The Irish Bride

by Alexis Harrington

  Noel drew himself up to his full height, which still put the top of his head at Aidan’s eye level, and strolled to the table. “I’ve come to take you back to answer for the murder you committed.”

  “It was no murder, ye lyin’ scum. It was an accident and you know it. Even my wife has forgiven me for the death of her brother.” For a moment, Noel’s haughty mask slipped and he saw behind it a howling lust at the mention of Farrell. Jesus God, he thought, she was in danger as well. A raging desire boiled up inside Aidan, the same one that had made him take on Michael Kirwan and his hired ruffians, a desire that urged him to plant his fist squarely in the middle of Cardwell’s smug face.

  Around him, the grumbling grew into a hum of angry voices. Only the sullen plantation overseer demurred. “You don’t know how things work down here, do you?” he said to Aidan. “When the master speaks, you jump.”

  From the corner of his eye, Aidan saw the bartender quickly moving glasses and bottles from the back bar to cupboards below. Aidan hadn’t really wanted anything to do with a man who made his living ordering slaves about, but if he could take the bastard’s money and put it to better use, he’d do it.

  “I have no master, at least not on this earth, and never will again in this life.”

  “By God, if you worked for me, I’d have you whipped for your impertinence,” the overseer said, full of Aidan’s whiskey and his own foolhardy importance.

  That was the last remark the man made. A fist flew and connected with his face, smashing his nose, and the fight was on. Chairs and tables were overturned, sending glasses, mugs, and alcohol in all directions. As strong as was his desire to stay and finish off the overseer and Noel Cardwell himself, Aidan knew that this was his best chance to escape. To carry six hundred dollars through the streets of New Orleans was a risky proposition, and right now, getting out of here was more important than knocking Cardwell on his arse.

  If this man he’d known as a pampered, overdressed peacock had developed enough ambition and energy to follow Aidan and Farrell all the way to America, he couldn’t take any chances.

  They had to get away. Tonight.

  * * *

  Noel looked around at the distasteful wreckage of the pub where he’d endeavored, and rightly so, to corner Aidan O’Rourke. The ne’er-do-well Irish scum had always been known to like a good fight, and Noel had retreated to his corner, expecting some burly oaf to do him the favor of taking O’Rourke down. Or at least to see him arrested by the constables for disorderly conduct. But no constables or police arrived, and when the brawl began to wane, he realized that the subject of his search was not even present. He stood and looked around the small pub. Men staggered to their feet, nursing split lips, black eyes, broken noses, and other injuries, but Aidan O’Rourke was not among them.

  Damn it all. The benighted bog-trotter had slipped away during all the commotion.

  Cardwell thumped a fist on the table. O’Rourke had gotten away from him again, and therefore, so had Farrell Kirwan. Noel had made the grueling trip from Queenstown across the ocean, a miserable journey during which he’d been confined to his quarters with unrelenting mal de mer, made worse by an intolerably proud and righteous sea captain who barely acknowledged him. Then, as if that weren’t insult enough, he’d finally arrived in this hot, swampy city only to be forced to frequent every low-end pub in town in search of his quarry. Now, after at last locating O’Rourke, he’d sat here for hours, watching the proceedings from a dark corner, waiting for the right moment to confront him, suffering the association of men who weren’t fit to shine his boots, only to have O’Rourke vanish like a wisp of smoke.

  Goddamn it all. Noel thumped the table again.

  As he sat there, one of the men O’Rourke had gambled with approached the table, holding a white handkerchief to his face. His nose was misshapen and swollen, and his shirtfront bore the bloody evidence of its recent injury. “Beg pardon, sir.”

  “Whatever do you want?” Noel asked, tired, and offended by the man’s presence. Across the room, the bartender had begun righting tables and sweeping up broken glass.

  “If you’re looking for O’Rourke, sir, I know where he is.”

  Noel looked up. “Oh, do you.”

  “Yes, I know several things that might be useful to you.”

  Noel pushed out a chair with his boot. “Sit down, then.” The man sat. “And you are?”

  “The name’s Seth Fitch. I’m the overseer at Magnolia Grove plantation.”

