Carnal Gift (32 page)
Unbearable pleasure. Sweet agony.
When at last she floated down from the heavens, she opened her eyes to find him poised above her, passion still burning in his eyes.
“Do you surrender?”
She smiled, weak from his loving, and whispered, “Never.”
All at once he lifted her, turned her until she lay on her belly, her bonds twisting with her. She gasped, fought not to giggle.
He wadded her skirts, thrust them beneath her, until she lay with her bottom raised at just such an angle. His voice took on the tone of command. “Spread your thighs for me.”
“They are spread.” Her heart pounded with excitement at the power of his game.
“Spread them further.” His hands, warm and demanding, pressed her inner thighs apart another inch. “Further still” Trembling, she complied. She knew she was completely exposed to him, uncovered, vulnerable. But for a moment he did nothing. He was letting her wait, letting her wonder.
The anticipation heightened her excitement, deepened her need.
Then his warm palms caressed the chilled flesh of her bottom, and his thumb lazily slid over her slick, aching cleft. “I ask you again. Do you yield?” “Never!”
He slid into her with one, clean thrust, penetrated her completely. His hands grasped her hips, and his testicles slapped against her, as he reached her very depths with fast, forceful strokes. “Oh, Brighid! You are so wet and tight. So perfect.”
Their sounds of pleasure mingled in the cold air, as he drove relentlessly within her. Her moans quickly became frantic, keening cries as she felt another climax approach. Then his fingers sought and found her most sensitive flesh, stroked it, caressed it.
“Jamie!” She cried out his name as once again the force of passion claimed her. Her muscles clenched violently around him, as wave after wave of liquid ecstasy rolled through her.
She felt him shudder, heard his deep groan as he thrust hard once, twice, three times.
Then there was only the sound of their rapid breathing and the feel of him as he gently lowered his weight on top of her, his shaft still hard inside her, and planted a kiss on her turned cheek.” Tis you who have conquered me, my Irish princess.”
It was dark by the time they mounted again and turned their horses back toward the manor. The air had grown colder, but Brighid felt snug in her fur cloak. Her body felt languid, replete from their lovemaking, the telltale wetness between her thighs a sweet reminder that the man she loved had claimed his pleasure inside her. She was trying to explain the appeal of Cuchulainn to the average Irishman. “He may have been a bit crazy—and he was a wee bit crazy, now, wasn’t he?—but he was a mighty warrior and true. If he were alive today—“ She heard a loud popping sound, saw Jamie’s head jerk in alarm toward the trees.
Then she felt it—a deep, burning sensation in her side. She pressed her hand against the pain, felt something warm, sticky. She looked down, saw something dark on her hand. Blood? “Jamie?”
“Oh, my God! Brighid!”
She felt his arms surround her as he pulled her off her horse and across his lap. She wanted to ask him what had happened, why she was bleeding, but the world had begun to spin.
Or had Hermes broken into a gallop?
Pain, like the blade of a knife, sliced through her, and she felt herself fall into darkness.
Chapter Twenty-five
Jamie pressed the linen tightly against the wound. The bleeding had slowed but had not stopped. “Stay with me, Brighid.”
She was unconscious again, and for that he was grateful. They’d given her what laudanum they had, but he knew she was still in great pain.
The bullet had entered her right side at the bottom of her rib cage and had not exited. Jamie knew what this meant—the doctor would have to remove it. Like unwelcome echoes, the screams of wounded men at Fort Necessity came back to him. The surgeon had treated those he could, removed bullets buried in shoulders, thighs, bellies—all to the cries of agony. Grown men pleading with God. Pleading for mercy. Pleading for death.
That was what Brighid would have to endure.
The thought filled Jamie with white-hot rage, desperation. God, how he wished the bullet had hit him! If only he could spare her this.
What Jamie wouldn’t give for Takotah’s healing skill right now. He trusted her, had watched her pull people from the brink of death time and time again. He had more faith in her than any English physician, no matter how exalted his reputation.
