Briana

He glanced down at the cup. “Have you had enough?”

“Aye. Thank you.” And enough of him, sitting too close, causing her heart to do all manner of strange things.

“How did you come by a weapon with which to defend yourself?”

“I pulled it from the heart of a lad who had died defending me.”

He studied her a moment, hearing not just the words, but the underlying fierceness in her tone. What an odd little female. He’d always thought nuns would be more concerned with peace than war.

He stood and returned the cup to the tray. But when he glanced at the figure in the bed, he could see her rubbing her shoulder. The look in her eyes told him she was struggling for composure. Aye, a most peculiar little creature who was trying desperately to be strong despite overwhelming odds.

“There’s an opiate here for pain. I think you ought to take it now.”

“Aye.” She nodded, and was grateful when he offered her the tumbler of liquid.

When she had drained it he set the empty tumbler aside and helped her to settle into a more comfortable position. It was shocking to feel his arms around her as he lifted her slightly, removing the pillows from behind her back. Then he swept aside the bed linens and laid her down, before returning the covers. As he smoothed them over her, his hands stilled their movements.

“You’re so thin. Didn’t they feed you in the convent?”

Her face flamed. “They fed us. Though no amount of food would be enough, considering the work we were expected to do.”

“Work?”

She had forgotten how to speak to others. After the silence of these last years, the art of conversation was new to her. She struggled to put her thoughts into words. “There were classes, of course. History, literature, biology. And the teachings of the Church fathers. But we also were expected to plant and harvest, and tend the flocks.”

“Like peasants?” His tone was one of amazement.

“Aye. Like the peasants we serve.” Her tone softened as she remembered the lecture by Mother Superior, delivered nightly in their common prayer. “Because much has been given us, much is expected. And though we are educated, we are expected to serve all God’s people. By punishing the body, we nourish the soul.”

He was so moved by her words, he caught both her hands in his. “I didn’t know there were such unselfish souls left in this world. Bless you.” He turned her hands palm up. Seeing the calluses, he muttered an oath and, without thinking, lifted them to his lips.

Dear heaven. What had possessed him? He hadn’t intended such a thing. And yet, seeing the ravages of such hard work on those small, delicate hands, he had reacted instinctively. Now there was nothing to do but cover his error with as much dignity as he could manage. Still, though he knew he had overstepped his bounds, he couldn’t seem to stop. He kept her small hands in his and pressed a second kiss, before lifting his head.

At the shocking feel of his mouth against her flesh Briana gasped and struggled to pull her hands away. But it was too late. The damage had been done. She could feel the heat. It danced along her flesh and seared the blood flowing through her veins before settling deep inside her. A heat that had her cheeks stained with color. Her eyes went wide with shock. And though no words came out, her mouth opened, then snapped shut.

She looked up to find him staring at her with a strange, almost haunted look in his eyes. Even as she watched, he blinked, and the look was gone.

Or had she only imagined it?

“I’ll leave you to your rest, Briana O’Neil.” He turned away abruptly and picked up the empty tumbler.

She watched as he set the tumbler on the tray. Then, knowing the blush was still on her cheeks, she rolled to her side, wishing she could pull the covers over her head and hide.

What had just happened between them? She wasn’t quite certain. Perhaps he had merely reacted to her work-worn hands. Or perhaps he was simply trying to soothe her, or honor her. Whatever his reason, he’d had no way of knowing how deeply she would be affected by that simple gesture.

Oh, how she wished she knew how to deal with these strange feelings that had her so agitated. But the isolation of the convent had magnified everything in her mind. All she knew was that the simple press of Keane O’Mara’s lips against her palm had started a fire in the pit of her stomach that was burning still.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, wishing she could shut out her feelings as easily. But they were there, fluttering like butterfly wings against her throat, her temple, her chest. She prayed the potion would soon have the desired effect. She wanted desperately to escape into blissful sleep.

In time her wish was granted.

There was no such escape for Keane. Throughout the long night he was forced to keep his vigil. He sat by the bedside and watched the steady rise and fall of the thin chest beneath the blankets as Briana slept, and wondered why a woman from the noble house of Ballinarin would give up a life of luxury to live like a peasant.

