certain death. Your father's good name would have been ruined. And
his estates would have been confiscated by England. This was why I
had to take you along by force. So that Dunstan would harbor no
doubts about you. About us."
She was weeping again. And this time there was no stopping it.
"Oh, Rory." She turned and fell into his arms, her tears soaking the
front of his tunic. "None of this occurred to me. Thank heaven for
your quick thinking. I am indebted to you forever."
"Nay, my lady. It was little enough to pay for all you did for me." He
wiped her tears with his thumbs. "Now, dry your pretty eyes and
settle yourself in bed while I right that table arid see to fresh tea and
biscuits."
AnnaClaire climbed under the soft hides and watched as Rory moved
around the tiny hut cleaning the mess she had made. A terrible weight
had been lifted from her shoulders. Her cruel, wicked barbarian was
once again the noble hero she had thought him to be.
She wiggled her toes, stretching her cramped, aching muscles. He had
assured the safety of her dear old servants, and had saved her
reputation, and that of her father. He had seen to her safety even when
she had cursed him for it. And now, at least for the moment, she was
safe and snug and warm.
Sweet heaven, it was all too good to be true.
In a haze of contentment, she drifted once more into sleep.
Rory nudged off his boots and, plumping several hides behind his
head for a pillow, eased down on the bed beside the sleeping
AnnaClaire. He lifted the glass of ale to his lips and whispered a
prayer of thanks for the thoughtful soul who had left such ample
provisions behind in the hut. If only the rest of their odyssey could be
this comfortable. He knew it was an improbable wish. He didn't mind
for himself. Over the past two years he'd learned to take the hardship
in stride. But there was AnnaClaire to think about now.
He glanced at her and found himself alternately smiling and
frowning. She looked so peaceful in sleep. Like an angel come down
from heaven. She truly was an angel. One who didn't deserve this. He
hated the thought of the danger he'd exposed her to.
He hadn't wanted this life for her. But now that he'd made the choice,
there was no turning back. She would be forced to spend endless
nights in the saddle, fleeing every ghost and shadow that trailed them.
And by day, she would have to hide like a thief.
He thought about her courage and dignity when she'd thought she was
being kidnapped. It must have seemed like a nightmare, watching her
beloved servants being bullied, her own life being turned upside
down. But she had neither fainted nor despaired. She had instead kept
her composure and had displayed a spirit, a temper that delighted
him. No wonder he loved her so.
Love. The thought struck like a thunderbolt, leaving him slightly
dazed and breathless. He hadn't meant to love her. He'd meant only to
take the shelter she offered. And, he had to admit, whatever else she
might have offered. But that was before. Before lust had somehow
turned to this other, deeper emotion.
Love. He knew what it was to love. To put another's comfort before
his own. To care so deeply, no sacrifice was too great, no price too
high to pay. To know, in his heart of hearts, that he would willingly
die before he would see her harmed.
Love.
With love came responsibility. Somehow he must get word to
AnnaClaire's father that she was truly safe from harm. For her father
would surely be told of her capture by the Blackhearted O'Neil. He
would have to act quickly to relieve Lord James Thompson of his
fear.
Rory drained the last of the ale and set the empty tumbler aside.
Numbly he settled himself under the hides beside AnnaClaire, careful
not to touch her. Because if he did, there would be no stopping him.
He wanted her so desperately, loved her so completely, an entire
regiment of English soldiers wouldn't be able to keep him from her,
once the passion was unleashed. But he had no right to declare his
love for her. Not so long as this thing between himself and Tilden
remained unresolved. As a man of honor, he must return her to her
father's home as he had found her. Untouched. Unspoiled. With her
virtue intact.
He would have to change his plans because of her. There was no way
he could drag her around the countryside while he searched for
Tilden. A woman like AnnaClaire needed a safe haven.
The thought came at once. He would take her home. To Ballinarin.
Though he had planned never to see it again until his quest had ended,
he would have to break his vow. AnnaClaire's safety and comfort had
to come first.
He fell asleep wondering how his family would feel about offering
sanctuary to the daughter of Lord James Thompson.
The sun was high in the sky before AnnaClaire awoke. When she
looked around, Rory was nowhere to be seen. Beside her, the hides
still bore the imprint of his body. She lay back a moment, absorbing
the knowledge that he'd slept alongside her. It was a strange feeling to
think they'd shared a bed. Strange and... intriguing.
The door to the hut opened and the object of her thoughts stepped
inside, carrying a string of wriggling fish.
"I see you're awake. Good morrow, my lady. How did you sleep?"
