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

by Pamela Clare

  “Don Bellianis did propose to the Sultan, his father-in-law, the finishing of the War with the Emperor of Trebizone, and offered his service to go in person about it. But the Sultan would not by any means consent to that. Neither would the Princess Florisbella bear any such proposition, telling them that she had rather lose ten such Empires than permit him to make such a journey.”

  Bríghid realized with a start it wasn’t Don Bellianis she had pictured in her mind, but Jamie—golden hair instead of dark curls, green eyes instead of brown.

  She didn’t want Jamie to leave. She didn’t want him to go.

  Sweet Mary, what was wrong with her!

  She tried to force her attention back on the page, focused on each word.

  “As low as the Emperor was in his present misfortunes, yet he was high in his own opinion and so in his reply. For having lost that which he chiefly sought—the Princess Florisbella—he cared not what he did.”

  The door flew open, and Jamie stormed in. Without bothering to shut the door, he strode to his corner, picked up his travel bag and walked quickly back outside.

  Bríghid tucked the piece of straw she used to mark her page back in the book, dropped the book on the table, ran to the door.

  The stallion stood outside fully saddled.

  Her heart gave a sickening thud. “They found us?”

  “No, and they’re not going to find us.” Jamie tied his travel bag behind the saddle. “We’re leaving.”

  Bríghid’s mind reeled. “What?”

  He looked over his shoulder at her, his gaze grim. “Gather your things, or we’ll leave without them.”

  For a moment, she was too confused, too astonished to speak. Even as her mind rejected it, she realized the truth. He was leaving. He was leaving tonight, and he was forcing her to go with him.

  A surge of fury helped her find her tongue. “I’m goin’ nowhere, Sasanach! Leave if you want, but I’m stayin’.”

  He checked the cinch, then turned and strode toward her.

  The look in his eyes—hard, unyielding—made her turn on her heels and run.

  But there was nowhere to go in the tiny cabin.

  She darted behind the table, turned to face him, her back to the hearth, heart thudding.

  He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, cut off her only escape. He took one step, two in her direction, his gaze never leaving hers. “Don’t fight me, Bríghid.”

  “Go to hell, Sasanach!” She looked around for some weapon to hold him at bay, saw the knife on the worktable to her left.

  Spurred by pure panic, she lunged for it, grabbed the handle.

  Strong arms imprisoned her from behind, held her motionless.

  “I know you don’t really want to hurt me.” His breath was hot on her cheek.

  “I wouldn’t wager on it.” She tried to twist free, could not.

  “Drop it, Bríghid!” His voice was silky but dark with warning. “You haven’t the strength to fight me, so don’t try.”

  Desperate, she struggled, thrashed. “Let me go, you bastard!”

  “I’ve no wish to bind you, but I will if you force me.”

  She screamed, kicked, felt the wooden heel of her brogues connect with his shin.

  “Ouch, damn it!” He shifted his hold on her and clamped one hand around her wrist. “Drop it!”

  His grip was iron, made her fingers weak.

  “You’re hurtin’ me!”

  “I’m trying to keep you from hurting yourself!”

  The knife slipped from her numb fingers to the earthen floor with a thud.

  In a blink, he lifted her off her feet as if she were a child, turned her to face the wall, pinned her against it with his body. Through the fire of her rage she felt his hard thighs press against her bottom, his hips against her back. Some traitorous part of her reveled in his physical power, in the masculine feel of him. The realization only made her anger sharper. “Curse you, Jamie Blakewell!”

  “If you had any sense, there’d be no need for this.” He pulled her arms behind her, held her wrists firmly together.

  She felt soft cloth against her skin as he bound her hands behind her back. Fury gave way to fear. “Ruaidhrí will be back in a few hours! Please, Jamie, I can’t abandon him! He’s just a boy! He’ll be so afraid!”

  “Your brother isn’t coming back.” He turned her around, marched her over toward the door, strong hands on her shoulders.

  “Wh-what?”

