Chapter Three
Flaherty’s heart picked up the moment the lass pulled his head to her breasts. They were wondrously full, firm, yet soft. Bounteous. There was no other way to describe them. Until he sampled their texture and flavor…but that would not be until their wedding night.
He moaned as certain parts south of his guts reacted to the idea enthusiastically. O’Malley would have a field day when he found out the feisty lass would soon be his cousin-in-law.
“I’m so sorry you’re in pain and suffering,” Eileen whispered. “Are you ready to begin stitching the wounds closed, Dr. Wolcock?”
“Aye. Probing the entrance and exit wounds was necessary to ensure the lead ball did not leave any fragments behind. I did not locate any.” The physician waited a beat, then asked, “Are you ready for me to close the wounds?”
Flaherty ground his teeth together. “Before ye do, I could do with a glass of the Irish to numb me brain.”
Doonan offered, “I’ll pour you a glass.”
“Just a few fingers,” the physician warned. “His stomach would be better left empty until I have finished.”
“I’d rather have the glass,” Flaherty grumbled.
Doonan held out a glass with three fingers of whiskey in it. “I’ll refill it. You can have more after your wounds are closed and bandaged.”
Flaherty eased away from Eileen, accepted the glass, and tossed it down. Handing it back, he said, “Ah, much better. Thank ye.” Staring into the lass’s eyes, he rasped, “I’m ready.”
And he was ready for more than the wound closing.
He tried not to moan as the lass carefully eased his head against her bosom, concentrating on fitting his arm more securely around her waist. One thought led to another, and soon he was saying a prayer of thanks to God in Heaven.
His bride-to-be’s curves were glorious! Full through the breast and hips and nipped in at her waist.
He closed his eyes and imagined what it would be like to take his time unwrapping his bride, one layer at a time.
It had been too long since he’d had the pleasure of a tumble.
Though now just the thought of it seemed distasteful.
Now that he’d offered to marry the lass, there would never be another woman in his life but her.
Flahertys never strayed—not even in their thoughts.
He’d be certain to mention that fact to the lovely woman cradling him to her breast as if he were a wee babe.
The stab of the needle through his torn flesh had him sucking in a breath. He cursed. “That hurts worse than me head!”
“Understandable,” the physician replied. “The lead ball entered from the back of your shoulder through an impressive mass of muscle, exiting through the front. Thankfully, it missed the bone and arteries. You could have died from blood loss.”
“But you didn’t,” Eileen murmured. Her firm but raspy tone reassured him and had him thinking the lass was not immune to his charms after all. “And thank the Lord for that.”
A moment later, Flaherty wondered: was the lass only partial to him now because he’d offered for her hand?
Mayhap she’d had feelings for him before now.
If she had, he’d probably squashed them every time he opened his big mouth upon entering the Mermaid’s Glass.
O’Malley’s oft-used taunt echoed through his aching head and slipped from his lips: “I am an eedjit.”
Warm, full lips kissed the top of his head. “Aye, but you’re a brave one, Fenton.”
Fenton. He liked the sound of his name on her lips. Would she whisper his name when they made love? Would she murmur it in the low, raspy voice, or passionately scream it?
His cock stirred to life again. This time he did not call on his ironclad control to keep his libido in check—he needed every ounce of it to keep from passing out, or puking up his guts, from the rhythmic pain as the physician deftly sewed his wounds closed.
The lass began to softly hum. It caught his attention, distracting him from the pain slashing through him.
He knew that tune! ’Twas a lullaby he recalled his ma singing years ago.
The melody wrapped around his heart, twining with memories of home, lulling him into a state of calm. Faith, but I’m marrying an angel.
*
Eileen had no idea if it was the song her mum used to sing to her each night before bed, or the Irish whiskey her da kept in ready supply—whichever it was, it had done the trick and relaxed the man she held to her heart.
She inhaled slowly, savoring the mix of scents emanating from his body as the warmth of the fire heated the cottage: the thunderstorm, salt from the sea he’d leapt in to save himself, and the rosemary she’d added to the lye soap she’d made not two months past. Beneath it all was the unique scent of the man who’d been the thorn in her side, and the reason she’d given up hope of being courted or marrying.
