Briana

He thought about the lass in the next room, hovering between life and death. She’d barely had time to live. If Vinson was correct, what few years she’d had were lived in the shelter of a cloister. No time to laugh, to play. He frowned. No time to know the love of a good man, nor the joy of children.

A pretty enough face. No visible scars, though heaven knew, most scars were carefully hidden. Weren’t his own? Still, he wondered what it was that drove young women to seek the seclusion of an abbey. Were they really there to serve God? Or were they hiding from the world?

No matter. This one appeared young and innocent. Why was it always the innocent who must pay for the sins of arrogance committed by those in power?

He walked to the bedside table and picked up the framed miniature, studying once again the face of the one who held his heart. There were times, like this moment, when the pain was too deep, the sense of loss too painful to bear. But he had done the right thing. The only thing. Yet, if that be true, why did he feel like such a failure?

Suddenly overwhelmed by sadness and frustration, he hurled the tankard against the wall. With a string of oaths he dropped onto his back on his bed and passed a hand over his eyes.

Would there ever be an end to the misery? Or would he be forced to watch helplessly as all those he loved were forced to pay for his mistakes?

Dear God, he was weary. So weary. He prayed sleep would visit him. Else, he would be forced to fight his demons until dawn chased the darkness away.

“My lord.”

Keane awoke instantly and found himself bathed in sweat. The demons, it would seem, were especially vile this night.

“Aye, Vinson. What is it?”

The old man stood beside the bed, holding aloft a candle. His robe had been hastily tossed over a nightshirt, his silver hair sticking out at odd angles. “The wench, Cora, summoned me. She feels the lass is at death’s door.”

Keane sprang from his bed. Without taking time for a tunic or boots he led the way to the room next door.

The young servant straightened when the lord entered the room. In her hand was a square of linen, which she had been wringing out in a basin of water.

“Oh, my lord,” she whispered. “The lass is slipping away.”

Keane touched a hand to the lass’s forehead and pulled it away with a jerk. “Her flesh is on fire.”

“Aye. I can no longer bring down the fever, my lord.”

He studied the still, pale figure in the bed, seeing another’s face in his mind. How tragic that so many innocents were lost in battles not of their making.

“I’ve done all I can, my lord. But I fear we’ve lost her.”

Perhaps it was the finality of the servant’s words. Or the futility of his own nightly battles with his demons. Whatever the reason, Keane became infused with a new sense of purpose, a fresh burst of energy. This was one battle he wouldn’t lose without at least putting up a fight.

“Wake Mistress Malloy. Tell her to prepare a bath.”

“A…bath, my lord?”

“Aye.” He took the linen from her hand and dipped it into the basin. “A cold bath, Cora.”

As Vinson watched, Keane placed the cool cloth on the lass’s forehead, then moved it across her cheeks, her mouth, her throat. As quickly as the cloth touched her fevered flesh, it became warm to the touch. Keane then dipped it into the basin once more, wrung it out and repeated the process.

Holding the candle aloft, the old man watched the lass’s face for any reaction. There was none. No sign of relief from the fever that burned. Not even a flicker of movement from lids that remained closed.

“My lord. I fear the lass is beyond help.”

Keane didn’t even look up. “Go to bed, Vinson.”

“My lord…”

“If you cannot help, leave me.”

The old man recognized that tone of voice. It had been the same for the young lord’s father and his father before him. With a sigh of resignation he placed the candle on the bedside table and shuffled across the room, taking up a second cloth. The two men worked in silence, taking turns bathing the lass’s face and neck.

Minutes later the housekeeper bustled in, trailed by half a dozen serving wenches, carrying a tub and buckets of water.

“You ordered a bath, my lord?”

“Aye, Mistress Malloy.” Keane wrung out the cloth, and placed it over the lass’s forehead, while Vinson dipped his in the basin.

The housekeeper watched for several seconds, then motioned for the servants to begin filling the tub. When that was done they waited for further instructions.

They were shocked to see the lord of the manor pull back the bed linens and lift the lass from bed. With no thought to her modesty, he carried her to the tub, where he plunged her, nightshift and all, into the cold water.

