by Pamela Clare
She felt her face flame, forced her gaze to the pebbles at her feet.
“You wish to see me, my lord?”
She gasped, spun about. ’Twas Finn. He’d come up behind her and stood, sweat on his brow, hayfork in hand. Relief flooded through her. But where had he come from?
His eyes told her not to ask, then his gaze shifted from her to the iarla. Though he held the hayfork with its tongs pointing into the earth, she felt the tension in his body, sensed the masculine power coiled within him.
He came forward, put himself between her and the iarla.
Finn looked into the eyes of the soulless bastard who had kidnapped his sister, threatened his brother, murdered Father Padraíg—and felt deadly calm steal over him. He’d come over the crest of the hill to see the iarla riding straight for Muirín’s cabin. At once, he’d abandoned his cart of freshly cut peat on the road and run, only one thought on his mind. Muirín and Aidan were in danger.
He’d kept to the ravine that ran behind her fields, where no one would be able to see him and had approached the cabin from behind. He’d heard the iarla’s voice, heard the filthy laughter of his men, slipped into the barn. Though they outnumbered him seven to one, he would not face the whoreson without some kind of weapon.
No one would touch her or the boy.
“Speak of the devil.” The iarla shifted in the saddle, smiled arrogantly down at Finn. “I understand you’ve been helping the good widow with her chores since her husband’s death. How charitable.”
“I can’t take all the credit, my lord. The men and older boys in the parish stop by when they can to lend a hand.” Let him think Irishmen were popping in and out all day long. Let him think she was rarely alone. “Mistress Ó Congalaig has suffered great loss, and we all want see she’s cared for. Might I inquire about my sister, my lord?”
The iarla’s eyebrows rose, nearly touched his white wig. “It’s on your sister’s behalf that I’ve sought you out. I’m afraid a guest of mine has spirited her away from under my very roof, and I don’t know what’s become of her.”
Finn did his best to look shocked, angry. It wasn’t hard. “But, my lord—”
The iarla raised a gloved hand, cut him off. “I have men looking for him both here and in England. I trust we’ll find him soon. I thought perhaps she might have contacted you in some way or that you might have heard something. A rumor of her whereabouts?”
Finn allowed his voice to take on an edge. “I’ve heard nothing of my sister since your men took her, my lord.”
“And what of your brother, the young rapparee?”
“I sent him away, my lord. I’ll not be havin’ him stirrin’ up trouble for the rest of us.”
“Quite sensible.” Disappointment tinged the iarla’s words. “Where did you send him?”
“Dún na nGall, my lord. County Donegal. We’ve relations there.”
“You Irish seem to have relations everywhere. You breed like rats.” The iarla sighed, motioned one of the riders forward.
Finn tightened his grip on the hayfork, held his ground.
The rider approached, drew a white bundle from under his coat handed it to the iarla. The iarla shook it out, unfurled it like a sail, dropped it at Finn’s feet. His men laughed.
Finn realized it was linen, a bed sheet. And it was stained with blood.
Careful to keep his grip on the hayfork and his eye on the iarla, he bent, retrieved it, stared at the brownish patches of old, dried blood.
“I was hoping I could prevail upon you to keep eye out for this Englishman. As you can see, he was quite taken with your sister. He enjoyed her quite thoroughly before stealing away with her.”
Rage was a drum beat in Finn’s ears. His hand balled into a fist, clenched the linen, crushed it. He forced his arm down to his side, drew cold air deeply into his lungs. But nothing could remove the expression of anger from his face. He met the iarla’s gaze unwavering. “Aye, my lord. My sister is an honorable woman. Whatever this Englishman did to her, it was not of her desiring. I will keep my eyes open. If I find him, I will—”
“You will send for me. I will take care of him myself. “ The iarla’s voice was heavy with arrogance. “Any Irishman who raises a hand to him will pay with his life. He is an Englishman and therefore my problem. Is that clear?”
The Sasanach was a lying, deceiving bastard. “Aye, my lord.”
The iarla kicked his horse with his heels, turned its head. “Keep the sheet. Let it be a souvenir to remind your sister of her lost innocence.”