Whenever his gaze was drawn to those small callused hands, he would find himself pacing to the window, to stare moodily into the darkness. It was the only way to keep his gaze from being drawn to her mouth.

The strange desire to taste her lips, just once, had him muttering every hot, fierce oath he knew.

Chapter Four

“Good day, my lady.” Cora swept open the draperies, then paused beside the bed. “You have a bit of color in your cheeks. A good sign. Do you feel strong enough to leave your bed?”

“I’m not certain.” Briana touched her tongue to her dry lips. The days and nights had passed in a blur. But thanks to the opiates, and the prolonged rest, the deep, searing pain had eased. “I’m willing to try.” She sat up and waited until the dizziness left, then swung her feet to the floor. “How long have I been at Carrick House?”

“A fortnight, my lady.”

Could it really be two weeks? “How could I have slept so long?”

“Mistress Malloy said it is the opiates. And the fact that your poor body craved rest in order to heal.”

“Whatever the reason, I feel almost alive again.”

“The lord left orders that, as soon as you were able, we must prepare a bath. Do you think you’re strong enough for that?”

Briana’s smile bloomed. “For the offer of a bath, I’ll muster all the strength I have.”

Cora plumped pillows around her, then flew to the door. “I’ll just summon Mistress Malloy and some servants, and I’ll be right back.”

Briana barely had time to close her eyes and steady herself before Cora had returned, trailed by the housekeeper and a string of servants.

“Well now.” Mistress Malloy had plump apple cheeks and twinkling blue eyes. Her white hair was pulled back in a tight, neat bun at her nape. She stood with hands on her ample hips, studying the young woman who had occupied so much of the lord’s time and energy. “Cora says you’re feeling strong enough for a bath.”

“I think I can manage.”

“Good.” Mistress Malloy took charge, seeing that another log was added to the fire while the tub was filled with warm water, and soft linens were laid out on a chair.

“You’re not to attempt to stand alone, miss.” With the housekeeper on one side of her and Cora on the other, they supported Briana from her bed to the tub. With the servant’s help, Briana removed her nightshift and stepped into the water.

While Cora scrubbed her hair, Briana closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure. “Oh, it has been years since I’ve felt so pampered.”

“You do not bathe in the convent?” one of the servants asked.

Briana laughed. “We wash in a basin of cold water.” She shivered just remembering.

“Could you not heat the water over the fire?”

“There was no time. We had only minutes to wash before we had to hurry to chapel for morning prayers.”

“Did you cry when your hair was cut off?” Cora asked.

“Aye. I wept buckets of tears. But later, when I was doing penance for my display of false vanity, Mother Superior reminded me that it’s not what is outside a person that counts. It is what’s in one’s heart.”

“Well said.” Mistress Malloy nodded in agreement. She liked this lass. A refreshing change from most of the highborn women who thought themselves above the rest of the world. Of course, such humility was to be expected of a woman who’d promised her life in service to the Church.

“But your hair, my lady.” Cora poured warm scented water to rinse away the soap. Then she held up one short gleaming strand, while the others gathered around to study it. “It is the color of fire. It must have been lovely before it was shorn.”

“I always thought so. But it no longer matters.” Briana snuggled deeper into the warm water, loving the feeling of freedom. “I have not seen my reflection, nor cared to, in three years now.”

The servants exchanged looks before one of them said, “But my lady, you are truly beautiful. Even with your hair shorn.”

“Beautiful? Now I know you jest. For Cora told me that even the old man who found me thought I was a lad.”

“Because you were covered with mud and blood, my lady. Now that we can see you, you truly are pleasing to the eye.”

Briana waved a hand in dismissal. “It matters not. What matters is that I am alive. And so enjoying all your tender ministrations.” She found herself laughing, and loving the sound. “It has been so long now since I’ve felt this joyful. But it is the knowledge that I am free. Truly free.”

“Free? What do you mean, my lady?” Cora asked.

“I am free of the confining rules and restrictions of the convent.”

“You are not going back?”

