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

by Pamela Clare

  Finn felt the blood rush to his head.

  Another set of images flashed through Finn’s mind.

  Ruaidhrí heading up the road toward Clare early in the morning.

  The iarla and his men riding down on Finn as he worked to repair the fence.

  The iarla’s men beating him silly.

  The sound of his own voice.

  The forest south of there shelters a few abandoned cabins. He must be hidin’ in one of them.

  Finn had thought Ruaidhrí safe on the road to Clare. But Ruaidhrí had doubled back, had gone back to the squatters cabin for shelter, perhaps on his way to fetch Bríghid, perhaps after revenge against the iarla.

  And Finn had sent the iarla’s men straight to him.

  “God, no! Ruaidhrí!”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Bríghid sat before the fire, stared into the flames, unseeing. She would not cry. She could not. She had no more tears to shed.

  She had bathed in water grown cold, dressed in the emerald green gown Alice had brought her, even nibbled from the tray of food the iarla had sent up for her supper. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the iarla to claim his prize.

  Had she really thought she could fight him? Had she truly thought to resist?

  Aye, she had.

  What had happened to her courage?

  It had vanished the moment she’d learned the iarla held both Jamie and Ruaidhrí prisoner. While she’d gladly take a thousand blows like the one that had bruised her cheek, she could not bear to be the cause of their suffering. Jamie was already hurt—the iarla had said so himself. She would not bring him more pain.

  She would submit, and she would survive.

  A sound in the hallway made her jump to her feet, heart pounding, but it was just someone passing by her door, no doubt a servant on an errand.

  She walked to the window, fought to calm the fear that made it hard to breathe and filled her belly with writhing snakes. Outside, the last rays of winter sunlight turned the horizon pink. It would not be long now.

  She tried to tell herself she was strong enough to bear this. Last time she’d been here, she’d known little about what happened between men and women, and her mind had been filled with fears about the act itself. But she was no longer a maid. There was no barrier of tender flesh for the iarla to break, no innocence for him to abuse.

  But, in some ways, that made it all the worse. Bríghid knew exactly what it meant to lie with a man. She knew what his invasion of her body would entail. She knew she would have to open her body to a man she loathed. She knew she would have to bear his touch in the most intimate places, have him inside her, take his seed. And she knew there were unnatural acts, ways he could humiliate her, hurt her.

  What had been with Jamie an act of love would be twisted by the iarla into a form of torture. For this was not about love or pleasure. It was about control, dominance.

  And afterwards, when the iarla’s hatred had been spent—what then? Would he let her go? Would he let Ruaidhrí and Jamie go?

  She opened her hand, looked down at the dragon brooch that lay in her palm. Garnet eyes flashed defiance. Gold glinted in candlelight. The sight of it comforted her.

  The sound of footsteps.

  The click of a key in the lock.

  Heart in her throat, Bríghid dashed to the bed, slipped the brooch under the pillows next to her iron cross. She would not let anyone take them from her again.

  The door opened.

  The same young girl who’d brought her supper hurried into the room to retrieve the tray.

  Nerves frayed to a single thread, Bríghid tried to stop her own trembling, tried to breathe. Not yet. The iarla had not come for her yet.

  She turned back toward the window, toward the vanishing light.

  “I see you decided to cooperate.”

  Bríghid gasped, whirled about.

  The iarla stood just inside the doorway. He wore no wig, and his waistcoat and shirt were unbuttoned at the throat. His gazed slid intimately over her. “The gown looks lovely on you—not as lovely as the one you destroyed, but you are still quite beautiful.”

  A shiver of revulsion ran through her as his gaze fixed on her breasts. She fought the urge to cover herself. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. “I-I have done as you wished,” she said, remembering to add “my lord” only as an afterthought.

  He stepped further into the room, and when the maid had left with the supper tray, kicked the door shut with his heel. His gaze did not leave her. “Your words speak of surrender, but I see defiance in your eyes.”

  She lifted her chin, fought to find her voice. “I only do what I must to protect my brother—and Jamie.”

  He smiled. “That’s what you say now. Later, you’ll be greedy for my attention.”

