Sheff had broken into a cold sweat, and the stench in the room told Jamie Sheff had wet and fouled himself. “It s-seems you have no choice but to believe me.” Jamie knew Sheff was right. If Sheff had Rhuaidhri—and Rhuaidhri was still alive—Sheff still had the power to hurt Brighid.
Brighid.
How was Jamie going to tell her about this? It was bad enough that Sheff had her brother, but to tell her Rhuaidhri might have been the one who’d shot her? Jamie didn’t believe that, couldn’t tell her that. He struggled to contain his anger. With Rhuaidhri captive, the game had changed.
He played his last card. “Know this—it goes both ways. You live as long as he lives. Harm him, and you will pay the price!”
“Then it seems we are at an impasse, you and I.” “For the moment.” Jamie could feel Sheff’s confidence growing now that the shock had worn off and he knew Jamie wasn’t going to kill him. He considered his options. The room was two stories off the ground. If Sheff called for help, Jamie would be lucky to make it out of the house alive. “This is your last warning, Sheff. Harm Brighid or her brothers, and there won’t be enough hirelings in all of England to keep you safe from me.” With that, Jamie slammed a fist into Sheff’s jaw, watched as Sheff fell back, unconscious, onto his pillows. Then Jamie threw the window open, stuck his legs through, and made a leap for the ground. The heavy wooden door creaked open, let in a shaft of candlelight, then closed again.
Alice appeared at the top of the stairs, carrying a candle and a basket of food. She’d brought him dinner hours ago. He hadn’t expected to see her again until morning. She’d been his only comfort these past weeks. She’d stitched the gash in his head, brought his meals, shared what little news of the outside world she knew. She had kept him company as often as her
Sasanach
captors had allowed. She’d even brought salve for his wrists and ankles where the irons had chafed his skin raw. Rhuaidhri had only seen her in candlelight, but that was enough for him to know she was pretty—curly red hair, pale skin, soft dark eyes. It was surely her beauty that had made her a servant of the
iarla.
Though he knew little about her, Rhuaidhri assumed she’d suffered the same fate the
iarla
had intended for Brighid.
He had not asked her about it. He didn’t know how to ask her. And so he treated her as he hoped other Irishmen might have treated his sister.
When he escaped he would take her with him. It wouldn’t be easy. The door was always barred from the outside, and at least one man kept watch on it at all hours. There was no other way out, no windows, no loose bricks, no cracks in the wall.
Perhaps she would help him.
“I’ve brought you some leftovers.” She always spoke
Gaeilge
to him with her soft Dublin accent.
“Go raibh maith agat, Alice.” He rose to greet her, chains clinking.
Thank you.
She set the basket of food on the floor beside his feet.
“How are you feeling?”
“Happy to see you again.”
She frowned as if annoyed, but Rhuaidhri wasn’t fooled. He could see in her eyes that his words please her. It was the same look she got every time he used his charm on her.
“I thought you might still be hungry, so I snuck some scraps from the kitchens.”
“You shouldn’t take risks like that. What if someone catches you?”
She smiled. “They won’t. I brought the guard a basket of his own.”
“You’re a clever girl, Alice.” He decided to ask her at least one of the questions that had been troubling him. “Why do you let them call you that?”
“Call me what?”
“ ‘Alice.’ It’s a
Sasanach
name.”
She shrugged, looked away from him. “It makes no difference to me.”
“But Ailis is so much prettier, gentler on the ear.” At the sound of her real name, her head jerked up and she met his gaze. Her eyes glittered with temper. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Don’t go gettin’ your back up.” He fought the urge to touch a hand to her cheek. “It’s the name your parents gave you, a good Irish name. You should be proud of it. From now on, I shall call you Ailis.”
“Hush, silly boy, and let me check your forehead. I cannot stay long.” She took a step toward him, accidentally stepped on his foot, lost her balance.
