Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Copyright

The moment her hands skimmed his flesh, Rory could feel the changes.

When her strong fingers began massaging his shoulder, his heartbeat became erratic. His breathing accelerated. His mind was swept clean of all thought save one. He wanted more. He was desperate to feel her hands touching him everywhere.

He clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. Clenched his hands into fists to keep from dragging her into his arms and taking what he wanted.

“You haven’t been moving your arm as you should,” AnnaClaire said.

“And how would you know that?”

“Because I can feel a knot of tension here.” She kneaded his flesh, and he bent his head forward slightly to give her easier access. “And here.” She pressed her thumbs over his stiff shoulder, working the flesh in firm but gentle strokes.

“Perhaps the tension is from something other than pain.”

“And what would that be?”

He sighed, as much in pleasure as frustration. “I’ll leave you to figure that one for yourself, my lady….”

Dear Reader,

Entertainment. Escape. Fantasy. These three words describe the heart of Harlequin Historicals. If you want compelling, emotional stories by some of the best writers in the field, look no further.

Ruth Langan is one of those writers. With over forty-five books to her credit, this bestselling author has made a name for herself in the world of romance fiction. We are thrilled to bring you Rory, the first book in her new medieval series, THE O’NEIL SAGA. Legendary Irish rebel Rory O’Neil has a price on his head for his attacks on English soldiers. When he is wounded in battle, he is nursed by an English noblewoman who eventually must choose between her love for Rory or her loyalty to the Queen of England. Don’t miss this heart-wrenching story!

A Father for Keeps is a heartwarming reunion romance by the talented Ana Seymour. A wealthy miner returns to Nevada to win back the woman who secretly had his child. In Robber Bride by Deborah Simmons, the third de Burgh brother, Simon, finds his true love in a runaway bride who is hiding from her despicable would-be husband.

And be sure to look for The Tender Stranger by Carolyn Davidson. In this gripping tale, a pregnant widow flees from her conniving in-laws to an isolated Colorado cabin, and later falls in love with the bounty hunter hired to bring her back East. Whatever, your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a. romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical.®

Sincerely, Tracy Farrell Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to: Harlequin Reader Service U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269 Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Rory
Ruth Langan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RUTH LANGAN

traces her ancestry to Scotland and Ireland. It is no surprise, then, that she feels a kinship with the characters in her historical novels.

Married to her childhood sweetheart, she has raised five children and lives in Michigan, the state where she was born and raised.

For sweet little Macey Langan Bissonnette

And her big sisters, Aubrey, Haley and Kelsey

And her proud parents, Carol and Bryon

And to Tom

Always

Prologue

Ireland, 1560

The chapel at Ballinarin, the ancestral home of the clan O’Neil, was filled to overflowing with family and friends who had come from as far as Malahide Castle in Dublin, and Bunratty Castle in Clare. The mood was festive as they prepared to witness the union of Rory O’Neil, eldest son of Gavin and Moira, and his beloved Caitlin Maguire.

In a small room at the back of the chapel Rory paced while his brother, Conor, stood by the door and watched as the last of the guests filed into pews.

“What’s keeping her?” Rory paused. Sunlight speared through a high window, turning his dark hair blue-black. He was resplendent in black breeches and shirt, with his cloak bearing the O’Neil crest tossed rakishly over his shoulder.

“You needn’t worry that she’s changed her mind, Rory. The lass has loved you since she was old enough to know her own mind. Just be patient.”

“Damn your patience.”

Conor grinned. “Aye, that was never one of your virtues, Rory. But give the lass time to make herself beautiful for her husband.”

“Nothing could make Caitlin more beautiful than she already is. And why should I be patient? I’ve waited a lifetime for this day.”

“Aye. It seems like you’ve been in love with her forever.”

“Since I was ten and two.” He flashed the smile that had caused maidens from Derry to Cork to dream of snagging his attention. But Rory O’Neil had eyes for only one maiden. “I was born for her alone. I tell you, Conor, this day my life will be complete.” He lowered his voice. “Did I tell you that I slipped over to see her last night? I told her I couldn’t wait until today. I wanted to lie with her.”

Conor threw back his head and roared. “Don’t let Friar Malone hear of this.”

“It wouldn’t matter. She refused. She said she wanted to wait for her wedding night. It was to be her special gift to her husband.” He grinned. “Husband. I like the sound of that.”

“And with all this love stored up, I’m sure your wedding night will be one to remember.”

Both brothers turned as the door was thrust in and a slender lass in a gown of pink gossamer hurried inside.

“I was afraid I’d be too late.”

“Too late for what, Briana?” Rory couldn’t help grinning at the sight of his little sister. Her waist-length hair, the color of flame, was wind-tossed. Her cheeks were bright with color. From the sound of her breathing, he could tell she’d just run the entire distance from the keep to the chapel. All her young life she’d been running to keep up with her two older brothers.

“Too late to kiss my brother before he left me for good.”

“You talk as though I’m going away. Caitlin and I will be living right here on the grounds of Ballinarin.”

“Aye. But you’ll be a husband.” She dimpled, and the two brothers knew she’d overheard at least some of their conversation. But it would go no further. Briana could always be counted on to keep a secret. “And in no time, seeing the way you two look at each other, you’ll be a father as well. And you’ll have no time for a sister.”

Rory drew her close and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ll always have time for you, Briana. And you can come over every day and help Caitlin with the wee ones.”

“Just how many are you planning to have?”

“At least a dozen. All the lads will be handsome like their father, and all the lasses will have dark hair like their mother, and skin as fair as the crystal water in the River Shannon, and so beautiful that I’ll have to lock them up to keep the local lads from stealing them all away.”

Conor and Briana burst into gales of laughter.

“That’s what I like about you, Rory. When you dream,” his brother said with a laugh, “they’re always such grand dreams. Let’s just hope it isn’t the other way around. After all, your sons could be small and delicate like their mother, and your daughters could all be giants like you.”

