by Pamela Clare
She had almost laughed out loud. Love? Jamie? How could that be?
But the truth of it was unavoidable.
Her words came out in a rush. “But he is Protestant, and I am Catholic! He is wealthy, and I am naught but a peasant girl!”
“Miracles come to those who believe, child.”
Father Owen had offered her absolution from her sins, and then guided her back to the main room of the Chapel, where he’d said Mass for a group of Catholics who, from the sound of them, were both Irish and English. It was a strange experience, to be sure, and not just because she had never before prayed with English.
Bríghid had never once been inside a chapel. The magic of it—sweet incense, a hundred candles, a grand crucifix above the altar—mixed with the sea of emotion in her heart. And, kneeling in prayer, she’d realized without a doubt Father Owen was right: She loved Jamie Blakewell.
But did he love her?
He desired her. He had forsaken the women at Turlington’s for thoughts of her. He had protected her with his life. Was that not close to love?
Bolstered by such thoughts, she smoothed her skirts one more time, inspected her reflection, then hurried from the room to join him for breakfast.
* * *
Over a Christmas Day breakfast of eggs, potatoes, ham and strong tea, he surprised her with yet another gift—a beautiful copy of Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift.
Bríghid squealed with delight, then gingerly turned the pages, each edged with sparkling gold leaf. “He was Irish.”
Jamie smiled, a heart-stopping, handsome smile that made Bríghid’s toes curl. “I know.”
They spent the morning in the library. She read her new book, while he read correspondence from the Colonies and old newspapers. She found it hard to concentrate on the story with him so near. Dressed only in dark brown breeches and a linen shirt, the ties of which seemed perpetually to have come loose to expose his chest, he seemed every bit the rugged colonial, and not a reserved English gentleman at all. For some reason, it made him all the more irresistible.
When tea arrived, it came with yet another gift—her very own pen, complete with a bottle of ink and clean, bright parchment. Amazement and gratitude at his thoughtfulness rendered her speechless.
“Now you can write to your brothers.”
Over a mid-day meal of stuffed partridge, sweetmeats, and pastries, he surprised her yet again—this time with a silver-handled hairbrush and comb. Etchings of rose buds decorated their handles, opened into lovely, cupped blossoms on the broad back of the brush.
“They’re beautiful!” She started to brush her own hair, but he took it from her.
“I claim the right as giver of the gift to be the first to use it.”
“I wasn’t aware of that custom, Master Blakewell.” She was surprised by the flirtatious tone of her voice and the teasing smile she gave him.
She was even more shocked by the heat that coursed through her as his fingers lifted the heavy mass of her hair and he began to guide the brush through her tresses. Her breathing unnaturally rapid, she sat with eyes closed as, stroke after stroke, he made her scalp tingle. She longed for his kiss, prayed for the feel of his lips on the exposed skin of her throat. But he did not touch her.
After the mid-day meal, he took her riding around the estate, he on his beautiful grey stallion and she on the loveliest, gentlest white Andalusian mare. It was his turn to tell stories, most of them involving mischief he’d gotten into as a child while visiting from the Colonies. Then he told her about his estate in Virginia, about the mighty rivers, the forests, and the fertile land. Wrapped in her warm cloak with the sun shining on her face, knowing her brothers were safe, with Jamie beside her, she felt sheltered, safe, happy.
Had she ever felt this way before?
A long time ago, perhaps.
When they returned to the stables—immense and holding more than seventy horses by her count—he astonished her by telling her the mare was hers. “A gift from the Kenleigh family.”
For a moment, she could not breathe. How could she accept such a gift? Bríghid could not imagine how much such a beautiful animal cost. “Jamie, I cannot —”
“Nonsense. Matthew and Elizabeth will insist, I’m afraid.”
Hot tears running down her cheeks, Bríghid leapt into Jamie’s arms. “Oh, thank you, Jamie! Thank you!”