  She struggled to hide her disgust. “Never.”

  “Is that revulsion I see on your pretty face, my dear? You did not want Jamie’s hands on you at first. But now you seem quite enamored of him. So it shall be with me.”

  She looked down at her feet so that her eyes would not give her away. “If I lie with you willingly, will you release my brother and Jamie, too?”

  He took a step toward her. “So now you wish to broker a deal, is that it?”

  “Aye.” She buried her hands in her skirts to hide their trembling.

  He slowly walked toward her, a predator stalking cornered prey. “You must believe yourself to be quite extraordinary to demand so high a price—two men’s lives for the sport to be found between your thighs.”

  She backed away from him, sickened by his words, by his very presence. “N-no, my lord. I am but an Irish peasant girl. ’Tis you who have gone to great lengths to have me.”

  He tossed back his head, laughed, a cruel sound. “True enough, but now that I do have you, there’s no need for me to bargain.”

  She felt the windowsill behind her, knew she had no place else to go.

  He stopped mere inches away from her, cupped her bare shoulders with his hands. “Why should I bargain for that which I can simply take?”

  She shuddered at his touch, realized he meant to kiss her, turned her face from him. “Y-you promised they would not be harmed if—”

  “Oh, I’ve made no promises, my dear.” His hands slid slowly down the bare skin of her arms. “The truth is I cannot release them. If I let Jamie go, he’ll surely pay me another little midnight visit, and I’ll find myself asleep in my bed with my throat slit.”

  “Wh-what?”

  “Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t know.” He took her hands in his, raised them to his lips. “Did Jamie not tell you? No? Not long ago, he broke into my London manor painted like a savage and threatened to kill me. If I let him out, he’ll make good on his threat. I can’t let that happen, now can I?”

  “Wh-what will you do with him?”

  “Shouldn’t you be more concerned about what I intend to do with you?” The back of his hand brushed the bruise on her cheek. “I can see that you’re not. Very selfless of you. Since I can’t dissuade you from this topic, come sit with me, and I’ll tell you a story.”

  He took her hand, pulled her along behind him, sat in one of the overstuffed chairs before the fire, pulled her into his lap.

  She felt the press of his thighs against her bottom, and her stomach turned.

  “That’s better, isn’t it?” His fingers toyed with the strings of her bodice, one arm around her waist. “Once there was an English lord and a colonist. The colonist had all the advantages of wealth and learning and counted among his friends the English lord, a peer of the realm. His noble friend showed him every hospitality, treated him as if he, too, were of noble birth.

  “One night the colonist stole away with a girl from the nobleman’s household, insulting his friend’s hospitality. The colonist knew his noble friend was searching for the girl, so he lent his pistol to her brother and taught him to shoot so that her brother might go and kill his noble lord. And, well
, to make a long story short, both the colonist and the Irish miscreant became guests of the hangman.”

  Bríghid’s breath left her lungs in a rush. Her heart beat hard so hard it nearly burst. Before she knew what she was about, she sank to her knees before the iarla. “No! My lord, I beg you, spare them! Let them go to the colonies far from here! Let them go, and I shall willingly do whatever you ask!”

  “Brigid, my dear, you’ll do what I ask regardless.” He cupped her cheek in his hand, leaned forward. His breath stank of drink. “As for Jamie and the rapparee, they pose too great a danger. I cannot take that risk.”

  “But Ruaidhrí is just a boy, and Jamie was your friend!”

  Bríghid found herself jerked roughly to her feet, as the iarla leapt up and hauled her with him. His fingers dug painfully into her arms, his face an enraged scowl. “He was my friend. And he betrayed me—over you!”

  “Then blame me, my lord, and spare him! Give me to the courts, and let them go!”

  He thrust her from him, crossed the room, poured himself a drink, then tossed it down his throat with hands that trembled.

  Bríghid shook from head to toe, her mind reeling. The iarla planned to turn them over to the courts. They’d be tried. They’d be hanged.

  She had to stop the iarla. She had to free them. She had to do something.

