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

by Pamela Clare

  Sheff sighed with relief. “I’m changing that part of the plan. Give the pistol to me. We’ll need to hold onto it now.”

  He motioned to Edward to set the firearm on the table. As soon as Jamie saw the pistol, he would know Sheff was behind the shooting. And then?

  If he harms her or any of her family, I’ll hunt him with a knife in my teeth, and I won’t fail.

  A cold chill ran down Sheff’s spine. Then a sneer spread across his face.

  Jamie was so confident. Always so sure of himself. But he was nothing more than a commoner. Sheff was an English lord, descended from a long line of English lords. He would double the guard, curtail his social life, hire someone to watch Jamie’s every move.

  Aye, that’s what he would do. Jamie would not be able to touch him.

  He took another drink, felt it chase away the pain, felt his apprehension fade.

  No, Jamie could not touch him. In the meantime, he needed to know whether the girl still lived. “Do you know what else you may have done, Edward?”

  “N-no, my lord.”

  “You may have spoilt my prize. She was such a pretty little thing.” Sheff turned, looked with disgust upon his hireling. “Get out of my sight!”

  “Aye, my lord!” Edward fled.

  Sheff grabbed the decanter, crossed the room, sank into his chair, his mind heavy with troubles. He needed another drink. He needed to rest. Then he’d be able to think this through, find a way to work Edward’s bumbling to his advantage.

  It had been a wonderful plan. Edward was supposed to kill the horse, then have the pistol delivered by some hapless messenger the next day. It would have been a glorious blow to Jamie’s insufferable superiority about horseflesh to lose his stallion—and a rather shocking way of letting him know that Sheff had captured the young rapparee Jamie had set upon him. It would have been a fitting vengeance for Jamie’s betrayal.

  Sheff had recognized the pistol the moment it had arrived from Ireland. French flintlock. Matchless quality. If that had not been enough, Jamie’s initials were engraved on the lockplate. Sheff had raged for an hour, unable to believe his friend would arm the bloody Irish against him, their noble lord. He wanted to believe the rapparee had stolen it. But the letter from Ireland had been clear. The rapparee had bragged to the little turncoat Alice, who’d been cleverly prying information from him, that Jamie had not only given him the weapon, but taught him to shoot it.

  Sheff was tempted to turn the pistol over to the authorities and let them do whatever they desired with Jamie. It was treason to arm an Irish Catholic, treason to incite the Irish to fight. Jamie had done both—out of nothing more than desire for a woman.

  But this was a personal matter. There was no reason to get authorities involved—not yet. Sheff would handle it in his own way.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The next several days passed in a blur, Jamie dimly aware of the world beyond Bríghid’s room. He allowed no one but himself, Elizabeth, Father Owen, and the surgeon to come near her, though he and the surgeon disagreed mightily over her care.

  Drawing on what he’d seen Takotah do, Jamie insisted on giving Bríghid water to drink and sips of strengthening broth, while the surgeon feared it would raise her fever. Jamie had lowered her, naked, teeth chattering, into a bath of tepid water when fever made her delirious, while the surgeon would have left her in bed beneath the blankets. Jamie had begun to use garlic compresses as Bríghid had done with him, a treatment the surgeon called primitive, fit only for superstitious fishwives.

  Jamie steadfastly refused to leave her side, not even when Elizabeth had raised her voice and accused him of punishing himself.

  “It’s not your fault, Jamie. You can’t save her by killing yourself!”

  He watched the sun rise and set at Bríghid’s side and began to lose all sense of time. He took his meals there, though he found it all but impossible to eat. He slept in the chair beside her bed when he slept at all. God, how he loved her. He could not lose her.

  That’s how Bríghid found him when she awoke—asleep in the chair. His face was covered by several day’s growth of beard, haggard from lack of sleep and worry, his mouth set in a grim line even in repose. His hair hung loose about his shoulders. He wore no shirt, no stockings, no shoes.

  She struggled to remember what had happened. She’d been hurt. Someone had shot her while they’d been out for their ride. After that she could recall only images—Jamie’s worried eyes gazing down at her, Jamie urging her to drink, Jamie pouring cool water over her fevered body in the tub. Jamie telling her to fight, to stay with him.

