by Pamela Clare
How she wished she were going home—home to Finn, to Ruaidhrí, to little Aidan, to her father.
“Is that my Bríghid come ridin’ in so fine a carriage?”
“Da’!” Bríghid giggled, felt her father’s strong hands lift her out of the horse cart and safely to the ground. She threw her arms around his waist, hugged him tight. Her throat grew tight, and tears pricked her eyes as she clung to him. It had been so long since she’d seen him, so long. They had taken him away, but he was here. He was with her now.
“Aisling ghael.” He stroked her hair. “It’s grateful to you I am for bringin’ her home safe, Mac Tréinfhir.”
“She’s been a great help to us, with my wife bein’ so sick and all. ’Tis I who am grateful to you, Uí Maelsechnaill. I must say I wouldn’t mind seein’ her as wife to my Torcán one day.”
Bríghid came awake with a gasp, heard Edward’s hissing laughter.
“Wake up, poppet. We’re home.”
She fought to clear her mind, her throat tight with unshed tears—tears from a dream.
Da’.
She looked out the window of the carriage at the iarla’s hulking manor, ugly and grey against the grey Irish sky.
The carriage stopped, and the door was opened from outside.
Edward lifted his bulk from the seat, climbed out, then turned back for her.
Bríghid met his gaze. “Don’t touch me! I don’t need your help.”
Edward scowled, but he stepped back.
Unable to lift her skirts, she clasped the doorsill with both hands, felt carefully for the steps with her feet, then stepped to the cobblestones.
They crossed the courtyard, Bríghid aware that people were staring at her. Edward led her inside and up the stairs. But instead of taking her to the small servant’s room on the third floor, he led her to a familiar room on the floor below.
The room that had been Jamie’s.
A lump formed in Bríghid’s throat.
Jamie, please be safe!
Edward motioned for her to hold out her hands. With a small knife, he cut the ropes that bound her. Then he opened the door to the room. “Get in. They’ll be bringin’ in bath water soon. You’d be smart to do as you’re told.”
The door locked behind her.
The room was as she remembered it, except for the copper tub that sat in the middle of the floor, waiting for water. Then she saw the gown lying draped over a nearby chair. It was the same one she’d been forced to wear that night.
A shudder ran through Bríghid, and she understood.
The iarla wanted it to be just like it had been that night.
But this wasn’t going to be like last time. Things weren’t going to go the way the iarla planned. She was no longer the helpless peasant girl he’d frightened half to death a few months ago. Last time, he’d used Ruaidhrí to force her into submission, but Ruaidhrí was safe. This time she would resist the iarla. She would fight.
And if she failed?
Bríghid felt nausea and fear well up inside her, reaching not for the cross at her throat, but for the dragon brooch.
He might violate her body, but he could not change who she was. There was nothing the iarla could steal from her this time—not her virginity, nor her dignity, nor the love she felt for Jamie and her brothers.
If she failed tonight, she would still find a way. She would survive.
* * *
Sheff was grateful when his manor came into view. He’d had as much of the confounded carriage as he could stand for one day. What he needed was a brandy. The bottles he’d brought with him for the journey were empty, and he’d had precious little to drink all day.
He stepped out of the carriage, just as the second carriage rolled into the courtyard. This one was barred and closed up tight—a prison cell on wheels. A handful of sterling had persuaded the gaoler at Desmond Castle to let Sheff borrow it for a few days.
Sheff was taking no chances where Jamie was concerned. Jamie would kill him if he escaped—Sheff was sure of it. Of course, he’d have to regain consciousness first.
Sheff’s men had been checking on him throughout the journey from London. Though Jamie had awoken a few times along the way, long enough to drink some water or eat a crust or two of bread, he still hadn’t come fully awake. This presented a certain problem, as Sheff needed Jamie awake if this evening were to go as planned. Jamie would be bound to a chair, still shackled, and he would watch as Sheff enjoyed himself with the pretty little Irish baggage. Sheff got hard just thinking about it.
And then?
