by Pamela Clare
While this cabin didn’t belong to her, it wasn’t all that different from the one she called home. There were no cracks in the walls at home, to be sure, and they did have both a window and a chimney. But its floor was made of dirt, and it was tiny, with one main room, a pantry, and a small side room where she slept on a straw pallet with Aidan.
And what about the women in his life? What of his sister and this beautiful Indian woman, Takotah? Did they dress in worn woolen gowns trimmed in frayed ribbons? Were their hands reddened from work, her faces smudged with smoke? Or did they dress as Bríghid had been dressed that night, in silks so soft they felt like warm butter, stockings made of gossamer threads, new ribbons and pure white lace?
She put the lid on the stew none too gently and jabbed the fire with the poker.
Foolish girl! What did she care what he thought of her? It was no sin to be poor. She could not change who and what she was, nor would she want to. She was a Ní Maelsechnaill, and that alone was enough. Her ancestors had been high kings and queens of Ireland at a time when England was lost in darkness. Let him scorn her poverty. She owed him a debt, and she would repay it as best she could, whether he said thank you for the tea or not.
Jamie heard her put down the tea, forced himself to focus. He needed to think, to concentrate, but her very presence made that nearly impossible. He couldn’t remember ever having been so aware of a woman. He heard every word she spoke, whether he understood her or not. He knew every step she took. The soft swish of her skirts, the gentle motions of her hands, the play of emotions in her eyes, even the scent of her skin—he noticed it all. And it was playing havoc with his senses, as battered as they were. He knew this obsession was nothing more than the pent up sexual frustration of having touched and tasted—but not taken. That didn’t make it any easier to bear. As soon as he was back in London and had enjoyed a woman in his bed, he’d be able to put Bríghid and her sapphire blue eyes, soft curves and long, dark hair behind him.
He heard the lid clank into place on the stew pot, felt her gaze on him, forced himself to concentrate. He’d left Sheff’s early on November 11, and today was already November 21. If Sheff were looking for him, he might have had time to discover by now Jamie hadn’t yet returned to London. For certain he’d have had time to scout inns and check ships’ records.
But would Sheff pursue them, or would he let it go? Jamie had no way of knowing.
If only he had gotten this letter off sooner. He’d have asked Matthew to create a diversion, to send a servant to inns along the road to Dublin to reserve rooms in his name. He’d have asked Matthew to instruct the servants to tell anyone who asked that he was home but not to be disturbed. He’d have done something to draw Sheff’s eye to England and hold it there. He could still do these things, of course, but it might already be too late, especially by the time his letter reached London and Matthew’d had time to act.
He wasn’t concerned for himself. This was 1754, after all, not 1054. Bríghid was not a serf, so Jamie had stolen nothing. The worst that could befall him was public ribbing and animosity from Sheff’s allies in the House of Lords. Given his crucial mission, that was bad enough, for if he failed, it could well mean the end of British claims along the Ohio frontier and the deaths of more British families. Alec had trusted him to carry out this mission. The Virginia House of Burgesses had trusted him. Washington had trusted him. He could not fail. Not this time.
But Bríghid and her brothers stood to lose just as much as any frontier family—their home, their freedom, their lives—and Jamie could not abandon them. He could not abandon her. Sheff had shown himself capable of malice Jamie couldn’t have imagined, and it wouldn’t surprise him if he had planned to kill Ruaidhrí all along. He’d gone back on his word about the priest. Why not Ruaidhrí?
Not that the boy hadn’t worked hard to earn it. It was his sword that, with no warning and no challenge, had nearly put Jamie in his grave. Hatred flowed in Ruaidhrí young veins like water in a stream. If he didn’t come to his senses, he’d find himself at the end of a hangman’s noose some day. Jamie could only hope Bríghid and the rest of her family didn’t get caught in the middle.
Meanwhile, Jamie had to keep her safe until he was back on his feet, then he needed to get Bríghid far from County Meath. But how? He considered the possibilities, mulled over the possible consequences. There was only one option that made sense, but there would be hell to pay. Bríghid would hate him even more than she already did, to say nothing of her brothers.
