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

“Good morrow, my lady.” After a single knock on the door, Glinna, the little chambermaid bustled in, her arms laden with clean clothing.

Caught unawares, AnnaClaire had no choice but to dive beneath the bedlinens, to hide the bloodstains on her nightshift.

“You’re up early this morrow, my lady. I heard you stirring and thought you’d be needing these.” Glinna began arranging the petticoats atop a nearby night table, then hung a clean gown in the wardrobe. “What would you like me to fetch for you?”

“Nothing just yet. I believe I’ll stay abed for awhile.”

“Are you unwell, my lady?”

“Well, I…” AnnaClaire smoothed the linens, avoiding the maid’s eyes. “I think perhaps I’m coming down with something.”

They both looked up at another knock on the door. Bridget entered, carrying a tray covered with a linen cloth.

“Good morrow, my lady.” She shot AnnaClaire a knowing look. “I hope your night went undisturbed.”

AnnaClaire nodded. “It went fairly well, Bridget.”

The housekeeper gave a sigh of relief. “I brought you a bit of porridge and some tea and biscuits.”

“My lady won’t be needing them,” Glinna said with importance. “She is feeling unwell and intends to stay abed.”

The housekeeper placed the tray on a bedside table. “Then I shall leave this in the hope that something will appeal to you later on.”

“Thank you, Bridget.” AnnaClaire turned to Glinna. “Since I won’t be needing you today, you may help Bridget below stairs.”

“Aye, miss.” The little maid walked away looking plainly dejected. A day at Bridget’s mercy meant scrubbing floors until they gleamed, then accompanying Tavis to the docks for fresh fish. Chores she would gladly leave for one of the other servants.

When they were alone AnnaClaire slipped out of bed. Glancing down at her nightshift she whispered, “I hope you can find a way to explain these stains to Glinna without arousing suspicion.”

“Aye, my lady. I’ll think of something.” Bridget lowered her voice. “Now about our.guest. Did he survive the night?”

“He did.”

The housekeeper blessed herself and whispered a prayer of thanks. “I’d feared.” She brushed aside a tear. “Perhaps we should see to him now.”

“I just left him.” At the housekeeper’s startled look AnnaClaire felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “During the night I heard him fall from his bed and went to see to him. He asked me to stay, and I…fell asleep on the chaise.”

“Of course you did, after all you’ve been through. Bless you, my lady. And praise heaven the O’Neil is still alive. Is he in much pain?”

“A great deal of it.” AnnaClaire nodded for emphasis. “Judging by the scars he bears, I’d say he’s accustomed to pain. But I gave him one of the potions. That should make him comfortable for a few hours.”

“Then you think he will live?”

AnnaClaire shrugged. “Only God knows. But he’s strong. A fighter. And he’s already survived the worst hours.”

Bridget pointed to the covered tray. “I thought, if you were going to see to his needs, you wouldn’t care to take breakfast below stairs in the dining hall.”

“Quite right, Bridget. Just see that the servants are warned not to disturb me.”

“Aye, my lady. And if the O’Neil is strong enough to eat, there’s food for him, as well.” The housekeeper took her leave, closing the door behind her.

When she was alone AnnaClaire peeled off her nightshift and crossed to a basin of water. When she had scrubbed away all trace of Rory’s blood from her skin, she slipped into a delicately embroidered chemise and petticoat, then pulled on a gown of pale pink. She secured her hair with jeweled combs and slid her feet into soft kid boots. Picking up the tray she made her way up the narrow stairs to the attic room.

Rory was lying so still she thought he was asleep. But when she drew nearer she realized that his eyes were wide and glazed with pain. The bed linens were damp with his sweat. Still, he neither tossed nor turned nor gave any indication that he was in distress.

She set down the tray and knelt beside him, touching a hand to his forehead. His skin was on fire.

“Ah.” A soft sigh escaped his lips. “My angel has come back. I did as you asked, and made not a sound.”

She was touched by his courage. “I’m sorry it took so long.” She dampened a cloth with water from a basin and began to bathe his face and neck, his chest and shoulders. “It appears the potion didn’t work.”

“It did. For a while. I had a lovely visit in heaven, before the fire of hell came back to claim me.”

She mixed another packet of powder and held the glass to his lips. “Drink this. Maybe it can hold back your pain.”

“I’m feeling better already, now that you’re here.” He drained the glass, then lay back weakly, breathing in the scent of crushed roses that seemed to cling to her.

“You’re a charming liar, Rory O’Neil.” She sat down in the chaise beside his bed, then dipped a spoon into a steaming bowl and held the spoon to his lips.

He turned his head. “What’s this now?”

“Porridge.”

He shook his head. “My mother used to insist that we eat it. I’d have rather eaten mud.”