Sheff didn’t like to think about this part. He couldn’t very well let Jamie go, could he? Jamie would surely kill him, as he’d threatened to do more than once. This left Sheff no choice but to kill Jamie—the man who had once been his friend.
God, how he needed a drink!
Of course, Sheff needn’t do the killing himself. He need merely turn Jamie back over to the authorities. Given the seriousness of the laws Jamie had broken, he’d be hanged. Jamie would have no one to blame but himself. He, not Sheff, had broken the law by arming and training an Irish rebel. He had stolen the girl, betrayed and threatened Sheff. He had forced Sheff’s hand against him, and Sheff hated him for it.
Edward’s voice intruded into his thoughts. “My lord, the men are asking what you want done with him.”
Sheff turned back, caught a glimpse of two of his men carrying a prostrate Jamie between them. He quickly looked away. “Put him in with our other guest. And, Edward, see to it that he’s treated. I want him awake by nightfall.”
Edward grinned. “Aye, my lord.”
* * *
Jamie forced himself to remain limp as the two men carried him indoors and down a flight of stairs. The past two days had given him time to sleep and to heal. He had a broken rib or two—of that he was certain—and likely a concussion, as well. Not all of his unconsciousness had been feigned. When he had been conscious, he’d pretended to be asleep and had allowed himself to be awoken only when they offered him food or drink. He would need both if he were to regain his strength and free Bríghid.
Because they’d thought him asleep, his guards had spoken openly. From among the tawdry details and useless information that made up their idle chatter, Jamie had gleaned one important fact: Bríghid had been taken in a separate ship straight to Ireland. He and Sheff were several hours behind her. Jamie had taken some comfort from this, knowing that as long as Sheff was not near her, he could not hurt her.
But Sheff was not the only man who posed a threat to Bríghid. His toady, Edward, had abused her before, and Jamie had no reason he wouldn’t do the same again given half a chance. Jamie had not heard his voice aboard the ship.
“He’s bloody heavy.”
“That’s because he’s bloody big, you idiot! Keep movin’!”
Jamie heard a voice from down the hall, presumably a guard. “Another one?”
“Aye. Open up, and be quick about it!”
A jangle of keys. The click as a key slid into place. The creak of a heavy door on iron hinges.
“More bloody stairs!”
“Watch out for that one. He’s nothing but trouble. Get back, you!”
Jamie heard a familiar voice let loose a stream of curses in Gaelic.
Ruaidhrí.
Sheff had been telling the truth about holding him captive.
Then Jamie felt himself being carried downstairs and dumped unceremoniously onto the floor. He fought not to react as bruised flesh met cold stone. He heard Ruaidhrí gasp and knew the boy had recognized him, then heard the footsteps of the men who’d carried him retreat back up the stairs, the door creaking on its hinges as they closed it behind them. Only when he heard the click of the lock did he drop his ruse.
He opened his eyes—found himself staring straight into Ruaidhrí’s.
The boy gave a gasp, leapt back. “I thought you were dead!”
“Do you mean just now—or when you tried to shoot me?” Jamie sat up, ig
noring the pain in his ribs.
“What are ravin’ on about? I never tried to shoot you—not that I never thought of it, mind.”
“That’s an honest answer.” The surprise in Ruaidhrí’s voice was genuine, and Jamie knew his instincts had been right. Sheff had lied about that.
“No insult.”
“None taken.” Jamie took in his surroundings. There was little to see. With no windows, the room was all but pitch black.
“But if you’re here, then … ” The boy’s voice trailed off, then took on an angry tone. “Where is Bríghid, Sasanach?”
“She’s here—upstairs, I think. The Earl bribed men from the London constabulary and kidnapped her from the confessional.”
“Confessional? What—”
“Keep your voice down. They mustn’t know I’m awake.”
Jamie then told Ruaidhrí the whole story from the night he’d taken Bríghid to London to the moment Sheff and his hired thugs had stormed the church.
For a long moment, silence filled the darkness.
“Well, that’s bloody grand. We’ve made a mess of it, haven’t we?”