“Not a chance. They’ll.” He paused at the sound of a commotion in the chapel and gave a smile of relief. “Finally. I was beginning to think—” At the sudden chorus of shouting voices his smile dissolved.

He hurried from the room, followed by his brother and sister.

A lad of six or seven, clothes torn and bloodied, stood gesturing wildly. “English soldiers. More than a dozen of them.”

Rory’s heart nearly stopped as he shouldered his way through the guests. He recognized the lad as a son of Caitlin’s eldest brother. He knelt down, caught him by the shoulders. “Where are the others, Innis?”

“By the bend in the road.” The boy’s eyes were wide with pain and shock. “My da fell on top of me, pinning me to the ground. All I could do was watch. They’re all dead, Rory.”

“No!” Rory’s voice echoed through the chapel as he released the boy and jumped to his feet, pushing and shoving through the stunned crowd.

Outside he grasped the reins of the first horse he spotted and leapt onto its back, urging it into a gallop. He could hear the sounds of other horses following behind, but he never looked back.

He followed the bog road until he came to the bend. Even before he got there, he could hear the strange, eerie silence. No birds sang. No creatures moved. It was as though the entire land was holding its breath.

And then he saw them. The mass of bodies. Animal as well as human. The ground ran red with their blood. The horses had died where they’d fallen, with lances through the neck or heart. The men had fought a fierce battle. Many lay, face up, still holding their swords. But the worst savagery had been inflicted upon the women.

Rory saw the flutter of white. Caitlin’s bridal gown.

It was the only way he could identify her. He picked his way through the carnage and knelt beside her. The gown had been cut away, except for one sleeve that still clung to her wrist. From the marks on her body he could see that she’d been brutalized before her throat had been cut so violently her head had nearly been severed from her body.

With a cry of pain and rage he gathered her against him and buried his face in her bloody hair. His body shook with great, wrenching sobs that spoke of a heart shattered beyond repair.

“Rory. God in heaven, Rory.” Conor was the first to find him. He could do no more than weep as he stood, watching his brother silently rage against the horror of it.

As the others arrived, Gavin O’Neil strode through the carnage to stand over his firstborn son. His voice shook with raw emotion. “The lad, Innis, says the leader was called Tilden by the others. Tall, brawny, with yellow hair and a face disfigured by a scar that ran from his left eye to his jaw. ‘Twill not be an easy face to hide.”

“I’ll find him.” Rory unfastened his cloak and used it to cover Caitlin’s nakedness. He staggered to his feet, cradling the broken body of the woman who had been his reason for living. This night she would have lain in his arms, in their bed. Instead she would lie forever in the cold, hard earth. He looked up to stare at his family and friends. All were weeping uncontrollably.

His own tears had dried. His eyes, hard as stone, stared beyond the bloodstained ground. “I give you my word. I’ll not rest until I find the English bastard who did this.”

His father laid a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll fetch a wagon to take her and the others to be buried.”

Rory shook off the hand. “No one will touch Caitlin. I’ll carry her. It’s all I can give her now.”

It was a somber, silent procession that made its way back to the chapel. The guests in their wedding finery were a sharp contrast to the bloody bodies being hauled in hay wagons. At the head of the column walked Rory O’Neil, his tunic and breeches clotted with blood. The body in his arms was completely covered with his cloak, except for a spill of raven hair matted with blood and grass.

At the chapel he continued to stand and hold Caitlin cradled to his chest as a hole was dug and Friar Malone began the words that would consign the body to holy ground.

For hours, while the holes were dug and the bodies buried, Rory continued to kneel silently at the mound of earth that covered his beloved. And when the last body had been disposed of, he looked around the grave site, then fixed his gaze on the distance.

As his family gathered around, he embraced his mother and father, and kissed his sister’s cheek.

Briana’s cries became great, wracking sobs that shook her slender frame. “You musn’t go, Rory. Please, don’t go. If you do, I’ll never see you again.”

“Hush now.” He held her close for a moment, whispering against her forehead, “I’ll return. Trust me.”

Conor clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Will you let me come with you?”

Rory gave a firm shake of his head. “It’s something I must do alone. You’ll be needed here.” He turned to his mother, who stood behind Innis, her arms wrapped around his thin shoulders. “You’ll see to the lad?”

She nodded. “He’ll be a son to me, until my own returns.”

Rory strapped on a sword and tucked a knife at his waist and in his boot.

His father removed his own cloak, which bore the O’Neil crest, and wrapped it around his son’s shoulders. Lifting his hand in benediction he said, “May God ride with you, Rory, and bring you home to those who love you.”

Without a word, Rory pulled himself onto the back of his horse. He turned for one last look at Ballinarin. In the distance Croagh Patrick stood guard over the land. The mountain changed color so rapidly it was never the same. Earlier, it had been a harsh gray-green in the misty rain. Now it had softened to a peach hue in the warmth of the fading sun. Its sides were cloaked with stunted, twisted shrubs and trees and at the base, tall conifers and clumps of rhododendron. Waterfalls tossed themselves over the side, spilling down until they reached the river. Torn shreds of clouds drifted overhead. This lonely, savage piece of land held his heart. It was the only place he’d ever wanted to be. But now, the deceptively gentle scene mocked him. Because of the. violence that had occurred here, he would begin an odyssey. An odyssey that could take him far away for years, or even a lifetime, until this thing was finished.

Chapter One

County Dublin, 1562

“So many of them, Rory.” The voice was little more than a whisper on the breeze.

Half a dozen figures crouched by the banks of the Liffey, watching the English soldiers frolic in the brown water.

“Aye. I’d hoped for only a dozen or more. There must be close to fifty.” Rory turned to the weathered farmer kneeling beside him. “Why so many?”

“Now that the English have discovered the healing properties of the boiling spring, this river has become a favorite place for them to congregate.” He wrinkled his nose at the strong odor of sulphur. “It helps them relax after they’ve had the fun of killing a few of us.”

Rory watched from his place of concealment.

“You’re certain the one with the scar is among them?”

