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

by Pamela Clare

  Being in the cabin with her was hell.

  But the tension he felt was more than sexual. His sense of unease was growing stronger by the hour, and he’d found himself searching for ways to occupy both mind and hands. He’d risen this morning unable to hide his misgivings and had immediately left the confinement of the cabin. First he’d gone for a short ride—to condition Hermes, he’d said. In truth, he was scouting, looking for any sign that Sheff and his men might have set out despite the frigid weather. All he’d found were rabbit tracks.

  Then he’d cleaned Hermes’s stall, groomed the horse as best he could, hauled water from the spring. When that was done, he’d cleaned his pistol. He’d performed this task in the dim light of the cowshed because the sight of the weapon frightened Bríghid, reminded her of their peril. A peril that was growing.

  Jamie could feel it.

  He looked out of the cowshed at the falling snow, slid his pistol into the waistline of his breeches. Sheff would have gotten Jamie’s message days ago and would be using this time to think, to plan. Sheff now knew they were somewhere nearby. When the snow let up, he’d saddle his horses, arm his men, and release the hounds. It was just a matter of time before he found them.

  Jamie wanted to leave now. His every instinct told him not to delay. But was he doing the right thing?

  Aye, he was. It was the only option open to him. He’d considered other possibilities, mulled them over in the dark hours of the night, but there was only one way to be certain Bríghid was safe.

  And what of Ruaidhrí?

  Jamie cursed under his breath, took up a makeshift hoof pick and walked over to Hermes’s stall. Keeping busy was the answer to the endless stream of questions in his mind, the constant uneasiness.

  He patted the stallion’s withers, slid a hand down its left foreleg.

  Compliantly, Hermes lifted his hoof.

  Jamie held the horse’s pastern between his knees and gently dug out the dirt that had become lodged inside the horseshoe.

  What of Ruaidhrí?

  Ruaidhrí was reckless and governed by his temper. He was a danger to himself and his family. Had he kept his mouth shut, likely none of this would have happened. But he was barely more than a boy, and Jamie understood at least some of the young man’s rage. Would Jamie have kept his mouth shut at sixteen if the French had invaded Virginia and taken his land? Not bloody likely.

  Ruaidhrí was not a bad sort, but he was young and inexperienced. Jamie felt the need to keep Ruaidhrí safe, not only for the boy’s sake, but for Bríghid, who clearly loved her brothers and who had already lost so much.

  But how?

  He pondered this as he checked around the frog for stones, then released the hoof, sliding his hands reassuringly up the stallion’s leg to its flank. Then he moved to Hermes’s left hind leg.

  What about Finn? As soon as Jamie returned to England, Finn would become an easy target for Sheff’s wrath. Somehow, he needed to warn Finn about the encounter at Taragh, let him know of the danger. Finn needed to take Ruaidhrí, Muirín, and the boy Aidan and flee the county before Sheff had time to move against them.

  Jamie brushed the remaining dirt from the left hind hoof and moved round the horse’s rump to its right hind leg. Then it occurred to him. It was so simple.

  He took the horse’s right hind hoof, scraped it clean, a new urgency in his actions.

  He would have to be careful. Ruaidhrí had been furious with him since the day he’d taken Bríghid riding, furious and spoiling for a fight. He wasn’t likely to take direction from Jamie. But Jamie had been sixteen once. He remembered how he’d felt when Alec had tried to tell him what to do. Poor Alec. The man had shown the patience of a saint.

  Jamie brushed the hoof clean, moved to the next one, giving the horse a pat on its flank as he passed. Hermes’ coat had grown thick during the five weeks he’d been stabled here. With no proper curry comb, no way to clip his coat, he was beginning to look shaggy and unkempt.

  “I’ll give you a thorough grooming when we get back to London, old boy.”

  “And when will that bloody be?” As if conjured by Jamie’s thoughts, Ruaidhrí stood just inside the cowshed doorway, arms across his chest, legs spread in a stance clearly meant to convey defiance.

  “I leave as soon as the snow lets up.” Jamie brushed the remaining dirt from the hoof, released it. He brushed the dirt from his breeches. “I’m glad you’re here, Ruaidhrí. I need to take a message to Finn.”

