A fierce wind suddenly whipped through the camp, lifting cloths from tables and laundry from clotheslines, and tossing small items through the center of it all. Jenny’s heart felt as though it might burst. She turned abruptly and hurried back to her caravan without Matthew. Tears burned her eyes and her chin quivered, but she would not weep. Instinct had told her from the first that Matthew was not free. She should have trusted it.
She ran into the wagon and grabbed her bag, shoving her remaining belongings into it. How many days had she wasted here, she wondered, while Harriet lost herself in Carlisle? How long would it take Jenny to catch up?
How had he made that face appear in the glass ball?
“Jenny.”
She brushed away her stupid tears and turned to face Matthew as she threw the strap of her bag over her shoulder.
“She is no’ my wife.”
Jenny felt an instant of relief, then cast it aside. “Your memory has returned, then?” she asked, somehow certain that it hadn’t, not when his expression was one of a man grasping at straws.
When he did not answer, she slipped past him and left the small dwelling, the refuge they’d shared so intimately for the past few days. It was the last caravan in the line, so no one noticed that she left without her supposed husband.
Matthew could not blame Jenny for being upset at the vision of Ana in the ceirtlín.
Mo oirg, he was upset, too. He did not know who the woman was, yet now she plagued his waking hours as well as his dreams, warning him and urging him to hurry.
Regardless of who Ana was to him, he could not let Jenny go off on her own. With haste, he collected the coins he had hidden and tossed them into his satchel, then did the same with the provisions he’d purchased from Bardo’s wife. A moment later, he started for the pasture where Moghire awaited, but found himself sidetracked by the arrival of a cold, misty rain, along with the newlyweds’ caravans. He was in a hurry to catch up to Jenny, but something was wrong.
All the brides were distraught, and one bore the marks of a beating. Her eyes were red and swollen, and one was bruised. The couples dismounted from their caravans and started speaking rapidly to their elders. An argument broke out between one of the Tsinoria men and Guibran Bardo. Matthew looked for Tekari, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Taking a quick jog to Rupa’s caravan, he found the woman watching the men’s argument with a horrified expression on her face. Her husband, Pias, bore an expression of anger and disgust.
“What is it? What’s happened?”
“Lubunka honor…hurt.”
“How?”
“Tekari—” Rupa covered her mouth with her fist. “He leave Beti. He…” Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away. Pias put his arm ’round his wife to give comfort, even as he muttered words that sounded like curses on Tekari.
“Where is Kaulo now?” Matthew asked.
“Gone,” Rupa replied. “So bad. He go away. No Gypsy man do.”
Matthew did not like the idea of Kaulo unaccounted for, not while Jenny walked the deserted landscape alone. He hastened to the pasture and slipped the Gypsy bridle onto the white gelding, then mounted and headed northeast, the direction Jenny must have gone.
The weather worsened, with falling temperatures and increasing winds. He took to the path toward Carlisle, riding as fast as Moghire could carry him and considering, for the first time, the reaction of the old woman and the others who’d seen the face in the ceirtlín. ’Twas as if they’d never seen it used properly before.
Matthew decided they had not. Somehow, that woman had acquired a ceirtlín, but had no idea what it could actually do. Matthew wasn’t sure how he knew how to use it, only that the words and actions had come naturally to him. Before he could give it any more thought, he saw a hooded figure ahead, walking through the drizzling rain with her cloak whipping ’round her legs in the wind.
He kicked his heels into Moghire’s flanks and galloped to Jenny’s side, dismounting as he arrived alongside her. She ignored him and kept walking. “Jenny, you are soaking. You will freeze this way.”
“No, I won’t Matth—” She stopped herself from using the name she’d given him, the experience with the ceirtlín forcing both of them to face the truth of their situation. Neither of them knew who he was.
“I intend to see you to Carlisle, moileen.” After that, he would convince her to let him find the woman who’d stolen her locket. But he would be content if she allowed him the first step for now.
Her eyes were bleak when she looked up at him. “’Tis not a good idea. We’ve become too—”
He did not allow her to finish, but took her bag from her and lifted her onto a rock that would serve as a mounting block. “I’ll mount first, then pull you up.”
She did not resist as he situated her in front of him on Moghire’s back. She was cold and trembling, and he pulled her close to warm and dry her. “The woman in the glass is no’ my wife, moileen,” he said close to her ear. “I would know it—would feel it—if she were.”