She felt his muscles tense in reaction, and his arms moved beneath her cloak to encircle her waist. For a moment, he held her tightly against his hard man’s body. Then he gently placed her back on her feet, smiled down at her, his eyes dark again, filled with shadows. “Does that mean you like their gift?”
“Oh, aye!” She turned to the mare, kissed her velvet-soft muzzle, stroked her long, wavy mane. “I shall call you Niamh.”
The mare lipped her hand, nickered softly.
“I believe tea is waiting for us inside where it’s warm.”
“But I’m not cold.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
He led her back to the house, his arm through hers, told her about Niamh’s bloodlines. There were too many sires and dams for Bríghid to keep straight in her mind, but she knew the mare’s lineage was impressive just by looking at her. She was the most beautiful horse Bríghid had ever seen.
“Fit for an Irish princess.” Jamie opened the door for her, smiled.
And Bríghid saw in his eyes he was not jesting.
* * *
Jamie watched her sleep, entranced. Her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks. The lush line of her lips was relaxed, rosy and sweet. The creamy mounds of her breasts, tantalizingly displayed by the delightfully low neckline of her gown, rose and fell softly with each breath.
They had taken tea in the library again, Bríghid speaking excitedly of her mare’s smooth lines, fine color, and even temper. “She is the loveliest creature on earth!”
“Far from it. I’m afraid that honor goes to her beautiful mistress.”
He’d watched as his words had brought a delicious flush to Bríghid’s cheeks. She’d met his gaze, her head tilted shyly to one side, and he’d known without a doubt he was the most besotted of fools.
Rather than doing what he’d wanted to do—pulling her into his arms and making love to her until they both lay weak and sated—he’d picked up her new book and begun to read aloud from the page she had marked. He’d read but a few pages when he’d realized she was asleep, lulled by fresh air, sunshine, and excitement.
Sheer torture. That’s what it was. He wanted her. His entire body ached for her. Yet he could not, would not touch her because…
He lined his reasons up like soldiers in a battle line. First, he would not touch her because he’d all but made a promise to her brother. Second, he would not touch her because she deserved marriage, which, by law, he could not offer her. Third, he would not touch her because there was no place for him in her heart.
And so he endured the agony of being near her, because he could not bring himself to be away from her. He suffered the torment of her sweet smiles, because he could not bear to be without them. He bore the lilting sound of her voice, because there was no sound sweeter to his ears. And he gave her gifts because he could not give her his body, his heart, his name.
Jamie had one more gift for her. He knew, as he had known with the others, that she would love it. That was not the same thing as loving him, but perhaps it was the best he could hope for.
* * *
Jamie was troubled. He was holding back. Bríghid could tell, and it made her heart ache. She nibbled at her almond-crusted pastry, listened as he described Christmases of his childhood.
All day, he’d been attentive, warm, charming. He’d given her gifts the likes of which she could never have imagined. And yet something was missing. It was as if a part of him was caged, locked away inside. He seemed distant, restrained.
Had she angered him in some way? Had she hurt his feelings?
“I opened the box to find a set of
small dueling pistols, my first firearms.” He smiled at the recollection. “I was but eight at the time, and Cassie was furious with Alec for giving me such a gift. But he managed to … assuage her fears.”
“How did he do that?”
“I was too young to understand at the time, of course, but it involved lots of kissing.” He smiled.
She all but dropped her dessert fork. Heat suffused her cheeks. “I see.”
Lots of kissing.
That’s what she wanted, too. Lot’s of kissing—and more.
“Is the pastry not to your liking? You’ve barely touched it.”
“Oh, no, it’s quite tasty, and I do so love almonds. But I can’t be eatin’ another bite.”
A rich meal it had been—roast goose with mushrooms and seasoned greens, a stew of winter vegetables, sweetmeats and puddings, candied fruits and sugared cakes, pastries and roasted nuts. How had Cook managed it all? Bríghid would have to ask her later.
