In time, she found herself growing close to them all, the four becoming almost as a family. And like family, when one member becomes ill, the rest pitch in to do what they can to help.
Anna awakened under the weather, and Raven insisted the elder woman spend the day resting in bed. She won, in spite of Anna’s protest. But there was much to be done before a guest, all the way from a place called Bunratty, would arrive for dinner. It was unfair to leave all the household chores for Molly to do, so Raven donned a simple dress and wrapped her hair up with a bandana. She baked bread, did the laundry, and was now scrubbing the foyer floor on hands and knees.
“Saints preserve us, lass, what are you doing?”
She turned to find Braiton standing behind her. She surveyed his feet. “If your boots are muddy, kindly wipe them on the mat by the door before you take another step farther. I have not the time to scrub this floor again.”
He knelt down, his eyes level with hers. “And why, my lady, are you scrubbing it at all?”
“Because Anna is ill, and there is much to do before your Bunnyrat guest arrives for dinner.”
He stifled a smile. “’Tis pronounced, Bunratty, and didn’t you get the message I sent home with Brodie?”
She wiped her wet hands on the apron she wore. “No message came, my shikaa.”
He frowned. “Damn that lad. Can’t he ever pass an ale house without stopping in?”
“What did the message say?”
He stood and offered her his hand, helping her to her feet. “It said Rory O’Neill arrived earlier then planned and wanted to take us both out to lunch at the hotel restaurant. At noon, the two of us would be around to fetch you.”
She gasped, looking down at her clothes. “And here I am dressed like this, hardly presentable to meet anyone.”
“I beg to differ,” a deep voice came from the doorway. “In spite of the flour that stains your cheeks and dressed as a scullery maid, you are positively bewitching.”
Rory O’Neill’s double breasted jacket hung snug on his tall frame, a crop of brown hair framing an interesting face. Topaz colored eyes, hooded by thick dark lashes, twinkled mischievously as he moved closer, bowing from the waist. “Let me introduce myself. I am the Bunnyrat guest, at your service.”
Her cheeks heated. “I am so sorry, sir, for not being ready for your visit.”
He smiled. “Nonsense, my lady. ’Twas not your fault, obviously.”
She wiped her hand again on her apron and extended it to him. “Let me welcome you then to our home.”
Rory studied her closely, and her face heated beneath his scrutiny. He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a quick kiss across her knuckles. “’Tis my pleasure, my lady.”
Braiton cleared his throat. “Raven, I’ll have Molly fix us lunch here, while you get yourself changed.”
She nodded. “I will not be long.” With that said, she hurried to her bedchamber.
She could not work Molly’s magic with her hair, so instead she brushed it till it shone, tied it back with a green ribbon and let the curls fall freely to her waist. She chose an emerald green day dress, one with buttons down the front and much easier to get dressed in by herself. White lace trimmed the scooped neckline and cuffs, the soft color bringing out an aqua hue to her eyes.
She lingered by the drawing room door for a moment before entering. Rory O’Neill stood posed like a gallant sentry by the fireplace. She took in both men, her husband the handsomest by comparison. Braiton, by far was taller in stature and much more muscular.
“Braiton, a dhiobhail…you devil. How, on God’s green earth have you been blessed with such fortune, man?” Rory’s bold gaze roamed the length of her as she made her way to stand beside Braiton.
“Down, lad,” Braiton quipped. “The lady is quite spoken for.”
“Only because you saw her first,” Rory countered.
Braiton put a possessive arm around her waist. “You’re an unscrupulous man, O’Neill, to eye a woman so boldly in the presence of her husband.” His humorous tone held a note of annoyance.
“Then shall we go out onto the veranda, my lady?” Rory invited, gesturing to the double doors at the far end of the room.
She glanced up at Braiton. His jaw muscles pulsed. No longer was he finding their banter amusing. “I wish to stay here, by my husband,” she said, nestling closer to him.
Braiton’s expression relaxed with a smile, his arm tightening around her waist.
