by Pamela Clare
“Sheff.” Jamie’s voice was hoarse, and he struggled not to cough. “I need to find him!”
“Curse him!”
Jamie shook his head, tried to explain. “He’s badly burned. It was the pox. It’s driven him mad.”
“The Devil can take him, for all I care! Come!”
Jamie shook his head. “I must try!”
He could see fire from down the hall where Sheff had fled. He held the cloak to his mouth, tried to follow the trail, Ruaidhrí behind him, cursing up a storm.
But they’d gone only half the length of the hallway when Jamie realized it was hopeless. The fire before them was thick, impenetrable. The manor, its walls weakened by tiny peepholes, was quickly becoming an inferno. If they didn’t get out now, they never would.
“It’s no good!” Jamie shouted over the groans of the dying manor. “Let’s go!”
“Now you’re makin’ sense.”
They turned back, stopped.
The way they had come was a barricade of fire.
* * *
Bríghid watched in horror as the manor went up in flames.
Window after window showed the orange glow of fire, then shattered. Sparks shot into the night air, smoke rising black against the black sky. Soon the blaze cast an unnatural light upon the night, a false dawn.
And with each passing moment, her fear, her hopelessness grew.
Her teeth chattered from the cold, but she didn’t feel it. Tears fell unheeded down her cheeks. Beside her, Ailís wept openly, but Bríghid didn’t hear. She knew only one thing: Jamie and Ruaidhrí were in there, and she might never see them again.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang in belated alarm.
Men and women shouted, screamed. Some seemed to be trying to fight the fire, while others stood by in shock and did nothing.
Then a great rumbling shook the night, and part of the ceiling collapsed, sending a shower of embers skyward.
Jamie! Ruaidhrí! Their names where a whispered prayer on her lips.
“Mother of God! Bríghid?”
Bríghid turned her head, found herself staring into Finn’s worried eyes. “Finn?”
Finn could tell his sister was in shock. Her eyes seemed to look through him more than at him. But she recognized him, said his name, reached for him.
He shed his coat, wrapped it around her shoulders. Then he drew her into his arms. “Bríghid! I thought you were safe in London.”
The girl whose weeping had drawn Finn to this stand of trees began to speak almost uncontrollably, rattling off words that made no sense.
“At first I told the iarla everything because I thought he’d help me now that I’m carryin’ his child, but then I started to care for Ruaidhrí, and then, when the handsome Sasanach was brought in, I helped them escape. I got the key, and the iarla tried to kill Bríghid. He beat her badly, and they saved her, but now they’re inside!” The girl ended on a wail.
Finn lifted his sister’s chin, saw the bruises on her cheeks and her throat. If the bloody iarla wasn’t dead yet, Finn would kill him with his bare hands. “Bríghid, talk to me. Where is Ruaidhrí?”
She met his gaze, then looked toward the manor, pointed. “He went after Jamie. He went to save Jamie. Finn, they’re in the fire!”
Finn looked at the manor as another portion of the ceiling collapsed. The entire structure was in flames. His mind told him no one could possibly still be alive in that conflagration. But his heart dared to hope.
He turned to the weeping girl. “What’s your name, love?”
“Ai-Ailís.” She sniffed.
“Ailís, listen carefully. I’m going in after them. If I don’t come back, I want you to watch out for Bríghid. I think she’s hurt and needs to see a doctor. Take this.” He grabbed the last of Blakewell’s coins from his pocket and placed it in her palm. “Head to County Clare. I have family there who will take you in and make certain you’re cared for. When Bríghid is herself again, she’ll be able to guide you. Do you understand?”
Ailís gazed in apparent disbelief at the coin in her hand, nodded.
Finn bent down to kiss Bríghid’s cheek. She sat as if transfixed, watched the manor burn. “Bríghid, I’m going to go get them out if I can.”
Then her eyes grew wide, and she pointed.
He looked toward the manor, watched as a two men leapt through a seeming wall of flames. Something heavy was draped over the shoulder of the taller one.
Blakewell. Running beside him was Ruaidhrí.
“Mother of God!”
