the smile playing on his lips. His insensitivity was vexing. She
experienced a wave of relief when they started up the drive that led to
her home.
Lord Dunstan turned to study the graceful curve of courtyard, the
warmth of candles glowing in the curtained windows. "So this is
where you stay when you are in Ireland. What is it called?"
"Clay Court. It was my mother's ancestral home."
Something about the way she spoke the words had him turning to
look at her. "I would be careful if I were you, my lady. Some might
think you consider this place more home than England."
At his words AnnaClaire felt the trickle of ice along her spine. He had
taken no pains to mask the warning. "I'll remind you, Lord Dunstan,
that my father is a respected member of the queen's council. And
though I am of mixed heritage, my loyalty has never come into
question."
"Nor should it, my lady. But there will always be some who will
wonder at your allegiance to your mother's people."
Lord Dunstan climbed down, then turned and offered his hand to help
her from the carriage. She had no choice but to accept his assistance.
At the door she managed a smile. "Thank you for seeing me home,
Lord Dunstan. I'll say good night now."
When she started to close the door he startled her by stepping inside.
"It wouldn't be wise to see you home and not see you safely settled,
my lady."
"I have loyal servants to see to my safety."
"Ah. That is reassuring." He glanced around, noting the highly
polished stones of the foyer, the crystal chandelier in which blazed
dozens of candles. "I would have expected such loyal servants to
meet you at the door."
"They have their chores to see to. Tavis will be above stairs, no doubt,
laying a fire to warm my bedchamber."
"Tavis, is it? If you but asked, lovely lady, I could do the same. And I
would need no wood nor torch. The touch of your hand on mine
would be enough to set the blaze between us."
She hated the smirk on his lips. Hated more the heat that rose to her
cheeks at his insinuation.
She kept her voice even, as though dismissing him. "My little
housemaid, Glinna, will be waiting to help me undress."
"A most pleasant chore, I would think. And one I would be most
pleased to undertake in her stead."
She itched to slap him and knew that she had to tread very carefully
around this man. She would, instead, ignore him. Something he'd
seldom experienced, she surmised.
"And Bridget is most probably in the kitchen, preparing tea before I
retire." She lifted a hand to her lips and forced a yawn. "Forgive me,
Lord Dunstan. It has been a long day, and I fear I must bid you good
night."
"Of course." He caught her hand and lifted it to his lips, lingering
until she forcefully withdrew it from his grasp. "I hope I have your
permission to pay a call on the morrow."
"I..." She struggled to think of a polite way to decline. "I fear I will
not be home."
"I see. A pity. But there will be other times." He gave her a lazy smile,
to let her know that he had already seen through her little charade. His
voice lowered, as though sharing an intimate secret. "You are unlike
so many of your gender who smile and flutter their lashes in
invitation. This feigned reluctance on your part is most intriguing. I
must admit, you have aroused my curiosity, as well as...other things.
Now I simply must get to know you better, my lady. It is my good
fortune that Lord Davis and I will be spending a great deal of time
together. Perhaps, when he is paying a call, I shall accompany him."
"Yes." She kept her tone carefully bland. "Of course."
In the glow of the candles he studied her more closely. "You are
really quite lovely. And more than a little mysterious." His smile
grew as he reached out a hand and stroked her cheek. Her startled
reaction made him chuckle. "And now that I have made your
acquaintance I have already forgotten whatever objections I had to
visiting this damnable land. Good night, my dear AnnaClaire. Until
we meet again."
She watched as he stepped outside and climbed to :he seat of his
carriage. As the image of horse and carriage disappeared into the
darkness she let out the breath she hadn't even known she was
holding.
"So. The vain English peacock makes you sigh, does he?"
AnnaClaire whirled. Rory stepped from the shadows, wearing
nothing more than the bloody breeches he had nastily slipped into. On
his face was a look of absolute fury.
"What are you doing below stairs?"
"Watching you make a fool of yourself. Is this what our women have
come to? Playing coy with our enemy?"
Her chin came up as she fixed him with a hateful look. "Ireland
cannot lay claim to me."
"What are you saying, woman? You're Irish. You said your mother
was Margaret Doyle."
"Aye. And my father is Lord James Thompson."
For a moment all he could do was stare at her. When he found his
voice he said, "Your father is chief counsel to the bloody Queen of
England?"
When she nodded, he shook his head in wonder. "What do you think
he would say if he knew you were aiding the Blackhearted O'Neil?"
"It would break his heart. He must never know."
"So, despite your father's position and title, you consider yourself
Irish."
