Briana. Ruth Langan
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was the gown, she told herself. A pale lemon confection with a high, tight circlet of lace at the throat and wrists, and a full skirt, gathered here and there with lace inserts. With a critical eye she studied the slender body revealed in the gown. She hoped she wouldn’t appear frail. In her whole life she had never thought of herself as anything but robust.
And then there was the hair. Or rather, the lack of it. The last time she had looked at her reflection in a looking glass, she’d had thick, fiery tresses that fell to below her waist. Now it was no more than a few inches long, a tumble of curls framing a face bronzed by the sun.
Oh, what had happened to her fair skin? It was not only tawny, it was freckled. Dozens of them. Hundreds, perhaps, parading across her nose, down her arms. And to think she had once protected her fair skin beneath bonnets and parasols.
“Come, miss.” The housekeeper’s voice broke the silence. “Vinson is here to escort you to sup.”
She turned and saw the old man’s look of approval before he lowered his gaze. When she accepted his arm, she was grateful that he matched his steps to her halting ones.
“I see Mistress Malloy found a gown that suits you, miss.”
“Do you think it does, Vinson?”
“Aye, miss. And Cora worked her magic to make it fit.”
“I’ve…” She swallowed. “…lost a bit of weight.”
He patted her hand and slowed his steps.
As they made their way along the hall, she stared at the ancient tapestries that depicted the history of the O’Mara lineage.
“I see from the number of swords and battles that Lord Alcott comes from a family of warriors.”
“Aye, miss. Do you disapprove?”
She shook her head. “My family can trace its roots to King Brian, whose sons were baptized by St. Patrick himself. And we are, proudly, warriors all.”
She missed the old man’s smile of approval as he whispered, “I must share a secret, lass. Lord Alcott disdains his title. He prefers to be known as merely Keane O’Mara.”
“Thank you, Vinson. I’ll keep that in mind.”
The old man paused, knocked, then drew open the doors to the library.
“My lord. The lass is here.”
“Thank you, Vinson.” Keane set aside his ledgers and shoved back his chair. He’d been trying, without success, to keep his mind on the figures in neat columns. But it had been an impossible task.
Briana, leaning on Vinson’s arm, walked slowly into the room.
Keane knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help himself. He hoped his jaw hadn’t dropped. Quickly composing himself, he called to Vinson, “Draw that chaise close to the fire for the lass.”
“Aye, my lord.”
The old man hurried forward to do his master’s bidding, while Keane led Briana across the room. The minute he touched her he felt the heat and blamed it on the blaze on the hearth. He shouldn’t have had the servants add another log. It was uncomfortably warm in here.
When she was settled, he asked, “Would you have some wine?”
It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse, feeling that such a luxury should be saved for important guests. Then, recalling the festive meals at Ballinarin, she relaxed. Before the convent, it had been an accepted custom. It was time she adapted to life outside the convent walls. “Aye. I will.”
Keane turned to his butler. “We’ll both have wine, Vinson.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Minutes later the old man offered a tray with two goblets. That done, he discreetly took his leave.
“Well.” Keane lifted his goblet. “I need to know what to call you.”
“I thought I’d told you. My name is Briana.”
“Aye. You did. But I thought…” He sipped. Swallowed. “I thought perhaps you would want me to call you sister.”
“Sister?”
“You said you spent the last three years in the Abbey of St. Claire.”
“I did.” She swallowed back her surprise. Was that why he had kissed her hand? Out of respect? “But only as a student. I took no vows.”
“I see.” He took another sip of wine and thought it tasted somehow sweeter. “So, you’re not a nun.”
“Nay.” Was that disappointment that deepened his voice? She couldn’t tell.
Keane relaxed. Not that it mattered to him whether or not the lass was a nun. All he wanted was a pleasant evening of conversation with a reasonably intelligent human being.
“Tell me a little about your family.”
“With pleasure. But only if you agree to tell me about yours, as well.”
“Aye.” He forced himself not to frown as he glanced at the portrait above the mantel. That was his usual reaction whenever he thought about his family. He shook off his dark thoughts and concentrated on the lass.
“My father is Gavin O’Neil, lord of Ballinarin.”
“Aye.” His frown was back. “I know of him. All of Ireland knows of him. And your mother?”
“My mother, Moira, is a great beauty.”
“I see where you inherited your looks.”
She blushed, feeling suddenly self-conscious. She had no way of knowing if he was merely making polite conversation, or if he meant to pay her a compliment.
Needing to fill the silence, she said, “I also have two brothers, Rory and Conor. And their wives, AnnaClaire and Emma. And Innis, who is like a brother to me, though he was orphaned when his entire family was killed at the hands of the English. He lives now with Rory and AnnaClaire.” Her eyes lit with pleasure at the thought of those beloved faces. “And there is Friar Malone, who has lived at Ballinarin since before I was born, and who is like an uncle to me.”
She took a deep breath. It was the most she had said in years.
Suddenly, spreading her arms wide she gave a husky laugh. “Oh, it feels so strange and so good to be able to talk without asking permission.”
The sound of her laughter skimmed over him, causing the strangest sensation. “It would be a pity to stifle a voice as unique as yours, Briana O’Neil.”
“Unique?”
“Aye.” Instead of explaining, he said simply, “I like listening to you. Tell me more about your family and your home.”
“Ballinarin is wild. And so beautiful. In all of Ireland, there is nothing to compare with it. We live always in the shadow of towering Croagh Patrick, with its wonderful waterfall that cascades to the lake below. There are fields of green as far as the eye can see. And rolling meadows, where I used to ride, wild and free with my brothers.”
Keane refilled her goblet, then his own, before settling himself on the chaise beside her. Their knees brushed, and Briana’s voice faltered for a moment. “It was…the loveliest life a girl could ever have.”
“Why did you choose a convent so far away?” He found himself studying the way the soft fabric revealed the outline of her thighs, her hips, her breasts.
“I didn’t choose. It was chosen for me.”
He heard the change in her tone and realized he’d struck a nerve. “And you have not seen your home in more than three years?”
“Aye. There were times when I thought I’d die from the loneliness.” She looked over at him. “I suppose that sounds