Irish Linen

by Candace McCarthy

Genres: Sea Adventures; Action & Adventure Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

SHE DESIRES ONLY HIM. . . Meghan McBride owes her life to the elegant stranger who saved her from a brutal attacker. Death had cruelly taken away her father on this long voyage to America, leaving her alone and prey to the dangers that lay beyond her Irish homeland. Now, in need of a man's protection until they reach Delaware's shores, she agrees to pose as Lucas Ridgely's bride-to-be. . . .BUT SHE WAS PROMISED TO ANOTHER Meghan is nothing like the pampered beauties Lucas is used to courting, but this waif-like woman with the haunting air of melancholy stirs something deep inside him. In America, a man waits for her. But the thought of Meghan in another's arms drives Lucas almost to madness. Somehow, he must find a way to claim her for his own, to show her the true meaning of passion—and to convince her that promises are made to be broken. . .and true love is meant to be fulfilled. 121,800 Words

Release date: May 1, 2013

Publisher: eClassics

Print pages: 352

Sample

April 1847

 

She would not cry.

He was gone, and she was journeying alone to a strange place and a new life. Tears would solve nothing. Huddled against the cold Atlantic wind, her dark auburn locks whipping about her face, Meghan watched stoically as her father’s canvas-draped body slipped over the ship’s side and into the murky depths of the sea.

She shivered and hugged herself with her arms. Dermot McBride was a good man, and she would miss him, but she would not give in to grief. She was McBride’s daughter after all, and he’d hated displays of weakness. Her one last gift of love for the man who’d sired her would be to stand tall and proud, and to spit in the eye of anyone who dishonored Dermot McBride’s memory.

Ah, Da, ye almost made it … Just a wee bit longer and we would have been home … A lump formed in Meghan’s throat, despite her efforts to be brave.

Home? she wondered. Would America really feel like home? Until two months past when her father and she had boarded the ship bound for the United States, her home had been Ireland with its green meadows and blue skies.

Meghan frowned. And with its hunger and disease.

There was no turning back now, she realized. Whether she liked it or not a place called Delaware in the United States would be home to her from this, day forward. Her life would be with her husband-to-be, Rafferty O’Connor, a man she hadn’t seen in over a year and a half.

Oh, Rafferty. What will ye say when you learn of me father’s death? The two men had been the best of friends. Their small farms had bordered one another; they’d shared the same dreams. But while Dermot McBride had been reluctant to leave his homeland, Rafferty had foreseen the calamity of their future and he’d had no such qualms.

“The damn Saxons,” Rafferty had exclaimed, “they care little or not if we live or die! Their only thought is what our people can give them!”

His green eyes pleading, Rafferty had grabbed his friend’s arm. “By all that’s holy, McBride, look about ye! People are dying. Children! Whole families. Our potato crops have failed us—and when they looked to be a bounty year. With the Sasanaigh stealing our grain, how will we survive until the next year?” His gaze had flickered from Dermot to his daughter. “Meggie,” he’d said, “we have little enough here as it is, and what we do have is useless to us. I’ll not stay here and die! America is the place to be. ’Tis said that a man can make a good life for his family there.”

Meghan closed her eyes. “Dear Heaven, but he was right,” she whispered, recalling the horrors she’d seen. Their people were dying, and the English didn’t care!

Rafferty would grieve for his friend while he cursed the British government responsible.

She sniffed as she straightened her spine. Sadness was everywhere, but Meghan was determined to control hers as other passengers were buried at sea. She stared without flinching as body after body splashed into the mighty ocean.

Dermot McBride, ye’ll be missed, she thought. She blinked to moisten eyes that burned.

A fine rain began to fall, soaking the deck and the passengers on board the Mary Freedom within minutes. Meghan stood, unmoving, staring at the spectacle of grieving families bidding farewell to their deceased loved ones. A wild wail drew the young Irishwoman’s attention to a middle-aged woman struggling to break free of another’s hold to get to the enshrouded body that was being shoved over the ship’s rail.

Meghan’s eyes were dry, but her throat felt so tight that she could barely swallow. I will not cry.

She forced herself to think of Rafferty and their new life. As old as her father, Rafferty would be a good husband, she thought, closing her eyes, and she’d be a contented bride. Meghan didn’t believe in passionate love, but she believed in a marriage based on respect and friendship to a man she’d known most of her life.

The burials at sea completed, the passengers were ordered by the ship’s captain to return to their cramped quarters on the lower decks, and the crew resumed their duties. The sobbing continued, but the sound became muffled to Meghan as the sorrowful family members descended below deck to escape the rain.