They rode for hours, making more miles in one day than they’d made in all the time they’d traveled with the Gypsies. It seemed wholly impossible, yet Jenny felt the heat of Matthew’s body warming her face and hands as well as her back. She felt his warm breath at her deaf ear, but she was too upset to tell him she could not hear the words he spoke. His denials did not matter. The vision of the red-haired woman and her pleading expression had been clear enough.
As dusk approached, there was no sign of a village or town where they might spend the night. Eventually they came upon a solitary stone farmhouse on the rain-swept landscape where they stopped and asked for shelter.
“Aye, ’tis a bruising storm,” said the housewife who opened the door merely a crack. “Take yer horse to the barn. Ye’ll find my husband out there.”
She pulled Jenny inside, taking her bag and sending her to stand by the fire. “’Tis an awful night to be out and about. Where ye headed?”
“To Carlisle,” Jenny replied, inhaling the scent of something hot and delicious in the cook pot that hung on a hook over the fire.
“Well, ye’ve a ways yet to go. But ye’ll be warm enough and dry here. I’m Kitty Moffat. These be my bairns—Sally, Jamie, and Paul. And my youngest, Susan,” she said, referring to the baby she carried on her hip.
Shivering, Jenny nodded to the woman and her shy but curious children. “I’m Jenny Keating. My…husband is Matthew.”
“Ye can hang yer cloak there,” Mrs. Moffat indicated a hook near the door. “We’ll soon have our soup. There’s plenty t’ go ’round. ’Tis lovely to have a bit of company. We don’t get much here.”
The children were all rosy-cheeked, with curly brown hair. None was older than five or six years, and Jenny saw by the roundness of Mrs. Moffat’s middle that she was with child again. Jenny touched her own belly under her cloak, and it struck her that she might be carrying Matthew’s child.
“What is it, lass?” The woman asked. “Ye’ve gone all pale, like.”
Jenny gave a quick shake of her head and forced a smile. She took off her cloak. “I’m just tired, I suppose. We’ve been riding all day. You have handsome children, Mrs. Moffat.”
What a fool she’d been, risking pregnancy with Matthew, a man who had a beautiful, red-haired wife worrying and waiting for him. She turned to face the fire and rubbed some heat into her arms as she blinked away fresh tears. When she felt composed enough to turn back, Mrs. Moffat was organizing the children into their places at the dining table.
“Would ye take Suzie for me, Mrs. Keating?” Jenny had not a moment to reply before the child was thrust into her arms. The bairn could not be even a year old, for she had only two teeth, and could do nothing but bat her arms and smile happily.
Jenny felt numb as she watched Mrs. Moffat tie the next youngest child into a chair so that he would not fall out during the meal, then took bowls and spoons from a cupboard and placed them on the table. “Tom—my husband—thinks the sleeting rain is going to keep up all night,” said the woman. “Here now. Take a seat.”
Keeping the bairn on her lap, Jenny sat down at the table and gave the rest of the children a hesitant smile. They kept their eyes on her, certainly curious about the stranger who’d suddenly turned up in their house, but each one too polite or too shy to question her.
Mrs. Moffat drew up a wooden stool and an extra chair, and put them at the table. “We have plenty, Mrs. Keating, and ye’re welcome t’ sleep in here by the fire for the night. ’Tis sorry I am t’ say that th’ floor will have to do, but we’ve got a few rugs to soften it, and spare quilts t’ keep you warm.”
“You’re very kind,” said Jenny, grateful that she would not have to force her aching legs and hips onto Moghire’s back for a few more hours. At least they’d stayed relatively dry for their ride this far, though she did not know how that had been possible. By the time they’d stopped at the farmhouse, the cold mizzle had turned to sleet, and was coming down in icy sheets.
“How far is it to Carlisle?” she asked.
“Twenty miles as the crow flies,” the woman replied. “But in this horrible weather—”
The door blew open and the two men came in with the wind. Everyone shuddered at the cold blast as Mr. Moffat pushed the door closed and latched it tight against the weather. Mrs. Moffat took her husband’s coat, and then Matthew’s, hanging them both by the door.
“Ye’ll be Mr. Keating, then. I’m Kitty Moffat, and ye’re welcome here. Tom, come and say hello to Mrs. Keating.”