“I’ll remember to bring some of that tomorrow. But for now, you’ll eat your porridge. My housekeeper, Bridget Murphy, made this for you, to build up your strength. And you’re going to eat at least a few bites.”

“God in heaven, you sound just like my mother.” He opened his mouth and accepted a taste. When he’d managed to swallow it he shot her a look of surprise. “Bridget Murphy must be a sorceress. This tastes unlike any porridge I’ve ever eaten.”

“I’ll tell her you approve. That just might spare you having to eat mud tomorrow.” She held out another bite, and he accepted willingly.

It occurred to AnnaClaire that feeding this man was not at all like feeding her sick mother. Each time he opened his mouth, she found herself fighting a strange yearning to taste those lips. When he swallowed and closed his eyes in appreciation, she felt a sudden tug deep inside.

AnnaClaire felt completely out of her element with this raw, earthy man, who seemed to delight in the simple pleasure of eating. She had never known a man such as this. It didn’t seem to bother Rory O’Neil in the least that he was naked beneath those covers. Yet she was bothered more than she cared to admit. She simply couldn’t get the thought out of her mind.

He managed to devour nearly half the bowl of porridge before he lifted a hand in refusal.

“No more. It’s too much effort.”

She returned the bowl to the tray and poured a cup of tea. “Could you manage a few sips?”

He shook his head. “Not even one.”

“Then we’ll sit a while and wait for the opiates to ease your pain.”

As she settled herself on the chaise he managed a smile. “Just looking at you does me more good than your potions.”

She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “You’re too charming for your own good, Rory O’Neil.”

He passed a hand over his eyes. “You should meet my brother, Conor. He’s the charmer.”

“Really? And what are you?”

“The fighter. Always the fighter.”

She sipped her tea. “Tell me about your family.”

“Conor, at a score and one, is two years younger than I. He was educated abroad, and our mother hoped he would be a priest. But our father has other ideas.”

“What ideas?”

“With Conor’s good looks and fine mind, Father hopes to use his connections in England to see that Conor represents our people at the Court of Elizabeth.”

AnnaClaire smiled. “It would seem to me a far better way to effect change than your way with the sword.”

“Ah. I hear a note of disapproval from my angel.”

“I don’t hold with fighting.”

He shot her a look that made her blush. She decided to change the subject. “Do you have any more brothers?”

He shook his head. “There’s just our little sister, Briana.”

“Does she take after Conor? Or does she favor her eldest brother?”

“The lass was my shadow since she was born.” His tone warmed with affection and pride. “She can wield a sword better than most men. And no one is better with a knife.”

AnnaClaire couldn’t help laughing. “Heaven help us. Another O’Neil warrior.”

“Aye. She is the despair of our parents.”

“Tell me about them.”

“My father, Gavin, is from a noble line. Descended from King Brian himself. My mother, Moira, can trace her own lineage to the ancient Druids, then later to the Celts. After all these years, their love still blazes brighter than all the stars in heaven. It’s a lovely thing to see.”

She thought of her own parents’ love. Of her father, who had suffered so gravely during his wife’s long illness. No one would ever take the place of his beloved Margaret. “They’re very lucky to have each other.”

“Aye. That sort of love is rare indeed. And even more wondrous when the two lovers have so many years together.” He fell silent, and AnnaClaire wondered if he was thinking about the woman who had almost been his bride. What sort of bitter taste would it leave to have a lover snatched away without the chance to say and do all the things locked in one’s heart?

She set the tea aside. “I think you’d better try to sleep now.”

“I believe I will.” He closed his eyes. When he heard her getting to her feet he clamped a hand around her wrist. “Thank you, lovely AnnaClaire.”

“For what?”

“For allowing me to forget my pain for a few minutes.”

“That wasn’t me. It was the potion.”

He merely smiled. “And thank Bridget Murphy for the porridge. I do believe I’d prefer it again tomorrow, instead of the mud.”

“I’ll tell her.”

She watched him a moment, then let herself out, knowing he was already asleep.

At noon, Bridget returned to AnnaClaire’s room with another tray.

“How much longer do you wish to feign illness, my lady?”

AnnaClaire shrugged. “I suppose sometime late this afternoon I must make an amazing recovery, for I have to attend Lady Thornly’s dinner party tonight.”

“Very well. I’ll check with you before sending Glinna up to help you dress.”

“Thank you, Bridget.” As she. picked up the tray and headed toward the narrow staircase she paused, turned. “By the way, Rory O’Neil sends his compliments on your porridge. He found it far superior to his mother’s.”

The housekeeper was beaming with pride as she scurried away. AnnaClaire marvelled that such a simple remark from a hardened warrior could elicit such feelings in the old woman.

In the little attic room, AnnaClaire found Rory sweating profusely as he struggled to lift his sword from the floor where it had fallen. It took both his hands to retrieve it, and the effort left him lying weakly against the pillows.

