by Pamela Clare
“I thought I told you to be still.” She looked over at him. “Now your dressing has come loose.”
Jamie bent his neck, tried to look at his chest. He could see what looked like moss held loosely in place by linen bandages. He reached with his good arm to move the moss, but she slapped his hand away.
“I’ll not have you spoilin’ all my hard work.” She sat down beside him on the bed, carefully unbound the linen that held the moss in place, her hands sliding beneath his back to pull the strip of cloth through. Her hair, still unbound, pooled on his abdomen as she worked.
Despite his anger, Jamie found his gaze drawn to the fullness of her breasts hidden modestly beneath her gown, to her slender throat, then to her eyes, concealed by long, dark lashes. She seemed to be avoiding his gaze.
“Hold this.” She put the ball of linen in his right hand. She stood, walked to the table, and retrieved a wooden bowl, which she filled with water. Taking a clean cloth from the table, she returned, sat beside him. “It might hurt, but I must clean the wound.”
Was that genuine concern he saw in her eyes?
The roughest edges of his anger were smoothed way. “Do your worst.”
She sat beside him again. Holding the bowl of water in one hand, she lifted the moss from his chest with the other and discarded it.
Jamie bent his neck and was shocked by what he saw. An incision ran from below his collarbone almost to his breast as if he’d been cleaved with an ax. Small, neat stitches of green thread held the flesh together. Though the edges were still an angry red color, the flesh surrounding the cut was not inflamed. It was a wonder he hadn’t bled to death or died of infection.
“It festered badly.” She took the cloth, dipped it in the water, and gently wiped the incision. “I had to cut you.”
The water was warm, pressure on the incision quite painful, but Jamie found himself distracted by the graceful movements of her hands, the occasional fleeting touch of her fingers against his skin.
Her words finally hit him. “You cut me?”
“Aye.” Her gaze met his for a moment, flitted nervously away. “The wound was deep but very narrow. I could not get medicine deep enough.”
Jamie was amazed. This slip of a woman had performed surgery on him. “Did I not bleed all the more?”
“Aye, but I cauterized it.”
He had no memory of it, and for that he was grateful.
Her gaze met his. “I’m not a doctor, but you’d have died else. I had no choice.”
“Sure you did. And you chose to help me.” He watched the way his words made her cheeks turn pink, then made her frown. “You’re a healer.”
“Not like some. I know but a little.” She reached for a wooden bowl.
Jamie didn’t have to ask what was in it. The smell of garlic was overpowering. “You remind me of Takotah. She could cure a toad of warts, but she never takes credit for her skills.”
“Who is Ta-ko-ta?” She stumbled over the pronunciation, and her brow turned down in a frown. Her gaze was fixed on a clump of moss, which she soaked with garlic juice.
If Jamie didn’t know better, he’d swear she was jealous. He couldn’t resist. “A beautiful Indian woman.”
“An Indian?” Her surprise was quickly masked by indifference. She placed the damp moss over the wound.
Jamie couldn’t stop the hiss of breath that passed between his teeth. It stung like hell. “Aye. Her people, the Tuscarora, were all but destroyed by settlers. She found refuge on my estate.” Because the irritation on her face amused him, he didn’t tell her Takotah was as ancient as the hills and had come to live at Blakewell’s Neck long before he’d been born.
She snatched the ball of linen from his hand and began to bind the dressing in place. As she slid her hand beneath him to pull the cloth through, he was treated to a whiff of lavender and a glimpse of her creamy breasts.
There had to be some silver lining to being half dead.
“There.” She tucked in the end of the linen strip and stood. “I think you’ll live.”
“Help me sit.” It galled him to realize he truly needed her aid.
“Stubborn man.” She reached behind his head with her arm and lifted. “If it will keep you from hurtin’ yourself, I’ll help.”
He gritted his teeth against razor-sharp pain.
She tucked a pillow behind his head, supported him as he eased back onto it. “Is that so much better?” Not waiting for an answer, she walked to the table and began slicing potatoes.
