Rory

by Ruth Ryan Langan

certain death. Your father's good name would have been ruined. And

  his estates would have been confiscated by England. This was why I

  had to take you along by force. So that Dunstan would harbor no

  doubts about you. About us."

  She was weeping again. And this time there was no stopping it.

  "Oh, Rory." She turned and fell into his arms, her tears soaking the

  front of his tunic. "None of this occurred to me. Thank heaven for

  your quick thinking. I am indebted to you forever."

  "Nay, my lady. It was little enough to pay for all you did for me." He

  wiped her tears with his thumbs. "Now, dry your pretty eyes and

  settle yourself in bed while I right that table arid see to fresh tea and

  biscuits."

  AnnaClaire climbed under the soft hides and watched as Rory moved

  around the tiny hut cleaning the mess she had made. A terrible weight

  had been lifted from her shoulders. Her cruel, wicked barbarian was

  once again the noble hero she had thought him to be.

  She wiggled her toes, stretching her cramped, aching muscles. He had

  assured the safety of her dear old servants, and had saved her

  reputation, and that of her father. He had seen to her safety even when

  she had cursed him for it. And now, at least for the moment, she was

  safe and snug and warm.

  Sweet heaven, it was all too good to be true.

  In a haze of contentment, she drifted once more into sleep.

  Rory nudged off his boots and, plumping several hides behind his

  head for a pillow, eased down on the bed beside the sleeping

  AnnaClaire. He lifted the glass of ale to his lips and whispered a

  prayer of thanks for the thoughtful soul who had left such ample

  provisions behind in the hut. If only the rest of their odyssey could be

  this comfortable. He knew it was an improbable wish. He didn't mind

  for himself. Over the past two years he'd learned to take the hardship

  in stride. But there was AnnaClaire to think about now.

  He glanced at her and found himself alternately smiling and

  frowning. She looked so peaceful in sleep. Like an angel come down

  from heaven. She truly was an angel. One who didn't deserve this. He

  hated the thought of the danger he'd exposed her to.

  He hadn't wanted this life for her. But now that he'd made the choice,

  there was no turning back. She would be forced to spend endless

  nights in the saddle, fleeing every ghost and shadow that trailed them.

  And by day, she would have to hide like a thief.

  He thought about her courage and dignity when she'd thought she was

  being kidnapped. It must have seemed like a nightmare, watching her

  beloved servants being bullied, her own life being turned upside

  down. But she had neither fainted nor despaired. She had instead kept

  her composure and had displayed a spirit, a temper that delighted

  him. No wonder he loved her so.

  Love. The thought struck like a thunderbolt, leaving him slightly

  dazed and breathless. He hadn't meant to love her. He'd meant only to

  take the shelter she offered. And, he had to admit, whatever else she

  might have offered. But that was before. Before lust had somehow

  turned to this other, deeper emotion.

  Love. He knew what it was to love. To put another's comfort before

  his own. To care so deeply, no sacrifice was too great, no price too

  high to pay. To know, in his heart of hearts, that he would willingly

  die before he would see her harmed.

  Love.

  With love came responsibility. Somehow he must get word to

  AnnaClaire's father that she was truly safe from harm. For her father

  would surely be told of her capture by the Blackhearted O'Neil. He

  would have to act quickly to relieve Lord James Thompson of his

  fear.

  Rory drained the last of the ale and set the empty tumbler aside.

  Numbly he settled himself under the hides beside AnnaClaire, careful

  not to touch her. Because if he did, there would be no stopping him.

  He wanted her so desperately, loved her so completely, an entire

  regiment of English soldiers wouldn't be able to keep him from her,

  once the passion was unleashed. But he had no right to declare his

  love for her. Not so long as this thing between himself and Tilden

  remained unresolved. As a man of honor, he must return her to her

  father's home as he had found her. Untouched. Unspoiled. With her

  virtue intact.

  He would have to change his plans because of her. There was no way

  he could drag her around the countryside while he searched for

  Tilden. A woman like AnnaClaire needed a safe haven.

  The thought came at once. He would take her home. To Ballinarin.

  Though he had planned never to see it again until his quest had ended,

  he would have to break his vow. AnnaClaire's safety and comfort had

  to come first.

  He fell asleep wondering how his family would feel about offering

  sanctuary to the daughter of Lord James Thompson.

  The sun was high in the sky before AnnaClaire awoke. When she

  looked around, Rory was nowhere to be seen. Beside her, the hides

  still bore the imprint of his body. She lay back a moment, absorbing

  the knowledge that he'd slept alongside her. It was a strange feeling to

  think they'd shared a bed. Strange and... intriguing.

  The door to the hut opened and the object of her thoughts stepped

  inside, carrying a string of wriggling fish.

  "I see you're awake. Good morrow, my lady. How did you sleep?"

  "As comfortably as if I'd-been in my own bed. In fact," she shot him a

  shyly seductive smile, "it was all the more comforting, knowing you

  were here with me to protect me."

