Briana. Ruth Langan
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art of conversation was new to her. She struggled to put her thoughts into words. “There were classes, of course. History, literature, biology. And the teachings of the Church fathers. But we also were expected to plant and harvest, and tend the flocks.”
“Like peasants?” His tone was one of amazement.
“Aye. Like the peasants we serve.” Her tone softened as she remembered the lecture by Mother Superior, delivered nightly in their common prayer. “Because much has been given us, much is expected. And though we are educated, we are expected to serve all God’s people. By punishing the body, we nourish the soul.”
He was so moved by her words, he caught both her hands in his. “I didn’t know there were such unselfish souls left in this world. Bless you.” He turned her hands palm up. Seeing the calluses, he muttered an oath and, without thinking, lifted them to his lips.
Dear heaven. What had possessed him? He hadn’t intended such a thing. And yet, seeing the ravages of such hard work on those small, delicate hands, he had reacted instinctively. Now there was nothing to do but cover his error with as much dignity as he could manage. Still, though he knew he had overstepped his bounds, he couldn’t seem to stop. He kept her small hands in his and pressed a second kiss, before lifting his head.
At the shocking feel of his mouth against her flesh Briana gasped and struggled to pull her hands away. But it was too late. The damage had been done. She could feel the heat. It danced along her flesh and seared the blood flowing through her veins before settling deep inside her. A heat that had her cheeks stained with color. Her eyes went wide with shock. And though no words came out, her mouth opened, then snapped shut.
She looked up to find him staring at her with a strange, almost haunted look in his eyes. Even as she watched, he blinked, and the look was gone.
Or had she only imagined it?
“I’ll leave you to your rest, Briana O’Neil.” He turned away abruptly and picked up the empty tumbler.
She watched as he set the tumbler on the tray. Then, knowing the blush was still on her cheeks, she rolled to her side, wishing she could pull the covers over her head and hide.
What had just happened between them? She wasn’t quite certain. Perhaps he had merely reacted to her work-worn hands. Or perhaps he was simply trying to soothe her, or honor her. Whatever his reason, he’d had no way of knowing how deeply she would be affected by that simple gesture.
Oh, how she wished she knew how to deal with these strange feelings that had her so agitated. But the isolation of the convent had magnified everything in her mind. All she knew was that the simple press of Keane O’Mara’s lips against her palm had started a fire in the pit of her stomach that was burning still.
She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, wishing she could shut out her feelings as easily. But they were there, fluttering like butterfly wings against her throat, her temple, her chest. She prayed the potion would soon have the desired effect. She wanted desperately to escape into blissful sleep.
In time her wish was granted.
There was no such escape for Keane. Throughout the long night he was forced to keep his vigil. He sat by the bedside and watched the steady rise and fall of the thin chest beneath the blankets as Briana slept, and wondered why a woman from the noble house of Ballinarin would give up a life of luxury to live like a peasant.
Whenever his gaze was drawn to those small callused hands, he would find himself pacing to the window, to stare moodily into the darkness. It was the only way to keep his gaze from being drawn to her mouth.
The strange desire to taste her lips, just once, had him muttering every hot, fierce oath he knew.
“Good day, my lady.” Cora swept open the draperies, then paused beside the bed. “You have a bit of color in your cheeks. A good sign. Do you feel strong enough to leave your bed?”
“I’m not certain.” Briana touched her tongue to her dry lips. The days and nights had passed in a blur. But thanks to the opiates, and the prolonged rest, the deep, searing pain had eased. “I’m willing to try.” She sat up and waited until the dizziness left, then swung her feet to the floor. “How long have I been at Carrick House?”
“A fortnight, my lady.”
Could it really be two weeks? “How could I have slept so long?”
“Mistress Malloy said it is the opiates. And the fact that your poor body craved rest in order to heal.”
“Whatever the reason, I feel almost alive again.”
“The lord left orders that, as soon as you were able, we must prepare a bath. Do you think you’re strong enough for that?”
Briana’s smile bloomed. “For the offer of a bath, I’ll muster all the strength I have.”
Cora plumped pillows around her, then flew to the door. “I’ll just summon Mistress Malloy and some servants, and I’ll be right back.”
Briana barely had time to close her eyes and steady herself before Cora had returned, trailed by the housekeeper and a string of servants.
“Well now.” Mistress Malloy had plump apple cheeks and twinkling blue eyes. Her white hair was pulled back in a tight, neat bun at her nape. She stood with hands on her ample hips, studying the young woman who had occupied so much of the lord’s time and energy. “Cora says you’re feeling strong enough for a bath.”
“I think I can manage.”
“Good.” Mistress Malloy took charge, seeing that another log was added to the fire while the tub was filled with warm water, and soft linens were laid out on a chair.
“You’re not to attempt to stand alone, miss.” With the housekeeper on one side of her and Cora on the other, they supported Briana from her bed to the tub. With the servant’s help, Briana removed her nightshift and stepped into the water.
While Cora scrubbed her hair, Briana closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure. “Oh, it has been years since I’ve felt so pampered.”
“You do not bathe in the convent?” one of the servants asked.
Briana laughed. “We wash in a basin of cold water.” She shivered just remembering.
“Could you not heat the water over the fire?”
“There was no time. We had only minutes to wash before we had to hurry to chapel for morning prayers.”
“Did you cry when your hair was cut off?” Cora asked.
“Aye. I wept buckets of tears. But later, when I was doing penance for my display of false vanity, Mother Superior reminded me that it’s not what is outside a person that counts. It is what’s in one’s heart.”
“Well said.” Mistress Malloy nodded in agreement. She liked this lass. A refreshing change from most of the highborn women who thought themselves above the rest of the world. Of course, such humility was to be expected of a woman who’d promised her life in service to the Church.
“But your hair, my lady.” Cora poured warm scented water to rinse away the soap. Then she held up one short gleaming strand, while the others gathered around to study it. “It is the color of fire. It must have been lovely before it was shorn.”
“I always thought so. But it no longer matters.” Briana snuggled deeper into the warm water, loving the feeling of freedom. “I have not seen my reflection, nor cared to, in three years now.”
The servants exchanged looks before one of them said, “But my lady, you are truly beautiful. Even with your hair shorn.”
“Beautiful? Now I know you jest. For Cora told me that even the old man who found me thought