She stiffened her spine. "I am neither English nor Irish, Rory O'Neil. I
answer to myself. As for playing coy, you are as mistaken as Lord
Dunstan was."
He took a step closer. "So. That was Dunstan? I've heard of him. All
his titles bought and paid for with the blood of innocent farmers. He'll
say and do whatever it takes to please his queen, so long as she
continues to repay his loyalty with more wealth and power." He gave
AnnaClaire a long, measuring look. "And your denial rings hollow,
my lady. I heard with my own ears how you allowed him to speak to
you." His tone lowered with feeling. "And saw with my own eyes
how you allowed him to touch you."
The intensity of AnnaClaire's temper surprised her. Rory's words
brought fury bubbling dangerously close to the surface. She lifted her
skirts and started to flounce past him. "I'll not stand here and argue
with the likes of you, Rory O'Neil."
"Nay. Especially since you'd lose the argument. Nor will I allow you
to dismiss me like some groveling servant." Without taking time to
think he caught her roughly by the shoulder and dragged her into his
arms, hauling her against his chest.
His temper had always been his undoing. And there had been plenty
of time for it to grow as he'd watched the handsome stranger put his
hands on AnnaClaire. As if that hadn't been enough, the mention of
her father's name had caught him by surprise. Now fury propelled
him into acting without thinking. His big rough hands closed around
her upper arms, lifting her nearly off her feet as he covered her mouth
in a savage kiss.
Temper
met temper as their lips mated with the heat of the moment.
The effect was so potent he felt as if he'd taken a blow from an
enemy's broadsword. He reared back, lifting his head to study her as
though he couldn't quite believe what he was feeling. Even now his
head was spinning, and the blood was roaring in his temples.
AnnaClaire was so startled she was frozen into momentary silence. It
wasn't only the rush of heat from his bold kiss. That would have been
unsettling enough. But this man was naked to the waist, and the feel
of his flesh against her palms had her thoughts scrambling, her
fingertips tingling. It was one thing to touch him when he was
unconscious and burning with fever. It was quite another to touch a
man whose flesh rippled with muscle, and who burned with heat from
a very different source.
When she'd gathered her thoughts, she pushed against him. "How
dare you, Rory O'Neil! Unhand me at once."
He thought about it. Briefly. Then just as quickly decided to ignore
her protest. In that one stunning moment all the anger had drained
from him. In its place was something very different. Desire curled
hotly through his loins.
He felt the warmth of her breath against his cheek. Saw the way her
eyes darkened with the gathering storm. Breathed in the fragrance of
roses that drifted around her.
He lowered his face and claimed her mouth again. This time his hands
softened, as did his lips. But though the kiss was less savage, it was
no less potent. The taste of her was unlike anything he'd ever
sampled. Sweet as a summer garden. As gentle as rain. Innocent.
Untouched. And yet, he sensed in her a slumbering passion. A
passion that excited him.
He kissed her with a thoroughness that had her heart pounding, her
palms sweating as they slipped around his waist and pressed against
his lower back. She wasn't even aware that she was clutching him
frantically, holding on for fear of falling.
AnnaClaire had been kissed before. There had been many a lad who
had hoped to stake a claim on the daughter of the wealthy, powerful
Lord Thompson. And many more, like Dunstan, who thought their
title and privilege gave them the right to take liberties with the
women at Court. But AnnaClaire had been equally adept at avoiding
all entanglements of the heart. Until now.
The feelings being awakened by this man were unlike anything she'd
ever experienced. The hands that held her were so strong they could
easily break her in two. Yet their touch was so unexpectedly gentle,
she couldn't help but melt against him. His lips, so warm, so firm and
practiced, moved over hers with a gentleness that did strange things
to her heart, causing it to pound inside her chest until she feared he
would surely hear.
Rory loved the way she became lost in the kiss. A soft sigh escaped
her lips and her arms lifted, encircling his neck. He slid his hands
down her arms, along her sides, until his thumbs encountered the soft
swell of her breasts. When she started to pull away he moved his
hands across her back, soothing, calming, while his lips continued to
feast.
She was a delightful surprise. Innocent yet sultry. Both shy and bold.
Despite her hesitance, there was an underlying strength of will that
Rory found deeply arousing.
Desire, swift and fierce, caught him by surprise. The thought of
taking her, here and now, had the blood pulsing hotly through his
veins. He knew if he didn't soon end this, he would find himself
stepping over the line of reason. Still he lingered over the kiss, loving
the taste of her, the feel of her in his arms.
When at last he gathered the courage to lift his head, he was rewarded
by her little moan of frustration.
"Just doing your bidding, my lady." He shot her a wicked smile. "You
did tell me to unhand you."
