Rory Read online

"I'll bring it in after I've rubbed down the horse and cleaned the

  carriage," he called over his shoulder.

  "But I..."

  The carriage was already rounding the corner of the drive. She stood a

  moment, watching the way her robe, mounded on the back platform,

  fluttered in the breeze. With a shrug of resignation, she turned away

  and entered the lovely manor house, Clay Court, that had been in her

  mother's family for six generations.

  Her first order of business would be to wash away the stench of fish

  that clung to her skin and clothes.

  Then she would make herself presentable for her visit with her

  father's oldest friend.

  "Bridget, the dinner was lovely."

  "Thank you, miss. Will you have more tea?"

  "No. Lord Davis? More tea? Or perhaps a bit more ale?"

  The old man patted his stomach. "Not another drop, my dear. I fear

  I'll explode."

  "It was kind of you to come by tonight and keep me company."

  "I knew you'd be feeling lonely with your father gone. And I was

  concerned when I heard about the fighting that went on at the docks

  today." He wiped his mouth, set his napkin aside. "If I'd known you

  were anywhere near those barbarians, I'd have been there to

  personally escort you home."

  "I was never in any danger. The only one they really wanted was an

  English soldier named Tilden."

  "Don't be fooled, my dear. No one is safe around desperate men such

  as those. An innocent like yourself has no idea what they're capable

  of doing. Why, the stories I've heard about the fate of fair English

  maidens at the hands of those animals would make a grown man

  cringe."

  The dishes in Bridget's hands clattered.

  AnnaClaire glanced at her housekeeper. "You look pale, Bridget. Are

  you feeling all right?"

  The housekeeper backed away. "Aye, miss. Just a bit tired is all." She

  turned, clutching the dishes to her chest, and fled the room.

  "How about a game of chess, my dear?"

  AnnaClaire shook her head. "I'm sorry, Lord Davis. Like Bridget, I'm

  afraid I'm too tired to offer you much of a challenge tonight."

  "All right." He stood, then held her chair as she got to her feet.

  "Perhaps another night."

  "I'd like that." She led the way from the ornate dining hall, then

  tucked her arm through his as they walked together along the corridor

  toward the front door. "Will you be going to Lady Thomly's dinner

  party?"

  The old man nodded. "Wouldn't miss it. Though in truth, the food

  won't be nearly as tasty as what we enjoyed tonight."

  Outside, his carriage and driver were silhouetted against the night

  sky. The old man leaned close and brushed a kiss over her cheek. "I

  bid you good night, my dear. And tell Bridget those were the best

  fruit tarts I've ever tasted."

  "I believe you told her. Three times."

  He chuckled. "That's so she would return three times to offer me

  more. If you aren't careful, I'll steal her from you."

  He was helped up to the carriage. When he was settled he doffed his

  hat. "Sleep well, AnnaClaire."

  "And you, Lord Davis."

  She waved until the carriage pulled away. Then she went inside and

  made her way up the wide staircase to her suite of rooms on the

  second floor. Within minutes she had shed her clothes.

  "Would you be wanting anything else, miss?" Bridget hovered by the

  door to AnnaClaire's bedchamber. The little maid, Glinna, was busy

  turning down the bed linens and gathering up assorted skirts and

  petticoats. By morning they would be washed and ironed and

  carefully returned to the wardrobe."No, thank you, Bridget."

  AnnaClaire yawned behind her hand. "As I'm sure you've heard, it's

  been quite a tiring day."

  "Aye, miss."

  AnnaClaire looked at her a little more closely. A worried little frown

  furrowed the housekeeper's brow. Her skin seemed to have lost all its

  color. "Are you certain you're feeling all right?"

  "Aye, miss. I'll be fine after a bit of sleep. If there's nothing you need,

  I'll say good night now."

  "Good night, Bridget."

  AnnaClaire waited until the housekeeper and maid had departed, then

  blew out her candle and climbed into bed. But sleep wouldn't come.

  She rolled from one side to the other, unable to find a comfortable

  position. She was simply too stimulated by all she'd seen and heard

  this day. Determined to sleep, she closed her eyes. At once she was

  assaulted by the image of the darkly handsome Rory O'Neil. She had

  never seen a man quite like him. Such a commanding presence. So

  fearless in the face of almost certain death. He was either the bravest

  man she'd ever seen or the most foolhardy.

  And that voice. Just the thought of all that rage and passion had her

  trembling again. She sat up, shoving a tangle of honey curls from her

  eyes. There was no point in trying to sleep. Instead, she would make

  herself a cup of tea and then write a letter to her father.

  Slipping out of bed, she caught up a warm shawl and tossed it over

  her nightshift, then padded barefoot from the room. Candles in

  sconces along the hallway sputtered in pools of wax, casting eerie

  shadows along the walls.

  She made her way to the kitchen and placed a kettle of water over the

  glowing coals of the fire. As she waited for the water to boil, she

  noticed her lap robe tossed carelessly over a bench. Odd. It wasn't like

  Tavis to be so casual with her things. As she picked it up, she felt

  something damp and sticky. Lifting her hand to the firelight, she

  frowned. It appeared to be red as blood. It must be the glow from the

  coals fooling the eye.

  She held a candle to the flame until the wick caught fire, then lifted it

  high and studied the cloth more closely. Dear heaven. It was blood.

  Not just a drop or two, but great wet rivers of it staining the entire

  robe. She dropped it as though the touch of it burned her.

  At the sound of a footfall behind her she spun around. And went

  deadly still at the sight that greeted her.

  Rory O'Neil had pulled himself from the shadows and was leaning

  heavily against the table. "I'm sorry about that fine robe. I seem to

  have ruined it."

  Blood still oozed from his neck, his chest, his arm, soaking the front

  of his tunic, staining his breeches and boots. In his right hand he held

  his sword aloft.

  His eyes narrowed as he studied the vision before him. A vision that

  seemed to shimmer and shift. In the glow of firelight the woman

  appeared to be bathed in a halo of light.

  He slowly lowered his sword. "So. That's it then. I'm dying." His

  voice, still rich and deep and passionate, seemed to warm as he

  smiled.

  At that moment his sword clattered to the floor, and he gripped the

  edge of the table with both hands. The blood drained from his face.

  He slowly sank to his knees, then slid bonelessly to the floor.

  As AnnaClaire stood over him he muttered, "I feared I'd be damned to

  hell for the path I'd chosen. It's happy I am to give up my life, now

 
that I've met one of heaven's angels come to escort me home."

  Chapter Two

  '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 Anna- Claire'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 his 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.
r />   "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?"