Finn watched them disappear, sent silent curses winging after them. “God’s blood!”
He heard Muirín’s sigh of relief, felt her hand rest tentatively on his shoulder. Her touch helped calm the fury, sent sparks skittering through him.
“They’re gone.” Her voice was almost a whisper.
He let the hayfork fall to the ground, turned to her. Her face was still pale with fear, and he could see she was trembling. “Aye, they’re gone. But for how long? I heard how he threatened you.”
Then he did something he should not have done. He dropped the sheet, pulled her into his arms, held her close. Fragile she was, soft, and she shook from head to toe. He felt her shudder, felt her wet, warm tears through the linen of his shirt. He rocked her back and forth, his lips on her hair, as she wept. “I’ll not let him hurt you, Mistress Ó Congalaig.”
She sniffed, stepped back, looked up at him. “Please, Finn. Call me Muirín. Once a woman has soaked your shirt with her tears it’s permitted.” A small smile crept over her lips.
Her beauty assaulted him. Lovely she was, like a wildflower. Her small nose was kissed with tiny freckles, her skin clear and soft. Her hair was tucked demurely beneath a white ciarsúr as was customary for married women, but he remembered it was thick and long, the color of wild honey. Her eyes, though shadowed by grief, were green like a meadow in springtime. Her lips… He had no business thinking about her lips or how much he longed to kiss them, taste them.
“Aye, Muirín.” He raised a hand to her cheek, wiped her tears away. It felt so good to speak her name, to hear her speak his.
“What are you going to do?” She looked down at the sheet.
Finn felt the edges of his anger return. “I don’t know. Bríghid says the Sasanach didn’t defile her, and I don’t think she’d lie to me, unless ... ”
Unless she had feelings for the Sasanach and wanted to protect him. Ruaidhrí suspected as much. Perhaps Finn should have paid more attention to what his little brother had to say.
“It could be anyone’s blood, Finn. The iarla wants your help, and that’s why he showed you this. He meant to provoke you.”
“Aye, you’re right. I need to talk to Bríghid. But if I find out she lied, the Sasanach will wish he’d died the first time.”
Chapter Ten
Muirín gasped. “Aidan!”
Finn grabbed the sheet, followed her through the door. It was the first time he’d come inside since Domhnall had died. He’d not wished to intrude on Muirín’s grief, had kept his distance. Domhnall was a good man. He’d been a good friend.
“You can come out now, sweet.” Her gaze fixed on the bed in the corner. “Finn has come.”
Aidan emerged face-first, eyes wide with fear. When he saw them, he scooted quickly out, rushed to Muirín, buried his head in her apron.
She stroked his red hair, murmured reassurances to him. “You did exactly as I told you, and I’m right proud of you, Aidan.”
Something twisted in Finn’s chest. If only her child had lived. She’d have been a wonderful mother.
The boy turned his head, looked up at Finn. “I was afraid. I heard the horses, and I was afraid the bad man would take Muirín, too, just like he took Bríghid.”
“I’m not going to let that happen, a phráitín.” He hadn’t been able to stop it when they’d taken Bríghid. Or Father. He hadn’t been there.
Aidan stepped back from Muirín, as if suddenly embarrassed to be
hiding in a woman’s skirts. He lifted his chin. “I didn’t mean to be afraid, Finn. I want to be brave like you and Ruaidhrí.”
Finn knelt before him, put a hand on Aidan’s shoulder. “I was afraid, too. I saw those horses ride up to the door, and I was afraid.”
Aidan looked stunned at this news, regarded Finn through solemn eyes.
“Bein’ brave doesn’t mean you’re not afraid, son. It means you do what you must despite bein’ afraid. Muirín says you did exactly what you were told, and that means you were very brave.” Finn stood, tousled the boy’s hair.
Aidan smiled up at him as if relieved of a burden.
“Now run outside and fetch us some water from the well. Talkin’ to that vile Sasanach has left a bad taste in my mouth, so it has.”
The boy flew out the door, wooden bucket in hand.
