by Pamela Clare
What was her name?
Before he’d realized what he was doing, he had urged Hermes in her direction.
She looked up.
Their gazes collided.
Her eyes burned with contempt.
Stung by the venom in her gaze and the stupidity of his own actions, Jamie stayed the stallion, jerked his attention back to Sheff.
Sheff was shouting directions to Edward and the other servants, who by then had gathered most of the hounds and were leading them to the south side of the clearing in search of the stag’s scent. Then he turned to the priest. “You’ve made a grave mistake, old man.” Sheff walked his mount toward the priest, slowly, menacingly. “Not only have you and your flock interfered with the hunt, itself a crime, but your presence here is treasonous. Papist priests have long been banished, or hadn’t you heard?”
The old man, arms still spread protectively before the frightened crowd, craned his neck to meet Sheff’s gaze. His wrinkled face wavered between defiance and dismay. “We … we meant no harm, my lord. We’re only consignin’ the spirit of this poor babe to God.”
“You needn’t fear I will harm these pitiful creatures, old man. They are my tenants and therefore my responsibility.”
The priest slowly lowered his arms, a look of wary hope dawning on his face.
“No, it is you alone I hold responsible. Do you know the punishment for treason? I could have you hanged, drawn and quartered.”
Stunned, Jamie objected, but his voice was drowned out by cries from the crowd.
“Mercy, Your Lordship! Mercy!”
This seemed to enrage Sheff, who lifted his attention from the priest to the crowd. “You ask me for mercy who should have sent your priest to France long ago had you any concern for him? You dare ask me for anything who plot against England on my lands?”
“These are Uí Naill lands, Sasanach!” A young man, fair-haired and strongly built, glared fearlessly up at Sheff out of angry blue eyes.
“Ná déan, a Rhuaidhrí!” The cry came from her. Her eyes were wide with fear, her gaze darting between Sheff and the young man who’d spoken so foolishly. Face pale, she clutched the young, red-haired boy to her as if to shield him from death.
For a moment, there was silence. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Sheff stared contemptuously down at the young man who had defied him.
Jamie had seen that tight-lipped look on Sheff’s face before and knew Sheff was beyond fury. “Sheff —”
Sheff ignored him. “Percy, bind the old man, and take him to the gaol in Skreen.”
Gasps and cries of outrage rose from the crowd.
Jamie felt hatred surge from the Irish, felt the balance of emotion tip from fear to rage. Hermes shifted nervously beneath him.
Edward obviously sensed the change, too, and directed his men to train their hunting muskets on the crowd.
Stunned silence fell over the clearing.
“Sheff, a word with—”
“Have the rest of your men tear down this heretical altar, and take the child to the lawful church for burial in a paupers’ grave.”
“My baby!” A pretty young woman with a tear-stained face would have rushed forward to claim the coffin had other women not held her back.
“Bring the rapparee to me.”
The dark-haired beauty cried out in dismay at these last words, her voice all but drowned out by angry cries and shouting. “He’s no rapparee, my lord! He’s barely more than a boy!”
The terrified expression on her face tore at Jamie’s gut.
“My lord!” Jamie shouted this time. “A word with you—now!”
He’d never called Sheff “my lord” before, not even in jest. His use of the term now startled them both.
Sheff’s gaze fixed on Jamie, dark and angry. He turned his mount, and the two rode a short distance away from the crowd.
“This is a baby’s funeral, Sheff! Have you gone mad?”
“Jamie, I’m warning you not to interfere.” Sheff spoke quietly, but his voice was steel, cold and hard. His brown eyes flashed fury. “You are my friend, but I will brook no challenge to my authority on my lands!”
“You cannot expect me to sit idly by and watch as you terrify and provoke innocent people!”
“Innocent? There’s no such thing as an innocent Irishman.” Sheff laughed a cruel, hard laugh. “Your breeding is showing, my colonial friend. Don’t let your vulgar sensibilities lead you astray. You wouldn’t want me for your enemy.”
