Freedom's Touch [Legacy of the Celtic Brooch Book 2]
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The Wild Rose Press
www.thewildrosepress.com
Copyright ©2007 by Sarita Leone
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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Freedom's Touch
by
Sarita Leone
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Freedom's Touch—Legacy Of The Brooch, Book Two
COPYRIGHT Ó 2007 by Sarita Leone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by R.J.Morris
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 706
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First American Rose Edition, April 2007
Published in the United States of America
Welcome to the Legacy of the Celtic Brooch series. The authors of this series were handpicked by our editors at The Wild Rose Press and asked to write a tale using an heirloom Celtic Brooch as the one constant in each story. Beginning in March, 2007 with English Tea Rose and Tarah Scott's, The Pendulum and ending sometime in early 2008 with Marly Mathews from the Faery Rose Line, we will follow this brooch on its mystical journey from Regency England to modern times. It might show up as part of a dowry or be used to pay a ransom. It might be magical; it might simply be a piece of jewelry. Every author was asked to put her own spin on the brooch's appearance and they have all done a beautiful job.
We welcome your comments on this series and hope that you will enjoy reading the stories as much as our authors enjoyed creating them for you.
Enjoy the journey!
RJ and Rhonda
Dear Reader:
Thank you for purchasing this electronic copy of the first in our “Legacy of the Celtic Brooch” series. Please send the following code to me along with your first and last name to legacyseries@thewildrosepress.com. You will be entered into a drawing for an actual Celtic Brooch. The winner will be drawn at the end of the series, approximately January 2008. Only one entry per person per story is allowed. If you purchase all 13 stories as they come out this year you will have 13 chances to win this authentic Celtic Brooch.
CODE: LG41307
Dedication
For Vito, with all my love. Ti amo.
Prologue
May 1, 1630
Somewhere on the Atlantic Ocean
The Arabella was a sturdy vessel weighing several tons, with a hull thick enough to withstand even the most brutal seas. It had masts and riggings that soared to such heights that watching the activity in the crows’ nest made most of the passengers dizzy.
Even so, as the next wave crashed against the wooden ship Deirdre Sullivan clutched Patrick's shoulder, her breath catching in her throat as she struggled to keep to her feet. The leather soles of her shoes sought purchase on the rough wooden decking but still she slid a few inches, her hip banging against a support column before her body stopped and she regained her balance.
"Aye, and that was a heavy one, wasn't it?” Patrick said. “Much bigger than those that tossed us during the night. Seems the storm that's been brewing is finally coming hard upon us. Aye, I'd say it's found us for sure now. Are you all right, my Deirdre?"
Patrick, a man whose broad back, wide shoulders and rippling muscles were noteworthy on land but even more so in the close confines of the ‘tween deck, wrapped his thick hands around the hand-hewn column. His attempt to shelter her from losing her footing as the boat lurched was successful and his sturdy body took the brunt of the sea's next crash while she merely jostled against the circle of his arms. It was a gesture that most likely saved Deirdre from another round of buffeting. Gazing down on her with what could only be described as a look of complete adoration in his deep brown eyes, he smiled.
"There. Now that wasn't so bad, was it? I'm much too sorry I didn't catch you quicker with the first blow but I think we've got it figured out now,” Patrick said as he tightened his grip on the column. “And how's your hip where you hit it? Do you think you'll be bruised very badly?"
Deirdre rubbed a hand absently over the sore spot. It would be bruised, but it couldn't be helped. Besides, what was another bump or two when she already had so many?
When they'd discussed this journey they'd known it would be an arduous one. They knew that many people would likely die on the trip and that countless others might perish soon after they reached their destination. But they'd also acknowledged, as they sat in their one-room cottage in Kilkenny, with the peat fire making the air so thick it chased away breath but did little to allay the cold, that the voyage, even with all its perils, was a trip they wanted to make.
Any chance at a better life was a risk worth taking.
Deirdre lifted her gaze to his and felt her heart swell. They'd been married for three years and still one glance at him made her heart skip and her body heat. She hoped that was something that would, unlike this difficult passage, never end.
"Ach, it's nothing.” She waved a hand in the air between them. “No worse than any I'd have gotten carrying a bucket o’ milk from the shed to the kettle. And now that I'm thinking of Gert, that stubborn monster, I wonder how she's getting on with the Flannigan brood? Mayhap she's wishing for her old, quiet life by now."
When they'd left home they'd taken very little—not that there was much for them to choose from to begin with. But they had given their meager collection of household items, along with a few chickens and their ornery goat, to a neighboring family. Deirdre and Patrick felt that with nine mouths to feed, the Flannigans needed all the help they could get—even if that assistance came by way of gruff old Gert. She'd been known to butt an inattentive person in the rear end and was fond of taking bites of trousers and shifts, but still and all she gave rich, sweet milk. It was, they'd always thought, a case of putting up with the bad to get the good.
