by Pamela Clare
A hundred terrible possibilities had crossed her mind. The iarla putting out a reward for her brothers for some fictitious crime. The iarla showing the bloody sheet throughout the parish. The iarla threatening Finn, demanding to know where she, Jamie, and Ruaidhrí were hiding. Since this morning, her imagination had run wild, and fear had filled her belly with butterflies.
But the men seemed unaffected. They stood behind the cowshed taking aim at a row of apples Jamie had set up along the low stone wall. Had they lost their senses? If they were caught, they’d be hanged. What had driven them to this?
“At half-cock, it cannot be fired. You must pull it back to full-cock like this before you pull the trigger.” Jamie demonstrated by aiming the pistol at an apple and pulling the trigger. Nothing happened. “Now let’s see you cock it, aim, and fire.”
Jamie pointed the barrel at the ground and handed the pistol to Finn, who took it awkwardly in hand. He raised it, cocked it, hesitated.
“Align the sight top of the barrel with the bottom your target, and gently squeeze the trigger. Don’t jerk it. Keep your arm steady.”
The crack of gunfire made Bríghid jump. The sound seemed to echo forever. Sweet Mary, what if someone heard them?
Finn shook his head, began to reload. The apples sat unmolested where Jamie had placed them.
“You pulled up a bit at the last second, a common mistake. It takes hours of regular practice to shoot well. Try it again.”
Again Finn tried, as Jamie coached him and Ruaidhrí offered unsolicited advice.
Bríghid watched, envious of the easy camaraderie Jamie seemed to have built with Finn and even Ruaidhrí. He was never this unguarded when speaking with her, but reserved, distant. Never had they had a simple conversation. Never had he given her a glimpse of the thoughts that hid behind those green eyes of his.
He’d shed his greatcoat and stood in his shirtsleeves, seemingly oblivious to the cold. With his fine leather boots and breeches and the soft linen of his shirt, he looked every bit the refined country gentleman. He moved with the easy grace of a man confident in himself and his abilities.
Again and again Finn fired. A few times he hit the stones, sent up a spray of mortar, but the apples remained untouched.
“One more, and we’ll give Ruaidhrí a try. He’s been giving you advice for a while. Let’s put him to the test and see if it’s as easy as he says it is.”
Finn stood sideways, took aim, fired. An apple seemed to explode.
Finn let out a whoop, got a smack on the back from Ruaidhrí.
Bríghid forgot herself, cheered with them.
“Did you see that, Bríghid? He got it!”
“Aye, Ruaidhrí, I saw.”
Her brothers hastened to the fence to inspect Finn’s damaged apple. Beside them stood Jamie, his face made impossibly handsome by a wide grin. The ties of his shirt had come loose, and Bríghid could see the crisp golden curls that nestled there. She remembered the feel of them against her cheek.
She’d been afraid that night, afraid and angry. But now she had so many questions, questions she dared not ask. What would it be like to lie in his arms willingly, to lie against his chest each night as she slept? What would it be like to be kissed each day the way she’d been kissed that night? What would it feel like to have him look at her the way he’d looked at her when he’d lain above her, his strong body stretched, vigorous and naked, over hers?
Something clenched deep in her belly at the memory.
As if he knew she was thinking of him, Jamie turned toward her. He met her gaze, held it, his eyes the unfathomable green of the sea.
Her breath caught in her throat.
For a moment, neither of them moved nor spoke. Bríghid wondered if he really had read her mind, if he knew that even now she was remembering the feel of his lips against hers. Inadvertently, her gaze was drawn to the full curve of his mouth.
Jamie felt he’d slipped into a dream. He’d looked at her and every rational thought had fled his mind. She stood huddled in her thin cloak, her cheeks red from cold, her gaze fixed on … his mouth. Her fingers rested lightly on her lips, traced their outline in an unconscious gesture both innocent and deeply sensual. He knew without knowing she was thinking of kissing him.
His blood ran hot. Her gaze rose to meet his again, her sapphire eyes full of innocent longing. She shivered.
Jamie forced himself to turn away, strode to the workbench where he’d tossed his greatcoat. He retrieved it, walked quickly back to where Bríghid stood, her gaze now fixed shyly on her feet.
