His
movements
stilled.
His
eyes
opened.
"My...sword.
Need...weapon."
"Have no fear. There is no one here who will harm you."
"My... sword."
She sighed. "I'll fetch it. But first you have to get back into bed." She
urged him upward, but her strength was no match for his. When he
tugged on her hands, she was forced back to her knees.
"Where... am... I?"
"You're in my home. Clay Court. In Dublin."
"Dublin." He closed his eyes. "Not heaven." A moment later they
snapped open. "Who...are...you?"
"My name is AnnaClaire."
He struggled to focus on her face. Then for a moment the pain lifted
and his eyes were lit with a smile. "Ah. My...angel."
"Come now, Rory. You have to get back into bed."
She tugged on his hands, and this time he managed to lever himself
back to the edge of the mattress.
As he slowly sank back against the pillows, his face revealed his pain.
"Need...weapons."
"You have no need..."
"Weapons." His voice was little more than a croak. But the passion,
the fervor, still rang.
"Very well." She crossed the room and picked up his sword, surprised
at how heavy it was. The hilt was an intricately carved coat of arms,
encrusted with jewels. "Here is your sword."
She placed it beside him in the bed and noted how his hand curled
around the hilt. •
"More."
"More weapons?"
He nodded.
She searched among his things and discovered two knives. It would
seem this warrior took nothing for granted. When she handed them to
him, he positioned one beneath each hand. Only then did he give in to
the weariness and close his eyes.
She realized that this was what he'd been seeking when he slipped
from his bed. Despite the seriousness of his wounds, he had fought
through the pain to search for his weapons. He would be a warrior,
she supposed, until death claimed him.
-"I'll leave you now," she whispered.
"Stay."
She dropped to her knees beside the bed. "Why? What is it? Are you
afraid?"
'Of... dying?" He shook his head. "I welcome... death. But stay, angel.
Be my guide...as I leave this world."
"You aren't going to die, Rory O'Neil." Though she spoke fiercely
enough, the very thought of it had her trembling.
"Did He...tell you?"
"He? Oh, you mean God." She nearly laughed. "I'm afraid He doesn't
speak to me directly. But I have it on good authority that your
wounds, though painful, are not fatal." She hoped she would be
forgiven for her lie. But she desperately wanted to offer him hope.
"Then why...are you here?"
She touched a hand to his lips to silence him. "No more questions.
You must sleep if you're to heal."
When she started to remove her hand he surprised her by placing his
fingers over hers and holding them to his mouth. The press of his lips
against her flesh caused a rush of feelings that were so startling, all
she could do was stare at him.
"Just stay. A little...while longer."
Each word he whispered against her hand sent another jolt surging
through her already charged system. Had he asked for the moon,
she'd have tried to get it. As long as he continued touching her just so.
"All right, Rory O'Neil." She smoothed the bed linens as she had seen
Bridget do, then settled herself into a chaise beside the bed. "Just a
little while longer."
She watched the uneven rise and fall of his chest, willing each breath,
praying to hold off his death for a few moments longer, until sleep
claimed her.
The opiates had long ago worn off, and Rory's body was engulfed in
fire. Pain, a burning, blazing pain, radiated from his shoulder and his
back to the very tips of his fingers and toes. His closed eyes felt hot
and gritty. His temples throbbed as though they would burst at any
moment.Because the simplest movement added to his pain, he forced
himself to lie perfectly still. Sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip,
but he had not the strength to lift a hand.
It occurred to him that, although his own breathing was shallow and
unsteady, there was another sound close by. A soft, rhythmic sound.
Like the whisper of an angel.
His eyes opened. He beheld a most wondrous sight. A chaise had
been pulled close beside him. In it was a woman asleep. Her feet were
tucked under her, her cheek resting on her clasped hands. Hair the
color of spun gold drifted around her face and shoulders.
He had thought he'd only dreamed her. But she was real. As if to
prove it to himself, he reached out a hand and touched a strand of her
hair. It was as soft as angel down.
In her sleep she brushed aside his hand, then lifted her head and
opened her eyes. For a moment he could read her confusion. Then
those eyes, the color of the sea after a storm, suddenly cleared.
She shifted, swinging her feet to the floor. "You're alive, Rory
O'Neil."
"Am I?"
"How do you feel?"
"Like I've been run through by a score of English swords."
' 'From the looks of the scars on your body, you have been." She
motioned toward the table against the far wall. "I can give you a
potion to ease the pain."
"And I'll gladly take it. In a moment. Right now I'd like to keep a clear
head."
"Why is that?"
"Because I need to know where I am." He glanced around at the
sloped ceilings, the stone of a chimney that soared through the roof.
Except for a tiny opening that allowed a glimpse of dawn light, there
were no other windows.