“My lord,” the housekeeper cried, “on top of a fever, the cold water will cause her to take a fit.”

“Perhaps, Mistress Malloy. But since she’s near death, it’s a risk I’ll have to take. Fetch some dry blankets, please. And clean linens to dress her wounds.”

While the servants scurried after fresh bed linens, Keane gently cradled the lass’s head against his chest and splashed water over her face. Within minutes he could feel her body temperature begin to cool.

He glanced at his butler, who had knelt beside the tub. “She weighs almost nothing, Vinson.”

“Aye, my lord. I thought that same thing when I carried her up the stairs. Though at the time, I thought her a young lad.”

When the housekeeper and her servants returned with blankets, Keane lifted the lass from the bath, dripping water across the floor as he carried her to the bed.

“You’re not going to return her to her bed in that soaked nightshift, my lord.”

At the housekeeper’s outraged tone, he shook his head. “I thought I’d remove it first.”

He glanced down. Now that her gown was plastered to her body, the decidedly feminine outline was plain to see. Small, firm breasts, a tiny waist, softly rounded hips.

“I’ll do that.” The housekeeper’s tone was brisk and left no room for argument.

Keane stepped back while Mistress Malloy and her servants removed the lass’s wet garments and wrapped her in fresh blankets, after first dressing the wounds to her chest and shoulder.

“Now what, my lord?” Mistress Malloy asked.

“You may all return to your beds.” He turned. “And you, as well, Cora.”

“But what about the lass?”

“I’ll sit with her. I’ve no more need for sleep.”

When his elderly butler made ready to pull a second chair beside the bed, Keane shook his head. “Nay, Vinson. You require your sleep for the day to come.”

While the others eagerly sought their beds, Vinson remained a moment longer.

He cleared his throat. His voice was low, so that a passing servant wouldn’t overhear. “I know the battles you fight each night, my lord. And why you have decided to fight for the lass. But this one is futile. You can see that she is at death’s door.”

Keane met the old man’s look. “You know me well, old man. It’s true. I have no desire to face my demons again tonight.” He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, in exactly the same way his father used to. “But this is one battle I don’t intend to lose. Now go. Leave me.”

When the old man shuffled out, closing the door silently, Keane turned to study the lass. Her breathing was ragged, her lips moving in silent protest. Or perhaps prayer.

“Go ahead, little nun. Pray. But I hope you know how to fight as well.” Aye, he could see that she did. By the jut of her chin. By the clench of her fist. The lass was a scrapper.

He sat back, his eyes narrowed in thought. Vinson was right, as always. This was, he realized, the perfect excuse to avoid returning to his own bed. But he had meant what he’d said. This was one battle he intended to win.

Chapter Three

Briana lay perfectly still, wondering where she had finally surfaced. Earlier she had visited the fires of hell. She knew it was hell, because she’d felt her flesh burning away from her bones, and her entire body melting. But then, just as she’d resigned herself to that fate, a fate she surely deserved for all the grief she’d given her family, she had found herself thrust into the icy waters of the River Shannon. She’d heard voices coming from somewhere along the shore, but she’d been too weary to open her eyes. And so she had slept and drifted in the calm, soothing waters.

Now she was awake and determined to see where she had landed. Wherever it was, she must have been tossed onto the rocks on shore, for her body felt bruised and battered beyond repair.

Her lids flickered, and light stabbed so painfully she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Gathering her strength, she tried again. Her eyes were gritty, as though she’d been buried in sand. Her throat, too, was dry as dust, and her lips so parched she couldn’t pry them apart with her tongue.

“So, lass. You’re awake.”

At the unexpected sound of a man’s deep voice, she blinked and turned her head to stare at the sight that greeted her. And what a sight. A man, naked to the waist, was seated beside the bed. He leaned close and touched a hand to her brow. Just a touch, but she could feel the strength in his fingers, and could see the ripple of muscle in his arm and shoulder.

