Rory

  Then, suddenly wide awake, she looked around in dismay, afraid that

  Rory was still asleep beside her. Seeing the bed empty, she gave a

  sigh of relief. She could vaguely recall his whispered words in the

  early hours of morning. She touched a finger to her cheek where he

  placed a gentle kiss as he'd left her. But somehow she had drifted

  back to sleep, with a promise to write her father that she was safe and

  well.

  As the little maid began to edge from the room, shooing the dogs as

  she went, AnnaClaire called out, "No, Velia. Please stay."

  "You're certain, my lady?"

  "Aye. I can't recall when I've ever slept so soundly."

  "And so you should. From what I've heard, you endured a long and

  perilous journey, my lady. All the household is abuzz about your

  courage."

  As the little maid opened the draperies, AnnaClaire could see that the

  sun was already high in the sky.

  "I was given orders that you were not to be disturbed." Velia moved

  around the room, filling a basin with water, laying out an assortment

  of fresh clothes.

  "That was kind of your mistress." AnnaClaire climbed from bed and

  scratched each hound's ears before crossing to the basin.

  "'Twas not the mistress of the house who gave the order. 'Twas Rory

  O'Neil himself. He forbade anyone from coming near you."

  AnnaClaire busied herself at the basin to hide the color she knew was

  on her cheeks. She would speak to her bold lover about this later. For

  now she must prepare herself to leave. "Is everyone below stairs?"

  "Aye, my lady." When AnnaClaire finished washing, the servant

  helped her into a chemise and petticoat, then held up a gown the color

  of the sky. "Does this meet with your approval?"

  "It's lovely. But I had hoped to wear my own gown and cloak,

  especially since I'll be leaving today."

  "As you wish, my lady." The little maid appeared distressed. "Your

  garments were badly soiled. But I'll have them brought to your room

  as soon as I have them in good repair."

  AnnaClaire slipped on her kid boots and studied her reflection in the

  looking glass as the little maid dressed her hair. Then she hurried

  down the stairs, in search of Rory.

  The sound of voices led her to the dining hall. When she entered,

  those around the table looked up in sudden silence. It seemed clear

  that they had been discussing her. And, she thought, probably

  wondering how soon they would be rid of her.

  "Ah, AnnaClaire. Good morrow." It was Conor, ever the gallant one,

  who crossed the room and took her hand to lead her smoothly toward

  his family.

  "Good morrow, Conor." She bowed a greeting to the others, who

  responded with cool nods.

  "Rory had thought you'd stay abed for hours." He held a chair, and

  she had no choice but to take her place to one side of a scowling

  Gavin.

  She accepted a goblet of hot mulled wine and sipped before asking,

  "Where is Rory?"

  Gavin and Moira exchanged glances. It was Moira who said, "Rory

  needed to ride. There are...places he wanted to visit. He's been away a

  long time."

  A servant paused beside AnnaClaire, offering a tray of steamed fish

  and mutton. She refused, accepting instead a slice of bread, still warm

  from the oven.

  When the servant walked away she said, "I've instructed Velia to have

  my gown and traveling cloak ready. I can leave as soon as Rory

  returns."

  "You can't leave yet, Englishwoman." The temper was still in Gavin's

  tone. "You owe me a chance to redeem myself at the chess table."

  She kept her tone deliberately cool, refusing to give an inch. "That

  shouldn't take long, Gavin O'Neil. I can beat you at chess and still be

  on my way in an hour or less."The nerve of the woman. He pushed

  away from the table and shot her a steely look. "Unfortunately I must

  ride to the village first. Then we shall see who wins and who loses."

  AnnaClaire nodded. "Very well." What little appetite she'd had was

  now gone. Where was Rory? Why had he left her alone at such a

  time? He had to know how awkward this was. All his lovely promises

  made under the cover of darkness had been snatched away by the

  light of day.

  Seeing her restlessness Moira said, "Perhaps you would be more

  comfortable in the gardens."

  "Aye. Thank you." AnnaClaire got to her feet, grateful for the chance

  to escape.

  "Come, Briana," her mother called. "You will accompany us."

  As AnnaClaire followed them outside, the ever present hounds

  trailed, circling her legs.

  "Oh." AnnaClaire's earlier frustration was forgotten as she stepped

  through the doorway. "This is lovely."

  The gardens were in the manner of the formal English gardens, with

  carefully planted hedges, curving stone walkways, and comfortable

  stone benches set here and there among the plantings.

  "It will be glorious when the summer sun has had a chance to work its

  magic on the blooms."

  "Even without the flowers, there's a feeling of peace and beauty

  here," said AnnaClaire.

  Moira's quick smile was so much like Rory's, AnnaClaire felt a little

  jolt around her heart. "Aye. The first time I came here, as a young

  bride, I felt it."

  "How old were you?" AnnaClaire asked as she lifted her face to the

  thin sunshine.

  "Ten and five."

  AnnaClaire turned to study her. "So young."

  "Aye." Moira shook her head. "No older than Briana is now. It's hard

  to believe I could know my own mind at such a tender age. But the

  moment I saw Gavin O'Neil I knew he was the man I wanted."

