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

by Pamela Clare

  “Aye, it is. If I might make a suggestion, I think the sapphire blue would look lovely on you—a compliment to your eyes.”

  Bríghid nodded.

  Heddy helped Bríghid lift the gown over her head and lowered it into place.

  When Elizabeth was satisfied, she took Bríghid by the hand and walked her over to the mirror. “You’re such a tiny thing. We’ll need to take in the waist and raise the hems.”

  But Bríghid hadn’t heard. She gaped in astonishment at her own reflection. Who was this woman in the mirror? Certainly, this was no poor Irish girl. The same eyes stared back at her, the same features she’d seen earlier this morning. But something had changed. This woman was elegant, graceful, even beautiful.

  Smiling, Elizabeth watched Bríghid stare in wonder at her own reflection.

  The girl was simply stunning. Elizabeth could easily understand why Jamie had been drawn to her in the crowd. Not only was she beautiful, she had a sense of innocence and vulnerability about her, a feminine sweetness that tugged at the heartstrings. Those qualities, combined with her charming Irish accent, were enough to intoxicate any man.

  Yet there was a sadness about Bríghid, shadows that never left her eyes. Jamie had told them over breakfast about the girl’s parents, how her mother had died in a famine and her father had been sold into slavery. He’d also told them what had happened the night he’d met her, how Sheff had tried to give the girl to Jamie as chattel to warm his bed.

  The very thought made Elizabeth’s blood steam.

  And now the poor child had been taken from her family, from the only home she’d ever known. From what Jamie had told them—and Elizabeth was certain he’d omitted certain details—his acquaintance with Bríghid hadn’t been an easy one.

  It was a rough road that lay ahead of Jamie, but he had chosen well. Elizabeth had watched him grow from a boy of four years into a man and thought of him as a son. The past year had been hard on him, hard on all of them. They had all loved Nicholas—Elizabeth had been present at his birth and could still remember his first cries—and they had all lost him. She knew Jamie blamed himself for Nicholas’s death, though Alec and Cassie had done their best to reassure him it was not his fault.

  War did strange things to a man. Hadn’t she seen that in Matthew when they’d first met—the pain, the wariness, the state of constant alertness? Once a man set foot on a battlefield, there was a part of him that never came home again.

  What Jamie needed was a wife, someone to help him heal, someone to soften his rough edges. Nothing would please her more than to see him happily settled with a woman who loved him—and a handful of children to keep him busy.

  Jamie might not realize it yet, but he was besotted with Bríghid. And from the way Bríghid went out of her way not to mention Jamie or even acknowledge his existence, Elizabeth was pretty certain Bríghid was besotted with him, as well.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jamie stared out the window of Matthew’s study, listening while Matthew spoke.

  “Unfortunately, Newcastle is as ineffectual a prime minister as his late brother. His only ambition seems to be to maintain the status quo on behalf of the elite Whig families. He won’t do anything they don’t want him to do.”

  Jamie turned his face toward the man he considered an uncle. “What of Lord Shelburne?”

  Matthew frowned, shook his head. “I know Alec thinks highly of him, but he’s more interested in affairs on the Continent than in the Colonies.”

  “I’d say that’s true for the lot of them.” Jamie walked back to where Matthew sat in a stuffed leather armchair before the fire and sank into the empty armchair across from him. “What think you of William Pitt?”

  “He’s a fine orator.” Matthew’s brow furrowed as he considered Jamie’s question. “He was re-elected to Commons this year, and he just married Hester Grenville—an excellent match for a gentleman of his prospects.”

  “I’m told he’s sympathetic to colonial problems.”

  “Aye, he is—some say too sympathetic.”

  “Then I must make his acquaintance. I shall arrange a meeting as soon as the blasted holidays have passed.” Jamie stood again. Restlessness thrummed in his veins.

  Matthew chuckled. “Patience, Jamie! You needn’t worry that you’ve missed your window of opportunity. Parliament got off to a late start, and thanks to Newcastle’s incompetence—”

  There came a knock on the study door.

  “Come.”