“So you threaten me now?” It was Jamie’s turn to laugh. “I might be as common as a blade of grass, my noble friend, but I recognize the seeds of an uprising when I see one. Push this crowd one step further, and you’ll find out what I mean. How many shots do you think your men will get off at such close quarters before we’re overpowered? Have you noticed some of the men have picked up stones?”
Jamie did not truly fear the crowd, but he’d needed some reason to stay Sheff’s hand. It was clear Sheff would not be swayed by a call for compassion.
Sheff glared at him, lips pressed together in a grim line, but his eyes flickered nervously to the Irish beyond. “What do you suggest, Colonial?”
“Find some excuse to show leniency—a holiday, a saint’s day, your mother’s birthday, anything. Release the priest with a warning, ignore the young hothead, and for God’s sake return the baby’s body to its mother.”
Rage flared anew in Sheff’s eyes, and for one long moment, his gaze locked with Jamie’s in a battle of wills. Then he jerked on the reins and rode back to confront the crowd.
“Damn it!” Jamie swore under his breath. He felt powerless, furious.
Sheff was acting worse than a tyrant. Draw and quarter a priest? Jamie knew the penal laws as well as the next Englishman, but no one actually executed priests unless they were caught fomenting insurrection—or so he’d thought.
But Sheff was an earl and lord of these lands, and as such his orders were beyond contestation. Jamie would have to find a way to stop him, their friendship be damned. He turned Hermes’ head back toward the crowd, urged the stallion forward at a walk.
The dark-haired woman now stood a short distance from Percy’s men. Her head was bowed as if in sorrow, and Jamie imagined she was crying. She still held the red-haired boy in her arms, his freckled face pale and frightened. The men had seized the hothead and were binding his wrists with a length of rope, taunting him. He made no effort to resist, though Jamie could see he was enraged.
Sheff again spoke to the crowd. “My … friend has just reminded me that today is my departed mother’s birthday. In remembrance of her, I shall answer your pleas for mercy and grant you a boon.”
* * *
Bríghid held tightly to Aidan’s chilly hand and hurried down the rutted road behind Ruaidhrí. She couldn’t wait until they were safely home again and sitting in front of a warm fire with Finn.
Ruaidhrí was in a rage, but all she could feel was overwhelming relief. When the iarla had told them he’d return Muirín’s poor babe to her and release Ruaidhrí with no more than a warning, provided Father Padraíg agreed to leave his lands under escort, she’d thanked the Blessed Virgin and any saint who’d been listening. It was almost too good to be true, given the young iarla’s liking for cruelty. He was worse than his father.
She knew she’d come horribly close to losing her brother. She was so relieved he was safe she didn’t know whether to hug the life out of him or slap him soundly. He’d let his tongue get the best of him again and had almost paid the price. The iarla Sasanach would surely have had him beaten—perhaps even hanged—had the other Sasanach not intervened. She had watched as the strange, fair-haired Englishman had argued with the iarla, though she hadn’t been able to hear their words. Both men had been angry.
She didn’t want to think about the other Sasanach lord, the one with the fine, grey horse. She’d been taken aback when she’d looked up to find him staring at her with his green eyes. Her breath had sto
pped. His gaze had seemed to pierce her, to slide beneath her skin. No man had ever looked at her that way before. He sat tall and proud on a beautiful grey stallion, dressed in his fine, warm clothes. But he was different from the other lords she’d seen. He wore no hat, no silly wig, his fair hair ruffled from his riding. And his face was bronzed like that of a man who worked the fields or spent his life at sea. She’d found herself staring back at him, and she’d been furious with herself.
Why had he stayed the iarla’s hand? She didn’t believe the story the iarla had given them in his attempt to save face. He had been arguing with the other Englishman, not talking about his dead mother’s birthday.
“Ruaidhrí, slow down!” She glanced down at Aidan, who was fair running beside her. “We can’t keep up.”
Ruaidhrí stopped, glanced back, then froze, his eyes wide. “Run! Into the trees!”
Bríghid whirled about, saw riders in the distance. They were the iarla’s men, and they were riding hard up the ribbon of road. A thin stand of trees ran along the north side of the road, but it was a good fifty paces away up a steep hill.
