by Pamela Clare
Jamie supposed it was a victory. British regulars were on their way. Pitt and Shelburne would continue to fight for ships. Still, there was no time to celebrate.
If Sheff weren’t lying—and Jamie believed him capable of anything—he still held Ruaidhrí captive in Ireland. Because the boy had tried to attack an English lord with a pistol—Jamie’s pistol—he faced a death sentence should Sheff turn him over to the courts.
Jamie couldn’t let that happen. Bríghid had warned that the pistol could bring them trouble. She’d been right.
Jamie’s plan was simple. His business with Parliament now behind him, he would put the word out that he was returning to Virginia. In a few days time, he would board The Three Sisters—named in honor of Alec’s and Cassie’s daughters prior to little Emma’s arrival—and sail down the Thames to await favorable winds at Dover.
As soon as the ship reached the Channel, however, he would round the coastline and make straight for the port at Drogheda. From there, he’d travel over land as quickly as possible until he reached Baronstown. Then, under cover of night, he’d make his way to Sheff’s hunting lodge, free Ruaidhrí and head back with him to the ship—that is if Jamie could refrain from killing Ruaidhrí himself.
If Jamie found out Ruaidhrí had, indeed, been behind the bullet that almost killed Bríghid, the boy was in trouble.
Of course, the plan had flaws.
What if Ruaidhrí had been moved? There was every possibility Sheff had already turned him over to the authorities.
What would he do with Ruaidhrí afterward? The boy couldn’t stay with Matthew and Elizabeth. He was now considered a criminal, his crime a capital offense. Harboring him was itself a crime. Yet, Jamie thought it unlikely that Ruaidhrí would willingly leave Ireland for Virginia.
And what if Jamie were caught? He’d likely be hanged alongside Ruaidhrí. For that reason, Jamie had already made certain changes to his will.
He wished Travis were on hand, as a second set of eyes, ears, and weapons would be helpful. But Jamie didn’t expect him back for another two weeks, and he couldn’t wait.
He hadn’t told Bríghid Sheff had her brother. He didn’t want to upset her. Nor did he want to make her an accomplice by telling her what he planned to do—or inspire her to try some scheme of her own. The less she knew, the safer she was.
He reached the top of the stairs, made straight for Bríghid’s closed door. He opened it as quietly as he could, expecting to find her asleep. He heard her gasp, caught a glimpse of rosy flesh as she sank deeper into her bath, her eyes wide with surprise. All the strain and pressure he’d been feeling dissipated. “This is the second time I’ve interrupted your bath.”
Had she been crying?
She sat up, smiled, and leaned back lazily against the tub, until her breasts rose just above the water’s surface. “You’re just in time to wash my back, Sasanach.”
“Is that so?” Jamie felt a stirring in his blood, tried to ignore it. She had just recovered from being shot. She ought not to squander her strength on love play.
He doffed his waistcoat, removed his shirt so as not to get it wet, and strode over to the tub. He felt the heat of her gaze as she looked up at him. An answering heat flared in his veins. He knelt beside the tub, reached for her little bar of lavender soap. The scent was irresistibly feminine.
She leaned forward, exposed the delicate curves of her back. “How did the vote go?”
Jamie dipped his hands into the warm water to wet them, lifted the heavy mass of her wet hair aside, rubbed the soap on her soft skin. “The bill passed but we didn’t get everything we wanted—not yet.”
“Will you be tryin’ again?”
Her skin felt like silk beneath his hands, and Jamie found it increasingly difficult to think. “I’ve played my part. Pitt and Lord Shelburne will handle matters from here on. They might have had an easier time of it had I not been involved at all.”
“Because of me.”
“No, Bríghid. Because of Byerly.” Jamie rinsed the soap away, then leaned down to place a kiss on the wet curve of her shoulder.
Her head tilted to the side, baring the curve of her neck. “Is it soon you’ll be leavin’?”
