Utter exhaustion gave her frankness. “I’m scared.”
Aidan turned his head and looked at her. She knew she was probably as pale as milk. He sat up and reached out to capture her chin between a rough thumb and forefinger, turning her face to his. “Ah, t’will be all right.” Apparently it didn’t occur to him that he was part of what she feared. “Your mother and Father Joseph saw to it that we all learned to read and to write a decent hand—we’ll need that more than ever in America, I’m thinking.”
She nodded, and couldn’t help but smile. She remembered the valley’s children crowded into the Kirwan cottage while her mother had schooled them. They hadn’t learned much beyond writing, reading, and ciphering. But learning at home was far preferable to attending one of the British-established National Schools, where it seemed the primary goal was to teach Irish students not to be Irish. “Do ye remember the day Moira Healy came home and recited that horrid verse?
“I thank the goodness and the grace
That on my birth have smiled
And made me in these Christian days
A happy English child”
Aidan chuckled. “I thought her da would burst a blood vessel, his face was so red. Ye could hear him roaring oaths up and down the valley. He made the wee lass wash her mouth out with lashings of whiskey—he said it was the only thing that might kill the filthy words on her tongue.”
“Aye, and didn’t she hate it! Poor, Moira. It was after that, Mam offered to teach us herself,” Farrell reminisced. Her smile faded then, and she dropped her gaze to her lap. She had known Moira Healy all of her life, had seen her face alight with a sweet smile that always reached her mist-gray eyes. Farrell knew she’d never see her again. “I will miss her something terrible. I didn’t even get to tell her goodbye.” Loss, loss, and more loss—was it to be Farrell’s legacy?
“At least we’re not alone,” Aidan put in. “We know each other, you and I.” That wasn’t much comfort to her, either. “Everything will be all right,” he repeated. “Ye’ll see, céadsearc.” Sweetheart. The endearment rolled off his tongue so easily, he must have used it lots of times.
Startling her, he moved closer and took her face between his hands. His eyes roved over her features. “God, do ye know how fair ye are, lass?”
“F-fair?” She thought her mother might have told her once in her life, but it sounded altogether different coming from Aidan. Liam had mentioned her appearance, comparing her to a spring day. But this was different.
Aidan’s haggard good looks swam in her tears.
“Aye, as pretty as a rose, all velvety and sweet-smelling.” Farrell wasn’t a vain woman, but something about the sound of Aidan’s voice, rich and low, almost made her believe him. She smelled the smoke from downstairs in his hair, and a scent of his own that made her remember again the giggling comments girls had made about him.
Then she recognized the intense purpose in his eyes as he lowered his lips to hers. They were gentle—no doubt he guarded the cut on his upper lip—but searing, and she had the sudden fear that he would devour her if he could.
His mouth moved over hers, possessing and insistent, and unbidden, in her mind rose the image of Michael’s putty-colored features, stilled forever by the very man whose hands cupped her face. Anger welled up in her again, fortified by a hot meal and his presumption. She made a noise of protest in her throat and arched her back to get away. Working both hands up between them, she pushed against the solid wall of his chest with all her strength.
“No!” She glared at him. “How dare you? Do ye expect to whisper a few sweet words and think I’ll forget everything that has happened? That I’ll welcome you with open arms? Michael’s barely cold. This marriage wasn’t my idea, you’ll remember. The rest of you decided for me. I wanted to marry your brother. I love Liam and ye’ve taken me from him.”
Gripping her shoulders, he drew back and considered her again, a frown linking his dark brows. He looked angry. “Whether or not you like it, you’re married to me. And while you have reason to be angry with me, you’re my wife, Farrell Kirwan O’Rourke. Before God and a houseful of witnesses ye agreed to that. And ye promised to obey!”
Yes, she had agreed to be his wife, stunned and herded along by events moving too swiftly for her to grasp. Yes, in a daze she had promised to obey, but it went against her basic nature to follow like a docile sheep.
She pulled against his grip, but it was fast and firm. “I suppose you can force me to your will,” she uttered between clenched teeth, “but I’ll not give you the satisfaction of anything more, ever.”
