by Pamela Clare
“My pleasure, Sir. Good evening, Miss.” Travis gave a slight bow of his head, smiled at her. “Your room is upstairs, last door on the right.”
Bríghid listened in disbelief to their exchange, gaped at Jamie as Travis hurried off to do Jamie’s bidding. “You planned this all along!”
“Keep your voice down.” He took her arm, led her up the stairs, down the hall.
She tried to jerk her arm from his grasp, failed. Then it dawned on her. “The letter. You arranged this when you sent that letter to London weeks ago.”
“Aye.” Jamie opened the door to the room, pulled her inside with him, closed it behind them. “Hate me if you wish, Bríghid, but this is the only sure way to spare you a life of misery as the earl’s whore. Of course, if that’s what you want, let me know. I’ll release you right now and spare myself the headache.”
She was tired, chilled, and his words hurt. She spoke the first thing that came to her. “I do hate you, Sasanach! I thought you were different, but you’re just another Englishman who thinks he knows what’s best for the Irish! You’re just like the iarla!”
Before she could react, he pulled her roughly against him, forced her head back so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. His voice was harsh, his eyes hard. “If I were anything like the Earl, I’d have spent the past six weeks enjoying myself between your legs and you would likely be breeding a half-English bastard by now.”
A knock came at the door.
Jamie released her, opened it, his jaw tense, his lips drawn into a grim line.
“My man is seeing to your horse, Master Washington.” A plump older woman, obviously roused from sleep and clad in her dressing gown, entered carrying a tray. “It’s just tea and bread, Sir, but it’s the best I could do in the middle of the night with no warning.”
Bríghid could hear by the woman’s speech she was English and dropped the idea of asking her for help. No doubt Jamie had planned this part of it, too.
“It will do nicely, Madam. Thank you.” Jamie turned to Travis, who stood in the hallway. “I have business to attend to. Watch the door. No one but the innkeeper’s wife may go in—or out. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
With that, Jamie strode from the room and was gone.
In what seemed like no time, Bríghid found herself stepping into a copper tub of steaming water set before a blazing fire. Who could imagine a bath could feel so good? As she soaked and washed with the soap Jamie had brought from the cabin, the cold and the tension melted away, and she found herself all but falling asleep in the water.
She knew she should be plotting ways to escape, but she could hardly summon the strength to get out of the tub. Struggling to keep her eyes open, she dried, dressed, pulled down the blankets and crawled beneath the covers. She thought of Jamie and wondered vaguely what business he could possibly have in Baronstown in the middle of the night. She wondered when he would return and whether he would try to join her in bed. She started to curse him, started to plot her escape, but by the time her head touched the pillow, sleep had claimed her.
* * *
Jamie sat in front of the fire, watched Bríghid sleep. Her dark hair spread like a sable blanket over her pillow. Her face was almost impossibly beautiful in the half-light of the fire, her sooty lashes a contrast to the creamy white of her skin. Her breathing was slow and even, and he knew no nightmares would disturb her tonight. She was exhausted.
They needed to leave soon. They needed to be on the road before first light, but he hated to wake her. Just one more hour.
Jamie knew he needed sleep, too, but there’d be time for that later. She wouldn’t be safe until they’d reached the ship and gotten under sail. They still had a long journey ahead of them.
Guilt stabbed at him, nagged him.
He thought he’d taken care not to make her bonds too tight. He’d meant only to subdue her, not cause her pain. When he’d realized he’d hurt her, he’d called himself every foul name he knew. He had hoped she would come along without a fight. But he should have known better. She’d lunged for the knife, and he’d feared one of them would end up bleeding if he didn’t do something. He’d warned her, and she had defied him. What choice had she given him?
I do hate you, Sasanach! I thought you were different, but you’re just like the iarla!
Her words were sharper than any knife. While his mind rejected them, their meaning rolled around in his stomach like bile. But hadn’t he anticipated this? He’d known what this course of action would do to the fragile trust he’d built with Bríghid and her brothers.