“Nay. I was heading home when we were attacked. And now, for the first time, I realize just how much I have survived, thanks to Lord Alcott. Not only the attack by the English soldiers, but the last threat to my freedom. You see, as soon as I am strong enough, I will be returning home, to my beloved Ballinarin.”

“You’re certain she said she is not a nun?” Vinson stood in the shadows of the hallway, his voice low.

“That is what she just told us.” The housekeeper’s eyes were shining. “You saw how obsessed he was with her. She could be the answer to our prayers.”

The old man shrugged. “Maybe. But you say she is eager to return to her home.”

“Aye. But she is far too weak to attempt the journey yet. It could be weeks, months even, before she could endure it.” Mistress Malloy lowered her voice. “She seems a lovely, simple lass. I see no harm in throwing them together and seeing what transpires.”

“This is a dangerous game we play with other people’s lives.”

“Aye. But there’s so little time. You said yourself he plans to leave. And he is our last, our only hope.”

Vinson stared off into space, mulling it over. Then he nodded. “Leave it to me. I’ll think of a way.”

“My lord.”

Keane looked up from the ledgers and was surprised to see the evening shadows outside the window. Where had the day gone?

“Aye, Vinson.”

“The lass felt strong enough to bathe.”

Keane nodded. “A good sign.”

“Aye, my lord. Very soon now, she will be well enough to leave.”

“So it would seem.” He had won the battle. The patient was not only alive, but growing stronger with each day. He took a certain amount of pleasure in the knowledge that he had played a small part in her survival. There’d been so little in his life to be proud of.

Vinson cleared his throat.

Keane tensed, waiting for the old man to say what was on his mind. He was eager to return his attention to the ledgers.

“I thought, since the lass is strong enough to bathe, you might wish to invite her to sup with you.”

Keane frowned. “I’m certain she’d prefer to eat in her chambers.”

“She has not left her room in a fortnight, my lord. The change might do her good.”

Keane pushed away from the desk and strode to the window. His voice lowered. “I think the lass dislikes being in my company.”

“Why do you think that, my lord?”

“Whenever I am near her, she watches me the way prey might watch a hunter.”

“You can hardly blame her. She was, after all, nearly killed here on your land.”

Keane’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not her enemy. If she doesn’t know that now, after all I’ve done to save her, she never will.”

“It could be because of the horror of what she suffered, my lord.”

Keane nodded. “There is that, of course.”

“Or she could be shy, my lord. She is, after all, a lass educated in the convent.”

“Aye.”

The old servant decided to poke and prod a bit more. “You might find it pleasant to have someone with whom you could talk about the books you’ve read, the places you’ve been. She might prove to be an interesting companion, something in short supply here in Carrick.”

Keane stared out the window, seeing nothing. Neither the green rolling hills, nor the flocks undulating across the valley, nor the way the sunset turned the cross atop the chapel to blood. All he saw was the emptiness, stretching out before him. Endless emptiness.

“She has nothing to wear. I doubt she would sup with me wearing a borrowed nightshift.”

Vinson smiled. He’d anticipated the problem. “There are your mother’s trunks. Mistress Malloy could no doubt find something that would fit the lass.”

Keane turned and met the old man’s look. “You’ve put a good deal of thought into this, haven’t you, Vinson?”

“Aye, my lord.” The old man remained ramrod straight. Not a hint of a smile touched his lips. “The lass needs a chance to properly thank her benefactor.”

Keane gave the slightest nod of his head. “All right. Invite her to sup with me. And tell Mistress Malloy to rifle through the trunks for something appropriate.” As the old man turned away he added, “Suggest that she find something modest. We wouldn’t want to scandalize such an innocent.”

“Aye, my lord.”

When the door closed behind the servant, Keane glanced at the portrait of his father staring down from the mantel, and beneath it, a set of crossed ancestral swords. The two symbols he most detested. Bloodline and misuse of power. Life and death.

He could still hear his father’s harsh tone, lecturing him on his weaknesses. “The man who puts the love of God, country or woman ahead of gold is a fool. For, in the end, gold is all that matters.”

He’d rebelled, determined to prove his father wrong. He’d have the rest of his life to regret it.