“Do I stand a private moment with you at all, my lady?” Rory teased.
“I think not, sir.”
Rory threw his head back and laughed. “Ah, she’s got spirit, Braiton. Do you think you can handle such beauty and spunk all at once, old man?”
Braiton arched a brow. “I believe I’m up for the challenge.”
Rory studied her again. “I’d say you nabbed the pot o’ gold at the end of the rainbow, for sure.”
“And you, my greedy friend, better not let me catch you dipping your hands into my treasure,” Braiton retorted.
Rory locked eyes with Braiton. “Oh, to be sure, my lord, you would not catch me.”
“You, sir, are a scoundrel in every true sense of the word,” Braiton snapped.
Rory laughed again, his gaze returning to her. “How are we going to keep this possessive husband of yours at bay, when the other gents in Limerick get a look at you?”
“If they are true gentlemen, then there is little to worry over.” She raised an eyebrow. “And if they are like you, then they will get what they deserve.”
“Ouch, you wound me deep, my lady,” Rory teased, grabbing his heart.
She giggled at his antics. “You are full of what Molly calls, the blarney.”
Rory’s eyes twinkled. “And she’s quick-witted as well. Now, if she’s got brains, you’re in for some real trouble, Braiton.”
Braiton chuckled. “I’ve already discovered that, my friend.”
She was relieved when Brian announced lunch was ready and accepted the arm her husband extended to escort her into the dining room. Throughout the day and into the evening Braiton remained attentive to her, the two appearing the perfect married couple. Rory, unlike Lord Wade, only drew her into the conversation to flatter her in some way, or make a suggestive remark. By the end of the evening, she was very pleased to bid the man a goodnight. Rory climbed the stairs to the guest’s quarters, and Braiton escorted her up the ones leading to their bedchambers.
She shut the door behind her with a sigh. How she wished Braiton’s devotion was real. He acted tonight like the loving husband and many times he even appeared jealous at Rory’s attention toward her. But she knew it was only an act, a formality in front of others, and it did not mean a thing. Their marriage was one of convenience only, an agreement that in a year’s time would end.
She glanced at the ring she wore. It was just a formality, too. It meant nothing…she meant nothing to him. He treated her kindly, was most generous to her, but she would never win his heart. She sat upon the bed and fingered the lace that trimmed the sleeve of her gown. All the pretty clothes in the world would not make her desirable enough to him. She would always be the pitiful, young women who wandered onto his ship, and he was forced to rescue from the Sea Patrol. Her stupidity inconvenienced his life.
My life has been inconvenienced, too.
Her heart was discouraged, troubled, and even a little annoyed. She spotted the mug of hot milk Molly left for her on the bedside table, but tonight she’d need something more…the comfort of her Bible. Realizing she left it in the library, she crept down the stairs to retrieve it.
Once in the library, she found the book right where she placed it a few days prior, on an end table beside the leather wing back chair.
“You can’t sleep either, my lady?”
Startled, she spun around to find Rory O’Neill standing by the window. “I just came for my Bible.” She held the book for him to see and made her way to the door.
He blocked her
exit. “Braiton tells me your father is an Apache chief and your mother is a white woman.”
She nodded.
He moved closer. “Then you’re an Indian princess.”
She remained silent.
“No doubt, she’s the reason for your blue eyes.” He glanced at the Bible she held in front of her. “And how it is you can read.”
She frowned. “My father’s people can also read. They are smart and brave, not at all what others make them out to be. So you need not fear or lock your door. I will not creep into your room to take your scalp.”
Rory chuckled. “I meant no offense, my lady. And I fear no such thing. But perhaps ’twould be wise for me to advise you to lock your door. You just might find me creeping about your bedchamber, and it won’t be your scalp I’ll be taking.”
Rory O’Neill might be sophisticated, well-dressed, and rich, but he had the same look in his eyes as all the other scoundrels she’d encountered. In many ways, he was more dangerous, believing his irresistible charm was something every woman desired. Did he think he was now doing her a favor?
