Rory

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  And more on the door. The O'Neil has been here."

  Dunstan's eyes narrowed. "Search the house. Room by room. The

  lady and I will wait here."

  AnnaClaire turned to Bridget. "I am feeling faint. Bring me some

  ale." As though suddenly remembering her manners she turned to

  Dunstan. "Will you join me, my lord?"

  "Aye." He was studying her carefully, noting the trembling of her

  limbs, the unmistakable pallor.

  As the housekeeper moved around the kitchen, AnnaClaire crossed to

  the fire and stood warming her hands. She felt chilled to the marrow.

  Where was Rory now? How could he possibly escape with so many

  soldiers guarding the house?

  "Ale, my lady." Bridget handed her a goblet, then offered a second to

  Lord Dunstan.

  Just as he was about to accept it, the back door was thrust open and

  Tavis stumbled in. Blood streamed from his head.

  Bridget let out a bloodcurdling scream and hurled herself against the

  old man, cradling his head in her hands. "Tavis. Oh, Tavis love. What

  has happened to you?;.'

  The old man stumbled a few more steps, then sank down on the floor.

  Several soldiers came running to investigate the commotion.

  "Thieves," he managed as he accepted several linen squares from his

  wife and pressed them to his head. "Came into the stables, they did.

  Stole our horses."

  "It's the O'Neil," Dunstan shouted to his soldiers.

  "Trying to escape. Hurry. One hundred pieces of gold to the man who

  stops him."

  At that the soldiers streamed out of the house and went racing off in

  the direction of the stables.

  "I care not whether he is brought back alive or dead," Dunstan called

  after them.

  He stood watching for several moments as his men struggled to

  outrace each other for the prize. Agitated, he turned.

  The elderly housekeeper and her husband were staring across the

  room, eyes huge, mouths agape.

  "What is it, you old fools?"

  Without a word Bridget pointed.

  Rory stepped from his place of concealment directly behind

  AnnaClaire. One hand was clamped over her mouth, to keep her from

  crying out. The other was holding a knife pressed against her throat.

  "Unhand that woman at once," Dunstan ordered.

  Rory merely gave him an icy smile. "The woman will die unless you

  do exactly as I say."

  "Do you know the name of the woman you have dared to sully?"

  Dunstan demanded.

  "I neither know nor care. For now, all that matters is that she is going

  to assure my escape. If your men should attempt to capture me, I shall

  have to slice her lovely throat."

  "Fool. You have made a poor choice of captive. This woman is the

  daughter of Lord James Thompson, Chief Counsel to your queen,

  Elizabeth of England. Should you harm her, that same queen will

  move heaven and earth to exact retribution."

  "Elizabeth is not my queen. As for the lady's name and rank, all the

  better. I will remind you that my sword cares not whether the English

  blood it spills belongs to a man or a woman." He motioned to Bridget.

  "Old woman, tie the hands and feet of these two men."

  Bridget was openly sobbing. "Please, sir, my husband is gravely

  wounded."

  Rory bit off each word. ' 'I said bind their hands and feet. If you don't

  do it quickly, I'll be forced to harm your mistress."

  With great weeping and wailing, Bridget did as she was told.

  "Now." Rory motioned with his knife. "Fetch your mistress a warm

  cloak."

  Within minutes Bridget had returned with a hooded, sable-lined

  cloak, which Rory draped over his arm. Keeping the knife at

  AnnaClaire's throat, he began backing her toward the door.

  "Where are you taking her?" With rising fury Dunstan struggled

  against his bonds.

  "Away from every comfort she has ever known. Far across the

  heathen land you and your queen disdain." Rory shoved open the

  door and dragged AnnaClaire along with him.

  Dunstan swore viciously. "You have just signed your own death

  decree, Rory O'Neil."

  "Have I now? It's little enough to pay, so long as I'm given the chance

  to take the life of your queen's soldier, Tilden, in return." As he

  stepped out into the darkness, his muffled laughter was carried back

  to those inside.

  It was followed a moment later by the sound of AnnaClaire's soft cry.

  And then there was only silence.

  "Rory. Over here." At the whispered voice Rory changed directions

  and veered off toward a stand of trees.

  Half a dozen men were already mounted, holding the reins of a

  seventh horse. As the darkened shadow approached, one of the men

  called, "What in God's name are you carrying, Rory?"

  "This lovely lady saved my life, lads. Her name is Lady AnnaClaire

  Thompson." Rory pulled himself into the saddle and settled

  AnnaClaire in front of him, then draped her cloak around her.

  "Thompson?" One of the men sneered. "Is she the spawn of Lord

  James Thompson?'

  "The same." Rory arranged the hood of her cloak in such a way that it

  managed to hide her pale hair. It occurred to AnnaClaire that he had

  thought of everything. The dark cloak would make her invisible in the

  night.