"I did." The words nearly stuck in her throat. She took a step back,
breaking contact. Still, the taste of him, dark, mysterious, remained
on her tongue. Her breathing was shallow and ragged. She had to
swallow several times before she managed to say, "And since you're
well enough to force yourself on me, Rory O'Neil, I suggest you're
well enough to take your leave of my home at once."
"Aye, my lady. As you wish." His smile widened. "But if you wish to
be perfectly honest, you'll have to admit that it required no force on
my part to involve you in that kiss."
She felt her cheeks flame as his words found their mark. It was true.
She had been more than willing to shamelessly indulge herself. For if
truth be told, ever since that first kiss in his room, she had wanted him
to kiss her again. And the feel of his lips on hers had been every bit as
wondrous as the first time.
She turned away to hide her shame. "I'll expect you to be gone before
the first light. That way there will be no chance of the servants
spotting you."
She expected some sort of argument. Relished the thought of another
duel of words.
When he didn't respond she turned back, eager to attack.
Rory was gripping the edge of a table. His face had lost all its color.
Blood was seeping from his wounded shoulder to snake along his
back in a thin line of dark red.
Rushing to his side she examined his wound, then draped his arm
around her shoulder and began to lead him toward the stairs. "Now
look what you've done." Anger was a much safer emotion than what
she'd been feeling just moments before. With anger there would be no
guilt, no recriminations. With anger she could force herself into
immediate action.
"Up to bed."
"You just ordered me to go."
"That was before. Now, I'll have to tend that wound again."
He didn't argue. Couldn't. He'd just been given a reprieve of sorts. But
as he moved along beside her up the stairs, he wasn't certain whether
to curse the Fates or bless them.
Chapter Five
'You wish to break your fast in your chambers again, my lady?"
Glinna was looking at AnnaClaire in a strange way as she moved
around the room. "Could it be something you ate at Lady Thornly's
last night?"
"Of course not. I'm not ill, Glinna. Just a bit tired. Leave the tray now,
and go help Bridget below stairs."
"Aye, my lady."
As soon as the door closed behind her, AnnaClaire bounded out of
bed and completed her toilette, slipping into the clothes Glinna had
laid out. Then, balancing the covered tray in her hands, she climbed
the cramped stairs to the little attic room. No doubt, she thought with
a sigh, the little maid was still fretting over what might have caused
this sudden malaise.
In truth, AnnaClaire would have gladly remained in her room rather
than face Rory O'Neil this morning. She'd had enough of him
throughout the long night. Even, after she'd dressed his wound and
put him to sleep with one of Bridget's opiates, he had remained with
her. Dark thou
ghts and images of him holding her, kissing her, had
tormented her, robbing her of precious sleep. The handsome rogue
had her thinking of things that were better left alone.
She sighed. Another day or two and he would be out of her life. As
she nudged the door open and swept inside, she wondered why that
knowledge didn't cheer her. In fact, it only added another layer of
tension.
"Good morrow, Rory O'Neil." She set the tray on the night table with
a flourish, then turned.
His features were ashen. He was holding his left hand firmly against
his right shoulder.
She was beside him instantly. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"I can't...make this damnable arm work."
She sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm sure it's nothing more than the
strain of the fresh wound."
"Nay. My sword slipped from my grasp during the night. I couldn't
retrieve it."
Up close she could see the sweat beading his brow and upper lip.
"You're much too hard on yourself, Rory. I'm sure by tomorrow..."
"You don't understand." His left hand clamped around her wrist. As
always, the strength in his grip caught her off guard. "I've been
coddling myself too long. Lying abed when I should have been
leading my men into fresh battles. And now, as punishment, I've lost
my strength."
"As punishment?"
"Aye."
"For the sin of laziness, no doubt."
He glowered at her. "Do you mock me, woman?"
She tried not to smile, though her lips quirked. "I? You think I would
dare to mock Ireland's fierce Blackhearted O'Neil?"
His eyes narrowed. She looked far too fetching, in a gown the color of
heather, and the bloom of youth and innocence on her cheeks. Her
eyes danced with a teasing light that only made her all the more
desirable. Her low, breathy voice whispered over his senses, teasing
him, taunting him, even through the pain.
"You're having fun with me, AnnaClaire. And all the while I'm lying
here weak and helpless."
She glanced at the hand gripping her with such strength. "If this is
how you are when you're helpless, I'd hate to see you when you're
feeling strong."
At once he realized what he was doing and released her, hoping his
touch hadn't left bruises on that fair skin. He struggled into a sitting
position.
AnnaClaire could see the pain even that small movement caused him.