The Irish Bride Read Free Page B

his brother.
    In fact, no—it had to be a
trick of the twilight. She knew that wasn’t relief she saw in his
face. It couldn’t be. He loved  her. “Liam,
please—”
    He shook his head again and released
his hold on her arms. “I want only the best for ye, Farrell, and
that’s what I’m giving you.” Gazing out over the landscape, his
eyes reflecting unrealized dreams. He dragged in a shaky breath and
sighed.
    Farrell clutched his sleeve, willing
him to meet her gaze. But he kept staring across the fields as if
he might find answers there.
    “ I’m not like Aidan,” he
whispered hoarsely. “He’ll fight for you with his last breath. But
me? I haven’t got it in me, Farrell.” He broke off and finally
looked at her. “I love ye, lass, but in God’s truth, I don’t love
you well enough. You understand that, aye?”
    Farrell stared at him. She did indeed
understand, and therein lay the greatest heartbreak. Her Liam was a
gentle, peaceful soul, not given to raising voice or fist. That
gentleness had always been what she cherished most about him, what
had drawn her to him with all the hope and love she held in her
heart. Now it was to be the chasm that forced them
apart.
    She let her hand drop, feeling as
though she’d been given a beautifully wrapped package that turned
out to be empty. She knew Liam would never want anything but good
for her—that was why she cared for him so. And even now he was
protecting her. But disappointment added its weight to the grief
and fear already pressing in on her.
    Liam pushed his hands into his
pockets. “Aidan is the dreamer,” he said, as if he’d read her
thoughts. “He’ll make a success of America, or break his own heart
in the tryin’.”
    * * *
    Exile.
    The reality of it struck Aidan again
as he watched his boots send up splashes of mud and water with each
step he took. He carried their skimpy belongings—a change of
clothes, a razor, a comb, and a few other personal oddments, tied
up in a square of old sacking. At least the bundle wasn’t heavy, he
reflected sourly.
    The sky had cleared and a full winter
moon, low-slung and pale, shone brilliantly on the landscape.
Fatigue and the night played tricks on his eyes. Sometimes he
believed he saw riders approaching, only to realize the figures
were bare limbed trees looming in the distance, dark and
forbidding, casting long shadows. The wind moaned over hedgerows
and ancient rock walls, sounding like the wail of the banshee, and
making the hair on his arms stand on end.
    Beside him, Farrell trudged along
silently, almost brittle in her resentment of him, her face stony,
her tension underscored with a nearly palpable wariness.
    Those who’d left for America already
had probably felt the same as Aidan did now—that they had been
exiled from Ireland. Unlike him, though, most had been forced to
leave simply to escape death by hunger. Nor was it likely that they
had tramped through ankle-deep mud toward the distant harbor of
Queenstown near Cork with an angry, unwilling, and resentful bride.
A good distance it was too—Queenstown was about thirty miles
ahead.
    Michael’s death did not weigh lightly
on Aidan. Accident or no, enemy or no, the man would still be alive
if Aidan hadn’t head-butted him like a ram. Lord Cardwell would
have dealt with Michael no more kindly, once he discovered his
perfidy, Aidan was thinking. And neither might he have spared
Farrell.
    He supposed he should say something to
comfort her, but he could think of nothing. That he would be
provide for her, maybe? Or that he’d never be heavy-handed? He had
just killed her brother. Somehow he doubted that she would believe
his promises, no matter how sincerely he made them. Besides, their
circumstances were so dire, he had enough to worry about just
keeping his gaze focused on the countryside around them.
    Through a rapid, tragic chain of
events, Farrell Kirwan had become his wife. Aidan could scarcely
believe it. He’d known her since they