"You're in an attic room of my home, Clay Court, in Dublin."
"Your home, is it?"
"It's been in my mother's family for generations."
"And what might her name be?"
"It was Margaret Doyle."
Was. He heard the pain in that one word and decided not to press
further. "And what might your name be?"
"My name is AnnaClaire."
"Well, AnnaClaire, if you don't mind, I'll take that potion now." The
pain was raging out of control, setting his entire body on fire.
She sprinkled some powder into a tumbler of water, then -at on the
edge of the bed. Very gently she lifted hi- head and held the glass to
his lips.
"Has anyone ever told you you have a very gentle touch,
AnnaClaire?"
"Are you trying to charm me, Rory O'Neil?"
"Is it working?"
"I think you'd better save that charm for another time. Now drink."
He swallowed, wondering if anything could put out the flame that
raged through his blood. A flame that had flared higher when she
touched him.
"Now I must leave you," she said as she lowered his head to the
pillow. Taking a spotless handkerchief from her pocket she mopped
the sweat from his face.
He caught her hand. "Aye, a very gentle touch."
She struggled to ignore the feelings of pleasure that he arou
sed in her.
"My bedchamber is directly below here. When it is safe to return, I
shall. But you must not call out or make any sound. Is that clear?"
"Why?"
"Because we must keep your presence here a secret. Since that scene
at the docks, there is more than a price on your head, Rory O'Neil. It
has been decreed that anyone found harboring you or your men shall
be hanged."
"Bloody English," he muttered. Then to her he said, "I understand.
Have no fear, lovely AnnaClaire. Even if I find myself dying, I'll see
to it that I do so in silence, so as not to call attention to myself." A
shadow of a smile flickered across his lips, making him even more
handsome.
"I'll hold you to that." She crossed the room and let herself out
without a backward glance.
Rory lay very still, allowing the opiates to weave their magic. As he
drifted once more to sleep, he found himself wondering if the lovely
AnnaClaire was real, or a product of his befuddled brain. Either way,
she was the most beautiful creature he'd either seen or conjured. All
tiny and slender and golden, with skin like porcelain and a full, pouty
mouth that could trap a man with one kiss.
Her hair wasn't black as a raven's wing, as Caitlin's had been. And her
eyes weren't blue. For all of his life, his-beloved Caitlin had been the
measure of all other women. And not one had ever come close to her
beauty. But right now, try as he might, he could no longer hold on to
her fading image.
If was the potion, he knew. Not the woman who had just left him. But
it worried him all the same.
With Caitlin's name repeated again and again in his mind like a litany,
he fell into a fitful sleep.
Chapter Three
Good morrow, my lady." After a single knock on the door, Glinna,
the little chambermaid bustled in, her arms laden with clean clothing.
Caught unawares, AnnaClaire had no choice but to dive beneath the
bedlinens, to hide the bloodstains on her nightshift.
"You're up early this morrow, my lady. I heard you stirring and
thought you'd be needing these." Glinna began arranging the
petticoats atop a nearby night table, then hung a clean gown in the
wardrobe. "What would you like me to fetch for you?"
"Nothing just yet. I believe I'll stay abed for awhile."
"Are you unwell, my lady?"
"Well, I..." AnnaClaire smoothed the linens, avoiding the maid's
eyes. "I think perhaps I'm coming down with something."
They both looked up at another knock on the door. Bridget entered,
carrying a tray covered with a linen cloth.
"Good morrow, my lady." She shot AnnaClaire a knowing look. "I
hope your night went undisturbed."AnnaClaire nodded. "It went
fairly well, Bridget."
The housekeeper gave a sigh of relief. "I brought you a bit of porridge
and some tea and biscuits."
"My lady won't be needing them," Glinna said with importance. "She
is feeling unwell and intends to stay abed."
The housekeeper placed the tray on a bedside table. "Then I shall
leave this in the hope that something will appeal to you later on."
"Thank you, Bridget." AnnaClaire turned to Glinna. "Since I won't be
needing you today, you may help Bridget below stairs."
"Aye, miss." The little maid walked away looking plainly dejected. A
day at Bridget's mercy meant scrubbing floors until they gleamed,
then accompanying Tavis to the docks for fresh fish. Chores she
would gladly leave for one of the other servants.
When they were alone AnnaClaire slipped out of bed. Glancing down
at her nightshift she whispered, "I hope you can find a way to explain
these stains to Glinna without arousing suspicion."
"Aye, my lady. I'll think of something." Bridget lowered her voice.
"Now about our...guest. Did he survive the night?"
"He did."
The housekeeper blessed herself and whispered a praypr of thanks.
"I'd feared..." She brushed aside a tear. "Perhaps we should see to him
now."
