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Chapter Three

Dermott knocked on the doorframe and waited for Mrs. Jones to give him permission to enter. "Thank ye, Mrs. Jones. His lordship has given me leave to visit with ye, Amber-lass, as I'll be switching with Flaherty and guarding the interior for the next few days."

The shadows in the lass's eyes lifted. Was it due to seeing him or the prospect of having him nearby?

"Do you switch shifts often?"

Her question did not surprise him. "Whenever the need arises. As it happens, his lordship thought ye'd feel more comfortable with meself than either of me cousins." A faint pink blush stained her pale cheeks, adding much-needed color to her lovely face. He planned to stop in often, mayhap prodding her memory to return. "Well now, Mrs. Jones, I'm thinking the lass isn't averse to spending a few minutes chatting with the likes of meself."

The housekeeper smiled. "Charmer. Why don't you have a seat next to Miss Amber, while I speak to the footman stationed in the hallway?" Addressing Miss Amber, the housekeeper added, "If you need me, I'll be right outside."

Dermott was more than pleased when the lass nodded without taking her gaze off him. Her undivided attention would make things all that much easier when he told her of his vow to the duke, the earl…and to her. But not yet. Not now. There was a battle to be waged with an unscrupulous viscount, and the matter of restoring her father's honor. It wasn't impossible—the difficulty would be with the lass suffering from her head wound and her loss of memory. They would have to use care, or the results could be disastrous.

"Thank you, Mrs. Jones."

The lass's voice reminded him of the dew-laden faery flowers in his ma's garden, and the sound they made as they swayed and danced when a whisper of an early morning breeze swept past them.

"Is something wrong, Mr. O'Malley?"

He sat on the chair beside the cot and studied her closely. "Ye have a bit more color in yer cheeks. Could it be that ye're happy to see me?" Her laughter reminded him of tiny bells tinkling. Entranced, he leaned closer. "Ye remind me of the fae, lass."

Her eyes widened and pleasure shone bright in their amber depths. "Surely not one of the pookas."

"Nay, large, scary beasts that they are," he agreed.

"Mayhap a wood sprite or dryad?"

"Well now, I had been thinking wood sprite when first I saw ye coming out of the forest, though ye were wearing a burgundy-colored coat—and not brown or green, which would have disguised ye," Dermott admitted. "But ye could not be one of the tree gods with yer angel's face and faery wings."

To his delight, she glanced over her shoulder. "Did I sprout wings when I hit my head?"

His laughter seemed to please the lass as she smiled up at him. "Yer smile adds to the beauty of yer laughter, Amber-lass." He caught himself before blurting one of the questions weighing heavy on his mind: how old was she? Why had no man offered for her hand before now? And why in the bloody hell had her da been compelled to wager his homes, his fortune, her dowry, and his daughter's hand on the turn of a card?

Her smile slipped. "I'm sorry. I did not mean my question to offend you, Mr. O'Malley."

"'Tis just O'Malley, lass. Forgive me, I was thinking deep thoughts just now."

She drew in a breath and slowly exhaled. "I would never want to give you reason to think badly of me, Mr.…er…O'Malley."

He brushed a lock of pale brown silk out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. Every blessed thing about the lass reminded him of the faery folk. He didn't know whether to thank his ma for filling his head with tales handed down generation to generation…or to curse her for it.

"Is it something else then that has you frowning at me?"

Dermott immediately straightened, squared his shoulders, and reassured her, "Nay, lass, me mind took a quick journey back home just now. 'Tis half a decade or more since I've been able to visit."

Her eyes filled, and she blinked, causing a tear to cling to her lashes before slowly trickling along the curve of her cheek.

He captured it on the tip of his finger, staring at the moisture it left behind. "Don't feel sorry for the likes of me. Ma keeps me informed of the goings-on at home, and I do the same when I send me wages to her every month."

Another tear escaped. Unable to stop himself, he reached for her hand. "Why are ye crying, lass?"

