The Irish Bride Read Online Free Page A

and she wasn’t sure if that
was good or not, but she couldn’t think about it. She was capable
of only a single task right now—putting one foot in front of the
other.
    An hour before dawn, they’d stopped to
rest in the shelter of the ruins of a roofless abandoned cottage.
Two of its walls, at right angles to each other, provided a corner
that was out of the wind, but not the cold. Farrell had slipped
into a restless doze but it seemed that only a minute had passed
before she felt Aidan’s hand on her shoulder to wake her. She
didn’t think either of them had slept more than a few hours in the
last twenty-four.
    Despite that, Aidan seemed tireless,
like a machine. His rhythmic stride was longer than hers and
sometimes she fell behind. Wordlessly, he’d slow to let her catch
up. Otherwise he remained a dark, intimidating presence beside
her.
    The miles stretched out behind them
and ahead of them. Above, the clear sky was giving way to clouds
again, obscuring the watery winter sun. They’d encountered no rider
or foot traveler since they set out, but she noticed Aidan
constantly scanning the road and the far hills, like a wolf
sniffing the wind.
    Farrell herself looked over her
shoulder from time to time, half expecting to see one of the
Cardwells or a British soldier gallop up behind them at any moment,
lashing his mount and tearing up the soggy turf like one of the
Four Horsemen. If trouble came, it wouldn’t sneak up on them, that
was certain.
    She had only a vague idea of how far
away Queenstown was. It was somewhere near the city of Cork, she
knew, but the distance didn’t matter. They had to get
there.
    Walking away from Skibbereen was the
hardest thing she’d ever done. The family—even old Sean and the
children—had stood outside Tommy’s tiny cottage to bid them
farewell.
    She tried to take comfort from Father
Joseph’s parting words, that should the family never see each other
again here on earth, they would meet in heaven. Perhaps it was
true, but that time was far away and right now she had banishment
and this husband to deal with.
    Husband . . . husband . . . husband . . . 
    Every step seemed to echo the word in
her mind to remind her that he was more than Aidan O’Rourke,
someone she’d known all her years. More than the boy who’d given
and gotten his share of black eyes. Someone else besides the man
who could hold the attention of a group with his
story-telling.
    Yes, Aidan was all of those men. But
above all else he was now Farrell’s husband, and she could scarcely
credit how quickly it had happened.
    As she dragged one leaden foot after
another, her thoughts were detached and her heart heavy. Her memory
of the night’s hasty doings—plans whispered in near darkness and
executed in secrecy—were like still life drawings, blurred by her
heartache and disillusionment. She remembered the priest arriving
at the cottage, bringing in the cold night on his cloak. He’d knelt
beside Michael in the flickering firelight to anoint him, touching
oil to his closed eyes and lips, to his feet and stiffening hands
while he murmured prayers in Latin. It had all seemed unreal, as
though she were watching through a window and wasn’t a part of the
scene.
    But stark reality jolted her when she
had been called to stand next to Aidan to face Father Joseph. This
hurried, secret ceremony was not the wedding she’d hoped for in her
feminine heart. She had always envisioned a bright, clean spring
day with a gathering of neighbors and family to wish her well. She
had even imagined the impossible—a gleaming white wedding gown. No
Irish Catholic girl in Skibbereen had ever worn such a gown for her
wedding. They were far too poor for such luxury. But she’d once
caught a glimpse of a wealthy landowner’s daughter riding by in a
coach dressed in a white silk dress, festooned with flounces of
tulle. On her head, she’d worn a veil as fine as a spider web, and
altogether, looked like a fairy