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

by Pamela Clare

  It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever worn.

  “Let’s see you.” Jamie motioned for her to turn in a circle.

  She’d taken but a few steps when her gaze fell on the single candle burning in the window. She froze, a sick feeling in her belly.

  The moment stretched into silence.

  “What does the candle mean?” His hands cupped her shoulders reassuringly from behind.

  “’Tis a Christmas custom.” She tried to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. “’Tis how we welcome the Holy Family and all lost and traveling souls on Christmas Eve. When someone is away from home … ”

  She could not finish her words. Tears pricked behind her eyes.

  “You miss your brothers.” It wasn’t a question. He said the words as if he understood.

  But there was more to it than that. How could she explain? “I cannot do this, Jamie.”

  His hands slid down the cloak over the length of her arms, sought her hands in the folds of fur. He turned her to face him, lifted her chin until she met his gaze. She could see a torrent of emotion in his eyes. “What can’t you do, Bríghid? Accept a gift from me?”

  “How can I enjoy such comfort when my brothers do not?” She pulled away from him, took several hurried steps toward the bed. “How can I dine on such food while they struggle to fill their bellies? How can I sleep in this soft bed when they sleep in straw?”

  Jamie heard the remorse in her voice. He walked over to where she stood, pulled her gently against him, felt her surrender to his embrace. “What good can you do your brothers by denying the comforts I offer? You cannot help Finn and Ruaidhrí by depriving yourself, Bríghid. Do you not think they would rest more easily if they knew you were warm and safe and eating well?”

  He pressed his lips against her temple, felt her tears against the linen of his shirt, and wished he could take this sadness away from her. “You are homesick.”

  She nodded, then looked up at him. “I do not belong here, Jamie.”

  Her words caused unexpected pain to knife his heart. Had he believed he could bridge the gap between them in one evening? “Then I shall take you someplace you do belong.”

  * * *

  Bríghid sat wrapped in the warmth of her new cloak and gaped out the windows at the city beyond—or what she could see of it. Tall oil lamps, spaced evenly along streets so long they seemed to go on forever, turned night into twilight. Row after row of houses—some four stories high—stretched into the darkness, their windows lit from within by cheery golden light. Streets of cobbled stone seemed to wind in every direction and were busy with the traffic of horses, carriages, and strolling people.

  Never had she seen such a sight.

  London.

  The name had always seemed threatening to her, ominous. Now here she was, in the heart of the city. But perhaps the heart of the city was rotten.

  She wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”

  “Which smell?” Jamie sat cloaked in shadows across from her, but she could hear the smile in his voice. His long legs were angled so as not to touch hers, a fact Bríghid noted with some frustration. “It might be smoke from coal fires, or it—”

  The odor grew particularly strong.

  “That smell.”

  “That, my sweet, is the lovely Thames. Be grateful we’re not getting any nearer.”

  “Where is it you’re takin’ me? Can you tell me now?”

  “You’ll see when we get there. It won’t be long.”

  Bríghid gave a frustrated moan, ignoring Jamie’s chuckle. Someplace she belonged. Where could that be? Since no answer was forthcoming, she snuggled deeper into the fuzzy warmth of her cloak and went back to looking out the window, letting her thoughts drift.

  She’d been so relieved to hear her brothers were safe, so happy to know they were on their way out of Meath. Her relief warred with her anguish at learning that Finn had been beaten. She couldn’t stand to think of the iarla’s men hurting him and subjecting him to insults. She realized she owed Jamie far more than she could ever repay. He had saved her from the iarla’s cruelty twice now. And though Jamie had not answered her when she’d asked where the iarla had gone, she knew the answer.

  He was here. In London.

  She tried to reassure herself nothing could happen to her as long as she was with Jamie and was surprised to find that she had come to trust him. Trust a Sasanach? It seemed unbelievable, but it was true.

  Her musings were interrupted by the sight of the hulking building that rose out of the ground beside the carriage. The ornately decorated structure reached to the heavens with spires and buttresses so high she could not see where they ended no matter how she craned her neck.

