by Pamela Clare
And then, all at once, he was kissing her exposed thighs, nipping her, teasing her.
“Jamie.” She heard herself moan, call his name, felt herself grow damp with desire. But when his lips pressed into the curls of her woman’s mound, she stiffened. Surely he wouldn’t kiss her there.
Oh, but he did!
His mouth was scorching hot against her aching sex. His tongue swirled delight over her most tender flesh, penetrated her, drew gasps from her surprised lips. Her head rolled from side to side with erotic abandon, as he gave her his deepest, most intimate kiss.
“I’ve dreamed of tasting you like this—just like this.” When he closed his mouth over her again, he began to suck and tug on her tender bud with his lips, his fingers sliding deep inside her.
The pleasure was so intense it was almost unbearable. Could anything truly feel this good? And those wild moans—were they really coming from her?
Then, all at once, it was upon her. She cried out, arching against his mouth as sweet ecstasy rippled through her, making her inner muscles clench, Jamie prolonging her climax with his fingers and deft strokes of his tongue.
When at last she floated down from the heavens, she opened her eyes to find him poised above her, passion still burning in his eyes.
“Do you surrender?”
She smiled, weak from his loving, and whispered. “Never.”
He lifted her, turned her until she lay on her belly, her bonds twisting with her.
She gasped, fought not to giggle.
He wadded her skirts, thrust them beneath her, until she lay with her bottom raised at just such an angle. His voice took on the tone of command. “Spread your thighs for me.”
“They are spread.” Her heart pounded with excitement at the power of his game.
“Spread them wider.” His hands, warm and demanding, pressed her inner thighs apart another inch. “Wider still.”
Trembling, she complied. She knew she was completely exposed to him now, her most private flesh uncovered, vulnerable.
For a moment he did nothing. He was letting her wait, letting her wonder. The anticipation heightened her excitement, deepened her need.
Then his warm palms caressed the chilled flesh of her bottom, and his thumb lazily slid over her slick, aching cleft. “I ask you again. Do you yield?”
“Never!”
“Very well.” He slid into her with one clean thrust, penetrating her completely. His hands grasped her hips, his testicles slapping against her as he reached her very depths with fast, forceful strokes. “Oh, Bríghid. You are so wet and tight. So perfect.”
Their sounds of pleasure mingled in the cold air, as he drove himself into her. Her moans quickly became frantic, keening cries as she felt another climax approach.
Then his fingers sought and found her swollen nub, stroked it, caressed it.
“Jamie!” She cried out his name as once again the force of passion claimed her.
Her muscles clenched violently around him, as wave after wave of liquid ecstasy rolled through her. She felt him shudder, heard his deep groan as he thrust hard and deep, spilling himself inside her. Then there was only the sound of their rapid breathing and the feel of him as he gently lowered his weight on top of her, his shaft still hard inside her.
He nuzzled her cheek. “’Tis you who have conquered me, my Irish princess.”
* * *
It was dark by the time they mounted again and turned their horses back toward the manor. The air had grown colder, but Bríghid felt snug in her fur cloak. Her body felt languid, replete from their loving-making, the telltale wetness between her thighs a sweet reminder that the man she loved had claimed his pleasure inside her.
She was trying to explain the appeal of Cuchulainn to the average Irishman. “He may have been a bit crazy—and he was a wee bit crazy, now, wasn’t he?—but he was a mighty warrior and true. If he were alive today—”
She heard a loud popping sound, saw Jamie’s head jerk in alarm toward the trees.
Then she felt it—a deep, burning sensation in her side.
She pressed her hand against the pain, felt something warm, sticky. She looked down, saw something dark on her hand. Blood? “Jamie?”
“Oh, Christ! Bríghid!”
She felt his arms surround her as he pulled her off her horse and across his lap. She wanted to ask him what had happened, why she was bleeding, but the world had begun to spin. Or had Hermes broken into a gallop? Pain sliced through her like the blade of a knife, and she felt herself fall into darkness.
