Carnal Gift (3 page)

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Authors: Pamela Clare

Tags: #Historical Romance

BOOK: Carnal Gift
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“You needn’t fear I will harm these pitiful creatures, old man. They are my tenants and therefore my responsibility.” The priest slowly lowered his arms, a look of wary hope dawning on his face.
“No, it is you alone I hold responsible. Do you know the punishment for treason, old man? I could have you hanged, drawn and quartered.”
Stunned, Jamie objected, but his voice was drowned out by cries from the crowd.
“Mercy, Your Lordship! Mercy!”
This seemed to enrage Sheff, who lifted his attention from the priest to the crowd. “You ask me for mercy, who should have sent your priest to France long ago had you any concern for him? You dare ask me for anything, who plot against England on my lands?”
“These are Ui Naill lands,
Sasanach!”
A young man, fairhaired and strongly built, glared fearlessly up at Sheff out of angry blue eyes.
“Nd
dian, a Khuaidhrir”
The cry came from
her.
Her eyes were wide with fear, her gaze darting between Sheff and the young man who’d spoken so foolishly. Face pale, she clutched the young, red-haired boy to her as if to shield him from death.
For a moment there was silence. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Sheff stared contemptuously down at the young man who had defied him.
Jamie had seen that tight-lipped look on Sheff’s face before and knew Sheff was beyond fury. “Sheff—“ Sheff ignored him. “Edward, bind the old man, and take him to the gaol in Skreen.”
Gasps and cries of outrage rose from the crowd. Jamie felt hatred surge from the Irish, felt the balance of emotion tip from fear to rage. Hermes shifted nervously beneath him.
Edward obviously sensed the change, too, and directed his men to train their hunting muskets on the crowd. Stunned silence fell over the clearing.
“Sheff, a word with—“
“Have the rest of your men tear down this heretical altar, and take the child to the lawful church for burial in a pauper’s grave.”
“My baby!” A pretty young woman with a tearstained face would have rushed forward to claim the coffin had other women not held her back.
“Bring the rapparee to me.”
The dark-haired beauty cried out in dismay at these last words, her voice all but drowned by angry cries and shouting. “He’s no rapparee, my lord! He’s barely more than a boy!”
The terrified expression on her face tore at Jamie’s gut.
“My lord!” He shouted this time. “A word with you—now!”
He’d never called Sheff “my lord” before, not even in jest. His use of the term now startled them both. Sheff s gaze fixed on Jamie, dark and angry. He turned his mount, and the two rode a short distance away from the crowd.
“This is a baby’s funeral, Sheff! Have you gone mad?” “Jamie, I’m warning you not to interfere.” Sheff spoke quietly, but his voice was steel, cold and hard. His brown eyes flashed fury. “You are my friend, but I will brook no challenge to my authority on my lands!” “You cannot expect me to sit idly by and watch as you terrify and provoke innocent people!” “Innocent? There’s no such thing as an innocent Irishman.” Sheff laughed a cruel, hard laugh. “Your breeding is showing, my colonial friend. Don’t let your vulgar sensibilities lead you astray. You wouldn’t want me for your enemy.”
“So you threaten me now?” It was Jamie’s turn to laugh. “I might be as common as a blade of grass, my noble friend, but I recognize the seeds of an uprising when I see one. Push this crowd one step further, and you might find out what I mean. How many shots do you think your men will get off at such close quarters before we’re overpowered? Have you noticed some of the men have picked up stones?”
Jamie did not truly fear the crowd, but he needed some reason to stay Sheff’s hand. It was clear Sheff would not be swayed by a call for compassion.
Sheff glared at him, lips pressed together in a grim line, but his eyes flickered nervously to the Irish beyond. “What do you suggest, colonial?”
“Find some excuse to show leniency—a holiday, a saint’s day, your mother’s birthday, anything. Release the priest with a warning, ignore the young hothead, and for God’s sake, return the baby’s body to its mother.” Rage flared anew in Sheff’s eyes, and for one long moment his gaze locked with Jamie’s in a battle of wills. Then he jerked on the reins and rode back to confront the crowd.