  She heard Jamie chuckle again. “Westminster Abbey.”

  Afraid she was acting like a silly country girl on her first trip to the city—which she was—she willed herself to sit back in her seat and watch as the carriage carried them around corners, past closed shops and offices, and into an alley.

  It drew to a stop.

  She felt her pulse quicken as Jamie opened the door, alighted, then lifted her to the snowy ground.

  His gaze met hers, and he smiled a mysterious smile that heightened her anticipation. Where could they be? Apart from a stray cat, the alley seemed deserted.

  “Come.” He took her arm in his and guided her to a cobblestone path that ran between two stone buildings.

  Ahead in the darkness, an oil lamp cast light on a plain oak door. Jamie led her to the door, opened it, let her inside.

  Bríghid gasped, fell to her knees, crossed herself. “A Mháthair Mhic Dé!” Mother of God!

  Hot tears sprang to her eyes.

  An elderly man dressed in black robes looked out of a back room, saw her, smiled. “Tá fáilte romhat, a leanbh.”

  You are welcome here, child.

  * * *

  “Aufer a nobis, quaesumus, Domine, iniquitates nostras, ut ad Sancta sanctorum puris mereamur mentibus introire.”

  Jamie stood in the back, his gaze never leaving Bríghid, as she joined the congregation in Midnight Mass, her motions graceful and sweetly feminine as she stood, kneeled, bowed her head to pray.

  It had taken a few hours of sleuthing early this morning to find a Catholic chapel in London. The city’s Catholics, particularly its Irish Catholics, had not been inclined to trust him. A tip had lead him to Lord Benton, one of England’s few remaining titled Catholics, which, in turn, had led him here.

  Jamie had arrived at the chapel early, having arranged for Bríghid to have an hour with the priest alone. She had emerged with eyes red from crying, but a look of relief on her beautiful face. Jamie knew the old man was a good listener and would help her sort through her feelings. Jamie had met privately with Father Owen this morning and had found himself telling the story of why he’d come to Britain and how he’d met Bríghid. The old man had listened without interruption, without condemnation, and Jamie had found himself admitting the confusing nature of his feelings for Bríghid. But when he came to the desire that burned inside him, his aching need for her, he had paused.

  “If you’re thinkin’ you’ll offend me, young man, fear not.” The priest smiled. “It’s fifty years now I’ve been a priest. There’s nothin’ under Heaven that I haven’t heard.”

  Before long, Jamie had told the priest about the women he had loved, or thought he’d loved, including Sarah. And a strange thing happened. By the time he’d finished telling the story, Sarah no longer mattered to him.

  There was only Bríghid.

  Bríghid with her sapphire eyes. Bríghid with her lilting accent. Bríghid with her silly Don Bellianis and her temper and her loathing for all things English.

  He loved her.

  And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  “I know you know what to do.” The priest had patted him on the shoulder. “When God brings a man and woman together, He helps them find a way.”

  The troub
le was, Bríghid didn’t return Jamie’s feelings. She’d made that abundantly clear. And the exhilaration he’d felt as he’d bid the priest farewell early this morning had been replaced this evening by a bleakness that bordered on desolation.

  I do not belong here.

  Jamie understood women well enough to know she felt desire for him. Her responses when she lay beneath him in the library told him that. But desire wasn’t love. He knew that only too well. He would never again be lulled into thinking that a woman who shared her body was also sharing her heart.

  How could he have been so foolish to let his heart get mixed up in this? How could he have been so idiotic as to love a woman who did not care for him? Hadn’t he already learned that lesson? Aye, damn it, he had. And he wouldn’t make a fool of himself this time. There was no reason for Bríghid to know how he felt. He would keep his feelings to himself. He might have inadvertently let her into his heart, but that didn’t mean he had to give it to her.

  “Suscipe, sancte Pater, omnipotens aeterne Deus, hanc immaculatam hostiam … ”

  Jamie watched Bríghid as she and the others received the old priest’s blessing. Then Bríghid turned toward him. Even from a distance, Jamie could see that her face glowed.

