Carnal Gift (28 page)
Brighid didn’t know if any of that was true, but the gown was beautiful. Ivory lace spilled from her elbows and ruffled the edge of the bodice. It was a bit lower cut than the other gowns, leaving the tops of her breasts bared. Would Jamie notice?
She smoothed a strand of hair from her face. She’d brushed it until it glistened, then pulled it back from her face with a ribbon of black velvet, leaving most of it to fall freely down her back.
Heddy had helped her put color on her cheeks and lips—just a dab here and there. “Master Jamie won’t be able to take his eyes off you, miss,” Heddy had said before she’d hurried from the room on some errand. Brighid met the gaze of her reflection, saw the uncertainty in her own eyes.
Something had changed.
She had changed.
Her feelings, always a jumble where Jamie was concerned, were becoming terrifyingly clear. She could no longer pretend to hate him. She could no longer dismiss him as nothing more than a
Sasanach.
She could no longer hide from herself that she desired him, cared for him, even . . .
Sasanach.
She could no longer hide from herself that she desired him, cared for him, even . . .
She would not say the word, not even in the privacy of her own mind. For, though he might desire her, too, there was no way an Englishman of his status would ever bind himself to a poor Irish Catholic woman. Twould be his utter ruination. Such unions were illegal. Those who defied the law found themselves stripped of social status, their children considered bastards.
There was nothing to be done about it. Unless she gave up her faith and took a heretical oath, the English Church would not join them. Unless he converted to her faith—an act of treason in the eyes of English society—no Catholic priest would marry them. There was no way Jamie would choose to burden his life with the consequences of being Catholic, and Brighid could not renounce her faith.
Yet, even as she told herself to accept the truth, her heart defied reason and dared to hope. “Miracles come to those who believe,” Father Owen had told her.
She had been stunned beyond words by Jamie’s kindness last night. The fur-lined cloak was a lovely gift, and she treasured it. But nothing could compare to the overwhelming emotion she’d felt when he’d opened that door and she’d realized he’d brought her to a secret Catholic chapel. It astounded her that he would do something so thoughtful, so completely selfless, in order to please her. Surely what’d he’d done had put him at risk, as it was against the law to attend Catholic Mass. His kindness had shaken her to the core.
She’d spoken privately with Father Owen, a deluge of emotion pouring from her. She’d wept over the murder of Father Padraig, described her horror at being kidnapped, her shame at nearly being raped. She’d told him how Jamie had spared her a nightmarish fate, had nearly been killed for it. She’d admitted how she’d repaid his kindness by doubting him. She’d even confessed the overwhelming desire she felt for Jamie.
“And though he is a
Sasanach,
my feelings for him a r e . . .”
Sasanach,
my feelings for him a r e . . .”
“You care for him.”
“Aye, but surely it is a sin to desire a Protestant, a
Sasanach,
in the way I desire him.”
Sasanach,
in the way I desire him.”
Then the good father had said something that had sent her mind reeling. “Your blind hatred of the English is your sin,
a Bhrighid.
There is no sin in love.” She had almost laughed out loud. Love? Jamie? How could that be?
a Bhrighid.
There is no sin in love.” She had almost laughed out loud. Love? Jamie? How could that be?
But the truth of it was unavoidable.
Her words came out in a rush. “But he is Protestant, and I am Catholic! He is wealthy, and I am naught but a peasant girl!”
“Miracles come to those who believe, child.” Father Owen had offered her absolution from her sins, then guided her back to the main room of the chapel, where he’d said Mass for a group of Catholics who, from the sound of them, were both Irish and English. It was a strange experience, to be sure, and not just because she had never before prayed with English. Brighid had never once been inside a chapel. She’d been born long after the
Sasanach
had taken away the churches. The magic of it—sweet incense, a hundred candles, a cross of silver on the altar—mixed with the sea of emotion in her heart. And kneeling in prayer she’d realized without a doubt that Father Owen was right: She loved Jamie Blakewell.
Sasanach
had taken away the churches. The magic of it—sweet incense, a hundred candles, a cross of silver on the altar—mixed with the sea of emotion in her heart. And kneeling in prayer she’d realized without a doubt that Father Owen was right: She loved Jamie Blakewell.
But did he love her?
