"I'll bring it in after I've rubbed down the horse and cleaned the
carriage," he called over his shoulder.
"But I..."
The carriage was already rounding the corner of the drive. She stood a
moment, watching the way her robe, mounded on the back platform,
fluttered in the breeze. With a shrug of resignation, she turned away
and entered the lovely manor house, Clay Court, that had been in her
mother's family for six generations.
Her first order of business would be to wash away the stench of fish
that clung to her skin and clothes.
Then she would make herself presentable for her visit with her
father's oldest friend.
"Bridget, the dinner was lovely."
"Thank you, miss. Will you have more tea?"
"No. Lord Davis? More tea? Or perhaps a bit more ale?"
The old man patted his stomach. "Not another drop, my dear. I fear
I'll explode."
"It was kind of you to come by tonight and keep me company."
"I knew you'd be feeling lonely with your father gone. And I was
concerned when I heard about the fighting that went on at the docks
today." He wiped his mouth, set his napkin aside. "If I'd known you
were anywhere near those barbarians, I'd have been there to
personally escort you home."
"I was never in any danger. The only one they really wanted was an
English soldier named Tilden."
"Don't be fooled, my dear. No one is safe around desperate men such
as those. An innocent like yourself has no idea what they're capable
of doing. Why, the stories I've heard about the fate of fair English
maidens at the hands of those animals would make a grown man
cringe."
The dishes in Bridget's hands clattered.
AnnaClaire glanced at her housekeeper. "You look pale, Bridget. Are
you feeling all right?"
The housekeeper backed away. "Aye, miss. Just a bit tired is all." She
turned, clutching the dishes to her chest, and fled the room.
"How about a game of chess, my dear?"
AnnaClaire shook her head. "I'm sorry, Lord Davis. Like Bridget, I'm
afraid I'm too tired to offer you much of a challenge tonight."
"All right." He stood, then held her chair as she got to her feet.
"Perhaps another night."
"I'd like that." She led the way from the ornate dining hall, then
tucked her arm through his as they walked together along the corridor
toward the front door. "Will you be going to Lady Thomly's dinner
party?"
The old man nodded. "Wouldn't miss it. Though in truth, the food
won't be nearly as tasty as what we enjoyed tonight."
Outside, his carriage and driver were silhouetted against the night
sky. The old man leaned close and brushed a kiss over her cheek. "I
bid you good night, my dear. And tell Bridget those were the best
fruit tarts I've ever tasted."
"I believe you told her. Three times."
He chuckled. "That's so she would return three times to offer me
more. If you aren't careful, I'll steal her from you."
He was helped up to the carriage. When he was settled he doffed his
hat. "Sleep well, AnnaClaire."
"And you, Lord Davis."
She waved until the carriage pulled away. Then she went inside and
made her way up the wide staircase to her suite of rooms on the
second floor. Within minutes she had shed her clothes.
"Would you be wanting anything else, miss?" Bridget hovered by the
door to AnnaClaire's bedchamber. The little maid, Glinna, was busy
turning down the bed linens and gathering up assorted skirts and
petticoats. By morning they would be washed and ironed and
carefully returned to the wardrobe."No, thank you, Bridget."
AnnaClaire yawned behind her hand. "As I'm sure you've heard, it's
been quite a tiring day."
"Aye, miss."
AnnaClaire looked at her a little more closely. A worried little frown
furrowed the housekeeper's brow. Her skin seemed to have lost all its
color. "Are you certain you're feeling all right?"
"Aye, miss. I'll be fine after a bit of sleep. If there's nothing you need,
"Good night, Bridget."
AnnaClaire waited until the housekeeper and maid had departed, then
blew out her candle and climbed into bed. But sleep wouldn't come.
She rolled from one side to the other, unable to find a comfortable
position. She was simply too stimulated by all she'd seen and heard
this day. Determined to sleep, she closed her eyes. At once she was
assaulted by the image of the darkly handsome Rory O'Neil. She had
never seen a man quite like him. Such a commanding presence. So
fearless in the face of almost certain death. He was either the bravest
man she'd ever seen or the most foolhardy.
And that voice. Just the thought of all that rage and passion had her
trembling again. She sat up, shoving a tangle of honey curls from her
eyes. There was no point in trying to sleep. Instead, she would make
herself a cup of tea and then write a letter to her father.
Slipping out of bed, she caught up a warm shawl and tossed it over
her nightshift, then padded barefoot from the room. Candles in
sconces along the hallway sputtered in pools of wax, casting eerie
shadows along the walls.
She made her way to the kitchen and placed a kettle of water over the
glowing coals of the fire. As she waited for the water to boil, she
noticed her lap robe tossed carelessly over a bench. Odd. It wasn't like
Tavis to be so casual with her things. As she picked it up, she felt
something damp and sticky. Lifting her hand to the firelight, she
frowned. It appeared to be red as blood. It must be the glow from the
coals fooling the eye.