Eyes that held a dozen secrets beseeched him to understand. "It's just a feeling I get every time you mention your mum." She rubbed her free hand over her heart.

He sensed her mind was struggling to clear itself. A deeper thought occurred. When she regained her memory, would she mourn the loss of her own ma all over again? He'd have to ask his lordship how long ago the lass's ma had passed on. That way, he might be able to offer words of comfort.

The stark realization that she had lost her da too hit him. He could not envision losing both of his parents—losing his da had gutted him. He hoped the lass's heart was strong enough to handle the double blow when her memory returned.

O'Malley needed to distract her. "Have ye had any other thoughts ye could not explain since last we spoke?"

An adorable frown line appeared between her wispy brows. "You'll think I've not only lost my memory, but my mind," she confessed.

"Ah, lass, I'd never be thinking that. Tell me what's troubling ye."

Her gaze collided with his, and unbidden, her worry seeped into him. Was she remembering bits and pieces of her last conversation with her da? "I'm either dreaming things or remembering them."

"What makes ye say that?"

She bit her plump bottom lip, and he had to call on his control to hide his reaction. God help him, the need to give in and sip from her lips was overwhelming. What flavor would he find when she allowed him to sample a taste?

The lass sighed, answering, "It had to be a dream."

"And why would that be?" She licked her lips, and he had to fight not to groan out loud. God, he wanted the lass in his arms and her lips on his…more than was wise. He reined in his wayward thoughts and dug deep for his ironclad control. With it back in place, his patience returned. "Amber-lass?"

Various emotions swept through her lovely eyes before one took hold…sadness. "Because my father promised Mum he'd never gamble again…the night she passed away." She paused. "I cannot recall when that was, but have a feeling in my heart that I cannot dismiss. I feel it could have happened and wasn't a dream."

Ah, she either remembered, or dreamed that her mum was gone. The hard hit to his gut at all the lass had endured, and yet still had to face all over again when she remembered her past, was unexpected. He cleared his throat to speak. "I wouldn't worry over it now, lass. Rest and more than an invalid's diet is what ye need."

She blinked, and the sadness abated. "The physician prescribed an invalid's diet for a sennight." She wrinkled her brow and confessed, "I know it is not allowed, but I would dearly love something sweet to eat." Her smile bloomed slowly as her cheeks pinkened again. "Do you think you might convince Mrs. Wyatt that I'm well enough to have just one tiny scone and a cup of strong tea?"

He was willing to give his life to protect her—and may yet be asked to do so. Her small request was well within his power to grant. "Well now, as it happens, Mrs. Wyatt owes me a favor. I'd be willing to trade it for a scone and tea for ye, if ye'd like."

Her radiant smile nearly blinded him as his heart burst from his chest and landed on the floor at her feet. He rubbed a hand over where his heart used to reside and dared a glance down to see if he was bleeding. No blood. 'Twas just his imagination.

"Are you all right, O'Malley? You've gone pale."

Her worry enabled him to set his fanciful thoughts aside, knowing what he envisioned could never happen…unless the fae were involved. He stood and straightened to his full height. "Just an empty stomach, reminding me 'tis time to eat. I'll see about procuring the tea and scones I promised ye, lass." He glanced over his shoulder and tilted his head to listen to the conversation still going on in the hallway. "Best not let Mrs. Jones know what we're up to."

She nodded, held her hand to her heart, and promised, "I won't say a word."

"There's a lass," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Rest until I return."

He would later swear he felt her eyes following him from the room. He thought that mayhap the lass was a bit taken with him. Much to his delight, lasses had been falling at his feet the whole of his life…that was, until he signed on as one of the duke's guard. He had not had the time, nor inclination, to catch any of the lasses following him around since then. Mayhap 'twas time to let a lass catch him. But as he thought of the woman with the entrancing amber eyes, reality hit him like a blow to the gut. She's betrothed…though her hand in marriage was wagered, not promised.

