by Pamela Clare
“Jamie, oh, Jamie.” Her hands impatiently explored the contours of his chest, searching, seeking. “I need … I need… ”
“What do you need, Bríghid, love? This?” He thrust deep, held himself inside her, moved his groin in maddening circles against her aching sex.
“Oh, aye!” She felt the edge of the precipice draw near again and arched against him, not afraid this time. “Jamie!”
All at once he was driving into her hard, drawing helpless, frantic cries from her throat. “Yes, Bríghid! Give yourself to me!”
And then it hit, stronger than before—an explosion, liquid fire, a shower of light. Her inner muscles clenched down on him hard, her body quaking with the force of her release. Maddening pleasure washed through her, heightened by his powerful thrusts.
She heard herself cry his name, felt his body shudder, as with a low groan, he spilled himself deep inside her.
* * *
Jamie gazed at the woman who lay, sated and sleepy, in his arms. Her eyes were closed, her breathing deep and even, her body pliant, soft. He inhaled her scent and the lingering perfume of their lovemaking—lavender, salt, musk.
I didn’t know it could feel this good for a woman.
Jamie smiled. Her innocent astonishment at the pleasures of sex both amused him and made him feel fiercely protective.
This was what Sheff had tried to steal from her. But he had failed.
Can you keep her safe from yourself?
Finn’s voice echoed, unbidden, through Jamie’s mind.
What Sheff had not stolen, Jamie had taken. Her virgin’s blood on him and on the sheets beneath them illustrated that only too clearly. Hadn’t he finally done what Sheff had expected him to do that night so long ago?
He supposed he ought to be angry with himself or at least feel some sense of guilt. He’d given into his physical need for her. He’d done what he said he would not do. He’d taken from her that which he’d almost lost his life trying to protect.
Why then did he feel so damned at peace with himself?
Certainly, he’d gotten the sexual release he’d needed for so long. But it was more than physical satisfaction. He’d made love to many women over the years, some whose expertise in bed had driven him to the very brink of masculine control, of madness, but he’d never experienced anything like this.
Bríghid’s untried kisses and cries of pleasure had done far more than arouse his body and incite his lust. They had claimed his soul.
Inside her, he’d found his home.
She shifted in his arms, snuggled closer against his chest. Her dark hair streamed like a river of midnight across his abdomen, soft and shimmering.
He pulled the blankets up over her shoulders to ward off the chill, the fire having long since burned to glowing embers.
When God brings a man and woman together, He helps them find the way.
As much as Jamie hoped the priest knew what he was talking about, Jamie wasn’t willing to leave it up to any god. He loved Bríghid, loved her as he had never loved any woman, and he would find a way for them to be together, English law be damned.
But first, he had to win her heart.
Chapter Twenty-five
January 15, 1755
“You’re talking about starting a war, Master Blakewell.” William Pitt grimaced, adjusted his swollen foot where it rested, covered in foul-smelling compresses, on a cushioned footstool. “Damned gout!”
“I’m talking about winning a war, Sir, for the war has already begun.”
Pitt seemed to consider this, his forehead bent in a pensive frown beneath his powdered wig. His large, almond eyes, set in a pale oval face, gave him an intelligent, slightly melancholy appearance, and Jamie knew the man’s hard-won political successes had come through wit and oratory. Of all the members of Commons, he was Jamie’s best hope—and the most influential.
“What do you suggest?”
“A fleet of ships designed to fight in the lakes and rivers of the north—and well-trained sailors to man them. Attack the French where they’re most vulnerable—their supply lines, their own towns. Draw them away from English families on the frontier.” Jamie returned Pitt’s steady gaze, waited.
“That’s a bold plan. It would inevitably force them to fight on two fronts or abandon the frontier.” Pitt reached for his teacup, took a sip.
“There’s more to it than that, Sir.”
Pitt raised an eyebrow. “Explain.”
