Carnal Gift (21 page)

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Authors: Pamela Clare

Tags: #Historical Romance

BOOK: Carnal Gift
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The
iarla
glared at him. “You’ve been lying to me, haven’t you?”
Fionn bit back the words he longed to say, gave the necessary reply. “No, my lord.”
“Your father was a traitor. Your brother is a traitor. And you’re a traitor.” The
iarla
stepped closer, his brown eyes cold with malice.
“I’ve never raised a hand against you, my lord.” “No? Then why did you lie to me about your sister’s whereabouts? You know where she is!”
Rot in hell.
“I didn’t lie to you, my lord.”
“I don’t believe you.”
A fist drove into his gut, and Fionn doubled over, sucked air into his aching lungs. “Believe i t . . . or n o t . . . as you wish, my lord. But I’ve some notion where they are now.”
“What are you saying?”
A hand pulled Fionn’s hair, jerked him upright. “Get your men off me, and we can talk.”
“You’ll talk whether my men release you or not.” The
iarla
stood so close Fionn could smell the liquor on his breath. Then the
iarla
gave a wave of his hand, and his men withdrew.
Fionn was surprised to find it hard to keep his balance.
The blow to his head had left him dizzy. But he lifted his chin, met the
’s
gaze. “Just before the snows set in, a friend of mine saw the Englishman in Baronstown. The forest south of there shelters a few abandoned cottages. He must be hiding in one of them.”
“How do I know you’re not lying, Irishman?” “I guess you don’t,” Fionn replied, his gaze unwavering despite his dizziness. “Tis a shame the snows set in. I’d have gone after him myself else.”
“That would have been a mistake.” The
iarla
stepped back, turned to his men. “Well?”
“She isn’t here. We’ve checked everywhere.” The
iarla
faced Fionn again, and Fionn could see he was disappointed. “Where’s O’Connelly’s widow?” “She helpin’ the midwife down at the Ui Faelain place.” There were no Ui Faelain in Skreen Parish, but Fionn was certain the
iarla
didn’t know that. Irish clans were beneath his notice.
“That’s just what the world needs—another Irish brat.”
He turned to his men, shouted to them to mount up. Then he turned to face Fionn again. “If I discover you’ve lied to me, you and everyone dear to you will pay the price. Have I made myself clear?”
Fuck yourself.
“Aye, my lord.”
The
iarla
strode to his horse, mounted. “My lord,” Fionn called after him, “if you find I’m tellin’ the truth, what’s my reward?”
The
iarla gazed
down at him as if he were a pile of dung, and for a moment, Fionn was certain he wouldn’t answer. “What do you want, Irishman?” “Your promise that neither you nor any of your men will lay hands on Mistress O’Connelly.”
The
iarla
smiled. “Granted. But since I think you’re lying, you can imagine how much I am looking forward to doing exactly that.” The
iarla’s
men laughed heartily, turned their horses, and rode off.
Fionn watched while the
iarla
and his men disappeared over the hill headed south, mouthed curses the likes of which he’d never uttered before. He had no doubt the
iarla
would find the cottage. But it would be empty, Blakewell and Brighid long gone.
Fionn hoped the game he had just played would buy him a bit more time. He had persuaded Muirin to take Aidan and spend the day at the midwife’s cottage a short distance away. But as soon as she returned, she’d be in danger again. Fionn needed time to convince her that her safety—and Aidan’s—depended on leaving the parish. After today, how could she deny it?
Fionn took a step forward, intending to repair the damage done inside the cottage, but his legs buckled. The world around him faded, and he pitched forward in the snow.
The day had stretched into evening by the time Sheff and his men found the tiny cottage sheltered by a sliver of forest. They approached cautiously, weapons drawn, hoping to take Jamie by surprise, but found it abandoned. Sheff peered into the decrepit structure, its walls and ceiling black with smoke. “I wouldn’t house a sow in here. Filthy Irish.”