Finn turned to Muirín. He’d made up his mind. He hadn’t even had to think it over. “Muirín, I—”
She held up her hand to quiet him and gave him a sad smile. “Thank you.”
Finn felt his thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind. How could her smile affect him so? “For what?”
“For standin’ up to the iarla. For protectin’ me. For protectin’ us.” A blush rose into her cheeks.
“I did nothin’ but stand there with a hayfork and listen while he insulted you, while he insulted my sister and all of Ireland.”
“I think the proper response, Finn, is, ‘You’re welcome.’” This time her smile wasn’t sad. It was almost … teasing.
He felt as if the breath had been knocked out of him. “You’re welcome.”
She walked to the hearth, stirred something that smelled delicious. “Have you had anything since breakfast?”
He watched her hips sway as she walked, felt the lure of her femininity even from across the room. “No.”
“Sit.” She motioned to the rough-hewn table at the center of the room.
Muirín fought not to smile. He was a big man and graceful out of doors. But inside the tiny cabin, he moved awkwardly as if he felt out of place or nervous.
He sat, placed his big, work-roughened hands on his knees. “Muirín, I’ve something to say, and you might not like it.”
She ladled soup into a bowl, placed it before him with a spoon, sat. She had a feeling she knew what was coming. “Speak your piece, Finn.”
She saw his gaze fall to the soup, but he held back. “I know you don’t want to move back with your family, but I think you ought to reconsider. The iarla might come back.”
It was as she suspected. She felt a spark of irritation. “I’ll not leave my home.”
“Muir—”
“I’ll hear no more of it.” She crossed her arms. She’d left for a reason, and nothing would make her go back. She’d take the accursed iarla and his threats over the drunken lust of her own father any day.
“So be it.” He dug into the soup, chewed as if the conversation were over.
“So be what?”
“If you won’t leave, then I’ll have to stay here. In the cowshed.”
She stood, hands on her hips. “Now wait just a minute, Master Uí Maelsechnaill!”
“Finn.” He took another bite, smiled.
“If you think you’re moving into my cowshed, Finn, you’re dead wrong.” She couldn’t stand to think of him out there in the cold and wet. He’d done so much for her already.
Finn stood, forcing her to look up at him. “You know what that man is capable of. He has no soul, no conscience. I heard what he said to you.”
“And so did I. But I won’t have you stayin’ in the cowshed.”
“Confound it, Muir—”
“Not another word! If you want to play the hero and watch over us, you’ll have to sleep by the hearth. I can’t have you shiverin’ all night and scarin’ my cows with your chatterin’ teeth!”
It was his turn to look surprised.
She met his gaze, defied him to argue with her.
He gaze softened. He looked at her as if she were something precious, his blue eyes brimming with concern. “People will tittle.”
“Let them tittle away. You and I will know the truth.”
The warmth in his blue eyes made her pulse race. “I would never do anything to dishonor you, Muirín.”
“I know. That’s why you’re welcome to sleep inside, Finn.” She turned from him, her heart aflutter. She grabbed some oatcakes, placed them on the table next to the butter urn. “Sit and eat before your soup gets cold.”
* * *
Jamie slipped his shirt over his head, grimaced at the pain in his chest and shoulder as he moved his left arm into the sleeve. Damn!
He cursed his weakness, cursed the entire situation. He’d have been in London for a fortnight by now. He’d already have met with Alec’s contacts and would likely have a strategy in place for seeing a bill through Parliament.
Instead, he’d allowed himself to be pulled off course by a bit of skirt with long, dark hair and big blue eyes. He’d nearly lost his life and had gravely imperiled his mission. He’d have been smarter simply to leave her to her fate. She was not his problem.
Even as the thought formed in his mind, he rejected it.
It was at least partly his fault she was in this predicament, which made her his problem. Even had that not been the case, he would not have been able to walk way, to turn his back and leave her at Sheff’s mercy. He remembered the look of panic on her face as she’d entered the dining room—and the look of anticipation and excitement on Sheff’s. She was an innocent, Sheff a predator.
No, he could not have turned his back on her, mission or no mission.
