Rory. Ruth Langan

She studied her driver’s profile. Though Tavis and his wife Bridget were paid handsomely for their services to her father, she had no illusions about their loyalty. This was their land; these were their people. And though her mother had been born and raised in Dublin, AnnaClaire was considered an outsider. Her mother, Margaret Doyle, had married an English nobleman, and had educated her own daughter in London.

      “Here we are, my lady.” Tavis brought the carriage to a halt and helped her down. “I’ll see that Bridget gets the chicken right away.”

      “Thank you, Tavis.” She turned toward the door, then turned back as the carriage jolted ahead. “Oh, wait. My lap robe.”

      “I’ll bring it in after I’ve rubbed down the horse and cleaned the carriage,” he called over his shoulder.

      “But I…”

      The carriage was already rounding the corner of the drive. She stood a moment, watching the way her robe, mounded on the back platform, fluttered in the breeze. With a shrug of resignation, she turned away and entered the lovely manor house, Clay Court, that had been in her mother’s family for six generations.

      Her first order of business would be to wash away the stench of fish that clung to her skin and clothes.

      Then she would make herself presentable for her visit with her father’s oldest friend.

      “Bridget, the dinner was lovely.”

      “Thank you, miss. Will you have more tea?”

      “No. Lord Davis? More tea? Or perhaps a bit more ale?”

      The old man patted his stomach. “Not another drop, my dear. I fear I’ll explode.”

      “It was kind of you to come by tonight and keep me company.”

      “I knew you’d be feeling lonely with your father gone. And I was concerned when I heard about the fighting that went on at the docks today.” He wiped his mouth, set his napkin aside. “If I’d known you were anywhere near those barbarians, I’d have been there to personally escort you home.”

      “I was never in any danger. The only one they really wanted was an English soldier named Tilden.”

      “Don’t be fooled, my dear. No one is safe around desperate men such as those. An innocent like yourself has no idea what they’re capable of doing. Why, the stories I’ve heard about the fate of fair English maidens at the hands of those animals would make a grown man cringe.”

      The dishes in Bridget’s hands clattered.

      AnnaClaire glanced at her housekeeper. “You look pale, Bridget. Are you feeling all right?”

      The housekeeper backed away. “Aye, miss. Just a bit tired is all.” She turned, clutching the dishes to her chest, and fled the room.

      “How about a game of chess, my dear?”

      AnnaClaire shook her head. “I’m sorry, Lord Davis. Like Bridget, I’m afraid I’m too tired to offer you much of a challenge tonight.”

      “All right.” He stood, then held her chair as she got to her feet. “Perhaps another night.”

      “I’d like that.” She led the way from the ornate dining hall, then tucked her arm through his as they walked together along the corridor toward the front door. “Will you be going to Lady Thornly’s dinner party?”

      The old man nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it. Though in truth, the food won’t be nearly as tasty as what we enjoyed tonight.”

      Outside, his carriage and driver were silhouetted against the night sky. The old man leaned close and brushed a kiss over her cheek. “I bid you good night, my dear. And tell Bridget those were the best fruit tarts I’ve ever tasted.”

      “I believe you told her. Three times.”

      He chuckled. “That’s so she would return three times to offer me more. If you aren’t careful, I’ll steal her from you.”

      He was helped up to the carriage. When he was settled he doffed his hat. “Sleep well, AnnaClaire.”

      “And you, Lord Davis.”

      She waved until the carriage pulled away. Then she went inside and made her way up the wide staircase to her suite of rooms on the second floor. Within minutes she had shed her clothes.

      “Would you be wanting anything else, miss?” Bridget hovered by the door to AnnaClaire’s bedchamber. The little maid, Glinna, was busy turning down the bed linens and gathering up assorted skirts and petticoats. By morning they would be washed and ironed and carefully returned to the wardrobe.

      “No, thank you, Bridget.” AnnaClaire yawned behind her hand. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, it’s been quite a tiring day.”

      “Aye, miss.”

      AnnaClaire looked at her a little more closely. A worried little frown furrowed the housekeeper’s brow. Her skin seemed to have lost all its color. “Are you certain you’re feeling all right?”

      “Aye, miss. I’ll be fine after a bit of sleep. If there’s nothing you need, I’ll say good night now.”

      “Good night, Bridget.”

      AnnaClaire waited until the housekeeper and maid had departed, then blew out her candle and climbed into bed. But sleep wouldn’t come. She rolled from one side to the other, unable to find a comfortable position. She was simply too stimulated by all she’d seen and heard this day. Determined to sleep, she closed her eyes. At once she was assaulted by the image of the darkly handsome Rory O’Neil. She had never seen a man quite like him. Such a commanding presence. So fearless in the face of almost certain death. He was either the bravest man she’d ever seen or the most foolhardy.

      And that voice. Just the thought of all that rage and passion had her trembling again. She sat up, shoving a tangle of honey curls from her eyes. There was no point in trying to sleep. Instead, she would make herself a cup of tea and then write a letter to her father.

      Slipping out of bed, she caught up a warm shawl and tossed it over her nightshift, then padded barefoot from the room. Candles in sconces along the hallway sputtered in pools of wax, casting eerie shadows along the walls.

      She made her way to the kitchen and placed a kettle of water over the glowing coals of the fire. As she waited for the water to boil, she noticed her lap robe tossed carelessly over a bench. Odd. It wasn’t like Tavis to be so casual with her things. As she picked it up, she felt something damp and sticky. Lifting her hand to the firelight, she frowned. It appeared to be red as blood. It must be the glow from the coals fooling the eye.

      She held a candle to the flame until the wick caught fire, then lifted it high and studied the cloth more closely. Dear heaven. It was blood. Not just a drop or two, but great wet rivers of it staining the entire robe. She dropped it as though the touch of it burned her.

      At the sound of a footfall behind her she spun around. And went deadly still at the sight that greeted her.

      Rory O’Neil had pulled himself from the shadows and was leaning heavily against the table. “I’m sorry about that fine robe. I seem to have ruined it.”

      Blood still oozed from his neck, his chest, his arm, soaking the front of his tunic, staining his breeches and boots. In his right hand he held his sword aloft.

      His eyes narrowed as he studied the vision before him. A vision that seemed to shimmer and shift. In the glow of firelight the woman appeared to be bathed in a halo of light.

      He slowly lowered his sword. “So. That’s it then. I’m dying.” His voice, still rich and deep and passionate, seemed to warm as he smiled.

      At that moment his sword clattered to the floor, and he gripped the edge of the table with both hands. The blood drained from his face. He slowly sank to his knees, then slid bonelessly to the floor.

      As AnnaClaire stood over him he muttered, “I feared I’d