Rory

There was a moment of silence, and AnnaClaire held her breath.

“Nay. He lives. Praise heaven.” Bridget crossed herself.

AnnaClaire stared at the ever-widening pool of blood. “If you care about this man, why did no one see to his wounds?”

Tavis looked up. “He wouldn’t permit it until all his men were cared for. I’ve been scouring the city for safe shelter for them.”

“I should think that would be no problem, considering how highly everyone seems to regard their.” AnnaClaire wrinkled her nose. “.Blackhearted O’Neil.”

“Aye, my lady. But after that confrontation on the docks today the queen’s emissaries have issued a proclamation. Anyone found harboring Rory O’Neil or his men will be considered an enemy of the Crown, and will be hanged.”

“Hanged?” AnnaClaire’s outrage grew. “And knowing that, you brought him to my home?”

“He is dying, my lady.” Tavis paused. “We had no way of taking him elsewhere. It was dangerous enough getting him away from the docks. Had it not been for your carriage, and your lap robe, even that couldn’t have been accomplished.” He brightened. “Besides, since you are considered English, my lady, the law would not apply to you. You could always claim rightly that you knew nothing about this.”

AnnaClaire found herself studying these two people with new respect. She had known them all her life. Had spent an occasional summer here, escaping the noise and crowds of London. Yet she had never thought of these two quiet, humble people as particularly courageous. Until this moment.

“You would be able to make no such claim for yourselves. Yet you would risk your lives for this stranger?”

Tavis nodded. “Rory O’Neil risks his life every day for his people, my lady. We can do no less for him. With your permission we’d like to bind bis wounds.”

“And then what?” AnnaClaire folded her arms. “He is mortally wounded. But even if he should live, how could you possibly smuggle him out of Dublin?”

The old man scratched his chin. “We haven’t thought that far, my lady. First we must keep him alive.”

“And where do you propose to hide him for the night?”

Tavis got to his feet. “In the stables, with your permission.”

AnnaClaire shook her head. “That will involve too many people. The stable master. The lads who muck the stalls. The less people who know, the better chance you have of keeping your secret.” She tapped a foot, her mind working feverishly. She wasn’t even aware that she was becoming caught up in a deadly game. To her, this was merely a chance to use her wits and her cunning, to help these two old people who had been with her family for so many years. “Your best course of action is to hide him where no one has any chance of coming upon him by accident.” She suddenly smiled, pointed. “I know. The little attic room above mine.”

Tavis and Bridget exchanged surprised glances. Did the lady know what she was saying?

“No one can get in or out of that room without going through your bedchamber, my lady.”

“Exactly. Not even Glinna will be aware of our secret guest.”

“But how will we be able to care for him up there?”

AnnaClaire shrugged. “I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose it will fall to me. But considering how long I cared for my mother, it will be nothing new.”

Before she could change her mind, Tavis bent and struggled to lift the unconscious Rory. “It is a grand plan, my lady. But I fear not even the three of us could get him up those stairs.”

“He must walk.” She caught up the skirt of her nightshift, careful to avoid his blood, and knelt beside the still figure. “Rory. Rory O’Neil.”

At her commanding tone he opened his eyes and stared vacantly.

“We’re going to take you up now. But you must help us.”

“Take…me…up…” He smiled. “Aye. Will I. finally see my Caitlin?”

AnnaClaire turned to Bridget. “What is he babbling about?”

“He thinks he has died, my lady.”

“I see.” She bent close. “Rory O’Neil. Take my hand.”

“With…pleasure.”

Despite his injuries, his grip was surprisingly strong. As his fingers closed around AnnaClaire’s she felt a rush of heat that left her thoroughly shaken.

“Here, Tavis.” She sought to ignore the tingling along her spine. “Take his other hand.”

The two of them managed to haul him to his feet. Then, draping his arms about their shoulders, they began moving ever so slowly up the stairs. When they reached AnnaClaire’s room, they opened a door that led to a narrow staircase. By the time they reached the little attic room all of them were out of breath and Rory’s wounds were bleeding profusely. They eased him onto the bed, then AnnaClaire stepped back and watched as Bridget and Tavis began cutting away his bloody clothes. The extent of his wounds sickened her, and she found herself wondering how he could bear the pain.

Bridget speared her with a glance. “Perhaps you should leave now, my lady. This won’t be pleasant.”

It was all AnnaClaire needed to stiffen her spine. “I don’t expect it to be any more pleasant than was the care of my mother. But if I could care for her all those long months, I can certainly help bind this man’s wounds.” At once she took charge. “We’ll need clean linens, Bridget. And some opiates.”

“Aye, my lady.” The housekeeper beckoned to her husband. “We’ll need hot water, Tavis.”

When the two were gone, AnnaClaire stared down at the still figure on the bed. Until this moment she hadn’t given a thought to what she was getting herself into. Now, suddenly, she had to question her sanity. How had she agreed to hide a murderer in her own home? A man considered an enemy of the Crown. If he were found here, all of them could be hanged.

Sweet heaven. What would her father have to say about all this if he should learn the truth?

She pushed the worrisome thoughts from her mind and set to work cutting away the rest of his clothes. She would simply have to see that her father never learned of this. By this time tomorrow Rory O’Neil would most probably be dead. If by some miracle he survived, she would send him on his way and look back on this as a momentary madness.

“There now. We’ve done all we can. The rest is in God’s hands, my lady.” Bridget smoothed the covers over the still figure of Rory O’Neil and got to her feet. “Now you’d best get some sleep.”

“I will. Now remember. Trust no one. Not even Glinna.”

“Aye.” Tavis held the door, then trailed behind the two women as they descended the stairs. “The little chambermaid would never be able to keep such a secret. She’d have to boast to all her friends that she knew the whereabouts of the Blackhearted O’Neil. And in no time all of Dublin would know, as well.”

When they reached AnnaClaire’s room, Bridget caught her hand and brought it to her lips. “Bless you, my lady, for your compassion. I’ll not soon forget what you did this night.”

“Nor I, my lady.” Tavis did the same, bowing over her hand. “You are an angel of mercy.”

Or a fool, AnnaClaire thought as she secured the door behind them. What had she been thinking? She crossed to her bed and, ignoring the bloodstains on her nightclothes, climbed between the covers. But she was far too agitated to sleep. Instead she lay, watching the stars and thinking about the man asleep one floor above her.

If she were caught harboring this criminal, she couldn’t plead ignorance. She knew exactly what she was doing. And, if she wanted to be completely honest with herself, she knew why.

One look at him and she’d been hopelessly lost. This Irish warrior who had leapt into battle and had fought so fearlessly, had kindled a flame in her silly, romantic heart. In her life she’d never seen anyone quite like him. The titled Englishmen she’d met at Court were bland by comparison.

When she had cut away his tunic she’d been amazed by the muscles of his arms and chest. And horrified by. the scars of battle. There was something so touching about this man and his dedication. The story that Tavis had told her lingered in her mind. Love such as that experienced by Rory O’Neil for his intended bride was rare indeed.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep. But the enormity of what she had done had her twitching with nerves. When she suddenly heard a loud thud above her head, she bounded from bed and raced up the stairs.

Rory was on the floor, thrashing around in the bed linens.