"How much further is it?" asked Dorian. He had been strolling, or rather tramping, over mucky, emerald-tufted hills for longer than he liked. There were no man-made features in the landscape, and hadn't been for the past hour.

"A bit," said his companion, whose Celtic extraction might be obvious in his features, but never in his voice. He might have come from the city of London itself.

"But why are we out on this wild-goose trek?" muttered Dorian, half to himself. His solicitor had been quite definite that someone's approval was essential to his well-being as the new Earl of Redde Gloriaugh. Dorian kicked at a clump of verdant new grass. The solicitor was Irish -- well, it was an Irish earldom, technically -- and not inclined to give explanations. Nor had the guide for this expedition, whom the solicitor had insisted upon providing, told him anything.

"Only another league or two," said the diminutive little man, still bouncily energetic after a good five miles of hiking. Not that Dorian was tired, but he preferred to present a more ... sophisticated ... picture, even to an empty meadow. At seventeen, Dorian knew already that appearances counted for a great deal in his world, especially when one had to uphold the dignities of a pack of impecunious forebears.

They covered another downslope and began an uphill slog through the thrusting spring vegetation in the fertile mud of the heart of Ireland. Surely they were nearing, Dorian hoped, their as-yet-unspecified destination.

The small man spoke again, suddenly. "It was all the fault of that benighted English queen. Elizabeth."

"The Queen?" said Dorian, startled. He avoided thinking about the Royals. They outranked him. "Don't talk like that about Her Majesty."

"Will if I want," said the other. "But, I mean the first English Elizabeth, not the one you've got now. Interferin' female. 'Stomach of a king.' Gall of one, too."

Dorian stopped dead. "There's no need to be insulting."

"P'rhaps not. But it *is* all her doing."

The opportunity was not to be missed. Dorian drew himself up to his full height and gazed languidly down his nose at the smaller man. "Explain," he said in tones of utmost, threatening civility. "Now. Before we take another step."

Mr. Shamus, who preferred to be called James, took in the downward gaze with undiminished ebullience. He even offered a sweet smile in return. "It was the English Elizabeth who gave your ancestor -- the pirate, for there's no other way of telling it true, My Lord -- an earldom carved from good Irish kingdoms."

"Ruinous Redde," nodded Dorian. The family founder was a name with which he was familiar. "He scared some Spaniards at the right time for the Queen's convenience, and she gave him Gloriaugh." It sounded like fun to Dorian.

"That stomachy queen had no right to give away this island, but it's long done now," said Shamus/James. Dorian reminded himself of the virulent longevity of the Irish Troubles and tried to hold his peace. Shamus went on, "You're not much of an exchange for a MacFionn."

"What's wrong with me?" demanded Dorian from his tall advantage.

"You're English, that's all. A few words on an English queen's patent won't change that in a hurry."

"I should hope not." The Earls of Redde Gloriaugh had visited the site of their earldom very seldom.

"Ahh, there's someone who *can* change it."

"What?!"

"Oh, she'll ratify you, all right," said Shamus, and his glance was assessing but favorable over Dorian's person. More than a little favorable, Dorian noticed, and was suddenly amused. This odd little creature of an Irish guide might be human after all.

Shamus awarded him another lively smile and continued. "A fine lad like you, she'll make no problem for. I should know. She's m'cousin."

"I thought you were my cousin," said Dorian. It was thus that Mr. Shamus had been introduced by the solicitor, with a wink. Dorian had surmised that the cousinship was by blood rather than legitimate marriage.

"So I am. Cousin four times removed, but cousin."

"Oh?"

"I'm your thrice-great-grandmother's eldest child," said Shamus, "though I shan't care to say it too loudly anywhere else."

The little man looked about twenty.

"Mr. Shamus, that is, Mr. James, is there a reason for all this mystification?"

