“But there are no soldiers here, Rory O’Neil. You’re safely hidden away.”
He gave her a long, thoughtful look. “So you say. But how can I be sure?”
“You have my word. Isn’t that enough?”
He nodded. “Aye. It is. If you say it is.”
“You’d be wise to save your strength and give your wounds a chance to heal.”
“So I would.” He relaxed his grip and allowed her to mop up the fresh flow of blood. But he didn’t completely let go of her, instead keeping his fingers wrapped lightly around her wrist. “Old habits are hard to break.”
While she bent to her task, she could feel him boldly studying her. It brought a flush to her cheeks. Worse, she knew her pulse was racing. Knew, too, that he could feel it at her wrist.
To cover her confusion she poured a liberal amount of spirits on the wound. “This will hurt a bit.” She heard his quick intake of breath. “Hold still now while I tie this clean linen.” She glanced down and realized that he was still staring at her. Only now his gaze was fixed on her mouth. Her throat went dry. Their lips were so close they were almost touching. She need only make the slightest move to taste him.
As if reading her mind he drew her fractionally closer. “You smell like my mother’s rose garden.”
She swallowed, and it sounded overloud in her ears. She knew he could hear the tremor in her voice. “I’m not your mother, Rory O’Neil.”
“I never had a minute’s doubt of that.” His lips curved in a dangerous smile. “I never wanted to kiss my mother the way I want to kiss you.”
She braced a hand against his chest, intending. to push away. “Don’t….”
Her protest was swallowed as his mouth covered hers.
His lips were warm and firm and practiced. They moved over hers, tasting, teasing.
At the first contact her breath backed up in her throat. She would have pulled back but he had anticipated her move and now held her firmly against him. He pressed a palm to the back of her head while his other hand slid across her shoulder and along her back. And all the while his lips moved over hers until she could no longer hold back a sigh of pleasure.
“Let this be a lesson to you, AnnaClaire. Never tell me what to do,” he muttered against her mouth. “There’s just something in my nature that refuses to accept orders.”
She took in a deep breath, feeling her head swimming. “I’ll remember that in the future. Now release me, Rory O’Neil.”
He flashed that dangerous smile, and she realized, too late, her mistake.
“You see?” He framed her face with his hands. “You’ve done it again.” With no effort at all he drew her head down for another drugging kiss. This time his fingers tangled in her hair, and, while her senses were still reeling, he kissed her until she was breathless.
He knew the exact moment when her resistance gradually turned into acquiescence. Her hands, which had been pressed firmly against his chest, now lifted to encircle his neck. Her breasts were flattened against him in a most enticing manner. She lay, warm and pliant, in his arms.
Arousal was swift, insistent. He felt the rush of desire pulse through him before he carefully banked it.
In one smooth motion he caught her firmly by the shoulders and held her a little away. It was all the time he needed to clear his head and calm his pounding heart.
“I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Never tell me what to do.”
Her eyes darkened with anger. Though it was difficult to speak, when her heart was still tumbling helplessly inside her chest, she managed a note of sarcasm. “You mean, in order to keep this from happening again, I ought to order you to kiss me?”
He threw back his head and laughed. What a delight she was. “Do you take me for a complete fool? Whether you told me to kiss you or not, you’re too lovely to resist. I’d simply have to kiss you.”
“And I simply have to leave you.”
“Now? Before you’ve properly tended my needs?”
“Your needs.” She tossed down the square of linen and indicated the tray on the night table. “Last night I feared you would die in your bed. But you’re far from dead, Rory O’Neil. Any man strong enough to hold a woman can surely hold his own bowl of broth. I hope you find Bridget’s soup as appetizing as her porridge.”
“I’m sure I will.”
When she yanked open the door he added, “But it won’t be nearly as pleasant without you feeding it to me.”
In reply she pulled the door firmly shut behind her.
When she reached her own room, she sank down onto the edge of the bed and pressed a hand to her lips. They were still tingling from the touch of his mouth. And his dark, dangerous taste still clung to them.
This was a foolish game she was playing. All because she had allowed this Irish warrior to touch some romantic chord in her heart. She wouldn’t be the first maiden to have her heart broken by a rogue. But, she reminded herself, there was more than her heart at stake here. She was playing a game with people’s lives. And the consequences could be deadly.
“How are you finding your first visit to Ireland, Lord Dunstan?” Since her hostess had insisted upon seating AnnaClaire beside the handsome young visitor, she had no choice but to attempt pleasant conversation with this dour, brooding man. Apparently she was the only female in the room who hadn’t fallen under the spell of his chilling smile and icy gray eyes.
“Fascinating. From what I’ve seen, a savage land. And savage people.” He acknowledged the nods of agreement around the table. “Were it not for meeting you, my lady, I would have returned to England without a single good thing to say for my time spent here.”
She felt his knee nudge hers beneath the table cover. When she moved aside, he shifted closer, so that she couldn’t escape his touch.
“I’ve had the good fortune of meeting your father several times in London, my lady.” He laid a hand over hers, pressing firmly when she tried to pull it away. It was obvious that he enjoyed being the center of attention. Knowing that the others were watching and listening, he began to play to his audience. “Had I known that Lord Thompson’s daughter was so lovely, I would have made the journey across the Channel much sooner.” If he felt her cringe, he took no notice of it.
“I wish we could persuade you to stay a while longer, Lord Dunstan.” Lady Thornly sipped her wine, thoroughly enjoying the company of her countrymen. “I grow so weary of this local dialect, and do so yearn to be among my own kind and hear the language spoken as it was meant to be.”
The young man gave her his most charming smile. “Perhaps you should sell your estates to me, Lady Thornly. Then you could return to England to live out your years among your own kind.”
“As if you need more land.” She waved a hand in dismissal and laughed like a coquette.
The others joined her laughter. It was common knowledge that Lynley Lord Dunstan was quickly becoming one of the richest men in England.
A gentleman across the table said, “You were recently at Court with Her Majesty, Dunstan. How does Elizabeth intend to deal with this Irish problem?”
The young man puffed up his chest. His father and grandfather had held important positions with Elizabeth’s father, Henry VIII. A grateful king had granted them generous sections of land, and several of the most beautiful homes in England. The