by Pamela Clare
And tomorrow morning Finn would leave her, head back into danger.
She’d lost one husband. She’d lost her son. She could not lose Finn.
* * *
“The mistress says you’re to stay in bed!”
“I am sick and tired of bed, Heddy, dear.” Bríghid placed her feet on the soft carpet, grasped the bedpost, grimacing at the pain in her side. “It will do me some good to stretch my legs and walk a bit. Besides, I’m only goin’ down to the library.”
Feeling more than a little unsteady, she stood, one hand still on the bedpost.
“You’ll faint or catch your death, Miss Bríghid.”
“I’ll do no such thing.” She spoke as much to assure herself as Heddy. Light-headed, weak, she found herself wondering if she could actually make it all the way to the library.
Heddy’s hands were twisted in her apron, her eyes wide with concern. “If you tell me what you want, I can fetch the book for you.”
“That’s sweet of you, Heddy, but I can do this.” Bríghid released the bedpost, took one step, another. She wasn’t used to having people do things for her and felt silly asking Heddy to do her such a favor. “See, I’m fine.”
“They’ll have my hide if you fall, Miss.”
“I won’t fall.”
It seemed a long journey to the door, a longer one to the top of the stairs. But soon she was taking the stairs one at a time, both hands gripping the banister, Heddy following nervously beside her.
The maid gave an audible sigh of relief when they reached the bottom of the stairway.
Bríghid found herself wondering if perhaps Heddy wasn’t right. She couldn’t imagine climbing up those stairs again. It would be hard enough walking the remaining distance to the library. One step at a time, she made her way down the hallway.
The sound of male voices stopped her. They were coming from Matthew’s study.
“ … cannot be done … there is no way … will be ruined!”
She didn’t recognize that voice.
“Must be some alternative…”
That was Matthew.
“Keep her quietly as your mistress … or set her aside…”
Bríghid felt as if someone had knocked the air from her lungs. They were talking about her—about how to dispose of her.
“… will do whatever I must …” That was Jamie’s voice.
Bríghid could bear to hear no more and walked as quickly as she could on trembling legs to the library, Heddy following behind her. She sank into the nearest chair, heedless of the tears on her cheeks, the pain in her side no match for the ache in her heart.
Keep her quietly as your mistress, or set her aside.
“Oh, Miss Bríghid, now don’t you cry!” Heddy wiped the tears from Bríghid’s face with her apron. “I ain’t seen a man care more for a woman than Master Jamie cares for you. Why, he didn’t eat or sleep the whole time you were fighting the fever. He didn’t leave your side and wouldn’t let anyone else come near you.”
Bríghid tried to smile, fought back her tears. “’Tis sweet of you to say so, Heddy.”
“My mum says there ain’t no shame in a woman being a man’s mistress, if she truly loves him.” Heddy knelt before her, stroked her hair. “Sometimes it’s the only way a poor woman can make her way in this world, and God bless her for it. Or so my mum says.”
“Is that what I am, Heddy—his mistress?” Bríghid met Heddy’s gaze and read in her blue eyes the unwelcome answer.
But I love him! What else could I have done?
The words exploded in her mind, forced a fresh wave of tears.
“Oh, Miss Bríghid.” Heddy wrapped her thin arms around Bríghid, stroking her hair as she wept.
“I must leave here, Heddy. I must get home.”
“What are you doing out of bed?”
Bríghid and Heddy gasped in unison, looked to see Jamie standing at the library door, his expression furious.
Jamie saw the tears on her face, the genuine grief in her eyes, felt his gut wrench. He’d overheard her last few words. She wanted to go home. She didn’t want to stay with him.
The pain in his chest made him speak harshly. “Heddy, the next time Bríghid attempts something this idiotic you are to get me or your mistress immediately. Is that understood?”
“Aye, Sir.”
“You may go.”
“Aye, Sir.” Heddy curtsied and hurried out the door and down the hall.
