Читать книгу Rory - Ruth Langan, Ruth Ryan Langan - Страница 12

“How are you finding your first visit to Ireland, Lord Dunstan?” Since her hostess had insisted upon seating AnnaClaire beside the handsome young visitor, she had no choice but to attempt pleasant conversation with this dour, brooding man. Apparently she was the only female in the room who hadn’t fallen under the spell of his chilling smile and icy gray eyes.

“Fascinating. From what I’ve seen, a savage land. And savage people.” He acknowledged the nods of agreement around the table. “Were it not for meeting you, my lady, I would have returned to England without a single good thing to say for my time spent here.”

She felt his knee nudge hers beneath the table cover. When she moved aside, he shifted closer, so that she couldn’t escape his touch.

“I’ve had the good fortune of meeting your father several times in London, my lady.” He laid a hand over hers, pressing firmly when she tried to pull it away. It was obvious that he enjoyed being the center of attention. Knowing that the others were watching and listening, he began to play to his audience. “Had I known that Lord Thompson’s daughter was so lovely, I would have made the journey across the Channel much sooner.” If he felt her cringe, he took no notice of it.

“I wish we could persuade you to stay a while longer, Lord Dunstan.” Lady Thornly sipped her wine, thoroughly enjoying the company of her countrymen. “I grow so weary of this local dialect, and do so yearn to be among my own kind and hear the language spoken as it was meant to be.”

The young man gave her his most charming smile. “Perhaps you should sell your estates to me, Lady Thornly. Then you could return to England to live out your years among your own kind.”

“As if you need more land.” She waved a hand in dismissal and laughed like a coquette.

The others joined her laughter. It was common knowledge that Lynley Lord Dunstan was quickly becoming one of the richest men in England.

A gentleman across the table said, “You were recently at Court with Her Majesty, Dunstan. How does Elizabeth intend to deal with this Irish problem?”

The young man puffed up his chest. His father and grandfather had held important positions with Elizabeth’s father, Henry VIII. A grateful king had granted them generous sections of land, and several of the most beautiful homes in England. The current Lord Dunstan had learned well from his ancestors, using his loyalty to his queen to add to his own fortune.

“The Queen values my opinion. In fact, I am here at Her Majesty’s request, to see for myself if there is a problem.”

“Rest assured there is a problem.” The elderly Lord Davis, seated beside their hostess, spoke in hushed tones. “And it grows more serious with each day.” He glanced around. “Any word on that wounded Irish warrior? The one they call the Blackhearted O’Neil?”

AnnaClaire went perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe.

Dunstan snorted with disdain. “Warrior? Court jester would be a better name. As far as I can determine, he is nothing more than a peasant leading a small band of ruffians, hoping to become a hero to the locals.”

“I saw with my own eyes how that ‘peasant’ and a few of his swordsmen could rout an entire battery of English soldiers.” Lord Davis drained his goblet and paused while a hovering servant filled it. “There is nothing more dangerous than a zealot who appeals to the heart of the masses. Mark my word, Dunstan. The man is stirring a cauldron of simmering passions. Very soon now, they’ll come to a boil. And Her Majesty might find herself with the one thing she has sworn to resist.”

“And what might that be, Lord Davis?”

“A war that drains England’s coffers.”

“War?” Dunstan gave a snort of disdain. “With these peasants?” He threw back his head and chuckled, and one by one the others around the table followed suit. “Queen Elizabeth is no fool. If this so-called Blackhearted O’Neil should begin to take himself seriously, our queen will simply send over a company of her finest soldiers. Believe me, Lord Davis, our swordsmen could put down any rebellion led by an illiterate peasant and his band of lackeys.”

He turned to AnnaClaire. “You’ve grown quiet, my lady. Does all this talk of war upset your delicate sensibilities?”

“Aye.” AnnaClaire swallowed, uneasy at having the attention shifted to her.

“Forgive me, my dear.” Lord Davis pushed from the table and walked to her side. With a hand on her shoulder he said gently, “How inconsiderate of me to have forgotten. AnnaClaire was forced to witness that bloodletting at the docks yesterday. I’m sure it was most upsetting for her.” He leaned close. “Would you care to take your leave, my dear?”

It was the excuse she’d been hoping for. She placed her hand in his. “Thank you. I would indeed.”

