Kenleigh-Blakewell Family Saga Boxed Set (Books 1 & 2)

by Pamela Clare

  A searing sound filled the air, along with the stench of burning flesh.

  Jamie arched, cried out.

  Her brothers struggled to hold him still.

  Ruaidhrí’s eyes were wide. “Jesus, Bríghid!”

  Jamie’s eyes flew open. His fevered gaze met hers. “Bitch!”

  Bríghid ignored the stabbing sensation in her heart, removed the skewer.

  The bleeding had all but stopped.

  Almost at once, Jamie’s eyes closed, and he lay silent again, his face pale.

  Ruaidhrí shook his head, watched her. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

  “She’s doin’ what needs doin’, and let that be a lesson to you.”

  She ignored her brothers’ bickering, returned the skewer to the hearth and took up the ladle. She carried it carefully so as not to spill the water, which had now cooled considerably. She poured it into the wound to wash the blood away and followed that with a draught of whiskey. Then she dried his chest, soaking up blood, water and whiskey with clean cloths.

  Jamie groaned, mouthed unintelligible words.

  Using the knife to hold the wound open, she dribbled in the turpentine and thyme oil and followed that up with a hearty sprinkling of powdered horseradish. She knew she ought to stitch him, but she was afraid to close the wound yet.

  “Are you tryin’ to kill him?” Ruaidhrí wrinkled his nose.

  She was almost done. She walked back to the table, took a handful of cleaned bog moss and soaked it with garlic juice.

  Ruaidhrí coughed. “God save us! I’m sleepin’ in the barn.”

  “Good.” Finn smiled. “That means I can hog the fire.”

  The powerful smell made Bríghid’s eyes water, but she paid it no mind. She carried the compress to the bedside and pressed it against the wound. Then she bound it in place with a length of clean linen torn from her petticoats.

  She was finished.

  Trembling, she sat on the bed, closed her eyes, drew a deep breath.

  She felt Finn’s strong hands on her shoulders and was grateful for his comforting presence.

  It was up to God now.

  Chapter Seven

  The girl lay on her back across his writing table, small breasts bared. A week ago, she’d been a maid, but a few compliments, a comb for her flaxen hair, and the promise of extra food from the kitchens for her elderly parents had persuaded her to yield her innocence.

  It was almost too easy.

  Sheff pushed her skirts above her waist, grasped her slender calves and spread her legs wide. He liked it this way. The position allowed him to explore her with his fingers, to look his fill between her thighs, to watch as his cock drove into her.

  She was rosy and smelled of woman. She was no match for the beauty Jamie had enjoyed—and stolen—but she would do. She had already done quite nicely.

  He loosed his breeches, positioned himself between her thighs. He didn’t feel like wasting time with meaningless preliminaries. With one thrust, he was inside her. She was deliciously tight and pleasingly wet as he moved inside her.

  She moaned, lifted her hips to meet him.

  “I told you you’d learn to enjoy it. All women do.”

  A knock came at the study door.

  He groaned. “What is it?”

  “I’m reportin’ in as you asked, my lord.”

  Edward.

  Sheff maintained his rhythm. “Come in.”

  The girl made to sit up, cover herself, but he pressed her back onto the desk.

  “Stay as you are.” He continued to drive into her, the interruption making his arousal sweeter. He liked an audience.

  Edward opened the door, entered cap in hand. He was Sheff’s most trusted servant and was used to his master’s ways. His gaze barely even lighted on the girl.

  “What news?”

  Edward bowed lightly. “He ain’t there.”

  “What do you mean he isn’t there?”

  “Word from London is he ain’t been home. His family thinks he’s still here.”

  Sheff felt his testicles tighten as his climax approached. His gaze dropped to where his body joined hers, watched himself enter her again and again, spilling his seed inside her with a groan.

  So Jamie was nowhere to be found. Sheff pondered this fact as he withdrew, wiped himself on her skirts, buttoned his breeches. “You may go.”

  Blushing furiously, the girl leapt to her feet, curtsied, and hurried from the room.

