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

by Pamela Clare

  As they rolled along in the carriage, Jamie, Nicholas, and Alec lost in a conversation about the French, Bríghid, Ruaidhrí, and Father Owen stared in wonder out the windows.

  “’Tis a blessed land, that much is certain.” Father Owen nodded gravely.

  “Aye.” Bríghid had no idea what to expect. Jamie had described his estate during their weeks at sea, but as they rolled along in the carriage, even his most fanciful descriptions seemed put to shame. The land was vast beyond imagining, with trees of evergreen that reached to the heavens. The cries of strange birds filled the air. Even the sky seemed wider, the sun brighter.

  Jamie gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s just around the next bend.”

  Already they were passing outbuildings and fields. Bríghid could scarce fathom that all of this land was Jamie’s, that she would be mistress here, that her children would grow up and know this land as their home.

  As the carriage rounded a curve in the road, Bríghid braced herself for her first view of the manor—the great house, as Jamie called it. She hoped it wasn’t so great that she was afraid to touch anything or got lost in a labyrinth of dining rooms, salons, ballrooms, and sitting rooms. She was just a poor Irish—

  She gasped.

  Rather than the enormous manor she had expected, there was a charming two-story house of stone. On the front facing a cobblestone courtyard was a porch painted white. On all sides there were wide windows of precious glass, and Bríghid counted four—four!—chimneys. As they drew nearer, Bríghid could make out the climbing rose bushes that twined themselves around the porch. Soon their branches would fill with buds, and the air would become heavy with the scent of their blooms.

  “Oh, Jamie, it’s lovely!”

  The carriage rolled to a stop in front, and Jamie helped her alight.

  Men, women, and children began to gather in the courtyard, shouting greetings to their master and casting polite but curious glances at Bríghid. Their faces, white and brown, seemed genuinely happy. Jamie smiled, returning their greetings with a confidence and ease that bespoke both affection and command.

  Bríghid couldn’t help the feeling of pride that welled up in her heart for him.

  “Who’s the pretty lady?” The question, once asked, was picked up and repeated.

  When they reached the top of the stairs, Jamie turned back to face the growing crowd. “This is my good wife, Bríghid Blakewell, your mistress. I know she’s looking forward to meeting all of you, but we’ve just finished a long journey, and she needs to rest.”

  Gasps and whispers buzzed through the crowd, then became cheers.

  Then, to the delight of onlookers, Jamie scooped Bríghid up into his arms and, kicked open the door with his foot, and carried her across the threshold.

  But once inside, he didn’t put her down. Up the stairs they went, down the hall to what was the master’s bedroom. There, Jamie placed her gently on her feet.

  His eyes looked deeply into hers. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “I know you will always miss Ireland, Bríghid, but I hope someday you will come to love this land as your home.”

  Bríghid smiled up at the man she cherished. “Silly Sasanach, I already do.”

  Epilogue

  March 9, 1756

  Bríghid rocked in the porch swing, hummed a lullaby to the babe at her breast, and gazed out at the place that had become her world.

  Aidan and the other children played with a ball in the cobblestone courtyard. The delicious smell of baking bread wafted through the air from the beehive ovens behind the whitewashed cookhouse. The smell of spring was in the air, and the plantation buzzed with activity.

  Cassie, dressed in a plain gown and apron, planted seedlings in the nearby kitchen garden with the questionable help of little Emma Rose, who dug her chubby fingers into the dark soil, then piled it on top of her pretty red-gold curls.

  “Emma!” Cassie laughed, brushed her tiny daughter off. “You daft little girl!”

  Bríghid smiled.

  Normally, Cassie stayed with Alec at nearby Kenleigh Hall, but with their husbands gone on mysterious business and Ruaidhrí again at sea, Cassie had come to Blakewell’s Neck to help Bríghid and Muirín, who had welcomed her company.

  Bríghid smiled to herself, recalled all the silly things she’d feared a year ago when she’d first arrived on these shores. She’d worried the neighbors would reject Jamie for marrying an Irish Catholic or for being Catholic. And while some had turned their noses up at him, most didn’t seem to care, not even when Jamie had a small Catholic chapel built on his estate, his way of thanking Father Owen, who was now busier than ever saving souls.

