Carnal Gift (20 page)

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Authors: Pamela Clare

Tags: #Historical Romance

BOOK: Carnal Gift
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The door burst open, made Muirin jump. Fionn leapt up, whirled about, knife in hand.
Rhuaidhri stood just outside the doorway shaking straw from inside his coat. His cheeks were red from the cold. He smiled. “Is that any way to greet your brother?” “For the love of— Come in! Warm yourself.” Fionn pulled his brother through the door, shut out the cold night. “When your teeth have quit chattering, you can tell me what in God’s name you’re doin’ out on a night such as this.”
Rhuaidhri shivered, pulled the cap from his head, shook off the snow. “I’ve brought a message from the
Sasanach.”
He reached inside his coat, pulled out a letter. Fionn took it, opened it, read in silence. When he finished, he folded it, set it on the table, fought to keep the violence of his temper from his face.
“What does it say?”
Fionn glanced at Muirin, at Aidan, then at Rhuaidhri.
“We’ll talk about it later. For now, let’s hear Aidan tell about what he did today.”
Jamie and Brighid rode in tense silence deep into the night, through forest and over hills, past hay shed and byre. The snow had stopped but for a stray flake or two, and the sky had cleared. A silvery half-moon shone down on a landscape draped in sparkling white. Brighid watched in silent anguish as the world she knew disappeared behind her. She was too angry for tears. She was cold and so very tired. When she had refused to share Jamie’s coat, he had wrapped a blanket around her, but it was not enough to ward off the chill and did nothing to warm her feet. Her struggles had tightened the bonds on her wrists, and her hands had long since lost feeling. Her shoulders ached. Why had she trusted him? Why had she believed he was any different from any other
Sasanach?
Why had she allowed herself to lose herself in daydreams about him? He had deceived her. He had deceived her brothers. He had deceived them, and he had betrayed them. And now, as like as not, she’d never see her brothers again. He’d told her he intended to send her back to Ireland when the whole affair with the
iarla
was settled and her brothers had made a safe home for her in County Clare. Brighid didn’t believe him. Why should she? He hadn’t been truthful with her so far. He’d lulled her into a false sense of safety, let her think she could trust him, only to take up where he’d left off that terrible night. He’d wanted to take her to England then. Only Rhuaidhri’s blade had stopped him.
She gritted her teeth against the ache in her shoulders, tried to wiggle her fingers. Shards of pain shot into her fingertips. She bit back a moan, determined to show no weakness.
“Brighid?”
If she opened her mouth to speak, she would cry out, so she said nothing.
He reined the stallion to a halt and started to adjust the blanket. As he drew her nearer, his thighs pressed against her hands, sending white-hot pain through her fingers.
She cried out.
“Bloody hell!” He cursed, ripped the blanket from her shoulders.
She felt his fingers work to unbind her wrists, felt the cloth slip away. The pain intensified as blood rushed back into her fingertips. She moaned, bit her lip. “You should have said something.” His voice was harsh, but his hands were gentle as he massaged hers back to life.
His fingers were strong and warm, and gradually the pain left her hands. But when he began to massage the ache from her arms, she jerked away from him, nearly unseating herself. Strong arms steadied her, pulled her close, held her fast.
“Enough of this stubbornness! Do you think by harming yourself, you can hurt me? Let me warm you and take what care of you I may.”
She started to tell him exactly what she thought of his care, but the truth of his words stopped her. She might salvage some of her pride by refusing to let him help her, but she would suffer for it.
He wrapped her cloak tightly around her, pulled her inside his coat, then draped the blanket over her skirts. “We’ll soon be in Baronstown.”
Before long, she was reasonably warm everywhere except her toes, and she had just begun to fight sleep when they reached the edge of town. Houses, their windows darkened, loomed out of the snow like shadows. A single street stretched into the distance, looking eerie in the glow of moonlit snow.
Jamie guided the stallion down the road, turned into the courtyard of a darkened two-story building. A sign hanging above the door read
THE WHITE STAG.
