Rory

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  "I can't bear to think of him in that filthy place."

  "We'll free him, AnnaClaire." Conor looked down at her, saw the

  pain and the fear she couldn't hide.

  She swallowed. Lifted her chin in that manner he'd come to

  recognize. "Aye. We will. Or die trying."

  He touched a hand to her cold cheek. "I see why my brother loves

  you."

  She turned away to hide the ache around her heart. "It isn't love,

  Conor. It's gratitude he feels for me. For taking him in. For hiding

  him."

  "If you think that, my lady, you're sadly mistaken. I've seen the way

  Rory looks at you. What I see in his eyes isn't gratitude. It's love." He

  tipped up her chin and smiled. "I see the same look in your eyes, and

  it gladdens my heart."

  "Truly?"

  "Aye. I'd hate to think Rory had lost his heart to one who didn't share

  his feelings." His voice lowered. "'Tis a miracle that his broken heart

  could mend so thoroughly. But now that I've come to know you, I can

  understand it. You're good for him, AnnaClaire Thompson. Maybe

  the best thing that's happened to my brother in a very long time."

  She felt tears burn her eyes and blinked furiously. Her emotions were

  entirely too close to the surface. She lifted herself on tiptoe and

  brushed a kiss over Conor's cheek. "Thank you, Conor. This wind is...

  stinging my eyes."

  She hurried below deck to seek shelter from the wind, and from the

  storm that was whirling around her heart. Once inside her cabin, she

  closed the door and leaned wearily against it. Though she had put on a

  very brave face for the O'Neil family, the truth was, she had no idea

  how her father would react to her sudden appearance at Court.

  Especially when he learned that she had aligned herself with an Irish

  outlaw.

  She slumped down on the edge of the cot. "There's no turning back

  now, my girl. You're bound for England."

  "Are we truly?"

  At the sound of the muffled voice, she jumped up and stared around

  the cramped cabin, then crossed to the tiny wardrobe. When she tore

  open the door she stared in shock and disbelief at the figure huddled

  beneath her clothes.

  "Innis. How did you get here?"

  "I hid myself in your trunk. Then, once it was carried aboard ship, I

  slipped out and mingled with the workers until Velia left your cabin.

  Then I sneaked in here to wait until we were underway."

  She shot him a look of indignation. ' 'Do you know what you've

  done?"

  "Aye. I've disobeyed the O'Neil. He'll be furious."

  "Of that I have no doubt. And since I've tasted his temper, I don't envy

  you. But what about Moira? She'll be desperately afraid when she

  finds you missing, Innis."

  "I left her a missive, tucked under my bedcovers, explaining where

  I've gone and why. By the time she finds it, 'twill be too late to catch

  me. Just as it's now too late for you to send me back."

  "Is that so? What makes you think I won't?"

  "Because you'd dare not waste the time it would take.

  Englishwoman." He stepped jauntily from the wardrobe and rubbed

  his damp hands along his sides. "'Twas a bit warm in there. But not

  nearly as uncomfortable as the trunk."

  "Oh, Innis," she said on a sigh. "What am I to do with you?"

  "You might try feeding me. I've had not a bite all day."

  She shook her head in exasperation. Then, at the realization of what

  he'd done, she wrapped her arms around him and drew him close.

  "We may, none of us, come out of this alive, Innis. Have you thought

  of that?"

  Feeling shy and awkward, he took a step back. "Aye, Englishwoman.

  But if I must die, at least I'll die nobly, as my father and grandfather

  did. And I'll be in good company, with Rory and Conor."

  "Conor. Oh, sweet heaven. What will he say when he learns what

  you've done?"

  "No more than you, I expect." He climbed up on her bunk and stared

  out the tiny porthole. "I've never been to England. Will it be so much

  different than Ballinarin?"

  She stared at the little boy, who was so determined to be a man. With

  a sigh she muttered, "You'll see soon enough for yourself. Now I

  think it's time for us to go to Conor. You might prepare yourself for

  his temper."

  He followed her from the cabin, completely unconcerned about what

  was to come. With the innocence of youth, he gave not a thought to

  those he'd left behind to fret and pace. Or to the dangers that awaited

  him at journey's end. For now, all that mattered was that he was here,

  aboard ship with the lady who, though one of the hated English,

  reminded him of his beautiful mother. And together they were about

  to embark on the adventure of a lifetime.

  Chapter Eighteen

  'Oh, my lady." Velia, trailing behind AnnaClaire and Conor, couldn't

  stop staring at the sights and sounds of the London docks. "I'm dizzy

  just seeing all this."

  Innis, walking beside her, kept swiveling his head so he wouldn't

  miss anything. There were crates of animals. Monkeys, chattering to

  each other, to the delight of the crowd. A sleek tiger pacing back and

  forth, issuing fierce growls, while his handlers watched from a safe

  distance. There were baskets of fruit and sacks of teas and pungent

  spices. But it was the people who were the most fascinating. There

  were tall dark men with turbans, and exotic ladies with almond eyes

  and body-skimming gowns. Beggars, calling for alms from those who

  passed by. Elegant carriages bearing the wealthy, titled ladies, who

  shielded their faces from the sun with wide-brimmed bonnets and

  parasols. Gentlemen in fine coats, returning from voyages to India

  and France and Spain. And dandies in satin breeches and plumed

  hats, haggling with merchants and vendors.