Ignoring the officer’s command, Meghan moved to the rail, where she stood, staring off across the sea at the dismally dark sky. Her hair was soaked, and water ran beneath her rough, homespun shawl and down the back of her woolen gown, but still she stayed.

Drenched, her chest tight with pain, she gazed, unseeing, over the mighty ocean. If she’d stayed in the steerage instead of the cabin she shared with three other women, could she have somehow saved her father? Would she have seen just how ill he’d been?

“Gerl,” a gruff voice said, “what are you doing here?” A strong hand clamped on her arm, yanking her about to face a man whose eyes leered at her from beneath a wide-brimmed tarpaulin. She recognized the hat and pea jacket of a crew member.

His face was shadowed, but Meghan saw his gaze widen as he studied her wet face. She had seen that look in a man’s eyes before, and she realized how vulnerable she was with her father dead and none of her kin left to protect her. She swallowed and attempted to pull free, but the man’s grip firmed.

“Ah, lass, you should be nice to Ned Fellows. A gerl as sweet of face as you will need someone to …” He cleared his throat. “Watch out fer you.”

“I need no one,” she breathed. “I’ve me family to—”

“Liar,” he growled. “If you’ve family to care fer you, where are they?” He glanced about the deck, his gaze feral as it returned to her. His study fell to her mouth, lust contorting his features, and Meghan’s heart thumped with new fear. She was alone, unprotected. Who would care if this man misused her?

Meghan struggled, and the sailor gave an angry cry and wrenched her close. Cupping her head, he pressed her face into the dirty front of his coat, while his other hand caressed her buttocks.

Immediately, she started to gag. He smelled of whiskey, tar, tobacco, and a man who desperately needed a bath. She tried to scream, but her cry was muffled in the wet fabric. His fingers wove into her hair, and he jerked her head backward until she was eye to eye and nose to nose with him.

“You like it rough?” he said, sounding pleased. His breath was as rank as the rest of him.

“Let me go!” she gasped. “I’m a passenger. Your captain—”

The man laughed. “The captain and I are well acquainted. You might say we’re friends—he and I.”

“No,” she breathed.

“Yes.” He tugged hard on her hair, and she cried out with pain. “Yes, my Irish lass. The captain needs me more, you see, and should I want something …”

Meghan tried to see beyond her captor. Where were the crew and other passengers? The man was lying. Surely, the captain wouldn’t permit the ravishing of a female passenger.

“Mr. Fellows, sir!”

The man grunted and looked up past the woman he held to the young sailor who waited uncomfortably to speak with him. Meghan tried to turn, to speak, but Fellows’s grip tightened threateningly. Her scalp burned at the roots of her hair. He jerked her so close that she could barely draw breath.

“Christ, Jamie!” he growled angrily. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but the second mate wonders what to do with the—”

The rest of his words were lost to Meghan as blackness threatened to steal her consciousness. The mate? Dear God! This man was the first mate!

The pressure about her back eased, and she gasped as the fresh moist air filled her lungs, nearly choking her.

“Now, sweet Irish, where were we?” Fellows said.

She gazed up at him with a sudden surge of fury. “Let me go. ”

He blinked at her show of spirit and then laughed with delight, a chilling sound that frightened her more than his anger had. From the outer edges of her frantic mind, Meghan heard the tread of feet; someone walked along the deck not far from where they stood. She opened her lips to scream, and Fellows bent and took her mouth, filling it with his tongue.

Bile rose in Meghan’s throat while she fought the dizzying blackness that again threatened. She felt his hand at her breast, and she whimpered as his fingers groped and painfully squeezed her tender flesh. The mate refused to relinquish her mouth, and her lungs hurt with the need for air.

He groaned as he continued to violate her with his kiss. Meghan prayed for the darkness to overtake her, welcomed a release from horror, but she could still feel his hands … fumbling, invading.

His head rose, but she was too weak to fight. She felt him shift his hold. Then, he was dragging her across the deck toward the dark shadows of sail and riggings, to a place out of sight where a woman could be subdued and violated. He stopped abruptly, and Meghan’s mind filled with a silent scream as he shoved her against something hard and lifted her skirt. Cool air touched her legs and thighs, and Meghan cried out and fought to cover herself.

Fellows laughed, stilling her movements with his brute strength, and she felt his weight pressing her to the deck. The mate’s breath rasped against her neck as he pried her legs apart, and Meghan screamed until her world darkened.

Suddenly, she was free of his weight, the pressure. She heard angry voices followed by harsh grunts and then the thuds and thumps of men fighting. Rain poured over her prone form. Struggling to sit, Meghan fought to see past the downpour. Her gaze saw two dark blurred forms locked in deadly conflict The air filled with the enraged cry of one of the two men as he rammed the other into a massive coil of rope.

