Rory

by Ruth Ryan Langan

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.

  "Now, about your arm..." She saw the sudden frown as he glanced at

  her. "You'll need to begin using it, a little at first, until the strength

  returns, and then a little more, and in no time it'll be as good as it ever

  was."

  "It's easy for you to offer such advice. You aren't the one in pain."

  "But you must work through your pain."

  "Is that so?" He shot her a dark look. "And how is it that you know

  about such things?"

  "I took care of my mother for several years before she died."

  Though she wasn't aware of it, a hint of pain had crept into her voice.

  Rory watched and listened, sensing that this was a recent loss.

  "The longer my mother remained in bed, the weaker she became. Her

  limbs began to shrivel from lack of use. I discovered that by moving

  her arms and legs many times each day I could slow the process."

  He was watching her in that quiet, measured way that .always left her

  feeling so uncomfortable. To avoid looking at him, she turned away,

  setting aside her empty cup, placing his dishes on the tray.

  "We'll have to go slowly at first so we don't open the wound again.

  You've lost too much blood as it is. But if we're careful, I think we can

  manage to build your strength without straining that shoulder."

  "We can, can we?" His tone was rougher than he'd intended. But the

  wrenching pain, and the weakness that was so foreign to him, put his

  teeth on edge. Besides, watching the ease with which she moved

  about the room while he was forced to lie perfectly still made him

  want to lash out at someone, anyone. "It would seem that I'll be doing

  all the work, building my strength and restoring my arm. What will

  the other half of 'we' be doing?"

  "I'll be helping you."

  "If it's all the same to you, I can do without your help." To prove his

  point, he gripped his right arm with his left hand and forced it

  upward.

  Pain ripped through him, leaving him gasping. His arm dropped

  limply at his side and he found, to his amazement, that he didn't even

  have the strength to flex his fingers.

  Seeing the look on his face, AnnaClaire's heart went out to him. But

  she cautioned herself to hide her feelings. Pity was the last thing this

  man wanted or needed, especially when he was in such a foul mood.

  She picked up the tray and headed toward the door. "Well, if you'd

  rather do it yourself..."

  "AnnaClaire."

  The sound of her name on his lips made her pause. She took a

  moment to compose herself before she turned to him. "Is there

  something you need?"

  "I need..." He hated this. Would have done anything to avoid it. But

  the truth was, he had no other choice. For the moment. "It would seem

  I do need your help after all."

  She crossed the room and returned the tray to the bedside table. Then

  she straightened and rolled her sleeves.

  The look of her, all crisp and efficient, had him silently cursing.

  "Very well. If you're willing, 'we'll' begin at once." At her emphasis

  on the word, he silently cursed again.

  "You'd probably be more comfortable in the chair." She offered a

  hand and helped him from the bed to the chair. The effort seemed to

  drain all his strength.

  She knelt in front of him and took hold of his right hand.

  "Does this hurt?" she asked as she began to massage his fingers.

  "Only a little." In truth, having her kneeling between his legs led him

  to think of things other than pain. Things that would have her

  blushing if she were to read his mind. He breathed in the fragrance of

  roses that always seemed to surround her, and decided that he might

  learn to like this sort of treatment.

  "Good." She continued kneading his fingers, pressing them together

  to make a fist, then slowly straightening them.

  With each movement he could feel a tingling that began in his hand

  and inched along his arm and shoulder. But he wasn't certain if it was

  caused by the movement, or by the press of her hands on his.

  Her fingers were long and graceful, the nails beautifully shaped. The

  thought of those hands touching other parts of his body made him

  smile.

  "You find this amusing?"

  He arched a brow. "Shouldn't I?"

  "You'll not be smiling when we get to the more difficult part."

  "And what might that be?"

  "Using this arm. In no time I'll have you lifting your sword above

  your head. And swinging it the way you did on the docks, the day you

  were injured."

  "Did I tell you that I saw you there?"

  His voice, so close to her ear, had her looking up in surprise. But

  when she found him staring directly into her eyes, she looked away.

  "How could that be?"

  "You deny you were there, AnnaClaire?"

  "Nay. I was there. And I watched the battle between > our men and

  the English soldiers. But how could you have possibly had the time to

  see me, when you were busy fighting for your very life?"

  "You'd be impossible to overlook, my lady." His voice lowered to a

  caress. "Of all the women on the docks that day, your face is the only

  one I remember."

  He was staring at her again. To hide the blush she knew was on her

  cheeks, she ducked her head. But she couldn't help glancing at him

  from time to time from beneath lowered lashes.

  "You have beautiful eyes, AnnaClaire. Did you know they're the

  windows to the soul?" Judging by what he'd seen so far, hers was the

  most pure and innocent of souls.