Jamie had been here. Sheff could feel it. But somehow Jamie had known Sheff was coming, had again fled like a thief in the night. There was no way the brother could have warned them. There hadn’t been time. Yet somehow Jamie had known.
A shadow darkened the doorway. “My lord, we’ve searched the cowshed. There’s been a horse kept in there, all right.”
“Ride ahead, Edward. Prepare the household for my departure. We leave for England.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“And, Edward, set a watch on this place just in case.”
“Aye.”
Sheff glanced around the cottage one last time. “You’ve won this round, but the game is not over, old friend. I shall find you, and I shall take her from you. And you shall watch as I enjoy her, just as I watched you.”
Chapter Seventeen
Brighid sat up, looked around her gilded cage. She sat in the middle of a great bed with four delicately carved posts that rose almost to the ceiling. Above her stretched a canopy of beautiful rose-colored cloth. The mattress beneath her was fluffy like a cloud, its ticking made of the softest linen.
A wood fire crackled in a fireplace set in one wall. Two plush chairs with ornate carved arms sat before the fireplace, a small round table of polished wood between them. Beside the bed was another little table, trimmed with tiny gilt roses. On top was a carved comb made of some kind of ivory-colored wood. Or was it made of ivory?
She stood, felt her feet touch thick carpet. Strange it was to stand on something so pretty, soft, and warm.
She walked to the opposite side of the room, ran her hands over the plush cushions of some kind of couch. Nearby stood a desk of polished wood with ink and pen. Behind the couch and desk there were three windows, each as tall as a man and as wide as a door and covered by curtains made of the same rose-colored cloth as the canopy and coverlet. She searched for ties, drew them back, flooded the room in daylight.
The room itself was easily twice as large as the cottage she’d shared with her brothers, larger still than the squatter’s cottage. The floor was made of polished wood but was mostly hidden under carpets with ornate flower designs in hues of dark blue, ivory, rose, deep green, and black.
Such luxury. To think Jamie was used to such lavishness.
A feeling akin to embarrassment welled up inside her.
Or was it shame?
Jamie must have found her and her brothers the most wretched of peasants. Yet he’d never said a word, never looked down his nose at them, never complained. He’d thanked her for his supper, demanded to sleep on the floor, done his share of the men’s work as soon as he’d been able.
Oh, how he bewildered her!
With a frustrated moan, she pushed all thoughts of him from her mind. She was thinking about him again, and she didn’t want to think about him at all. Not now. Not later. Not ever.
She turned back toward the bed, gasped.
She hesitated, took a step forward, then another. She was looking at her own reflection. She’d never seen a real mirror before. She’d seen her face in pools of water and on the lids of finely burnished cook pots. But this was different. The mirror was taller than she, framed by ornately carved wood, and her reflection seemed … real. Who was this young woman staring back at her? She had dark blue eyes fringed by long, sooty lashes. Her long, dark hair hung, tousled and unbound, to her hips. So dark it was that her skin seemed palest white by comparison, except for the faint pink blush on her cheeks. Her lips curved into a smile, revealing white teeth.
She reached out a hand.
The woman in the mirror did the same.
Their fingers touched.
“She’s got her mother’s look about her. There isn’t a prettier young lady in the county, nor all of Ireland, I’d wager.”
Her father’s words from so long ago came back to her. And for a moment, she caught a glimpse in her mind’s eye of another woman—pale, too thin, with dark hair bound in braids, sad blue eyes, and a lovely face. The woman cradled her, sang sweetly, smiled at her. For a moment a shard of pain as bright and sweet as sunlight shot through her.
Mamai.
Tears welled up in Brighid’s eyes, spilled unheeded down her cheeks.
But as the pain passed, she decided—if it wasn’t vain to think such a thing—that she
was
pretty. She let her eyes travel down her reflection. She wore only her chemise, threadbare and more gray than white. The cloth was so thin she could see the dusky roundness of her nipples, the shadow of her belly button, the dark triangle of curls that marked her most private flesh.
