Kenleigh-Blakewell Family Saga Boxed Set (Books 1 & 2)

  “God scorch your soul!” She twisted, wrenched one arm free, and raked his face hard with her nails.

  His fist hit her cheek, sent her swirling to the edges of darkness. “Whore!”

  She heard herself whimper in pain, struggled to stay conscious.

  He was shouting at her, filthy words, terrible words.

  She felt his fingers begin to tug on the laces of her bodice and realized as if from afar that her struggles had only served to arouse him.

  She had failed.

  Then her hand touched something cold, something metal. She closed her fingers around it, felt its familiar shape, its weight.

  She opened her eyes, saw him above her, blood on his cheek where she’d scratched him, his eyes alight with a mad hunger as he worked to bare her breasts. Her fingers clenched the brooch. With all her strength, she drove its thick iron pin deep into his chest.

  He howled in pain, stared in disbelief at the bloodstain that bloomed like a rose against the white linen of his shirt. He grabbed the brooch, pulled it free, and threw it.

  She took advantage of his surprise and pain to twist away from him. Frantic, she rolled off the bed and started to run.

  But pain now fueled his rage. He grabbed a fistful of her hair, jerked her roughly backwards onto the bed. “You stupid whore!”

  She screamed, lashed out at him blindly with her fists and feet, but she was no match for his strength.

  His fingers closed around her throat, cut off her breath. “I warned you not to defy me! Try to fight me now, fucking Irish bitch!”

  Fight she did. She struck at him, struggled in vain to pry his fingers loose until her lungs ached from lack of air and she grew weak. The world around her fragmented into spots, became distant—a world of shadows. And she knew she was going to die.

  Pain. Surrender. Darkness.

  As if from another world, she heard a familiar voice.

  “You’re a dead man, Byerly!”

  Jamie!

  Chapter Thirty-three

  He was too late.

  Jamie saw blood on Bríghid’s face and gown, saw the pallor of her skin. A rage borne of anguish and hotter than anything he’d ever known ripped through him.

  Sheff released her, whirled about, eyes wide, terror on his bloodied face. “How—”

  Jamie raised the sword he’d stolen from its rest above one of the hearths downstairs. “It’s time you fought a man.”

  Jamie stepped slowly forward, blade pointed toward Sheff’s heart. “Ruaidhrí, get your sister and Ailís out of here!”

  Ruaidhrí rushed in behind him, and Jamie heard him speaking softly to Bríghid in Irish.

  A cough. A whimper.

  She was alive.

  Jamie caught a glimpse of Ruaidhrí lifting his sister into his arms, heard his heavy footsteps, followed by Ailís’s softer ones, vanish down the hallway.

  He willed himself not to think of Bríghid, focusing his wrath on Sheff. Slowly, he moved forward, the blade pointed at Sheff’s chest. “It’s just you and me now, old friend.”

  Sheff raised his arms in a gesture of supplication and took another step backwards. “I’m unarmed. I know you, Jamie. You wouldn’t kill a man in cold blood.”

  “I hardly call this ‘cold blood,’ Sheff.” Jamie moved closer. “You murdered one priest, perhaps two. You had me beaten and locked in chains. And you have twice tried to rape and kill the woman I love.”

  Sheff’s eyebrows jerked upward in surprise.

  “Aye, I know it wasn’t Ruaidhrí’s bullet that nearly ended her life, but yours.”

  Sheff took another step backwards, stopped, his back now pressed against a chest of drawers. “I-It was Edward’s doing!”

  “Edward is dead.” Jamie enjoyed the look of fear and shock that crossed Sheff’s face. “Why would he want to kill Bríghid unless you ordered him to do it?”

  “He was supposed to shoot your horse, not the girl! It’s his fault!”

  “My horse?” Jamie heard himself laugh, a cold sound. He stepped forward, pressed the tip of the blade against Sheff’s chest. “Why should you want to kill Hermes?”

  “It would have been a blow to your insufferable superiority about horseflesh!”

  With a flick of his wrist, Jamie sliced the front of Sheff’s shirt open. “So you attack helpless animals and defenseless women to get at me. How like a coward!”

  “Defenseless? The little bitch stabbed me!” Sheff tore at his ripped shirt to bare his wounded chest.