  "I think you should stop talking and concentrate on the work."

  "Aye. The work," he said with a smile. "If this be work, I'll gladly

  labor for a lifetime."

  "I'll remind you of your words tomorrow, when we get to the difficult

  part."

  Just as he began to feel comfortable with the gentle flexing of his

  fingers, she startled him by slowly raising and lowering his arm. The

  pain of even that simple movement left him clenching his teeth.

  "I'm sorry to have to cause you more pain. But it's necessary if you're

  to regain the full use of your arm."

  "I understand." He sucked in a breath and braced himself as pain hot

  as fire seared his arm and settled in his stiff shoulder.

  She continued the motion several more times, then lowered his arm

  and heard his sigh of relief.

  From the tray she removed the square of linen and rolled it into a ball.

  "Whenever you have time, roll this over and over between the fingers

  of your weak h
and. It will help strengthen them."

  She got to her feet and shook down her skirts before turning away.

  "That's it? That's how you intend to help me get back my strength?"

  She nearly laughed aloud at his look of annoyance. "You're forgetting

  how severely you were injured, Rory O'Neil. It's a wonder you even

  survived. If you attempt too much too soon, you'll lose even more

  strength. Now you need to rest."

  He bit back an oath as she helped him to bed and handed him a glass

  of water into which she'd sprinkled the now familiar opiate. By the

  time she'd slipped from the room and descended the stairs, he was

  already sound asleep. With the touch of her hands still upon him. And

  the fragrance of roses still filling his lungs.

  "My lady. I beg permission to enter."

  AnnaClaire had no sooner returned to her bedchamber than she heard

  Glinna's voice from outside her door. She took a moment to compose

  herself, then opened the door.

  "Yes, Glinna? What is so important that you would disturb my rest?"

  "Bridget sent me to tell you that Lord Davis is here." She lowered her

  voice. "And he isn't alone. There's a very handsome man with him."

  AnnaClaire's eyes narrowed. "Lord Dunstan?"

  "Aye, that's the name, my lady. He and Lord Davis are awaiting your

  company in the parlor. Shall I help you change into something more

  elegant?"

  AnnaClaire caught sight of herself in the looking glass. Her gown

  was a bit rumpled, as was her hair. Still, the thought of primping for

  Dunstan held no appeal to her.

  "Thank you, Glinna. This suits me. You may take my tray

  downstairs."

  "Aye, my lady." The girl didn't bother to hide her disapproval. If a

  man of means like Lord Dunstan ever came calling on her, she would

  move heaven and earth to look her best. But then, all the servants had

  speculated for years on AnnaClaire's future. She had wasted too many

  years caring for her invalid mother. Now she was simply too old, too

  headstrong, too defiant of convention, to ever snag a husband. What

  man would offer his name and his fortune to a woman who hadn't the

  least idea how to use her feminine wiles?

  The little housemaid frowned as she followed AnnaClaire down the

  stairs.

  "Lord Davis." AnnaClaire paused a moment on the threshold, then

  crossed the room and offered her cheek.

  "My dear." The old man kissed her lightly. "I hope you don't mind

  this intrusion."

  "You are as much family as my father. You could never intrude."

  He gave her a radiant smile. "Lord Dunstan and I are heading to the

  docks to greet an old friend arriving from London. We thought you

  might come along and enjoy a bit of fresh air."

  "I'm sorry. I have a...prior appointment."

  "Then perhaps we could drop you," Dunstan said. "It would be my

  pleasure to place my carriage and driver at your disposal."

  "Thank you, Lord Dunstan." AnnaClaire forced herself to greet him,

  offering her hand for his kiss. "That's most kind of you. But I have

  already instructed Tavis to prepare my carriage."

  "Perhaps another time then, my lady."

  She inclined her head and forced a smile to her lips. "I look forward to

  it."

  "Tomorrow, perhaps?"

  "I promised Lady Thornly I would pay a call tomorrow."

  "Then Lord Davis and I shall take you there, since we have also

  agreed to visit the dear lady. Isn't that so, Charles?"

  The older man was grinning from ear to ear as he nodded.

  AnnaClaire knew she was trapped. The old dear was determined to

  play matchmaker. And Dunstan was nothing if not persistent. There

  was naught to do but accept defeat with grace. "I thank you, Lord

  Dunstan. I will accept your kind offer."

  He bowed over her hand. ' 'Until tomorrow, then, my lady!"

  She walked with them to the door and watched as they climbed into

  their carriage. Then, to assuage her guilty conscience, she ordered

  Tavis to prepare her carriage. Perhaps a ride in the fresh air was the

  very thing she needed to clear her head.

  When she entered her room, she was startled to see the door to the

  attic room open. Rory was leaning weakly against the landing at the

  foot of the narrow stairs.

