by Pamela Clare
His gaze met hers, and he smiled.
Bríghid snatched her hand away, fought the urge to hit him. How dare he prattle in Gaeilge! Did he think to charm her? How dare he smile! He flaunted his satisfaction at her, looked every bit like the cat who’d licked the cream. How dare he touch his lips to her skin! Those lips had touched a whore’s lips—and who knows what other parts of her body.
That last thought made Bríghid’s blood steam. She would have cursed him and walked from the room were it not for Matthew and Elizabeth. They had been so kind to her, and she had no wish to embarrass them. She sat still, hands clenched in her lap, said nothing.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Elizabeth reached for the teapot.
Jamie shook. “No, thank you. I think I shall retire to my room for a shave.” He ran a hand over the bristles on his chin, grinned.
“You do look a bit rough around the edges.” Matthew grew serious. “There was a letter waiting for you in the hall.”
“Aye, I found it.” He exchanged a look with Matthew that made Bríghid’s stomach flip. “We should discuss it when you have a moment.”
“Very well.” Matthew used his cane to rise. “Shall we discuss it now? Elizabeth and I are preparing to leave for a few weeks and—”
“Leave?” Bríghid found herself on her feet.
“Yes, love.” Elizabeth stood, placed a gentle hand on her arm. “We’re spending Christmas with our youngest daughter and her husband and children in Kent. Hadn’t we told you? We shall be leaving in little more than an hour.”
Bríghid struggled to maintain her composure. Matthew and Elizabeth were leaving, and that meant she’d be stuck here in this house with Jamie—alone. “I-I see. A Merry Christmas to you.”
She turned and walked from the room as calmly and quickly as she could.
* * *
“Does she know?”
“No. I don’t want to frighten her.” Jamie leaned against the mantle piece in Matthew’s study, watched Sheff’s letter burn.
Matthew nodded, straightening papers on his desk. “I understand. Still, if she knew, it might lessen her anger and help her realize exactly what you’ve done for her.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought of that.” Jamie reached for the poker, stirred the embers a bit more forcefully than was necessary. If only it were Sheff’s skull. “I don’t want to give her nightmares. If you had seen the fear in her eyes … I doubt she’d sleep at night if she knew he was back in London.”
“Still, she ought to know the extent of her peril.”
Jamie knew Matthew was right. “Aye. I’ll think on it.”
Matthew folded his hands on his now immaculate desk, frowned thoughtfully. “And what of Parliament?”
Jamie slid the poker back onto its hook, then faced Matthew. “Sheff is not without enemies. I’ve sent a few dispatches off to peers who might welcome an opportunity to cause him trouble, enemies he made while at Oxford.”
Matthew’s eyebrows shot up. “How ruthless are you prepared to be?”
“As ruthless as I must to guarantee Bríghid’s safety—and the success of my mission.”
* * *
Bríghid sat on a cushion, stared out her bedroom window into the darkening world beyond. A single candle sat on the sill before her, cast a circle of light against the glass.
Her brothers and little Aidan were out there in the world beyond. Did they miss her as much as she missed them? Were they on their way to County Clare? Were they warm? Were their bellies full? What were they doing now?
Tears slid unheeded down her cheeks.
Nollaig Shona dhaoibh. Merry Christmas, Finn, Ruaidhrí, sweet Aidan.
She sent the wish winging skyward with a prayer for their safety and crossed herself. She’d never been away from them on Christmas. She’d never been away from them at all. Somehow the holiday made the distance seem so much greater. She remembered the globe in the library and how small both England and Ireland had seemed, two tiny islands side by side in a vast, endless world.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Miss Bríghid?” Even Heddy could pronounce her name now.
“Tell him I’m not comin’ down.”
“Begging your pardon, Miss, but he sent me up with your supper.”
A twinge of regret passed through her. He hadn’t even asked her to join him. Which was fine, because she would have refused. “Very well, Heddy.”
Bríghid didn’t bother to look when Heddy entered. Her gaze remained focused on the dark world outside. Tiny snowflakes had begun to fall, driven against the panes of her window by a brisk wind.