The farmer gave Jenny a friendly nod and went to the fireplace, lifting the pot off the hook while Matthew took the Gypsy bread and cheese from his pack and laid it on the table. “We’ve something to share, too,” he said.
The sight of Jenny holding the pretty, dark-haired bairn took Matthew’s breath away. He knew the recovery of his memory was the only thing that would convince her that the woman in the glass ball meant naught to him. And once that happened, he would take her home and fill his house with their children.
He’d had a few more inklings of memory while they rode, but not enough to solve the question of who he was. The persistent sense of urgency was stronger, as was the echo of a warning. About what, he still could not fathom. He only knew he lived for the day when Jenny would sit in Coruain House with his bairns in her arms.
“Coruain?” he muttered aloud.
“What’s that, man?” asked Tom.
Matthew looked up. “Coruain House. I…just remembered it. Do you know of it?”
Moffat shook his head. “Canna say I’ve e’er heard of it. In Carlisle?”
Matthew sat down on the three-legged stool beside Jenny. “No. Mayhap.” He sighed. “I’m no’ sure.” He felt the excitement of being on the verge of discovering something important about himself, but at the same time, disappointment, knowing the words told him little. Unless his memory returned, he would still have to search for someone who knew of him…or of Coruain House.
“Sounds Scots, or Gaelic,” said Moffat. He opened the shutters and looked out at his land being battered by the freezing rain, then turned to his wife. “I doona know what this storm portends for the rest of our spring.”
“Likely a harsh one,” the woman remarked with a visible shudder. She ladled a thick potage into each of the bowls, then bade her husband to come and sit down. She took her own seat and bowed her head, speaking a short prayer of thanks.
“I’ll take Suzie now if ye’ll be so good as to slice yer lovely bread,” she said, reaching over to take the bairn from Jenny.
The Moffats were friendly and gregarious by nature, and lately deprived of company, so Matthew had no difficulty steering the conversation from himself and Jenny, and concentrated on farm matters and the weather. It was fully dark by the time they finished the meal and Tom went to the mantel for his pipe. He sat in one of the worn but comfortable chairs near the hearth and took the smallest bairn on his lap while his wife cleared the cups and bowls with Jenny’s help.
The older three children climbed all over their father, playing a game they called “tickle the bear.” Tom roared while the children squealed and ran away, giggling. Then they sneaked back and tried to tickle him while one of them distracted him. They got the best of him until his wife came and took the bairn, then each of them was eventually caught by the bear, and tickled mercilessly.
Matthew watched them, distracted, as he tried to make sense of Coruain House. He could not picture any such place in his mind, nor did it call any other memories to him. Coruain was just a word, as the red-haired woman was just a face. He thought of her, looked into her grass-green eyes, and felt naught but a vague familiarity. Likely because he saw her so often these days.
Naught was real to him but Jenny. But until he knew his own history and could swear he was free to take her as his mate, he was sure she would have little to do with him.
She and Mrs. Moffat came along and sat by the fire, and Jenny took a book from her traveling bag.
“Ye’ll ne’er guess, my wee ones! Mrs. Keating has promised to read to us!”
“’Tis good of ye, ma’am,” said Mr. Moffat, insisting that Jenny take his chair.
“Ach, ’tis a fine auld book,” the farmer’s wife said when Jenny placed the book on her lap and opened it carefully, showing the illustrations to the children.
“’Tis a treasure to me—Sir Thomas Malory wrote it hundreds of years ago.”
“The book is that auld, then?” asked the farmer’s wife.
Jenny smiled. “No, but ’tis an old edition…printed many years ago.”
The children settled themselves comfortably near Jenny and begged her to begin. Matthew could easily imagine her reading to their own children. He thought of the games he would play with them, mayhap in Coruain House—a place that must have some significance if it came into his mind, like all the other disconnected bursts of memory.
“‘’Twas New Year’s Day in those ancient years,’” Jenny began, “‘and all of England’s barons rode unto the field, some to joust and some to tourney…’”
Her voice was magical, sliding inside Matthew and settling just below his heart, where he could feel it. He stretched out on the floor and listened, almost dozing, to the legend she read, a tale of an ancient kingdom and its knights.
“‘How gat ye this sword? said Sir Ector to Arthur. Sir, I will tell you. When I came home for my brother’s sword, I found nobody at home to deliver it to me; I thought my brother Sir Kay should not be swordless, and so I came hither eagerly and pulled it out of the stone without any pain.’”