Bríghid heard Finn swear, heard Ailís begin to sob afresh. She felt relief wash through her, an elixir of joy. She could not see their faces, but the firelight behind them was enough. She’d recognize the catlike grace of Jamie’s stride—and the cockiness of Ruaidhrí’s—anywhere. She drank them in with her eyes. Jamie wore no shirt. His face and chest were bruised. Both of them were covered in sweat and soot. But they were alive.
Finn rushed forward, helped Jamie lower the heavy bundle to the ground.
It was no bundle, but a man wrapped in her cloak.
“He’s dying.” Jamie coughed. “Badly burned. It was the pox. Drove him mad.”
Bríghid did not hear Ailís’ distressed cry. Her eyes were fixed on the man shivering in her cloak. At first she did not recognize them. Then she gasped.
It was the iarla.
Jamie looked down at the man who’d once been his closest friend, the man who had tried to destroy him, the man who had almost murdered Bríghid. He didn’t know what to feel. Relief? Rage? Grief?
The only thing he knew for certain was that Sheff would be dead in a matter of moments.
They had found him face down on the servant’s stairs, surrounded by fire, and had pulled him out. But it had been too late to save him. The flames had burned his body far beyond a doctor’s skill to heal, and the smoke had ravaged his lungs.
Sheff’s eyes opened. “Jamie, old boy.”
“Sheff.”
“We’ve gotten ourselves in a bad spot, haven’t we?” He took a long shuddering breath, coughed. “Was it a brawl?”
Jamie realized Sheff’s mind was gone. The fire, his burns, had robbed him of any true awareness. Or perhaps the pain had sent him to another time, another place. “Aye, a brawl.”
“You look like hell, old friend. It looks like they got the better of us this time.”
In Sheff’s eyes, Jamie could again see the shadow of the man who’d once been his friend. His throat grew tight. “Aye, they got the better of us this time.”
“And me, I’ve had too much to drink, else why would I be flat on my back?” Sheff gave a week laugh, shivering. “Will you get me home, Jamie?”
Jamie forced a smile, a pang in his chest. “Aye, old friend. You’re going home.”
“Knew I could count … on you.” Sheff took one long, rattling breath, then lay still, his eyes open, lifeless.
Bríghid watched the war of emotions on Jamie’s face as the man who’d been his friend, the man she hated and feared above all others, breathed his last. She wanted to go to Jamie, to comfort him. She fought her way to her feet, took one unsteady step.
And then he there, standing before her. “Bríghid!”
He pulled her into his arms, pressed his lips to her forehead, whispered her name.
He smelled of smoke and sweat, and she savored the feel of him, alive, strong. She had almost lost him, and she felt she might never be able to let go of him again. She let herself sink against him.
She heard his quick intake of breath, felt his body jerk.
He winced, his eyes squeezed shut. “Burns, love.”
It was then she saw the redness of his skin, the raw blisters on his chest and hands.
“Oh, Jamie!”
He cupped her face in his hands, wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, tilted her face upwards until her gaze met his. “I’ll be fine, love.”
And then there were no words.
His m
outh found hers, or hers found his.
It was a kiss of release, a kiss of deliverance, a kiss of prayers answered. Tears of happiness trickled down her cheeks as their lips met, caressed, as their tongues twined, tasted. Salty tears, smoke, sweat.
Her legs, already trembling and weak, gave way. He steadied her, lowered the two of them until she sat in his lap, his arms around her.
He ended the kiss, nuzzled her ear. “When I opened that door and saw you lying so still and covered in blood, I thought you were dead. My God, Bríghid, I don’t know what I would have done.”
She savored his words, turned her face up to him. “I watched the manor burn and feared you and Ruaidhrí had died in the flames. Oh, Jamie, I died a thousand times thinking I’d never see you again.”
“Ruaidhrí saved my life.” He pulled her against him, kissed her hair. “You’re not going to be rid of me so easily, a Bhríghid.”
Behind them, she heard her brothers talking.
“So this is the way of it.” Finn didn’t sound too angry.
“Aye, so it is.” Ruaidhrí didn’t sound angry at all.