His voice startled the silence. “Whatever you’re thinking, whatever scheme you have in mind, I’m warning you now, Brighid, don’t try it.”
“Go to hell, Jamie Blakewell.” Never mind that she had no plans for escape—yet.
He dismounted, lifted her to the ground, held her to steady her.
Her feet were numb with cold, her limbs stiff and sore.
“Let go of me.”
“Not quite yet.” Jamie tried the door, found it locked, knocked with a gloved fist.
“They’re asleep. They’ll not hear—“
The bolt turned. The door opened.
Without a word, a short and sturdy fellow gestured them indoors, shut out the night behind them. “You made it, sir.”
“It’s good to see you, Travis.” Jamie slapped the man on the back. “When did you get here?” “Three days ago, sir.”
“Is everything ready?”
“Aye, sir. She’s ready to sail at a moment’s notice. We’ve got your room and carriage booked under the name George Washington, just like you asked.”
Jamie grinned. “Rouse the innkeeper, Travis. I’ve a lady in need of a hot bath and some tea.”
“My pleasure, sir. Good evening, miss.” Travis gave a slight bow of his head, smiled at her. “Your room is upstairs, sir, last door on the right.”
Brighid listened in disbelief to their exchange, gaped at Jamie as Travis hurried off to do Jamie’s bidding. “You planned this all along!”
“Keep your voice down!” He took her arm, led her up the stairs, down the hail.
She tried to jerk her arm from his grasp, failed. Then it dawned on her. “The letter! You arranged this when you sent that letter to London weeks ago!” “Aye.” Jamie opened the door to the room, pulled her inside with him, closed it behind them. “Hate me if you wish, Brighid, but this was the only sure way to save you from a life of misery as the earl’s whore. Of course, if that’s what you want, let me know. I’ll release you right now and spare myself the headache.”
She was tired, chilled, and his words hurt. She spoke the first thing that came to her. “I do hate you,
Sasanach!
I thought you were different, but you’re just another Englishman who thinks he knows what’s best for the Irish!
You’re just like the
iarla
”
Before she could react, he pulled her roughly against him, forced her head back so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. His voice was harsh, his eyes hard. “If I were like the earl, I’d have spent the past six weeks enjoying myself between your legs and you would likely be breeding a half-English bastard by now!” A knock came at the door.
Jamie released her, opened it, his jaw tense, his lips drawn into a grim line.
“My man is seeing to your horse, Master Washington.” A plump older woman, obviously roused from sleep and clad in her dressing gown, entered carrying a tray. “It’s just tea and bread, sir, but it’s the best I could do in the middle of the night with no warning.” Brighid could hear by the woman’s speech she was English and dropped the idea of asking her for help. No doubt Jamie had planned this part of it, too. “It will do nicely, madam. Thank you.” Jamie turned to Travis, who stood in the hallway. “I have business to attend to. Watch the door. No one but the innkeeper’s wife may go in—or out. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” With that Jamie strode from the room and was gone. In what seemed like no time, Brighid found herself stepping into a copper tub of steaming water set before a blazing fire. Who would imagine a bath could feel so good? As she soaked and washed with the soap Jamie had brought from the cottage, the cold and the tension melted away, and she found herself all but falling asleep in the water.
She knew she should be plotting ways to escape, but she could hardly summon the strength to get out of the tub. Struggling to keep her eyes open, she dried, dressed, pulled down the blankets, and crawled beneath the covers. She thought of Jamie and wondered vaguely what business he could possibly have in Baronstown in the middle of the night. She started to curse him, started to plot her escape, but by the time her head touched the pillow, sleep had claimed her.
Chapter Sixteen
Fionn drove his ax blade into the ice that covered the trough, cracked it with a single blow. Water gurgled up from beneath, and he led the animals one by one from their stalls to drink.
He hoped Rhuaidhri would find a warm inn where he could take shelter before dark. It was a long journey to Clare but Rhuaidhri was not without coin to buy comfort. The
Sasanach
—Fionn didn’t know whether to thank or curse the bastard—had hidden a fortune in pounds in the leather pouch of Indian food he’d given Rhuaidhri to carry. In his letter, Blakewell had explained he was taking Brlghid to England, where he’d be better able to protect her.