“Oh dear.” Lady Thornly touched a fine lace cloth to her lips. “I had so hoped we could keep you here a while longer, AnnaClaire. Lord Dunstan has so little time before he returns to London.”

“I’d be happy to accompany Charles and AnnaClaire to their homes,” the handsome Englishman said gallantly.

It was on the tip of AnnaClaire’s tongue to refuse. But there was no way she could do so gracefully. And so she found herself bidding her hostess good-night and climbing into a carriage with her father’s old friend and a young man whose arrogance was as unsettling as his ignorance.

“How long do you hope to remain in Ireland?” Lord Davis settled himself comfortably across from the young couple, and their carriage started off through the streets of Dublin.

“I had hoped to be here no more than a few days.” Lord Dunstan turned to smile at the young woman beside him, whose face was shrouded in shadow. “But now, I think I might be persuaded to stay a while longer.”

AnnaClaire groaned inwardly.

“Excellent.” The old man smiled in the darkness. His friend, Lord Thompson, would be delighted to hear that his daughter had caught the interest of someone as important as this young friend of the queen herself.

“Shall I have my driver take you home first, Charles?”

Before AnnaClaire could issue a protest, the old man was nodding vigorously. “I was about to suggest it myself. I’m feeling a bit weary after all that food and stimulating conversation.”

AnnaClaire knew exactly what her father’s old friend was up to. And though his meddling was galling, there was nothing she could do about it. He was as determined as her father to see that she made a good match.

Dunstan shouted an order to the driver. At once they changed directions and were soon at the old man’s door.

“Good night, Lord Dunstan.” The older man touched the tip of his hat, then leaned across the seat and brushed his lips over AnnaClaire’s cheek. “Good night, my dear. I can rest easy, knowing I’ve left you in such good hands.”

“Good night, Lord Davis.” AnnaClaire watched him climb from the carriage and ascend the steps of his mansion.

At a command from her companion, the driver urged the team forward and they were once again making their way through the darkened streets.

When the carriage veered to the right and started up a slight incline AnnaClaire found herself pinned against Dunstan’s side. Though his movement was subtle, she felt his hand brush her breast. She stiffened and pushed away. But when she glanced over at him, she could see the smile playing on his lips. His insensitivity was vexing. She experienced a wave of relief when they started up the drive that led to her home.

Lord Dunstan turned to study the graceful curve of courtyard, the warmth of candles glowing in the curtained windows. “So this is where you stay when you are in Ireland. What is it called?”

“Clay Court. It was my mother’s ancestral home.”

Something about the way she spoke the words had him turning to look at her. “I would be careful if I were you, my lady. Some might think you consider this place more home than England.”

At his words AnnaClaire felt the trickle of ice along her spine. He had taken no pains to mask the warning. “I’ll remind you, Lord Dunstan, that my father is a respected member of the queen’s council. And though I am of mixed heritage, my loyalty has never come into question.”

“Nor should it, my lady. But there will always be some who will wonder at your allegiance to your mother’s people.”

Lord Dunstan climbed down, then turned and offered his hand to help her from the carriage. She had no choice but to accept his assistance.

At the door she managed a smile. “Thank you for seeing me home, Lord Dunstan. I’ll say good night now.”

When she started to close the door he startled her by stepping inside. “It wouldn’t be wise to see you home and not see you safely settled, my lady.”

“I have loyal servants to see to my safety.”

“Ah. That is reassuring.” He glanced around, noting the highly polished stones of the foyer, the crystal chandelier in which blazed dozens of candles. “I would have expected such loyal servants to meet you at the door.”

“They have their chores to see to. Tavis will be above stairs, no doubt, laying a fire to warm my bedchamber.”

“Tavis, is it? If you but asked, lovely lady, I could do the same. And I would need no wood nor torch. The touch of your hand on mine would be enough to set the blaze between us.”

She hated the smirk on his lips. Hated more the heat that rose to her cheeks at his insinuation.

She kept her voice even, as though dismissing him. “My little housemaid, Glinna, will be waiting to help me undress.”

“A most pleasant chore, I would think. And one I would be most pleased to undertake in her stead.”

She itched to slap him and knew that she had to tread very carefully around this man. She would, instead, ignore him. Something he’d seldom experienced, she surmised.

