Ruth Langan - Briana

Keane frowned. “I’m certain she’d prefer to eat in her chambers.”

“She has not left her room in a fortnight, my lord. The change might do her good.”

Keane pushed away from the desk and strode to the window. His voice lowered. “I think the lass dislikes being in my company.”

“Why do you think that, my lord?”

“Whenever I am near her, she watches me the way prey might watch a hunter.”

“You can hardly blame her. She was, after all, nearly killed here on your land.”

Keane’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not her enemy. If she doesn’t know that now, after all I’ve done to save her, she never will.”

“It could be because of the horror of what she suffered, my lord.”

Keane nodded. “There is that, of course.”

“Or she could be shy, my lord. She is, after all, a lass educated in the convent.”

“Aye.”

The old servant decided to poke and prod a bit more. “You might find it pleasant to have someone with whom you could talk about the books you’ve read, the places you’ve been. She might prove to be an interesting companion, something in short supply here in Carrick.”

Keane stared out the window, seeing nothing. Neither the green rolling hills, nor the flocks undulating across the valley, nor the way the sunset turned the cross atop the chapel to blood. All he saw was the emptiness, stretching out before him. Endless emptiness.

“She has nothing to wear. I doubt she would sup with me wearing a borrowed nightshift.”

Vinson smiled. He’d anticipated the problem. “There are your mother’s trunks. Mistress Malloy could no doubt find something that would fit the lass.”

Keane turned and met the old man’s look. “You’ve put a good deal of thought into this, haven’t you, Vinson?”

“Aye, my lord.” The old man remained ramrod straight. Not a hint of a smile touched his lips. “The lass needs a chance to properly thank her benefactor.”

Keane gave the slightest nod of his head. “All right. Invite her to sup with me. And tell Mistress Malloy to rifle through the trunks for something appropriate.” As the old man turned away he added, “Suggest that she find something modest. We wouldn’t want to scandalize such an innocent.”

“Aye, my lord.”

When the door closed behind the servant, Keane glanced at the portrait of his father staring down from the mantel, and beneath it, a set of crossed ancestral swords. The two symbols he most detested. Bloodline and misuse of power. Life and death.

He could still hear his father’s harsh tone, lecturing him on his weaknesses. “The man who puts the love of God, country or woman ahead of gold is a fool. For, in the end, gold is all that matters.”

He’d rebelled, determined to prove his father wrong. He’d have the rest of his life to regret it.

To occupy his mind, he returned to his ledgers. But as he bent over the page, he found himself thinking about the lass’s strange voice. And the way her lips looked whenever she smiled. Odd. He hadn’t felt this quickening of his heartbeat for a very long time. But it wasn’t the lass that caused it. It was merely loneliness. He’d kept himself locked away with his ledgers too long now. But they were all he had now, since he’d become a stranger in the land of his birth.

“This will do nicely, Cora.” The housekeeper held up a gown of pale lemon, which she had retrieved from the trunk in the tower room. Though it appeared to be far too big, it was the only one she’d found with a modest neckline. “Can you make it fit the lass?”

“I’ll do my best, Mistress Malloy.” Cora signalled for Briana to stand. Then she slid the gown over her head and began plying needle and thread, nipping and tucking, until the fabric began to mold to the shape of the slender body.

“Oh, my lady, this is lovely on you.” Cora tied the waist with a lace sash, then, because there were no boots to fit, added satin bed slippers.

“Now, if you’ll sit, I’ll do what I can with your hair.”

Briana did as she was told, closing her eyes as the little servant dressed her hair.

“Are you feeling weak, my lady?”

“Nay.” Briana gave a dreamy smile. “It’s just that these past hours have been so luxurious, I’m beginning to feel whole again.”

Cora stood back, admiring her handiwork. “Now if you’ll just step over here, my lady, you can see what I’m seeing.”

Leaning on Cora’s arm, Briana walked to the tall looking glass and stared in amazement.

“Oh, my.” She lifted a hand to her mouth. Words failed her.

Seeing her reaction, Cora smiled. “Then you are not unhappy with what you see?”

“I’m…speechless.”

Gone was the girl she had once been. In her place was a woman. A stranger.

It was the gown, she told herself. A pale lemon confection with a high, tight circlet of lace at the throat and wrists, and a full skirt, gathered here and there with lace inserts. With a critical eye she studied the slender body revealed in the gown. She hoped she wouldn’t appear frail. In her whole life she had never thought of herself as anything but robust.

And then there was the hair. Or rather, the lack of it. The last time she had looked at her reflection in a looking glass, she’d had thick, fiery tresses that fell to below her waist. Now it was no more than a few inches long, a tumble of curls framing a face bronzed by the sun.

Oh, what had happened to her fair skin? It was not only tawny, it was freckled. Dozens of them. Hundreds, perhaps, parading across her nose, down her arms. And to think she had once protected her fair skin beneath bonnets and parasols.

“Come, miss.” The housekeeper’s voice broke the silence. “Vinson is here to escort you to sup.”

She turned and saw the old man’s look of approval before he lowered his gaze. When she accepted his arm, she was grateful that he matched his steps to her halting ones.

“I see Mistress Malloy found a gown that suits you, miss.”

“Do you think it does, Vinson?”

“Aye, miss. And Cora worked her magic to make it fit.”

“I’ve…” She swallowed. “…lost a bit of weight.”

He patted her hand and slowed his steps.

As they made their way along the hall, she stared at the ancient tapestries that depicted the history of the O’Mara lineage.

“I see from the number of swords and battles that Lord Alcott comes from a family of warriors.”

“Aye, miss. Do you disapprove?”

She shook her head. “My family can trace its roots to King Brian, whose sons were baptized by St. Patrick himself. And we are, proudly, warriors all.”

She missed the old man’s smile of approval as he whispered, “I must share a secret, lass. Lord Alcott disdains his title. He prefers to be known as merely Keane O’Mara.”

“Thank you, Vinson. I’ll keep that in mind.”

The old man paused, knocked, then drew open the doors to the library.

“My lord. The lass is here.”

“Thank you, Vinson.” Keane set aside his ledgers and shoved back his chair. He’d been trying, without success, to keep his mind on the figures in neat columns. But it had been an impossible task.

Briana, leaning on Vinson’s arm, walked slowly into the room.

Keane knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help himself. He hoped his jaw hadn’t dropped. Quickly composing himself, he called to Vinson, “Draw that chaise close to the fire for the lass.”

“Aye, my lord.”

The old man hurried forward to do his master’s bidding, while Keane led Briana across the room. The minute he touched her he felt the heat and blamed it on the blaze on the hearth. He shouldn’t have had the servants add another log. It was uncomfortably warm in here.

When she was settled, he asked, “Would you have some wine?”