Rory

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  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 -at on the

  edge of the bed. Very gently she lifted hi- 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 arou
sed 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.

  If 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 praypr 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