by Pamela Clare
Bríghid put more peat on the fire. Finn would grow chilled working in this weather, and she didn’t want him to find the hearth grown cold when he at last came in to rest. Poor Finn did the work of two men now that Da’ was gone—or three, as he had taken on Muirín’s outdoor chores when her husband died. He never complained, never said an angry word. But Bríghid could see how tired he was each night. She fed him the best pieces of meat from the stewpot to help him keep up his strength, but often he was so weary he could scarce finish his supper before falling asleep.
Aye, Ruaidhrí did his share of hard work, too, but at sixteen he hadn’t the patience for farm work that Finn had, nor the knowledge. Hot-tempered and restless, he hurried through his chores, his mind always somewhere else. Ruaidhrí had been hit hard when the Sasanach took Da’ away. The happy and gentle boy he had been had vanished overnight.
Bríghid and her brothers had never seen their father again. The breakfast she’d cooked with such care that morning had been the last meal he’d shared with them. Soon after, he’d been put on a ship and taken to Barbados to be sold as a slave alongside other Irish the Sasanach deemed criminals—teachers, scholars, priests, fighters. ’Twas said plantation owners worked their slaves to death in the cane fields, and that if hard work didn’t kill them, strange and terrible fevers would.
But Bríghid would likely never know what became of her father. He’d been a man of one-and-fifty years when they’d taken him, no longer in his prime. She couldn’t even be certain he’d survived the long journey. She could not bear to think of her father in such horrid conditions, his back bent in the fields, his skin marred by the lash. A strong but gentle man, he’d always been more poet and dreamer than farmer. He’d never raised a weapon against the English invaders, never raised a fist to any man nor his hand to his wife or children. That his life could come to such an end bespoke Sasanach cruelty.
She missed her father, missed him so fiercely she felt at times as if her heart were being torn from her breast. She missed his sense of humor and gentle teasing. She missed the deep, warm sound of his voice. She missed the way he’d always made her feel safe, loved, special. Aisling, he had called her. His dream. His vision.
When she was little, he’d held her on his lap and read to her until late in the night. He’d told her stories of the old days in front of the hearth, taught her to sing the old songs. He’d comforted her in sickness. He had been her world. She’d felt protected knowing that, no matter what came with the sunrise, her father would be there.
But that was long ago.
Every day since they’d taken him, she’d prayed to God and all his saints to watch over Tommán Uí Maelsechnaill and spare him from loneliness, disease, cruelty, death. Every night, she’d gone to sleep wondering whether he yet lived, whether he was suffering, whether he knew how much his children and the people of Skreen parish missed and loved him.
How different their lives were without him. Without his teaching to bring in calves, chickens, honey, hay and woolen cloth, they were poorer than ever. Finn worked until he was exhausted. Ruaidhrí was consumed by rage at the Sasanach. Aidan had lost another father.
Had her life been changed?
Aye, it had. By now, her father would have found a husband for her, someone to love her, give her children, be a man for her. She was, after all, almost 18. To be the wife of a man who cherished her, a man she cherished in return, and to raise his children had been the only dream she’d allowed herself. ’Twas the only dream a poor Irish girl could hope to see come true—that and perhaps the dream of a full belly.
Her heart ached for the loss of that dream.
She swallowed her sorrow, feeling ashamed. Finn at 26 was of an age to marry as well, but he never complained about it, or the deep loneliness Bríghid knew he felt, as he was now the man of the house. So much depended on him. If Finn could put aside his own dreams, then so could she. Her brothers and Aidan needed her. Who else would cook their meals, darn their socks, heal their sicknesses?
She turned to Aidan. “It’s cold out today. Are you sure you won’t wear your cap?”
Aidan shook his head, ran his fingers through his unruly red hair.
Bríghid donned her cloak, fastened it with her grandmother’s dragon brooch. Taking Aidan’s hand, she opened the door and stepped into the cold autumn air.
Ruaidhrí was waiting for them outside by the barn, slapping his arms to warm them. He hadn’t had the sense to wear a cap either, his blonde hair tousled by the wind, his cheeks red from the chill. He scowled at her. “So it was today you were plannin’ on leavin’?”