"There is," said James/Shamus. "Over this last hill. You're a taking young man with a quick eye and a light hand. She'll appreciate you, never fear. You'd like to have your father's English castle back, and all his artistic trinkets, wouldn't you?"

The most recent setback to the Redde family fortunes still rankled with Dorian. "Yes, of course."

"Ahhh, you see." Mr. Shamus set off again up the slow rise in front of them, and Dorian followed despite his lack of enlightenment.

The hilltop, when crested, revealed a wide, shallow valley floored with thicker, greener grass and a tall, rough monolith standing as if it had grown in the center of this field since creation. By Irish reckoning, no doubt it had. There was an undeniable air of destiny about the whole place.

"Is that it?"

"The stone?" Shamus bounced again, tossing his dark hair. "It's only a marker. She'll be there."

"Who?"

"*She*," said James, capering forward. Dorian followed at speed to avoid being left behind. The standing stone seemed to grow as they neared it until it pointed at the azimuth of heaven and very nearly touched it.

>From its shadow -- or from somewhere, since Dorian had been looking upwards along the gray finger of rock -- stepped a woman as small as Shamus and with dark curls to match his, but showing a warmer, steadier eye. She wore a countrywoman's practical garb, tweed trousers and wool sweater, and she carried, almost casually, a bright rose from late -- not early -- spring. "So," she said. It was to Mr. Shamus, not to Dorian.

"M'Lady."

The lady looked Dorian over critically, and nearly as impersonally as if he had been a second standing stone brought for her inspection. "Was this the best you could do, Shamus?"

"There wasn't much choice," said Shamus. "He does have a nice look about him, don't you think?"

"I'm not complaining about his looks," said the lady, hands on hips. She smiled, at Dorian this time. "What else can you do?"

"My lady," said Dorian, compelled to speech by forces he could not fathom. "What do you want done?" The last time he'd given a damn what a woman thought of him had been before his mother left home.

"I want to turn the world upside down. I want love and beauty and chaos, nothing petty or grudged. I want faith and the taking of heroic risks."

At that, Dorian grinned and sketched a bow, lightly but sincerely. "Your willing servant, my lady. Where shall I start?"

She held out the hand with the rose. "Here, and now. Do you swear to be my man?"

Dorian accepted the rose and kissed the hand. "I shall have no other lady."

She smiled at him. "I know. A pretty answer, but hardly to the point. Will you live so as to confound the grayness of the world? I want love and life and glorious anarchy." The rose in Dorian's hand stirred, opening of itself from bud to full-flown blossom. "Will you do so?"

Dorian could not look away from the lady -- the Lady -- no matter that she was still a quiet-seeming little woman. Her eyes were bright green, hotter than emeralds and brighter than the rose that rustled, alive in his hand. "Lady, with all my heart," he said. He knew that he had waited his whole life to hear that request and agree to it -- that he had agreed to it long ago.

"Good my lord," said the Lady, and turned her compelling eyes away at last. "Shamus," she said, and Dorian remembered that there was someone else in the world, "he'll do for us. Take care of him."

Mr. Shamus shook his curls back and looked up at Dorian. "My pleasure, m'Lady." His eyes were an earthier shade, and by the time Dorian had disentangled his gaze from them, the Lady had melted back into the shadow of the standing stone.

"Shamus?"

"Call me James. And be nice to me. I'm your luck from now on."

"Mr. James." Dorian discovered that he was still holding the rose and gripped it carefully to avoid thorns. "Am I the Earl of Redde Gloriaugh now?"

"Yes. Don't spend it all in one place."

"I won't. Spend what?"

"Oh," said Mr. James, and pulled a pocket calculator from somewhere. "Call it your luck. We're going to set the world on its ear -- you heard the Lady. For instance... We may have to work up to it, but what do you say about stealing the crown jewels?"

"The British crown jewels?"

"The English ones, yes, those," said James. "Just to prove we can."

"James, darling." Dorian put his free arm around the narrow shoulders. "This could be the start of a beautiful relationship."