“Don’t be blamin’ her.” Bríghid lifted her chin, met his gaze. “She tried to stop me. I was just after fetchin’ a book.”
Jamie walked to where Bríghid sat, fought the impulse to wipe the tears from her cheek. “Do you realize how foolish you’ve been? You might have fallen and broken your neck! I’d have gotten the book for you had you but waited.”
Sparks danced in her eyes. “I’m not after people waitin’ on me hand and foot.”
“You’ll not get out of bed again until the surgeon says you may. Is that understood?”
She nodded, a stubborn jerk of the chin.
“Which book did you want?”
“The one about Irish history.”
Jamie strode to the shelves, glanced over the titles on the bindings, grabbed the desired tome, fought to hide the warring emotions within him. “This one?”
She wants to go home.
“Aye.”
He crossed the distance between them, handed her the book. When his gaze again met hers, his anger became concern. Her face was ashen, almost ethereal in its beauty. Her dark hair spilled over one shoulder, a tousled mass. She clutched the arm of the chair as if to keep herself from toppling to the floor.
“You belong in bed.” He bent down, gathered the sweet weight of her in his arms, careful not to hurt her.
She gasped in surprised. “It’s a long way, Jamie. Are you sure—”
“I could easily carry two of you.”
Jamie felt her relax. She rested her head against his shoulder, her slender arms wrapped around his neck. By the time he reached her bedroom, she was all but asleep. He lay her gently on the bed, tucked the blankets under her chin.
She opened her eyes, reached for him. “Stay with me, Jamie. Sleep beside me.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.” Her fingers closed over his. “‘I sleep better when you’re with me.”
And because there was nothing on earth he would rather do than hold her, he removed his waistcoat and slid into bed beside her. “Sleep, love. I’m right here.” He kissed her forehead, tried to ignore the pain in his heart.
She wants to go home.
She snuggled against him and almost immediately fell fast asleep, leaving Jamie to wrestle with his demons.
* * *
Jamie kissed Bríghid on the cheek, arose, careful not to wake her.
The household was quiet, the clock having long since struck eleven.
It was time for him to act.
He left her room, hurried down the hallway to his chamber. There, he stripped to his breeches, walked over to the hearth, and grabbed handfuls of cold, dark ash. He mixed the ash with water, rubbed the paste over his bare skin, careful to cover every exposed inch. He smeared it through is blonde hair, darkening it to the color of shadows. Then he slipped his knife into the waistband of his breeches.
Without a sound, he moved down the stairs and out into the night.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Jamie ran through the night, staying off the road, keeping to shadows. While he would have welcomed Hermes’ speed, the horse could too easily give him away. This task demanded he go alone—and on foot.
He’d quickly found a comfortable pace, one that allowed him to move swiftly, yet silently. He hadn’t used his woodland skills since the night he’d tried to free Nicholas—tried and failed. Still, the challenge was invigorating. His senses heightened by the darkness, he heard the yipping of a solitary fox, the baying of distant hounds, the squeak of
rodents in the underbrush. Carriages and riders passed on the road a stone’s throw from him, but no one saw or heard him.
The man assigned to trail him certainly hadn’t heard him. Jamie had found him lurking in the trees across from the estate’s main gate, had walked up behind him and knocked him out with one blow to the back of his neck. The man had never glimpsed his face. Jamie had tied him up in the stables, instructing a startled stable boy to guard him until morning, when Matthew would turn him over to the sheriff. Then Jamie had set out.
The bracing winter air rushed over Jamie’s bare skin, felt refreshing as his body began to sweat. He worked his way around the outskirts of the city, heading for Sheff’s estate in the country north of London. Clouds drifted across the sky, intermittently covering the pale half moon. But Jamie could find his way without moonlight and, if necessary, without stars. The forest was a good guide—if one knew how to read the signs.
After what must have been about two hours, he neared the gate to Sheff’s estate. Concealed among the trees, he consciously slowed his breathing, watched, listened.
Two men guarded the gate, both visibly armed.