“I’ve never had to force a woman in my life, and I won’t be starting now!” he snapped, clearly insulted. He released her and stood.
“Why did ye marry me, then? You could have left me in Skibbereen or anywhere along the road.”
Farrell thought he would have been pacing like a caged beast if the room were big enough. “Leave you in Skibbereen to bring disaster down on everyone’s heads?”
“You didn’t have to make me your wife just to save me from Cardwell. After all, I am innocent. I didn’t do anything wrong.” She saw by his expression that her barb hit its target.
He leaned down to her suddenly, anger and some other emotion in his dark eyes, making her recoil. “Ye slapped the young heir, your better, don’t forget, and no matter the reason you can be sure he wouldn’t let that pass.” It then occurred to her that it would be foolish to get on Aidan’s bad side, with his temper and his strength— “We’re bound, and that’s the end of it. I promise ye—”
He left the sentence hanging ominously, and with that he reached out and opened the door. He might have slammed it shut behind him, but he didn’t. It closed with a soft click and Farrell scrubbed her mouth with the back of her shaking hand.
The racket from the pub’s customers and the tuneless music were muffled up here, although now and then she heard a louder thump or a raised voice that further unnerved her.
Scared to death that Aidan would come back, she worried even more that he wouldn’t.
CHAPTER FOUR
Aidan sat on the quay in front of the pub and sighed, creating a cloud of vapor in front of his face. The river lapped at the wall, a pleasant sound compared to the din coming from Kate’s establishment. Overhead, the stars, one for every soul in heaven his mother had told him, looked like distant points of cold blue fire flickering in the utterly black sky. If his mother had been right, a lot of those stars belonged to Irish souls who’d waged countless battles over hundreds of years or died for their faith.
He jammed his hands into his coat pockets, mindful of their fragile, tissue-thin fabric. Gritty-eyed from complete, marrow-deep exhaustion, he still had enough energy to curse himself backward and forward, and to throw in a choice word for Farrell as well. Why had he married her, she wanted to know.
Why, indeed? he wondered. What sane man would willingly bind himself to a woman who blamed him for her brother’s death, and loved another?
Because he’d wanted her. Unreasonably, unswervingly, from the first moment he realized that the barefoot, dirty-faced child he’d known as Farrell Kirwan had suddenly become a woman. At least her transformation had seemed sudden. No woman since—and there had been more than a few, as Father Joseph had admonished him about—could make him forget Farrell.
He’d already told himself it could take a long time to win her over. Given the way she looked at him, it was impossible to forget. He would have to approach her in small, unthreatening ways that would gain her trust, if not her respect. That might come eventually, but no day soon, he knew.
And yet . . . and yet when he’d sat down next to her in the close little room and looked at her face, cleanly made and softly rounded, he’d been unable to stop himself from touching her. He’d wanted to feel with his fingertips the fineness of her skin, the smooth warmth of her cheeks. And his eyes had not deceived him in that. She felt as sweetly pretty as she appeared.
Aidan had known beaut
iful women in his time; he hadn’t traveled much but he was convinced that no female on earth was more striking than a well-favored Irish lass. And Farrell put all others to shame.
He’d watched her from a distance for years, and tried every way he could think of to impress her. He could outdance, outdrink, and outfight just about any other young man in their village nestled in the valley. And, given the right amount of poteen and a proper audience, he could also sing fairly well and tell a good story. The women rarely failed to notice—except for Farrell. In fact, the harder he’d tried to impress her with his abilities, the more maddeningly aloof she became, and the more his pride suffered until his anger turned inward as well as outward.
Sure, and a body might think she was simply a cold woman, pretty on the outside, and on the inside as brittle as a leafless tree in winter. But it wasn’t true. She had a soft heart for a sad story, and for every stray dog, mewing cat, any crying child in Skibbereen. Didn’t he have the proof of that in her stubborn defense of her brother Michael? Never had a more shiftless, faithless scoundrel been born, yet Farrell had always seen the good in him and blinded herself to the bad. Such a streak of loyalty was a sterling trait in a woman, one that Aidan greatly admired—and wished for in a wife. He had only to think of a way to win Farrell’s heart to make the wish a reality.
