Jamie had gone out to the cowshed as soon as he’d finished wolfing down his supper. He’d said he needed to settle the stallion for the night. Did he usually spend all bleedin’ day with his horse?
Not that it mattered to her. She had her book to keep her company until bedtime. She didn’t need him around.
If she’d thought he’d take advantage of being alone with her, she’d been wrong. Quiet he’d been during dinner—pensive. There’d been tension in every line of his body from his furrowed brow to the grim line of his lips to the fist he’d kept clenched on the table while he ate. She’d tried to make conversation, and though he’d listened to her, he hadn’t had much to say himself. Something was worrying him, and that made Brighid afraid. When he’d noticed her looking at him, he’d said his mind was on political matters in London and he needed to be leaving as soon as Rhuaidhri returned.
Her heart had fallen at these words. “So soon?” She had tried to imagine going about her life without him, never seeing him again. She didn’t like the way it made her feel.
Then he’d said something that had shocked her utterly. “You should come with me. Let me take you to my brother-in-law’s estate outside London where you’ll be safe. The earl won’t be able to come near you there.” She’d gaped at him, speechless at first. “I am not leavin’ Ireland,
Sasanach.
I am not leavin’ my brothers.” “By staying, you place them in danger. If Sheff—the earl—knew you were o» our estate under my protection, he would have no choice but to leave all of you alone.” She’d dropped her spoon, unable to eat more, said nothing.
It was true her presence here brought greater danger to her brothers. As men, they’d be able to move more freely without her to protect and feed. But what would she do without them so far from home? How would she be able to stand living among
Sasanach,
sharing their meals, speaking their language, while their countrymen continued to enslave her beloved Ireland?
“You hate the English that much?”
His question had startled her. Had he read her thoughts? “When you’re gone, my brothers and I will leave for County Clare. We’ll be safe there.” He’d looked at her long and hard. “As you wish.”
Then he’d excused himself and gone back to his horse. Brighid walked to the bed, lifted her pillow, pulled out the tattered book, determined to fight off the sadness that had gripped her heart. Though she knew the story of Don Bellianis by heart, it was still her favorite. She carried it to a chair by the hearth, sat where the light could hit the pages, carefully opened it to where she’d left off.
“Don Bellianis did propose to the Sultan, his father-in-law, the finishing of the War with the Emperor of Trebizone, and offered his service to go in person about it. But the Sultan would not by any means consent to that. Neither would the Princess Florisbella bear any such proposition, telling them that she had rather lose ten such Empires than permit him to make such a journey.”
Brighid didn’t want Jamie to leave. She didn’t want him logo.
Sweet Mary, what was wrong with her! She tried to force her attention back on the page, focused on each word.
“As low as the Emperor was in his present misfortunes, yet he was high in his own opinion and so in his reply. For having lost that which he chiefly sought—the Princess Florisbella—he cared not what he did.”
The door flew open, and Jamie stormed in. Without bothering to shut the door, he strode to his comer, picked up his travel bag, and walked quickly back outside.
Brighid tucked the piece of straw she used to mark her page back in the book, dropped the book on the table, ran to the door.
The stallion stood outside fully saddled.
Her heart gave a sickening thud. “They found us?” “No, and they’re not going to find us.” Jamie tied his travel bag behind the saddle. “We’re leaving.” Brighid’s mind reeled. “What?”
He looked over his shoulder at her, his gaze grim.
“Gather your things.”
For a moment she was too confused, too astonished to speak. Even as her mind rejected it, she realized the truth. He was leaving, and he was forcing her to go with him. A surge of fury helped her find her tongue. “I’m goin’ nowhere,
Sasanach!
Leave if you want, but I’m stayin’!” He checked the cinch, then turned and strode toward her.
The look in his eyes—hard, unyielding—made her turn on her heels and run. She darted behind the table, turned to face him, her back to the hearth, heart thudding. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, cut off her only escape. He took one step, two, in her direction, his gaze never leaving hers. “Don’t fight me, Brighid.” “Go to hell,
Sasanach”
She saw the knife on the worktable to her left.