It was then Jamie noticed the weight of the cross around his neck. He recognized it as hers, remembered finding it in the servants’ hallway while she slept. He reached up with his right hand, felt the pewter between his fingers. Warm from contact with his body, it was the oddest shaped cross he’d ever seen. Its four arms jutted out from a shared center and reminded him more of a windmill than a cross. It stirred him some way he couldn’t describe that she had shared with him the power of this charm, which obviously meant so much to her.
He heard her gasp.
He looked up to find her gaping at the cross. Then her gaze met his.
Jamie had seen that look in her eyes before. She was afraid.
“I won’t apologize.” She lifted her chin, dared him to insist otherwise.
“For what?”
She looked at him in surprise. “Are you not angry?”
“Aye.” He was angry about a great many things.
“Well, as I said. I won’t apologize.” She wiped her hands on a cloth, walked toward him. “I meant only to save your life, not to offend you.”
She stood for a moment beside the bed, her hand out, and Jamie realized she was waiting for the cross.
With his right hand, he lifted the leather thong over his head. “Just what have you done to offend me?”
She stared at him, confusion on her lovely face. “St. Bríghid’s cross. It—”
“You think it offends me?” He handed it to her.
She took it from him, slipped it over her head. “You are Protestant, are you not?”
Jamie tried not to notice that the cross had come to rest in the cleft between her breasts. “I’m supposed to be angry because you dared hang a Catholic symbol around my neck when you, a Catholic, were trying to save my Protestant life?”
“Then you’re not angry?”
“No, Bríghid.” He stifled a crazy urge to take her hand. “Where I come from, there are more religions than days in a month. I decided long ago such things aren’t worth fighting about. I doubt God cares one way or another how we pray, as long as we make time for it once in a while.”
She gaped at him as if shocked by his words. Then she turned, walked back to the table, continued slicing. “If you had died, we’d be guilty of murder. I had to do everything I could to keep you alive.”
Whatever warmth Jamie had been feeling for her vanished. He almost laughed at himself. She’d gone to extreme measures to save his life not out of concern or affection for him, but to save her own skin and that of her brothers. In her eyes, he was nothing more than a hated Sasanach. Hadn’t he learned long ago that women, with few exceptions, acted for their own selfish reasons? “What makes you think I won’t turn your brothers in once I’m gone from this place?”
She turned to face him, her face pale. “You would do that?”
Because he was angry, because he was in pain, he made her wait for an answer, forced her to meet his gaze. “No.”
She went back to her work without a word, but he could see her hands shook.
Jamie felt like an ass, but couldn’t bring himself to apologize. Instead, he took in his surroundings. From this vantage point, he could see the entire cabin. It was tiny, with whitewashed clay walls that had begun to crumble. Daylight shone through cracks here and there. There were no windows. The floor was hard-packed dirt. Other than the bed, which was big enough for only one person, the room held only two rickety chairs and the rough-hewn table. Smoke from the hearth floated to the ceili
ng, hovered.
“Your chimney is stopped up.”
She continued to slice potatoes, didn’t look up from her work. “There is no chimney.”
Jamie found this astonishing. Then he noticed everything—the walls, the door, the legs of the table—were covered with a thin layer of soot. The thatched ceiling was black with it.
The cabin was more primitive in some ways that the clapboard slave shanties of Virginia.
“Who owns this place?”
She continued to slice. “We’re not sure. It’s been empty for a long time. We do know it’s off the iarla’s lands. But barely.”
“Ear-la. I’ve heard that word before. Earl? Is that what it means?”
“Aye, I suppose so.”
“The killer earl. What did your brother mean by that?”
“I’m surprised you remember.” There was something about the tone of her voice. “Are all Englishmen so full of questions after wakin’ from the dead?”
“Bríghid, tell me.”
She dropped the potatoes into the pot. Liquid splashed into the fire with a hiss. “Father Padraíg is dead, God rest his soul.”
“The old priest?”
Bríghid nodded, crossed herself, her back still turned to him.
“How do you know Sheff … the Earl had anything to do with it?”
“The good Father was found hanged not far from the Old Oak eight days ago. Someone had put a sign around neck that read ‘Traitor.’”