“I’ll just set it down over here.”
“Thank you, Heddy.”
She heard the door shut, caught the first scent of her supper, and realized she was hungry. She stood, pulled her gaze from the snow-swirled darkness, turned from the window, and gasped.
He stood leaning against one of her bedposts, arms crossed over his chest. He had shaved, the planes of his face smooth again. He was clad in breeches of deep midnight blue and an ivory linen shirt with lace at its cuffs. No waistcoat. No frock. “No one should dine alone on Christmas Eve.”
The rush of joy she felt at seeing him took her completely by surprise. She caught herself about to smile, frowned. “I would rather sup with pigs than dine with you, Sasanach.”
She started to turn away from him, but he was quicker.
In an instant, he had her wrist in his grasp and had pulled her to him, not roughly, but insistently. With his other hand, he cupped her face. His thumb wiped the tears from her cheek. “My poor Bríghid. Tell me what troubles you.”
She tried not to meet his gaze, felt his green eyes pierce her, steal into her thoughts. He was so near, too near. “You. You trouble me.”
“I ascertained that much myself.” His thumb continued to caress her cheek, her tears long since wiped away. “Tell me why you’re angry.”
She tried to pull away, tried to end the maddening contact of his hands against her skin.
He held her fast. “Tell me.”
She made the mistake of looking up, met the staggering force of his gaze. “Y-you lied to me.” It was all she could manage. Her thoughts were scattered, broken into useless fragments.
“I never lied. I told you what I planned to do. You simply forgot.”
“You mislead me, mislead my brothers.”
“Aye. You refused to be sensible, and I was forced to impose my better judgment.”
Her anger gathered strength. “You kidnapped me, took me from my home and kin.”
“Aye. Of that, I am guilty.”
“You tied me, hurt me.” This was not entirely true, as she herself had made the knots tight with her struggling.
An emotion that might have been regret flickered through his eyes. “And for that I am deeply sorry.”
Slowly, he lifted the wrist he held to his lips, kissed it where it had once been bound.
Sparks skittered up her skin, ignited her fury. “Stop it! I cannot bear your touch when I know you spent last night with a whore!”
Chapter Twenty-two
The look on Jamie’s face was one of complete astonishment. Then he did something she never would have expected. He tossed his head back and laughed. The richness of his voice filled the room like golden light. “How did you hear about that?”
“You don’t deny it?” Her heart fell.
“No. I did, indeed, spend all of last night in the company of a whore, though out of respect for her, I prefer to call her a courtesan.”
“Respect?” Jamie’s words shocked her, fueled her anger. She tried to jerk her wrist from his grasp, failed. “You bastard! You try to seduce me, spend your lust on her, then come to my room seeking company?”
He pinned her arms against his chest with one arm, encircled her waist with the other to stop her struggling. His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “I said I spent the night with her. I didn’t say I spent it inside her. Would you like the
truth, love?”
She glared up at him, fought to suppress the wrenching pain in her heart. “Don’t call me that! I am not your love!”
He bent closer, until his lips were mere inches from hers. “The truth is I went to Turlington’s seeking a bit of bed sport, but once there I found I had no appetite for the ladies, because my mind was filled with thoughts of you, a Bhríghid.”
What had he said? Bríghid struggled to comprehend his words.
No appetite for the ladies.
My mind was filled with thoughts of you.
“You didn’t … ” Her words trailed off. An emotion that could only be relief rushed through her.
“No, I didn’t.” His gaze held hers for a moment, then fell to her lips.
She tingled in anticipation of his kiss, ached for it.
It never came.
He released her. “Dinner is getting cold.”
Still taken aback, she followed him to where their dinner waited before the fire, sat in one of the two chairs. He hadn’t lain with another woman because he’d been thinking of her.
Why should this news fill her with such relief?
“I hope you like roast of beef.” His voice seemed strained.
“Aye.” Bríghid spread her napkin on her lap as Heddy had shown her, stared at the daunting array of forks, knives, spoons, and glasses on the silver tray.
