Ruth Langan - Briana

“Here, lass. Drink this.”

She opened her eyes to find him sitting beside her on the edge of the bed, holding a tumbler of water. With unexpected tenderness he lifted her head and held the glass to her lips.

Again Keane felt the heat and wondered what was happening to him. He must be more weary than he’d thought. That had to be the reason. It couldn’t be this plain little nun in his arms.

She sipped, then nearly gagged.

“Forgive me, lass. I should have mentioned that I had my housekeeper prepare an opiate for your pain. Drink it down. It’ll help.”

Though it burned a pathway down her throat, she did as she was told.

He laid her gently back on the pillow, then set the glass on the bedside table and bent to smooth the covers. As he did, he realized she was watching him with the wariness of a wild creature caught in a trap.

He picked up something that he thought might soothe her, and held it up. “My servant found this around your neck.”

She stared at the simple cross, then reached for it, before her hand fell limply against the bedcovers. When he placed it in her hand, their fingers brushed. At once she pulled her hand away, and shrank from him until he took a step back.

His frown returned, furrowing his dark brows. It was obvious that she disliked being touched by him. It was probably the way of holy women. “I’ll leave you to rest now. My servant will be in shortly to look after you. Let her know if you need anything.”

She nodded and watched until he walked away. By the time the door closed, sleep had claimed her. And the dreams that haunted her were dark. Dark angels. And a chilling laugh from a soldier whose name she couldn’t recall, but whose face tormented her. A soldier who enjoyed killing.

“How is the lass?” Keane stepped quietly into the sleeping chambers and paused beside the bed. In the hush of evening his voice was little more than a whisper.

He had spent nearly the entire week in and out of these chambers, bullying the servants, seeing that the wounds were carefully dressed, to avoid more infection. Through it all, the lass had surfaced only briefly, before drifting in a haze of delirium and opiates.

He’d sensed that his presence made her uneasy. And the truth was, she affected him the same way, though he knew not why. Still, he couldn’t stay away. She had become his cause. His fierce obsession. Behind his back, the servants whispered about it. And wondered what drove Lord Alcott to fight so desperately for this stranger.

“Her sleep is still broken by pain, my lord.” Cora looked up from her chair beside the bed.

“Has she eaten anything?”

“Not a thing. And she, so thin and pale. Mistress Malloy sent up a tray, but the lass hasn’t had the heart to even try.”

“And you, Cora?” Keane glanced at the servant, whose head had been bobbing when he’d first entered.

“Mistress Malloy will have something for me later.”

“Go below stairs now.” He motioned toward the door. “Go. I’ll sit with the lass awhile.”

The little serving wench needed no coaxing. The long hours spent watching the sleeping lass had made her yearn for her own bed. But though she gave up many of her daylight hours to the care of their patient, the nighttime hours belonged to the lord. He would dismiss the other servants and sit by the lass’s bedside, ever vigilant for any sign that she might be failing.

When Cora was gone, Keane pressed his hands to the small of his back and leaned his head back, stretching his cramped muscles. Agitated, he began to prowl the room, pausing occasionally to glance out the window as darkness began to swallow the land.

When he wasn’t in there, hovering by the bedside, he was in the library, poring over his father’s ledgers, or huddled in meetings with his solicitors. From the looks of things, Kieran O’Mara, the late Lord Alcott, had long ago lost all interest in his homeland and holdings. Several buildings were in need of repair. The land, though lush and green, had been badly mismanaged for years, yielding only meager crops. Carrick House, it would seem, needed not only an infusion of cash, but an infusion of lifeblood as well.

Not his problem, Keane mused as he stared at the rolling fields outside the window. He would soon enough be gone from this miserable place, with its unhappy memories.

It wasn’t so much a sound from the bed, as a feeling, that had him turning around. The lass, with those strange yellow eyes, wide and unblinking, was staring at him.

“Ah. You’re awake.”

She’d been awake for several minutes. And had been studying him while he paced and prowled. Like a caged animal, she thought. Aye. A sleek, dark panther. All muscle and sinew and fierce energy.

He drew up the chair beside the bed and bent to her, touching a hand to her forehead. It took all her willpower not to pull away. Still, she couldn’t help cringing as his hand came in contact with her skin.

He was aware of her reaction. He was aware of something else, as well, and struggled to ignore the strange tingling that occurred whenever he was near this female.

After so many nights watching her, he had begun to feel he knew her. He’d felt every ragged breath of hers in his own chest. Had marvelled at the quiet strength that kept her fighting when others would have given up. Had felt encouraged with every little sign of improvement.

“Do you remember where you are?”

She nodded, struggling to fit the pieces of her memory back into place. “Carrick House, I believe you called it.”

She was pleased that she’d been able to manage the words without feeling a stab of pain. Her throat, it would seem, was healing, though the rest of her body was still on fire. “I thought I’d dreamed you.”

He found her voice a pleasant change from the shrill voices of the serving wenches. It was low, cultured, breathless. But he couldn’t be certain if it was her natural voice, or the result of her injuries. At any rate, he was anxious to hear her speak again. “And why did you think that?”

She shook her head. “I know not. The fever, I suppose. I began to think of you as my dark angel.”

“Perhaps I am.” His features remained solemn, with no hint of laughter in his voice. “My name is Keane. Keane O’Mara. Carrick House is my ancestral home.”

He offered his hand and she had no choice but to accept. Would she ever get used to touching again? “My name is Briana O’Neil.”

The moment was awkward and uncomfortable. As soon as their hands touched, they felt the rush of heat. At once they each pulled away.

“O’Neil? Where is your home?”

“Ballinarin.”

He arched a brow. “I know of it. You’re a long way from home.”

The mere thought of it had her aching for that dear place. “Aye.”

He heard the loneliness in that single word, spoken like a sigh. “Have you been gone a long time?”

“Three years.”

His glance fell on the cross, lying on the bed linen beside her hand.

Seeing the direction of his gaze, her fingers closed around it, finding comfort in something so familiar. “I’ve been at the Abbey of St. Claire.”

He nodded. “I know of it, as well. At least a day’s ride from here. What brought you to our village?”

“I was passing through.” She sighed, thinking of the eagerness with which she’d taken her leave of the convent. “We’d gone only a day’s ride when the soldiers attacked.”

“Who were the lads accompanying you?”

“Lads from our village. Sent by my family to escort me.” She looked away. “How odd, that I should be the one to live. They will never see their families again.”

He could hear the break in her voice and knew that she was close to tears. “I’ll see that a lad from the village is dispatched at once to your home with the news that you are alive and will be returned as soon as your health permits.”