  He grabbed her scarf and cloak from the wall and quickly put them on her. “I explained to Finn what I’m doing in my letter. He’ll know there’s no reason for Ruaidhrí to return. If he has any sense, they’ll be on their way out of the county by dawn.”

  The weight of what he’d said took a moment to sink in. The lying bastard! “You tricked us! You wanted Ruaidhrí to take that message all along!”

  She shrieked in rage, tried to kick him, but only succeeded in pitching herself off balance. She fell toward the floor face first, no hands to break her fall.

  He caught her round the waist before she hit, hauled her backwards up against him, turned her abruptly to face him. His eyes were dark, his gaze tinged with anger. “You can’t get away from me, Bríghid, but you might well hurt yourself trying.”

  He took her elbow, steered her toward the door, which he kicked open with his foot.

  “My book!” Bríghid craned her head back toward the table where her beloved Don Bellianis lay. “Please, my book! My medicines!”

  He ignored her, forced her over to where Hermes stood, lifted her into his arms as if she were nothing more than a child.

  “Please, Jamie! Let me fetch it!”

  He said nothing, lifted her into the saddle, put his foot in the stirrup to mount.

  “Jamie, please! The book—it’s all I have!”

  The catch in her voice made him look. Tears were streaming down her lovely face. She might as well have stabbed him in the gut with the knife.

  He paused, took his foot out of the stirrup. “Where is it?”

  “O-on the t-table.” She sniffed.

  The knife in his gut twisted.

  He walked quickly back through the open door, grabbed the book, looked over the tiny cabin one last time. Little jars of oils and herbs lined the worktable. Two bars of soap sat wrapped in white linen in the back corner. He knew without checking that one smelled of lavender. He tucked the book beneath one arm, gathered both jars and soaps, walked back outside.

  She sat as he’d left her, but she was no longer crying. She held her chin high, refused to look at him, and he was reminded of how she’d looked standing on the great ring at Taragh—like an ancient princess. But, though her dignity suited her well and was one of the things that drew Jamie to her, her pride was going to be the death of him.

  He opened the pockets on his travel bag and carefully placed the bottles and soaps inside. In another, he placed the tattered book. Then he quickly mounted, adjusted Bríghid’s weight in the saddle in front of him, took the reins and urged Hermes to a slow trot.

  It was time to get his life back in order. They were going to London.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Muirín stirred the stew, scooped it into three wooden bowls, careful to give the biggest chunks of beef to Finn. The dear man had risen before dawn and had worked without ceasing all day, Aidan in tow. For four days it had snowed, the cold and wet making for more work. They’d be back any minute, hungry and chilled to the bone.

  She turned back to the hearth, lifted the teakettle from its hook, poured steaming water into the teapot. The oatcakes would be done in a moment, and supper would be ready.

  It had almost been two weeks since Finn had moved in with her. Over a period of several days, he’d brought his chickens and cattle, along with his stores of hay and grain, and housed them with hers. He’d also brought the food from his own cupboards and the pallet that Aidan had once shared with Bríghid. It now sat in one corner, where Finn and Aidan slept each night.

/>   Finn had taken the iarla’s stained sheet—after she’d boiled it clean—and had put up a curtain for her. It hung it from one of the ceiling beams and sheltered her pallet from view. ’Twas to protect her privacy, he’d said. His gesture had touched her deeply.

  Strange that she should already have grown so accustomed to his company.

  She watched each day as Finn went quietly about his work, showing Aidan how best to prepare tar to cure an infection in a cow’s foot, how to strip a turf-bank, how to clean the stall of an impatient and angry bull. There seemed to be nothing he could not do, no farm work beyond the skill of his hands. In this, he was very unlike Domhnall, God rest his soul. Domhnall had been more a daydreamer than a farmer, full of big plans, but out of sorts when an animal fell sick or the blade of a saw broke.

  Muirín tried not to compare the two men. She did not want to dishonor Domhnall’s memory. Yet, it was difficult not to notice the differences. Where Domhnall had been lanky, Finn was solid, his body muscular from years of physical labor. Where Domhnall loved to dance a jig and sing, Finn was quiet, almost shy. Where Domhnall could tell a pretty story or recite a poem, Finn knew the deep history of Ireland and how to read and write.