To occupy his mind, he returned to his ledgers. But as he bent over the page, he found himself thinking about the lass’s strange voice. And the way her lips looked whenever she smiled. Odd. He hadn’t felt this quickening of his heartbeat for a very long time. But it wasn’t the lass that caused it. It was merely loneliness. He’d kept himself locked away with his ledgers too long now. But they were all he had now, since he’d become a stranger in the land of his birth.

“This will do nicely, Cora.” The housekeeper held up a gown of pale lemon, which she had retrieved from the trunk in the tower room. Though it appeared to be far too big, it was the only one she’d found with a modest neckline. “Can you make it fit the lass?”

“I’ll do my best, Mistress Malloy.” Cora signalled for Briana to stand. Then she slid the gown over her head and began plying needle and thread, nipping and tucking, until the fabric began to mold to the shape of the slender body.

“Oh, my lady, this is lovely on you.” Cora tied the waist with a lace sash, then, because there were no boots to fit, added satin bed slippers.

“Now, if you’ll sit, I’ll do what I can with your hair.”

Briana did as she was told, closing her eyes as the little servant dressed her hair.

“Are you feeling weak, my lady?”

“Nay.” Briana gave a dreamy smile. “It’s just that these past hours have been so luxurious, I’m beginning to feel whole again.”

Cora stood back, admiring her handiwork. “Now if you’ll just step over here, my lady, you can see what I’m seeing.”

Leaning on Cora’s arm, Briana walked to the tall looking glass and stared in amazement.

“Oh, my.” She lifted a hand to her mouth. Words failed her.

Seeing her reaction, Cora smiled. “Then you are not unhappy with what you see?”

“I’m…speechless.”

Gone was the girl she had once been. In her place was a woman. A stranger.

It was the gown, she told herself. A pale lemon confection with a high, tight circlet of lace at the throat and wrists, and a full skirt, gathered here and there with lace inserts. With a critical eye she studied the slender body revealed in the gown. She hoped she wouldn’t appear frail. In her whole life she had never thought of herself as anything but robust.

And then there was the hair. Or rather, the lack of it. The last time she had looked at her reflection in a looking glass, she’d had thick, fiery tresses that fell to below her waist. Now it was no more than a few inches long, a tumble of curls framing a face bronzed by the sun.

Oh, what had happened to her fair skin? It was not only tawny, it was freckled. Dozens of them. Hundreds, perhaps, parading across her nose, down her arms. And to think she had once protected her fair skin beneath bonnets and parasols.

“Come, miss.” The housekeeper’s voice broke the silence. “Vinson is here to escort you to sup.”

She turned and saw the old man’s look of approval before he lowered his gaze. When she accepted his arm, she was grateful that he matched his steps to her halting ones.

“I see Mistress Malloy found a gown that suits you, miss.”

“Do you think it does, Vinson?”

“Aye, miss. And Cora worked her magic to make it fit.”

“I’ve…” She swallowed. “…lost a bit of weight.”

He patted her hand and slowed his steps.

As they made their way along the hall, she stared at the ancient tapestries that depicted the history of the O’Mara lineage.

“I see from the number of swords and battles that Lord Alcott comes from a family of warriors.”

“Aye, miss. Do you disapprove?”

She shook her head. “My family can trace its roots to King Brian, whose sons were baptized by St. Patrick himself. And we are, proudly, warriors all.”

She missed the old man’s smile of approval as he whispered, “I must share a secret, lass. Lord Alcott disdains his title. He prefers to be known as merely Keane O’Mara.”

“Thank you, Vinson. I’ll keep that in mind.”

The old man paused, knocked, then drew open the doors to the library.

“My lord. The lass is here.”

“Thank you, Vinson.” Keane set aside his ledgers and shoved back his chair. He’d been trying, without success, to keep his mind on the figures in neat columns. But it had been an impossible task.

Briana, leaning on Vinson’s arm, walked slowly into the room.

Keane knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help himself. He hoped his jaw hadn’t dropped. Quickly composing himself, he called to Vinson, “Draw that chaise close to the fire for the lass.”

“Aye, my lord.”

