she could no longer stand.
Halsey gave her a rough shove and laughed as she dropped to the
ground beside Keane. As she fell, the cap slipped from her head,
revealing the tousled red curls.
"What's this?" Halsey's jaw dropped, and for a moment he couldn't
believe his eyes. Then, grasping her roughly by the arm, he hauled her
to her feet.
His gaze raked her, and she felt soiled by the look in his eyes. He
lifted his hands to her tunic and in one swift motion tore it away. As
the fabric shredded, his eyes narrowed on the pale chemise that barely
covered her breasts.
"A female?" He gave a high, shrill laugh. "Now I've seen everything.
An Irish wench who thinks she can best an English soldier."
He glanced toward Keane, who was struggling to sit up. "Is he the
reason you're here? Did you think you'd save his miserable life?"
She lifted her chin. "Nay. I thought to end yours."
"Hold your tongue, wench." He slapped her so hard her head snapped
to one side. "Or I'll cut it out of that lovely mouth." He gave another
laugh and dragged her into his arms. "But only after I've sampled it
myself."
His sour breath filled her lungs as he covered her mouth with his. His
hands groped her breasts through the thin fabric of her chemise.
Suddenly he released her as his head snapped up, and his body was
jerked violently backward.
Briana watched in stunned amazement as Keane's fist connected with
Halsey's nose, sending a geyser of blood spilling down the front of his
tunic.
"That was for the lady. And this one is for all the people who have
suffered at your hands." Keane slammed his fist into Halsey's
midsection, sending the soldier to his knees.
Enraged, Halsey tossed a handful of dirt in Keane's eyes. Keane
rubbed his fists over his eyes, hoping to clear his vision. As Halsey
struggled to his feet, Keane struck out blindly and connected with
Halsey's chin, sending him sprawling. Struggling for breath, Keane
stood over the soldier, waiting for some sign of fight left in him.
"Come on, Halsey. Don't give up yet. I haven't even started."
"Nor have I." Halsey kept his back to him as he got to his knees. But
when he finally stood, he turned to reveal a knife in his hands. He
slashed out, slicing across Keane's chest, leaving his tunic soaked
with blood. His second slash caught Keane's hand. Within moments
the dirt at their feet ran red with blood.
Seeing Keane's pallor and knowing that he was hanging on by a bare
thread, Halsey caught him by the front of his tunic and lifted the knife
so that the sunlight glinted off the razor-sharp blade. "Now, Irishman,
I'm going to carve up that handsome face. And when I'm through, I'm
going to have my sport with the woman." His laughter was the high,
shrill sound of madness. "And when I'm through with her, she'll know
once and for all time that no man bests Ian Halsey."
As he lowered the knife to Keane's face, his smile froze. His body
stiffened. The hand holding Keane dropped to his side. Then, as if in
slow motion, his legs failed him and he slumped to the ground.
Keane knelt beside him and felt for a pulse. Finding none, he touched
a hand to the hilt of a knife protruding from Halsey's back. Then he
looked up to see Briana standing over him.
"Perhaps no man could best him." Despite her pallor, her voice was
strong. "But this woman did."
Keane started to get to his feet, but the world was beginning to spin.
He sank to his knees and struggled to make sense of his jumbled
thoughts, "...ordered Vinson...keep you locked in your chambers."
"Aye. That was wrong of you, Keane O'Mara. But I used the bed
linens to climb out the balcony. Vinson is probably still guarding my
door, with no clue that I've gone."
"...•not surprised, my fiery little vix..." He rested a moment, gathering
his strength. "What of the battle?"
She peered off into the distance and could hear the roar from the
villagers. Briana could see their wives and children racing across the
fields to share the moment. "I'd say the villagers are already
celebrating their victory."
"...won?"
"Aye. And why not? They had excellent teachers." Seeing his eyes
All the fight had gone out of her. She was, in that instant, a terrified
woman in love.
"Oh, Keane. Oh, my love. Don't leave me now. I couldn't bear it."
The last thing Keane remembered was the taste of Briana's tears upon
his lips, and the sound of her voice, soft and breathless, begging him
to stay with her as she half dragged, half shoved him toward Halsey's
horse.
Chapter Eighteen
"There are no broken bones. None of the wounds appear to be
serious." Mistress Malloy smiled down at the man in the bed.
"Thanks, I'm told, to our lass."
Keane glanced at Briana and squeezed her hand. She was seated
beside the bed, still dressed in the filthy, bloodstained garb of the
stable lad. "Aye. A more docile lass might have given up and
remained in her chambers. But not Briana O'Neil. Praise heaven she
isn't like other women."
Briana merely smiled, content to let the others talk while she basked
in the knowledge that the man she loved was safe.