She raised a defiant chin. “Must I remind you, sir, I am married?”
A sardonic smile curved one side of his mouth. “To a husband who is obviously too inadequate to please you.” He caressed the Bible’s leather cover. “Otherwise why would you need to come for this?”
“We enjoy sharing scripture.”
He laughed again. “Now, who’s full of the blarney, my lady?”
Her cheeks heated. “You might try reading a passage or two, yourself.” She gestured to the shelves covering the walls. “Or perhaps look for a book on manners.” Pushing past him to the door, she added, “It might prove to be helpful.”
In her hurry to return to her bedchamber, she ran into Braiton.
He stood by the library door, arms crossed over his chest, and a proud smile upon his face. “O idhche mhath, my lady.”
“Good night to you, too, my shikaa,” she whispered and hurried the rest of the way to the stairs.
Chapter Twelve
Dooley O’Connor was waiting for Braiton at the back door. The lad’s love for horses and the ease in which he handled them was what secured his position as Shannonbrook’s stable boy. Braiton trusted Dooley with the care and grooming of Grania, his dapple gray, and often found the lad admiring the beautiful animal. No doubt Dooley dreamed one day he would own such a magnificent mount himself.
“Has she come, then, Dooley?” Braiton said, donning his riding jacket.
“Aye, m’lord, and what a beauty she be,” Dooley marveled.
Braiton followed him to the stables. “Then you think Lady Shannon will like her?”
“Oh, aye, m’lord, how can she not?” Dooley led him to the stall at the far end of the long building.
He stroked the nose of the chestnut colored mare he’d purchased a few days prior. “She’s perfect.” He smiled at Dooley. “Saddle her up, and mine as well, while I inform my lady we’re going for a ride.”
He found his wife in the garden, lounging in a chair on the veranda. It was her sanctuary, the place where she could always be located. She was reading from a book she’d discovered in the library.
He took a seat beside her. “And what is it you read today, my lady?”
“Richard Brinkley Sheridian,” she said, saving her place with a marker and setting the book on a side table. “Do you realize, Braiton, books open new worlds to a person? Stories and poems contained within the bindings capture the imagination, stir the heart. Authors like Oliver Goldsmith, Congreve, and Swift fill the bookcases and are within a hand’s reach.”
Her exuberance intrigued him. “I’m glad you enjoy them.”
“I do not only enjoy them,” she went on. “They envelope my conscience, transport me to other lands and times. Happy novellas, tragic tales, even one of the unnatural fueled my interest.”
“Aye, books are great friends.” They help to endure the long, lonely nights when sleep doesn’t come.
“I am sorry for rattling on,” she said. “Was there something you wanted?”
“Aye, lass.” He smiled. “For you to ride with me.”
She looked down at the way she was dressed. “Now, like this?”
“Aye, right now.” He took her by the hand and led her down the path to the stables.
She ran to keep up with his long strides. “Why are you in such a hurry?”
He stopped short, and she slammed into him, losing her balance. He caught her before she hit the ground, gathering her into his embrace. “I’m anxious for you to see the special gift I’ve purchased for you.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You have a gift for me?”
Her touch, the very nearness of her body so close to his, filled him with wanting. Her intense gaze fueled the longing within him. “Aye,” he managed to choke out, leading her by the hand the rest of the way to the stable. Dooley guided the mare toward her.
She gasped. “This is my gift?”
He chuckled at her excitement. “Aye, she’s all yours, lass.”
She turned to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her cheek against his neck. “Ashoge, Braiton.”
Her fingers, splayed across the small of his back, sent a warm glow spreading through him. He fought to control the swirling emotions of her mere touch.
She gazed up into his eyes. “But why? There is a stable full of chelees, horses.”
The urge to plant the most passionate and prolonged kiss upon her full lips overwhelmed his thoughts, and he struggled to calm his dizzied senses. “None of the others would suit you.” He searched her face and mentally caressed her body. “You deserve only the finest mount in the country, a mount such as the mare that stands before you.”