Chuckling softly, Patrick said, “Aye. The bairns have probably ridden her ‘round the yard a few times already."
Another wave hit the ship broadside and the timbers creaked ominously. There was a loud chorus of exclamations, fearful pleas for blessings and bosom-clutching gasps. A number of children began to cry as their mothers grabbed them tightly and the crowded space became, if possible, even noisier. Still, the sound of the storm's fury could be heard above the wail of human terror.
"Ach! That was a big one,” Deirdre placed a hand over her heart. “Looks like it has gotten most of the little ones rattled."
"And some of the big ‘uns, too.” Patrick pressed his body closer to hers, holding her firmly against the post as a new round of buffeting shook them. Despite the precariousness of their current situation the fit of his hips to hers, his muscular thighs pressed to her skirt and his chest flattening her breasts was enough to make Deirdre's heart lurch more swiftly than even the Arabella could.
"Aye, them too. If they only knew, as I do, that we'll be fine, they'd not take on so. No, we'll not have a watery end to this voyage, no matter what the thunderclouds seem to think,” Deirdre said cheerfully. “One way or another, we'll be seeing the green grass of the new colonies. I know we will."
Her confidence in their safe passage had been unflagging these past months. She'd endured weeks of walking through the Irish countryside, sleeping rough by the road and eating when the opportunity, rather than hunger, arose. In England they'd had to find shelter in a decrepit shack near the wharf with others waiting for winds favorable enough for sailing. It had been crowded with lice-infested, foul-smelling people, many of whom looked as if they'd rather eat you than stand beside you, yet she'd tolerated that with a stiff upper lip, too. And now, while those around her keened and prayed, Deirdre had the conviction and grace to smile.
"How can you be so sure?” Another wave crashed and over their heads they heard sounds of shouting and running feet. The crew, most likely, attempting to save the ship from whatever damage the sea was ladling out. “How can you not doubt we'll see the end of this journey? I must admit, with the rolls and dips this ship is doing I'm beginning to have my doubts..."
"Oh, we'll be making it, all right. We've worked too hard for this to end in any but a fair way, Paddy. Our intentions are good, our plan well-laid, and this will work. It has to work.” Her tone did not encourage arguments but, perhaps to take his mind from his roiling innards, he persisted.
"Why? Do you call it well-laid because we've given false names for the manifest? I keep wondering if that was a smart idea after all, Deirdre. God knows that if ... if ... well, if there's any sorrow to befall us, no one will know what happened to us. They'll never know that Deirdre and Patrick Sullivan are really—"
Moving her fingers from their grasp on his shoulder, she placed them across his lips. “Now, no mention of them, recall? Did we not agree, before we set off, that we'd not mention those names again? Really, dearest, how could you forget so swiftly?"
Kissing her fingertips as the deck trembled beneath them, he shook his head. “I did not forget at all, my love. It's just that I wonder if we made a wise decision, doing what we done."
Patrick's voice was as smooth as cream and filled her heart as fully as if she was the pitcher that cradled him. Deirdre felt her body respond to his touch, the whisper of his breath on her flushed cheek and the sound of his voice and wished, not for the first time, that there was some measure of privacy to be found on the ship. But there wasn't any spot on the teeming ship for romantic seclusion, not even for a few moments. Rustling in the canvas slings during the long, black nights reminded them that they weren't the only ones feeling the deprivation of a soft caress. Had it been nighttime Deirdre may have chanced a joining of bodies but, alas, it was fully midday and, with the storm raging above deck, there was even less hope for isolation than usual.
Contenting herself with pressing her forehead against his for a long, silent heartbeat, she swallowed deeply. She'd known this topic would surface again and again, especially if the travails of the trip proved too difficult to bear. Patrick would feel responsible for their situation, something she couldn't—something she wouldn't—allow to happen.
Deirdre dropped her head back until her gaze met, and held, his. She saw the questions swirling behind his eyes as clearly as if they'd been written on his handsome face.
"We made the only decision open to us. There's no looking back. No regrets. Don't you recall? We talked about this before we set off. Doubtless it's not unusual to feel a wee bit of anxiety over our decision, especially at moments such as these. Why, it's hardly fitting not to have a touch of looking back, now and again. But what we're doing is the best thing for us—"
"For me, you mean,” he said, scowling.
"For us,” she insisted, running her fingertips across his brow. She buried them in the curly black locks at his temple before she spoke again. “What would I be without you? What kind of life would there be left for me, I ask, if I didn't have you?"
"Mayhap it would have been a better life than this. Leastways you wouldna be tossed around on the water like an acorn in yon stream.” His brow wrinkled again but this time she didn't soothe it.
