Carnal Gift (27 page)
He felt her tears against the linen of his shirt, wanted to take this sadness away from her. “You are homesick.” She nodded, her head rocking against his chest. “I do not belong here, Jamie.”
Her words caused unexpected pain to knife his heart. Had he believed he could bridge the gap between them in one evening? “Then I shall take you someplace you do belong.”
Brighid sat wrapped in the warmth of her new cloak and gaped out the windows at the city beyond—or what she could see of it. Tall oil lamps, spaced evenly along streets so long they seemed to go on forever, turned night into twilight. JRow after row of houses—some four stories high—stretched into the darkness, their windows lit from within by cheery golden light. Streets of cobbled stone seemed to wind in every direction and were busy with the traffic of horses, carriages, and strolling people. Never had she seen such a sight.
London.
The name had always seemed threatening to her, ominous. Now here she was, in the heart of the city. But perhaps the heart of the city was rotten. She wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”
“Which smell?” Jamie sat cloaked in shadows across from her, but she could hear the smile in his voice. His long legs were angled so as not to touch hers, a fact Brighid noted with some frustration. “It might be smoke from coal fires, or it—“
The odor grew particularly strong.
“That smell.”
“That, my sweet, is the lovely Thames. Be grateful we’re not getting any nearer.”
“Where is it you’re takin’ me? Can you tell me now?”
“You’ll see when we get there. It won’t be long.” Brighid gave a frustrated moan, ignored Jamie’s chuckle. Someplace she belonged. Where could that be? Since no answer was forthcoming, she snuggled deeper into the fuzzy warmth of her cloak, went back to looking out the window, let her thoughts drift. She’d been so relieved to hear her brothers were safe, so happy to know they were on their way out of Meath. Her relief warred with her anguish at learning that Fionn had been beaten. She couldn’t stand to think of the
iarla’s
men hurting him and subjecting him to insults. She realized she owed Jamie far more than she could ever repay. He had saved her from the
iarla’s
cruelty twice now. And though Jamie had not answered her when she’d asked where the
iarla
had gone, she knew the answer. He was here. In London.
iarla’s
men hurting him and subjecting him to insults. She realized she owed Jamie far more than she could ever repay. He had saved her from the
iarla’s
cruelty twice now. And though Jamie had not answered her when she’d asked where the
iarla
had gone, she knew the answer. He was here. In London.
She tried to reassure herself nothing could happen to her as long as she was with Jamie and was surprised to find that she had come to trust him. The realization astonished her. Trust a
Sasanach?
It seemed unbelievable, but it was true.
Sasanach?
It seemed unbelievable, but it was true.
Her musings were interrupted by the sight of the hulking building that rose out of the ground beside the carriage.
The ornately decorated structure reached to the heavens with spires and buttresses so high she could not see where they ended no matter how she craned her neck.
She heard Jamie chuckle again. “Westminster Abbey.” Afraid she was acting like a silly country girl on her first trip to the city—which she was—she forced herself to sit back in her seat and watch as the carriage carried them around comers, passed closed shops and offices, and into an alley.
It drew to a stop.
She felt her pulse quicken as Jamie opened the door, alighted, then lifted her to the snowy ground. His gaze met hers, and he smiled a mysterious smile that heightened her anticipation. Where could they be? Apart from a stray cat the alley seemed deserted. “Come.” He took her arm in his and guided her to a cobblestone path that ran between two stone buildings. Ahead in the darkness, an oil lamp cast light on a plain oak door. Jamie led her to the door, opened it, let her inside.
Brighid, gasped, fell to her knees, crossed herself. “
A Mhathair Mhic Del
”
A Mhathair Mhic Del
”
Mother of God!
Hot tears sprang to her eyes.
An elderly man dressed in black robes looked out of a back room, saw her, smiled. “
Jdjcdlte romhat, a leanbh
.’
Jdjcdlte romhat, a leanbh
.’
You are welcome here, child.