"Tell me, Vinson." Keane turned to his butler. "Did you never guess
that the lass's chambers were empty?"
"Nay, my lord." The old man looked slightly red- faced. "When it
grew too quiet, I thought she was probably weeping. Or sulking. It's
what most females would do."
"But not our lass." Mistress Malloy's tone was filled with pride. She
started toward the door. "I'll let the villagers know that the lord of
Carrick is in no danger."
"Wait." Keane sat up and carefully swung his legs to the floor.
Despite the fact that his entire body was a mass of pain and bruises,
he refused to give in to the weariness that tugged at him. The people
were waiting. People he had begun to care about very deeply. "I'll tell
them myself. Come, Briana. Let me lean on you."
With his arm around her shoulder, Keane made his way to the
balcony. The moment the crowd below caught sight of him, they let
out a roar of approval.
"Ye're alive then, my lord," one of the men shouted.
"Aye. Are there any dead among us?"
"None, my lord. But a score of wounded."
"Anything serious?"
"None more serious than a few broken bones."
"That greatly relieves my mind." Keane grasped the balcony for
support and lifted Briana's hand in the air. "Know this. Were it not for
the courage of this lovely lady, none of this would have transpired.
Without your training and weapons, the battle would have been over
before it began, with many Irish lives lost. And without her aid, I
surely wouldn't be here now. For it was her weapon that brought
down the soldier who has been the cause of so much pain and
suffering in our land. Ian Halsey is dead, thanks to Briana."
"Three c
heers for the lady, Briana," one of the crowd shouted.
A deafening cheer went up, as Keane lifted Briana's hand to his lips
and stared deeply into her eyes.
She felt her heart leap at the love she could read in those depths.
"Now," he called to those below, "go back to your homes. And give
thanks that we've been delivered, at least for now, from the scourge of
the English."
"If more soldiers come, my lord, we'll be ready for them," someone
shouted.
"Aye," came the roar from the crowd.
Keane and Briana remained on the balcony, watching as the long line
of villagers began to slowly wind its way across the meadow. The
tavern would soon be filled with revelers. As would the village green.
And this night, many a father would hug his children a little tighter.
And many a wife would give thanks for the safe delivery of her man.
Hours later, when Keane and Briana had bathed away the dirt and
blood of battle, they took a quiet meal in Keane's chambers. And
afterward, as they lay together in his bed, staring into the flames of
the fire, they felt humbled by what they had accomplished. And
overwhelmed by what they had almost lost.
The midnight sky was a curtain of black velvet. A path of liquid
golden moonlight spilled across the bed, bathing the two people who
lay side by side.
Briana found it impossible to sleep. The feelings swirling inside her
were too new, too exciting, to permit sleep. And so she lay, watching
the steady rise and fall of Keane's chest.
How had she lived without him for all these years? What strange fate
had brought her to Carrick, to this man, and the wonderful love he
had unlocked in her heart.
She smiled dreamily as she brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. Then
her smile turned to a frown of concern as she noted that his breathing
had become shallow. It was obvious that he was in the throes of a
dream. Not a pleasant one, she realized. For he turned his head from
side to side, as if to avoid something.
"...Alana."
At the sound of his voice whispering a woman's name, her heart
stopped. Not something. Someone.
He moaned in his sleep and touched a hand to his thigh. Briana
studied the raised white scar that ran the length of his left leg, from
thigh to ankle. He had once shrugged it off as simply an old wound.
And she'd been willing to accept that. But there was nothing simple
about it. It must have nearly cost him his life.
He muttered something unintelligible, and sat straight up in bed. His
eyes snapped open. He caught sight of Briana beside him, watching
him.
"You had a bad dream."
"Aye." He pressed an arm to his forehead. He was bathed in sweat.
"Your leg pains you."
"Sometimes." He took several deep breaths to calm his ragged
breathing. He hated the demons. They always caught him unawares,
when he was asleep and most vulnerable. Since his love for Briana
had blossomed, he'd been free of them. But now, perhaps because he
was weakened by the wounds of battle, they were back, haunting him.
"You mentioned a name. Alana." Briana felt him stiffen. At once she
was repentant. "Forgive me, Keane." She turned away. "I had no right
to pry."
When he said nothing she slipped out of bed. "I'll fetch you some
water. Or would you prefer ale?"
"Ale." His tone was flat.
He waited while she poured a tumbler and handed it to him, drinking
it down in one long swallow. As the ale burned a path of fire down his
throat, he took a deep breath.
Then, climbing from bed, he began to pace while Briana stood across
the room, watching him in silence. At last he paused, turned. "I've
kept the truth from you long enough. It's time I told you everything."
"There's no need."
