"I do so admire a strong man." Lady Thornly sipped her ale and
glanced from Dunstan to AnnaClaire. "Don't you, my dear?"
AnnaClaire chose her words carefully. "Strength is something we can
all admire. But I wonder if you might be underestimating the strength
of will of the Irish people."
"You don't think enough money can persuade them to turn on one of
their own?"
"Perhaps. There may be some who have no loyalty."
"I'm counting on it. I need only one person willing to whisper a secret
or two, and the Blackhearted O'Neil will be mine."
"I hope you're right." Lord Davis yawned behind his hand. They had
spent the better part of the day at Lady Thornly's, and now, with
dinner behind them, dusk was already settling over the city. "If you
succeed, Her Majesty will be greatly relieved."
"Who knows?" Lady Thornly said with a trace of awe. "Perhaps a
grateful Elizabeth will reward you with knighthood. And give you
charge over your own country."
"She could indeed." Lord Davis nodded vigorously. "I say Ireland
would be the logical choice. Despite the poverty here, there are some
exquisite parcels of land and some really lovely estates."
The old man glanced at AnnaClaire, whose face looked pale in the
candle glow. "You've grown quiet, my dear. Are you tired?"
"A bit."
"Then I think we must take our leave." He stood and crossed to her,
offering his hand.
She shot him a grateful smile. And kept the smile frozen in place
while she bade her hostess good-night and endured the long carriage
ride home beside Lord Dunstan. At the door she did all she could to
remain patient as Dunstan lingered over her hand.
"Good night, Lord Dunstan."
"Good night, my lady. Thank you for a lovely afternoon. May I call
on you again tomorrow?"
'I'm sorry. I shall be away most of the day."
"I see." Undeterred, he gave her a knowing smile. ' 'You realize, each
time you refuse, you only whet my appetite for more. Perhaps the day
after?"
Before she could reply he shook his head. "Not now, my lady. I'll
send my driver by on the morrow for your answer. Good night."
She watched until his carriage faded into the dusk.
Then she closed the door and hurried up the stairs to her room.
Finding Glinna there, she had no choice but to make ready for bed.
"Bridget said she would send up a tray if you wished it, my lady."
"Thank you, Glinna. That would be lovely. Just some tea and
biscuits."
"Aye, my lady."
Bridget herself arrived with the tray. When the door was closed, she
said softly, "In your absence I saw to our houseguest."
"Thank you, Bridget. How was he?"
"Like all men when they're beginning to heal. Short of temper.
Impatient. And prone to self-pity."
AnnaClaire had to laugh. "All those things describe Rory O'Neil. Did
he eat?"
"Hardly a bite. As soon as he heard that you would be gone for the
day, he pushed aside his tray and sulked."
For some strange reason, that made AnnaClaire want to laugh aloud.
Instead she turned away to hide her smile. "I'm sure he'll make up for
it. You'd best prepare a little extra porridge on the morrow."
"Aye, my lady." Bridget nodded toward the tray. "I added enough
food to see him through the night." She glanced at AnnaClaire. "Just
in case you wanted to see him before you retire."
"Thank you, Bridget." She realized that she did want to see him. Very
much. "I suppose I could drop by for a moment or two."
"Good night, my lady."
As soon as the housekeeper was gone and the door secured,
AnnaClaire picked up the tray and made her way up the little
staircase.
Rory heard the light footfall that signalled Anna-Claire's arrival. He
lay watching the door, feeling a strange dryness in his throat.
Anticipation had his heartbeat accelerating. He'd missed her. Without
her presence the day had been long and dreary, with no end to the
pain.
He realized he'd begun to look forward to her visits, even though the
vigorous workouts often made him grit his teeth in frustration. The
effort was worth the rewards. Not only was he growing stronger, but
he was privileged to spend more and more time in her company.
She wasn't even aware of how much she had changed over the past
few days. At first, she had reacted with cool disdain, touching him
only when necessary, and then with an almost clinical aloofness. But
he had discovered inside himself a patience he'd never known he
possessed. He had been thoughtful, considerate and as cool as she.
Now they seemed to have settled into a cautious truce. But there were
times when he could see beneath her calm surface to the turmoil
within.
AnnaClaire entered with a swish of skirts and gave him a welcoming
smile as she placed the tray on the bedside table.
"Good evening to you, Rory O'Neil. How did you fare in my
absence?"
"I spent most of the day sleeping like a babe."
She laughed at his little frown. "Now why does that make you
unhappy?"
"Because it's fine for infants to sleep like this. A man of my years
should be ashamed of such a thing."