Chapter Thirty-four
Jamie guided the horse with his thighs, holding Bríghid as she slept. He didn’t think he’d ever felt anything as precious as the weight of her in his arms. He knew she was exhausted, and felt certain the terror of this night had wounded her in places the eye could not see. But if he had anything to say about it, he would be there for her from now on to protect her, to care for her. If it were up to him, they would never be apart again.
They were now on the road to Drogheda, where Jamie hoped to prevail upon Alec’s shipping connections to grant them free passage back to London. The plan was for Jamie, Bríghid, and Ruaidhrí to leave for Virginia as soon as possible, before news of Sheff’s death caught up with them.
Finn had agreed his sister and brother were no longer safe in Ireland or England. He’d promised to follow them to the Colonies as soon as he was able. When Ruaidhrí had opened his mouth to protest, Finn had sworn to box his ears and worse if ever again Ruaidhrí defied him. Jamie thought it must be a measure of how much Ruaidhrí had grown up these past days that Ruaidhrí actually shut his bloody gob.
Bríghid had slept through the entire discussion, but Jamie was certain she’d have a thing or two to say about it all when she awoke. He knew how much she loved Finn. Leaving her older brother would be hard for her.
They’d had only Finn’s horse between them. When it had become clear Bríghid would not be able to walk far—the blows she’d taken together with exhaustion and shock had left her dizzy and weak—Finn, Ruaidhrí, and Ailís had insisted Jamie ride with her.
Revived by the joy of their escape, she’d asked him a hundred questions. He’d told her about his midnight visit to Sheff’s bedroom. He’d told her about Newgate and the journey to Ireland. He’d told her about how he and Ruaidhrí had worked together to escape. And he’d told her the things Sheff had revealed before he’d died.
“It was his lackey who shot you. They were trying to kill Hermes.”
She’d shaken her head. “Bad aim.”
Then she’d taken him to task for not telling her Sheff had captured Ruaidhrí. “He’s my brother, not yours. It’s my right to be worryin’ about him. Blame yourself for Nicholas’s death if you want, but you’ve no right to be carryin’ my burdens without me.”
Jamie hadn’t realized she’d known anything about Nicholas’s death. “How—”
“Elizabeth told me all about it. It wasn’t your fault, Jamie.”
Her words, spoken in a sleepy voice into the silence of the night, seemed to crack through the shell of pain that had surrounded his heart for so many months, lifting his heart free. “I know.”
Then Bríghid had given into exhaustion and fallen into a deep sleep. She’d awoken only when Jamie had dismounted to bathe his burns in the cold water of a spring.
Jamie glanced down at her face, saw the darkening bruises on her cheeks, felt a torrent of raw emotions. Rage at Sheff for the harm he’d done her, for the hurt he’d done them all. Pity for the man who’d lost his mind to sickness. Grief for his lost friend. But most of all, he felt love for the woman who slept in his arms.
He could not live without her.
Then he heard it—horses’ hooves.
“Off the road. Now!”
He guided the horse into the trees, woke Bríghid.
She was sleepy and confused. “Jamie?”
“Someone’s on the road, love.” He dismounted, gently lifted her to the ground.
“I can’t hear it.” Ruaidhrí frowned.
“Quiet.” Jamie motioned to them to get down, took a fast hold of the horse’s bridle.
The stamping of hooves grew louder. From the sound of it, Jamie counted at least four riders. Then came the squeak of a carriage. Almost immediately, a carriage rode into view, drawn by a team of four horses. Behind it came a lone rider.
Jamie and Finn gaped in amazement.
Then Jamie grinned, ran through the trees to the road. “Travis!”
Travis whirled about, pistol drawn, then stared in astonishment. “Master Blakewell? Is that you?”
“Aye, it bloody well is.”
The carriage rolled to a stop. The door opened.
Out stepped Matthew.
“Jamie? God be praised!”
* * *
“Driven mad by the pox.” Matthew shook his head. “Such a pity.”
“Aye.” Jamie adjusted the furs beneath Bríghid’s chin.
She was fast asleep again, snuggled against him. Ruaidhrí and Ailís slept, too—seated as far apart as possible on the cushioned bench—while Finn had opted to ride behind the carriage with Travis.
Matthew looked at Bríghid, his concerned gaze traveling over her bruised face. “And did Byerly … ?”