  Jamie saw the deep puncture wound where something had penetrated skin and muscle, was relieved to realize the blood on Sheff’s shirt—and probably the blood on Bríghid—belonged to Sheff.

  But blood wasn’t what caught and held Jamie’s gaze. “Holy God!”

  Sheff’s chest was pitted with scars that could only come from one thing—the pox.

  And then it all made sense. Sheff’s changed manner. The strange light in his eyes. His sickly pallor. His drinking.

  Sheff followed the line of Jamie’s gaze. “Now you see. Now you know.”

  “Syphilis.” Jamie looked into Sheff’s eyes and felt pity.

  “Aye, syphilis.” Sheff spat the word. “One of the whores at Turlington’s gave it to me about a year after you left—the little bitch!”

  “Did you not seek treatment?”

  Sheff’s eyes widened. “And let them poison me? Do you know what they gave me? Mercury ointment. Arsenic tonic. I tried it all, but it made me sicker, so much sicker.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have tried to help you.”

  But Sheff didn’t seem to hear Jamie. His eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Jamie, you have no idea. The pain at night—it shoots through my arms and legs like lightning. My headaches—I feel it’s eating at my insides, eating me alive. It’s killing me, Jamie, but I’ll take them with me, I swear it!”

  “Take whom with you?”

  “All the little whores—sluts like the one who gave this to me. I pass it to them to keep it from my wife. They’ll die, too.”

  A shiver ran down Jamie’s spine, and he realized without a doubt that the man who had been his friend was insane. “And all the young servant girls you’ve tupped, Sheff—the women you’ve bent to your will—do they deserve to die, too?”

  Sheff sneered. “They’re whores, all of them. They spread their legs for next to nothing—a bite of food, a trinket, a pretty dress. I give them what they want—and something more.”

  Jamie struggled to control his anger, sickened by what he heard. “You were going to rape Bríghid, to infect her, too—an innocent woman.”

  “She’s Irish! There are no innocent Irish! But that’s not why I wanted her.” Then a strange look akin to satisfaction came over his face. “I wanted you to watch, to see who had the power. I wanted you to watch while I took her, as I watched you.”

  “You didn’t see what you think you saw that night.”

  “I saw you unwrap your gift. I saw how randy you were. I watched while you took her maidenhead. I listened to her scream.”

  “You saw me undress her and pretend to take her. That was my blood on the sheet, Sheff—my blood, not hers.”

  “You lie! I saw—”

  “You saw and heard what I wanted you to see and hear, nothing more!”

  Sheff looked stunned. “You knew?”

  “Aye, I knew you were in the next room, watching through the wall. I remembered what you told me about your father all those years ago, so I pretended. I wanted you to think I had claimed her so you would leave her alone. She left this house a maiden still.”

  Sheff shook his head in disgust. His eyes narrowed. “What kind of man are you?”

  “One who still knows the difference between right and wrong.”

  Sheff laughed, one long howl. “You? You’re a criminal, my friend. Or have you forgotten the bit with pistol, the papist church, your being a traitor?”

  “The sickness has driven you mad, Sheff. You need—”

&nb
sp; Jamie realized he’d lowered his sword arm the instant Sheff hurled the candelabra at him, but that was an instant too late. Hot wax burnt his bare chest. Flames licked his skin. He deflected the worst of the blow with his arm, sent candles flying onto the bed and floor.

  Fire leapt up the damask, instantly setting the bed curtains and mattress ablaze.

  The room began to fill with smoke.

  With a howl, Sheff dashed toward the fireplace, grabbed the poker, and brandished it like a sword. He swung, tried to force Jamie back into the fire.

  Jamie easily turned aside the blow. “Don’t make me do this, Sheff!”

  “You’re the one who’s going to die tonight, Blakewell.” Sheff coughed, thrust the point of the poker at Jamie’s abdomen.

  Jamie sidestepped, countered the blow, felt the heat of the flames behind him. “Let me take you someplace where you can get help.”

  “An asylum? I’ll not be left to die like some leper in a colony.” Sheff glared at him, began to thrust and cut in earnest.