“The French have allied themselves with numerous Indian nations—foremost the Huron, Ottawa, Potawatomi and Ojibwa. Most are led by Obwandiyag, whom some call Pontiac. His intelligence and influence should not be underestimated. Not only is he capable of leading his men in battle, but he could easily win more tribes to the side of the French. He is metai, a spiritual leader, and his words carry great meaning for many.” Jamie took a sip of tea, let his words sink in, trying not to overwhelm Pitt.
“Go on.”
“If we shift the battle to the great lakes and rivers, the French lose whatever advantage they’ve gained through such alliances. While Pontiac’s men are more than capable of defeating British troops on land, they have no means to counter English warships.”
Pitt brow furrowed. “What makes you so certain Indians can defeat trained English soldiers?”
“The Indian way of warfare is not the English way. They attack through ambush, not from battle lines drawn up in the open. The French have largely adopted their techniques. At Fort Necessity, they fired at us from high in the surrounding trees. Good Englishmen died, shot down by an enemy they could not see.”
Pitt’s upper lip curled in disgust. “That’s barbaric.”
“Perhaps, Sir.” Jamie wouldn’t bother trying to explain to Pitt the Indian point of view on warfare. What warrior in his right mind stood out in the open in front of enemies who were firing at him? “Still, that’s the way it is. An English regiment might easily wander into such an ambush—on a road through the forest or on the banks of a river—and lose every man. To win this war, Britain must adapt, Sir, or British claims along the Ohio will be lost.”
And Nicholas’s terrible death will have been for naught.
For a moment, Pitt said nothing but gazed broodingly into the distance.
“Very well, Master Blakewell, I see the point you’re trying to make.” Pitt wiggled his swollen toes, winced. “But tell me—who would supply such ships?”
“My brother-in-law, Alec Kenleigh, has already drawn up plans for a small fleet of warships specially designed to navigate the northern waterways.”
“Of course.” Pitt smiled. “War is a bloody profitable business.”
Jamie refused to let the comment bait him. “Aye, it can be, Sir. However, Alec is willing to build these ships at no profit to himself.”
Both of Pitt’s eyebrows shot upward. “At cost? Remarkable.”
“My brother-in-law lost his eldest son at Fort Necessity.” The pain, the guilt welled up inside Jamie. “He was taken captive and later … burnt alive.”
Pitt’s eyebrows shot up, before his face shifted into a scowl of outrage. “I do say—how unfortunate and appalling.”
Jamie beat back his grief. “It is war, Sir.”
“My condolences on your family’s loss.” Pitt took another sip of tea. “I’ve heard nothing but good things about your brother-in-law. I’m sorry he should suffer such tragedy.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Jamie decided to press his point. “The longer Britain delays in meeting the French threat, the greater that threat becomes. English families are dying on the frontier—men, women and children—and the French are working hard to persuade Britain’s Indian allies to switch sides. We dare not dally, Sir.”
For a moment, the two men sat, gazes locked.
“Very well, Master Blakewell, I shall represent the Colonial cause in Commons. But I warn you, it won’t be easy. Most Englishmen are more concerned with events on the Continent, as the results will have very real consequences her
e in Britain. Most believe the Crown can force concessions from the French with regard to the American frontier by dominating them in Europe.”
“They are blind.” Jamie stood abruptly, walked to the nearby window. “They would not tolerate the slaughter of English families on British soil here on this island, but the slaughter of British families—”
“Colonists.”
Jamie spun to face him. “—British families on the American frontier means nothing to them. For are the colonists not also subjects of His Majesty, equally deserving of his protection and consideration? And what will happen if colonists begin to feel Britain has turned her back on them? It shouldn’t surprise me that many would turn their backs on Britain.”
“I admire your passion, Master Blakewell, and I agree with you. But it will be an uphill battle, all the more so thanks to your friend.” He pinned Jamie with his gaze. “Or should I say erstwhile friend?”
“Lord Byerly.”
“He’s spreading some rather distressing rumors about you, rumors of collusion with traitorous Irish Catholics. I need to know what truth lies behind these rumors so that I can prepare a proper response.”
