Читать книгу Rory - Ruth Langan, Ruth Ryan Langan - Страница 10

“My lady.” Bridget, carrying a basin of water from the well outside, stopped dead in her tracks. “I thought you were abed.”

Tavis, holding aloft a candle, came to an abrupt halt behind her.

Guilt stained their cheeks.

“I know what you thought.” Anger made AnnaClaire’s color equally high. “You thought to hide this murderer right here in my home. Behind my back.” When she pointed to the figure on the floor Bridget dropped the basin, splashing water everywhere. In quick strides she and Tavis were kneeling beside Rory, searching for a pulse.

Despite her anger, AnnaClaire found herself touched by their concern.

“Is he dead?” Tavis asked.

There was a moment of silence, and AnnaClaire held her breath.

“Nay. He lives. Praise heaven.” Bridget crossed herself.

AnnaClaire stared at the ever-widening pool of blood. “If you care about this man, why did no one see to his wounds?”

Tavis looked up. “He wouldn’t permit it until all his men were cared for. I’ve been scouring the city for safe shelter for them.”

“I should think that would be no problem, considering how highly everyone seems to regard their.” AnnaClaire wrinkled her nose. “.Blackhearted O’Neil.”

“Aye, my lady. But after that confrontation on the docks today the queen’s emissaries have issued a proclamation. Anyone found harboring Rory O’Neil or his men will be considered an enemy of the Crown, and will be hanged.”

“Hanged?” AnnaClaire’s outrage grew. “And knowing that, you brought him to my home?”

“He is dying, my lady.” Tavis paused. “We had no way of taking him elsewhere. It was dangerous enough getting him away from the docks. Had it not been for your carriage, and your lap robe, even that couldn’t have been accomplished.” He brightened. “Besides, since you are considered English, my lady, the law would not apply to you. You could always claim rightly that you knew nothing about this.”

AnnaClaire found herself studying these two people with new respect. She had known them all her life. Had spent an occasional summer here, escaping the noise and crowds of London. Yet she had never thought of these two quiet, humble people as particularly courageous. Until this moment.

“You would be able to make no such claim for yourselves. Yet you would risk your lives for this stranger?”

Tavis nodded. “Rory O’Neil risks his life every day for his people, my lady. We can do no less for him. With your permission we’d like to bind bis wounds.”

“And then what?” AnnaClaire folded her arms. “He is mortally wounded. But even if he should live, how could you possibly smuggle him out of Dublin?”

The old man scratched his chin. “We haven’t thought that far, my lady. First we must keep him alive.”

“And where do you propose to hide him for the night?”

Tavis got to his feet. “In the stables, with your permission.”

AnnaClaire shook her head. “That will involve too many people. The stable master. The lads who muck the stalls. The less people who know, the better chance you have of keeping your secret.” She tapped a foot, her mind working feverishly. She wasn’t even aware that she was becoming caught up in a deadly game. To her, this was merely a chance to use her wits and her cunning, to help these two old people who had been with her family for so many years. “Your best course of action is to hide him where no one has any chance of coming upon him by accident.” She suddenly smiled, pointed. “I know. The little attic room above mine.”

Tavis and Bridget exchanged surprised glances. Did the lady know what she was saying?

“No one can get in or out of that room without going through your bedchamber, my lady.”

“Exactly. Not even Glinna will be aware of our secret guest.”

“But how will we be able to care for him up there?”

AnnaClaire shrugged. “I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose it will fall to me. But considering how long I cared for my mother, it will be nothing new.”

Before she could change her mind, Tavis bent and struggled to lift the unconscious Rory. “It is a grand plan, my lady. But I fear not even the three of us could get him up those stairs.”

“He must walk.” She caught up the skirt of her nightshift, careful to avoid his blood, and knelt beside the still figure. “Rory. Rory O’Neil.”

At her commanding tone he opened his eyes and stared vacantly.

“We’re going to take you up now. But you must help us.”

“Take…me…up…” He smiled. “Aye. Will I. finally see my Caitlin?”

AnnaClaire turned to Bridget. “What is he babbling about?”

“He thinks he has died, my lady.”

“I see.” She bent close. “Rory O’Neil. Take my hand.”

“With…pleasure.”

Despite his injuries, his grip was surprisingly strong. As his fingers closed around AnnaClaire’s she felt a rush of heat that left her thoroughly shaken.

“Here, Tavis.” She sought to ignore the tingling along her spine. “Take his other hand.”

The two of them managed to haul him to his feet. Then, draping his arms about their shoulders, they began moving ever so slowly up the stairs. When they reached AnnaClaire’s room, they opened a door that led to a narrow staircase. By the time they reached the little attic room all of them were out of breath and Rory’s wounds were bleeding profusely. They eased him onto the bed, then AnnaClaire stepped back and watched as Bridget and Tavis began cutting away his bloody clothes. The extent of his wounds sickened her, and she found herself wondering how he could bear the pain.

Bridget speared her with a glance. “Perhaps you should leave now, my lady. This won’t be pleasant.”

