by Pamela Clare
Sheff had broken into a cold sweat, and the stench in the room told Jamie that Sheff had wet and fouled himself. “It s-seems you have no choice but to believe me.”
Jamie knew Sheff was right. If Sheff had Ruaidhrí—and Ruaidhrí was still alive—Sheff still had the power to hurt Bríghid.
Bríghid!
How was Jamie going to tell her about this? It was bad enough that Sheff had her brother, but to tell her Ruaidhrí might have been the one who’d shot her? Jamie couldn’t tell her that, especially not while she was still so weak.
With Ruaidhrí captive, the game had changed.
Jamie played his last card. “Know this—it goes both ways. You live as long as he lives. Harm him, and you will pay the price!”
“Then it seems we are at an impasse, you and I.”
“For the moment.” Jamie could feel Sheff’s confidence growing now that the shock had worn off and he knew Jamie wasn’t going to kill him. He considered his options. The room was two stories off the ground. If Sheff called for help, Jamie would be lucky to make it out of the house alive. “This is your last warning, Sheff. Harm Bríghid or her brothers, and there won’t be enough hired thugs in all of England to keep you safe from me.”
With that, Jamie slammed a fist into Sheff’s jaw and watched as Sheff fell back, unconscious, onto his pillows.
Then Jamie threw the window open, stuck his legs through and made a leap for the ground.
* * *
The heavy wooden door creaked open, letting in a shaft of candlelight, then quickly closed again.
Alice appeared at the top of the stairs, carrying a candle and a basket of food. She’d brought him dinner hours ago. He hadn’t expected to see her again until morning.
She’d been his only comfort these past weeks. She’d stitched the gash in his head, brought his meals, shared what little news of the outside world she knew. She had kept him company as often as her Sasanach captors had allowed. She’d even brought salve for his wrists and ankles where the irons had chaffed his skin raw.
Ruaidhrí had only ever seen her in candlelight, but that was enough for him to know she was pretty—curly red hair, pale skin, soft dark eyes. It was surely her beauty that had made her a servant of the iarla. Though he knew little about her, Ruaidhrí assumed she’d suffered the same fate the iarla had intended for Bríghid.
He had not asked her about it. He didn’t know how to ask her. And so he treated her as he hoped other Irishmen might have treated his sister had she suffered Alice’s plight.
When he escaped, he would take her with him. It wouldn’t be easy. The door was always barred from the outside, and at least one man kept watch on it at all hours. There was no other way out, no windows, no loose bricks, no cracks in the wall.
Perhaps she would help him.
“I’ve brought you some leftovers.” She always spoke Gaeilge to him with her soft Dublin accent.
“Go raibh maith agat, Alice.” He rose to greet her, chains clinking. Thank you.
She set the basket of food on the floor beside his feet. “How are you feeling?”
“Happy to see you again.”
She frowned as if annoyed, but Ruaidhrí wasn’t fooled. He could see in her eyes that his words pleased her. It was the same look she got every time he used his charm on her.
“I thought you might still be hungry, so I snuck some scraps from the kitchens.”
“You shouldn’t take risks like that. What if someone catches you?”
She smiled. “They won’t. I brought the guard a basket of his own.”
“You’re a clever girl, Alice.” He decided to ask her at least one of the questions that had been troubling him. “Why do you let them call you that?”
“Call me what?”
“‘Alice.’ It’s a Sasanach name.”
She shrugged, looked away from him. “It makes no difference to me.”
“But Ailís is so much prettier, gentler on the ear.”
At the sound of her real name, her head jerked up, and she met his gaze. Her eyes glittered with temper. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t go gettin’ your back up.” He fought the urge to touch a hand to her cheek. “It’s the name your parents gave you, a good Irish name. You should be proud of it. From now on, I shall call you Ailís.”
“Hush, silly boy, and let me check your forehead. I cannot stay long.” She took a step toward him, accidentally stepped on his foot, lost her balance.