Spurred by pure panic, she lunged for it, grabbed the handle.
Strong arms imprisoned her from behind, held her motionless. “I know you don’t really want to hurt me.” His breath was hot on her cheek.
“I wouldn’t wager on it,
Sasanach.”
She tried to twist free, could not.
“Drop it, Brighid!” His voice was silky but dark with warning. “You haven’t the strength to resist me, so don’t try.”
Desperate, she struggled, thrashed. “Let me go, you bastard!”
“I’ve no wish to bind you, but I will if you force me.” She screamed, kicked, felt the wooden heel of her brogues connect with his shin.
“Ouch, damn it!” He shifted his hold on her and clamped one hand around her wrist. “Drop it!” His grip was iron, made her fingers weak.
“You’re hurtin’ me!”
“I’m trying to keep you from hurting yourself!” The knife slipped from her numb fingers to the earthen floor with a thud.
In a blink, he lifted her off her feet as if she were a child, turned her to face the wall, pinned her against it with his body. Through the fire of her rage she felt his hard thighs press against her bottom, his hips against her back. Some traitorous part of her reveled in his physical power, in the masculine feel of him. The realization only made her anger sharper. “Curse you, Jamie Blakewell!” “If you had any sense, there’d be no need for this.” He pulled her arms behind her, held her wrists firmly together. She felt soft cloth against her skin as he bound her hands behind her back. Fury gave way to fear. “Rhuaidhri will be back in a few hours! Please, Jamie, I can’t abandon him!”
“Your brother isn’t coming back.” He turned her around, marched her over toward the door, strong hands on her shoulders.
“Wh-what?”
He grabbed her scarf and cloak from the wall and quickly put them on her. “I explained to Fionn what I’m doing in my letter. He’ll know there’s no reason for Rhuaidhri to return. If he has any sense, they’ll be on their way out of the county by dawn.”
The weight of what he’d said took a moment to sink in.
The lying bastard!
“You tricked us! You wanted Rhuaidhri to take that message all along!”
She shrieked in rage, tried to kick him, but only succeeded in pitching herself off balance. She fell toward the floor face-first, with no hands free to break her fall. He caught her round the waist before she hit, hauled her backward up against him, turned her abrupdy to face him. His eyes were dark, his gaze tinged with anger. “You can’t get away from me, Brighid, but you might well hurt yourself trying.”
He took her elbow, steered her toward the door, which he kicked open with his foot.
“My book!” Brighid craned her head back toward the table where her beloved
Don Bellianis
lay. “Please, my book! My medicines!”
He ignored her, forced her over to where Hermes stood, lifted her into his arms.
“Please, Jamie! Let me fetch it!”
He said nothing, lifted her into the saddle.
“Jamie, please! The book—it’s all I have!” The catch in her voice made him look. Tears were streaming down her lovely face. She might as well have stabbed him in the gut with the knife.
He turned, walked quickly back through the open door, grabbed the book, looked over the tiny cottage one last time. Little jars of oils and herbs lined the work table.
Two bars of soap sat wrapped in white linen in the back corner. He tucked the book beneath one arm, gathered both jars and soaps, walked back outside. She sat as he’d left her, but she was no longer crying. She held her chin high, refused to look at him, and he was reminded of how she’d looked standing on the great ring at Taragh—like an ancient princess. He opened a pocket in his travel bag and carefully placed the bottles and soaps inside. In another, he placed the tattered book. Then he quickly mounted, adjusted Brighid’s weight in the saddle in front of him, took the reins, and urged Hermes to a slow trot. It was time to get his life back in order. They were going to London.
Chapter Fifteen
Muirin stirred the stew, scooped it into three wooden bowls, careful to give the biggest chunks of beef to Fionn. The dear man had risen before dawn and had worked without ceasing all day, Aidan in tow. For four days it had snowed, the cold and wet making for more work. They’d be back any minute, hungry and chilled to the bone.