"Aye. There is. I'm tired of living a lie."
At the harshness of his tone Briana waited, afraid to speak, afraid of
what she was about to hear.
He scrubbed his hands over his face. "But where to begin?" Agitated,
he began pacing like a caged animal.
When his pacing stopped, he stared out the balcony window and
spoke in a tone devoid of all emotion. "When my grandfather was
alive, the name O'Mara was a noble one, commanding respect from
all who knew us. He was a man who loved this land and the people
who lived here. After he died, the respect seemed to die with him."
Keane stalked to the fireplace to toss a log on the grate. He stood a
moment, watching as the hot coals ignited the bark, starting a thin
flame along its length.
Keeping his back to her he said, "It was common knowledge that my
father was a wastrel. He had no time for his son, his land, his people.
It wasn't enough that he squandered a fortune on every vice known to
man, but he turned his back on his home as well, choosing to live in
England, where he aligned himself with the king. He even accepted a
title in return for a betrayal of his own countrymen. Which is why, to
this day, I detest the title Lord Alcott." His tone lowered. "You
wondered why I didn't want to involve myself in instructing the men
of Carrick in the use of arms.
It was my father who saw to it that these people were left helpless and
unarmed. He and his friends in England agreed it would be far easier
to conquer men who were without weapons."
Though Briana was shocked at the depth of his father's betrayal, she
gave no reaction, for fear of silencing the anger that had been
festering so long inside him.
He took in a deep breath. "By the time I'd finished my education
abroad, I was so disgusted and disillusioned with my father, I seemed
destined to follow in his footsteps, just to seek revenge. In fact, I did
my best to imitate him, though I told myself it was only to hurt him."
He turned, and Briana could read the misery in his eyes. "After one
particularly decadent period in my life, I was approached by...one of
Ireland's most influential leaders. A man highly regarded by all who
knew him. A man I greatly respected. He suggested that if it were
revenge against my father that I was seeking, he knew of a better way
than the one I was pursuing. When he presented me with his scheme,
I rejected it out of hand. Even I, as low as I had sunk, considered his
plan unconscionable. But he continued to press until he managed to
convince me that I would not only avenge my father's misdeeds, but
would restore the O'Mara family name in the bargain."
"How would you accomplish all this, Keane?"
"By joining my father and his English friends in their pursuit of
pleasure. Something I had become very good at. And when they
trusted me enough to let down their guard, I would be privy to all
their secrets, which I would then relay to known Irish patriots."
For the space of several seconds she went silent, as the truth dawned.
"You were a spy?"
He gave a dry, mirthless laugh. "Some might call it that. I was a drunk
and a cheat. I used everybody, including my own father. I sank so
low, I even
used my father's mistress."
He heard the gasp of surprise and turned away, not wanting to see her
face. With his arms crossed over his chest he paced to the window,
where he stared out at the night-shrouded land.
"Her name was Lady Victoria Cranmer, and she was considered one
of the great beauties of England, with pale yellow hair and skin like
milk."
"Victoria?" This made no sense. The name he had spoken in his sleep
had been Alana.
"Aye. And with hardly any coaxing at all, she betrayed my father and
came to my bed. After that it was a simple matter to make her my
wife."
At that, Briana felt all her breath leave her lungs. She couldn't bear
the pain. Her heart contracted. She had to close her eyes and grip the
edge of the table to keep from being sick. Her mind simply refused to
make sense of this. "You wed?"
"Aye." His voice was harsh. Bitter.
"Did you...love her?"
"Not at first. Perhaps I never really loved her. But I used..her badly.
And I discovered that, beneath the face she showed to others beat a
kind and gentle heart. That discovery was when all my carefully laid
plans began to unravel. Victoria, whose health had always been
fragile, announced that she was with child."
"Child?" Briana could barely get the word out. This was becoming a
nightmare. The man she loved. The man in whom she had placed her
trust. The man she had begun to spin her dreams around. With a wife
and child. It was all too much.
"Aye. A wee lass. Born too soon, leaving her small and fragile.
Though I would never be certain if she was my child or my father's, I
claimed her as my own. It was then my father chose to take his own
life."
"Oh, dear heaven." Briana moaned aloud. The horror of this was
growing, layer upon layer, with every word from his lips. She
couldn't even find any words of consolation for the death of his
father. And so she remained silent.
"We named the child Alana."
Briana blinked. At last, there was the name she had heard. Not his
wife. His daughter.
"When last seen, she was a beautiful little infant, with her mother's
lovely, perfect features, and the dark hair that was so much a part of
the O'Mara heritage." He picked up the framed miniature from his
night table. In a blur of pain, Briana studied it.
"When last seen?" Her head came up sharply. "Does her mother not