Jamie called for servants to remove the dishes. As the table was cleared, he stood, crossed the room to an ornately carved sideboard, opened a drawer. When he returned to the table, he held a small silver box in his hands. “Nollaig Shona dhuit, a Bhríghid.”
He placed the box on the table, but at first she could only marvel that he had somehow learned to speak the words in her language. Then she knew. She smiled. “Father Owen?”
“Aye, I asked him to teach me a phrase or two.” Jamie’s gaze dropped to the box.
Hers followed. “Oh, Jamie, it’s lovely! Where did you come by such a treasure? I shall have to find something special to put inside it!”
The lid of the box was decorated with gold filigree in the shapes of flowers and vines. The tiny legs were ornately shaped, each ending in a lion’s paw. A latch held the lid fast.
Jamie sat in the chair beside her. His eyes met hers, his gaze warm. “Open it.”
Feeling breathless with excitement, she lifted the latch, looked inside.
She heard herself cry out, felt the room spin. Overwhelmed by raw emotion, she gaped in disbelief, astonishment.
Staring up at her from a bed of dark blue velvet was her grandmother’s dragon brooch, garnet eyes gleaming joy in the candlelight, unaware she was crying until tears blurred her vision. She felt Jamie’s hand cup her cheek, felt his thumb wipe her tears away. She lifted her chin to meet his gaze. “H-how? Wh-where?”
“Ruaidhrí told me where to find the doctor in Baronstown. I bought it back from him the night we stayed at the White Stag.”
Bríghid struggled to comprehend what Jamie had just said. He’d bought it back for her. While she’d been cursing his very existence, hating him, he’d been walking through the snowy streets of Baronstown in the dead of night in search of her brooch. “Oh, Jamie!”
Jamie saw the warmth in her eyes, felt the pull of his own passion for her. “I showed it to a jeweler in London, a man who deals in antiques.”
“What did he say?”
He stood, stepped away from the table, eager to put distance between the two of them. “He said he’d never seen its like before. He said it dates back to the time of the first Norsemen in Ireland.”
“To the time when my ancestors still ruled the land.” She looked down at the brooch, a note of awe in her voice.
He’d felt the same sense of wonder when the jeweler had shared this information with him. His Irish princess. No, not his.
He felt the heat of her touch against his shoulder.
“Jamie?”
He knew he could not trust himself to be near her, not with his blood throbbing in his veins. Despite his better judgment, he turned to face her.
She gazed up at him through guileless eyes, one hand resting on the cloth of his shirt. “I don’t know how to thank you. What you have done for me—”
“It was the least I could do. I know how much the brooch means to you.”
She shook her head. Her hands moved to rest on his chest. “Not just the brooch, Jamie. Not just your thoughtful gifts. All of it. Were it not for you, were you like most men, I—”
His heart hammered beneath her touch. He held a finger to her lips. “Shh, love. Don’t trouble yourself with such thoughts.”
She pressed closer, painfully near, her scent an assault on his senses. “I shall never be able to repay your kindness.”
“But you already have.” He told himself to pull away from her even as he brushed a strand of ebony hair from her cheek. “Were it not for you, I’d have died that night.”
“Were it not for me, Jamie, you’d ne’er been stabbed in the first place.”
“Were it not for you, a Bhríghid … ” He never finished.
With a whimper, she stood on tiptoe, pressed herself against him, and offered him her lips. It was an offer neither his mind nor his body could refuse.
His lips took hers, the restraint he’d imposed on himself snapping to a single thread. He fought to keep the kiss gentle, to taste and not to devour. Her body soft and pliant, she met the teasing of his tongue with her own. In an instant, he was near the edge, his cock hard and aching, the shocking heat of his need for her all but overriding his good sense.
He broke the kiss, gazed down into sapphire eyes. “Bríghid, it wouldn’t be right. Push me further, and you’ll discover how very much I am like most men.”
With that, he set her from him and disappeared in great strides up the stairs.
