angry. And they actually twinkle when you laugh."
"My eyes twinkle." He thought that over while he urged the horse
across a narrow stream. "That's a start. What else?"
"And I do so like your chin."
"My chin?"
"Aye. It's very strong."
"I have a strong chin and eyes that twinkle. Is that all you can say
about me?"
"Well." She paused a moment before saying, "I guess I could manage
one more compliment."
"I should hope so. Go ahead. What else do you have to say about
me?"
"For an arrogant man, you can be quite... subdued when you're in
pain."
He looked down at her, then threw back his head and roared. "So
much for the proper English and their compliments. For an intelligent
woman you can be quite—" he touched a finger to her nose
"—amusing when you want to be."
"I'm glad I amuse you, Rory O'Neil."
"Oh, you do, my lady. You do indeed." He tilted her face up and gave
her a hard, quick kiss before returning his concentration to the trail
before them.
When they emerged from the forest, they were buffeted by a bitter
wind that added to the discomfort of wet garments.
"I'm truly sorry we can't stop and warm ourselves by a fire,
AnnaClaire."
"Hush, Rory. I'll be fine." She drew her cloak around her and clutched
at her hood to keep it from blowing loose.
As day slipped into night, and the cold wind and bitter rain continued,
he marveled at her strength of will. Another woman might have wept
in despair. But AnnaClaire was unlike any woman he'd ever known.
She accepted the pain, the discomfort, as she had once accepted the
elegance of her surroundings. With grace and quiet dignity.
They could have stopped for the night. As they passed darkened huts,
Rory knew that he would find the welcome of food and warmth
within. The desire to seek shelter from the elements nearly
overpowered him. But he was driven by an urgency to see to
AnnaClaire's safety. It was uppermost in his mind as they rode past
the tiny villages around Galway, and as they skirted the slopes of the
Maamturks.
Dawn was just beginning to light the sky when they passed through a
gap in the mountains. The silvery waters of a lake glistened up ahead.
Rory brought his horse to a halt at the top of the rise and drank in the
beauty of the scene before him.
AnnaClaire lifted her head from his shoulder and rubbed her eyes.
"What is it, Rory? Where are we?"
"We're home, AnnaClaire."
At the reverence with which he spoke the word, she glanced at him.
There was a look in his eyes she had never seen before. As though he
were in the presence of the Almighty. She met his smile, then turned
to take in the view. And caught her breath at the wild, primitive
beauty of it.
"That great pinnacle over there is Croagh Patrick. It has stood guard
over Ballinarin for thousands of years."
"Look." She pointed. "Waterfalls. They're spectacular."
The water streamed from the highest peaks, cascading all the way to
the floor of the valley, where it joined the swiftly running water of the
lake.
Looking up she said, "It seems to glitter in the early light."
"Aye. We call that the jewels of Croagh Patrick. 'Tis caused by
fragments of quartz and mica."
AnnaClaire studied the narrow floor of the valley, sheltered from the
winds and gales, strewn with tall conifers and clumps of
rhododendron. "How much of this belongs to your family?"
He nudged his horse into a trot. "All of it."
"All?" She couldn't seem to take it all in. "The lakes? The mountains?
All the land?"
"Aye." His voice was little more than a whisper. As though unwilling
to break the spell of this, his first glimpse upon returning home.
"There are thousands of acres of moorland, mountain, water and
woods. Those who have been fortunate enough to visit say it's the
grandest place in all of Ireland."
She could see that he spoke the truth. As they passed through
just-waking villages, the houses appeared clean and prosperous. The
fields were planted with crops. Flocks of sheep grazed on nearby
hillsides. Old men doffed their caps and young lads clapped in delight
when they recognized the man in the saddle.
"Ye'r home then, Rory O'Neil?"
"Aye, Paddy."
"God bless ye, Rory," an old woman called from her window as she
shook a linen cloth.
"And you, Mistress Fallon."
A lad on horseback took off at a run to spread the word that Rory
O'Neil had returned.
"Oh, Rory." As they rounded a bend AnnaClaire had her first glimpse
of his home.
The castle had been built of soft gray stone possibly mined from
Croagh Patrick, since it shimmered in the morning mist like the
mountain. It soared several stories high, with softly rounded turrets
on either end. The road leading up to it was planted with tall conifers
that stood at attention along the winding, twisting path. At the front
was an enormous gated entrance. Even before they passed through to
a paved courtyard, they could hear the sounds of shouting as the word
of his arrival was received by those within. And then they were nearly
overrun by the pack of hounds that circled their mount, yelping and
baying a mournful welcome. At a sharp word from Rory, they settled
down.
The door was flung open and a lass still clad in her nightshift raced
down the steps and burst into tears. At the sight of her, Rory slid from
the saddle and gathered her into his arms."Oh Rory. Rory. We haven't
had a word in so long. We were so afraid you were..." She burst into
fresh tears and hugged his neck so fiercely he winced.