It was all AnnaClaire needed to stiffen her spine. “I don’t expect it to be any more pleasant than was the care of my mother. But if I could care for her all those long months, I can certainly help bind this man’s wounds.” At once she took charge. “We’ll need clean linens, Bridget. And some opiates.”

“Aye, my lady.” The housekeeper beckoned to her husband. “We’ll need hot water, Tavis.”

When the two were gone, AnnaClaire stared down at the still figure on the bed. Until this moment she hadn’t given a thought to what she was getting herself into. Now, suddenly, she had to question her sanity. How had she agreed to hide a murderer in her own home? A man considered an enemy of the Crown. If he were found here, all of them could be hanged.

Sweet heaven. What would her father have to say about all this if he should learn the truth?

She pushed the worrisome thoughts from her mind and set to work cutting away the rest of his clothes. She would simply have to see that her father never learned of this. By this time tomorrow Rory O’Neil would most probably be dead. If by some miracle he survived, she would send him on his way and look back on this as a momentary madness.

“There now. We’ve done all we can. The rest is in God’s hands, my lady.” Bridget smoothed the covers over the still figure of Rory O’Neil and got to her feet. “Now you’d best get some sleep.”

“I will. Now remember. Trust no one. Not even Glinna.”

“Aye.” Tavis held the door, then trailed behind the two women as they descended the stairs. “The little chambermaid would never be able to keep such a secret. She’d have to boast to all her friends that she knew the whereabouts of the Blackhearted O’Neil. And in no time all of Dublin would know, as well.”

When they reached AnnaClaire’s room, Bridget caught her hand and brought it to her lips. “Bless you, my lady, for your compassion. I’ll not soon forget what you did this night.”

“Nor I, my lady.” Tavis did the same, bowing over her hand. “You are an angel of mercy.”

Or a fool, AnnaClaire thought as she secured the door behind them. What had she been thinking? She crossed to her bed and, ignoring the bloodstains on her nightclothes, climbed between the covers. But she was far too agitated to sleep. Instead she lay, watching the stars and thinking about the man asleep one floor above her.

If she were caught harboring this criminal, she couldn’t plead ignorance. She knew exactly what she was doing. And, if she wanted to be completely honest with herself, she knew why.

One look at him and she’d been hopelessly lost. This Irish warrior who had leapt into battle and had fought so fearlessly, had kindled a flame in her silly, romantic heart. In her life she’d never seen anyone quite like him. The titled Englishmen she’d met at Court were bland by comparison.

When she had cut away his tunic she’d been amazed by the muscles of his arms and chest. And horrified by. the scars of battle. There was something so touching about this man and his dedication. The story that Tavis had told her lingered in her mind. Love such as that experienced by Rory O’Neil for his intended bride was rare indeed.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep. But the enormity of what she had done had her twitching with nerves. When she suddenly heard a loud thud above her head, she bounded from bed and raced up the stairs.

Rory was on the floor, thrashing around in the bed linens.

AnnaClaire knelt beside him and caught his hands to still his movements.

“Rory O’Neil. Can you hear me?”

His movements stilled. His eyes opened. “My…sword. Need…weapon.”

“Have no fear. There is no one here who will harm you.”

“My…sword.”

She sighed. “I’ll fetch it. But first you have to get back into bed.” She urged him upward, but her strength was no match for his. When he tugged on her hands, she was forced back to her knees.

“Where…am…I?”

“You’re in my home. Clay Court. In Dublin.”

“Dublin.” He closed his eyes. “Not heaven.” A moment later they snapped open. “Who…are…you?”

“My name is AnnaClaire.”

He struggled to focus on her face. Then for a moment the pain lifted and his eyes were lit with a smile. “Ah. My…angel.”

“Come now, Rory. You have to get back into bed.”

She tugged on his hands, and this time he managed to lever himself back to the edge of the mattress.

As he slowly sank back against the pillows, his face revealed his pain. “Need…weapons.”

“You have no need…”

“Weapons.” His voice was little more than a croak. But the passion, the fervor, still rang.

“Very well.” She crossed the room and picked up his sword, surprised at how heavy it was. The hilt was an intricately carved coat of arms, encrusted with jewels. “Here is your sword.”

She placed it beside him in the bed and noted how his hand curled around the hilt.

“More.”

“More weapons?”

He nodded.

She searched among his things and discovered two knives. It would seem this warrior took nothing for granted. When she handed them to him, he positioned one beneath each hand. Only then did he give in to the weariness and close his eyes.

She realized that this was what he’d been seeking when he slipped from his bed. Despite the seriousness of his wounds, he had fought through the pain to search for his weapons. He would be a warrior, she supposed, until death claimed him.

“I’ll leave you now,” she whispered.

“Stay.”

She dropped to her knees beside the bed. “Why? What is it? Are you afraid?”

“Of…dying?” He shook his head. “I welcome…death. But stay, angel. Be my guide…as I leave this world.”

“You aren’t going to die, Rory O’Neil.” Though she spoke fiercely enough, the very thought of it had her trembling.

“Did He…tell you?”