“She’s got tits like melons and a quim so tight—”
“Shut your bloody mouth! She’d never let the likes of you twang her.”
“Twang her I did, and she was happy for it. You should have heard her wail.”
They’d be easy enough to take. Jamie could backtrack, cross the road out of sight, come up behind them. But what lay beyond them? Surely, there were more guards.
Jamie backed deeper into the strip of forest, sought one of the higher trees. Carefully, quietly, he climbed until he could see over the estate’s wall. There he waited and watched for movement. Slowly, one by one, the men Sheff had set to guard him revealed themselves.
There were the two by the gate. Two patrolled the road that led from the gate to the manor. Two more stood guard at the manor’s main entrance. This meant there were probably two more near the back and service entrances. The red glow of a lit pipe and the faint scent of tobacco smoke gave away the man posted by the side gate.
Jamie considered his options and had just begun to climb down, when a movement in the trees on the other side of the road caught his eye. He froze.
“Would you two pipe down?” A man emerged from the forest, holding a flintlock. “I ain’t had a woman in weeks, and you’re turnin’ me bloody rod to bone.”
Jamie grinned. Sheff had put a guard on his guards, someone to ambush him when he tried to overcome the watch at the gate.
Silently, he climbed down from the tree and backtracked up the road.
The man in the trees was the first to fall. Jamie approached from behind, dropped him with a blow to the back of the neck, catching him as he sagged, unconscious, to the ground. Just to be safe, Jamie dumped the man’s powder onto the moist earth, scattered his shot in the underbrush.
The men at the gate were still discussing who’d tupped whom when Jamie crept up behind them. He fell the first with a quick blow to the head.
The second man saw his friend fall, and his eyes grew round with fear as Jamie emerged from the shadows. Speechless with terror, the man had just enough time to take in Jamie’s appearance before he was rendered unconscious by a punch to the jaw.
Jamie dragged both men into the underbrush, considered his next move. The gate was likely locked and would no doubt creak when opened. It was clear Sheff had expected him to try to enter there. The side gate was likely Jamie’s best option. Movement there was less likely to attract attention, as it was undoubtedly how the guards themselves entered and left the grounds.
Keeping to the shadows, alert for surprises, he moved along the wall toward the side gate. When he drew near—he could smell the sharp scent of the guard’s tobacco smoke—he climbed to the top of the wall. Below him, a lone guard tapped his pipe out onto the ground.
Jamie leapt silently to the grass, struck the man at the base of his skull, and dragged him behind nearby bushes. And for a time, Jamie stayed hidden, contemplating his next move. With the deep shadows cast by the trees, he was certain he could reach the house without being seen. Once there, he’d move round to the back, disable any guards, and enter through the servants’ entrance. But he hated to leave armed men at his back. They could too easily be trouble when it came time to make his escape.
In the end, he decided that the risk of taking on men in the open—the two pairs of guards were within sight of one another—was not worth it. Quickly, silently, he moved toward the manor.
* * *
Sheff lifted his wife’s nightgown, exposing her bare bottom. He stroked her rounded buttocks, grasped her hips, then thrust inside her, groaning at the tight feel of her. Giving birth to his son hadn’t ruined her at all.
She didn’t protest. She never did. But neither did she enjoy it, as some of the servant women did. She simply did her duty, then went to her own chamber to sleep. But she was a lady, of noble birth, not a slut like the others. And so he tupped her rarely, hoped to keep the sickness to himself. The others wanted—and therefore deserved—what he gave them.
He focused on the feeling of being inside her, the hot, slick, tight feel of her. It was good, so good, as he reached his climax and poured himself into her. For a moment, he stayed inside her, savoring the pleasure. Then he withdrew, wiped himself on her gown, and slapped her bottom lightly. “You may go.”
Without a word, she crawled out of bed and left the room.
Sheff flung himself back against his pillows, then reached for the half-empty glass of cognac sitting on his bedside table. Some nights, if he mixed enough drink with sex, the pain wasn’t so bad. He drained the glass, blew out the candles, and lay down to sleep.