"Shame or no, it's a necessary part of healing." She lifted the lid from
a tureen and the fragrance of broth and freshly-baked biscuits filled
the air. "Bridget's outdone herself, I'm afraid." She lay a clean cloth
on top of the blankets, then handed him a steaming bowl. "She's
determined that her cooking alone will work miracles and speed the
healing of your wounds."
He sipped. At once his smile returned. "Tell Bridget I consider her a
saint, and her cooking indeed a miracle."
"She'll blush like a maid when I tell her." AnnaClaire opened the
narrow casement, allowing a fresh evening breeze to sweep the room.
Then, while he ate, she laid out clean breeches and a crisp white shirt.
"What need have I of those?"
"They'll replace the ones you were wearing when you came here."
She bundled up his torn shirt, and glanced pointedly at him. "When
you've time, I'd like you to remove those breeches."
"With pleasure, my lady." He made a move to his waistband, but she
held up a hand to stop him.
"I'd prefer that you wait until I've gone."
"And spoil all my fun? Come, lovely AnnaClaire, give me a hand."
"You're a born tease, Rory O'Neil. Just see that you remove them
after I've gone."
' 'Why should I waste good fabric? You said yourself .hat Bridget
managed to boil away the worst of the stains."
"Aye. But she couldn't repair all the holes caused by knife and sword.
I've decided that I'd best burn them."
"Burn them?" His eyes narrowed with sudden interest. "Why all this
concern?"
"If your clothes were to be found, they could be traced back to you.
Everyone who saw you on the docks that day will remember what
you were wearing. I'd wager there aren't too many men lying abed in
torn breeches and shirt."
His tone went icy
cold. "I'll ask you again, AnnaClaire. Why this
sudden concern about my clothes?"
Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial" tone. "The truth of it is, I
learned today that another ship has docked. English soldiers are
sweeping the city. Lord Dunstan has put a price on your head, in the
hopes of coaxing your countrymen to betray you. He is determined to
be the one to capture the elusive Blackhearted O'Neil."
He shoved aside the food. It wasn't the first time he'd given thought to
her precarious position. But it was the opening he'd needed to ask the
question aloud. "Considering the danger, why did you take me in,
AnnaClaire?"
She removed the empty bowl and handed him a plate of beef and
cheese and crusty bread warm from the oven, hoping to entice him to
eat. "If you'll recall, the choice wasn't mine to make. It was thrust
upon me."
"But you could have had me arrested."
"Aye." She poured water into a basin and folded several towels
beside it.
When she offered nothing more, he picked at his food. "At least you
could have ordered me away."
"I could have." She closed the window, shook back the curtains and
lifted a blanket that had fallen to the floor, carefully folding it over
her arm.
"But you didn't, AnnaClaire." He caught her hand to still her busy
work. "You let me stay, knowing you were placing your entire
household in danger. Why?"
She avoided his eyes. "You were in need of my help. I'd no more turn
you away than I'd turn away any creature in need."
"For God's sake, AnnaClaire. There's a price on my head. Do you
think I don't know what the English will do to you if they find me
here?"
"They won't find you." She did look at him then. And felt the heat rise
to her cheeks. She lifted her head in what she hoped was a haughty
look. "You said yourself. I'm one of them."
"I've said a lot of things. Some of which make me ashamed." His tone
lowered. "You're not one of them, AnnaClaire. Nor could you ever
be."
"And how would you know that? My father is one of the queen's most
trusted counselors. At this very moment he is probably meeting with
her, advising her on the best way to handle the 'Irish problem,' as she
likes to call us."
"You see?" He shot her a smile. "You just said 'us.' You consider
yourself one of us."
"A slip of the tongue. Nothing more."
"Nay. It was no slip. Your mother's people were Irish. And your heart
is here. With us." He touched a hand to her cheek. "With me."
She struggled to show no emotion. But each time he touched her she
felt the slow curl of heat deep inside, and the quick, sudden tug on her
heart.
"You make my words something more than I intended, Rory O'Neil.
You were wounded. You needed a place to heal. I'd have done the
same for any wounded creature, whether it be a dog or a man."
"Aye. You've a tender heart. It's one more thing I've begun to love
about you, AnnaClaire."
"Don't." She brushed aside his hand. "Don't use those pretty words to
break down my resistance to you."
"Is that what I was doing?"
"I've the feeling that you always know exactly what you're doing,
Rory O'Neil. Now." She sharpened her tone, determined to remain
brisk and businesslike. "If you'll sit in that chair, we'll work on your
arm before we take our sleep."
"Together?" The teasing light was back in his eyes.
"The only thing we'll do together is move that arm."
He sat and stripped off his shirt, tensing as he waited for the moment
when she would first touch him. When she stood behind him and her
strong fingers began massaging his shoulder, he closed his eyes and
released a long slow breath.
