Carnal Gift (24 page)
She turned toward the door and fled.
Fionn lifted the oat bag over the gelding’s head, gave it a pat on the withers.
He knew he had to tell her. She deserved honesty at least. But how? He’d never been good at courting women—not that he’d had much practice at it. While other young men had chased girls like satyrs, he’d stayed home to help his father. He’d been eleven when his mother had died, had almost starved to death himself.
The others had been so little, Brighid and Rhuaidhri just babies. He’d been determined never to go hungry again, to help his father provide for their family, and had learned all he could about farming and raising livestock. He could cure a cow of almost any sickness, castrate an aggressive bull calf, help a ewe through a difficult birth. He knew when best to plant, when to harvest, when to leave the ground fallow. But speaking tender words to a woman—that was as far beyond him as the moon from the sea.
He wished for a moment he had Brighid’s book. What would Don Bellianis say? Something flowery and poetic and pretty to female ears.
Fionn took up another oat bag, hung it over the second gelding’s head. The two animals, purchased this morning, would haul them all the way to County Clare. Though Fionn couldn’t say he was happy the
iarla’s
men had beat him senseless, two good things had come of it. Muirin had fussed over him, treated him with such tenderness that he’d found himself wishing he hadn’t recovered so quickly. But most of all, it convinced her of the need to flee. She hadn’t objected once since then—not when he’d sold the livestock, not when he’d bought the wagon, and not when he’d bought the team of bay geldings. He’d gotten considerable help from Travis, the strange
Sasanach
man Blakewell had left behind to spy on them. Travis had found him unconscious in the snow, had dragged him indoors. Travis had done the heavy chores for the few days Fionn remained abed and had then helped Fionn track down buyers for the animals. He suppose he owed Travis—and Blakewell—his life, as he’d likely have frozen to death on the cold ground before Muirin returned home.
iarla’s
men had beat him senseless, two good things had come of it. Muirin had fussed over him, treated him with such tenderness that he’d found himself wishing he hadn’t recovered so quickly. But most of all, it convinced her of the need to flee. She hadn’t objected once since then—not when he’d sold the livestock, not when he’d bought the wagon, and not when he’d bought the team of bay geldings. He’d gotten considerable help from Travis, the strange
Sasanach
man Blakewell had left behind to spy on them. Travis had found him unconscious in the snow, had dragged him indoors. Travis had done the heavy chores for the few days Fionn remained abed and had then helped Fionn track down buyers for the animals. He suppose he owed Travis—and Blakewell—his life, as he’d likely have frozen to death on the cold ground before Muirin returned home.
She’d come home early to find her cottage torn apart and a strange
Sasanach
hovering over him. Her English was not as good as Fionn’s, and it had taken Travis some time to convince her he didn’t work for the
iarla
and that he was not responsible for attacking Fionn or destroying her home.
Sasanach
hovering over him. Her English was not as good as Fionn’s, and it had taken Travis some time to convince her he didn’t work for the
iarla
and that he was not responsible for attacking Fionn or destroying her home.
Poor Muirfn. Fionn knew the past weeks had taken a toll on her. Now she was faced with a long journey to a faraway place where she had no kin. But Fionn wanted to change that. If she married him, she’d be part of his family with kin aplenty.
But how could he explain his feelings? He could tell her the green of her eyes was like the blades of fresh browse that cattle fed on in springtime. But what woman wanted her eyes compared to grass? He could tell her that her face was as beautiful and delicate as a snowflake or a rainbow or the web of a spider covered with dew. But that sounded stupid, even to his ears.
He could tell her that her breasts—
He’d better not say anything about her breasts. Or her lips. Or the gentle curve of her hips. Or the fact that he hungered to kiss her, to touch her, to make her his. He felt himself grow hard at the very thought. God, he was a bastard. She was a widow, a woman who had recently birthed and lost her only child, and all he could think of was bedding her. Every night he lay on his pallet aching for her, imagining everything he would do if he held her in his arms. Who was the satyr now? He would not dishonor her. He’d made her a promise, and he would not break it. There was only one thing to do.
Tonight, he would tell her the truth. He would make his intentions clear, and God willing, Muirin Congalaig would soon be his wife.
Resolved, Fionn finished his work in the dark, closed the door to the cowshed, walked back to the cottage, his brogues crunching against the snow. A few stars shone weakly in the darkened sky. Perhaps the sun would shine tomorrow.
Assailed by doubts, palms sweating, Fionn opened the door to the cottage, entered its welcoming warmth. Travis had gone to Baronstown to post another letter to Blakewell and would likely not return until the morrow. Aidan was already asleep in the pallet, a blanket tucked under his chin.