That must have meant Sheff’s men had hanged the priest shortly after the crowd had dispersed. They’d walked some distance away, then killed the old man. But was it Sheff’s bidding or their own doing?
Even as he asked the question, Jamie knew the answer. He’d seen the rage on Sheff’s face, had known in his gut Sheff was not going to back down. But he’d let himself be deceived, and an innocent old man had died.
“Good God.” He lifted his right hand to his temple. His head had begun to ache. “I’m sorry, Bríghid. I thought—”
“I don’t blame you. I know you tried to stop him.”
Then it dawned on him. Why hadn’t he thought of it immediately? “Bríghid, I must get a letter to London, or you and your family could be in grave danger.”
Chapter Eight
Ruaidhrí sat by the hearth, watched as his sister helped the Sasanach get out of bed.
“Put your arm around my shoulder.” She bent down, lifted his right arm, put it behind her neck.
The Sasanach pulled his arm away. “Let me be, woman!” His voice was strained, his face pinched with pain as he turned, put his bare feet on the floor, tried to stand.
“Don’t be foolish! You’ll crack your noggin, and you’ll be back to keepin’ me up nights.” She put her arm around his waist. “Ruaidhrí, get his other side.”
“No! I don’t need his help.”
Ruaidhrí shrugged. “That’s fine by me, Sasanach.”
Pushing off the bed with his right arm, the Englishman fought to stand. A groan escaped him as he came to his feet. His face went pale. His weight sagged against Bríghid, and for a moment Ruaidhrí thought the two of them would end up on the floor in a heap. But the Sasanach seemed to regain his balance and, with Bríghid to steady him, took first one, then another step toward the table.
On the table sat ink, pen and paper. It had taken another ride into Baronstown—this time with coin the Englishman had provided—to fetch it.
“That’s it. We’re almost there.” Bríghid crooned to the Englishman as if he were a child.
It didn’t sit right with Ruaidhrí, his sister standing so close to a man who was wearing only his drawers. It didn’t sit right with him, his sister breaking her back like this to care for a stranger. Ruaidhrí had told Finn what he thought of it all, and Finn had called him an idiot, boxed his ears, reminded him of the debt he owed this particular Englishman. That didn’t sit right with Ruaidhrí either, even if it were true.
His sister was still angry with him for nearly killing the man, but how was Ruaidhrí to have known? He’d been on his way to rescue her, planning to kill the iarla if he got the chance. Then he’d come upon the Englishman holding possessively onto Bríghid’s arm, and he’d reacted as any brother would. When he’d understood what he’d done, he’d felt a wee bit sorry for himself. If his sister was telling the truth, he’d taken one step closer to eternal damnation, a step he could ill afford. He’d thought he’d been acting the part of a hero.
In the days that followed, Ruaidhrí had watched Blakewell fight for his life and hadn’t cared if the man lived or died. Blakewell was nothing but a wealthy Sasanach.
But then he’d seen the shadows in Bríghid’s eyes when she’d told them what the iarla had meant to do with her. The miserable bollocks! It had torn him apart, made him want to rip the iarla devil’s head off. Ruaidhrí had been forced to admit to himself that Blakewell had spared her from a terrible fate. Now he was torn between unwelcome gratitude and the familiar comfort of hate. If given a choice, he’d stick with what he knew.
The Englishman sank into the chair, bit back a moan.
Bríghid took the blanket from the bed, wrapped it around his bare shoulders. She was different somehow. Ruaidhrí wasn’t the fine thinker Finn was, but he knew it just the same. He could see it in her eyes, the way she looked at the Sasanach when she thought no one was watching. He could see it in the way she moved, the womanly sway of her hips that hadn’t been there before. He could even hear it in her voice, the soft way she spoke to the Sasanach—when she wasn’t yelling at him.
