by Pamela Clare
Ruaidhrí would be careful. There were lots of Irish in London to hide among until he had a plan. And then…
He reached down, reassured by the hard outline of the pistol in his coat pocket. He’d felt bad taking it from its hiding place in the wooden box when Finn was supposed to use it to protect Muirín and Aidan. He didn’t want to leave them defenseless.
But once the iarla was dead, they’d no longer be in danger. They wouldn’t need the pistol. Then Ruaidhrí would return it to its rightful owner. If Bríghid were untouched and unharmed, he’d simply return the weapon, take his sister, and go. If not, the Sasanach would receive the pistol back, one lead ball at a time.
* * *
Lillian poured Jamie another glass of cognac, carried it over to where he sat bare-chested on her bed, his back against the satin headboard, one powerful leg draped over the side of the bed so that his foot touched the floor. It had been so long since he’d been here. He’d returned to the colonies years ago, and she hadn’t thought to see him again. He’d been devastatingly handsome as a young man—tall and broad with muscles that made her ache with desire and thick, fair hair that made her fingers itch to touch it. More than that, he’d been a wonderful lover, leaving her sated every time he slid between her thighs.
When word had come from one of her girls he’d arrived, she’d grown excited, almost breathless, and had decided to see to him personally. She’d been eager to see the kind of man he’d become, eager to feel his lips tugging at her nipples while his thick cock thrust deep inside her as it once so expertly had done. She’d greeted him dressed only in her white silk dressing gown, already wet and ready for him. She hadn’t been disappointed—at least at first. He was full-grown now, taller and more muscular than she remembered. His face had lost its boyish charm and taken on the grave lines of maturity. He had a fresh scar on his chest, and one on his shoulder, but that only made him seem a bit rugged, even dangerous.
Lillian ached for him.
But he had been wounded in more than flesh, and it was his wounds that had brought him to her tonight. She had discovered that almost immediately, when she had asked about Nicholas.
In a voice so lacking in emotion that it failed to hide the deep pain beneath, he’d told her of the terrible battle and how he’d lost track of his nephew when the Indians had stormed the encampment. He’d told her how he’d waited until his wound was tended and then had run through the night and most of the next day to free Nicholas. And, voice catching only once, he’d told her of Nicholas’s horrible fate.
Lillian had wept.
She’d been fond of Nicholas. She’d met him when he’d come to England to study at Oxford. He and Jamie had been together in London for a summer and spent their fair share of nights at Turlington’s. As dark as Jamie was golden, Nicholas was just as powerfully built, just as apt a lover. Lillian had spent one delicious night with both of them—Jamie and Nicholas. A bit drunk, they’d come up to her room together, had caressed her skin, kissed her, licked her, fondled her, suckled her, taken turns thrusting inside her until she lay weak and sated in their arms.
Lillian would never forget that night. She would never forget Nicholas.
She had comforted Jamie as best she could, though he brushed off her concern and condolences. She’d hoped that once he’d taken his pleasure with her, he’d be able to let go of his grief, to explain why he blamed himself.
But in that respect, she had been disappointed. He’d been in her rooms all night, and had only stripped down to his breeches. Other than to kiss her cheek and stroke her hair, he hadn’t touched her. Instead, he’d stopped talking about the war and poured out his anger and frustration over an Irish girl who had him in a muddle.
Lillian had listened to the story and had been particularly intrigued about Lord Byerly’s role. The rotten bastard—she’d never liked that man. He and Jamie used to come to Turlington’s together, two randy young men in search of brandy, cards, and pleasure. Byerly still came around from time to time, but Lillian steadfastly avoided him. He had become a cruel man. Some even said he was mad.
She handed Jamie the glass. “Here you go, love.”
He accepted it, took a sip, his gaze focused on something far away. “Oh, Lily, you’re the only woman who understands me.”
Lillian smiled. She’d heard this before. It’s what all the men said—before they paid her, buttoned their breeches and headed back to their wives. She crawled into the bed beside him, draped her arm across his heavy chest, stroked his mat of curls. A part of her still hoped he’d turn his mind away from this woman and toward bedding her instead.
