Careful to keep his back to her, Jamie searched among the covers until he found what he was looking for. He grasped the knife, nicked his thumb, dabbed his blood on the sheets.
“No!” Wearing only her chemise and petticoat, she rushed to the side of the bed and stared at the bloodstains, an expression of horror on her face. Her palm connected with his cheek with a loud smack. “Now no man will believe me!”
The knife fell to the floor.
Jamie stood, hauled her roughly up against him, and was gratified by her gasp of surprise. “Don’t do that again. Your reputation was ruined from the moment the earl’s men took you. Or hadn’t you realized that yet?” She glared at him defiantly, but he could see the fear in her eyes—and the hate.
“I’m risking far more than you can imagine helping you tonight, so you might try to find some room in your heart for gratitude.” He wanted to kiss her, wanted to make the hate vanish from her eyes.
“Tis because of you I’m here in the first place!” The truth of her words made his anger sharper. “That’s
my
blood on those sheets and not yours only because you were lucky enough to be given to a man who finds rape repugnant. Do you think many other men would have turned down a gift as appealing and helpless as you, my sweet?”
She looked away, but not before Jamie saw the tears well up in her eyes. “Let go of me.”
“You must understand the earl will try to find you again unless he thinks me so besotted it seems not worth the effort. Those bloodstains may make it hard for you to prove your virtue, but they could make the difference in preserving it. Do you understand?”
She refused to meet his gaze, said nothing. He released her, stuck his thumb in his mouth, tasted blood. Angrily he searched the floor for his stockings, slipped them on. He didn’t need this. He didn’t need any of this.
He heard the rustle of silk. “I’m dressed,
Sasanach.”
Still angry, Jamie shot her a glance, felt his gut clench. She’d left the corset off and pulled her chemise up to cover her breasts and shoulders. It didn’t matter. The soft swell of her breasts was more than evident behind the lace and linen, and he found her attempt at modesty more appealing than Sheff s effort to turn her into a whore. She stood by the fireplace, combing her hair with her fingers, her head tilted slightly to the side to reveal the slender column of her throat.
“You have beautiful hair.” The words came out as if he’d meant to say them.
“My father often said ‘tis the image of my mother’s.”
She didn’t look at him.
“You never knew her?”
“I don’t remember her. She died when I was three, starved by the English during the famine of ‘40.” She spat the words at him as if he were personally to blame. Jamie refused to take the bait. “She must have been lovely.”
Brighid said nothing.
Jamie sat on the bed, pulled on his stockings. “My mother died the day after I was born.” She began to weave her hair into a braid, turned her back to him.
So she thought to ignore him. He wasn’t going to make it easy for her. If they were to fight a battle of wills, he would be the victor. He would force her to see him as a man, not merely a hated
Sasanach.
“My father lost his wits after she died. He couldn’t even remember his own children. He died when I was six. I barely remember him.” Jamie fastened the buckles at his knees, aware she was looking at him again. He’d gotten her attention. “My sister Cassie and her husband, Alec, raised me, took care of my estate until I was old enough to manage myself.”
“Do you own lands in Ireland?” Her words were a challenge. He could hear the malice in her voice. She began to tie off her braid with a blue ribbon that Jamie recognized from her stockings.
It distracted him to think of her slender legs left bare beneath her skirts. “No. My estate is in Virginia.” Her eyes widened in surprise, and she gaped at him.
“You’re from the Colonies?”
“Aye. I was born there.”
“I knew you were different.”
Jamie met her gaze, oddly gratified, raised an eyebrow.
“Oh?”
Even in the dark, he could see her cheeks turn pink.
She looked away, changed the subject. “Do you own slaves?”
“No, not anymore. My brother-in-law did away with that when I was still a boy. For years, we’ve been bringing over our own bondsmen. Our slaves have been freed, though it is against the law. Those who remain are free but have no place to go. They farm the land in return for a share of the crop and a place to live.” She was staring openly at him now. “Have you other brothers or sisters?”
Jamie hid his satisfaction at having found a window through the wall of hatred she’d put up around herself. “No. Just Cassie. My mother bore six of us in all, but the others were stillborn or died in infancy. And you? You said you have brothers.”
“Aye. There would be seven of us, but four died, God rest their souls. Padraig died of fever when he was two. He was the firstborn. Then came Fionn. Dear Conall died when I was ten after a horse kicked him in the head. Tadgh and Aoife both died of a sickness when they were little. I never knew them. I was born later. Then came Rhuaidhri.”
“Who was the red-haired boy I saw today?” Jamie didn’t know why he’d asked. It was no concern of his. She eyed at him suspiciously, turned to face the fire.
The braid hung, long and thick, down her back. “Aidan. His mother died givin’ birth to him, and his father was shot in the back—by the English.”
The window had slammed shut.
“And your father?”
“My father is...was a teacher. You English outlawed schooling for Catholics. You forced him to teach in secret in barns and along hedgerows. When he was caught…he was sold as a slave.” There was a knife’s edge to her voice as it wavered between rage and tears. So her father had been transported. No doubt he’d used teaching as a means to incite young Irishmen to rebel against the Crown. Only a serious crime could provoke the English courts to pass such a sentence. No wonder she and her brother hated everything English. They’d been bred to it. “I’m sorry.”
She spun to face him, glared at him. “Are you?” Jamie felt his temper rise, fought to control it. Beautiful she was—and as sweet as a copperhead. “I mean to leave before dawn. You should get some sleep.” “I cannot. I must find my things.”
“What things?”
“My clothes, my cross, my grandmother’s brooch. I can’t go home dressed like—“
“Your grandmother’s what?” Jamie ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. God, how he needed a drink. And a woman.
