Kenleigh-Blakewell Family Saga Boxed Set (Books 1 & 2)

by Pamela Clare

  Jamie must have found her and her brothers the most wretched of peasants. Yet he’d never said a word, never looked down his nose at them, never complained. He’d thanked her for his supper, demanded to sleep on the floor, done his share of the men’s work as soon as he’d been able. Oh, how he bewildered her!

  With a frustrated moan, she pushed all thoughts of him from her mind. She was thinking about him again, and she didn’t want to think about him at all.

  Not now. Not later. Not ever.

  She turned back toward the bed, gasped.

  She hesitated, took a step forward, then another. She was looking at her own reflection. She’d never seen a real mirror before. She’d seen her face in pools of water and on the lids of finely burnished cook pots. But this was different. The mirror was taller than she, framed by ornately carved wood, and her reflection seemed … real.

  Who was this young woman staring back at her? She had dark blue eyes fringed by long, sooty lashes. Her long, dark hair hung, tousled and unbound, to her hips. So dark it was that her skin seemed palest white by comparison, except for the faint pink blush on her cheeks. Her lips curved into a smile, revealing white teeth.

  She reached out a hand.

  The woman in the mirror did the same.

  Their fingers touched.

  She’s got her mother’s look about her. There isn’t a prettier young lady in the county, nor all of Ireland I’d wager.

  Her father’s words from so long ago came back to her. And for a moment, she caught a glimpse in her mind’s eye of another woman—pale, too thin, with dark hair bound in braids, sad blue eyes, and a lovely face. The woman cradled her, sang sweetly, smiled at her. Longing, sharp and bittersweet, shot through her, the almost forgotten memory suddenly as bright as sunlight.

  Mamaí.

  Tears welled up in Bríghid’s eyes, spilled down her cheeks.

  But as the longing passed, she decided—if it wasn’t vain to think such a thing—that she was pretty. She let here eyes travel down her reflection. She wore only her chemise, threadbare and more grey than white. The cloth was so thin she could see the dusky roundness of her nipples, the shadow of her belly button, the dark triangle of curls that marked her most private flesh.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered that Jamie had seen what she was now seeing. He had seen it, touched and kissed much of it. He had called her beautiful.

  Curse Jamie Blakewell!

  She turned away from the mirror, turned away from her thoughts. She refused to think about him, to spare a single thought for him.

  She walked back to the bedside table, reached for the comb, began to pull it gently through the snarls in her hair.

  Where were Finn, Ruaidhrí and little Aidan? Had they fled to Clare? Had they taken Muirín with them? How angry had they become when they’d read Jamie’s letter?

  Jamie Blakewell had kidnapped her—for that’s what it was, kidnapping. He had dragged her out in the dark of night and taken her from her family, from the only world she’d ever known.

  He’d awoken her just before dawn her last morning in Ireland, and when she’d refused to cooperate, he’d lifted her out of bed, slung her over his shoulder like a bag of grain, and carried her down the hall, down the stairs, and out into the cold.

  A covered carriage had awaited them, Jamie’s stallion tethered to the back. Jamie had opened the door, plopped her unceremoniously down on the seat of claret cushions, then spoken a word to his man Travis. “Is everything understood, Travis?”

  “Aye, Sir, perfectly.”

  “You’ve managed quite well so far. Notify me immediately should ought occur.”

  “Aye, Sir.”

  Jamie had climbed in behind her. Then the innkeeper’s wife had passed a basketful of food through the door, and they’d been off, Travis waving them on their way.

  It had been a cold morning, but Jamie had been prepared for that. In one corner there had been a pile of furs. He’d tucked one around her, a thick fur of deep brown, then sank back on the seat opposite her and glared out the window.

  Through a small window in the door, she’d watched the sun rise over the frigid landscape, first rosy pink, then orange, then bright yellow. She hadn’t spoken a word to him, nor he to her, and more than once she’d dozed off, snug in her fur.

  They stopped only twice—once just after midday to hitch up fresh horses and once when she’d needed desperately to spend a penny. They’d arrived in Dublin in the dark, had gone straight to the docks. She’d gotten only a small glimpse of the town. When the carriage stopped, Jamie’d taken her by the arm, lifted her from the carriage, hurried her toward a small ship.

