by Pamela Clare
Bríghid refused to answer the question directly. The less this Sasanach pig knew about her family the better. “I am a maid.” She meant to sound unafraid, but her words were unsteady.
“Then your brother, or perhaps your cousin?” He waited for her reply. “Well, no matter. Thanks to your beauty, your rapparee is safe tonight. Do as you’re told, and he’ll stay safe.”
Then Bríghid understood.
She was to buy her brother’s continued freedom with her virginity.
“I expect you to show my friend just how grateful you are. Your willingness is everything.” He tucked a finger under her chin. “Do you understand?”
Bríghid choked back tears, looked him in the eye, held her tongue.
* * *
Two hours later, Bríghid sat before the fireplace in a long hallway awaiting the iarla’s command. She wore a gown that a whore might have found immodest, her hair twisted atop her head. A crackling fire had been lit, along with a few candles on the mantelpiece, but neither managed to chase away the shadows that hovered in the corners. Empty chairs lined the walls of the hall, which was so large it could devour the cabin Bríghid called home with room to spare. Carpets the color of blood and decorated with exotic flowers stretched across the wooden floor.
In the next room, the iarla Sasanach and the man she was to be given to were eating their supper. Servants bustled in and out of the large, oaken doors carrying platters of meats, tureens of soup, bottles of wine, loaves of bread. No one spared a glance for her.
She was tempted to run, but where could she go? She wasn’t sure how to find the door, and surely someone would see her. Even if she did make it outside and into the forest, she would freeze without her cloak. She wasn’t even sure which direction would take her home again. And then there was Ruaidhrí. The iarla had made it clear that her little brother was safe so long as she did as she was told. She had no choice but to bear whatever horror this night thrust upon her—and to survive.
Never had she felt so helpless, so alone.
Angry shouts came from the room beyond. She couldn’t make out most of what was said. Something about the French and war and ships. A servant hurried from the room struggling to balance two trays. When one threatened to topple onto the floor, he placed it on a nearby chair, rushed off to the kitchen with the other.
On the tray sat a knife.
Bríghid’s heart beat faster. The tray was a good twenty paces away. If anyone caught her, she’d surely be punished. What good would a knife do her anyway? Did she think she could get away with killing either the iarla or his friend? She’d be hanged and her family made to suffer. Besides, could she really take a life?
Then she thought of the man who’d fondled her breast, remembered the sickening feel of his hand on her body, the leer on his face. Aye. Without thinking further, she stood, walked as swiftly and silently as she could across the room. The knife lay on the tray, small and silver. She hesitated, took it. She had just taken her seat again and was smoothing her skirts when the servant returned. Without seeming to notice the missing implement, now tucked into the waistline of her petticoats, the servant hoisted the tray and raced back toward the kitchens.
She tugged at the silky cloth of the blue gown they’d made her wear, tried to pull it up over the bared tops of her breasts, which had been shaped into deceivingly large mounds by the corset. The white lace bodice did nothing to conceal her nipples. Her shoulders were all but bare, and the roll of cloth beneath the skirts made her hips and bottom seem larger—and her waist smaller—than they really were. She felt naked.
Fears she’d tried to quell uncoiled one after another like snakes in her belly. Would it hurt? Would he keep her for more than one night? Would he plant an English bastard in her belly? Would the good people of Skreen parish accept her when she returned, or would she be forever shamed? With Father Padraíg gone, who would hear her confession and absolve her of so great a dishonor? Would she ever find the husband she so desperately wanted, a man who could love her despite her shame?
Her fingers instinctively reached for her throat, but they’d taken her cross, the little iron cross of St. Bríghid, after whom she was named. She had worn it around her neck suspended on a leather thong since she was a child, and it had always made her feel protected. Now it was gone, and her grandmother’s brooch with it. Shaped like a twisting dragon with open jaws and garnet eyes that gleamed red, the brooch was the most precious thing she owned. It had passed for generations from mother to daughter, staying within the Maelsechnaill female line. Now Bríghid had lost it.