“You’re cold.” He wrapped the heavy woolen coat around her shoulders, fastened a button beneath her chin. His fingers inadvertently touched the skin of her throat. The contact sent sparks through him. “That ought to keep the chill out.”
“What about you? You’ve only just shed a fever. You shouldn’t even be out here.” She gazed up at him, her face the picture of womanly sweetness.
“I’m fine.” He brushed away her worries, tried not to notice how her concern touched him. Then something gave him pause. “What happened to your grandmother’s brooch?”
Bríghid’s gaze dropped to her feet. “I—”
“Hey, Sasanach, I’m ready.” Ruaidhrí’s voice intruded.
“Aye, I’ll be right there.” He glanced over his shoulder to where Ruaidhrí stood expectantly, then turned back to Bríghid. “Did you lose it?”
She looked up at him, and he could see the sadness she tried to conceal. “I sold it.”
“You sold it?”
“Aye. I had no poppy, no turpentine. I—”
“You sold it to buy medicine for me?” Jamie felt strangely pleased. He knew what that brooch meant to her.
She nodded, looked away. “It was my duty to see you well cared for, and my brooch was the only thing at hand.”
Her duty.
Jamie’s ardor began to cool. His voice hardened. “If you had but told me, Bríghid, I’d have given Ruaidhrí coin to buy it back.”
“That’s very kind, but—”
“But you’d rather lose it than ask for my help?”
“Your help might well get my brothers killed, Sasanach. If they are caught with your pistol, there will be no mercy.” She unbuttoned his coat, let it fall to the ground. “If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t need anyone’s help!”
With one last withering look, she turned and disappeared inside the cabin.
His anger barely in check, Jamie turned back to Ruaidhrí, who bounced on his heels, eager for his turn at the trigger. Jamie repeated the same lesson he’d given to Finn, barely aware of his own words.
Damn her! How like a woman to twist the situation! How like her to blame their predicament on him! He had tolerated their insults. For God’s sake, he had even excused her brother’s attempt to murder him. Now he was giving them the ability to protect themselves, and she blamed him for it? She had no idea what he risked by tarrying here, what was at stake for him. Hadn’t he almost lost his life trying to save her? Did she not realize that in teaching them to shoot, he, too, could be branded a traitor and executed?
“Like this?” Ruaidhrí turned toward him, his attention on the pistol, which he absentmindedly aimed at Jamie’s chest.
In one move, Jamie stepped out of the line of fire and wrenched the weapon from the boy’s hand. He looked Ruaidhrí gravely in the eyes. “Never point a loaded weapon at another man. Your carelessness could get someone killed.”
His anger with Bríghid gave his voice a harsh tone he hadn’t intended.
Ruaidhrí flushed to the roots of his blonde hair, looked at the ground, mumbled something that sounded suspiciously profane.
Jamie pointed the barrel at the ground and held it out again. “A loaded pistol must never be handled lightly.”
Ruaidhrí’s gaze met his, and Jamie realized the boy was embarrassed as much as angry. Ruaidhrí took the weapon carefully and listened to the remainder of Jamie’s instruction. By the time he was ready to fire th
e pistol, Ruaidhrí’s enthusiasm was restored. But enthusiasm quickly turned to frustration as he failed to hit a target, and Jamie found himself grateful for the reprieve that arrived with cups of steaming liquid.
“I’ve made broth.” Bríghid handed them each a mug. She did not meet Jamie’s gaze.
She was still angry. Fine. So was he.
“Ah, Bríghid, my sweet, you’re an angel.” Finn drank his in several hearty gulps. “It warms a man to his toes, so it does.”
Finn was right. Jamie swallowed his broth, grateful for its warmth.
Ruaidhrí glowered into his mug.
“Oh, don’t take it so hard, Ruaidhrí, my lad.” Finn laughed, clearly enjoying his revenge for all of Ruaidhrí’s unsolicited advice. “Not every man can shoot an apple at twenty paces.”
“Let’s see you do it, Sasanach.” Ruaidhrí stood before him, pointed the barrel at the ground and thrust the pistol at Jamie, an unmistakable look of challenge on his young face.
“Very well.” Jamie handed Bríghid his empty mug, then reloaded the pistol. He motioned for the three of them to stand behind him. “I’m aiming for that apple.”
“The one on the end?”