The old man hurried forward to do his master’s bidding, while Keane led Briana across the room. The minute he touched her he felt the heat and blamed it on the blaze on the hearth. He shouldn’t have had the servants add another log. It was uncomfortably warm in here.

When she was settled, he asked, “Would you have some wine?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse, feeling that such a luxury should be saved for important guests. Then, recalling the festive meals at Ballinarin, she relaxed. Before the convent, it had been an accepted custom. It was time she adapted to life outside the convent walls. “Aye. I will.”

Keane turned to his butler. “We’ll both have wine, Vinson.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Minutes later the old man offered a tray with two goblets. That done, he discreetly took his leave.

“Well.” Keane lifted his goblet. “I need to know what to call you.”

“I thought I’d told you. My name is Briana.”

“Aye. You did. But I thought…” He sipped. Swallowed. “I thought perhaps you would want me to call you sister.”

“Sister?”

“You said you spent the last three years in the Abbey of St. Claire.”

“I did.” She swallowed back her surprise. Was that why he had kissed her hand? Out of respect? “But only as a student. I took no vows.”

“I see.” He took another sip of wine and thought it tasted somehow sweeter. “So, you’re not a nun.”

“Nay.” Was that disappointment that deepened his voice? She couldn’t tell.

Keane relaxed. Not that it mattered to him whether or not the lass was a nun. All he wanted was a pleasant evening of conversation with a reasonably intelligent human being.

“Tell me a little about your family.”

“With pleasure. But only if you agree to tell me about yours, as well.”

“Aye.” He forced himself not to frown as he glanced at the portrait above the mantel. That was his usual reaction whenever he thought about his family. He shook off his dark thoughts and concentrated on the lass.

“My father is Gavin O’Neil, lord of Ballinarin.”

“Aye.” His frown was back. “I know of him. All of Ireland knows of him. And your mother?”

“My mother, Moira, is a great beauty.”

“I see where you inherited your looks.”

She blushed, feeling suddenly self-conscious. She had no way of knowing if he was merely making polite conversation, or if he meant to pay her a compliment.

Needing to fill the silence, she said, “I also have two brothers, Rory and Conor. And their wives, AnnaClaire and Emma. And Innis, who is like a brother to me, though he was orphaned when his entire family was killed at the hands of the English. He lives now with Rory and AnnaClaire.” Her eyes lit with pleasure at the thought of those beloved faces. “And there is Friar Malone, who has lived at Ballinarin since before I was born, and who is like an uncle to me.”

She took a deep breath. It was the most she had said in years.

Suddenly, spreading her arms wide she gave a husky laugh. “Oh, it feels so strange and so good to be able to talk without asking permission.”

The sound of her laughter skimmed over him, causing the strangest sensation. “It would be a pity to stifle a voice as unique as yours, Briana O’Neil.”

“Unique?”

“Aye.” Instead of explaining, he said simply, “I like listening to you. Tell me more about your family and your home.”

“Ballinarin is wild. And so beautiful. In all of Ireland, there is nothing to compare with it. We live always in the shadow of towering Croagh Patrick, with its wonderful waterfall that cascades to the lake below. There are fields of green as far as the eye can see. And rolling meadows, where I used to ride, wild and free with my brothers.”

Keane refilled her goblet, then his own, before settling himself on the chaise beside her. Their knees brushed, and Briana’s voice faltered for a moment. “It was…the loveliest life a girl could ever have.”

“Why did you choose a convent so far away?” He found himself studying the way the soft fabric revealed the outline of her thighs, her hips, her breasts.

“I didn’t choose. It was chosen for me.”

He heard the change in her tone and realized he’d struck a nerve. “And you have not seen your home in more than three years?”

“Aye. There were times when I thought I’d die from the loneliness.” She looked over at him. “I suppose that sounds silly.”

“Not at all.” He stared down into the amber liquid in his glass. “I know the feeling well.”

“Have you ever been forced to leave Carrick House?”

He nodded. “For most of my life I’ve been away.”

“By choice? Or were you forced by circumstances?”

She saw a look come into his eyes. “Like you, my education abroad was chosen for me.”

“And then you returned?”

“Not immediately.”