He’d just drifted off when something heavy slammed into him.
Befuddled by sleep, he opened his eyes and found himself staring into a dark face and eyes so angry they seemed to burn.
Jamie!
The cold blade of a knife pressed against his throat.
Panic made Sheff’s heart pound, his mouth go dry. The wet warmth of his own urine spread across his thighs.
“It seems you’ve been expecting me.”
Sheff grabbed Jamie’s hand, tried to move it, but to no avail.
Jamie kept the knife pressed against Sheff’s throat, his voice a feral growl. “I’m going to ask you one question, and I want an answer. If you shout for help, it will be the last sound you make. Is that clear?”
Sheff nodded.
“Who shot her?”
Sheff’s thoughts scattered like a flock of frightened birds. This wasn’t the Jamie he knew. This man was fearless, brutal, all but naked, his skin painted like that of a heathen. He was savage, a killer. “I-I d-don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“You forget how well I know you.” Jamie’s relentless gaze bored into Sheff, his eyes as hard and cold as ice. “You are lying!”
Sheff swallowed convulsively, felt his bowels turn to liquid.
“For the sake of the friendship we once had, I’ll give you once last chance.”
Sheff tried to steady his voice, failed miserably, cast about for another lie. “Her brother!”
“Her brother?”
“H-he was trying to shoot you!”
“Me?” Jamie laughed, a cruel sound, his white teeth a sharp contrast to the dark of his skin. “Her brothers left Meath a month ago!”
“The rapparee came for her. Then he came for me. Aye, and we had to post guards.”
Jamie bent down so that his face was inches from Sheff’s. “You lie! ”
And Sheff knew. Jamie was going to kill him.
“Bríghid and her family are under my protection. I warned you to stay away from them, but you didn’t listen. And now I’m faced with the awkward decision of killing the man I once called friend in his bed, or letting him live, knowing he might again pose a threat.”
Then Sheff remembered. The pistol. Jamie’s pistol. “I have proof!”
“Proof?”
“Aye, proof! Look! On the table!”
Sheff watched the mistrust in Jamie’s eyes, felt the pressure of the blade lift.
“Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.” Jamie stepped off the bed, crossed to the table.
Sheff watched Jamie’s face as he picked up his own pistol, turned it over in his hand.
Surprise. Alarm. Rage.
Jamie turned to face Sheff. “How did you get this?”
“I told you! H-her brother! He came for her, then he came for me!” Sheff could see his words were starting to breed doubt in Jamie’s mind.
“I don’t believe you. Where is the boy? What have you done to him?”
“He’s a guest at my hunting lodge, and I’ve done nothing to him—yet!” Then Sheff had an inspiration. “If you kill me, her brother dies!”
“Don’t try to threaten me!”
“My men have their orders.”
Jamie stared at the pistol in his hands, scarcely able to believe what he saw. Finn had likely gone on to Clare, thinking Ruaidhrí was ahead of him. But Ruaidhrí must have taken the pistol and, instead of leaving for Clare, he’d gone after ... whom? Was it possible he’d tried to shoot Jamie but had shot Bríghid instead?
No. Sheff was lying about that part of it. Ruaidhrí knew he couldn’t hit a target. Why would he take aim with his sister in the line of fire? The boy loved Bríghid.
Yet in Jamie’s hands was the pistol. He’d left it in Ireland with Finn. Somehow Ruaidhrí had gotten hold of it, and he’d gone after Sheff, only to be captured. It was the only explanation that made sense.
Jamie saw fear, mingled with triumph, in Sheff’s eyes. He slipped the pistol into his breeches. “How do I know you haven’t killed him already?”
“I give you my—”
“Your word? And what good is the word of a man who makes promises to his tenants, then breaks them? A man who kidnaps and rapes innocents? A man who murders priests he had agreed to show mercy? Your word is worthless to me!” Jamie’s blood was thick with fury.