Why should her hatred bother him? It was of no consequence. They’d soon be in London. She’d be safe at the Kenleigh estate, and he’d be busy meeting with MPs and other men of influence as he tried to salvage his mission. Once her brothers sent word from County Clare, he’d see to it she was safely brought back to Ireland and be done with her for good.
Why the idea of finally being free of her should leave him feeling so desolate he knew not. Perhaps he needed sleep more than he realized.
* * *
By the time the sun was up, Sheff and his men had already reached Taragh. A faint scent trail led the hounds to a small frozen creek before vanishing. And although they checked on both sides of the creek for some distance in both directions, the hounds were not able to pick up the scent again.
Sheff wasn’t surprised. Jamie was more skilled than most men at tracking and had learned things few Englishmen knew, like tricks for concealing himself and evading hounds. Clearly, he didn’t want to be found.
But Sheff had another option.
Chapter Seventeen
Finn drove his ax blade into the ice that covered the trough, cracking it with a single blow. Water gurgled up from beneath—a drink for thirsty livestock. He led the animals one by one from their stalls to drink, his mind far from the task at hand.
He hoped Ruaidhrí would find a warm inn where he could take shelter before dark. It was a long journey to Clare, but Ruaidhrí was not without coin to buy comfort. The Sasanach—Finn didn’t know whether to thank or curse the bastard—had hidden a fortune in pounds in the leather pouch of Indian food he’d given Ruaidhrí to carry. In his letter, Blakewell had explained he was taking Bríghid to England, where he’d be better able to protect her.
Aye, the bastard had kidnapped their sister.
Blakewell had then warned them the iarla might vent his wrath on Finn if he didn’t find Bríghid. He had urged Finn to accept the coin as payment for their care of him and use it to take Muirín, Aidan, and Ruaidhrí to County Clare immediately.
Finn had kept the contents of the letter to himself until he and Ruaidhrí had gone out to check on the animals. Ruaidhrí had gone into a rage, and Finn couldn’t blame him. Finn felt just as betrayed, just as angry. But over the past weeks, he had watched the Sasanach carefully, and his gut told him Blakewell cared for Bríghid and would never intentionally harm her. Finn’s gut was rarely wrong.
So he had done his best to calm Ruaidhrí, had tried to work past his own blinding anger to make Ruaidhrí see sense. Then he’d ordered Ruaidhrí to get a good night’s sleep and to set out for County Clare in the morning. Red in the face, Ruaidhrí had finally settled down. At dawn, a portion of Blakewell’s coin in his pockets, Ruaidhrí had started for their cousin’s home, where he’d be safe—provided he kept out of trouble.
Finn couldn’t leave, at least not yet. The livestock would not be able to make such a long journey and would have to be sold. In the dead of winter, that was no small task. There was no fair to attract interested buyers, so Finn would have to trek about the countryside make inquiries, get the word out. It could take weeks.
Once the livestock were sold, he’d use the money to buy horses and a wagon. They’d pack up their goods, join Ruaidhrí in Clare, and start a new life. As soon as they were settled, he’d send for Bríghid. And if the Englishman were not a man of his word and did not send her, Finn would be free to go after her himself, knowing Muir�
�n, Ruaidhrí, and Aidan were safe and settled.
There was only one catch to all of this. Muirín didn’t want to go to Clare. She didn’t want to sell her livestock. She didn’t want to leave her home. When he had suggested she move back home with her parents, she had lost her temper, forbidden him to speak of it again. As she wasn’t his wife or sister, Finn could not command her.
It made him want to take a page from Blakewell’s book. Aye, Finn felt he understood a thing or two about this Englishman.
When the animals were watered, Finn set to work repairing an old fence. Though the sun shone, the air was bitterly cold. His hands grew stiff, his fingers numb. He was almost finished when he heard the thunder of hooves.
He looked up to see the iarla himself riding toward him.
Blakewell had been right.
Finn deliberately turned his eyes back to his work, as if such a visit from the iarla were nothing. His mind leapt to the pistol, which was safely concealed in Muirín’s wooden coin box hidden in the thatch of the cabin ceiling, but he dismissed that idea. There was one of him and six or seven of them. What good was a pistol against those odds? He’d get one shot and go down before he could reload. No, he’d best save that for a time when there was no other choice.