  She walked up to him, smiled shyly. “I don’t know how to thank you, Jamie. This was the best, most thoughtful gift you could have given me.”

  Jamie forced a smile. “Shall we go?”

  He opened the door, welcoming the blast of cold air on his face.

  * * *

  Finn held Muirín in his arms, drowsy with lovemaking. He was still amazed that anything could feel as good as sex. It was a bloody miracle. There were no words to describe how he felt when he was deep inside her, no words to describe that heated union of flesh and mind and heart—at least none as he could find. And though he might once have cursed his tongue for its lack of grace, he now knew his tongue had certain abilities and shouldn’t be taken lightly.

  Though he might not be able to recite poems or speak fancy words to Muirín, he knew exactly how to use his tongue to pleasure her. He knew how to tease her lips, where to stroke inside her mouth. He knew exactly how to lave her nipples until they were hot, tight peaks that begged to be suckled. He knew how to kiss her most intimate flesh, how to drink from her woman’s well until she writhed and panted and cried out her pleasure, her fingers twined deeply in his hair.

  Aye, his tongue had its uses. Leave poetry to Don Bellianis.

  She snuggled against him, one leg tucked intimately between his, and gave a little sigh. Moments ago she’d been beneath him, bucking against his thrusts, her legs wrapped around him. Now she lay like a contented kitten, her body languid, her breathing deep and even.

  How perfectly she fit in his arms. How perfectly he fit inside her. The very thought of it set his cock to swelling again, but he would not wake her.

  She was everything to him. She was the sun that rose in the morning. She was the deep velvet of the midnight sky. She was music and laughter and the sweetness of honey.

  And she was his.

  He had used some of the remaining money left by Blakewell to buy Aidan new brogues for Christmas. For Muirín, he’d bought yards of the softest linen and lace for a new shift.

  She had run her fingers lovingly over the cloth, tears in her eyes. “It is the finest gift I’ve e’er been given.”

  She had knitted him a fine sweater. She’d knitted a matching one for Aidan.

  The boy had beamed with pride and put it on immediately. “I look just like Finn!”

  Muirín’s sweet laughter had been like music. “Aye, that you do!”

  What a wonderful mother she was. Finn found himself eager to see her swell with his child and wondered if even now a babe was growing within her.

  He reached down to stroke her honey-colored hair.

  She shifted in his arms, pressed her face more deeply into his chest in her sleep.

  Sweet Mary, but he was a lucky man! He had so much to be grateful for. Muirín loved him, had taken him to be her husband. She and Aidan were safe and on their way with him to Clare. They had food aplenty and a soft bed in a roadside inn. Ruaidhrí would be arriving any day in Clare—provided he hadn’t gotten into trouble along the way.

  But Bríghid …

  Lord, he missed his little sister. It didn’t sit well with him, her being away like this, especially not on Christmas. He didn’t much like the fact that the iarla had left Ireland in seeming pursuit of her. But he remembered Blakewell’s face, the determined glint in his eyes, and the ferocious protectiveness he seemed to exude whenever Bríghid was nearby.

  I will do whatever I must to make certain Bríghid is safe.

  The man had bloody well keep his word.

  As sleep overtook him, he sent a prayer skyward on her behalf and Ruaidhrí’s.

  Nollaig Shona dhaoibh. Merry Christmas.

  * * *

  Ruaidhrí struggled back to consciousness, aware only of the pain in his skull and hard, cold stone pressing into his back.

  And that sound? It was his own groans.

  Where was he? He needed to remember.

  He struggled to open his eyes, felt someone press a warm cloth to his face.

  “He’s comin’ ’round.” It was a woman’s voice, soft and sweet.

  “Dirty Irish bastard.” A man’s voice. A Sasanach voice, harsh and hateful.

  Something slammed into his ribs, knocked the air from his lungs.

  He struggled to breathe.

  “Unless you’re after killin’ him, you’d best leave off!” The woman spoke. It was she who was pressing the cloth to his head. “You’ve split his skull clean, you have. I’ll be forever cleanin’ the blood from his face.”

