by Pamela Clare
He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Sheff he’d been thinking of her all day. Since this morning when he’d first seen her, she hadn’t left his thoughts. It had been years since he’d reacted like this to a woman. Then again, he wasn’t sure he’d ever reacted this way to a woman.
Aye, he’d made a fool of himself a few times as a young man. There was Peg, the pretty bondswoman who’d seduced him in her cabin when he was sixteen. She was a good ten years older than he and over a period of weeks had taught him things no boy of sixteen should know. He’d mistaken his own animal lust for love until it became clear to him Peg was bedding him in hopes of gaining some kind of advantage.
He was, after all, her master.
At seventeen, he’d fallen in love with the daughter of a neighbor only to watch her marry a man three times his age. She’d said she loved him, too, but when faced with her father’s wrath, she’d turned away from Jamie and meekly done as her father had commanded. Jamie had said some impertinent things, and Alec had put him on the next ship bound for England.
Then there was Sarah. The daughter of a landed English gentleman, she was beautiful, educated and witty—everything a young man could desire. She and Jamie had become lovers during his third year at Oxford. Jamie had fallen and fallen hard. He’d shared his dreams with Sarah, had loved her until they both lay sated and panting as the sun rose outside her bedroom window. He’d even asked her to marry him. She hadn’t answered him, only smiled and slid her hand inside his breeches.
Then one day, she’d told him she was pregnant.
He had immediately repeated his offer of marriage, but she’d laughed. “You’re so sweet, Jamie,” she’d said, her hand on his cheek, “but the child is not yours.”
She’d claimed the father of her child was her fiancé, about whom Jamie had known nothing. Jamie had been nothing more than a sexual diversion for Sarah, one last thrill before entering the confines of an arranged marriage. Whether the child was truly his or belonged to the man she quickly married, Jamie would never know.
Since then, his relationships with women had not gone beyond the unadorned exchange of sexual pleasure. He preferred it that way—simple, clear-cut, uncomplicated. Women seemed to want only one thing from him. Widows, rebellious daughters, bored wives with elderly husbands, the occasional courtesan—they were eager for the pleasure he could bring them with his hands, his lips, his tongue, his cock. But they were loath to promise more. He gave them what they wanted, took what he wanted.
In all the years that had passed, he had yet to meet a woman he could trust or love. In fact, he wasn’t sure he was still capable of love. He certainly had no desire to marry. The fact that he was almost thirty and without an heir might distress his sister, but it concerned him little.
But he did have a problem.
What the hell was he going to do with Bríghid? She couldn’t go home, that much was certain. Sheff would surely send his men after her again, and she’d find herself on her back while Sheff did as he pleased. The idea sickened Jamie.
Nor could she stay with him. He would be sailing for home soon and had important business to conclude in the meantime, business that demanded both his time and his wits. The last thing he needed was a woman to distract him.
Jamie reached for his shirt, yanked it over his head.
There was only one answer. He’d take her to England and leave her with Elizabeth, Alec’s sister. She and her husband, Lt. Matthew Hasting, lived on the Kenleigh estate outside London. They would surely take Bríghid in and give her a place in their household. She’d be safe there until her family could move to another county far from Skreen parish and Sheff. They could see her safely home again when the time was right, and she could go about her life as if none of this had ever happened.
But Bríghid wasn’t his only problem. His decision to protect her—made without hesitation—could have dire consequences to his mission here. Jamie had been counting on Sheff’s support and his influence in the House of Lords. Lives depended on it. Perhaps if Sheff thought Jamie’s wits addled by lust, he’d forgive Jamie for stealing Bríghid from under his roof. If not …
Jamie would have to succeed without his help. He could not abandon her to a life of shame and torment. Nor could he forget the frontier families who daily faced the threat of the French and their Indian allies. There was a way out of this, and he would find it.