“Damn it!” Jamie swore under his breath. Sheff was an earl and lord of these lands, and as such his orders were beyond contestation. Jamie would have to find a way to stop him, their friendship be damned. He turned Hermes’s head back toward the crowd, urged the stallion forward at a walk.
The dark-haired woman now stood a short distance from Sheff’s men. Her head was bowed as if in sorrow, and Jamie imagined she was crying. She still held the redhaired boy in her arms, his freckled face pale and frightened. The men had seized the hothead and were binding his wrists with a length of rope, taunting him. He made no effort to resist, though Jamie could see he was enraged. Sheff again spoke to the crowd. “My friend has just reminded me that today is my departed mother’s birthday. In remembrance of her, I shall answer your pleas for mercy and grant you a boon.”
Brighid held tightly to Aidan’s chilly hand and hurried down the rutted road behind Rhuaidhri. She couldn’t wait until they were safely home again and sitting in front of a warm fire with Fionn.
Rhuaidhri was in a rage, but all she could feel was overwhelming relief. When the
iarla
had told them he’d return Muirin’s poor babe to her and release Rhuaidhri with no more than a warning, provided Father Padraig agreed to leave his lands under escort, she’d thanked the Blessed Virgin and any saint who’d been listening. It was almost too good to be true, given the young
iarla’s
liking for cruelty. He was worse than his father. She knew she’d come horribly close to losing her brother. She was so relieved he was safe she didn’t know whether to hug the life out of him or slap him soundly. He’d let his tongue get the best of him again and had almost paid the price. The
iarla Sasanach
would surely have had him beaten—perhaps even hanged—had the other
Sasanach
not intervened. She had watched as the strange, fair-haired Englishman had argued with the
iarla,
though she hadn’t been able to hear their words. Both men had been angry.
She didn’t want to think about the other
Sasanach
lord, the one with the fine, gray horse. She’d been taken aback when she’d looked up to find him staring at her with his sea-green eyes. Her breath had stopped. His gaze had seemed to pierce her, to slide beneath her skin. No man had ever looked at her that way before. He sat tall and proud on a beautiful gray stallion, dressed in his fine, warm clothes. But he was different from the other lords she’d seen. He wore no hat, no silly wig, his fair curls ruffled from his riding. And his face was bronzed like that of a man who worked the fields or spent his life at sea. She’d found herself staring back at him, and she’d been furious with herself.
Why had he stayed the
iarla’s
hand? She didn’t believe the story the
iarla
had given them in his attempt to save face. He had been arguing with the other Englishman, not talking about his dead mother’s birthday.
“Rhuaidhri, slow down!” She glanced down at Aidan, who was fair running beside her. “We can’t keep up.” Rhuaidhri stopped, glanced back, then froze, his eyes wide. “Run! Into the trees!”
Brighid whirled about, saw riders in the distance. They were the
iarla’s
men, and they were riding hard up the ribbon of road. A thin stand of trees ran along the north side of the road, but it was a good fifty paces away up a steep hill.
Rhuaidhri scooped Aidan up and dashed uphill toward the dark line of forest.
Brighid lifted her skirts and ran after him as fast as she could. She could hear the approaching thunder of hooves. Had the riders seen them? And if they had been seen, would it matter? Just because these men worked for the
iarla
didn’t mean they were after Rhuaidhri. The
iarla
had set him free. But Brighid knew better than to trust English promises.
Her heart hammered in her breast. Harder she ran until trees surrounded her.
Rhuaidhri had hidden behind a low hedge of gorse, Aidan in his arms.
Brighid fell flat on the cold earth beside them, tucked her red skirts in.
Aidan’s eyes were round with terror. Brighid stroked his cheek. The boy laid his head trustingly on Rhuaidhri’s shoulder. Their heavy breathing mingled, slowed. The hooves drew near.
She watched as Rhuaidhri held a finger to his lips, his signal to Aidan not to make a sound. Her brother’s gaze met hers, and she saw the fury that boiled inside himand the fear he tried valiantly to hide. She wrapped her fingers around his and squeezed, feigning a calm she did not feel. He might be on the verge of manhood, but he was still her little brother.
