Ruth Langan - Briana

“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.