Sheff was a changed man. He was cruel, arrogant, and more than a little depraved if tonight were any indication. He’d left his pretty wife behind in London and openly bedded servant women. Had he always been this way? Had youth and inexperience caused Jamie to misjudge him so badly years ago?
Careful to keep his back to her, Jamie searched among the covers until he found what he was looking for. He grasped the knife, nicked his thumb, dabbed his blood on the sheets.
“No!” Wearing only her chemise and petty coats, she rushed to the side of the bed and stared at the bloodstains, an expression of horror on her face. Her palm connected with his cheek with a loud smack. “Now no man will believe me!”
The knife fell to the floor.
Jamie stood, hauled her roughly up against him, and was gratified by her gasp of surprise. “Don’t do that again. Your reputation was ruined from the moment the earl’s men took you. Or hadn’t you realized that yet?”
She glared at him defiantly, but he could see the fear in her eyes—and the hate.
“I’m risking far more than you can imagine helping you tonight, so you might try to find some room in your heart for gratitude.” He wanted to kiss her, wanted to make the hate vanish from her eyes.
“’Tis because of you I’m here in the first place!”
The truth of her words made his anger sharper. “That’s my blood on those sheets and not yours only because you were lucky enough to be given to a man who finds rape repugnant. Do you think many other men would have turned down a gift as appealing and helpless as you, my sweet?”
She looked away, but not before Jamie saw the tears well up in her eyes. “Let go of me.”
“You must understand the earl will try to find you again unless he thinks me so besotted it seems not worth the effort. Those bloodstains may make it hard for you to prove your virtue, but they could make the difference in preserving it. Do you understand?”
She refused to meet his gaze, said nothing.
He released her, stuck his thumb in his mouth, tasted blood. Furious, he searched the floor for his stockings, slipped them on. He didn’t need this. He didn’t need any of this.
He heard the rustle of silk. “I’m dressed, Sasanach.”
Still angry, Jamie shot her a glance, felt his gut clench. She’d left the corset off and pulled her chemise up to cover her breasts and shoulders. It didn’t matter. The soft swell of her breasts was more than evident behind the lace and linen, and he found her attempt at modesty more appealing than Sheff’s effort to turn her into a whore.
She stood by the fireplace, combing her hair with her fingers, her head tilted slightly to the side to reveal the slender column of her throat.
“You have beautiful hair.” The words came out as if he’d meant to say them.
“My father often said ’tis the image of my mother’s.” She didn’t look at him.
“You never knew her?”
“I don’t remember her. She died when I was three, starved by the English during the famine.” She spat the words at him as if he were personally to blame.
Jamie refused to take the bait. “She must have been lovely.”
Bríghid said nothing.
Jamie sat on the bed, pulled on his stockings. “My mother died the day after I was born.”
She began to weave her hair into a braid, turned her back to him.
So she thought to ignore him. He wasn’t going to make it easy for her. If they were to fight a battle of wills, he would be the victor. He would force her to see him as a man, not merely a hated Sasanach.
“My father lost his wits afte
r she died. He couldn’t even remember his own children. He died when I was six. I barely remember him.” Jamie fastened the buckles at his knees, aware she was looking at him again. He’d gotten her attention. “My sister, Cassie, and her husband, Alec, raised me, took care of my estate until I was old enough to manage myself.”
“Do you own lands in Ireland?” Her words were a challenge. He could hear the malice in her voice. She began to tie off her braid with a blue ribbon that Jamie recognized from her stockings.
It distracted him to think of her slender legs left bare beneath her skirts. “No. My estate is in Lancaster County, Virginia.”
Her eyes widened in surprise, and she gaped at him. “You’re from the colonies?”
“Aye. I was born there.”
“I knew you were different.”
Jamie met her gaze, oddly gratified, raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Even in the dark, he could see her cheeks turn pink.
She looked away, changed the subject. “Do you own slaves?”