* * *
Bríghid lay on her bed, unable to read, unable to sleep, unable to do anything but think of Jamie. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes down her temples. Beyond her door, the house was silent.
It wouldn’t be right.
Aye, it wouldn’t. The Church forbade it. England and Ireland frowned upon it. Her brothers would be tempted to kill Jamie for it. And yet …
She ran her fingers over her lips, conjured the sensation of his kiss from her memory—sweet and scorching. She remembered other things as well—the wild pleasure she’d felt as Jamie had suckled her nipples through the silk of her gown, the heat of his touch between her thighs, the deep, empty sensation that made her yearn for him inside her.
But she wanted more than memories. She wanted him.
It wouldn’t be right.
All of her life, she’d tried to do what was right. She’d cared for her brothers and father. She’d cooked and cleaned and mended. She’d cared for them in times of sickness, feigned health when she herself was sick so as not to take them from their work. She’d prayed the Rosary, observed holy days, lived a chaste life.
She had lived to make her father proud, to be the kind of daughter that would have made her mother happy had her mother lived. Never had she let her own desires interfere with her duties to her family. Such a thing had always been unthinkable.
But that was before she’d met Jamie Blakewell, before his handsome smile and intoxicating touch had made her feel alive and free and on fire. Before she’d met him, she hadn’t let herself dream. She hadn’t let herself want anything. A stolen hour with her book had seemed a luxury and had always been enough to keep her happy. But now …
She wanted him. She wanted him to make love to her, to teach her the secrets shared by men and women. She wanted him to fill the aching emptiness inside her. Was that so terrible? Could she not decide this one thing for herself, choose her own fate?
It wouldn’t be right.
Sure and it was a sin to lie with a man not your husband, and she had always intended to enter the marriage bed untouched. But she’d had no way of knowing she’d fall in love with a man she could never marry. She’d had no way of knowing that circumstances would render her sullied in the eyes of her countrymen, whether she actually slept with him or not.
She sat, wiped the tears from her cheeks.
What if she were to go to him? What if, right now, she were to walk down the hallway to his chamber and give her love to him? What if, just for tonight, she were to claim all the pleasure he could give her?
Would h
e think her brazen and shameful? Would he grow angry and perhaps cast her out of his room?
Push me further, and you’ll discover how very much I am like most other men.
She stood, reached for her new hairbrush, drew it through her tangles with trembling hands. Could she do this? She could. She must.
For amid her doubts and trepidation, she knew one thing for certain: The world might condemn her for loving Jamie Blakewell, but nothing in her life had ever felt so right.
Chapter Twenty-four
Bríghid walked quickly, silently down the darkened hallway clad only in her shift, her heart racing. The polished wooden floor felt chilly against her bare feet.
Sweet Mary, was she really doing this?
Aye, she was. Right or wrong, she loved him. She needed him. She wanted to give him the gift that was hers alone to give, the gift that would forever mark her as his—and him as hers—no matter what happened tomorrow.
She stopped before his door, hesitated, hardly able to breathe.
She could do this.
She grasped the handle, pushed the door open, crossed the threshold.
He stood gazing into the fire, one outstretched arm against the marble mantelpiece. His body was bare save for a white linen towel wrapped round his hips. His hair was wet and hung in thick ropes to just below his shoulders. His skin gleamed with moisture in the firelight. Behind him sat a copper tub half full of water, the scent of pine soap in the air.
The sight of him, muscle and wet skin, sent tendrils of heat curling through her belly.
He didn’t bother to look up. “You can set the bottle on the table.”
On the table near the fire sat an empty brandy decanter and a glass. He’d been drinking.
She closed the door behind her, unsure what to say, what to do. She looked for her voice, found only a whisper. “Jamie?”
His head snapped in her direction, shock and what could only be displeasure written on his face. “What are you doing here?”
She felt the heat of his gaze as it raked over her, shivered. “I—”