  * * *

  Bríghid lifted the last two potatoes out of the basket, turned them over in her hands. They were covered with eyes and had gone a bit soft, but they would do. She had cooked with worse many times and had been grateful for the meal.

  Food was running low. There was a fair amount of oatmeal left, a bit of butter, a few onions, and some old, wrinkled apples she’d plucked from the trees outside, but little else. If not for the brace of conies Jamie had somehow managed to catch this morning, they’d have no meat. After this meal, the potatoes would be gone. She’d have to make this stew stretch.

  There was no way around it. They’d have to go for supplies soon, either to Baronstown or home. And that would mean risking discovery.

  Bríghid took up her knife, began to cut the eyes away, tried to ignore the fear that knotted in her belly. Fear of hunger. Fear of being caught. Fear of nightmares that might come true.

  That afternoon at Teagh-mor had made her realize just how much danger she and Ruaidhrí were in. The iarla now knew they were not far from his lands. It was only a matter of time before they found this place—perhaps weeks or days or maybe even hours.

  They ought to flee, take the wagon, take Muirín and Aidan and make the journey to the home of their cousins in County Clare. But it was such a long road, even during the warm days of summer, and they had little coin to spare for room or board. They’d wind up sleeping among the trees, poorer than a band of tinkers, who at least had their wagons for shelter. It was a journey she dreaded.

  She was grateful the snow had prevented Jamie from leaving. For four days it had snowed, fat flakes driven by the chill north wind. As long as the snow continued to fall, he would stay. And while he was here, she knew she was protected. She’d seen what he’d done near Rath Laoghaire. She’d watched him take the iarla’s man fiercely by the throat, press his pistol to the man’s head. She heard the threat he’d made.

  If he so much as touches her, or anyone dear to her, I’ll be hunting him—with a knife between my teeth. And I won’t fail.

  And she’d known without a doubt he’d meant what he said.

  Certainly, there was nothing more to her reason for wanting him to stay. He was a source of protection, and these were dangerous times. It had nothing to do with the way her heart skittered every time he looked at her, or smiled, or accidentally touched her. It had nothing to do with the way his kisses had made her weak and breathless. It certainly had nothing to do with how wonderful, needy, and frantic she’d felt as his tongue had possessed her mouth and his body had pressed against hers.

  You have now been good and thoroughly kissed, Bríghid Ní Maelsechnaill.

  Aye, she had. Kissed by a Sasanach. And she had liked it.

  Was it always that way between men and women? Is that how her mother had felt when she’d kissed her father? Or was Bríghid unusually lustful? She’d felt lustful.

  No, she’d felt free. He had kissed her, held her, and, lying in his arms, she had felt like the dawn—new, radiant, completely alive.

  Was she starting to have feelings for him?

  She dismissed that question without bothering to wait for the answer. She, Bríghid Ní Maelsechnaill, have feelings for an Englishman and a Protestant? Not likely! Not even one as decent and handsome and strapping as Jamie Blakewell.

  A pesky voice in her head laughed at this answer. Why, the voice asked, was she thinking about him in her bed every night? Why did she imagine what it would be like to lie with him? Why did she do her best to recall in vivid
detail the taste of his lips, the feel of his strong hands on her skin, the planes and angles of his strong body?

  With a start, Bríghid realized it had happened again. She’d become so distracted she’d forgotten what she was doing. In her left hand, she still held a potato, but the knife had somehow slipped from her right hand.

  She muttered an oath, took up the knife and resumed cutting.

  She heard shouting outdoors, sighed. Jamie and Ruaidhrí were arguing again.

  The door opened with a rush of chill air.

  “I’m telling you it’s too dangerous.” Jamie bowed his head and ducked through the doorway. “I can’t let you do it.”

  Ruaidhrí followed, his face red. “I don’t recall anyone puttin’ you in charge, Sasanach.”

  “It’s a long distance, and the earl’s men are looking for you. Just draw me a map, and I’ll be on my way.” Jamie walked over to his travel bag and reached for something.

  Bríghid put down both knife and potatoes. “What—”

  Ruaidhrí ignored her. “You’ll just get yourself lost. It should be me goin’.”