It occurred to her to take advantage of his anger, to tell him this Irish chit was beneath him and not worth this much effort or anguish, to whip his frustration into contempt. Certainly, the girl must be crazy to lie beneath a man such as this, to feel his hands and lips work their magic, and turn him away.
Not every woman is a whore.
What could it gain her to speak against this woman when it was obvious to Lillian that Jamie was in love with her? Oh, he certainly didn’t realize it, but men were not as clever as women about such matters and often took a long time to figure out what they felt about anything. “Do you think perhaps you’ve moved too fast for her? She is a virgin, after all, and raised in a family of men who’ve sheltered her. Maybe she needs time.”
He groaned, sat up, buried his face in one hand. “Aye. I was a fool. It’s just … ”
Lillian waited for him to find his words, and when he didn’t, she finished for him. “You want her and find it hard to wait.”
“Worse. I told her brother I wouldn’t touch her, and now all I can think of is how badly I want to make love to her. Now. Tonight. In her bed. On the floor. Anywhere. And the hell of it is, I know she wants it, too. I can feel it.”
Make love to her.
In an establishment where much cruder expressions were used for the sex act, those words seemed sweet and precious to Lillian. She doubted any man had used them when thinking of or speaking about her. She’d been a whore since she was thirteen, had lost her maidenhead to an old baron who’d wheezed and grunted in her ear, his member thrusting painfully inside her. It had been one man after another after that, and only a few—Jamie and Nicholas among them—had ever brought her pleasure.
Lily decided to return that gift with one of her own. She chose her words carefully. “Have you considered the possibility you’re in love with her?”
“Bloody hell!” Jamie bolted to his feet, drink in hand, paced the length of the room like a caged lion. “I cannot be in love with her! I refuse to be in love with her! Love is for the lucky few, and I have never had luck with women. You of all people know that.”
Lillian said nothing, let her eyes feast on the ridges and planes of his back, the sculpted perfection of his abdomen, the grace of his movements.
“Besides. She hates me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that. There’s a perilous thin line between love and hate, Jamie dear.” Lillian stretched, covered the breast that slipped from beneath her robe. She would not expose herself to him. It would feel like begging.
His gaze met hers, and she saw in his eyes the torment of a man who’d been hurt one too many times to trust his own feelings. He tossed the last of his drink, set the glass on her dressing table. For a moment, he said nothing, just looked at her.
Then he ran a hand through his wonderful, golden mane, took a deep breath. “I’ve been dreadful company, Lily. I’m sorry.”
Beyond her curtains, the first tendrils of dawn curled across the sky.
She forced a warm smile, stood. “It’s good to see you again.”
“How much—”
She held up her hands, palms facing outward. “Not one farthing. Tonight was my pleasure.”
“Are you certain?”
She nodded, pulled her robe tightly around herself to cover the emptiness she felt. “Aye, love. Head home to your Irish girl, and be patient. She’s a long w
ay from home and has been through a terrible time.”
He drew on his shirt, tucked it into his breeches, then reached for his waistcoat. “Aye, you’re right.”
“And Jamie, one other thing.”
“Aye, Lily, my sweet?” He slipped into his jacket, reached for his stockings.
“Your Irish girl is not Sarah.”
Chapter Twenty-one
“It’s too much work, this is. I’ll never remember.” Bríghid folded her hands in her lap, stared in dismay at the array of silver, crystal, and porcelain on the tray before her.
Heddy had brought an entire place setting to her room on a tray and set it on the little polished table to teach Bríghid what to do so that she need not be embarrassed should she dine the family. Table manners had always been a simple thing. Don’t eat with your hands. Hold your chin over your plate. Don’t talk while you chew. And don’t slurp your broth. Now there were napkins and wine glasses and far too many forks.
“It ain’t so hard. Let’s give it another go.” Heddy repeated the name of each utensil, glass, and dish and described the use of each. “This glass is for dessert wine. You’ll drink it last.”
