The Irish Bride by Alexis Harrington Read Free Book Online Page A

been boiled down to mushy lumps a toothless old
man could have gummed with no effort. But after having walked so
many miles, to her it looked like a king’s banquet. The aroma alone
had the power to bring tears to her eyes.
    With no thought for decorum or
anything else beyond eating and the most basic will to survive, she
fairly jumped on the dish and began spooning the stew into her
mouth as fast as she could. She felt Kate’s sardonic gaze on her,
probably noting her bad table manners. But at that moment, Farrell
didn’t care how she looked.
    The stew was hot and it burned all the
way down her throat, but she ignored the pain. A drop of broth
clung to her lip and she lapped at it with her tongue, then took
another bite. She swore she could hear each swallow hit the pit of
her empty stomach, and as she cleaned the plate, life seemed to
flow back into her veins. Then, barely stopping for breath, she
turned her attention to the biscuits, ripping one in half like a
barbarian at an orgy to sop up the last of the broth.
    “ Lass, ye’d best eat
slower,” Aidan advised, watching her with a serious expression. “No
one will steal your food from you, and it might come right back up
if you gobble it that way.”
    With the bread already in her mouth,
Farrell realized how unladylike she must appear. What did it
matter, though? She had no reason to impress Aidan O’Rourke as if
he were a suitor. He was only her husband—
    Husband.
    Honor.
    Obey.
    She stopped chewing and swallowed the
dry lump. “Excuse me,” she murmured, embarrassed.
    “ I know you’re hungry,” he
said quietly. “We’ve all had our share of hungry times. There’s no
shame in it.” A sudden grin crossed his face. “Of course, it’s no
grand blessing, either.” He put down his own spoon and took a long
drink of ale. If only he wouldn’t look at her that way, she
thought, proprietary, determined. “After we’re done here, we’ll
rest. You’ll need your strength for the days ahead.”
    Not wanting to acknowledge what he
might mean, Farrell took a cautious sip of her own ale and asked,
“Do you think anyone yet knows that we’ve gone?” She lowered her
voice. “I mean, people who might be interested?”
    He shrugged as he swallowed. “It’s
hard to say, but I wouldn’t think we should dawdle here longer than
needs be.” His own plate and cup empty, he pushed back his chair.
“Are ye finished, then?”
    Heaven help her, yes, she was. There
was nothing left on the table to consume, and no excuse she could
think of to keep from going upstairs. Nodding, she rose from her
chair with foot-dragging reluctance.
    Aidan piloted her to the stairs on the
far end of the room. As they reached the first landing, he moved
his hand to the small of her back and its heat startled her. She
glanced over her shoulder, almost hoping for rescue from someone in
the pub. She didn’t want to be here, she didn’t want to be married
to Aidan O’Rourke. For a frantic moment she considered shouting out
that he had kidnapped her after killing her brother, and that she
wasn’t his wife at all. But what good would it do? she chided
herself. The men in the pub didn’t appear to be chivalrous
defenders of females in distress. She had no money and with the
authorities probably searching for them both, she had nowhere else
to go.
    Aidan followed her up the steps, and
Farrell felt as if she were going to her own hanging, prodded along
by a handsome executioner.
    On the second floor, Aidan took a
lantern from a hook at the top of the stairs and unlocked the door
with a “3” carved on it. He stood aside to let Farrell pass. The
flame threw tall shadows on the rough walls of the small cupboard
that contained a narrow bed and a tiny table with a chamber set on
it. After lighting the candle stub that stood on a chipped saucer
next to the bowl and pitcher, Aidan returned the lantern to the
hall. The room held a musty, closed-up smell, as if the bedding had
been used many