“And Bridget is most probably in the kitchen, preparing tea before I retire.” She lifted a hand to her lips and forced a yawn. “Forgive me, Lord Dunstan. It has been a long day, and I fear I must bid you good night.”

“Of course.” He caught her hand and lifted it to his lips, lingering until she forcefully withdrew it from his grasp. “I hope I have your permission to pay a call on the morrow.”

“I…” She struggled to think of a polite way to decline. “I fear I will not be home.”

“I see. A pity. But there will be other times.” He gave her a lazy smile, to let her know that he had already seen through her little charade. His voice lowered, as though sharing an intimate secret. “You are unlike so many of your gender who smile and flutter their lashes in invitation. This feigned reluctance on your part is most intriguing. I must admit, you have aroused my curiosity, as well as.other things. Now I simply must get to know you better, my lady. It is my good fortune that Lord Davis and I will be spending a great deal of time together. Perhaps, when he is paying a call, I shall accompany him.”

“Yes.” She kept her tone carefully bland. “Of course.”

In the glow of the candles he studied her more closely. “You are really quite lovely. And more than a little mysterious.” His smile grew as he reached out a hand and stroked her cheek. Her startled reaction made him chuckle. “And now that I have made your acquaintance I have already forgotten whatever objections I had to visiting this damnable land. Good night, my dear AnnaClaire. Until we meet again.”

She watched as he stepped outside and climbed to the seat of his carriage. As the image of horse and carriage disappeared into the darkness she let out the breath she hadn’t even known she was holding.

“So. The vain English peacock makes you sigh, does he?”

AnnaClaire whirled. Rory stepped from the shadows, wearing nothing more than the bloody breeches he had hastily slipped into. On his face was a look of absolute fury.

“What are you doing below stairs?”

“Watching you make a fool of yourself. Is this what our women have come to? Playing coy with our enemy?”

Her chin came up as she fixed him with a hateful look. “Ireland cannot lay claim to me.”

“What are you saying, woman? You’re Irish. You said your mother was Margaret Doyle.”

“Aye. And my father is Lord James Thompson.”

For a moment all he could do was stare at her. When he found his voice he said, “Your father is chief counsel to the bloody Queen of England?”

When she nodded, he shook his head in wonder. “What do you think he would say if he knew you were aiding the Blackhearted O’Neil?”

“It would break his heart. He must never know.”

“So, despite your father’s position and title, you consider yourself Irish.”

She stiffened her spine. “I am neither English nor Irish, Rory O’Neil. I answer to myself. As for playing coy, you are as mistaken as Lord Dunstan was.”

He took a step closer. “So. That was Dunstan? I’ve heard of him. All his titles bought and paid for with the blood of innocent farmers. He’ll say and do whatever it takes to please his queen, so long as she continues to repay his loyalty with more wealth and power.” He gave AnnaClaire a long, measuring look. “And your denial rings hollow, my lady. I heard with my own ears how you allowed him to speak to you.” His tone lowered with feeling. “And saw with my own eyes how you allowed him to touch you.”

The intensity of AnnaClaire’s temper surprised her. Rory’s words brought fury bubbling dangerously close to the surface. She lifted her skirts and started to flounce past him. “I’ll not stand here and argue with the likes of you, Rory O’Neil.”

“Nay. Especially since you’d lose the argument. Nor will I allow you to dismiss me like some groveling servant.” Without taking time to think he caught her roughly by the shoulder and dragged her into his arms, hauling her against his chest.

His temper had always been his undoing. And there had been plenty of time for it to grow as he’d watched the handsome stranger put his hands on AnnaClaire. As if that hadn’t been enough, the mention of her father’s name had caught him by surprise. Now fury propelled him into acting without thinking. His big rough hands closed around her upper arms, lifting her nearly off her feet as he covered her mouth in a savage kiss.

Temper met temper as their lips mated with the heat of the moment. The effect was so potent he felt as if he’d taken a blow from an enemy’s broadsword. He. reared back, lifting his head to study her as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was feeling. Even now his head was spinning, and the blood was roaring in his temples.

AnnaClaire was so startled she was frozen into momentary silence. It wasn’t only the rush of heat from his bold kiss. That would have been unsettling enough. But this man was naked to the waist, and the feel of his flesh against her palms had her thoughts scrambling, her fingertips tingling. It was one thing to touch him when he was unconscious and burning with fever. It was quite another to touch a man whose flesh rippled with muscle, and who burned with heat from a very different source.

