Never Broken (24 page)

“Wait.” She hurried to him, grasping his arm and pulling him to her. “I can’t let you leave without this.” She leaned up and kissed him, her body shaking as she prayed he wouldn’t set her away from him.

He didn’t, but he broke the kiss. “What if someone sees?”

“Then we admit the lie.” She kissed him again, and this time, he put his arms around her waist. He was thinner than when they first met, but he was still strong. He leaned her against the stained wall of the tenement and continued to kiss her as the sounds of crying babies and arguing voices from the other flats surrounded them.

When he lifted his head, the mix of desire and despair in his eyes made her heart constrict. “Shannon, I’m so sorry. You deserve more than this.”

“If anyone deserves more, it’s you.”

He ran his fingers down the side of her cheek. “I have you. That’s all I need.”

But it wasn’t, and they both knew it. Love wouldn’t feed, house, or clothe them. Love wouldn’t give him the monetary security she knew he craved. “Go find him,” she said. “I shouldn’t have kept you this long.”

“I’m glad you did.” He smiled and kissed her again. “I love you, Shannon. Once I’ve talked to Mr. Mackay, I’ll find a priest.”

“Are you sure? I thought you wanted to wait.”

“I don’t anymore.” Rory kissed her, harder than he had before, then disappeared down the stairwell.

Shannon leaned against the wall, a smile slowly forming on her face. She wouldn’t question Rory’s change of mind. Or his motives for loving her. She’d accept the precious gift with a grateful heart.

Iain shoved his hands
in his pockets as he tramped down the road toward the River Clyde. He’d worked a full shift at the shipyards today, and he was tired. In a little more than an hour, he would work as a brute at the Ship Bank Tavern. Both jobs paid well, especially the tavern. It was his job to throw out unruly and disruptive customers. He didn’t often have to do that, since most times he quelled any trouble with a mere look or a lift of his fists. There were far too many Irish patrons for his taste, but the tavern seemed to be a congregational hub of sorts for Irish immigrants. Over the months, he’d discovered a sort of kinship with them. Most had been displaced, not by greedy landowners, but by famine. None of that mattered when one of them went too far into his pints and caused trouble with the other patrons, or worse, tried to manhandle the tavern girls.

However, tonight he was hoping for a bit of trouble. When given the opportunity, he didn’t hesitate to work out his frustrations on a particularly stubborn customer. Right now, his frustrations were running high. Then again, when were they not? Seven months ago he’d been standing on his own plot of land in the Highlands, planting his potato crop, thinking of a future with Elspeth Ross. Now he and his mother and sister were stuck in a smelly, crowded tenement building with nothing but the clothes on their backs to call their own. Due to John Ross’ craven greed, their lives had been uprooted again. Now they were worse off than ever before.

He ground his teeth as he thought of Elspeth. Was she enjoying herself, attending fancy balls and parties in London, deceiving another fool into thinking she loved him? Did she assuage her guilt with jewels and finery? Did she even feel any guilt over what happened to the villagers…to him?

His boots pounded against the pavement as he dismissed Elspeth from his mind. She was out of his life, and as far as he was concerned, good riddance. He’d patched the pieces of his heart back together with anger and resentment. That drove him to work harder, to earn more money, to save every spare cent so he and his family could return to the Highlands and reclaim his homeland.

In the meantime, he wanted to wring McCabe’s thick, greedy neck. The man already took advantage of poor immigrants flooding into Glasgow from Ireland and the Highlands. Living space was scarce in their building, as it was in all the poor areas of the city. Yet McCabe and other landlords charged far more money than the flats were worth. In Iain’s mind, they weren’t worth rubbish. Yet when he, his mother, and Blaire moved in last June, impoverished and weak from the journey to Glasgow, they hadn’t much choice. Just like many of the displaced Highlanders and desperate Irish that were teeming the city. Just like O’Leary and his two cousins.