  Elizabeth stuck her head in. “I’m sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, but I need a quick word with you, Matthew.”

  “Yes, love?”

  Elizabeth shot Jamie a pleading glance. “It’s a private matter.”

  “I shall leave you two alone. Thank you for your insights, Matthew. They’ve been most illuminating.” Jamie started toward the door.

  “Jamie, dear,” Elizabeth called as he passed, “could you please do me a favor?”

  “Of course.” He needed something to distract him, to keep his mind off his mission—and Bríghid.

  “I promised Bríghid a tour of the manor and the grounds, but I find myself caught up in other matters. She’s waiting for me in the drawing room. Could you see to it she learns her way around?”

  Jamie stopped abruptly, cast Elizabeth a withering look. It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse.

  Elizabeth smiled sympathetically. “You can’t avoid her forever, Jamie.”

  “I can bloody well try.” Jamie turned on his heel and strode down the hall, his restlessness becoming temper.

  * * *

  Elizabeth watched Jamie disappear and knew he was vexed with her. She smiled.

  “I can see, wife, that you have something to say.” Matthew rose with the help of his cane and walked to her side.

  “She is the sweetest, most exquisite creature, Matthew.” Elizabeth reached out a hand, stroked her husband’s whisker-rough cheek. “Jamie is miserable with desire for her, I’m certain. And she for him.”

  “And this pleases you.” Matthew traced a finger intimately down Elizabeth’s throat to the cleft between her breasts.

  “Immensely. She is just what Jamie needs.” She pondered for a moment, distracted by the pleasure of his touch. After all these years, he still had the ability to drive her wild. “I’ve been thinking— “

  “I’m certain you have.” Matthew’s blue eyes twinkled with amusement.

  “—that perhaps we should accept Anne’s invitation to spend the holidays with her and the children in Kent instead of having the family here this year.”

  “And leave the two of them alone?” He arched an eyebrow in feigned surprise.

  She whispered. “Alone together.”

  “Very well, wife. I shall make the arrangements.”

  * * *

  Jamie didn’t like being manipulated. He knew Elizabeth meant well, but her meddling infuriated him. He didn’t need a mediator. He didn’t need a matchmaker. He certainly didn’t need to spend more time with Bríghid. The less he saw of her …

  He rounded the corner into the drawing room, stopped still.

  She stood looking out the window, her face cast in delicate profile. Her long hair had been fashioned into an elegant twist, baring the slender grace of her neck to his view. She wore a gown the color of sapphire, ivory lace tumbling gracefully from the sleeves. Cut after the French fashion of several years before, it enhanced the curve of her hip, the slender hollow of her waist, the creamy swell of her breasts.

  Her loveliness cut him to the quick, made it hard for him to think or breathe. Her deep femininity enticed him, ensnared him. The sexual need he’d tried for weeks to ignore roared to life in his veins.

  Why had he wanted to avoid her? Clearly, he’d been a fool.

  She glanced toward the door, and Jamie heard her quick intake of breath when she saw him. She turned to face him, a look of surprise or dismay on her face, one hand raised protectively to the tiny cross at her throat.

  Clearly
, she had wanted to avoid him, as well.

  Jamie took a step toward her, felt oddly like a schoolboy. “Elizabeth asked me to show you the manor and grounds. I trust she has treated you well.”

  Bríghid stared in amazement at the man who stood before her. His long hair had been had been washed, combed and pulled back into a black velvet ribbon. Over his broad shoulders he wore a frock of deep forest-green velvet. An embroidered waistcoat of forest-green silk covered his muscular chest, cream-colored lace at his throat and wrists. Breeches of forest-green velvet sheathed his corded thighs, cream-colored stockings his well-built calves. Brass buckles decorated his polished black shoes.

  She’d gotten used to seeing him dressed in his shirtsleeves and breeches—and dirty up to his elbows in peat like any Irish farmer. Standing there, he looked so fine, every inch the landed gentleman. Yet she could feel his physical power, the vigor beneath his well-dressed surface. “Aye.” She struggled to remember his question. “Elizabeth has been most kind.”