He reach out to catch her, instinctively pulled her against him, one hand around her waist, the other on the candle.
The contact jarred his senses, made it hard to breath. He was so shocked by the sensation of her body pressed to his that it took him a moment to realize what the nearness had revealed. Then he knew.
“Oh, no, Ailís!”
Her eyes grew wide with dismay, and she pulled away from him, took one step backwards.
Ruaidhrí let his gaze drop to her belly and saw what he had not noticed before.
She was with child.
A torrent of emotion surged through him—disbelief, anger, revulsion.
Then he thought of Bríghid. What if the iarla had raped her that night and planted a baby inside her? Would he and Finn have hated her? Would they have been ashamed of her and sent her away?
No. They’d have protected her, and Ruaidhrí would have pummeled any man who dared look down his nose at her.
Ailís saw the disgust on his face. She wanted to be angry with him. But all she could feel was shame, guilt.
For three weeks, the rapparee had been nothing but sweet to her. He’d told her she was pretty. He’d treated her with respect and kindness. He’d thanked her for each seeming comfort she’d brought him—a blanket, salve for his wounds, news from the world beyond.
And she had betrayed him.
She had allowed him to think she, too, was a prisoner, here against her will. She’d done it partly to win his trust and partly because she liked the way he made her feel—as if she were something precious that needed to be protected.
No man had ever treated her that way.
But it was all a lie. She had come to the iarla’s household on her own after her mother’s death. She’d wanted a roof over her head and food in her belly. She’d found both here. And if she’d found it sensible to let the iarla use her body in exchange for a better life, that was her affair. She would apologize to no one, least of all a gullible boy who didn’t have enough sense to keep himself out of trouble.
She looked into Ruaidhrí’s eyes, eyes that had gone soft with pity, and she wanted to yell at him, berate him, hate him. Every kindness he showed her was an unwelcome, grating reminder of the innocence she’d never had.
But she couldn’t hate him.
“I’m sorry.” He reached out to cup her cheek. “Don’t be worryin’ that I think less of you. He forced you, didn’t he?”
She felt the sweet burn of his touch on her skin, met his question with silence. Let him believe what he wished.
“He tried the same with my sister, God curse him.”
“I know.” Ailís didn’t bother to tell him just what she thought of his sister. Bríghid Ní Maelsechnaill had thought herself too good to be touched by an English lord. She had hit Ailís, cursed her.
“When I get out of here, I’m takin’ you with me. I won’t be leavin’ you behind.”
Guilt gnawed at her, sharp teeth against her heart. He was a sweet boy, truly he was. There was something innocent about him, something pure. But he wasn’t getting out. When the iarla returned, he would be hanged.
If he knew the truth, he would hate her. His eyes, which gazed at her with such compassion, would fill with loathing, and he would know her for what she was.
A part of her wanted to tell him the truth, to see his innocence shredded, to rip away the false image he had of her, force him to see her as she was. But she was too cowardly and selfish for that. He would go to the gallows never knowing the role she’d played in
his fate for one simple reason: When she was with him, she felt clean again.
“Well, you’re not goin’ anywhere tonight.” She forced herself to meet his gaze, smiled. “Sit and eat. And let me check your forehead.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
“My noble and learned Lords, we cannot allow French encroachment on His Majesty’s lands to go unchecked. On that much we are agreed.” Lord Middleton’s deep voice filled the chamber. “The question is not whether we ought to respond, but how we ought to respond. Surely, two regiments of trained British regulars ought to be enough to reclaim the lost fort and cut off the French from the British frontier.”
Middleton’s words were met with shouts of agreement.
From where he stood in the back corner, Jamie could see the smirk on Sheff’s face. Sheff had certainly done his best to derail any chance of the bill’s passing. Debate had raged for a week, and the bill had come close to being sent off to some accursed committee, where it surely would have languished.
Sheff and his collaborators had then begun to propose a host of amendments designed to weaken the original bill. One regiment, no ships. Two regiments, no ships.