  But as they’d neared the gangway, panic and grief had overwhelmed her. She’d torn her arm from his grasp, turned to run, slipped on ice and fallen hard to the ground. Though the breath had been knocked out of her, she’d managed to dig beneath the cold snow and tear a handful of grass from the ground before he’d grabbed her and lifted her into his arms. Her last glimpse of her homeland had come through the small, round window of the cabin Jamie had locked her in.

  Sweet Éire.

  As the last of the shoreline had been swallowed by darkness and distance, she’d collapsed on the bunk and wept until she’d fallen into a fitful sleep.

  The rest of the journey had been a blur. She’d seen little of Jamie during the sea voyage. A young sea apprentice had delivered her meals and the odd cup of tea. Jamie had looked in on her once or twice, asked her if she was feeling seasick. She had ignored him, staring in silence out her window at the vast expanse of the Irish Sea. She’d ignored him during the final carriage ride, too, though he’d hardly seemed to notice, his nose buried in a newspaper.

  They’d arrived at this place in the dead of night. Jamie had awoken her, helped her from the carriage, guided her up a darkened stairway to this room, bidding her a good night and shutting the door behind him. From the fire in the hearth and the downturned covers, she’d known someone had been expecting her. Too tired to think more on it, she’d undressed, crawled beneath the covers, and fallen into a dreamless sleep.

  She glanced about the room for her clothes. She’d taken them off, draped them over the chair by the fireplace, and …

  They were gone! Her cloak, her gown, her petticoats, even her shoes.

  She reached reflexively for the cross at her throat, closed her fingers over its familiar shape. At least she still had it. But someone had entered while she’d slept and had taken her clothes. Come to think of it, how had the fire been kept burning all night? Aye, someone had entered. But who?

  A knock came at the door, and she dived beneath the covers.

  The handle turned, and a young woman’s freckled face peeked inside. “Pardon me, Miss, but I thought I heard you up and about. I was wondering if you’d be liking your breakfast soon.”

  Bríghid was so taken aback she sat for a moment, mouth agape, unsure what to say. She hadn’t expected to be waited on by English servants. And though a sharp retort was the first thing to come into her head, she had no grudge against this girl, who was about her age. “What is your name?”

  The servant girl looked surprised, stepped further into the room, curtsied. “Heddy, if you please, Miss. I’m to serve you as your lady’s maid, though I ain’t never been a lady’s maid before.”

  A lady’s maid? The very idea almost made Bríghid laugh.

  “Heddy, do you know what’s become of my clothes?”

  “Aye, Miss. Master Blakewell had me fetch them and take them to be laundered and mended. He said you’d made a frightful long journey and I wasn’t to wake you.”

  Bríghid felt her temper rise, but fought not to take it out on Heddy. So, he thought her gown dirty and tattered. “Is his Lordship after makin’ me walk around naked?”

  “Oh, no, Miss! If you please, there be a trunk of gowns for you sitting in the hallway. I ain’t brought it in yet, as they told me not to wake you. I thought you might want to eat first.”
r />   Bríghid was hungry. “That’s thoughtful of you, Heddy.”

  “Shall I bring your breakfast tray, then, Miss? And will you be having tea?”

  “Aye, thank you, Heddy. Oh, and Heddy, what day is it?”

  “’Tis December the twenty-third, of course—the day before Christmas Eve.” The servant curtsied, closed the door behind her.

  Christmas.

  Bríghid had completely forgotten about Christmas.

  * * *

  Jamie swallowed the last of his tea, set the cup down on the dining table. He’d just spent the past two hours telling Matthew and Elizabeth what had happened over the course of the past six weeks. They sat in silence now, finishing their breakfasts and digesting his tale.

  Jamie had risen early this morning. He’d immediately sent two dispatches, one to Sheff’s London residence and one to Ireland, informing Sheff that Bríghid was with him in London and that she and her family were under his protection. He’d hoped it would divert Sheff’s attention from Finn and the others to England, where Jamie could meet him on more equal footing.