Iain would stake his life that they were no more cousins than he and McCabe were. He’d caught the way the dark-haired lass looked at O’Leary, and it was far from family-like. Another clue had been the way the blonde woman, Ainslee, had separated herself from the two of them almost as soon as they had walked into the room. There was something going on with those three, something O’Leary felt the need to cover with a lie.

But Iain didn’t care. It was their business, and they needed to keep it to themselves. How that would happen when they were all crammed into one tiny room, he didn’t know. He just hoped they would soon go elsewhere and leave him, his mother, and Blaire in peace.

He tried to stem the worry at the thought of his mother and Blaire. The trip from Glencalvie had been difficult for wee Blaire, despite him carrying her most of the way. When they arrived in Glasgow, she had fallen ill. His mother had spent weeks at the child’s bedside, tending to her, ignoring her own health for the sake of Blaire’s. At one point they had thought she wouldn’t survive, but somehow she pulled through. The optimism Mary had when they left the Highlands had nearly vanished when she almost lost her daughter.

Despite all this, Iain had been spared. He was stronger than he had been before, thanks to working in the shipyard. He was also biding his time. Not only would he reclaim Mackay land in Easter Ross, but also his ancestral homeland in Strathnaver. He would own land as far as his eye could see, and take out his revenge against the lairds that had crushed his people’s spirit into the ground.

The lairds and Elspeth Ross would pay dearly for what they had done to his family.

“Mr. Mackay!”

He turned at the sound of an Irishman’s voice. Because of his height he was able to see above the crowd, and spied Rory O’Leary waving to him. Iain scowled. What did he want?

“Can I have a word?”

Iain was tempted to ignore him, but since he had to live with him and the two Irish girls, he would force himself to be civil for his mother and Blaire’s sake. He was sure Ma wasn’t too pleased with the way he’d handled the situation thus far. Iain motioned to O’Leary, pointing to a nearby alley where they could talk without getting jostled by others on the crowded street.

“My thanks,” O’Leary said once they stood in the alley. “To be honest, I thought you’d ignore me.”

“I was tempted.” He crossed his arms. “Out with whatever yer wantin’ to say and be quick about it. I’ve got work to do.”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you about.”

Iain looked O’Leary up and down. The man spoke with an Irish accent, but it had a cultured lilt to it. His clothes, while well-worn and in need of washing, looked expensive. His blond hair was on the long side but still cut similarly to some of the more well-to-do men Iain had seen in Glasgow. O’Leary came from money. That much was obvious. Why was he slumming with two peasant women?

He stopped himself. He didn’t care. All he wanted was for the three Irish to be out of his home. “Yer lookin’ for work, then?”

“Aye.”

“What skill do ye have?”

O’Leary averted his gaze. “Not much in the way of labor skills, I’m afraid. But I’m a quick learner. I’m willin’ to do anythin’. Word in Cork was that there were jobs in the coal mines and the shipyard.”

“There are. Canna see you workin’ in either of those places, though.”

“I will if I have to.”

Iain sized him up again, this time seeing hard determination in O’Leary’s eyes. The man was serious. “I work at the shipyard durin’ the day. At the Bank Ship Tavern at night.”

“I’m familiar with the place.”

“I can see if the pub is needin’ any help.”

“Nay.” O’Leary held up his hand.

“Thought you said you’d be willin’ to do anythin’.”

O’Leary paused. “Anythin’ but that. I can’t work in a pub. What about the shipyard?”

His response surprised Iain. Working in the tavern would be easier than the hard physical work of the shipyard. He suspected a man like O’Leary would have jumped at the chance not to get his hands dirty. “Mayhap a job or two there. Go with me in the mornin’, and I’ll introduce you to the foreman.”

Sagging against the brick wall, O’Leary nodded. “That’s kind of you, Mr. Mackay.”

“Don’t take it as kindness. The sooner you get work, the sooner you can leave us alone.” He turned and started to walk away.

“One more question, please.”

Clenching his fists, Iain spun around. “What is it now?”