  “Ah, yes, of course. I am Lord Cardwell.” It wasn’t exactly true, yet, but it would be eventually. That the man practically genuflected upon hearing the title was most gratifying. Instantly, Noel sensed a kindred spirit in Fitch. Or at least one who recognized the difference between the classes and the natural order of things. Little more than a greasy yeoman himself, at least Fitch was a notch above the other riffraff in this place. Plus, he obviously held Noel in proper esteem, and it salved Noel’s ego after the earlier scene with O’Rourke. He pushed his bottle of brandy and a glass across the table to the man. Fitch nodded and poured himself a healthy measure.

  “It’s a damnable state of affairs when a man of your position is assaulted by baseborn thugs,” Noel said with mock sympathy.

  “These foreigners come to America, believing that cock-and-bull story about equality. And they expect to be treated so.” He snuffled noisily through his broken nose, which was crusted with dark, dried blood. Gingerly, he poked a handkerchief-wrapped finger into each nostril, bringing out more blood. Noel averted his gaze from the disgusting display.

  “You say you know where I can find Aidan O’Rourke?” he prodded, eager to move the conversation along and be done with this doughy-looking oaf with a nose like a boiled, squashed beet.

  “While we were playing cards, he said he’s staying at the Grand View Hotel. It’s just down the street.”

  Noel nodded. He’d passed it during his odyssey to the various pubs.

  “You say you know other things about him?”

  Now Fitch turned coy. “I do.”

  God, how much would it cost him to find out, Noel wondered, and would the information be accurate? Doing his own investigating was tedious. It required him to visit places he wouldn’t see even in his nightmares. Only one thing kept him from turning for home, regardless of his father’s edict, and that was Noel’s ultimate prize: Farrell Kirwan. He craved her in a way he’d never wanted anything or anyone before. He had to have her. But if he could hire someone to do the dirty end of this job, he certainly would.

  Noel clenched his jaw. If he could hire someone . . .

  Suddenly an idea came to him.

  “Fitch, how would you like to work for me? I could use a good man like you, someone who knows the city. And now you know what O’Rourke looks like, as well, which would give you a great advantage. You’re not married are you?”

  “Well, not exactly. I have a pretty little slave gal, Silky, who keeps house for me, and, well, you know.”

  Noel liked the way these ignorant colonials thought. Farrell Kirwan would have no recourse in a place such as this when she came to know the weight of her master’s hand. She would have to do as he commanded. The pictures that flashed through Noel’s mind heated his blood and made him shift on his chair.

  “Perfect, then. You are a free agent, so to speak.”

  The man goggled at him. “I don’t know, your lordship, I’ve been with Mr. Thibodeaux, the owner, for six years. I don’t know that he could replace me. My job overseeing the slaves and the plantation is very important.”

  Noel refrained from pointing out that anyone, absolutely anyone could be replaced, from kings to chimney sweeps. “Yes, yes, I’m sure it’s an important position.” He leaned a bit closer and lowered his voice to confidential tone. “But what if I told you I’ll double whatever he pays you, and give you bonuses for special assignments?”

  Fitch snuffled again and swallowed. “What did this O’Rourke do that you want him so bad?” />
  Noel sat back and tapped the brandy cork on the tabletop. “A fair enough question, Fitch. I’m the owner of a large estate in County Cork in Ireland.”

  “Oh!” Fitch leaned closer and whispered in a confidential tone, “That’s where O’Rourke said he was from.”

  Hoping that Fitch was smarter than he seemed, Noel nudged away second thoughts about his employment offer and continued. “Yes, I know where he’s from. On that estate, I have tenant farmers who pay rent. At least they’re supposed to pay, but the lazy bogtrotters are always whining about failed crops and being hungry.” Noel sniffed. “Naturally, I don’t deal with them directly.”

  “Naturally, sir.”

