by Pamela Clare
“You do like to make threats, don’t you, Jamie?” Sheff turned to one of the men, took the man’s cudgel. “But you hear this—I will touch her. I will take her before your very eyes, and you will be helpless to stop me!”
With that, Sheff swung and hit Jamie on the temple.
The last sounds Jamie heard as blackness drew him down was that of the angry crowd and breaking glass.
* * *
Bríghid’s stomach rolled and pitched along with the ship. Nauseated, she huddled, terrified, in the dark, damp corner of the little room they’d locked her in. She was belowdecks, somewhere in the hold. It reeked of rotting seaweed, excrement, filth.
Worse, there were rats. She could hear them scurrying about in the inky darkness. She could hear their squeaks, the gnawing of their sharp teeth. A few times, they had gotten close enough she could see the outline of their bodies. She’d kicked at them as best she could, sent at least one flying.
Her side ached. Her wrists were bound with rope that pinched and burned her skin. They’d given her no blanket, no straw for a bed. Just damp wood and rats.
She breathed deeply, tried to quell her intense nausea. She hadn’t suffered from seasickness on the way to England. But then she hadn’t been locked in a putrid stinking hole either. Jamie had given her a berth with a bed and a window and …
Oh, Jamie!
She prayed, not for the first time, that he was safe.
She’d walked into the chapel’s backroom, sat in the confessional. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
But it wasn’t Father Owen’s voice that had answered.
“I bet you have, poppet.”
Her heart had all but stopped and her mouth had gone dry. She knew that voice.
Then the iarla’s man had reached in, crammed a cloth inside her mouth so she could not scream, then dragged her roughly out of the confessional and to her feet.
“Gentle, Edward, gentle. I won’t have you hurting her.” The iarla ran a finger down her cheek. “You’ve led me on quite the merry chase, little one. But it’s over now. Oh, don’t look so sad. You’re going home.”
In no time, she’d found herself bound, gagged, and dragged out the back door and over to the iarla’s waiting carriage.
“I regret I can’t join you just yet, love.” The iarla lifted her into the carriage. “I have unfinished business with your erstwhile lover. But don’t worry. Edward will keep an eye on you in the meantime.”
Edward climbed in, sat across from her, his eyes filled with undisguised lust.
The iarla started to close the door, stopped. “A word of warning, Edward. If you hurt my prize, if you spoil her, it will cost you dearly.”
They’d taken her straight to the iarla’s waiting ship and had set sail.
In the utter dark, Bríghid had lost all sense of time. Between the rats and the nausea, she couldn’t have slept had she wanted to. Fears darted through her mind, one after another.
What had the iarla meant by unfinished business? What if the iarla had hurt Jamie? Sweet Mary, what if the iarla had killed him?
She’d seen the men with cudgels standing in the alley. They wore some kind of livery. Were they there to arrest Jamie, to punish him for being caught in a Catholic chapel?
And what had become of Father Owen? She remembered what the iarla had done to Father Padraíg.
She felt the reassuring weight of the cross against her throat, sent another silent prayer skyward, asked God and all His saints to watch over both Jamie and the good Father.
Jamie would come for her. She knew he would come for her—if he could.
And if not?
A tremor of fear and revulsion passed through her. Tears of helplessness pricked her eyes, ran silently down her cheeks.
She knew what the iarla wanted. His prize, he had called her.
His prize.
And then it dawned on her. The iarla had not taken her simply to ease his lust, but to hurt and humiliate Jamie. She was a pawn in a game of power.
But then others had always had more power over her life than she. Her parents, God bless them. Her brothers. Even Jamie. They had always had more to say about the way her days unfolded than she.
No, not always.
Hadn’t she defied everyone when she’d gone to Jamie’s room and given herself to him?
Aye, she had.
She’d grown tired of having her fate determined for her. And so she had defied the Church. She had defied the laws of Britain. She had defied the wishes of her brothers. She had given herself to Jamie without reservation and without regrets. And in his arms, she’d found a greater happiness than any she’d known.