He’d been thinking of her.
He thought of her throughout the dinner. He marveled at the beauty of her face in firelight, the innate sensuality of her movements. He watched, fascinated, as she tried to use the right silverware. He reveled in her childlike joy at the meal as servants brought one course after the next—oysters on the shell, roast beef, puddings, sweetmeats, pastries, jellies, fruits, and nuts. He observed, enchanted, as wine gave her silky skin a rosy glow. He ached with need when a drop of juice from a pear beaded on her upper lip and longed to taste her.
It was but one of many places his tongue longed to taste.
“It is true Cook has a way with food, but she fritters away so much. I saw her toss potato coats in the slop bucket, so I did.” She looked at him, sapphire eyes wide at this most shocking transgression. “I thought to speak to Elizabeth, warn her that Cook is wasting food, but I didn’t want to cause poor Cook trouble.”
Jamie fought back a smile. “That is thoughtful of you, but I’m sure Cook is following Elizabeth’s instructions on such matters.”
Then it occurred to Jamie that, in her world, potato peels were a meal. Bríghid had never seen such a feast as this. Instead, she’d seen hunger and deprivation, starvation and death.
Never again.
It was a vow, a pledge. She had suffered enough. She would suffer no more.
Jamie knew he had to tell her. He might as well tell her now. “I have word from Ireland.”
Her fork clattered as it fell from her hand to her plate. She met his gaze, her eyes filled with fear. “How are—”
“Your brothers are well and on their way to County Clare.” He thought he’d tell her the good news first. “Finn sent Ruaidhrí the morning after he got my message. If things have gone as planned, Finn is on his way there now with Muirín and Aidan.”
He could see the relief wash over her.
She gave a sigh of relief, then looked at him curiously. “How do you know this?”
Jamie lifted his port, took a sip. “My man Travis, the one you met at the inn in Baronstown, is keeping an eye on them and sent me a letter.”
“I see.”
It was time for the bad news. “In his letter, Travis also wrote that the Earl came across the cabin the day after I took you away. He had men with him—and dogs. ”
Her face lost its color, and she clasped her hands together in her lap.
“There’s more. Before finding the cabin, the earl paid Finn a visit.”
She watched him, warily, like one who has received bad news too many times.
Jamie touched a reassuring hand to her cheek. “Finn is going to be fine, but the Earl’s men were rough with him. Travis found him unconscious in the snow and cared for him until Muirín arrived.”
Bríghid stood, walked a distance away from the table, a bit dizzy from the wine. The iarla had found the cabin. His men had gone after Finn, had beat him. Ruaidhrí was on his way to Clare. Finn was going to be fine. She struggled to grasp all that Jamie had told her. In the muddle of emotion, two things became clear to her.
The first was that her brothers were safe. Saints be praised! How she had worried about them these past days!
The second was that Jamie had once again put himself between her and danger. He had kept the iarla from her a second time. Because of Jamie, she was safe. Because of him, her brothers were safe. To think she had cursed him, had fought with him. Had he left her behind as she’d demanded, she’d now be …
She didn’t want to think about that.
She felt Jamie come up behind her and turned to face him, meeting his gaze. “Thank you, Jamie.” She wanted to say so much more, couldn’t find the words.
His thumb caressed her cheek, his gaze warm. “Tá fáilte romhat.” You’re welcome.
She didn’t know if it was the wine or the overwhelming relief, but she suddenly wanted him to touch her. “Kiss me.”
Lust, like a hungry wolf, howled inside Jamie. His heart slammed in his chest. His blood grew hot, thick. He wrapped one arm around her tiny waist, cupped her cheek with his other hand, his thumb tracing the outline of her lower lip. She closed her eyes, gave a little sigh of pleasure. Her hands slid up his chest and over his shoulders, igniting his skin. Then she took his thumb into her mouth and sucked.
Her response, utterly innocent and completely seductive, was nearly his undoing. In an instant, his cock was granite, straining against his breeches. The breath rushed from his lungs, the thoughts of his conscious mind nothing more than a distant buzz.