  Had he been at her side the entire time? And how long had it been?

  She reached out to touch him, moaning at the sharp pain that shot through her side.

  Jamie’s head snapped up, and his eyes opened. “Bríghid, love, you’re awake.”

  He moved to sit beside her on the bed, feeling her forehead for fever.

  She tried to push down the blankets. “I’m so hot.”

  “The fever has finally broken.” He closed his eyes, and a look of intense relief washed over his face.

  In that instant, he looked so vulnerable and handsome Bríghid wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him, but she could scarcely move.

  He folded down the blankets, giving her relief from the heat. “Heddy, fetch Elizabeth.”

  “How long?” Bríghid found it hard to speak. Her throat was dry and bitter with the aftertaste of laudanum.

  “Eight days, I think.” He leaned down, kissed her forehead, his lips light and soft. “Are you in pain?”

  “It’s not bad.” And it wasn’t bad—if she held still and didn’t breathe deeply.

  “Are you thirsty?”

  “Aye.”

  Jamie turned, and Bríghid could hear the sound of pouring water. Then he lifted her head, held a cup to her lips. “Drink, love.”

  She slaked her thirst, felt herself grow sleepy.

  “Rest, love.” Jamie’s hand stroked her cheek. “I’ll be right here.”

  * * *

  Muirín looked down at Aidan’s drowsy face where his head rested against her breast, stroked his red hair. The poor child was exhausted after days in a horse cart. She couldn’t blame him. It had been a long trip.

  “Are we there yet?” Aidan gazed down the rutted road.

  Finn chuckled. “Aye, a phráitín, finally we’re there.”

  Aidan sat up, suddenly alert, and looked about with renewed interest.

  Muirín, too, was overcome with curiosity and gazed from one cabin to the next. This little village was to be her new home, and she felt more than a little nervous at the thought of meeting Finn’s family. “Which one is it?”

  Finn pointed. “The one with the rose bushes. There. See?”

  A small whitewashed cabin sat at the end of a rutted lane, a row of dormant rose bushes tied neatly to trellises along its front. She smiled, some of her fear dissolving. People who cared so for flowers would care well for their own. “Aye.”

  In the nearby fields, beside haystacks and from darkened doorways, men, women and children looked up from their work, stared openly, curious about the newcomers.

  Muirín found herself secretly grateful the strange Englishman, Travis, had turned back when they’d reached the parish marker, pleading the need to return to London. Arriving with a Sasanach in tow would certainly have raised questions and might have soured their welcome. As it was, Muirín wasn’t certain how Finn’s cousin would feel about the lot of them moving in. It wouldn’t be for long—only until Finn could find a safe home nearby. If they were lucky, they’d be settled in time to plant spring crops and a little garden.

  Finn steered the horses down a rutted lane toward his cousin’s cabin.

  “Finn? Finn Uí Maelsechnaill?” A tall, dark-haired man stepped out of a nearby cowshed. Not quite as tall as Finn, he reminded Muirín instantly of Bríghid with his dark good looks. “I’ll be buggered!”

  Finn reined the
team to a halt, gazed grimly down at the man. “You’ll be watchin’ your tongue ’round my wife.”

  My wife.

  Muirín felt a little rush of joy every time he spoke those words.

  The two men stared at one another, their faces grave.

  Finn smiled first. “It’s good to see you Seanán.”

  Finn hopped to the ground, and the two men embraced, laughing, hitting, and insulting one another—showing affection in the strange way men do.

  “I’d recognize your ugly mug anywhere.” Seanán slapped Finn hard on the back, winked up at Muirín. “How did a sod like you end up with a wife, let alone one so pretty?”

  She felt herself blush to the roots of her hair.

  “’Twas my charm and wit that won her over.” Finn gave Seanán a light punch to the arm. “Two qualities you lack, cousin.”

  “By the saints, it’s good to see you again, Finn!” Seanán turned his head toward the cabin, shouted. “Ma, Finn’s here, all the way from Meath!”

  Muirín saw an older woman—sister to Finn’s mother—emerge from the cabin. The family resemblance was strong.