Matthew’s eyes shot open. Arthur? It sounded familiar, but…No, ’twas Arthwyr whom he remembered, quite clearly. The warrior Arthwyr was a man of short stature with a barrel chest and fair hair. Matthew rubbed a hand across his mouth and tried to remember more. Had he served with Arthwyr? Were they somehow related? There had been war…
Matthew recalled a vast number of mounted knights, all bearing swords and lances, wearing the green and gold colors of Arthwyr, the king.
The memory flitted away, leaving him even more confused than he’d been without any memory at all. Why did he remember knights in thick leather armor? Where on earth…
“‘Then all the kings were passing glad of Merlin, and asked him, For what cause is that boy Arthur made your king? Sirs, said Merlin, I shall tell you the cause…’”
“Merlin?” The hair on the back of Matthew’s neck stood on end.
Jenny nodded. “Merlin, yes,” she said as though it were the most common name in Britannia, and continued to read until the farmer and his wife started to doze.
Three of the Moffat children had fallen asleep, and the fourth nearly so. Mrs. Moffat stopped Jenny and rose to her feet. “I’d best get these wee ones—and ourselves—off t’ bed. Thank ye for the tale…Mayhap ye would finish it for the children in the morn.”
“Of course,” said Jenny, stifling her own yawn.
The family went to the back of the house, and Matthew could hear their faint voices as the couple put their children to bed. Jenny busied herself with arranging the thick rugs Mrs. Moffat had provided, and set the blankets on top of them.
“Jenny…That last part of the tale.”
“When Merlin explains how Arthur pulled the sword?”
“Aye.” The name resonated, even more than Arthwyr. He pressed a couple of fingers to his forehead and started to pace.
“Matthew?”
He looked up at her, puzzled and unable to explain why he felt as though he knew Merlin. “The tale you read…’tis strangely familiar.”
“’Tis likely you’ve read, or at least heard the tale of King Arthur. Everyone knows it.”
“Aye, I suppose so.”
“But you remember nothing more?” She took a deep breath and appeared to brace herself, as though she feared his answer.
He shook his head and touched her cheek. “No, my sweet lass.” And what he remembered about Merlin was unclear.
Jenny did not think it would be much longer before Matthew remembered everything. If he recalled the characters from Malory’s tale of King Arthur, and the name of that place—Coruain House—then the rest was sure to follow.
Kitty Moffat’s thick rugs made a comfortable bed, and when Matthew lay down beside Jenny and pulled her into his arms, she did not resist. He made no advances, but seemed lost in his own thoughts, as she was in hers.
The sound of the sleet lashing against the windows had Jenny considering their journey from the Gypsy camp. Surely the icy rain had been falling just as viciously then as it was now. Yet they’d somehow managed to stay relatively dry, and she wondered if she’d been responsible. She’d willed the rock to fall off the riverbank, and those silver fibers had carried out her desire. Jenny wondered if she might have used the same force unconsciously to make herself and Matthew impervious to the weather. She dozed off before coming to any conclusion.
Tom Moffat was up before dawn. Matthew left the house with him, offering to help with his chores. Jenny passed a pleasant enough morning with the rest of the family, entertaining the children with the end of Le Morte d’Arthur, while Mrs. Moffat started her own chores.
Jenny and Matthew were ready to take their leave well before noon. It was still cold, but at least the storm had played out overnight. Tom helped Jenny to mount the white gelding in front of Matthew, and they made their farewells.
Just before Matthew turned to ride away, he stopped and spoke to Tom. “There’s a lone Gypsy who might come this way,” he said. “Black hair and eyes, with a wiry build. He rides a bay mare. Beware of him. He’s a bad character.”
“Thank ye for the warning,” said Tom, glancing toward his wife. “We’ll take care.”
“Kaulo left the kompania?” Jenny asked when they returned to the road.
“Aye. The newly married couples returned right after you left.” He told her about the disturbance in camp and what Rupa had said.
Jenny shuddered, and Matthew pulled her tight against his chest. “Doona worry, lass. Kaulo willna hurt you.”
“I know,” she said, aware that he thought he had to protect her. But Matthew did not know she could probably make a rock fall on Kaulo’s head, or do some other damage before she let him touch her.