  He saw the high color on her cheeks and hated himself for the things

  he was thinking. "If you care to wash, there's fresh water and linens."

  He busied himself at the table, preparing the fish for cooking. He was

  determined to remain as busy as possible, to keep from thinking.

  AnnaClaire slipped out of bed and crossed to a basin. In the chipped

  looking glass she caught sight of herself, hair all mussed and

  tumbling about her shoulders, face smudged, gown wrinkled and torn

  from brambles. This wasn't at all the way she wanted to look.

  Especially now that she was alone with Rory.

  With soap and water she repaired the worst of the damage, then ran

  her fingers through the tangles and, swinging her waist-length hair

  forward, began to plait it into one thick braid.

  Across the room Rory tried not to stare. But there was something so

  intimate about watching AnnaClaire wash her face and fix her hair.

  Such ordinary things, yet they stirred a longing in him. A yearning

  that had him clutching the edge of the table to keep from storming

  across the room and taking her.

  She tossed back her hair and smoothed down her skirts, then turned.

  Catching sight of him she started toward him. "What is it, Rory?

  What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. I..." He shook his head to clear it. "Nothing."

  "You're lying." She laid a hand on his arm. "You've heard something.

  Seen something. Whatever it is, it has you upset. I can tell."

  He shook off her hand as though the touch of her burned. "
I

  need...water from the stream." The fresh air would surely clear his

  head.

  "There's water in the pitcher. I'll get it." She crossed the room and

  returned with the pitcher. "Where would you like it?"

  "In that pot." He refused to look at her. "We'll make tea."

  He stood very still until she had moved away. Then, relieved that

  there was some distance between them, he finished boning the fish

  and tossed them into a skillet. Before he could set it on the fire, she

  reached for it. The touch of her hand on his made him burn with need.

  "I'll cook them, Rory."

  He watched her carefully turn the fish as they began to brown. He

  would keep the conversation as impersonal as possible. "Are you as

  good a cook as Bridget?"

  She gave a delighted laugh. "Who do you think taught me?"

  She looked so sweet and fresh, so comfortable, standing in this simple

  sod hut cooking his supper. He ached to take her into his arms and

  kiss her until they were both breathless. "What about your mother?"

  "She was always in delicate health. There were many days and weeks

  that she didn't leave her bed. So Bridget became like a mother to me.

  It was Bridget who soothed my hurts and tucked me in bed. And

  Bridget who taught me to cook and sew."

  He heard her loneliness and was reminded of his own rowdy,

  affectionate family. It was all he could do to keep from offering her

  the comfort of his arms.

  "When my mother knew that she was dying, she begged my father to

  bring her back to Ireland. She wanted to die in her family home,

  surrounded by those who loved her."

  "Aye." Rory allowed himself a single touch of his hand on her hair

  before pulling back. The thought of running his fingers through the

  tangles, of burying his face in it, had his breath coming faster, harder.

  "I know how she felt. I want to be laid to rest at Ballinarin."

  AnnaClaire turned from the fire and began to arrange the fish on a

  platter. Breaking off a tiny portion she held it to his lips. Her smile

  was radiant. "Now you can judge whether or not Bridget was an apt

  teacher."

  He was so stunned by the touch of her fingers against his lips, he

  couldn't have said whether it was food in his mouth or ashes. The

  merest touch of her had his vision misting and the blood roaring in his

  temples.

  He managed to swallow before saying, "I nearly forgot. I have

  to...chop some wood for the fire."

  Puzzled by his reaction, her smile faded. "The fire's fine. And there

  are several logs beside the hearth."

  "Not nearly enough." He caught her roughly by the shoulders and

  moved her aside before turning away.

  "But, Rory, the fish will be cold."

  "Sorry. This won't keep." He wouldn't look at her. Couldn't. Instead

  he stumbled toward the door and, flinging it wide, stormed outside,

  breathing in great gulps of air.

  Sometimes a man had to do whatever it took to keep his common

  sense from slipping below his waist. Even if it meant looking as

  though he'd completely lost his mind.

  AnnaClaire watched in openmouthed surprise as Rory slammed out

  of the hut. Dejected, she broke off a piece of fish and tasted,

  expecting it to be spoiled. To her delight, it was fresh. Delicious.

  Even Bridget's skill could not have improved upon it.

  She sank down onto the edge of the bed, deep in thought. If it wasn't

  the fish that had sent Rory away, it must have been something she'd

  said. But try as she might, she couldn't recall a single thing that might

  have caused him to run from her as though being chased by a crowd

  of banshees. She had tried in every way she could to let him know

  how glad she was to be here with him. More than glad. She was

  elated. At last, there were no servants to hide from. No callers to

  interrupt them. They were alone. All alone. And free to do as they

  pleased.

