Call Home the Heart (2 page)

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

 

Muireann awoke several hours later and rubbed her sore jaw tenderly.
Clutching the blanket around her shivering form, she looked out the
window at the snowflakes swirling, fairy-like, in the dim lamplight
which glowed from the street below.

 

 

Moving her eyes slowly around the unfamiliar room so as not to jolt
her throbbing head, she saw Lochlainn sitting in a low armchair by
her bedside, a small case of documents open on the low side table
beside him. The expression in his unusual steel-gray eyes was
forbidding as he added up columns of figures, the scratch of his pen
echoing in the high-ceilinged room.

 

 

The room was smaller than her other suite had been, but it seemed
far more appealing to her, with a magnificently carved four-poster
bed hung with flowered brocade curtains in blue and crimson. There
were small tables on either side of the bed, and another low one
with two chairs placed by the fire. In the corner by the large sash
window was a screened-off area to make one's toilette.

 

 

The most interesting and cheering aspect of the chamber was the
magnificent fireplace, with a beautifully carved oak surround. A
fire was glowing in the grate, and for the first time since she had
left her family home at Fintry in Scotland, Muireann felt warm and
secure. It was all over, she thought with relief, then quashed the
guilty thought with a pang.

 

 

Attempting to distract herself from her horrifying memories, she
turned her attention to her companion.

 

 

Muireann studied him unnoticed, and not for the first time admired
his arresting masculine beauty. Hard as she tried, she could find no
flaw in the enigmatic Lochlainn Roche except his arrogant demeanor.
His raven-black hair, which glinted with mysterious dark auburn
highlights, was thick and wavy, and just brushed the edge of his
collar. He was also unfashionably close-shaven. Side-whiskers would
simply have detracted from his high cheekbones and firm jaw, which
showed only the barest trace of a shadow. His nose was straight and
narrow, with delicately arched nostrils which enhanced his haughty
appearance. But the deep cleft in his chin, and the single small
dimple which peeped out whenever he moved his mouth, were
intriguing.

 

 

Muireann found herself wondering what he would look like if he
smiled. Certainly he would look a bit more human, a bit less like a
prowling tiger about to devour its prey. Lochlainn seemed to glower
perpetually, his dark eyebrows lowering threateningly over his
thick-lashed gray eyes whenever she had come into contact with him
since her arrival in Dublin the morning before. For a man so
handsome, he seemed utterly joyless.

 

 

But perhaps he has good reason to be upset, she reflected tolerantly
as she saw him add up endless columns of figures over and over
again, running his fingers through his ebony hair in frustration.
She could remember her own father doing that many times over the
years, and her brother-in-law Neil Buchanan too, whenever she
visited her sister Alice, now three months pregnant, at her new home
in Dunoon.

 

 

Adding up had never been her father's strong point. Muireann had
always helped him with his bookkeeping, though her efforts had never
been taken seriously by anyone in the family, being considered
"unfeminine." At least that's what her mother and sister had
reminded her of often enough over the years, applying that adjective
disparagingly to every pursuit she had ever enjoyed.

 

 

As Muireann recalled her family's criticism of her with a faint
smile, Lochlainn reached the end of his tether. He threw the pen
down and rose to stretch his aching back. He stalked over to the
fireplace and poked the coals vigorously, then marched over to the
window to gaze out at the blizzard wrapping the city in a freezing
blanket of ivory.

 

 

Muireann admired his tall physique, watching with interest as his
muscles rippled through the thin fabric of his shirt. He was
certainly the tallest, broadest man she had ever seen. His hard,
callused hand had been large enough to take both of her own as he
had greeted her and assisted her off the boat at the quay at Dun
Laoghaire the previous morning.

 

 

She had noticed their roughness, but had certainly not been repelled
by the contact. Here was a man who had never been spoilt or
pampered, who had never been afraid of hard work. Yet at the same
time, he had a certain dignity in his bearing which proclaimed him
no ordinary farm laborer.

 

 

Well, Lochlainn was the estate manager. That had to signify he was
intelligent and good with figures, didn't it? But if his hands and
clothes and his brown face, which testified to many years out in the
elements, were anything to go by, he was not a man to leave all the
hard work to others. She certainly admired that quality. Her own
father and brother-in-law possessed the same traits. She herself was
not averse to hard work, though her mother had always tried to keep
her a spoilt, pampered princess, the younger of two daughters born
to her very late in life.

 

 

Lochlainn heaved a huge sigh, then moved over to the bed, where he
was relieved to see that Muireann was at last conscious.

 

 

"Have you been awake long?" he asked softly.

 

 

"Not very long," Muireann lied. "I've been trying to get my
bearings. Where am I?"

 

 

"You're still at the Gresham, only in a different room. The
snowstorm I feared has started. I'm afraid we'll have to stay at
least another night," he said, being careful not to mention anything
about the events of the afternoon.

 

 

"That's good. My head is pounding. I doubt I could travel all the
way to Enniskillen after the terrible sea journey we had," she
admitted, rubbing her temples.

 

 

Lochlainn reached down to test her forehead, and noted she had a
slight fever.

 

 

"You're definitely warm, Muireann. Here, why don't I help get you
get under the covers properly? Then we can see if they have any
broth or soup downstairs. And I'll give you a headache powder as
well," he offered, crossing over to search his small bag, which he
had placed on a low luggage holder with their other things.

 

 

She tried to raise herself off the pillow, only to slump weakly back
against it.

 

 

"Lie still, my dear!"

 

 

"I, er, I have to use the chamberpot, but I don't think I can
stand," she said sheepishly.

 

 

"Here, put your arms around my neck. I'll carry you over to the
screen." He tugged the blanket down over her bare shoulders.