The wound to his shoulder, she noted, had opened and was oozing blood.

“Now look what you’ve done.” With a hiss of anger she set down the tray and bent over him, touching a square of linen to the wound. “And all for a foolish weapon.”

“Foolish?” He clamped a hand around her wrist and stared up into her startled eyes. “Woman, you wouldn’t think that if you found yourself facing a line of soldiers brandishing swords. Then it would be worth any price to have a weapon with which to defend yourself.”

“But there are no soldiers here, Rory O’Neil. You’re safely hidden away.”

He gave her a long, thoughtful look. “So you say. But how can I be sure?”

“You have my word. Isn’t that enough?”

He nodded. “Aye. It is. If you say it is.”

“You’d be wise to save your strength and give your wounds a chance to heal.”

“So I would.” He relaxed his grip and allowed her to mop up the fresh flow of blood. But he didn’t completely let go of her, instead keeping his fingers wrapped lightly around her wrist. “Old habits are hard to break.”

While she bent to her task, she could feel him boldly studying her. It brought a flush to her cheeks. Worse, she knew her pulse was racing. Knew, too, that he could feel it at her wrist.

To cover her confusion she poured a liberal amount of spirits on the wound. “This will hurt a bit.” She heard his quick intake of breath. “Hold still now while I tie this clean linen.” She glanced down and realized that he was still staring at her. Only now his gaze was fixed on her mouth. Her throat went dry. Their lips were so close they were almost touching. She need only make the slightest move to taste him.

As if reading her mind he drew her fractionally closer. “You smell like my mother’s rose garden.”

She swallowed, and it sounded overloud in her ears. She knew he could hear the tremor in her voice. “I’m not your mother, Rory O’Neil.”

“I never had a minute’s doubt of that.” His lips curved in a dangerous smile. “I never wanted to kiss my mother the way I want to kiss you.”

She braced a hand against his chest, intending. to push away. “Don’t….”

Her protest was swallowed as his mouth covered hers.

His lips were warm and firm and practiced. They moved over hers, tasting, teasing.

At the first contact her breath backed up in her throat. She would have pulled back but he had anticipated her move and now held her firmly against him. He pressed a palm to the back of her head while his other hand slid across her shoulder and along her back. And all the while his lips moved over hers until she could no longer hold back a sigh of pleasure.

“Let this be a lesson to you, AnnaClaire. Never tell me what to do,” he muttered against her mouth. “There’s just something in my nature that refuses to accept orders.”

She took in a deep breath, feeling her head swimming. “I’ll remember that in the future. Now release me, Rory O’Neil.”

He flashed that dangerous smile, and she realized, too late, her mistake.

“You see?” He framed her face with his hands. “You’ve done it again.” With no effort at all he drew her head down for another drugging kiss. This time his fingers tangled in her hair, and, while her senses were still reeling, he kissed her until she was breathless.

He knew the exact moment when her resistance gradually turned into acquiescence. Her hands, which had been pressed firmly against his chest, now lifted to encircle his neck. Her breasts were flattened against him in a most enticing manner. She lay, warm and pliant, in his arms.

Arousal was swift, insistent. He felt the rush of desire pulse through him before he carefully banked it.

In one smooth motion he caught her firmly by the shoulders and held her a little away. It was all the time he needed to clear his head and calm his pounding heart.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Never tell me what to do.”

Her eyes darkened with anger. Though it was difficult to speak, when her heart was still tumbling helplessly inside her chest, she managed a note of sarcasm. “You mean, in order to keep this from happening again, I ought to order you to kiss me?”

He threw back his head and laughed. What a delight she was. “Do you take me for a complete fool? Whether you told me to kiss you or not, you’re too lovely to resist. I’d simply have to kiss you.”

“And I simply have to leave you.”

“Now? Before you’ve properly tended my needs?”

“Your needs.” She tossed down the square of linen and indicated the tray on the night table. “Last night I feared you would die in your bed. But you’re far from dead, Rory O’Neil. Any man strong enough to hold a woman can surely hold his own bowl of broth. I hope you find Bridget’s soup as appetizing as her porridge.”

“I’m sure I will.”

When she yanked open the door he added, “But it won’t be nearly as pleasant without you feeding it to me.”

In reply she pulled the door firmly shut behind her.

When she reached her own room, she sank down onto the edge of the bed and pressed a hand to her lips. They were still tingling from the touch of his mouth. And his dark, dangerous taste still clung to them.

This was a foolish game she was playing. All because she had allowed this Irish warrior to touch some romantic chord in her heart. She wouldn’t be the first maiden to have her heart broken by a rogue. But, she reminded herself, there was more than her heart at stake here. She was playing a game with people’s lives. And the consequences could be deadly.