Jenny tried to sort out the issues that faced her, and steeled herself to refrain from talking with Matthew. She was certain Matthew had recognized the redheaded woman in the glass ball, though she had no idea how that face had come to be in the glass.
The recognition in his eyes was what had spurred her to leave. She’d known better than to let her wishful thinking dictate her actions. She had to get to Carlisle and find her pendant before Harriet could sell it, then go on to Darbury as scheduled. No matter how ardent Matthew had been, Jenny could not let go of her fear that he would abandon her. And now she knew his insistence that he was unattached and unwed was unfounded. She’d seen his face when the other woman had appeared in the glass, and she was no stranger to him.
Jenny had been right all along.
Taking a shuddering breath, she faced the same future that had been in front of her the moment she’d left Bresland. It was the only one she knew with a certainty, before she’d become sidetracked by highwaymen and Gypsies…and Matthew.
At midday, they stopped in a grove of ancient oak trees, where they saw a grouping of rocks as tall as Matthew, arranged in a circle. Two of the stones lay on their sides, disturbing the symmetry of the scene. All of the rocks had patterns carved into them—circles inside circles, with straight lines and small holes beside them.
“What is it?” Jenny asked.
Matthew dismounted, then reached up for Jenny. “’Tis a màrrach cearcall.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Nor do I. I canna translate the words. I doona even know where they came from. Yet I know they signify an ancient power. I canna explain.”
“The language,” Jenny said. “Is it Gaelic?”
Matthew shrugged. “Mayhap. I doona…”
“Right. You don’t remember.”
Matthew had to force himself to sit still on one of the fallen rocks and eat some bread and cheese, but some strong force tore at the core of his body, making him feel as though he were being burned from the inside out. He stood abruptly and walked away from the stones, away from Jenny.
Bits and pieces of memory assailed him, none of them making any sense. His other language seemed much more natural to him, yet he was not uncomfortable with English. He knew about Merlin and Arthwyr, but he somehow knew the story Jenny had read was not accurate. He could not understand how he knew about a king who’d lived more than a thousand years past.
The vision of himself in a dark blue ceremonial robe was equally puzzling, and Matthew knew he had an urgent task before him. He’d recognized the màrrach cearcall, yet had no understanding of where this knowledge had come from.
And there was the red-haired lady. Ana.
Matthew jabbed his fingers through his hair and forced his thoughts to the vision of her face, to her eyes and hair. He tried to sense her touch and her smell…but he could not. As far as he knew, she was a stranger to him. And he had to make Jenny believe him. Ana was most definitely not his céile mate.
They did not stop for long, but continued on their road, arriving at Carlisle’s gate as heavy clouds began to gather, threatening another spate of icy rain.
The sight of the city was overwhelming. Jenny did not want to separate from Matthew and proceed alone, but she did not see that she had any choice. He’d seen that she’d arrived safely at Carlisle, but she could go no farther with him. “Stop here.”
“Why?” he asked. “We’re so close to the city gates—”
“This is…must be…where we part ways, Matthew,” she said, struggling to keep the quiver from her voice. She turned to look at him, at his handsome features, memorizing the arch of his brow and the dimple that appeared in his cheek when he spoke or laughed. She would have touched him then, but she could not prolong her anguish. “If you’ll h-help me down…”
“No. I willna let you go off alone. Where will you go? Where will you stay?”
“I don’t know. I’ll find a room somewhere until I can locate Miss Lambton. Then—”
“Jenny, let me help you.”
“Matthew, you don’t even know if you’ve been to Carlisle before. How can you possibly—”
He took her lips in a deep kiss, holding the back of her head and tipping his own so that he had full possession of her mouth. Jenny felt her heart give way, and she kissed him back, tasting him, feeling the heat of his lips and the texture of his tongue. She suddenly pushed away, her eyes filling with tears, her chest moving in short, pitiful breaths.
“Matthew, ’tis over—”
“No, moileen. ’Tis no’.”
“Please let me go.”
He looked past her toward the crumbling walls of the city, to the castle in the distance and the river ahead. It was nearly dark, and Jenny could barely see the cold, dark waters beyond the riverbanks. But there was a bridge, and she intended to cross it, alone.
Matthew dismounted, then reached up and lifted her down from Moghire’s back. He took the reins in hand, then started walking toward the bridge. “We’ll go in together.”