  “You look lovely.”

  The way he said it—slowly and with the emphasis on the word “lovely”—made her insides go warm and soft. She met his gaze, felt her heart trip. There was appreciation in his eyes, proof he meant what he said. “Thank you.”

  He turned, offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

  She hesitated, reminded herself she hated this man. He had lied to her, betrayed her, kidnapped her. But he’d also risked his life more than once to protect her from the iarla.

  She accepted his arm. “Don’t think this means I’ve forgiven you, Sasanach.”

  His rich baritone laughter filled the room like sunshine. “I shall try to remember how very much you despise me.”

  He led her out into the long, spacious hallway, with its polished wooden floors, ornate sideboards, and many paintings, sharing with her the history of Kenleigh Manor. He showed her the Great Room with its twin fireplaces and dozens of gilt chairs set against the red walls. ’Twas used mostly for political meetings, he told her. Then he led her around the corner to the Walpole Room. It was, he said, a formal dining room named in honor of a prime minister who had so often dined there.

  Bríghid stood inside the doorway, mouth agape as she stared at the ornate ceiling. It was plastered with symmetrical patterns and designs, some of which were painted gold. Around the edges of the room, where the ceiling met the blue walls, she could see the carved shapes of deer and hounds. On the walls hung dozens of paintings of men and women, some with children, dressed in their finery.

  One portrait was larger and stood out among the others. A tall man, dark and strikingly handsome, stood behind a woman with curly rose-gold hair. She had lovely green eyes that seemed familiar, and on her lap sat a dark-haired baby. Beside her stood a young boy, his head crowned with shining blonde hair.

  “Who are they?”

  “That is Alec Kenleigh, my brother-by-marriage, and Cassie, my sister.”

  “And this is Mr. Kenleigh’s home?”

  “Aye. One of them. He has lands in Virginia, as well.”

  Bríghid looked at the woman in the painting, and the man beside her. “Your sister is quite lovely. You have the same eyes. Those must be her children.”

  “The one on her lap is my nephew Nicholas. He … was killed this past July.” His voice was thick with pain, and she saw the shadows clearly now in his eyes, watched as he fought them into submission. “Indians. The war with the French.”

  Nicholas.

  Bríghid remembered that name. Jamie had cried it out when he’d been fitful with fever. She touched a hand to his arm, tried to offer comfort. “I’m sorry. Was he their only child?”

  A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Heavens, no. There are five others—two boys, three girls—and one due any time now.”

  “Your sister is with child?”

  “Aye, though Alec swears it will be their last. He says that every time. He cannot bear knowing that she must suffer.”

  “Yet he cannot keep himself from her. He must love her very much.” The idea seemed terribly romantic to Bríghid.

  “He does.” The tone in Jamie’s voice was one of deep respect. “And he loves his children.”

  “Who is the other child? He has her eyes.”

  “It is I.”

  “You?” She took a step closer, gazed up at the painting. The hair was lighter, the features softer, but she thought she could make out the strength of his jaw, the fullness of his lips on the sweet face of the little boy he’d once been.

  She glanced up at him to compare, found he was watching her. The warmth in his eyes made her feel almost dizzy. “Aye, it is you.”

  Next, he led her to the Billiard Room. Smaller than the others, it held several round tables—for playing cards, Jamie said—and one very large table, the surface of which was covered in cloth and sunken in. When she looked up at him, confused, he released her arm and crossed to the far side of the room, where he picked up a long stick and three ivory balls, two white and one red.

  “The goal is to use the cue to hit your ball off the banks so that it hits the other two balls.” He placed a few little balls on the table, bent down, aimed, and jabbed at one with the stick. It sped across the table, hit one bank, collided first with the other white ball, then another bank before bumping the red ball. “It’s based on geometrical concepts and has become quite the popular diversion among the upper crust.”

  “Do ladies play?”

  “Aye, some with great skill.” He smiled, cocked an eyebrow. “Would you like to try it?”

  Bríghid couldn’t help herself. She took the cue from Jamie and tried to do what she’d seen him do. But the cue felt so large and awkward in her hands, and when she went to jab at the ball, she got the cloth on the table instead.