  Jamie’s throat stung from the smoke, but he parried Sheff’s blows with ease. “A poker is poorly weighted for swordplay. Your arm will tire.”

  “Not before I’ve watched you burn!” Sheff tried to force Jamie’s blade down.

  Jamie circled his blade, freed it, raked several quick cuts over Sheff’s forearm in hopes he could force Sheff to drop his makeshift weapon.

  “You bastard!” Sheff jerked his arm back, hissed in pain, looked down to where ribbons of blood welled up on his linen shirtsleeve. He struck again, rained heavy, driving blows down on Jamie from above.

  Jamie parried, hooked his blade over the top of the poker, forced it down, then slammed his fist into Sheff’s face.

  Sheff’s head snapped back, and he nearly fell to the floor. But he didn’t drop the poker.

  Flames skittered across the carpet near Jamie’s feet. Searing heat pressed against his back. The room was quickly being consumed by the blaze.

  Jamie knew they had only minutes before they would be engulfed in fire. “We must get out of here!”

  Sheff pulled himself upright, coughing, his forehead dripping with sweat from the heat. “Let it be your funeral pyre!”

  With that, Sheff stood upright and swung—hard.

  Jamie deflected the blow, but the blade of his sword snapped.

  Sheff saw his chance, swung again.

  Jamie tossed his useless weapon aside, grabbed the poker as it arced through the air toward him, and pivoted with the force of the blow. Though he had intended only to rip the weapon from Sheff’s hands, the power of their combined actions sent Sheff hurtling past Jamie into the flames.

  Sheff screamed, an animal sound of agony.

  Jamie shielded his eyes from the heat and smoke and tried to reach in to pull Sheff free. But Sheff panicked, ran past him out the door and down the hallway, shrieking, his clothes ablaze.

  Jamie started after him.

  All around him, wood groaned like a tortured beast.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jamie saw the bedpost, a pillar of fire, wrench itself with almost supernatural force from the rest of the burning bed and fall toward him.

  He leapt back, flames missing him by inches.

  The post crashed against the bedroom door, shutting it, blocking his path.

  He was trapped.

  * * *

  Bríghid heard Ruaidhrí’s voice, felt cold air against her skin. From the pain in her throat and head she knew she was still alive.

  “You did it, Bríghid.” Ruaidhrí stroked her cheek. “You fought him off just long enough for us to get to you. And from the looks of him, you did a bloody good job of it.”

  A woman spoke—Alice, the Dubliner. “She’s comin’ round.”

  Bríghid heard someone moan, recognized her own voice.

  “Open your eyes, Bríghid. Talk to me.”

  She struggled to do as he asked, said the first word her lips could form. “Jamie.”

  “He’s here, Bríghid. He’s inside helpin’ the iarla pack for his trip to hell.”

  Gradually, the fog began to lift from her mind. She remembered fighting the iarla, stabbing him with her brooch. She remembered the feel of his fingers as they closed around her throat. She remembered hearing Jamie’s voice.

  Jamie was here. He was inside. He was with the iarla. He was—

  Her eyes fluttered open. Jamie!

  Ruaidhrí’s face swam into view above her, beyond him bare tree branches and the night sky. They were outside. And though Ruaidhrí was doing his best to keep her warm, holding her close to his chest, it was bitterly cold.

  She tried to sit, felt the pain in her head explode, couldn’t help but cry out.

  “Easy now.” Ruaidhrí helped her slowly to sit. “Irish girls who go about brawlin’ with Sasanach lords should take time to rest.”

  “Where … ?” She rubbed her fingers across her swollen throat. “Where is he?”

  “After we found you, he told me to carry you out. He stayed behind to finish the iarla.”

  Finally, she understood. Jamie was inside the manor still, locked in a battle with the man who had once been his friend. “What if—”

  “He’ll be fine, Bríghid. After what I saw tonight, I’m surprised he’s not already out here. He killed near half of the iarla’s men, so he did—with my help.”

  “And mine!”

  Bríghid stared in surprise at the Dubliner.

  “Aye, Ailís, with your help, too. You fetched the key to our shackles and managed not to scream. We’re all grateful.” Ruaidhrí’s voice was thick with sarcasm.

  “I thought it was ‘Alice.’” Bríghid met the girl’s gaze.