He was determined, and Jenny knew that arguing was pointless. Besides, she had not been away from Bresland and the small village of Kirtwarren since her parents’ death, and Carlisle was more than a bit intimidating. As she walked into the city beside him, she wondered when she had become such a fearful little mouse.
“What do you suppose that is?” Matthew asked, indicating a large dark building, looming quietly in the shadows across the road. They could see faint light emanating from some of the windows.
When they came closer, Jenny read the sign above the door. “’Tis a workhouse.”
She’d only heard of such places. Two years before, when she’d told Reverend Usher she wished to leave Bresland, he’d threatened that she would end up there, destitute and unable to find work without references.
“Workhouse? What kind of work?” Matthew asked, keeping his eyes on the place as they walked past.
Jenny shuddered at the thought of living in such a place. “’Tis where the poor go when they cannot support themselves. They are given food and shelter in exchange for work.”
They continued silently, and Jenny could see that Matthew was troubled by the building and her explanation of it. She thought perhaps he had personal experience of the workhouse, but quickly reminded herself that a man who carried as much money as Matthew would hardly be familiar with such hardships. Perhaps that was it—he was wholly unfamiliar with it.
“I doona understand,” he said. “This is what’s done to take care of those who canna provide for themselves?”
“Are there no such places in Scotland?” Jenny asked.
“Ach, no.”
She noted his furrowed brow. “Can you remember what you do for the poor in Scotland, then?”
A muscle tightened in his jaw, and he gave a brief shake of his head. “No, lass. I have merely an impression of…of dealing with the unskilled among us.”
“Unskilled?”
“I canna even tell you what I mean by that,” he said, with frustration coloring his voice. “’Tis just that some are more able than others to care for themselves. And those who are most capable ought to do what they can for the rest.”
Jenny nodded, deep in thought. She was fairly sure she’d heard of workhouses in Scotland, yet Matthew did not know of them. She wondered if his brogue was not Scottish. Perhaps he was a Welshman or an American.
They followed the road into the city, and soon turned down Castle Street to head toward the center of town. The street was well lit with gaslights, and they saw increasing numbers of people hurrying about as they walked south, past the cathedral.
In the town center was a tall, narrow monument. Beyond it was the Guild Hall, all closed up, and a darkened tea shop. A chemist was just closing his store, and as he bent to lock his door, Matthew approached and asked him if he knew where they might find a room to let.
The man pulled up the collar of his coat and looked at Matthew, quickly taking his measure. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he nodded toward a narrow lane back in the direction from where they’d come. “Respectable houses will let rooms to a man and his wife down that way.” Then he pointed up another street. “And the Queen’s Hotel is not far. But it’s expensive.”
It seemed much colder now, and as the rain threatened, the very air became icy and uncomfortable. Jenny’s feet were freezing as she started toward the houses that had rooms to let. Matthew took her arm and joined her.
“Matthew…”
“Doona even think I’ll leave you alone in the street, lass.”
“But I—”
“Come on.”
She allowed herself the luxury of his presence for just a short while longer, turning into a poorly lit lane with houses that had signs advertising rooms to let.
But that was all. He had to leave her soon, and pursue the life he’d left behind.
Before she could take another step, Matthew handed her Moghire’s reins and approached the most promising of the houses. Jenny started to call to him, but stopped herself, unwilling to attract the attention of the neighbors who were already peering at her through gaps in their curtains. She shrank back into her hood and cloak as a woman opened her door and spoke to Matthew. He gestured toward Jenny and the woman nodded, then accepted payment, pointing to a narrow track between her own house and the next.
Matthew came back to Jenny and took Moghire’s lead. “Go inside, moileen, and get warm.”
“Matthew, we can’t—”
“Can you no’ trust me to take care of you, Jenny?”
She swallowed, not trusting him in the least, but trusting her own heart even less.
Matthew led Moghire to Mrs. Welby’s shed at the back of the house, then brushed him down and fed him. He took his time, wanting Jenny to get settled in their room, allowing her to claim her space. Matthew had no intention of leaving her, no matter what she might think.
He took his satchel and Jenny’s traveling bag, and returned to the front of the house. Two men were walking past, wearing similar dark jackets and the same kind of high hats worn by the constables who had come searching for Jenny in the Gypsy camp. They also carried thick wooden batons in their belts, as though they expected trouble.
Matthew gave them a nod as they continued walking toward the town center, then dismissed them from his mind as he climbed the steps to the house where he and Jenny would spend the night.