Anger tore from his aching stomach to his throat. Curling his right hand into a fist, he pounded it against the wall. "That's for ye, Trenchert." He punched the wall again, punctuating each word: "Bloody. Buggering. Bastard!" The footman stationed in the middle of the hallway stared wide-eyed at Dermott, who paused in front of the man. "He'll will never touch one hair on the lass's head!"

The footman heartily agreed, "Never!"

Satisfied that he'd spoken the promise aloud, punctuated it with his fist, and had the footman's agreement, Dermott added, "Or me name isn't Dermott fecking O'Malley!"

The footman grinned. "I thought that was Flaherty's middle name."

Dermott snorted with laughter. "Nay, 'tis Seamus flaming Flaherty."

The footman was laughing when he asked, "What is your cousin Sean's middle name?"

Without missing a beat, as he strode down the hall to the kitchen doorway, Dermott called out, "Sean bloody O'Malley!" He stepped into the heat of the kitchen—and the glower on Mrs. Wyatt's face.

She wielded a huge serving spoon as if it were a blade, pointing it at Dermott's gut. "Language, Mr. O'Malley!"

He felt his face flush, as he could imagine it was his ma standing there ready to smack him upside the head with her favorite serving spoon. "Begging yer pardon, Mrs. Wyatt. 'Twas just—"

"I excused it earlier because of the prodigious amount of blood while you were keeping pressure on the wound in Miss Amber's forehead. But that danger has passed, and the gash in her head tended to by the physician. You have no reason to use foul language now, and I want none of your excuses. Be about your business."

Dermott felt like he was a lad again, being corrected by his ma. Mrs. Wyatt was right—he needed to take more care with his words when inside his lordship's household and near the ladies on his staff. "I begged yer pardon—what else to I have to do to receive yer forgiveness?"

"You could stop swearing, for one."

"I'll do me best," he promised with a hand to his heart, and immediately thought of the lass. She'd done the same just now.

The cook turned her back on him and stirred what he hoped was the filling for her hearty meat pies. He was partial to them, and was about to say as much when she looked over her shoulder and demanded, "What do you want?"

She'd never spoken to him that way before. Had his propensity to insert swear words bothered her that much? He never swore in front of his lordship or her ladyship. Not that that was an excuse for doing so in front of Mrs. Wyatt. He'd been in the hallway at the time—not in her domain—but well within her hearing range.

"Mrs. Wyatt, I'm devastated if I've injured yer sensibilities by cursing within yer hearing." She whirled around, anger in her eyes, and he added, "I beg ye to forgive me."

The cook lowered the spoon she had raised over her head. "Try to use some discretion. Her ladyship could have been in the kitchen. She has been known to do so a few times a week, you know."

Chastised, he bowed his head. "It is just as important that I remember yer tender ears are averse to hearing such, too. It won't happen again."

She placed the spoon on the table beside the stove and brushed her hands on her apron. "Well, aren't you going to ask me?"

He tilted his head, considering his words carefully. Finally, he said, "Ask ye what?"

Mrs. Wyatt blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and huffed. "Yes, I baked two batches of cream scones, and yes, I'll still save one or two for you."

Warmth filled him as he grinned at the cook. "Ye're an angel, Mrs. Wyatt."

She shook her head and motioned for him to be on his way. When he didn't move, the cook asked, "Now what is it?"

He glanced around them before leaning close to conspiratorially whisper, "The lass, Miss Amber, is pining for a bite of one of yer delicious cream scones, and a wee drop of strong tea. She's famished."

Mrs. Wyatt crossed her arms and harumphed. "Scones?"

"Aye, and tea. The poor lass's stomach was rumbling by the time I left her."

"It's likely she has a concussion."

"Her eyes are clear, and she's alert."

"She was unconscious when you brought her to us, and cannot remember her name," the cook reminded him.

"Three-quarters of a scone," he bargained.

"And what, pray tell, would I do with the other quarter?"

"Ye have no worries. I can take care of that for ye."

She chuckled. "I just bet you will, but we cannot take the chance. Doctor's orders."