  In the midst of such chaos, AnnaClaire was grateful for Conor's quiet

  competence. It was clear that he had often traveled abroad and was

  comfortable dealing with their trunks and arranging carriages.

  As their driver began lashing the trunks to the back of the carriage,

  Conor helped the others inside, then took his place across from

  AnnaClaire. "Are you certain your father will have no objection to

  sharing his London townhouse with members of the O'Neil

  household?"

  "I have no way of knowing his reaction." She couldn't suppress a

  smile. "But I think it's safe to say he'll greet you at least as warmly as

  your father greeted me when he learned he had an Englishwoman at

  his table."

  Conor winced. "My father's famous temper was a part of our daily

  lives. We were as accustomed to it as the winds that blow across

  Croagh Patrick. It must have been a shock to your delicate

  sensibilities, my lady."

  "It was...interesting." She glanced at Innis, who was staring

  wide-eyed at the passing parade. "Just as London is proving to be

  interesting to our young lad. What think you, Innis?"

  "So much to see. So many strange people. And all of them hurrying

  somewhere."

  "Aye." She leaned back, feeling drained from their journey. "After />
  my months in Dublin, I'd forgotten how frantic the pace of London

  can be."

  The driver climbed to his seat and cracked the whip and the horse

  moved ahead with a slow, steady gait. Leaving the teeming masses of

  the docks behind, they rolled -through the broad streets of London.

  "The tailors work here." On Bond Street, AnnaClaire pointed to the

  cramped narrow shops. "And up here the butchers and bakers." They

  inhaled the fragrance of freshly baked bread that wafted from the

  shops.

  In a pretty green park, children played under the watchful eye of their

  mothers or nurses, who sat gossiping on stone benches. Warm spring

  sunshine added to the gaiety of the scene.

  The carriage slowed, then veered along a winding drive planted with

  hedges. "This is where my father lives when he is in London,"

  AnnaClaire said simply.

  It was an elegant home of three stories, with a caretaker's cottage in

  front and a splendid carriage house off to one side.

  When the driver reined in his horse, the front door opened and a

  servant, spying AnnaClaire, came forward with a bright smile.

  "Oh, my lady. We received no notice that you were coming home."

  "I know, Wilona. There was no time to notify my father. Is he home?"

  "Nay, my lady. He is with the queen at Greenwich Palace."

  "Then the queen is in residence here in London?"

  "Aye, my lady. We've scarcely seen your father since the queen

  returned. He spends all his time at Court."

  AnnaClaire gave a sigh of resignation. She had hoped for some time

  alone with her father, to explain all that had happened to her, and to

  seek his counsel on the wisest course of action regarding Rory. Now,

  she and Conor, it would seem, would have to make their choices

  blindly.

  "Wilona, this is Velia. If you'll show her to my rooms, I'll be along

  shortly. My friends and I would like to refresh ourselves in the

  parlor."The little maid nodded. "Aye, my lady. I'll ask Cook to see to

  it at once."

  AnnaClaire led Innis and Conor through the familiar rooms of her

  family home until they reached the parlor. Unlike the keep at

  Ballinarin, this room was light and airy, with peach-colored walls and

  soft draperies at the windows that fluttered in the afternoon breeze.

  Despite the warmth of the day, a fire burned on the hearth, adding to

  the coziness of the room.

  Innis moved around the room, pausing to study a miniature portrait

  on a highly-polished table before snuggling into the comfort of a

  chaise. "Is this where you live?"

  AnnaClaire nodded. "Sometimes." She glanced around at the familiar

  things she'd known since her childhood. "We have a lovely estate in

  Berkshire, and another in Surrey."

  Conor, feeling restless, paced to the window. ' 'With so many homes

  here, why did you go to Dublin?"

  "It's where my mother wanted to be." AnnaClaire's tone softened, as

  it always did when she spoke of her mother. "She knew she was dying

  and wanted to die on Irish soil. At the time, I didn't understand. But

  now I do. Ireland held her heart. Just as it now holds mine."

  Both Conor and Innis were watching her with identical looks of

  surprise and pleasure at her admission. She looked up as the maid

  entered carrying a silver tray.

  "Cook asks if you and your guests will be staying for supper, my

  lady."

  AnnaClaire looked to Conor for confirmation. At a shake of his head

  she said, "Not tonight, Wilona." She glanced at the boy, who was

  struggling to keep his eyes open. "But you can take young Innis

  above stairs to my chambers. After he rests, he'll take a meal with

  Velia."

  "Aye, my lady." The maid poured tea and uncovered a plate of

  thinly-sliced beef and an assortment of fruits and cheeses. Then, with

  Innis in tow, she started to leave the room.

  At the door the lad turned and walked back to AnnaClaire. Catching

  her hand he said, "When this is over, will you return to Ballinarin

  with Rory?"

