Ruth Langan - Rory

“And I simply have to leave you.”

“Now? Before you’ve properly tended my needs?”

“Your needs.” She tossed down the square of linen and indicated the tray on the night table. “Last night I feared you would die in your bed. But you’re far from dead, Rory O’Neil. Any man strong enough to hold a woman can surely hold his own bowl of broth. I hope you find Bridget’s soup as appetizing as her porridge.”

“I’m sure I will.”

When she yanked open the door he added, “But it won’t be nearly as pleasant without you feeding it to me.”

In reply she pulled the door firmly shut behind her.

When she reached her own room, she sank down onto the edge of the bed and pressed a hand to her lips. They were still tingling from the touch of his mouth. And his dark, dangerous taste still clung to them.

This was a foolish game she was playing. All because she had allowed this Irish warrior to touch some romantic chord in her heart. She wouldn’t be the first maiden to have her heart broken by a rogue. But, she reminded herself, there was more than her heart at stake here. She was playing a game with people’s lives. And the consequences could be deadly.

“How are you finding your first visit to Ireland, Lord Dunstan?” Since her hostess had insisted upon seating AnnaClaire beside the handsome young visitor, she had no choice but to attempt pleasant conversation with this dour, brooding man. Apparently she was the only female in the room who hadn’t fallen under the spell of his chilling smile and icy gray eyes.

“Fascinating. From what I’ve seen, a savage land. And savage people.” He acknowledged the nods of agreement around the table. “Were it not for meeting you, my lady, I would have returned to England without a single good thing to say for my time spent here.”

She felt his knee nudge hers beneath the table cover. When she moved aside, he shifted closer, so that she couldn’t escape his touch.

“I’ve had the good fortune of meeting your father several times in London, my lady.” He laid a hand over hers, pressing firmly when she tried to pull it away. It was obvious that he enjoyed being the center of attention. Knowing that the others were watching and listening, he began to play to his audience. “Had I known that Lord Thompson’s daughter was so lovely, I would have made the journey across the Channel much sooner.” If he felt her cringe, he took no notice of it.

“I wish we could persuade you to stay a while longer, Lord Dunstan.” Lady Thornly sipped her wine, thoroughly enjoying the company of her countrymen. “I grow so weary of this local dialect, and do so yearn to be among my own kind and hear the language spoken as it was meant to be.”

The young man gave her his most charming smile. “Perhaps you should sell your estates to me, Lady Thornly. Then you could return to England to live out your years among your own kind.”

“As if you need more land.” She waved a hand in dismissal and laughed like a coquette.

The others joined her laughter. It was common knowledge that Lynley Lord Dunstan was quickly becoming one of the richest men in England.

A gentleman across the table said, “You were recently at Court with Her Majesty, Dunstan. How does Elizabeth intend to deal with this Irish problem?”

The young man puffed up his chest. His father and grandfather had held important positions with Elizabeth’s father, Henry VIII. A grateful king had granted them generous sections of land, and several of the most beautiful homes in England. The current Lord Dunstan had learned well from his ancestors, using his loyalty to his queen to add to his own fortune.

“The Queen values my opinion. In fact, I am here at Her Majesty’s request, to see for myself if there is a problem.”

“Rest assured there is a problem.” The elderly Lord Davis, seated beside their hostess, spoke in hushed tones. “And it grows more serious with each day.” He glanced around. “Any word on that wounded Irish warrior? The one they call the Blackhearted O’Neil?”

AnnaClaire went perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe.

Dunstan snorted with disdain. “Warrior? Court jester would be a better name. As far as I can determine, he is nothing more than a peasant leading a small band of ruffians, hoping to become a hero to the locals.”

“I saw with my own eyes how that ‘peasant’ and a few of his swordsmen could rout an entire battery of English soldiers.” Lord Davis drained his goblet and paused while a hovering servant filled it. “There is nothing more dangerous than a zealot who appeals to the heart of the masses. Mark my word, Dunstan. The man is stirring a cauldron of simmering passions. Very soon now, they’ll come to a boil. And Her Majesty might find herself with the one thing she has sworn to resist.”

“And what might that be, Lord Davis?”

“A war that drains England’s coffers.”

“War?” Dunstan gave a snort of disdain. “With these peasants?” He threw back his head and chuckled, and one by one the others around the table followed suit. “Queen Elizabeth is no fool. If this so-called Blackhearted O’Neil should begin to take himself seriously, our queen will simply send over a company of her finest soldiers. Believe me, Lord Davis, our swordsmen could put down any rebellion led by an illiterate peasant and his band of lackeys.”

He turned to AnnaClaire. “You’ve grown quiet, my lady. Does all this talk of war upset your delicate sensibilities?”

“Aye.” AnnaClaire swallowed, uneasy at having the attention shifted to her.

“Forgive me, my dear.” Lord Davis pushed from the table and walked to her side. With a hand on her shoulder he said gently, “How inconsiderate of me to have forgotten. AnnaClaire was forced to witness that bloodletting at the docks yesterday. I’m sure it was most upsetting for her.” He leaned close. “Would you care to take your leave, my dear?”

It was the excuse she’d been hoping for. She placed her hand in his. “Thank you. I would indeed.”

“Oh dear.” Lady Thornly touched a fine lace cloth to her lips. “I had so hoped we could keep you here a while longer, AnnaClaire. Lord Dunstan has so little time before he returns to London.”

“I’d be happy to accompany Charles and AnnaClaire to their homes,” the handsome Englishman said gallantly.

It was on the tip of AnnaClaire’s tongue to refuse. But there was no way she could do so gracefully. And so she found herself bidding her hostess good-night and climbing into a carriage with her father’s old friend and a young man whose arrogance was as unsettling as his ignorance.

“How long do you hope to remain in Ireland?” Lord Davis settled himself comfortably across from the young couple, and their carriage started off through the streets of Dublin.

“I had hoped to be here no more than a few days.” Lord Dunstan turned to smile at the young woman beside him, whose face was shrouded in shadow. “But now, I think I might be persuaded to stay a while longer.”

AnnaClaire groaned inwardly.

“Excellent.” The old man smiled in the darkness. His friend, Lord Thompson, would be delighted to hear that his daughter had caught the interest of someone as important as this young friend of the queen herself.

“Shall I have my driver take you home first, Charles?”

Before AnnaClaire could issue a protest, the old man was nodding vigorously. “I was about to suggest it myself. I’m feeling a bit weary after all that food and stimulating conversation.”

AnnaClaire knew exactly what her father’s old friend was up to. And though his meddling was galling, there was nothing she could do about it. He was as determined as her father to see that she made a good match.