What was taking the surgeon so long, anyway? Matthew had gone to fetch him well over two hours ago.
Bloody hell!
Elizabeth handed Jamie a freshly folded square of clean linen, seemed to read his thoughts. “He’ll be here soon.” Jamie quickly switched the clean cloth for the bloody one, pressed it hard against the wound, handed the bloodied cloth to Elizabeth.
Brighid moaned in her sleep, weakly tried to brush his hand away as if to remove the source of her pain. Her eyes fluttered open, glazed by the effects of the laudanum. “Jamie?”
“Aye, love, I’m here.” He wished he could hold her, reached with-his free hand to caress her cheek instead. Her brow was furrowed, and she bit her lower lip. “It hurts.”
The rage inside him grew. “I know it does, love. The surgeon is on his way.”
She shivered, a cold sweat on her brow. “I—I’m so cold.”
“We’ll build up the fire.” He pulled a blanket across her legs, her slender shoulders, gave her what warmth he could.
Behind him, Elizabeth bade Heddy put logs on the fire.
“Jamie?”
“Aye, sweet, I’m here.”
“If I die, tell my brothers—“
“You’re not going to die!” His voice sounded rough even to his ears. “I won’t let you.”
Brighid felt herself smile despite the relentless pain. Leave it to her sweet
Sasanach
to think he could tell even Death what to do.
Sasanach
to think he could tell even Death what to do.
But she could feel her strength fading. She could feel herself growing weaker, colder. She wanted to tell him just in case. She wanted him to know. She reached for him, ran her hand over the evening stubble on his handsome face. “Jamie.”
He took her hand in his, kissed it. “Just rest, love.” “No, I need to tell you.” She felt herself begin to drift, fought the darkness.
“Need to tell me what, love?”
Her lips formed the words she had so longed to say.
“Mo ghra thu, a Jamie. Mo ghra go buan, tu.” I love you, Jamie. Ill always love you.
As darkness claimed her again, she didn’t realize she had slipped and said them in Gaelic.
Brighid fought to surface from the depth of what seemed a nightmare. She was cold, so cold. And she hurt. Something was jabbing her in the side, something sharp, unbearably painful.
Then she remembered.
She had a knife in the waistband of her skirts. A knife to use against the
Sasanach.
Sasanach.
Somehow it was buried just beneath her ribs, buried deep in her side. She tried to pull it out, but she couldn’t move.
The knife. Oh, it hurt! She had to get it out. But why would she still have the knife? She didn’t want to hurt Jamie. She loved him.
The iarla.
She had taken the knife to protect herself against the
iarla.
Instead, she had managed to cut herself. Hadn’t there been blood? Hadn’t she looked down and seen her own blood?
iarla.
Instead, she had managed to cut herself. Hadn’t there been blood? Hadn’t she looked down and seen her own blood?
Aye, she was bleeding. But where was Jamie?
“Tarrthail, a Jamie!” Help me, Jamie!
From the hallway outside her room where he was pacing, Jamie heard her cries. He lunged toward the door, would have broken it down had Matthew not blocked his path, held him back, fingers dug forcefully into Jamie’s shoulders. “Damnation!”
“The doctor has given her lots of laudanum.” Matthew’s voice was calm, but Jamie could see the strain on his face. “He must get the ball out! You know that!” Jamie closed his eyes, clenched his fists, his anguish at her suffering far greater than any physical pain. “It should be me in there!”
Matthew muttered something about the kind of bastard who would shoot a woman, but Jamie didn’t really hear him, his mind on Brighid and what she must be enduring. The surgeon, a short, squat man with deep bags under his eyes, had arrived and immediately demanded Jamie leave the room. “The ladies’ help will be sufficient to hold her down.”
At first, Jamie had refused.
But the doctor had been adamant. “I refuse to expose this young woman to your glances. Unless you are her husband, sir, I insist you leave at once!”
Propelled by Matthew’s arm in the small of his back, and unwilling to waste time when Brighid’s life was at stake, Jamie had reluctantly complied. Now he could do nothing but wait.
