Briana

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  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.