The Irish Bride Page 2

  “That’s why they can’t catch me,” Aidan replied, his eyes narrowed with purpose. “I’ll be long gone. Far away from here, and easy in my heart, knowing my family won’t suffer for the accidental wrong I’ve done. It’s better this way, Tommy, much as I appreciate your loyalty to me. Better for all of you, and since you’re the ones who’ll be left behind, that’s the way it must be.”

  “Where will ye go, do ye think?” Clare asked, absently smoothing the baby’s silky head. “You can’t stay in Cork, but maybe in Dublin or another city, you might have some luck findin’ work and be able to dodge the authorities.”

  Aidan’s expression grew bleak. “No. We have to leave Ireland. I’m thinking America is the only place—that’s where we have to go.”

  America! Farrell couldn’t believe her ears. “And how will ye pay for the passage? I’ve heard talk that it costs three or four pounds each for fare to New York.”

  Aidan glanced away, and then returned his gaze to her. “Michael had money in his pockets. A lot of money.”

  “You stole Michael’s money?” she gasped, her hand cold at her throat.

  “And who should we be givin’ it to? Cardwell?” Tommy asked with a lash of sarcasm. “Or maybe we should let him be buried with it? Aidan’s right. It will serve us all best if the two of you use the money to leave here and draw the trouble away from us.”

  “But—” Desperate for a champion, Farrell turned to her cousin. “Clare, do you actually mean to go along with this crack-brained idea?”

  Clare’s voice was as strained as her own. “I’m sorry, Farrell. Ye know I am. But we’ve the children to think of. We’ll have trouble enough with the police sniffing around our feet about Michael’s death, and who will see after the little ones if we’re taken? Aidan is right. At least if you go, the blame and guilt by association won’t be so likely to rain on us. The Cardwells will get tired of searching for ye eventually and leave us in peace. And our own people won’t cut us dead every time they see us.”

  Sean shifted his bony behind on his pallet. “We can’t very well send them off without Father Joseph’s blessing, can we?”

  They’d all lost their minds, Farrell thought, staring at them. Every single one of them. They needed Father Joseph to bless their leave-taking?

  Sean sent his youngest son a sharp look. “Ye’ll have to marry her, you know, Aidan—it wouldn’t be right elsewise.” Everyone nodded and murmured in agreement.

  Aidan’s answer was a short nod.

  “Marry!” The word sprang from Farrell’s mouth with the force of a curse. To be wed to Aidan, bound to him in every sense, and powerless against his wild ways and hot temper? And in a strange, faraway land without family to support or defend her? She stole another glance at him—he was a tall man, strong and with well-muscled shoulders and a broad chest. He’d managed to overcome four men who tried to hold him back from Michael. America was said to be the land of plenty—what would he grow into with good food and a better life? She would be defenseless against any demand he made of her.

  She caught his gaze and in his eyes she saw a raw, burning possessiveness, as though she were his already—and, stranger yet, always had been. She looked away swiftly.

  With her heart beating like a bird’s, she turned to Liam. Her betrothed was strong of spirit, he was immutable, like a rock—qualities she so admired and counted upon. She trusted him to do the right thing; he couldn’t let this happen. “Liam, in the name of heaven, ye must stop this.”

  But Liam offered no further protest.

  “Will you say nothing against this?” she implored, a panicky tenseness tightening her throat.

  “Come along, Farrell,” he replied, taking her arm and opening the door. He directed her away from the doorway to give them a little privacy. The feeble winter sunlight was about gone, but she could make out his face. Regret etched lines in his gaunt features, making him look years older than his age. His hands closed over her upper arms, the grip of his fingers cold even through her shawl.

  “Nothing has turned out the way we’d hoped. You’ve no future here—not a one of us does.” He paused for a long moment, as if searching for words, then continued with a sigh. “Go with Aidan, lass. For all his wild ways, he’s a good man—he didn’t mean to kill your Michael. Ye’ll be safer with him than you would be here. I’m putting you in God’s keeping and my brother’s. They’ll both treat ye well.”

