Page 1

Chapter 1

Dressed in her nightgown, Bridget sat on the wide, cushioned stool at her dressing table and gazed into the mirror, half of her reflection in shadow, the other half lit softly by the oil lamp sitting to her right on the table’s surface. Her lady’s maid, Polly, bustled around the bed behind her, turning down the bedcovers and plumping up the pillows. She lingered over this task every night, giving Bridget sufficient time to change her bandage without being scrutinised.

With a small sigh, Bridget pulled open one of the drawers in the dressing table and withdrew a fresh white strip of cotton. She laid it on the table and proceeded to unwrap the used bandage from her cheek, loosening the knot behind her ear that helped to keep it in place. It fell away and she gathered the material in her hand to examine it. There wasn’t a speck on it, no blood or pus or residue of any kind.

Swallowing, she reached for the oil lamp and slid it across the table until it illuminated the left side of her face. Summoning her courage, she made herself look into the mirror again. The light brought the scar on her cheek into sharp relief. More than three months had passed since Sullivan’s blade had sliced into her flesh and she had to admit that the wound had healed very well during that time. What had once been an open, bloody gash was now a thin line of healthy pink scar tissue. Two inches long, it gleamed in the glow from the oil lamp.

And she knew the day had come. In fact, the day had already passed but she had been reluctant to acknowledge it, preferring to continue to hide behind the bandage, to rely upon its power to protect her like a shield from staring eyes. But that had become its only function – there was no longer a grievous injury to cover up, only the ugly reminder it had left behind, which she could not keep concealed forever.

She sighed again and placed the fresh strip of cotton back into the drawer, shutting it with a bitter sense of resignation. Polly came over from the bed and faltered when her gaze landed on Bridget’s uncovered cheek.

‘I’m sorry, my lady, do you need more time?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Bridget. ‘You may take away the used bandage and there is no need to keep a supply of them in the drawer anymore.’

Polly nodded solemnly. ‘I understand, my lady.’

As she accepted the used bandage from Bridget, a soft knock came on the door – not the one that led out to the corridor but the inner one that linked Bridget’s bedchamber to Cormac’s. They officially had a suite of rooms each but, ever since they had taken up residence at Bewley Hall, he had joined her in the lady’s chamber every night, leaving the master’s chamber unoccupied. After they had returned from their gruelling experience in Ireland, he had made a habit of knocking on the connecting door before entering, to allow her ample privacy to complete her night-time regime without intrusion.

Polly glanced at Bridget. ‘Shall I…?’

Bridget gathered up the flailing strands of her courage. ‘Yes, please let him in.’

Polly crossed to the door and opened it. Cormac stood on the other side; he had removed the coat and cravat he had been wearing at dinner earlier that evening, but he still wore his waistcoat, shirt and trousers. His gaze shifted from Polly to Bridget still sitting at the dressing table and she caught the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes.

Before he could speak, Polly interjected smoothly, ‘Come in, sir. Her ladyship is ready to go to bed.’ Then she blushed at the unseemly implication of her words. ‘That is, she is ready for slumber,’ she corrected herself hastily. She swivelled back to Bridget. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you, my lady?’

Bridget shook her head. ‘That is all. Thank you, Polly, and goodnight.’

Polly curtseyed and departed from the room through the outer door to the corridor, taking the used bandage with her. As she shut the door quietly behind her, Cormac stepped across the threshold of the inner door. He took only a few paces into the room before he halted with an air of uncertainty.

‘Do you want me here tonight?’ he asked. ‘If you would prefer solitude…’

Though a large part of her wished to hide her scarred face from him, she stifled her self-consciousness and put out her left hand in invitation. He approached and took it, raising it to press a gentle kiss to her knuckles. While this was an act of extreme politeness in public, here in the seclusion of their bedchamber it became a tender gesture. Tonight, it even seemed to border on reverence, the way his lips lingered on her skin and drifted to her gold ring. Her whole body tingled at his touch; he had a remarkable capacity to make her feel attractive, even though she was nearly thirty-nine years old and well past the peak of her beauty.