Some predatory part of him knew he could take her now. He could carry her to the bed, strip silk and linen from her delectable body, and bury himself within her. He could touch and taste and take her at his leisure. She would not resist him.
But that’s not why he had come to her. “No, Bríghid. We cannot.”
Her eyes opened, and she looked up at him, disappointment and longing in her eyes. “But I want you to kiss me.”
He groaned, pulled her arms from around his neck, kissed the backs of her hands. She had no idea what she was doing to him. “That’s the wine talking, love. Besides, it’s time for you to open your first Christmas gift.”
“Christmas gift? But—”
“It is Christmas Eve, is it not?” Jamie called for the servants to clear away the dishes, silently cursing his lack of a waistcoat or frock. He was still hard as steel, a fact that would be evident to anyone who glanced at him. He turned toward the fireplace, leaned on outstretched arms against the mantelpiece, pretended to contemplate the blaze, as servants bustled in and left again.
“Now, Master Blakewell?” Heddy stood in the doorway.
“Not quite yet, Heddy.” Jamie took a deep breath, willing his troublesome member into a docile state. Then he turned to find Bríghid standing where he’d left her, a look of bewilderment on her lovely face. He guided her into her chair. “Sit, love. And close your eyes until I tell you to open them.”
She gazed up at him, a mix of doubt and excitement in her eyes. “Jamie?”
He bent, whispered in her ear. “Trust me.”
The last time he’d asked her to trust him, she’d pummeled his chest and cursed him. This time, her lids closed, lashes sweeping shadows across her cheeks.
“No peeking.” Jamie strode to the door, took the heavy gift from Heddy.
He turned to find Bríghid, who sat hands fisted in her lap, eyes still closed, her body tense with excitement. “Remember, don’t open your eyes until I tell you to.”
He walked back to her, lay the gift across her lap. He took one of her hands, placed it on top. “Feel it, love. Tell
me what it is.”
He watched as her fingers ran timidly at first over the soft fur, then delved into its thickness. Her lips—how he wanted to kiss them!—curved into an uninhibited smile.
“’Tis fur. Oh, ’tis wondrous soft!”
“You may open your eyes, my sweet.”
Bríghid opened her eyes, gasped. It was not just fur, but a long, fur-lined cloak of light smoky grey. “Jamie!”
“It is blue fox.” He gazed warmly at her, and she was reminded of the portrait of him as a little boy downstairs. There were no shadows in his eyes tonight.
Never had she imagined receiving such a gift. Never had she touched anything so fine. It was too much. She could not accept—
Before she could finish her thought, Jamie held up a fur muff to match the cloak, laid it in her lap.
She shook her head even as she slid her hands inside the muff’s comforting warmth. “’Tis most grateful I am, Jamie, but I cannot possibly accept—”
“Why not?”
She thought. Hard. Why not? “I am no fine lady, Jamie. I’m nothin’ more than an Irish farm girl and have no business paradin’ around in blue foxes.”
“Is that your only objection?” He smiled, his lips curving into a damnably handsome smile, cocked an eyebrow. “I’m not impressed. Stand, and let me see it on you.”
Her mind whirled with half-formed protests, but it was hard to think with him so near. She stood, her hands still in the muff, her arms pressing the cloak to her breast.
Jamie slipped the cloak from her grasp, wrapped it around her shoulders, fastened the ornate brass toggle at her throat. Then he brushed a finger along her cheek, met her gaze with a look so intense it made her heartbeat trip. “If I have anything to say about it, Bríghid Ní Maelsechnaill, you will never be cold again.”
The warmth of his words mingled with the luxurious warmth of the cloak. It was like being wrapped in happiness. She couldn’t help but smile.
The cloak fell to just above her ankles. It was both lined and trimmed with thick, blue-grey fur that felt soft against her cheek. The side of the cloak that faced outward was covered with silk the same shade of grey as the fur and embroidered with small, golden lilies of the valley. She didn’t realize it had a hood until Jamie pulled it over her head.