  “Try again.” He came up behind her, bent over her, one arm behind her back to grip the wide end of the cue, the other stretched alongside hers where she held the narrow end. He adjusted the angle of the cue, his face so near hers she could smell the pine of his shaving soap. “Here.”

  Flustered by his nearness, unable to concentrate, she jabbed at the ball.

  It rolled across the cloth, bumped into the far bank, then sped back toward her, and collided with the other white ball.

  “I hit it!” She spun about, almost in his arms, smiled.

  He steadied her, his hands on her shoulders. “So you did.”

  “Am I interrupting?”

  Bríghid gasped, whirled toward the sound of the voice. An older man with a wooden leg stood at the door. He had white hair that was pulled back and worked into a beribboned braid. His square jaw was softened by a friendly smile that lit up his light blue eyes. He wore dark brown breeches and a deep blue waistcoat. In his right hand, he held a cane of carved and polished black wood with a golden knob at the top.

  “Matthew, allow me to introduce Miss Bríghid Ní Maelsechnaill.” Jamie smiled at her reassuringly. “Bríghid, this is Lt. Matthew Hasting, Elizabeth’s husband.”

  Bríghid was amazed at Matthew’s grace as he walked forward, took her hand, kissed it. “We owe you a debt of deepest gratitude, Miss Ní Maelsechnaill. Jamie is as a son to us. If there is anything we can do to repay you for your care of him, you have only to ask.”

  She felt her face grow warm at Matthew’s gracious greeting. “Thank you, Sir.”

  “I wouldn’t have interrupted, Jamie, but this just arrived, and I knew you’d want to see immediately.” Matthew retrieved what looked like a letter from inside his waistcoat and handed it to Jamie. “If I were to be entirely truthful, I must admit I wanted to meet you, Miss Ní Maelsechnaill.”

  Bríghid didn’t know what to say. “Thank you, Sir. ’Tis a pleasure meetin’ you, too, Sir.” She felt so silly, so out of place. She glanced over at Jamie, hoped to see some sign on his face she wasn’t making a fool of herself.

  But his gaze was focused on the letter, his brow furrowed, the line of his mouth hard. He handed it to Matthew, who quickly read it, ha
nded it back.

  She could feel the tension in the two men, but neither said anything about the letter’s contents. A tendril of fear snaked through her belly.

  “Thank you, Matthew.” Jamie slipped his arm through hers again as if nothing had happened. “Shall we continue our tour?”

  After the Billiard Room, he showed her the two-story Salon, lined with chairs and boasting a balcony for musicians. They used the room for large parties and dancing, he said.

  Then he led her down a side hallway to a set of large double doors.

  “I think this will be your favorite room.” An enigmatic smile on his face, he grasped the brass door handles, pushed the doors open.

  A shaft of daylight spilled into the hall, and she peered within.

  She gasped, clutched his arm. “Oh, Jamie!”

  The walls of the room were lined floor to ceiling with bookcases. Rows and rows of books stretched out before her. How many she could not even guess.

  Jamie watched delight spread across her lovely face. He’d deliberately saved this room for last. God, how he loved her smile, the sound of her laughter. He would have to tell her what was in the letter, but he didn’t want to do it now.

  She left his side, took several steps into the library, an expression of wonder in her eyes. She hurried to the nearest shelf, reached out her hand, stopped. “May I touch them?”

  “They are yours to read as you like.”

  She met his gaze, her eyes round. “All of them? Truly?”

  “Aye, truly.”

  Jamie leaned against the wall, watching as Bríghid explored the library’s offerings. She drew out first one book, then another and soon had a small pile of tomes sitting on one of the sideboards. He smiled to himself, lost in the grace of her movements, enthralled by her enjoyment of so simple a pleasure. There had been far too little happiness in her life.

  He watched her run her slender fingers over the spines of one book after another, found himself wondering how those fingers would feel running over his skin. His thoughts had taken a decidedly erotic turn, when she squealed and pulled a book from the shelf.