"I wouldna ‘ave a life a'tall and ye know that,” she said. Her voice was low and even as her emotions rose within her. “Without ye, I wouldna wanted to live—not a'tall. And ye know that, don't ye?"
He nodded, holding her close as the ship shifted again. “I reckon."
Pressing her mouth to his ear, she hissed, “They would've killed you. Hung you until all life went from your body. And that, me love, would've killed me too."
"Mayhap,” he said. “But mayhap I would have been able to make them see reason. Ach, I didna’ do it on purpose. You know it and I know it—mayhap I could've made them that counts, them that metes out justice, know it, too."
Deirdre shook her head, her thick russet braid bouncing with every movement. A few stray locks had escaped and were plastered to her cheek but she made no move to push them away. “No! ‘Twas not a chance I was willing to take. No, ‘twas no way anyone would've seen reason, no way they wouldna hung you for doing what you did. There would've been no justice for us back there. No, this is the right decision, Paddy. It matters not how hard the rain falls, the wind howls or this damned boat rocks. No, we'll get to the new world. We'll make a new life for ourselves, and for the wee ones we'll begin having soon as we've settled. No, this is a wise move for us,” she insisted. “Mark my words, ‘tis."
A smile stretched across his face at her words.
"An’ how is it that you're so set on this? How know you that we'll be spared a watery death?"
Patting her chest, in the small hollow between her breasts, she grinned. “We're not alone, recall? I've got the brooch pinned to my under shift, right above my heart. I feel it with me all the time, Paddy. And with its weight I feel its strength. ‘Twas handed down for generations in my family, you know that. And ‘twill be handed down for generations more to come. Every woman who wears the circle will feel its power, as surely as she feels every other strength in her body and soul.” Her hand stilled on the spot, curling protectively around the silver brooch. It was her most valuable possession—her only possession of any monetary value. Not that Deirdre would dream of parting with the brooch. No, it was far too important to her for her to even imagine being separated from it.
The brooch had been payment for an act of bravery—and sacrifice—made long ago. Deirdre's great-great grandmother had done the unthinkable—married an Englishman at a time when the English and Irish had been fiercely feuding. The brooch had been her wedding gift from him, the only thing he had aside from his love for her. In return, Deirdre's ancestor had faced her father's wrath. He had never spoken to her again, punishment for following her own heart.
As the Arabella lifted and fell again and those around them grew even more frantic, the young couple held fast to the pole, each other and their love. They felt the circle both within and around them and it was as if they'd found their private spot—right in the center of hundreds of unwashed, frightened, groaning bodies.
Now neither was fearful as the ship bucked on the rough sea.
"What is it, then, about the brooch, that keeps you so filled with faith? Tell me again, if you please,” Patrick said. He dipped his head low, nearly touching hers, as she began to speak. Their conversation was one something, like most the pair shared, that he wished kept between them. Sharing her with anyone was nearly impossible for him—and that reticence had been one of the factors that led to the journey. “Once more, tell me what it is about yon brooch that keeps you from screaming with the others."
"Freedom,” she said simply. “This brooch will carry us to freedom. And with that freedom, we'll have a new life. We only need to be as strong as the circle itself, to hold fast to our dreams and beliefs, dear Paddy. This brooch is nearly ancient, I imagine, handed down from woman to wo
man for centuries. There's a tale my Grandmother told me about it being lost for a while, but that was long, long ago. It's not lost now, is it?"
Patrick took one hand from the column and pressed it to the spot where he knew the item lay. Her heart quickened under his bold touch. She felt his strong fingers trace the silver circle, touching the swirls along the side of the piece. “Nay, it's not lost at all,” he whispered mischievously. Waggling his brows at her he pursed his lips and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Would that it was ... I dinna think I'd best look for what's not lost..."
"Oh, go on with you!” Deirdre said, giggling. Her gaze darted around at those who shared the ‘tween deck with them but no one was paying them any attention. “Now don't be turning my attention to other things, Paddy. Not now, here in this spot with everyone watching everyone else. This is no time for you to be thinking of exploring my shift. So, where was I?” Her intentional primness was comical and they shared a small laugh.
A few of those in their immediate area looked quizzically to the two but quickly lost interest as the boat shuddered and shook.
"Staying strong, I think it was..."
"Aye. I was saying that all we have to do is stay as strong as the circle itself. All these years ... all these years being worn and handed around and the brooch has naught but one small scratch on it. It's a strong as the day it was forged. That's what we need to do, stay as strong as the brooch and it'll carry us to freedom. I know it as the truth,” she said. One strong wave pushed them closer, pinning the brooch between their bodies. “With strength, especially when it comes to something you believe in with all your heart, there is no way to fail. Our destiny is freedom."
He pressed his lips against her temple. At his touch, she shivered.
"Freedom,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her tightly to his body. “I pray you and yon brooch are right, love."