A group of four
Sasanach
rode into view on the road below. They slowed their mounts until they rode at a walk. The man in the lead reined his horse to a stop. “They’ve disappeared,” he shouted back to the other men. “I swear I saw them walking along this stretch.” “I saw them, too.”
Brighid watched, her heart in her throat, as the men scanned the horizon, then turned their eyes toward the trees.
One of the men laughed, a low hissing sound. “I think it’s time for another hunt. We’ll flush them out like bloody pheasants.”
The four riders turned their horses off the road and started slowly up the hill. The man in the lead drew his pistol, cocked it.
Panic pulsed in her veins. There was no way they could avoid being discovered. The gorse grew low to the ground and sheltered them only on one side. As soon as the riders reached the trees, the three of them would be sitting targets. Her gaze darted to Rhuaidhri’s, and her fear grew stronger. She could tell he was plotting something. His hand slipped to the waistline of his breeches and grasped the hilt of a dagger. She swallowed hard. She knew what she must do.
Rhuaidhri had just closed his fingers around the hilt of his dagger, when, to his horror, Brighid spoke—in
Bearla,
in English.
“Please. Don’t shoot.” Her voice quavered. Slowly, she stood.
“Drochrath air!” Rhuaidhri cursed under his breath, released the dagger. What was she doing?
The
Sasanach
were startled, but only for a moment.
“Oh, we would never shoot a lady,” said one.
“Not one as pretty as you,” said another.
The men laughed.
Rhuaidhri heard the lust in the men’s voices, slowly stood. It was him they wanted. If they got him, they’d leave his sister alone.
Aidan leapt up, wrapped his arms around Brighid’s waist.
“What did I say? Flushed out like pheasants.”
Cruel laughter filled the air.
“Why are you followin’ us? The
iarla
showed mercy and released my brother.”
The man who seemed to be the leader of the group rode over to Brighid, began to dismount. “He didn’t send us to fetch your brother, poppet.”
The realization hit Rhuaidhri like a blow to the stomach.
They were here for Brighid.
This could not be happening.
Not again.
In a flash, the dagger was in his hand. He pulled Brighid behind him, barked at Aidan to lie flat on the ground. “You’ll not be takin’ her.”
For a moment there was silence. Then he heard the metallic clicks of three more pistols being cocked. He looked about. All were aimed at him.
“The rapparee thinks he’s a cat with nine lives.” The leader smiled, revealing a row of rotted teeth. “You’ve already used up one today, boy. Are you sure you want to use another?”
Rage. Desperation. Helplessness. Raw emotion surged through Rhuaidhri until he thought he would explode. He was outnumbered. They had pistols.
But Brighid was his sister. He loved her. It was his job to protect her. “You can’t be takin’ her!” The nearest man lifted his pistol, aimed it at Rhuaidhri’s chest.
“No!” Brighid broke free from Rhuaidhri’s protective grasp, shielded him with her body. She turned to face Rhuaidhri, cupped his cheek in her palm. Her gaze met his, her eyes a mirror for the turmoil within him. Her face was pale. “Staon, a Rhuaidhri” Now is not the time.
She peeled the knife from his fingers, dropped it on the ground, turned to face the
Sasanach
. The
Sasanach
leader wasted no time. He reached out, pulled her to him.
“Brighid!” Aidan cried out, ran forward, would have been kicked by the Sasanach’s cruel boot had Rhuaidhri not pulled him back.
The child’s desperate tears tore at Rhuaidhri’s gut. They reminded him of another time years ago, another act of English cruelty. “Tell the whoreson you call a lord he’s dead if he touches her! May God curse all English!” “No one’s going to harm a hair on her pretty head.” The
Sasanach
who had Brighid mounted his horse, pulled her roughly into the saddle in front of him. “The lord simply wishes to have a word with her.” Rhuaidhri didn’t believe that for a minute. Brighid’s gaze met his once more before the
Sasanach
spurred his horse down the hill, taking her with him. The sadness in her eyes tore at his heart. And Rhuaidhri knew.

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