  Ruaidhrí must have blacked out again, for time seemed to pass. When he next was aware of his surroundings, someone was holding something to his lips.

  “Just you be good and swallow, you silly, senseless boy.”

  He drank, grateful as water soothed his parched throat. He struggled to open his eyes and looked up into the face of an angel.

  “Is this Heaven?”

  The angel laughed. “Nay. For you, ’tis surely closer to hell.”

  “Who are you?” He needed to know.

  “I’m Alice.”

  “Alice.” Ruaidhrí realized he was lying on a pallet in a dark, windowless room made entirely of brick. His wrists and ankles were shackled. Alarm coursed through him. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in the earl’s cellar. Don’t you remember? The earl’s men caught you last night. They beat you and brought you here.”

  Truth penetrated the pain in his skull.

  He was a prisoner.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Bríghid smoothed her skirts, cast one last glance at the mirror.

  Heddy had insisted she wear the gown of deep claret silk today in honor of Christmas. “The color makes your skin seem like porcelain and looks so pretty with your dark hair.”

  Bríghid didn’t know if any of that was true, but the gown was beautiful. Ivory lace spilled from her elbows and ruffled the edge of the bodice. ’Twas a bit lower cut than the other gowns, leaving the tops of her breasts bared. Would Jamie notice?

  She smoothed a strand of hair from her face. She’d brushed it until it glistened, then pulled it back from her face with a ribbon of black velvet, leaving most of it to fall freely down her back. Heddy had helped her put color on her cheeks and lips—just a dab.

  “Master Jamie won’t be able to take his eyes off you, Miss.” Heddy curtsied and hurried from the room on some errand, leaving Bríghid alone.

  She met her own gaze in the mirror, saw the uncertainty in her eyes.

  Something had changed.

  She had changed.

  Her feelings, always a jumble where Jamie was concerned, were becoming terrifying clear. She could no longer pretend to hate him. She could no longer dismiss him as nothing more than a Sasanach. She could no longer hide from hers
elf that she desired him, cared for him, even loved …

  No, she would not say it, not even in the privacy of her own thoughts. For, although he might desire her, too, no Englishman of his status would ever bind himself to a poor Irish Catholic woman. It would be his utter ruination. It was illegal for a Protestant and a Catholic to marry. Those who defied the law found themselves stripped of social status, their children considered bastards. Unless she gave up her faith and took a heretical oath, the English church would not join them. Unless he converted to her faith—an act of treason in the eyes of English society—no Catholic priest would marry them. There was no way Jamie would choose to burden his life with the consequences of being Catholic, and Bríghid could not renounce her faith.

  Yet, even as she tried to accept the truth, her heart defied reason and dared to hope.

  “Miracles come to those who believe,” Father Owen had told her.

  She had been stunned beyond words by Jamie’s kindness last night. The fur-lined cloak was a lovely gift, and she treasured it. But nothing could compare to the overwhelming emotion she’d felt when he’d opened that door and she’d realized he’d brought her to a secret Catholic chapel. It astounded her that he would do something so thoughtful, so completely selfless, in order to please her. Surely, what’d he’d done had put him at risk, as it was against the law to attend Catholic Mass. His kindness had shaken her to the core.

  She’d spoken privately with Father Owen, a deluge of emotion pouring from her. She’d wept over the murder of Father Padraíg, described her horror at being kidnapped, her shame at nearly being raped. She’d told him how Jamie had spared her a nightmarish fate, had nearly been killed for it. She’d admitted how she’d repaid his kindness by doubting him. She’d even confessed the overwhelming desire she felt for Jamie.

  “And though he is a Sasanach, my feelings for him are … ”

  “You care for him.”

  “Aye, but surely it is a sin to desire a Protestant, a Sasanach, in the way I desire him.”

  Then the good Father had said something that had sent her mind reeling. “Your blind hatred of the English is your sin, a Bhríghid. There is no sin in love.”