Her little brother had virtues, but patience was not among them.
* * *
Jamie Blakewell reined his stallion to a halt and surveyed the surrounding countryside—or what he could see of it. He’d ridden to the crest of a broad hill. Beneath him, a cold, white mist spread like a blanket across the rolling landscape. Only hilltops and the bare treetops of the forest were clearly visible, though Jamie thought he could make out the shapes of hedgerows and tenant cabins in the distance.
Strangely, something about this country, so foreign to him, reminded him of his home in Virginia. Perhaps it was the open and untamed feel of the land. Despite the patchwork of fields and low stone walls that crisscrossed the countryside—proof that people had worked this soil for centuries—it seemed wild, unspoiled.
He patted Hermes’ neck with a gloved hand. The stallion’s breath lingered in clouds of white, rising and dissipating in the chill air. Jamie was grateful for the thick warmth of his woolen greatcoat, which kept out both wet and cold. Winter was coming, and fast from the feel of it.
For the first time since he’d come to Ireland, he felt the tension begin to drain from his body. It felt good to be outdoors. He’d spent the past five days arguing with Sheff in the manor that served as Sheff’s hunting retreat. The board had been lavish, the wine excellent, the company insufferable.
Although Sheff had welcomed Jamie openly, he was not the man Jamie remembered. Where he’d once been a bit arrogant, he was now pompous and cruel. His skin wore a sickly pallor, and he drank far more than was good for him. There was a sharp edge to Sheff now, a darkness. Jamie had recognized it immediately.
He knew a thing or two about darkness.
The sound of hooves approached from behind, slowed, stopped beside him.
“You call this hunting?” Jamie’s tone was light, but his disdain was not entirely feigned.
“It is what gentlemen call hunting.” Sheff retrieved a small flask from a pocket inside his greatcoat, pulled out the cork, drank deeply.
“The hounds do the actual hunting, whilst we gentlemen ride along, talk politics and drink, then shoot whatever the dogs drag down. Hand me that, will you?” Jamie accepted the flask and drank. The liquor scorched a path to his stomach, warmed him. “To whom will the trophy belong—us or the hounds?”
“I had forgotten you had a Red Indian for a nurse. I suppose you think it more manly to crawl through the muck on your belly clad in animal hides with a knife between your teeth.”
Jamie handed the flask back to Sheff. “I don’t know about the knife between the teeth, but the rest of it sounds good.”
“You are a savage, Jamie, old boy. Whatever shall I do with you?”
Servants hurried past them on foot and on horseback, barking commands to the hounds, which bayed and strained against their leashes, already hot on the scent.
A ruddy-faced man with broad shoulders rode up to them. “This seems as good a place as any to release them, my lord.”
“Very well. Get on with it, Edward.”
Sheff’s father had passed on only two months past. With his father’s last breath, Sheff had become Sheffield Winthrop Tate III, Lord Byerly, an earl with a host of estates and titles that read like a map of Britain. As much as Jamie had known his friend would one day assume his father’s noble titles and lands, Jamie was still entertained by the stiff formality that made up Sheff’s
existence. He was, after all, still Sheff. Jamie had known him since their college years at Oxford, where they’d drunk too much, lost immoderately at cards, and spent innumerable nights between the thighs of lovely courtesans.
It was Sheff who’d taught Jamie the joys of debauchery when Jamie had been nineteen and new to England. While Jamie had already discovered the pleasures of a woman’s body, there had been much about life he hadn’t known. England had seemed a different world from his tobacco plantation on the banks of the Rappahannock River. Sheff had introduced Jamie to that world, and the two had become friends despite the fact that Sheff was the heir to an earldom and Jamie merely the well-to-do owner of a tobacco plantation.
Six years had passed since they’d completed their studies at university. Jamie had spent those years in Virginia, and Sheff had joined his father in London. Now Jamie had come back to Britain to handle some delicate business on behalf of his brother-in-law, Alec Kenleigh. Alec had stayed behind in Virginia to be with Cassie, Jamie’s sister. Cassie was deep in mourning, her grief largely Jamie’s fault. She was also with child and nearing her time. Despite the pressing nature of this business, Alec had refused to leave her.
