The Irish Bride Page 9

  “Yes, I’m here,” she answered, making a brave effort to smile into the small, thin face. “How are you feeling?”

  “Och, I’m so tired. And the babe has been kicking me in the back since this morning. It seems to be getting worse as night comes on.”

  Farrell put her basket on the bunk and opened it. “I’ve brought ye a little something,” she whispered. She hated not being able to give everyone what they needed and having to sneak about with morsels of food. She lifted out a crockery cup of chicken broth that she’d appropriated from the officers’ meal. It was covered with a square of waxed cloth, tied in place with a length of twine, which she removed. “It’s not much but it might give you a wee bit of strength. Drink this.”

  Deirdre lifted herself to her elbow and took the cup from Farrell’s hands. After taking a sip, she lowered herself again, putting the cup next to her. “Thank you.”

  “While it’s hot,” Farrell urged, wishing she had something else to offer. But nothing in her basket could really help. Looking at the girl, a sudden clutch of dread squeezed her heart like a fist. She reached into her pocket and touched her wooden carving of Brigit.

  “Yes, while it’s hot,” Deirdre parroted in a thin voice. “As soon as I rest a minute.” Her heavy eyes closed and she was lost again to the dim world between wakefulness and sleep.

  Or life and death, Farrell thought with an anxious shudder. As she made her way back to the ladder, she asked a few of the stronger women to keep watch over Deirdre.

  Farrell herself still had a man to feed in a private room.

  * * *

  Aidan washed and shaved, then washed again as best he could in the room that was now his and Farrell’s for a night. They were allowed six pints of water per day for drinking, cooking, and washing, and it didn’t go very far. His clothes didn’t fit very well, and neither did Farrell’s. Hers were too big and his ran to the small side, but they’d been in a hurry when they’d bought them in the secondhand shop in Cork City. He ducked to view himself in the little mirror hanging on the wall. He spotted a tuft of unruly hair and he licked his palm to smooth it down. Waiting for Farrell, he felt as nervous and awkward as a boy bringing flowers to his first colleen. And kept him waiting, she did. He heard the ship’s bell ring the hour of eight. She would come, wouldn’t she? he wondered.

  Her face and form rose in his mind’s eye. Her skin was as pale as new cream and bore not one freckle, despite her coloring. At least none that he could see. She had a pretty, rounded chin and a slim, fine-cut nose. Her clear green eyes were fringed with long, dark brown lashes that made him think of an artist’s sable brush he’d once seen in a Skibbereen shop window. Her copper hair, well, it was as thick and heavy as a Percheron’s tail, and he longed to run his hands through it, to learn if it was as silky.

  And, unlike some of the other girls he’d known, there were strength and courage in her that matched the attributes of the goddess she so admired. Brigit would be proud of Farrell, he believed.

  He hoped that his wife would come to care for him, though their marriage would never be a grand passion, considering the way it began. He suspected that in her heart, she imagined herself married to Liam. Nor was she the type of woman to submit to his will without question. Farrell had too much pride and independence for that. But if he could win her regard, at least it might be a start.

  A tap at the door jerked him from his musings. He crossed the tiny room and flung open the oak panel. There she stood in a shawl and clean blue dress that almost fit her, balancing two plates. It was still raining; droplets clung to her hair, dim crystals in the lamplight.

  “What’ve ye got here?” he asked, taking the burden from her hands. He put the plates down on the small, round table where most recently he’d played cards. She stepped into the cabin and he reached behind her to close the door.

  “It’s not proper mash, but I used potatoes and mixed in some of our oatmeal and a wee bit of chicken broth,” she replied, taking off her shawl and shaking the rainwater from it. He could smell the aroma of the food, but he also detected the scent of ocean and some sweet fragrance, like flowers swishing from the folds of her skirts. From her pocket, she produced two pewter spoons.

  “What’s that sweet smell? Like wildflowers?”

  “Oh, when I was in the hold, I treated Mrs. Dougherty for a headache. I used a bit of lavender water for a compress to her forehead. I suppose I got a bit of it on me.” She looked around the cabin and he could see the relief in her face.