She hiccupped as she recalled that age was no longer the greatest obstacle to her physical appeal. With that thought, her ripple of desire faded. She drew her hand out of his grasp and turned back to the dressing table mirror. The lamplight fell upon the shiny seam of her scar.

After a pause, Cormac stepped up behind her and their gazes met in the mirror.

‘Why today?’ he asked, his voice soft.

She twisted her mouth wryly. ‘Because it was already long overdue. I should have done it days ago, perhaps even weeks. I was only using the bandage to hide. I couldn’t pretend any longer that it was anything but cowardice.’

‘That is not a word I would ever use to describe you,’ he murmured, bringing his hand up to rest on her shoulder, the weight of it warm and comforting. ‘Not in a thousand years.’

She tried to conceal her scepticism but the thinly pressed lips of her reflection betrayed her.

He raised a challenging eyebrow. ‘A coward wouldn’t have endured the trauma that you did on that farm and then carried on with scarcely any rest to strive to save dozens of famished tenants. A coward wouldn’t have persevered with that gargantuan task while struggling through the grief of losing a cherished friend.’

His bluntness took her breath away. With a swell of sorrow, she recalled the freshly dug patch of brown earth in St Mary’s graveyard that covered Liam’s starved body. He had succumbed to famine dropsy before she and Cormac could get him the sustenance he so desperately needed.

Cormac’s hand squeezed her shoulder gently. ‘A coward certainly wouldn’t have entered a warehouse full of dangerous men to rescue her two beloved boys.’

She swallowed hard at the memory of the nightmare she had suffered through in New York City.

He tilted his head as he looked at her in the mirror. ‘I don’t even think a coward would have climbed a giant oak tree just because a cheeky little boy dared her to do it.’

He winked and she felt her mouth curve into a small smile.

‘He was a very cheeky boy, wasn’t he?’ she said.

‘The cheekiest. Irredeemable.’

She turned her head and kissed his fingers that still clasped her shoulder. From that long-ago day to this, Cormac had shaped her life like no other. He had given her a love that was as vast as the heavens above, an exceptional, limitless gift that somehow still expanded more every day. He had given her three miraculous children, two in his likeness and one in hers, all three more precious to her than breath or heartbeat. He had given her devotion and passion beyond her wildest imaginings. Even when the inevitable heartaches had come, he had washed them away with kisses and the strength of his conviction that they could make it through any hardship because of the powerful bond that united them. She didn’t know what she had ever done to deserve this extraordinary man.

His fingers drifted, gliding up the side of her neck, caressing the rim of her ear, meandering downwards again to stroke the delicate line of her jaw. He paused and once again made eye contact with her reflection. The lamplight flickered over his brow and cheekbones as he steadily held her gaze, waiting.

She knew what he was asking. There had never been a part of her body out of bounds to him, not since they had made their lifelong commitment to each other as they sailed away from London with Emily over a decade ago. She also knew that if she did not grant her permission, he would accept that. But the very notion was inconceivable. Every part of her belonged to him, just as every part of him belonged to her. Even the damaged parts. Perhaps especially those.

She nodded once, purposefully, a definite signal of her consent. His eyelashes lowered as he dropped his gaze from the mirror to her face. His fingers still hovered by her jaw. He raised them and let the tip of his index finger touch her scar so lightly that she could hardly feel it. He traced it along its full length. Then he bent and placed a careful kiss upon it.

‘I never want you to be in any doubt,’ he murmured, his breath warm on her cheek. ‘When I look at you, I do not see this. I see only you, a rún mo chroí . Your pure heart and your generous soul are so dazzling that they outshine everything else.’