“He? Oh, you mean God.” She nearly laughed. “I’m afraid He doesn’t speak to me directly. But I have it on good authority that your wounds, though painful, are not fatal.” She hoped she would be forgiven for her lie. But she desperately wanted to offer him hope.

“Then why.are you here?”

She touched a hand to his lips to silence him. “No more questions. You must sleep if you’re to heal.”

When she started to remove her hand he surprised her by placing his fingers over hers and holding them to his mouth. The press of his lips against her flesh caused a rush of feelings that were so startling, all she could do was stare at him.

“Just stay. A little.while longer.”

Each word he whispered against her hand sent another jolt surging through her already charged system. Had he asked for the moon, she’d have tried to get it. As long as he continued touching her just so.

“All right, Rory O’Neil.” She smoothed the bed linens as she had seen Bridget do, then settled herself into a chaise beside the bed. “Just a little while longer.”

She. watched the uneven rise and fall of his chest, willing each breath, praying to hold off his death for a few moments longer, until sleep claimed her.

The opiates had long ago worn off, and Rory’s body was engulfed in fire. Pain, a burning, blazing pain, radiated from his shoulder and his back to the very tips of his fingers and toes. His closed eyes felt hot and gritty. His temples throbbed as though they would burst at any moment.

Because the simplest movement added to his pain, he forced himself to lie perfectly still. Sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip, but he had not the strength to lift a hand.

It occurred to him that, although his own breathing was shallow and unsteady, there was another sound close by. A soft, rhythmic sound. Like the whisper of an angel.

His eyes opened. He beheld a most wondrous sight. A chaise had been pulled close beside him. In it was a woman asleep. Her feet were tucked under her, her cheek resting on her clasped hands. Hair the color of spun gold drifted around her face and shoulders.

He had thought he’d only dreamed her. But she was real. As if to prove it to himself, he reached out a hand and touched a strand of her hair. It was as soft as angel down.

In her sleep she brushed aside his hand, then lifted her head and opened her eyes. For a moment he could read her confusion. Then those eyes, the color of the sea after a storm, suddenly cleared.

She shifted, swinging her feet to the floor. “You’re alive, Rory O’Neil.”

“Am I?”

“How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been run through by a score of English swords.”

“From the looks of the scars on your body, you have been.” She motioned toward the table against the far wall. “I can give you a potion to ease the pain.”

“And I’ll gladly take it. In a moment. Right now I’d like to keep a clear head.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I need to know where I am.” He glanced around at the sloped ceilings, the stone of a chimney that soared through the roof. Except for a tiny opening that allowed a glimpse of dawn light, there were no other windows.

“You’re in an attic room of my home, Clay Court, in Dublin.”

“Your home, is it?”

“It’s been in my mother’s family for generations.”

“And what might her name be?”

“It was Margaret Doyle.”

Was. He heard the pain in that one word and decided not to press further. “And what might your name be?”

“My name is AnnaClaire.”

“Well, AnnaClaire, if you don’t mind, I’ll take that potion now.” The pain was raging out of control, setting his entire body on fire.

She sprinkled some powder into a tumbler of water, then sat on the edge of the bed. Very gently she lifted his head and held the glass to his lips.

“Has anyone ever told you you have a very gentle touch, AnnaClaire?”

“Are you trying to charm me, Rory O’Neil?”

“Is it working?”

“I think you’d better save that charm for another time. Now drink.”

He swallowed, wondering if anything could put out the flame that raged through his blood. A flame that had flared higher when she touched him.

“Now I must leave you,” she said as she lowered his head to the pillow. Taking a spotless handkerchief from her pocket she mopped the sweat from his face.

He caught her hand. “Aye, a very gentle touch.”

She struggled to ignore the feelings of pleasure that he aroused in her. “My bedchamber is directly below here. When it is safe to return, I shall. But you must not call out or make any sound. Is that clear?”

“Why?”

“Because we must keep your presence here a secret. Since that scene at the docks, there is more than a price on your head, Rory O’Neil. It has been decreed that anyone found harboring you or your men shall be hanged.”

“Bloody English,” he muttered. Then to her he said, “I understand. Have no fear, lovely AnnaClaire. Even if I find myself dying, I’ll see to it that I do so in silence, so as not to call attention to myself.” A shadow of a smile flickered across his lips, making him even more handsome.

“I’ll hold you to that.” She crossed the room and let herself out without a backward glance.

Rory lay very still, allowing the opiates to weave their magic. As he drifted once more to sleep, he found himself wondering if the lovely AnnaClaire was real, or a product of his befuddled brain. Either way, she was the most beautiful creature he’d either seen or conjured. All tiny and slender and golden, with skin like porcelain and a full, pouty mouth that could trap a man with one kiss.

Her hair wasn’t black as a raven’s wing, as Caitlin’s had been. And her eyes weren’t blue. For all of his life, his beloved Caitlin had been the measure of all other women. And not one had ever come close to her beauty. But right now, try as he might, he could no longer hold on to her fading image.

It was the potion, he knew. Not the woman who had just left him. But it worried him all the same.

With Caitlin’s name repeated again and again in his mind like a litany; he fell into a fitful sleep.