Sheff s men had been checking on him throughout the journey from London. Though Jamie had awoken a few times along the way, long enough to drink some water or eat a crust or two of bread, he still hadn’t come fully awake.
This presented a certain problem, as Sheff needed Jamie awake if this evening were to go as planned. Jamie would be bound to a chair, still shackled, and he would watch as Sheff enjoyed himself with the pretty little Irish baggage. Sheff got hard just thinking about it. And then?
Sheff didn’t like to think about this part. He couldn’t very well let Jamie go, could he? Jamie would surely kill him, as he’d threatened to do more than once. This left Sheff no choice but to kill Jamie—the man who had once been his friend.
God, how he needed a drink!
Of course, Sheff needn’t do the killing himself. He need merely turn Jamie back over to the authorities. Given the seriousness of the laws Jamie had broken, he’d be hanged. Jamie would have no one to blame but himself. He, not Sheff, had broken the law by arming and training an Irish rebel. He had stolen the girl, betrayed and threatened Sheff. He had forced Sheff’s hand against him, and Sheff hated him for it!
Edward’s voice intruded into his thoughts. “My lord, the men are asking what you want done with him.” Sheff turned back, caught a glimpse of two of his men carrying a prostrate Jamie between them. He quickly looked away. “Put him in with our other guest. And, Edward, see to it that he’s treated. I want him awake by nightfall.”
“Aye, my lord.” Edward grinned.
Jamie forced himself to remain limp as the two men carried him indoors and down a flight of stairs. The past two days had given him time to sleep and to heal. He had a broken rib or two—of that he was certain—and likely a concussion, as well. Not all of his unconsciousness had been feigned. When he had been conscious, he’d pretended to be asleep and had allowed himself to be awoken only when they offered him food or drink. He would need both if he were to regain his strength and free Brighid.
Because they’d thought him asleep, his guards had spoken openly. From among the tawdry details and useless information that made up their idle chatter, Jamie had gleaned one important fact: Brighid had been taken in a separate ship straight to Ireland. He and Sheff were several hours behind her. Jamie had taken some comfort from this, knowing that as long as Sheff was not near her, he could not hurt Brighid.
Jamie heard a voice from down the hall, presumably a guard. “What’s that? Another one?”
“Aye. Open up, and be quick about it!”
A jangle of keys. The click as a key slid into place. The creak of a heavy door on iron hinges.
“Watch out for that one. He’s nothing but trouble. Get back, you!”
Jamie heard a familiar voice let loose a stream of curses in Gaelic.
Rhuaidhri
.
Sheff had been telling the truth about holding him captive, at least.
Then Jamie felt himself fall. He fought not to react as bare, bruised flesh and broken bones hit the stone floor. He heard Rhuaidhri gasp, knew the boy had recognized him. He listened to footsteps as the men who’d carried him walked back up the stairs, closed the door behind them. Only when he heard the click of the lock did he drop his ruse.
He opened his eyes—found himself staring straight into Rhuaidhri s.
The boy gave a gasp, leapt back. “I thought you were dead!”
“Do you mean just now—or when you tried to shoot me?” Jamie sat up, ignored the pain in his ribs. “What are you ravin’ on about? 1 never tried to shoot you—not that I never thought of it, mind.”
“That’s an honest answer.” The surprise in Rhuaidhri’s voice was genuine, and Jamie knew his instincts were right: Sheff had lied.
“No insult.”
“None taken.” Jamie took in his surroundings. There was little to see. With no windows, the room was all but pitch-black.
“But if you’re here, then . . . “ The boy’s voice trailed off, then took on an angry tone. “Where is Brighid,
Sasanach”
“She’s here—upstairs I think. The earl bribed men from the London constabulary and kidnapped her from the confessional.”
“Confessional? What—“
“Keep your voice down. They mustn’t know I’m awake.”