  Despite his stern countenance, AnnaClaire could see why a young

  woman would lose her heart to such a bold, proud warrior. Hadn't his

  son touched her own heart in much the same way? "Did your father

  have nothing to say about it?"

  "Oh, indeed he did. And none of it good."

  "Why?"

  Moira indicated a bench in the sunlight, and the three women sat.

  "Gavin O'Neil had a reputation as a fierce warrior. Such men often

  leave young widows behind. My father was determined that his only

  child would wed a man who would give her both a peaceful life and a

  comfortable one. He refused to accept Gavin's request for my hand.

  When Gavin pressed, my father said there would be no dowry, and

  thus, no wedding."

  AnnaClaire arched a brow. "It's obvious that your father gave in. How

  did Gavin convince him?"

  "Gavin didn't convince him. I did." Moira held her hands to her

  cheeks, surprised that even after all these years, the telling of the tale

  could make her blush. "I tried begging, pleading. Then I did the only

  thing I could. I sent a message to Gavin asking him to come for me,

  and signed my father's name to the missive. When Gavin showed up

  to claim his bride and her dowry, I was waiting by the river's edge,

  with nothing but the clothes on my back. I told him that the only way

  he could have me was to take me as I was." She gave an embarrassed

  laugh. "As you can see, he did."


  "Were you forced to sever all ties with your father?"

  Moira smiled. "I'd expected to. But blood is deep. When he learned

  that I had given birth to his first grandson, he sent word that he

  wished to visit. He made his peace with my choice, and in time, he

  and Gavin became fast friends. Until his death there were many

  joyful visits between us."

  The older woman looked up when she saw the cook heading toward

  them. "I must speak with Fiola. Briana will keep you company in the

  garden, since you seem more comfortable here than in the keep."

  "Thank you." When she was gone, AnnaClaire glanced at the

  scowling young woman beside her and realized that Briana was here

  against her wishes. Hoping to put her at ease she said,' 'Your home is

  as lovely as Rory had said."

  "He told you about Ballinarin?"

  "Aye. And always there was such love in his voice when he spoke of

  it. It was the same when he spoke of all of you."

  "Then you have us at a disadvantage, Englishwoman. For we knew

  nothing about you. Oh, why did you have to come here and turn our

  world upside down?"

  AnnaClaire touched a hand to the young woman's sleeve. "I know

  you're distressed, Briana. But it's just as distressing for me. This was

  not my choice. Nor, I think, was it Rory's. Circumstances forced him

  to bring me here."

  The young woman pulled away as though the mere touch of her

  burned. ' 'I wish my brother had never met you. I wish things could be

  as they were, before the slaughter began, before Rory had to go away.

  I don't want you here. You're a millstone around Rory's neck."

  With that she lifted her skirts in a most unladylike fashion and ran

  back to the keep.

  With a sigh AnnaClaire stood and shook down her skirts, wishing she

  could escape as easily as Briana had. Feeling restless and edgy, she

  began to follow the winding walkway which was bordered on either

  side with thick hedges. Beyond the hedges she could hear the sound

  of a voice, speaking in low tones. Puzzled, she continued on until she

  came to a break in the hedge. The voice was louder here. She peered

  around and saw Innis. But this was unlike the shy lad she had seen

  yesterday. He was speaking as fiercely as the O'Neil, gesturing

  wildly.

  Hoping to find Rory with him, AnnaClaire stepped through the

  opening and found herself in a circular courtyard, with benches all

  around, and a fountain in the middle. The carved figures at the base of

  the fountain depicted a mother holding a child. In the child's hands

  was a bouquet of flowers, which he was offering to his mother. There

  were identical looks of love on the faces of both mother and son.

  When AnnaClaire looked more closely, she realized that Innis was

  alone. And speaking to the statue.

  "She's English," he was saying. "Bloody, hateful English. I must

  never forget that, though she looks just like you. When I first saw her

  I thought it was my mother come back from the grave. But now I

  know she can never be..."

  At a slight sound behind him he whirled and caught sight of

  AnnaClaire. His words died. His eyes flashed with a fire that

  reminded her of a soldier in the heat of battle."I'm sorry I startled

  you." AnnaClaire stood very still. Aware of the boy's tension, she

  looked over his head and pretended to study the fountain, to give him

  time to compose himself. "She's very beautiful."

  He held his silence.

  "If I lived here, I would want to visit this place often. It's soothing to

  the spirit." She glanced at the statue, then at Innis. "Does it remind

  you of your mother?"

  He looked away, refusing to meet her eyes.

  Her voice lowered with feeling. "I lost my mother two months ago. I

  don't know if the ache will ever leave my heart. Sometimes I find

  myself weeping for no reason at all."

  His voice was tight, angry. "The O'Neil says it isn't right to cry."

  It was the first time he'd spoken to her. Though she could hear the

  anger in his tone, she felt a quickening of her heartbeat. It was a crack

  in the wall of hatred he'd built.

