The Irish Bride Read online

  She was the very picture of Ireland—wounded and grieving and beautiful.

  Farrell was the loveliest woman he’d ever laid eyes on, and now she was his wife, a fact which he kept repeating in his mind because he could scarcely believe it. A couple of loose russet curls that had escaped their pins fluttered around her face in the winter wind. Her hands looked rough and chapped, and he wished he could fix that. He knew that she’d never lived an easy life. None of them had.

  He thought of Noel Cardwell, that filthy-minded bastard, pawing Farrell, his behavior so crude and barbaric that he’d torn her dress, and the hot blood of anger flooded his veins. Thank God she’d gotten away before Cardwell could do more. Now Aidan would be able to protect her and keep her safe from men like that strutting peacock who lived at Greensward Manor.

  The wagon hit a rut, jolting the vehicle’s contents and passengers. Farrell stirred and her unguarded gaze connected with his for just an instant. In it he saw a heart closed as tight as a fist.

  Ah, but God was laughing at him again, he understood bitterly. Aidan had yearned for beautiful Farrell Kirwan longer than he could remember. And now God had bound her to Aidan, but it was no marriage made in heaven. With such distrust and rejection in her eyes, he knew he might never win her regard.

  Marriages had been arranged under less favorable circumstances, but right now he couldn’t think of one worse. Aidan had killed her brother, taken her from Liam, and was about to carry her off to a strange land and an uncertain life on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. He shrugged off the thoughts; Aidan had had no problem winning other women’s hearts—he’d done so several times. Determination, what his mother had called pigheadedness, Aidan had in abundance. He and Farrell weren’t off to the best start, but at least he might be able to make their destination sound more promising.

  “When we get to the city I’ll see after getting us a room. I’ll tell the innkeeper that we’re newly wed. That way we might get a bed to ourselves instead of having to share one with a half-dozen other people.”

  “No!” she blurted, eyes wide, and then amended, “I mean, should we spend money on a luxury like that? We might need it for food or passage . . . ye know.”

  Yes, he knew. She didn’t want to be alone with him. “I think we can spare it, Farrell. Besides, I want to be able to leave you at the inn while I see about what ships are bound for America. If we have a room of our own ye’ll be safer while I’m gone.”

  She toyed with the tail of her shawl. “I suppose.”

  Aidan wasn’t prone to useless chatter, but he was more social than Liam, and the silence between him and Farrell begged to be filled. To his way of thinking, a woman who spoke too little was as bad as one who talked too much. He glanced at Stephen Riley’s back; given the man’s close proximity, he chose his words carefully.

  “Last week I heard the Learys have had a letter from their son, Danny. He’s in Boston, ye know. He said they have more food than we can imagine—meat, potatoes, bread, milk, whiskey, and more.” The faint, sweet scent of the butter around them drifted to his nose, and he gestured at the cargo. “We’ve never seen so much to eat back here, he said. And his wife, Bridie, she’s got three dresses and two pairs of shoes. There’s good work in America, and wages to be earned. I’m thinking we’ll try for Boston or New York.”

  Farrell’s face registered a glimmer of hope. “D’ye think it’s true, or is it more of Danny’s blarney?” Danny Leary was known to exaggerate from time to time, all in the interest of making a story “a wee more entertaining.”

  “Aye, I believe it. He’s not the only one who’s written back telling of food and work. Some have even sent a little money for their families.” He fingered the frayed edge of his coat sleeve. “I don’t think the streets are paved with gold, as some have said. But it’s a land of plenty over there.”

  And Aidan O’Rourke was determined to get a share.

  * * *

  Full night had fallen by the time Stephen Riley dropped Aidan and Farrell at The Rose and Anchor, a dockside pub on the River Lee in Cork City. With a nervous flutter in her chest, Farrell watched the wagon recede into the night. The warm, yeasty smell of ale wafted from the brightly lit pub. Behind them the river gave off a sharp tang, of smells she preferred not to identify, yet curiously, of fresh, water-borne breezes too.

