The Irish Bride

by Alexis Harrington

  Farrell had been betrothed to him when she turned twenty and in the past two years he’d exhibited no behavior that made her feel silly or giddy. She didn’t even know for sure what other girls meant when they giggled about hot-blooded men with even hotter hands, but it concerned her that they’d often been speaking of Aidan.

  She swallowed hard and clenched her hands in her damp skirt, wondering dizzily how she’d landed in this awful fix.

  Oh, Aidan knew all about women, of that she was certain. It had been whispered over the years that Father Joseph talked to him more than once about his fast ways with the lasses. Farrell couldn’t deny that he was handsome—he turned women’s heads wherever he went, even in church.

  She cast a sidelong glance at him. He towered over her. Long-legged and broad across the shoulders, he was much more intense than his brother. He had a fine, straight nose and a firm chin, and large eyes that seemed to cut right through a person to look into their heart and soul. Despite the circumstances and the solemnity of the night, a combination of maleness, passion, and vital spirit had pulsed from him in waves that vibrated through her on a primitive level she did not recognize.

  But what she remembered most was one question Father Joseph had asked her.

  “Farrell Kirwan, do ye promise to love, honor, and obey Aidan O’Rourke as your husband?”

  Honor

  Obey

  A husband could force a woman to do these things. He could demand that his meals be served at a certain time, that she defer to him in all matters, even that she submit to him in his bed. And Aidan, iron-willed and fervent, very well might expect all of these and more.

  She’d glanced around for Liam, hoping that he would step in at the last moment and stop this ceremony. But he’d merely looked on and nodded at her.

  Returning her gaze to Father Joseph, she’d opened her mouth but no sound came. Finally, she’d whispered, “Yes, I promise,” her voice muffled by bewilderment.

  There had been no point in refusing.

  But Aidan couldn’t force her to love him. The human heart did not yield to such pressure.

  “Then, Aidan, give your wife the kiss of peace.”

  Turning to her, his dark blue eyes had gleamed in the firelight, reminding Farrell of a cat’s. His lips had barely brushed hers, but their heat startled her. The same feeling she’d had earlier, that Aidan saw her as his own, now and always, rushed over her again.

  He was accustomed to having his way when he could get it, she knew. And he wasn’t likely to take “no” for an answer from anyone without a fight, especially from his wife.

  Farrell did not think of herself as a cowardly woman. With hunger and oppression constant threats in good times and bad, a coward could not survive in Ireland.

  She took another glance at the lean, powerful man slogging along beside her. When she had run home to escape Noel Cardwell, she’d believed herself to be more afraid than she’d ever been in her life or ever would be again. She knew she might face arrest or some other punishment that he might care to visit upon her. Now she realized there were far worse prisons than the kind with iron bars and that she’d just been condemned to one. Not for just a few months, or even for a few years.

  But for life.

  * * *

  Noel Cardwell sat in the dark-paneled study at Greensward Manor, rolling a drained brandy glass between his hands. Behind the huge mahogany desk, Lord Arthur Cardwell studied his account book, a thick, leather-bound ledger where he kept track of his tenants’ rent payments.

  Regardless of the duels he had fought, the women he’d bedded, the horse races he had won, and all the other manly pursuits in which he excelled, in this room, Noel always felt as if he were twelve years old again. Twelve years old and brought here because of some prank or misdeed that his humorless father would not abide. Nothing Noel had ever done had pleased the dictatorial old man; they seemed to be on opposite sides of all issues. Now he did his best to keep from fidgeting in his chair and believed he was making a proper job of it. Not an easy task considering the subject of this meeting, although nearly all conversations with his lordship were enough to drive a man to the brandy decanter.

  The endless tick of the mantle clock was the only sound in the room, save the dry, papery drag of the old man’s finger down the column of figures before him. God, to actually keep one’s own accounts like—like a penny-hoarding merchant or a factor, toiling over long columns and worrying about every single shilling. He suppressed a shudder. A true gentleman hired people to see to such mundane tasks rather than stain his own fingers with ink, scratching away with his pen. That was why Noel had hired Michael Kirwan to do his bidding. It had not been the most sagacious decision, he realized now.