  She chose her words carefully. "The O'Neil isn't God almighty. I'll

  wager he's been wrong a time or two."

  For a moment he merely stared at her, too stunned to respond. Then,

  with a look that might have carried just a hint of a smile, he turned

  away. In almost a whisper he asked, "Are you looking for Rory?"

  "Aye. Do you know where he went?"

  Instead of responding, he merely turned away. With a glance over his

  shoulder to see that she was following, he led her through the garden,

  across the sloping lawns, past the small chapel, and out onto the old

  bog road.

  As they walked AnnaClaire drank in the beauty of this wild, primitive

  place. The sides of hills were dotted with stunted, twisted shrubs and

  trees. The sky above was a harsh gray-green, the swirl of clouds

  threatening rain. The wind blew, sharp and chill, whipping the ends

  of her skirt, flattening it against her legs.

  They continued walking, following the bend in the road, until Innis

  came to a sudden halt.

  The land looked no different from the surrounding countryside. Yet

  AnnaClaire felt a shiver course along her spine. No sheep grazed

  here. No crops had been planted. A single bird circled overhead,

  calling to its mate. Its lonely cry seemed to echo in the stillness.

  Up ahead she could see a horse standing very still, bridle dangling. At

  first she thought its rider may have fallen. But when she looked more

  closely she could see Rory kneeling on the ground, his face buried in

  his hands.

  AnnaClaire pressed a hand to her mouth as the realization dawned.

  Dear heaven. This was the place where his Caitlin and her family had

  been slaughtered. She felt a thrust of pain, sharp and deep, around her

  heart. Jealousy? For a dead woman? She struggled to deny it. But the

  truth was, it hurt to realize that Rory was grieving for a lost love. Still,

  she consoled herself, had it not been for the massacre that had

  occurred here, she would never have met him. Would never have lost

  her heart to this wild Irish warrior.

  "Have you come here since...?" She couldn't bring herself to speak of

  the slaughter of this lad's entire family.

  Innis ran a hand over a rough stone, standing like a lone sentinel in

  the field. "I come here every day."

  "Every day? But why?"

  "To remember." His big eyes looked sad. And old. And haunted.

  AnnaClaire shivered. "I should think you'd rather forget."

  "Forget?" He whirled on her, anger blazing in his eyes. "I'll never

  forget." His brow drew together in a small frown. "I must remember.

  So that I can see it never happens again."

  "And how can one small boy accomplish that?"

  "Do you see this?" He revealed a small dagger hidden at his waist.

  "Each day since Rory left, I've come here to learn, to practice until it's

  now second nature. With this, I could cut the heart from a bird in

  flight."

  As he took aim at the lone bird overhead, AnnaClaire clos
ed a hand

  over his wrist. "Nay, Innis. I couldn't bear to see a bird killed."

  "Liar." He jerked free of her touch. "Unhand me, Englishwoman. If I

  had to, I could even cut out your heart." With fierce concentration he

  tossed the knife. He turned at the last second so that instead of the

  bird, he tossed the knife at a leaf, trembling on a high, barren branch.

  The dagger pierced the leaf and brought it tumbling to the ground.

  AnnaClaire was shocked at the violence in the lad. Though he had

  grudgingly avoided killing the bird, she had the distinct impression

  that he would have preferred io aim his weapon at her heart.

  As he retrieved his dagger and returned it to his hiding place beneath

  his waist he muttered, "When I'm big enough, I shall join Rory O'Neil

  on his quest for vengeance. And together we'll rid this land of all

  English."

  "Oh, Innis." She felt her heart contract at the venom in his tone. "I

  pray that day never comes." With tears stinging her eyes she turned

  away. "Now I must leave this place at once." She began stumbling

  over the rough terrain.

  He moved easily by her side. "Why do you flee, Englishwoman? Are

  you afraid to see what your countrymen have done?"

  "I have no right to be here. I'm..." The enemy. The words were burned

  into her mind. She clamped her mouth tightly shut and began to run.

  They both looked up at the pounding of hoofbeats.

  "AnnaClaire." Rory brought his horse to a halt. His eyes were raw

  and gritty. The heaviness in his heart made his voice rougher than he

  intended. "What are you doing out here?"

  "I asked Innis to show me..." She groped for words. "... this place. He

  comes here every day."

  Rory swiveled his head. "Do you, lad?"

  Innis stared boldly at the warrior whose name was spoken with such

  reverence, he was almost a god. The boy could still see, in his mind's

  eye, the savage look on Rory's face when he'd first come upon the

  scene of the massacre. At night the lad was often awakened by the

  sound of his own cry, echoing the heart-wrenching sound that had

  broken from Rory's lips when he'd found his beloved Caitlin. But if

  Innis wept in sleep, by day he could only mimic the man whose eyes

  had been dry and dead and lifeless by the time he'd stood over the

  graves and vowed revenge.

  "Can you speak, lad?" Rory slid from the saddle and knelt beside him.

  "Are you afraid of me, Innis?"

  The boy met his look. "Nay. I do not fear you. Though some call you