  She glanced back at the water. As it lapped against the quays, the coy moon, half hidden by silver-edged clouds, reflected on its rippling surface like a wavering light on spilled ink.

  Aidan’s eyes were dark with shadow and caution as he glanced at their surroundings. Although he was a farmer unaccustomed to the perils of a port city, he plainly recognized that they were in a rough section of town.

  The side streets were coal-black and sinister, and Farrell felt as if unseen eyes watched them from the alleys. Apparently Aidan sensed it too. He gripped her elbow in his strong hand and nudged her toward the pub door. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat and find lodgings for the night.”

  Inside, the smoky room was surprisingly lively, filled with fierce-looking seamen from London and Liverpool and Hamburg. In the corner, a hungry-looking man played a feeble jig on a tin whistle, accompanied by another scarecrow who beat a bodhrán. The skin of its drumhead was old and worn to translucency. A few coins lay in a cap at their feet, apparently tossed there by their mostly inattentive audience.

  Aidan stood in the doorway surveying the place while the pub’s tough patrons eyed them.

  “If ye’re lookin’ for a handout, ye’ve opened the wrong door!” a short, gray-headed hag barked at them from behind the counter. “This inn serves only payin’ customers, ’less ye can earn your supper” —she jerked her chin at the musicians— “which I doubt. And I don’t have any kitchen scraps for the likes of you.” The bannalanna was as round as she was high, with tiny, wide-set porcine eyes, and massive, flabby arms that were work-reddened from fingertips to elbows. Her nose was just as red.

  The men standing nearby laughed, and Farrell felt Aidan stiffen.

  “That’s tellin’m, Katie, old lass,” one the sailors said, looking up from his ale pot with a dry expression. He had a long, oiled braid that hung between his shoulder blades. “Never let it be said ye gave a crust of bread to charity.”

  Indignant, Kate put her red fists on the rolls of flesh that spilled over her hips. “And where would I be if I started givin’ out free meals? Out of business, that’s where. The beggars would be all over this place like flies on a dead dog. Phaw!”

  More laughter ensued, and then the onlookers trailed off to silence, eager to see what would happen next.

  Farrell hadn’t stopped to think how she and Aidan looked. Certainly they’d never been well off, but she’d grown accustomed to their appearance—everyone in Skibbereen looked the same or worse. Her skirt was carefully mended, but its hem was as tattered as a rag left to blow in the wind. Aidan had a dark stubble of beard on his cut, bruised face, and he looked as worn as his clothes. In all, she supposed they appeared thoroughly disreputable. At least they weren’t barefoot, as many were in Ireland.

  Aidan took Farrell’s hand and pulled her with him to the bar. The insults hummed through him like an electric current which she felt vibrating in his touch. Dear God, he wouldn’t start trouble in here—he couldn’t. Not with all these vicious sailors—

  The harridan, who stank of garlic and stale wine at this close range, raked Farrell with her wee piggy eyes. The undisguised slight brought a hot flush to Farrell’s cheeks and made her worn skirt and her rough shawl all the more conspicuous. Suddenly she shared Aidan’s anger and she exchanged a look with him. Tired as she was, she straightened her spine, drawing herself to her full height to stare back at the coarse woman, unflinching.

  Aidan leaned across the counter and in a low, even voice said, “Judging by the looks of your other customers, I’d say ye can’t always tell whether a man is a beggar just by his face or dress.” He pulled a coin from his pocket and put it
on the bar between them. “Now I want hot meals for my wife and me, and then we’ll be wanting a room. A private room, not one that sleeps six to a bed.” The quiet, commanding words left no doubt of who would have the last say.

  “Hmph,” Kate grunted, then plucked up the coin. She clamped it between what remained of her big yellow-brown molars, presumably to see if it was genuine, then nodded at the taproom behind them. “Well, get on with ye to a table, then.” She bellowed into the kitchen, calling someone named Ann. “I’ll have the girl bring yer food. You can take room number three upstairs after ye sup.” She tossed a large iron key across the bar.