Jamie painted a line of kisses from her shoulder to the spot just beneath her ear, felt her shiver. Was that sadness he heard beneath the feigned indifference in her voice? “I still have some business to complete. I don’t imagine I shall be ready to sail for home for perhaps another month. Are you that eager to get rid of me?”
He’d said the words in jest, but the moment he’d heard them, he realized he wanted an answer, needed an answer. In the weeks since they’d become lovers, she had never once told him how she felt about him. He knew she trusted him. He knew she enjoyed spending time with him—riding, playing billiards, discussing history. He knew, too, she enjoyed making love with him. She responded to his touch as if she’d been made just for him, her hunger a perfect match for his. In truth, he’d never met a more passionate woman.
But, as he well knew, passion was not love.
At first, he thought she wasn’t going to answer him. Then he felt her body shudder, a quick, ragged intake of breath.
She was crying.
“Bríghid?”
She turned her face toward him, met his gaze. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks. “You silly Sasanach. I’m not after gettin’ rid of you at all!”
It wasn’t a declaration of love, but Jamie’s would take it. She was upset at the thought of him leaving—surely a good thing. But if events unfolded as he planned, there would be no reason for tears.
He brushed a strand of wet hair from her cheek, and, without thinking, kissed her tears away. He meant only to comfort her, but at first contact, desire slammed into him, hard and hot. He felt the heat, knew she felt it, too.
“Jamie?”
“Aye, my sweet?”
“Love me.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
Bríghid watched as he stood and stripped off his waistcoat, shirt and breeches, and dropped them casually on the floor. She ran her gaze over the lines of his naked body, tried to memorize each ridge, each hollow, the tawny glow of his skin, the power of his erection.
One month. One precious month. She would not waste time on crying, not when the man she loved was right beside her. She would savor every moment, every touch. She would force tomorrow’s woes to wait until this day was done.
Jamie stepped into her bath, lowered himself until he sat in front of her, then pulled her gently into his lap. His voice was deep, husky. “Wrap your legs around me.”
She did as he asked, felt his arms enfold her and closed her eyes.
“Let me taste you.” His mouth found the sensitive skin beneath her ear and nibbled until she shivered with pleasure. Then his lips brushed teasingly over hers, his touch soft and furtive. His full kiss, when it finally came, was hot, deep, slow.
She felt her hunger for him rise, ran her hand over his wet, naked skin, desperate for the hard feel of the man she loved. Then his hands moved to cup her breasts, and she forgot everything but the heat of his touch. “Aye, Jamie. Love me.”
Jamie watched the arousal on her face, ignoring his own burning need, her pleasure fueling his own. He wanted to wash her tears away, to bring her pleasure. He caressed her breasts, teasing their tight rosy crests until she whimpered her frustration. And then, when her whimpers became throaty moans, he bent forward, took a taut bud into his mouth, and suckled her.
He felt her fingers clench in his hair, felt her hips shift in the water, a sensual undulation that bespoke her sexual need. She was ripe. She was ready for him.
“Oh, Jamie, I want you now!” She pressed her sex against his.
He groaned, lifted her until his cock was poised at her entrance, their moans mingling as, wet and hot, she slid smoothly down the length of his cock. She felt so good, so tight. She was the only woman he wanted, the only woman he would ever wa
nt. She was his beginning, his end. She was the woman he loved. “Bríghid.”
Bríghid clung to him as he rocked his hips, thrusting into her, filling her with each slow stroke. Their bodies, wet and warm, were pressed so closely together that she could scarce tell where she ended and Jamie began. She could feel his heartbeat against her breasts, feel him move deep within her, feel his lips on her skin. It felt so, so good.
“Jamie! Jamie! Jamie!” His name became a sacred litany as bliss claimed her and sent her soaring, her muscles clenching around him in ecstatic rhythm.
One, two, three times he brought her to her peak. Then, as her body quivered with pleasure, he groaned, thrust hard again and again and again, pouring his essence into her.
For a long time afterward, they held each other in silence, Bríghid’s head against his shoulder, his hands stroking her wet hair. And she found herself wishing she knew some magic, some ancient incantation that could keep them in this moment forever. Sweet Mary, how she loved him! “Jamie?”