She held a candle to the flame until the wick caught fire, then lifted it
high and studied the cloth more closely. Dear heaven. It was blood.
Not just a drop or two, but great wet rivers of it staining the entire
robe. She dropped it as though the touch of it burned her.
At the sound of a footfall behind her she spun around. And went
deadly still at the sight that greeted her.
Rory O'Neil had pulled himself from the shadows and was leaning
heavily against the table. "I'm sorry about that fine robe. I seem to
have ruined it."
Blood still oozed from his neck, his chest, his arm, soaking the front
of his tunic, staining his breeches and boots. In his right hand he held
his sword aloft.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the vision before him. A vision that
seemed to shimmer and shift. In the glow of firelight the woman
appeared to be bathed in a halo of light.
He slowly lowered his sword. "So. That's it then. I'm dying." His
voice, still rich and deep and passionate, seemed to warm as he
smiled.
At that moment his sword clattered to the floor, and he gripped the
edge of the table with both hands. The blood drained from his face.
He slowly sank to his knees, then slid bonelessly to the floor.
As AnnaClaire stood over him he muttered, "I feared I'd be damned to
hell for the path I'd chosen. It's happy I am to give up my life, now
that I've met one of heaven's angels come to escort me home."
Chapter Two
'My lady." Bridget, carrying a basin of water from the well outside,
stopped dead in her tracks. "I thought you were abed."
Tavis, holding aloft a candle, came to an abrupt halt behind her.
Guilt stained their cheeks.
"I know what you thought." Anger made Anna- Claire's color equally
high. "You thought to hide this murderer right here in my home.
Behind my back." When she pointed to the figure on the floor Bridget
dropped the basin, splashing water everywhere. In quick strides she
and Tavis were kneeling beside Rory, searching for a pulse.
Despite her anger, AnnaClaire found herself touched by their
concern.
"Is he dead?" Tavis asked.
There was a moment of silence, and AnnaClaire held her breath.
"Nay. He lives. Praise heaven." Bridget crossed herself.
AnnaClaire stared at the ever-widening pool of blood. "If you care
about this man, why did no one see to his wounds?"
Tavis looked up. "He wouldn't permit it until all his men were cared
for. I've been scouring the city for safe shelter for them."
"I should think that would be no problem, considering how highly
"...Blackhearted O'Neil."
"Aye, my lady. But after that confrontation on the docks today the
queen's emissaries have issued a proclamation. Anyone found
harboring Rory O'Neil or his men will be considered an enemy of the
Crown, and will be hanged."
"Hanged?" AnnaClaire's outrage grew. "And knowing that, you
brought him to my home?"
"He is dying, my lady." Tavis paused. "We had no way of taking him
elsewhere. It was dangerous enough getting him away from the
docks. Had it not been for your carriage, and your lap robe, even that
couldn't have been accomplished." He brightened. "Besides, since
you are considered English, my lady, the law would not apply to you.
You could always claim rightly that you knew nothing about this."
AnnaClaire found herself studying these two people with new
respect. She had known them all her life. Had spent, an occasional
summer here, escaping the noise and crowds of London. Yet she had
never thought of these two quiet, humble people as particularly
courageous. Until this moment.
"You would be able to make no such claim for yourselves. Yet you
would risk your lives for this stranger?'
Tavis nodded. "Rory O'Neil risks his life every day for his people, my
lady. We can do no less for him. With your permission we'd like to
bind his wounds."
"And then what?" AnnaClaire folded her arms. "He is mortally
wounded. But even if he should live, how could you possibly
smuggle him out of Dublin?"
The old man scratched his chin. "We haven't thought that far, my
lady. First we must keep him alive."
"And where do you propose to hide him for the night?"
Tavis got to his feet. "In the stables, with your permission."
AnnaClaire shook her head. "That will involve too many people. The
stable master. The lads who muck the stalls. The less people who
know, the better chance you have of keeping your secret." She tapped
a foot, her mind working feverishly. She wasn't even aware that she
was becoming caught up in a deadly game. To her, this was merely a
chance to use her wits and her cunning, to help these two old people
who had been with her family for so many years. ' 'Your best course
of action is to hide him where no one has any chance of coming upon
him by accident." She suddenly smiled, pointed. "I know. The little
attic room above mine."
Tavis and Bridget exchanged surprised glances. Did the lady know
what she was saying?
"No one can get in or out of that room without going through your
bedchamber, my lady."
"Exactly. Not even Glinna will be aware of our secret guest."
"But how will we be able to care for him up there?"