“No, not any more. My brother-in-law did away with that when I was still a boy. For years, we’ve been bringing over our own bondsmen. Our slaves have been freed, though it is against the law. Those who remain are free but have no place to go. They farm the land in return for a share of the crop and a place to live.”
She was staring openly at him now. “Have you other brothers or sisters?”
Jamie hid his satisfaction at having found a window through the wall of hatred she’d put up around herself. “No. Just Cassie. My mother bore six of us in all, but the others were stillborn or died in infancy. And you? You said you have brothers.”
“Aye. There would be seven of us, but four died, God rest their souls. Padraíg died of fever when he was two. He was the firstborn. Then came Finn. Dear Conall died when I was ten after a horse kicked him in the head. Tadgh and Aoife both died of a sickness when they were little. I never knew them. I was born later. Then came Ruaidhrí.”
“Who was the red-haired boy I saw today?” Jamie didn’t know why he’d asked. It was no concern of his.
She eyed at him suspiciously, turned to face the fire. The braid hung, long and thick, down her back. “Aidan. His mother died givin’ birth to him, and his father was shot in the back—by the English.”
The window slammed shut.
“And your father?”
“My father is … was a teacher. You English outlawed schooling for Catholics. You forced him to teach in secret in barns and along hedgerows. When he was caught… he was transported to Barbados and sold as a slave.” There was a knife’s edge to her voice as it wavered between rage and tears.
So her father had been transported. No doubt he’d used teaching as a means to incite young Irishmen to rebel against the Crown. Only a serious crime could provoke the English courts to pass such a sentence. No wonder she and her brother hated everything English. They’d been bred to it. “I’m sorry.”
She ignored him.
Jamie felt his temper rise. Beautiful she was—aye, and as sweet as a copperhead. “I mean to leave before dawn. You should get some sleep.”
“I cannot. I must find my things.”
“What things?”
“My clothes, my cross, my grandmother’s brooch. I can’t go home dressed like—”
“Your grandmother’s what?” Jamie ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. God, how he needed a drink. And a woman.
“Brooch. It has been in my family for generations, and I —”
“Can live without it.” He cut her off, gestured toward the hallway. “He’s probably still awake, looking for someone to take to his bed, Bríghid. Would you risk everything?”
“It’s all I have of my grandmother.” Her chin was held high, but he could see the warring emotions in her eyes—uncertainty, fear, anger.
But it was her grief that pricked him, made him speak sharply. “I’m certain she’d not want you to risk your very life to find it. Sleep, Bríghid, before I decide rescuing you is too much trouble and let you fend for yourself.”
For a moment, she looked as if she might defy him and go off in search of her trinkets. Then, her eyes spitting anger, she walked to the bed and slipped beneath the covers.
Jamie crossed the room to the bureau, poured himself a brandy. By the time he turned around, she was asleep.
* * *
“Bríghid, wake up.”
She was too sleepy. She turned over, ignored the voice. She was asleep on a cloud. It was soft and fluffy, and she was nice and warm. No straw scratched her skin. No mice tried to share her blankets. No cold earth pressed into her back.
“Bríghid, you must wake.” A hand caressed her cheek.
“Lig uaim, a athair.” Leave me alone, Father.
But it wasn’t her father’s voice. Her father would never speak English to his children. Her father was gone.
With a gasp, Bríghid opened her eyes. The events of the night came flooding back, detail by terrible detail. She sat, struggled to clear the sleep from her mind.
The Englishman stood beside the bed fully dressed, his greatcoat on. “It’s time to go.”
Disoriented, she pushed herself into a sitting position, marveling at the softness of the bed. It was the softest thing she’d ever lain on. No wonder she’d been dreaming of clouds.
Her hand touched something cold and metal. She looked, gasped. The brooch. Her cross. They lay on the pillow beside her. Her own clothes lay draped across the foot of the bed. A lump rose in her throat.