Not that the Englishman wasn’t handsome. Ruaidhrí supposed from a female point of view this Jamie Blakewell was very pretty. But he was English and a Protestant. Nothing he’d done, no matter how noble, could clean the heretic blood from his veins. Such blood was meant to be spilled. His kind were responsible for the rape of Ireland and for the death of the true religion among so many Irish, who sought to evade the penal laws by turning their spineless backs on the Church. Wasn’t this Sasanach himself a close friend of the accursed iarla? How decent and honorable could he be? Besides, he could never marry Bríghid. English law and common decency forbade it. Her feelings for him could only bring her pain and dishonor.
Ruaidhrí knew Finn and Bríghid thought him hotheaded, with more temper than good sense. But he was certain about this. If Finn was right that this situation was Ruaidhrí’s fault, then Ruaidhrí had a duty to make certain Bríghid was not made to suffer more than she already had. He’d keep a close eye on Blakewell, do everything he could to keep Bríghid from making a terrible mistake. The sooner the Sasanach left, the better it would be for all of them.
When he was gone, and Bríghid was safe, Ruaidhrí would make the iarla pay.
* * *
Bríghid draped the blanket over Jamie’s shoulders, retreated to the hearth. What was wrong with her? She had helped a sick man, a Sasanach, get out of bed, nothing more. Yet her pulse was racing, and her belly fluttered. From the moment his arm had gone around her shoulder and he’d leaned against her for support, she’d been unable to think. Sparks had coursed through her where their bodies had touched. The few steps to the chair had seemed to last forever.
Perhaps touching him brought back bad memories from what had been the worst night of her life. But what she felt wasn’t revulsion or fear. It was more akin to surprise or excitement, as if some part of her had been shocked into awareness. She’d felt it before. She’d felt it when he’d kissed her. Only then she’d been afraid, confused.
She was still confused.
During the long days and nights when he’d lain near death, she’d convinced herself that strange feeling hadn’t been real. She’d been so bent on saving his life she’d been able to keep her mind off the carved planes of his chest, his broad shoulders, his strong arms. But now he was awake again and growing stronger. He seemed to fill the small cabin, dominating the room with his presence. Even weakened, the masculine power of his body was undeniable. It called to her
, and to her horror, some primal part of her answered.
She tried to clear her thoughts, busied herself making more mayweed and nettle tea.
“Busy hands make for a clean conscience,” her father had always said.
It was near to dinnertime. There were fresh oatcakes she’d cooked to be eaten with butter. She had a stew on the boil. Ruaidhrí had managed to snare a couple of conies this morning, and their meat would add flavor to the onions and potatoes and make a strengthening broth for Jamie. It would also help to stretch their food supply. Finn couldn’t be traveling here with a cart full of bread and bacon every other day, not if they wanted their whereabouts to remain secret. And while Jamie had given Ruaidhrí coin to stock up on supplies like flour, salt pork, and oatmeal when Ruaidhrí had gone to buy paper and ink, someone would have to travel to Baronstown again and risk being seen when their stores were gone.
She carried the cup to the table, placed it far from the precious paper. “I’ve made more tea.”
He didn’t look up, didn’t speak, but wrote with deft strokes, quill scratching noisily as it moved. His thought was obviously bent on his words, not the cup of tea she’d made.
What did she expect? He’d nearly lost his life, had been cut off from his family, his affairs. He’d said he had important business to attend to with Parliament, and if people like the iarla were his friends, he must be a man of some consequence among the English. He had better things to do than make idle chatter with a poor Irish girl.
Bríghid stirred the stew, her eyes taking stock of the cabin. If Jamie had come from a home like that of the iarla, as his speech, horse, and clothing suggested he did, he was used to big rooms with shiny wooden floors and thick carpets, hallways that held nothing but empty chairs. He was used to sleeping in beds that sat high off the floor and thick feather mattresses, downy pillows, and sheets made of the softest linen.
How primitive this cabin must seem to him. His mattress was of threadbare homespun stuffed with straw. It rested on a web of ropes strung across a pinewood frame a mere foot off the ground. There were no carpets, just a dirt floor. Cracks in the crumbling walls let in cold air, rain, mice. There was only one room, and it didn’t have enough chairs for them all to sit on. Smoke filled the air, stung the eyes, left dark smudges on the skin.
