Rory

by Ruth Ryan Langan

he ought to be relaxing by the fire, surrounded by grandchildren. And

  my mother, God love her, is now left with the task of raising young

  Innis, the only survivor of Tilden's massacre. I resent not being there

  to see my sister, Briana, grow into womanhood. And Conor." His

  voice roughened with feeling. "We're closer than mere brothers. One

  of us used to be able to finish a sentence before the other had spoken

  the words. Though we're very different in looks and temperament,

  our souls are one. I miss him every day of my life."

  Her hands stilled. She could actually feel the pain vibrating through

  him. Without realizing it, her fingers closed around his upper arms

  and she brought her lips close to his ear. "I'm sorry. I know this is so

  difficult for you. You mustn't torment yourself, Rory."

  God in heaven. Did she know what it did to him when she touched

  him like that? He felt a rush of heat and then a slow, steading

  throbbing in his loins. The blood roared in his temples.

  Too late, she became aware of his tension. And her own. But as she

  started to pull away he closed his hands over hers, holding her still.

  "That isn't all that's tormenting me, AnnaClaire."

  She tried to tug free but he held her fast. Her throat went dry. Her

  words were strained. "It's time I took my leave, Rory O'Neil." The

  room seemed suddenly far too small and suffocating.

  "Nay, my lady." In one smooth motion he stood and hauled her into

  his arms. "Don't go just yet."

  Awed and a little frightened, she tried to make light of the situation.

  "It would seem our time together has been well spent. Your strength

  is indeed restored."

  "As is my appetite."

  "I'll be sure to tell Bridget."

  "I wasn't speaking of food, AnnaClaire. It's you I want."

  "Let go of me, Rory O'Neil."

  "Why? I'm not alone in this wanting. You want me too."

  She felt a wave of panic. "Take your hands off me. I want nothing of

  the kind."

  "Liar." When she started to push away, he muttered, "Do you think I

  can't see it in your eyes, AnnaClaire? Feel it in the way you touch me?

  You want. Aye, you want the same thing I want. And the wanting

  frightens you, doesn't it?"

  Her head came up. "I'm not afraid. Not of the likes of you."

  "Prove it. Kiss me. Right here. Right now."

  She froze at the challenge. Her words were pure ice. "I need to prove

  nothing to you."

  "Aye. But how about to yourself, AnnaClaire? Or are you afraid of

  what you'll find?" He lowered his hands to his sides, leaving the

  choice up to her. He wouldn't hold her against her will. Still, he'd

  come to know her so well. He was counting on the fact that she

  couldn't resist a challenge.

  Very deliberately she lifted herself on tiptoe to meet his mouth, all the

  while staring into his eyes. Just as her lips brushed his she saw his

  eyes narrow slightly. Then her mouth was fully upon his and her

  lashes fluttered, then closed as her lips moved over his. She felt the

  quick jolt, the sudden heating of her blood even as icy ribbons of

  nerves coursed along her spine. It all happened in the space of

  seconds, and yet the feelings rocked her.

  When she opened her eyes, she realized that he hadn't moved. His

  hands were firmly at his sides, his body as still as though nothing had

  happened. It was an odd stillness that masked the tension humming

  through him. His lips curved into a hint of a smile. A smile that issued

  its own challenge.

  "So, AnnaClaire, what did you find?"

  "Nothing." She felt her cheeks flame for the lie, but refused to back

  down. "I found nothing. I felt nothing at all. Does that answer your

  question?"

  "Aye. And I say it again, my lady. You're nothing more than a

  beautiful, beguiling liar."

  "I answered your challenge. And that's all I intend..."

  Her words ended in a gasp as he swept her into his arms, crushing her

  against his chest. His mouth covered hers in a kiss so hot, so hungry,

  she had no choice but to answer with a hunger of her own.

  His mouth was so incredibly agile. Tasting. Feeding. Devouring.

  With teeth and lips and tongue he took her on a wild ride that had her

  head spinning, her heart racing. The heat instantly became an inferno.

  Her blood flowed like lava until she felt herself erupting with a

  passion that threatened to overwhelm her. And all the while his

  hands, those big, work-worn hands moved along her back, burning a

  trail of fire.

  "Rory. Give me a moment." She pulled back, dragging air into her

  lungs. "I can't think."

  "Don't think, AnnaClaire. Just feel." He ran soft nibbling kisses

  across her temple, down her cheek, over her upturned nose. The

  sweetness of it, the gentleness, made her sigh.

  He caught her hand and pressed it to his naked chest. "Feel what you

  do to my heart."

  It was pounding, wildly out of control, just as her own heart was.

  She lifted her hand and he raised it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the

  palm. Their eyes met. Each could read the desire in the other.

  Without a word they came together, lips mating, bodies straining to

  get closer.

  Rory's hands were in her hair, his fingers kneading her scalp as he

  took the kiss deeper, then deeper still.

  Her arms twined around his neck, needing to hold him, frantic to feel

  him with every part of her body.