“I need directions to the nearest church. A Catholic church,” he added. His shoulders sagged. “Shannon, Ainslee and I aren’t cousins.”

“You don’t say.”

O’Leary looked up at him with a weary smile. “Guess we didn’t fool anyone. I need to find a priest to marry us. Shannon and me, that is.”

Iain hadn’t stepped inside a church since he’d left Croick, but his mother and Blaire had attended a time or two. “Two streets over. St. Brendan’s.”

“Again, my thanks.”

“Again, don’t bother.” He turned and stalked away. The mention of marriage dug up Elspeth’s image. Not only was he stuck living with three extra people in a room that was big enough for barely one, two of those people would soon be newlyweds. That was all he needed when he’d done everything he could to get Elspeth out of his memory. However, she remained there, a bitter reminder of his stupidity.

He plowed through the crowded street, almost knocking a slim man over. He didn’t stop to apologize. Tomorrow he’d help O’Leary get a job. Then he’d have nothing to do with him or his Irish women again.

Ballyclough, Ireland

December, 1846

Sara Gormley, now Sara Bancroft, sat
behind the desk in what was once her father’s study—now her husband’s. She ran her hand over the smooth wood, remembering the times she’d come into this room as a child and jumped in her father’s lap. No matter what he’d been doing, he stopped, cuddled her close, and told her stories. Some were of his childhood in England, some were made up, and some were a mix of both.

She wiped her eyes and focused on the reason she was here—to look at the Gormley accounts. Since marrying Quentin nearly a week ago, he’d been kind. Dutiful. Most importantly he hadn’t pushed her into consummating their marriage, seemingly satisfied to let her stay in her own bedroom while he took over her parents’ master suite. That didn’t quite fit with what he’d told her the night he’d picked her up off the streets of Cork. He wanted children. Someday he would take steps to make that happen.

And in those moments when she was in her bedroom, wondering if tonight would be the night he approached her to claim his husbandly rights, she admitted she wanted children too. But not now, not with the troubles growing worse in Ireland. And not when she didn’t yet trust her new husband.

The moment they returned from Gretna Green he had closeted himself in Father’s study and continued to do so for three days, breaking only for meals and to retire for the night. He’d gone to bed two hours ago, and she had taken the opportunity to sneak into the study, not that she knew much about her father’s business dealings. He didn’t make her privy to that, except when he gave her the money and instructions for Rory and Colm. As she adjusted the small lantern on the desk, she sighed. Despite Quentin’s promise to find Rory, there had been no word. Was Quentin even trying? Or had he given her empty words so she wouldn’t fight the marriage?

She opened the side drawer and saw a thick, leather-bound ledger. Exactly what she was looking for. She frowned. That had been easy—too easy. Believing the ledger to be fake, she pulled it out and opened it. She saw her father’s handwriting, and William’s, in certain places. As she paged through the book she didn’t see any evidence that Quentin had looked at the accounts.

Then she turned to the middle of the book. A letter was tucked inside with Quentin’s name on the envelope. She grimaced as she picked it up. So he had been scouring the accounts. She opened the envelope flap.

“Have we reached such a closeness in our relationship that you feel entitled to read my personal papers?”

Sara’s head jerked up as she dropped the letter. Quentin stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb as he so often did, giving the appearance of ease, even boredom. Yet in the lantern light she could see the hardness in his eyes. She swallowed, knowing she’d made a mistake. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Although Quentin had so far never shown the abusive character Priscilla hinted at the day Colm was sent away, that didn’t mean he didn’t possess it. Her skin prickled as he strode toward her, still fully dressed with the exception of his cravat and waistcoat. Sara pulled back as he placed two hands on the desktop and leaned toward her.

“If you wanted to know what I was doing in the study, all you had to do was ask.”

She swallowed again, this time her mouth becoming dry. “I—I didn’t want to bother you.”

“You didn’t think I’d tell you.” He straightened then sat halfway on the desk. “I don’t have any secrets, Sara.”