Aye, the bastard had kidnapped their sister. Blakewell had then warned them the
iarla
might vent his wrath on Fionn if he didn’t find Brighid. He had urged Fionn to accept the coin as payment for their care of him and use it to take Muirin, Aidan, and Rhuaidhri to County Clare immediately.
Fionn had kept the contents of the letter to himself until he and Rhuaidhri had gone out to check on the animals. Rhuaidhri had gone into a rage, and Fionn couldn’t blame him. Fionn felt just as betrayed, just as angry. But over the past weeks, he had watched the
Sasanach
carefully, and his gut told him Blakewell cared for Brighid and would never intentionally harm her. Fionn’s gut was rarely wrong.
So he had done his best to calm Rhuaidhri , had tried to work past his own blinding anger to make Rhuaidhri see sense. Then he’d ordered Rhuaidhri to get a good night’s sleep and to set out for County Clare in the morning. Red in the face, Rhuaidhri had finally settled down. At dawn, with a portion of Blakewell’s coin in his pockets, Rhuaidhri had started for their cousin’s home.
Fionn couldn’t leave, at least not yet. The livestock would not be able to make such a long journey and would have to be sold. In the dead of winter, that was no small task. There was no fair to attract interested buyers, so Fionn would have to trek about the countryside, make inquiries, get the word out. It could take weeks. Once the livestock was sold, he’d use the money to buy horses and a wagon. They’d pack up their goods, join Rhuaidhri in Clare, and start a new life. As soon as they were setded, he’d send for Brighid. And if the Englishman was not a man of his word and did not send her, Fionn would be free to go after her himself, knowing Muirfn, Rhuaidhri , and Aidan were safe and settled. There was only one catch to all of this. Muirfn didn’t want to go to Clare. But when he had suggested she move back home with her parents, she had lost her temper, forbidden him to speak of it again.
It made him want to take a page from Blakewell’s book. Aye, Fionn felt he understood a thing or two about this Englishman.
When the animals were watered, Fionn set to work repairing an old fence. Though the sun shone, the air was bitterly cold. His hands grew stiff, his fingers numb. He was almost finished when he heard the thunder of hooves.
He looked up to see the
iarla
himself riding toward him.
Blakewell had been right.
Fionn deliberately turned his eyes back to his work, as if such a visit from the
iarla
were nothing. His mind leapt to the pistol, which was safely concealed in Muirin’s wooden coin box hidden in the thatch of the cottage ceiling, but he dismissed that idea. There was one of him and six or seven of them. What good was a pistol against those odds?
He forced his thoughts back to his work. Only when the
iarla
and his men had reached the cottage and reined in their horses did he stop working and turn to greet them.
“My lord.” He removed his cap, bowed his head slightly.
„ The
iarla
dismounted, gestured to his men. “Seize him!”
Fionn didn’t resist as three strong men took hold of him, wrenched his arms behind his back. A fist connected with his gut, drove the breath from his lungs. “Filthy Irish dog!”
Another slammed into his jaw, and he tasted blood.
Something hit the back of his neck, made him see stars. He sank to his knees, felt a boot drive into his belly, found himself facedown in the snow.
“This is what happens to Irish troublemakers!”
A boot connected with his chest, and he felt ribs break. Through a haze of pain, he heard the sound of splintering wood and knew the
iarla,
or one of his men, had kicked down the cottage door.
Crockery shattered and wood cracked as the
iarla
and a few of his men tore the inside of the cottage apart. Fionn heard the
iarla
curse, felt a swell of satisfaction that lessened his pain. Destroy the cottage they might, but they would not touch that which was dearest to him.
Muirin.
She had wanted to build a life here, but, thanks to him, she was about to lose everything. “Check the cowshed and the fields behind the house. She must be here someplace.” The
iarla’s
boots crunched in the snow. “Get him up.” Fionn was yanked to his feet.

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