The farmer’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the distant figures. “1 haven’t spotted him yet. But he was with this group of bastards yesterday when they caught my little daughter in the fields and made sport of her.”

His voice betrayed his pain. “She’s only ten and one, Rory. And the things they did to her. The one with the scar demanded to be first. She told me he taunted those who refused to join in.” In a fierce whisper he added, “I want to be the one to kill him.”

Rory touched a hand to his arm. “I know how you feel, Seamus. But you’ve done enough. Go home to your family now.”

“I need to see him dead.” The farmer fingered his only weapon, a small crude knife.

“Your family can’t afford to lose you, Seamus. Go now. Leave the killing to us.”

“You’ll kill him, Rory? For my Fiona? For me?”

“Aye. If he’s here, I’ll see the bastard dead.” For Caitlin, he thought, especially for Caitlin.

Seeing the hatred that glittered in Rory O’Neil’s eyes, the farmer had no doubt that his family’s honor would be avenged. In the past two years, all of Ireland had heard of the quest for vengeance that drove this fierce Irish warrior. Wherever there was a battle between his countrymen and the hated English, Rory O’Neil could be found in the thick of it. He had killed so many soldiers, there was now a price on his head. He was the most hunted man in the land. And the man most despised by his enemy. He was known throughout England and Ireland as the Blackhearted O’Neil. Despite the fact that his likeness was posted throughout the country, Rory O’Neil was so loved by the people, he could count on being safely hidden in any town or village throughout the land. Everywhere he went, men joined his ragged band in its quest for vengeance.

“Can we take them now, Rory?” one of his men whispered when the farmer was safely gone.

“Patience, Colin.” How odd that he now counseled patience, when he’d had so little of it in his life.

He watched as the last of the soldiers stripped off their tunics and walked into the water. Only a handful of men remained as lookouts, while the others swam and bathed and splashed each other like boys.

“Ready, lads?” he asked as he stood and unsheathed his sword.

His men nodded and did the same.

A ripple of anticipation passed through them, charging each man with almost supernatural fervor. The very air around them seemed somehow changed. No one spoke. No one moved as they waited for the signal from their leader.

“Now,” Rory called in a fierce whisper.

They scrambled down the banks of the river, screaming like banshees. The hapless guards didn’t even have a chance to unsheath their swords before they fell in their own blood.

The English soldiers, who had only moments earlier been laughing and calling to one another, now struggled feverishly to retrieve their weapons. Though they outnumbered the Irish warriors almost ten to one, they had the disadvantage of being caught unawares.

Rory plowed into the water, using his sword with an economy of movement. With each thrust of his blade, another man stiffened, gasped, tumbled headlong into the river. In no time the brown waters of the Liffey ran red with blood. And still the killing went on.

Each time he encountered another soldier, Rory stared into his opponent’s face, searching for the telltale scar. And each time, he experienced the sting of disappointment when he realized this wasn’t the one he sought.

He had long ago stopped feeling the shock along his arm when his sword encountered muscle and bone. And was able to block out the muffled sobs and high-pitched shrieks of the dying. What he couldn’t erase from his mind was the sight of his beloved Caitlin, her body bloodied and battered beyond recognition. This was what drove him. This was what gave him the will to go on, no matter what the odds.

As he stepped over yet another body, he caught a glimpse of a soldier with yellow hair plucking a sword from one of his fallen comrades.

At last, Rory thought. At long last, his quest would be ended. With a cry of pain and rage he lunged through the water lapping at his hips and stumbled forward.

Hearing his voice, the soldier momentarily dropped the sword.

“Pick it up, you coward.” Rory’s voice was thick with passion. “Pick it up and face your death like a man.”

Rory saw the soldier grasp the sword as he lifted his own. The thought of victory sang through his blood and misted his vision.

“Now,” he shouted. “Now, Tilden, will you taste the vengeance of Rory O’Neil.”

He could no more stop the thrust of his blade than he could still the waters churning beneath his feet. And yet, in that last moment, he realized his mistake. This man had no scar. His face was unlined. It was the face of a youth. The eyes wide with terror. The mouth round in surprise.

The force of the thrust sent his blade through the lad’s. chest and out the other side. The young soldier was dead before his body hit the water.

With a feeling of horror and revulsion, Rory pulled his sword free and watched as the water around the body turned blood red.

For the first time he stared around at the scene of carnage. Not a single soldier remained. The Liffey and its banks were littered with bodies. Three of his own men were sitting in the shallows, looking dazed. One was tying a tourniquet around his bloody leg. Another was leaning against a tree, retching.

How long had this killing lasted? Minutes? Hours? Time was nothing but a blur.

Had he really been on this quest for two years now? Two years of blood and violence and death. Two years of being hunted, and hiding out in hay barns and accepting food from strangers.

And yet, how could he stop the carnage? In every village he heard the stories of cottages burned and crops destroyed and women and children violated.

He was weary beyond belief. The thought of Ballinarin taunted him, tempted him. At times all he could think of was turning his back on this quest and returning to his home and family.

But then, he would see again in his mind his beloved Caitlin. And he knew, no matter how weary, no matter what the Fates meted out to him, he could never stop until he found the English bastard who had brutalized and murdered his future bride and her entire family. Tilden had to pay.

“Will we stop awhile, Rory?” one of his men called.

“We’ll move on.” He forced the weariness aside as he allowed the water to wash the blood from his sword. Then he sheathed it and stepped from the river. “If we move quickly, we can sleep tonight in Dublin.”

* * *

“I’m sorry I must leave you, AnnaClaire.”

“I understand, Father. You have your duties.”

“But it’s so soon since Margaret.”

The young woman touched a hand to her father’s lips to still his words. “I’ll not deny I miss Mother. As do you. Every day of our lives we’ll miss her. But I can’t ask you to forsake everything and spend the rest of your life holding my hand.”

“The grief is still so raw.”

“Aye. I expect a year from now I’ll still be grieving. But I’ll find ways to stay busy. I promise.”

“I wish you’d change your mind and come with me.”