“If you didn’t have any secrets you wouldn’t have locked yourself in my father’s study these past three days.”

“So you’ve been counting. Feeling my absence in your life?”

She stiffened. “Hardly. The idea of you pilfering my father’s accounts is what drew me here.”

“Then it’s a good thing it’s only an idea.” He gestured to the ledger. “Feel free to take it to your room. Along with the dozens of others that are in the desk.”

“Dozens?”

“Your father kept very detailed accounts.” A shadow passed his face. “Your brother, however, did not.”

“’Tis—it’s his money to spend.”

Quentin regarded her for a moment. “Don’t change your speech on my account.” He lowered his voice. “You sound quite sweet with your lilting country cant.”

His comment left her speechless. In addition, she didn’t understand the tiny flutter in her belly that grew as he continued looking at her.

He took the envelope from the desk and stood. “True, some of it is his money. Gormley Manor, the tenants, and the accounts are mine since they were your dowry.” He handed her the letter. “Read it,” he said. “Then you’ll know why I didn’t show it to you.”

With a guarded look, she took the letter from him and opened it.

Dear Lord Whigby,

I’m sorry to inform you that my first report is not a good one. I have yet to locate Mr. O’Leary since his departure from Cork. I currently have two of my men scouring Glasgow for him, but we have had no luck. The number of immigrants, especially from Ireland, has increased dramatically in recent months. There has also been a steady influx of Highlanders. The result is a city teeming with people, many of them not only poor, but also denying they are Irish since there is some prejudice against them. I cannot predict when, or if, we will find Mr. O’Leary. I will continue to send you any updated news.

Your servant,

George Pershingham, Esq.

Sara slumped in her chair and put the letter on the desk. “You
are
looking for Rory.”

“I said I would.” He rounded the desk and knelt in front of her. “I’ll continue to look for him as long as it takes. Colm, too. I want you to be reunited with your cousins.”

“Why do you care?” She couldn’t help the thickness in her voice. “You’ve gotten what you wanted—Gormley Manor. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Sara.” He lifted his hand as if he was going to touch her, only to withdraw it. “I hope one day you’ll understand how much…” He stood, clearing his throat. “Have you heard from your mother since you wrote to her?”

Sara shook her head. She had posted a letter from Gretna Green immediately after she and Quentin had married. She’d apologized for eloping and invited Mother to come back to Gormley Manor. “Perhaps the letter was lost in the post.”

“Perhaps.” He held out his hand to her. “It’s late, my wife. You should go to bed. Have I set your mind at ease enough that you can get some sleep?”

She looked at his outstretched hand. After hesitating a moment, she took it and allowed him to assist her to her feet. She let go as soon as she was upright. “I believe so.” But that wasn’t true. If anything, he’d confused her more. She still expected his motives to be false, but so far he had been true to his word. Then there was the shiver she experienced when her hand touched his. How was she supposed to sleep after that?

“May I escort you to your room?” he asked.

Something inside her wanted him to. But she couldn’t get past the fear of what might happen if he did. She shook her head. “I can make my way myself.”

“As you wish. Good night, Sara.”

“Good night, Quentin.”

It wasn’t until she was in bed that she realized he’d never told her why he was still up in the middle of the night and still almost fully dressed.
Can I ever trust him, Lord? Will I ever see Rory and Colm again? Quentin gives me hope, but I know I must put my faith in you.

Glasgow, Scotland

December, 1846

Three days after arriving
in Glasgow, Rory stood in front of Father O’Donnell, beads of sweat on his forehead despite the chilliness of the church. He tugged at the collar of his shirt and caught the old priest’s eye. The man smiled, but Rory couldn’t return it. He’d used nearly his very last coin to pay the priest for today’s proceedings. A donation, the priest insisted. Yet he wouldn’t marry Rory and Shannon without it.