  She’d feared, too, the redemptioners would reject her as their mistress, as she was little more than a peasant herself. Yet they had embraced her quickly, showing her great loyalty. Jamie insisted it was in part because they knew she had once been one of them.

  Most of all, she’d feared Jamie’s family would not approve of his decision to become Catholic and marry a poor Irish girl. But those fears had been groundless, too. She and Cassie had fast become like true sisters. They shared a love of children, flowers, herbs, and healing lore. Bríghid had spent many hours with Cassie and Takotah, improving her knowledge of herbs and her healing skills.

  Bríghid almost laughed aloud as she remembered the first time she’d met Takotah. Jamie had wanted the Indian woman to examine Bríghid to make certain she and her unborn baby were well. Bríghid had tried not to feel jealous, but had been unable to forget Jamie’s words when first he’d mentioned Takotah’s name.

  She’s a beautiful Indian woman.

  Then an impossibly old woman had entered the room, her long hair grey with age, her face wrinkled as an old apple and covered in strange designs. She had a kindly manner about her, the air of one who had lived and loved and lost.

  “Takotah, this is Bríghid, my wife.”

  Bríghid had gaped at the old woman. “You’re Takotah? But Jamie said … ”

  Takotah had raised one grey eyebrow and given Jamie a look that demanded an answer.

  Jamie had seemed confused for a moment, then grinned. “I spoke so affectionately of you that Bríghid feared she had reason to be jealous. But in truth, Takotah, love, I would have married you if you weren’t so old.”

  Takotah had laughed, a warm cackle, and patted Jamie on the cheek. “You couldn’t handle me.”

  Since then, Bríghid had developed a strong affection for Takotah and had felt deep satisfaction the first time Takotah had complimented her knowledge of herbs.

  Bríghid heard the squeak of the door on its hinges behind her.

  “I think my little Róisín is finally asleep.” Muirín stepped out onto the porch and drew her shawl over her shoulders. She looked tired but happy, as any new mother should.

  Róisín had been born three weeks earlier, and the birth had been so quick Takotah had scarcely arrived before Muirín pushed her baby daughter into the world.

  “You should try to get some sleep, too.”

  Muirín smiled. “I miss Finn. I hate sleepin’ without him.”

  Bríghid understood only too well. “Aye.”

  Alec, Jamie, and Finn had sailed away right after Róisín’s birth on some important business they refused to discuss. At first, Bríghid had feared the English authorities were again after Jamie, but he had assured her that was not the case. The terrible nightmare with the iarla had come to an end when his widow, aware her husband was mad with the pox, had blamed him for the fire and refused to prosecute.

  Still, Bríghid had no idea when the men would return, and, in this time of unrest, it was hard not to worry. Last July, the troops Parliament had sent at Jamie’s urging had been massacred along the Monongahela River, General Braddock slain. As Jamie had predicted, the British had been ambushed and hadn’t even seen the enemy who fired upon them. Almost one thousand men, and most of the officers, had been killed. Though Parliament had approved the building of a few ships on th
e Great Lakes, it had not yet declared war on France, and sea travel was becoming increasingly perilous.

  Muirín yawned, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. “’Tis such a lovely spring day.”

  “Aye, that it is.” Bríghid turned her mind away from darker matters and looked down at her son, expecting to find him drowsy.

  Ciarán smiled up at her, her nipple still in his mouth, milk pearling at the corners of his little lips. His green eyes were alert and full of interest. His tiny fists pressed against her milk-swollen breast.

  “You’re supposed to be fallin’ asleep, little one.” Bríghid stroked his dark, downy hair with her hand, unable to hold back a smile.

  Ciarán giggled.

  Bríghid tickled his cheek. “So that’s to be the way of it. Not sleepy at all?”

  Five months old, Ciarán had arrived on starry night in early October, when the world had smelled of ripe apples and coming rains. Jamie had asked her if she wanted him with her during the birth, as Alec had always been at Cassie’s side. At first, Bríghid had been shocked by such a strange idea. Takotah, Cassie and Muirín would be with her, and that had seemed enough. But when her pains had grown fierce, she’d found she desperately wanted Jamie beside her. And so he had stayed with her. He had been her anchor.