  “Well, bless me! Son of my dear sister—may she rest in peace—come all this way?” The woman’s gaze fell on Muirín and Aidan, and she gasped. “And with a wife and child!”

  Finn turned, lifted Muirín to the ground. “Aunt Bébhinn, Seanán, this is Muirín, my bride.”

  Muirín curtsied, unsure how to greet them. “’Tis right pleased to meet you I am.”

  Seanán smiled, took her hand, kissed it. “Welcome to the family, such as it is.”

  “Such a sweet girl!” Aunt Bébhinn reached out, embraced Muirín. “Welcome, love.”

  Finn turned, lifted Aidan to the ground. “And this is Aidan. We took him in some years ago.”

  “Welcome, Aidan.” Aunt Bébhinn smiled warmly.

  “And a strapping lad he is!” Seanán gave Aidan a light jab to the shoulder.

  “He’s one of us now.” Finn ruffled the boy’s hair, and Muirín saw the shine of pride on Aidan’s face. The boy cherished Finn.

  A girl a few years younger than Aidan poked her head shyly out of the cowshed.

  “Who’s this charmin’ creature?” Finn nodded to the girl, who smiled, a finger in her mouth.

  “This is my daughter, Éanna.” Seanán reached back, drew the little girl protectively to his side. “It’s her mother, my sweet Íonait, you see lookin’ out at you from the door. Come, sweetheart, greet my cousin.”

  Íonait emerged from the cabin, smiled shyly, one hand resting protectively over her swollen belly. “Welcome.”

  Muirín felt an unexpected shard of pain at the sight of the other woman’s rounded body. She thought of the child she’d left behind in the cold ground in Meath, felt an ache in her chest. Finn’s hand came to rest reassuringly on her waist. She tried to ignore her sadness, willing herself to smile. “Lovely to meet you, Íonait.”

  Finn’s smiled. “I see you’ve done well for yourself, Seanán.”

  “I’d say we both have.” Seanán gave Finn another robust slap on the back, chuckled. “What brings you all the way to Clare?”

  Finn looked up, puzzled. “Did Ruaidhrí not explain?”

  “Ruaidhrí?”

  Muirín felt her heart stop, felt a jolt of surprise pass through Finn.

  “Don’t tell me he isn’t here.”

  Seanán met Finn’s gaze, his expression earnest. “I’m sorry, Finn. I haven’t seen Ruaidhrí since the summer you all came to visit with your da’.”

  Finn looked down at her, and she saw deep worry in his eyes. His gaze shifted back to his cousin. “I’ve come under dire circumstances to ask for shelter for myself and my family. I’ll explain everything. But first I need to know where I can find a priest.”

  * * *

  Jamie stood in the shadows against the back wall of Commons, listened. He’d had a few hours sleep before Pitt’s missive arrived, informing him that the bill regarding the Colonies would be debated on third and final reading this afternoon. As loathe as Jamie was to leave the house while Bríghid was still so weak, he’d known he had no choice.

  He had a mission to complete.

  So far, the debate had gone well. Pitt could think on his feet faster than most men and often rendered his opponents speechless with frustration as they struggled to match his wit. Had the stakes not been so high, Jamie would have found it entertaining.

  “Is the Honorable Gentleman the only Member unaware—yes, certainly he must be—that the French have seized a British fort and slain British soldiers and colonial troops? Do both deeds not constitute acts of war against the Crown?” Pitts voice filled the chamber.

  Several Whigs chortled at his comment, as the MP from Huntingdon turned slowly red in the face. Like a fish, he opened and closed his mouth, but nothing came out.

  “Or perhaps the Honorable Gentleman thinks it appropriate to allow the enemy to chip away at lands that belong to our Sovereign. It’s certainly a unique approach to maintaining an empire.”

  More laughter.

  On the other side of the room, an older man stood, motioned for quiet.

  “My Honorable Friend is right. An act of war has been committed against Britain by the French. Subjects of His Majesty have been killed, shot down by the French and burnt alive by their Indian allies. This demands a response, but what kind of response? My Honorable Friend suggests we heed the advice of the colonists and commission a fleet of specially built ships—an expensive endeavor—and send these ships to the other side of the world. Yet, the last time I looked at a map, France was only a short distance away across the Channel. Would it not be more prudent to take our grievances directly to the French and fight this battle on French soil?”