 

 

Muireann was painfully aware that she was clad only in her flannel
chemise and petticoats, but her companion didn't seem to take any
notice.

 

 

She was naturally shy, but she also knew she simply had to accept
this stranger's help. She was all alone in Ireland now. What she
would do next she had no idea.

 

 

But the thought of running back to Fintry to play the part of the
grieving young widow was more than she could bear. She disliked
being so critical of her own parents, but hadn't she married
Augustine to escape from their stifling over-protectiveness, and
continual disappointment that she never seemed to fit into their
world or do what was expected of her?

 

 

Her one chance of satisfying them had been to marry well. They had
been delighted with Augustine Caldwell when he had turned up at a
ball, and taken such an interest in her.

 

 

Rumors had flown around Glasgow of his great wealth, his magnificent
estate in Ireland. Her mother and father had actively encouraged
Augustine's suit.

 

 

Muireann, tired of letting them down, and longing for adventure, had
at last agreed to Augustine's impetuous marriage proposal. She had
met him on All Hallow's Eve, and been wed on Hogmanay before she
could even get to know him.

 

 

"What's wrong?" Lochlainn asked, his concern evident in his tone.

 

 

"What? Oh nothing, I was just..."

 

 

"You're not going to be ill, are you? You made such a grimace."

 

 

"No, I'm not ill, just aching." She blushed, looking down at her
bare arms, which she then looped around Lochlainn's neck.

 

 

His eyes followed her gaze. But far from looking at her leeringly,
his eyes widened in alarm.  "My goodness, where did all those
bruises come from? I didn't hurt you carrying you in here, did I?"

 

 

"No, no, I fell on the boat a few times. It was a very rough
crossing, you know, and I bruise easily," she replied hastily,
trying to quell the shiver which rippled through her.

 

 

"There you are, Muireann."

 

 

He placed her gently on the floor by the screen and held onto one of
her hands until he saw she could manage a few steps on her own.

 

 

"I'll go ask for more coal for the fire. You must be freezing."

 

 

Muireann marveled at his kindness and delicacy in going out of the
room to talk to the serving girl in order to get more coal, then
tapping on the door to see whether it were safe for him to return.

 

 

Lochlainn tugged down the covers on the bed and fluffed the pillows
up against the carved headboard. He went back to the small wash area
to fetch Muireann again.

 

 

He laid her gently on the bed, and pulled all the covers right up to
her chin.

 

 

"Shall I get you something warmer to wear? I'm sorry about your
gown, but it was ruined, and..." Lochlainn trailed off with an
awkward shrug.

 

 

Muireann paled slightly, but made no reference to the frock. "I have
a heavy flannel nightdress, lilac-colored, in that small black bag
there," she indicated.

 

 

He brought the valise over to her, and helped her locate the
nightdress and tug it over her head. She managed to pull it down
over her ankles with a bit of wiggling and some help from Lochlainn,
who seemed most assiduous in his attentions considering he seemed so
manly and grim.

 

 

He tucked her in again, and after fluffing the pillows once more,
stroked her tousled ebony hair back from her face, and said with a
small smile, "There now, better?"

 

 

"Much better, thank you," she said, lifting her amethyst eyes up to
his.

 

 

Though Lochlainn Roche was a complete stranger whom fate had thrown
in her path, somehow she felt at peace with him. He might be somber
and arrogant looking, but he had treated her with every degree of
consideration.

 

 

At some point she had to start trusting someone. She was all alone
here. She desperately needed an ally. Who better than her dead
husband's estate manager?

 

 

"Here, now, take this draught," he said, offering her a glass of
water, in which he had mixed the powder from a small packet. "Your
head will feel better in no time."

 

 

Their fingers touched as he handed her the glass. He retained his
grip on it to make sure she didn't drop it as she drank the potion
down. He put the empty tumbler down on the bedside table, then
poured out a plain glass of water for her in case she was still
thirsty.

 

 

"I'll just go see what's taking that girl," he said as he rose from
the edge of the bed, where he had had been sitting gazing at
Muireann admiringly for several seconds before he had caught himself
staring.

 

 

He brought in the tray himself a few moments later. Several moments
after that a second tap at the door signaled the arrival of the maid
with some hot water bottles. She put six into Muireann's bed all
around her. Lochlainn blushed when he noted that she didn't pull out
the trundle bed from under the large four-poster.

 

 

He waited until the maid had gone before answering Muireann's silent
inquiry. He stooped to pull out the trundle bed for himself, but
before she could make any comment, he moved back to her side. He put
the tray on her lap, and handed her a napkin to drape over her
nightgown in case of any spills.

 

 

"Because of the storm, they're short of rooms here. I don't like the
idea of leaving you on your own tonight. Not when you're obviously
unwell. I hope you don't mind, Mrs. Caldwell," he said stiffly.

 

 

"No, not at all, Mr. Roche," she said with a shake of her head,
before taking a spoonful of the tasty broth.

 

 

"Have you eaten yourself?" she asked after a moment, meeting his
eyes once more.

 

 

"Yes, ages ago," he lied smoothly, managing to mask his surprise at
her concern.

 

 

In truth he hadn't wanted to spend the money, and he was too
disturbed by the day's events to feel hungry anyway.

 

 

He continued to stare at her, puzzled by her behavior. She seemed so
unaffected, unworried by what had happened. Yet she had been
absolutely hysterical only a few hours before. Was this normal? Or
was she simply hiding all of her tumultuous emotions, too
embarrassed to let anyone see her grief?

 

 

Looking at her delicate yet well-shaped chin and nose, her candid
eyes, and noting her sure movements and carriage, which he had first
noticed at the quay at Dun Laoghaire, he suspected she was a spoilt,
pampered society woman, but one with a mind of her own. It was
probably pride more than anything else which would prevent her from
revealing to anyone just how she felt.