“Mr. Keating,” said the stern landlady as she picked up a lamp and started for the stairs. “This way.”
He followed Mrs. Welby up the steps to a door with a wooden number two nailed to it. “Here she is,” she said without humor or friendliness. The woman never smiled, nor did she have a single word of welcome. But she’d been glad enough to take his money for the room and a few amenities.
“I do not abide any drinking in my house, Mr. Keating, nor any loud or lewd behavior. I’ll thank you and your wife to keep to yourselves and respect the peace of the house.”
“Aye, madam. You’ll hardly know we’re here,” Matthew said, aware that the woman would toss them out if she knew he and Jenny were not married. She started to leave, but Matthew stopped her. “Is there a place nearby where we might buy a meal?”
“Yes, of course,” she said sourly. “At the Queen’s Hotel, a short walk from here, past the cross in the town center and down the street a short way. You’ll see it. But mind you watch for pickpockets. The city is rife with ’em.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Matthew said, even as she walked away muttering disparagingly about Scotsmen.
The room was sparsely furnished, with a bed no bigger than the one he and Jenny had shared in the Gypsy caravan, and a chair near the hearth. There was a low table beside the bed with an oil lamp on it, and it shed scant light into the room. Jenny did not turn away from the narrow little hearth when he entered, and Matthew refrained from reaching for her, even though he wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms and assure her—assure himself—that all would be well. But now was not the time.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Are you hungry, lass?”
She faced him then. “Matthew, we cannot continue sharing a bed. I—”
“I’ll no’ be leaving you, Jenny.”
He could not read the look in her eyes, and did not know whether ’twas relief or annoyance. It mattered naught. This was no place to leave Jenny unprotected. A city like Carlisle was no place for a young woman alone. He’d seen signs of danger lurking ’round enough corners to make him concerned for her safety as she went in search of the thief who’d stolen her locket.
“Come then and we’ll go for…” He felt the familiar tingling sensation in the center of his chest. A vague sense of it had preceded a number of his actions, from eliminating the whiskers from his chin every morning, to preventing Kaulo from striking him that night in the tavern. But now it was stronger, hot and compelling.
“Matthew? Are you all right?”
Her reticence disappeared with her concern for him. She came to stand right in front of him, cupping his cheek with her hand. She dropped it self-consciously when he turned his attention to her.
“Aye. Just hungry, I think. Shall we go?”
But the sensation persisted, as well as the knowledge that he could control it, could actually project it out of his body.
Yet, like the healing, and the way he’d kept the rain off them the day before, no one else seemed to have these abilities, and prudence made Matthew refrain from using it to feed them now. He did not want to give Jenny further reason to be wary of him. Besides, there was some niggling warning in the back of his brain, a vague, half-formed memory that begged him to be cautious with this power.
They left their few possessions in the room, then wrapped themselves in their cloaks and walked to the town center.
“What’s that noise?” Jenny asked.
There was a crowd gathering in the streets somewhere nearby. Matthew and Jenny soon saw a large group of poorly dressed men and women, shouting and carrying torches and signs. They were moving quickly, rushing toward them, like a stormy sea. “Stay close, moileen.” Matthew pushed her behind him and started to retreat toward the Welby house.
But another ragged group suddenly appeared behind them, and Matthew quickly realized they were surrounded by a loud, fast-moving crowd that was growing angrier with every step. He could hear them yelling the words, “Blood or bread!” repeatedly.
The sound of whistles suddenly screeched from somewhere farther up the street. There were frightened screams and more angry shouts from the crowd, and some of the people started to run away, creating chaos. Matthew caught wind of a few loud voices ordering the crowd to disperse.
Many of the women carried young children in their arms, the small urchins looking pale, thin, and unhealthy. Bottles, stones, and other projectiles flew through the air and crashed to the ground, and Matthew had no doubt that many would be hurt. He hoped ’twould not be any of the children.
“They’re going back to the Guild Hall!” Jenny cried above the din of the crowd.
Mayhem ensued. Matthew drew her close and moved her ’round to his back. “Hold on to me, Jenny!”
She latched on to the back of his coat and held tightly while Matthew used his size and strength to push his way through the stampeding crowd, heading back toward Mrs. Welby’s house. But the crowd pressed in on them on all sides, moving in opposite directions. “This way!”