  Tears burned Farrell’s eyes again, and a clattering tremor shimmied through her that had little to do with the cold. She pulled her shawl closer. “But—but Aidan doesn’t love me,” she murmured, heartbreak making her throat ache again. She pressed her hand to his thin chest. “You must come with us. You can marry me, just like we planned. Maybe we can find land in America and work it together, just like we planned. Liam . . . if you love me, please!”

  He shook his head, a faint smile barely visible in the low light. “You trust me, don’t you?”

  She sniffled and nodded. “Aye.”

  “Then don’t you see it’s for the best? Ah, Farrell . . . I can’t leave Skibbereen. This is where I belong. I’d be no good to ye anywhere else. I don’t do well with change—I can’t bend to it. Besides, someone has to see to our da. We can’t be leaving him to fend for himself.”

  “Clare and Tommy can—”

  “No. Tommy has more than enough to tend to with his own family. It falls to me to take care of our father, especially now that we have no home of our own.”

  “But, Liam, I might never see you again. Would you send me away like this?” She searched his face, looking for some sign that he would save her from the fate that awaited her, or that he would come with her. She didn’t find it.

  In his eyes she saw that he cared for her, obviously enough to sacrifice her to his brother.

  In fact, no—it had to be a trick of the twilight. She knew that wasn’t relief she saw in his face. It couldn’t be. He loved her. “Liam, please—”

  He shook his head again and released his hold on her arms. “I want only the best for ye, Farrell, and that’s what I’m giving you.” Gazing out over the landscape, his eyes reflecting unrealized dreams. He dragged in a shaky breath and sighed.

  Farrell clutched his sleeve, willing him to meet her gaze. But he kept staring across the fields as if he might find answers there.

  “I’m not like Aidan,” he whispered hoarsely. “He’ll fight for you with his last breath. But me? I haven’t got it in me, Farrell.” He broke off and finally looked at her. “I love ye, lass, but in God’s truth, I don’t love you well enough. You understand that, aye?”

  Farrell stared at him. She did indeed understand, and therein lay the greatest heartbreak. Her Liam was a gentle, peaceful soul, not given to raising voice or fist. That gentleness had always been what she cherished most about him, what had drawn her to him with all the hope and love she held in her heart. Now it was to be the chasm that forced them apart.

  She let her hand drop, feeling as though she’d been given a beautifully wrapped package that turned out to be empty. She knew Liam would never want anything but good for her—that was why she cared for him so. And even now he was protecting her. But disappointment added its weight to the grief and fear already pressing in on her.

  Liam pushed his hands into his pockets. “Aidan is the dreamer,” he said, as if he’d read her thoughts. “He’ll make a success of America, or break his own heart in the tryin’.”

  * * *

  Exile.

  The reality of it struck Aidan again as he watched his boots send up splashes of mud and water with each step he took. He carried their skimpy belongings—a change of clothes, a razor, a comb, and a few other personal oddments, tied up in a square of old sacking. At least the bundle wasn’t heavy, he reflected sourly.

  The sky had cleared and a full winter moon, low-slung and pale, shone brilliantly on the landscape. Fatigue and the night played tricks on his eyes. Sometimes he believed he saw riders approaching, only to realize
the figures were bare limbed trees looming in the distance, dark and forbidding, casting long shadows. The wind moaned over hedgerows and ancient rock walls, sounding like the wail of the banshee, and making the hair on his arms stand on end.

  Beside him, Farrell trudged along silently, almost brittle in her resentment of him, her face stony, her tension underscored with a nearly palpable wariness.

  Those who’d left for America already had probably felt the same as Aidan did now—that they had been exiled from Ireland. Unlike him, though, most had been forced to leave simply to escape death by hunger. Nor was it likely that they had tramped through ankle-deep mud toward the distant harbor of Queenstown near Cork with an angry, unwilling, and resentful bride. A good distance it was too—Queenstown was about thirty miles ahead.

  Michael’s death did not weigh lightly on Aidan. Accident or no, enemy or no, the man would still be alive if Aidan hadn’t head-butted him like a ram. Lord Cardwell would have dealt with Michael no more kindly, once he discovered his perfidy, Aidan was thinking. And neither might he have spared Farrell.