Muirin stood by the table pouring a cup of tea. “You must be chilled to the bone.”
Fionn was on fire, but didn’t say so. He hung his coat on its nail, accepted the mug, took a sip. “Thank you.” He sat at the table, tried to collect his courage, tried to find the words.
But just as he opened his mouth to speak, she disappeared behind her curtain. He was too late. Curse his slow tongue!
He sat in frustrated silence, furious with himself, and listened to the soft swish of clothing as she undressed for bed. He forced his gaze away from her curtain and onto the burning peat in the hearth.
He burned, too. Ached. Never had he wanted a woman the way he wanted Muirin. Aye, he’d felt desire before, but never had it ruled his every thought. He’d always been able to control his response, to turn his mind down other paths. But no longer. His need for Muirin felt reckless, violent, beyond reason.
His pain grew worse at the sound of the brush as she
drew it through her long, honey-colored hair, stroke after stroke. He hadn’t seen her hair since she’d wed Domhnall, save a stray strand here and there. But he knew it would feel soft in his hands, like the silk of a horse’s muzzle. He took another sip of tea, tried to banish the image of himself running his fingers through her long, glistening strands.
“Fionn.”
He looked up, forgot to breathe.
She stood before him, hair unbound, dressed only in her nightshirt. Like an angel she was, a vision of paradise. “Muirin.” He rose to his feet, helpless as his gaze traveled over her, drank her in. Her golden hair hung in waves to her hips, glistened in the firelight. Her bare arms were pale and slender. Her breasts, their crests visible through the worn white linen of her gown, were full and round. Her ankles and bare feet were delicate, tiny. Blood pounded through his veins, his heart a hammer in his chest. He felt heat rush to his groin, felt his breeches grow tight. God Almighty, he wanted her. Now. Muirin felt the heat of his perusal, saw his eyes darken with the same emotion that burned in her. She knew she was being forward, but she feared unless she did something Fionn would never touch her. He’d promised not to dishonor her, and he’d been irritatingly true to his word. It had only made her love him, want him, all the more. And want him she did. Her body was healed from the travail of childbirth and hungered for his touch. As his gaze swept her, she found it hard to breathe, and she wondered for a frightful instant if he would find her wanton and reject her.
He took a step toward her. “Muirin, I—“
“Fionn—"
They spoke at the same time, stopped. She gazed into his eyes as a charged silence stretched between them.
“Tis lovely you are, Muirin, the fairest sight that e’er I’ve seen. I apologize, for I fear I cannot keep my eyes from you.”
“Fionn, I—“
“Please, Muirin, forgive me, but I’ve somethin’ to say. Words do not come easily to me. If I don’t say it now, I might never get it out.” His brow furrowed, he drew one step closer. “I know you’ve suffered grief. I’ve no wish to intrude upon your sorrow, b u t . . . I’m a simple man, Muirin, so I’ll just speak my piece. I’ve got feelings for you—the kind of feelings a man has for a wife. I would count myself the luckiest and happiest of men if I could see your face when I rise each momin’ and when I fall asleep at night.”
Muirin felt as if her heart had grown wings. She hadn’t dared to hope for this. “Are you askin’ me to marry you?” “Aye, I am. And as soon as possible, as I don’t know how much longer I can resist my desire for you.” The look in his eyes was one of deep sincerity, mingled with pain.
She crossed the distance between them, placed her hand on his broad chest, felt his heart leap beneath her palm. “I have feelings for you, too. I would count myself the luckiest of women if you would take me to wife. And if you don’t make love to me tonight, I shall die for want of you.”
A low sound like a groan escaped him. “Make love to you? I’m afraid to touch you. You’re so . . . small. What if I should hurt you in my clumsiness? I’ve ne’er held a woman before. I’ve ne’er . . .”
Muirin couldn’t help smiling. She should have known a man like Fionn would approach his marriage bed untouched. “You could never hurt me, Fionn.” She took his hand, so large and calloused compared to hers, and held it to her cheek.
“Should we not wait for the priest?” His thumb traced her lips.
“There is no priest.”
For an instant that seemed to stretch into eternity, he looked into her eyes. Then with a groan, he pulled her against him and lowered his lips to hers. Rhuaidhri tossed another brick of peat on the small fire he’d built, warmed his fingers. He’d learned what he needed to know today. By this time tomorrow, he’d be well on his way to Dublin and from there, London. Rhuaidhri looked about at the familiar walls of the little squatter’s cottage. The place seemed terribly lonely without Brighid. Still, it would be a blessing to sleep on a pallet in the shelter of a real cottage again. He’d spent enough nights in bowers and cowsheds to last him the rest of his life.