He forced his thoughts back on his work. Only when the iarla and his men had reached the cabin and reined in their horses did he stop working and turn to greet them.
“My lord.” He removed his cap, bowed his head slightly.
The iarla dismounted, gestured to his men. “Seize him!”
Finn didn’t resist as three strong men took hold of him, wrenched his arms behind his back. A fist connected with his gut, drove the breath from this lungs.
“Filthy Irish dog!”
Another slammed into his jaw, and he tasted blood.
Something hit the back of his neck, made him see stars. He sank to his knees, felt a boot drive into his belly, found himself facedown in the snow.
“This is what happens to Irish troublemakers!”
A boot connected with his chest, and he felt ribs break.
Through a haze of pain, he heard the sound of splintering wood and knew the iarla, or one of his men, had kicked down the cabin door.
Crockery shattered and wood cracked as the iarla and a few of his men tore the inside of the cabin apart. Finn heard the iarla curse, felt a swell of satisfaction that lessened his pain. Destroy the cabin they might, but they would not touch that which was dearest to him.
Muirín. She had wanted to build a life here, but, thanks to him, she was about to lose everything.
“Check the cowshed and the fields behind the house. She must be here someplace.” The iarla’s boots crunched in the snow. “Get him up.”
Finn was yanked to his feet.
The iarla glared at him. “You’ve been lying to me, haven’t you?”
Finn bit back the words he longed to say, gave the necessary reply. “No, my lord.”
“Your father was a traitor. Your brother is a traitor. And you’re a traitor.” The iarla stepped closer, his brown eyes cold with malice.
“I’ve never raised a hand against you, my lord.”
“You lied to me about your sister’s whereabouts! You know where she is!”
Rot in hell. “I didn’t lie to you, my lord.”
“I don’t believe you.”
A fist drove into his gut, and Finn doubled over, sucked air into his aching lungs. “Believe it … or not … as you wish, my lord. But I’ve some notion where they are now.”
“What are you saying?”
A hand pulled Finn’s hair, jerked him upright. “Get your thugs off me, and we can talk.”
“You’ll talk whether my thugs release you or not.” The iarla stood so close Finn could smell the liquor on his breath. Then the iarla gave a wave of his hand, and his men withdrew.
Finn was surprised to find it hard to keep his balance. The blow to his head had left him dizzy. But he lifted his chin, met the iarla’s gaze. “Just before the snows set in, a friend of mine saw the Englishman in Baronstown. The forest south of there shelters a few abandoned cabins. He must be hidin’ in one of them.”
“How do I know you’re not lying, Irishman?”
“I guess you don’t.” Finn met the iarla’s gaze, unwavering despite his dizziness. “’Tis a shame the snows set in. I’d have gone after him myself else.”
“That would have been a mistake.” The iarla stepped back, turned to his men. “Well?”
“She isn’t here. We’ve checked everywhere.”
The iarla faced Finn again, and Finn could see he was disappointed. “Where’s O’Connelly’s widow?”
“She’s helpin’ the midwife down at the Uí Faelain place.” There were no Uí Faelain in Skreen, but Finn was certain the iarla didn’t know that. Irish clans were beneath his notice.
“That’s just what the world needs—another Irish brat.” He turned to his men, shouted to them to mount up. Then he turned to face Finn again. “If I discover you’ve lied to me, you and everyone dear to you will pay the price. Have I made myself clear?”
Fuck yourself. “Aye, my lord.”
The iarla strode to his horse, mounted.
“My lord,” Finn called after him. “If you find I’m tellin’ the truth, what’s my reward?”
The iarla gazed down at him as if he were a pile of dung, and for a moment, Finn was certain he wouldn’t answer. “What do you want, Irishman?”
“Your promise that neither you nor any of your men will lay hands on Mistress O’Connelly.”
The iarla smiled. “Granted. But since I think you’re lying, you can imagine how much I am looking forward to doing exactly that.”
The iarla’s men laughed heartily, turned their horses, and rode off.