  God forgive her, but as the days wore on, she found herself wondering what it would be like to lie with Finn, to feel his large, work-callused hands on her skin, his lips on hers as he moved deep inside her. Such thoughts left her sleepless, tormented, made her ache. She could no longer deny it. She wanted him. More than that, she feared she’d fallen in love with him.

  But how did he feel about her? She knew he cared for her. He’d worked hard for her after Domhnall’s death, asking nothing in return. He’d given up his own home to protect her from the iarla and his men. He’d treated her with respect, always the perfect gentleman. Was he just showing uncommon kindness to a widow or did he have feelings for her?

  She placed the butter crock on the table, eager to shift her thoughts before Finn returned and read them in her eyes.

  The door opened, and he entered, Aidan at his heels.

  “Sure and it’s a cold one. I’d say we got another couple of inches today.” He strode toward the hearth, held his hands out to warm them. “Supper smells like a slice of heaven.”

  Muirín scraped oatcakes onto the plates, avoided his gaze, fought to keep her voice light. “Sit and eat. The tea will chase away the chill.”

  Finn and Aidan hastily removed and hung their coats and scarves, sat at the table. Aidan reached for his spoon, but Finn stopped him.

  “Mind your manners, son.”

  Muirín sat, folded her hands, said grace. She tried not to laugh as Aidan crossed himself and tore into his food almost at the same moment.

  “It’s been years since I’ve seen a snow like this one.” Finn took a gulp of tea. “A good foot, and it’s still comin’ down.”

  From his tone of voice, she knew he was worried about Bríghid and Ruaidhrí and their Sasanach visitor. Not once since the iarla had ridden to her doorstep had he dared to make the journey to the squatter’s cabin. He was afraid the iarla had set a watch on the house and would follow him or take advantage of his absence to harm her or little Aidan. But they would not speak about it in front of Aidan for fear of frightening the boy.

  “How is Neasa?” Muirín’s favorite milk cow was about to bear another calf, this one by the enormous bull Domhnall had purchased to increase the herd.

  “She’s cranky and didn’t like it when I touched her belly.”

  Aidan giggled. “She tried to kick him.”

  Muirín laughed, met Finn’s gaze, felt her heart trip. “Did she now?”

  “Aye, she did.” Aidan was clearly delighted. “But Finn was too quick for her.”

  Finn’s smile lit up his handsome face like sunshine. His blue eyes twinkled. “It took a few tries, but I finally felt her calf moving. I expect she’s got a couple weeks left before she’ll be ready to drop.”

  Muirín looked away, reached for the butter crock. Her hand met his. Her breath caught in her throat. Frissons of awareness skittered up her arm. She would have pulled her hand away, but her fingers lingered on his skin, until his hand closed over hers and held it.

  Their gazes collided, and Muirín found her answer.

  Domhnall had never looked at her that way.

  The door burst open, made Muirín jump.

  Finn leapt up, whirled about, knife in hand.

  Ruaidhrí stood just outside the doorway, shaking straw from inside his coat. His cheeks were red from the cold. He smiled. “Is that any way to greet your brother?”

  “Oh, for the love of … Come in! Warm yourself.” Finn pulled his brother through the door, shut out the cold night. “When your teeth have quit chattering, you can tell me what in God’s name you’re doin’ out on a night such as this.”

  Ruaidhrí shivered, pulled the cap from his head, shook off the snow. “I’ve brought a message from the Sasanach.” He reached inside his coat, pulled out a letter.

  Finn took it, opened it, read in silence. When he finished, he folded it, set it on the table, fought to keep the violence of his temper from his face.

  But he didn’t fool Muirín. “What does it say?”

  Finn glanced at Muirín, at Aidan, then at Ruaidhrí. “We’ll talk about it later. For now, let’s hear Aidan tell about what he did today.”

