in an attic room of my home, Clay Court, in Dublin.”
“Your home, is it?”
“It’s been in my mother’s family for generations.”
“And what might her name be?”
“It was Margaret Doyle.”
Was. He heard the pain in that one word and decided not to press further. “And what might your name be?”
“My name is AnnaClaire.”
“Well, AnnaClaire, if you don’t mind, I’ll take that potion now.” The pain was raging out of control, setting his entire body on fire.
She sprinkled some powder into a tumbler of water, then sat on the edge of the bed. Very gently she lifted his head and held the glass to his lips.
“Has anyone ever told you you have a very gentle touch, AnnaClaire?”
“Are you trying to charm me, Rory O’Neil?”
“Is it working?”
“I think you’d better save that charm for another time. Now drink.”
He swallowed, wondering if anything could put out the flame that raged through his blood. A flame that had flared higher when she touched him.
“Now I must leave you,” she said as she lowered his head to the pillow. Taking a spotless handkerchief from her pocket she mopped the sweat from his face.
He caught her hand. “Aye, a very gentle touch.”
She struggled to ignore the feelings of pleasure that he aroused in her. “My bedchamber is directly below here. When it is safe to return, I shall. But you must not call out or make any sound. Is that clear?”
“Why?”
“Because we must keep your presence here a secret. Since that scene at the docks, there is more than a price on your head, Rory O’Neil. It has been decreed that anyone found harboring you or your men shall be hanged.”
“Bloody English,” he muttered. Then to her he said, “I understand. Have no fear, lovely AnnaClaire. Even if I find myself dying, I’ll see to it that I do so in silence, so as not to call attention to myself.” A shadow of a smile flickered across his lips, making him even more handsome.
“I’ll hold you to that.” She crossed the room and let herself out without a backward glance.
Rory lay very still, allowing the opiates to weave their magic. As he drifted once more to sleep, he found himself wondering if the lovely AnnaClaire was real, or a product of his befuddled brain. Either way, she was the most beautiful creature he’d either seen or conjured. All tiny and slender and golden, with skin like porcelain and a full, pouty mouth that could trap a man with one kiss.
Her hair wasn’t black as a raven’s wing, as Caitlin’s had been. And her eyes weren’t blue. For all of his life, his beloved Caitlin had been the measure of all other women. And not one had ever come close to her beauty. But right now, try as he might, he could no longer hold on to her fading image.
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