Читать книгу Briana - Ruth Langan, Ruth Ryan Langan - Страница 11

Briana lay perfectly still, wondering where she had finally surfaced. Earlier she had visited the fires of hell. She knew it was hell, because she’d felt her flesh burning away from her bones, and her entire body melting. But then, just as she’d resigned herself to that fate, a fate she surely deserved for all the grief she’d given her family, she had found herself thrust into the icy waters of the River Shannon. She’d heard voices coming from somewhere along the shore, but she’d been too weary to open her eyes. And so she had slept and drifted in the calm, soothing waters.

Now she was awake and determined to see where she had landed. Wherever it was, she must have been tossed onto the rocks on shore, for her body felt bruised and battered beyond repair.

Her lids flickered, and light stabbed so painfully she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Gathering her strength, she tried again. Her eyes were gritty, as though she’d been buried in sand. Her throat, too, was dry as dust, and her lips so parched she couldn’t pry them apart with her tongue.

“So, lass. You’re awake.”

At the unexpected sound of a man’s deep voice, she blinked and turned her head to stare at the sight that greeted her. And what a sight. A man, naked to the waist, was seated beside the bed. He leaned close and touched a hand to her brow. Just a touch, but she could feel the strength in his fingers, and could see the ripple of muscle in his arm and shoulder.

“I see the fever has left you.” He could see so much more. Up close, her eyes were gold, with little flecks of green. Cat’s eyes, he thought Wary. Watchful. And her skin was unlike any he’d ever seen. Not the porcelain skin he was accustomed to. Hers was burnished from the sun. But it was as soft as a newborn’s.

That one small touch had caused the strangest sensation. A tingling that started in his fingertips and shot through his system with the speed of a wildfire.

It was the lack of sleep, he told himself. He was beginning to see things that weren’t there. To fancy things that weren’t even possible. The lass in the bed was a nun. Only a fool or a lecher would permit such feelings toward an innocent maiden who’d promised her life in service to God.

“For a while this night, I thought the fever would claim you.”

Briana couldn’t help staring at him. His voice was cultured, with just a trace of brogue. But not Irish. English, she thought, like the soldiers who had attacked. She cringed from his touch.

Seeing her reaction, he felt a quick wave of annoyance. “I’ll not harm you, lass. Not after what I’ve gone through this night to save you.”

“Save…” The single word caused such pain, she swallowed and gave up the effort to speak.

“Aye.” To avoid touching her again he leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. All the tension of the night was beginning to ease. He had fought the battle, and won. The lass had passed through the crisis. At least, the first crisis. He hoped there wouldn’t be many more.

“Earlier, I thought you were ready to leave this life.”

She studied him while he spoke. His face could have belonged to an angel. A dark angel. Aye, Satan, she thought. Thick black hair was mussed, as though he’d run his hands through it in frustration. A sign of temper, she’d wager. His eyes, the color of smoke, were fixed on her with such intensity, she found she couldn’t look away. His dark brows were lifted in curiosity, or perhaps, disdain. His nose was patrician, his full lips just slightly curved, as though he were the keeper of a secret.

“Where…?” She struggled with the word and closed her eyes against the knife-blade of pain that sliced down her throat.

“Where are you?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re in my home. Carrick House. I had you brought here after you were found in the fields not far from here. There was a battle. Do you recall it?”

She nodded. How could she forget? It had seemed like a nightmare of horrors. One that never ended. Even now she could hear the cries of the wounded, and feel the thundering of horses’ hooves as if in her own chest. Worse, she could still smell the stench of death all around her. That had been the worst. To surface occasionally, only to realize that all around her were dead.

“…others?” It was all she could manage.

He shook his head. “You were the only one who survived.”

She felt a wave of such sadness, she had to close her eyes to hold back the tears. Four lads, with so much to live for. But instead of the promising future they should have enjoyed, they had given it all up. For her. She was unworthy of such a sacrifice.

“Here, lass. Drink this.”

She opened her eyes to find him sitting beside her on the edge of the bed, holding a tumbler of water. With unexpected tenderness he lifted her head and held the glass to her lips.

Again Keane felt the heat and wondered what was happening to him. He must be more weary than he’d thought. That had to be the reason. It couldn’t be this plain little nun in his arms.

She sipped, then nearly gagged.

“Forgive me, lass. I should have mentioned that I had my housekeeper prepare an opiate for your pain. Drink it down. It’ll help.”

Though it burned a pathway down her throat, she did as she was told.