  Cheers arose from the other side of the room.

  Pitt stood in silence, his face grave. Jamie realized he was waiting for the cheering to exhaust itself, using silence as a means to enhance the drama of the moment, the power of his next words. Only when the chamber was completely silent did he speak again.

  “I wonder, my Honorable Friends, how the Honorable Gentleman from Pembrokeshire would feel should some foreign foe fall upon his family and slay them in the act of seizing his estate. Would he not turn to this body and ask for aid? Would he not expect the Crown to send troops to free his estate and defeat this foe? Would he be content if the Crown instead sent troops into the enemy’s country, leaving those who had killed his family free to occupy his estate?”

  No one spoke. No one stirred.

  “No, I suspect the Honorable Gentleman would demand action from Parliament. I further suspect Parliament would grant him a military response. Do the British whose families have been slaughtered on the frontier merit any less consideration?”

  The room erupted into shouting.

  Pitt stepped back from the platform, let the tempest run its course, casting Jamie a covert glance. Jamie nodded, particularly pleased with Pitt’s last point.

  Then one voice rose above the others—the MP from Pembrokeshire. “Is the Honorable Gentleman suggesting that these rustics are sustaining losses comparable to those of a landed gentleman? Most of these colonists are illiterate, descended from convicts, religious fanatics, and malcontents who left England by choice or by force. Many likely own little more than a chamber pot. Should we launch a full-scale war, complete with a specially built navy, to defend malcontents and their chamber pots? Or are we wiser to save coin and fight the French in France?”

  Shouts of agreement, calls of outrage echoed through the room.

  Jamie felt his temper surge.

  Pitt’s voice boomed out over the chaos. “Indeed, a chamber pot is a humble object, not of great value—until one finds oneself in need. I suspect that if we tried to relieve the Honorable Gentleman of his many fine chamber pots, we’d be met with fierce resistance.”

  The room erupted in laughter and applause.

  Pitt continued. “The French and their Indian allies don’t
ask these men, women, and children how much they own, whether they can read, or why they left England before they kill them. They simply see British subjects and slay them. Where shall the dead find justice if not from the Crown, to which they offer fealty?”

  The debate raged for another two hours, but Pitt held the mastery throughout. In the end, the bill was approved with minor amendments, but it was only the first stage.

  “It must still pass through Lords.” Pitt limped out the doors and toward his waiting carriage, the strain on his face betraying the pain in his feet. “I’ll do what I can, of course, but my influence is limited there. They could force amendments or bog the bill down in procedure.”

  “Byerly’s foes have promised me they’ll press the matter, but whether they’ll succeed remains to be seen.” Jamie walked beside Pitt, the skin pricking on the back of his neck.

  Someone was following them. He stayed just out of sight, hid in the shadows. But Jamie knew he was there. He could hear the man’s shuffling gait, his clumsy attempts at silence.

  “One can never be sure in politics.” Pitt smiled ruefully.

  “I know I speak on behalf of the Virginia House of Burgesses when I offer you my sincere thanks for all you’ve accomplished thus far.”

  A footman opened the carriage door, helped Pitt up the single step, closed the door behind him.

  Pitt smiled. “You might well prevail.”

  “Thank you. I intend to, Sir.”

  The carriage surged forward and was gone.

  Jamie walked quickly to his own carriage. He had an appointment—and a promise—to keep.

  The man in the shadows followed.

  * * *

  Finn and Muirín were married late that day in Seanán’s cabin with friends and family to witness their vows. Once the priest had bestowed his blessing, Seanán slaughtered one of last spring’s calves. Aunt Bébhinn roasted part of it, set the rest to cure. With oatcakes, butter, potatoes boiled with onion, and more than a little poitín, it made for a true feast.

  Though Muirín’s heart had soared as the priest spoke the words that bound her and Finn together, she could not shake the sense of foreboding that had come over her the moment they’d heard Ruaidhrí was missing. Though she’d told herself Ruaidhrí had as likely gotten lost as fallen into trouble, her heart knew better. Something was wrong.