Angelfire

by Linda Lael Miller

  “I should ’ave speared you with that pitchfork when I ’ad the chance,” Jamie rasped, subduing her with discouraging ease.

  Bliss squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself for the first stinging blow to her upended posterior.

  It never arrived. Instead, with an exclamation of disgust, Jamie hurled her aside, so that she landed with an undignified thump on the ground. As her skirts were only inches from the fire, she snatched them out of harm’s way before glaring up at the man who sat regarding her with infuriating calmness.

  “How dare you!” she cried, disobliged beyond all bearing.

  “The question is,” Jamie inquired, rubbing his chin and frowning pensively, “what stopped me?”

  The paralysis that had held Bliss in check was gone in that moment. She lunged at Jamie, not bothering to rise from her knees, both fists doubled up to hammer at his chest.

  He caught her wrists in his hands and stayed the attack with a dismaying lack of effort. Gently, he drew Bliss forward, until she was trapped between his knees and her mouth was only inches from his, suspended there, waiting.

  After muttering a curse, he kissed her, angrily at first, as a punishment, and then with an unrestrained hunger that set Bliss to aching for his possession. She would have given herself to him, then and there, if he’d pressed her, but he didn’t.

  In a sudden change of attitude, he shot to his feet, hauling a dazed Bliss roughly along with him. “Blisterin’ you would ’ave been a better idea,” he grumbled, half wrenching and half hurling her away from the fire and into the chilly darkness that surrounded its wavering glow.

  Bliss had been through a great deal in recent days, and especially in the last few hours, and she was overwhelmed. Tears of unadulterated self-pity filled her eyes, and she made a small, despairing sound.

  The sun was just rising over the sea, which glimmered in the distance, and Bliss could see the sorrel standing patiently in the brisk morning breeze, steam puffing from its nostrils as it snuffled a greeting to its master.

  “H-how did you find me?” Bliss dared to ask.

  “It was an accident,” Jamie retorted, scowling at her from beneath the brim of his disreputable leather hat.

  Her satchel was hooked over the saddle by its handle, and Bliss was as glad to see it as she would have been to encounter an old and sympathetic friend. She sniffed as Jamie continued to ignore her and began untying the sorrel’s reins from a low tree branch.

  “You might at least have the decency to ask if I’m all right,” she pointed out.

  Jamie didn’t look at her. “I might, but I’m not going to,” he responded crisply. “Consider yourself lucky, Duchess. If I’m inclined toward anything right now, it’s plain, old-fashioned murder.”

  The dawn air was cool, and Bliss hugged herself, trying to keep warm. She could feel her tears drying on her face. “Jamie, I—” The words froze in her throat, nearly choking her. After an internal struggle, she tried again. “I—I’m sorry.”

  Without answering her, or meeting her eyes. Jamie helped her into the saddle and mounted behind her. She felt a delicious and entirely inappropriate sense of pleasure at his nearness.

  They were making their slow and weary way back toward the inn before Jamie condescended to speak.

  “What the hell did you say to those bleeders to send them packing like that?”

  Bliss smiled, despite her exhaustion and the strange pain that Jamie’s anger stirred within her. “I told them that my husband would cut out their livers,” she replied.

  Jamie was silent for a long moment, then, grudgingly, he gave a grunt of amusement. “May God have infinite pity on that poor bastard, wherever and whoever he may be.”

  Stung anew, Bliss sat up straighter and held more tightly to her satchel, which Jamie had no doubt found in the road when he’d gone out looking for her the night before. “As far as those rascals are concerned, that ’poor bastard’ is none other than your own self, Mr. Jamie McKenna. They were either scared to death of you or understandably repelled by the mere mention of your name!”

  The strong, gloved hands drew back on the reins and the sorrel came to a brisk stop. Jamie’s voice rumbled past Bliss’s ear. “Maybe you’d prefer to walk back to the inn, Duchess, rather than suffer me company.”

  Bliss’s chin jutted out. She was dizzy with weariness but far too proud to beg Jamie’s indulgence. “The choice is yours, Mr. McKenna,” she said with quiet dignity.

  At a subtle, silent command, the horse bolted forward, moving at a trot, then a lope, then a gallop. Bliss held on as best she could, and by the time the inn came into sight, she was half sick with fatigue.