“Sé do bheath’ a Mhuire, atá lán de ghrásta, tá an Tiarna leat …” The prayer spilled from her lips of its own accord. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with Thee…
Light poured into the hallway, and a servant motioned for Bríghid to come.
“No!” The word was a whisper, a plea. Bríghid stood on trembling legs and forced herself to take a step toward the doorway. For Ruaidhrí. Another step. For Finn. And another. For poor little Aidan.
Her fingers rose to her waist, felt the hardness of the knife. She’d been foolish to take it. She’d never be able to use it.
Just in case.
In the doorway, her steps faltered.
He stood on the far side of an enormous, dark table, staring at her just like before. Again Bríghid found she could not breathe. His gaze met hers and held it. His green eyes, cold and hard, seemed to see inside her.
Bríghid instinctively lifted her arms to shield her breasts, looked away.
“This is Brigid. She’s a bit shy, Jamie, but I’ve no doubt you can cure her of that affliction. The ladies at Turlington’s always had good things to say about your abilities.” The iarla rose from his chair and strode toward her. His hands grasped her shoulders, and he forced her further into the room. “When she heard how you’d intervened on the young rapparee’s behalf, she wanted to thank you personally. Isn’t that so, Brigid, my dear?”
Bríghid tried to speak, could not.
The man the iarla had called Jamie was still looking at her, a brandy snifter in his hand. He drained his glass, put it down, his gaze never leaving her.
The iarla fingered the ribbons of her bodice. “You always did have an eye for the most beautiful women. She’s yours, if you want her.”
“A gift?” The man’s eyebrows rose, his gaze shifting at last to the iarla.
“Consider her a renewed pledge of friendship. I would set things aright between us. You know as well as I things have been strained since you arrived. We scarcely agree on anything it seems. I want things to be the way they were years ago.”
“I see. How … thoughtful.”
“I must say, if you don’t want her, I certainly do.” The iarla pulled slowly on the ribbons of her bodice until they came undone and the lace parted. “What do you say we unwrap your pretty package now and share what delights she has to offer?”
Bríghid felt the heat of both men’s gazes on her bared breasts. She heard herself whimper, stifled the sound. They were going to rape her together right here. Now. In this room.
The man with the green eyes rounded the table so quickly she gasped. Before she could take a step backwards, he stood before her and began to remove his frock.
Icy dread flowed through her veins.
The iarla reached for the fall of his breeches, began to free himself. “You can take her maidenhead, of course. I did offer her to you.”
Bríghid felt her legs begin to shake. There was a ringing in her ears. This could not be happening.
“Sorry, Sheff, old friend.” The man draped his frock over her shoulders, covered her nakedness. “I prefer to have my sport in private nowadays.”
The iarla froze in the midst of unbuttoning his breeches and gave a disappointed groan. “Come now! She’s far too fair a flower to be plucked by only one man, and my cock is rock hard!”
Bríghid shuddered at the vileness of his words, tried not to hear them.
The fa
ir-haired lord placed his hands around her waist and propelled her out the door. “Be that as it may, I’m of no mind to share her tonight. She’s been in my thoughts all day, and I intend to savor her.”
Strong hands guided her down the long hallway to a staircase on the other side. The man was very tall and walked quickly, and Bríghid was forced to hurry beside him, taking two strides for every one of his.
The iarla Sasanach followed. “You are a cruel man, Jamie. I suppose I shall have to wait until you’ve gone back to England for my taste of her?”
The other lord laughed. “That depends. If she’s as fair as she seems, I shall find it hard to part with her.”
They talked about her as if she were nothing, a possession to be used as they saw fit, with no wishes, no life of her own, her body a toy. Her rage—and her dread—grew. Would she be used, then traded from one to the other? Would she be spirited to England never to see her family again?
“So now you threaten to steal her from my service?” The iarla sounded both indignant and amused.