Jamie leaned back against the cold stone wall. “Aye.”
“It explains those black eyes and all that blood on your face.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“That’s good, because you look like bloody hell.”
“Thanks.”
“They’re going to hang me.”
Though the boy had tried to sound undaunted, Jamie could feel the tense undercurrent of fear. “Don’t give yourself up for dead quite yet. Tell me what you know about this place. Tell me everything.”
“You have a plan?”
“Not bloody yet.”
“Fine. I’ll tell you what I can. But first, one question, Sasanach. You’re in love with my sister, aren’t you?”
Jamie closed his eyes, mulled over the consequences of telling the truth. But, in the end, there was only one answer he could give. “Aye.”
Ruaidhrí groaned. “Bloody grand.”
* * *
Ailís turned the key, unlocked the door.
She did not want to do this. She wanted no part of this. For the first time since she’d left Dublin, she wished herself back on the streets again. Anything to be away from this place. Away from the iarla. Away from him.
Away from Ruaidhrí.
Why had she told him? Why had she pretended to be proud of herself when she felt such shame for what she’d done? Why had she rubbed it in his face?
She’d seen disbelief in his eyes, then hurt, then hate. She was nothing to him now. She was less than nothing—an Englishman’s whore, a traitor, a Judas.
And wasn’t she every one of those things? Aye, she was.
The pain of regret nearly forced the air from her lungs.
No one had ever been as sweet to her as Ruaidhrí. No one had ever made her feel precious, like someone to be cared for. Not only had she hurt him, she’d helped condemn him to a painful death. And the other Englishman—the kind one with the lovely green eyes, golden hair and handsome face—she had helped to condemn him, as well.
Hand trembling, she turned the knob and opened the door.
Ruaidhrí’s sister sat in a chair before the fire, asleep. Clearly, she was exhausted. And still beautiful. Ailís had hated her for her beauty when she’d first seen her. But now she felt a little sorry for her. She knew what the iarla had planned.
Ailís hated to wake her.
She didn’t have to.
At the sound of the closing door, Bríghid’s eyes flew open in obvious alarm.
Ailís watched alarm turn to disdain as Bríghid recognized her, saw her rounded belly.
Bríghid stood, and even though they were roughly the same height, Ailís felt small, worthless. She tried to remind herself that Bríghid was no saint, no pure virgin, no matter what Ruaidhrí believed. Ailís had seen the bloodstained sheet with her own eyes.
Bríghid spoke first—in English. It was an insult. “Here to do your master’s dirty work?”
It wasn’t a slap across the face, but it felt like one. “I’ve been sent to help you with your bath and—”
“I’ll not be takin’ a bath.”
Ailís swallowed hard. “Don’t you remember last time? Don’t you know there’s no point in resistin’? He’ll get what he’s after in the end. He always does.”
“Not tonight.” Giddy from exhaustion, Bríghid picked up the familiar and hated blue silk gown, ripped it from its transparent lace bodice to its hem, dropped it on the floor. “I will not wear this. And I will not take a bath.”
The servant girl gaped at her in horror. “Are you mad? He’ll punish you! He’ll punish him!”
The note of panic in the girl’s voice made Bríghid’s stomach knot up. Jamie. “Punish him? Punish who?”
“Ruaidhrí! The iarla has him in chains down—”
It wasn’t the answer Bríghid had expected, and the shock of it sent her into a rage. Her fists clenched at her sides. “You lie! Ruaidhrí is safe! He is far from here!”
“She’s telling the truth.”
Bríghid’s breath caught in her throat, fear a hammer in her breast.
The iarla.
He stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. “Your brother doesn’t know how to stay out of trouble. It seems he had some plan to kill me, isn’t that right, Alice?”
“Aye, my lord.”
There was a buzzing in Bríghid’s ears, the panicked rush of her own blood. The iarla had Ruaidhrí. But where was Jamie?
“You see, Brigid, once again, your brother’s life depends on whether or not you please me. Only this time, Jamie won’t be here to take you from me.”