  None of this was happening by accident. The horses. The men. The

  meeting place. He had arranged it all. And apparently it had been

  arranged long before he had come into her home. She had been part of

  a terrible, intricate plot.

  "And this is how you thank me," she muttered between clenched

  teeth.

  She was trembling violently, whether from cold or fear she couldn't

  be certain. But one thing was certain. The man who had dragged her

  away into the night was not the same man she had tended all these

  long days and nights. That man had been good and kind and noble.

  This man was nothing more than a barbarian. A brutal, thoughtless,

  hardened outlaw.

  "I'll never forgive you for this, Rory O'Neil. For kidnapping me. For

  having these barbarians beat an old man senseless, and for frightening

  an old woman half to death."

  Ignoring her he whispered, "You know the plan, lads. We'll separate

  now. From this day forward, we have no knowledge of one another.

  Return to your homes and families. One day, should the need arise,

  you may receive a summons to come together once more. If not,

  know that you have earned the undying gratitude of the Blackhearted

  O'Neil."

  "Aye, Rory. God speed." Without another word the horsemen turned

  and melted into the darkness.

  Rory did the same, urging his mount into a gallop.

  It was useless to try to speak. With the wind whistling past their

  heads, all AnnaClaire could do was cling to him and trust that this

  angry, desperate man, who was fleeing for his life, was the same

  sensitive soul she had come to know and love in that cramped little

  attic room. But the thought of poor old Tavis, all bloody and broken,

  and his beloved Bridget, trembling with fright, had her fighting back

  the sting of tears.


  What had she done?

  Sweet Savior, what terrible affliction had she brought upon herself

  and those she loved?

  Her father's name would be forever sullied. His daughter a terrible

  pawn in a deadly game. And all those who loved her would be forever

  caught up in this madman's plot for revenge.

  Chapter Nine

  They rode for hours without stopping. Without speaking. At times

  AnnaClaire caught glimpses of firelight from tiny huts and villages.

  She thought about slipping free of Rory's arms and racing to freedom.

  But fear and confusion held her in a paralyzing grip. Fear of the

  people she might encounter. Confusion about where she was. Where

  they were headed.

  At times it felt as if they were the only people left in the universe. A

  universe filled with nothing but blackness, punctuated by occasional

  stars.

  They kept to the forest where tree branches snagged at their hair and

  clothing and night creatures scurried out of the way as they passed.

  One time AnnaClaire saw feral eyes watching them. She let out a cry

  and Rory's arms tightened around her as he drew her close.

  Against her ear he whispered, "Just a wolf. He's more afraid of you

  than you are of him."

  It was obvious that Rory had no idea just how deep, how

  all-encompassing, her fear was. Fear for her safety. Fear that she

  would never see her home again. Fear that she had put her trust in a

  man who had become a stranger to her.

  When they had ridden past the watchful eyes of night creatures, there

  were new things to fear. Voices. Laughter. The smell of a turf fire,

  signalling that people were nearby. But what sort of people were

  these, who slept under the stars, without shelter, without roots?

  Friend or foe?

  As though asking himself the same questions, Rory veered away and

  urged his horse into a stream. They followed the path of water until

  Rory suddenly turned his mount up the steep bank, taking them even

  deeper into the forest.

  Here there was no trace of sky, no glint of stars. Here the trees grew

  together to form a dark, soothing canopy. The scents, the sounds, the

  very soul of the forest were all around them. It was peaceful rather

  than threatening. Like a warm, snug cocoon.

  The ground was more level here, and as the horse continued its slow,

  plodding pace, AnnaClaire found herself unable to keep her eyes

  open. After the shock and terror had taken their toll, exhaustion set in.

  Her taut muscles relaxed. With her head resting against the curve of

  Rory's shoulder, she drifted into sleep.

  It was the sudden absence of movement that jolted AnnaClaire

  awake. She looked around in confusion. Through the branches of the

  trees dawn light could be glimpsed, just beginning to paint the sky.

  "Where are we? Why have we stopped?"

  "It won't be safe to go on now. We'll stop here for the day."

  "Here?" She threw back her hood and stared around. "In the forest?"

  He slid from the saddle and lifted her down. "Aye. In the forest."

  Dizzy from sleep she watched as he led his mount toward a small

  stream and waited while the animal drank. Then he tethered him in a

  stand of trees. The foliage concealed the horse from view.

  Rory turned. Catching sight of AnnaClaire's pallor, he took her hand

  and led the way through a maze of trees. In their midst, cleverly

  concealed, was a sod hut. At first it was too dark inside for

  AnnaClaire to make out her surroundings. But once Rory had a fire

  started, she could see that it was a cozy dwelling, with a crude table

  and chairs as well as a big bed, covered with animal hides.

  After rummaging in several pouches, he produced tea and biscuits.

  "This will hold us until I can catch some fish for our supper."

  "Supper?" Despite her hunger she pushed aside the food. "Are you

  planning to keep me here?"

  He sipped his tea and broke off a piece of biscuit.