Her eyes welled with tears, their moisture glistening in the deep blue of her eyes. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Oh, that I could postpone this ride and carry you to your bedchamber instead. Shut out any awareness of the world and become totally entranced by your compelling personage. To just forget all I loath, what I am destined to live with.
He shook his head to clear it and broke free from her embrace. “You are most welcome, my lady.” He gestured toward the mare. “Now, shall we ride?”
Braiton got his first taste of what an excellent equestrian she was. Even inappropriately dressed, she handled the mare with grace and speed. She had no trouble keeping up with him, and he prided himself at being a seasoned horseman.
Raven’s hair broke free from the pins holding it in the chignon at the base of her neck and tumbled down her back, the breeze cooling her face. Her cheeks grew raw from the crispness of the wind, but she did not care. Her body was alive, exhilarated, and singing with a mixture of pleasure and freedom.
She rode with fervor beside Braiton, and he matched her intensity. She couldn’t help but think how well he would fit in with her people. Gabriel and her father would enjoy riding beside him as well. Thinking of home brought a longing to her soul. She brought the mare to a slow walk, pulled off the path, and stopped.
Braiton came up beside her, a frown creasing his brow. “Is something wrong, my lady?”
“I wish to show you the real way to ride,” she said, dismounting and pulling the saddle off the mare. She gathered the fullness of her skirt between her legs and straddled the horse, gripping a handful of the dark, thick mane. “I will race you back to the stable, my shikaa.”
Dooley’s eyes widened when she rode into the stable. “Saints preserve us, m’lady,” he said, running over to her. “What happened?”
She climbed down from the horse before Dooley had a chance to help her. “All is fine, Dooley.” She gave the mare a loving pat. “Will you tend her for me?”
“Aye, m’lady,” he said, still looking bewildered.
When Braiton rode into the stable she beamed up at him. “I win.”
He threw her saddle to the ground. “’Twas not an easy task to tote your saddle a
nd still ride as swift.”
“Ah-ha, then do you admit I am swifter than you?” she teased.
“I admit nothing,” he quipped, climbing down from his horse. “Other than the match was unfair. I was riding with an extra load.”
“Then strip your chelee of his saddle, and we will race again,” she challenged.
“Nay, the horses are too tired now. Their performance would be poor.”
She giggled. “You mean your performance would be poor. Without the saddle you would fall off.”
He arched a brow. “You are a good rider, my lady, but your ability hardly surpasses mine.”
She placed hands on hips and threw the words at him like stones. “Why, because I am a woman?”
He frowned, his expression clouded with his anger. “Nay, that has nothing to do with it.”
“I think it has everything to do with it, Braiton Shannon.” She gathered her skirt, raising the hem high above her ankles, and stalked up the path to the mansion.
“Raven,” he called after her.
She ignored him and continued toward the mansion, seething with mounting rage.
“Raven,” he shouted now, catching up with her and grabbing her by the arm. “Can you halt for just a moment, lass?”
“Halt,” she snapped, flashing him a look of disdain. “Like a horse controlled by the reins?” She squirmed free from his grasp. “I think not!” She ran the rest of the way to the mansion.
Rory O’Neill stood on the garden veranda, puffing on his clay pipe when she came storming through the garden.
“My lady,” he said. “You look as though you’re being chased by a wild boar.”
She cast a hostile glare his way and pushed past him, slamming the door behind her.
Braiton followed close behind Raven. His anger singed the corners of his control and bristled down his spine.
Rory chuckled. “Aye, I was right. Here comes the wild boar.”
His sharp retort stabbed the air as he pushed past him. “Haven’t you some sort of business to attend to?”
“I’d much rather tend to yours,” Rory called after him. “’Tis far more entertaining.”
Braiton took the stairs two at a time, his heart hammering. When he came to Raven’s door, he threw it open and slammed it shut behind him. His words came sharp and ragged. “Would you listen to me, lass, for just one moment? For just one God given moment?”
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