Briana

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  she could no longer stand.

  Halsey gave her a rough shove and laughed as she dropped to the

  ground beside Keane. As she fell, the cap slipped from her head,

  revealing the tousled red curls.

  "What's this?" Halsey's jaw dropped, and for a moment he couldn't

  believe his eyes. Then, grasping her roughly by the arm, he hauled her

  to her feet.

  His gaze raked her, and she felt soiled by the look in his eyes. He

  lifted his hands to her tunic and in one swift motion tore it away. As

  the fabric shredded, his eyes narrowed on the pale chemise that barely

  covered her breasts.

  "A female?" He gave a high, shrill laugh. "Now I've seen everything.

  An Irish wench who thinks she can best an English soldier."

  He glanced toward Keane, who was struggling to sit up. "Is he the

  reason you're here? Did you think you'd save his miserable life?"

  She lifted her chin. "Nay. I thought to end yours."

  "Hold your tongue, wench." He slapped her so hard her head snapped

  to one side. "Or I'll cut it out of that lovely mouth." He gave another

  laugh and dragged her into his arms. "But only after I've sampled it

  myself."

  His sour breath filled her lungs as he covered her mouth with his. His

  hands groped her breasts through the thin fabric of her chemise.

  Suddenly he released her as his head snapped up, and his body was

  jerked violently backward.

  Briana watched in stunned amazement as Keane's fist connected with

  Halsey's nose, sending a geyser of blood spilling down the front of his

  tunic.

  "That was for the lady. And this one is for all the people who have

  suffered at your hands." Keane slammed his fist into Halsey's

  midsection, sending the soldier to his knees.

  Enraged, Halsey tossed a handful of dirt in Keane's eyes. Keane

  rubbed his fists over his eyes, hoping to clear his vision. As Halsey

  struggled to his feet, Keane struck out blindly and connected with

  Halsey's chin, sending him sprawling. Struggling for breath, Keane

  stood over the soldier, waiting for some sign of fight left in him.

  "Come on, Halsey. Don't give up yet. I haven't even started."

  "Nor have I." Halsey kept his back to him as he got to his knees. But

  when he finally stood, he turned to reveal a knife in his hands. He

  slashed out, slicing across Keane's chest, leaving his tunic soaked

  with blood. His second slash caught Keane's hand. Within moments

  the dirt at their feet ran red with blood.

  Seeing Keane's pallor and knowing that he was hanging on by a bare

  thread, Halsey caught him by the front of his tunic and lifted the knife

  so that the sunlight glinted off the razor-sharp blade. "Now, Irishman,

  I'm going to carve up that handsome face. And when I'm through, I'm

  going to have my sport with the woman." His laughter was the high,

  shrill sound of madness. "And when I'm through with her, she'll know

  once and for all time that no man bests Ian Halsey."

  As he lowered the knife to Keane's face, his smile froze. His body

  stiffened. The hand holding Keane dropped to his side. Then, as if in

  slow motion, his legs failed him and he slumped to the ground.

  Keane knelt beside him and felt for a pulse. Finding none, he touched

  a hand to the hilt of a knife protruding from Halsey's back. Then he

  looked up to see Briana standing over him.

  "Perhaps no man could best him." Despite her pallor, her voice was

  strong. "But this woman did."

  Keane started to get to his feet, but the world was beginning to spin.

  He sank to his knees and struggled to make sense of his jumbled

  thoughts, "...ordered Vinson...keep you locked in your chambers."

  "Aye. That was wrong of you, Keane O'Mara. But I used the bed

  linens to climb out the balcony. Vinson is probably still guarding my

  door, with no clue that I've gone."

  "...•not surprised, my fiery little vix..." He rested a moment, gathering

  his strength. "What of the battle?"

  She peered off into the distance and could hear the roar from the

  villagers. Briana could see their wives and children racing across the

  fields to share the moment. "I'd say the villagers are already

  celebrating their victory."

  "...won?"

  "Aye. And why not? They had excellent teachers." Seeing his eyes

  close, she clutched him with a fury born of desperation.

  All the fight had gone out of her. She was, in that instant, a terrified

  woman in love.

  "Oh, Keane. Oh, my love. Don't leave me now. I couldn't bear it."

  The last thing Keane remembered was the taste of Briana's tears upon

  his lips, and the sound of her voice, soft and breathless, begging him

  to stay with her as she half dragged, half shoved him toward Halsey's

  horse.

  Chapter Eighteen

  "There are no broken bones. None of the wounds appear to be

  serious." Mistress Malloy smiled down at the man in the bed.

  "Thanks, I'm told, to our lass."

  Keane glanced at Briana and squeezed her hand. She was seated

  beside the bed, still dressed in the filthy, bloodstained garb of the

  stable lad. "Aye. A more docile lass might have given up and

  remained in her chambers. But not Briana O'Neil. Praise heaven she

  isn't like other women."

  Briana merely smiled, content to let the others talk while she basked

  in the knowledge that the man she loved was safe.

