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“You won’t go to sleep if I leave you, will you?” Brigit asked. “Lord Hugh said you were to stay awake. He’ll have my head if I don’t do my work right.”

Morgana answered that question with the absolute truth. “I couldn’t sleep here if you gave me ten sleeping potions.”

“Are you certain? A little while ago, you looked as if you would drop right off in the tub.”

“Oh…” Morgana stalled while she looked around the room for a suitable answer to that question. “Shall we say, I feel the presence of ghosts?”

“You do?” Brigit’s eyes rounded. She gulped and crossed herself, hurrying out, saying, “Och, then, I’ll get yer food.”

Morgana held on to the urge to laugh. Claiming she felt ghosts lingering in Dungannon Castle wasn’t stretching the truth all that much. Her great-aunt Catherine Fitzgerald had died within a week of arriving at Dungannon Castle.

Morgana knew from reading all of Gerait Og Fitzgerald’s journals that he’d done everything in his power to unite all of Ireland’s powerful clans. The one mistake he’d never gotten over was the unexplained death of his favorite sister after she was forced to wed Conn O’Neill.

Prior to her death, Catherine had been mentioned often in her grandfather’s journals. Very little had been written about her following his terse words regarding her death. He blamed himself for forcing a loveless marriage on a young and precious sister. After that, he never mentioned the O’Neills again, except to damn them and their portion of Ireland forever.

All the other political marriages Gerait arranged between his numerous siblings, nephews and nieces had worked to his benefit, uniting by blood nearly all of Ireland’s most powerful families and separate counties.

Morgana removed a suitable gown from the trunk and stood up, holding the gown to her shoulders to judge its possible fit. She was tall for a woman. The skirts of the gray silk were long enough that without a farthingale or too many petticoats, it would sweep the floor at her feet.

One of the maids had taken charge of Morgana’s boots, cleaning and drying them. She found silk stockings aplenty in the other trunk, and kirtles galore, though she did have to exert some care in choosing from the other trunk. Most of its wools had been ravaged by moths. Samites, linen and silks were apparently less palatable to marauding insects.

Morgana dressed with practiced efficiency, making do with an old-fashioned short-waisted stomacher to lace over the shapeless gown, giving it some form. It accomplished what she wanted it to accomplish, lifting her breasts enough to support them against the uncomfortable and sometimes painful jarring that a woman’s unbound breasts suffered when she rode horseback. The only trouble with it came from the fact that it was designed to lace up the back. As her right hand was somewhat impaired, she couldn’t pull the laces as tight as she was used to wearing them.

Her hair had dried sufficiently that she could braid it and turn the coils into neat order. She was seated at Lady Dungannon’s vanity, doing that task, when the chamber door opened without a knock.

Hugh O’Neill arrived bearing an ample supper tray for his guest, and was greatly surprised to find the lady seated at his mother’s vanity, vainly tucking an unruly plait into a curious coil over her right ear.

“You’re not asleep?” he asked, rather foolishly. Not for his life would he have admitted that finding her awake had just contradicted every assumption he’d made about her. English women were perverse. That was a given. Why she’d chosen to confound him would be revealed soon enough.

Morgana came to her feet, and the coil unkinked and slid down her shoulder. She most certainly hadn’t expected the O’Neill to walk through the chamber door. “No. I’m not.”

Morgana kept her answer bland. She knew she couldn’t have said as much for her face. Her surprise showed as much as his did. She blushed at the intensity of his inspection of her bosom. The silk gown was cut for a larger-breasted woman, revealing a great deal of decolletage. Morgana would have covered that with some kind of cloth insert once she finished with her hair.

Hugh grinned wolfishly as he set the heavy tray on a gateleg table beside his mother’s fainting couch.

“Come, Morgana of Kildare. I’ve brought you sustenance for your belly and wine to soothe your soul. Sit you down and eat, while I feast my eyes on your loveliness. That gown suits you.”

Morgana managed to keep both hands at her sides, resisting the urge to let them flutter to her throat to hide what was already obvious and exposed. She did wet her lips with her tongue and swallow twice before stepping forward to meet him at the small table.

He placed a candle branch on the table and brought a high-backed chair away from the fireplace. Setting the chair opposite the couch, he waited until she sat before taking his seat. His hands flew over the tray, removing steam covers from hot dishes and linen cozies from a woven basket full of bread. “There, a feast for your eyes, as well as your belly, is it not?”

Morgana’s mouth watered instantly at the sight of waferthin slices of peppered salmon, lentils swimming in a rich, creamy sauce and an appetizing thick vegetable soup. She leaned over the table, inhaling deeply of the aromas rising on the steam, admitting, “I’m famished.”

“I thought you would be.” Her expression pleased him greatly, making him proud of Mrs. Carrick’s efforts in the kitchens. “Don’t be shy,” he said, coaxing her to eat. “I was fed some time ago, so I’ll join you in polishing off the wine. It’s imported from Burgundy, a favorite of mine, and quite good.”

Morgana gave him credit for knowing his own stomach as well as she knew hers. She took up the spoon and tucked into the soup, too hungry to argue about polite sharing. That gave Hugh another reason to smile as he uncorked the wine and filled two chased goblets to the rim. She was too consumed by hunger to notice his intense inspection.

Morgana of Kildare had washed up very, very well. Her hair appeared dark in the bedchamber’s limiting shadows, but he’d have had to be blind not to see the red highlights shimmering in the candlelight. Unlike the beauties of Queen Elizabeth’s court, she did not shave her eyebrows, and it didn’t appear to him that she even went so far as to pluck them. They were thick enough to make him want to smooth his fingers over their naturally high arches.

Her skin was clear. Her nose as straight and neatly formed as an arrow. Her mouth, well, he could have wasted his time composing poetry to those lips that deftly opened to take in spoonful after spoonful of hearty soup. They were red and full, a touch swollen on one side, where Kelly had struck her hard. A small bruise marred a corner, but they were not mangled so badly that she couldn’t be gently kissed.