Chapter One

Dermott O'Malley scanned his surroundings as he rode the last few miles toward Lippincott Manor. The earl would be pleased to know that all was as expected on his dawn patrol from the manor house to the village and back. The air was crisp. Though still hidden behind the trees, the sun was breaking just over the horizon.

As he rounded a curve in the road, the sound of branches breaking caught his attention. Homing in on the sound, and the direction it came from, he urged his horse forward. A slip of a lass wearing a burgundy coat stood out among the dense green as she climbed onto the stone wall running parallel to the road. Her light brown hair was half up, half down, with leaves and twigs caught in it. Had she stumbled and fallen? Was someone pursuing the lass as she ran for her life through the forest? Before he could speculate further, she tossed her bag to the ground.

He'd guessed her intention before she struggled to her feet, hands extended to balance. He galloped toward the lass perched on the wall but knew he wouldn't reach her in time. "Don't… Ah, bloody fecking hell!"

He closed the distance between them, leapt off his horse and knelt beside where she lay on the dew-drenched grass. "Lass?" She didn't answer. He brushed the tangle of hair, dirt, and leaves from her nearly translucent, satin-smooth cheek. The gash high on her forehead, hidden by her hair, was deep and bleeding and required immediate attention.

She was breathing, but unconscious. First things first. The blood flowing from the wound high on her forehead was more urgent. Stanching the flow of blood had to be dealt with first. And a concussion was likely.

He whipped the handkerchief, and one of the spare cravats he kept in his frockcoat pocket for emergencies—in particular, binding a miscreant's hands behind their back when he'd forgotten to tuck lengths of rope in his pockets—out of his waistcoat pocket. Folding the linen into a thick square, he placed it against the wound, ignoring how quickly her lifeblood stained it. Dermott had to get her to the safety of Lippincott Manor! He wrapped the cravat around her head and tied it into a firm knot. Was she injured elsewhere? He prayed she was not, because checking for broken bones would have to wait.

He called to her again, but still no answer. He pulled her closer. Laying his ear to her breast, he listened intently, praying to hear a sound that would confirm she was still alive. Relief speared through him as he heard the beat of her heart and her ragged, indrawn breath. She must have knocked the wind out of herself. 'Twas a bit unnerving the first time it happened to him—mayhap she was too frightened to open her eyes as she struggled to breathe normally.

Thinking of the way she'd climbed up on the wall, then paused before leaping, he sensed she had more grit than a lass too skittish to scale a stone wall in the first place. Dismissing the idea that she was frightened, he wondered if she was in too much pain to open her eyes. He called for the third time, "Lass, can ye hear me?" Still no response.

Raised to believe that the Lord helped those who helped themselves, he began to check her limbs for broken bones. Miraculously, there were none. He said a quick prayer: "God, I could use Yer help." Omniscient, the Lord would know what Dermott did not have the time to say.

Carefully lifting the lass into his arms, he left her bag where she'd tossed it to the ground at the base of the wall. He'd retrieve it later.

As he approached his horse, the animal shifted uneasily, spooked by the scent of blood until Dermott soothed, "Easy now, laddie. We've a lass who needs us." The horse calmed at the tone of his voice, and he placed her on the animal's back. Bracing her with his hand, he quickly unbuttoned his frockcoat and mounted behind her. The limp weight of her had unease slithering up his spine. He trusted his faith and the makeshift bandage he'd wrapped around her head would keep her alive until they made it the safety of the manor house.

She was cold to the touch. No telling how long she had been in the woods, alone…or running from her pursuers. He gently drew her against the heat of his body, tucking the edges of his coat around her. His arm anchored her to him, and emotions he had not felt in too long to recall battered him from the inside. Silently cursing, he refused to be distracted by the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips, or the way she felt nestled against him. "Ye'll be fine, lass. I'll take care of ye," he vowed.

Giving the animal his head, Dermott raced toward help…and safety. Who was she? What, or whom, was she running from? She had not stirred since he swept her into his arms. He felt the flutter of her heartbeat against his own as they covered the short distance between the curve in the road and the wall she had jumped from. A voice whispered, "Ask her." Was it his need to have the answers, or a message from the lass's guardian angel?

The road leading onto the earl's land lay ahead. "Almost there, lass." He wondered, yet again, who in the bloody hell she was. His worry increased. Then he remembered his brother Emmett, the healer in the family, mentioning that even an unconscious and seriously injured person could still hear when spoken to.