It had been almost two weeks since Fionn had moved in with her. Over a period of several days, he’d brought his chickens and cattle, along with his stores of hay and grain, and housed them with hers. He’d also brought the food from his own cupboards and the pallet that Aidan had once shared with Brighid. It now sat in one corner, the comer where Fionn and Aidan slept each night.
Fionn had taken the
iarla
’s stained sheet—after she’d boiled it clean—and had put up a curtain for her. It hung from one of the ceiling beams and sheltered her pallet from view. It was to protect her privacy, he’d said. His gesture had touched her deeply.
Strange that she should already have grown so accustomed to his company.
She watched each day as Fionn went quietly about his work, showing Aidan how best to prepare tar to cure an infection in a cow’s foot, how to strip a turf bank, how to clean the stall of an impatient and angry bull. There seemed to be nothing he could not do, no farm work beyond the skill of his hands. In this, he was very unlike Domhnall, God rest his soul. Domhnall had been more a daydreamer than a farmer, full of big plans, but out of sorts when an animal fell sick or the blade of a saw broke. Muirin tried not to compare the two men. She did not want to dishonor Dornhnall’s memory. Yet, it was difficult not to notice the differences. Where Domhnall had been lanky, Fionn was solid, his body muscular from years of physical labor. Where Domhnall loved to dance a jig and sing, Fionn was quiet, almost shy. Where Domhnall could tell a pretty story or recite a poem, Fionn knew the deep history of Ireland and how to read and write. God forgive her, but as the days wore on, she found herself wondering what it would be like to lie with Fionn, to feel his large, work-calloused hands on her skin, his lips on hers as he moved deep inside her. She wanted him. More than that, she was afraid she was falling in love with him.
But how did he feel about her? She knew he cared for her. He’d worked hard for her after DornhnaH’s death, asking nothing in return. He’d given up his own home to protect her from the
iarla
and his men. He’d treated her with respect, always the perfect gentleman. Was he just showing uncommon kindness to a widow or did he have feelings for her?
She placed the butter crock on the table, eager to shift her thoughts before Fionn returned and read them in her eyes.
The door opened, and he entered, Aidan at his heels. “Sure and it’s a cold one. I’d say we got another couple of inches today.” He strode toward the hearth, held his hands out to warm them. “Supper smells like a slice of heaven.”
Muirin scraped oatcakes onto the plates, avoided his gaze, fought to keep her voice light. “Sit and eat. The tea will chase away the chill.”
Fionn and Aidan hastily removed and hung their coats and scarves, sat at the table. Aidan reached for his spoon, but Fionn stopped him.
“Mind your manners, son.”
Muirin sat, folded her hands, said grace. She tried not to laugh as Aidan crossed himself and tore into his food almost at the same moment.
“It’s been years since I’ve seen a snow like this one.” Fionn took a gulp of tea. “A good foot, and it’s still comin’ down.”
From his tone of voice, she knew he was worried about Brighid and Rhuaidhri and their
Sasanach
visitor. Not once since the
iarla
had ridden to her doorstep had he dared to make the journey to the squatter’s cabin. He was afraid the
iarla
had set a watch on the house and would follow him or take advantage of his absence to harm her or little Aidan. But they would not speak about it in front of Aidan for fear of frightening the boy.
“How is Neasa?” Muirin’s favorite milk cow was about to bear another calf, this one by the enormous bull Domhnall had purchased to increase the herd. Fionn’s smile lit up his handsome face like sunshine. His blue eyes twinkled. “She’s cranky as any mother to be. I expect she’s got a couple of weeks left before she’ll be ready to drop.”
Muirin looked away, reached for the butter crock. Her hand met his. Her breath caught in her throat. Frissons of awareness skittered up her arm. She would have pulled her hand away, but her rebellious fingers lingered on his skin, until his hand closed over hers and held it. Their gazes collided, and Muirin found her answer. He wanted her, too.