“I see the fever has left you.” He could see so much more. Up close, her eyes were gold, with little flecks of green. Cat’s eyes, he thought Wary. Watchful. And her skin was unlike any he’d ever seen. Not the porcelain skin he was accustomed to. Hers was burnished from the sun. But it was as soft as a newborn’s.

That one small touch had caused the strangest sensation. A tingling that started in his fingertips and shot through his system with the speed of a wildfire.

It was the lack of sleep, he told himself. He was beginning to see things that weren’t there. To fancy things that weren’t even possible. The lass in the bed was a nun. Only a fool or a lecher would permit such feelings toward an innocent maiden who’d promised her life in service to God.

“For a while this night, I thought the fever would claim you.”

Briana couldn’t help staring at him. His voice was cultured, with just a trace of brogue. But not Irish. English, she thought, like the soldiers who had attacked. She cringed from his touch.

Seeing her reaction, he felt a quick wave of annoyance. “I’ll not harm you, lass. Not after what I’ve gone through this night to save you.”

“Save…” The single word caused such pain, she swallowed and gave up the effort to speak.

“Aye.” To avoid touching her again he leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. All the tension of the night was beginning to ease. He had fought the battle, and won. The lass had passed through the crisis. At least, the first crisis. He hoped there wouldn’t be many more.

“Earlier, I thought you were ready to leave this life.”

She studied him while he spoke. His face could have belonged to an angel. A dark angel. Aye, Satan, she thought. Thick black hair was mussed, as though he’d run his hands through it in frustration. A sign of temper, she’d wager. His eyes, the color of smoke, were fixed on her with such intensity, she found she couldn’t look away. His dark brows were lifted in curiosity, or perhaps, disdain. His nose was patrician, his full lips just slightly curved, as though he were the keeper of a secret.

“Where…?” She struggled with the word and closed her eyes against the knife-blade of pain that sliced down her throat.

“Where are you?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re in my home. Carrick House. I had you brought here after you were found in the fields not far from here. There was a battle. Do you recall it?”

She nodded. How could she forget? It had seemed like a nightmare of horrors. One that never ended. Even now she could hear the cries of the wounded, and feel the thundering of horses’ hooves as if in her own chest. Worse, she could still smell the stench of death all around her. That had been the worst. To surface occasionally, only to realize that all around her were dead.

“…others?” It was all she could manage.

He shook his head. “You were the only one who survived.”

She felt a wave of such sadness, she had to close her eyes to hold back the tears. Four lads, with so much to live for. But instead of the promising future they should have enjoyed, they had given it all up. For her. She was unworthy of such a sacrifice.

“Here, lass. Drink this.”

She opened her eyes to find him sitting beside her on the edge of the bed, holding a tumbler of water. With unexpected tenderness he lifted her head and held the glass to her lips.

Again Keane felt the heat and wondered what was happening to him. He must be more weary than he’d thought. That had to be the reason. It couldn’t be this plain little nun in his arms.

She sipped, then nearly gagged.

“Forgive me, lass. I should have mentioned that I had my housekeeper prepare an opiate for your pain. Drink it down. It’ll help.”

Though it burned a pathway down her throat, she did as she was told.

He laid her gently back on the pillow, then set the glass on the bedside table and bent to smooth the covers. As he did, he realized she was watching him with the wariness of a wild creature caught in a trap.

He picked up something that he thought might soothe her, and held it up. “My servant found this around your neck.”

She stared at the simple cross, then reached for it, before her hand fell limply against the bedcovers. When he placed it in her hand, their fingers brushed. At once she pulled her hand away, and shrank from him until he took a step back.

His frown returned, furrowing his dark brows. It was obvious that she disliked being touched by him. It was probably the way of holy women. “I’ll leave you to rest now. My servant will be in shortly to look after you. Let her know if you need anything.”

She nodded and watched until he walked away. By the time the door closed, sleep had claimed her. And the dreams that haunted her were dark. Dark angels. And a chilling laugh from a soldier whose name she couldn’t recall, but whose face tormented her. A soldier who enjoyed killing.

“How is the lass?” Keane stepped quietly into the sleeping chambers and paused beside the bed. In the hush of evening his voice was little more than a whisper.

