Ruth Langan - Briana

“My lord,” the housekeeper cried, “on top of a fever, the cold water will cause her to take a fit.”

“Perhaps, Mistress Malloy. But since she’s near death, it’s a risk I’ll have to take. Fetch some dry blankets, please. And clean linens to dress her wounds.”

While the servants scurried after fresh bed linens, Keane gently cradled the lass’s head against his chest and splashed water over her face. Within minutes he could feel her body temperature begin to cool.

He glanced at his butler, who had knelt beside the tub. “She weighs almost nothing, Vinson.”

“Aye, my lord. I thought that same thing when I carried her up the stairs. Though at the time, I thought her a young lad.”

When the housekeeper and her servants returned with blankets, Keane lifted the lass from the bath, dripping water across the floor as he carried her to the bed.

“You’re not going to return her to her bed in that soaked nightshift, my lord.”

At the housekeeper’s outraged tone, he shook his head. “I thought I’d remove it first.”

He glanced down. Now that her gown was plastered to her body, the decidedly feminine outline was plain to see. Small, firm breasts, a tiny waist, softly rounded hips.

“I’ll do that.” The housekeeper’s tone was brisk and left no room for argument.

Keane stepped back while Mistress Malloy and her servants removed the lass’s wet garments and wrapped her in fresh blankets, after first dressing the wounds to her chest and shoulder.

“Now what, my lord?” Mistress Malloy asked.

“You may all return to your beds.” He turned. “And you, as well, Cora.”

“But what about the lass?”

“I’ll sit with her. I’ve no more need for sleep.”

When his elderly butler made ready to pull a second chair beside the bed, Keane shook his head. “Nay, Vinson. You require your sleep for the day to come.”

While the others eagerly sought their beds, Vinson remained a moment longer.

He cleared his throat. His voice was low, so that a passing servant wouldn’t overhear. “I know the battles you fight each night, my lord. And why you have decided to fight for the lass. But this one is futile. You can see that she is at death’s door.”

Keane met the old man’s look. “You know me well, old man. It’s true. I have no desire to face my demons again tonight.” He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, in exactly the same way his father used to. “But this is one battle I don’t intend to lose. Now go. Leave me.”

When the old man shuffled out, closing the door silently, Keane turned to study the lass. Her breathing was ragged, her lips moving in silent protest. Or perhaps prayer.

“Go ahead, little nun. Pray. But I hope you know how to fight as well.” Aye, he could see that she did. By the jut of her chin. By the clench of her fist. The lass was a scrapper.

He sat back, his eyes narrowed in thought. Vinson was right, as always. This was, he realized, the perfect excuse to avoid returning to his own bed. But he had meant what he’d said. This was one battle he intended to win.

Briana lay perfectly still, wondering where she had finally surfaced. Earlier she had visited the fires of hell. She knew it was hell, because she’d felt her flesh burning away from her bones, and her entire body melting. But then, just as she’d resigned herself to that fate, a fate she surely deserved for all the grief she’d given her family, she had found herself thrust into the icy waters of the River Shannon. She’d heard voices coming from somewhere along the shore, but she’d been too weary to open her eyes. And so she had slept and drifted in the calm, soothing waters.

Now she was awake and determined to see where she had landed. Wherever it was, she must have been tossed onto the rocks on shore, for her body felt bruised and battered beyond repair.

Her lids flickered, and light stabbed so painfully she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Gathering her strength, she tried again. Her eyes were gritty, as though she’d been buried in sand. Her throat, too, was dry as dust, and her lips so parched she couldn’t pry them apart with her tongue.

“So, lass. You’re awake.”

At the unexpected sound of a man’s deep voice, she blinked and turned her head to stare at the sight that greeted her. And what a sight. A man, naked to the waist, was seated beside the bed. He leaned close and touched a hand to her brow. Just a touch, but she could feel the strength in his fingers, and could see the ripple of muscle in his arm and shoulder.

“I see the fever has left you.” He could see so much more. Up close, her eyes were gold, with little flecks of green. Cat’s eyes, he thought Wary. Watchful. And her skin was unlike any he’d ever seen. Not the porcelain skin he was accustomed to. Hers was burnished from the sun. But it was as soft as a newborn’s.

That one small touch had caused the strangest sensation. A tingling that started in his fingertips and shot through his system with the speed of a wildfire.

It was the lack of sleep, he told himself. He was beginning to see things that weren’t there. To fancy things that weren’t even possible. The lass in the bed was a nun. Only a fool or a lecher would permit such feelings toward an innocent maiden who’d promised her life in service to God.

“For a while this night, I thought the fever would claim you.”

Briana couldn’t help staring at him. His voice was cultured, with just a trace of brogue. But not Irish. English, she thought, like the soldiers who had attacked. She cringed from his touch.

Seeing her reaction, he felt a quick wave of annoyance. “I’ll not harm you, lass. Not after what I’ve gone through this night to save you.”

“Save…” The single word caused such pain, she swallowed and gave up the effort to speak.

“Aye.” To avoid touching her again he leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. All the tension of the night was beginning to ease. He had fought the battle, and won. The lass had passed through the crisis. At least, the first crisis. He hoped there wouldn’t be many more.

“Earlier, I thought you were ready to leave this life.”

She studied him while he spoke. His face could have belonged to an angel. A dark angel. Aye, Satan, she thought. Thick black hair was mussed, as though he’d run his hands through it in frustration. A sign of temper, she’d wager. His eyes, the color of smoke, were fixed on her with such intensity, she found she couldn’t look away. His dark brows were lifted in curiosity, or perhaps, disdain. His nose was patrician, his full lips just slightly curved, as though he were the keeper of a secret.

“Where…?” She struggled with the word and closed her eyes against the knife-blade of pain that sliced down her throat.

“Where are you?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re in my home. Carrick House. I had you brought here after you were found in the fields not far from here. There was a battle. Do you recall it?”

She nodded. How could she forget? It had seemed like a nightmare of horrors. One that never ended. Even now she could hear the cries of the wounded, and feel the thundering of horses’ hooves as if in her own chest. Worse, she could still smell the stench of death all around her. That had been the worst. To surface occasionally, only to realize that all around her were dead.

“…others?” It was all she could manage.

He shook his head. “You were the only one who survived.”

She felt a wave of such sadness, she had to close her eyes to hold back the tears. Four lads, with so much to live for. But instead of the promising future they should have enjoyed, they had given it all up. For her. She was unworthy of such a sacrifice.