Brighid cried out again, and Jamie cursed under his breath.
Though the authorities had written the whole thing off as a stray bullet from a hunter’s gun, Jamie knew in his gut that was not the case. Someone had fired at them deliberately. But firearms were notoriously inaccurate at long distances. Had the bullet been intended for Brighid or for him?
Jamie was willing to bet Sheff knew the answer to that question. As soon as Brighid recovered, Jamie would rip the truth from Sheff s throat. If Sheff were to blame for Brighid’s suffering, he would live only long enough to regret it.
The door to the bedroom opened, and the surgeon appeared, his face grave.
“How is she?” Jamie struggled to restrain himself. “She is asleep and resting, but her condition is quite serious.” The surgeon fussed at a bright red bloodstain on his linen shirtsleeve. “I managed to recover the ball. It broke one of her ribs but blessedly missed her organs. The wound itself is not so terrible, but she has a fever. I fear infection has already set in.”
Jamie met Matthew’s gaze, saw his own fears echoed in Matthew’s eyes. Most men who died on the battlefield were killed not by balls of lead, but by infection. “I’ve left plenty of laudanum, as well as a special draught for her fever. I’ve instructed Elizabeth to keep the wound clean and apply an antiseptic salve six times a day. There’s little else I can do.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Matthew shook the surgeon’s hand.
Jamie nodded his thanks, fought not to take his anger and frustration out on the physician.
“One other thing.” The doctor paused. “She is Catholic, is she not?”
Jamie met his gaze without answering, suddenly wary.
“You might wish to send for the priest.” The words were like a boot to Jamie’s stomach. “Are you saying you think Brighid will die?” “I’m telling you her situation is serious. She might survive, but I’ve no way to be certain of that. If the infection spreads . . . “ The doctor shrugged his shoulders, started toward the stairway. “I really must be going. Lord Worsley’s wife is in confinement with her fourteenth child, and the babe is unlikely to wait.”
“Allow me to see you out.” Matthew turned to follow the doctor.
Jamie took a deep breath, fought to steady his voice. “Matthew, can you please make arrangements for a carriage to pick up the priest? The chapel is in an alley off Michael Street.”
Matthew glanced back, met his gaze, his blue eyes grim, and nodded.
Jamie was unable to wait longer. He opened the door to Brighid’s room, pushed past a wan Heddy, who was on her way out with an armful of bloody linens. Brighid lay motionless, her face deathly pale. Her skin was covered by a sheen of cold sweat. Her hair was damp, and stray strands clung to her ashen cheeks. She looked small in the enormous bed, small and fragile. Jamie didn’t know when he’d ever felt so powerless.
He had promised to keep her safe. He had failed utterly. Father Owen arrived just before midnight, fclis face set with the serenity of one who’d seen death many times, he stood over Brighid, anointed her fevered forehead with oil, began to speak his Latin words, while Jamie watched, feeling wretched, useless.
For the past few hours, Jamie had bathed her with cool cloths to calm her fever. He had stroked her cheek, held her hand, muttered reassurances when the fever gave her nightmares.
And still her fever raged on. When Elizabeth had come to give her another draught of medicine and apply more salve, Jamie had seen how bad the wound truly was—an angry, red incision the length of his thumb carved into her soft, white skin and stitched with sinew.
“ln nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” The priest made the sign of the cross, turned to Jamie. “I think I’ll be stayin’ for a while, if you don’t mind. In case she awakes and wishes to make a confession.” Jamie nodded. “Of course, Father.”
“While I’m here, you might as well be tellin’ me what’s on your mind.”
Father Owen watched from his chair by the hearth as the Englishman stroked Brighid’s fevered cheek, bathed her forehead.
Jamie obviously loved her. But did he love her enough?
That was the question that troubled Owen. Outside the windows, the rosy fingers of dawn were just reaching across the eastern sky. The world, in all its wretchedness and wonder, would see another day.
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