  The iarla turned to face her, his expression once again calm. “You nearly managed to spoil my good mood, love. Still, your feelings are understandable, so I’ll not blame you. But enough talk. It’s time for me to claim my prize. Come.”

  He walked toward Bríghid, shouted. “Edward!”

  Edward opened the bedroom door, grinned. “Aye, my lord. Is it time?”

  “Aye. Fetch our guest.”

  * * *

  “By the time I’d reached their village, he was dead. They’d tied him to a post and burnt him alive.” Jamie didn’t know why he was telling Ruaidhrí this. Perhaps those blows to his head had rattled his brains more than he’d realized.

  Ruaidhrí’s breath hissed from between his teeth. “Bugger me! I guess there are worse ways to die than bein’ hanged.”

  “Aye.” Jamie squeezed his eyes shut against his own imaginings of Nicholas’s pain and torment. “If I had but gotten there an hour sooner … ”

  “You did more than any man I know could have done.”

  “I did nothing.”

  For a moment, there was silence. Then Jamie heard a snort of laughter.

  “What a mighty burden you carry, Sasanach.”

  Jamie felt his temper flair, tried to remind himself he was talking with a boy. “I don’t know what you find so funny.”

  “’Tis none of it funny, Sasanach—except you expectin’ yourself to be as powerful as the Almighty.”

  Now Jamie truly was angry. “Watch yourself, Ruaidhrí.”

  “First you survive the attack. Then you track a band of Indians back to their camp. Sure and you’re a lazy bastard!” Ruaidhrí laughed harder.

  “If I’d left sooner, moved faster, I might have been able to save him.”

  “Like as not, you’d have gotten yourself killed.”

  “He was my nephew!” Emotion roiled like hot pitch in Jamie’s gut.

  “He was a grown man! Do you think he was unaware of the dangers?”

  “You don’t understand! You’ve never—”

  “Never what, Sasanach? Lost a brother? Aye, that I have. And a father, too. I watched while the Sasanach bastards put my father in chains, beat him and dragged him away. I tried to stop them, but I could not.”

  “You were only a boy.”

  “And you were only one man against God knows how many Indians.”

  Ruaidhrí’s words hit Jamie with the force of a blow. He found himself speechless.

  “I’ve tried hard to hate you, Sasanach, and for a while I was good at it. But I’ve come to think you’re not all that bad. Oh, I can’t believe I’m sayin’ this!” Ruaidhrí groaned.

  Jamie felt his anger drain away and chuckled. “Painful is it?”

  “Aye, Sasanach. But think on this: You truly believe your nephew would be wantin’ you to blame yourself when you did all you could?”

  Jamie felt a shaft of pain shoot through his heart. Nicholas. “No.”

  “Then let it be.”

  Let it be.

  Could it be that easy?

  A key slid into the lock.

  Jamie lay down on cold, stone floor and feigned unconsciousness. He heard the creak of the door on its hinges, saw a weak light, perhaps a candle, through his eyelids. Then he heard Ruaidhrí’s snort of disgust.

  “If it isn’t the little traitor. I wonder—when they stretch my neck, will you watch? Will you cheer, Alice?”

  Ruaidhrí watched her walk down the stairs, bowl of water cradled in the crook of her arm. He could tell by the pained expression on her face his words had hit home. Good.

  She walked over to where Jamie lay like a corpse, set her candle down, but Ruaidhrí pulled her away from him.

  “You’ll not be touchin’ him.”

  She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. “I must! The iarla has sent for him, and I’m to wash the blood from his face and wake him.”

  “I won’t be lettin’ you near him.”

  “But he’ll punish you! He’ll punish you and me like he punished your sister!”

  Ruaidhrí felt rage flare up from his belly. Before Ailís could react, he pulled her hard against him, held her chin between his fingers. “What did he do to my sister?”

  Her eyes showed fear, but she didn’t resist. “He hit her—hard. I warned her not to resist him, but she didn’t listen!”

  “What the bloody hell is going on down there, Alice!” A deep voice—the voice of the Sasanach who had first kidnapped Bríghid—echoed down the stairs.

  Her eyes grew wider, and her voice was a whisper. “Please, Ruaidhrí! He’ll beat you!”