When she’d gathered her thoughts, she pushed against him. “How dare you, Rory O’Neil! Unhand me at once.”

He thought about it. Briefly. Then just as quickly decided to ignore her protest. In that one stunning moment all the anger had drained from him. In its place was something very different. Desire curled hotly through his loins.

He felt the warmth of her breath against his cheek. Saw the way her eyes darkened with the gathering storm. Breathed in the fragrance of roses that drifted around her.

He lowered his face and claimed her mouth again. This time his hands softened, as did his lips. But though the kiss was less savage, it was no less potent. The taste of her was unlike anything he’d ever sampled. Sweet as a summer garden. As gentle as rain. Innocent. Untouched. And yet, he sensed in her a slumbering passion. A passion that excited him.

He kissed her with a thoroughness that had her heart pounding, her palms sweating as they slipped around his waist and pressed against his lower back. She wasn’t even aware that she was clutching him frantically, holding on for fear of falling.

AnnaClaire had been kissed before. There had been many a lad who had hoped to stake a claim on the daughter of the wealthy, powerful Lord Thompson. And many more, like Dunstan, who thought their title and privilege gave them the right to take liberties with the women at Court. But AnnaClaire had been equally adept at avoiding all entanglements of the heart. Until now.

The feelings being awakened by this man were unlike anything she’d ever experienced. The hands that held her were so strong they could easily break her in two. Yet their touch was so unexpectedly gentle, she couldn’t help but melt against him. His lips, so warm, so firm and practiced, moved over hers with a gentleness that did strange things to her heart, causing it to pound inside her chest until she feared he would surely hear.

Rory loved the way she became lost in the kiss. A soft sigh escaped her lips and her arms lifted, encircling his neck. He slid his hands down her arms, along her sides, until his thumbs encountered the soft swell of her breasts. When she started to pull away he moved his hands across her back, soothing, calming, while his lips continued to feast:

She was a delightful surprise. Innocent yet sultry. Both shy and bold. Despite her hesitance, there was an underlying strength of will that Rory found deeply arousing.

Desire, swift and fierce, caught him by surprise. The thought of taking her, here and now, had the blood pulsing hotly through his veins. He knew if he didn’t soon end this, he would find himself stepping over the line of reason. Still he lingered over the kiss, loving the taste of her, the feel of her in his arms.

When at last he gathered the courage to lift his head, he was rewarded by her little moan of frustration.

“Just doing your bidding, my lady.” He shot her a wicked smile. “You did tell me to unhand you.”

“I did.” The words nearly stuck in her throat. She took a step back, breaking contact. Still, the taste of him, dark, mysterious, remained on her tongue. Her breathing was shallow and ragged. She had to swallow several times before she managed to say, “And since you’re well enough to force yourself on me, Rory O’Neil, I suggest you’re well enough to take your leave of my home at once.”

“Aye, my lady. As you wish.” His smile widened. “But if you wish to be perfectly honest, you’ll have to admit that it required no force on my part to involve you in that kiss.”

She felt her cheeks flame as his words found their mark. It was true. She had been more than willing to shamelessly indulge herself. For if truth be told, ever since that first kiss in his room, she had wanted him to kiss her again. And the feel of his lips on hers had been every bit as wondrous as the first time.

She turned away to hide her shame. “I’ll expect you to be gone before the first light. That way there will be no chance of the servants spotting you.”

She expected some sort of argument. Relished the thought of another duel of words.

When he didn’t respond she turned back, eager to attack.

Rory was gripping the edge of a table. His face had lost all its color. Blood was seeping from his wounded shoulder to snake along his back in a thin line of dark red.

Rushing to his side she examined his wound, then draped his arm around her shoulder and began to lead him toward the stairs. “Now look what you’ve done.” Anger was a much safer emotion than what she’d been feeling just moments before. With anger there would be no guilt, no recriminations. With anger she could force herself into immediate action.

“Where…are you taking me?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Up to bed.”

“You just ordered me to go.”

“That was before. Now, I’ll have to tend that wound again.”

He didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He’d just been given a reprieve of sorts. But as he moved along beside her up the stairs, he wasn’t certain whether to curse the Fates or bless them.