Jamie had used the trip as an excuse to arrange a visit with his old friend. Truth be told, Jamie needed Sheff’s support—and his connections. The Colonies were at war. Ever since the French had forced Washington’s surrender at Fort Necessity last July, the call from Pennsylvania to Virginia had been “Join or Die.”
Jamie had been there, had fought in the hail of French bullets that had turned the hastily built stockade into a hell of blood-soaked mud. While he had escaped with a minor wound where a bullet had bit into his shoulder, a third of their company had died. Sometimes at night, he could still hear their agonized cries, smell the blood and the gunpowder, hear the crack of enemy gunfire.
And then there was Nicholas, his nephew and Cassie’s and Alec’s oldest son.
Some months after his terrible loss at Fort Necessity, George Washington, a fellow Virginian and a friend, had asked Jamie to march northward with him and his party of one hundred thirty as a scout and sharpshooter in hopes that Jamie’s knowledge of Indian customs and tongues—backed up by his deadly aim with his French flintlock rifle—would help turn the tide should they encounter any foe. Jamie had agreed, and, despite Cassie’s protests, Nicholas, at four-and-twenty an accomplished marksman in his own right, had insisted on coming along.
They’d been encamped near the banks of the Ohio when a war party of Wyandot had attacked under cover of night. Jamie and Nicholas had been discussing the next day’s march with George over a bottle of Madeira when they’d been interrupted by the sounds of war cries, shouts, and gunfire. Jamie had stayed with George and caught a stray ball in the arm. Thankfully, George had been unhurt. But Nicholas had fought his way across the camp toward the worst of the fighting. Witnesses had later told Jamie how Nicholas had tried to save two young militiamen from being taken captive by the Wyandot, only to be wounded and taken captive himself.
As soon as Jamie had been fit to leave the camp, he had tracked the Wyandot, stopping neither to sleep nor eat, but he’d been too late. The Wyandot had celebrated their victory by burning their captives alive. Jamie had reached the village in time to see flames lick at three charred shapes that had once been men.
Christ, how Jamie wished it had been he who’d been taken!
Every moment of his life since then had been a living hell. He would never get the reek of burnt human flesh out of his nostrils. He would never forget his sister’s anguished cry or the look of anguish in Alec’s eyes when they’d learned of their eldest son’s fate. He would never forgive himself for failing to bring his nephew home alive.
Jamie had loved Nicholas like a brother.
He had not saved his nephew, but he would do all within his power to save the colonies. While many people still felt the war could be fought and won on land, some prominent colonists—Benjamin Franklin among them—felt sea power would be the key. Control the great rivers and lakes of the north, and Britain could cut off French supply lines. Waging war on the water would also draw French troops away from the frontier, where unprotected British families farmed the land. Alec was ready to provide specially built ships for the endeavor, but so far Parliament seemed more concerned with affairs on the Continent and had little consideration to spare for the Colonies. Jamie had come as an official representative from Virginia to encourage the use of naval vessels and to urge Alec’s contacts in Lords and Commons to move toward a declaration of war in the Colonies.
Jamie forced his thoughts away from war, back to the landscape. “The countryside is more fair than I’d imagined from your stories of it.”
Sheff gave a noncommittal grunt, adjusted his hat and the powdered wig beneath it. “It would be fairer still were it not full of barbaric Irish. It’s a pity Cromwell didn’t kill them all. Then again, who would pay my rents if he had?”
Jamie bit back his retort, chose his words carefully. “I’ve met my share of Irishmen in the colonies. They seem as civilized as Englishmen of their class.”
Sheff chuckled. “I knew you’d say something like that.”
Edward shouted commands to the servants who restrained the deerhounds, and the dogs were loosed. Amidst a din of yaps and howls, the animals dashed downhill toward the forest.
They’d ridden far from the manor this morning on the trail of servants who’d been tracking a suitable stag all night. Their path had led them to this hilly region with hedgerows and patches of dark forest. Jamie enjoyed the sport of hunting. Even more, he enjoyed what it brought to his table. But growing up in Virginia, he’d learned a very different type of hunting, one that pitted hunter against prey in a contest of skill. To chase an animal down with dogs and dispatch it from horseback hardly seemed worthy of a grown man.