  Jamie dismounted in the busy dooryard, ignoring the frank stares of those travelers standing outside, smoking and exchanging flasks. With a tenderness Bliss would not have dared to hope for only minutes before, he lifted her down and carried her toward the door. One of the stable-boys followed with Bliss’s satchel, his eyes wide in his grubby face.

  “Found ’er, did you?” was Dorrie’s desultory comment as Jamie crossed the near-empty dining room where she was clearing tables, Bliss still cradled in his arms.

  “Bring food and hot water for a bath,” Jamie responded brusquely, proceeding toward the room at the rear of the building, beside the kitchen.

  Bliss had never expected to see that particular chamber again. She uttered a sound of protest when Jamie dropped her unceremoniously onto the bed, then snuggled down to go to sleep.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Jamie protested, taking one of her hands and hauling her back to an upright position. “You’re staying awake until you’ve had a bath and something to eat.”

  Having made this pronouncement, he began unbuttoning Bliss’s now-grimy woolen coat. When he’d tossed that aside, he flipped her over like a pancake and began working at the fastenings of the evening dress she’d run away from Alexander in.

  It seemed she was forever and always running away from someone or something. She yawned into the soft covers.

  “I’d really rather sleep, if you don’t mind.”

  Jamie gave her a smart slap on the rump. “And sleep you will, after you’ve had some food and a bath.”

  Bliss rolled over and sat up, indulging in another yawn. “I don’t know why you’re being irksome about this. I’m so very tired—”

  “So am I,” Jamie broke in resolutely. “And I’m not sharing a bed with a grubby little chit like you. You’re a mess, Duchess.”

  Bliss’s mouth dropped open and her eyes went wide.

  Jamie grinned at her disgruntlement and stood to help Dorrie as she struggled into the room with a massive copper bathtub.

  “She could ’ave used Mistress O’Malley’s water,” the servant grumbled. “But no-o-o-o. That ain’t good enough for Miss Tall Snout, is it?”

  Bliss shuddered and made a face. By then, Dorrie was distracted—she was admiring Jamie from behind as he positioned the bathtub near the fire and then began shedding his coat, hat, and gloves.

  It was clear enough, from Dorrie’s expression, that she’d learned to enjoy watching Jamie take off more than coats and gloves. Bliss knew a flash of bitter jealousy, and she glared at Jamie as he looked up and smiled at her.

  He shrugged in reply to a question she hadn’t asked and then said, “Dorrie will see you have all the hot water you need, won’t you, love?” He started to give the serving woman an affectionate slap on the derriere, stopping just in time to prevent Bliss from scrambling off the bed and scratching his eyeballs right out of his head.

  “I hate you!” she sputtered, the moment Dorrie had left the room.

  “How do I get myself involved in these things?” Jamie asked, of no one Bliss could discern, and went out, closing the door quietly behind him.

  It would have served him right if Bliss had gone to sleep right then, flouting his edict that she must have a bath if she was going to share a bed with him—as if she wanted to snuggle up with that insufferable lout! But the truth of the ma
tter was that she was wide-awake, desperately hungry and longing for the soothing luxury of sinking into a tub of hot water.

  Presently, Dorrie reentered the room, carrying a tray that contained the inevitable wedge of venison pie, a pot of strong, fragrant tea, and a jagged hunk of bread.

  Bliss was so hungry that she fairly jerked the tray from the woman’s hands.

  The servant left without comment, returning sometime later with two huge buckets of steaming water. Jamie was directly behind her with two more.

  They made a great ceremony of filling the bathtub, then Dorrie went out. Jamie lingered.

  Bliss remembered that she was wearing only her underclothes and covered herself with a blanket snatched from the foot of the bed.

  “Get out,” she said clearly.

  Jamie grinned and remained exactly where he was. He folded his arms across his chest. “If you’re going to go around claiming me as a husband,” he remarked, “the least you can do—the very least, Duchess—is let me help with your bath.”

  “My water is getting cold!” Bliss wailed.

  One of Jamie’s shoulders lifted in a halfhearted shrug. “Don’t think I’m not sympathetic,” he said.