“No, Ruaidhrí, the one hanging on the tree.”
“Hanging on the tree? Bloody hell! That must be at least —”
“I’d say it’s a good thirty paces.” Jamie turned, raised his right arm. “Let’s see if I can shoot it out of the tree without hitting it.”
“He’s daft! Hit it in the stem at thirty paces?”
“Shh, Ruaidhrí, let him concentrate.”
But Jamie didn’t need Finn’s help. He quickly focused on the apple, lifted his arm so that the tip of the barrel pointed a hair’s breadth above the fruit, squeezed.
A crack. A burst of smoke. The tang of gunpowder.
Jamie lowered the pistol.
The apple had vanished.
Finn and Ruaidhrí ran forward, leapt the fence.
“I’ll be buggered.” Finn held the apple up for all to see.
It was whole.
“I can’t believe it! How did you do that?” Ruaidhrí began to talk in excited Gaelic with his brother.
Bríghid gaped in astonishment, unable to hide her surprise as Jamie turned to face her. “You’re quite the marksman.”
“My brother-in-law saw to it I was trained in the gentlemanly arts from a young age.”
“Is killin’ a gentlemanly art? Or breakin’ the law?”
“Yes, Bríghid, when the occasion calls for it. Finn is only doing what he must as a man and the head of this household.”
Fear clutched at her belly. “What aren’t you telling’ me? Can you not see it’s worse to let me imagine a thousand horrible things than to tell me the truth?”
Unshed tears pooled in her eyes. She hastily blinked them away, ashamed to reveal her turmoil to a man who already saw far too much of what was inside her.
Jamie looked down at her, his brow furrowed. Then his gaze softened. He seemed to hesitate for a moment. “The earl is searching for you, Bríghid. He’s scouring the countryside, and he aims to find you.”
She felt the color drain from her face, dread settling in her belly like lead. “I feared so.”
His hands cupped her shoulders through her cloak, steadied her. “There’s more. He threatened Muirín this morning.”
Bríghid gasped. “Muirín! What about Aidan?”
“He’s fine. Finn has moved in with the two of them to keep them both safe.”
“And you’ve given Finn the pistol in case … ”
“Aye, Bríghid, just in case.”
“I see. Thank you for tellin’ me the truth.” She turned, walked with a calm she did not feel back inside the cabin, closing the door behind her.
Then she let the tears come.
Chapter Twelve
Bríghid lay flat in the tall grass, panic like ice in her veins. A scream was trapped in her throat. Her mouth had gone dry. Her pulse was a hammer in her ears.
If she didn’t move, he might not see her.
She held her breath, forced herself to lie completely still. She could hear the soft clop of hooves against the hard-packed dirt road.
Keep moving! Keep moving!
Even as the words echoed through her mind, the hooves slowed, stopped.
Sweet Mary, no!
She pressed herself flatter against the cold earth, prayed. She could hear the creak of his saddle, the horse’s breathing, the impatient stamp of hooves.
Then came the predatory hiss of laughter.
He’d seen her.
Hooves tore into the grassy ground, headed toward her.
Her heart nearly exploded from fear. She leapt up, lifted her skirts, fled toward the nearby forest.
Pounding hooves approached from behind, drawing nearer and nearer.
Into the trees she ran. Branches tore at her skirts, scratched her face. Undergrowth blocked her path, tripped her. She dodged the thorny branch of a hawthorn, felt her ankle twist on a stone. The muscles in her legs burned. Her lungs ached for air.
She didn’t stop, couldn’t stop.
He was gaining.
She tried to run faster, heard horse and rider coming up behind her. But no matter how hard she tried, her legs could move no faster. She felt like she was running through deep water, legs churning uselessly.
Dear God, no!
Then he was upon her, one terrible hand clutching at her. She whirled about, gaped in horror at the sneering face of the iarla’s man, the one who had groped her.
She screamed, but no sound came from her throat.
Jamie rolled over, pulled from sleep. Something warm and fuzzy was running up his leg beneath his blanket. He didn’t need to look to know it was a mouse. They were the real residents of this cabin. Still half asleep, he reached beneath the blanket, grabbed the little rodent, flung it aside.
But the mouse wasn’t what had awoken him. There was something else.
Now fully alert, he listened.