“Aye, love?”
She hesitated, but only for a moment. “These weeks with you have been the happiest of my life. No matter what else comes, I want you to know that.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then his lips pressed a kiss against her damp hair. “’Tis the same for me.”
* * *
Sheff hated Jamie Blakewell. As fond of Jamie as he’d once been, that was how much he hated Jamie now. The bastard had managed to find powerful allies in Lords. Lord Shelburne, the pompous ass, had kept Jamie’s bill alive, even if he hadn’t been able to fend off the last minute amendment by Middleton. The self-satisfied look on Jamie’s face had been enough to make Sheff want to knock Jamie’s teeth down his accursed throat.
Sleep well, he’d said. The rotten bastard!
Well, Sheff would sleep well soon enough, Jamie’s Irish bitch beside him. His new man was keeping a close eye on Jamie, watching his every move. It wouldn’t be long now before they’d be able to spring their trap. Then Jamie would see exactly who had the power—and the woman.
Chapter Thirty
Jamie watched Bríghid, charmed, as she gazed in amazement out the carriage window and spoke happily about the wonders she saw. It was the first time she’d seen London in daylight. For her sake, he’d bid the driver travel by a route that took them over London Bridge and past Tower Hill before looping back over the bridge and heading into the heart of the city.
Along the way, Jamie shared what history he could remember. “Then the assassins entered the tower at night and killed both Prince Edward and his little brother, Richard, Duke of York, in their beds.”
“’Tis a fitting name—Bloody Tower.” She shook her head sadly. “Those poor boys!”
Jamie found himself wishing he could pull her into his arms, lift her skirts and create some history of their own in the moving carriage. Though they’d made love this morning before rising, he wanted her again. He tried to shift the direction of his thoughts. “Have you no such stories in Irish history?”
“Oh, aye, we do. King Bodbh’s daughter turned her own dear sister’s children into swans to be rid of them.”
Jamie chuckled, amused by her sincerity, her innocence. “I don’t think England boasts any recorded history quite like that.”
All too soon, the carriage rounded the corner into the alleyway and stopped.
Jamie alighted, glanced about to make sure the area safe. Then he lifted Bríghid to the ground, careful not to put pressure on her right side. “Here you are—as promised.”
“Thank you, Jamie.” She smiled, smoothed her skirts.
Beneath her cloak, she wore a gown of midnight blue silk, one Jamie’d had made to complement her eyes. It was one of the few that she felt was modest enough to wear to church—the gown’s only flaw, as far as he could see.
He put his arm through hers, escorted her over the cobblestones down the narrow passage that led to the chapel, his senses attuned to anything unusual. He had to admit he had misgivings about this. He would much rather she remain safely at home and let Father Owen come to her. Jamie had spent a lot of time with the priest lately and had no doubt the good Father would be happy to make the trip himself. Jamie’s generous contribution to the church aside, Father Owen seemed to care deeply about Bríghid, as he did all his parishioners, who were scattered around London like lost sheep.
But a promise was a promise, even when exacted by a beautiful temptress who’d just left him senseless and drained from lovemaking.
Bríghid had said she wanted to go to confession and take Communion in a church with the other parishioners. When she’d explained she’d only been inside a chapel once and very much wanted to see it again, Jamie had understood and had quit trying to persuade her to do otherwise.
He open the door for her and followed her inside.
She dipped her finger in the font of Holy Water, crossed herself, then curtsied in the direction of the altar. She turned to him, took his hand, gave it a squeeze. “I’ll try not to take too long.”
Jamie tried to look serious. “After what we did the other night and this morning—I’m guessing this could take all afternoon.”
“Jamie!” Bríghid’s tone of voice told him such things ought not to be mentioned in church. But there was laughter in her eyes and a rosy glow on her cheeks. She turned in a swish of silk, walked toward the back rooms where Father Owen waited to hear her confession.