"As comfortably as if I'd-been in my own bed. In fact," she shot him a
shyly seductive smile, "it was all the more comforting, knowing you
were here with me to protect me."
He saw the high color on her cheeks and hated himself for the things
he was thinking. "If you care to wash, there's fresh water and linens."
He busied himself at the table, preparing the fish for cooking. He was
determined to remain as busy as possible, to keep from thinking.
AnnaClaire slipped out of bed and crossed to a basin. In the chipped
looking glass she caught sight of herself, hair all mussed and
tumbling about her shoulders, face smudged, gown wrinkled and torn
from brambles. This wasn't at all the way she wanted to look.
Especially now that she was alone with Rory.
With soap and water she repaired the worst of the damage, then ran
her fingers through the tangles and, swinging her waist-length hair
forward, began to plait it into one thick braid.
Across the room Rory tried not to stare. But there was something so
intimate about watching AnnaClaire wash her face and fix her hair.
Such ordinary things, yet they stirred a longing in him. A yearning
that had him clutching the edge of the table to keep from storming
across the room and taking her.
She tossed back her hair and smoothed down her skirts, then turned.
Catching sight of him she started toward him. "What is it, Rory?
What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I..." He shook his head to clear it. "Nothing."
"You're lying." She laid a hand on his arm. "You've heard something.
Seen something. Whatever it is, it has you upset. I can tell."
He shook off her hand as though the touch of her burned. "
I
need...water from the stream." The fresh air would surely clear his
head.
"There's water in the pitcher. I'll get it." She crossed the room and
returned with the pitcher. "Where would you like it?"
"In that pot." He refused to look at her. "We'll make tea."
He stood very still until she had moved away. Then, relieved that
there was some distance between them, he finished boning the fish
and tossed them into a skillet. Before he could set it on the fire, she
reached for it. The touch of her hand on his made him burn with need.
"I'll cook them, Rory."
He watched her carefully turn the fish as they began to brown. He
would keep the conversation as impersonal as possible. "Are you as
good a cook as Bridget?"
She gave a delighted laugh. "Who do you think taught me?"
She looked so sweet and fresh, so comfortable, standing in this simple
sod hut cooking his supper. He ached to take her into his arms and
kiss her until they were both breathless. "What about your mother?"
"She was always in delicate health. There were many days and weeks
that she didn't leave her bed. So Bridget became like a mother to me.
It was Bridget who soothed my hurts and tucked me in bed. And
Bridget who taught me to cook and sew."
He heard her loneliness and was reminded of his own rowdy,
affectionate family. It was all he could do to keep from offering her
the comfort of his arms.
bring her back to Ireland. She wanted to die in her family home,
surrounded by those who loved her."
"Aye." Rory allowed himself a single touch of his hand on her hair
before pulling back. The thought of running his fingers through the
tangles, of burying his face in it, had his breath coming faster, harder.
"I know how she felt. I want to be laid to rest at Ballinarin."
AnnaClaire turned from the fire and began to arrange the fish on a
platter. Breaking off a tiny portion she held it to his lips. Her smile
was radiant. "Now you can judge whether or not Bridget was an apt
teacher."
He was so stunned by the touch of her fingers against his lips, he
couldn't have said whether it was food in his mouth or ashes. The
merest touch of her had his vision misting and the blood roaring in his
temples.
He managed to swallow before saying, "I nearly forgot. I have
to...chop some wood for the fire."
Puzzled by his reaction, her smile faded. "The fire's fine. And there
are several logs beside the hearth."
"Not nearly enough." He caught her roughly by the shoulders and
moved her aside before turning away.
"But, Rory, the fish will be cold."
"Sorry. This won't keep." He wouldn't look at her. Couldn't. Instead
he stumbled toward the door and, flinging it wide, stormed outside,
breathing in great gulps of air.
Sometimes a man had to do whatever it took to keep his common
sense from slipping below his waist. Even if it meant looking as
though he'd completely lost his mind.
AnnaClaire watched in openmouthed surprise as Rory slammed out
of the hut. Dejected, she broke off a piece of fish and tasted,
expecting it to be spoiled. To her delight, it was fresh. Delicious.
Even Bridget's skill could not have improved upon it.
She sank down onto the edge of the bed, deep in thought. If it wasn't
the fish that had sent Rory away, it must have been something she'd
said. But try as she might, she couldn't recall a single thing that might
have caused him to run from her as though being chased by a crowd
of banshees. She had tried in every way she could to let him know
how glad she was to be here with him. More than glad. She was
elated. At last, there were no servants to hide from. No callers to
interrupt them. They were alone. All alone. And free to do as they
pleased.