He desired her. He had forsaken the women at Turlington’s for thoughts of her. He had protected her with his life. Was that not close to love?
Bolstered by such thoughts, she smoothed her skirts one more time, inspected her reflection, then hurried from the room to join him for breakfast. Over a Christmas Day breakfast of eggs, potatoes, ham, and strong tea, he surprised her with yet another gift—a beautiful copy of
Gulliver’s Travels
by Jonathan Swift. Brighid squealed with delight, then gingerly turned the pages, each edged with sparkling gold leaf. “He was Irish.” Jamie smiled, a heart-stopping, handsome smile that made Brighid’s toes curl. “I know.”
Gulliver’s Travels
by Jonathan Swift. Brighid squealed with delight, then gingerly turned the pages, each edged with sparkling gold leaf. “He was Irish.” Jamie smiled, a heart-stopping, handsome smile that made Brighid’s toes curl. “I know.”
They spent the morning in the library. She read her new book, while he read correspondence from the Colonies and old newspapers. She found it hard to concentrate on the story with him so near. Dressed only in dark brown breeches and a linen shirt, the ties of which seemed perpetually to have come loose to expose his chest, he seemed every bit the rugged colonial, and not a reserved English gentleman at all. For some reason, it made him all the more irresistible.
When tea arrived, it came with yet another gift—her very own pen, complete with a bottle of ink and clean, bright parchment. Amazement and gratitude at his thoughtfulness rendered her speechless. “Now you can write to your brothers.” Over a midday meal of stuffed partridge, sweetmeats, and pastries he surprised her yet again—this time with a silver-handled hairbrush and comb. Etchings of rose buds decorated their handles, opened into lovely, cupped blossoms on the broad back of the brush.
“Oh, Jamie, they are beautiful!” She started to brush her own hair, but he took the brush from her. “I claim the right as giver of the gift to be the first to use it.”
“I wasn’t aware of that custom, Master Blakewell.” She was surprised by the flirtatious tone of her voice and the saucy smile she gave him.
She was even more shocked by the heat that coursed through her as his fingers lifted the heavy mass of her hair and he began to guide the brush through her tresses. Her breathing unnaturally rapid, she sat with eyes closed as, stroke after stroke, he made her scalp tingle. She longed for his kiss, prayed for the feel of his lips on the exposed skin of her throat. But he did not touch her.
After the midday meal he took her riding around the estate, he on his beautiful gray stallion and she on the loveliest, gentlest white Andalusian mare. It was his turn to tell stories, most of them involving mischief he’d gotten into as a child while visiting from the Colonies. Then he told her about his estate in Virginia, about the mighty river, the forests, and the fertile land. Wrapped in her warm cloak with the sun shining on her face, knowing her brothers were safe, with Jamie beside her, she felt sheltered, safe, happy.
Had she ever felt this way before?
A long time ago, perhaps.
When they returned to the stables—immense and holding more than seventy horses by her count—he astonished her by telling her the mare was hers. “A gift from the Kenleigh family.”
For a moment, she could not breathe. How could she accept such a gift? The mare must be worth ... Brighid could not imagine how much such a beautiful animal cost. “Jamie, I cannot—” “Nonsense. Matthew and Elizabeth will insist, I’m afraid.”
Hot tears running down her cheeks, Brighid leapt into Jamie’s arms. “Oh, thank you, Jamie! Thank you!” She felt his muscles tense in reaction, and his arms moved beneath her cloak to encircle her waist. For a moment, he held her tightly against his hard man’s body. Then he gently placed her back on her feet, smiled down at her. “Does that mean you like their gift?”
“Oh, aye!” She turned to the mare, kissed her velvet soft muzzle, stroked her long, wavy mane. “I shall call
you Niamh.”
you Niamh.”
The mare lipped her hand, nickered softly.
“I believe tea is waiting for us inside where it’s warm.”
“But I’m not cold.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
He led her back to the house, his arm through hers, told her about Niamh’s bloodlines. There were too many sires and dams for Brighid to keep straight in her mind, but she knew the mare’s lineage was impressive just by looking at her. She was the most beautiful horse Brighid had ever seen.
“Fit for an Irish princess.” Jamie opened the door for her, smiled.