  “A nice improvement, aye?”

  She nodded, trailing her hand over the back of a chair, her woman’s eyes taking in the tidy, luxurious warmth of the place. “Aye, it is.”

  “Here, lass, sit down. Ye’ve been working hard.” He’d fetched two of Morton’s glasses from a small rack mounted to the wall and poured lashings of poteen into each from the small stoneware flask he’d brought with them. He’d been saving the strong liquor for a special occasion, and if this wasn’t a special night, he couldn’t think of one better.

  “Where did you get that?” she asked, nodding at the flask.

  He smiled. “Ye didn’t think I’d take a trip of thousands of miles without bringing a bit of Da’s poteen, did you? I’ve been perishing for a taste, but saving it since there’s so little here.” He handed her the cork to sniff and though her cinnamon brows rose at the strong smell, she smiled too. It was well known in their district that no one made better whiskey than Sean O’Rourke, although in the last few years, his failing health had reduced production quite a bit. Everyone expected either Tommy or Liam to take up the task of distilling the illegal spirits and carry on the family tradition.

  He lifted his glass and she followed. “May the good saints protect ye, and the devil neglect ye!”

  She laughed at the toast and took a cautious sip. “Ohhh!” she gasped, “God, it’s like fire in a bottle!”

  “Aye, it is,” he agreed companionably. “But it’s got rounded corners on it so it’ll go down smooth-like.”

  After she took another taste, she gave him an arch look and a cough. “Smooth, ye say.”

  “Angel’s tears, Farrell. That’s what Da always called the poteen.”

  “I’d hate to see the eyes these tears came from,” she retorted, amused. “They’d be blood-red.”

  She looked lovely in the pale golden light of the lamp. Her smile was full and unfeigned, reaching her green eyes. God, dimples she had, too. How had he missed those?

  “Aye, well, some of Da’s customers had blood-red eyes, as well.”

  Farrell dug her spoon into the mash. “Mmm, this tastes much better with the chicken broth.” They both ate ravenously, enjoying the first bit of nourishment they’d had with real substance since coming onboard.

  When Aidan pushed away his plate, Farrell said, “I wonder how they all are at home. I think about them every day, Clare and Tommy, your da, Liam . . . ”

  His brother’s name hung between them like a tangible thing. He swallowed the rest of his whiskey. “Do you miss him so much, then?” he asked in a low voice.

  “He was my intended. Of course I miss him. We were to marry, come, well, spring, or perhaps after the harvest.”

  He gave her a pointed look. “Or by Christmas, or maybe St. Patrick’s Day next year or the year after. Liam never would have married you, I don’t think. Not even if all the trouble hadn’t happened. He’ll stay at home and remain a bachelor, and an old one, if God wills that he should live long enough.”

  Farrell stared at him. “What are ye talking about? Of course he would have married me. We were promised to each other.”

  He shook his head and put down his glass. “Nay. He’s my brother, aye? I lived with him for twenty-eight years. He’s a good man, a kind one. But he’s as serious as a priest and knows only two things, farming and how to worry. It’s not in him to nurture a dream or plan for the future. He doesn’t have what it takes to commit to a woman, to give his body and soul to her, and he knows it.�
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  “He did—he must have! Why else did he ask me to be his wife?”

  Putting his elbow on the table, he leaned forward. “I’ll ask you one better—why did it take him so long to do it? Da finally told him he’d better make up his mind about ye, yea or nay, or let you go to a more deserving man. Liam let Da talk him into offering for you.”

  Farrell took another swallow of “angel’s tears” and kept her gaze riveted on Aidan’s face. Over the whiskey fumes, the male scent of him, of soap and saltwater, mingled with the comforting aroma of food. Warmth flooded her limbs but not her heart. “My, my, but ye know how to flatter a girl and make her feel special, don’t you?” she asked with some asperity.

  “I’m only telling you the truth of it. The night we left, when you went outside with him, what did he say to you?”

  “He said—he told me—” Liam’s words came rushing back to her, and there wasn’t much good in them.

