Rory. Ruth Langan

his lips. “My angel has come back. I did as you asked, and made not a sound.”

      She was touched by his courage. “I’m sorry it took so long.” She dampened a cloth with water from a basin and began to bathe his face and neck, his chest and shoulders. “It appears the potion didn’t work.”

      “It did. For a while. I had a lovely visit in heaven, before the fire of hell came back to claim me.”

      She mixed another packet of powder and held the glass to his lips. “Drink this. Maybe it can hold back your pain.”

      “I’m feeling better already, now that you’re here.” He drained the glass, then lay back weakly, breathing in the scent of crushed roses that seemed to cling to her.

      “You’re a charming liar, Rory O’Neil.” She sat down in the chaise beside his bed, then dipped a spoon into a steaming bowl and held the spoon to his lips.

      He turned his head. “What’s this now?”

      “Porridge.”

      He shook his head. “My mother used to insist that we eat it. I’d have rather eaten mud.”

      “I’ll remember to bring some of that tomorrow. But for now, you’ll eat your porridge. My housekeeper, Bridget Murphy, made this for you, to build up your strength. And you’re going to eat at least a few bites.”

      “God in heaven, you sound just like my mother.” He opened his mouth and accepted a taste. When he’d managed to swallow it he shot her a look of surprise. “Bridget Murphy must be a sorceress. This tastes unlike any porridge I’ve ever eaten.”

      “I’ll tell her you approve. That just might spare you having to eat mud tomorrow.” She held out another bite, and he accepted willingly.

      It occurred to AnnaClaire that feeding this man was not at all like feeding her sick mother. Each time he opened his mouth, she found herself fighting a strange yearning to taste those lips. When he swallowed and closed his eyes in appreciation, she felt a sudden tug deep inside.

      AnnaClaire felt completely out of her element with this raw, earthy man, who seemed to delight in the simple pleasure of eating. She had never known a man such as this. It didn’t seem to bother Rory O’Neil in the least that he was naked beneath those covers. Yet she was bothered more than she cared to admit. She simply couldn’t get the thought out of her mind.

      He managed to devour nearly half the bowl of porridge before he lifted a hand in refusal.

      “No more. It’s too much effort.”

      She returned the bowl to the tray and poured a cup of tea. “Could you manage a few sips?”

      He shook his head. “Not even one.”

      “Then we’ll sit a while and wait for the opiates to ease your pain.”

      As she settled herself on the chaise he managed a smile. “Just looking at you does me more good than your potions.”

      She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “You’re too charming for your own good, Rory O’Neil.”

      He passed a hand over his eyes. “You should meet my brother, Conor. He’s the charmer.”

      “Really? And what are you?”

      “The fighter. Always the fighter.”

      She sipped her tea. “Tell me about your family.”

      “Conor, at a score and one, is two years younger than I. He was educated abroad, and our mother hoped he would be a priest. But our father has other ideas.”

      “What ideas?”

      “With Conor’s good looks and fine mind, Father hopes to use his connections in England to see that Conor represents our people at the Court of Elizabeth.”

      AnnaClaire smiled. “It would seem to me a far better way to effect change than your way with the sword.”

      “Ah. I hear a note of disapproval from my angel.”

      “I don’t hold with fighting.”

      He shot her a look that made her blush. She decided to change the subject. “Do you have any more brothers?”

      He shook his head. “There’s just our little sister, Briana.”

      “Does she take after Conor? Or does she favor her eldest brother?”

      “The lass was my shadow since she was born.” His tone warmed with affection and pride. “She can wield a sword better than most men. And no one is better with a knife.”

      AnnaClaire couldn’t help laughing. “Heaven help us. Another O’Neil warrior.”

      “Aye. She is the despair of our parents.”

      “Tell me about them.”

      “My father, Gavin, is from a noble line. Descended from King Brian himself. My mother, Moira, can trace her own lineage to the ancient Druids, then later to the Celts. After all these years, their love still blazes brighter than all the stars in heaven. It’s a lovely thing to see.”

      She thought of her own parents’ love. Of her father, who had suffered so gravely during his wife’s long illness. No one would ever take the place of his beloved Margaret. “They’re very lucky to have each other.”

      “Aye. That sort of love is rare indeed. And even more wondrous when the two lovers have so many years together.” He fell silent, and AnnaClaire wondered if he was thinking about the woman who had almost been his bride. What sort of bitter taste would it leave to have a lover snatched away without the chance to say and do all the things locked in one’s heart?

      She set the tea aside. “I think you’d better try to sleep now.”

      “I believe I will.” He closed his eyes. When he heard her getting to her feet he clamped a hand around her wrist. “Thank you, lovely AnnaClaire.”

      “For what?”

      “For allowing me to forget my pain for a few minutes.”

      “That wasn’t me. It was the potion.”

      He merely smiled. “And thank Bridget Murphy for the porridge. I do believe I’d prefer it again tomorrow, instead of the mud.”

      “I’ll tell her.”

      She watched him a moment, then let herself out, knowing he was already asleep.

      

      At noon, Bridget returned to AnnaClaire’s room with another tray.

      “How much longer do you wish to feign illness, my lady?”

      AnnaClaire shrugged. “I suppose sometime late this afternoon I must make an amazing recovery, for I have to attend Lady Thornly’s dinner party tonight.”

      “Very well. I’ll check with you before sending Glinna up to help you dress.”

      “Thank you, Bridget.” As she. picked up the tray and headed toward the narrow staircase she paused, turned. “By the way, Rory O’Neil sends his compliments on your porridge. He found it far superior to his mother’s.”

      The housekeeper was beaming with pride as she scurried away. AnnaClaire marvelled that such a simple remark from a hardened warrior could elicit such feelings in the old woman.

      In the little attic room, AnnaClaire found Rory sweating profusely as he struggled to lift his sword from the floor where it had fallen. It took both his hands to retrieve it, and the effort left him lying weakly against the pillows.

      The wound to his shoulder, she noted, had opened and was oozing blood.

      “Now look what you’ve done.” With a hiss of anger she set down the tray and bent over him, touching a square of linen to the wound. “And all for a foolish weapon.”

      “Foolish?” He