  “Goin’ where?”

  Jamie tossed her an annoyed look, pulled out ink and paper. “I need to get a message to Finn. I’ve asked Ruaidhrí for directions, but he seems to think he should be the one to go.”

  “I know the land, Sasanach. You don’t.”

  “I’m a fast learner. Besides, this will require both speed and stealth. I’ll leave Hermes here so that if you need to get away quickly, you’ll be able to ride.”

  “Tell me—” Bríghid felt her fear swell.

  “I’m swift and quiet as a fox.” Ruaidhrí puffed up his chest.

  Bríghid stomped her foot, shouted. “Someone had best be tellin’ me what the bloody hell is goin’ on!”

  Jamie and Ruaidhrí gaped at her, astonished at her outburst.

  Ruaidhrí spoke first. “The Sasanach has decided he needs to let Finn know what happened at Taragh in case the iarla tries to take his anger out on Finn.”

  Bríghid hadn’t thought of that. But Jamie was right. Now that he knew they were nearby, the iarla wasn’t likely to believe that Finn knew nothing. Her brother would be an easy mark, a target, a hostage to be used against them. Someone needed to warn him.

  Ruaidhrí went on. “I should go, bein’ as I already know the way.”

  “I don’t like the idea of either of you out in this cold.” She didn’t like the idea of Finn going unwarned, either.

  “There are still a few hours of daylight left. A strong man ought to be able to make it there and back before dawn.” Jamie placed paper and ink on the table. “Draw me a map.”

  “What if you get lost and spend the night in the wild?” Ruaidhrí glared at him.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. The American wilderness is much more dangerous than anything you have here.”

  Bríghid didn’t know what to think. She didn’t want either her brother or Jamie out in the snow. She knew Jamie was strong and fast and had learned tricks from the Indians that enabled him to track, fight, move graceful and quiet as a cat. She’d seen that for herself. But Ruaidhrí knew the way and was strong and capable enough to make the trip himself. He’d done it before. “Perhaps you should both go.”

  Both men shouted in unison. “No!”

  Jamie glanced at her. “Someone needs to stay here to protect you.”

  She tried not to look relieved. She hadn’t liked the thought of being alone at night.

  “Aye, he’s right, Bríghid. We cannot leave you alone.” Ruaidhrí pointed at Jamie. “You’ve got the pistol, Sasanach. You should stay with her. I can take care of myself.”

  Jamie’s brow furrowed with disapproval. “I can’t let you take that risk.”

  “You don’t have the right to be tellin’ us what to do. This is a matter for Bríghid and me to decide as it involves the fate of our family.”

  Jamie crossed his arms over his chest, met Ruaidhrí’s gaze. “Very well.”

  At a truce, both men looked at her expectantly.

  She hesitated. A dozen “what ifs” raced through her mind, none of them reassuring. She looked at her brother, who was impatient and fair bursting with vinegar, and Jamie, who returned her measuring gaze with an inscrutable gaze of his own. “Let Ruaidhrí take it, Jamie. He knows the way. He won’t get lost, and he knows how to hide and keep warm.”

  Jamie stood, hands on his hips, his expression grave. “If they should catch him or he should fail—”

  “That won’t happen, Sasanach.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t.” Jamie sat at the table, quickly wrote a letter, folded it. He dripped wax from the candle onto the paper to seal it, marked it with his ring.

  Bríghid took a deep breath, worried for her brother’s sake. “Let me pack you some food to take along. Meanwhile, sit down and have some stew. There’s nothing in it yet but rabbit, but it’ll warm and nourish you.”

  She dished Ruaidhrí a bowl of broth and cooked meat, then took the cloth bag that had held potatoes and dropped in several oatcakes, a few bites of cheese and an apple.

  “Take this.” Jamie rummaged through is travel bag and pulled out a leather pouch. “Pemmican.”

  Bríghid took the pouch, unsure she’d heard him correctly. “Pem … What?”

  “It’s a kind of travel food used by the Indians—dried meat and fruit set in animal fat. It tastes like hell, but it will fill your stomach and give you strength.”

  Ruaidhrí wrinkled his nose. “I’ve heard they eat dogs.”