Holding on to that thought, Dermott glanced down at the woman in his arms, and the bloody bandage around her head. His heart began to hammer in time with the pounding of his horse's hooves. Her face was pale as flour. Her thick, dark lashes fanned against her cheeks lay utterly still. She hadn't roused yet and was still unconscious. "Who's after ye, lass? Where are ye running to?"

He fought to control the worry slithering through him at her unnatural silence. Continuing as if she had answered him and asked who he was and where he was taking her, he introduced himself. "O'Malley's me name…Dermott. Not to be confused with me cousin, Sean O'Malley, who ye'll be meeting shortly. We're stationed at Lippincott Manor with our cousin, Seamus Flaherty. We're on assignment protecting the earl and his family, and are part of His Grace the Duke of Wyndmere's sixteen-man private guard. The earl is the duke's brother."

The eerie silence had the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as bright crimson continued to stain the bandage he'd wrapped around her head. It needed threads to close it. He dug deep for patience… Never his strong suit. Ma's voice echoed in his head, reminding him that patience was far more useful than worry. He'd need a boatload of it to keep his head and get the lass to safety and the help she needed.

He chanced another glance at the woman cradled in his arms and wondered aloud, "Where is yer escort?" The warmth of her blood seeped through the bandage and his waistcoat. His gut flipped over. He called on his steely control and clenched his jaw as his mount galloped toward the end of the long drive leading to Lippincott Manor. Needing to keep his balance—and his seat—he could not risk leaning down to listen to her breathing again. Bloody hell! He needed to know that she was still breathing! Sliding the tips of his fingers to her neck, he searched for her pulse and found it. Relieved, he rasped, "Nearly there, lass."

Confidence restored and flowing through him, he stole a quick look, noting the fit and quality of her coat. It was exquisitely made, as was the dark blue gown peeking from beneath it. "Ye're too finely dressed to be a servant on the run from a cruel master." His gut roiled as another possibility occurred to him. "Is it a cruel husband ye're on the run from, or have ye been jilted by yer intended?"

To curb the anxiety slithering inside of him, he murmured, "No matter. I'll protect ye." He brushed his lips to the top of her head as a childhood phrase slipped into his mind… Finders keepers.

Bollocks!He was no longer a lad. He shoved the thought from his mind, while his heart whispered, You found her. Keep her!

Dermott could not afford to let his mind agree with his heart. He'd taken a vow of honor to protect the duke, his family, and his extended family with his life. The lass in his arms could wreak havoc with that vow, and that he could not allow!

His decision firm, he made a vow he knew would not compromise the one he'd sworn to the Duke of Wyndmere: "I'll protect ye, lass."

Once his mind was made up, it was like a steel trap. His brothers and cousins had tried to change it over the years without success.

As he glimpsed the first of the outbuildings, Dermott solidified his pledge to the lass. "Whoever set ye to running—whether they be family, friend, or foe—they bloody well won't get past meself or me cousins! Ye have me solemn word, ye'll have the protection of meself and the rest of the duke's guard from whoever is hounding ye!" He pulled her closer to his heart and rasped, "Ye need not worry—as the duke's mercenary, I'll seek out and destroy yer enemies while ye're recovering."

He gave a sharp whistle as the stables came into view. His cousins, Sean O'Malley and Seamus Flaherty, came running. Flaherty held out his arms. "Hand her to me while ye dismount."

Dermott's mind rebelled at the thought, and his hands wouldn't cooperate or let the lass go. In a bid to cover the emotions rioting through him, he grumbled, "I've dismounted without aid carrying yer wounded hide more than once, Flaherty. I can manage on me own with this slip of a lass."

Flaherty smiled. "Aye, that ye can. But didn't our cousin, Sean here, tell me ye had me draped over yer shoulder at the time…and not cuddled in yer lap?"

Dermott ignored Flaherty and told Sean, "Remind me to clip Flaherty in the gob later."

"Done!" Sean studied the young woman and the blood-soaked bandage. "I'll send for the physician." Turning toward the building where two stable lads stood watching, he sent one of them to summon the doctor, and the other ahead of them to the house with instructions to alert the earl, his housekeeper, and cook.