“Aufer a nobis, quaesumus, Domine, iniquitates nostras, ut ad Sancta sanctorum puris mereamur mentibus introire.”
Jamie stood in the back, his gaze never leaving Brighid, as she joined the congregation in Midnight Mass, her motions graceful and sweetly feminine as she stood, kneeled, bowed her head to pray.
It had taken a few hours of sleuthing early this morning to find a Catholic chapel in London. The city’s Catholics, particularly its Irish Catholics, had not been inclined to trust him. A tip had led him to Lord Benton, one of England’s few remaining tided Catholics, which in turn had led him here.
Jamie had arrived at the chapel early, having arranged for Brighid to have an hour with the priest alone. She had emerged with eyes red from crying but a look of relief on her beautiful face.
Jamie knew the old man was a good listener and would help her sort through her feelings. Jamie had met privately with Father Owen this morning and had found himself spilling the story of why he’d come to Britain, how he’d met Brighid, what had transpired since. The old man had listened without interruption, without condemnation, and Jamie had found himself admitting the confusing nature of his feelings for Brighid. When he came to the desire that burned inside him, his aching need for her, he had paused.
“If you’re thinkin’ you’ll offend me, young man, fear not.” The priest smiled. “It’s fifty years now I’ve been a priest. There’s nothin’ under heaven that I haven’t heard.” Before long, Jamie had told the priest about the women he had loved, or thought he’d loved, including Sarah. And a strange thing happened. By the time he’d finished telling the story, Sarah no longer mattered to him. There was only Brighid.
Brighid with her sapphire eyes. Brighid with her lilting accent. Brighid with her silly Don Bellianis and her temper and her loathing for all things English. He loved her.
And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
“I know you know what to do.” The priest had patted him on the shoulder. “When God brings a man and woman together, He helps them find a way.” The trouble was, Brighid didn’t return Jamie’s feelings.
She’d made that abundantly clear.
I do not belong here.
Jamie understood women well enough to know she felt desire for him. Her responses when she’d lain beneath him in the library told him that. But desire wasn’t love. He knew that only too well. He would never again be lulled into thinking that a woman who shared her body was also sharing her heart.
The exhilaration he’d felt as he’d bid the priest farewell early this morning had been replaced this evening by a bleakness that bordered on desolation.
I do not belong here.
How could he have been so foolish as to let his heart get mixed up in this? How could he have been so idiotic as to love a woman who did not care for him? Hadn’t he already learned that lesson?
Aye, damn it, he had. And he wouldn’t make a fool of himself this time. There was no reason for Brighid to know how he felt. He would keep his feelings to himself. He might have inadvertently let her into his heart, but that didn’t mean he had to give it to her.
“Susripe, sancte Pater, omnipotens aeterne Deus, hanc immaculatam hostiam...”
Jamie watched Brighid as she and the others received the old priest’s blessing. Then Brighid turned toward him. Even from a distance, Jamie could see that her face glowed.
She walked up to him, smiled shyly. “I don’t know how to thank you, Jamie. This was the best, most thoughtful gift you could have given me.”
Jamie forced a smile. “Shall we go?”
He opened the door, welcomed the blast of cold air on his face.
Fionn held Muirin in his arms, drowsy with lovemaking. He was still amazed that anything could feel as good as sex. It was a bloody miracle. There were no words to describe how he felt when he was deep inside her, no words to describe that heated union of flesh and mind and heart—at least none as he could find. And though he might once have cursed his tongue for its lack of grace, he now knew his tongue had certain abilities and shouldn’t be taken lightly.
Though he might not be able to recite poems or speak fancy words to Muirin, he knew exactly how to use his tongue to pleasure her. He knew how to tease her lips, where to stroke the inside of her mouth. He knew exactly how to lave her nipples until they were hot, tight peaks that begged to be suckled. He knew how to kiss her most intimate flesh, how to drink from her woman’s well until she writhed and panted and cried out her pleasure, her fingers twined deeply in his hair.