Chapter Twenty-six
Jamie pressed the linen tightly against the wound. The bleeding had slowed but had not stopped. “Stay with me, Bríghid.”
She was unconscious again, and for that he was grateful. They’d given her what laudanum they had, but he knew she was still in great pain.
The bullet had entered her right side at the bottom of her ribcage and had not exited. Jamie knew what this meant. The surgeon would have to remove it.
Like unwelcome echoes, the screams of the men wounded in the Wyandot raid came back to him. The surgeon had treated those he could, removing bullets buried in shoulders, thighs, and bellies, while, in their agony, grown men pleaded for God, pleaded for mercy, pleaded for death.
That is what Bríghid would have to endure.
The thought filled Jamie with white-hot rage and desperation. Christ, how he wished the bullet had hit him! If only he could spare her this.
What Jamie wouldn’t give for Takotah’s healing skill right now. He trusted her, had watched her pull people from the brink of death time and time again. He had more faith in her than any English physician, no matter how exalted his reputation.
What was taking the surgeon so long, anyway? Matthew had gone to fetch him well over two hours ago. Bloody hell!
Elizabeth handed Jamie a freshly folded square of clean linen, seeming to read his thoughts. “He’ll be here soon.”
Jamie quickly switched the clean cloth for the bloody one, pressed it hard against the wound, handed the bloodied cloth to Elizabeth.
Bríghid moaned in her sleep, weakly tried to brush his hand away as if to remove the source of her pain. Her eyes fluttered open, their depths glazed by the effects of the laudanum. “Jamie?”
“Aye, love, I’m here.” He reached with his free hand to caress her cheek.
Her brow was furrowed, and she bit her lower lip. “It hurts.”
The rage inside him grew. “I know it does, love. The surgeon is on his way.”
She shivered, a cold sweat on her brow. “I-I’m so cold.”
“We’ll build up the fire.” He pulled a blanket over her.
Behind him, Elizabeth bid Heddy to put more wood on the fire.
“Jamie?”
“Aye, sweet, I’m here.”
“If I die, tell my brothers—”
“You’re not going to die.” His voice sounded rough even to his ears. “I won’t let you.”
Bríghid felt herself smile despite the relentless pain. Leave it to her sweet Sasanach to think he could tell even death what to do. But she could feel her strength fading. She could feel herself growing weaker, colder. She wanted to tell him just in case. She wanted him to know. She reached for him, ran her hand over the stubble on his handsome face. “Jamie.”
He took her hand in his, kissed it. “Just rest, love.”
“No, I need to tell you.” She felt herself begin to drift, fought the darkness.
“Need to tell me what, love?”
Her lips formed the words she had so longed to say. “Mo ghrá thú, a Jamie. Mo ghrá go buan, tu.” I love you, Jamie. I’ll always love you.
As darkness claimed her again, she didn’t realize she had slipped and spoken them in her mother tongue.
* * *
Bríghid fought to surface from the depth of what seemed a nightmare. She was cold, so cold. And she hurt. Something was jabbing her in the side, something sharp and unbearably painful. Then she remembered.
She had a knife in the waistband of her skirts. A knife to use against the Sasanach.
Somehow it was buried just beneath her ribs, buried deep in her side. She tried to pull it out, but she couldn’t move.
The knife. Oh, it hurt! She had to get it out.
But why would she still have the knife? She didn’t want to hurt Jamie. She loved him.
The iarla.
She had taken the knife to protect herself against the iarla. Instead, she had managed to cut herself. Hadn’t there been blood? Hadn’t she looked down and seen her own blood?
Aye, she was bleeding. But where was Jamie?
“Tarrtháil, a Jamie!” Help me, Jamie!
From the hallway outside her room where he was pacing, Jamie heard her cries.
“Damnation!” He lunged toward the door and would have broken it down had Matthew not blocked his path, holding him back, his fingers digging deeply into Jamie’s shoulders.
“The doctor has given her plenty of laudanum.” Matthew’s voice was calm, but Jamie could see the strain on his face. “He must get the ball out. You know that.”