Ruaidhrí stood, walked to the hearth, bent over the stew pot, sniffed. “Just what are you writin’ in that letter, Sasanach?”
Bríghid shooed him away. “You ought to be mindin’ your own business, Ruaidhrí. For shame!”
“This is my business.” Ruaidhrí glared at Bríghid. “Did it not occur to you, sister, that he might be writin’ to turn us all in to the English?”
Bríghid looked searchingly at Jamie, and he saw the fear and doubt in her eyes.
He checked his temper. “I said I wouldn’t turn you in, Bríghid, and I won’t.”
No, he wouldn’t turn her or her brothers in. But he would betray them.
Bríghid and Ruaidhrí began to argue in Gaelic. After a moment, Ruaidhrí stomped out the door in a rush of cold air.
Jamie had already turned back to his letter. He dipped the nib of his quill into the ink bottle, tapped it on the glass, wrote. By the time the letter was finished, he felt as if he could sleep for a year. His chest hurt like hell, and he was more than a little dizzy. He folded the letter, removed his signet ring—a gift from Alec and Cassie for completing his studies at Oxford—then dripped a bit of plain white wax from the candle onto the envelope and sealed it with his mark.
“I’ve made a stew.” Bríghid placed a steaming bowl before him. She sounded vexed. “If you’re up to it, you can have some oatcakes, too.”
Jamie forced himself to raise his head and accept the spoon she handed him. He hadn’t the strength to fathom her changing moods. Instead, he concentrated on lifting the spoon to his mouth.
The stew was warm and more flavorful than he’d imagined. Though he hadn’t felt hungry, he was suddenly ravenous. He consumed the entire bowl, together with a few oatcakes, before succumbing to exhaustion and pain. Dismissing Bríghid’s offer of help, he made his way shakily back to the bed—the matter of a yard or two—and sank onto the straw mattress.
“God’s balls!” He cursed the pain in his chest, his weakness.
“Sure and that’s a fine thing to say.” She pulled the wool blanket over him, felt his forehead with one soft hand. “Are you sure you won’t take some poppy? It will help you sleep more deeply and—”
“No!” Pain made him speak more harshly than he’d intended, and he saw the hurt in her eyes. “Laudanum will only dull my wits.”
The door burst opened. Cold air poured in, and with it came Ruaidhrí. He carried an armload of straw and a blanket. His face was red with cold, but his blue eyes held fire. He glared at his sister.
“If he’s strong enough to get out of bed, it’s time I quit sleepin’ in the cowshed and started keepin’ an eye on him.”
Ruaidhrí dropped the straw in a pile on the floor in the corner near the hearth, lay down and covered himself with the blanket. With one last angry look at Jamie, he curled up to sleep.
Then it dawned on Jamie. Where did Bríghid sleep? There was no other bed, no other room. He turned his head, spied a pile of straw in the corner behind the table and a blanket folded over the chair.
Hell!
It wasn’t right for her to be sleeping on the floor on nothing but straw. The cabin was cold, drafty. As the only woman, she ought to take the bed. He started to object, to insist they trade places, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open, couldn’t ...
Before he could finish the thought, he was asleep.
Chapter Nine
Muirín watched Aidan eat, couldn’t help but smile. The child gobbled his food as if he’d neve
r been fed before. “Will you be wantin’ more?”
“Aye.” He smiled, his blue eyes wide with anticipation, then grew serious. “If there is more. Finn says I’m not to be eatin’ your last potato.”
“Don’t worry. I haven’t yet cooked my last potato.” Muirín took his bowl to the hearth, refilled it with beef soup, trying to ignore the flutter in her belly. “What else does Finn say?” She felt wicked asking the child, but the question was out before she could stop herself.
“He says I’m to mind my manners.”
“And so you have.” She carried the bowl back to the table, placed it before him, and knelt until her gaze was level with his. “When he comes today, I’ll tell him you’ve been a perfect Irish gentleman.”
“Finn is right. You are pretty.” Aidan beamed at her, then attacked his soup.
