Jane Eyre (81 page)

One morning at the end of the two years, as I was writing a letter to his dictation, he came and bent over me, and said—“Jane, have you a glittering ornament round your neck?”

I had a gold watch-chain, I answered “Yes.”

“And have you a pale blue dress on?”

I had. He informed me then, that for some time he had fancied the obscurity clouding one eye was becoming less dense and that now he was sure of it.

He and I went up to London. He had the advice of an eminent oculist and he eventually recovered the sight of that one eye. He cannot now see very distinctly, he cannot read or write much, but he can find his way without being led by the hand, the sky is no longer a blank to him—the earth no longer a void.

 Each day, my master performed a visual inspection of my body. He had learnt his way around by touch, but now he delighted in watching me respond to his terrible ministrations. He would describe the way my nipples puckered, exclaim how swollen my cunny lips were when they wore his clamps, and he would delight in the massive welts raised on my back and buttocks from the fall of a new leather flogger.

 When his first-born was put into his arms, he could see that the boy had inherited his own eyes, as they once were—large, brilliant, and black. On that occasion, he again, with a full heart, acknowledged that God had tempered judgement with mercy.

My Edward and I, then, are happy, and the more so, because those we most love are happy likewise. Diana and Mary Rivers are both married, alternately, once every year, they come to see us, and we go to see them. Diana’s husband is a captain in the navy, a gallant officer and a good man. Mary’s is a clergyman, a college friend of her brother’s, and, from his attainments and principles, worthy of the connection. Both Captain Fitzjames and Mr Wharton love their wives, and are loved by them.

As to St. John Rivers, he left England, he went to India. He entered on the path he had marked for himself; he pursues it still. A more resolute, indefatigable pioneer never wrought amidst rocks and dangers. Firm, faithful, and devoted, full of energy, and zeal, and truth, he labours for his race; he clears their painful way to improvement; he hews down like a giant the prejudices of creed and caste that encumber it. He may be stern, he may be exacting, he may be ambitious yet, but his is the sternness of the warrior Greatheart, who guards his pilgrim convoy from the onslaught of Apollyon. His is the exaction of the apostle, who speaks but for Christ, when he says—“Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me.” His is the ambition of the high master-spirit, which aims to fill a place in the first rank of those who are redeemed from the earth—who stand without fault before the throne of God, who share the last mighty victories of the Lamb, who are called, and chosen, and faithful.

St. John is unmarried, he never will marry now. Himself has hitherto sufficed to the toil, and the toil draws near its close, his glorious sun hastens to its setting. The last letter I received from him drew from my eyes human tears, and yet filled my heart with divine joy, he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible crown. I know that a stranger’s hand will write to me next, to say that the good and faithful servant has been called at length into the joy of his Lord. And why weep for this? No fear of death will darken St. John’s last hour, his mind will be unclouded, his heart will be undaunted, his hope will be sure, his faith steadfast. His own words are a pledge of this, “My Master,” he says, “has forewarned me. Daily He announces more distinctly—‘Surely I come quickly!’ and hourly I more eagerly respond—‘Amen, even so come, Lord Jesus!’”

Also available from this author at Total-E-Bound Publishing:

Bound and Determined

Sierra Cartwright

Excerpt

Chapter One

Bollocks.

Jack Quinn propped his elbow on the polished wood bar of the lower downtown pub and drank deeply from the pint of stout as he watched the petite and smoking hot Sinead O’Malley move into action for a solo.

He’d seen pictures of her—his sworn enemy—online. His luggage contained a folder full of information about her.

He’d chased her across two continents and through half a dozen cities in the United States. He thought he knew everything about her yet nothing had prepared him for the first in-person sight of her.

He’d known she was an Irish step dancer, but the dossier provided by his grandmother’s people hadn’t mentioned that the talented Ms O’Malley also played three different types of drums as well as the bagpipes.

Seeing a good-looking woman, enemy or not, in snapshots was one thing, but he’d had no idea he’d have such an immediate, raw, unwanted masculine reaction to seeing her athletic body.

