Ruth Langan - Rory

It was the potion, he knew. Not the woman who had just left him. But it worried him all the same.

With Caitlin’s name repeated again and again in his mind like a litany; he fell into a fitful sleep.

“Good morrow, my lady.” After a single knock on the door, Glinna, the little chambermaid bustled in, her arms laden with clean clothing.

Caught unawares, AnnaClaire had no choice but to dive beneath the bedlinens, to hide the bloodstains on her nightshift.

“You’re up early this morrow, my lady. I heard you stirring and thought you’d be needing these.” Glinna began arranging the petticoats atop a nearby night table, then hung a clean gown in the wardrobe. “What would you like me to fetch for you?”

“Nothing just yet. I believe I’ll stay abed for awhile.”

“Are you unwell, my lady?”

“Well, I…” AnnaClaire smoothed the linens, avoiding the maid’s eyes. “I think perhaps I’m coming down with something.”

They both looked up at another knock on the door. Bridget entered, carrying a tray covered with a linen cloth.

“Good morrow, my lady.” She shot AnnaClaire a knowing look. “I hope your night went undisturbed.”

AnnaClaire nodded. “It went fairly well, Bridget.”

The housekeeper gave a sigh of relief. “I brought you a bit of porridge and some tea and biscuits.”

“My lady won’t be needing them,” Glinna said with importance. “She is feeling unwell and intends to stay abed.”

The housekeeper placed the tray on a bedside table. “Then I shall leave this in the hope that something will appeal to you later on.”

“Thank you, Bridget.” AnnaClaire turned to Glinna. “Since I won’t be needing you today, you may help Bridget below stairs.”

“Aye, miss.” The little maid walked away looking plainly dejected. A day at Bridget’s mercy meant scrubbing floors until they gleamed, then accompanying Tavis to the docks for fresh fish. Chores she would gladly leave for one of the other servants.

When they were alone AnnaClaire slipped out of bed. Glancing down at her nightshift she whispered, “I hope you can find a way to explain these stains to Glinna without arousing suspicion.”

“Aye, my lady. I’ll think of something.” Bridget lowered her voice. “Now about our.guest. Did he survive the night?”

“He did.”

The housekeeper blessed herself and whispered a prayer of thanks. “I’d feared.” She brushed aside a tear. “Perhaps we should see to him now.”

“I just left him.” At the housekeeper’s startled look AnnaClaire felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “During the night I heard him fall from his bed and went to see to him. He asked me to stay, and I…fell asleep on the chaise.”

“Of course you did, after all you’ve been through. Bless you, my lady. And praise heaven the O’Neil is still alive. Is he in much pain?”

“A great deal of it.” AnnaClaire nodded for emphasis. “Judging by the scars he bears, I’d say he’s accustomed to pain. But I gave him one of the potions. That should make him comfortable for a few hours.”

“Then you think he will live?”

AnnaClaire shrugged. “Only God knows. But he’s strong. A fighter. And he’s already survived the worst hours.”

Bridget pointed to the covered tray. “I thought, if you were going to see to his needs, you wouldn’t care to take breakfast below stairs in the dining hall.”

“Quite right, Bridget. Just see that the servants are warned not to disturb me.”

“Aye, my lady. And if the O’Neil is strong enough to eat, there’s food for him, as well.” The housekeeper took her leave, closing the door behind her.

When she was alone AnnaClaire peeled off her nightshift and crossed to a basin of water. When she had scrubbed away all trace of Rory’s blood from her skin, she slipped into a delicately embroidered chemise and petticoat, then pulled on a gown of pale pink. She secured her hair with jeweled combs and slid her feet into soft kid boots. Picking up the tray she made her way up the narrow stairs to the attic room.

Rory was lying so still she thought he was asleep. But when she drew nearer she realized that his eyes were wide and glazed with pain. The bed linens were damp with his sweat. Still, he neither tossed nor turned nor gave any indication that he was in distress.

She set down the tray and knelt beside him, touching a hand to his forehead. His skin was on fire.

“Ah.” A soft sigh escaped his lips. “My angel has come back. I did as you asked, and made not a sound.”

She was touched by his courage. “I’m sorry it took so long.” She dampened a cloth with water from a basin and began to bathe his face and neck, his chest and shoulders. “It appears the potion didn’t work.”

“It did. For a while. I had a lovely visit in heaven, before the fire of hell came back to claim me.”

She mixed another packet of powder and held the glass to his lips. “Drink this. Maybe it can hold back your pain.”

“I’m feeling better already, now that you’re here.” He drained the glass, then lay back weakly, breathing in the scent of crushed roses that seemed to cling to her.

“You’re a charming liar, Rory O’Neil.” She sat down in the chaise beside his bed, then dipped a spoon into a steaming bowl and held the spoon to his lips.

He turned his head. “What’s this now?”

“Porridge.”

He shook his head. “My mother used to insist that we eat it. I’d have rather eaten mud.”

“I’ll remember to bring some of that tomorrow. But for now, you’ll eat your porridge. My housekeeper, Bridget Murphy, made this for you, to build up your strength. And you’re going to eat at least a few bites.”

“God in heaven, you sound just like my mother.” He opened his mouth and accepted a taste. When he’d managed to swallow it he shot her a look of surprise. “Bridget Murphy must be a sorceress. This tastes unlike any porridge I’ve ever eaten.”

“I’ll tell her you approve. That just might spare you having to eat mud tomorrow.” She held out another bite, and he accepted willingly.

It occurred to AnnaClaire that feeding this man was not at all like feeding her sick mother. Each time he opened his mouth, she found herself fighting a strange yearning to taste those lips. When he swallowed and closed his eyes in appreciation, she felt a sudden tug deep inside.

AnnaClaire felt completely out of her element with this raw, earthy man, who seemed to delight in the simple pleasure of eating. She had never known a man such as this. It didn’t seem to bother Rory O’Neil in the least that he was naked beneath those covers. Yet she was bothered more than she cared to admit. She simply couldn’t get the thought out of her mind.

He managed to devour nearly half the bowl of porridge before he lifted a hand in refusal.

“No more. It’s too much effort.”

She returned the bowl to the tray and poured a cup of tea. “Could you manage a few sips?”

He shook his head. “Not even one.”

“Then we’ll sit a while and wait for the opiates to ease your pain.”

As she settled herself on the chaise he managed a smile. “Just looking at you does me more good than your potions.”

She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “You’re too charming for your own good, Rory O’Neil.”

He passed a hand over his eyes. “You should meet my brother, Conor. He’s the charmer.”

“Really? And what are you?”

“The fighter. Always the fighter.”

She sipped her tea. “Tell me about your family.”

“Conor, at a score and one, is two years younger than I. He was educated abroad, and our mother hoped he would be a priest. But our father has other ideas.”