  “Don’t tell you me care, Alice.”

  “Is that rapparee giving you trouble?” The ugly Sasanach stuck his head through the doorway, swore. “Let her go, you Irish bastard!”

  Instead, Ruaidhrí wrapped his arm around Ailís’s throat and backed deeper into the darkness—away from Jamie.

  He heard Ailís’ frightened whimper and felt a twinge of regret.

  The iarla’s man swore, stomped down the stairs.

  Ruaidhrí had forgotten how big the bastard was, too big for one man to fight alone. “Sasanach pig!”

  “I’m going to rip your head off, boy!” The Sasanach bastard strode menacingly past Jamie’s prone form, toward Ruaidhrí, fists clenched.

  Ruaidhrí had meant to provoke the Sasanach, but now he found himself wondering whether this had been such a good idea. Ruaidhrí saw the fury on the Sasanach’s face and swallowed hard. He clapped a hand tightly over Ailís’ mouth to silence her, holding her fast. “Go to hell, you son of a whore!”

  Then Ruaidhrí saw Jamie rise like an apparition—silent and deadly—behind the Sasanach. Before the bastard could react, Jamie threw the chains that bound his wrists round the Sasanach’s neck, jerked them tight.

  The Sasanach made a choking sound, clawed desperately at the chains, his eyes wide with terror.

  Ruaidhrí watched, transfixed, as Jamie yanked the chains tighter still, growled into the Sasanach’s ear.

  “I warned you that I’d kill you if I saw you again! It’s your unlucky day!”

  Then Ruaidhrí saw Jamie wrap one arm around the Sasanach’s head and jerk it hard to the side. There came a loud snap as the Sasanach’s neck broke.

  The Sasanach’s arms fell to his side. His legs gave way, and his head lolled. When Jamie released him, he fell to ground in a twitching heap, then lay still.

  Astonished by what he’d just seen, Ruaidhrí gaped at Jamie.

  Jamie stepped over the body, his gaze on Ailís.

  Ruaidhrí could feel her trembling and released her.

  Her breaths came in ragged gasps. She backed
away from them, her hands pressed protectively against her belly, her pleading gaze darting from one to the other. “P-please don’t! Don’t kill me! Don’t hurt me! My baby!”

  Ruaidhrí was torn between rage and regret. Why should he listen to her pleas when she had betrayed him to the hangman? She had not shown him mercy. Still, her fear and her helplessness cut at his conscience. “No one is going to hurt you, Ailís.”

  Jamie put a calming hand on her shoulder. “We won’t harm you, but you are going to help us. Do you understand?”

  * * *

  “Come, Brigid.” The iarla motioned Bríghid toward the bed. “Lie down.”

  She shuddered, looked away. The icy claws of panic closed around her heart, and her mind raced for an answer, some way out of this. She could not lie with him. She could not.

  “Come, my dear. There is no point in such stubbornness.”

  But her legs refused to move. Had she believed she was saving Jamie and Ruaidhrí, she might have been able to bear it, but now? The iarla was going to condemn them no matter what she did.

  “No.” She heard her own voice before she realized she’d spoken.

  “No?” He laughed.

  She forced herself to meet his gaze. “No.”

  He looked genuinely taken aback. “I’m fast losing patience with you, wench. You’d best do as I say.”

  She could scarce hear him over the pounding of her own heart. Her thoughts came in fragments, scattered shards. The door. It was behind her. It was unlocked.

  She turned, darted toward the door, grabbed the knob.

  Arms shot out from behind her, seized her. Though he was not as muscular as Jamie, the iarla was still much stronger than she. He pinned her arms to her sides, jerked her away from the door, dragged her toward the bed.

  She screamed, tried to kick him with her heels, felt herself flying through the air. She landed on her belly on the bed, tried to crawl to the other side, but he was too quick.

  In a blink, he’d grabbed her legs, pulled her back toward him, forcing her onto her back. He pinned her with his weight. His face hovered inches from hers, his breath foul, his eyes ablaze with fury. “You little bitch! Do you really think you can get away from me?”