  And oh, how she wanted to please him. Hadn't she given him her best

  and brightest smile? Couldn't he read the invitation in her eyes? He'd

  have to be blind not to know that she'd been inviting his advances.

  But instead of accepting her invitation, he'd run from her as though

  she had the plague. But why, when he had seemed so bold in her

  home in Dublin? What could have changed?

  As she sat there, pondering all she'd said and done, his words of last

  night came rushing back. Your virtue is safe with me, my lady.

  She covered her hand with her mouth. Oh, sweet heaven. He was

  doing this for her. To save her virtue. Even if it meant going without

  supper. Even if it meant chopping wood when he would rather be

  warm and snug inside this hut.

  She stood and began to pace. She would have to swallow her pride

  and find a way to let him know how she really felt.

  If only Bridget had been as free with her advice about love as she had

  been about the womanly arts of cooking and sewing, she thought.

  She made her way to the door, praying that Rory O'Neil would not

  make her task too difficult.

  Chapter Ten

  Rory brought the axe down with such fury the log split in one clean

  stroke. He tossed the two pieces aside and angled another log in

  place, then repeated the process.

  In frustration he'd flung his tunic aside. A sheen of sweat beaded his

  torso. With each movement the wound in his shoulder ached. He was

  actually glad of the pain. It was something to focus on. Something

  besides AnnaClaire, with that angelic smile and sinfully tempting

  body.

  He'd been very aware of the effort she was taking to make amends for

  last night's temper. But she had no need to apologize. Her anger had

  been justified. And now, of course, she was confusing gratitude with

  love. That was the reason for the way she was throwing herself at

  him.

  He lifted the axe, swung it with all his might, hoping to banish the

  image of high firm breasts and softly swaying hips. If he weren't

  trying to be so damnably noble, all that she offered could be his.

  The log split with such force the two pieces danced through the air

  and landed several feet away. As he positioned another log, he saw a

  blur of movement out of the corner of his eye.

  "AnnaClaire." He spun around to face her. "You should be inside

  eating."

  "I don't want to eat alone." She felt breathless, her heart slamming

  against her ribs as though she'd been running for miles. "I thought I'd

  wait for you, Rory."

  "There's no need. I have all these logs to split."

  "Fine. I'll just carry a few of them inside and stack them beside the

  fireplace. Then I'll come back for more."

  As she bent to one he caught her roughly by the arm. Heat rushed

  through him at the mere touch of her. It would seem that the chill in

  the air had done nothing to cool the fire that burned within. "I don't

  want your help. They're too heavy for you."

  "I'm not some fragile doll, Rory." She touched a hand to his cheek

  and felt him flinch. A little thrill shot through her. So, she had been

  right. He was trying to be noble. But he wanted
her. Wanted her. It

  gave her an exhilarating sense of power. Her voice softened, warmed.

  "I'm a woman. Or haven't you noticed?"

  "Aye." His throat felt too tight. "I'd have to be a blind man not to

  notice."

  Her smile bloomed. "Good. I wonder if you've noticed,..too, that I'm a

  woman with a mind of her own."

  He cleared his throat. "It's come to my attention a time or two."

  Her hand moved upward, cupping the back of his head.-"Right now,

  I've a mind to taste your lips and see if I can wipe away that frown."

  There was just a hint of laughter in her voice.

  His hand closed around her wrist, stopping the movement. His eyes

  were hard as flint. "I'm not in the mood for games, AnnaClaire."

  Her heart stuttered, and for a moment she felt a rush of fear. Then she

  stiffened her spine. "Nor am I. This isn't a game, Rory O'Neil. It's

  something far more serious."

  "Aye. I'm glad you realize that." He made the mistake of relaxing his

  hand, intent upon stepping back a pace so he could breathe. He

  realized too late that she had no intention of allowing him his space.

  She leaned into him, her breasts brushing his naked chest. Did she

  know what she was doing to him? All the air seemed to leave his

  lungs. "What do you think you're doing now, AnnaClaire?"

  "I want you to make love with me, Rory."

  Her bold words had his jaw dropping. "You want me to" take your

  virtue? So that I'll be no better than one of those English bastards?"

  She placed a finger to his lips to silence his words. "You could never

  be like them. There's a difference. You won't be taking. I'll be

  giving."

  "You'd be wasting the gift. I'm a wanted man. A man with no future.

  I've nothing to offer in return."

  "I'll ask for nothing more than this."

  When he opened his mouth to issue a protest, she dipped her finger

  inside. He muttered an oath. And felt his world begin to tilt

  dangerously.

  He closed a hand over her shoulder to steady himself. "You don't

  know what you're doing, AnnaClaire."

  "I know exactly what I'm doing. I've never been so sure of anything in

  my life."

  He stared down into her eyes and could read all the love, all the

  longing, that matched his own. The axe dropped from his hand and

  landed beside their feet with a thud. They took no notice.

  His tone hardened. "Once we cross this line there will be no going