  It was quite clear that he wasn’t.

  Bliss’s annoyance was unbounded. She scrambled off the bed, dragging her blanket along, stomped over to the bathtub, and summarily climbed in, underclothes and all.

  With a great, furious splash, she sat down, sending water surging over both sides of the tub to pool on the floor. Some of it poured onto the hearth and sizzled as it was consumed by the fire blazing there.

  Jamie stared at her in wonder for a moment, then strode toward her, taking the blanket from her, flinging it aside. He took her hand and drew her to her feet, and Bliss didn’t resist him.

  Her camisole was drenched, and she knew it revealed her high, full breasts, but she did not cover herself. The hungry look in Jamie’s eyes met some elemental need within her, and she was powerless against the primitive things she was feeling.

  One of his hands strayed out to touch her breast, the thumb caressing a thinly veiled nipple. Bliss stood motionless, knowing that she should resist but unable to do so. She whispered Jamie’s name and suddenly, cruelly, the spell was broken.

  He withdrew as though her flesh had burned him and stormed out of the room, slamming the door as he went. Stricken and confused, weary to the point of exhaustion, Bliss wept as she peeled away her sodden underthings and tossed them aside.

  She made short work of her bath and then, still feeling wounded but unable to cry anymore, she crept into bed like a wounded creature seeking refuge, snuggled down deep, and drew the covers up over her head. She was sound asleep in an instant.

  Hours later, when the room was filled with the shadows of early evening, Bliss awakened, raising herself on one elbow. Jamie lay beside her, sprawled out on his stomach, the covers reaching only as high as his waist.

  Bliss drew in her breath at the sight of the scars crisscrossing his back and then reached out, with a trembling finger, to trace the path of a mark that reached from his right shoulder blade to his left hip. Feeling sick all the way to the core of her soul, she counted.

  The disfigurement could only have been caused by the lash. Twelve times Jamie had felt it slicing into his flesh ...

  Bliss squeezed her eyes shut and raised one hand to her mouth to suppress a moan of horror and of shared pain, and at that moment, Jamie awakened and rolled over onto his back. His blue eyes read her expression accurately and a wall seemed to rise up between them, invisible but real.

  “Jamie,” Bliss whispered brokenly, and all her feelings were contained in that single utterance.

  He shifted his gaze to the ceiling and Bliss, realizing that her breasts were bare, lifted the covers to her throat. She couldn’t help noticing the medallion he wore around his neck, affixed to a strip of weathered, discolored rawhide.

  Tentatively, she reached out to touch it, just as she had touched his mutilated back. “What’s this?”

  Jamie closed his eyes, and there was a stubborn set to his jaw. Even before the silence lengthened, Bliss knew he didn’t mean to answer.

  She bent to squint at the words imprinted on the round piece of brass, now almost worn away. “ ’Blessed—is he—who considereth—the poor.’” Bliss frowned. “The poor?”

  “It’s a beggar’s badge,” Jamie conceded, though he still wouldn’t look at Bliss. “Are you satisfied?”

  “No, I’m not,” Bliss responded. “What in heaven’s name is a beggar’s badge?”

  At last, Jamie opened his eyes, and in their depths Bliss saw remembered misery. “Back in Dublin, a priest—Father McDougal—gave it to me,” he said, in a soft, faraway voice. “It gave me leave to beg.”

  Though she was an imaginative person, Bliss could not envision Jamie McKenna begging for anything. “Did you?” she asked, in a stricken, barely audible voice.

  He chuckled, low in his throat, but both the sound and the expression on his face were totally devoid of humor. “Never ’ad to,” he replied, gazing up at the ceiling again. “I was transported for stealin’ before it came to that.”

  Bliss bit her lower lip. Transported. That explained the scarred flesh on his back.

  She said nothing because nothing came to mind.

  Jamie sat up, reaching out to take Bliss’s chin very gently in his hand. “Don’t,” he said hoarsely.

  Bliss was still gnawing at her lip, and he stopped her by caressing her mouth with his thumb. A shiver of need went through her, and at last she realized that she was naked, as was Jamie, and that they’d been sharing a bed for hours.