He had spent nearly the entire week in and out of these chambers, bullying the servants, seeing that the wounds were carefully dressed, to avoid more infection. Through it all, the lass had surfaced only briefly, before drifting in a haze of delirium and opiates.

He’d sensed that his presence made her uneasy. And the truth was, she affected him the same way, though he knew not why. Still, he couldn’t stay away. She had become his cause. His fierce obsession. Behind his back, the servants whispered about it. And wondered what drove Lord Alcott to fight so desperately for this stranger.

“Her sleep is still broken by pain, my lord.” Cora looked up from her chair beside the bed.

“Has she eaten anything?”

“Not a thing. And she, so thin and pale. Mistress Malloy sent up a tray, but the lass hasn’t had the heart to even try.”

“And you, Cora?” Keane glanced at the servant, whose head had been bobbing when he’d first entered.

“Mistress Malloy will have something for me later.”

“Go below stairs now.” He motioned toward the door. “Go. I’ll sit with the lass awhile.”

The little serving wench needed no coaxing. The long hours spent watching the sleeping lass had made her yearn for her own bed. But though she gave up many of her daylight hours to the care of their patient, the nighttime hours belonged to the lord. He would dismiss the other servants and sit by the lass’s bedside, ever vigilant for any sign that she might be failing.

When Cora was gone, Keane pressed his hands to the small of his back and leaned his head back, stretching his cramped muscles. Agitated, he began to prowl the room, pausing occasionally to glance out the window as darkness began to swallow the land.

When he wasn’t in there, hovering by the bedside, he was in the library, poring over his father’s ledgers, or huddled in meetings with his solicitors. From the looks of things, Kieran O’Mara, the late Lord Alcott, had long ago lost all interest in his homeland and holdings. Several buildings were in need of repair. The land, though lush and green, had been badly mismanaged for years, yielding only meager crops. Carrick House, it would seem, needed not only an infusion of cash, but an infusion of lifeblood as well.

Not his problem, Keane mused as he stared at the rolling fields outside the window. He would soon enough be gone from this miserable place, with its unhappy memories.

It wasn’t so much a sound from the bed, as a feeling, that had him turning around. The lass, with those strange yellow eyes, wide and unblinking, was staring at him.

“Ah. You’re awake.”

She’d been awake for several minutes. And had been studying him while he paced and prowled. Like a caged animal, she thought. Aye. A sleek, dark panther. All muscle and sinew and fierce energy.

He drew up the chair beside the bed and bent to her, touching a hand to her forehead. It took all her willpower not to pull away. Still, she couldn’t help cringing as his hand came in contact with her skin.

He was aware of her reaction. He was aware of something else, as well, and struggled to ignore the strange tingling that occurred whenever he was near this female.

After so many nights watching her, he had begun to feel he knew her. He’d felt every ragged breath of hers in his own chest. Had marvelled at the quiet strength that kept her fighting when others would have given up. Had felt encouraged with every little sign of improvement.

“Do you remember where you are?”

She nodded, struggling to fit the pieces of her memory back into place. “Carrick House, I believe you called it.”

She was pleased that she’d been able to manage the words without feeling a stab of pain. Her throat, it would seem, was healing, though the rest of her body was still on fire. “I thought I’d dreamed you.”

He found her voice a pleasant change from the shrill voices of the serving wenches. It was low, cultured, breathless. But he couldn’t be certain if it was her natural voice, or the result of her injuries. At any rate, he was anxious to hear her speak again. “And why did you think that?”

She shook her head. “I know not. The fever, I suppose. I began to think of you as my dark angel.”

“Perhaps I am.” His features remained solemn, with no hint of laughter in his voice. “My name is Keane. Keane O’Mara. Carrick House is my ancestral home.”

He offered his hand and she had no choice but to accept. Would she ever get used to touching again? “My name is Briana O’Neil.”

The moment was awkward and uncomfortable. As soon as their hands touched, they felt the rush of heat. At once they each pulled away.

“O’Neil? Where is your home?”

“Ballinarin.”