  "What did you expect?"

  "That you would have the decency to release me after you'd made

  good your escape."

  "Release you? Where?"

  She shrugged, too angry and confused to think. "Anywhere. I'm sure

  someone in one of the villages we passed could see me safely back to

  my home."

  "They might. Or they might take a look at their women and children,

  shivering in the night, and then at that fine cloak and fancy gown, and

  decide you're of more use to them dead than alive."

  She gave a gasp of indignation. "Are you suggesting hat they would

  kill me for a cloak?"

  "They might. Or for that fancy comb in your hair. Or the fine ring

  upon your finger. These people arestarving, my lady. And if they

  were to learn that your father is the mighty Lord James Thompson,

  advisor to the Queen of England, they might slit your throat for that

  reason alone."

  "How can you say such a thing? My mother was Margaret Doyle of

  Dublin. She was one of them. She belonged here."

  "I don't think that would matter much to a poor farmer whose crops

  were destroyed by the queen's soldiers. Or one whose wife and

  daughter were brutalized by those same soldiers while he was out

  tending his flock. They would care only that your father was a friend

  to the monarch who was bleeding them dry."

  Disturbed by the images his words caused, and exhausted beyond

  endurance, she merely buried her face in her hands and began to

  weep. "And so," she managed between sobs, "that is why you have

  become like the very men you despise?"

  "Is that what you think? That I would ever take a woman against her

  will? You can rest assured, my lady. Your virtue is safe with me. I'm

  not like those English bastards, who rape and pillage. But if I must

  kill a few innocent soldiers along with the guilty, so be it. In that case,

  aye, I am like the very men I despise. For someone must stand up and

  declare that we've had enough." A hardness came into his tone. "For

  me, it was the murder of a young woman, on her way to her

  wedding." His voice wavered for just a beat. "And the murder of all

  her family. For others, it is a mother, a father, a son or daughter,

  brutalized, murdered, simply because they're Irish."

  "And that justifies what you did last night?"

  ' 'Last night?' He set down his cup, and studied her in the light of the

  fire. "What about last night?"

  She wiped at her tears, but they continued to flow. "I don't even care

  that much for myself. I deserve to be tricked, after what I've done. I

  knew better than to believe in a common criminal. To take him into

  my home, my...heart."

  Because of the tears blinding her, she failed to see how Rory reacted

  to her admission. His eyes widened. His mouth softened into the

  beginnings of a smile.

  "But Bridget and Tavis deserved better, Rory O'Neil. You had your

  men beat that dear old man, and frighten that sweet old woman half to

  death. Not to mention the horses you stole..."

  She looked up. He was smiling. Smiling.

  Suddenly, she'd had enough. She uprighted the table, flinging tea and

  bi
scuits through the air. "Damn you, Rory O'Neil. Damn you for

  finding this amusing."

  "AnnaClaire. Lovely AnnaClaire." Laughing, he caught her hand and

  lifted it to his lips before she could yank it away. "It was all a trick.

  All part of our plan."

  "Trick?" She pulled her hand away and narrowed her gaze on him.

  "What sort of trick?"

  "Tavis was in on it. As was Bridget. It was all done with chicken

  blood."

  "Chicken blood!" She eyed him suspiciously, still seeing in her mind

  the look of Tavis, clothes disheveled, head bleeding profusely. "Are

  you telling me Tavis wasn't beaten?"

  "Why would we beat a loyal son of Ireland? The man risked his life

  finding us shelter until our wounds could heal. If it weren't for Tavis

  and his beloved Bridget, my men and I would have all perished after

  the battle on the docks."

  She took a moment to digest this. Then, putting her hands on her hips,

  she faced him. "If that's true, why didn't they tell me what they'd

  planned?"

  "They weren't certain their sweet young mistress would be able to lie

  convincingly. They did think, however, that if you had no knowledge

  of the plan, you would react exactly as you did. With horror and

  shock and outrage."

  "They knew? And you and your men knew?"

  He nodded.

  "And you've allowed me to worry and fret and weep all night, without

  a word?"

  "Forgive me, my lady. There was no time to explain. In case you've

  forgotten, Dunstan's soldiers were there before I could even make my

  escape. And once we were away, they came very close to discovering

  us several times while we fled. I simply had other things on my

  mind."

  "Other things..." She turned away, to hide the tears of relief that

  sprang to her eyes. "Other things. Oh, Rory. If you knew what I've

  been thinking. How I've hated you. Hated myself for trusting you."

  She felt his hands at her shoulders as he pulled her back against him.

  Burying his face in her hair he murmured, "I hope you can find it in

  your heart to forgive me, AnnaClaire. It was not enough to merely

  escape. I had to assure that the reputations of all who had aided me

  would escape detection, as well. Don't you see? Unless I convinced

  Dunstan that your household was used without your knowledge or

  wishes, all would have suffered. Tavis and Bridget would have faced