They might have succeeded had Lord Shelburne, Alec’s good friend, not risen from the bench to take up the fight. Though he lacked Pitt’s singular wit, he was a valuable ally, a man greatly respected by his fellow Lords.
Lord Shelburne stood. “My Lords, may I express my gratitude for your Lordships’ unwavering interest to this issue. For five long days, we have debated. ’Tis seldom one sees such attention paid to a single bill, particularly when the issue demands not debate, but immediate action, as my noble and learned friend, Lord Middleton, has said. If I can have your Lordships’ attention for but a short while longer, perhaps this issue can be settled.”
Shelburne then described in grisly detail the massacre of a frontier family at the hands of the French and their allies, the burning of British farms and outposts, Nicholas’s horrendous death at the hands of the Wyandot.
“Would you, as peers of His Majesty, show less concern for the outrageous and barbaric acts of cruelty committed by our enemies than the honorable gentlemen in Commons?” Shelburne paused, surveyed the chamber, his gaze solemn. “No, my noble Lords, we must act decisively. I move that we recess for an hour and return prepared to vote on the matter.”
Shelburne’s motion carried.
Jamie threaded his way through the crowd, as bewigged lords began to make their way out the door. He hoped to speak briefly with Shelburne before the vote.
He felt someone slam into his left shoulder, turned to look.
Sheff.
“The game is not over, old friend.” His jaw wore a fresh bruise, and his face was a mask of hatred, but Jamie could see the fear beneath.
“No, it’s not.” Jamie met Sheff’s gaze. “Until then, sleep well, old friend.”
Sheff turned abruptly and hastened out the door, but not so quickly that Jamie missed the red stain of humiliation on Sheff’s face.
* * *
Bríghid lifted her night shift over her head, dropped it on a nearby chair, and examined her naked reflection in the mirror. Some of the color had returned to her cheeks, though she was still pale. She looked a bit thinner perhaps than the last time she’d seen herself in the glass. The biggest change was the angry red scar on her right side. And the look of deep melancholy in her eyes.
She turned to the tub of steaming water behind her, climbed in. The heat felt delicious against her skin, and, for a moment, she closed her eyes, forgot her troubles, and let herself savor the feeling. Then she took up her bar of lavender soap and began to bathe, her thoughts adrift.
The week was passing so slowly. Jamie had insisted she stay in bed and had enlisted the help of everyone in the household to make certain she did, as he was in London most of the time attending sessions of Parliament. So she’d slept, done needlework with Elizabeth, read countless books, taught Heddy a few letters, grown restless and cross. She’d been on the brink of losing her temper, when Elizabeth had told her something that made her see things differently.
“He feels responsible for what happened to you, Bríghid. He feels he should have done a better job keeping you safe, just as he feels he should have been able to protect his nephew, Nicholas.”
Then Elizabeth had told her about the Indian attack and how Nicholas had been taken captive and burnt alive despite Jamie’s efforts to save him. Jamie had blamed himself.
“Let him fret over you for a while. It will make him feel better, and all women deserve to be coddled now and again.”
Bríghid hadn’t known, hadn’t thought about it that way. She’d been aware something was troubling him. She could see it in his eyes, which were never free of shadows now. She could feel it when he touched her, the thrum of tension just beneath his skin. She could sense it in her sleep, when he lay awake through the night beside her, restless.
When she’d asked him what was wrong, he’d told her things weren’t going smoothly in the House of Lords. She had believed him, offered him reassurances. But now she knew there was more to it than politics and Parliament.
Bríghid had thanked Elizabeth for her wisdom and good advice.
Elizabeth had smiled. “Once you come to understand men, dear, it’s much easier to endure their company.”
Then yesterday the surgeon, who said her temper and restlessness were a good sign, had finally pronounced her well enough to get out of bed for short periods of time. Jamie had relented and let her join Matthew and Elizabeth for dinner last night. He’d even allowed her to attend the conversation in the library afterwards. Then he’d scooped her up and carried her back up to her bed. And Elizabeth was right—it was satisfying to be coddled sometimes.