"Easy now, Briana. You wouldn't want to choke the life from me now
that I'm home, would you?"
But there was no stopping her. She couldn't let go. Nor could she stop
the tears that flowed freely down her cheeks.
From the back of the horse AnnaClaire watched the scene in silence.
So this was Rory's little sister, Briana. He had described her perfectly.
From the flaming hair to the adoration she felt for her big brother. At
the moment her emotions had completely taken over. She was
alternately laughing and weeping as she clung and hugged and kissed
this brother who had been gone for so long.
A handsome young man came rushing out the door, struggling to
fasten the tunic he'd hastily thrown on. As tall as Rory, he was
slighter of build, and his hair was more brown than black. But the
face was every bit as handsome. And the smile was radiant.
"Praise the saints you're back with us, Rory."
"Aye, Conor. I've been gone a bit longer than I'd planned."
The two young men grinned at each other for a full minute before
falling into each other's arms.
"Ah, Rory, I've missed you."
"And I've missed you, Conor."
They both looked up at the sound of a cry. In the doorway stood a
beautiful woman in a gown of white wool. Auburn hair sprinkle
d
with gray strands was coiled atop her head like a crown. Her face was
majestic. High cheekbones. Small, straight nose and full lips. Eyes as
blue as a summer day, with fine laugh lines feathering the pale skin.
Standing in front of her was a solemn little boy, with blond hair and
blue eyes so wide and unblinking, he looked like a statue.
"Mother." Rory closed the distance between them and caught his
mother in a fierce embrace.
"Rory. Oh, my beloved son. It's been so long." Moira's shoulders
shook as she silently wept against his chest.
"Hush, Mother. I'm home now." As they stepped apart, he placed his
hands on either side of her face and tenderly kissed away her tears.
Then he stared down at the little boy who had taken refuge behind her
skirts. He stooped down and studied the somber face. "So, Innis.
You've grown."
The boy lowered his head, refusing to look at him.
"How old are you now?"
When the boy held his silence Moira said gently, "Innis...doesn't
speak much. He's nine years old now."
Rory shook his head. "Nine years. I've missed so much. Do you know
who I am, Innis?"
The fair head bobbed. The words were slow, halting. "You were
going to be my uncle. But now..." His lips trembled.
Seeing the pain in her son's eyes, which matched the pain in the lad's,
Moira said, "But now you're home."
"And home to stay, I hope," came a voice behind them.
Rory got to his feet and turned to the white-haired man who stood
framed in the doorway.
"Welcome home, my son." Despite the bright smile, the older man's
voice shook with emotion.
"Father."
The two men embraced. When they stepped apart Gavin O'Neil
studied the battle-weary face of his eldest son. "Is it over then? Have
you had your revenge against the English bastard?"
He saw the shadow that passed over Rory's features before he
composed himself. "Not yet. I've not come home to stay."
"Why then?" The older man's voice lowered with feeling. "It isn't fair
to torture us if you must leave us once more."
"I've brought someone who needs the protection Ballinarin can
offer."
Gavin turned from Rory to the woman astride the horse.
The others followed suit.
With servants peering from windows and hanging over balconies,
calling out greetings, Rory walked to the horse and helped
AnnaClaire to the ground. Her hands were as cold as ice. She was
trembling. He clasped her hands between his, offering some measure
of warmth and comfort.
"This is AnnaClaire Thompson. When I was gravely wounded she
offered me shelter and the safety of her own home, at great peril to
herself and all those of her household. Had it not been for
AnnaClaire's generosity, I would not have survived."
While the others merely stared in mute surprise, Moira hurried
forward.
"Then you are welcome at Ballinarin, AnnaClaire Thompson. For as
long as you wish, our home is yours."
"Thank you." AnnaClaire struggled to swallow the lump in her throat.
Seeing the love and warmth of Rory's family, and their unquestioning
acceptance of a stranger, made her feel like weeping.
A tiny, hunched woman barrelled through the open door, then came
to a sudden halt and stood wheezing for breath. White hair had been
drawn back into a tight knot at her nape. Her skin was so pale and
translucent, the lines of blue veins could be easily traced. But though
her eyes were watery, they danced with delight.
"They told me, in the scullery, that ye were back, Rory."
"Mistress Finn." Rory had to bend nearly double to hug the birdlike
creature. "Come, meet our guest. This is AnnaClaire Thompson.
AnnaClaire, Mistress Finn has been the housekeeper at Ballinarin
since my father was a lad."
"Aye. I watched him grow as I've watched his sons. Warriors'all, they
are," she said with a trace of pride as she patted Rory's cheek.
"Welcome to Ballinarin, my lady." She took AnnaClaire's hands.