Their only option was to head toward the buildings at the edge of the street. Matthew forced his way past the angry people who shoved and pushed to get to the other side of the town center. In a split second, he felt Jenny’s grip torn from his jacket, and she was lost. He whipped ’round to grab for her, but she’d been swallowed into the mob. Her scream sounded loud in his ears.
“Jenny!” Matthew called as a wave of bodies pulled him into the flow. He was going to lose her!
He caught sight of her and started to grab for her with the force that emanated from his chest. Instead, he used brute force to toss people out of his way, and pressed through the path he created to get to Jenny.
The mob closed in all ’round her, and Matthew roared with frustration. Her head dropped completely out of sight, and Matthew knew she had fallen. Without thinking, he reached for her and raised her above the jostling, teeming herd. To any onlooker, ’twould appear that the crowd had lifted her to their shoulders, and were moving her across their bodies, toward him. Matthew plowed forward and caught her in his arms, then drew her out of the fray into the indentation of a nearby building.
The door did not open at first, so Matthew let his power surge once again. He muttered the words that unlocked it, and they fell together into a tobacconist’s shop. Setting Jenny safely inside, he slammed the door shut behind him, muting the sounds of the mob outside. The light of their torches cast wild shadows on the cluttered shelves, but Matthew pulled Jenny into his arms, desperate to touch her, to hold her and know that she was unharmed.
“Ainchis, Jenny!”
She whimpered and clung tightly to him, and when she pressed her teary face into his chest, a much more primitive need roared through him.
He turned and pressed her back against the wall, taking her mouth in a possessive kiss that branded her as his own. No other man would ever touch her. He sucked her tongue into his mouth, tasting her, reveling in all that he felt for her.
Jenny slipped her hands ’round his neck and pulled him closer, as needy as he. She tilted her head and deepened the kiss, closing her eyes and melting into him.
He broke the kiss, and whispered the words that had never rung more true. “Sibh ar mèinn, moileen.”
He pressed heated kisses to her ear, then to her neck, as he drew her skirts up above her knees. With every pore of his body, he wanted to be inside her, to become one with the only woman who would ever dwell in his heart.
She slid her leg ’round one of his, and he opened his trews, then lifted her, quickly finding the split in her drawers. With one swift move, he was inside.
Their climax overtook them all at once, and they soared to that place where his filmy essence blended with hers, creating a pleasure that shuddered through their bràths as well as their physical bodies. He felt her quake against him, and heard her sighs of satisfaction. And when it was over, he did not withdraw, but kept them joined as he looked into her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Jenny…I shouldna—”
She touched her fingers to his lips and closed her eyes, then touched his cheek as though she were committing every detail of his face to her memory. He bent down to touch his forehead to hers, then gently lowered her to the ground. She stepped away and righted her clothes while Matthew fastened his trews. In the dim light, he noticed that the shelves behind the counter were empty now. He looked over the counter and saw that the tobacconist’s wares lay all over the floor.
“We should get away from here,” Jenny said quietly, her voice distracting him from their surroundings. Rising up onto her toes, she looked out the window. “It’s not so bad now.”
He came up behind her and saw that she was right. There were some stragglers, but the mob had passed by. And here they were inside a locked shop, which was surely not permissible.
Stealing one more kiss, he took Jenny’s hand and let them out of the shop, correcting the disarray behind him, for he was certain the shelves had been intact when they’d come inside. He had no explanation for what had happened to all the pouches and boxes, but could only imagine it had something to do with the intensity of their joining. A similar mishap had occurred every time he’d made love to Jenny in the Gypsy caravan…
They entered the street and saw that they were still unable to pass in the direction of the Queen’s Hotel. They headed back toward Mrs. Welby’s house, giving a wide berth to the straggling groups that remained in the street.
They were nearly at the Welby house when a mean-looking giant who was armed with a long stick grabbed Jenny. “Ye’re one o’ them from King’s Street, ain’t ye, now?”
“No! I’m a visitor—”
The man pulled Jenny off her feet, and Matthew reacted. Without touching him, Matthew shoved the giant off his feet. The man released Jenny as he flew across the brick pavement, crashing into a number of his cohorts.
“Come on!” Matthew shouted. He grabbed Jenny again, half lifting her off her feet, and ran all the way back to the Welby house. When they were safely inside, she turned to him with astonishment in her eyes. “What happened back there? What did you do to that man?”