Rory

AnnaClaire knelt beside him and caught his hands to still his movements.

“Rory O’Neil. Can you hear me?”

His movements stilled. His eyes opened. “My…sword. Need…weapon.”

“Have no fear. There is no one here who will harm you.”

“My…sword.”

She sighed. “I’ll fetch it. But first you have to get back into bed.” She urged him upward, but her strength was no match for his. When he tugged on her hands, she was forced back to her knees.

“Where…am…I?”

“You’re in my home. Clay Court. In Dublin.”

“Dublin.” He closed his eyes. “Not heaven.” A moment later they snapped open. “Who…are…you?”

“My name is AnnaClaire.”

He struggled to focus on her face. Then for a moment the pain lifted and his eyes were lit with a smile. “Ah. My…angel.”

“Come now, Rory. You have to get back into bed.”

She tugged on his hands, and this time he managed to lever himself back to the edge of the mattress.

As he slowly sank back against the pillows, his face revealed his pain. “Need…weapons.”

“You have no need…”

“Weapons.” His voice was little more than a croak. But the passion, the fervor, still rang.

“Very well.” She crossed the room and picked up his sword, surprised at how heavy it was. The hilt was an intricately carved coat of arms, encrusted with jewels. “Here is your sword.”

She placed it beside him in the bed and noted how his hand curled around the hilt.

“More.”

“More weapons?”

He nodded.

She searched among his things and discovered two knives. It would seem this warrior took nothing for granted. When she handed them to him, he positioned one beneath each hand. Only then did he give in to the weariness and close his eyes.

She realized that this was what he’d been seeking when he slipped from his bed. Despite the seriousness of his wounds, he had fought through the pain to search for his weapons. He would be a warrior, she supposed, until death claimed him.

“I’ll leave you now,” she whispered.

“Stay.”

She dropped to her knees beside the bed. “Why? What is it? Are you afraid?”

“Of…dying?” He shook his head. “I welcome…death. But stay, angel. Be my guide…as I leave this world.”

“You aren’t going to die, Rory O’Neil.” Though she spoke fiercely enough, the very thought of it had her trembling.

“Did He…tell you?”

“He? Oh, you mean God.” She nearly laughed. “I’m afraid He doesn’t speak to me directly. But I have it on good authority that your wounds, though painful, are not fatal.” She hoped she would be forgiven for her lie. But she desperately wanted to offer him hope.

“Then why.are you here?”

She touched a hand to his lips to silence him. “No more questions. You must sleep if you’re to heal.”

When she started to remove her hand he surprised her by placing his fingers over hers and holding them to his mouth. The press of his lips against her flesh caused a rush of feelings that were so startling, all she could do was stare at him.

“Just stay. A little.while longer.”

Each word he whispered against her hand sent another jolt surging through her already charged system. Had he asked for the moon, she’d have tried to get it. As long as he continued touching her just so.

“All right, Rory O’Neil.” She smoothed the bed linens as she had seen Bridget do, then settled herself into a chaise beside the bed. “Just a little while longer.”

She. watched the uneven rise and fall of his chest, willing each breath, praying to hold off his death for a few moments longer, until sleep claimed her.

The opiates had long ago worn off, and Rory’s body was engulfed in fire. Pain, a burning, blazing pain, radiated from his shoulder and his back to the very tips of his fingers and toes. His closed eyes felt hot and gritty. His temples throbbed as though they would burst at any moment.

Because the simplest movement added to his pain, he forced himself to lie perfectly still. Sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip, but he had not the strength to lift a hand.

It occurred to him that, although his own breathing was shallow and unsteady, there was another sound close by. A soft, rhythmic sound. Like the whisper of an angel.

His eyes opened. He beheld a most wondrous sight. A chaise had been pulled close beside him. In it was a woman asleep. Her feet were tucked under her, her cheek resting on her clasped hands. Hair the color of spun gold drifted around her face and shoulders.

He had thought he’d only dreamed her. But she was real. As if to prove it to himself, he reached out a hand and touched a strand of her hair. It was as soft as angel down.

In her sleep she brushed aside his hand, then lifted her head and opened her eyes. For a moment he could read her confusion. Then those eyes, the color of the sea after a storm, suddenly cleared.

She shifted, swinging her feet to the floor. “You’re alive, Rory O’Neil.”

“Am I?”

“How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been run through by a score of English swords.”

“From the looks of the scars on your body, you have been.” She motioned toward the table against the far wall. “I can give you a potion to ease the pain.”

“And I’ll gladly take it. In a moment. Right now I’d like to keep a clear head.”

“Why is that?”