Mary Jo Putney Read Online Free PDF Page B

chance, she’d be off like a cannon ball. Not that she’d get far. She didn’t speak Irish and she’d stand out like a goose in a flock of pigeons. But that certainly wouldn’t stop her from trying.
    As night approached, they turned into a lane that eventually led them to a substantial stone house about the size of a vicarage. After her captors escorted her inside, Flannery and the elderly homeowner talked over her head in Irish until the owner said doubtfully in strongly accented English, “You’re a duchess, child?”
    Not surprising that he was doubtful. Sarah had been rained on until her sunny gown was a mess, and her hair was surely a disaster. “Duchesses come in all sizes, shapes, and ages,” she said crisply. “Including hungry.”
    The homeowner clucked. “You haven’t fed her properly? I’ve nought fit for a duchess, but I’ll have my kitchen maid heat up the mutton stew before she goes home.”
    Flannery snorted. “No need, McCarthy. I’ve been feeding her precious grace boiled potatoes and milk so she’ll know what Irish peasants live on.”
    “But she’s a duchess!” McCarthy exclaimed, shocked.
    “All the more reason she learn how the Irish live,” Flannery retorted.
    More and more, Sarah thought her kidnapping must be political. She wondered what her ultimate destination was. From things she’d overheard, she was being taken to the leader of some mysterious organization. And then—ransom? Imprisonment? A spectacular and public execution of the “duchess” to make their political point?
    Sometimes Sarah wished she didn’t have so much imagination.
    “Come this way, your grace,” Mr. McCarthy said politely.
    “Don’t you go bending your knee to her!” Flannery snarled. “We’re after getting rid of bleeding aristocrats like her!”
    McCarthy scowled. “Aye, but there’s no call to be rude to a lady.”
    Flannery made a disgusted sound, but had enough sense of what was proper to stop arguing with his host. “Serve her some potatoes while I check to see if your pantry is tight enough to lock her up tonight.”
    McCarthy gave Sarah an apologetic glance before leading the group to the long kitchen at the back of the house. While Flannery opened the door to the pantry to study it, McCarthy gave orders in Irish to Bridget, his pretty red-haired kitchen maid.
    The girl hung a pot of mutton stew on the hob to heat for the men, then fried up potatoes and onions for Sarah. With butter and parsley, the potatoes were delicious. So was the rich whole milk; most of the time, Sarah was given plain boiled potatoes and thin milk with the fat removed for butter or cheese.
    When Sarah thanked the girl, the girl said in halting English, “I wish I could help you, my lady, but there’s naught I can do.” She cast a disgusted glance at Flannery.
    “I understand,” Sarah said softly. “I appreciate your making so fine a meal of what they ordered for me.”
    Bridget bobbed her head, then moved to the hearth to stir the mutton stew. It smelled very good after three days of milk and potatoes, and scant amounts at that.
    Before Sarah broke down and started salivating, O’Dwyer grabbed her left arm and yanked her to her feet. “Time to lock you up for the night, yer bloody grace.”
    Sarah jerked her arm free, then scooped up her blanket. It was coarse and ragged around the edges, but it was all that stood between her and shivering through the night.
    “If you won’t let me take your arm, yer grace,” O’Dwyer said mockingly, “I’ll lead you there by your titty.” He latched on to her left breast with bruising force.
    After an instant of shock, Sarah exploded with fury. Knotting her right fingers, she swung her fist up from her side and smashed it into O’Dwyer’s crotch.
    O’Dwyer shrieked and let go of Sarah’s breast as he stumbled backward, clutching his hands over his damaged private parts. “Ye vicious little bitch!” he gasped. “I’ll kill you for that!”
    “No, you