  “I hire a rent agent who collects the money and keeps track of the accounts. If a tenant doesn’t pay three months in a row, he and his family are evicted. It’s a harsh system, I suppose,” he threw in regretfully, “but I’m not running a charity. Any rate, when the rent agent went to evict Aidan O’Rourke’s family, O’Rourke killed the poor man, right there in the yard before a dozen witnesses. Then off he ran in the middle of the night and boarded a ship for America. I have followed him all this way to bring him back to pay for his crime. Murder is not countenanced in Great Britain.”

  “Well, I can tell you they don’t like it here, either, your Lordship.”

  The blatant toadying might get tiresome later on—but then again, maybe not. Right now, it soothed Noel’s vanity like the strokes of a warm, soft hand. “Then what do you say, Fitch? Will you help me bring this killer to justice, and stick with the job until it’s done, however it must be finished?”

  “Double my current pay, your Lordship?” the man reaffirmed.

  “With bonuses.”

  “I’m your man, sir.” Fitch extended a hand with dried blood on it. Noel hesitated for the only a heartbeat, then shook it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Farrell! Wake up, for God’s sake!”

  Farrell did wake up to feel Aidan’s hand shaking her shoulder, none too gently. Rudely jerked from a sound sleep, she was startled and disoriented. She sat up, and saw him moving around the room, grabbing their belongings to stuff into a burlap bag she’d never seen before.

  “God, what’s wrong now?”

  “We’ve got to leave this place.”

  “What, tonight?”

  “Right now. Get out of the bed, will ye?”

  She had no idea what time it was, but she clambered out, her hair falling around her in long, loose strands because she’d fallen asleep before she could braid it. “What’s happened? Is there a fire?”

  “Cardwell is here in New Orleans. Just down the street at the Lass of Killarney.”

  Her heart began thundering in her chest and her throat seemed so dry, she couldn’t swallow. “Oh, dear God, are you sure?”

  “I talked to him face to face. He says he intends to bring me back to Ireland for murder.” He looked around the room, obviously searching for anything else that might belong to them. Turning back to her he demanded, “Christ, aren’t ye dressed yet? We’ve got to go!” Worry had drained the color from his face, and that frightened her even more. Aidan never looked worried.

  She made frantic grabs for her clothes. “Yes, but where to?”

  “Another hotel for the night, maybe. Then before daybreak, we’ll slip off to catch a boat upriver to St. Louis. There’s a stagecoach station up there that can take us west.”

  “Have we got the money to go?” She turned her back to him and shimmied into the dress she’d worn earlier.

  “I’ve got six hundred dollars. Enough to get us there and give us a little start.”

  “Six hundred!” The amount was almost more than she could conceive. “Did you steal it?”

  He spun her around, and she saw true anger in his features. “Damn it, woman, have a little faith in me, will ye please? I won that money in a card game, and if you’re thinking it was just a romp across a field, think again. It was hard, gut-twisting work, and dangerous to boot. Men don’t like losing that much. Even before Cardwell appeared, I was worried about whether I’d have my throat cut in the street before I got back here.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, properly chastised.

  He gave a short nod, acknowledging her apology.

  “How would he know where to find us? Cardwell, I mean.” She hopped around on one foot, trying to put on her stockings with no thought of sitting to do it. “Did he follow you here?”

  “I don’t know, but there are others in the pub who know we’re staying at this hotel. He’ll learn one way or another.”

  Slipping her feet into her worn shoes, she buttoned her bodice at the same time.

  He looked at her. “For the love of Mary, hide your hair. Even in the dark it’s like a red flag.”

  She grabbed her shawl and draped it over her head and shoulders like a Skibbereen widow. He threw two dollars on the desk along with the room key. With one last look around for any forgotten belongings, he picked up the burlap bag, grabbed her hand, and led her to the door. He opened it slowly, just a crack, and looked into the hall.

  “All right,” he whispered. “Down the back steps. Quick and quiet.”

  Down the back stairway they went and out the hotel’s alley door into the steamy New Orleans night. They stayed close to the buildings, hiding in the shadows.

  It wasn’t until they were rushing along the sidewalk that Farrell realized her left and right shoes were reversed.

  Neither of them saw the figure that stepped from alley after them.