  When his father had burdened him with the tedious responsibility of collecting the rents, Noel forced himself to stifle a loud, disgusted sigh. As far as he was concerned, the Irish were nothing but a pack of lazy, drunken, story-telling bog-trotters. Their circumstances troubled his conscience not one whit, nor did he mind the feudalistic system that put money in his pockets for the gaming tables and other pleasant pastimes. Yes, he enjoyed the income, but Christ, he didn’t want to be bothered with the grubby collection of it.

  Hiring Michael Kirwan as the estate’s rent agent had seemed like a brilliant solution. Though younger than their previous rent agent, he was ambitious and surprisingly unencumbered with such impediments as sympathy or loyalty to the rabble that resided on Cardwell land. He knew how the crofters lived and how their minds worked. And he was anxious to acquire the same comforts he’d seen at Greensward Manor. One could almost forget that Kirwan himself came from those same people. Or at least forgive him for it.

  But even more importantly, his sister was Farrell Kirwan. Perhaps she, more than any other consideration, had influenced Noel’s decision. He rarely paid any attention to the peasants living on the Cardwell acreage. The men were shiftless and brawling, and their women were threadbare old hags by the time they reached their twenties, due to constant childbearing and carping at their shiftless, brawling men. Farrell was different, though. He’d heard that she was betrothed to one of the O’Rourke brothers, but that posed no obstacle as far as Noel was concerned. He simply wanted her and he was accustomed to getting his way. But the flame-haired beauty was as proud and haughty as a queen despite her poverty, and she would not speak two words to him. Even when he’d offered her a kitchen maid’s position here in the manor house—a significant step up from the rabbit warren she lived in—she had looked as if she would spit on him, right then and there. She had brushed past him with her chin up and head held high. Her disdainful rejection had only made him more determined to have her.

  Noel had hoped that her brother Michael would be able to change her mind. Indeed, Michael had finally convinced Farrell to work at the manor house, and Noel had envisioned that she was at last under his thumb. Still she had resisted his attentions, and yesterday had committed the unforgivable offense of actually striking him when he’d tried to kiss her in the library, the ungrateful wench. Oh, yes, bringing the Kirwans on board had seemed like a sterling idea.

  Until now.

  Now, Farrell Kirwan had insulted him and rent money had gone missing. Noel found himself in a highly disagreeable position. Damn that Michael Kirwan for what he was, a thief and a liar, and ultimately no better than the peasants he’d come from. Damn his sister for being an irresistible jade who’d gotten into his head and his blood. He wished he were in London, far from this place of rock wall mazes and perpetual green gloom, where his breeding, and skills with gaming and horses would be put to much better use.

  Despite the clock that marked its passing, time seemed to have stopped. God’s eyes, would his father speak or was Noel to be kept here, waiting and wondering how much his lordship knew? He rose to help himself to another brandy.

  “Sit down.”

  Noel almost obeyed the command but decided that to do so would be a small battle lost. Instead, he continued ca
sually to the liquor cabinet and refilled his glass from the crystal decanter. He felt his father’s stone-gray eyes boring into his back at this defiance but did not hurry his actions. At last he took his seat again.

  At some length, Lord Cardwell slammed shut his ledger with enough force to make Noel jump. A splash of brandy sloshed over the rim of his glass and landed on his well-tailored trousers.

  “Do you know why I gave you the task of collecting the tenants’ rents?” his father asked, glaring at the drink in Noel’s hand.

  Noel shrugged and glanced at Lord Cardwell’s ink-stained fingers. “I assumed you were tired of seeing to it yourself.”

  The older man pressed his lips into a tight, white line that looked more like a scar than a mouth, and a faint blue vein throbbed in his temple. “I did it so you would have a sense of what it means to oversee an estate, because someday all of this” —he gestured at the room and the grounds beyond the windows— “will be your responsibility. I wanted you to realize that the money you spend so freely doesn’t fall from the sky like rain.” He gestured at the ledger. “Your records are not only incomprehensible, I would say they suggest fraud. You have cheated your own family.”

