Ruth Langan - Rory

“What ideas?”

“With Conor’s good looks and fine mind, Father hopes to use his connections in England to see that Conor represents our people at the Court of Elizabeth.”

AnnaClaire smiled. “It would seem to me a far better way to effect change than your way with the sword.”

“Ah. I hear a note of disapproval from my angel.”

“I don’t hold with fighting.”

He shot her a look that made her blush. She decided to change the subject. “Do you have any more brothers?”

He shook his head. “There’s just our little sister, Briana.”

“Does she take after Conor? Or does she favor her eldest brother?”

“The lass was my shadow since she was born.” His tone warmed with affection and pride. “She can wield a sword better than most men. And no one is better with a knife.”

AnnaClaire couldn’t help laughing. “Heaven help us. Another O’Neil warrior.”

“Aye. She is the despair of our parents.”

“Tell me about them.”

“My father, Gavin, is from a noble line. Descended from King Brian himself. My mother, Moira, can trace her own lineage to the ancient Druids, then later to the Celts. After all these years, their love still blazes brighter than all the stars in heaven. It’s a lovely thing to see.”

She thought of her own parents’ love. Of her father, who had suffered so gravely during his wife’s long illness. No one would ever take the place of his beloved Margaret. “They’re very lucky to have each other.”

“Aye. That sort of love is rare indeed. And even more wondrous when the two lovers have so many years together.” He fell silent, and AnnaClaire wondered if he was thinking about the woman who had almost been his bride. What sort of bitter taste would it leave to have a lover snatched away without the chance to say and do all the things locked in one’s heart?

She set the tea aside. “I think you’d better try to sleep now.”

“I believe I will.” He closed his eyes. When he heard her getting to her feet he clamped a hand around her wrist. “Thank you, lovely AnnaClaire.”

“For what?”

“For allowing me to forget my pain for a few minutes.”

“That wasn’t me. It was the potion.”

He merely smiled. “And thank Bridget Murphy for the porridge. I do believe I’d prefer it again tomorrow, instead of the mud.”

“I’ll tell her.”

She watched him a moment, then let herself out, knowing he was already asleep.

At noon, Bridget returned to AnnaClaire’s room with another tray.

“How much longer do you wish to feign illness, my lady?”

AnnaClaire shrugged. “I suppose sometime late this afternoon I must make an amazing recovery, for I have to attend Lady Thornly’s dinner party tonight.”

“Very well. I’ll check with you before sending Glinna up to help you dress.”

“Thank you, Bridget.” As she. picked up the tray and headed toward the narrow staircase she paused, turned. “By the way, Rory O’Neil sends his compliments on your porridge. He found it far superior to his mother’s.”

The housekeeper was beaming with pride as she scurried away. AnnaClaire marvelled that such a simple remark from a hardened warrior could elicit such feelings in the old woman.

In the little attic room, AnnaClaire found Rory sweating profusely as he struggled to lift his sword from the floor where it had fallen. It took both his hands to retrieve it, and the effort left him lying weakly against the pillows.

The wound to his shoulder, she noted, had opened and was oozing blood.

“Now look what you’ve done.” With a hiss of anger she set down the tray and bent over him, touching a square of linen to the wound. “And all for a foolish weapon.”

“Foolish?” He clamped a hand around her wrist and stared up into her startled eyes. “Woman, you wouldn’t think that if you found yourself facing a line of soldiers brandishing swords. Then it would be worth any price to have a weapon with which to defend yourself.”

“But there are no soldiers here, Rory O’Neil. You’re safely hidden away.”

He gave her a long, thoughtful look. “So you say. But how can I be sure?”

“You have my word. Isn’t that enough?”

He nodded. “Aye. It is. If you say it is.”

“You’d be wise to save your strength and give your wounds a chance to heal.”

“So I would.” He relaxed his grip and allowed her to mop up the fresh flow of blood. But he didn’t completely let go of her, instead keeping his fingers wrapped lightly around her wrist. “Old habits are hard to break.”

While she bent to her task, she could feel him boldly studying her. It brought a flush to her cheeks. Worse, she knew her pulse was racing. Knew, too, that he could feel it at her wrist.

To cover her confusion she poured a liberal amount of spirits on the wound. “This will hurt a bit.” She heard his quick intake of breath. “Hold still now while I tie this clean linen.” She glanced down and realized that he was still staring at her. Only now his gaze was fixed on her mouth. Her throat went dry. Their lips were so close they were almost touching. She need only make the slightest move to taste him.

As if reading her mind he drew her fractionally closer. “You smell like my mother’s rose garden.”

She swallowed, and it sounded overloud in her ears. She knew he could hear the tremor in her voice. “I’m not your mother, Rory O’Neil.”

“I never had a minute’s doubt of that.” His lips curved in a dangerous smile. “I never wanted to kiss my mother the way I want to kiss you.”

She braced a hand against his chest, intending. to push away. “Don’t….”

Her protest was swallowed as his mouth covered hers.

His lips were warm and firm and practiced. They moved over hers, tasting, teasing.

At the first contact her breath backed up in her throat. She would have pulled back but he had anticipated her move and now held her firmly against him. He pressed a palm to the back of her head while his other hand slid across her shoulder and along her back. And all the while his lips moved over hers until she could no longer hold back a sigh of pleasure.

“Let this be a lesson to you, AnnaClaire. Never tell me what to do,” he muttered against her mouth. “There’s just something in my nature that refuses to accept orders.”

She took in a deep breath, feeling her head swimming. “I’ll remember that in the future. Now release me, Rory O’Neil.”

He flashed that dangerous smile, and she realized, too late, her mistake.

“You see?” He framed her face with his hands. “You’ve done it again.” With no effort at all he drew her head down for another drugging kiss. This time his fingers tangled in her hair, and, while her senses were still reeling, he kissed her until she was breathless.

He knew the exact moment when her resistance gradually turned into acquiescence. Her hands, which had been pressed firmly against his chest, now lifted to encircle his neck. Her breasts were flattened against him in a most enticing manner. She lay, warm and pliant, in his arms.

Arousal was swift, insistent. He felt the rush of desire pulse through him before he carefully banked it.

In one smooth motion he caught her firmly by the shoulders and held her a little away. It was all the time he needed to clear his head and calm his pounding heart.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Never tell me what to do.”

Her eyes darkened with anger. Though it was difficult to speak, when her heart was still tumbling helplessly inside her chest, she managed a note of sarcasm. “You mean, in order to keep this from happening again, I ought to order you to kiss me?”

He threw back his head and laughed. What a delight she was. “Do you take me for a complete fool? Whether you told me to kiss you or not, you’re too lovely to resist. I’d simply have to kiss you.”