"You're shivering. Your clothes are soaked. What were ye thinking,
Rory, to keep a lady out on such a night?"
Moira motioned to the housekeeper. "Bring our guest inside at once.
Briana and I will see to her comfort."
At her mother's words Briana rushed to her brother's side, clinging to
his arm. "I want to stay with Rory. I want to hear all about his
adventures."
"You'll have plenty of time to see your brother and hear his tales. For
now, you'll help me make our guest welcome."
The young girl knew better than to argue with that tone of voice. It
was a tone mothers had perfected throughout the ages.
Mistress Finn motioned to a freckle-faced servant."Heat some water,
Velia. These two must have warm baths and dry clothes." She looked
up, where the windows bloomed with onlookers. "The rest of ye get
back to work. We've a welcome to prepare for Rory O'Neil."
Under the housekeeper's watchful gaze the servants scurried away.
Moira and her daughter led a dazed AnnaClaire through the doorway
and up the stairs to the sleeping chambers on the second floor.
Rory started up after them but was stopped by his father and his
brother, who draped their arms around his shoulders.
"There'll be no bath for you, boy-o, until you answer a few
questions."
Realizing that AnnaClaire was in good hands, Rory relented. "I'll tell
you as much as I can over one glass of whiskey. But only because it'll
warm me. Then you'll just have to wait for the rest."
The two men glanced at each other and grinned. He could sleep all
day or all week. So long as he first told them every detail of the past
two years of his exile.
* * *
"And have you never again spotted this Tilden bastard?" Conor
handed his father and brother glasses of whiskey, then helped himself
to the third.
The three men were seated near the fire, with the hounds at their feet.
Their plans to keep Rory talking until they'd heard every single detail
had been thwarted when Moira had intervened and ordered her son up
to bed. Now, hours later, bathed rested and dressed in a fine tunic
bearing the family crest, Rory had found his father and brother
eagerly awaiting him in the library.
"Aye. I spotted him. On the docks of Dublin. I might have killed him,
too, had he not hidden behind the swords of a boatload of soldiers
fresh from England."
"That's when you were wounded?" Gavin asked.
"Aye." Rory rubbed at the inflamed shoulder. "Damned wound was
opened up again when we encountered those English soldiers in the
forest. Nearly cost me my life."
From the doorway came his mother's voice. "You should have said
something before you dressed. I'll have Mistress Finn fetch one of her
special ointments. Let me have a look at that."
She hurried across the room to reach out a hand to his sleeve.
Rory brushed a kiss over her cheek, then waved her away. "We'll deal
with it later. For now, the whiskey will numb the pain."
Briana paused in the doorway. "I told you we'd find them here. Come
on in, AnnaClaire."
AnnaClaire stepped inside, then halted when she realized that
everyone was watching her. Even the dogs looked up from their
stupor caused by the warmth of the fire and began to sniff the
stranger.
As soon as he spotted her, Rory set aside his whiskey and crossed the
room to take her hand. For the space of a heartbeat he simply looked
into her eyes. Then he led her toward the fire Briana became aware of
the sudden silence in the room. "Mum said I could choose what dress
to give to AnnaClaire, so I thought the green one would be perfect
with her hair and eyes. Don't you agree, Rory?"
"Aye." Rory glanced at his family, who were all watching the young
woman closely. "It is indeed perfect."
The gown had a rounded neckline that displayed just a hint of high,
firm breasts. The sleeves were long, with points of lace at each cuff.
Her tiny waist was accentuated by a darker green sash. The flounced
skirt was gathered here and there with matching green bows to
display a lace underskirt.
"Will you have some ale or whiskey?" Conor asked.
"Thank you. A little ale would be nice." AnnaClaire accepted the
goblet from a maid and sipped, all the while aware of the scrutiny of
Rory's family. Her cheeks turned a becoming shade of pink.
"Mistress Finn has prepared a feast, Rory my boy." Gavin downed his
drink in one long swallow and poured himself another. "The entire
household can't wait to greet you after we sup."
Rory grinned. "I'm glad they agreed to wait. AnnaClaire and I haven't
had a single morsel since yesterday. I believe I could eat an entire
lamb by myself. Raw," he added, "without even skinning it."
The others burst into knowing laughter.
"You always had a healthy appetite," Conor said dryly.
"Aye. It could be the reason this whiskey is going straight Jo my
head. Or it could be the vision before me."
Again, AnnaClaire felt the scrutiny of the others and felt herself
blushing.
When a servant announced that the dinner was ready, Rory set aside
the tumbler and offered AnnaClaire his arm. "Now," he said
laughingly, "you can judge whether Fiola is as good as Bridget."
"Who is Bridget?" Briana asked as she bounded by his side.
"AnnaClaire's housekeeper in Dublin, who managed to make even
Rory Page 15