  This was madness. He knew it. And yet he could no more stop it than

  he could stop the sun from shining, or the breeze from blowing across

  the land. This woman had become a fever in his blood. A hunger that

  gnawed at him. He had to have her. Or die trying.

  "Lie with me, AnnaClaire. Let me love you. Here. Now."

  His words, whispered so fiercely against her lips, inside her mouth,

  had the blood singing in her brain. It would be so easy to take what he

  offered. And yet she held back, afraid of the feelings that misted her

  mind, clouded her reason.

  "I...can't."

  "Can't? Or won't?"

  "I don't know. I can't think when you're holding me like this, kissing

  me like this."

  She pushed a little away, struggling for control.

  "I understand. A woman like you wouldn't give your love lightly.

  And there is the matter of the price on my head."

  Her eyes flashed. "You think that would hold me back? If you believe

  that, then you don't know me."

  "Oh, I think I know you well enough." He touched a finger to her lips,

  moist and swollen from his kisses. "You answered my question."

  "What question?"

  "I've no doubt you want me as much as I want you. You may deny it,

  but your kisses say otherwise."

  "How dare..."

  He shot her his dangerous smile. "Are you back to denying? Then

  deny that you needed no coaxing to kiss me just as passionately as I

  kissed you."

  He saw the protest that sprang to her lips and hurried on before she

  could speak. "Aye, there's fire in you, AnnaClaire. And a deep dark

  well of passion just waiting to be set free."

  She pushed away. "Damn yo
u, Rory O'Neil."

  "Aye. I'm damned, all right. Damned to want a woman who doesn't

  know her own mind. One minute you're returning my kisses like a

  woman, the next you're poised to run like a child. You can lie to me.

  Just remember not to lie to yourself, AnnaClaire. When you're all

  alone in the dark in that big soft bed, think about the man who lies just

  one floor above you. Any time you want me, I'll be here. And more

  than willing to unlock that secret door you keep so tightly closed."

  She, flounced away rather than stay and fight his words. Especially

  since they hit so close to the truth. As she made her way down the

  narrow staircase, she cursed the fact that the taste of him was still on

  her lips. And the need for him still burned.

  Chapter Seven

  AnnaClaire awoke to the soft tapping on her door. She'd put in a

  miserable night, taunted by Rory's words, haunted by the image of

  him holding her, kissing her.

  She slipped out of bed and padded across the room. When she tore

  open the door, Glinna swept past her and set the tray on a table.

  "Why have you begun bolting your door, my lady?"

  Caught by surprise, AnnaClaire could offer no logical explanation.

  "If you're afraid of the rogues who are said to be hiding out in Dublin,

  my lady, you need have no fear. Despite what's been said about them,

  they don't harm women. Even English women. 'Tis said their fight is

  with the queen's soldiers."

  "Thank you, Glinna. That's a comfort."

  "Shall I stay and help you dress, my lady?"

  "Perhaps later. Lord Davis and Lord Dunstan will be coming by to

  take me on a picnic."

  The little maid was suitably impressed. "Lord Dunstan? The

  handsome one?"

  AnnaClaire nodded. "I'll need a cloak and bonnet.And you might ask

  Bridget to prepare some of her tarts. I know Lord Davis has a

  fondness for them."

  "Aye, my lady. Will you ring for me when you wish me to help you

  dress?"

  "I shall indeed. Until then I believe I'll relax here in my room."

  As Glinna made her way to the door, she glanced at the heavy tray. "I

  hope you take time to eat at least some of the food Bridget has sent."

  She lowered her voice. "If you ask me, I think she's getting a bit daft.

  Why, until I called her attention to it, she was sending you two cups

  for your tea, and two bowls of porridge this morrow."

  AnnaClaire coughed behind her hand, to cover the laughter that

  threatened. "Perhaps she's been working too hard lately. I'll have a

  word with her."

  "Aye, my lady." The little maid pulled the door closed behind her.

  Before she could walk away, she heard the sound of the door being

  bolted from within.

  Alone in her room AnnaClaire slipped on a wrap of cut velvet, tying it

  modestly at her waist and throat. She was determined that there

  would be no repeat of last night's temptation. While seeing to Rory's

  food and comfort, she was determined to maintain her modesty.

  With a sigh of determination she picked up the tray and started up the

  steps to the attic. At the top of the stairs, she nudged open the door

  with her hip.

  "Good morrow, Rory O'Neil." She kept her tone impersonal.

  "The same to you." He yawned, stretched, pretending to be drowsy.

  In truth, he'd been awake for what seemed hours, awaiting his first

  morning glimpse of her.

  He sat up and watched as she bent to place the tray on the table.

  Despite the proper robe, he could imagine every line and curve of that

  lithe body.

  She handed him a bowl of porridge.

  Before she could turn away he caught her hand, drawing her to the

  edge of the mattress. "You're not joining me?"

  She laughed, to cover the little jolt she experienced at his touch. "Not

  this time. My little maid, Glinna, noticed the two bowls and cups on

  the tray and accused poor Bridget of being daft. So I'm afraid there's

  only one bowl and cup today."

