Rory. Ruth Langan

she had wanted him to kiss her again. And the feel of his lips on hers had been every bit as wondrous as the first time.

      She turned away to hide her shame. “I’ll expect you to be gone before the first light. That way there will be no chance of the servants spotting you.”

      She expected some sort of argument. Relished the thought of another duel of words.

      When he didn’t respond she turned back, eager to attack.

      Rory was gripping the edge of a table. His face had lost all its color. Blood was seeping from his wounded shoulder to snake along his back in a thin line of dark red.

      Rushing to his side she examined his wound, then draped his arm around her shoulder and began to lead him toward the stairs. “Now look what you’ve done.” Anger was a much safer emotion than what she’d been feeling just moments before. With anger there would be no guilt, no recriminations. With anger she could force herself into immediate action.

      “Where…are you taking me?” he asked through gritted teeth.

      “Up to bed.”

      “You just ordered me to go.”

      “That was before. Now, I’ll have to tend that wound again.”

      He didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He’d just been given a reprieve of sorts. But as he moved along beside her up the stairs, he wasn’t certain whether to curse the Fates or bless them.

       Chapter Five

      “You wish to break your fast in your chambers again, my lady?” Glinna was looking at AnnaClaire in a strange way as she moved around the room. “Could it be something you ate at Lady Thornly’s last night?”

      “Of course not. I’m not ill, Glinna. Just a bit tired. Leave the tray now, and go help Bridget below stairs.”

      “Aye, my lady.”

      As soon as the door closed behind her, AnnaClaire bounded out of bed and completed her toilette,, slipping into the clothes Glinna had laid out. Then, balancing the covered tray in her hands, she climbed the cramped stairs to the little attic room. No doubt, she thought with a sigh, the little maid was still fretting over what might have caused this sudden malaise.

      In truth, AnnaClaire would have gladly remained in her room rather than face Rory O’Neil this morning. She’d had enough of him throughout the long night. Even after she’d dressed his wound and put him to sleep with one of Bridget’s opiates, he had remained with her. Dark thoughts and images of him holding her, kissing her, had tormented her, robbing her of precious sleep. The handsome rogue had her thinking of things that were better left alone.

      She sighed. Another day or two and he would be out of her life. As she nudged the door open and swept inside, she wondered why that knowledge didn’t cheer her. In fact, it only added another layer of tension.

      “Good morrow, Rory O’Neil.” She set the tray on the night table with a flourish, then turned.

      His features were ashen. He was holding his left hand firmly against his right shoulder.

      She was beside him instantly. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

      “I can’t…make this damnable arm work.”

      She sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m sure it’s nothing more than the strain of the fresh wound.”

      “Nay. My sword slipped from my grasp during the night. I couldn’t retrieve it.”

      Up close she could see the sweat beading his brow and upper lip. “You’re much too hard on yourself, Rory. I’m sure by tomorrow….”

      “You don’t understand.” His left hand clamped around her wrist. As always, the strength in his grip caught her off guard. “I’ve been coddling myself too long. Lying abed when I should have been leading my men into fresh battles. And now, as punishment, I’ve lost my strength.”

      “As punishment?”

      “Aye.”

      “For the sin of laziness, no doubt.”

      He glowered at her. “Do you mock me, woman?”

      She tried not to smile, though her lips quirked. “I? You think I would dare to mock Ireland’s fierce Blackhearted O’Neil?”

      His eyes narrowed. She looked far too fetching, in a gown the color of heather, and the bloom of youth and innocence on her cheeks. Her eyes danced with a teasing light that only made her all the more desirable. Her low, breathy voice whispered over his senses, teasing him, taunting him, even through the pain.

      “You’re having fun with me, AnnaClaire. And all the while I’m lying here weak and helpless.”

      She glanced at the hand gripping her with such strength. “If this is how you are when you’re helpless, I’d hate to see you when you’re feeling strong.”

      At once he realized what he was doing and released her, hoping his touch hadn’t left bruises on that fair skin. He struggled into a sitting position.

      AnnaClaire could see the pain even that small movement caused him. She busied herself plumping pillows behind him, smoothing the blankets, before removing a bowl of porridge from the tray.

      “Perhaps some food will help. Bridget made this especially for you.”

      When she offered him a spoonful, he glowered at her. “I’m not an infant to be coddled. I can see to my own feeding.”

      “Suit yourself.” She handed him the bowl and proceeded to pour tea into two cups.

      When he’d managed to empty the bowl, she took it from him and replaced it with a plate of biscuits and a steaming cup of tea. Though he ate in silence she could see that his spirits were slowly being restored.