a fresh burst of energy. This was one battle he wouldn’t lose without at least putting up a fight.
“Wake Mistress Malloy. Tell her to prepare a bath.”
“A…bath, my lord?”
“Aye.” He took the linen from her hand and dipped it into the basin. “A cold bath, Cora.”
As Vinson watched, Keane placed the cool cloth on the lass’s forehead, then moved it across her cheeks, her mouth, her throat. As quickly as the cloth touched her fevered flesh, it became warm to the touch. Keane then dipped it into the basin once more, wrung it out and repeated the process.
Holding the candle aloft, the old man watched the lass’s face for any reaction. There was none. No sign of relief from the fever that burned. Not even a flicker of movement from lids that remained closed.
“My lord. I fear the lass is beyond help.”
Keane didn’t even look up. “Go to bed, Vinson.”
“My lord…”
“If you cannot help, leave me.”
The old man recognized that tone of voice. It had been the same for the young lord’s father and his father before him. With a sigh of resignation he placed the candle on the bedside table and shuffled across the room, taking up a second cloth. The two men worked in silence, taking turns bathing the lass’s face and neck.
Minutes later the housekeeper bustled in, trailed by half a dozen serving wenches, carrying a tub and buckets of water.
“You ordered a bath, my lord?”
“Aye, Mistress Malloy.” Keane wrung out the cloth, and placed it over the lass’s forehead, while Vinson dipped his in the basin.
The housekeeper watched for several seconds, then motioned for the servants to begin filling the tub. When that was done they waited for further instructions.
They were shocked to see the lord of the manor pull back the bed linens and lift the lass from bed. With no thought to her modesty, he carried her to the tub, where he plunged her, nightshift and all, into the cold water.
“My lord,” the housekeeper cried, “on top of a fever, the cold water will cause her to take a fit.”
“Perhaps, Mistress Malloy. But since she’s near death, it’s a risk I’ll have to take. Fetch some dry blankets, please. And clean linens to dress her wounds.”
While the servants scurried after fresh bed linens, Keane gently cradled the lass’s head against his chest and splashed water over her face. Within minutes he could feel her body temperature begin to cool.
He glanced at his butler, who had knelt beside the tub. “She weighs almost nothing, Vinson.”
“Aye, my lord. I thought that same thing when I carried her up the stairs. Though at the time, I thought her a young lad.”
When the housekeeper and her servants returned with blankets, Keane lifted the lass from the bath, dripping water across the floor as he carried her to the bed.
“You’re not going to return her to her bed in that soaked nightshift, my lord.”
At the housekeeper’s outraged tone, he shook his head. “I thought I’d remove it first.”
He glanced down. Now that her gown was plastered to her body, the decidedly feminine outline was plain to see. Small, firm breasts, a tiny waist, softly rounded hips.
“I’ll do that.” The housekeeper’s tone was brisk and left no room for argument.
Keane stepped back while Mistress Malloy and her servants removed the lass’s wet garments and wrapped her in fresh blankets, after first dressing the wounds to her chest and shoulder.
“Now what, my lord?” Mistress Malloy asked.
“You may all return to your beds.” He turned. “And you, as well, Cora.”
“But what about the lass?”
“I’ll sit with her. I’ve no more need for sleep.”
When his elderly butler made ready to pull a second chair beside the bed, Keane shook his head. “Nay, Vinson. You require your sleep for the day to come.”
While the others eagerly sought their beds, Vinson remained a moment longer.
He cleared his throat. His voice was low, so that a passing servant wouldn’t overhear. “I know the battles you fight each night, my lord. And why you have decided to fight for the lass. But this one is futile. You can see that she is at death’s door.”
Keane met the old man’s look. “You know me well, old man. It’s true. I have no desire to face my demons again tonight.” He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, in exactly the same way his father used to. “But this is one battle I don’t intend to lose. Now go. Leave me.”
When the old man shuffled out, closing the door silently, Keane turned to study the lass. Her breathing was ragged, her lips moving in silent protest. Or perhaps prayer.
“Go ahead, little nun. Pray. But I hope you know how to fight as well.” Aye, he could see that she did. By the jut of her chin. By the clench of her fist. The lass was a scrapper.
He sat back, his eyes narrowed in thought. Vinson was right, as always. This was, he realized, the perfect excuse to avoid returning to his own bed. But he had meant what he’d said. This was one battle he intended to win.
Briana lay perfectly still, wondering where she had finally surfaced. Earlier she had visited the fires of hell. She knew it was hell, because she’d felt her flesh burning away from her bones, and her entire body melting. But then, just as she’d resigned herself to that fate, a fate she surely deserved for all the grief she’d given her family, she had found herself thrust into the icy waters of the River Shannon. She’d heard voices coming from somewhere along the shore, but she’d been too weary to open her eyes. And so she had slept and drifted in the calm, soothing waters.
Now she was awake and determined to see where she had landed. Wherever it was, she must have been tossed onto the rocks on shore, for her body felt bruised and battered beyond repair.
Her lids flickered, and light stabbed so painfully she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Gathering her strength, she tried again. Her eyes were gritty, as though she’d been buried in sand. Her throat, too, was dry as dust, and her lips so parched she couldn’t pry them apart with her tongue.
“So, lass. You’re awake.”
At the unexpected sound of a man’s deep voice, she blinked and turned her head to stare at the sight that greeted her. And what a sight. A man, naked to the waist, was seated beside the bed. He leaned close and touched a hand to her brow. Just a touch, but she could feel the strength in his fingers, and could see the ripple of muscle in his arm and shoulder.
“I see the fever has left you.” He could see so much more. Up close, her eyes were gold, with little flecks of green. Cat’s eyes, he thought Wary. Watchful. And her skin was unlike any he’d ever seen. Not the porcelain skin he was accustomed to. Hers was burnished from the sun. But it was as soft as a newborn’s.
That one small touch had caused the strangest sensation. A tingling that started in his fingertips and shot through his system with the speed of a wildfire.
It was the lack of sleep, he told himself. He was beginning to see things that weren’t there. To fancy things that weren’t even possible. The lass in the bed was a nun. Only a fool or a lecher would permit such feelings toward an innocent maiden who’d promised her life in service to God.
“For a while this night, I thought the fever would claim you.”
Briana