  She squeezed his hand. "It is my fondest wish, Innis."

  "And mine." He chose his words carefully. "I've long wished that

  Rory would be my father. I'd like you to be my mother. Would you

  mind, Englishwoman?"

  "Mind?" She dropped to her knees and gathered him close. "Oh,

  Innis. More than anything, I would have you for my son."

  He drew back and stared into her eyes. Then, with that solemn look

  she had come to recognize, he turned and followed the maid from the

  room.

  For long minutes after the door closed behind them, she was unable to

  speak over the lump in her throat.

  At last she turned to Conor who was watching her carefully. "Have

  you a plan?"

  "Of sorts." He, too, was moved by what he'd just seen and heard. And

  more determined than ever to succeed. "We must request an audience

  with the queen. I was hoping your father might arrange that. But first,

  I must find a way to see Rory. I need to see for myself that he is..." His

  voice trailed off. He couldn't stop thinking about the gruesome tales

  he'd heard of the treatment of Irish prisoners on the journey to Fleet I

  Prison, and in the prison itself.

  AnnaClaire had no need to hear. Just seeing the look on his face had

  her heart nearly stopping. She set down her cup with a clatter and

  started toward the door. "We'll find a way to see him. Perhaps we

  could bribe a jailer?"

  Conor closed a hand over her arm, stopping her in mid-stride. "Hold,

  my lady. Fleet is no place for you. You'll stay here with Innis."

  "I'll do no such thing. I've come this far, Conor. I'll see it through.

  Besides, I know the streets of London. I can lead you to Fleet and

  back. You see, Conor, you need me, if you hope to get through the

  next few days."

  He took one look at the lift of her chin, the set of her jaw, and burst

  into laughter. "By the heavens, I'm beginning to see what my brother

  had to put up with. All right. We'll go together. But I warn you, my

  lady, you'll be shocked by what you'll see in that filthy place."

  AnnaClaire was more than shocked. She was stunned. Horrified. Her

  stomach rolled and she gagged with every step, as she and Conor

  descended rough stone steps that led into the very bowels of the

  cavernous prison.

  It was dark as a tomb. Except for tiny slits cut in the rough stone

  walls, allowing for a little light, there was no way of knowing if it was

  day or night. The fetid air reeked of human waste and decay. Some

  cells held more than a dozen prisoners, some chained, others lying

  about, too weak to stand. All around them were the sounds of

  sobbing, wailing, moaning. It was a scene out of a nightmare.

  It had taken a purse of gold to persuade the jailer to lead them to the

  Irish prisoner. Even then he probably would have left them lost and

  confused had Conor not had the foresight to withhold half the purse

  until they were standing outside Rory's cell.

  "Here." Conor thrust the rest of the gold into the man's outstretched

  hand. "See we're not accosted. If you do s
o, and warn us of anyone

  approaching, there will be more when we leave."

  "Aye." The burly guard shoved the coins inside his tunic and handed

  Conor a torch before striding away.

  Conor held the torch aloft and strained to see beyond the bars of the

  rusted door. This was a single cell, far from the others. Inside, a lone

  prisoner was sprawled on the cold stone floor.

  "Dear God." For a moment Conor thought he might be dead. "Rory.

  Rory, speak to me."

  The figure lifted his head and moaned. Conor and AnnaClaire turned

  to each other with identical sighs of relief.

  "You're alive then, Rory," Conor called.

  For a moment the figure blinked against the light of the torch. Then,

  holding an arm to his face to shield his eyes, he muttered, "Barely. Is

  it you, Conor?"

  "Aye."

  "I'm here too, Rory love."

  At the sound of AnnaClaire's voice he struggled to his knees and

  turned away from the light. "For God's -ake, Conor, get her out of

  here."

  "Oh Rory." She tried to keep the jumble of emo- :ions from her voice,

  but it was impossible. "We've jome to plead for your life. We'll go to

  the queen. We'll..."

  "You're wasting your time." He cut her off abruptly. "My life is over.

  Tilden has said he'll see me dead before he'll ever release me from

  this hell. He's a hero now. His queen is about to welcome him in a

  lavish ceremony. When it's over, he'll announce that I attempted to

  flee and my jailers had to kill me." With his back to them he said,

  "Now take her out of here, Conor. And see that she doesn't come

  back."

  AnnaClaire's voice trembled with emotion. "I never thought you a

  coward, Rory O'Neil."

  "A coward?"

  "Aye. A coward who would give up without a fight."

  He did turn then and struggled to his feet. In that moment both

  AnnaClaire and Conor had a chance to see just how devastating his

  wounds were. His clothes were torn and bloody, his hair matted with

  dried blood. His face had been battered viciously. One eye was

  closed. The other bore a gash from brow to temple. He had tied a dirty

  rag around his thigh to stem the flow of blood from a gaping wound,

  and his left arm hung uselessly at his side.

  "Oh, my beloved." Though AnnaClaire couldn't stop the tears that

  streamed down her face, she forced herself to go on. "If you must give