He reach out to catch her, instinctively pulled her against him, one hand around her waist, the other on the candle.
The contact jarred his senses, made it hard to breathe. He was so shocked by the sensation of her body pressed to his that it took him a moment to realize what the nearness had revealed. Then he knew.
“Oh, no, Ailis!”
Her eyes grew wide with dismay, and she pulled away from him, took one step backward.
Rhuaidhri let his gaze drop to her belly and saw what he had not noticed before.
She was with child.
A torrent of emotion surged through him—disbelief, anger, revulsion.
Then he thought of Brighid. What if the
iarla
had raped her that night and planted a baby inside her? Would he and Fionn have hated her? Would they have been ashamed of her and sent her away?
No. They’d have protected her, and Rhuaidhri would have pummeled any man who dared look down his nose at her.
Aills saw the disgust on his face. She wanted to be angry with him. But all she could feel was shame, guilt. For three weeks the rapparee had been nothing but sweet to her. He’d told her she was pretty. He’d treated her with respect and kindness. He’d thanked her for each seeming comfort she’d brought him—a blanket, salve for his wounds, news from the world beyond. And she had betrayed him.
She had allowed him to think she, too, was a prisoner, here against her will. She’d done it partly to win his trust and partly because she liked the way he made her feel—as if she were something precious that needed to be protected. No man had ever treated her that way. But it was all a lie. She had come to the
iarla’s
household on her own after her mother died. She’d wanted a roof over her head and food in her belly. She’d found both here. And if she’d found it sensible to let the
iarla
use her body in exchange for a better life, that was her business. She would apologize to no one, least of all a gullible boy who didn’t have enough sense to keep himself out of trouble.
She looked into Rhuaidhri’s eyes, eyes that had gone soft with pity, and she wanted to yell at him, berate him, hate him. Every kindness he showed her was an unwelcome, grating reminder of the innocence she’d never had. But she couldn’t hate him.
“I’m sorry.” He reached out to cup her cheek. “Don’t be worryin’ that I’ll think less of you. He forced you, didn’t he?”
She felt the sweet burn of his touch on her skin, met his question with silence. Let him believe what he wished. “He tried the same with my sister, God curse him.” “I know.” Ailfs didn’t bother to tell him just what she thought of his sister. Brighid Ni Maelsechnaill had thought herself too good to be touched by an English lord, had hit Ailis, cursed her.
“When I get out of here, I’m takin’ you with me. I won’t leave you behind.”
Guilt gnawed at her, sharp teeth against her heart. He was a sweet boy, truly he was. There was something innocent about him, something pure. But he wasn’t getting out. When the
iarla
returned, he would be hanged. If he knew the truth, he would hate her. His eyes, which gazed at her with such compassion, would fill with loathing, and he would know her for what she was. A part of her wanted to tell him the truth, to see his innocence shredded, to rip away the false image he had of her, force him to see her as she was. But she was too cowardly and selfish for that. He would go to the gallows never knowing the role she’d played in his fate for one simple reason: When she was with him, she felt clean again.
“Well, you’re not goin’ anywhere tonight.” She forced herself to meet his gaze, smiled. “Sit and eat. And let me check your forehead.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Brighid lifted her night shift over her head, dropped it on a nearby chair, examined her naked reflection in the mirror. Some of the color had returned to her cheeks, though she was still pale. She looked a bit thinner perhaps than the last time she’d seen herself in the glass. The biggest change was the angry red scar on her right side. And the look of deep melancholy in her eyes.
She turned to the tub of steaming water behind her, climbed in.
Any day now Fionn would reach Clare and send for her. Then Jamie would put her on his ship and send her back over the Irish Sea to her brothers. Even if he came with her all the long way to Clare, they’d have little more than a month together at most. And then he would leave. She remembered the globe in the library, how tiny Ireland was compared to the rest of the world, how far away the shores of Virginia had seemed. Farewell would mean forever. Jamie would go about his life, she about hers. She would never hear of him or see him again. She would never know what became of him. Just like her father, Jamie would be lost to her, swallowed by the sea, by distance, by time.
