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. 1 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 annoyan
ce. "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 f
orehead. 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.
Briana Page 4