Jamie then told Rhuaidhri the whole story—how he’d taken Brighid to London because he knew Sheff would find the cottage, how someone had shot Brighid, how the
iarla
had claimed it was Rhuaidhri and had showed Jamie the pistol Rhuaidhri had foolishly taken, how she’d fought death and fever for more than a week, how he’d taken her to London for Mass against his better judgment, how Sheff and his hired men had stormed the church, beaten Jamie, and taken him to Newgate.
For a long moment, silence filled the darkness. “Well, that’s bloody grand. We’ve made a mess of it, haven’t we?”
Jamie leaned back against the cold stone wall. “Aye.” “It explains those black eyes and all that blood on your face.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“That’s good, because you look like bloody hell.”
“Thanks.”
“They’re going to hang me.”
Though the boy had tried to sound undaunted, Jamie could feel the tense undercurrent of fear. “Don’t give yourself up for dead quite yet. Tell me what you know about this place. Tell me everything.”
“You have a plan?”
“Not bloody yet.”
“Fine. I’ll tell you what I can. But first, one question,
Sasanach.
You’re in love with my sister, aren’t you?” Jamie closed his eyes, mulled over the consequences of telling the truth. But in the end there was only one answer he could give. “Aye.”
Rhuaidhri groaned. “Bloody feckin’ grand.”
Aillis turned the key, unlocked the door.
She did not want to do this. She wanted no part of this. For the first time since she’d left Dublin, she wished herself back on the streets again. Anything to be away from this place. Away from the
iarla.
Away from him. Away from Rhuaidhri.
Why had she told him? Why had she pretended to be proud of herself when she felt such shame? Why had she rubbed it in his face?
She’d seen the disbelief in his eyes, then hurt, then hate. She was nothing to him now. She was less than nothing—an Englishman’s whore, a traitor, a Judas. And wasn’t she every one of those things? Aye, she was.
The pain of regret nearly forced the air from her lungs. No one had ever been as sweet to her as Rhuaidhri. No one had ever made her feel precious, like someone to be cared for. Not only had she hurt him, she’d helped condemn him to a painful death.
And the other Englishman, the kind one with the lovely green eyes, long curls, and handsome face. She had helped to condemn him, as well.
Hand trembling, she turned the knob, opened the door.
Rhuaidhri’s sister sat in a chair before the fire, asleep.
Clearly she was exhausted. And still beautiful. Ailis had hated her for her beauty when she’d first seen her. But now she felt a little sorry for her. She’d heard what the
iarla
had planned.
At the sound of the closing door, Brighid’s eyes flew open in obvious alarm.
Ailis watched alarm turn to disdain, as Brighid recognized her, saw her rounded belly.
Brighid stood, and even though they were roughly the same height, Ailis felt small, worthless. She tried to remind herself that Brighid was no saint, no pure virgin, no matter what Rhuaidhri believed. Ailis had seen the bloodstained sheet with her own eyes. Brighid spoke first—in English. It was an insult. “Here to do your master’s dirty work?”
It wasn’t a slap across the face, but it felt like one. “I’ve been sent to help you with your bath and—“I’m not takin’ a bath.”
Ailis swallowed hard. “Don’t you remember last time? Don’t you know there’s no point in resistin’? He’ll get what he’s after in the end. He always does.” “Not this time.” Giddy from exhaustion, Brighid picked up the familiar and hated blue silk gown, ripped it from its transparent lace bodice to its hem, dropped it on the floor. “I will not wear this! And I will not take a bath!” The servant girl gaped at her in horror. “Are you mad?
“He’ll punish you! He’ll punish
him!”
The note of panic in the girl’s voice made Brighid’s stomach knot up.
Jamie.
“Punish him? Punish who?” “Rhuaidhri! The has him in chains down—“ It wasn’t the answer Brighid had expected, and the shock of it sent her into a rage. Her fists clenched at her sides. “You lie! Rhuaidhri is safe! He is far from here!” “She’s telling the truth.”
Brighid’s breath caught in her throat, fear a hammer in her breast.
The iarla.
He stepped into the room, shut the door behind him.
