Carnal Gift (33 page)
“I never meant to bring her dishonor or harm.” “Of course not.” Owen fingered the wooden beads of his Psalter absentmindedly. “We rarely mean to hurt those we love. And you do love her, don’t you?” Jamie closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “Aye, Father, with all my heart.”
Owen decided to take the risk. “Do you love her enough to marry her?”
Jamie’s eyes snapped open. His gaze—angry, fierce—met Owen’s. “You know very well our laws forbid it, else I’d have taken her to wife weeks ago!” Owen had heard this story before. He’d heard it last week from an English squire whose Irish mistress had died in childbed, the child with her. The man had been quite eager to rid himself of guilt, to blame her death on British law, on the Church, on God, on anything or anyone but himself.
Britain seemed to have plenty of Protestant men who loved Irish Catholic women and who’d gladly have married them—if only they could. And because they could not, they took the women they supposedly loved to bed, got them with child, set them up as mistresses, and, eventually, set them, and their bastard children, aside. The tears of Irish women in London easily rivaled the Thames.
Owen prayed Jamie Blakewell would be different from so many of his countrymen.
“When I first spoke with you, you told me that when God brings a man and woman together, He helps them find a way.” Jamie’s deep voice was smooth, but Owen could feel the barely restrained fury beneath it. “I have yet to find it, Father.”
Owen met the intensity of Jamie’s gaze and nodded, glad Jamie had come to the point. “There is a way. But it would demand great sacrifice of you, perhaps greater sacrifice than you are willing to make.”
“You bloody idiot!” Sheff struck Edward across the face.
“You were supposed to shoot his horse, not the girl!” Edward struggled to keep his footing, flinched as Sheff raised his fist again. “I’m sorry, my lord! I didn’t mean to, my lord!”
Sheff grabbed him by the collar. “Do you know what you’ve done, you stupid bastard?”
Edward swallowed. “Shot a woman, m-my lord?”
“You’ve turned us both into targets, you fool!”
The color visibly drained from Edward’s face. “If she dies, there will be no place for you or me to hide.” Sheff shoved Edward away.
He felt shaky, and his head ached. He walked unsteadily to the table and his waiting glass of cognac. He needed something to fortify him, to help him think clearly, to dull the pain. He swallowed the amber liquid, filled the glass again. “The pistol has not yet been delivered, I hope.”
“No, my lord, I’ve got it here.” Edward patted his overcoat.
“I’m waitin’ till tomorrow like you told me.” Sheff sighed with relief. “I’m changing that part of the plan. Give the pistol to me. We’ll need to hold on to it now.”
He motioned to Edward to set the firearm on the table. As soon as Jamie saw the pistol, he would know Sheff was behind the shooting. And then?
“If he harms her or any of her family, III hunt him with a knife in my teeth, and I won’t fail.”
A cold chill ran down Sheff’s spine. Then a sneer spread across his face.
Jamie was so confident. Always so sure of himself. But he was nothing more than a commoner. Sheff was an English lord, descended from a long line of English lords. He would simply double the guard and curtail his social life.
No, Jamie could not touch him. In the meantime, he needed to know whether the girl still lived. “Do you know what else you may have done, Edward?” “N-no, my lord.”
“You may have spoilt my prize. She was such a pretty little thing.” Sheff turned, looked with disgust upon his hireling. “Get out of my sight!”
“Aye, my lord!” Edward fled.
Sheff grabbed the decanter, crossed the room, sank into his chair, his mind heavy with troubles. He needed another drink. He needed to rest. Then he’d be able to think this through, find a way to work Edward’s bumbling to his advantage.
It had been a wonderful plan. Edward was supposed to kill the horse, then have the pistol delivered by some hapless messenger the next day. It would have been a glorious blow to Jamie’s insufferable superiority about horseflesh to lose his stallion—and a rather shocking way of letting him know that Sheff had captured the young rapparee Jamie had set upon him. It would have been a fitting vengeance for Jamie’s betrayal. Sheff had recognized the pistol the moment it had arrived from Ireland. French flintlock. Matchless quality. If that had not been enough, Jamie’s initials were engraved on the lock plate.