“We’ve gone over this before, Father. I’m just not ready to leave Mother’s home, her grave.”

“I know. And I understand, my dear. I’ve asked Charles Lord Davis to look in on you. And Lady Alice Thornly is planning a lovely dinner party. She hinted that there would be several interesting men recently arrived who might snag your interest.”

AnnaClaire managed a smile. “You just can’t help yourself, can you, Father?”

“Do you blame me? You need a husband, a family. You’re far from home, without the comfort of your mother, and now your father abandons you as well.”

“You aren’t abandoning me. You said yourself you’ll be back in time for my birthday.”

“And I shall. But I’d feel better if I knew you had a young man looking out for you while I was gone.”

“I’ll have an old one. Lord Davis is a dear.”

“But not quite what I had in mind. No matter.” He turned to see his trunks being unloaded from the lorry and deposited on the docks. “I don’t want you to remain until my ship sails. I’d just as soon you not mingle with the locals.”

He could see that she was about to voice an objection so he gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Go now. Tavis is waiting with the carriage. Stay well, my dear. Stay busy. And do be careful. These are dangerous times.”

“Goodbye, Father. God speed.”

AnnaClaire turned away and began to move slowly through the crowd.

It was market day, and the docks teemed with life. Gnarled, ruddy fishermen sat mending their nets while children, no older than nine or ten, pushed carts piled with cockles and mussels. Old women in faded gowns held up striped sea bass and cod to entice buyers. Chickens squawked in crude Wooden pens. Farmers displayed the bounty from their land. Potatoes, carrots, peas.

The air was ripe with the scent of sea and earth and humanity. Wealthy landowners mingled with the poorest of the poor as vendors vied with one another to sell their wares. AnnaClaire felt a tug at her heartstrings. From her earliest childhood she had always loved the sights and sounds and smells of Dublin.

English soldiers, fresh from their journey across the Channel, disembarked from Her Majesty’s ship, the Greenley, and shouldered their way through the throng, escorting half a dozen of the queen’s own emissaries. Each month, Elizabeth dispatched more titled English to deal with what was being called “the Irish problem.”

“Out of the way, you fools.” One of the soldiers raised his sword menacingly, and the crowd fell back.

From her vantage point, AnnaClaire felt a wave of disgust. Every time another boatload of soldiers arrived on these shores, the discontent grew. And not without good reason. Some of these crude louts could neither read nor write, yet they seemed determined to prove to the locals that they were superior in every way.

As the soldiers approached, AnnaClaire saw a young woman, heavy with child, grasp the hand of a toddler and try to snatch her out of the way. At the last moment the child pulled free and stepped directly into the path of the marching men.

“Oh, no. Someone please stop her,” the woman cried.

AnnaClaire couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The soldiers continued pressing forward. With the surge of the crowd, the little one would surely be trampled.

Without a thought to her own safety she dashed forward and snatched up the child, sidestepping out of danger only a second before the soldiers marched past.

“Oh, thank you, miss. Bless you. Bless you.” With tears of gratitude the young woman kissed AnnaClaire’s hands before taking the little girl from her arms and hugging her to her heart.

“You’re welcome. I can’t believe they didn’t see what was happening.”

“They saw.” The young woman’s eyes narrowed. “They just don’t care. Our lives mean nothing to them.” Her voice lowered. “But soon, very soon, they’ll feel the sting of the Blackhearted O’Neil.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He’s here.” Now the young woman’s voice was little more than a whisper. “They say he’s here in the crowd.”

“Who is here?”

“Rory O’Neil. The Blackhearted O’Neil. Praise heaven. Come to put an end to the injustice.” Her eyes suddenly widened. “God in heaven. There he is now. Come, miss. We mustn’t tarry. It’s begun.”

AnnaClaire was aware of a murmur going through the crowd. “What’s begun?”

“There’s no time.” Before AnnaClaire could argue, the young woman tugged her out of the way of a band of ragged men wielding swords. Moments later she shoved AnnaClaire down behind a cart heaped with stinking fish. From there AnnaClaire watched in wide-eyed wonder as that small band engaged more than a dozen soldiers in battle.

The scene was one of complete chaos. The soldiers, honor-bound to protect the queen’s emissaries, stood in a tight line, swords raised against the intruders. But instead of falling back, these Irish confounded them by charging directly at them, swords flashing, voices screaming.

Several of the young soldiers, who were engaging the enemy for the first time, looked absolutely terrified. Instead of standing their ground, they turned and fled, ignoring the shouted commands of their sergeant-atarms.

To add to the confusion, many of the cages were upended, releasing squawking chickens and quacking ducks. From her position behind a cart, an old woman began tossing her supply of fish at the English soldiers. Others soon joined in, until the docks were littered with the slimy remains of seafood.

AnnaClaire watched as the leader of the Irish warriors leapt between one of his own men, who was bleeding profusely, and a soldier who was about to run him through with his sword.

“That’s Rory O’Neil,” the young woman beside her said with a trace of awe. “Our Blackhearted O’Neil.”

AnnaClaire couldn’t take her eyes off him. She’d never seen anyone like him. This man looked like the devil himself, leaping, dancing, his sword singing through the air and landing fatal blows with uncanny accuracy. He was everywhere. Deflecting an English sword. Taking a blow meant for one of his men, then retaliating with a powerful thrust of his own blade. When one of his men was wounded, he shouldered him aside and saved him from certain death, before returning to the fray.

As the battle wore on, only three English soldiers remained standing. But when the queen’s emissaries began to flee, Rory’s voice stopped them.

“We have not come to harm you. The one we were seeking is not here. We wish only that you carry this message to your queen. All we desire is to live in peace. But know this. We will not lay down our arms until those soldiers who have harmed our innocent women and children have paid. Beginning with the one called Tilden. He is the one we seek. He brings shame to his queen and country. Do you understand?”

The titled men glanced nervously at one another before nodding their heads.

Satisfied, Rory lowered his sword. “Now tell your soldiers to lower their weapons, and we will take our leave of this place.”