“You did say she was a gift, did you not?”
“Aye, but I didn’t mean for you to take her from under my roof.”
They climbed two flights of stairs to another long hallway, this one lined with doors. The man stopped in front of one of the doors and opened it. Light from several candelabras filled the room. Inside stood an enormous canopied bed with thick, carved posts that jutted toward the ceiling.
Bríghid’s stomach twisted in a painful knot. She took an involuntary step backward, collided with the hard body of the Englishman behind her.
I will not cry.
“Good night, Sheff.” The man forced her inside, turned to the iarla. “Thank you for the lovely dinner—and the delightful gift.”
He started to close the door, but the iarla stopped him with the squared tip of his black leather shoe.
“Friends then?”
“Friends.” With a smile, the man closed the door.
Bríghid was alone with him.
For a moment, he stood, arm around her waist, head cocked as if to listen. “Damn!” He swore under his breath and left her side to blow out the candles.
The room fell into shadow. A log settled in the fireplace, sent up sparks.
Bríghid started at the sound, clutched the frock tighter around her.
“I won’t hurt you, Brigid.” His features were lit by light from the fire as he came to her. Long lashes framed his eyes. His skin was bronzed, his cheekbones high, his chin strong. His honey-colored hair had been gathered in a ribbon at the nape of his neck. It might have given him a boyish look were he not so tall and his shoulders so broad.
“Th-that’s not my name.” She fought to still her trembling.
He pried the cloth of his frock from her fingers, slipped it from her shoulders. His gaze fixed upon her. “Then what is your name?”
She shielded her breasts, tried to lift her chin. “Bríghid. Bríghid Ní Maelsechnaill.”
To Bríghid’s surprise, he carefully repeated what she’d said, though his tongue stumbled a bit over her ancestral name. “My name is Jamie Blakewell, Bríghid. And I won’t hurt you.”
“So you say.”
“By the end of this night, you will know I mean what I say.” His warm hands settled on her arms and slid up to cup her shoulders. He drew her to him, enfolded her in his embrace, forced her stiff, resisting body to mold to his.
She did not want this and would have turned her head away were it not for the strong hand on the back of her neck. He was going to rape her, rob her of her virtue, steal from her the only gift she could ever give a man, the gift she had saved for her husband. A whimper of dread escaped her, as he lowered his lips to hers.
His lips brushed softly over hers once, twice, three times, then slanted to take hers in a gentle kiss. She’d never been kissed before, not really. She had expected to feel disgust, loathing, revulsion. Instead, she felt out of breath, warm. His mouth was a brand, hot and persistent. His lips coaxed and caressed hers, sent shivers down her spine. He smelled of fresh air, tasted slightly of brandy. When his lips parted hers and his tongue stroked inside her mouth, the shock of it sent her senses reeling.
Alarmed by her body’s response, Bríghid balled her hands into fists and pushed against his chest. But he was a man, full-grown and strong, and she knew she would not be able to resist him.
He held her fast, his body hard and hot against hers. His kisses captured her cries of protest, as his hands sought the fastenings of her gown. “I know you’re afraid. I know you don’t want to share my bed.”
The words were whispered against her cheek so softly she wondered if he’d really spoken. Why had he told her this? Did he want her to know he had no qualms about taking an unwilling woman? Hatred surged from the pit of her stomach. “I’m not afraid, Sasanach.”
But she was.
He pulled the gown down over her shoulders. It slid to the floor, puddled at her feet.
She stood now, breasts bare, dressed only in her corset, petty coats and chemise. In her fear, she struck at him—hard. “No!”
Neither the blow nor her plea had any effect. He captured her wrists in one hand, pinned them against his chest.
She struggled to pull away, but found herself hauled up tightly against him.
His lips brushed over hers, then began to taste her cheeks, her hair. “You smell like roses.” His voice was thick, husky. Then it again dropped to a whisper. “I’m not going to force myself on you, Bríghid, but you must play along. I fear he is watching.”