  A broad smile spread over Jamie’s face. “Not if young Irishmen are available.”

  Bríghid smiled despite herself, dropped the pemmi—whatever it was—in the bag. “Any Indian silly enough to eat my brother would end up with a devil of a bellyache.”

  In no time, Ruaidhrí had filled his stomach and stuffed his coat with straw for extra warmth.

  “Remember to ask Finn for bacon, eggs, potatoes, cheese—everything you can carry.” Bríghid wrapped his scarf around his neck, pulled his hat down over his tousled blonde hair. “There’s a blanket in the bag if you get too cold.”

  Jamie shook his head. “It should be me going.”

  “Oh, shut your gob.” Ruaidhrí rolled his eyes, tucked the letter in his coat. “You’d just get lost, and then I’d have to go find you. This saves me time.”

  “Be careful, Ruaidhrí.” Bríghid gave her brother a hug.

  “I’ll be fine.” Ruaidhrí kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t worry.”

  “I’m your sister. It’s my job to worry.”

  Ruaidhrí stepped to the door, opened it, looked back. Doubt clouded his eyes. “An mbeidh tú sabháilte anseo leis an Sasanach úd?”

  Was she going to be safe alone with the Sasanach?

  She glanced over her shoulder at Jamie. He stood, arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the wall by the hearth. She would never be safe around him, not when her own desires betrayed her. She nodded. “Aye.”

  “See you in the morning, sister.” Ruaidhrí nodded, slung the bag over his shoulder. “Take care of her, Sasanach, or—”

  “She’ll be safe.”

  Bríghid felt a stab of sadness. Her little brother looked so young and vulnerable walking into the snowy afternoon alone.

  “He’ll be fine.” Jamie came to stand beside her, looked out the door at the sky. “The snow is letting up.”

  “So it is.” Her feeling of sadness darkened to gloom.

  * * *

  Bríghid cleaned the last of the dishes, dried her hands on her apron, looked toward the door for what must have been the tenth time.

  Jamie had gone out to the cowshed as soon as he’d finished wolfing down his supper. He’d said he needed to settle the stallion for the night. Did he usually spend all bleedin’ day with his horse?

  Not that it mattered to her. She had her book to keep her company until bedtime. She didn’t need him around.

  If she’d thought he’
d take advantage of being alone with her, she’d been wrong. Quiet he’d been during dinner—pensive. There’d been tension in every line of his body from his furrowed brow to the grim line of his lips to the fist he’d kept clenched on the table while he ate. She’d tried to make conversation, and though he’d listened to her, he hadn’t had much to say himself. Something was worrying him, and that made Bríghid afraid. When he’d noticed her looking at him, he’d said his mind was on political matters in London and he needed to be leaving as soon as Ruaidhrí returned.

  Her heart had fallen at these words. “So soon?”

  She had tried to imagine going about her life without him, never seeing him again. She didn’t like the way it made her feel.

  Then he’d said something that had shocked her utterly.

  “You should come with me. Let me take you to my brother-in-law’s estate outside London where you’ll be safe. The earl won’t be able to come near you there.”

  She’d gaped at him, speechless at first. “I am not leavin’ Ireland. I am not leavin’ my brothers.”

  “By staying, you place them in danger. If Sheff—the Earl—knew you were on our estate under my protection, he would have no choice but leave all of you alone.”

  She’d dropped her spoon, unable to eat more, said nothing.

  It was true her presence here brought greater danger to her brothers. As men, they’d be able to move more freely without her to protect and feed. But what would she do without them so far from home? How would she be able to stand living among Sasanach, sharing their meals, speaking their language, while their countrymen continued to enslave her beloved Ireland?

  “You hate the English that much?”

  His question had startled her. Had he read her thoughts? “When you’re gone, my brothers and I will leave for County Clare. We’ll be safe there.”

  He’d looked at her long and hard. “As you wish.”

  Then he’d excused himself and gone back to his horse.

  Bríghid walked to the bed, lifted her pillow, pulled out the tattered book, determined to fight off the sadness that had gripped her. Though she knew the story of Don Bellianis by heart, it was still her favorite. She carried it to a chair by the hearth, sat where the light could hit the pages, carefully opened it to where she’d left off.