Meghan started to stand, only to sink back down quickly as the men fell, rolled in her direction, and scrambled to their feet again. She recognized Ned Fellows as he circled his opponent, a man she’d never seen before.

“You touched my wife!” the strange man said.

Fellows’s laughter was demonic. “Yer wife, you say? What was she doing topside without yer protection then?”

“My bride-to-be,” the stranger said. The man’s eyes seemed to burn fire as he stared at his opponent. He had a startling face beneath fair hair darkened by the rain. Water glistened on his features harsh with anger.

Meghan observed the scene, wondering who the man was, grateful for his appearance, and wondering where his betrothed had gone. Then, the hot black eyes seared in her direction, making her heart thump harder.

“Love,” he said, holding out his arm. “Come here.”

She stared at him blankly until understanding dawned. For whatever his reasons, the strange man had saved her by claiming to be her intended. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to run to his side. Immediately, the man encircled her with his arm. She felt the heat of him through their wet clothing. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she stared at the man who’d attacked her.

From the haven of her rescuer’s embrace, Meghan saw Ned Fellows’s stunned expression and the skepticism that slowly transformed his features. She turned, burrowed her head against the man’s chest, and the arm about her tightened protectively.

“Irish!” Fellows said. “You never said you were betrothed.”

Startled, she raised her head to glare at him. “Ye never asked me!”

“You seemed willing enough—”

She gasped with outrage, and the stranger gave her a reassuring squeeze, as if telling her that he believed in her innocence and that he would handle the man. “I would thank you to stay away from my intended, Mr. Fellows.” His voice was soft with an underlying edge of steel.

The mate stiffened. “And who are you to threaten me?”

“Ridgely.”

Fellows paled. “Lucas Ridgely?”

“At your service.”

Ned Fellows cleared his throat. “I’d no idea, Mr. Ridgely. I thought she was a common enough wench.”

“Oh? Do you often misuse your common female passengers?” Meghan could feel the tension in the man who held her. His anger sizzled in the air, fairly scorching the man before him. “Apologize to my fiancée, Fellows,” he said, ignoring the man’s mumbling excuses.

The mate offered Meghan his hand. “Lass, let me—”

She ignored his apology and his outstretched hand. “May we leave?” she asked her rescuer. She was suddenly weary. Her head and back hurt, and she felt dizzy. “I’m not …” Her voice trailed off; she turned her face against the man who held her.

“Are you all right?”

She tried to nod, but the movement was too weak to be reassuring. He stroked her hair. “Yes,” he said. “Come. I’ll take you below.”

Meghan was assailed by dizziness as she and her rescuer reached the hatch to go below deck. She cried out and grabbed hold of the man’s arm.

“Are you all right?” His deep voice came from a distance.

She shook her head, unable to respond or focus her gaze. Suddenly, her rescuer lifted her into his strong arms. Ignoring her weak protest, he carried her down the steps, out of the rain. Cold, she laid her cheek against his chest. He was wet, but warm, and she leaned into his heat.

The next thing she knew she was in a cabin, and he was setting her in a chair. Her trembling was violent as he released her, and she murmured her displeasure at the loss of warmth. The room spun, and she was blinded by bright lights. As if sensing that she was about to faint, her rescuer exclaimed with concern and pushed her forward until her head was between her knees.

The blood rushed to her face, and she struggled to take in air. The blackness receded, and she became conscious of the smell and rough texture of wet wool.

She sat back. “Thank you.”

“Don’t talk,” Lucas said. He studied the wet female before him and wondered what on earth had possessed him to bring her to his cabin. She’d been attacked and was obviously in no condition to be left on her own, he thought What else could he have done?

Irritation curled in his stomach. It wasn’t like him to rescue helpless peasants; why had he done so now? Yet, how could he have ignored her cry for help?

He couldn’t allow Ned Fellows to despoil the girl. But, dear God, what possessed me to claim her as my betrothed?

His gaze sharpened on the young woman in his chair. It was a wonder that Fellows had believed him; she didn’t look like the fiancée of a man of his station.

Her face looked gaunt with dark shadows beneath her blue eyes. Her hair was dark, of an indeterminable color due either to the rain or dirt, he wasn’t sure which.

The woman sat, hugging herself with her arms, shivering so hard that her teeth chattered. With a muffled curse for his thoughtlessness, Lucas strode to his bunk and pulled off a blanket, which he wrapped about the girl’s shaking shoulders.

“Th-than-kk you again.” Her gaze shined with gratitude.