  And when Ciarán James O’Neill Blakewell had finally slipped into the world, wet and squalling, she had seen tears in Jamie’s eyes.

  The memory drew a smile to her lips.

  Cassie walked up the stairs, Emma Rose on her hip. “Well, that didn’t accomplish much. I’ll have to try again later, when this little one is asleep. Oh, Emma, you are a mess!”

  There was a smile on Cassie’s face, but it didn’t reach her eyes. And it was no secret why. Nicholas was gone.

  Haunted by his ordeal with the Wyandot—an ordeal he refused to describe even to Jamie—Nicholas had left home one night and ridden alone into the wilderness, leaving his mother to grieve and worry for him. He hadn’t been heard from in six long months. Alec and Jamie had gone after him, but hadn’t been able to find him. And it had become clear that he didn’t want to be found. Now they could do nothing but pray for him.

  “Sails! The Four Sisters!”

  The shout came from down the dirt lane that led to the dock.

  Bríghid called to one of the stable boys to have the carriage made ready and driven to meet the men and bring them home.

  The household sprang into action. By the time the carriage was rolling into the courtyard, Bríghid had arranged for tea to be served on the porch along with a light meal of fresh bread, honey, and cheese.

  She pointed to the carriage as it rolled to a stop, crooning to her son in Irish. “Your da’ is home.”

  The door opened, and Ruaidhrí stepped out. How like a man he looked, his skin bronzed from the sun, his body strong from working the rigging. He grabbed Aidan, ruffled the boy’s red hair. “Have you been a good lad?”

  Alec was next to alight. His gaze sought and found Cassie, then rested on his little daughter. He smiled. “You’ve been trying to garden again, I see.”

  He climbed the stairs, took his wife in his arms and kissed her.

  Next out was Finn, who all but bounded up the stairs to Muirín and pulled her against him. “Oh, how I’ve missed you! How’s the baby?”

  “She’s fine. She’s asleep.”

  Then Finn left his wife’s side, strode over to Bríghid, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You’re looking lovely, little sister.”

  He shared a meaningful glance with Ruaidhrí, then met Bríghid’s puzzled gaze. “We’ve brought someone, Bríghid.”

  Ruaidhrí leaned through the carriage door and said something to Jamie, who was still inside. Then Jamie stepped out of the carriage, turning back to help someone behind him.

  A pair of boots, breeches of plain brown, a head of white hair.

  Bríghid’s heart exploded in her breast, her breath leaving her lungs in a rush. She felt Muirín take Ciarán from her as her knees gave way, Finn’s strong arms reaching out to steady her. She could scarce speak, her voice a whisper. “Da’!”

  The old man who emerged from the carriage was frighteningly thin. His new clothes hung from his bones. His skin was baked brown by the sun. His hair was white as snow. But she would have recognized him anywhere.

  His gaze met hers, and his blue eyes grew bright with tears. “Mo Aisling ghael.”

  For a moment, Bríghid could do nothing more than drink in the sight of him.

  “Da’!” Then the strength returned to her legs. She rushed forward, threw her arms around the man she’d thought she would never see again. The tears she’d held back for five years, tears she hadn’t let herself shed the day he was taken, poured down her cheeks.

  His arms surrounded her, held her fast. His cheek pressed against the top of her head. “Mo Bhríghid. You’re all grown up—a woman beautiful and strong.”

  Pine. Tobacco. Her father’s special scent.

  “Oh, Da’!” She heard muffled weeping, realized Muirín and Cassie were both in tears.

  Then she felt her father sway on his feet and looked up into his eyes. She could see he did not feel well. She could see, too, the shadows in his eyes that told of another kind of suffering. “Are you ill?”

  “He’s been fighting the ague.” Jamie took her father’s arm, helped him up the stairs to the porch swing. “But we’ll have him strong again in no time.”

  Bríghid poured her father a cup of tea with trembling hands and gave it to him, but he set it aside.