Jamie had known this would happen. “Of course.”
* * *
Bríghid looked up from her book and gazed out the library window at the tidy grounds beyond. It would be dark soon. Surely, he’d be home any minute. He’d risen early this morning and gone into London to meet with yet another member of Parliament. It had been this way every day this week.
Each morning he woke her with gentle kisses, then shaved, dressed, and bid her farewell. And though she tried hard to keep busy, each day was an agony of waiting. She read books, had tea with Elizabeth, visited Niamh in the stables. She’d even spent an afternoon teaching Elizabeth what she knew about tatting lace.
Still, she missed him.
Each evening when he arrived home, he met privately with Matthew to discuss business. Then he escorted her to dinner with Matthew and Elizabeth, who’d returned from Kent on the first day of the New Year. After dinner, he and Matthew retired to Matthew’s study to have a brandy, while she and Elizabeth did needlework, or Elizabeth tried to teach her a tune on the harpsichord. Then the gentlemen joined them for tea and perhaps a game of billiards.
These last hours of the day served only to heighten Bríghid’s anticipation for the night to come, as Jamie showed her through covert glances and secret smiles just what he had in mind once they reached the privacy of his chamber. For if her days left her feeling restless and impatient, the nights brought her bliss. Over the past two weeks, Jamie had shown her pleasure she had never imagined, taught her the secrets of her own body—and his. Just when she thought she knew everything there was to know about the union of men and women, he showed her something new. How achingly good it felt if he entered her just so. How much more intense her peak could be if he made her hang at the edge and wait for it. How to drive him wild with her lips, her tongue, her hands, her body.
She’d never known any greater happiness.
And yet there was darkness.
She tried to ignore it, tried to forget. She tried to forget how much she missed her brothers. She tried to forget how poorly she fit in—an Irish peasant among English gentry. She tried to forget about the iarla. She tried to forget about the strife between her people and Jamie’s, centuries of blood and hatred. She tried to forget about English law and the rules of the Church. She tried to forget, but she couldn’t.
For although she loved Jamie Blakewell, she knew this could not last.
Like a story in a book, this fairytale would soon come to an end. One day, word would come from County Clare that her brothers were waiting for her, and her time with Jamie would be over. For even had he desired to marry her—he had never mentioned marriage—by law he could not. And she would not leave her brothers and travel to the Colonies as his mistress, where she would have to watch as he took an Englishwoman—a Protestant—to wife, gave her his name, his children, his love.
Bríghid felt tears prick behind her eyes at the thought, blinked them away.
She didn’t want to think that far in the future. She didn’t want to think about the way her new silk gowns, her soft leather slippers, her fur cloak, and the other gifts he’d given her would brand her the whore of a Sasanach in the eyes of her countrymen. She didn’t want to think about how she would have to sell them for food, for rent, for serviceable woolens that wouldn’t be ruined by the hard work of running a household in a cabin with no chimney, no floor, no windows. She didn’t want to think of the way her brothers would react when they saw her again, for she wouldn’t be able to lie.
And if she carried Jamie’s child …
She didn’t want to think that far. She had today. She had tonight. Even if it were only a fantasy, she would savor each touch, revel in each moment, knowing full well it could end tomorrow and all happiness with it. She turned her gaze back to her book, The Seven Wise Masters of Rome, forced her eyes to the page.
That’s where Jamie found her—nose buried in a book. He stood for a moment, savored the sight of her as she read.
She wore one of the new gowns he’d had made for her, a creation of shimmering burgundy-colored silk with ivory lace at her wrists. The color suited her beautifully, as he’d known it would. The cut of the gown complimented her form, her slender waist, her full bosom.
“Jamie!” Bríghid rose, put down the book, her lips curved in a pretty smile.
Jamie drew her into his embrace, kissed her cheek. “My sweet.”