  Sheff had already forgotten her, his mind on Jamie. They’d checked every wayside inn from here to Dublin and found nothing. They’d checked ships’ records and found nothing. Now London had turned up nothing, as well. Had Jamie boarded one of his brother-in-law’s ships in secret and sailed for Virginia? No, he would have at least bid his family farewell or sent them word. Besides, Parliament was about to open. He wouldn’t jeopardize his entire reason for coming to Britain. No, Jamie was nothing if not persistent and dedicated.

  There was only one explanation: Jamie hadn’t just taken her. He thought to hide her, to keep Sheff from finding her. “The game is afoot.”

  “So it seems, my lord.”

  “You may go.” Sheff needed to think.

  “By your leave, my lord.”

  Sheff poured himself a brandy, swirled it in the snifter, savored the aroma. He liked the smell of it more than the scent of woman that lingered on his fingers. Brandy raised his spirits, dulled his pain, made it possible for him to sleep at night.

  Damn Jamie Blakewell!

  Sheff had gone out of his way for Jamie, offered him unrivaled hospitality, treated him as an equal. He’d listened to Jamie’s interminable lectures on colonial politics with good humor. He’d even tolerated Jamie’s challenge to his authority—something he’d not have endured from anyone else. And Jamie had repaid his generosity by stealing the very woman Sheff had offered him as a symbol of friendship.

  Sheff chuckled, shook his head, torn between amusement and anger. Jamie had always been given to ridiculous demonstrations of passion when it came to women. He’d treated the whores of Turlington’s like ladies and had fallen in love with a woman who’d obviously been using him. And now he’d insulted Sheff’s hospitality over a pretty bit of skirt.

  Sheff would forgive him, of course. He’d always had a soft spot where Jamie was concerned. But first Sheff would find him. Jamie presumed too much, and it was time he learned a lesson about humility.

  Wealthy though he might be, Jamie was but a commoner, the son of a colonist. His sister had gotten lucky and married into the English gentry. Even so, Jamie could not insult one of His Majesty’s peers without consequences. Sheff would find him, feign outrage, snub him in Parliament. He would force Jamie to apologize for sneaking out of his house in the dead of night like a thief. He would show Jamie that it was he who had the power.

  Of course, what Sheff really wanted was the girl. A rare beauty she was, even if she was Irish, and he would not allow Jamie to keep her to himself. His men were still looking. Like a pack of hounds, they’d flush Jamie out, and her with him. If not, Parliament was about to open, and Jamie would be forced to surface—

  Like a pack of hounds.

  You call this hunting?

  Jamie’s words from the day of the hunt came back to him. And Sheff knew.

  Jamie had gone to ground. He hadn’t gone to England at all. It made no sense. How could he hope to persuade Parliament to send a fleet to the Colonies if he were hiding here? Still, Sheff knew in his gut it was true.

  Jamie thought to hide in Ireland for a time, to throw Sheff off the scent.

  Sheff let out a triumphant whoop, swallowed his brandy.

  “Edward!”

  * * *

  Jamie was thirsty, so very thirsty.

  He struggled to open his eyes, recognized the bitter aftertaste of laudanum.

  The left side of his chest hurt like hell. What had happened? He tried to remember, fought to clear his mind. The Wyandot had attacked the en
campment, taken Nicholas. Had Jamie been shot? Yes, in the arm. But it was only a flesh wound. Why did he feel so weak?

  Nicholas!

  Where was Nicholas? Jamie had to find him, had to save him.

  He opened his eyes. The world was a blur. Above him, smoked hovered beneath a ceiling of thatch. Orange light from a fire bobbed and flickered against crumbling, soot-darkened walls. Where was he?

  He tried to lift his head, wrinkled his nose. Something smelled strongly of turpentine and garlic.

  Then he saw her. He remembered her name.

  Bríghid.

  She was sound asleep. Her head rested on the bed beside him, though she sat on the dirt floor. The wooden beads of a rosary were draped over her fingers, now relaxed in sleep. Her long, dark hair had come out of its braid and lay across her face, across the bed, across his right arm. Had she been praying for him?

