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."
"But there are no soldiers here, Rory O'Neil. You're safely hidden
away."
He gave her a long, thoughtful look. "So you say. But how can I be
sure?"
"You have my word. Isn't that enough?"
He nodded. "Aye. It is. If you say it is."
"You'd be wise to save your strength and give your wounds a chance
to heal."
"So I would." He relaxed his grip and allowed her to mop up the fresh
flow of blood. But he didn't completely let go of her, instead keeping
his fingers wrapped lightly around her wrist. "Old habits are hard to
break."
While she bent to her task, she could feel him boldly studying her. It
brought a flush to her cheeks. Worse, she knew her pulse was racing.
Knew, too, that he could feel it at her wrist.
To cover her confusion she poured a liberal amount of spirits on the
wound. "This will hurt a bit." She heard his quick intake of breath.
"Hold still now while I tie this clean linen." She glanced down and
realized that he was still staring at her. Only now his gaze was fixed
on her mouth. Her throat went dry. Their lips were so close they were
almost touching. She need only make the slightest move to taste him.
As if reading her mind he drew her fractionally closer. "You smell
like my mother's rose garden."
She swallowed, and it sounded overloud in her ears. She knew he
could hear the tremor in her voice. "I'm not your mother, Rory
O'Neil."
"I never had a minute's doubt of that." His lips curved in a dangerous
smile. "I never wanted to kiss my mother the way I want to kiss you."
She braced a hand against his chest, intending to push away.
"Don't..."
Her protest was swallowed as his mouth covered hers.
His lips were warm and firm and practiced. They moved over hers,
tasting, teasing.
At the first contact her breath backed up in her throat. She would have
pulled back but he had anticipated her move and now held her firmly
against him. He pressed a palm to the back of her head while hisother
hand slid across her shoulder and along her back. And all the while
his lips moved over hers until she could no longer hold back a sigh of
pleasure.
"Let this be a lesson to you, AnnaClaire. Never tell me what to do," he
muttered against her mouth. "There's just something in my nature that
refuses to accept orders."
She took in a deep breath, feeling her head swimming. "I'll remember
that in the future. Now release me, Rory O'Neil."
He flashed that dangerous smile, and she realized, too late, her
mistake.
"You see?" He framed her face with his hands. "You've done it
again." With no effort at all he drew her head down for another
drugging kiss. This time his fingers tangled in her hair, and, while her
senses were still reeling, he kissed her until she was breathless.
He knew the exact moment when her resistance gradually turned into
acquiescence. Her hands, which had been pressed firmly against his
chest, now lifted to encircle his neck. Her breasts were flattened
against him in a most enticing manner. She lay, warm and pliant, in
his arms.
Arousal was swift, insistent. He felt the rush of desire pulse through
him before he carefully banked it.
In o
ne smooth motion he caught her firmly by the shoulders and held
her a little away. It was all the time he needed to clear his head and
calm his pounding heart.
"I hope you've learned your lesson. Never tell me what to do."
Her eyes darkened with anger. Though it was difficult to speak, when
her heart was still tumbling helplessly inside her chest, she managed a
note of sarcasm.
"You mean, in order to keep this from happening again, I ought to
order you to kiss me?'
He threw back his head and laughed. What a delight she was. "Do you
take me for a complete fool? Whether you told me to kiss you or not,
you're too lovely to resist. I'd simply have to kiss you."
"And I simply have to leave you."
"Now? Before you've properly tended my needs?"
"Your needs." She tossed down the square of linen and indicated the
tray on the night table. "Last night I feared you would die in your bed.
But you're far from dead, Rory O'Neil. Any man strong enough to
hold a woman can surely hold his own bowl of broth. I hope you find
Bridget's soup as appetizing as her porridge."
"I'm sure I will."
When she yanked open the door he added, "But it won't be nearly as
pleasant without you feeding it to me."
In reply she pulled the door firmly shut behind her.
When she reached her own room, she sank down onto the edge of the
bed and pressed a hand to her lips. They were still tingling from the
touch of his mouth. And his dark, dangerous taste still clung to them.
This was a foolish game she was playing. All because she had
allowed this Irish warrior to touch some romantic chord in her heart.
She wouldn't be the first maiden to have her heart broken by a rogue.
But, she reminded herself, there was more than her heart at stake here.
She was playing a game with people's lives. And the consequences
could be deadly.
Chapter Four
flow are you finding your first visit to Ireland, Lord Dunstan?" Since
her hostess had insisted upon seating AnnaClaire beside the
handsome young visitor, she had no choice but to attempt pleasant
conversation with this dour, brooding man. Apparently she was the
only female in the room who hadn't fallen under the spell of his
chilling smile and icy gray eyes.
"Fascinating. From what I've seen, a savage land. And savage
people." He acknowledged the nods of agreement around the table.
"Were it not for meeting you, my lady, I would have returned to
England without a single good thing to say for my time spent here."
She felt his knee nudge hers beneath the table cover. When she
moved aside, he shifted closer, so that she couldn't escape his touch.
"I've had the good fortune of meeting your father several times in
London, my lady." He laid a hand over hers, pressing firmly when she
tried to pull it away. It was obvious that he enjoyed being the center
of attention. Knowing that the others were watching and listening, he
began to play to his audience. "Had I known that Lord Thompson's
daughter was so lovely,
I would have made the journey across the Channel much sooner." If
he felt her cringe, he took no notice of it.