As the three soldiers began to comply, a voice from behind them shouted, “Cowards. You will not surrender to these barbarians.”

A burly soldier stepped into their midst. His yellow hair hung nearly to his shoulders. A wide, puckered scar ran from his left eye to his jaw. At the sight of him the crowd of Irish onlookers gave a collective gasp before falling eerily silent.

AnnaClaire turned to the young woman beside her. “What is wrong? Who is that?”

“He is the soldier they came seeking. His name is Tilden. But most call him Lucifer. Especially those who have tasted his cruelty.”

“What sort of cruelty?”

“Beyond anything you can imagine. He enjoys torturing our men before finally taking their lives. He despoils our women and children, and often forces husbands and fathers to watch the brutality before killing them. And he has vowed to be the one to stop our Blackhearted O’Neil.” The woman’s lips trembled. “But if there is a God in heaven, Rory O’Neil will prevail. Else, all in this fair land are lost.”

AnnaClaire decided it was best to keep her thoughts to herself. But she wondered what possible chance one exhausted, bloody, wounded Irish warrior could have against a soldier who had just stepped afresh into battle.

“He is mine,” Rory shouted as he charged toward the laughing soldier.

The throb of passion in his voice sent shivers through the crowd. But before he could confront Tilden, more than a dozen soldiers stepped from their places of concealment and brandished swords. Rory found himself fighting for his life.

Once again the crowd fell back and watched in silence as Rory and his small, wounded band fought valiantly. It was an amazing sight to see men leaping, lunging, the blades of their swords running red with blood. And though the ragged band of Irish warriors was now beyond exhaustion, they never gave up, never fell back.

Amazingly, they fought until the last of the soldiers fell to the ground. Then, bleeding from half a dozen wounds, Rory looked around for the one he’d come seeking. Though his right arm hung limply at his side, and his clothes were soaked with blood, the blaze of fury was still in his eyes.

“You cannot hide, Tilden. Show yourself, coward.”

One of his men threw an arm around his shoulders. “Come, Rory. We must flee. There are more soldiers aboard the English ship. You can be certain a coward like Tilden wouldn’t fight alone. He’s surely gone for reinforcements.”

“I want him. I’ve come too far to turn away now.”

“Nay, friend. Come. You’ve lost too much blood. We must flee now, while we can still walk. Thus will we live to fight another day.”

As Rory was led away he stumbled, righted himself, then moved numbly through the crowd.

AnnaClaire watched as the people surged forward, forming a protective wall of humanity so that their hero and his ragged band could melt away in the crowd.

“Well. That was quite a spectacle.” She got to her feet, dusting off her skirts. “I can see why Rory O’Neil is called the Blackhearted O’Neil. But I.” She turned toward the place where the young woman had been kneeling beside her. But she and her child were gone.

AnnaClaire frowned. All these people, it would seem, had a habit of simply disappearing into thin air.

“Thank you, Tavis.” AnnaClaire watched as her driver hung the pen holding the chicken at the rear of her open carriage.

It had taken more than an hour to make her way through the milling throngs, especially since she’d been forced to wait until one of the vendors retrieved his scattered chickens.

“I hope Bridget is sufficiently grateful for all we went through to bring home supper.”

“Aye, my lady. But when you taste what my Bridget can do with one little chicken, ‘tis you who’ll be grateful.”

She laughed as Tavis Murphy gave her a hand up. She settled herself comfortably, arranging her skirts as the carriage jolted ahead. She gave a glance around. “I believe we’ve lost my lap robe.”

“Nay, my lady. The day is warm. I set it in back, out of the way.”

“Thank you, Tavis.”

He nodded in acknowledgment. “‘Twill be slow going, my lady.” He pulled back on the reins and brought the horse and carriage to a walk.

“I don’t mind. After all I’ve seen today, I’ll just sit here and catch my breath.”

“You saw the battle then?” He steered around a cluster of men and women who were still talking and gesturing.

“It was right before my eyes.”

He half turned. “You saw our Blackhearted O’Neil?”

She nodded. “I saw him.”

“Handsome devil, I’m told.”

“Some might say that. The devil part at least. I’d call him dangerous. And violent.”

“Aye, he’s violent. A man of deep passion, I’ve heard. But with good reason. His bride-to-be was brutalized and murdered on their wedding day.”

She felt a quick jolt, then swept it aside. “From what I saw today, he’s more than made up for one woman’s death. Do you know how many English women will weep and mourn the loss of husbands and sons this day?”

Tavis held his silence, and concentrated on urging the horse through the maze of carts and wagons and people.

AnnaClaire recognized his silence as disapproval. She studied her driver’s profile. Though Tavis and his wife Bridget were paid handsomely for their services to her father, she had no illusions about their loyalty. This was their land; these were their people. And though her mother had been born and raised in Dublin, AnnaClaire was considered an outsider. Her mother, Margaret Doyle, had married an English nobleman, and had educated her own daughter in London.

“Here we are, my lady.” Tavis brought the carriage to a halt and helped her down. “I’ll see that Bridget gets the chicken right away.”

“Thank you, Tavis.” She turned toward the door, then turned back as the carriage jolted ahead. “Oh, wait. My lap robe.”

“I’ll bring it in after I’ve rubbed down the horse and cleaned the carriage,” he called over his shoulder.

“But I…”

The carriage was already rounding the corner of the drive. She stood a moment, watching the way her robe, mounded on the back platform, fluttered in the breeze. With a shrug of resignation, she turned away and entered the lovely manor house, Clay Court, that had been in her mother’s family for six generations.

Her first order of business would be to wash away the stench of fish that clung to her skin and clothes.

Then she would make herself presentable for her visit with her father’s oldest friend.

“Bridget, the dinner was lovely.”

“Thank you, miss. Will you have more tea?”

“No. Lord Davis? More tea? Or perhaps a bit more ale?”

The old man patted his stomach. “Not another drop, my dear. I fear I’ll explode.”

“It was kind of you to come by tonight and keep me company.”