Chapter Four
Jamie felt her stiffen, saw her gaze dart to the corners of the room.
“Wh-where –?”
He held her still, brushed her lips with his, whispered. “Shh, love. Say nothing. Trust me.”
Fury flashed into her eyes. “Trust you –?” She tried to pull away.
“I warn you not to fight me.” This he said aloud. “You cannot win, and I’ve no wish to use my strength against you.”
She stilled.
Jamie could see the confusion and fear in her eyes and felt an unexpected stab of tenderness. It had been years since he’d felt anything for a woman. He cursed Sheff for putting him—for putting her—in this position. Then he cursed himself. It was his unexpected and unfathomable reaction to her that had drawn Sheff’s attention to her in the first place. He bore at least some responsibility for her safety.
He turned her around, began to unlace her corset. Bending down, he kissed the tender flesh of her nape and spoke for her ears alone. “These walls are riddled with holes. I will do all I can to help you escape, but you must play along. I am not your enemy.”
The corset fell to the carpet.
She quickly covered her breasts with the cloth of her chemise. “You are English.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Why would you help me?”
Jamie turned her to face him again, pulled her against him so he could speak to her without being overheard. She was a little thing, barely coming to his shoulders. How old was she? Fifteen? Sixteen perhaps? Her skin was creamy and youthful, but her full breasts and the swell of her hips spoke of ripe womanhood.
He traced the delicate shell of her ear with his tongue. “I have never taken a woman against her will, and I don’t mean to start with you.”
He felt a tremor pass through her, felt the heat within him rise in response.
This was not going to be easy.
His gut told him Sheff was watching from the room next door. Jamie thought he’d heard the door to the room, where no one was staying, open and close just after he’d pushed Sheff out. He remembered well enough the stories he’d heard of Sheff’s father. The elder Lord Byerly had watched his guests and servants disrobe, bathe, and tup through small openings in the walls and had been sexually gratified. He’d watched his wife and servants give birth and had enjoyed that, too. He’d eventually shared his secret with his eldest son, who had told Jamie, as if spying upon the private moment
s of others were some grand lark.
Jamie hadn’t found it funny. And he hadn’t forgotten.
Somehow he had to convince Sheff his gift was being well used so that Sheff would seek his own sport elsewhere. Then he had to spirit Bríghid away from here. She was not safe. Jamie knew as soon as he was gone, Sheff would do whatever he chose with her.
Jamie couldn’t let that happen.
For now, however, he was a player on a stage. He needed to remember his lines.
“That’s better.” He spoke aloud for the benefit of his audience. “I will try to give you pleasure if you let me.”
“’Tis only shame you’ll bring me.” Her voice quavered.
“You’re sure of that, are you?” He drew her earlobe into his mouth, nibbled the exposed flesh of her neck.
He felt her quick intake of breath and knew she was not sure.
But he felt no sense of triumph, only fury at the circumstances. When Sheff had said he had a special gift for Jamie, Jamie thought perhaps Sheff was giving him a pup from one of his prized bitches or a fantastically expensive bottle of cognac. Then the servants had opened the door, and she’d walked forward out of the dim hallway, a look of terror on her young, pale face.
At once, Jamie had been struck by two overpowering emotions.
The first was rage as hot as any fire in hell. He’d never imagined Sheff could treat an innocent maid like a whore, like chattel to be given away against her will. Sheff was no better than a colonial slave owner who abused the women under his power. Jamie had wanted to slam his fist into Sheff’s arrogant face, but he’d realized almost immediately he’d have to claim her if he hoped to spare her endless misery in Sheff’s bed.
The second emotion was lust, as primal as the ocean tide. Dressed in a gown of light blue silk, the dusky rose of her nipples visible behind the lace of her bodice, she was the most desirable woman Jamie had ever seen. He’d wanted her then.
He wanted her now.
He set her from him, removed his stock, and began to unbutton his waistcoat.