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Noel would have refused to
do this incredibly menial job, his father’s disapproval be damned.
But this might be a good way to accomplish two deeds: to win his
father’s favor, although why that desire continued to plague Noel
after all these years remained a mystery even to him, and to
finally have Farrell Kirwan exactly where he wanted her—in his
bed.
    “ Very well, then, sir. I
shall do as you ask. I’ll find Aidan O’Rourke and Farrell Kirwan,
and bring them back to Skibbereen.”

    CHAPTER THREE

    Farrell had asked for no special
treatment. But the day was just an hour from dusk, and except for
an hour or two, they’d been walking since eventide the night
before. She was so footsore and weary, she was about to suggest
that they rest for awhile when Aidan stopped, his gaze fixed on
something up ahead.
    “ Wait,” he said, holding out
his arm to stop her. He drew himself up, alert and wary, and his
caution telegraphed to Farrell. The subject of his scrutiny was a
wagon stopped in the road, pulled by a team of two deep-chested
draft horses. The driver stood bent over the huge hoof of one of
the beasts.
    While she hung back, Aidan approached
the man and after a brief conversation, he motioned her
forward.
    “ Farrell, this is Mr.
Stephen Riley. He’s kindly agreed to give us a ride.”
    This was welcome news to Farrell.
“Thank you, Mr. Riley. We’ve been walking a long time.”
    “ Pleased to help, missus.
Cork’s miles ahead yet, and this isn’t fit weather for walkin’,”
Riley observed, gesturing at threatening clouds in the western sky.
He was a thin young man, more by natural constitution, it appeared,
than from hunger. He patted the big horses’ necks and climbed up to
the wagon seat. “I think we’ll get into town early tonight. I’ve
room in the back of the cart if ye don’t mind riding with the
butter.”
    Both Aidan and Farrell
stared at the cargo as if it were diamonds; butter had been as rare
as gemstones in their lives. The tiny bit that was churned in
the clachan was
sold to help pay rents.
    Riley explained that he was taking it
to the city to sell for Indian corn for his master’s blooded
horses. How typical of the English, that their horses were more
important than people. She saw Aidan’s face color and his dark
brows lower, and knew his thoughts were running along the same
line. She held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t make a sharp comment
that would change Riley’s mind about giving them a ride.
    To her relief, Aidan only thanked the
bailiff and assisted her into the wagon. She felt his warm, strong
hand through her thin shawl as he took her elbow.
    Farrell was glad for the chance to
ride, even wedged as she was between the burlap-covered butter
crocks. Her thin shoes protected her feet from the bare ground, but
they were little help in keeping them warm.
    As the wagon rolled forward and the
horses found a steady, comfortable gait, the countryside passed at
a somewhat faster pace. Farrell leaned back against a crock, lulled
by the rocking motion, and closed her eyes. She tried not to think
about fresh, hot bread dripping golden butter and smeared with jam,
but it wasn’t easy. Only the knowledge that they’d finally eat in
Cork kept her from prying open one of the crocks and scooping out
handfuls of the churned cream to lick from her fingers.
    Despite the turmoil of her thoughts,
she felt Aidan watching her. They sat so close in the little farm
cart, she didn’t dare glance up into his eyes. What would she see
there if she did? Perhaps the same indefinable expression she’d
seen after their wedding. A look that was assessing, possessing,
fathomless. She let her lids close, hoping for rest, and seeking
escape from his dark blue gaze.
    Aidan reached behind him to move a
crock that was jabbing his spine, watching Farrell all the while.
He couldn’t help himself—he’d rarely had this perfect opportunity
to study her, and yet he’d wanted to so often. Fatigue and sorrow
were