  * * *

  Jamie and Bríghid rode in tense silence deep into the night, through forest and over hills, past hayshed and byre. The snow had stopped but for a stray flake or two, and the sky had cleared. A silvery half moon shone down on a landscape draped in sparkling white.

  Bríghid watched in silent anguish as the world she knew disappeared behind her. She was too angry for tears. She was cold and so very tired. When she had refused to share Jamie’s coat, he had wrapped a blanket around her, but it was not enough to ward off the chill and did nothing to warm her feet. Her struggles had tightened the bonds on her wrists, and her hands had long since lost feeling. Her shoulders ached.

  Why had she trusted him? Why had she believed he was any different from any other Sasanach? Why had she allowed herself to lose herself in daydreams about him?

  He had deceived her. He had deceived her brothers. He had deceived them, and he had betrayed them. And now, as like as not, she’d never see her brothers again. He’d told her he intended to send her back to Ireland when the whole affair with the iarla was settled and her brothers had made a safe home for her in County Clare.

  Bríghid didn’t believe him. Why should she? He hadn’t been truthful with her so far.

  He’d lulled her into a false sense of safety, let her think she could trust him, only to take up where he’d left off that terrible night. He’d wanted to take her to England then. Only Ruaidhrí’s blade had stopped him.

  She gritted her teeth against the ache in her shoulders, tried to wiggle her fingers. Shards of pain shot into her fingertips. She bit back a moan, determined to show no weakness.

  “Bríghid?”

  If she opened her mouth to speak, she would cry out, so she said nothing.

  He reined the stallion to a halt and started to adjust the blanket. As he drew her nearer, his thighs pressed against her hands, sending white-hot pain through her fingers.

  She cried out.

  “Bloody hell!” He cursed, ripped the blanket from her shoulders.

  She felt his fingers work to unbind her wrists, felt the cloth slip away. The pain intensified as blood rushed back into her fingertips. She moaned, bit her lip.

  “You should have said something.” His voice was harsh, but his hands were gentle as he massaged hers back to life.

  His fingers were strong and warm, and gradually the pain left her hands. But when he began to massage the ache from her arms, she jerked away from him, nearly unseating herself. Strong arms steadied her, pulled her close, held her fast.

  “Enough of this stubbornness! Do you think by harming yourself, you can hurt me? Let me warm you and
take what care of you I may.”

  She started to tell him exactly what she thought of his care, but the truth of his words stopped her. She might salvage some of her pride by refusing to let him help her, but she would suffer for it.

  He wrapped her cloak tightly around her, pulled her inside his coat, then draped the blanket over her skirts. “We’ll soon be in Baronstown.”

  Before long, she was reasonably warm everywhere except her toes, and she had just begun to fight sleep when they reached the edge of town. Houses, their windows darkened, loomed out of the snow like shadows. A single street stretched into the distance, looking eerie in the glow of moonlit snow.

  Jamie guided the stallion down the road, turned into the courtyard of a darkened two-story building. A sign hanging above the door read, “The White Stag.”

  His voice startled the silence. “Whatever you’re thinking, whatever scheme you have in mind, I’m warning you now, Bríghid, don’t try it.”

  “Go to hell, Jamie Blakewell.” Never mind that she had no plans for escape—yet. She was too tired, too cold for that. Now was not the time.

  He dismounted, lifted her to the ground, held her to steady her.

  Her feet were numb with cold, her limbs stiff and sore. “Let go of me.”

  “Not quite yet.” Jamie tried the door, found it locked, knocked with a gloved fist.

  “They’re asleep. They’ll not hear—”

  The bolt turned. The door opened.

  Without a word, a short and sturdy fellow gestured them indoors, shut out the night behind them. “You made it, Sir.”

  “It’s good to see you, Travis.” Jamie shook the man’s hand. “When did you get here?”

  “Three days ago, Sir.”

  “Is everything ready?”

  “Aye, Sir. She’s ready to sail at a moment’s notice. We’ve got your room and carriage booked under the name George Washington, just like you asked.”

  Jamie grinned. “Rouse the innkeeper. I’ve a lady in need of a hot bath and some tea.”