“I knew you’d be feeling lonely with your father gone. And I was concerned when I heard about the fighting that went on at the docks today.” He wiped his mouth, set his napkin aside. “If I’d known you were anywhere near those barbarians, I’d have been there to personally escort you home.”

“I was never in any danger. The only one they really wanted was an English soldier named Tilden.”

“Don’t be fooled, my dear. No one is safe around desperate men such as those. An innocent like yourself has no idea what they’re capable of doing. Why, the stories I’ve heard about the fate of fair English maidens at the hands of those animals would make a grown man cringe.”

The dishes in Bridget’s hands clattered.

AnnaClaire glanced at her housekeeper. “You look pale, Bridget. Are you feeling all right?”

The housekeeper backed away. “Aye, miss. Just a bit tired is all.” She turned, clutching the dishes to her chest, and fled the room.

“How about a game of chess, my dear?”

AnnaClaire shook her head. “I’m sorry, Lord Davis. Like Bridget, I’m afraid I’m too tired to offer you much of a challenge tonight.”

“All right.” He stood, then held her chair as she got to her feet. “Perhaps another night.”

“I’d like that.” She led the way from the ornate dining hall, then tucked her arm through his as they walked together along the corridor toward the front door. “Will you be going to Lady Thornly’s dinner party?”

The old man nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it. Though in truth, the food won’t be nearly as tasty as what we enjoyed tonight.”

Outside, his carriage and driver were silhouetted against the night sky. The old man leaned close and brushed a kiss over her cheek. “I bid you good night, my dear. And tell Bridget those were the best fruit tarts I’ve ever tasted.”

“I believe you told her. Three times.”

He chuckled. “That’s so she would return three times to offer me more. If you aren’t careful, I’ll steal her from you.”

He was helped up to the carriage. When he was settled he doffed his hat. “Sleep well, AnnaClaire.”

“And you, Lord Davis.”

She waved until the carriage pulled away. Then she went inside and made her way up the wide staircase to her suite of rooms on the second floor. Within minutes she had shed her clothes.

“Would you be wanting anything else, miss?” Bridget hovered by the door to AnnaClaire’s bedchamber. The little maid, Glinna, was busy turning down the bed linens and gathering up assorted skirts and petticoats. By morning they would be washed and ironed and carefully returned to the wardrobe.

“No, thank you, Bridget.” AnnaClaire yawned behind her hand. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, it’s been quite a tiring day.”

“Aye, miss.”

AnnaClaire looked at her a little more closely. A worried little frown furrowed the housekeeper’s brow. Her skin seemed to have lost all its color. “Are you certain you’re feeling all right?”

“Aye, miss. I’ll be fine after a bit of sleep. If there’s nothing you need, I’ll say good night now.”

“Good night, Bridget.”

AnnaClaire waited until the housekeeper and maid had departed, then blew out her candle and climbed into bed. But sleep wouldn’t come. She rolled from one side to the other, unable to find a comfortable position. She was simply too stimulated by all she’d seen and heard this day. Determined to sleep, she closed her eyes. At once she was assaulted by the image of the darkly handsome Rory O’Neil. She had never seen a man quite like him. Such a commanding presence. So fearless in the face of almost certain death. He was either the bravest man she’d ever seen or the most foolhardy.

And that voice. Just the thought of all that rage and passion had her trembling again. She sat up, shoving a tangle of honey curls from her eyes. There was no point in trying to sleep. Instead, she would make herself a cup of tea and then write a letter to her father.

Slipping out of bed, she caught up a warm shawl and tossed it over her nightshift, then padded barefoot from the room. Candles in sconces along the hallway sputtered in pools of wax, casting eerie shadows along the walls.

She made her way to the kitchen and placed a kettle of water over the glowing coals of the fire. As she waited for the water to boil, she noticed her lap robe tossed carelessly over a bench. Odd. It wasn’t like Tavis to be so casual with her things. As she picked it up, she felt something damp and sticky. Lifting her hand to the firelight, she frowned. It appeared to be red as blood. It must be the glow from the coals fooling the eye.

She held a candle to the flame until the wick caught fire, then lifted it high and studied the cloth more closely. Dear heaven. It was blood. Not just a drop or two, but great wet rivers of it staining the entire robe. She dropped it as though the touch of it burned her.

At the sound of a footfall behind her she spun around. And went deadly still at the sight that greeted her.

Rory O’Neil had pulled himself from the shadows and was leaning heavily against the table. “I’m sorry about that fine robe. I seem to have ruined it.”

Blood still oozed from his neck, his chest, his arm, soaking the front of his tunic, staining his breeches and boots. In his right hand he held his sword aloft.

His eyes narrowed as he studied the vision before him. A vision that seemed to shimmer and shift. In the glow of firelight the woman appeared to be bathed in a halo of light.

He slowly lowered his sword. “So. That’s it then. I’m dying.” His voice, still rich and deep and passionate, seemed to warm as he smiled.

At that moment his sword clattered to the floor, and he gripped the edge of the table with both hands. The blood drained from his face. He slowly sank to his knees, then slid bonelessly to the floor.

As AnnaClaire stood over him he muttered, “I feared I’d be damned to hell for the path I’d chosen. It’s happy I am to give up my life, now that I’ve met one of heaven’s angels come to escort me home.”

Chapter Two

“My lady.” Bridget, carrying a basin of water from the well outside, stopped dead in her tracks. “I thought you were abed.”

Tavis, holding aloft a candle, came to an abrupt halt behind her.

Guilt stained their cheeks.

“I know what you thought.” Anger made AnnaClaire’s color equally high. “You thought to hide this murderer right here in my home. Behind my back.” When she pointed to the figure on the floor Bridget dropped the basin, splashing water everywhere. In quick strides she and Tavis were kneeling beside Rory, searching for a pulse.

Despite her anger, AnnaClaire found herself touched by their concern.

“Is he dead?” Tavis asked.

There was a moment of silence, and AnnaClaire held her breath.