  With the matter apparently resolved, conversation around them resumed, and Aidan led Farrell to a corner table. She sank onto a chair, grateful to be sitting on a stationary object that didn’t rock, pitch, and rattle her teeth. He dropped into the seat opposite her, his gaze still surveying the people around them.

  “I hope you’ll move the rest of the coin to a safer place than your coat pocket,” she whispered, also glancing around at the pub’s clientele.

  Aidan gave her a long, wry look with those unsettling sapphire eyes. He whispered too, but his voice had an intimate quality that she recognized even over the noise in the pub. “Farrell, I hope ye don’t think I’m a stupid man. And I’d wager that ye’d turn the color of old Kate’s nose over there, if I told you where I’ve hid the other money.” He leaned back in his chair and with those eyes directed her attention to his crotch, where a noticeable swell stretched the fabric of his trousers. His meaning was plain enough, and she was reminded once more of the power he now held over her. “So I’ll just say that ye needn’t be worrying about it.”

  She averted her gaze to the sticky tabletop and her cheeks burned again. In too few minutes, in the time it would take a starving man to devour his food, Aidan would usher her upstairs to room number three and demand his due as her husband. Her right to choose the man she would give herself to had been one of the few things she still owned in the world. Now that was gone too.

  Farrell glanced at his hands where they rested on the table in front of him. They were strong hands, broad across their backs and dotted with old and newer scars from work or fights, she didn’t know which. They’d certainly be strong enough to hold her, and he probably would have no regard, no sentiment for her woman’s tender feelings.

  Like a child, she hoped that maybe if she lingered over her supper long enough, Aidan would be too weary to do more than sleep when they went upstairs. Yes, it could work, especially if he was like most men—feed them and they went as lazy as swine.

  Just then, a scrawny, timid creature, most likely the unfortunate Ann whose name Kate had brayed earlier, brought a tray with two steaming plates of some kind of stew, a couple of old-looking biscuits, and two pints of ale. The moment the food was put in front of Farrell, all of her other concerns, and her plan, were forgotten.

  The broth was thin and bland, and the mutton in it had been boiled down to mushy lumps a toothless old man could have gummed with no effort. But after having walked so many miles, to her it looked like a king’s banquet. The aroma alone had the power to bring tears to her eyes.

  With no thought for decorum or anything else beyond eating and the most basic will to survive, she fairly jumped on the dish and began spooning the stew into her mouth as fast as she could. She felt Kate’s sardonic gaze on her, probably noting her bad table manners. But at that moment, Farrell didn’t care how she looked.

  The stew was hot and it burned all the way down her throat, but she ignored the pain. A drop of broth clung to her lip and she lapped at it with her tongue, then took another bite. She swore she could hear each swallow hit the pit of her empty stomach, and as she cleaned the plate, life seemed to flow back into her veins. Then, barely stopping for breath, she turned her attention to the biscuits, ripping one in half like a barbarian at an orgy to sop up the last of the broth.

  “Lass, ye’d best eat slower,” Aidan advised, watching her with a serious expression. “No one will steal your food from you, and it might come right back up if you gobble it that way.”

  With the bread already in her mouth, Farrell realized how unladylike she must appear. What did it matter, though? She had no reason to impress Aidan O’Rourke as if he were a suitor. He was only her husband—

  Husband.

  Honor.

  Obey.

  She stopped chewing and swallowed the dry lump. “Excuse me,” she murmured, embarrassed.

  “I know you’re hungry,” he said quietly. “We’ve all had our share of hungry times. There’s no shame in it.” A sudden grin crossed his face. “Of course, it’s no grand blessing, either.” He put down his own spoon and took a long drink of ale. If only he wouldn’t look at her that way, she thought, proprietary, determined. “After we’re done here, we’ll rest. You’ll need your strength for the days ahead.”

  Not wanting to acknowledge what he might mean, Farrell took a cautious sip of her own ale and asked, “Do you think anyone yet knows that we’ve gone?” She lowered her voice. “I mean, people who might be interested?”