The maid’s instructions passed by Bríghid in a blur of words, and Bríghid felt her frustration mount. What was she doing here? Why was she playing at English table manners? Why was she dressed in silks? Why was she sleeping in a feather-soft bed while her brothers slept in straw?
Bríghid was a poor Irish girl, nothing more. She was used to cooking her own supper, baking her own bread, braiding her own hair. She had nothing to her name save a cloak, a worn gown and a tattered book. She felt out of place at Kenleigh Manor, a plain rook in a room full of peacocks. She did not belong here.
“Oh, Heddy, please stop!” She stood, smoothed her hands nervously over the soft lavender silk of her gown, then began to pace in front of the fireplace. “If they’re after makin’ me into a fine lady, it won’t work. It can’t.”
The maid looked up at her, her big brown eyes sympathetic, her freckled face grave. “I don’t blame you for feeling out of sorts. If I had to sit down to dinner with himself and the mistress, I’d be scared out of my wits!”
“I suppose this is his idea?” Bríghid gestured to the tray with the place setting. How like Jamie to—
“Oh, no, Miss!” Heddy shook her head. “It was the mistress who sent me up here. Master Blakewell ain’t been home since yesterday afternoon.”
It was near noon. He’d spent the entire night away.
“Oh. I see.” Bríghid tried to feign indifference. After she’d fled the library, she’d locked herself in her room, had refused to come down to dinner. How could she when she knew desire would be written on her face as plainly as letters on the page?
When Elizabeth came to ask her if anything was amiss, Bríghid had told her she simply needed some time alone. She’d eaten dinner in her room, and breakfast this morning. She had imagined Jamie would hear this and understand it had everything to do with him and what had happened in the library. She imagined him feeling a wee bit guilty, searching her out to apologize. But he hadn’t even been home to notice her absence.
Heddy got a smile on her face that showed she knew a secret. The maid leaned forward. “Freddy in the stables says Master Blakewell spent the night at Turlington’s.”
Turlington’s.
The name was familiar to Bríghid, though she couldn’t recall why.
And then it came to her.
The ladies at Turlington’s always had good things to say about your abilities.
Like an echo, the iarla’s words rang through her mind.
Heddy whispered. “It’s a bawdy house, a brothel.”
Bríghid felt as if the air had been knocked from her lungs. She took several hurried, unsteady steps, sat on the edge of her bed. A brothel.
Jamie had spent the night at a brothel. He’d kissed her by light of day, aroused her with his hands, his tongue. Then he’d slaked his lust with a whore.
A bright stab of pain pierced her heart, nearly made her cry out. The thought of him lying naked with another woman, his mouth and hands on her body, his body pressed against her, inside her, sickened Bríghid. Why would he do such a thing?
She had refused him.
But she’d been right to refuse him, hadn’t she? He was English and Protestant. He lived on the other side of the world. He didn’t love her. Besides, how much could his kisses and caresses mean if he shared them with prostitutes?
His actions served only to prove how right she had been to flee his embrace. He didn’t care for her one whit. He had simply wanted a woman. Any woman.
Through a fog, Bríghid realized Heddy stood before her, a worried look on her face. Bríghid felt wetness on her own cheeks and realized she was crying.
“Pardon me, Miss.” Heddy curtsied. “‘I didn’t know you have feelings for him.”
Bríghid wiped the tears from her cheeks with her hands, tried to understand Heddy’s words through the empty ache in her chest. “Feelings?” She hopped to her feet, glared at the maid. “I do not have feelings for him! A worthless, lecherous pig he is, nothing more than a vile Sasanach! He’s a liar and a deceiver and … ”
Even as she spoke the words, she knew she didn’t mean them. She did have feelings for him. Feelings that made no sense. Feelings that forced her to question everything she once held true. Feelings that now lay raw and bleeding.
“Oh, Heddy, I’m sorry. I’m not angry with you.”