  "Then we'll share." He lifted the spoon to her mouth. It was an oddly

  intimate gesture that had her nerves quivering.

  He watched her swallow and had to fight the urge to kiss away the

  moisture that clung to her lips.

  "That's not enough to feed a bird." He dipped the spoon and fed her

  more.

  She was achingly aware of him. Of the muscles that rippled each time

  he moved his arm. Of his eyes watching her so keenly. Of his hair,

  dark and mussed from sleep, falling slightly over his forehead in a

  most appealing way.

  "You eat the rest. You need nourishment to build your strength." In

  order to put some distance between them, she crossed to the narrow

  window and opened it.

  "What sort of day is it?"

  She kept her back to him, grateful for the chance to escape those eyes.

  "A bit of fine mist falling. But there's sunshine just to the east. I

  believe it will be a grand day."

  "What will you do today?"

  "I'm going on a picnic." She paused a beat before adding, "With Lord

  Davis, an old friend of my father."

  He'd noted her hesitation. "Just the two of you?"

  She shook her head. Stared off into the distance. "There will be

  others. Lady Thornly. Lord Dunstan."

  His tone hardened. "How convenient."

  "I could think of no way to politely refuse."

  "Did you try saying no?"

  She shot him a look. "It isn't that simple. Lord Davis is a sweet old

  dear who is enjoying the role of matchmaker. I simply will not hurt

  his feelings." Seeing that the bowl was empty, she crossed to Rory,

  took the bowl and handed him a cup of tea. "I'm sorry that you'll have

  to be alone all day."

  "It's quite all right. Enjoy your day, my lady." His voice was

  controlled, with no hint of the emotions that simmered below the

  surface. "I expect I can manage to lift my sword a time or two without

  your help."

  "Well then." She ran her hands along her skirt, wishing she could

  think of some reason to prolong their visit. "Do you need anything?"

  "Not a thing. You've been more than kind."

  "Good day to you then, Rory O'Neil."

  He inclined his head. "My lady."

  She turned away and descended the stairs, feeling strangely deflated.

  Damn Lord Dunstan, for taking her away (rpm home when she had no

  wish to be with him. And damn the warrior who lay abed upstairs, as

  well. Both men had conspired to spoil her day.

  "You see, Lynley?" Lord Davis leaned back against the trunk of a

  gnarled tree and sipped his ale. "I told you there were some splendid

  places here in Ireland."

  "Aye." Dunstan flicked a glance over the table set up in the shade of a

  nearby tree where four gentlemen were engaged in a game of cards.

  There was a time when he would have dominated the game and

  happily relieved them of their gold. At the moment, however, he had

  found a more appealing treasure. He turned to AnnaClaire, who was

  kneeling on a coverlet spread in the grass. In her one hand was a

  goblet of ale, in the other, a delicately pleated fan. "I am beginning to

  understand why you wish t
o remain here, my lady."

  She smiled at his unexpected compliment. "Be careful, Lord Dunstan.

  You might fall under Ireland's spell."

  "I believe I already have. But it isn't this land that has a hold on me."

  Lady Thornly, caught up in the excitement of budding romance,

  couldn't help sighing. "Oh, Lord Dunstan. My dear departed husband

  used to look at me in the same way that you're looking at our sweet

  AnnaClaire. Isn't that so, Lord Davis?"

  "Indeed it is, my dear." The old man shuffled to his feet and offered

  his arm. "Perhaps we'll take a walk and leave these young people

  alone."

  "If you don't mind, I'd like to go with you." AnnaClaire stood and

  shook down her skirts, determined not to be left behind. "After that

  fine lunch your cook prepared, Lady Thornly, a walk is just what I

  need."

  The old woman turned to Dunstan. "Then you must join us as well. I

  insist."

  Pleased, he moved along beside AnnaClaire, offering the support of

  his arm as she picked her way over the rough ground.

  "Have you made any progress in your search for the Blackhearted

  O'Neil, my lord?"

  "Nay. But my soldiers tell me that the offer of gold has caused a stir

  among the people. It is, after all, more than most of them will see in a

  lifetime. I have no doubt that someone will come forward."

  "It was a brilliant move, Lynley. Brilliant." Lord Davis mopped his

  brow with a fine linen square, then indicated a fallen log. "If you don't

  mind, I believe I'll just sit here a moment and catch my breath."

  "Then I'll join you." Lady Thornly fanned herself and settled

  carefully on the edge of the log.

  When AnnaClaire paused beside them, Lord Davis signalled her to

  move ahead. "No need for you wait for us. Go ahead, my dear."

  Dunstan pointed to a clearing through the trees. "Come, my lady.

  We'll walk to the banks of the river."

  It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse; but he was already guiding

  her along a grassy trail. Up ahead she could hear the voices of several

  of their friends, who had wandered off after eating.

  When they reached the river they came upon a cluster of men and

  women who stood facing a young mother, clad in only a damp

  chemise and petticoat, standing knee-deep in the water. In her arms

  was a naked, wriggling infant. Hiding behind her were a frightened

  boy and girl. It was obvious that they had been interrupted while