And so she would take whatever time she had left with him, sin or no sin. She would cherish each moment and hope they were enough to last a lifetime. For no matter how long she waited nor how wide she searched, she would never love a man as she loved Jamie Blakewell.
Tears traced silent paths down her cheeks as she worked the lavender-scented soap through the length of her hair.
She had one other thing on her mind. It probably meant nothing. Still, she couldn’t help wondering. Her monthly flux was late. It wasn’t the first time she’d been late, for certain. The spring she’d come down with scarlet fever and she’d been so sick Fionn had almost cut her hair, she’d been late by a week. Two years ago, when crops had failed and food had been scarce, her flux had stopped altogether. Surely this time it was nothing more than the result of having been shot and running a high fever.
She couldn’t be carrying Jamie’s child—not so soon.
Could she?
Her life would be so much more difficult if she were with child. Fionn and Rhuaidhri wouldn’t send her away, but neither would they take the news well. She’d be scorned by her neighbors, doubly so because the baby’s father was a
Sasanach.
She might never find a man willing to take her to wife. People would tittle and call the child names.
Aye, it would make her life—and the child’s—more difficult. But a child might also make her life bearable, for she’d have something of Jamie to love. She dunked her head under the surface to rinse her hair, felt the warm water wash her tears away. Then she leaned back against the side of the tub, let the water soothe her.
Jamie unbuttoned his greatcoat, tossed it on a nearby chair.
It had been a long day in Parliament.
Alec’s allies in the House of Lords had finally managed to force a vote on the question of England providing military support to her citizens in America. The bill had passed almost unanimously, and immediately the wheels were set in motion. Two regiments—1,400 British regular—would be on their way to the Colonies by week’s end, but there was still no assurance of naval assistance. “It won’t be enough,” Jamie had told his friend Lord Shelburne afterward. “With their allies, the French can muster equal that amount overnight. And if our regulars don’t learn to fight as the Indians fight, I fear we are in for a slaughter.”
“Don’t lose hope.” Lord Shelburne had lowered his voice, leaned closer. “A number of us are introducing a new bill next week. Tell Alec he will get his ships. I’ll see to it personally.”
Jamie supposed it was a victory. British regulars were on their way. Shelburne would continue to fight for ships. Still, there was no time to celebrate. .
Sheff still held Rhuaidhri captive in Ireland. Because the boy had tried to attack an English lord with a pistol—
Jamie’s pistol—he faced a death sentence should Sheff turn him over to the courts.
Jamie couldn’t let that happen. Brighid had warned that the pistol could bring them trouble. She’d been right. Jamie’s plan was simple. His business with Parliament now behind him, he would put the word out that he was returning to Virginia. In a few days’ time, he would board
The Three Sisters
—named in honor of Alec’s and Cassie’s daughters—and sail down the Thames to await favorable winds at Dover.
As soon as the ship reached the Channel, however, he would round the coastline and make straight for the port at Drogheda. From there, he’d travel over land as quickly as possible until he reached Baronstown. Then, under cover of night, he’d make his way to Sheff’s hunting lodge, free Rhuaidhri, and head back with him to the ship—that is if Jamie could refrain from killing Rhuaidhri himself.
If Jamie found out Rhuaidhri had, indeed, been behind the bullet that almost killed Brighid, the boy was in trouble. Of course, the plan had flaws.
What if Rhuaidhri had been moved? There was every possibility Sheff had already turned him over to the authorities. What would he do with Rhuaidhri afterward? The boy couldn’t stay with Matthew and Elizabeth. He was now considered a criminal, his crime a capital offense. Harboring him was itself a crime. Yet, Jamie thought it unlikely that Rhuaidhri would willingly leave Ireland for Virginia.