The Stolen Bride. Brenda Joyce

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СКАЧАТЬ farm as swiftly as possible, and he knew he must go on, somehow transcending his fear. He carefully extinguished the torch.

      The Blarney Road he was on was made of rough and rutted dirt, and led into the town’s center. Somewhere up ahead was the Connelly farm. He had been assured that there he would find comfort and aid.

      His heart beat hard and heavily as he walked through the woods, not daring to use the roadway but keeping parallel to it. From the width of it and the wheel ruts, he saw that it was well used. In the three long nights he had been traveling, he’d avoided all roads and even dirt paths, keeping to the hills and the forest. He’d heard troops once, but that had been a hundred miles north of where he now was. Only hours from Dublin, he’d heard the cavalcade of horses and had peered out from some high rocks on a hilltop. Below, he’d seen the blue uniforms of a horse regiment. The last time he’d seen cavalry, two dozen men had died—as had innocent women and children. In real fear, he had melted back into the woods.

      The sky began to turn a pale pink. Today, clearly, it would not rain. His tension began, creeping over him, a companion both familiar and despised. But he was too close to run to the ground now. He would suffer the daylight, no matter what it cost him. Already the sounds of an awakening forest were making him start and jump, the birds beginning to sing merrily from their perches in the branches overhead. As had been the case each morning since his escape, their song brought tears to his eyes. It was as precious, as priceless, as the unlit torch he carried.

      The road rounded and a cottage became visible, the roof thatched, the walls stuccoed, two sows rooting in the mud in the front yard by the well. A single cleared cornfield was behind the house, a smaller lodge there.

      Sean paused behind a tree, breathing hard, but not from exertion. As alert as he was, it was hard to see across the road and to the house and the hut beyond. His eyes had become so weak. He finally glimpsed a movement between the house and the field—it was a man, or so he thought. He hoped it was Connelly.

      Sean looked up and down the road but saw nothing and no one. Not trusting his poor eyesight, he strained to hear. The only sound he heard was that of myriad birds, and after a moment, he also decided that he could detect a soft rustling of leaves, the whisper of a fall breeze.

      He thought he was very much alone.

      More sweat pooled.

      His heart pumped with painful force now. He stepped from the woods and onto the road, almost expecting a column of troops to mow him mercilessly down. But not a single soldier appeared, much less an entire column. He tried to breathe more easily, but he simply could not. He was too afraid.

      He blinked against the brightening sky and pushed across the road.

      The man saw him and halted.

      Sean cursed his vision and strode on. He tried to summon up his voice, the effort huge. Just before his solitary confinement, there had been a murder within the prison, and much mayhem had followed. He had been badly beaten, and in the riot, his throat had been cut. No physician had been sent to attend him and for a while, he had been at death’s door. He had healed, but not fully. He could no longer speak with any ease; in fact, forming each word took tiring and painstaking effort. Of course, there had been no one to speak to for two years, and once he realized that he could barely talk, he had not even tried.

      Now, he forced the word from his throat and mouth. “Conn…elly?” And he heard how hoarse and unpleasant he sounded.

      The man hurried forward. “Ye be O’Neill,” he said, taking his arm.

      Sean was shocked by his touch, and alarmed to realize he had been expected. He flinched and jerked away from the other man. “How?” He stopped and fought for the words a child could so easily utter. “How…do…you know?”

      “We got our own secret post, if ye get my meaning,” Connelly said. He was a big, burly man with a long red nose and bright blue eyes. “I been sent word. Ye better get inside.”

      A flurry of messages must have been relayed, sending the news of his escape and his need ahead of him. Sean followed the big man into the house, allowing himself to feel a small amount of relief when the front door was solidly closed, barring the outside world.

      “The missus is already with the hens,” Connelly said. “Ye be John Collins now.” He spoke swiftly, but as he did, his gaze took in Sean’s appearance with growing concern. “Ye look like a skeleton, me boy. I’ll feed ye and give ye a blade fer your face. Damn those bloody Brits!”

      Sean simply nodded, but he reached for the thick beard on his face. There’d been no shaving for two years.

      Connelly hesitated, then spoke, “I’m sorry about what happened in Kilvore. I’m sorry about it all, an’ I’m sorry about yer wife and child.”

      Sean stiffened. An image formed, blurred, a sweet face with kind and hopeful eyes. Peg had faded into an indistinct and painful memory that was colorless, even though he knew her hair had been shockingly red. His gut twisted, aching.

      He had grieved at first, for many months; now, there was only guilt. They were dead because of him.

      “Ye got no choice but to leave the country. Ye know that, don’t you?”

      Sean nodded, glad to have his thoughts interrupted. He had learned how to avoid all memory of his brief marriage, except in the wee hours of the night. “Yes.”

      “Good. Ye go straight down Blarney Road to Blarney Street. Ye can cross the river at the first bridge. Follow the river, it’ll take you to Anderson Quay. Cobbler O’Dell will put you up.”

      Sean nodded again. He had questions, especially as to when he would be able to find a passage and how it would be paid for, but he was suddenly exhausted and he was also starving. He’d had a single loaf of stale bread in the past three days. Worse, speaking was a terrible chore. He tried to find and form the words. “When? When…will…I…leave the country?”

      “Sit down, boyo,” Connelly said, his expression grim. “I don’t know. Every day at noon, ye go to Oliver Street. The pub there, it’s right around the corner from O’Dell. Ye look fer a gentleman with a white flower pinned to his jacket. He will be able to tell you what ye need to know. I’m only a farmer, Sean.”

      Sean struggled. “Noon.” He tried to clear his throat. Even his jaw felt odd, rusty, weak. “Today? Should I…go today?”

      “I don’t know if the gent will be there today or tomorrow or the next day. But he’s good. He’s real good at helpin’ patriots. His name is McBane. Ye don’t want to miss him.”

      McBane, Sean thought. He nodded again.

      Connelly turned and went to the larder. He returned with a plate of boiled potatoes and a large chunk of bread and cheese. Sean felt saliva gathering in his mouth.

      The supper table was set in white linens, with Waterford crystal wineglasses, imported china and gilded flatware. Huge chandeliers were overhead, towering candles flickered on the table and liveried footmen carried sterling platters of venison, lamb and salmon. The women wore silks and jewels, the men black dinner coats and white shirts and ties. Perfume wafted in the air….

      He jerked, shocked by a memory he had no right to have. He refused to identify it or the man it belonged to.

      Instead, СКАЧАТЬ