“Your brother doesn’t know how to stay out of trouble. It seems he had some plan to kill me, isn’t that right, Alice?”
“Aye, my lord.”
There was a buzzing in Brighid’s ears, the panicked rush of her own blood. The
iarla
had Rhuaidhri. But where was Jamie?
“You see, Brighid, once again, your brother’s life depends on whether or not you please me. Only this time, Jamie won’t be here to take you from me.” The buzzing in her ears became a roar. “Wh-what have you done with him, with Jamie?”
“It’s really a question of what the London constabulary did to him, my dear. They got word of a Catholic chapel in the heart of London that was harboring traitors. It’s good I arrived when I did. They’d beaten him rather badly, I’m afraid, and locked him in chains in Newgate Prison.”
Her head began to spin.
Jamie!
“No!” “Yes.” The look on the
iarla’s
face told Brighid he was enjoying this. “Of course, I didn’t leave him there. I’m not heartless. He’s here keeping your brother company.”
“Jamie is here?” For the first time in days, Brighid felt a ray of hope.
“Aye, he’s here. I doubt he knows that, however. I think he took one too many blows to the head. My men tell me he was unconscious all the way from England.” He was hurt. Jamie was hurt, perhaps badly. “Let me see him! Let me care—“ “You will see him soon enough. But first there is the matter of your obedience, Brighid.”
Her hope in tatters, she said the first thing that came to mind. “That’s not my name.”
The
iarla
took a step toward her, let his gaze travel over her. “You are a little spitfire, aren’t you? I can see why Jamie—“ The
iarla’s
gaze dropped to the floor to where his foot had caught in folds of torn blue silk. He bent down, retrieved the shredded gown.
Brighid heard Alice gasp. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, met the
iarla’s gaze.
Though a faint smile played on his lips, she could feel the anger within him. He held up the gown, tossed it to Alice, spoke in a mild voice. “If the gown was not to your liking, Brighid, you need only have told me. I’d have found another.” The blow—a backhanded slap across the face—came so suddenly Brighid was wholly unprepared for the pain. All but knocked off her feet, she struggled not to pass out.
Spots danced before her eyes. Her cheek stung like fire.
No one in her life had ever hit her.
It was the
iarla
who kept her on her feet. He hauled her”up against him, dug his fingers into her hair, forced her to look up at him. His breath reeked of drink. His brown eyes held darkness. “Disobey me again, Brighid, and I shall take it out of your brother’s hide—and Jamie’s!”
He thrust her from him, ordered Alice to find a new gown, stormed out of the room, Alice behind him. Alone, Brighid staggered backward, sank to the floor, and wept.
Fionn moved quietly through the trees, his gaze on the little squatter’s cottage. He wasn’t sure what had brought him here. He had searched along the road all the way from county Clare for any sign, any word of Rhuaidhri, and found nothing.
He tied the reins of his horse to a strong branch, moved quietly forward. As he drew nearer he could see the front door had been kicked in. Inside the cottage, all was dark, the rays from the winter sunset not strong enough to cast their light inside.
He crept along the outside wall, listened for any man or beast that might be hiding nearby. When he reached the door, he looked in and found the cottage empty and a shambles—a sure sign the
iarla’s
men had been there. He glanced around him, certain he knew what had happened here. Guided by Fionn’s misleading advice, the
iarla
had ridden here with his men, found the place newly deserted, and set about to destroy everything left behind. Fionn had been about to walk out when something beneath the table caught his eye. He bent down, retrieved the old sack they’d used to store potatoes. The sack Rhuaidhri had been carrying when he’d left for Clare. Rhuaidhri’s winter cap and a shriveled apple, nibbled by mice, were all that remained inside it.
Fionn felt the blood rush to his head. When he’d sent the
iarla
back here he’d thought Rhuaidhri safe on the road to Clare. But Rhuaidhri had doubled back, had gone back to the squatter’s cottage for shelter, perhaps on his way to fetch Brighid, perhaps after revenge against the
iarla.
And Fionn had sent the
iarla’s
men straight to him.