A soft whimper came from across the room.
Bríghid.
She was having another nightmare. It was the third night in a row.
He understood nightmares, understood what it was like to be afraid to close your eyes. In the weeks and months that had followed the Wyandot attack and seeing Nicholas’s charred body, he’d dreaded sleep. He sat, looked across to the other corner. Ruaidhrí appeared to be fast asleep, his breathing slow and even, his eyes closed.
Bríghid thrashed in her bed, small frantic whimpers coming from her throat.
Jamie glanced back at Ruaidhrí’s sleeping form, threw off his blanket, and quickly crossed the room to the bed, the earthen floor cold against his bare feet. He sat beside her, stroked her cheek. “Bríghid, wake up.”
Her head twisted from side to side, and she pushed his hand away. “Éirigh as!”
Jamie lifted her into his arms, held her tight, whispered in her ear. “Wake up, Bríghid, my sweet.”
She struggled against him, trapped in her nightmare. Her lids fluttered open, and for one moment she gazed at him through eyes dark with dreams. Then she blinked. “J-Jamie?”
“You’re safe, Bríghid. It was a dream, nothing more.”
She pressed her face into his chest, clung to him. Her entire body trembled, and Jamie felt renewed fury at the man who had caused this. He didn’t have to ask what she had dreamed to know Sheff was the source. Though she tried to hide it, he knew she was terrified that Sheff was looking for her.
Her fear and helplessness tore at him. He wanted to comfort her, to assure her no harm would befall her. His need to protect her, to make her feel safe, was so strong it startled him. In the light of day, he might have questioned it, fought it, dismissed it. But here in the dark with Bríghid so afraid she trembled and wept, he surrendered. He held her and ignored the heat she kindled in his blood. He demanded nothing, questioned nothing, offered her only his strength, his reassurance.
Grateful f
or Jamie’s presence, Bríghid held onto him, her body shaking uncontrollably. She felt sick to her stomach, tears flowing down her cheeks. She fought to quell the fear that made her heart pound.
“Shhh, love, it’s going to be all right. I won’t let him touch you. I won’t let him near you.” His voice was deep, soothing. He felt warm, strong, his hand caressing her hair.
The icy fingers that clutched her heart began to melt. She lifted her gaze to meet his, feeling awkward. He hadn’t touched her this way since ... “I’m sorry. I woke you.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” He gently wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. “Shall I make you a cup of tea?”
His concern, his thoughtfulness surprised her. “There’s no need … ”
But he had already released her and was walking toward the hearth, where the fire had burned down to glowing embers.
She hugged the blanket closer. The cabin seemed chilly and dark now that he had stepped away. She heard peat land with a muffled thud on the embers, and soon a blazing fire filled the cabin with warmth and golden light.
Bríghid watched as Jamie hung the kettle over the fire. Dressed only in his shirt and drawers, he opened the tea canister, filled the linen tea sock with dried leaves and set it in the waiting pot.
No man besides her father had ever made her a cup of tea. It felt intimate in a way she couldn’t explain and left her feeling flustered. But Jamie Blakewell confused her in so many ways. She was too tired and shaken to figure him out tonight—or to think about the way he made her feel. She accepted the cup of steaming tea from his hands.
“Drink. It will help to banish your dreams.”
Curious, Ruaidhrí watched through half-closed eyes as the Sasanach comforted his sister, made her tea, sat on a chair beside her bed, spoke softly to her.
The bastard Sasanach cared for Bríghid. A blind man could see it.
Worse, Bríghid cared for the bastard Sasanach. Ruaidhrí was certain, even if she herself refused to admit it.
The hell of it was that the bastard Sasanach wasn’t such a bastard. Ruaidhrí had watched the man closely these past weeks, and the Sasanach was always surprising him. He was English and a Protestant, but he had broken English law to help a family of Catholics. He was deadly with a gentleman’s pistol, but knew how to wield a hammer and a hayfork, too. His clothes were as soft and pretty as a lady’s, but his tanned skin and muscles proved he’d done his share of manly work. Yesterday Ruaidhrí had returned from cutting peat to find Blakewell covered to his elbows in clay from patching the cracks in the cabin walls. Loathe as he was to admit it, Ruaidhrí was finding it harder and harder to hate the man.