Jamie sat in the back pew, gave his mind over to other thoughts.
He’d had The Three Sisters made ready to sail at a moment’s notice with provisions enough to last the voyage to Virginia. He’d gone so far as to have most of his belongings packed and stowed away on board. He suspected they’d have to leave quickly once he’d freed Ruaidhrí and wouldn’t have time to prepare the ship then. He’d made final changes to his will and dispatched a letter to Alec and Cassie detailing all that had happened since his arrival in late October.
He was ready to leave for Ireland, but for one thing.
Before he left, he intended to marry Bríghid. He had found a way. It meant risking everything. But he had found a way.
Jamie wanted to give her the protection of his name should anything happen to him in Ireland. For all he knew, she might already carry his child. If he should fail to return, or if he should find himself hanging at the end of a rope, he wanted to know she was safe and well provided for. He would not forsake her.
Most of the arrangements for the wedding were made. Jamie’d had a special gown sewn for her as a gift. He’d bought several of the finest bottles of wine in London. He’d bought her a wedding ring—a sapphire set in gold to match her eyes. He’d even given Cook a list of special items he wanted her to purchase for the dinner afterwards. As secrecy was needed, it would have to be a small affair, with Elizabeth and Matthew and perhaps their son and daughters in attendance.
All Jamie needed to do was ask the bride.
In his more rational moments, Jamie wondered how he could face a dozen Wyandot warriors without fear but couldn’t find the courage to ask a petite woman one question.
“Bríghid, will you marry me?”
It wasn’t that hard. Five words. One sentence. Surely he had face more formidable challenges in his life.
Jamie couldn’t think of one.
He should ask her tonight. Aye, tonight. He would ask her tonight.
He surfaced from his thoughts, glanced around him.
What was taking so long? Parishioners would begin arriving for Mass at any moment.
Jamie stood, paced the back of the tiny chapel, restless.
Still, Bríghid did not come out.
As time wore on, his restlessness was replaced by a growing sense of unease. He tried to shake it, told himself he was being foolish. Bríghid was alone with a priest. They were in a chapel in the heart of London. No one had entered since they’d arrived.
Then a terrible possibility occurred to him.
His heart gave a violent lurch, one har
d hammer stroke of dread.
“Bríghid!” He turned and ran down the aisle.
He’d gone but a few strides when men in the uniform of the London constabulary flowed out of the back room.
He halted in his tracks, fists clenched. “Where is she? And where is Father Owen?”
One of the constable’s men—Jamie counted five—moved toward Jamie, shackles in his hand. “Are you goin’ to come wi’ us easy like, or am I goin’ to have to break your head?”
Then the constable’s men parted, made way for someone else.
Sheff.
“You’d do well to cooperate.” Sheff smiled, motioned the man with the shackles forward. “It will get you the least number of broken bones by day’s end.”
The front door of the chapel was kicked open, and several more uniformed men stormed inside. Behind them came clamor of an approaching mob, shouting their hate for Catholics.
Jamie was trapped.
Raged flowed through his veins like molten iron. He met Sheff’s gaze. “What’s all this, old friend? You couldn’t face me yourself? You had to bribe—”
The heavy iron shackles swung through the air into his Jamie’s gut, knocked the breath from his lungs.
The man who wielded the shackles kicked him for good measure. “Hold your tongue, you! Here lads—have a go.”
The other men rushed forward with cudgels, rained crushing blow after blow on Jamie’s skull and back, drove him to his knees.
A boot rammed into his stomach. “Traitor!”
“That’s enough!” Sheff’s voice pierced the pain in Jamie’s head. “Lock him up.”
He saw blood on the floor, his blood. The room spun. He felt cold iron close around his left wrist, then his right, felt the bite of fetters round his ankles.
“Get up, bugger!”
Rough hands dragged him to his feet, held him fast.
Jamie struggled to lift his head, white-hot pain pulsing behind his skull. He found Sheff, looked him in the eye, the flow of blood warm on his cheek. “Touch her, and you’re a dead man!”