“Brooch. It has been in my family for generations, and I—“ “Can live without it.” He cut her off, gestured toward the hallway. “He’s probably still awake, looking for someone to take to his bed, Brighid. Would you risk everything?” “It’s all I have of my grandmother.” Her chin was held high, but he could see the warring emotions in her eyes—uncertainty, fear, anger.
But it was her grief that pricked him, made him speak sharply. “I’m certain she’d want you to risk your very life to find it. Sleep, Brighid, before I decide rescuing you is too much trouble and let you fend for yourself.”
For a moment she looked as if she might defy him and go off in search of her trinkets. Then, her eyes spitting hatred, she walked to the bed, slipped under the covers. Jamie crossed the room to the bureau, poured himself a brandy. By the time he turned around, she was asleep. “Brighid, you must wake.” A hand caressed her cheek.
“Lig uaim, a athair.” Leave me alone, Father. But it wasn’t her father’s voice. Her father would never speak English to his children. Her father was gone.
With a gasp, Brighid opened her eyes. The events of the night came flooding back, detail by terrible detail. She sat, struggled to clear the sleep from her mind. The Englishman stood beside the bed fully dressed, his greatcoat on. “It’s time to go.”
Disoriented, she pushed herself into a sitting position, marveling at the softness of the bed. It was the softest thing she’d ever lain on.
Her hand touched something cold and metal. She looked, gasped.
The brooch.
Her cross. They lay on the pillow beside her. Her own clothes lay draped across the foot of the bed. A lump rose in her throat. She clutched the brooch and cross to her breast, gaped at the Englishman in surprise. “How—“ “They were tossed in a heap in the servants’ hallway.” She hesitated, unsure of what to say. “Thank you.
I—“
He dismissed her gratitude, his eyes cold. “Hurry, and dress. We must go.”
She swallowed the lump, slipped the leather cord that held the cross over her head, and reached for her old woolen gown. She started to ask him to turn his back to give her privacy, but he was already facing the fireplace.
She got out of bed, slipped off the blue gown, the petticoat, and the chemise. As new and soft as they were, they belonged not to her, but to the accursed
iarla.
She wanted nothing of his, nothing «to remind her of this night.
“I’m ready.” She dressed quickly, slipped her feet into the worn leather of her brogues.
In silence, he helped her don her threadbare cloak. Then he left her to fasten it and went to fetch his travel bag, which he had packed while she’d slept. The two of them started toward the door, his hand on her waist. They stepped quietly into the darkness of the hallway. He shut the door behind them, and she felt his warm fingers close around hers. She tried not to think about how reassuring it felt, pulled her hand from his grasp. “This way.”
He moved with the silent grace of a cat. She followed as quietly as she could, every creaking floorboard causing her heart to skitter.
Once she’d thought them undone when her cloak had caught on the edge of a table and unbalanced a vase of flowers, but he’d caught it in time. The only damage, other than what her heart endured, was water on the floor.
After what seemed an eternity, they reached the back door, which stood locked.
She held her breath as Jamie carefully lifted the bolt, slid it back. It squeaked, shuddered, gave way. A surge of relief and joy filled her as cold air hit her face. She hurried through the doorway, welcomed the feeling of chill rain on her face.
Silently, Jamie shut the door. “We must make haste.”
He took her arm in his, guided her through the dark.
“We’ll have to ride two to my horse. I brought no other. But once we reach Dunsany, I’ll hire a carriage.” “Dunsany?” Brighid stopped, pulled her arm free. “I’m not going to Dunsany! My home is the other way, toward Lismullen.”
He dropped his travel bag, took her shoulders. “Listen, Brighid. Now is not the time to argue. If you go home, Sheff will find you and bring you back. Everything I didn’t do to you tonight, he will.”
“There’s only one thing you
didn’t
do,
Sasanach!
For all you spared me, you might as well have done the deed!” Rather than apologizing or looking contrite, he chuckled, his gaze devoid of laughter. “You silly, naive girl.” But his fingers dug deeper into her shoulders. “If Sheff gets hold of you, you’ll spend every night until he tires of you on your back. Do you understand that?”
“But—“
“Listen! I can give you a safe home in England, where Sheff can’t—“ “You lied! You said you were taking me home!” “I never said where I was taking you. I only said I would help you get away from here.”
Enraged at this trickery, afraid she might never see home again, Brighid began to fight in earnest, pummeling his chest. “
Striapachjir! Breagach” Whoreson. Liar
. He deserved to be called worse.
He clapped one hand over her mouth, pulled her hard against him. “Believe me, this wasn’t in my plans either. I have no wish to suffer your company any longer than necessary. As soon as your family is able to move to another county far from the here, you’ll be returned. There your reputation will be intact, and you and your brothers will be beyond Sheff’s reach.”
He took her arm, picked up his bag, pulled her along.
“No!” She tried in vain to jerk her arm free. “My family can’t afford that! We’ve a lease—“
“I’ll take care of it.”
“I will not—“
“Quiet, woman! Or maybe you’d like his grooms to hear you and send up the alarm?”
She glanced warily about, fell silent.
They rounded the corner of the stables.
Before them stood two men, dark, faceless. Jamie heard Brighid gasp, felt something strike him in the chest. He wanted to protect her, to put himself between her and these men, but found he could not move. He looked down and saw the blade of a sword buried in the left side of his chest.
The blade was jerked free, and Jamie heard himself moan as searing pain shot through him. Something wet and hot ran down his skin—his own blood. “Oh, sweet Mary, no!” It was Brighid. She was kneeling beside him.
How had he come to be on the ground? Icy rain spattered his face. Brighid was speaking, but he couldn’t understand her. She was talking to the two men. Their words made no sense. Gaelic.