Disturbed by the effect of her glistening blue eyes, he grunted in response and went to unlock his sea chest. He took out dry clothes for himself from the chest’s contents and then dug deeper to the bottom where he’d packed the garments he’d bought in London for his sister. Lucas withdrew a cloak of green wool, which he eyed critically before turning to gauge the Irish girl’s size.

He could tell that his “guest” was warmer. She was trembling less violently.

Satisfied that she’d be fine while he shed his wet clothes, Lucas tossed the cloak on the bunk next to his dry garments, before he started to change. He’d pulled off his shirt when he thought he felt her gaze. He turned only to find that he was mistaken. She stared off in space as if reliving the horror of Fellows’s assault.

Filled with compassion, Lucas went to her and knelt, bringing himself to her eye level. “What’s your name?” he asked gendy. When she didn’t respond, he touched her arm. She gasped and jerked away, her eyes wide with fear.

He watched her expression change as her nightmare receded and she realized who he was. He was strangely pleased to see her look of fear vanish. It meant that she trusted him.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was husky. “I couldn’t help remembering …”

“Don’t think of it. You’re safe now, and Ned Fellows won’t bother you again.”

She gave a weak smile. “I don’t know how to show me gratitude.”

“You can tell me your name.”

Her lashes fluttered against her pale cheeks. “Meghan,” she said, offering him her hand. “Meghan McBride.”

Lucas rose to his feet and took her hand, frowning when he felt its coldness. He rubbed it to restore warmth. She had small hands, feminine … hands that had known work. “Meghan McBride,” he murmured. He chafed her palm until he felt heat, and then turned his attention to its mate. “You feel like ice. You’ll be lucky if you don’t sicken.”

He heard a sharp inhalation of breath and saw her face change as if she’d just realized that he had no shirt. Wariness entered her expression, and she pulled free of his grasp.

“I won’t hurt you, Meghan,” he said softly. He gave her a reassuring smile. He offered her his hand again. “I’m Lucas Ridgely.”

She stared at his extended hand before she met his gaze. After a moment of hesitation, she shook his hand.

“I don’t know what I’d have done if ye hadn’t—” She choked up, her blue eyes misting. She blinked several times against tears.

“Don’t think about it.” He turned away to pull on his shirt. Then, he grabbed a green garment from the bunk and turned to find her staring. She looked away as he approached.

“You need to get out of those wet clothes.” He thought that his voice sounded unusually brusque.

Startled, she raised her gaze. Her expression changed as she studied the cloak, and the meaning of his words registered. She nodded. Accepting the garment with a murmur of thanks, she stood and laid it over the back of the chair.

Meghan started to unwrap the now damp blanket and then froze as if suddenly self-conscious.

“I’ll take that,” Lucas said. He extended his hand for the blanket.

She took off her shawl and then paused in the act of unbuttoning the front of her worn gown to meet Lucas’s gaze warily.

Realization dawned. He set the blanket on the bunk. “I’ll wait outside,” he said, moving toward the cabin door. “Will you be all right?” At her nod, he left the room.

Meghan’s fingers shook with cold as she unbuttoned her wet garment. She could feel her bruised flesh as she took off her gown, but left on her damp shift. A quick examination brought to light several bruises made by the mate’s hand; the areas felt tender to the touch.

She reached for the cloak, and Meghan made a sound of pleasure as she held up the garment for inspection. She’d never seen or felt a garment so fine. It was heavy and well made with a hood, a shade of green darker than the rolling hills of her homeland.

Raising the cloak to lift over her head, Meghan stumbled and nearly fell. She lowered the weighty garment before she struggled to raise it again., She was so tired that her arms felt leaden.

The woolen folds fell about her head and shoulders, trapping her for a moment, making it difficult to breathe. She cried out at the lack of air, reliving the terror of Ned Fellows crushing her beneath his weight, stealing her breath. She panicked and fought to be free of her fabric prison. Fear lent her new strength, and she managed to pull off the cloak. Clutching it to her breasts, she closed her eyes and inhaled fresh air until she felt calmness return to her.

Shivering, Meghan opened her eyes and then gasped. During her attack of panic, Lucas had silently reentered the cabin. She was instantly aware that she stood scantily clad in her thread-worn shift. Heat infused her from head to toe. She clutched the cloak tighter and raised it to her chin to shield herself from his view.

“I heard you cry out,” he said, looking mildly uncomfortable.

Embarrassed, she didn’t reply. Something in the man’s dark gaze scared her. “No,” she breathed, shrinking away in fear as she saw not Lucas, but the first mate.

Lucas started to approach and then froze when he saw terror in her eyes. “Meghan.”