  Jamie’s eyes danced as he watched hot color climb up over her cheekbones; obviously, he knew precisely what she was thinking. “Nothing happened, Duchess,” he pointed out. There were cheroots on the bedside table, and Jamie lit one with a wooden match.

  Bliss was hardly reassured. She squirmed to the edge of the bed and then sat there, miserable with embarrassment, wondering how she could dress without exposing herself. The heated abandon she’d felt earlier, when she’d stood in the bathtub and Jamie had caressed her, was a thing of the past.

  After considerable wriggling and wrenching, she managed to wrap another blanket around herself and stand up. Without once looking back at Jamie—indeed, she was trying to pretend that he didn’t exist—she found her satchel, opened it, and took out the tweed skirt and shirtwaist she’d been saving to wear while seeking a position in Auckland, along with clean underclothes. Hastily, she dressed, all the while trying to shield herself behind the blanket.

  When she turned around to face Jamie, he was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing his trousers and buttoning up his shirt. He winked at her. “Everything’s all right, Duchess,” he assured her, with gruff tenderness. “I promise.”

  Bliss looked at the tumbled bed and swallowed painfully. Nothing had happened between her and Jamie, but it might as well have. If word of the time she’d spent with this man ever got back to any of the people she knew, she’d be ruined.

  “Don’t take me back, Jamie,” she pleaded, without thinking first. “Please—I couldn’t bear being married to Alexander—”

  Jamie regarded her in thoughtful silence for a long time. Then he said, unwillingly, as though the words were torn from him, “You are so beautiful.”

  No one had ever said that to Bliss before. With her fiery red hair and her freckles, she’d felt conspicuous, but never beautiful. She stood motionless, unable to speak, until Jamie held out his hand to her.

  Like a sleepwalker, she went to him, and he drew her down to sit on his lap. Bending his head slightly, he nipped at the peak of one of her breasts with his teeth, and Bliss moaned. The sensation was exquisitely pleasurable, even though she was fully dressed.

  A sharp rap at the door sent Bliss scrambling off Jamie’s lap. Flushing with embarrassment, she found her brush in the depths of the battered satchel and began grooming her hair.

>   Jamie crossed the room and opened the door, and Dorrie came in, carrying yet another tray. “I’ve brought your supper, gov’nor,” she said, simpering and batting her eyelashes at him. “Just like I said I would.”

  “There’s a love,” Jamie replied easily, taking the tray and sort of herding Dorrie back toward the door.

  Dorrie wasn’t about to be shepherded out—not, at least, before she’d said her piece. “There’s some men out front,” she confided, lowering her voice to a loud whisper, “askin’ after you and ’er majesty ’ere.”

  Jamie’s face went solemn, and Bliss stopped brushing her hair.

  “What do they look like?” Bliss demanded to know. “And how many of them are there?”

  Clearly, Dorrie preferred to deal directly with Jamie and ignore Bliss. “There’s two of them,” she told him earnestly. “One’s tall, with ’air as red as this one’s.” She gestured distractedly toward Bliss before going on. “The other’s a little bit of a man, with a paunch and bulgin’ eyes and ’ardly no ’air at all.”

  Bliss’s brush clattered to the floor as Jamie turned to give her a quizzical look. Before she could utter any kind of a warning, her father stepped into the room, followed by Alexander, who was as short and fat and old as ever.

  “So,” boomed the tall, redheaded lighthouse keeper. “It’s true what I’m hearin’!”

  Bliss’s heart was thudding against the inside of her rib cage. She didn’t dare look at Jamie, though her every instinct told her that he was braced for a fight. She lifted her chin, sent a silent prayer winging toward heaven, and asked, “How did you find me, Papa?”

  Nils Stafford stared at his daughter with mingled grief and contempt in his eyes. Bliss had long since accepted the fact that he didn’t love her, but that didn’t stop the knowledge from hurting. “Never mind how I found you. What are you doin’, sharin’ a room with this blighter?” He gestured toward Jamie, who stood completely still and kept his peace.

  Bliss swallowed hard. This was her chance to escape Alexander, once and for all, and she meant to grab it. With her right hand painfully clasping her left, she lied, “I thought Jamie loved me, Papa. I gave myself to him and now—now he won’t do right by me.”