Jamie closed his eyes, clenched his fists, his anguish at her suffering far greater than any physical pain. “It should be me in there.”
Matthew muttered something about the kind of bastard who would shoot a woman, but Jamie didn’t really hear him, his mind on Bríghid and what she must be enduring.
The surgeon, a short, squat man with deep bags under his eyes, had arrived and immediately demanded Jamie leave the room. “The ladies’ help will be sufficient to hold her down.”
At first, Jamie had refused.
But the doctor had been adamant. “I refuse to expose this young woman to your gaze. Unless you are her husband, Sir, I insist you leave at once!”
Propelled by Matthew’s arm in the small of his back, and unwilling to waste time when Bríghid’s life was at stake, Jamie had reluctantly complied.
Now he could do nothing but wait.
Bríghid cried out again, and Jamie cursed under his breath.
Though the authorities had written the whole thing off as a stray bullet from a hunter’s gun, Jamie knew in his gut that was not the case. Someone had fired at them deliberately. But firearms were inaccurate at long distances. Had the bullet been meant for Bríghid or for him?
Jamie was willing to bet Sheff knew the answer to that question. As soon as Bríghid recovered, Jamie would rip the truth from Sheff’s throat. If Sheff were to blame for Bríghid’s suffering, he would live only long enough to regret it.
The door to the bedroom opened, and the surgeon appeared, his face grave.
“How is she?” Jamie struggled to restrain himself.
“She is asleep and resting, but her condition is quite serious.” The surgeon fussed at a bright red bloodstain on his linen shirtsleeve. “I managed to recover the ball. It broke one of her ribs, which I removed. Blessedly, it missed her organs. The wound itself is not so terrible, but she has a fever. I fear infection has already set in.”
Jamie met Matthew’s gaze, saw his own fears echoed in Matthew’s eyes. Most men who died during wartime were killed not by balls of lead, but by infection.
“I’ve left plenty of laudanum, as well as a special draught for her fever. I’ve instructed Elizabeth to keep the wound clean and apply an antiseptic salve six times a day. There’s little else I can do.”
“Thank you, doctor.” Matthew shook the surgeon’s hand.
Jamie nodded his thanks, struggling not to take his anger and fear out on the physician.
“One other thing.” The doctor paused. “She is Catholic, is she not?”
Jamie met his gaze without answering, suddenly wary.
“You might wish to send for the priest.”
The words were like a boot to Jamie’s stomach. “Are you saying you think she’ll die?”
“I’m telling you her situation is serious. She might survive, but I’ve no way to be certain of that. If the infection spreads … ” The doctor shrugged his shoulders, then turned and started toward the stairway. “I really must be going. Lord Worsley’s wife is in confinement with her fourteenth child, and the babe is unlikely to wait.”
“Allow me to see you out.” Matthew turned to follow the doctor.
Jamie took a deep breath, fought to steady his voice. “Matthew, can you please make arrangements for a carriage to pick up the priest? The chapel is in an alley off Michael Street.”
Matthew glanced back, met his gaze, his blue eyes grim, nodded.
Jamie was unable to wait longer. He opened the door to Bríghid’s room, pushed past a wan Heddy, who was on her way out with an armful of bloody linens.
Bríghid lay motionless, her face deathly pale. Her skin was covered by a sheen of cold sweat. Her hair was damp, and stray strands clung to her ashen cheeks. She looked small in the enormous bed, small and fragile.
Jamie didn’t know when he’d ever felt so powerless. He had promised to keep her safe. He had failed utterly.
Just as he had failed Nicholas.
Elizabeth, also pale, sat next to her on the bed, placed a cool cloth on her forehead. “She has spirit, Jamie. We’ll all do everything we can.”
Jamie rested a hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Get some rest, Elizabeth. It’s getting late. I’ll stay with her.”
“Are you certain?” Elizabeth looked up at him, lines of worry on her face.
“Aye.”