  Noel jumped to his feet, quivering with indignation and insult. “I have done no such thing, sir!”

  Unruffled, Lord Cardwell continued. “No? Then where is the rent money that should have been noted here? More than one hundred pounds seem to have vanished. What has become of it?”

  Gathering his injured dignity, Noel began, “The rent agent must have—”

  “Ah, yes, the rent agent. One Michael Kirwan, I believe. Just yesterday I had a warrant issued for his arrest. What a pity I could not have issued a warrant for you as well.”

  Stung and bearing haughty offense like a shield, Noel said, “I supervised his every move, Father! He reported to me on a regular basis.”

  “Yes, at the pub in town, as I understand it, where you both drank and gambled and bedded the serving wenches.” Lord Cardwell sat back and folded his hands. “I can imagine what kind of report that generated.” He went on to recite the extent of Kirwan’s activities with regard to keeping the rents and evicting tenants. “I also understand that you hired Kirwan’s sister, and that she was seen running from here yesterday with her dress half-torn off after escaping your attentions. Really, Noel, what a clumsy lack of finesse you exhibited. And for all I know, the sister might have been complicit with your rent agent. Have you checked to see if anything is missing? The silver? Valuable artifacts?”

  Noel felt his father’s withering disapproval now more than ever before. Worse, he realized that his father knew even more than he’d suspected.

  “And now Kirwan is dead, killed in a fight by that firebrand, Aidan O’Rourke—”

  “What? Kirwan is dead?” Noel’s dignity slipped again and he felt his jaw drop.

  His father looked pleased with the effect of this news. “Well, perhaps that’s one report you didn’t receive. He went to the O’Rourkes’ yesterday to evict them and knock down their cottage. He scuffled with Aidan and they say he hit his head on a rock. He died instantly. One of Kirwan’s henchmen blabbered the story around town. The authorities are searching O’Rourke as we speak.”

  Noel jumped on this news, hoping to use it to reflect the glare of the problem away from himself. “But that’s good! The worthless, murdering guttersnipe.”

  “Except that I don’t believe they’ll find him. One of my men says he’s been spotted on the road heading to Queenstown.”

  “Then surely the authorities will track him down as well. We’ve only to wait for them to bring him back.”

  Lord Cardwell leaned forward over his desk blotter. “You began this task, Noel. I expect you to finish it.”

  “Me! And just how am I to ‘finish it?’ ”

  “You will bring back O’Rourke yourself.”

  God, but this was too much. “Surely you can’t expect me to ride about the countryside like a constable, searching through shrubbery and under rocks! If you don’t believe the authorities will find him, why do you think I will?”

  “Because until you return with the man who cheated me out of the satisfaction of seeing Michael Kirwan clapped in irons, your debts will go unpaid. And quite a stack you have, too.” He reached into a side drawer of his desk and produced a sheaf of bills. Leafing through them, he recited, “Tailor, haberdasher, bootmaker, wine merchant—I will tell all of them to find you for payment. It should be interesting, don’t you think? The hounds chasing the hunter?”

  Noel felt the blood drain from his face. “You wouldn’t do that.”

  His father’s shoulders drooped slightly. “I’ve been waiting for you to grow up for years, Noel. I was twenty-three, two years younger than you, when I took over this estate. Your grandfather was deranged and nearly bankrupt when he died and had let this place go to ruin while he followed the same useless pursuits that you do—gaming, women, drinking, and indolence. I’ve worked hard to bring it back to its present state.” His cold, glittering eyes fixed on Noel’s. “But I swear to you, before I die I’ll burn the manor house to the ground and evict every tenant on the land if I think you’ll wreck it again. If you mean to inherit anything from me in the future, you’ll do as I say now.”

  Noel drained his brandy glass, barely restraining the urge to take a bite from the crystal. What a galling situation he found himself in.

  His lordship nodded, obviously accepting Noel’s silence for acquiescence. “They say O’Rourke is traveling with a red-haired woman. That might slow him down.” Noel started. It could be any woman, he told himself. Certainly Ireland had no shortage of redheaded people and O’Rourke’s reputation with women was no secret in any quarter. But his father’s next words removed all doubt. “The same man who saw O’Rourke believed the woman is Kirwan’s sister. So you can bring her back as well.”