And oh, how she wanted to please him. Hadn't she given him her best
and brightest smile? Couldn't he read the invitation in her eyes? He'd
have to be blind not to know that she'd been inviting his advances.
But instead of accepting her invitation, he'd run from her as though
she had the plague. But why, when he had seemed so bold in her
home in Dublin? What could have changed?
As she sat there, pondering all she'd said and done, his words of last
night came rushing back. Your virtue is safe with me, my lady.
She covered her hand with her mouth. Oh, sweet heaven. He was
doing this for her. To save her virtue. Even if it meant going without
supper. Even if it meant chopping wood when he would rather be
warm and snug inside this hut.
She stood and began to pace. She would have to swallow her pride
and find a way to let him know how she really felt.
If only Bridget had been as free with her advice about love as she had
been about the womanly arts of cooking and sewing, she thought.
She made her way to the door, praying that Rory O'Neil would not
make her task too difficult.
Chapter Ten
Rory brought the axe down with such fury the log split in one clean
stroke. He tossed the two pieces aside and angled another log in
place, then repeated the process.
In frustration he'd flung his tunic aside. A sheen of sweat beaded his
torso. With each movement the wound in his shoulder ached. He was
actually glad of the pain. It was something to focus on. Something
besides AnnaClaire, with that angelic smile and sinfully tempting
body.
He'd been very aware of the effort she was taking to make amends for
been justified. And now, of course, she was confusing gratitude with
love. That was the reason for the way she was throwing herself at
him.
He lifted the axe, swung it with all his might, hoping to banish the
image of high firm breasts and softly swaying hips. If he weren't
trying to be so damnably noble, all that she offered could be his.
The log split with such force the two pieces danced through the air
and landed several feet away. As he positioned another log, he saw a
blur of movement out of the corner of his eye.
"AnnaClaire." He spun around to face her. "You should be inside
eating."
"I don't want to eat alone." She felt breathless, her heart slamming
against her ribs as though she'd been running for miles. "I thought I'd
wait for you, Rory."
"There's no need. I have all these logs to split."
"Fine. I'll just carry a few of them inside and stack them beside the
fireplace. Then I'll come back for more."
As she bent to one he caught her roughly by the arm. Heat rushed
through him at the mere touch of her. It would seem that the chill in
the air had done nothing to cool the fire that burned within. "I don't
want your help. They're too heavy for you."
"I'm not some fragile doll, Rory." She touched a hand to his cheek
and felt him flinch. A little thrill shot through her. So, she had been
right. He was trying to be noble. But he wanted
her. Wanted her. It
gave her an exhilarating sense of power. Her voice softened, warmed.
"I'm a woman. Or haven't you noticed?"
"Aye." His throat felt too tight. "I'd have to be a blind man not to
notice."
Her smile bloomed. "Good. I wonder if you've noticed,..too, that I'm a
woman with a mind of her own."
He cleared his throat. "It's come to my attention a time or two."
Her hand moved upward, cupping the back of his head.-"Right now,
I've a mind to taste your lips and see if I can wipe away that frown."
There was just a hint of laughter in her voice.
His hand closed around her wrist, stopping the movement. His eyes
were hard as flint. "I'm not in the mood for games, AnnaClaire."
Her heart stuttered, and for a moment she felt a rush of fear. Then she
stiffened her spine. "Nor am I. This isn't a game, Rory O'Neil. It's
something far more serious."
"Aye. I'm glad you realize that." He made the mistake of relaxing his
hand, intent upon stepping back a pace so he could breathe. He
realized too late that she had no intention of allowing him his space.
She leaned into him, her breasts brushing his naked chest. Did she
know what she was doing to him? All the air seemed to leave his
lungs. "What do you think you're doing now, AnnaClaire?"
"I want you to make love with me, Rory."
Her bold words had his jaw dropping. "You want me to" take your
virtue? So that I'll be no better than one of those English bastards?"
She placed a finger to his lips to silence his words. "You could never
be like them. There's a difference. You won't be taking. I'll be
giving."
"You'd be wasting the gift. I'm a wanted man. A man with no future.
I've nothing to offer in return."
"I'll ask for nothing more than this."
When he opened his mouth to issue a protest, she dipped her finger
inside. He muttered an oath. And felt his world begin to tilt
dangerously.
He closed a hand over her shoulder to steady himself. "You don't
know what you're doing, AnnaClaire."
"I know exactly what I'm doing. I've never been so sure of anything in
my life."
He stared down into her eyes and could read all the love, all the
longing, that matched his own. The axe dropped from his hand and
landed beside their feet with a thud. They took no notice.
His tone hardened. "Once we cross this line there will be no going