  He supposed he should say something to comfort her, but he could think of nothing. That he would be provide for her, maybe? Or that he’d never be heavy-handed? He had just killed her brother. Somehow he doubted that she would believe his promises, no matter how sincerely he made them. Besides, their circumstances were so dire, he had enough to worry about just keeping his gaze focused on the countryside around them.

  Through a rapid, tragic chain of events, Farrell Kirwan had become his wife. Aidan could scarcely believe it. He’d known her since they were children, had watched her grow from a pretty young girl into a beautiful young woman. And he’d looked on with helpless, guilty envy as she’d hung on Liam’s few words as though they’d been gold coins.

  Aidan’s scorched pride and his loyalty to his brother had kept him from trying to win Farrell for himself. But jealousy had gnawed at his insides whenever he’d seen her gaze upon Liam with almost childlike adoration. What she’d seen in Liam, though, he couldn’t guess—his brother had a good heart but he was a creature of habit and as sober-minded as a priest. At age eighteen he’d seemed like an old man.

  If Aidan couldn’t have Farrell, he’d thought, there were plenty of other girls in the district who found him favorable. Maybe then she would notice him.

  But she hadn’t.

  Perhaps he’d forget his desire for her.

  But he didn’t.

  Despite a lifetime of hardship in poor Skibbereen, Farrell bloomed like a rose in winter, fragile yet unbowed in the snow, with rich cinnamon hair and eyes that were as clear and green as the breakers that flung themselves against County Cork’s rock-faced shoreline. Only in his most fevered midsummer dreams had he entertained the hope that she might someday be his. Now, through an unbelievable twist of fate, they were married.

  And he knew that she’d rather be any other man’s wife but his.

  The events of the last fourteen hours were a jumble in Aidan’s memory, but he had a lifetime to sort them out and relive them. Michael Kirwan’s death, the urgent family counsel whispering plans in the dark, Father Joseph summoned in the deepest hour of the night for the dual purpose of performing a hasty marriage ceremony and giving last rites to Michael.

  Afterward Aidan and Tommy had carried Michael back down to the cottage—no easy task since he’d grown as stiff as old oak shillelagh—and left him lying where he had died. They left five pounds in his pocket so it wouldn’t appear that he’d been robbed. It would be Aidan who would be blamed for the death, Aidan who would be hunted down. By God’s mercy, perhaps the rest of the O’Rourkes would be left to live in peace.

  Sean O’Rourke had produced an ancient pair of boots for his youngest son. Sean had worn them to his own wedding and he’d planned to be buried in them, but thought that Aidan would get better use of them. They were too small for Aidan but at least he wasn’t barefoot. Then with hasty farewells and no time to look back, Aidan and his new wife had set out. The only other belongings they had with them were the clothes on their backs, and the kit that Aidan carried.

  “Are ye warm enough?” Aidan asked, mainly to break the silence they’d held for hours. He wasn’t certain Farrell would answer.

  “I’ll do.”

  He tried again. “When we get to Cork, I’ll get us some decent clothes and shoes for the trip. At least we’ve extra money to do that.”

  She kept her eyes on the road in front of her. “We should have left a bit with Tommy and Clare to help them along. Now they have Liam and your da to look after as well as their own.”

  “And how would they be spending it? Everyone knows we’re poor as dirt. If Clare bought something from the butcher in Skibbereen, or even a dram of tea at the pub, it would lead the authorities right back to the family and Michael’s death. They’re no worse off than before, and Liam will get the crop planted.”

  Farrell trudged along in silence for a moment. Then she said, “I wish I could have done something for them. God knows if they’ll be all right.”

  “Aye, well, getting out of Ireland is the biggest favor we can do them. He kicked at a rock in his path, silently adding, and taking you with me is the biggest favor I can do for you.

  Convincing Farrell of that was going to be the trick.

  CHAPTER TWO

  By mid-afternoon Farrell was starving and exhausted. Her feet were stiff with cold, her stockings wet. Aidan had not said a word for hours, and she wasn’t sure if that was good or not, but she couldn’t think about it. She was capable of only a single task right now—putting one foot in front of the other.