In his mind he had an image of her that he carried to his dreams some nights. It had been the first time he noticed her as a budding young woman. He had been looking for the O’Rourkes’ errant pig—the silly beast tended to wander off and root in others’ gardens if not watched. In his search, he’d had to pass the Kirwan’s tiny plot of land.
Farrell had stood in her da’s field that St. Patrick’s day, planting potatoes. That wasn’t remarkable; everyone planted on March seventeenth. It was tradition. Since old Seamus Kirwan had been the most unreliable of men, the task of caring for the family fell to Farrell and her older brothers. The scent of moist, turned soil had hinted at spring and perfumed the air that day.
Just as he’d looked at her, she glanced up and their eyes met. She’d looked like a faerie grown to full size, with ripening curves and a smile that could stop the progress of the sun across the sky. Cool mists had drifted down from the green hills and settled lightly upon her dark copper hair, making it curl into ringlets. Then suddenly the sun had broken through the clouds to sparkle on each crystal drop, and she’d looked as though she wore a magic cowl of fire and diamonds. Even now, five years later, Aidan felt the same shiver fly down his spine, and the same stirrings in his groin and his heart as he had then.
Since that day, no other woman had fascinated him or frustrated him to the extent that Farrell Kirwan did.
But she was in love with Liam, the ungrateful wench. And she was furious that Aidan and circumstances had taken her from him.
Aidan felt his shoulders slump. In truth, Michael Kirwan was responsible for much of their immediate trouble. But only the lowest coward with no conscience held a grudge against a dead man, especially when he’d had a hand in that man’s end.
His gloomy thoughts were interrupted when a pair of sailors burst out of the pub, obviously so full of drink and off-key song that even Kate would tolerate them no longer.
“Be gone wi’ ye!” she snapped from the doorway like a fat, angry terrier. “And don’t be comin’ back till ye’ve learned some manners, which I won’t wait for. Phaw!” She caught sight of Aidan and gave him an even, assessing stare before turning to go back into the pub. He could only hope that she wasn’t the type of person who would happily tell all she knew to an investigating constable or dragoon about the country couple staying in room number three above her barroom.
He glanced at the stars again. Let Michael Kirwan answer to God, he thought as he rose from the cold wall. As for himself, he had more pressing concerns—to save his own neck and that of his wife.
* * *
Unable to move, Farrell stirred from a drugged sleep to a state of half-consciousness. She didn’t know what had roused her until she glimpsed the familiar shape of Aidan, looming over her in the darkness. He smelled faintly of porter and wood smoke. She’d fallen asleep in her clothes after the candle had burned out. Fearful that he had come back to exercise his husbandly rights, she waited with her breath trapped in her chest.
“Goodnight, Farrell,” he whispered. She heard him settle on the floor, which offered precious little space between bed and wall for his broad shoulders. His boot scraped the mopboard as he shifted to get comfortable. The chill of the room touched Farrell’s cheeks. She tried not to think of how cold Aidan might get during the night without the hint of a blanket or cover. He’d killed her brother, after all, and wasn’t deserving of her concern.
The thought circled in her sleep-fogged mind, truer than true. Even so, it wasn’t in her nature to stand fast in such hard judgement. Reluctantly—and begrudgingly—she bunched one of the thin blankets in her hands and tossed it down to him, assuring herself that she’d do the same for a stray dog.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
Determined not to respond, she rolled onto her side with her back to him, released her breath, and let sleep overtake her once more.
* * *
“Where are ye going in America, exactly?”
Early the next morning in a relatively quiet corner of the pub, Farrell and Aidan sat across the table from a derelict-looking ship’s master, one James McCorry. He wore a stained blue wool coat with tarnished brass buttons, and his craggy, weather-beaten face bore a couple of scars that appeared to be souvenirs of knife cuts. Heaven only knew if his vessel was as dilapidated. A few careful questions Aidan had asked of Kate’s patrons had directed him to the captain.