The touch of her was like a drug. The moment her hands skimmed his
flesh he could feel the changes. His heartbeat became erratic. His
breathing quickened. His mind was swept clean of all thought save
one. He wanted more. He was desperate to feel her hands touching
him everywhere. And to taste her. To take her. Here. Now.
He-- clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. Clenched his hands
into fists to keep from dragging her into his arms and taking what he
wanted.
"You haven't been moving your arm as you should."
"And how would you know that?"
"Because I can feel a knot of tension here." She kneaded his flesh, and
he bent his head forward slightly to give her easier access. "And
here." She pressed her thumbs over his stiff shoulder, working the
flesh in firm but gentle strokes.
"Perhaps the tension is from something other than pain."
"And what would that be?"
He sighed, as much in pleasure as frustration. "I'll leave you to figure
that one for yourself, my lady."
She cursed the evening shadows that lent an air of romance to the
little attic room. Surely that was the reason why his teasing seemed to
have taken on added meaning tonight. As her fingers skimmed his
flesh and she patiently worked his arm upward and back, she found
herself wishing she could just relax and enjoy what he offered. For if
truth be told, she was more and more tempted.
"That will have to do for tonight." With a trace of impatience, she
emptied the opiate into a tumbler of water and picked up the tray.
"You're leaving so soon?"
"Aye." She walked purposefully to the door without allowing herself
to look at him. One glance at that handsome face, those smiling lips,
and that teasing laughter in his eyes, and she would be lost.
'Will I see you on the morrow? Or are you spending another day in the
company of your Englishman?"
She did turn then, giving him a haughty look. "You shall just have to
wait and see, Rory O'Neil."
When she reached the safety of her room, she set down the tray and
slumped against the edge of her bed. It was getting harder and harder
to remember why she must keep her wits about her, instead of simply
surrendering and enjoying what her houseguest was offering.
* * *
"What was it like growing up in England, AnnaClaire?"
It had become a familiar ritual. AnnaClaire would fetch Rory's meal,
and then, while his strength was at its peak, she would help him to the
chair and work with him on the difficult task of restoring the use of
his arm. While they went through the routine, she would tell him of
her childhood, or get him to talk about his, in order to keep his mind
off the pain. His parents, Gavin and Moira, his brother, and little
sister, Briana, had become as familiar to her as her own family.
"My childhood in England was lonely, I suppose. Because of my
mother's delicate health, I was her only child. I remember wishing I
had brothers or sisters to talk to. But, since my father wanted me to be
educated, I was surrounded by an array of tutors. I was expected to
learn comportment, music, and French and Spanish, as well as
English." She laughed. "My English tutor constantly berated me for
my brogue, which I'd picked up from my mo
ther."
At last he understood why her voice was a strange mixture of English
and Irish. And though the brogue had been softened, it was still there.
Like a hint of soft, soothing music to his ears. "A pity you weren't
educated here. Your Irish tutors would have encouraged your
brogue."
"Mistress Morgan would strike me with a rod each time she caught
me speaking so."
"She struck you?" The thought of it had him gritting his teeth. "What
did your parents say about that?"
"I dared not tell them. My mother had always been in uncertain
health. I knew it would upset her to learn that I was being obstinate.
So I...took my beatings, and tried to do as my tutors expected."
He felt an unreasonable wave of protectiveness toward this tough
little woman. "What about your friends?"
"I had a few. But many of them considered me too Irish. And when I
would accompany my mother to Clay Court in the summers, the
young people here considered me too English. I suppose that explains
why I've learned to keep my own counsel." She was eager to change
the subject. "Now, tell me more about Conor. Why did your parents
choose to send him abroad rather than you? After all, as firstborn, that
should have been your right."
He chuckled. "I wouldn't go. I'd had enough of books and tutors. The
monks at St. Brendan's had been cramming their knowledge into my
head since I was no bigger than a whelp. But it wasn't books that held
my interest. It was my father's land and holdings. For me it's always
been the land. Our beautiful Ballinarin."
She heard the softness that came into his tone whenever he mentioned
his home. And a yearning that no amount of toughness could hide.
"Why don't you go back then, Rory?"
He shook his head and grunted as she stood behind him, positioning
his arm above his head. The pain had greatly diminished this day. "I
can't. I'll not go back until this thing is ended."
"This thing." AnnaClaire shivered at the term he used to describe his
vendetta with the soldier named Tilden. As she lowered his arm and
began to massage the rope of muscle at the shoulder she said, "What
good will you be to your family if you're killed?"
"No good at all." He turned his head slightly to glance at her. "That's
why I intend to stay alive. For I truly regret leaving them alone for so
long. My father must assume the burden of the work at an age when
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