“Jamie, my friend, tonight we shall dine on venison.” Sheff smiled and spurred his mount forward with a shout.
Jamie loosed his stallion’s reins and urged him on. “Time to show him what you can do, old boy.”
The stallion lunged forward and within seconds passed Sheff’s mount. Arabian blood flowed through Hermes’ veins. He loved nothing more than to run. Jamie felt cool air rush over his face as Hermes raced downhill in pursuit of the dogs. Mist closed in around them, cool and wet against Jamie’s skin. The fog was not as dense as it had seemed from above, and he found he could see some distance through the trees. Still, Jamie gave Hermes his head, knowing the horse would better sense unseen obstacles than he.
He felt the stallion’s stride shift and instinctively bent low over Hermes’ back as the horse leapt over a fallen log. The horse’s muscles tensed, and Jamie tightened his grip on the animal’s flank as Hermes swerved around a deep thicket of gorse. Jamie felt a smile spread across his face. He loved to ride as much as Hermes loved to run. He’d grown up on horseback, learnt the skill from the age of four. He’d inherited the best stables in Virginia from his father, stables Alec, as Jamie’s guardian, had done much to expand. Together, he and Alec spent much time, endless talk, and no small fortune on horseflesh.
And this was why, thought Jamie, as wind whipped through his hair.
From ahead came the sound of splashing water. Jamie thought he could make out the dark shadow of a creek’s bank. He felt Hermes’ stride shift again and bent low. The horse soared over the water as if on wings.
The sound of hooves approached from behind.
The hooves faltered, stopped.
Jamie grinned.
The air was sharp with the sound of Sheff’s curses and splashing as Sheff’s mount waded across the stream.
Jamie rode over hedgerows and through islands of forest for what seemed the briefest time, but which might have been ten minutes or more. The stag was seeking shelter, trying to go to ground. Jamie knew it would be allowed no such reprieve. He rode just behind the hounds now, Hermes at a comfortable gallop. The dogs disappeared into a dark growth of forest just ah
ead, and Jamie ducked to avoid overhanging branches.
Women and children screamed.
Men shouted, cursed.
Hounds growled.
Jamie urged Hermes forward. He broke through the trees into a clearing and reined the stallion to an abrupt stop.
There before him, huddled together in the shelter of an ancient, gnarled oak, stood a group of frightened peasants—men, women and children. Some of the peasant men gestured excitedly toward the south, the direction they said the stag had gone. But most stood as if frozen, a mix of dread and loathing in their eyes. Standing in front, arms spread as if to shelter the rest, stood an old man clad in black.
A Catholic priest.
On a crude table beside him sat a wooden goblet, a basket, and a tiny, wooden coffin.
Some of the hounds had closed in on the little crowd and growled menacingly. The rest meandered through the clearing, noses to the ground, sniffing. Through it all rode Edward, Sheff’s man, shouting angrily at people and dogs alike.
Jamie had just enough time to take in the scene when Sheff rode up behind him.
“I was about to tell Edward to call off the dogs,” Jamie shouted over the clamor.
Sheff’s face was pinched with rage. “Call off the dogs? They’re bloody fortunate I don’t command the dogs to rip them to pieces! They’ve interfered with the hunt.”
“Not intentionally, I’m sure. It appears our hunt has ridden into them and interrupted a funeral mass.”
Sheff glanced coldly at the priest. “So much the worse for them.”
That’s when Jamie saw her.
Chapter Two
She stood not far from the priest, clad in a grey, woolen cloak, her arms wrapped protectively around the shoulders of a frightened, red-haired boy. Though her head was partly covered by a hood, a single dark braid as thick as a man’s wrist fell out of her cloak and hung nearly to her waist. Her skin was as fair as cream, except for the rosy pink of her cheeks. Her features were those of a porcelain doll, delicate with high cheekbones, her lips full and red as if swollen from a man’s kisses. Even from a distance, Jamie could see her eyes were a deep blue. She leaned down and spoke in the child’s ear, and Jamie found himself wanting to reassure them both they would come to no harm.
