Ruth Langan - Rory

Up close she could see the sweat beading his brow and upper lip. “You’re much too hard on yourself, Rory. I’m sure by tomorrow….”

“You don’t understand.” His left hand clamped around her wrist. As always, the strength in his grip caught her off guard. “I’ve been coddling myself too long. Lying abed when I should have been leading my men into fresh battles. And now, as punishment, I’ve lost my strength.”

“As punishment?”

“Aye.”

“For the sin of laziness, no doubt.”

He glowered at her. “Do you mock me, woman?”

She tried not to smile, though her lips quirked. “I? You think I would dare to mock Ireland’s fierce Blackhearted O’Neil?”

His eyes narrowed. She looked far too fetching, in a gown the color of heather, and the bloom of youth and innocence on her cheeks. Her eyes danced with a teasing light that only made her all the more desirable. Her low, breathy voice whispered over his senses, teasing him, taunting him, even through the pain.

“You’re having fun with me, AnnaClaire. And all the while I’m lying here weak and helpless.”

She glanced at the hand gripping her with such strength. “If this is how you are when you’re helpless, I’d hate to see you when you’re feeling strong.”

At once he realized what he was doing and released her, hoping his touch hadn’t left bruises on that fair skin. He struggled into a sitting position.

AnnaClaire could see the pain even that small movement caused him. She busied herself plumping pillows behind him, smoothing the blankets, before removing a bowl of porridge from the tray.

“Perhaps some food will help. Bridget made this especially for you.”

When she offered him a spoonful, he glowered at her. “I’m not an infant to be coddled. I can see to my own feeding.”

“Suit yourself.” She handed him the bowl and proceeded to pour tea into two cups.

When he’d managed to empty the bowl, she took it from him and replaced it with a plate of biscuits and a steaming cup of tea. Though he ate in silence she could see that his spirits were slowly being restored.

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