“Nay. He lives. Praise heaven.” Bridget crossed herself.

AnnaClaire stared at the ever-widening pool of blood. “If you care about this man, why did no one see to his wounds?”

Tavis looked up. “He wouldn’t permit it until all his men were cared for. I’ve been scouring the city for safe shelter for them.”

“I should think that would be no problem, considering how highly everyone seems to regard their.” AnnaClaire wrinkled her nose. “.Blackhearted O’Neil.”

“Aye, my lady. But after that confrontation on the docks today the queen’s emissaries have issued a proclamation. Anyone found harboring Rory O’Neil or his men will be considered an enemy of the Crown, and will be hanged.”

“Hanged?” AnnaClaire’s outrage grew. “And knowing that, you brought him to my home?”

“He is dying, my lady.” Tavis paused. “We had no way of taking him elsewhere. It was dangerous enough getting him away from the docks. Had it not been for your carriage, and your lap robe, even that couldn’t have been accomplished.” He brightened. “Besides, since you are considered English, my lady, the law would not apply to you. You could always claim rightly that you knew nothing about this.”

AnnaClaire found herself studying these two people with new respect. She had known them all her life. Had spent an occasional summer here, escaping the noise and crowds of London. Yet she had never thought of these two quiet, humble people as particularly courageous. Until this moment.

“You would be able to make no such claim for yourselves. Yet you would risk your lives for this stranger?”

Tavis nodded. “Rory O’Neil risks his life every day for his people, my lady. We can do no less for him. With your permission we’d like to bind bis wounds.”

“And then what?” AnnaClaire folded her arms. “He is mortally wounded. But even if he should live, how could you possibly smuggle him out of Dublin?”

The old man scratched his chin. “We haven’t thought that far, my lady. First we must keep him alive.”

“And where do you propose to hide him for the night?”

Tavis got to his feet. “In the stables, with your permission.”

AnnaClaire shook her head. “That will involve too many people. The stable master. The lads who muck the stalls. The less people who know, the better chance you have of keeping your secret.” She tapped a foot, her mind working feverishly. She wasn’t even aware that she was becoming caught up in a deadly game. To her, this was merely a chance to use her wits and her cunning, to help these two old people who had been with her family for so many years. “Your best course of action is to hide him where no one has any chance of coming upon him by accident.” She suddenly smiled, pointed. “I know. The little attic room above mine.”

Tavis and Bridget exchanged surprised glances. Did the lady know what she was saying?

“No one can get in or out of that room without going through your bedchamber, my lady.”

“Exactly. Not even Glinna will be aware of our secret guest.”

“But how will we be able to care for him up there?”

AnnaClaire shrugged. “I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose it will fall to me. But considering how long I cared for my mother, it will be nothing new.”

Before she could change her mind, Tavis bent and struggled to lift the unconscious Rory. “It is a grand plan, my lady. But I fear not even the three of us could get him up those stairs.”

“He must walk.” She caught up the skirt of her nightshift, careful to avoid his blood, and knelt beside the still figure. “Rory. Rory O’Neil.”

At her commanding tone he opened his eyes and stared vacantly.

“We’re going to take you up now. But you must help us.”

“Take…me…up…” He smiled. “Aye. Will I. finally see my Caitlin?”

AnnaClaire turned to Bridget. “What is he babbling about?”

“He thinks he has died, my lady.”

“I see.” She bent close. “Rory O’Neil. Take my hand.”

“With…pleasure.”

Despite his injuries, his grip was surprisingly strong. As his fingers closed around AnnaClaire’s she felt a rush of heat that left her thoroughly shaken.

“Here, Tavis.” She sought to ignore the tingling along her spine. “Take his other hand.”

The two of them managed to haul him to his feet. Then, draping his arms about their shoulders, they began moving ever so slowly up the stairs. When they reached AnnaClaire’s room, they opened a door that led to a narrow staircase. By the time they reached the little attic room all of them were out of breath and Rory’s wounds were bleeding profusely. They eased him onto the bed, then AnnaClaire stepped back and watched as Bridget and Tavis began cutting away his bloody clothes. The extent of his wounds sickened her, and she found herself wondering how he could bear the pain.

Bridget speared her with a glance. “Perhaps you should leave now, my lady. This won’t be pleasant.”

It was all AnnaClaire needed to stiffen her spine. “I don’t expect it to be any more pleasant than was the care of my mother. But if I could care for her all those long months, I can certainly help bind this man’s wounds.” At once she took charge. “We’ll need clean linens, Bridget. And some opiates.”

“Aye, my lady.” The housekeeper beckoned to her husband. “We’ll need hot water, Tavis.”

When the two were gone, AnnaClaire stared down at the still figure on the bed. Until this moment she hadn’t given a thought to what she was getting herself into. Now, suddenly, she had to question her sanity. How had she agreed to hide a murderer in her own home? A man considered an enemy of the Crown. If he were found here, all of them could be hanged.

Sweet heaven. What would her father have to say about all this if he should learn the truth?

She pushed the worrisome thoughts from her mind and set to work cutting away the rest of his clothes. She would simply have to see that her father never learned of this. By this time tomorrow Rory O’Neil would most probably be dead. If by some miracle he survived, she would send him on his way and look back on this as a momentary madness.

“There now. We’ve done all we can. The rest is in God’s hands, my lady.” Bridget smoothed the covers over the still figure of Rory O’Neil and got to her feet. “Now you’d best get some sleep.”

“I will. Now remember. Trust no one. Not even Glinna.”

“Aye.” Tavis held the door, then trailed behind the two women as they descended the stairs. “The little chambermaid would never be able to keep such a secret. She’d have to boast to all her friends that she knew the whereabouts of the Blackhearted O’Neil. And in no time all of Dublin would know, as well.”

When they reached AnnaClaire’s room, Bridget caught her hand and brought it to her lips. “Bless you, my lady, for your compassion. I’ll not soon forget what you did this night.”

“Nor I, my lady.” Tavis did the same, bowing over her hand. “You are an angel of mercy.”