It had been her choice.
But what choice did she have now? She was bound, locked belowdecks. The door, even if she could find it in the dark, was guarded by a man who terrified her, who would hurt her if he could. She had no weapon, no way to defend herself.
There were no choices. She was alone and helpless.
A surge of fury rushed through her.
The last time the iarla had kidnapped her, she’d hadn’t struggled because she’d thought she was protecting her brothers. But things were different this time. Her brothers were safe in Clare with Muirín and Aidan.
More than that, she was different.
This time she would not accept whatever fate the iarla handed to her. She would fight him. She would fight him with every ounce of her strength. She would fight with teeth and nails and feet and fists. She would fight him with anything she could find.
And if he beat her until she lay bruised and bleeding?
She would take satisfaction from knowing he was bleeding, too.
The dark shape of a rat approached her, sniffed her skirts. She kicked at it, felt the toe of her shoe connect, heard its outraged squeak as it hurtled through the darkness.
Aye, she would fight.
* * *
The clang of iron bars in the distance jarred Jamie into consciousness.
He heard someone groan, recognized his own voice.
Pain split his skull, made it almost impossible to think. He tasted blood, his own blood, felt it thick on the side of his face. Iron bit viciously into his wrists, made his fingers tingle. His shoulders ached, as if his arms were being pulled from their sockets.
Through a fog of pain, he realized he wasn’t lying down. He felt cold stone against his back, a floor beneath his feet. And then he knew. He was chained to a stone wall. His arms, stretched out on either side of him, supported his dead weight.
Thoughts and images drifted through his mind. Bríghid looking out the carriage windows. Bríghid in the chapel crossing herself. Men from the London constabulary.
Sheff.
Alarm shot through him, forced his eyes open.
Sheff had Bríghid. He had taken her from the confessional. He had taken her and set men from the constabulary on Jamie.
Bríghid!
Jamie put his weight on his feet, nearly groaned aloud as his shoulders, suddenly relieved of their burden, shrieked in protest. His entire body ached—his head, his arms and shoulders, his ribs. He savored the pain, used it to bring himself to full awareness.
He looked around, realized he was in some kind of cell. He’d been stripped to his breeches, his chest and feet bare. Straw was scattered on the floor. A crudely hewn table sat in the middle of the tiny room. A window high on the wall let in a weak stream of light. A door of thick iron bars opened to a dark hallway beyond. The stench of human waste, damp stone, and despair permeated the air.
He was in a gaol.
The full reality of the situation hit him. He was in chains, behind bars, a prisoner. And Sheff had Bríghid.
How long had Jamie been here? How long had Bríghid been at Sheff’s mercy?
Long enough.
Jamie forced his numb fingers open, closed them around the chains that held him, tested the strength of his bonds. Even when he used his full strength, he could not make them budge. He had no
hope of pulling the chains from the walls. Even if he could free himself, there was still the iron door and the guards beyond. The window would be of little use, as it, too was barred. His only hope was to bide his time, wait for a chance to escape. But that might takes days, weeks, even months. He could only imagine what horrors Bríghid would endure in that time.
Damnation! Bloody hell!
Anger at his own helplessness surged white-hot through him. Anguish. Regret.
He should have followed his gut instinct and kept Bríghid at home, asked Father Owen to come to the house. He should have gone to the back of the chapel to make certain it was safe. He’d known there was another entrance. He’d seen the back door during his visits with Father Owen. He should have realized Sheff might have hired another man to follow him and might have known he visited the chapel regularly.
If he had done but one of these things, Bríghid might well be safe at home right now.
But he hadn’t. He had failed her, as he had failed Nicholas.
Be strong, Bríghid. I will come for you.
He heard voices, the sound of a key in heavy lock, the squeak of iron hinges, the flicker of light.
“He’s just down ’ere, my lord. Are you sure you want to take ’im, my lord? We know how to deal with traitors, my lord.”
