled with odd twists and turns. They were thrown together as comrades in arms and they would work in close contact, sooner or later.
Someday, Atty thought, Conor Larkin was going to be a free man, and when that time came, she was going to have him.
“I’m going in to Dublin,” he said at last. “If I stay, I’ll not sleep all night. If you think I don’t want your breasts, you’re daft. Atty…if Ireland had a queen, Atty would be her name. You are far too great a woman to be trivialized.”
“Thank you, Conor,” she whispered, “thank you, luv. There’s a taxi rank just two blocks down. On your way before I rape you.”
40
Rat-a-tat-tat-tattat-tattat!
The Lembeg drum put all other war drums to shame when it came to striking fear into the heart of the enemy, real or imagined. It rattled in the “marching season” as Protestant Ulster celebrated its annual rebirth. Beginning on the Fourth of July, a date to ennoble themselves with their American cousins, a month of parades and rallies recalled ancient victories over the papists in song and sermon. Multitudes of banners, partial to orange, fluffed and glorified King, Empire, the Reformation, and above all, Ulster’s patented, eternal, holy, indivisible loyalty to the British.
The Orange Lodgemen, beribboned, sporting derby hats and rolled black umbrellas, marched hither and yon, to and fro and round and round.
Oh, it’s old but it is beautiful,
And its colors, they are fine,
It was Derry, Augrim,
Enniskillen and the Boyne
My father wore it as a youth,
In bygone days of yore,
And on the Twelfth I love to wear,
The sash my father wore.
On the Twelfth of August the marchers