"All right, then. Half a scone, and tea the way ye like it, not too strong, not too weak. Though I do not believe the physician would approve of yer adding a splash of cream and spoon of sugar in her tea."

Her smiled bloomed. "You know how I like my tea?"

"Aye." He walked over to where she stood by the stove and returned her smile. "Thank ye for always taking care of meself and me cousins. Ye don't have to bake the extra scones ye leave on the sideboard for us to tuck into our pockets, or the cake ye hide in the wardrobe…but ye do. We're grateful. I'm grateful."

She flushed and patted him on the arm. "There is nothing like cooking for a hungry, appreciative man." She sighed. "Charmer. Half a scone with tea—not too weak and not too strong—but nothing else in her tea until the end of the week."

He bent down and brushed a kiss to her cheek. "Ye're an angel, Mrs. Wyatt."

She smiled as she made shooing motions. "Out of my kitchen. I have a tea tray to prepare for Miss Amber."

"Angel," he repeated as he retraced his steps to the room at the end of the hallway. The footman was waiting for him at his assigned post and asked, "How do you get Mrs. Wyatt to bake scones for you? She doesn't for the rest of us."

"Have any of ye stopped by the kitchen on yer way to yer posts and said a kind word or two, or complimented her on the meals she prepares for ye?"

The footman stared in the direction of the kitchen and shook his head.

"Start with greeting her when ye're on yer way to yer first shift of the day. Little by little, add in kind words and a smile or two. I wouldn't be surprised if she offers to save a scone or two for ye."

"Do you know, I never thought about complimenting her before, though Mrs. Wyatt is an excellent cook."

"Well, there ye have it. The next chance ye have to speak to her, I'd start with a compliment."

"Thank you, O'Malley."

"Me pleasure!" As Dermott approached the room where the lass was resting, he wondered what it would be like if he were married to a woman who could cook like Ma or Mrs. Wyatt. He was muttering about going down on one knee, winsome lasses, and marriage when he heard footsteps echoing in the servants' stairwell behind the closed door. He paused so he would not startle whoever was about to open the door into the hallway, and shook his head. Marriage? The thought was mind-boggling. Could he balance working for the duke and marriage like his brothers, Patrick and Finn, had? Should he speak to the earl first, or the lass?

I should wait until she has her memory back.

The housekeeper opened the door to the servants' staircase and smiled at him as the idea of wooing and wedding the lass filled him. The utter rightness of the feelings rioting inside of him—and the thought of marrying the courageous lass—had every drop of blood draining from his brain.

She hurried over to where he stood. "Is anything wrong, O'Malley?"

He met the housekeeper's questioning gaze. "Everything is fine, Mrs. Jones. I'm thinking the lass is starting to heal. Must be yer excellent care, and that of Mrs. Wyatt."

She smiled. "That is wonderful news. I did notice she seemed to become more focused on her surroundings the longer I sat with her. His lordship will be pleased."

"Aye, I was thinking the same meself. I'm going to have a quick word with the lass before I resume me post. If ye have need of me, or if the lass seems troubled for any reason, have one of the footmen find me. I'll be on the third floor for the next little while."

"Of course, O'Malley. Thank you."

As he watched the housekeeper make her way down the hallway, he wondered how quickly the lass's mind would snap into place. The physician had said it could happen any time. Could that be in a fortnight, two days, or two hours?

Resigned not to have the answer, he sighed and summoned up a smile for the woman who was as brave as his brothers or cousins. She just did not realize it, nor would he be telling her so until she had her memory back and remembered who she was.

He knocked on the doorframe and entered the room. "Ye're in luck, lass. Mrs. Wyatt has agreed to a smidge of one of her delicious cream scones."

The lass's smile was blinding, the look in her amber eyes hopeful. "And the tea?"

The poor woman had been through so much and had so much more to deal with when her mind cleared. He hoped she'd be strong enough to handle the double blow—her father was dead, and she was betrothed to Viscount Trenchert.