“I’m sure you do.” It was Sheff’s voice. “But, as I’ve already explained to your superior, this is a personal matter.”
“As you wish, my lord. Thy will be done, as I always say.”
So Sheff had gotten him arrested to subdue him and had now come to take him … Where?
Then Jamie remembered what Sheff had said in the chapel.
I will take her before your very eyes, and you will be helpless to stop me!
Jamie had a feeling that wherever Sheff was taking him, he would find Bríghid. An idea half-formed in his mind, he forced himself to go limp, ignored the screaming agony in his shoulders.
* * *
Sheff held the handkerchief to his nose, waited for the turnkey, a small man with an equally small allotment of intelligence, to unlock the door. “Hurry up, man!”
Sheff couldn’t abide the stench of this place. He’d have been wiser to have the constable’s men carry Jamie directly to the hold of his ship, but the constable might have found that odd. Instead, he’d paid good coin to have them subdue Jamie and bring him here, thinking it might teach Jamie a lesson.
Sheff had already planned what he would say. “See what I can do to you? See where I can put you?”
But now he felt Newgate might be too vile a place, even for the likes of Jamie.
The bolt clicked into place.
The turnkey opened the door, held up the lamp. “There ’e is, my lord. I’ll stay ’ere in case you need ’elp.”
Sheff ducked through the low doorway, glanced around the pitiful cell. There, against the wall, was Jamie. He was still unconscious, his chin against his chest, his body covered in bruises and welts. Blood covered one side of his face. Both of his eyes were swollen.
A feeling akin to regret welled up inside him, but Sheff battered it down. Jamie had brought this on himself. Hadn’t Jamie broken into his manor in the middle of the night and threatened his life? Jamie hadn’t shown regret. He hadn’t acted sorry when Sheff had seen him days later in the House of Lords.
Sheff wouldn’t be sorry, either.
“He’s still unconscious.” Sheff turned to face the gaoler. “Can you wake him?”
“Aye, my lord.” The gaoler strode forward and slapped Jamie’s face.
“Stop, I say!”
“You wanted me to wake ’im, me lord.”
“Yes, wake him, but not by injuring him further!”
Then Sheff saw Jamie begin to stir. Jamie moaned, tried to lift his head.
“Wake up, you!” The gaoler shouted in Jamie’s face. “’is Lordship wants a word with you!”
Jamie slowly opened his eyes, let his gaze fall first on the gaoler, then on Sheff.
Sheff pushed the gaoler out of the way, stepped forward. “Jamie, can you hear me?”
Jamie brought his gaze into focus, stared into the eyes of the man who used to be his friend. How long ago that seemed. “Where … ?”
“You’re in Newgate.”
Jamie did his best to look confused—unfortunately, not a difficult task. “New … gate?”
“Aye, the gaol. In London. Don’t you remember?”
Jamie said nothing, let his eyes close, his head drop.
“Oh, bloody hell!” Sheff lifted Jamie’s chin with a gloved hand. “The constable’s men seemed to have done their job too well. At least I know you’re not invincible, old friend. My men will take him to my ship now.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Jamie heard the shuffle of more feet, felt the gaoler begin to unlock his wrists and ankles. When the shackles gave way, he willed himself to stay limp and let himself fall forward, certain he would hit stone.
Rough hands broke his fall, seized him, and he soon found himself being carried between two men like a corpse.
Stay strong, Bríghid. I am coming for you.
* * *
Ruaidhrí heard the key in the lock, sat up.
Light appeared at the top of the stairs. Ailís.
“It’s my angel come with manna from heaven.”
She handed him the basked. “Hush! You know very well ’tis but bread and water.”
Though he was used to her chiding, it was somehow different this time. She seemed troubled. Ruaidhrí took the basket, careful not to tip it, and sat it in his lap. He pulled back the napkin, uncovered a chunk of stale bread and a cup of water. “Sure and it’s a feast.”
She said nothing.
