Tonight, she would be expected to perform her duties as Beaufort’s wife, and her anger had more to do with that than it did with the mode of travel he would employ. She understood the basics of the act. One could not live the life she had with Jacob Moran and not have encountered a number of men and women in the act of copulation. However, in her opinion, the act was noisy and possibly executed in anger and assuredly required an abandonment of her dignity. Annalise was not comfortable with anything to which she had previously stood witness.
Her first night as Beaufort’s bride would be in an inn on their way to a place called Holyhead. Then to Cork City. Neither of which was she familiar. And according to her beloved Navan, followed by a ride through Ireland’s mountains to his grandparents’ estate. Eventually, they would view Beaufort’s estate, but not right away. Though the idea disappointed her, Beaufort had explained that his grandmother’s estate would one day belong to one of his minor children. Their efforts at Klare Fields would secure not only his grandmother’s future, but that of one of Annalise’s children. One of Beaufort’s children.
Annalise decided despite the fact she did not know Ireland, in time, the land Beaufort loved would be her home—a place where she would belong, and soon, no one would have the ability to take it away from her.
At length, Lord Graham kissed her cheek and supported her into Beaufort’s chaise and four. Her husband followed her inside, and they were off again.A new life, her mind announced, while her stomach tightened in what felt of fear.
They reached theplanned inn for the night, the one Graham had recommended, though, if he had been alone, Beaufort would have instructed his coachman to continue on for a few more hours. When he glanced to view his wife’s features, he knew without a doubt she required a full night’s sleep. Graham must have sent word ahead, for the inn’s owner met them before they reached the door. “My laird. My lady,” the man said with a thick Scottish accent. “Welcome to me inn. Trust your journey be pleasant.”
“Very much so,” his wife answered before Navan could construct a response.
“Lord Graham sent his instructions for your stay. Your rooms be prepared.”
His wife stumbled to a halt behind him and the innkeeper, and Navan returned to her side to whisper, “What is the matter, my lady?”
She blushed as red as her hair. “I am your wife, Beaufort,” she hissed, but she held her head high.
“Yes, you are, and we will discuss whatever is your complaint in the privacy of our quarters.” She dropped her gaze again, but he knew she had not been satisfied with his response. He turned to the innkeeper to say, “Her ladyship simply turned her ankle. We are prepared. Lead on, my good man.”
When they reached their connected quarters, the chambers each sported a good-sized bed, especially for a rural inn. “There be hot water in the jars. My son’ll bring up your trunks, and then we’ll see to your servants.”
Beaufort nodded his gratitude and excused the man. When the door closed behind the innkeeper, he asked his wife, “What was your prior concern, my lady?”
She dropped her eyes again. It would be necessary for him to break her of that habit, which she likely learned at Jacob Moran’s hands. “I simply thought…” she began.
“Thought what, my lady?” he asked in a tone that said his patience was slipping away.
Her chin finally rose where she might again look him in the eye. “I thought our marriage meant you desired me as more than a companion.”
He caught her arm to tug her into his body. “I want you, Annalise, so much it hurts. However, I thought it best if we wait for a bit. You are still recovering from your injury, and do not claim you are well, for I have viewed you wince when you move too suddenly. Moreover, it will be very difficult for us to continue our joining until we reach my grandmother’s estate. As I said previously, I hope we may claim passage on a ship to Cork City rather than to Dublin. From Cork we will be on horseback for several days. A ship of general use will not have quarters with any privacy, and on our journey to the estate, we will be asking for shelter in homes, not in inns. I would not have you embarrassed by my desire for you.”
“Honestly, Beaufort?” she asked in the same complete innocence which always took him off guard.
“I want you,” he said as he brought his mouth down hard on hers. When they broke, she swayed in place, and a smile crept across his features. “We will both claim a good night’s rest this evening, which is why I instructed Graham to ask for adjoining rooms.”
Late the following day, they reached Holyhead, and her husband paid a small fishing ship a hefty sum to take them to Cork City.
“I will remind you it will be a slow and laborious journey,” he warned her.
“I am not a fine lady of theton, Beaufort,” she protested.
“I am just saying you are likely to experience more misery than you expect. Once we depart Cork, many of the roads are mere donkeytrails through the foothills. Decent lodging is limited. When we cross the Caran Mountains, any shelter we discover will be few and far between. A lady would not…”
“I am not a lady of society,” she repeated. “I am a pirate and a woman who has often been required to live by her wits.”
“The thing is, Annalise, without Ireland’s government funding, the roads have been severely neglected.” In truth, he could take her by another passage, but that would take longer, though it would be easier to leave Cork and sail to the mouth of the Kenmare River off to the west. There they could disembark at Neidín. The journey would still be hard, but it would be shorter.
Annalise had enjoyedher time aboard the ship on which they took passage. The sailors thought her remarkable and told Beaufort as such often. She did not know whether the slight scowl on Navan’s countenance was because he was jealous or his recognition that she was a better sailor than her husband proved to be. Either emotion made her happy.
Cork City had been more chaotic than she had expected. It reminded her of some of the ports along the American coastline. Both Baltimore and Charleston came to mind.
Finally, the morning arrived for them to move inland. She had known amazement with how green the land appeared. “Beautiful when there is just the right amount of rain,” her husband warned when she remarked on the land’s loveliness. “But it is brown with mud when the rain takes too much liberty,” he continued. Annalise noted how a bit more of his Irish accent had returned to her husband’s speech with each of his interactions with his fellow Irishmen.
Last evening, she had listened to Navan speak of the land he loved with such pride that she was eager to see all of it. When he thought to discourage her, she gave his misgivings no true heed. She would stand brave against his attempts to dissuade her.
“Just tell me why?” he asked often.
“Because this land is part of your soul, sir,” she said time and time again. Annalise had never known such an affinity for any place, for nothing in her life had held a permanence until now. She desperately wanted to claim what he had. All her life, at least the part she could recall, she wanted a place to callhome. Her husband knew that word in a manner she did not, but she hoped to claim that knowledge for herself one day.