Aye, his tongue had its uses. Leave poetry to Don Bellianis. She snuggled against him, one leg tucked intimately between his, and gave a little sigh. Moments ago she had been beneath him, bucking against his thrusts, her legs wrapped around him. Now she lay like a contented kitten, her body relaxed, her breathing deep and slow. How perfectly she fit in his arms. How perfectly he fit inside her. The very thought of it set his cock to swelling again, but he would not wake her.
She was everything to him. She was the sun that rose in the morning. She was the deep velvet of the midnight sky. She was music and laughter and the sweetness of honey. And she was his.
He had used some of the remaining money left by Blakewell to buy Aidan new brogues for Christmas. For Muirin, he’d bought yards of the softest linen and lace for a new shift.
She had run her fingers lovingly over the cloth, tears in her eyes. “It is the finest gift I’ve ever been given.” She had knitted him a fine sweater. She’d knitted a matching one for Aidan.
The boy had beamed with pride and put it on immediately.
“I look just like Fionn!”
Muirin’s sweet laughter had been like music. “Aye, that you do!”
What a wonderful mother she was. Fionn found himself eager to see her swell with his child and wondered if even now a babe was growing within her. He reached down to stroke her honey-colored hair. She shifted in his arms, pressed her face more deeply into his chest in her sleep.
Sweet Mary, but he was a lucky man! He had so much to be grateful for. Muirin loved him, had taken him to be her husband. She and Aidan were safe and on their way with him to Clare. They had food aplenty and a soft bed in a roadside inn. Rhuaidhri would be arriving any day in Clare—provided he hadn’t gotten into trouble along the way.
But Brighid . . .
Lord, he missed his little sister. It didn’t sit well with him, her being away like this, especially not on Christmas.
He didn’t much like the fact that the iarla had left Ireland in seeming pursuit of her. But he remembered Blakewell’s face, the determined glint in his eyes, and the ferocious protectiveness he seemed to exude whenever Brighid was nearby.
I will do whatever I must to make certain Brighid is safe.
The man had bloody well better keep his word. As sleep overtook him, he sent a prayer skyward on her behalf and Rhuaidhri’s.
Nollaig Shona dkaoibh. Merry Christmas.
Rhuaidhri struggled back to consciousness, aware only of the pain in his skull and hard, cold stone pressing into his back.
And that sound? It was his own groans.
Where was he? He needed to remember. He struggled to open his eyes, felt someone press a warm cloth to his face.
“He’s comin’ ‘round.” It was a woman’s voice, soft and sweet.
“Dirty Irish bastard.” A man’s voice. A
Sasanach
voice, harsh and hateful.
Sasanach
voice, harsh and hateful.
Something slammed into his ribs, knocked the air from his lungs. He struggled to breathe.
“Unless you’re after killin’ him, you’d best leave off!” the woman said. It was she who was pressing the cloth to his head. “You’ve split his skull clean, you have. I’ll be forever cleanin’ the blood from his face.” Rhuaidhri must have blacked out again, for time seemed to pass. When he next was aware of his surroundings, someone was holding something to his lips. “Just you be good and swallow, you silly, senseless boy.”
He drank, grateful as water soothed his parched throat.
He struggled to open his eyes and looked up into the face of an angel.
“Is this heaven?”
The angel laughed. “Nay. For you,’tis surely closer to hell.”
“Who are you?” He needed to know.
“I’m Alice.”
“Alice.” Rhuaidhri realized he was lying on a pallet in a dark, windowless room made entirely of brick. His wrists and ankles were shackled. Alarm coursed through him. “Where am I?”
“You’re in the earl’s cellar. Don’t you remember? The earl’s men caught you last night.”
Truth penetrated the pain in his head.
He was a prisoner.
Chapter Twenty-two
Brighid smoothed her skirts, cast one last glance at the mirror.
Heddy had insisted she wear the gown of deep claret silk today in honor of Christmas. “The color makes your skin seem like porcelain and looks so pretty with your dark hair.”
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