The buzzing in her ears became a roar. “Wh-what have you done with him, with Jamie?”
“It’s really a question of what the London constabulary did to him, my dear. They got word of a Catholic chapel in the heart of London that was harboring traitors. It’s good I arrived when I did. They’d beaten him rather badly, I’m afraid. They locked him in chains in Newgate Prison.”
Her head began to spin. Jamie! “No!”
“Yes.” The look on the iarla’s face told Bríghid he was enjoying this. “Of course, I didn’t leave him there. I’m not heartless. He’s here keeping your brother company.”
“Jamie is here?” For the first time in days, Bríghid felt a ray of hope.
“Aye, he’s here. I doubt he knows that, however. I think he took one too many blows to the head. My men tell me he was unconscious all the way from England.”
He was hurt. Jamie was badly hurt. “Let me see him. Let me care—”
“You will see him soon enough. But first there is the matter of your obedience, Brigid.”
Her hope in tatters, she said the first thing that came to mind. “That’s not my name.”
The iarla took a step toward her, let his gaze travel over her. “You are a little spitfire, aren’t you? I can see why Jamie—”
The iarla’s gaze dropped to the floor to where his foot had caught in folds of torn blue silk. He bent down, retrieved the shredded gown.
Bríghid took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and met the iarla’s gaze. Though a faint smile played on his lips, she could feel the anger within him.
He held up the gown, tossed it to Alice, spoke in a mild voice. “If the gown was not to your liking, Brigid, you need only have told me. I’d have found another.”
The blow—a backhanded slap across the face—came so suddenly Bríghid was wholly unprepared for the pain. All but knocked off her feet, she struggled not to pass out. Spots danced before her eyes. Her cheek stung like fire.
No one in her life had ever hit her.
It was the iarla who kept her on her feet. He hauled her up against him, dug his fingers into her hair, and forced her to look up at him. His breath reeked of drink. His brown eyes held darkness. “Disobey me again, Brigid, and I shall take it out of your brother’s
hide—and Jamie’s!”
He thrust her from him and ordered Alice to find a new gown, then stormed out of the room, Alice behind him.
Alone, Bríghid staggered backwards, sank to the floor, and wept.
* * *
Finn moved quietly through the trees, his gaze on the little squatters cabin. He wasn’t sure what had brought him here. He had searched along the road all the way from County Clare for any sign, any word of Ruaidhrí, and found nothing.
He knew well enough his brother was up to no good. He’d discovered the missing pistol the morning he’d left Clare. He’d opened the wooden box and found only Muirín’s saved coin. Muirín had packed the box when they’d left her cabin in County Meath, and though she’d noticed the pistol wasn’t in the box, she’d thought Finn had taken it.
Finn had known from that moment that Ruaidhrí had gone off either to avenge their family on the iarla or to bring Bríghid home. But he’d found no sign of Ruaidhrí, no innkeeper who’d seen a lad matching his description. Finn had even checked with sheriffs along the way. Nothing. His search had led him back here, back to the squatters cabin.
There was no scent of smoke in the air, no sign of anyone lurking nearby.
He tied the reigns of his horse to a strong branch and moved quietly forward. As he drew nearer, he could see the front door had been kicked in. Inside the cabin, all was dark, the rays from the winter sunset not strong enough to cast their light inside.
He crept along the outside wall, listened for any man or beast that might be hiding nearby. When he reached the door, he looked in and found the cabin empty and in a shambles—a sure sign the iarla’s men had been there.
He glanced around him, certain he knew what had happened here. Guided by Finn’s misleading advice, the iarla had ridden here with his thugs, found the place newly deserted and set about to destroy everything left behind. Finn supposed the bastard enjoyed destroying things. Perhaps it made him feel powerful. Perhaps he—
Something beneath the table caught Finn’s eye. He bent down and retrieved the old sack they’d used to store potatoes—the sack Ruaidhrí had been carrying when he’d left for Clare.
Ruaidhrí’s winter cap and a shriveled apple, nibbled by mice, were all that remained inside it.