  Then he’d made certain the servants understood they were to treat Bríghid as an honored guest. He’d also explained that under no circumstances were they to permit her to leave the manor or to receive visitors without him. This had caused a few raised eyebrows, but no one had questioned his instructions. Elizabeth ran a well-disciplined household.

  He’d then found a servant girl to act as Bríghid’s maid and sent the young woman off to find suitable clothing for Bríghid. The servant had managed to locate a trunk of gowns once worn by Anne, Matthew and Elizabeth’s youngest daughter. Meanwhile, he’d sent Bríghid’s old gown away to be repaired and laundered.

  Bríghid would never forgive him. Of that Jamie was certain. She’d kept up an icy silence for the length of their journey to London.

  Except when they’d set sail.

  He’d seen the panic hit her as he’d been about to lead her up the gangway. She’d torn herself from his grasp, had tried to run, but had slipped on the icy ground and fallen. When he’d lifted her out of the snow, she’d been clutching a handful of withered grass as if it were a treasure. The sound of her sobs as they’d weighed anchor had left him feeling like the cruelest bastard ever to walk the Earth.

  He did not wish to cause her grief. Quite the contrary. Why could she not see that? Why could she not see he was trying to take responsibility for a situation he had helped create? Did she truly believe she’d be better off back in Meath without his protection?

  Finally, Matthew spoke, drawing Jamie out of his meaningless musings. “This does complicate matters. He can make things hell for you in Lords. Though far from being the most influential nobleman in England, he is not without friends.”

  Jamie nodded. He’d known this. “I expect he could do even worse.”

  Matthew’s silver brows furrowed. “Are you saying you think he’ll go so far as to try to steal her away now that she’s under our protection?”

  Jamie turned this over in his mind for a moment, met Matthew’s concerned gaze. “I believe him capable of almost anything.”

  “The filthy goat!” Elizabeth frowned. “I never did like him.”

  Jamie laughed. “You just didn’t approve of my coming home legless drunk every time I went out on the town with him.”

  Elizabeth had been like a second mother to him growing up. He’d been placed under Matthew’s supervision during his college years. More than once she’d scolded him, warned him that Sheffield Tate might be the son of an earl but he was also an ill-mannered brat.

  “That was part of it.” She leveled a stern gaze at him. “I also felt he was cruel to the young women he pretended to court in hopes of lifting their skirts.”

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  “I’ll increase the watch immediately, of course.” Matthew rubbed his thigh absentmindedly. He’d lost his leg in the battle of Malplaquet more than forty years ago, and Jamie knew it still pained him.

  Jamie pushed his chair away from the table, stood. “I’ve thought through it a thousand times, and I just don’t see what else I could have done.”

  Matthew shook his head. “Nor I. You took the only honorable course available to you—and at great risk to yourself.”

  “Good heavens, Jamie! What if they had left you to die?” Elizabeth rose from her chair, walked to Jamie’s side, and began to untie his jabot. “I still think we should have the physician take a good look at you.”

  “I’m fine.” Jamie gave Matthew a pleading look.

  “For God’s sake, Elizabeth! He’s a grown man!”

  “I’m just going to see for myself.” The tone of her voice brooked no interference.

  “Very well, but let me do it.” Jamie took over the task of undressing himself and bared his chest to Elizabeth’s perusal.

  Both she and Matthew gasped.

  “Oh, God!” Elizabeth gaped at him, ran cool fingers over the scar.

  Matthew frowned. “’Tis much larger than I’d imagined.”

  Jamie tied his shirt, met Matthew’s gaze. “We’ve both seen worse on the battlefield, Matthew.”

  “Aye, but few men with a wound like that would have survived.”

  “To think how close we came to losing you.” Elizabeth covered her mouth with one elegant hand. Though the years were telling on her face, she was still a beautiful woman. “My dear boy, I’m so glad you’re home. We couldn’t ask for a better Christmas gift.”

  “We owe this young woman of yours a debt of thanks. How do you say her name?”

  Jamie pronounced Bríghid’s full name slowly and carefully until both Matthew and Elizabeth could say it reasonably well. “But she’s not my young woman.”