  An hour before dawn, they’d stopped to rest in the shelter of the ruins of a roofless abandoned cottage. Two of its walls, at right angles to each other, provided a corner that was out of the wind, but not the cold. Farrell had slipped into a restless doze but it seemed that only a minute had passed before she felt Aidan’s hand on her shoulder to wake her. She didn’t think either of them had slept more than a few hours in the last twenty-four.

  Despite that, Aidan seemed tireless, like a machine. His rhythmic stride was longer than hers and sometimes she fell behind. Wordlessly, he’d slow to let her catch up. Otherwise he remained a dark, intimidating presence beside her.

  The miles stretched out behind them and ahead of them. Above, the clear sky was giving way to clouds again, obscuring the watery winter sun. They’d encountered no rider or foot traveler since they set out, but she noticed Aidan constantly scanning the road and the far hills, like a wolf sniffing the wind.

  Farrell herself looked over her shoulder from time to time, half expecting to see one of the Cardwells or a British soldier gallop up behind them at any moment, lashing his mount and tearing up the soggy turf like one of the Four Horsemen. If trouble came, it wouldn’t sneak up on them, that was certain.

  She had only a vague idea of how far away Queenstown was. It was somewhere near the city of Cork, she knew, but the distance didn’t matter. They had to get there.

  Walking away from Skibbereen was the hardest thing she’d ever done. The family—even old Sean and the children—had stood outside Tommy’s tiny cottage to bid them farewell.

  She tried to take comfort from Father Joseph’s parting words, that should the family never see each other again here on earth, they would meet in heaven. Perhaps it was true, but that time was far away and right now she had banishment and this husband to deal with.

  Husband . . . husband . . . husband . . .

  Every step seemed to echo the word in her mind to remind her that he was more than Aidan O’Rourke, someone she’d known all her years. More than the boy who’d given and gotten his share of black eyes. Someone else besides the man who could hold the attention of a group with his story-telling.

  Yes, Aidan was all of those men. But above all else he was now Farrell’s husband, and she could scarcely credit how quickly it had happened.

  As she dragged one leaden foot after another, her thoughts were
detached and her heart heavy. Her memory of the night’s hasty doings—plans whispered in near darkness and executed in secrecy—were like still life drawings, blurred by her heartache and disillusionment. She remembered the priest arriving at the cottage, bringing in the cold night on his cloak. He’d knelt beside Michael in the flickering firelight to anoint him, touching oil to his closed eyes and lips, to his feet and stiffening hands while he murmured prayers in Latin. It had all seemed unreal, as though she were watching through a window and wasn’t a part of the scene.

  But stark reality jolted her when she had been called to stand next to Aidan to face Father Joseph. This hurried, secret ceremony was not the wedding she’d hoped for in her feminine heart. She had always envisioned a bright, clean spring day with a gathering of neighbors and family to wish her well. She had even imagined the impossible—a gleaming white wedding gown. No Irish Catholic girl in Skibbereen had ever worn such a gown for her wedding. They were far too poor for such luxury. But she’d once caught a glimpse of a wealthy landowner’s daughter riding by in a coach dressed in a white silk dress, festooned with flounces of tulle. On her head, she’d worn a veil as fine as a spider web, and altogether, looked like a fairy princess. Next to her had sat her new husband, and Farrell had stood beside the road, staring in awe at the fabulous spectacle.

  Of course, there had been no wedding gown for Farrell. She had changed from the torn uniform into her own dress, the only one she owned. Aidan wasn’t even the man she’d expected to marry. Liam should have been beside her. Over the miles, she had come to realize that his talk of fair-weather love had been only a ruse to make her leave so that she’d be safe. He’d sacrificed his own happiness to protect her.

  Fate had given her no choice though, if she would protect those same neighbors and family. And she must because they were just as innocent as she. To shield them, she’d had to take Aidan for her bridegroom, not the sturdily built, sparely worded Liam with his gentle voice, kind smile, and soothing ways.

  Liam . . . she loved him. Not with the silly, giddy passion other girls talked of. Her love for Liam O’Rourke was like the man himself—quiet, steady, and as dependable as the morning. Her childhood spent with a lazy drunkard of a father had made her seek a man with Liam’s qualities. He was everything that Gael Kirwan had not been, and she’d been drawn to him because of that and his noble spirit.