"I just left him." At the housekeeper's startled look AnnaClaire felt
the heat rise to her cheeks. "During the night I heard him fall from his
bed and went to see to him. He asked me to stay, and I...fell asleep on
the chaise."
"Of course you did, after all you've been through.
Bless you, my lady. And praise heaven the O'Neil is still alive. Is he
in much pain?"
"A great deal of it." AnnaClaire nodded for emphasis. "Judging by the
scars he bears, I'd say he's accustomed to pain. But I gave him one of
the potions. That should make him comfortable for a few hours."
"Then you think he will live?"
AnnaClaire shrugged. "Only God knows. But he's strong. A fighter.
And he's already survived the worst hours!"
Bridget pointed to the covered tray. "I thought, if you were going to
see to his needs, you wouldn't care to take breakfast below stairs in
the dining hall."
"Quite right, Bridget. Just see that the servants are warned not to
disturb me."
"Aye, my lady. And if the O'Neil is strong enough to eat, there's food
for him, as well." The housekeeper took her leave, closing the door
behind her.
When she was alone AnnaClaire peeled off her nightshift and crossed
to a basin of water. When she had scrubbed away all trace of Rory's
chemise and petticoat, then pulled on a gown of pale pink. She
secured her hair with jeweled combs and slid her feet into soft kid
boots. Picking up the tray she made her way up the narrow stairs to
the attic room.
Rory was lying so still she thought he was asleep. But when she drew
nearer she realized that his eyes were wide and glazed with pain. The
bed linens were damp with his sweat. Still, he neither tossed nor
turned nor gave any indication that he was in distress.
She set down the tray and knelt beside him, touching a hand to his
forehead. His skin was on fire.
"Ah." A soft sigh escaped his lips. "My angel has come back. I did as
you asked, and made not a sound."
She was touched by his courage. "I'm sorry it took so long." She
dampened a cloth with water from a basin and began to bathe his face
and neck, his chest and shoulders. "It appears the potion didn't work."
"It did. For a while. I had a lovely visit in heaven, before the fire of
hell came back to claim me."
She mixed another packet of powder and held the glass to his lips.
"Drink this. Maybe it can hold back your pain."
"I'm feeling better already, now that you're here." He drained the
glass, then lay back weakly, breathing in the scent of crushed roses
that seemed to cling to her.
"You're a charming liar, Rory O'Neil." She sat down in the chaise
beside his bed, then dipped a spoon into a steaming bowl and held the
spoon to his lips.
He turned his head. "What's this now?"
"Porridge."
He shook his head. "My mother used to insist that we eat it. I'd have
rather eaten mud."
"I'll remember
to bring some of that tomorrow. But for now, you'll eat
your porridge. My housekeeper, Bridget Murphy, made this for you,
to build up your strength. And you're going to eat at least a few bites."
"God in heaven, you sound just like my mother." He opened his
mouth and accepted a taste. When he'd managed to swallow it he shot
her a look of surprise. "Bridget Murphy must be a sorceress. This
tastes unlike any porridge I've ever eaten."
"I'll tell her you approve. That just might spare you having to eat mud
tomorrow." She held out another bite, and he accepted willingly.
It occurred to AnnaClaire that feeding this man was not at all like
feeding her sick mother. Each time he opened his mouth, she found
herself fighting a strange yearning to taste those lips. When he
swallowed and closed his eyes in appreciation, she felt a sudden tug
deep inside.
AnnaClaire felt completely out of her element with this raw, earthy
man, who seemed to delight in the simple pleasure of eating. She had
never known a man such as this. It didn't seem to bother Rory O'Neil
in the least that he was naked beneath those covers. Yet she was
bothered more than she cared to admit. She simply couldn't get the
thought out of her mind.
He managed to devour nearly half the bowl of porridge before he
lifted a hand in refusal.
"No more. It's too much effort."
She returned the bowl to the tray and poured a cup of tea. "Could you
manage a few sips?"
He shook his head. "Not even one."
"Then we'll sit a while and wait for the opiates to ease your pain."
As she settled herself on the chaise he managed a smile. "Just looking
at you does me more good than your potions."
She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. "You're too charming for your
own good, Rory O'Neil."
He passed a hand over his eyes. "You should meet my brother, Conor.
He's the charmer."
"Really? And what are you?"
"The fighter. Always the fighter."
She sipped her tea. "Tell me about your family."
"Conor, at a score and one, is two years younger than I. He was
educated abroad, and our mother hoped he would be a priest. But our
father has other ideas."
"What ideas?"
"With Conor's good looks and fine mind, Father hopes to use his
connections in England to see that Conor represents our people at the
Court of Elizabeth."
AnnaClaire smiled. "It would seem to me a far better way to effect