  Kirwan’s sister. Why on earth would she be traveling with Aidan when she was supposed to marry his brother? Under any other circumstances, Noel would have refused to do this incredibly menial job, his father’s disapproval be damned. But this might be a good way to accomplish two deeds: to win his father’s favor, although why that desire continued to plague Noel after all these years remained a mystery even to him, and to finally have Farrell Kirwan exactly where he wanted her—in his bed.

  “Very well, then, sir. I shall do as you ask. I’ll find Aidan O’Rourke and Farrell Kirwan, and bring them back to Skibbereen.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Farrell had asked for no special treatment. But the day was just an hour from dusk, and except for an hour or two, they’d been walking since eventide the night before. She was so footsore and weary, she was about to suggest that they rest for awhile when Aidan stopped, his gaze fixed on something up ahead.

  “Wait,” he said, holding out his arm to stop her. He drew himself up, alert and wary, and his caution telegraphed to Farrell. The subject of his scrutiny was a wagon stopped in the road, pulled by a team of two deep-chested draft horses. The driver stood bent over the huge hoof of one of the beasts.

  While she hung back, Aidan approached the man and after a brief conversation, he motioned her forward.

  “Farrell, this is Mr. Stephen Riley. He’s kindly agreed to give us a ride.”

  This was welcome news to Farrell. “Thank you, Mr. Riley. We’ve been walking a long time.”

  “Pleased to help, missus. Cork’s miles ahead yet, and this isn’t fit weather for walkin’,” Riley observed, gesturing at threatening clouds in the western sky. He was a thin young man, more by natural constitution, it appeared, than from hunger. He patted the big horses’ necks and climbed up to the wagon seat. “I think we’ll get into town early tonight. I’ve room in the back of the cart if ye don’t mind riding with the butter.”

  Both Aidan and Farrell stared at the cargo as if it were diamonds; butter had been as rare as gemstones in their lives. The tiny bit that was churned in the clachan was sold to help pay rents.<
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  Riley explained that he was taking it to the city to sell for Indian corn for his master’s blooded horses. How typical of the English, that their horses were more important than people. She saw Aidan’s face color and his dark brows lower, and knew his thoughts were running along the same line. She held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t make a sharp comment that would change Riley’s mind about giving them a ride.

  To her relief, Aidan only thanked the bailiff and assisted her into the wagon. She felt his warm, strong hand through her thin shawl as he took her elbow.

  Farrell was glad for the chance to ride, even wedged as she was between the burlap-covered butter crocks. Her thin shoes protected her feet from the bare ground, but they were little help in keeping them warm.

  As the wagon rolled forward and the horses found a steady, comfortable gait, the countryside passed at a somewhat faster pace. Farrell leaned back against a crock, lulled by the rocking motion, and closed her eyes. She tried not to think about fresh, hot bread dripping golden butter and smeared with jam, but it wasn’t easy. Only the knowledge that they’d finally eat in Cork kept her from prying open one of the crocks and scooping out handfuls of the churned cream to lick from her fingers.

  Despite the turmoil of her thoughts, she felt Aidan watching her. They sat so close in the little farm cart, she didn’t dare glance up into his eyes. What would she see there if she did? Perhaps the same indefinable expression she’d seen after their wedding. A look that was assessing, possessing, fathomless. She let her lids close, hoping for rest, and seeking escape from his dark blue gaze.

  Aidan reached behind him to move a crock that was jabbing his spine, watching Farrell all the while. He couldn’t help himself—he’d rarely had this perfect opportunity to study her, and yet he’d wanted to so often. Fatigue and sorrow were plain in the droop of her narrow shoulders, and in the pale lavender smudges that sat beneath her lower lashes like the gauzy light of a winter sunset. Of course she was too thin; he’d be surprised if she weighed more than seven-and-a-half or eight stone. As she sat huddled in her rough, threadbare shawl, she was the very picture of a refugee.