Elizabeth rose, wiped her hands on her apron. “I’ll send Heddy in to attend you. Send for me if you need anything.”
Jamie nodded, sat next to Bríghid on the bed. She stirred in her sleep, whimpered, whispered words he couldn’t understand.
“I’m here, love.” He took the cloth from her forehead, dipped it into a basin of cool water, rung it out, and pressed it against her scorching hot cheeks.
* * *
Father Owen arrived just before midnight. His face set with the serenity of one who’d seen death many times, he stood over Bríghid, anointed her fevered forehead with oil, and began to speak his Latin words while Jamie watched, feeling wretched, useless.
For the past few hours, Jamie had bathed her with cool cloths to calm her fever. He had stroked her cheek, held her hand, muttered reassurances when the fever gave her nightmares. When Elizabeth had returned to give her another draught of medicine and apply more salve, Jamie had seen how bad the wound truly was—an angry, red incision the length of his thumb carved into her soft, white skin and stitched with sinew.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” The priest made the sign of the cross, turned to Jamie. “I think I’ll be stayin’ for a while, if you don’t mind. In case she awakes and wishes to make a confession.”
Jamie nodded. “Of course, Father.”
“While I’m here, you might as well be tellin’ me what’s on your mind.”
* * *
Father Owen watched from his chair by the hearth as the Englishman stroked Bríghid’s fevered cheek and bathed her forehead.
Jamie obviously loved her. But did he love her enough? That was the question that troubled Owen.
Outside the windows, the rosy fingers of dawn were just reaching across the eastern sky. The world, in all its wretchedness and wonder, would see another day.
“I never meant to bring her dishonor or harm.”
“Of course not.” Owen fingered the wooden beads of his Psalter absentmindedly. “We rarely mean to hurt those we love. And you do love her, don’t you?”
Jamie closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “Aye, Father, with all my heart.”
Owen decided to take the risk. “Do you love her enough to marry her?”
Jamie’s eyes snapped open. His gaze—angry, fierce—met Owen’s. “You know very well our laws forbid it, else I’d have taken her to wife weeks ago!”
Owen had heard this story before. He’d heard it last week from an English squire whose Irish mistress had died in childbed, the child with h
er. The man had been quite eager to rid himself of guilt, to blame her death on British law, on the Church, on God, on anything or anyone but himself.
Britain seemed to have plenty of Protestant men who loved Irish Catholic women and who’d gladly have married them—if only they could. And because they could not, they took the women they supposedly loved to bed, got them with child, set them up as mistresses, and eventually set them and their bastard children aside.
The tears of Irish women in London easily rivaled the Thames.
Owen prayed Jamie Blakewell would be different from so many of his countrymen.
“When I first spoke with you, you told me that when God brings a man and woman together, he helps them find a way.” Jamie’s deep voice was smooth, but Owen could feel the barely restrained fury beneath it. “I have yet to find it, Father.”
Owen met the intensity of Jamie’s gaze and nodded, glad Jamie had come to the point. “There is a way. But it would demand great sacrifice of you, perhaps greater sacrifice than you are willing to make.”
* * *
“You bloody idiot!” Sheff struck Edward across the face. “You were supposed to shoot his horse, not the girl!”
Edward struggled to keep his footing, flinched as Sheff raised his fist again. “I’m s-sorry, my lord! I didn’t mean to, my lord!”
Sheff grabbed him by the collar. “Do you know what you’ve done, you stupid bastard?”
Edward swallowed. “Shot a woman, m-my lord?”
“You’ve turned us both into targets, you fool!”
The color visibly drained from Edward’s face.
“If she dies, there will be no place for you or me to hide.” Sheff shoved Edward away.
He felt shaky, and his head ached. He walked unsteadily to the table and his glass of cognac. He needed something to fortify him, to help him think clearly, to dull the pain. He swallowed the amber liquid, filled the glass again. “The pistol has not yet been delivered, I hope.”
“No, my lord, I’ve got it here.” Edward patted his overcoat. “I’m waitin’ till tomorrow like you told me.”