  “I love ye, lass, but in God’s truth, I don’t love you well enough.”

  She’d told herself then that he said those things only to make her leave for her own good. She could not bear to think anything else, such as Aidan implied—that her love for him truly had not been returned. That love still burned in her heart. It couldn’t be extinguished as easily as a candle flame. After all, her affection for Liam had grown over a period of years. But it gave her no joy now, as love should. It felt like a fist in her chest that squeezed hard enough to hurt.

  She couldn’t admit any of this to Aidan. It only rubbed salt in the wound that was her heartache. She looked at her lap and murmured what she could. “He said that I should go with you. That he was putting me in your keeping and God’s, and both would treat me well.”

  He poured himself another drink from the stoneware flask. “He was right, Farrell.”

  “I never featured myself married to you,” she said, still stung by his tactless revelation of the truth. The whiskey also freed her tongue. “Ye aren’t the type of man I wanted—wild as you are and with a scandalous reputation to boot, always turning women’s heads with a look and breaking men’s heads with your fists.” She paused. “After all those years with my own da, with his drunken ways and cruel words, and the b-beatings, I preferred Liam’s quiet ways and placid nature. I wanted to be his wife. I didn’t want a man like my own father.”

  Aidan stared at her. “Do you think I’m like Seamus Kirwan? Do you really feature me lifting a hand to you?”

  Farrell dropped her gaze. His eyes burned like two dark stars, and she heard both indignation and astonishment in his questions. “Maybe not now, not yet . . . but someday, when—if . . . ” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  He didn’t respond, but after a moment he sighed. Then he reached across the table for her hand. She withdrew hers, so he gripped his whiskey glass and took a healthy swallow. “Farrell, I swear you’ll have a good life, a better life, in America. With me.”

  She said nothing more, but pushed back her chair and began gathering the dirty dishes to avoid the possessive look she saw in his eyes again, the one that seemed to say that she had always been meant for him. He rose as well, and his hand on her arm stayed her.

  His touch was warm and vital, almost frightening in its vibrance.

  “Sit a moment.”

  “No, I’ve still work that needs—”

  “Sit.” He took the plates and put them back on the table.

  The timbre of his voice altered slightly, deeper, richer, almost angry. She chanced a look at him and he filled her field of vision. All she saw were a strong mouth and eyes that seemed alighted with a fire that burned deep within him. He was so different from his brother. Not long ago she’d believed the differences were only bad. Now, knowing him a little better, she wasn’t so sure, and it was hard to accept.

  He advanced on her, tall and menacing, and she edged away until the backs of her thighs hit the side of the narrow bunk. The poteen had made her a bit unsteady and she sat down hard on the thin mattress.

  “What’re ye after, Aidan O’Rourke?”

  “I mean to answer your earlier question. Yes, I do know how to make a woman feel special. And it hasn’t a damned thing to do with being quiet or placid.” He stood over her and pulled her to her feet again so that only an inch or two separated them. To her amazement he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it lingeringly. Fire and ice ran up her arm to her shoulder. From her hand he moved to her chin and strung a line of soft, hot kisses along her jaw line. When he reached her earlobe, he took it gently between his teeth and ran his tongue along its edge.

  Farrell shivered with the sensations he evoked in her. No one, certainly not even Liam, had ever kissed her this way. She fought the urge to reach up and thread her fingers through his hair. If merely kissing her jaw and ear made her feel so, what would his lips feel like upon her own? As if reading her mind, he took her mouth with his, demanding and fierce, yet tender. Her legs seemed to be nothing more than boiled greens, limp and weak.

  Aidan cradled the back of her head with one hand. The other he planted on her waist, pulling her close to his work-toughened body. Had that soft moan come from her? Shouldn’t she object to his behavior? she wondered, caught in a muzzy fog of his touch, her escalating pulse, and the delicious excitement of his kiss.

