Briana. Ruth Langan
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like the soldiers who had attacked. She cringed from his touch.
Seeing her reaction, he felt a quick wave of annoyance. “I’ll not harm you, lass. Not after what I’ve gone through this night to save you.”
“Save…” The single word caused such pain, she swallowed and gave up the effort to speak.
“Aye.” To avoid touching her again he leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. All the tension of the night was beginning to ease. He had fought the battle, and won. The lass had passed through the crisis. At least, the first crisis. He hoped there wouldn’t be many more.
“Earlier, I thought you were ready to leave this life.”
She studied him while he spoke. His face could have belonged to an angel. A dark angel. Aye, Satan, she thought. Thick black hair was mussed, as though he’d run his hands through it in frustration. A sign of temper, she’d wager. His eyes, the color of smoke, were fixed on her with such intensity, she found she couldn’t look away. His dark brows were lifted in curiosity, or perhaps, disdain. His nose was patrician, his full lips just slightly curved, as though he were the keeper of a secret.
“Where…?” She struggled with the word and closed her eyes against the knife-blade of pain that sliced down her throat.
“Where are you?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re in my home. Carrick House. I had you brought here after you were found in the fields not far from here. There was a battle. Do you recall it?”
She nodded. How could she forget? It had seemed like a nightmare of horrors. One that never ended. Even now she could hear the cries of the wounded, and feel the thundering of horses’ hooves as if in her own chest. Worse, she could still smell the stench of death all around her. That had been the worst. To surface occasionally, only to realize that all around her were dead.
“…others?” It was all she could manage.
He shook his head. “You were the only one who survived.”
She felt a wave of such sadness, she had to close her eyes to hold back the tears. Four lads, with so much to live for. But instead of the promising future they should have enjoyed, they had given it all up. For her. She was unworthy of such a sacrifice.
“Here, lass. Drink this.”
She opened her eyes to find him sitting beside her on the edge of the bed, holding a tumbler of water. With unexpected tenderness he lifted her head and held the glass to her lips.
Again Keane felt the heat and wondered what was happening to him. He must be more weary than he’d thought. That had to be the reason. It couldn’t be this plain little nun in his arms.
She sipped, then nearly gagged.
“Forgive me, lass. I should have mentioned that I had my housekeeper prepare an opiate for your pain. Drink it down. It’ll help.”
Though it burned a pathway down her throat, she did as she was told.
He laid her gently back on the pillow, then set the glass on the bedside table and bent to smooth the covers. As he did, he realized she was watching him with the wariness of a wild creature caught in a trap.
He picked up something that he thought might soothe her, and held it up. “My servant found this around your neck.”
She stared at the simple cross, then reached for it, before her hand fell limply against the bedcovers. When he placed it in her hand, their fingers brushed. At once she pulled her hand away, and shrank from him until he took a step back.
His frown returned, furrowing his dark brows. It was obvious that she disliked being touched by him. It was probably the way of holy women. “I’ll leave you to rest now. My servant will be in shortly to look after you. Let her know if you need anything.”
She nodded and watched until he walked away. By the time the door closed, sleep had claimed her. And the dreams that haunted her were dark. Dark angels. And a chilling laugh from a soldier whose name she couldn’t recall, but whose face tormented her. A soldier who enjoyed killing.
“How is the lass?” Keane stepped quietly into the sleeping chambers and paused beside the bed. In the hush of evening his voice was little more than a whisper.
He had spent nearly the entire week in and out of these chambers, bullying the servants, seeing that the wounds were carefully dressed, to avoid more infection. Through it all, the lass had surfaced only briefly, before drifting in a haze of delirium and opiates.
He’d sensed that his presence made her uneasy. And the truth was, she affected him the same way, though he knew not why. Still, he couldn’t stay away. She had become his cause. His fierce obsession. Behind his back, the servants whispered about it. And wondered what drove Lord Alcott to fight so desperately for this stranger.
“Her sleep is still broken by pain, my lord.” Cora looked up from her chair beside the bed.
“Has she eaten anything?”
“Not a thing. And she, so thin and pale. Mistress Malloy sent up a tray, but the lass hasn’t had the heart to even try.”
“And you, Cora?” Keane glanced at the servant, whose head had been bobbing when he’d first entered.
“Mistress Malloy will have something for me later.”
“Go below stairs now.” He motioned toward the door. “Go. I’ll sit with the lass awhile.”
The little serving wench needed no coaxing. The long hours spent watching the sleeping lass had made her yearn for her own bed. But though she gave up many of her daylight hours to the care of their patient, the nighttime hours belonged to the lord. He would dismiss the other servants and sit by the lass’s bedside, ever vigilant for any sign that she might be failing.
When Cora was gone, Keane pressed his hands to the small of his back and leaned his head back, stretching his cramped muscles. Agitated, he began to prowl the room, pausing occasionally to glance out the window as darkness began to swallow the land.
When he wasn’t in there, hovering by the bedside, he was in the library, poring over his father’s ledgers, or huddled in meetings with his solicitors. From the looks of things, Kieran O’Mara, the late Lord Alcott, had long ago lost all interest in his homeland and holdings. Several buildings were in need of repair. The land, though lush and green, had been badly mismanaged for years, yielding only meager crops. Carrick House, it would seem, needed not only an infusion of cash, but an infusion of lifeblood as well.
Not his problem, Keane mused as he stared at the rolling fields outside the window. He would soon enough be gone from this miserable place, with its unhappy memories.
It wasn’t so much a sound from the bed, as a feeling, that had him turning around. The lass, with those strange yellow eyes, wide and unblinking, was staring at him.
“Ah. You’re awake.”
She’d been awake for several minutes. And had been studying him while he paced and prowled. Like a caged animal, she thought. Aye. A sleek, dark panther. All muscle and sinew and fierce energy.
He drew up the chair beside the bed and bent to her, touching a hand to her forehead. It took all her willpower not to pull away. Still, she couldn’t help cringing as his hand came in contact with her skin.
He was aware of her reaction. He was aware of something else, as well, and struggled to ignore the strange tingling that occurred whenever he was near this female.
After so many nights watching her, he had begun to feel he knew her. He’d felt every ragged breath of hers in his own chest. Had marvelled at the quiet strength that kept her fighting when others would have given up. Had felt encouraged with every little sign of improvement.
“Do you remember where you are?”
She nodded, struggling to fit the pieces of her memory back into place. “Carrick House, I believe you called