In all fairness, he had apologized before he’d passed out earlier.
And now, after enduring the cleansing, the prodding, and the stitching of his torn and abused flesh back together, she sensed that he’d meant what he said when he’d given his word to her father that he would marry her.
It soothed her pride a bit, knowing that either way, her da would make certain that Flaherty kept his word.
Her heart warmed at the idea that he would not need any prodding.
There were times over the years when, between Mum’s taking in laundry and Da’s midnight excursions to barter with Ruan, that there had been enough coin to purchase a good supply of wood, which had to be brought in by carriage.
Over the years, the ready supply had been depleted from building boats and homes, and its use as fuel for fireplaces and cookstoves.
Whenever there was money to splurge on a cord of wood, there usually was more than enough left over to fill their larder and pantry.
For a time they would eat like royalty, which would have to hold them over until the next profitable load of smuggled goods arrived.
By the time she was old enough to realize how most of the villagers were able to put food on their tables when times were hard, she realized it was also the reason for her mum’s failing health.
Every time Da and his men rowed out to meet ships under the cover of the night, or snuck down to the caves where they stored the goods they’d bartered and sold until they distributed them, her mum worried that it would be the last time she would see him.
But Mum’s faith was strong, and prayer kept her going…
until that vicious storm a few years ago.
All storms since had been measured against it.
Mum had asked Eileen to stay with Mrs. MacManus to help watch the younger children.
Mum, Mrs. Rafferty, and Mrs. Doyle went out in search of their husbands when they hadn’t returned as promised.
The four men had plied their trade bartering with the infamous French smuggler, Ruan, since before Eileen was born.
Their relationship had been tenuous, but the thread that kept them tied together was their common dislike of the king’s excise men, none of whom lasted in their position in St. Ives for more than a year or two.
Rumors of a raid—and a trap—had had the men working into the early hours of the morning, moving their precious smuggled items from their caves to the ones beneath Penwith Tower.
The fifth Duke of Wyndmere never came to Cornwall.
It had been rumored that he spent his time, and the family’s fortune, in the gaming hells in the stews of London.
Their cargo would be safe beneath the duke’s property.
The women had questioned their husbands’ known contacts, but to no avail—MacManus, Rafferty, Doyle, and her da were missing.
Three days later, just past midnight, MacManus knocked on their door with Da unconscious, draped over the big man’s shoulder.
Eileen shivered remembering how pale and still her father had been lying on the same cot Flaherty was sitting on now.
Between Mum and herself, they’d bathed his injuries, tended to them, and prayed he would regain consciousness.
The longer he remained in that void between wakefulness and unnatural sleep, the more fervent her mother’s prayers.
Miraculously, on the third day, her da opened his eyes and asked what was for supper.
But as the color returned to his face, and he began to regain the weight he’d lost, her mother grew pale, thin.
Eileen wondered if her mum had made a bargain with God, that He could take every ounce of her strength, everything she had, and give it to her husband.
That was when Eileen realized the depth of her mother’s love for her father.
When Da returned to his nighttime activities a few days later, Mum contracted the fever that took her from them. No herbal remedy nor tonic had restored her health.
With a heavy sigh, Eileen let go of the guilt she felt for not being able to save her mother.
She had tried everything she could think of, including enlisting the aid of Mrs. MacManus, Mrs. Rafferty, and Mrs. Doyle.
It was long past time that she accept that it was God’s will, and her mother’s work on Earth was done.
She still missed her mother terribly. While she’d inherited her mum’s coloring and generous curves, her constitution was stronger, like the Doonan side of the family.
Setting those thoughts and lingering feelings of guilt aside, she vowed to use every bit of that strength to see that Flaherty healed.
She had learned how to treat infection and fever.
Before Dr. Wolcock settled in their village, Mum had been called upon more than once to sew torn flesh, or treat a fever in the middle of the night.
Eileen had accompanied her, watching and learning.