Rory (2 page)

“Thank you, sir,” Edward said, escorting him out of the chamber. He was shutting the door when he paused. “Let me know if you need anything, Shannon.”

Shannon nodded. “I will.”

Shannon rinsed the rag in the bowl of cool water that sat on a side table beside the bed and looked at her patient. Even pale and wounded, he was beauty personified. A living testament to the male form, like Adonis, so striking he made one pause.

She recalled when last she’d seen him. He’d visited Lady Graston at her London townhouse, and Shannon had served him tea while he awaited Lady Marilyn’s arrival. The way he’d watched her through those long, thick lashes had made her nervous. She’d been so dumbstruck by his beauty and attention that it was all she could do to remember her own name.

His hair had been long then, but now it was downright rakish, falling past his broad shoulders and curling up at the ends. His nose was perfectly proportioned, his lips full and lovely, and his teeth white and straight.

With a trembling hand, she wiped his brow with the cool rag, past a chiseled cheekbone, over the strong jaw and chin, to his neck. His pulse fluttered erratically at the base of his throat, and she circled it with her index finger.

Her gaze lingered over his wide chest and flat, muscled belly. She noted a long, silver scar that ran along his ribs, and wondered if, like his current injury, the old wound had been compliments of another woman’s husband.

Such a scandalous reputation.

Her cheeks turned pink as her gaze shifted to the sheet that hung low at his hips. Why was it when she was around him she
felt hot and sensitive, her nipples tight, and the blood in her veins burned?

As she stared at him, she could not help but wonder what it would feel like to be taken by him, to be one of his many lovers.

Glancing at the sheets bunched about his groin, she once again wet the rag and squeezed out the excess water. Her pulse skittered as her hand moved down the thick cords of his neck, over the wide chest, taking great care to avoid his wound, and swirling around the flat disk of a nipple, before sliding over the muscled planes of his belly.

His cock bucked beneath the sheets. She gasped and swallowed past the tightness of her throat. Before she knew what she was doing, her hand hovered over the sheet, directly above his manhood. Just one peek, that’s all. Nothing more.

She glanced at the door, then ever so slightly pulled the sheet down. Her thighs tightened as she stared at the impressive cock: long and thick, and heavily veined with a plum-sized crown. Warmth swirled in her stomach and lower still.

The chamber door creaked open and she jumped, yanking the sheet up with a yelp.

“How is he doing?” Zachary asked, shutting the door firmly behind him.

With heart pumping nearly out of her chest, she released an inward sigh of relief. Thank goodness it was just her brother. Hoping he had not seen what she’d been doing, she licked her dry lips. “It is difficult to say. I just hope he continues to sleep through the night.”

“He is fortunate,” Zachary said, looking and sounding distracted. “Many would not survive such a wound.”

Shannon nodded in agreement and set the rag back into the bowl. “Indeed. I have heard it whispered that he is experienced
on the dueling field. The other servants were saying the pistol must have jammed, else the opponent would have never gotten a shot off.”

“Or perhaps his luck has run out.”

The words held an ominous undertone. She stared at Zachary and could see concern in his eyes.

Fear rushed along her spine. “What is it, Zach?”

He pressed his lips together. His throat convulsed as he swallowed hard. “I’m afraid
our
luck has run out, Shannon.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, and she could hear the fear in her voice.

“Clinton has found us.”

S
hannon’s heartbeat was a roar in her ears. “Do you mean to tell me you saw Clinton?”

Zachary shook his head. “No, not Clinton. But there was a man that followed me from the livery into the tobacco shop.

Whenever I looked over my shoulder, there he was, staring at me.”

“Perhaps you looked familiar to him?” “It is possible,” he said in a voice that suggested no such thing. “But every time I glanced at him, he quickly looked away. I have a bad feeling, Shannon. The hair on my neck was standing on end, and I could not shake the feeling of doom I experienced. He has found us. I feel it in my bones.”

She hated such talk. For these past six months Zachary had been her rock, the strong one, and she had looked to him to keep her focused and positive. She didn’t like hearing him sound so defeated. “What did he look like?”

“I would say fifty years old or so. He had a stocky build, gray hair, and a thick mustache.” “How did you lose him?”

“I darted down an alleyway and passed through the back door of a restaurant.”

“He didn’t follow you down the alley?”

“I didn’t stick around long enough to find out. I was supposed to return to the park to meet Floyd, but I couldn’t take the chance in returning just in case the gray-haired man had seen me.”

Floyd was Lord and Lady Graston’s senior coachman, who had taken Zachary under his wing. The older man often brought him along on errands. “You walked back?”

“Ran is more like it. Floyd picked me up en route. I know he thought I was crazy, especially when I told him that I didn’t see him at the park and decided to walk back to the manor. I don’t think he believed me. In fact, he kept asking if I was all right.”

The last thing they needed was to raise suspicion among their peers. “Well, at least you weren’t followed back to the manor.”

Zachary raked a hand through his long blond locks. “We need to be on alert. If we see this man again, I’m afraid we might have to start running.”

Always it was running. Fear of discovery had been plaguing them since leaving Ireland. Each place they went, they took on one miserable job after another. They rarely spoke of the future anymore, both of them uncertain if they would ever have the freedom they craved.

Working for Lord and Lady Graston had been their best jobs so far, and they both counted the day that Lord Graston walked into Lady Dante’s dress shop as one of the luckiest days of their lives.

Because of that fateful encounter, they now had a roof over their heads and three meals a day, plus a generous wage they could not possibly make anywhere else. Lord and Lady Gras-
ton had taken them into their household and treated them like family, and the thought of leaving was excruciating.

