Free The Irish Bride by Alexis Harrington

navigate the
Atlantic, an ocean said to be icy and storm-ridden at this time of
year?
    Coming aboard, Farrell had sat on a
coil of rope, so as not to be seen by passers-by. While Aidan spoke
with James McCorry, she’d started to feel a bit more hopeful. The
ship might be no longer than five or six large farm wagons set end
to end, and less than half that in width, but it offered passage,
and what other choice did they have? The answer to that question
was impressed upon her even more strongly when she picked up a bit
of Aidan’s conversation with the ship’s master.
    “ Aye, laddie, those boys
from the pub were already here lookin’ for ye. There even came a
dandy in fine clothes with a silk kerchief pressed to his nose,
askin’ about a red-haired woman and man such as yerself.” Dear God,
Farrell thought, it had been Noel whom she’d seen. McCorry squinted at
him. “The soldiers said ye killed a man. The dandy claims yer
missus worked in his manor house and stole the family
silver.”
    Aidan turned to look at Farrell, and
her jaw dropped when she heard that barefaced lie. “They lie,” he
said simply.
    McCorry continued. “Well, be that as
it may, I told ’em all ye couldn’t meet my price for passage. But
they might come back. I suggest you and your wife stay below decks
till we cast off.”
    Taking McCorry’s advice to heart, they
had carted their new purchases below and found accommodations built
with rough planks of timber, nailed or otherwise wedged into place.
The two-foot-wide bunks were stacked three rows high on either side
of the dark, stuffy hold, and a narrow aisle ran down the middle.
Those already on board—single men and rag-tag families with crying
babies and wan children of varying ages—all jostled to carve out a
place for themselves.
    How could her life have changed so
dramatically so quickly? Just over three days ago, she’d been at
home in Skibbereen, expecting to marry another man. Now she was on
a creaking ship, ready to cast off for a land thousands of miles
away, with that other man’s wild brother.
    They spent the afternoon traveling
down the River Lee, and now as the ocean came into view, Farrell
and Aidan stood on deck watching the green, misty hills of their
homeland slip past in the dusk. Wild and lonely and tragic, it held
rivers and lakes, cliffs and hollows and castle ruins, and magic
and stories that went back to the beginning of the
world.
    It was the place where her family was
buried.
    It was the place that owned her
heart.
    Her throat grew tight with tears and
sorrow. In the west, a bright band of sunset melted the clouds and
lighted the horizon. And in the west lay America.
    Although the rain had stopped, a brisk
wind chilled her but she only pulled her shawl closer. She didn’t
want to go below and miss the last sight of Ireland she might ever
have. Apparently, neither did the other sixty or so people making
this trip with her and Aidan. They clung to the railings, their
faces full of wistfulness and optimism. Some of the women dabbed at
their eyes with their apron hems as they comforted their frightened
children. The men looked as though they’d all aged ten years in a
single afternoon.
    Aidan looped his arm around
Farrell’s shoulders, and at this moment of farewell she found
comfort in his touch. “We’ll see her again, céadsearc . Someday.” He spoke with
the rusted voice of a man whose thoughts were far away and in days
long past, in the rain-washed glens and dark, magical woods where
the fey people were said to dwell. “But we’ll find none like her
till then, not even if we search the whole world.”
    She glanced up at him, but his gaze
was fixed on the beautiful landscape with its tiny inlets and
harbors. Angry, hot-blooded Aidan O’Rourke, the man she feared,
didn’t look as dangerous at that moment. In fact, she saw tears
standing in his eyes.
    Plainly embarrassed to be caught with
his emotions showing, he released her and dashed his shirt