She clutched the brooch and cross to her breast, gaped at the Englishman in surprise. “How—”
“They were tossed in a heap in the servants hallway.”
She hesitated, unsure of what to say. “Thank you. I—”
He dismissed her gratitude, his eyes cold. “Hurry, and dress. We must go.”
She swallowed the lump, slipped the leather cord that held the cross over her head, and reached for her old woolen gown. She started to ask him to turn his back to give her privacy, but he was already facing the fireplace.
She got out of bed, slipped off the blue gown, the petticoats and the chemise. As new and soft as they were, they belonged not to her, but to the accursed iarla. She wanted nothing to remind her of this night. She’d wear her own tattered chemise, her worn petticoats, her old red woolen gown, and her threadbare cloak, and she’d wear them with pride.
“I’m ready.” She slipped her feet into the worn leather of her brogues.
In silence, he helped her don her cloak. Then he left her to fasten it and went to fetch his travel bag, which he had packed while she’d slept. The two of them started toward the door, his hand on her waist.
They stepped quietly into the darkness of the hallway.
He shut the door behind them, and she felt his warm fingers close around hers. She tried not to think about how reassuring it felt and pulled her hand from his grasp.
“This way.”
He moved with the silent grace of a cat. She followed as quietly as she could, every creaking floorboard causing her heart to skitter. Down the stairs they went, through the long hallway where she’d sat, terrified, around the corner, and down more stairs.
Once she’d thought them undone when her cloak had caught on the edge of a table and unbalanced a vase of flowers, but he’d caught it in time. The only damage, other than what her heart endured, was water on the floor.
In the hallway outside the kitchens, Jamie stopped, put a finger to her lips. A dim light came from the room and cast flickering orange shapes on the walls. Leaving her for a moment, Jamie crept silently forward and peeked into the room.
She held her breath, marveled that a man of his size could move without making a sound. He motioned for her to join him. In the kitchen, a fire had burned low in the hearth. A servant, likely the cook, snored on a pallet nearby.
Slowly, quietly, they crept through the room, its stone floor offering a quieter path than wooden floorboards.
They re
ached the back door, which stood locked.
She held her breath as Jamie carefully lifted the bolt, slid it back. It squeaked, shuddered, then gave way.
Relief surged through her as fresh, cold air filled her lungs. She hurried through the doorway, welcomed the feeling of chill rain on her face.
Silently, Jamie shut the door behind them. He took her arm in his, guided her through the dark. “We must make haste. We’ll have to ride two to my horse. I brought no other. But once we reach Dunsany, I’ll hire a carriage.”
“Dunsany?” Bríghid stopped, pulled her arm free. “I’m not going to Dunsany. My home is the other way, toward Lismullen.”
He dropped his travel bag, took her shoulders. “Listen, Bríghid. Now is not the time to argue. If you go home, Sheff will find you and bring you back. Everything I didn’t do to you tonight, he will.”
“There’s only one thing you didn’t do, Sasanach! For all you spared me, you might as well have done the deed!”
Rather than apologizing or looking contrite, he chuckled, his gaze devoid of laughter. “You silly, naïve girl.” But his fingers dug deeper into her shoulders. “If Sheff gets hold of you, you’ll spend every night until he tires of you on your back. Do you understand that?”
“But—”
“Listen! I can give you a safe home in England, where Sheff can’t —”
“You lied! You said you were taking me home!”
“I never said where I was taking you. I only said I would help you get away from here.”
Enraged at this trickery, afraid she might never see home again, Bríghid began to fight in earnest, pummeling his chest. “Stríapach fir! Bréagach, thú!” Whoreson. Liar.
He deserved to be called worse.
He clapped one hand over her mouth, pulled her hard against him. “Believe me, this wasn’t in my plans either. I have no wish to suffer your company any longer than necessary. As soon as your family is able to move to another county far from here, you’ll be returned. There your reputation will be intact, and you and your brothers will be beyond Sheff’s reach.”