Bríghid rinsed the soap from her body, dunked her head under the water, and began to wash her hair.
How she longed to pour out her heart to Father Owen, to share the pain she tried so desperately to keep secret. Her fairytale was about to come to an end, and she didn’t know how she was going to bear saying farewell to the man she loved.
Any day now, Finn would reach Clare and send for her. Then Jamie would put her on his ship and send her back over the Irish Sea to her brothers. Even if he came with her all the long way to Clare, they’d have little more than a month together at most. And then he would bid her farewell.
She remembered the globe in the library, how tiny Ireland was compared to the rest of the world, how far away the shores of Virginia had seemed. Farewell would mean forever. Jamie would go about his life, she about hers. She would never hear of him or see him again. She would never know what became of him. Just like her father, Jamie would be lost to her, swallowed by the sea, by distance, by time.
And so she would take whatever time she had left with him, sin or no sin. She would cherish each moment and hope they were enough to last a lifetime. For no matter how long she waited nor how wide she searched, she would never love a man as she loved Jamie Blakewell.
Tears traced silent paths down her cheeks as she worked the lavender-scented soap through the length of her hair.
She had one other thing on her mind. It probably meant nothing. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder. Her monthly flux was late. It wasn’t the first time she’d been late, for certain. The spring she’d come down with scarlet fever and she’d been so sick Finn had almost cut off her hair, she’d been late by a week. Two years ago, when crops had failed and food had been scarce, her flux had stopped altogether. Surely this time it was nothing more than the result of having been shot and running a high fever.
She couldn’t be carrying Jamie’s child—not so soon. Could she?
Her life would be so much more difficult if she were with child. Finn and Ruaidhrí wouldn’t send her away, but neither would they take the news well. She’d be scorned by her neighbors, doubly so because the baby’s father was a Sasanach. She might never find a man willing to take her to wife. People would tittle and call the child names.
She dunked her head under the surface to rinse her hair, felt the warm water wash her tears away. Then she leaned back against the side of the tub, let the water soothe her.
* * *
Jamie unbuttoned his greatcoat, tossed it on a nearby chair, checked the sideboard in the foyer for messages. The silver tray held a single letter.
He recognized the handwriting at once, snatched up the letter, broke the seal. A faint smile played on his lips as he read.
It was good news. Cassie had given birth to a baby girl the week before Christmas. Alec wrote that the birth had been mercifully quick, and that mother and child were well. They had named their new daughter Emma Rose.
“She is the very image of her mother, which means, I fear, there will be no end to the trouble she’ll cause us when she’s older,” Alec wrote.
Jamie chuckled to himself as he read, his spirits lifting.
“Emma’s birth has helped to ease Cassie’s grief over the loss of our dear Nicholas. Your sister is smiling again, and for that, I am most grateful.”
And in a breath, Jamie’s spirits sank again.
He finished the letter, tucked it in the pocket of his waistcoat.
Rather than seeking out Matthew to discuss the day’s affairs, Jamie walked toward the stairs, guided by impulse. He needed to see Bríghid, to see her, to hold her.
It had been a long day. Shelburne had managed to force a vote, but not before Lord Middleton had amended the bill to remove any mention of a fleet of ships. The bill had passed almost unanimously, and immediately the wheels were set in motion. Two regiments—1,400 British regulars—would be on their way to the Colonies by week’s end.
“It won’t be enough,” Jamie had told Lord Shelburne afterwards. “With their allies, the French can muster equal that amount overnight. And if our regulars don’t learn to fight as the Indians fight, I fear we are in for a slaughter.”
“Don’t lose hope.” Lord Shelburne had lowered his voice, leaned closer. “A number of us are introducing a new bill next week. Tell Alec he will get his ships. I’ll see to it personally.”