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Rory
Rory

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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?”

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 sat on the edge of the bed. Very gently she lifted his 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 aroused 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.

It 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 prayer 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 blood from her skin, she slipped into a delicately embroidered 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 change than your way with the sword.”

“Ah. I hear a note of disapproval from my angel.”

“I don’t hold with fighting.”

He shot her a look that made her blush. She decided to change the subject. “Do you have any more brothers?”

He shook his head. “There’s just our little sister, Briana.”

“Does she take after Conor? Or does she favor her eldest brother?”

“The lass was my shadow since she was born.” His tone warmed with affection and pride. “She can wield a sword better than most men. And no one is better with a knife.”

AnnaClaire couldn’t help laughing. “Heaven help us. Another O’Neil warrior.”

“Aye. She is the despair of our parents.”

“Tell me about them.”

“My father, Gavin, is from a noble line. Descended from King Brian himself. My mother, Moira, can trace her own lineage to the ancient Druids, then later to the Celts. After all these years, their love still blazes brighter than all the stars in heaven. It’s a lovely thing to see.”

She thought of her own parents’ love. Of her father, who had suffered so gravely during his wife’s long illness. No one would ever take the place of his beloved Margaret. “They’re very lucky to have each other.”

“Aye. That sort of love is rare indeed. And even more wondrous when the two lovers have so many years together.” He fell silent, and AnnaClaire wondered if he was thinking about the woman who had almost been his bride. What sort of bitter taste would it leave to have a lover snatched away without the chance to say and do all the things locked in one’s heart?

She set the tea aside. “I think you’d better try to sleep now.”

“I believe I will.” He closed his eyes. When he heard her getting to her feet he clamped a hand around her wrist. “Thank you, lovely AnnaClaire.”

“For what?”

“For allowing me to forget my pain for a few minutes.”

“That wasn’t me. It was the potion.”

He merely smiled. “And thank Bridget Murphy for the porridge. I do believe I’d prefer it again tomorrow, instead of the mud.”

“I’ll tell her.”

She watched him a moment, then let herself out, knowing he was already asleep.

At noon, Bridget returned to AnnaClaire’s room with another tray.

“How much longer do you wish to feign illness, my lady?”

AnnaClaire shrugged. “I suppose sometime late this afternoon I must make an amazing recovery, for I have to attend Lady Thornly’s dinner party tonight.”

“Very well. I’ll check with you before sending Glinna up to help you dress.”

“Thank you, Bridget.” As she. picked up the tray and headed toward the narrow staircase she paused, turned. “By the way, Rory O’Neil sends his compliments on your porridge. He found it far superior to his mother’s.”

The housekeeper was beaming with pride as she scurried away. AnnaClaire marvelled that such a simple remark from a hardened warrior could elicit such feelings in the old woman.

In the little attic room, AnnaClaire found Rory sweating profusely as he struggled to lift his sword from the floor where it had fallen. It took both his hands to retrieve it, and the effort left him lying weakly against the pillows.

The wound to his shoulder, she noted, had opened and was oozing blood.

“Now look what you’ve done.” With a hiss of anger she set down the tray and bent over him, touching a square of linen to the wound. “And all for a foolish weapon.”

“Foolish?” He clamped a hand around her wrist and stared up into her startled eyes. “Woman, you wouldn’t think that if you found yourself facing a line of soldiers brandishing swords. Then it would be worth any price to have a weapon with which to defend yourself.”

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