Her cutoff white T-shirt was too tight across the swell of her breasts and left part of her toned midriff bare. If she was wearing a bra, it wasn’t very serviceable. He imagined he could see her nipples all the way from here.

Her kilt was way too fecking short. It barely covered her well-shaped arse. And when she danced he saw a pair of sexy black knickers. At least she wasn’t commando beneath the skirt.

Her muscular legs were bare, and her socks had pooled around her ankles.

Even though he watched her squeeze the pipes from halfway across the pub, his cock hardened.

Noise in the room diminished as gazes turned towards the stage. Every man in the place was likely sporting an erection. Lust was palpable. If she were his woman, he wouldn’t stand for her being dressed that way in public and he’d want her wearing a whole lot less in private.

He took another long drink from the glass. He’d be needing another pint in only minutes. A man needed fortification to manage the likes of Sinead O’Malley and manage her he would.

He wouldn’t be leaving Denver without her in tow. He intended to possess her. Ride her. Claim her. Dominate her. Make her his submissive. Claim her as his.

The eight-hundred-year feud between their clans ended now even if he had to tie her to his bed and spank the sass out of her.

Since it wouldn’t be seemly to drag her off the stage, bend her over, yank down her knickers, make her call him Sir as he fucked her ragged on top of a table, he bided his time.

She’d started dancing with the group a few years ago as a way to pick up a little extra cash. He hadn’t taken the time to listen to the CD provided of her music and he was surprised by how much he enjoyed the sound of the Celtic-infused rock band that pulled from all nations. Or maybe he was just intrigued by the lass and wasn’t really hearing the music.

All the other band members fell silent as she worked the pipes.

A spotlight hit her. He recognised the Kelly tartan…from her mother’s side of the family. The Kellys were one of the few Irish clans entitled to wear a tartan—the same as the royal house of Stewart.

Because of the distance and the way she held the bagpipes, he couldn’t quite read the writing on her white T-shirt. The distance and dim lighting made it impossible to see her eyes, even though the information he had on her said they were green.

Then again, the file said she had blonde hair. It hadn’t mentioned the fiery highlights that seemed to ignite in the overhead lighting. It hadn’t mentioned that the lengths fell in bedroom-like disarray across her forehead and around her face and shoulders.

It looked the way it might after a good, long, hard screw.

“Got your eye on that one, have you, mate?” the barkeep asked, pocketing the tip Jack had left on the bar. “She’s been in here half a dozen times in the past year. A right handful, she is. Won’t be having none of the likes of you.” He glanced at her then back at Jack. “She won’t be having any of us for that matter.”

“We’ll be seeing about that.”

“Good luck. She vanishes after the show. She doesn’t stay at the same place the rest of the band does. She’s talented all right. But she ain’t interested in any socialising. She’ll cut any man to the quick.”

Jack nodded, considering himself warned. “Fetch me another pint, mate.”

The bartender nodded and moved off.

Jack returned to watching the woman. It could be worse, he supposed. She was passionate, if her music was anything to go by. In need of taming, if the bartender’s words were anything to go by.

Her passion turned him on. .

He’d want Sinead, no matter what his
máthair Chríona
, grandmother, said. The way Sinead moved her hips made his cock harden. He could almost imagine the way she smelt, of musk and desire.

He joined the applause as she ended her solo and she moved to the back of the stage.

He drank his second stout and enjoyed the rest of the set. Part of him wished she would dance again. Another part of him was relieved she hadn’t. He wasn’t sure his libido could take seeing her underwear and bare midriff.

At the end of the set, the gathered crowd gave a lukewarm applause. He watched Sinead place the pipes on the wooden planks, then plop herself down on an amplifier.

Her skirt rode even higher and she didn’t sit like a lady. Now he knew why Yanks drank their beer so damn cold. ‘Twas to cool the flames of ardour.

He watched—or more like it, stared—as she e Heuncapped a bottle of water, tipped her head back and drank deeply.

The band’s lead singer said a few words to Sinead then nodded and moved off, leaving her alone.

Jack seized the opportunity.