Her throat tightened with emotion. He coaxed her chin towards him and kissed her mouth. She kissed him back softly, melting into his embrace as he wrapped his other arm around her. His stooped position couldn’t be very good for his back – he was almost thirty-nine too, after all, and no longer a sprightly youth – so she shifted along the stool to let him sit too. He lowered himself onto it with his back towards the mirror and brushed his lips against hers again. She responded with greater eagerness this time as her desire flared up once more, ignited by his nearness, their bodies wedged close together so that neither would fall off the edge of the stool.

They had not forged a physical connection since her abduction. She hadn’t felt in any way inclined to engage in the act and he, of course, had not pressured her, understanding that she was in a fragile state after her ordeal. By day, she had been keeping her thoughts occupied with the charity event she was planning to help the Irish people who were starving from the potato blight. It distracted her enough that she often believed she had put the hideous episode behind her. However, by night, she could not prevent her dreams from straying back to that barn on Sycamore Farm. When she woke with fright, Cormac simply held her. Neither of them ever made a move to initiate anything remotely sexual.

But now, at last, her blood stirred. His torso pressed up against her, solid and warm, and his smell enveloped her, so familiar and, in this moment, extremely arousing.

She parted her lips and her tongue sought out his, grazing it with a suggestive stroke. He hesitated before reciprocating, skimming his tongue across hers. She sensed him holding back and realised he would need further encouragement to be persuaded that she was ready for this tonight. With a quiver of anticipation, she laid a deliberate palm on his thigh and then slid it up to cup him through his trousers.

His shoulders jerked at the touch, and so did the appendage within which hardened and strained towards her hand. She gripped him a little tighter. He broke their kiss to stare at her, his eyes wide.

‘You want to?’ he said rather breathlessly.

‘I do,’ she said, but then she faltered. What if his hesitancy was not due to gentlemanly restraint but insufficient appetite? Her looks had been spoiled by that blade – she was no longer pleasing to the eye. ‘If—if you want to?’

His blue eyes burned with desire and his body throbbed in her grasp, thoroughly banishing her doubts. Their mouths joined together again, their tongues now entwining with fervour. As they kissed, she let go of him below to search upwards for the buttons on his waistcoat, undoing each of them one-handed. When she unbuttoned the last one and the waistcoat fell open, she felt Cormac’s mouth widen into a grin and he once again pulled back.

‘That was quite impressive,’ he said.

She blushed. He reached his left hand up to brush the back of his knuckles along her cheek, briefly skimming her scar. She caught a glimpse of the braided leather band on his wrist, one of its seams containing strands of their hair.

‘Will you come to bed with me?’ he asked, his voice low and husky.

‘I can’t,’ she said and he shot her a startled look. ‘I must put in my pessary first,’ she reminded him and his expression cleared.

‘May I do it for you?’ he asked bashfully.

It was her turn to be startled. She smiled. ‘Very well, then.’

She reached towards her dressing table and sought out the pessary from one of its drawers. Withdrawing it from its box, she handed it to Cormac. Then, tugging up the skirt of her nightgown, she stood and put one foot on the stool, presenting herself to him. With careful tenderness, he spread her lips apart and inserted the pessary, pushing it gently upwards inside her.

‘How does that feel?’ he asked.

She set her foot back down on the floor. ‘It feels fine,’ she assured him. ‘Please take me to bed now.’

‘It would be my greatest pleasure,’ he said.

Rising, he clasped her hand and led her across the room to the bed, where he let her slip under the covers first before sliding in after her. Propping himself on his elbows above her, he pressed his lips to her mouth and then trailed kisses all over her face, her nose, her forehead, her cheeks, and her scar, which was just another part of her now. It was nothing to be self-conscious about; that was what he was teaching her tonight.

She felt so safe in his grasp. A terrible thing had happened to her in Ireland, and she knew she was still healing in many ways, but she could believe now that she would survive it, that she would get past the trauma. Because she had Cormac. His strength, his solid presence, his fearless love, eclipsed everything else.

How incredibly lucky she was.