"I wish we could persuade you to stay a while longer, Lord Dunstan."
Lady Thornly sipped her wine, thoroughly enjoying the company of
her countrymen. "I grow so weary of this local dialect, and do so
yearn to be among my own kind and hear the language spoken as it
was meant to be."
The young man gave her his most charming smile. "Perhaps you
should sell your estates to me, Lady Thornly. Then you could return
to England to live out your years among your own kind."
"As if you need more land." She waved a hand in dismissal and
laughed like a coquette.
The others joined her laughter. It was common knowledge that
Lynley Lord Dunstan was quickly becoming one of the richest men in
England.
A gentleman across the table said, "You were recently at Court with
Her Majesty, Dunstan. How does Elizabeth intend to deal with this
Irish problem?"
The young man puffed up his chest. His father and grandfather had
held important positions with Elizabeth's father, Henry VIII. A
grateful king had granted them generous sections of land, and several
of the most beautiful homes in England. The current Lord Dunstan
had learned well from his ancestors, using his loyalty to his queen to
add to his own fortune.
"The Queen values my opinion. In fact, I am here at Her Majesty's
request, to see for myself if there is a problem."
"Rest assured there is a problem." The elderly Lord Davis, seated
beside their hostess, spoke in hushed tones. "And it grows more
serious with each day." He glanced around. "Any word on that
wounded Irish warrior? The one they call the Blackhearted O'Neil?"
AnnaClaire went perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe.
Dunstan snorted with disdain. "Warrior? Court jester would be a
better name. As far as I can determine, he is nothing more than a
peasant leading a small band of ruffians, hoping to become a hero to
the locals."
"I saw with my own eyes how that 'peasant' and a few of his
swordsmen could rout an entire battery of English soldiers." Lord
Davis drained his goblet and paused while a hovering servant filled it.
"There is nothing more dangerous than a zealot who appeals to the
heart of the masses. Mark my word, Dunstan. The man is stirring a
cauldron of simmering passions. Very soon now, they'll come to a
boil. And Her Majesty might find herself with the one thing she has
sworn to resist."
"And what might that be, Lord Davis?"
"A war that drains England's coffers."
"War?" Dunstan gave a snort of disdain. "With these peasants?" He
threw back his head and chuckled, and one by one the others around
the table followed suit. "Queen Elizabeth is no fool. If this so-called
Blackhearted O'Neil should begin to take himself seriously, our
queen will simply send over a company of her finest soldiers. Believe
me, Lord Davis, our swordsmen could put down any rebellion led by
an illiterate peasant and his band of lackeys."
He turned to AnnaClaire. "You've grown quiet, my lady. Does all this
talk of war upset your delicate sensibilities?"
"Aye." AnnaClaire swallowed, uneasy at having the attention shifted
to her.
"Forgive me, my dear." Lord Davis pushed from the table and walked
to her side. With a hand on her shoulder he said gently, "How
inconsiderate of me to nave forgotten. AnnaClaire was forced to
witness that bloodletting at the docks yesterday. I'm sure it was most
upsetting for her." He leaned close. "Would you care to take your
leave, my dear?"
It was the excuse she'd been hoping for. She placed her hand in his.
"Thank you. I would indeed."
"Oh dear." Lady Thornly touched a fine lace cloth to her lips. "I had
so hoped we could keep you here a while longer, AnnaClaire. Lord
Dunstan has so little time before he returns to London."
"I'd be happy to
accompany Charles and AnnaClaire to their homes,"
the handsome Englishman said gallantly.
It was on the tip of AnnaClaire's tongue to refuse. But there was no
way she could do so gracefully. And now she found herself bidding
her hostess good-night and climbing into a carriage with her father's
old friend and a young man whose arrogance was as unsettling as his
ignorance.
"How long do you hope to remain in Ireland?" Lord Davis settled
himself comfortably across from the young couple, and their carriage
started off through the streets of Dublin.
"I had hoped to be here no more than a few days." and Dunstan turned
to smile at the young woman beside him, whose face was shrouded in
shadow. "But now, I think I might be persuaded to stay a while
longer."
AnnaClaire groaned inwardly."Excellent." The old man smiled in the
darkness. His friend, Lord Thompson, would be delighted to hear that
his daughter had caught the interest of someone as important as this
young friend of the queen herself.
"Shall I have my driver take you home first, , Charles?"
Before AnnaClaire could issue a protest, the old man was nodding
vigorously. "I was about to suggest it myself. I'm feeling a bit weary
after all that food and stimulating conversation."
AnnaClaire knew exactly what her father's old friend was up to. And
though his meddling was galling, there was nothing she could do
about it. He was as determined as her father to see that she made a
good match.
Dunstan shouted an order to the driver. At once they changed
directions and were soon at the old man's j door.
"Good night, Lord Dunstan." The older man touched the tip of his hat,
then leaned across the seat j and brushed his lips over AnnaClaire's
cheek. "Good night, my dear. I can rest easy, knowing I've left you in
such good hands."
"Good night, Lord Davis." AnnaClaire watched him climb from the
carriage and ascend the steps of his mansion.
At a command from her companion, the driver urged the team
forward and they were once again making their way through the
darkened streets.
When the carriage veered to the right and started up a slight incline
AnnaClaire found herself pinned against Dunstan's side. Though his
movement was subtle, she felt his hand brush her breast. She stiffened
and pushed away. But when she glanced over at him, she could see
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