The maid said nothing, but smiled understandingly.
“I want to go home.” It was the truth. Or it felt like the truth until Bríghid spoke the words. She didn’t know what she wanted. She felt so bleak inside. “What should I do?”
“My mum always said a smart girl makes the best of her situation, whatever it may be.”
Bríghid met Heddy’s gaze, considered the maid’s advice.
Make the best of her situation.
She took a deep breath. “Why don’t you show me that soup spoon one more time?”
* * *
Jamie passed through the gates at Kenleigh Manor in the early afternoon. He’d had no sleep and found he wasn’t tired in the least. Instead, he felt he could have fought a cougar barehanded and had vigor to spare.
The carriage drew to a stop in the courtyard, and Jamie alighted at once, gazing up at the sky. It was overcast and grey, a thick blanket of clouds pressing down on the landscape. A chill wind had begun to blow and promised either rain or snow. The scent of wood smoke was in the air.
It was a damned beautiful day.
It was Christmas Eve.
A smile spread over his face. Jamie couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt excited about the holiday. He’d spent the morning patronizing some of the finest businesses in London and had the packages to show for it. He’d also made some special arrangements for the evening. He knew Bríghid would be surprised beyond words, and he couldn’t wait to see her face.
There’s a perilous thin line between love and hate.
He didn’t want to think about which side of the line he was walking just now. He suspected that if he were to reflect long and hard on what he’d just done, he’d curse himself for a fool. It was better not to think at all.
After giving the servants explicit instructions about the parcels in the carriage, he strode through the front doors, spied a letter waiting for him on a silver tray on the sideboard.
He recognized the handwriting at once, and some of his good mood vanished. Ripping through the seal with a finger, he opened it, read it, crumpled it in his fist.
Sheff had returned to London.
Jamie had expected this, planned for this. There was nothing to do now except play his cards to the end.
Though he longed for a bath and a shave, he felt compelled to find Bríghid, to see for himself she was safe. He tucked the crumpled letter in the pocket of his waistcoat and went in search of the woman who had occupied his thoughts all night, all morning. He
heard her before he saw her. Her melodic, lilting voice came from the drawing room ahead.
“The lame woman bathed her crippled legs in the lake as her doctor had told her, but nothin’ happened. They were as crippled as ever. But the great water horse who lived at the bottom had heard her splashin’ about.”
Jamie stopped in the shadows of the hallway to listen.
“Fierce and angry it was. It rose from the waters, bellowed like a bull at the poor woman and charged. And do you know what she did?”
“Do tell!” Elizabeth sounded just as entranced as Jamie felt.
“She stood up and ran all the way home! So the doctor was right. There was a magic cure in the water.”
Both Matthew and Elizabeth laughed at the tale.
Jamie stepped out of the shadows, saw that Bríghid was taking afternoon tea. Dressed in lilac silk, her hair swept up into a knot that spilled soft strands down her nape, laughter in her eyes, she was a vision of feminine loveliness.
She was the first to notice him. She stiffened almost imperceptibly, and the laughter in her eyes died. She shifted her gaze back to Matthew and Elizabeth as if he were not standing in the doorway.
There’s a perilous thin line between love and hate.
He walked the razor’s edge, strode into the room.
Bríghid felt her pulse quicken the way it did any time he was near. Only this time, her heart felt an unfamiliar twinge of pain. He sported a day’s growth of beard on his strong chin, and he was wearing the same clothes he’d worn yesterday in the library. On his face was a look of … happiness.
The pain in her heart swelled.
“Jamie, dear, I was beginning to worry!”
Jamie kissed Elizabeth’s proffered cheek. “There was no cause for that, I assure you.”
“Bríghid was just telling us the most delightful tale. You are such a wonderful storyteller, my dear. Isn’t she, Matthew?”
“Quite captivating.” Matthew smiled.
“Indeed.” Jamie walked to where Bríghid sat, forced her hand from her lap to his lips, kissed it. “Our Bríghid is a most charming seanchaí.”