He knew the
iarla’s
men had been here. He’d seen the dogs’ paw prints, the hooves of a dozen horses carved into the icy snow. Blakewell had been right about that—
iarla’s
men had been here. He’d seen the dogs’ paw prints, the hooves of a dozen horses carved into the icy snow. Blakewell had been right about that—
God curse him for a lying bastard otherwise. But surely the cottage was safe with the
iarla
back in England.
iarla
back in England.
Rhuaidhri sat at the wooden table, pulled food from his knapsack, bit hungrily into a brick of cheese. He hadn’t eaten since this morning, and his stomach was fair aching from lack. Fortunately, Blakewell’s coin was plentiful and would supply anything he needed—food, shelter, passage to London.
He’d thought about staying at an inn, but he didn’t want Fionn to hear about it. He was supposed to be on his way to Clare, not sneaking about the countryside in Meath. He knew Fionn would be angry with him, but there was no other way.
The
iarla
had threatened their sister, had kidnapped her and given her to a man to be used and defiled. He had threatened them all. He had killed a priest. He didn’t deserve to live. If British law couldn’t bring him to justice, Rhuaidhri would.
iarla
had threatened their sister, had kidnapped her and given her to a man to be used and defiled. He had threatened them all. He had killed a priest. He didn’t deserve to live. If British law couldn’t bring him to justice, Rhuaidhri would.
Rhuaidhri would be careful. There were lots of Irish in London to hide among until he had a plan. And then . . . He reached down, reassured by the hard outline of the pistol in his coat pocket. He’d felt bad taking it from its hiding place in the wooden box when Fionn was supposed to use it to protect Muirin and Aidan. He didn’t want to leave them defenseless.
But once the
iarla
was dead, they’d no longer be in danger. They wouldn’t need the pistol. Then Rhuaidhri would return it to its rightful owner. If Brighid was untouched and unharmed, he’d simply return the weapon, take his sister, and go. If not, the
Sasanach
would receive the pistol back one bullet at a time.
iarla
was dead, they’d no longer be in danger. They wouldn’t need the pistol. Then Rhuaidhri would return it to its rightful owner. If Brighid was untouched and unharmed, he’d simply return the weapon, take his sister, and go. If not, the
Sasanach
would receive the pistol back one bullet at a time.
Chapter Twenty
“It’s too much work, this is. I’ll never remember.” Brighid stared in dismay at the array of silver, crystal, and porcelain on the tray before her. Heddy had brought an entire place setting to her room on a tray and set it on the little polished table to teach Brighid what to do so that she need not be embarrassed should she dine with the family. “It ain’t so hard. Let’s give it another go.” Heddy repeated the name of each utensil, glass, and dish and described the use of each. “This glass is for dessert wine. You’ll drink it last.”
The maid’s instructions passed by Brighid in a blur of words, and Brighid felt her frustration mount. Why was she playing at English table manners? Why was she dressed in silks? Why was she sleeping in a feather-soft bed while her brothers slept in straw?
Brighid was a poor Irish girl, nothing more. She was used to cooking her own supper, baking her own bread, braiding her own hair. She had nothing to her name save a cloak, a worn gown, and a tattered book. She felt out of place at Kenleigh Manor, a plain rook in a roomful of peacocks.
She did not belong here.
“Oh, Heddy, please stop!” She stood, smoothed her hands nervously over the soft lavender silk of her gown, began to pace in front of the fireplace. “If they’re after makin’ me into a fine lady, it won’t work. It can’t!”
The maid looked up at her, her freckled face grave. “I don’t blame you for feeling out of sorts. If I had to sit down to dinner with himself and the mistress, I’d be scared out of my wits!”
“I suppose this is his idea?” Brighid gestured to the tray with the place setting.
“Oh, no, miss!” Heddy shook her head. “It was the mistress who sent me up here. Master Blakewell ain’t been home since yesterday afternoon.”
It was near noon. He’d spent the entire night away. “Oh. I see.” Brighid tried to feign indifference. After she’d fled the library, she’d locked herself in her room, had refused to come down to dinner. How could she when she knew desire would be written on her face as plainly as letters on the page?
When Elizabeth came to ask her if anything was amiss, Brighid had told her she simply needed some time alone. She’d eaten dinner in her room, and breakfast this morning. She had imagined Jamie would hear this and understand it had everything to do with him and what had happened in the library. She imagined him feeling a wee bit guilty, searching her out for a few words. She would ignore him, reject him, prove to both of them how little she felt for him.
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