He laid her gently back on the pillow, then set the glass on the bedside table and bent to smooth the covers. As he did, he realized she was watching him with the wariness of a wild creature caught in a trap.

He picked up something that he thought might soothe her, and held it up. “My servant found this around your neck.”

She stared at the simple cross, then reached for it, before her hand fell limply against the bedcovers. When he placed it in her hand, their fingers brushed. At once she pulled her hand away, and shrank from him until he took a step back.

His frown returned, furrowing his dark brows. It was obvious that she disliked being touched by him. It was probably the way of holy women. “I’ll leave you to rest now. My servant will be in shortly to look after you. Let her know if you need anything.”

She nodded and watched until he walked away. By the time the door closed, sleep had claimed her. And the dreams that haunted her were dark. Dark angels. And a chilling laugh from a soldier whose name she couldn’t recall, but whose face tormented her. A soldier who enjoyed killing.

“How is the lass?” Keane stepped quietly into the sleeping chambers and paused beside the bed. In the hush of evening his voice was little more than a whisper.

He had spent nearly the entire week in and out of these chambers, bullying the servants, seeing that the wounds were carefully dressed, to avoid more infection. Through it all, the lass had surfaced only briefly, before drifting in a haze of delirium and opiates.

He’d sensed that his presence made her uneasy. And the truth was, she affected him the same way, though he knew not why. Still, he couldn’t stay away. She had become his cause. His fierce obsession. Behind his back, the servants whispered about it. And wondered what drove Lord Alcott to fight so desperately for this stranger.

“Her sleep is still broken by pain, my lord.” Cora looked up from her chair beside the bed.

“Has she eaten anything?”

“Not a thing. And she, so thin and pale. Mistress Malloy sent up a tray, but the lass hasn’t had the heart to even try.”

“And you, Cora?” Keane glanced at the servant, whose head had been bobbing when he’d first entered.

“Mistress Malloy will have something for me later.”

“Go below stairs now.” He motioned toward the door. “Go. I’ll sit with the lass awhile.”

The little serving wench needed no coaxing. The long hours spent watching the sleeping lass had made her yearn for her own bed. But though she gave up many of her daylight hours to the care of their patient, the nighttime hours belonged to the lord. He would dismiss the other servants and sit by the lass’s bedside, ever vigilant for any sign that she might be failing.

When Cora was gone, Keane pressed his hands to the small of his back and leaned his head back, stretching his cramped muscles. Agitated, he began to prowl the room, pausing occasionally to glance out the window as darkness began to swallow the land.

When he wasn’t in there, hovering by the bedside, he was in the library, poring over his father’s ledgers, or huddled in meetings with his solicitors. From the looks of things, Kieran O’Mara, the late Lord Alcott, had long ago lost all interest in his homeland and holdings. Several buildings were in need of repair. The land, though lush and green, had been badly mismanaged for years, yielding only meager crops. Carrick House, it would seem, needed not only an infusion of cash, but an infusion of lifeblood as well.

Not his problem, Keane mused as he stared at the rolling fields outside the window. He would soon enough be gone from this miserable place, with its unhappy memories.

It wasn’t so much a sound from the bed, as a feeling, that had him turning around. The lass, with those strange yellow eyes, wide and unblinking, was staring at him.

“Ah. You’re awake.”

She’d been awake for several minutes. And had been studying him while he paced and prowled. Like a caged animal, she thought. Aye. A sleek, dark panther. All muscle and sinew and fierce energy.

He drew up the chair beside the bed and bent to her, touching a hand to her forehead. It took all her willpower not to pull away. Still, she couldn’t help cringing as his hand came in contact with her skin.

He was aware of her reaction. He was aware of something else, as well, and struggled to ignore the strange tingling that occurred whenever he was near this female.

After so many nights watching her, he had begun to feel he knew her. He’d felt every ragged breath of hers in his own chest. Had marvelled at the quiet strength that kept her fighting when others would have given up. Had felt encouraged with every little sign of improvement.

“Do you remember where you are?”

She nodded, struggling to fit the pieces of her memory back into place. “Carrick House, I believe you called it.”

She was pleased that she’d been able to manage the words without feeling a stab of pain. Her throat, it would seem, was healing, though the rest of her body was still on fire. “I thought I’d dreamed you.”

He found her voice a pleasant change from the shrill voices of the serving wenches. It was low, cultured, breathless. But he couldn’t be certain if it was her natural voice, or the result of her injuries. At any rate, he was anxious to hear her speak again. “And why did you think that?”