  * * *

  The riverboat trip from New Orleans to St. Louis would have been enjoyable had Farrell not been so keenly worried that Noel Cardwell, that thoroughly despicable blackguard, might be chasing them up the Mississippi River. Aidan tried to calm her fears but she could see the concern in his face as well. Often during that steamy journey, he put a hand on her shoulder and drew her against his hard, lean frame.

  “God’s with us, Farrell,” he whispered again and again. “It’ll be all right. Trust me.”

  Farrell wanted nothing more than to toss her cares to the wind that moved so sluggishly along the expansive ribbon of water, but that was more easily contemplated than actually done. She and Aidan were in great peril, and only a child or a fool could believe otherwise.

  When they finally reached St. Louis two days later, Farrell’s nerves were frayed and she was exhausted. Aidan led her from the docks to a dingy boardinghouse, recommended to him by a deck hand. After a quick, unspectacular supper, they adjourned to their room, with Farrell once again ensconced on the bed while Aidan took his rest in a chair.

  Dawn came in feeble fingers of murky light that shone through the dusty curtains and striped the soiled gray walls with silver. Her skin damp with sweat, Farrell quickly straightened her clothing and made ready to catch the stage.

  “There’s no rush,” Aidan reminded her. “We’ve two hours yet.”

  She glanced up and blinked. He smiled slightly and closed the space between them. With a gentle brush of his fingertips, he moved the hair from her eyes. Then he tried to tidy her tangled locks,

  “Have ye a hairbrush?” he asked.

  “You know I don’t. I can manage,” she protested.

  “Aye, I know ye can. Did it never occur to you, then, that I might enjoy doing for you?”

  Farrell could think of no response to that, and she was still pondering the revelation when they sat down to breakfast in a bustling eatery up the street. He enjoyed doing for her? This took her by great surprise. No one had ever “done” for her, and his admission made her feel warm and jumpy inside, a sensation that was as unsettling to her as it was pleasant.

  Over the next few days as they began the arduous stagecoach journey west, Farrell had reason to recall those words of Aidan’s countless times. He remained close to her side, protective, and made it known by his presence that she was his wife, not to be trifled with.

  The ocean voyage had only seemed like hell. The stagec
oach must surely be an affliction sent by God to give people a better taste of the true hell, Farrell thought. If it wasn’t, she could offer it up for her sins. She and Aidan ought to be able to avoid purgatory altogether in exchange for this.

  The roads were rough, but even worse were the conditions on the coach. Eighteen people, counting the drivers and those passengers seated on the roof, all squeezed onto the four-wheeled vehicle, was most certainly worse than the miserable conditions aboard the Mary Fiona. Day after day they bumped along, stopping every ten or fifteen miles to change horses at the stage, the place from which the mode of transportation derived its name.

  The dust was constant, as were crying children and vomiting passengers—the ride was as nauseating as a ship’s at sea—rain, suffocating heat, vile food, exhaustion, and a myriad of discomforts that Farrell had never once imagined. Two hundred dollars bought a ride, not a seat. If a passenger got off at a stop to answer the call of nature, chances were good that when he returned, he would have lost his place to one of the unfortunates consigned to the roof and be forced to take that person’s place until the opportunity came to steal another seat inside. The passengers on the opposite side of the coach sat so close, their knees bumped those across from them. A fat man sitting beside Farrell fell asleep with his head lolling on her shoulder until Aidan reached across and pushed him off.

  Aidan. He was Farrell’s only solace, his strong shoulder providing a cushion for her cheek when exhaustion claimed her, his work-muscled arm steadying her when the coach pitched violently, which it did more often than not, sometimes bouncing her off the seat entirely. During the brief stops, it was Aidan who escorted her to a private place and stood guard with his back to her so that she could take care of personal business. It was also Aidan who made certain that their seats weren’t taken, which would have consigned them to precarious perches on the roof. It was Aidan who urged her to eat when she grew so weary she could barely put the food to her mouth, let alone swallow.

  Farrell lost all track of time. The days and nights blended into a nightmarish blur of chilling darkness and dusty heat, the humidity of the east soon giving way to a blistering dryness that sucked every bit of moisture from the passengers’ skin and throats, leaving their lips cracked and bleeding.