  She stirred, opened her eyes, gasped. “Saints be praised, you’re awake!”

  “Wat—” He struggled to form the word.

  “Shh. Don’t try to speak.” She sat on the bed beside him, touched his forehead with one cool, soft hand. “You’ve been feverish for a week. You need rest.”

  “Wa-ter.”

  She stood, walked across the room and dipped a wooden ladle into a bucket. Jamie felt his eyes close. It seemed an eternity before she returned, lifted his head and held the ladle to his lips.

  “Slowly.”

  Jamie opened his eyes again, drank every sweet, cool drop. “More.”

  She disappeared in a swish of skirts, returned, and satisfied his thirst.

  Even befuddled by laudanum, he could tell she hadn’t slept well for days. Dark circles made shadows beneath her eyes.

  What had happened? He struggled to remember. “Where … am I?”

  “You’re in an abandoned cabin not far from Teagh-mor. We’ve been hiding here for more than a week. You’ve been very sick.”

  “Hiding?” He tried to sit up. Pain sliced through him. He heard himself groan, sank back against the bed.

  Her hand rested softly on his right shoulder. “Don’t try to move. Just rest.”

  A blast of cold air filled the tiny room.

  A young man looked down at him—the Irish hothead—spoke words he didn’t understand. “A, tá sé ina dhúiseacht.”

  And Jamie remembered. “You … bastard!”

  The hothead’s face turned red.

  “It was a mistake, Jamie. Ruaidhrí didn’t know.” Bríghid stood beside her brother, a hand on his arm.

  “He … tried to kill me. And you … didn’t stop him.”

  “I didn’t see—”

  “You don’t have to listen to this, Bríghid. This Sasanach doesn’t know when to be grateful.”

  Jamie would have laughed if he’d been able. “That’s what I was going to say about you.”

  “We should put him on his fine horse and send him back to his friend, the killer iarla.”

  Killer ear-la? Jamie didn’t know who that was.

  It was so hard to think.

  “Why, Ruaidhrí? So that the iarla can send his men here and finish both of us, too? Foolish boy!” Bríghid sat down on the bed beside Jamie, adjusted the woolen blanket that covered him. “Besides, he can’t sit a horse. He can’t even sit.”

  Eer-la. Earl? Did they mean Sheff?

  “We can tie him on like we did before.”

  “Ruaidhrí!” Bríghid stood, faced her brother. She sounded angry. “Amach leat!”

  Jamie couldn’t understand her words, felt himself begin to drift away.

  Later—how much later he couldn’t say—he heard a woman’s soft voice speak to him. She supported his head, held something warm to his lips. “Drink.”

  He didn’t feel like drinking. He wanted to sleep.

  “Please, Jamie. You must regain your strength.” Her voice was sweet, lilting.

  He swallowed. It was some kind of tea. Though it was bitter, it soothed his throat. He hadn’t realized it, but he was desperately thirsty again. He opened his eyes to find Bríghid holding a cup in her hand. His head lay cradled in her lap.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like hell.” His entire body hurt, remnants of the fever. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him he’d come very close to dying. Every inch of him felt as if he’d been pulled back from the very brink—with grappling hooks.

  “This will help.” She slowly gave him the contents of the cup. “It’s got mayweed and nettles.”

  “You’ve sent your brother away.” His head began to clear some. “Good. I’m liable to kill him … next time I see him.”

  “You’re in no shape to be killin’ anyone.” The corners of her lips lifted in a smile. “Besides, that was yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?” Jamie found it hard to believe he’d been asleep for a full day.

  “Aye, yesterday. The poppy makes you sleepy.” She placed the cup on a nearby table, then lifted his head, laid it back on the pillow, and stood. Her skirts swishing, she walked back to the hearth and stirred something in a pot that hung over the fire. “Ruaidhrí is off cuttin’ peat for the fire.”

  She wore the same red, woolen gown she’d had on the night they’d fled. Frayed green ribbons decorated its hem. Over it, she wore a green apron. Tattered white lace hung from her sleeves. A gray knitted shawl covered her shoulders. She looked warm and soft and womanly.