  He hovered just above her mouth. “I’ll tell ye what placid is good for,” he muttered, the angry note still there. “Nothing. It won’t keep you warm at night, or put a babe in your belly, or fight to keep you safe.” His lips, pleasantly whiskey-flavored, covered hers again, and his hand reached for the pins in her hair.

  A ghost of Liam’s voice came back to her then, faint and whispery, as if from a dream.

  He’ll fight for you with his last breath.

  Then the thought was gone again as he loosened her hair and plunged his fingers into it. A hot thrill went through her like a bolt of lightning. Her arms went around his neck as if they had a will of their own, and she found herself kissing him back. He sat down on the bunk and pulled her with him. She landed on his lap, and his arms went around her while he kissed her again with a fiery urgency. When his tongue sought hers, she responded. Her own voice in her head hissed that surely this wasn’t decent and insisted that she’d lost her mind. But reclining in Aidan’s lap and with him snaking a warm hand over the front of her dress, she ignored the warning. No, this wasn’t placid. This was dizzying and exciting and—

  Suddenly, there was a heavy pounding at the door. “Mrs. O’Rourke!”

  Farrell froze.

  More pounding. “Mrs. O’Rourke, are you in there?”

  She recognized Charles Morton’s voice. Aidan lifted his head from her mouth and uttered a vivid profanity. She looked at where she was sitting and realized what she’d been doing, and was mortified. How could she have given in to his caresses so easily? She felt foolish and worse, disloyal to Liam.

  Farrell leapt from Aidan’s lap and went to answer the summons.

  She smoothed her skirt and opened the door a crack. “Mr. Morton?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am.” His gaze drifted from her unbound hair downward. Farrell looked at her bodice and found the source of the man’s interest. Four buttons were open. Blood rushed to her cheeks, scalding them. She shot a venomous glare at Aidan, then clutched the fabric together with one hand. Immediately, Morton returned his attention to her face, and he seemed to be blushing as well.

  “It’s no bother. What can I—we do for you?”

  “Um, well—they’re wanting you below, ma’am. I was asked to fetch you to visit someone. Mrs. Connagher, I believe her name is.”

  “Oh!” An icy sluice of worry flew down Farrell’s spine. “She’s very bad, then?”

  “I don’t know. I think so. I was told that she’s asking for you and to bring you right away.”

  Farrell felt Aidan’s approach and knew he stood right behind her. She glanced at him. “I must be going. If she asked to see me, I have to go to her.”

/>   He nodded. “Go with Mr. Morton. I’ll follow in a minute.”

  She grabbed her shawl and hurried after Morton. Behind her, she heard Aidan utter another curse that would earn him extra time in purgatory, to be sure.

  * * *

  “And so we commend these two souls into God’s keepin’ and mercy, and hope they find peace in the next world.” James McCorry, bristle-faced and unkempt, had been roused at this early hour to say a few hurried words over the subjects of his entreaty as they lay on a plank on the ship’s deck. Those passengers who could, crowded around Deirdre Connagher and her dead child in the rain, crossing themselves and murmuring prayers. Farrell stood nearby, her throat aching from the choked-back sobs and knot of grief lodged there, and her hand closed upon her carved figure of Brigit. She felt the heat of Aidan’s solid form behind her shoulder and she drew comfort from it.

  Farrell had not been able to do anything for Deirdre, and though none of the other women in attendance could help either, she bore a stinging guilt. The child had been stillborn and Farrell held Deirdre’s hand until she drew her last breath a few hours later.

  “A broken heart killed her, sure,” one woman had whispered last night as they had stared at the lifeless pair in the gloomy confines between decks. “First her husband lost back home, then the babe. She couldn’t go on.” She’d crossed herself and sighed. “They’re together now with the angels.” A ripple of murmured agreement flowed through the group.

  Farrell had helped the other women stitch the grief-felled mother and her infant into some burlap sacks they’d sewn together. The men had retreated to the other end of the hold; preparing the dead was women’s work. The guilt had come to lodge in her heart then. While she had been dizzy with poteen and letting Aidan have his way with her—and actually enjoying it—poor Deirdre had been suffering in the dank hold, trying to birth a baby that could not live.