He pulled the shirt down, shook out the lace cuffs. It felt good to be clean again. He’d made good use of the basin of warm water Bríghid had left for him. She had removed his stitches this morning, and he’d finally had the chance to shave, to wash his hair, to wipe the remnants of illness from his body with soap and water.
He smiled despite himself as he remembered the way she had fretted as she’d pulled the stitches out, afraid she was hurting him. But he had scarce noticed the discomfort. Instead, he’d had to fight the urge to touch her, to lift her chin and taste those lips of hers again.
When she had finished, she had poured his water, told him to take his time, left him in privacy. Where had she gone? Perhaps she was outside reading that book of hers.
What did it matter? He cared not.
He tucked the shirt into his breeches and buttoned them. She had obviously done her best to wash the bloodstains out of the linen, but a faint beige tinge showed where blood had soaked through, thread stitching the cut made by Ruaidhrí’s sword.
He reached for his stock, decided to forego that silly bit of stiff cloth, donned his waistcoat instead. It was likewise stained, the embroidered damask in far worse condition than the simple linen of his shirt. He could see she had tried to launder it and had stitched the tear, but the garment would never be the same. He removed it, tossed it carelessly onto the straw that was now his bed. His frock was likewise in terrible shape. It might be abysmal manners, but he’d be wearing nothing but his shirtsleeves until he got back to London. Though he had other clothing in his travel bag, it was far too formal to wear under these circumstances. He’d look like a fop.
He sat in a chair, slipped into his stockings, began to work the buckles at his knees. It had taken some effort, but last night he’d managed to persuade Bríghid to take the bed and leave the corner behind the table to him. She had refused to yield until he was able to get out of bed without help, as getting up from the floor would be a great deal more difficult.
Bríghid was damnably stubborn. He hadn’t seen that side of her the first night he’d met her. But she had been terrified, fearing—and barely escaping—the worst. He supposed that, under the circumstances, she had shown a great deal of pluck. Most women would likely have dissolved into tearful hysterics, and understandably so, but she hadn’t wept at all. He had to admire her for t
hat. And for the resolve with which she’d tended him during his illness. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d survived, but he knew it had everything to do with her determination to keep him alive—and help her brother avoid a murder charge.
He supposed he should be satisfied that she wanted him alive, regardless of the reason. Did he truly expect her to feel gratitude? She’d been angry with him that night. Moments before he’d been run through with a sword, she’d accused him of having done everything but violate her. Such evil intent had not been there—he’d been as unhappy to be thrust into that situation as she—but she couldn’t know that. Certainly he’d enjoyed parts of it, but how could he not? What red-blooded man could hold her in his arms and not feel pleasure?
His blood stirred at the memory. For days now, he’d watched as she went about her work in the cabin—cooking, baking, cleaning. He’d remembered how soft her skin was, how it seemed to glow in candlelight. He’d remembered the lush fullness of her breasts, how they had pressed against his chest, their rosy peaks taut despite her fear, revealing the passion he was certain lay just beneath her cool and modest façade. He’d remembered the taste of her lips, the feel of her smooth, shapely legs, the tantalizing triangle of dark curls that hid her sex, the way she trembled at his touch. He’d remembered all these things, though he’d tried to put them from his mind. More than once he’d found himself fighting painful arousal and had done his best to hide the evidence. He’d no doubt Ruaidhrí would run him through again if he knew what Jamie was thinking.
Aye, even weakened by fever, he’d been attracted to her. The pull of her femininity was undeniable and as strong as the tide. Three weeks had passed since he’d been injured. As his strength slowly returned, so did the blatant sexual desire he’d felt for her from the moment he’d first seen her.
He’d made it his business not to care for women, so he was unwilling to admit, even to himself, that there might be more to his feelings for her than basic lust. And if he felt a strong urge to protect her? He supposed her vulnerability had aroused some last vestige of gallantry in him, first in the clearing when she’d been cornered with other Irish, then again in Sheff’s dining room when she’d walked out of the dim hallway dressed like a whore and obviously terrified. But wanting to keep her safe was a long way from falling in love with her—something he would not allow.