Muirín sat, felt heat rise to her cheeks, felt her pulse quicken. Finn thought her pretty?
She dared not think too much about that.
It would be hard to think about anything but that.
“I take it you like my cookin’, young Aidan.”
Aidan nodded, looked up at her with bright eyes from beneath eyelashes almost as red as his hair.
She smiled again, surprised at how easy it had become. When Domhnall had died in the spring, she’d felt she might never smile again. Then his babe had grown strong inside her, and life had mattered again. But the babe had strangled in her womb, going to its grave without having taken a single breath. She’d wished God had taken her, too, with her wee son still inside her. But she had lived. She had lived, though each day seemed a burden, though laughter was intolerable, smiles insufferable. She had lived, though she felt dead inside.
The kind women of the parish had tried to comfort her. Most of them had lost a child and knew her pain. Though she was grateful for their sympathy and understanding, Muirín had felt cut off, alone. Life in the parish had gone on as it had before, seeming to her a cruel parody of the world she’d known before. Even her body had mocked her. Milk had made her breasts ache, pearling creamy white on her nipples, but there had been no babe to suckle. The weight of her grief had seemed enough to keep the sun from rising.
The pain was still there. It hadn’t gone away. Muirín feared it would never go completely away. But in these past few days, she’d felt something she hadn’t felt since she’d held her son’s lifeless body—hope.
Like light from darkness, it began when life seemed it could not get worse. It began early in the morning the day after the babe’s funeral, the day after Father Padraíg—God rest his soul—was martyred. Finn had come to her early in the morning and asked her to watch Aidan. While Aidan sat sleepily in the horse cart, bundled in a blanket, Finn told her the Englishman who’d persuaded the iarla to give her baby’s body back had been horribly wounded while trying to help Bríghid escape the iarla’s clutches. Bríghid was doing all she could to save his life while in hiding, and Finn was needed to get supplies to their hideout. He was afraid Aidan might be punished with the lot of them if they were caught. Finn’s handsome face had been lined with worry—for Bríghid, for Ruaidhrí, for Aidan, for her and even for the injured Sasanach.
“I know you’re deep in mournin’, Mistress Ó Congalaig, but I’ve no where else to turn, no one I can trust with the truth. He’s a good boy. He’ll be no trouble to you. Can you take him?”
It was as if she’d awoken from a dark sleep. “Aye, Master Uí Maelsechnaill,” she’d said. “It would be an honor.”
She, too, owed this mysterious Sasanach a debt. If not for him, her son would have been laid to rest in a nameless grave in a heretical graveyard. She owed Finn Uí Maelsechnaill, as well. From the day Domhnall died, he had taken on the chores of a husband. He’d cut and stacked peat out of the rain where it could dry. He’d tended the enormous bull that was supposed to have secured a future for her and Domhnall. He’d taken this year’s cattle to market and gotten a fair price. When her belly had become so swollen with child that milking the cows was an ordeal, he’d taken on that task as well. She’d never asked him to help, and he’d never asked for anything in return.
Each night when the work was done, he’d knock on her door. “Is there anything you need, Mistress Ó Congalaig?” He would stand, cap in hand, sweat on his brow, his blue eyes filled with concern.
Finn had been steadfast, undemanding, polite. Though her heart still sorrowed for Domhnall, Muirín wasn’t blind. Finn was tall, vigorous, more handsome than most. Like most Maelsechnaill men, he had deep blue eyes and blonde hair, but his hair was shot through with darker tones. In his face, he resembled his sister, but where Bríghid’s features were delicate, his were manly, aristocratic. When Muirín looked at him, she fancied she could see the royal Uí Naill blood still strong in his veins.
