Carnal Gift Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.
    She didn’t expect to see him again.
    “ Coinneaoidh ml leat, a Bhrighid !” he shouted, his words following the horses up the winding road.
    I will come for you. If it’s the last thing I do.
    Chapter Three
    Brighid clasped her hands tightly in her lap. She would not cry. She would not. She tried to breathe deeply to calm herself, but her breaths came in shudders. Sweet Mary, what was she to do?
    They’d ridden forever—across the stream, over countless hills, and past the sacred hawthorn grove that marked the edge of her world—to the iarla’s manor. She’d been so stiff and sore when they’d arrived she hadn’t had the strength to dismount without help. The despicable man whose groping hands she’d fought off for the length of their journey had taken advantage of the situation to fondle her breasts.
    “Just give good Edward here a little feel, poppet. That’s nice.”
    His touch and the lecherous grin on his face had left her feeling sick.
    She’d been taken to a servant’s chamber upstairs where a bath was waiting. Brighid had known from that moment the iarla wanted far more than a word. The feeling of sickness in her belly had grown, and she’d felt she could not breathe. A young servant girl, a Dubliner from the sound of her speech, had been sent in to help her bathe and dress in fancy clothes that lay on the bed, but Brighid had refused to cooperate. When the servant had tried to undress her, Brighid had slapped her and cursed her in Gaelic. The girl’s wide eyes as she’d fled the room proved she still understood her mother tongue. Then the iarla himself had arrived, the servant girl behind him. He was tall and thin with features that reminded Brighid of a Roman, or a rat—small, brown eyes, a long, thin nose, and high, harsh cheekbones. He stank of drink and something she thought must be men’s perfume. Without his wig, he was all but bald. What little hair he had was clipped short and mousy brown. She had forced herself to meet his gaze, though the lust in his eyes repulsed her.
    “You are surpassing fair.” His cold fingers had traced the outline of her cheek. “What is your name?” “Brighid Ni Maelsechnaill.” She spoke her name as clearly and proudly as she could. It was an ancient name, a noble name. Nothing this outsider did could besmirch it.
    He’d laughed. “That’s certainly a mouthful.” “Brigid, my lord.” The servant girl gave Brighid a look of bitter triumph, a pink palm print still on her cheek. Brighid bit back the curse that leapt to mind at hearing her name