  "What are you doing?" she demanded.

  "Keeping one ear to the door."

  "You should have been sound asleep by now."

  "Aye. I was. But the sound of a certain voice roused me." He took a

  step nearer. "What did your Englishman want this time?"

  "I told you. He isn't my Englishman. He merely offered me the use of

  his carriage."

  "With him in it, I'll wager."

  "That's none of your concern, Rory O'Neil."

  He caught her by the shoulder. "Damn you, AnnaClaire. Everything

  that happens in this house is my concern. The man is as much a

  butcher as is Tilden. And you let him fawn over you and court you..."

  Her eyes blazed. "I cannot help his fawning. But no man courts me

  without my permission. Lord Dunstan is far from home and missing

  his own kind. He sees in me a kindred spirit."

  He caught her by the chin, forcing her to face him. His eyes were as

  stormy as hers. "If you think that, AnnaClaire, you're only fooling

  yourself. The man covets you. And why not?' His thumbs traced the

  fullness of her lips, sending heat curling along her spine. "A fairer

  lass I've never seen."

  She drew back, afraid of the feelings his touch caused. "That's just the

  opiates, Rory O'Neil."

  "The drugs may have weakened me, but they haven't affected my

  vision. Or my mind. Do you not see in yourself what others see,

  AnnaClaire?"

  "I see..." She trailed off. For in truth, she could see herself reflected in

  his eyes. And it gave her the strangest feeling.

  She was accustomed to flattery from the peacocks at Court. Such

  words from the lips of one such as Lord Dunstan would merely sound

  slick and condescending. But when spoken by this man, they took on

  a whole new meaning.

  "Come now." She indicated the stairs. "I'd better help you back to bed

  before you find yourself unconscious right here in my room."

  "Aye." He bit back his temper on a long, deep breath, then made his

  way slowly up the stairs, with AnnaClaire trailing behind him.

  Minutes later he lay in his bed and listened to the sounds of activity

  one floor below. Soon he heard the sound of carriage wheels. And

  then there was only silence.

  The pain was forgotten, as was his temper. He lay very still, thinking

  about AnnaClaire. She was unlike any woman he'd ever known.

  Bright, educated, articulate, with a sharp wit and a clever mind. A

  wealthy woman who seemed to shy away from the grand displays of

  society. Though her home was fashionable, and every bit as grand as

  his home in Ballinarin, her life-style was simple. She was a woman so

  beautiful she took his breath away, and yet she seemed completely

  unaware of her effect on men.

  And she was the daughter of Lord James Thompson, a close friend

  and advisor to the queen.

  As he finally drifted into sleep, the image
of AnnaClaire's lovely face

  played through his dreams. He would have been stunned to know

  that, alone in her carriage, AnnaClaire was experiencing a nearly

  identical situation. As she had so often lately, she found herself

  enumerating a certain rogue's fine qualities. And struggling to find a

  valid reason why she should continue to hold him at arm's length.

  Chapter Six

  'Lord Dunstan, I understand you met friends at the docks yesterday."

  Lady Thornly took a seat in her formal parlor and fanned her skirts

  out around her, while her guests took their places nearby. "What was

  the news?"

  Dunstan looked pleased with himself. "The queen received my first

  missive, and obliged me by sending a boatload of soldiers. I've

  ordered them to sweep the city in search of the Irish brigands."

  AnnaClaire's heart nearly stopped. "More soldiers?"

  "Her Majesty has assured me she will take all of my advice to heart,"

  Dunstan said with importance. "After all, that is why she sent me

  here."

  AnnaClaire took a deep breath. Since she was forced to endure an

  entire afternoon in the company of Lord Dunstan, she decided she

  may as well attempt to glean all the information she could. "I would

  think by now the rebels have left Dublin far behind and have secreted

  themselves in the countryside. Do you not agree?"

  "Nay, my lady. I disagree. We've had soldiers watching every road

  leading out of Dublin since that day on the docks, and not one of the

  brigands has been spotted. That tells me they've decided to hide out

  here in the city."

  "What will you do?" AnnaClaire visibly tensed. "Go door to door in

  search of them?"

  "If we must. But there might be an easier way."

  "And what is that?" Lady Thornly asked.

  "Put such a price on their heads, especially on that of their leader, that

  even their own people will be hard- pressed to ignore it. After all, half

  these peasants are starving. The thought of a king's ransom should be

  enough to tempt at least a few of them to come forward. All we need

  is the hiding place of a couple of these rats. We'll make an example of

  those who would disregard the orders of their queen. In time, the rest

  will become so frightened after witnessing a hanging or two, they'll

  even refuse to give shelter to their own sons and brothers. And this

  little rebellion will die like a whimpering dog."