  “Come, Bríghid, sit beside an old man.” He patted the swing. “I’ve a gift for you, a father’s gift to his daughter.”

  She did as he asked, confused. “A gift?”

  “Of all the things that pained me these past years, do you know what hurt me the most?” Her father looked deeply into her eyes. His voice broke as he spoke. “I regretted most that I had not been able to take you to the fair as I had promised, that I had not been able to buy you the lace and ribbons every maid deserves.”

  Bríghid watched as her father reached into the pocket of his frock, pulled out a handful of wrinkled ribbons in blue and white, together with white lace.

  “Oh, Da’!” Fresh tears spilled onto Bríghid’s cheeks as she took his precious gift in her hands. “I’d have gone my life without ribbons if it meant you were safe at home with us.”

  “I’m safe now, thanks to your husband. You found a good man, Bríghid.” Her father smiled, then lifted his tea to his lips, his gaze on Ciarán. “Now I wish to be seein’ my grandchildren.”

  While Muirín placed Ciarán on his grandfather’s lap and went to fetch Róisín, Bríghid stood, turned to Jamie.

  She met his gaze, saw the warmth in his eyes. “How did you do this?”

  It was Alec who answered. “Jamie has been looking for your father since before you left London. He hired a barrister and a number of others to help him track your father down and buy his freedom. It wasn’t easy.”

  Bríghid felt such a rush of love for her husband she thought she might burst. “Oh, Jamie! Thank you! What you have done for us … ”

  There weren’t words.

  Jamie placed his hands on her waist, looked deeply into her eyes. “I thought that with your father here and the chapel completed, you might consent to wear the gown I had made for you last year and marry me all over again. Of course, we’ll have to wait for Elizabeth and Matthew. She’d never forgive me a second time.”

  Everyone laughed, a warm sound, like happiness itself.

  But Jamie gazed steadily into Bríghid’s eyes. “What say you, wife? Will you again be my bride?”

  Her heart overflowing with joy, Bríghid answered him with a kiss.

  Watch for the next book in the Kenleigh/Blakewell Family Saga—Nicholas’s story—to be reissued by Berkley Sensation on February 5, 2013… RIDE THE FIRE

  Read on for an excerpt of Ride the Fire and an excerpt from Surrender, Book 1 of the MacKinnon’s Rangers Ser
ies!

  An excerpt from …

  RIDE THE FIRE

  Kenleigh/Blakewell Family Saga Book III

  Copyright © 2005, 2011 Pamela Clare

  Nicholas awoke with a jerk, caught between the nightmare and wakefulness, his heart pounding, his body covered with sweat. He struggled to open his eyes, found himself lying on his stomach in someone’s bed, his head on a pillow. His right leg throbbed, burned. His head ached. His throat was parched as sand, and a strange aftertaste lingered in his mouth.

  From nearby came the swish of skirts, the sound of a log settling in a fire, the scent of something cooking.

  Where was he?

  Through a fog he tried to remember. He’d been attacked. The Frenchmen from the fort. He’d lost a lot of blood, had ridden in search of help. The cabin. The woman.

  Bethie was her name. Elspeth Stewart.

  She’d helped him, cleaned his wound, cauterized it—not altogether willingly.

  Nicholas lifted his head, started to roll onto his side to take in his surroundings, found he could not. His wrists and ankles were bound to the bedposts.

  Blood rushed to his head, a dark surge of rage, of dread.

  “You’re awake.” Her voice came from behind him. “You must be thirsty.”

  “You little bitch!” He pulled on the ropes, his fury and dread rising when they held fast. “Release me! Now!”

  “I-I cannae do that—no’ yet. I’ve made broth. It will help you regain—”

  “Damn your broth, woman! Untie me!” He jerked on the ropes again, outraged and alarmed to find himself rendered powerless. Sharp pain cut through his right thigh.

  “Stop your strugglin’! You’ll split your wound open and make it bleed again.”

  Infuriated, Nicholas growled, a sound more animal than human, even to his own ears. He jerked violently on the ropes, but it was futile. He was still weak from blood loss, and the effort left him breathless, made his pulse hammer in his ears.

  Damn her!