“How are you and the babe farin’, Ailís? Do they feed you well, now you’re with child?” Ruaidhrí took a bite, chewed, grateful for anything to fill his rumbling belly.
“I eat fair enough, better than I did at home.”
Then he said what he’d wanted to say for days. “Come away with me, Ailís. When I get out of here, come with me.”
She shook her head. “Nonsense. Why would I take up with a boy who’s always gettin’ himself in trouble?”
“I can give you a home.”
“I have a home.”
“When I get out, I’ll take you to my cousin’s home in—”
“You’re not gettin’ out of here, Ruaidhrí! Don’t you understand? When the iarla gets back, you’re going to be hanged!” Her voice took on notes of despair.
Ruaidhrí set the basket aside, stood, lifted a hand to her cheek. He expected to see tears on her face, but instead he found the lines of anger. “I’m goin’ to do all I can to free myself when the time is right. Come with me, Ailís. I promise I’ll take care of you.”
“You can’t even take care of yourself!” She spat the words at him, stepped back from him. “It’s not the way you think. I wasn’t brought here against my will like your sainted sister. I came of my own choosin’. I wanted a better life, and the iarla gave it to me. And when he wanted me in his bed, I went freely.”
Stunned, Ruaidhrí, gaped at her.
She laughed, a cruel, high-pitched sound. “Aye, and all that I’ve done to make your life easier I’ve done for a reason. Did you ever wonder why I was so interested in the Sasanach who had helped your sister? Ever wonder why I asked so many questions? No? Silly boy! I passed every word you spoke on to the iarla’s men.”
For a moment, Ruaidhrí could do nothing but stare at her. Then, his thoughts began to come together again, and he tried to sift through his memory, recall everything he’d told her. They had nothing on him, no information that could harm him. Nothing but—
The pistol!
She knew who the pistol belonged to, who had taught him to shoot, what he’d planned to do with it.
“Aye, Ruaidhrí, when they hang you, it will be my doing.” She was smiling, but tears poured down her face.
His mind buzzed with fury, and a shard of pain
pierced his chest.
She had betrayed him. She had given herself to the iarla Sasanach, had done so of her own will. And she had helped the iarla dig Ruaidhrí’s grave.
Ruaidhrí reached out grabbed a fistful of her hair, forced her head back until she had no choice but to meet his gaze. “Get out of here, Alice, before I end your worthless life and that of your bastard child!”
He released her with a little shove.
She turned and fled, forgetting the basket and her candle.
Chapter Thirty-one
Bríghid didn’t know when she’d ever been this tired. The two-day journey in the ship’s hold had seemed an eternity. Seasick and afraid, she’d slept little if at all. Now her eyes felt heavy, lulled by the rocking motion of the carriage, and her mind ached for lack of sleep. Still she fought to stay awake. She dared not sleep.
Across from her sat the man from her nightmares. Edward—that’s what the iarla had called him. So far the brute hadn’t touched her, his restraint no doubt the result of the iarla’s promise of punishment. But she could see the lust in his eyes—lust tinged with malice. He’d slept for part of the journey from Dublin, his deep snores giving Bríghid some respite from her fear. But after they’d passed through Baronstown, he’d awoken, and he now sat in silence, watching her like a predator, his face hidden in shadow.
But worse than anything—worse than fear or nausea or exhaustion—was the anguish of not knowing what had become of Jamie. Did he yet live? Was he hurt? Was he held captive in some reeking gaol? Was he on his way to free her? Did he even know where they had taken her? And then it struck her.
Sweet Mary, what if she never saw him again?
The thought nearly forced a sob from her throat.
Let him be alive and safe!
Unwilling to show any part of herself to the monster who sat across from her, she fought back her tears and looked out the window. Clouds blocked the late afternoon sun. The familiar Irish countryside rolled by, starkly beautiful in its winter sleep. More than once today, she’d felt the impulse to force open the door and leap to the ground, but that was no more than a fantasy born of desperation. She’d only succeed in hurting herself. Her wrists were still bound, giving her no way to brace her fall.