She blinked and refocused her gaze. Reaction set in, and she trembled.

With an exclamation of concern, Lucas moved quickly. He pried the cloak from her fingers and, with soothing words, pulled it over her head, before she had a chance to protest.

The back of his fingers burned against her flesh as he tugged down the edges of her cloak. He adjusted the hood at her nape and then pushed her gently to sit in the chair. “You look as if you’re about to faint,” he said. “Rest there while I figure out what to do with you.”

She perked up. “Do with me?”

He raised an eyebrow. “We are ‘betrothed’ now, or have you forgotten? If we’re to keep you safe, we’ll have to continue the act.” He bent to pick up her discarded shawl and gown, holding them up with a grimace at their condition, before draping the garments over his sea chest.

His reaction stung. “I’m thankful ye came when ye did,” she said, “but there’s no need to concern yourself with me any longer. The man won’t bother me again.”

He fixed her with a hard look. “And the others? There are at least one hundred crew members on this ship. Will you handle them as well as you did the mate?”

She felt herself flush to the roots of her hair. “I’ll manage,” she mumbled.

Lucas closed the distance between them. She stared at him as she grappled with mixed feelings. She was angry and frustrated with her predicament, and shaken by the way Lucas Ridgely was making her feel. How could she feel safe and protected with him, yet unsettled, too?

“You need my help,” he said without enthusiasm.

“I’ll be all right.”

He cupped her jaw and forced her to meet his gaze. “You need my help.”

His hands on her cheeks were warm. To her surprise, his expression was gentle. Had she misinterpreted his reluctance to help? “I’m grateful for the offer, Mr. Ridgely.”

“Lucas,” he prompted with a smile.

Her stomach flip-flopped. “Lucas.”

“After all we’re betrothed.”

She inhaled sharply at the beauty of his male grin. “I’m sorry. I—”

He held up his hand. “No need to apologize. Our engagement was my doing.” He sighed. “What a mess! But we’ll think of something. For now, why don’t you lie down and rest? We’ll talk later.”

Meghan glanced toward the bunk that looked inviting. She was in his cabin, and that was his bed. Dare she stay and sleep as he’d suggested?

She didn’t relish the prospect of returning to her own cabin and the company of three other women, especially when one of them was ill.

She peered at him hard. “What are you going to do?” He looked exhausted himself. Had he been hurt in the fight? She didn’t think so. Her face warmed at the mental image of his bare chest.

Meghan sat up straighter when he didn’t immediately answer.

“I need to go topside,” he said. “Don’t worry; your virtue is safe.”

She felt herself turning several deepening shades of red.

Lucas reached into a cabinet. “Here.” He handed her another blanket. “In case, you’re still cold.”

Meghan murmured her thanks as she accepted the quilt and clutched it against herself. She looked longingly toward the bunk and wondered if she’d hurt the cloak by sleeping in it. It felt slightly scratchy, but heavy and warm; she didn’t want to take it off. “The cloak,” she breathed.

“I know it’s not the most comfortable article of clothing, but you may sleep in it. My sister has others. Your need is greater than hers.”

His sister. “Thank you.”

He opened the door and glanced back. “Lock the door when I’m gone.” He paused. “I’ll knock three times when I return.”

Meghan followed him to the door.

He paused at the threshold and faced her. “Don’t worry, Meghan McBride.” His deep voice was soft and filled with caring. “We’ll work it out … together.” And he left.

She swallowed hard as she bolted the closed door. It had been a rough day … a rough voyage. But oddly enough she found Lucas Ridgely’s parting words comforting. Exhausted, Meghan moved to the bunk and lay down. She sighed and closed her eyes and was immediately aware of a pleasant, woodsy scent on the pillow. Lucas’s scent.

Her eyes flashed open and she stared at the beamed ceiling. Her heart beat faster as she recalled how glad she’d been when Lucas had rescued her, the warmth and haven of his strong arms.

Who was this man who had saved her? And why did she feel as if she could trust him?

She exhaled and closed her eyes. The noises on the ship faded as she fell asleep.

 

Lucas stood at the ship’s rail and stared out over the darkened sea. It had been hours since he’d left Meghan in his cabin, and still he struggled with what to do with her.

We need to talk. But the poor woman had been through a lot and talking would come better after she’d slept.

He rubbed his temple, trying to ease the headache that had been steadily building since his meeting with the captain.

Dear Lord, what had possessed him to claim the girl as his future bride? Not just once, but twice!

After long and careful thought, he could understand why he’d done so to Fellows. It’d been an impulsive action to save Meghan from the mate and protect her from future attacks from the man.

But what had made hi. . .