Despite her smile, he could see the sadness in her eyes, the unhappiness she tried to hide. He knew she felt out of sorts here. Did she want to leave so badly? Was she so homesick? What was it she’d said?
I don’t belong here.
Jamie was looking for a way he and Bríghid could be together, but what if she didn’t want to stay with him? He would have no choice but to let her go. The thought was like a blade in his heart. He forced his thoughts down a different path. “Would you care to take Niamh for a ride before the sun sets?”
“Oh, aye!” Her face lit up with a smile that nearly robbed him of his ability to think.
The western sky had begun to turn pink by the time they rode from the stables down the path that led to the eastern edge of the estate, which boasted a small forest of beech trees. Bríghid had taken quickly to the sidesaddle and now rode with confidence.
An excited flush on her cheeks, she urged her horse to a canter, then a gallop. “You’ll never catch me, Sasanach!”
Hermes could, of course, easily outrun the mare, but Jamie reined him in, let Bríghid enjoy the thrill of being pursued.
She bent low over her mare, urged her to a gallop, her laughter like the tinkling of bells, her dark hair streaming behind her.
Some ancient male instinct in Jamie’s blood reveled in the chase, delighted in knowing he would soon be the victor. He let Hermes close the distance between them. A low rumble of laughter rose from his chest.
Bríghid looked back over her shoulder, screamed, her eyes alight with excitement, cheeks flushed. “No!”
The dark edge of the forest drew near, and Jamie gave the stallion his head. Almost immediately he drew even with Bríghid. He captured her reins, drew both animals to a stop.
Her breath came in great gasps, her face aglow with anticipation. In her eyes he saw a need to match his own—the need to seize this moment, to join herself with him, to forget all the obstacles that stood between them.
He slid from the saddle, removed a blanket from his saddlebag, strode over to her. “I have won this battle, Princess. To the victor go the spoils.”
She squealed as he pulled her down into his arms, pretended to fight him as he carried her in among the trees to the crumbling remains of some ancient hall, her laughter proof it was just a game. Sheltered on three sides by walls almost as tall as Jamie, the ruins provided privacy and a respite from the winter wind.
“I am to be your prisoner
?” She ran her hands along his chest as he lowered her to her feet.
“Aye. Mine to do with as I please.” Jamie spread the blanket on the snowy ground.
Her eyes held a look of heated female desire, a promise of delight as old as time. “And what pleases you?”
“Only this.” He pulled her into his arms, took her lips with his in an urgent, searing kiss. He wanted to forget, needed to forget that time was against them, that state and church stood between them, that an ocean divided them.
She returned his kiss, drew his tongue into her mouth, her desperation matching his.
They landed together on the blanket, rolling and twisting, drunk on the moment.
He felt her fingers struggle with the fall of his breeches, while he lifted her skirts above her thighs. Cold air rushed over the heat of his arousal, as he forced her thighs wide apart with his own. Then he captured her wrists, pinned her arms above her head, and looked down into her eyes.
“You are mine, Princess. Do you yield?”
Bríghid looked up at the man she loved, her heart pounding, gave him her haughtiest smile. “Never, Sasanach.”
“Very well, then.” He face took on the lines of false severity. “You leave me no choice but to teach you a lesson.”
With one hand, he deftly removed one of the ribbons that held her stockings in place, and before she realized what he was doing, he’d tied one end of it gently around her wrists. The other he bound to the thin trunk of a sapling.
Then he rocked back on his heels, looked down at her, every bit the conqueror. His hands stroked her inner thighs, raised goose bumps on her chilled skin.
She felt deliciously helpless, almost frantic with excitement. She had no way of knowing what he would do next.
When he touched her again it was to bare her breasts. His palms cupped and shaped them, molded them, before he took them in his mouth and suckled her aching nipples.
She writhed beneath him, her hands held fast by her bonds, as the heat of his mouth upon her ignited the fever within her. She let his touch carry her away, far from worries of tomorrow, far from fear and grief. For now, there was only this place, only this man. For now, she could forget.