Ruaidhrí scooped Aidan up and dashed uphill toward the dark line of forest.
Bríghid lifted her skirts and ran after him as fast as she could. She could hear the approaching thunder of hooves.
Had the riders seen them? And if they had been seen, would it matter? Just because these men worked for the iarla didn’t mean they were after Ruaidhrí. The iarla had set him free. But Bríghid knew better than to trust English promises.
Her heart hammered in her breast. Harder she ran until trees surrounded her.
Ruaidhrí had hidden behind a low hedge of gorse, Aidan in his arms.
Bríghid fell flat on the cold earth beside them, tucked her red skirts in.
Aidan’s eyes were round with terror. Bríghid stroked his cheek. The boy laid his head trustingly on Ruaidhrí’s shoulder. Their heavy breathing mingled, slowed.
The hooves drew near.
She watched as Ruaidhrí held a finger to his lips, his signal to Aidan not to make a sound. Her brother’s gaze met hers, and she saw the fury that boiled inside him—and the fear he tried valiantly to hide. She wrapped her fingers around his and squeezed, feigning a calm she did not feel. He might be on the verge of manhood, but he was still her little brother.
A group of four Sasanach rode into view on the road below. They slowed their mounts until they rode at a walk. The man in the lead reined his horse to a stop.
“They’ve disappeared,” he shouted back to the other men. “I swear I saw them walking along this stretch.”
“I saw them, too.”
Bríghid watched, her heart in her throat, as the men scanned the horizon, then turned their eyes toward the trees.
One of the men laughed, a low hissing sound. “I think it’s time for another hunt. We’ll flush them out like bloody pheasants.”
The four riders turned their horses off the road and started slowly up the hill. The man in the lead drew his pistol, cocked it.
Panic pulsed in her veins. There was no way they could avoid being discovered. The gorse grew low to the ground and sheltered them only on one side. As soon as the riders reached the trees, the three of them would be sitting targets.
Her gaze darted to Ruaidhrí’s, and her fear grew stronger. She could tell he was plotting something. His hand slipped to the waistline of his breeches and grasped the hilt of a dagger. She swallowed hard. She knew what she must do.
Ruaidhrí had just closed his fingers around the hilt of his dagger, when, to his horror, Bríghid spoke—in Béarla, in English.
“Please. Don’t shoot.” Her voice quavered. Slowly, she stood.
“Drochrath air!” Ruaidhrí cursed under his breath, released the dagger.
What was she doing? Had she gone daft?
The Sasanach were startled, but only for a moment.
“Oh, we would never shoot a lady,” said one.
“Not one as pretty as you,” said another.
The men laughed.
Ruaidhrí heard the lust in the men’s voices, slowly stood. It was him they wanted. If they got him, they’d leave his sister alone.
Aidan leapt up, wrapped his arms around Bríghid’s waist.
“What did I say? Flushed out like pheasants.”
Cruel laughter filled the air.
Then Bríghid spoke, the fear in her voice adding to Ruaidhrí’s anger. “Why are you followin’ us? The iarla showed mercy and released my brother.”
The man who seemed to be the leader of the group rode over to Bríghid, began to dismount. “He didn’t send us to fetch your brother, poppet.”
The realization hit Ruaidhrí like a blow to the stomach. They were here for Bríghid.
This could not be happening.
Not again.
In a flash, the dagger was in his hand. He pulled Bríghid behind him, barked at Aidan to lie flat on the ground. “You’ll not be takin’ her.”
For a moment there was silence. Then he heard the metallic clicks of three more pistols being cocked. He looked about. All were aimed at him.
“The rapparee thinks he’s a cat with nine lives.” The leader smiled, revealing a row of rotted teeth. “You’ve already used up one today, boy. Are you sure you want to use another?”
Rage. Desperation. Helplessness. Raw emotion surged through Ruaidhrí until he thought he would explode. He was outnumbered. They had pistols.
