seem larger—and her waist smaller—than they really were. She felt naked.
Fears she’d tried to quell uncoiled one after another like snakes in her belly. Would it hurt? Would he keep her for more than one night? Would he plant an English bastard in her belly?
Her fingers instinctively reached for her throat. But they’d taken her cross, the little iron cross of St. Brighid, after whom she was named. She had worn it around her neck suspended on a leather thong since she was a child, and it had always made her feel protected. Now it was gone, and her grandmother’s brooch with it. Shaped like a twisting dragon with open jaws and garnet eyes that gleamed red, the brooch was the most precious thing she owned. It had passed for generations from mother to daughter, staying within the Maelsechnaill female line. Now Brighid had lost it.
“Se do bheath’ a Mhuire, ata Ian de ghrasta, ta an Tiarna leat ...” The prayer spilled from her lips of its own accord.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee ... light poured into the hallway, and a servant motioned for Brighid to come.
“No!” The word was a whisper, a plea. Brighid stood on trembling legs and forced herself to take a step toward the doorway. For . Another step. For Fionn. And another. For poor little Aidan.
Her fingers rose to her waist, felt the hardness of the knife. She’d been foolish to take it. She’d never be able to use it. Just in case.
In the doorway, her steps faltered.
He stood on the far side of an enormous, dark table, staring at her just like before. Again Brighid found she could not breathe. His gaze met hers and held it. His green eyes, cold and hard, seemed to see inside her. Brighid instinctively lifted her arms to shield her breasts, looked away.
“This is Brighid. She’s a bit shy, Jamie, but I’ve no doubt you can cure her of that affliction. The ladies at Turlington’s always had good things to say about your abilities.” The iarla rose from his chair and strode toward her. His hands grasped her shoulders, and he forced her farther into the room. “When she heard how you’d intervened on the young rapparee’s behalf, she wanted to thank you personally. Isn’t that so, Brighid, my dear?” Brighid tried to speak, could not.
The man the iarla had called Jamie was still looking at her, a brandy snifter in his hand. He drained his glass, put it down, his gaze never leaving her. The iarla fingered the ribbons of her bodice. “You always did have an eye for the most beautiful women. She’s yours, if you want her.”
“A gift?” The man’s eyebrows rose, and his gaze shifted to the iarla.
“Consider her a renewed pledge of friendship. I would set things aright between us. You know as well as I things have been strained since you arrived. We scarcely agree on anything it seems. I want things to be the way they were years ago.”
“I see. How . . . thoughtful.”
“I must say, if you don’t want her, I certainly do.” The iarla pulled slowly on the ribbons of her bodice until they came undone and the lace parted. “What do you say we unwrap your pretty package now and share what delights she has to offer? It will be just like the old days.” Brighid felt the heat of both men’s gazes on her bared breasts. She heard herself whimper, stifled the sound. They were going to rape her together right here. The man with the green eyes rounded the table so quickly she gasped. Before she could take a step backward, he stood before her and began to remove his frock . coat.
Icy dread flowed through her veins.
The iarla reached for the fall of his breeches, began to free himself. “You can take her maidenhead, of course. I did offer her to you.”
Brighid felt her legs begin to shake. There was a ringing in her ears. This could not be happening. “Sorry, Sheff, old friend.” The man draped his frock coat over her shoulders, covered her nakedness. “I prefer to have my fun in private nowadays.”
The iarla froze in