“No. She fought him and fought hard. God, Matthew, he nearly killed her.”
“And you.” Matthew took a deep breath, released it. “Poor Elizabeth. She’s out of her mind with worry.”
“I’m sorry to—”
“Sorry? It’s not your doing, Jamie. Besides, this penchant for unseemly adventure runs in your family. This isn’t my first midnight rescue ride, you know.”
Jamie laughed, remembering the story of how Matthew and Cassie had ridden through the night to save Alec from the hangman’s noose.
“The Three Sisters is docked at Drogheda, ready to sail at a moment’s notice.”
“You brought my ship?” Jamie was amazed.
“Aye.” Matthew rubbed his thigh absentmindedly. “It stood to reason you’d need to leave here quickly. I can book passage back to London on any rat-infested crate.”
“But how did you know to come here, or did you simply guess?”
Matthew recounted how a battered Father Owen had shown up on his doorstep, bloodied and beaten, with the news that Lord Byerly had taken Bríghid from the confessional and had Jamie beaten and arrested. The chapel had been destroyed by the mob, and the good Father, who’d been knocked unconscious by Sheff’s men, had barely escaped with his own life by making use of Jamie’s carriage.
Matthew had immediately ridden to London and inquired with the constabulary, which informed him Lord Byerly had taken Jamie from Newgate back to Ireland to be prosecuted.
“When I’d discovered you’d already had your ship made ready to sail, I decided it would be the fastest way to reach you—and to ensure you set sail immediately for Virginia. I had your remaining possessions taken aboard—aye, Hermes and Niamh, too.”
“And how is Father Owen?”
“You can ask him yourself. He’s on board.”
“He’s on the ship?”
“Aye. But there’s more Jamie.” Matthew reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, withdrew a letter. “This arrived the afternoon you were taken. You can’t read it in the dark, so I’ll tell you what it says. Nicholas lives.”
There was a buzzing sound in Jamie’s ears. Surely he ha
d not heard correctly. “What?”
“Aye. It’s a long story, but suffice it to say, he escaped his captors and gave Alec and Cassie quite the shock when he showed up on their doorstep two days before Christmas. Alec wrote that Nicholas was badly hurt but is recovering.”
How could this be? “But I saw—”
“I know what you think you saw, but Nicholas is alive.”
* * *
“Wake up, love.”
Bríghid heard Jamie’s voice, awoke from a deep, dreamless sleep, and looked around her, confused. Ruaidhrí and Ailís sat across from her, Matthew to her right, Jamie to her left.
Beyond the window, the first light of dawn glowed in the eastern sky.
“How do you feel?” Jamie looked down at her, concern plain on his bruised face.
“Happy to be with you.”
He smiled. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I’ve a wee headache.” She felt sick to her stomach, too, but she kept that to herself. “Where are we?”
“The port of Drogheda.”
The carriage rolled to a halt. Outside, Bríghid could see the flank of a large sailing vessel. Her heart lurched.
He was leaving. He was sailing back to Virginia.
She should have known. She should have realized. This day was destined to come. Last night, she’d been so tired, so upset she hadn’t bothered to ask him where they were going.
“Come, love.” Jamie alighted, turned, and lifted her to the ground.
The air was cold and smelled of the sea, of faraway places, of farewell.
Jamie shouted, waved to a man on deck, who smiled and shouted back to him.
Bríghid scarce heard their words, aware only that her heart was breaking.
He was leaving.
The gangplank was lowered.
“I’ll see that all is made ready.” Travis turned and went aboard.
Jamie turned to Finn, Ruaidhrí and Matthew. “We ought to make sail quickly. I doubt much time will pass before word of the earl’s death reaches town.”
Finn nodded gravely, met Bríghid’s gaze, and rested his hands gently on her shoulders. “Bríghid, you and Ruaidhrí are goin’ with him.”
Stunned, Bríghid stared at her brother, her heart a riot of emotion. How could she explain to him that she did not want Jamie to leave, but neither could she go to Virginia with him? She loved Jamie and would not be able to bear watching him marry an Englishwoman. Nor could she stand to leave Finn behind.