Her breath caught in her throat as she remembered that
Jamie had seen what she was now seeing. He had seen it, touched and kissed much of it. He had called her beautiful.
Curse Jamie Blakewell!
She turned away from the mirror, turned away from her thoughts. She refused to think about him, to spare a single thought for him.
She walked back to the bedside table, reached for the comb, began to pull it gently through the snarls in her hair.
Where were Fionn, Rhuaidhri, and little Aidan? Had they fled to Clare? Had they taken Muirin with them? How angry had they become when they’d read Jamie’s letter?
Jamie Blakewell had kidnapped her. He had dragged her out in the dark of night and taken her from her family, from the only world she’d ever known. He’d awoken her just before dawn her last morning in Ireland, and when she’d refused to cooperate, he’d lifted her out of bed, slung her over his shoulder like a bag of grain, and carried her down the hall, down the stairs, and out into the cold.
A covered carriage had awaited them, Jamie’s stallion tethered to the back. Jamie had opened the door, plopped her unceremoniously down on the seat of claret cushions, spoken a word to his man Travis. “Is everything understood, Travis?”
“Aye, sir, perfectly.”
“You’ve managed quite well so far. Notify me immediately should aught occur.”
“Aye, sir.”
Then Jamie had climbed in behind her. The innkeeper’s wife had passed a basketful of food through the door, and they’d been off, Travis waving them on their way.
It had been a cold morning, but Jamie had been prepared for that. In one comer there had been a pile of furs. He’d tucked one around her, a thick fur of deep brown, then sunk back on the seat opposite her and glared out the window.
Through a small window in the door, she had watched the sun rise over the frigid landscape, first rosy pink, then orange, then bright yellow. She hadn’t spoken a word to him, nor he to her, and more than once she’d dozed off, snug in her fur.
They stopped only twice—once just after midday to hitch up fresh horses and once when she’d needed desperately to relieve herself. They’d arrived in Dublin in the dark, had gone straight to the docks. She’d gotten only a glimpse of the town. When the carriage had finally stopped, Jamie had taken her by the arm, lifted her from the carriage, hurried her toward a small ship. But as they’d neared the gangway, panic and grief had overwhelmed her. She’d torn her arm from his grasp, turned to run, slipped on ice, and fallen hard to the ground. Though the breath had been knocked out of her, she’d managed to dig beneath the cold snow and tear a handful of grass from the ground before he’d grabbed her and lifted her into his arms. Her last glimpse of her homeland had come through the small, round window of the cabin Jamie had locked her in.
Sweet Fire.
As the last of the shoreline was swallowed by darkness and distance, she’d collapsed on the bunk and wept until, exhausted, she’d fallen into a fitful sleep. The rest of the journey had been a blur. She’d seen little of Jamie while they’d been on the ship. She’d ignored him during the final carriage ride, too, though he’d hardly seemed to notice, his nose buried in a newspaper. How many days had gone by since he’d taken her from her home? Seven? Ten?
They had arrived at this place in the dead of night. Jamie had awoken her, helped her from the carriage, guided her up a darkened stairway to this room, shut the door behind her. She hadn’t heard a lock turn, but then she’d been so sleepy. She’d undressed, crawled beneath the covers, and fallen into a dreamless sleep. She looked about the room for her clothes. She’d taken them off in the dark and—
They were gone! Her cloak, her gown, her petticoat, even her shoes. She’d draped them over the chair by the fireplace, and now they were gone!
She reached reflexively for the cross at her throat, closed her ringers over its familiar shape. Someone had entered while she’d slept and had taken her clothes. Come to think of it, how had the fire been kept burning all night? Aye, someone had entered, but who?
A knock came at the door, and she dived beneath the covers.
The handle turned, and a young woman’s freckled face peeked inside. “Pardon me, miss, but I thought I heard you up and about. I was wondering if you’d be liking your breakfast soon.”

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