The man took a long drink of his ale and wiped his mouth on his crusty sleeve. “This time we’re bound for New Orleans.”
Farrell possessed no great knowledge of American geography, but she didn’t think that city was mentioned as a destination by many Irish immigrants going to the United States. They went to places like New York and Boston, Philadelphia and Baltimore. Obviously, Aidan didn’t think much of the location either.
“That’s a wee bit farther than we hoped to go.”
“Aye, it’s five thousand miles from here. New York is but three.”
“Ye’d not be going to New York or Boston?”
“No, but at this time of year, the weather will be better when we dock in the southern climes than it would be up north. The other ship in port, the Exeter, is going to New York. She sails in three days.”
Aidan pushed away his empty tankard and prepared to stand. “I thank ye, Mr. McCorry. My wife and I will see about passage on the other—” He broke off so suddenly, Farrell stared up at him. But he wasn’t looking at the captain or at her. His stance was rigid, his gaze was fixed on a pair of soldiers who had just come in. Armed with muskets, they made their way to the bar and began asking Kate questions Farrell couldn’t make out at this distance. Aidan sat again.
“D’ye sail soon?”
“In a fine hurry, are ye then?” McCorry asked, letting his eyes drift to the soldiers, then back to Farrell, where they lingered just long enough to make her uncomfortable. “We leave on the noon tide. I’ve already got my cargo—there’s a great lot of unhappy Irishmen wantin’ to go to America. But I’ve room for two more. I provide water and one pound of food every day we’re under sail, if the wind favors us. If ye want more, you’d best bring it. Ye must bring yer own bedding and dishes, too. It’s nothin’ fancy but it’ll get you where you want to go.”
“Sounds fair,” Aidan replied. Farrell was less sanguine about traveling with James McCorry, but a glaring reminder of why they needed to make hasty departure stood at the bar in the form of the two soldiers.
McCorry held out his hand. “Five pounds passage for each of ye.”
“Ye’ll get your fare when we come aboard,” Aidan said.
“T’would be a pity if I had to sell your berth to someone else,” McCorry sighe
d with feigned regret, and cast another glance at the military men. He smiled, revealing rotting teeth, and the knife scars pulled his face into a frightening grimace. “I can hold it if ye pay me now.”
Aidan’s expression remained carefully blank, but it was as if Farrell could hear his thoughts while he considered their options. Ten pounds was a fortune to people who lived off the land. Farrell didn’t think she’d ever seen that much money at one time in her life, and it would be a lot to lose if McCorry turned out to be nothing but a pirate.
Aidan folded his hands in front of him on the table and gave the captain an even stare. “A pity it would be but there are other ships, and we’ll find passage with one of them if needs be. And ye don’t look to be the kind of man who would pass up the chance to make ten pounds, even if it comes later in the day.” He lifted one brow. “So, Mr. McCorry, would ye be kind enough to tell me the name of your vessel so we’ll know which one to look for?”
The captain let out a roar of laughter. “Aye, boyo, ye’re no bumpkin, after all. Come to the Mary Fiona as soon as ye like. We sail just after noon.”
The two shook hands then, and McCorry rose from his chair and made his way to the pub door. As he passed the soldiers, he threw them a loud greeting. “Top of the day to ye, boys.”
“Can we trust him?” Farrell asked as she watched McCorry’s departure.
“No, but it’s a bit less worrisome with our ten pounds still in my—uh, pocket.” He gave her a sudden, wicked smile that she was annoyed to find quite disarming. Oh, and didn’t the sight of it probably make all the girls melt away like hot butter? she thought dryly. Well, it didn’t fool her, though she made a pointed effort to ignore the little jolt that shimmied through her. “And I’ll ask about to make sure the good captain isn’t after telling us a tale about other ships bound for New York.”
While Kate had disappeared into the kitchen, the soldiers still stood at the bar, and now they were casually scanning the pub patrons. At this time of day, there weren’t many to look over, and it wouldn’t be long before they discovered Aidan and Farrell.
The Irish Bride Page 5