  “My name is Ailís Ní Riagáin.”

  Ruaidhrí nodded toward Ailís. “She’s decided she’s Irish after all.”

  Bríghid was too tired, too worried about Jamie to do more than notice the tension between her brother and Ailís. Her head throbbed fiercely, and she felt more than a little dizzy. She rubbed her temple, felt her brother’s reassuring touch.

  “That was very brave of you, Bríghid.”

  She met Ruaidhrí’s gaze, saw deep tenderness in his eyes.

  “When I first saw you lyin’ there, his hands at your throat, I feared you were dead. I thought—” Ruaidhrí looked beyond her toward the manor, leapt to his feet. “Bloody hell!”

  Bríghid followed his gaze, gasped.

  Fire!

  The room she’d been kept in was ablaze.

  “Oh, sweet Mary! Jamie!” Bríghid tried to stand, but even had she found the strength, Ruaidhrí would not have let her.

  “You’re not goin’ anywhere, Bríghid! Stay here! Ailís, watch over her. If you betray her, if you harm her in any way … ” He never finished his words, but let them hang in the air.

  “Ruaidhrí!” Bríghid looked up at her little brother, reached out, gave his hand a squeeze. “Please be careful!”

  “Aye.”

  Then he turned and ran toward the manor.

  * * *

  Jamie realized his peril. He could not escape through the window, as that side of the room was engulfed in flames. He could not open the door, as it was blocked by the burning bedpost. The air was full of smoke, making it hard to breathe, and the fire was spreading. Already, nearly the entire room was ablaze, and the heat was all but unbearable.

  Unless he escaped in the next minute, he would die, burned alive.

  Like Nicholas.

  No, he was not going to die, not if he could help it.

  He had few options. Seek shelter in the fireplace—a decision that would only delay his demise—or find some way to move the bedpost.

  He saw Bríghid’s cloak begin to catch. He pulled it from the chair where it lay, beat the flames out, then held it to his face to keep the smoke from his lungs.

  Coughing hard, he leapt over veins of fire to reach the fireplace, grabbed the fire tongs, then dashed back. If he could only shift the burning post so that the d
oor could open wide enough for a man to pass through, he could escape.

  He tried to grasp the post with the tongs, but it was too big and the flames burned so high his hands were scorched in the attempt, the pain excruciating.

  Next he tried to use the tongs as a lever, thrusting them behind the end of the post where it pressed against the wall. But the wall had caught fire, and the heat was so intense against his bare skin he could last only a moment or two at a time.

  He sank to his knees coughing, aware he was beginning to suffocate.

  On the floor beside him, he saw a glint of gold.

  Bríghid’s brooch. The pin was covered with blood, and he realized she’d used it to stab Sheff.

  My brave Bríghid.

  Jamie picked it up and slipped it into his pocket, determined to try again regardless of how badly the heat burned his skin. He’d be a hell of a lot hotter if he didn’t get out—now.

  He forced himself to his feet, hung the cloak over his shoulder like a shield, gritted his teeth against the blistering heat. Then he drove the tongs between the post and the wall.

  Something crashed against the door, made it shudder.

  The flaming bedpost rocked.

  Jamie leapt back as far as he could lest it fall on him.

  From the hallway beyond, he thought he could hear shouting.

  He tried to shout back, but his words were lost in a fit of coughing.

  This time whoever was outside hit the door even harder.

  Again, the bedpost rocked, but did not roll out of the way.

  Dizzy, Jamie knew he had precious few moments before the place he stood was swallowed by flame. He pressed the cloak closer to his face, willed himself to stay conscious.

  Wood splintered.

  The bedpost shuddered, rolled.

  The door fell inward, landing atop the flaming post like a bridge.

  On top the door lay Ruaidhrí. The boy looked up at him. “What are you waitin’ for? Let’s get out of here!”

  Jamie followed Ruaidhrí out the door into the hallway beyond. Dizzy, he struggled to stay on his feet, sucking cool, sweet air into his lungs.

  “God’s blood!” Ruaidhrí gazed at the flames that had followed them into the hallway. “We’ve got to get out of here now!”

  Like living creatures, flames skittered up the walls and across the ceiling.