She shook her head. “I know not. The fever, I suppose. I began to think of you as my dark angel.”

“Perhaps I am.” His features remained solemn, with no hint of laughter in his voice. “My name is Keane. Keane O’Mara. Carrick House is my ancestral home.”

He offered his hand and she had no choice but to accept. Would she ever get used to touching again? “My name is Briana O’Neil.”

The moment was awkward and uncomfortable. As soon as their hands touched, they felt the rush of heat. At once they each pulled away.

“O’Neil? Where is your home?”

“Ballinarin.”

He arched a brow. “I know of it. You’re a long way from home.”

The mere thought of it had her aching for that dear place. “Aye.”

He heard the loneliness in that single word, spoken like a sigh. “Have you been gone a long time?”

“Three years.”

His glance fell on the cross, lying on the bed linen beside her hand.

Seeing the direction of his gaze, her fingers closed around it, finding comfort in something so familiar. “I’ve been at the Abbey of St. Claire.”

He nodded. “I know of it, as well. At least a day’s ride from here. What brought you to our village?”

“I was passing through.” She sighed, thinking of the eagerness with which she’d taken her leave of the convent. “We’d gone only a day’s ride when the soldiers attacked.”

“Who were the lads accompanying you?”

“Lads from our village. Sent by my family to escort me.” She looked away. “How odd, that I should be the one to live. They will never see their families again.”

He could hear the break in her voice and knew that she was close to tears. “I’ll see that a lad from the village is dispatched at once to your home with the news that you are alive and will be returned as soon as your health permits.”

“That’s most kind of you.”

He pushed back his chair and crossed to the side table. “My housekeeper sent up a tray. Could you manage a little broth?”

“Nay.” She shook her head.

“Nonsense.” Ignoring her protest, he filled a cup with broth and set it beside the bed. Then, without waiting for her permission, he reached down and lifted her to a sitting position, plumping pillows behind her.

He had thought, now that she had confirmed his suspicions that she was truly a nun, that the touch of her would no longer affect him. He’d been wrong. He couldn’t help but notice the thin, angular body beneath the prim nightshift. And the soft swell of breasts that were pressed against his chest, causing a rush of heat that left him shaken.

It had been a long time since he’d known such feelings. Feelings he’d buried, in the hope they would never surface again. Now that he was touching her, there was nothing to do but finish the task at hand. Then, hopefully, he could put some distance between himself and this woman.

For Briana it was even more disturbing. The mere touch of him had her nerves jumping. But it wasn’t this man, she told herself. It was the fact that she had been isolated for too long. Anyone’s touch would have had the same effect.

He picked up the cup. “Can you manage yourself? Or would you like some help?”

Her tone was sharper than she intended, to hide her discomfort. “I thank you, but I can feed myself.”

When she reached out to accept the cup, she was shocked to feel pain, hot and sharp, shooting along her arm. A cry escaped her lips before she could stop it.

“Careful.” His tone was deliberately soft, to soothe the nerves she couldn’t hide. “You sustained quite a wound in that shoulder. Another, more serious, in the chest. Had the blade found your heart, you would have never survived.”

Before she could reach out again, he sat on the edge of the bed and held the cup to her lips. It was an oddly intimate gesture that let him study her carefully as she sipped, swallowed. He could see her watching him from beneath lowered lashes.

To steady her nerves, and his own, he engaged her in conversation.

“Do you recall anything of the battle?”

“I see it constantly in my dreams. But when I’m awake it’s gone, like wisps of smoke caught by the wind.”

“Do you recall how many soldiers there were?”

She avoided his eyes. They were too dark, too intense. “I don’t recall.”

“It would have been a fearsome sight, especially for one who has been so sheltered.” He understood how the mind could reject such horrors.

She shivered. “What I do recall was the sight of so many helpless people cut down without a chance to defend themselves. There were but a few knives and swords among them.”

“The people are ill-prepared for English soldiers.” A fact he bitterly resented, for it had been his own father’s doing. Still, there was nothing to be done about it now. “But it would seem that you put up quite a fight.”

For the first time she smiled, and he realized how truly lovely those full, pouty lips were when they curved upward. “I didn’t always live in a convent. I know how to wield a sword with as much skill as my brothers. In fact, if I were still living at Ballinarin, I’d probably be able to best them by now.”

He tipped the cup to her lips again. “Then perhaps it’s fortunate that you went to live with the good sisters. I’m not sure Ireland is ready to be led into battle by a lass.”