He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, and the lass immediately looked away. "It doesn't matter about the tea, O'Malley. You have already procured the promise of something sweet. I know the calf's foot jelly is good for me." She paused and cringed as a shudder racked her slender frame. "But the taste!"

Dermott was not immune to her reaction to the dreaded remedy the duke's cook and housekeeper favored. Nor was he immune to the entreaty in her soft voice and the way the hope faded when he did not answer right away. Needing to keep her hope alive, even if it was for such a trivial matter as the earl's cook agreeing to sneaking in a cup of stronger tea, he said, "Don't fret, lass—Mrs. Wyatt has agreed to a send in a stronger cup of tea to go with the bit of scone."

Pleasure shone from the depths of her whiskey-colored eyes and struck him dead center in his chest. He could feel her emotions as if they were his own. His brain struggled with the why of it, while his heart accepted what he should have known from the start. The lass was the other half of his heart.

Patience,his heart soothed. Bollocks! his mind countered.

His emotions tugging him in different directions, Dermott had no idea what else to say. He bowed to her, spun on his heel, and left the room. Before he reached the door to the servants' staircase, he heard his name being called.

Stifling a groan, he paused and glanced over his shoulder, and noticed the cook beckoning to him from the other end of the hallway. He retraced his steps, ignoring the powerful need to peek into the room and drink in the beauty of the lass resting there, and his long strides soon had him stepping over the threshold into the kitchen.

The scent of scones warm from the oven felt like one of his ma's hugs. "I have a confession to make, Mrs. Wyatt, but if ye breathe a word of what I'm about to tell ye, I'll deny it to me dying day."

She nodded. "You have my word, O'Malley. What do you want me to keep a secret?"

He glanced over one shoulder and then the other. Neither of the footmen were close enough to overhear what he was about to say. He leaned close and whispered, "Yer scones taste better than me ma's."

The cook's eyes widened as her smile brightened. "Thank you, O'Malley. That is high praise coming from you." She walked over to the cupboard on the wall opposite the oven and took a linen from the folded pile. Without saying a word, she placed it on the table, put two scones in the middle of the cloth, wrapped it up, and slipped it into her apron pocket. Patting it gently, she said, "When Mrs. Jones arrives to tell me it's my turn to sit with Miss Amber, I'll bring a tray with a cup of broth, a small bowl of calf's foot jelly, and a small pot of stronger tea."

O'Malley grinned. "Ye won't mention the scones in yer pocket?"

She leaned close and whispered, "Not if you don't."

He pressed a kiss to her cheek and bowed. "Ye have me eternal thanks."

"Oh, and what has Mrs. Wyatt done to deserve such?" the housekeeper asked as she entered the kitchen from the other doorway.

Without missing a beat, Dermott lifted his hands—each one holding a freshly baked scone.

Mrs. Jones chuckled. "Never mind, O'Malley. Everyone knows you have a fondness for scones."

"I have a tray of cream tarts and another batch of scones set aside for her ladyship," Mrs. Wyatt told the housekeeper. "Her ladyship is hopeful his lordship will be able to join her for tea this afternoon."

"Why don't I mention it to his lordship on me way to me post?" Dermott said. "Oh, and by the way, Miss Amber is waiting for ye."

The cook nodded. "Thank you, O'Malley."

With that, the women parted—Mrs. Jones to speak to the countess, and Mrs. Wyatt to speak to the lass…and slip her a scone or two. Satisfied all was as right as it could be—for the moment—Dermott stepped back into the hallway and headed for the door to the main part of the house.

He paused to deliver the message about afternoon tea to the earl. They spoke for a few moments before he bowed and walked to the main staircase. Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached his post on the third floor a second or two late. There was no urgent reason that he should worry over not arriving at the exact moment in time his shift began, but he would make sure it did not happen again. I cannot let the lass distract me from me duties. Shaking his head, he realized it would take a concerted effort on his part to keep his head on straight where the lovely lass was concerned.

"Lord, 'tis O'Malley again. I may need yer help with one more thing…"

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