Dermott's steps faltered when fresh blood seeped through the bandage. She'd wake up soon—she had to! His heart chose that moment to remind him of his first reaction, and his silent vow about keeping her, and he nearly repeated it. Best to keep that thought buried, he told himself. Once spoken aloud, he would feel obligated to move mountains to keep the lass. And not because of some childhood phrase, but because of the soul-deep connection he'd felt the moment the lass leapt off the wall. Her courage and determination were rare in the Englishwomen he'd met since leaving Ireland. The curve of her lips and fullness of her curves were a temptation he could not afford. Her beauty…

Before his brain could finish the thought, Dermott shoved it aside. He needed to tell his cousins of his pledge. "I'd best be telling the two of ye now, lads. I'm the one who's found her—"

"Oh, for the love of God," Flaherty interrupted.

"Bollocks, Dermott," Sean scoffed. "Don't say it!"

"Ye don't even know what I'm going to say," Dermott griped, striding toward the manor house with his precious burden.

"We've known ye all our lives," Flaherty reminded him. "Of course we know what ye're thinking."

"She isn't a stray kitten," Sean said. "Ye cannot just keep the lass because ye found her unconscious on the side of the road."

"Let me finish what I was going to say," Dermott ordered them. "I'll beat the bloody shite of both of ye if ye don't shut yer gobs!"

"Finish it, then," Flaherty replied.

Dermot's hackles rose at his being told what to do, but the lass in his arms needed him to finish the ridiculous conversation. Her injuries required immediate care. "I pledged to protect her—and I will as long as there's breath left in me."

Sean grunted. "If that's all, ye can honor yer vow to His Grace, and add the lass to the list of those under yer protection."

Flaherty poked Dermott in the back of the head, irritating him. "What?"

"Aren't ye going to wax poetic and tell us ye're keeping the lass?"

Frustration twined with anger and filled him to bursting at the realization that he did want to keep the lass. But he'd go to his grave before admitting it to his cousins.

Flaherty grumbled, "I take it that ye've yet to make up yer mind on the matter. Now then, if ye did not find her on the side of the road, where did ye find the lass?"

Dermott's heart hammered in his chest as he recalled the sight of her frantic climb to the top of the wall before she leapt after her bag. Striding toward the house, he explained, "I heard someone moving through the trees, treading on fallen branches, on the other side of the stone wall a few miles from here. With the recent threats against the baron, and the bloody bastard who abducted our cousin Darby's wife, I was prepared to handle whoever was rushing toward the wall."

"Was anyone following her?"

Dermott was not surprised that Sean had reasoned out what he'd been thinking. Mignonette had been the target of attackers before Sean had rescued her…and married her.

"She was alone when I saw her climbing onto the wall," he replied. "The lass stood up, tossed her portmanteau onto the ground, and jumped after it."

Flaherty nodded. "Ye had to leave the bag behind, as the lass was unconscious and bleeding."

"Aye," Dermott answered as they arrived at the back door. "I'll fetch it after the physician's seen to the lass," he promised. The door opened as Sean reached for the handle.

The earl's cook was waiting for them inside by the back door. "Hurry now," Mrs. Wyatt urged, and beckoned Dermott into the room closest to the door. She clucked her tongue at the sight of the injured woman in Dermott's arms. "Bring that poor woman in here and lay her on the cot. Gently now!"

Dermott laid her on the cot and knelt beside her. He figured he was on good enough terms with the Lord that He would hear Dermott's silent prayer: Send as much of me strength as the lass needs to heal so she can wake up!

He heard the splash of water behind him and breathed a little easier. Mrs. Wyatt was washing her hands in the ceramic bowl kept for that purpose on the scarred oak table running the length of the wall. When he felt the cook's hand on his arm, he glanced up and saw the compassion in the older woman's eyes. She was a rare gem, just like the duke's cooks at his other properties: Mrs. O'Toole at the town house in London, and Constance at Wyndmere Hall in the Lake District.

"If you intend to stay, Dermott," she told him, "wash your hands."

He was hesitant to leave the lass's side, and knew he'd be summarily dismissed if he didn't do as Mrs. Wyatt bade him. He removed his frockcoat and rolled up his sleeves. Glancing down, he was horrified to see his hands were stained with her blood. He quickly washed them, ignoring the sight of the bowlful of bloody water.

"Where did you find the poor thing?" The cook's question interrupted his thoughts.

"A few miles from here, where the stone wall separates the woods from the road. I heard someone coming through the woods and rushed over to investigate."

Mrs. Wyatt nodded. "Wise, considering the recent troubles the family has had. What happened?"