Rory didn’t tell Shannon about the payment. He didn’t want to spoil her day.
Our day.
He had to keep reminding himself of that. This wasn’t how he’d envisioned getting married. But he wouldn’t go back on his word.

The last two days living with the Mackay’s hadn’t been as difficult as he’d thought, mostly due to Iain. The man hadn’t returned to the flat since the day Rory and the twins moved in. Apparently Iain thought Rory trustworthy enough to leave him alone with his mother and sister. Or he was confident in knowing Rory wouldn’t think of crossing him. Rory had no idea where Iain spent his nights, and he didn’t dare ask. The women and Blaire slept on one side of the room in the bed and on the cot, while Rory slept on the floor on a make-shift pallet. He was getting used to not sleeping on a bed again. He’d never had one until he’d lived with the Gormleys.

He turned as he heard the church doors opening. Then he saw his Shannon, walking down the aisle toward him. His breath caught, and the anxiety he’d felt a moment before evaporated.
Yes, this is our day.

She moved to stand next to him in the cold, sparsely decorated church. Ainslee flanked her on the other side, the only other person in attendance. The priest had agreed to make the ceremony quick. He had to, since Rory had to return to his new job as soon as he and Shannon exchanged vows. He had snuck away during lunch break, and if he didn’t hurry back he would lose his employment. It had taken Iain’s endorsement in order to get the English foreman to even hire Rory on as an unskilled laborer. Mackay had given his support begrudgingly, and Rory knew the only reason was because Mackay wanted the three of them out of his flat as soon as possible. They couldn’t do that without money. Scrubbing ship decks and hauling building materials wasn’t Rory’s ideal job, but he wasn’t going to turn it down.
I won’t be working there forever.

He looked at Shannon again. She still wore the same dress she had on since he saw her at Cork docks, but it was clean. Mary had generously offered to patch the holes in the dress and Shannon had eagerly allowed her. She had also invited Mary and Blaire to the wedding, but Mary had declined. She and Blaire were still quiet and reserved, and hadn’t revealed how they ended up in the squalid tenement housing they now all shared. Taking Iain’s anger and his family’s reticence into account, Rory surmised that they had experienced their own tragedy.
Haven’t we all?

Rory shoved the dark thoughts out of his mind and focused on his soon-to-be bride. Ainslee had somehow found a few wildflowers to put in Shannon’s upswept hair. She’d never looked so beautiful. This was the start of a new life together, and while he wished the circumstances were different, he didn’t feel a moment’s doubt about marrying his bonny Shannon.

“Do you, Shannon Cahill, take Rory O’Leary to be your husband?”

“Aye,” she said, and Rory nearly drowned in the love he saw in her eyes.

“And Rory, do you take Shannon to be your wife?”

He nodded. “Aye,” he said softly. “I do.”

When Father O’Donnell pronounced them husband and wife, Rory took Shannon in his arms. “Before long I’ll get you a ring,” he whispered in her ear, before kissing his bride.

When he pulled away she met his gaze with an intense one of her own. “I don’t care about a ring. All I want is you.”

Ainslee held back to talk to the priest while Rory and Shannon walked to the door. “I hate that I have to leave you now,” he said.

“I understand.” She smiled, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “I have a job now, too.”

Rory’s eyes widened at the welcome surprise. “Where?”

“The cotton mill. I start tomorrow. We won’t have to live with the Mackays much longer. Soon we’ll have enough money for a place of our own. I only ask one thing.”

“It’s yours,” he said, genuine joy soaring through him. “Whatever it is.”

“Mayhap you should wait to hear what I’m askin’ for?”

He laughed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d truly laughed. After weeks of despair, he finally felt some hope. “Then don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Ainslee.” She turned and looked at her twin, who was deep in conversation with Father O’Reilly. “I want her to live with us.”

“Of course. I assumed she was goin’ to.” When he saw the relief on Shannon’s face, he couldn’t stop from scooping her into his arms again. “Lass, your family is my family now. ‘Twill always be.”