  "Tell me, Vinson." Keane turned to his butler. "Did you never guess

  that the lass's chambers were empty?"

  "Nay, my lord." The old man looked slightly red- faced. "When it

  grew too quiet, I thought she was probably weeping. Or sulking. It's

  what most females would do."

  "But not our lass." Mistress Malloy's tone was filled with pride. She

  started toward the door. "I'll let the villagers know that the lord of

  Carrick is in no danger."

  "Wait." Keane sat up and carefully swung his legs to the floor.

  Despite the fact that his entire body was a mass of pain and bruises,

  he refused to give in to the weariness that tugged at him. The people

  were waiting. People he had begun to care about very deeply. "I'll tell

  them myself. Come, Briana. Let me lean on you."

  With his arm around her shoulder, Keane made his way to the

  balcony. The moment the crowd below caught sight of him, they let

  out a roar of approval.

  "Ye're alive then, my lord," one of the men shouted.

  "Aye. Are there any dead among us?"

  "None, my lord. But a score of wounded."

  "Anything serious?"

  "None more serious than a few broken bones."

  "That greatly relieves my mind." Keane grasped the balcony for

  support and lifted Briana's hand in the air. "Know this. Were it not for

  the courage of this lovely lady, none of this would have transpired.

  Without your training and weapons, the battle would have been over

  before it began, with many Irish lives lost. And without her aid, I

  surely wouldn't be here now. For it was her weapon that brought

  down the soldier who has been the cause of so much pain and

  suffering in our land. Ian Halsey is dead, thanks to Briana."

  "Three c
heers for the lady, Briana," one of the crowd shouted.

  A deafening cheer went up, as Keane lifted Briana's hand to his lips

  and stared deeply into her eyes.

  She felt her heart leap at the love she could read in those depths.

  "Now," he called to those below, "go back to your homes. And give

  thanks that we've been delivered, at least for now, from the scourge of

  the English."

  "If more soldiers come, my lord, we'll be ready for them," someone

  shouted.

  "Aye," came the roar from the crowd.

  Keane and Briana remained on the balcony, watching as the long line

  of villagers began to slowly wind its way across the meadow. The

  tavern would soon be filled with revelers. As would the village green.

  And this night, many a father would hug his children a little tighter.

  And many a wife would give thanks for the safe delivery of her man.

  Hours later, when Keane and Briana had bathed away the dirt and

  blood of battle, they took a quiet meal in Keane's chambers. And

  afterward, as they lay together in his bed, staring into the flames of

  the fire, they felt humbled by what they had accomplished. And

  overwhelmed by what they had almost lost.

  The midnight sky was a curtain of black velvet. A path of liquid

  golden moonlight spilled across the bed, bathing the two people who

  lay side by side.

  Briana found it impossible to sleep. The feelings swirling inside her

  were too new, too exciting, to permit sleep. And so she lay, watching

  the steady rise and fall of Keane's chest.

  How had she lived without him for all these years? What strange fate

  had brought her to Carrick, to this man, and the wonderful love he

  had unlocked in her heart.

  She smiled dreamily as she brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. Then

  her smile turned to a frown of concern as she noted that his breathing

  had become shallow. It was obvious that he was in the throes of a

  dream. Not a pleasant one, she realized. For he turned his head from

  side to side, as if to avoid something.

  "...Alana."

  At the sound of his voice whispering a woman's name, her heart

  stopped. Not something. Someone.

  He moaned in his sleep and touched a hand to his thigh. Briana

  studied the raised white scar that ran the length of his left leg, from

  thigh to ankle. He had once shrugged it off as simply an old wound.

  And she'd been willing to accept that. But there was nothing simple

  about it. It must have nearly cost him his life.

  He muttered something unintelligible, and sat straight up in bed. His

  eyes snapped open. He caught sight of Briana beside him, watching

  him.

  "You had a bad dream."

  "Aye." He pressed an arm to his forehead. He was bathed in sweat.

  "Your leg pains you."

  "Sometimes." He took several deep breaths to calm his ragged

  breathing. He hated the demons. They always caught him unawares,

  when he was asleep and most vulnerable. Since his love for Briana

  had blossomed, he'd been free of them. But now, perhaps because he

  was weakened by the wounds of battle, they were back, haunting him.

  "You mentioned a name. Alana." Briana felt him stiffen. At once she

  was repentant. "Forgive me, Keane." She turned away. "I had no right

  to pry."

  When he said nothing she slipped out of bed. "I'll fetch you some

  water. Or would you prefer ale?"

  "Ale." His tone was flat.

  He waited while she poured a tumbler and handed it to him, drinking

  it down in one long swallow. As the ale burned a path of fire down his

  throat, he took a deep breath.

  Then, climbing from bed, he began to pace while Briana stood across

  the room, watching him in silence. At last he paused, turned. "I've

  kept the truth from you long enough. It's time I told you everything."

  "There's no need."