And Brighid saw in his eyes he was not jesting. Jamie watched her sleep, entranced. Her eyelashes cast shadows on her cheeks. The lush line of her lips was relaxed, rosy, and sweet. The creamy mounds of her breasts, tantalizingly displayed by the delightfully low neckline of her gown, rose and fell softly with each breath.
They had taken tea in the library again, Brighid speaking excitedly of her mare’s smooth lines, fine color, and even temper. “She is the loveliest creature on earth!” “Far from it. I’m afraid that honor goes to her beautiful mistress.”
He’d watched as his words had brought a delicious flush to Brighid’s cheeks. She’d met his gaze, her head tilted shyly to one side, and he’d known without a doubt he was the most besotted of fools.
Rather than doing what he’d wanted to do—pulling her into his arms and making love to her until they both lay weak and sated—he’d picked up her new book and begun to read aloud from the page she had marked. He’d read but a few pages when he realized she was asleep, lulled by fresh air, sunshine, and excitement.
Sheer torture. That’s what it was. He wanted her. His entire body ached for her. Yet he could not, would not touch her because ...
He lined his reasons up like soldiers in a battle line. First, he would not touch her because he’d all but made a promise to her brother. Second, he would not touch her because she deserved marriage, which, by law, he could not offer her. Third, he would not touch her because there was no place for him in her heart. And so he endured the agony of being near her, because he could not bring himself to be away from her. He suffered the torment of her sweet smiles, because he could not bear to be without them. He bore the lilting sound of her voice, because there was no sound sweeter to his ears. He gave her gifts because he could not give her his body, his heart, his name.
Jamie had one more gift for her. He knew, as he had known with the others, that she would love it. That was not the same thing as loving him, but perhaps it was the best he could hope for.
He was troubled. He was holding back. Brighid could tell, and it made her heart ache. She nibbled at her almond-crusted pastry, listened as he described Christmases of his childhood.
All day, he’d been attentive, warm, charming. He’d given her gifts the likes of which she could never have imagined. And yet something was missing. It was as if a part of him was caged, locked away inside. He seemed distant, restrained.
Had she angered him in some way? Had she hurt his feelings?
“I opened the box to find a set of small dueling pistols, my first firearms.” He smiled at the recollection. “I was but eight at the time, and Cassie was furious with Alec for giving me such a gift. But he managed to ... assuage her fears.”
“How did he do that?”
“I was too young to understand at the time, of course, but it involved lots of kissing.” He smiled. She all but dropped her dessert fork. Heat suffused her cheeks. “I see.”
Lots of kissing.
That’s what she wanted, too. Lots of kissing—and more.
That’s what she wanted, too. Lots of kissing—and more.
“Is the pastry not to your liking? You’ve barely touched it.”
“Oh, no, it’s quite tasty, and I do so love almonds. But I can’t be eatin’ another bite!”
A rich meal it had been—roast goose with mushrooms and seasoned greens, a stew of winter vegetables, sweetmeats and puddings, candied fruits and sugared cakes, pastries and roasted nuts. How had Cook managed it all? Brighid would have to ask her later.
Jamie called for servants to remove the dishes. As the table was cleared, he stood, crossed the room to an ornately carved sideboard, opened a drawer. When he returned to the table, he held a small silver box in his hands.
“Nollaig Shona dhuit, a Bhrighid.”
He placed the box on the table, but at first she could only marvel that he had somehow learned to speak the words in her language. Then she knew. She smiled. “Father Owen?”
“Aye, I asked him to teach me a phrase or two.” Jamie’s gaze dropped to the box.
Hers followed. “Oh, Jamie, it’s lovely! Where did you come by such a treasure? I shall have to find something special to put inside it!”
The lid of the box was decorated with gold filigree in the shapes of flowers and vines. The tiny legs were ornately shaped, each seeming to end in a lion’s paw. A tiny latch held the lid fast.
Jamie sat in the chair beside her. His eyes met hers, his gaze warm. “Open it.”
Feeling breathless with excitement, she lifted the latch, looked inside.
She heard herself cry out, felt the room spin. Overwhelmed by raw emotion, she gaped in disbelief, astonishment. Staring up at her from a bed of dark blue velvet was her grandmother’s dragon brooch, garnet eyes gleaming in the candlelight.
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