Finn watched while the iarla and his men disappeared over the hill headed south, mouthed curses the likes of which he’d never uttered before. He had no doubt the iarla would find the cabin. But it would be empty, Blakewell and Bríghid long gone.
Finn hoped the game he had just played would buy him a bit more time. He had persuaded Muirín to take Aidan and spend the day at the midwife’s cabin a short distance away. But as soon as she returned, she’d be in danger again. Finn needed time to convince her that her safety—and Aidan’s—depended on leaving the parish. After today, how could she deny it?
Finn took a step forward, intending to repair the damage done inside the cabin, but his legs buckled. The world around him faded, and he pitched forward in the snow.
* * *
The day had stretched into evening by the time Sheff and his men found the tiny cabin sheltered by a sliver of forest. They approached cautiously, weapons drawn, hoping to take Jamie by surprise, but found it abandoned.
Sheff peered into the decrepit structure, it’s walls and ceiling black with smoke. “I wouldn’t house a sow in here. Filthy Irish.”
He stepped inside, noticed the stack of unused peat beside the hearth. A pot hung on its hook above a fire long since grown cold. Something foul lay congealed within. A crock of butter was overturned on the table, a basket of oatcakes and a brick of cheese abandoned on a nearby worktable. A knife lay on the earthen floor.
Someone had fled this hovel in a hurry.
Jamie had been here. Sheff could feel it. But somehow Jamie had known Sheff was coming, had again fled like a thief in the night. There was no way the brother could have warned them. There hadn’t been time. Yet somehow Jamie had known.
Sheff let his eyes roam over the contents of the cabin. A table. Two chairs. A tiny pallet sat against one wall. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
A shadow darkened the doorway. “My lord, we’ve searched the cowshed. There’s been a horse kept in there, all right.”
“Ride ahead, Edward. Prepare the household for my departure. We leave for England.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“And, Edward, set a watch on this place just in case.”
“Aye.”
Sheff glanced around the cabin one last time. “You’ve won this round, but the game is not over, old friend. I shall find you, and I shall take her from you. And you shall watch as I enjoy her, just as I watched you.”
Chapter Eighteen
London
Bríghid sat up, looked around her gilded cage.
She sat in the middle of a great bed with four delicately carved posts that rose almost to the ceiling. Above her stretched a canopy of beautiful rose-colored cloth. The mattress beneath her was fluffy like a cloud, its ticking made of softest linen. The blankets were thick, woven of finest wool. On top was a coverlet made of the same shimmering rose cloth as the canopy. Her pillows—four of them!—were stuffed with downy feathers. She pulled one out from behind her, plopped it in her lap, patted it.
A wood fire crackled in a fireplace set in one wall. Two plush chairs with ornate carved arms sat before the fireplace, a small round table of polished wood between them. Beside the bed was another little table, trimmed with tiny gilt roses. On top was a carved comb made of some kind of ivory-colored wood. Or was it made of ivory?
She stood, felt her feet touch thick carpet. Strange it was to stand on something so pretty, soft, and warm. She walked first to an ornately carved chest. Four drawers it had—each with two brass handles—and feet in the shape of a great beast’s paws. The top was inlaid with different colors of wood in the shapes of vines and flowers. She traced her fingers across the polished surface. On top, a white porcelain vase held a bouquet of dried roses, their pinks and yellows faded with age.
She walked to the opposite side of the room, ran her hands over the plush cushions of some kind of couch. Nearby, stood a desk of polished wood with ink and pen. Behind the couch and desk, there were three windows, each as tall as a man and as wide as a door and covered by curtains made of the same rose-colored cloth as the canopy and coverlet. She searched for ties, then drew them back, flooding the room in daylight.
The room itself was easily twice as large as the cabin she’d shared with her brothers, larger still than the squatter’s cabin. The floor was made of polished wood, but was mostly hidden under carpets with ornate flower designs in hues of dark blue, ivory, rose, deep green and black. Jamie was accustomed to such lavishness. And a feeling akin to embarrassment welled up inside her. Or was it shame?