  "Aye. There is. I'm tired of living a lie."

  At the harshness of his tone Briana waited, afraid to speak, afraid of

  what she was about to hear.

  He scrubbed his hands over his face. "But where to begin?" Agitated,

  he began pacing like a caged animal.

  When his pacing stopped, he stared out the balcony window and

  spoke in a tone devoid of all emotion. "When my grandfather was

  alive, the name O'Mara was a noble one, commanding respect from

  all who knew us. He was a man who loved this land and the people

  who lived here. After he died, the respect seemed to die with him."

  Keane stalked to the fireplace to toss a log on the grate. He stood a

  moment, watching as the hot coals ignited the bark, starting a thin

  flame along its length.

  Keeping his back to her he said, "It was common knowledge that my

  father was a wastrel. He had no time for his son, his land, his people.

  It wasn't enough that he squandered a fortune on every vice known to

  man, but he turned his back on his home as well, choosing to live in

  England, where he aligned himself with the king. He even accepted a

  title in return for a betrayal of his own countrymen. Which is why, to

  this day, I detest the title Lord Alcott." His tone lowered. "You

  wondered why I didn't want to involve myself in instructing the men

  of Carrick in the use of arms.

  It was my father who saw to it that these people were left helpless and

  unarmed. He and his friends in England agreed it would be far easier

  to conquer men who were without weapons."

  Though Briana was shocked at the depth of his father's betrayal, she

  gave no reaction, for fear of silencing the anger that had been

  festering so long inside him.

  He took in a deep breath. "By the time I'd finished my education

  abroad, I was so disgusted and disillusioned with my father, I seemed

  destined to follow in his footsteps, just to seek revenge. In fact, I did

  my best to imitate him, though I told myself it was only to hurt him."

  He turned, and Briana could read the misery in his eyes. "After one

  particularly decadent period in my life, I was approached by...one of

  Ireland's most influential leaders. A man highly regarded by all who

  knew him. A man I greatly respected. He suggested that if it were

  revenge against my father that I was seeking, he knew of a better way

  than the one I was pursuing. When he presented me with his scheme,

  I rejected it out of hand. Even I, as low as I had sunk, considered his

  plan unconscionable. But he continued to press until he managed to

  convince me that I would not only avenge my father's misdeeds, but

  would restore the O'Mara family name in the bargain."

  "How would you accomplish all this, Keane?"

  "By joining my father and his English friends in their pursuit of

  pleasure. Something I had become very good at. And when they

  trusted me enough to let down their guard, I would be privy to all

  their secrets, which I would then relay to known Irish patriots."

  For the space of several seconds she went silent, as the truth dawned.

  "You were a spy?"

  He gave a dry, mirthless laugh. "Some might call it that. I was a drunk

  and a cheat. I used everybody, including my own father. I sank so

  low, I even
used my father's mistress."

  He heard the gasp of surprise and turned away, not wanting to see her

  face. With his arms crossed over his chest he paced to the window,

  where he stared out at the night-shrouded land.

  "Her name was Lady Victoria Cranmer, and she was considered one

  of the great beauties of England, with pale yellow hair and skin like

  milk."

  "Victoria?" This made no sense. The name he had spoken in his sleep

  had been Alana.

  "Aye. And with hardly any coaxing at all, she betrayed my father and

  came to my bed. After that it was a simple matter to make her my

  wife."

  At that, Briana felt all her breath leave her lungs. She couldn't bear

  the pain. Her heart contracted. She had to close her eyes and grip the

  edge of the table to keep from being sick. Her mind simply refused to

  make sense of this. "You wed?"

  "Aye." His voice was harsh. Bitter.

  "Did you...love her?"

  "Not at first. Perhaps I never really loved her. But I used..her badly.

  And I discovered that, beneath the face she showed to others beat a

  kind and gentle heart. That discovery was when all my carefully laid

  plans began to unravel. Victoria, whose health had always been

  fragile, announced that she was with child."

  "Child?" Briana could barely get the word out. This was becoming a

  nightmare. The man she loved. The man in whom she had placed her

  trust. The man she had begun to spin her dreams around. With a wife

  and child. It was all too much.

  "Aye. A wee lass. Born too soon, leaving her small and fragile.

  Though I would never be certain if she was my child or my father's, I

  claimed her as my own. It was then my father chose to take his own

  life."

  "Oh, dear heaven." Briana moaned aloud. The horror of this was

  growing, layer upon layer, with every word from his lips. She

  couldn't even find any words of consolation for the death of his

  father. And so she remained silent.

  "We named the child Alana."

  Briana blinked. At last, there was the name she had heard. Not his

  wife. His daughter.

  "When last seen, she was a beautiful little infant, with her mother's

  lovely, perfect features, and the dark hair that was so much a part of

  the O'Mara heritage." He picked up the framed miniature from his

  night table. In a blur of pain, Briana studied it.

  "When last seen?" Her head came up sharply. "Does her mother not