  Jamie was surprised to feel the faint stirrings of appreciation. In his current state, he wouldn’t have expected even to notice such things. But he did. It only added to his growing sense of frustration. He couldn’t remember having been so weak, not since he was a child and had come down with the dreaded ague. “How long has it been?”

  She turned, wiped her hands on her apron. “Eight days.”

  “Eight days. Parliament! The state opening.” He struggled to sit, groaned as white-hot pain seemed to split his chest and shoulder.

  She hurried back to his side, put her hands on his shoulders to still him. “You’re in no position to be worrying about silly Parliament. Lie down.” She spoke as if he were a child.

  “Damn it, woman! You don’t understand! I’m trying to save lives!”

  “So am I! Yours!”

  Jamie could tell she was angry. Good. So was he. He reached for the edge of the bed to pull himself up only to discover his wrists were bound to the frame. Frustrated, furious, he glared at her. “So I’m a prisoner?”

  She glared back. “Of course not! We had to keep you from harmin’ yourself. It took both Ruaidhrí and Finn to hold you down.”

  She sat beside him, started to unbind his right arm. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she bent over her work, and Jamie was struck again by the delicate beauty of her face, the creamy smoothness of her skin, the claret fullness of her lips. He remembered tasting those lips, touching that skin, holding her trembling body in his arms.

  What a fool he’d been.

  After a moment, she shook her head. “You’ve pulled the knots tight. Maybe I should just leave you this way, as you’re threatenin’ to kill my brother.”

  “For your sake, I hope you don’t.” This wasn’t funny. He’d come to Britain on a mission vital to the colonies. People were dying. Now, thanks largely to his lust for a dark-haired Irish wench and his desire to play the hero, his mission was compromised. There was no way he could make the opening of Parliament now.

  Damn it to hell!

  How was he going to explain this to Alec and the other members of Virginia’s House of Burgesses? How was he going to explain it to the husbands of wives raped and mutilated along the frontier or the mothers of children who’d been scalped alive and left to die in the cold forest? What of the families of the men killed at Fort Necessity? What of Nicholas?

  “For God’s sake, wench, untie me!”

  She placed her hands on her hips, looked down at him as if he were a naughty child about to receive a scolding. “And what will you do to me if I don’t?”

  His
gaze met hers, held it. He said nothing.

  Her eyes grew round. Her lips formed a rosy “o.” Her cheeks turned a damnably pretty shade of pink, and he found himself wondering what she’d interpreted his gaze to mean.

  She took up a knife from the table, walked back to him, and began to cut at the rope. “I stitched the wound while you slept, and I think you’ll heal now, but not if you thrash about like a fish in a net.”

  The rope gave way.

  Jamie lifted his right arm, bent it to ease the stiffness. “Does your brother often do this?”

  “Do what?” She moved to the other side of the bed and began cutting the rope that bound his left arm.

  “Impale Englishmen who are trying to rescue his sister.”

  Her gaze met his, and he could see the fire in her eyes. “He thought—”

  “I know what he thought. That doesn’t change the fact he almost killed me in cold blood.” It galled him that she could defend her brother.

  “I’m sor—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me they’d be coming for you?”

  The rope that held his left wrist fell away.

  “I wasn’t sure.”

  “Is that why you had the knife? Had you planned to slice my throat while I slept, then meet your brothers outside?”

  She stood abruptly, glared at him. “If I had wanted you to die, Sasanach, do you think I’d have spent the past week trying desperately to save your accursed life?”

  He hadn’t thought of that. She could have left him to die on the cold ground. “Why did you help me?”

  She turned, stamped over to the table and began to hack potatoes into slices. “I owed you a debt.”

  “I see. It was a simple matter of obligation then?”

  “What else would it be?”

  Jamie felt his irritation grow at her answer, though he couldn’t say why. “Now that the debt has been satisfied, I must get back to England.”

  “You’re in no fit state to travel.”

  “Be that as it may, I must get back.” He tried to move his left arm. Sharp pain shot through his chest and shoulder. He bit back a moan.