  Matthew and Elizabeth exchanged a guarded glance.

  “What did that mean?” Jamie glared at them.

  “What, dear?” Elizabeth looked at him with wide, innocent eyes.

  “You know—that glance the two of you just shared.”

  “It meant nothing.” Elizabeth smoothed her skirts. “Oh, my, look at the time. It’s half past nine already, and there’s so much to do with Christmas upon us.”

  “When do we get to meet Bríghid?” Matthew took up his cane, stood, his wooden leg tapping the floor.

  “Well, I for one intend to meet her right now.” Elizabeth turned in a swish of skirts and walked away from the dining table.

  “Be careful.” Jamie’s mood had suddenly grown sour. “She can be a hellion.”

  * * *

  Bríghid didn’t know when she’d had a better breakfast.

  Heddy had arrived with a tray laden with eggs, bacon, toast, strawberry jam, and tea, and it had been all Bríghid could do not to gobble it down all at once. She’d felt so lonely she’d asked Heddy to stay while she ate, and soon the two of them had fallen into a conversation about their brothers, Heddy sitting next to her on the giant bed.

  Heddy had four brothers, and from her tales of them, each was more ill-behaved than Ruaidhrí. “So, not to be outdone, John tied a dead fish to the underside of Father’s chair!”

  Bríghid laughed.

  “Every time Father sat in it, he’d say, ‘Oh, Lord, what is that stench? What in God’s—’”

  The door opened.

  A tall, elegant older woman entered. “Heddy, can you excuse us, please?”

  Heddy, eyes round, leapt from the bed, picked up the empty breakfast tray, curtsied, and fled the room.

  The woman shut the door behind her.

  Suddenly self-conscious, Bríghid pulled the coverlet up over her breasts. It took all her determination to meet the woman’s measuring gaze.

  “You must be Miss Ní Maelsechnaill.” Though her dark hair had turned mostly silver and her face now bore the lines of age, the woman had obviously been quite beautiful once. Her blue eyes sparkled with kindness.

  Bríghid nodded, more than a little astonished to hear a strange English woman pronounce her name correctly. “Please, Ma
’am, call me Bríghid.”

  “I’m Elizabeth Kenleigh Hasting. I am Jamie’s sister-by-marriage, but I think of myself more as his aunt—or a second mother. I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, Bríghid. We have so much to talk about. But first why don’t we make you comfortable?”

  In no time, a large copper tub had been placed before the fire and filled with steaming water. Bríghid had been left to bathe in private, though Heddy had been sent in to wrap her in a blue velvet dressing gown and help her style her hair. While Bríghid would have been content just to braid it, Heddy insisted on coiling it and twisting it into a style the likes of which Bríghid had never seen before.

  “Oh, you’ve got lovely tresses, Miss. Why, if I had hair like yours, I’d wear it fancy every day.”

  At first, the whole experience reminded her of the night at the iarla’s house. But with Heddy’s cheerful chatter and bright winter sunshine streaming through the windows, the sick feeling in Bríghid’s stomach had quickly faded away.

  It was a new experience for her to be waited on hand and foot. She felt silly and kept expecting someone to realize she was just a poor Irish girl and send her to work in the kitchens peeling potatoes.

  Just as Heddy finished applying a small amount of rouge to her cheeks, Elizabeth returned carrying a pile of folded, white undergarments. “Why, Bríghid, you are breathtaking!”

  Bríghid didn’t know what to say.

  Heddy helped Bríghid dawn a fresh chemise, clean petticoats and, to Bríghid’s dismay, a corset, while Elizabeth removed the gowns one by one from the trunk and draped them across the bed. There were so many gowns in so many colors, Bríghid felt bedazzled—soft green, lavender, light blue, deep blue, white with embroidered rosebuds, rosy pink, deep claret, bold red, soft gray.

  “You’d look captivating in all of them, my dear. Which would you like to try?”

  Bríghid stood, ran her hands over the soft material of her petticoats. “I don’t know. They’re all so lovely.” She reached out, touched the lavender cloth. Soft it was, like butter. “Is this silk?”