Some of the fear she was experiencing must have shown on her face because Zachary squeezed her hand. “Do not fret, sister. We just need to be vigilant. Maybe like you said, the man was merely going in the same direction … but just to be cautious, I shall request all errands be done by another.”

“I think that is wise.”

“And you should stay close to the manor as well,” he said, walking across the room and looking out the window.

Her stomach twisted into a knot. And here she had started to relax, to not fear and always look over her shoulder. In fact, she had enjoyed her days off where she would go into the city. It had been nice to just get away from the manor. And Shannon had savored those trips, enjoying watching the sights: the finely dressed ladies in their expensive gowns as they walked before pretty storefronts, and handsome men in tailored suits who did more perusing of women than they did the merchandise in the windows.

Those trips served to remind her of the days she and her mother had gone shopping. Her father, though not a titled lord, had made his fortune in business and, in turn, had become a respected member of society. Her family had dined with the wealthiest, most influential people of Ireland, and her parents had hoped she would make a good marriage.

That is, until her parents’ untimely death six months ago, when the fire their cousin, Clinton, had started had taken their lives. Her parents had taken in Clinton as a child when his father had been killed in a hunting accident. Her father had given Clinton a home and, as he grew to manhood, a place in his company. Clinton had enjoyed all the luxuries his position had afforded him, but it wasn’t enough.

On the night of March 12, under the cover of darkness, he had started the blaze.

Unable to sleep that night, Zachary, smelling smoke and hearing the crackling and popping sounds, looked out the window and saw flames racing up the side of the manor house.

He also saw Clinton walking away from the house and then standing in the shadows of the stables as the manor, where he had been lovingly raised, burned, along with the only family he had.

What no one else knew was that Shannon herself had been awake that night. She’d been unable to sleep after Clinton’s discussion with her father. She’d lingered outside the study, surprised at the raised voices she heard on the other side of the door. Clinton had asked her father for a thousand pounds to pay off some bad business dealings. Irritated by his nephew’s lack of judgment and rumors of a healthy gambling habit, her father had refused him. Clinton had gone into a tirade and left the house.

She had figured he would blow off steam, but he had done more than that. She heard booted footsteps in the house. Heard the unmistakable sound of wood crackling as the fire worked its way up the stairs, mingling with her mother’s screams. Zachary had burst through her chamber door, his eyes wild, confirming what she already knew.

Their parents were dead, and she would never again be the same.

A moan brought her back to the present, and she glanced at her patient. Rory whispered something she could not understand; when he tried to move, he moaned.

“I have made you fret now,” Zachary said in a tense voice. “That was not my intention. I just wanted you to know.”

“You did the right thing in telling me, Zachary. And you are right. We must do everything we can to stay close to the manor, and pray that he did not follow you here.”

“I had better go,” Zachary said, already heading for the door. “Don’t worry, Shannon. As long as we are together, we’ll be all right.”

A cold breeze washed over Rory and he flinched.

He had heard voices earlier. Voices with prevalent Irish accents. He’d tried to listen, to follow the conversation, but gave in to the blackness that beckoned.

Every once in a while he heard a calm and soothing voice talking to him, and a gentle hand on his brow, telling him that he would be fine.

Try as he might, he had not been able to open his eyes to that sweet tone and had shortly fallen back into a fitful slumber.

“There, there, beautiful,” a woman cooed, and he slowly opened his eyes.

He shifted slightly and winced as a sharp pain tore through his shoulder. His mind scrambled as he tried to focus, and everything slowly came back to him. He had been in a duel with Lord Cordland. The other man had shot him in the shoulder; then Rory had, in turn, killed him.

Only one other time he had been wounded in a duel, and that had been by way of a sword attack when his opponent had struck him across the ribs. The wound had bled like crazy, and had cost him twenty stitches and a scar that constantly reminded him of that stupid liaison he’d had with the head of Parliament’s wife. Truth be told, she hadn’t been worth the time or effort.

The woman with him now hummed lightly and stared at his cock with obvious interest. He smiled inwardly. If he had to hazard a guess, he had the feeling she was contemplating taking advantage of him.

And he might just let her.

His cock, having a mind of its own, responded, thrusting toward his navel.

“Oh my,” she gasped, glancing up at him. “My lord, you are awake.”

“Yes, I am awake,” he repeated the obvious, and was surprised when his voice came out low and raspy.

A blush rushed up her cheeks, staining them a flattering pink. Close to his age, she had a heart-shaped faced, a bow of a mouth, and amber eyes that were brimming with a desire he recognized only too well. Her curly light brown hair was in a loose bun, tendrils framing her flushed cheeks. “Would you like water, my lord?”

He nodded, his gaze shifting to her large breasts.

She lifted the glass to his lips and watched intently as he took a long drink. Her nipples were erect, straining against the fabric of her uniform. Such lovely, full tits.

“There, there, only a little,” she said, setting the glass down on a nearby table. She stuck her ass out and turned to him with a smile. “Can I get you anything else, my lord?”

His lips quirked and his gaze shifted down her body and up again. She had a pleasing figure: a tiny waist, curvaceous hips, and plump bottom. She licked her lips and glanced at his rigid cock once more, before looking toward the closed door. Biting her lower lip, she lifted her skirts high enough to kneel upon the mattress and proceeded to straddle his hips, all without him saying or suggesting a thing.

Taking hold of his cock in one hand, she fisted it, then slid her hand up and down his length. “You’re a big one, aren’t you?”

His hands moved up her thighs, bringing her skirts up. “Why don’t you ride me?” he suggested, wanting to get on with it.