Dermott was about to relay the story to Mrs. Wyatt when the housekeeper arrived with a footman in tow, bearing a steaming pitcher and spare bowl. Mrs. Jones instructed the footman to set the clean bowl and pitcher of hot water on the table along the wall. Pointing to the now-tainted water Dermott had used, she asked the servant to remove it. The housekeeper washed her hands before pouring hot water into one of the small bowls on the table. She grabbed a linen cloth and the bowl of water and brought them over to where the injured woman lay on the cot.

Mrs. Wyatt folded a length of clean linen into a smaller square and handed it to Dermott. "Press this to her forehead, Dermott, as soon as I remove this bandage."

She carefully untied the bloody cravat and lifted it. Dermott pressed the cloth firmly against the wound, which was smaller than he'd thought. "Head wounds bleed like a son of a—" He paused and looked at the cook. "Er…begging yer pardon, Mrs. Wyatt."

Her frown was fierce when she handed him another cloth. "Add this quickly now, and keep firm pressure against the wound." The housekeeper moved to stand beside them, studying the young woman. "I thought we would have a chance to cleanse the wound, but we'll have to stop the bleeding first."

Dermott heard people coming and going behind him, but ignored them while he continued to hold the cloth to the lass's forehead, changing it when instructed to, all the while willing the woman to open her eyes.

"I understand you rescued a young woman, O'Malley," a familiar deep voice said from behind him.

Dermott glanced over his shoulder to answer, "Aye, yer lordship." He turned back in time to see black-lashed eyes the color of the finest Irish whiskey staring at him. She was awake. Praise God! "Ye're safe, lass."

He expected her to react to the fact that she was safe, but instead she rasped, "Lordship?"

"Aye," Dermott answered, "Earl Lippincott."

Frustration marred her brow. She lifted a hand toward her head, but Dermott stopped her before she touched the cloth, by gently placing his much-larger hand atop hers. The size of her hand belied the strength the young woman had to possess to leap from that wall. Admiration for her surged inside of him as he quickly explained, "Ye were injured jumping off the stone wall. We need to stop the bleeding, lass."

The confusion in her eyes had him fearing her injury was more than a gash that needed to be sewn closed. Her next question confirmed it. "What was I doing on top of a wall?"

"Well now, 'tis the question I was about to put to ye, lass."

"As O'Malley told you, miss," the earl said, "you are safe here."

She glanced behind Dermott and stammered, "Th-thank you, your lordship."

Lippincott inclined his head. "No thanks necessary. Our door is always open to those in need."

Dermott could feel her uncertainty as she nervously licked her lips. "Ye can have some water, lass, if ye've a thirst."

Mrs. Jones poured a small cup and brought it to her. While Dermott eased the injured woman to a semi-sitting position to drink, he asked, "Do ye not remember running toward the wall and scaling it?"

Her eyes met his, and he noted her struggle to remember in their amber depths. "Nay."

Her soft reply had his heart going out to the woman. He'd been knocked on the head more than once during a bare-knuckle bout. Rattled his brainbox good and proper, too, but he'd never forgotten where he was or what he'd been doing. Concern for her filled him as he imagined what she was going through. The earl's hand on his shoulder had him setting his concern aside to address the most urgent problem—helping the lass was essential before getting to the bottom of what or whom she was running from.

"Where is here?"

The earl answered the softly asked question. "Lippincott Manor."

She frowned. "Where is Lippincott Manor?"

"Sussex," the earl answered.

A commotion in the hall had Dermott glancing over his shoulder, relieved when the earl stepped into the hallway to greet the physician. "Thank you for coming so quickly."

"I was on my way back to the village when your stable hand intercepted me, your lordship." The doctor set his bag on the table by the wall, removed his coat, and rolled up his sleeves. While he washed, he asked, "How were you injured, Miss…?"

The physician paused, obviously waiting for the young woman to tell him her name. Her silence was telling, as was the way she reached for Dermott's free hand and held tight.

The doctor studied the lass while Dermott's gaze held hers. Amber eyes glistening with unshed tears had Dermott's gut roiling, but it was her reply to the physician that gutted him. "I… I'm afraid I do not remember."

He captured the first tear, and then the second, before a handkerchief appeared in front of his face. The earl was never without a spare one. "Thank ye, yer lordship." Handing it to the lass, he urged, "Dry yer tears now, and let the doctor have a look at yer wound. It needs to be closed."

