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Briana. Ruth Langan
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He found her voice a pleasant change from the shrill voices of the serving wenches. It was low, cultured, breathless. But he couldn’t be certain if it was her natural voice, or the result of her injuries. At any rate, he was anxious to hear her speak again. “And why did you think that?”
She shook her head. “I know not. The fever, I suppose. I began to think of you as my dark angel.”
“Perhaps I am.” His features remained solemn, with no hint of laughter in his voice. “My name is Keane. Keane O’Mara. Carrick House is my ancestral home.”
He offered his hand and she had no choice but to accept. Would she ever get used to touching again? “My name is Briana O’Neil.”
The moment was awkward and uncomfortable. As soon as their hands touched, they felt the rush of heat. At once they each pulled away.
“O’Neil? Where is your home?”
“Ballinarin.”
He arched a brow. “I know of it. You’re a long way from home.”
The mere thought of it had her aching for that dear place. “Aye.”
He heard the loneliness in that single word, spoken like a sigh. “Have you been gone a long time?”
“Three years.”
His glance fell on the cross, lying on the bed linen beside her hand.
Seeing the direction of his gaze, her fingers closed around it, finding comfort in something so familiar. “I’ve been at the Abbey of St. Claire.”
He nodded. “I know of it, as well. At least a day’s ride from here. What brought you to our village?”
“I was passing through.” She sighed, thinking of the eagerness with which she’d taken her leave of the convent. “We’d gone only a day’s ride when the soldiers attacked.”
“Who were the lads accompanying you?”
“Lads from our village. Sent by my family to escort me.” She looked away. “How odd, that I should be the one to live. They will never see their families again.”
He could hear the break in her voice and knew that she was close to tears. “I’ll see that a lad from the village is dispatched at once to your home with the news that you are alive and will be returned as soon as your health permits.”
“That’s most kind of you.”
He pushed back his chair and crossed to the side table. “My housekeeper sent up a tray. Could you manage a little broth?”
“Nay.” She shook her head.
“Nonsense.” Ignoring her protest, he filled a cup with broth and set it beside the bed. Then, without waiting for her permission, he reached down and lifted her to a sitting position, plumping pillows behind her.
He had thought, now that she had confirmed his suspicions that she was truly a nun, that the touch of her would no longer affect him. He’d been wrong. He couldn’t help but notice the thin, angular body beneath the prim nightshift. And the soft swell of breasts that were pressed against his chest, causing a rush of heat that left him shaken.
It had been a long time since he’d known such feelings. Feelings he’d buried, in the hope they would never surface again. Now that he was touching her, there was nothing to do but finish the task at hand. Then, hopefully, he could put some distance between himself and this woman.
For Briana it was even more disturbing. The mere touch of him had her nerves jumping. But it wasn’t this man, she told herself. It was the fact that she had been isolated for too long. Anyone’s touch would have had the same effect.
He picked up the cup. “Can you manage yourself? Or would you like some help?”
Her tone was sharper than she intended, to hide her discomfort. “I thank you, but I can feed myself.”
When she reached out to accept the cup, she was shocked to feel pain, hot and sharp, shooting along her arm. A cry escaped her lips before she could stop it.
“Careful.” His tone was deliberately soft, to soothe the nerves she couldn’t hide. “You sustained quite a wound in that shoulder. Another, more serious, in the chest. Had the blade found your heart, you would have never survived.”
Before she could reach out again, he sat on the edge of the bed and held the cup to her lips. It was an oddly intimate gesture that let him study her carefully as she sipped, swallowed. He could see her watching him from beneath lowered lashes.
To steady her nerves, and his own, he engaged her in conversation.
“Do you recall anything of the battle?”
“I see it constantly in my dreams. But when I’m awake it’s gone, like wisps of smoke caught by the wind.”
“Do you recall how many soldiers there were?”
She avoided his eyes. They were too dark, too intense. “I don’t recall.”
“It would have been a fearsome sight, especially for one who has been so sheltered.” He understood how the mind could reject such horrors.
She shivered. “What I do recall was the sight of so many helpless people cut down without a chance to defend themselves. There were but a few knives and swords among them.”
“The people are ill-prepared for English soldiers.” A fact he bitterly resented, for it had been his own father’s doing. Still, there was nothing to be done about it now. “But it would seem that you put up quite a fight.”
For the first time she smiled, and he realized how truly lovely those full, pouty lips were when they curved upward. “I didn’t always live in a convent. I know how to wield a sword with as much skill as my brothers. In fact, if I were still living at Ballinarin, I’d probably be able to best them by now.”
He tipped the cup to her lips again. “Then perhaps it’s fortunate that you went to live with the good sisters. I’m not sure Ireland is ready to be led into battle by a lass.”
“Spoken like a man.” His words reminded her of her father’s cruel, hateful words hurled in anger so long ago. She pushed his hand away, refusing any more broth.
He glanced down at the cup. “Have you had enough?”
“Aye. Thank you.” And enough of him, sitting too close, causing her heart to do all manner of strange things.
“How did you come by a weapon with which to defend yourself?”
“I pulled it from the heart of a lad who had died defending me.”
He studied her a moment, hearing not just the words, but the underlying fierceness in her tone. What an odd little female. He’d always thought nuns would be more concerned with peace than war.
He stood and returned the cup to the tray. But when he glanced at the figure in the bed, he could see her rubbing her shoulder. The look in her eyes told him she was struggling for composure. Aye, a most peculiar little creature who was trying desperately to be strong despite overwhelming odds.
“There’s an opiate here for pain. I think you ought to take it now.”
“Aye.” She nodded, and was grateful when he offered her the tumbler of liquid.
When she had drained it he set the empty tumbler aside and helped her to settle into a more comfortable position. It was shocking to feel his arms around her as he lifted her slightly, removing the pillows from behind her back. Then he swept aside the bed linens and laid her down, before returning the covers. As he smoothed them over her, his hands stilled their movements.
“You’re so thin. Didn’t they feed you in the convent?”
Her face flamed. “They fed us. Though no amount of food would be enough, considering the work we were expected