He arched a brow. “I know of it. You’re a long way from home.”

The mere thought of it had her aching for that dear place. “Aye.”

He heard the loneliness in that single word, spoken like a sigh. “Have you been gone a long time?”

“Three years.”

His glance fell on the cross, lying on the bed linen beside her hand.

Seeing the direction of his gaze, her fingers closed around it, finding comfort in something so familiar. “I’ve been at the Abbey of St. Claire.”

He nodded. “I know of it, as well. At least a day’s ride from here. What brought you to our village?”

“I was passing through.” She sighed, thinking of the eagerness with which she’d taken her leave of the convent. “We’d gone only a day’s ride when the soldiers attacked.”

“Who were the lads accompanying you?”

“Lads from our village. Sent by my family to escort me.” She looked away. “How odd, that I should be the one to live. They will never see their families again.”

He could hear the break in her voice and knew that she was close to tears. “I’ll see that a lad from the village is dispatched at once to your home with the news that you are alive and will be returned as soon as your health permits.”

“That’s most kind of you.”

He pushed back his chair and crossed to the side table. “My housekeeper sent up a tray. Could you manage a little broth?”

“Nay.” She shook her head.

“Nonsense.” Ignoring her protest, he filled a cup with broth and set it beside the bed. Then, without waiting for her permission, he reached down and lifted her to a sitting position, plumping pillows behind her.

He had thought, now that she had confirmed his suspicions that she was truly a nun, that the touch of her would no longer affect him. He’d been wrong. He couldn’t help but notice the thin, angular body beneath the prim nightshift. And the soft swell of breasts that were pressed against his chest, causing a rush of heat that left him shaken.

It had been a long time since he’d known such feelings. Feelings he’d buried, in the hope they would never surface again. Now that he was touching her, there was nothing to do but finish the task at hand. Then, hopefully, he could put some distance between himself and this woman.

For Briana it was even more disturbing. The mere touch of him had her nerves jumping. But it wasn’t this man, she told herself. It was the fact that she had been isolated for too long. Anyone’s touch would have had the same effect.

He picked up the cup. “Can you manage yourself? Or would you like some help?”

Her tone was sharper than she intended, to hide her discomfort. “I thank you, but I can feed myself.”

When she reached out to accept the cup, she was shocked to feel pain, hot and sharp, shooting along her arm. A cry escaped her lips before she could stop it.

“Careful.” His tone was deliberately soft, to soothe the nerves she couldn’t hide. “You sustained quite a wound in that shoulder. Another, more serious, in the chest. Had the blade found your heart, you would have never survived.”

Before she could reach out again, he sat on the edge of the bed and held the cup to her lips. It was an oddly intimate gesture that let him study her carefully as she sipped, swallowed. He could see her watching him from beneath lowered lashes.

To steady her nerves, and his own, he engaged her in conversation.

“Do you recall anything of the battle?”

“I see it constantly in my dreams. But when I’m awake it’s gone, like wisps of smoke caught by the wind.”

“Do you recall how many soldiers there were?”

She avoided his eyes. They were too dark, too intense. “I don’t recall.”

“It would have been a fearsome sight, especially for one who has been so sheltered.” He understood how the mind could reject such horrors.

She shivered. “What I do recall was the sight of so many helpless people cut down without a chance to defend themselves. There were but a few knives and swords among them.”

“The people are ill-prepared for English soldiers.” A fact he bitterly resented, for it had been his own father’s doing. Still, there was nothing to be done about it now. “But it would seem that you put up quite a fight.”

For the first time she smiled, and he realized how truly lovely those full, pouty lips were when they curved upward. “I didn’t always live in a convent. I know how to wield a sword with as much skill as my brothers. In fact, if I were still living at Ballinarin, I’d probably be able to best them by now.”

He tipped the cup to her lips again. “Then perhaps it’s fortunate that you went to live with the good sisters. I’m not sure Ireland is ready to be led into battle by a lass.”

“Spoken like a man.” His words reminded her of her father’s cruel, hateful words hurled in anger so long ago. She pushed his hand away, refusing any more broth.