But Bríghid was his sister. He loved her. He could not bear to think of what they would do to her. “You can’t be takin’ her!”
The nearest man lifted his pistol, aimed it at Ruaidhrí’s chest.
“No!” Bríghid broke free from Ruaidhrí’s protective grasp, shielded him with her body. She turned to face Ruaidhrí, cupped his cheek in her palm. Her gaze met his, her eyes a mirror for the turmoil within him. Her face was pale. “Staon, a Ruaidhrí.” Now is not the time.
She peeled the knife from his fingers and dropped it on the ground, then turned to face the Sasanach.
The Sasanach leader wasted no time. He reached out, pulled her to him.
“Bríghid!” Aidan cried out, ran forward, and would have been kicked by the Sasanach’s cruel boot had Ruaidhrí not pulled him back.
The child’s desperate tears tore at Ruaidhrí’s gut. They reminded him of another time years ago, another act of English cruelty. “Tell the whoreson you call a lord he’s dead if he touches her! May God curse all English!”
“No one’s going to harm a hair on her pretty head.” The Sasanach who had Bríghid mounted his horse, pulled her roughly into the saddle in front of him. “The lord simply wishes to have a word with her.”
Ruaidhrí didn’t believe that for a minute.
“Farewell. May God bless and keep you all.” Bríghid’s gaze met his once more before the Sasanach spurred his horse down the hill, taking her with him. The sadness in her eyes tore at his heart. And Ruaidhrí knew.
She didn’t expect to see him again.
“Coinneaoidh mé leat, a Bhríghid!” He shouted, his words following the horses up the winding road. I will come for you. If it’s the last thing I do.
Chapter Three
Bríghid clasped the horse’s mane and held on tight. She would not cry. She would not. She tried to breathe deeply to calm herself, but couldn’t seem to fill her lungs.
Sweet Mary, what was she to do?
They rode forever—across the stream, over countless hills and past the sacred hawthorn grove that had always marked the edge of her world to the iarla’s manor. She was so stiff and sore when they arrived she hadn’t the strength to dismount without help. The despicable man whose groping hands she fought off for the length of their journey took advantage of the situation to fondle her breasts.
“Just give good Edward here a little feel, poppet. That’s nice.”
His touch and the lecherous grin on his face left her feeling sick.
She was taken to a servant’s chamber u
pstairs where a bath was waiting and knew from that moment that the iarla wanted far more than a word. The feeling of sickness in her belly grew, and she felt she could not breathe. A young servant girl, a Dubliner by the sound of her speech, was sent in to help her bathe and dress in fancy clothes that lay on the bed, but Bríghid refused to cooperate. When the servant tried to undress her, Bríghid slapped her and cursed her in Gaelic. The girl’s wide eyes as she fled the room proved she still understood her mother tongue.
Then the iarla himself arrived, the servant girl behind him. He was tall and thin with features that reminded Bríghid of a Roman, or a rat—small, brown eyes, a long, thin nose and high, harsh cheekbones. He stank of drink and something she thought must be men’s perfume. Without his wig, he was all but bald. What little hair he had was clipped short and mousy brown. She forced herself to meet his gaze, though the lust in his eyes repulsed her.
“You are surpassing fair.” His cold fingers traced the outline of her cheek. “What is your name?”
“Bríghid Ní Maelsechnaill.” She spoke her name as clearly and proudly as she could. It was an ancient name, a noble name. Nothing this outsider did could besmirch it.
He laughed. “That’s certainly a mouthful.”
“Brigid, my lord.” The servant girl gave Bríghid a look of bitter triumph, a pink palm print still on her cheek.
Bríghid bit back the curse that leapt to mind at hearing her name twisted into loathsome English. Now was not the time.
“Thank you, Alice.” The iarla smiled to the servant girl, but his hand dropped to caress Bríghid’s shoulder. “My friend is quite taken with you, Brigid. I saw how he looked at you this morning.”
Whatever Bríghid expected him to say, it was not this.
“I can see you remember.” The iarla smiled. “It was at my friend’s request I spared your young rapparee. What is he to you, your lover?”