  He shrugged as he swallowed. “It’s hard to say, but I wouldn’t think we should dawdle here longer than needs be.” His own plate and cup empty, he pushed back his chair. “Are ye finished, then?”

  Heaven help her, yes, she was. There was nothing left on the table to consume, and no excuse she could think of to keep from going upstairs. Nodding, she rose from her chair with foot-dragging reluctance.

  Aidan piloted her to the stairs on the far end of the room. As they reached the first landing, he moved his hand to the small of her back and its heat startled her. She glanced over her shoulder, almost hoping for rescue from someone in the pub. She didn’t want to be here, she didn’t want to be married to Aidan O’Rourke. For a frantic moment she considered shouting out that he had kidnapped her after killing her brother, and that she wasn’t his wife at all. But what good would it do? she chided herself. The men in the pub didn’t appear to be chivalrous defenders of females in distress. She had no money and with the authorities probably searching for them both, she had nowhere else to go.

  Aidan followed her up the steps, and Farrell felt as if she were going to her own hanging, prodded along by a handsome executioner.

  On the second floor, Aidan took a lantern from a hook at the top of the stairs and unlocked the door with a “3” carved on it. He stood aside to let Farrell pass. The flame threw tall shadows on the rough walls of the small cupboard that contained a narrow bed and a tiny table with a chamber set on it. After lighting the candle stub that stood on a chipped saucer next to the bowl and pitcher, Aidan returned the lantern to the hall. The room held a musty, closed-up smell, as if the bedding had been used many times and not changed, and it was so cramped Aidan couldn’t close the door behind him without touching her.

  Farrell perched on the edge of the bed and eyed him warily.

  Aidan stood in front of her and watched her just as intently, as if trying to see into her thoughts. Her heart began to thud in her chest under the scrutiny, but she made an effort to conceal her fear, and lifted her chin.

  “Ye don’t want to be here with me, aye?” he asked finally.

  The question took her aback. The answer seemed so obvious, she couldn’t imagine why he asked. “No, I don’t.”

  A more clever woman might have lied, perhaps to escape her new husband’s wrath, but Farrell couldn’t make herself tell him something that wasn’t true. “I wish I was back in Skibbereen with people who love—” She stopped. Fearing for her own family’s safety, her cousin Clare had been anxious to be rid of Farrell, and Liam— She was sure that Liam had sent her off for her own good, but still . . . “I just wish I was home,” she finished simply.

  “That’s what ye’d wish for? To be home?” Aidan threw the small bundle of their belongings on the bed and sat on the far end of the lumpy straw tick. “But neither of us has a home to go to, not anymore. The battering ram turned mine
into a pile of old stone and thatch.” He needn’t have reminded her—the image was as sharp as broken glass in Farrell’s mind. “And you’re an orphan, with your family dead in the workhouse years ago.”

  Orphan. A grown woman of twenty-two years couldn’t really be considered an orphan. But Aidan’s words struck her as cruelly true, and she was filled with a bereft loneliness so profound she could hardly bear it. Too many things had happened in the last two days, horrible, earth-shattering events that tore at her heart and left her feeling defenseless. Tears stung her eyes. She would not begin crying again, she told herself. Swiftly she turned her head so that he wouldn’t see.

  “Yes, I guess I am,” she replied, her face still averted.

  “But then, ye know I suppose I am too, in a way.”

  She felt his weight shift on the tick and she stole a glance at him. He sat with his elbows on his knees and he stared at the floor between his feet. “What makes you think that? You have your da and two brothers.”

  He shrugged. “Well, yes, but I’ve left them behind and I’ll probably never see them again. And I can’t say that I’ll meet someone from home in America. It’s a grand place, a huge land, full of strangers and near-naked, wild savages who paint their faces and wear animal skins. Indians, they’re called”—he smiled, more to himself—“though I’m thinking they sound a bit like the ancient Celts.”

  If he meant to give her courage about what lay ahead, he failed. “Aren’t ye scared to leave Ireland, then?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Not scared, but I wish to God I didn’t have to.”