Sheff had raged for an hour, unable to believe his friend would arm the bloody Irish against him, their noble lord. He wanted to believe the rapparee had stolen it. But the letter from Ireland had been clear. The rapparee had bragged to the little turncoat Alice, who’d been cleverly prying information from him, that Jamie had not only given him the weapon, but taught him to shoot it. Sheff was tempted to turn the pistol over to the authorities and let them do whatever they desired with Jamie. It was treason to arm an Irish Catholic, treason to incite the Irish to fight. Jamie had done both—out of nothing more than desire for a woman. But this was a personal matter. There was no reason to get authorities involved—not yet. Sheff would handle it in his own way.
Chapter Twenty-six
The next several days passed in a blur, Jamie dimly aware of the world beyond Brighid’s room. He allowed no one but himself, Elizabeth, Father Owen, and the surgeon to come near her, though he and the surgeon disagreed mightily over her care.
Drawing on what he’d seen Takotah do, Jamie insisted on giving Brighid water to drink and sips of strengthening broth, while the surgeon feared it would raise her fever. Jamie had lowered her, naked, teeth chattering, into a bath of tepid water when fever made her delirious, while the surgeon would have left her in bed beneath the blankets.
Jamie had begun to use garlic compresses as Brighid had done with him, a treatment the surgeon called primitive, fit only for superstitious fishwives.
Jamie steadfastly refused to leave her side, not even when Elizabeth had raised her voice and accused him of punishing himself.
“It’s not your fault, Jamie! You can’t save her by killing yourself!”
He watched the sun rise and set at Brighid’s side and began to lose all sense of time. He took his meals there, though he found it all but impossible to eat. He slept in the chair beside her bed when he slept at all. God, how he loved her. He could not lose her.
That’s how Brighid found him when she awoke—asleep in the chair. His face was covered by several days’ growth of beard, haggard from lack of sleep and worry, his mouth set in a grim line even in repose. His hair hung loose about his shoulders, his curls tangled. He wore no shirt, no stockings, no shoes.
She struggled to remember what had happened. She’d been hurt. Someone had shot her while they’d been out for their ride. After that she could recall only images—
Jamie’s worried eyes gazing down at her, Jamie urging her to drink, Jamie pouring cool water over her fevered body in the tub. Jamie telling her to fight, to stay with him.
Had he been at her side the entire time? And how long had it been?
She shifted, reached out to touch him, moaned at the sharp pain that shot through her side.
Jamie’s head snapped up, and his eyes opened.
“Brighid, love, you’re awake.” He moved to sit beside her on the bed, rested a cool hand on her forehead. “The fever has finally broken.” He closed his eyes, and a look of intense relief washed over his face.
In that instant he looked so vulnerable and handsome Brighid wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him, but she could scarcely move. “How long?” she whispered. “Eight days, I think.” He leaned down, kissed her forehead, his lips light and soft.
“Rest, love. I’ll be right here.”
Muirin looked down at Aidan’s drowsy face where his head rested against her breast, stroked his red hair. The poor child was exhausted after days in a horse cart. She couldn’t blame him. It had been a long trip. “Are we there yet?” Aidan gazed down the rutted road.
Fionn chuckled. “Aye,
a phrditin,
finally we’re there.” Aidan sat up, suddenly alert, and looked about with renewed interest.
a phrditin,
finally we’re there.” Aidan sat up, suddenly alert, and looked about with renewed interest.
Muirin, too, was overcome with curiosity and gazed from one cottage to the next. This little village was to be her new home, and she felt more than a little nervous at the thought of meeting Fionn’s family. “Which one is it?” Fionn pointed. “The one with the rosebushes. There. See?”
A small whitewashed cottage sat at the end of a rutted lane, a row of dormant rosebushes tied neatly to trellises along its front. She smiled, some of her fear dissolving. People who cared so for flowers would care well for their own. “Aye.”
Fionn steered the horses down a rutted lane toward his cousin’s cottage.