She tightened her grip on his hand. "Is that why it aches?"

"Aye. 'Tisn't the size of it, but the depth. I'm leaving ye in competent hands. I must return to me duties." He thought to do just that, but the lass wouldn't let him go. "Ye need to let go, lass."

"Stay with her, O'Malley," the earl told him.

The physician added, "I will need someone to hold her still."

The doctor looked to the earl, who inclined his head and said, "Mrs. Wyatt, please remain with O'Malley."

"Of course, your lordship."

"Mrs. Jones, have one of the guest rooms prepared."

"Yes, your lordship. Her ladyship is bound to be waiting for you."

"No doubt waiting for my detailed explanation as to where I rushed off to. Please assure my wife that all is well, and that I shall speak with her shortly." The earl held the door open for his housekeeper, then closed it behind her to resume his place, halfway between the door and the young woman on the cot.

Dermott took note of the earl's protective stance, wondering if there was a specific reason for it, or if it was because of the young woman's injury. Knowing the earl would tell him when he was good and ready, Dermott turned his attention to the lass. He locked gazes with her and, for the life of him, couldn't think of anything to say. Sensing conversation might ease her worry over the cleansing and stitching of the wound in her head, he cast around for a topic that might distract her. Finally, his brain clicked into gear. "Well now, sure and ye picked a fine day for a stroll in the woods."

*

Questions swirled inher aching head, but no answers. Fighting to hold back her tears, she met the blond-haired giant's brilliant green gaze. Wondering what in the world she had been doing in the woods, she repeated her earlier question: "Why was I walking in the woods? Why Sussex?" She flinched as the doctor began to clean out the wound.

"Well now, there'll be plenty of time for those answers, lass. At the moment, ye're to be the guest of the earl and his countess. Ye have nothing to fear here at Lippincott Manor." Dermott nodded to the earl, who stood behind him.

Did Dermott hope that by answering her question, he would be able to distract her? He was mistaken—nothing would take her mind off the pain she would endure during the closing of the wound.

While she studied the earl, hoping to recognize him, she noted the concern in Dermott's green eyes. "Begging yer pardon for not properly introducing ye, lass. Earl Lippincott, please meet—" His eyes met hers, and he shook his head. "Forgive me, lass, but would ye mind if we called ye Miss Amber until ye recall yer name?"

She blinked, then frowned when she struggled to remember, but obviously could not recall her own name. "Er… No. May I ask, why Amber?"

"'Tis the color of yer eyes, lass."

"Oh." Good Lord! She hadn't even remembered the color of her own eyes! As shock filtered through her, the ache in her head trebled.

"Well now, I'm thinking Miss Amber is a lovely name, though Miss Brown would do in a pinch."

Brown?He stared at her head, and she realized it must be the color of her hair. She absorbed the fact that she had amber eyes and brown hair, immensely grateful to her rescuer for imparting those facts without questioning her. It would have only added to her frustration, confusion, and embarrassment.

Why couldn't she remember anything? Why was she in Sussex, and why on foot? Was there nothing she could recall?

Dermott leaned close, looked into her eyes, and said, "Hang on to me, lass. I won't be letting ye go."

Gratitude swept up from her toes. The kindness and strength of the gentle giant holding her hand pulled her to him. She studied the strong line of his jaw, the crooked line of his nose—he was handsome despite the slight flaw. Needing his reassurance, she asked, "Do you promise?"

"Aye, lass," his deep voice rumbled, soothing her, pulling her inexorably closer. "Ye have me word. Close yer eyes now, else they'll cross if ye try to watch while the physician closes yer wound."

His attempt at humor lifted one of the heavy weights holding her down. Though she did not laugh, she did as he bade her and was amazed to realize the strength evident in his callused hand holding hers did ease the worst of her fears—needles. She thoroughly disliked them, and though she tried not to, she flinched when she felt the sharp point pierce her skin.

"Easy, mo ghrá—hold tight to me hands now. Ye need to be still. 'Twill be over before ye know it."

Though the physician worked efficiently and quickly, her head swam as she felt each prick of the needle and tug of the boiled threads, pulling the wound closed. The image it conjured in her brain had her heart pounding and her breaths coming in short, sharp pants.

The last words she heard before giving in to the darkness were those of her rescuer. "Hang on, Amber-lass—'tis nearly finished."