In a few steps, he was on the stage. A couple more brought them face-to-face, or, in this case, her face to his crotch. And wasn’t this his lucky day? It wouldn’t be long before he’d have her on her knees, hands secured behind her back as she sucked his cock. “Great show.”

She smiled. It wasn’t a warm and welcoming smile. It was more the smile of a princess. It was polite enough, dutiful, but it sure as hell wasn’t inviting.

The houselights came up a little more.

This close to her, he saw a few beads of sweat on her brow and across the sweet curve of her upper lip. And he was also close enough to read the writing on her in-your-face T-shirt:
You’re not rich enough. Smart enough. Or man enough. Don’t even try.

They’d be seeing about that, as well.
“Do you intimidate most men, Sinead?”

“All men,” she corrected, recapping her water bottle. “I don’t have time for men.” She levelled a gaze at him. “Even if I wanted a quick toss, it wouldn’t be with an anonymous man. You groupies are all the same.”

The way she talked about sex, with her brogue and feminine sensuality that nothing could disguise, made his cock throb. He wasn’t just hard now. Not at all. He was ready. “Although I wouldn’t mind bedding you, I’m not interested in a quick toss, Ms O’Malley.”

“An autograph? Do you have a pen? Then perhaps you’ll leave me the hell alone?”

Polite, wasn’t she? “I’m not looking for an autograph.”

“Well, then, if you’ll excuse me?”

She stood and turned away. By the time she’d taken two steps, he’d curved his hand around her shoulder and applied enough pressure that she stopped.

Slowly she turned back to face him again. Since he stood nearly a foot taller than her, she had to tip her head back in order to meet his gaze. “Take your hand off me. I’ve another set to prepare for.”

“I’ve travelled halfway round the world to meet you.”

“You should have bought the CD and saved yourself several hundred pounds.” Her smile was chilling. “You’ve met me.” She reached her hand up to pry his fingers off her shoulder. “Release me immediately.”

He was aware of the way she felt beneath him, womanly, but with unaccountable strength. He wanted her. “We’ve important things to discuss, Sinead O’Malley.”

“You are beginning to annoy me.” She exhaled.“I’m thinking maybe you’re a bit off your rocker, Mr…”

He slowly released her.

 “Jack.” He extended a hand. She ignored it.
Smart lass.
“Jack Quinn.”

“Jack Quinn?” Her mouth dropped.

A very perfect, very pink tongue sneaked out. Good God, didn’t that cause another fantasy?

 “
The
Jack Quinn? Hated enemy. Mad as a hatter?”

He didn’t quite know what to say to that. A man who chased a woman halfway around the world because of a comb didn’t seem to be all there.

“Sorry, I didn’t recognise you without the horns and tail.”

“I’ve never been the devil, Sinead.”

“Couldn’t prove that by my family.”

She took her time looking him over from his head to his dusty shoes. Judging by her sneer, she found him wanting.

Not the usual reaction from the ladies.

“So you’re the bastard who’s been stalking me?”

“I’ve been trying to get an audience with your highness for a while now,” he agreed.

“You’ve been following me for six thousand miles, Mr Quinn.”

E-mails, letters, phone calls, messages at venues along the way. “You’re a difficult woman to reach.”

“I’m sorry to say you travelled all this way to have me reject you and your ridiculous marriage proposal in person.” She moved an electrical cord out of the way with her toes. “Since you’re apparently thick or stubborn or both, the answer to your proposal, Mr Quinn, is not just
no
. It’s
hell no
. I don’t care if it would make your grandmother happy or secure your family line. I will not marry you. Not now, not ever.”

 She gave him a sunny smile that really, he knew, meant ‘fuck you’.

“You are blunt.”

“I need to be as you’re apparently addled. Now I’ll thank you to get the hell off the stage and out of my life.”

“We need to talk, Sinead. We
will
talk.”

“I have nothing beyond that one word to say to you.” She pulled back her shoulders. “I’m not interested in your family’s problems.”

Her green eyes flashed irritation and her voice dropped an octave or two. “I’m not interested in
you
, Jack Quinn.”