AnnaClaire shrugged. "I hadn't thought of that. I suppose it will fall to
me. But considering how long I cared for my mother, it will be
nothing new."
Before she could change her mind, Tavis bent and struggled to lift the
unconscious Rory. "It is a grand plan, my lady. But I fear not even the
three of us could get him up those stairs."
"He must walk." She caught up the skirt of her nightshift, careful to
avoid his blood, and knelt beside the still figure. "Rory. Rory O'Neil."
At her commanding tone he opened his eyes and stared vacantly.
"We're going to take you up now. But you must help us."
"Take...me...up." He smiled. "Aye. Will I... finally see my Caitlin?"
AnnaClaire turned to Bridget. "What is he babbling about?"
"He thinks he has died, my lady."
"I see." She bent close. "Rory O'Neil. Take my hand."
" With... pleasure."
Despite his injuries, his grip was surprisingly strong. As his fingers
closed around AnnaClaire's she felt a rush of heat that left her
thoroughly shaken.
"Here, Tavis." She sought to ignore the tingling along her spine.
"Take his other hand."
The two of them managed to haul him to his feet. Then, draping his
arms about their shoulders, they began moving ever so slowly up the
stairs. When they reached AnnaClaire's room, they opened a door that
led to a narrow staircase. By the time they reached the little attic room
all of them were out of breath and Rory's wounds were bleeding
profusely. They eased him onto the bed, then AnnaClaire stepped
back and watched as Bridget and Tavis began cutting away his
bloody clothes. The extent of his wounds sickened her, and she found
herself wondering how he could bear the pain.
Bridget speared her with a glance. "Perhaps you should leave now,
my lady. This won't be pleasant."
It was all AnnaClaire needed to stiffen her spine. "I don't expect it to
be any more pleasant than was the care of my mother. But if I could
care for her all those long months, I can certainly help bind this man's
wounds." At once she took charge. "We'll need clean linens, Bridget.
And some opiates."
"Aye, my lady." The housekeeper beckoned to her husband. "We'll
need hot water, Tavis."
When the two were gone, AnnaClaire stared down at the still figure
on the bed. Until this moment she hadn't given a thought to what she
was getting herself into. Now, suddenly, she had to question her
sanity. How had she agreed to hide a murderer in her own home? A
man considered an enemy of the Crown. If he were found here, all of
them could be hanged.
Sweet heaven. What would her father have to say about all this if he
should learn the truth?
She pushed the worrisome thoughts from her mind and set to work
cutting away the rest of his clothes. She would simply have to see that
her father never learned of this. By this time tomorrow Rory O'Neil
would most probably be dead. If by some miracle he survived, she
would send him on his way and look back on this as a momentary
madness.
"There now. We've done all we can. The rest is in God's hands, my
lady." Bridget smoothed the covers over the still figure of Rory
O'Neil and got to her feet. "Now you'd best get some sleep."
"I will. Now remember. Trust no one. Not even Glinna."
"Aye." Tavis held the door, then trailed behind the two women as.
they descended the stairs. "The little chambermaid would never be
able to keep such a secret. She'd have to boast to all her friends that
she knew the whereabouts of the Blackhearted O'Neil. And in no time
all of Dublin would know, as well."
When they reached AnnaClaire's room, Bridget caught her hand and
brought it to her lips. "Bless you, my lady, for your compassion. I'll
not soon forget what you did this night."
"Nor I, my lady." Tavis did the same, bowing over her hand. "You are
an angel of mercy."
Or a fool, AnnaClaire thought as she secured the door behind them.
What had she been thinking? She crossed to her bed and, ignoring the
bloodstains on her nightclothes, climbed between the covers. But she
was far too agitated to sleep. Instead she lay, watching the stars and
thinking about the man asleep one floor above her.
If she were caught harboring this criminal, she couldn't plead
ignorance. She knew exactly what she was doing. And, if she wanted
to be completely honest with-herself, she knew why.
One look at him and she'd been hopelessly lost. This Irish warrior
who had leapt into battle and had fought so fearlessly, had kindled a
flame in her silly, romantic heart! In her life she'd never seen anyone
quite like him. The titled Englishmen she'd met at Court were bland
by comparison.
When she had cut away his tunic she'd been amazed by the muscles of
his arms and chest. And horrified by the scars of battle. There was
something so touching about this man and his dedication. The story
that Tavis had told her lingered in her mind. Love such as that
experienced by Rory O'Neil for his intended bride was rare indeed.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep. But the enormity of what
she had done had her twitching with nerves. When she suddenly
heard a loud thud above her head, she bounded from bed and raced up
the stairs.
Rory was on the floor, thrashing around in the bed linens.
AnnaClaire knelt beside him and caught his hands to still his
movements.
"Rory O'Neil. Can you hear me?"