“Fionn? Fionn Ui Maelsechnaill?” A tall, dark-haired
man stepped out of a nearby cowshed. Not quite as tall as Fionn, he reminded Muirin instantly of Brlghid with his dark good looks. “I’ll be buggered!” Fionn reined the team to a halt, gazed grimly down at the man. “You’ll be watchin’ your tongue round my wife.” My
wife.
Muirin felt a little rush of joy to hear him speak those words.
wife.
Muirin felt a little rush of joy to hear him speak those words.
The two men stared at one another, their faces grave.
Fionn smiled first. “It’s good to see you, Seanan.” Fionn hopped to the ground, and the two men embraced, laughing, hitting, and insulting one another—showing affection in the strange way men do. “I’d recognize your ugly mug anywhere.” Seanan slapped Fionn hard on the back, winked up at Muirin. “How did a sod like you end up with a wife, let alone one so pretty?”
She felt herself blush to the roots of her hair. “ It was my charm and wit that won her over.” Fionn gave Sean£n a light punch to the arm. “Two qualities you lack, cousin.”
“By the saints, it’s good to see you again, Fionn!” Seanan gave Fionn another robust slap on the back, chuckled. “What brings you all the way to Clare?” Fionn looked up, puzzled. “Did Rhuaidhri not explain?”
“Rhuaidhri?”
Muirin felt her heart stop, felt a jolt of surprise pass through Fionn.
“Don’t tell me he isn’t here.”
Seanan met Fionn’s gaze, his expression earnest. “I’m sorry, Fionn. I haven’t seen Rhuaidhri since the summer you all came to visit with your father.”
Fionn looked down at her, and she saw deep worry in his eyes. His gaze shifted back to his cousin. “I’ve come under dire circumstances to ask for shelter for myself and my family. I’ll explain everything. But first I need to know where I can find a priest.”
Fionn and Muirin were married later that day in Seanan’s cottage with friends and family to witness their vows. Though Muirin’s heart soared as the priest spoke the words that bound her and Fionn together, she could not shake the sense of foreboding that had come over her the moment they’d heard Rhuaidhri was missing. Though she’d told herself Rhuaidhri had as likely gotten lost as fallen into trouble, her heart knew better. Something was wrong.
And tomorrow morning Fionn would leave her, head back into danger.
She’d lost one husband. She could not lose Fionn.
“The mistress says you’re to stay in bed!” “I am sick and tired of bed, Heddy, dear.” Brighid placed her feet on the soft carpet, grasped the bedpost, grimaced at the pain in her side. “It will do me some good to stretch my legs and walk a bit. Besides, I’m only goin’ down to the library.”
Heddy’s hands were twisted in her apron, her eyes wide with concern. “If you tell me what you want, I can fetch the book for you.”
“That’s bein’ mighty sweet, Heddy, but I can do this.” Brighid released the bedpost, took one step, another. She wasn’t used to having people do things for her, felt silly asking Heddy to do her such a favor. “See, I’m fine.” “They’ll have my hide if you fall, miss.”
“I won’t fall!”
It seemed a long journey to the door, a longer one to the top of the stairs. But soon she was taking the stairs one at a time, both hands gripping the banister, Heddy following nervously beside her.
The maid gave an audible sigh of relief when they reached the bottom of the stairway.
Brighid found herself wondering if perhaps Heddy wasn’t right. She couldn’t imagine climbing up those stairs again. It would be hard enough walking the remaining distance to the library.
One step at a time, she made her way down the hallway. The sound of male voices stopped her. They were coming from Matthew’s study.
“ . . . cannot be done .. . there is no way . ,. will be ruined!”
She didn’t recognize that voice.
“Must be some alternative . . .”
That was Matthew.
“Keep her quietly as your mistress... or set her aside . . .”
Brighid felt as if someone had knocked the air from her lungs. They were talking about her, how to dispose of her.
“... will do whatever I must...” That was Jamie’s voice.
Brighid could bear to hear no more and walked as quickly as she could on trembling legs to the library, Heddy following behind her. She sank into the nearest chair, heedless of the tears on her cheeks, the pain in her side no match for the ache in her heart.
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