“Spoken like a man.” His words reminded her of her father’s cruel, hateful words hurled in anger so long ago. She pushed his hand away, refusing any more broth.

He glanced down at the cup. “Have you had enough?”

“Aye. Thank you.” And enough of him, sitting too close, causing her heart to do all manner of strange things.

“How did you come by a weapon with which to defend yourself?”

“I pulled it from the heart of a lad who had died defending me.”

He studied her a moment, hearing not just the words, but the underlying fierceness in her tone. What an odd little female. He’d always thought nuns would be more concerned with peace than war.

He stood and returned the cup to the tray. But when he glanced at the figure in the bed, he could see her rubbing her shoulder. The look in her eyes told him she was struggling for composure. Aye, a most peculiar little creature who was trying desperately to be strong despite overwhelming odds.

“There’s an opiate here for pain. I think you ought to take it now.”

“Aye.” She nodded, and was grateful when he offered her the tumbler of liquid.

When she had drained it he set the empty tumbler aside and helped her to settle into a more comfortable position. It was shocking to feel his arms around her as he lifted her slightly, removing the pillows from behind her back. Then he swept aside the bed linens and laid her down, before returning the covers. As he smoothed them over her, his hands stilled their movements.

“You’re so thin. Didn’t they feed you in the convent?”

Her face flamed. “They fed us. Though no amount of food would be enough, considering the work we were expected to do.”

“Work?”

She had forgotten how to speak to others. After the silence of these last years, the art of conversation was new to her. She struggled to put her thoughts into words. “There were classes, of course. History, literature, biology. And the teachings of the Church fathers. But we also were expected to plant and harvest, and tend the flocks.”

“Like peasants?” His tone was one of amazement.

“Aye. Like the peasants we serve.” Her tone softened as she remembered the lecture by Mother Superior, delivered nightly in their common prayer. “Because much has been given us, much is expected. And though we are educated, we are expected to serve all God’s people. By punishing the body, we nourish the soul.”

He was so moved by her words, he caught both her hands in his. “I didn’t know there were such unselfish souls left in this world. Bless you.” He turned her hands palm up. Seeing the calluses, he muttered an oath and, without thinking, lifted them to his lips.

Dear heaven. What had possessed him? He hadn’t intended such a thing. And yet, seeing the ravages of such hard work on those small, delicate hands, he had reacted instinctively. Now there was nothing to do but cover his error with as much dignity as he could manage. Still, though he knew he had overstepped his bounds, he couldn’t seem to stop. He kept her small hands in his and pressed a second kiss, before lifting his head.

At the shocking feel of his mouth against her flesh Briana gasped and struggled to pull her hands away. But it was too late. The damage had been done. She could feel the heat. It danced along her flesh and seared the blood flowing through her veins before settling deep inside her. A heat that had her cheeks stained with color. Her eyes went wide with shock. And though no words came out, her mouth opened, then snapped shut.

She looked up to find him staring at her with a strange, almost haunted look in his eyes. Even as she watched, he blinked, and the look was gone.

Or had she only imagined it?

“I’ll leave you to your rest, Briana O’Neil.” He turned away abruptly and picked up the empty tumbler.

She watched as he set the tumbler on the tray. Then, knowing the blush was still on her cheeks, she rolled to her side, wishing she could pull the covers over her head and hide.

What had just happened between them? She wasn’t quite certain. Perhaps he had merely reacted to her work-worn hands. Or perhaps he was simply trying to soothe her, or honor her. Whatever his reason, he’d had no way of knowing how deeply she would be affected by that simple gesture.

Oh, how she wished she knew how to deal with these strange feelings that had her so agitated. But the isolation of the convent had magnified everything in her mind. All she knew was that the simple press of Keane O’Mara’s lips against her palm had started a fire in the pit of her stomach that was burning still.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, wishing she could shut out her feelings as easily. But they were there, fluttering like butterfly wings against her throat, her temple, her chest. She prayed the potion would soon have the desired effect. She wanted desperately to escape into blissful sleep.

In time her wish was granted.

There was no such escape for Keane. Throughout the long night he was forced to keep his vigil. He sat by the bedside and watched the steady rise and fall of the thin chest beneath the blankets as Briana slept, and wondered why a woman from the noble house of Ballinarin would give up a life of luxury to live like a peasant.

Whenever his gaze was drawn to those small callused hands, he would find himself pacing to the window, to stare moodily into the darkness. It was the only way to keep his gaze from being drawn to her mouth.

The strange desire to taste her lips, just once, had him muttering every hot, fierce oath he knew.