She’d been in awe of him as a little girl. Like other families, her family had shared whatever harvest they had—honey from the hive, cheese, a cut of beef—with the Uí Maelsechnaill, descendants of the High Kings and rightful heirs of the land. Master Uí Maelsechnaill, Finn’s father, had been a hedgerow teacher and had risked his life to teach parish children—boys and girls—to read and do math. He’d taught them ancient Irish history, shared the stories of the Tuatha De Danaan and the unlucky children of Lir, of Oisín and Tír na nÓg, of mighty Cuchulainn and Queen Meadhbh, of brave Finn Mac Cumhaill and lovely Gráinne. He’d taught them to walk proud and not to bow down under the weight of the Sasanach. And when he’d been caught and dragged off like a common criminal to be sold as a slave… Muirín had wept for him and his family.
“To be Irish is to remember,” he’d said.
She would remember him.
As a little girl, Muirín had revered her teacher, thought his son a true prince of Eire, perhaps Finn Mac Cumhaill reborn. She’d thought him as far beyond her reach as the sea from the stars. But now…
Handsome and kind though he was, she tried to ignore the way her heart beat faster when he was around. Domhnall—God rest his soul—had been dead only seven months, and she had no business caring for another man. Not yet. But she could help Finn, return the kindness he had showed her by caring for little Aidan.
Finn had brought Aidan to her, and with Aidan had come the sunshine. He chattered all the time, asked lots of questions. He worked as hard as a boy of nine could. He kept the hearth piled high with peat, fed the chickens and cows, collected the day’s eggs without cracking a single shell, carried water from the well. She suspected he was trying to be the man about the house, and she would indulge him and praise him for his efforts as long as he didn’t do something that might get him hurt.
Muirín watched, charmed, as he scraped the bottom of the bowl for the last bit of broth, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Have you eaten your fill, or would you like a third helping? I can’t have you doin’ a man’s work on a child’s portion.”
“I’m full now, thank you.” He belched, and his hand flew to his lips in surprise. His cheeks flamed crimson. “Excuse me.”
Muirín smiled, touched a finger to his nose. “What fine manners you have, Aidan. And you’re welcome.”
He hopped up from the table, scattering crumbs on the floor. “You know what?”
“No, what?”
“Finn says I’m going to be taller than him someday.”
“And well you might. I remember your da’, and he was a tall man. You take after him.”
Aidan’s chin lifted, and his little chest visibly swelled with pride at her words. “You know what?”
“No, what?”
“Finn says—”
But his words were cut off by the sound of approaching hooves.
Muirín felt a surge of panic. “Aidan, quick! Hide in the corner under the bed. Don’t come out, no matter what! Do you understand?”
The boy’s face paled, but he lifted his chin. “I’m not afraid! I can fight—”
“I know you’re not afraid, Aidan. You’re a brave boy, but now is not the time to fight. Do as I
say. And don’t come out until I call you, no matter what you see or hear! Go!”
Aidan moved reluctantly at first, but as the hooves neared the cabin, he ran to the small bed and disappeared beneath it.
Muirín smoothed her apron, took a deep breath, tried to calm herself. Her mind exploded with unanswered questions. Had the iarla found the hideout? Did he know she was helping Bríghid and Finn? Had he sent his men for Aidan?
She pushed the questions aside, opened the door, stepped out, tried not to gasp.
The iarla himself.
She closed the door behind her, prayed Aidan would do as he was told. The day was cold and overcast, but in her fear she barely felt the chill.
The iarla jerked his mount to a stop. Behind sat half a dozen men on horseback.
“My lord.” She curtsied, buried her trembling hands in her apron. “I am honored.”
“You are O’Connelly’s widow, are you not?”
“Aye.”
“You live here alone since your husband’s death.”
Muirín hesitated. “Aye, my lord.”
“Do you hear, gentlemen? This good woman is out here all alone without male protection.”
His men shouted, their voices tinged with lust.
“We shall do our best to keep an eye on you. I’d hate for anything to happen.”
She heard the threat in his voice, kept her silence. Please let him ride on.
“I’m told that the eldest of the old hedgerow teacher’s sons often visits you.”
More lustful shouts from his men.
Her heart raced. Her mouth went dry. “Master Uí Maelsechnaill has been kind enough to do the man’s work here since my husband passed on.”
Lascivious laughter rose from the men, and some made crude gestures with their hands to show exactly what they thought men’s work entailed.