Or a fool, AnnaClaire thought as she secured the door behind them. What had she been thinking? She crossed to her bed and, ignoring the bloodstains on her nightclothes, climbed between the covers. But she was far too agitated to sleep. Instead she lay, watching the stars and thinking about the man asleep one floor above her.

If she were caught harboring this criminal, she couldn’t plead ignorance. She knew exactly what she was doing. And, if she wanted to be completely honest with herself, she knew why.

One look at him and she’d been hopelessly lost. This Irish warrior who had leapt into battle and had fought so fearlessly, had kindled a flame in her silly, romantic heart. In her life she’d never seen anyone quite like him. The titled Englishmen she’d met at Court were bland by comparison.

When she had cut away his tunic she’d been amazed by the muscles of his arms and chest. And horrified by. the scars of battle. There was something so touching about this man and his dedication. The story that Tavis had told her lingered in her mind. Love such as that experienced by Rory O’Neil for his intended bride was rare indeed.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep. But the enormity of what she had done had her twitching with nerves. When she suddenly heard a loud thud above her head, she bounded from bed and raced up the stairs.

Rory was on the floor, thrashing around in the bed linens.

AnnaClaire knelt beside him and caught his hands to still his movements.

“Rory O’Neil. Can you hear me?”

His movements stilled. His eyes opened. “My…sword. Need…weapon.”

“Have no fear. There is no one here who will harm you.”

“My…sword.”

She sighed. “I’ll fetch it. But first you have to get back into bed.” She urged him upward, but her strength was no match for his. When he tugged on her hands, she was forced back to her knees.

“Where…am…I?”

“You’re in my home. Clay Court. In Dublin.”

“Dublin.” He closed his eyes. “Not heaven.” A moment later they snapped open. “Who…are…you?”

“My name is AnnaClaire.”

He struggled to focus on her face. Then for a moment the pain lifted and his eyes were lit with a smile. “Ah. My…angel.”

“Come now, Rory. You have to get back into bed.”

She tugged on his hands, and this time he managed to lever himself back to the edge of the mattress.

As he slowly sank back against the pillows, his face revealed his pain. “Need…weapons.”

“You have no need…”

“Weapons.” His voice was little more than a croak. But the passion, the fervor, still rang.

“Very well.” She crossed the room and picked up his sword, surprised at how heavy it was. The hilt was an intricately carved coat of arms, encrusted with jewels. “Here is your sword.”

She placed it beside him in the bed and noted how his hand curled around the hilt.

“More.”

“More weapons?”

He nodded.

She searched among his things and discovered two knives. It would seem this warrior took nothing for granted. When she handed them to him, he positioned one beneath each hand. Only then did he give in to the weariness and close his eyes.

She realized that this was what he’d been seeking when he slipped from his bed. Despite the seriousness of his wounds, he had fought through the pain to search for his weapons. He would be a warrior, she supposed, until death claimed him.

“I’ll leave you now,” she whispered.

“Stay.”

She dropped to her knees beside the bed. “Why? What is it? Are you afraid?”

“Of…dying?” He shook his head. “I welcome…death. But stay, angel. Be my guide…as I leave this world.”

“You aren’t going to die, Rory O’Neil.” Though she spoke fiercely enough, the very thought of it had her trembling.

“Did He…tell you?”

“He? Oh, you mean God.” She nearly laughed. “I’m afraid He doesn’t speak to me directly. But I have it on good authority that your wounds, though painful, are not fatal.” She hoped she would be forgiven for her lie. But she desperately wanted to offer him hope.

“Then why.are you here?”

She touched a hand to his lips to silence him. “No more questions. You must sleep if you’re to heal.”

When she started to remove her hand he surprised her by placing his fingers over hers and holding them to his mouth. The press of his lips against her flesh caused a rush of feelings that were so startling, all she could do was stare at him.

“Just stay. A little.while longer.”

Each word he whispered against her hand sent another jolt surging through her already charged system. Had he asked for the moon, she’d have tried to get it. As long as he continued touching her just so.

“All right, Rory O’Neil.” She smoothed the bed linens as she had seen Bridget do, then settled herself into a chaise beside the bed. “Just a little while longer.”

She. watched the uneven rise and fall of his chest, willing each breath, praying to hold off his death for a few moments longer, until sleep claimed her.

The opiates had long ago worn off, and Rory’s body was engulfed in fire. Pain, a burning, blazing pain, radiated from his shoulder and his back to the very tips of his fingers and toes. His closed eyes felt hot and gritty. His temples throbbed as though they would burst at any moment.

Because the simplest movement added to his pain, he forced himself to lie perfectly still. Sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip, but he had not the strength to lift a hand.

It occurred to him that, although his own breathing was shallow and unsteady, there was another sound close by. A soft, rhythmic sound. Like the whisper of an angel.

His eyes opened. He beheld a most wondrous sight. A chaise had been pulled close beside him. In it was a woman asleep. Her feet were tucked under her, her cheek resting on her clasped hands. Hair the color of spun gold drifted around her face and shoulders.

He had thought he’d only dreamed her. But she was real. As if to prove it to himself, he reached out a hand and touched a strand of her hair. It was as soft as angel down.

In her sleep she brushed aside his hand, then lifted her head and opened her eyes. For a moment he could read her confusion. Then those eyes, the color of the sea after a storm, suddenly cleared.

She shifted, swinging her feet to the floor. “You’re alive, Rory O’Neil.”

“Am I?”

“How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been run through by a score of English swords.”

“From the looks of the scars on your body, you have been.” She motioned toward the table against the far wall. “I can give you a potion to ease the pain.”

“And I’ll gladly take it. In a moment. Right now I’d like to keep a clear head.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I need to know where I am.” He glanced around at the sloped ceilings, the stone of a chimney that soared through the roof. Except for a tiny opening that allowed a glimpse of dawn light, there were no other windows.

“You’re in an attic room of my home, Clay Court, in Dublin.”

“Your home, is it?”

“It’s been in my mother’s family for generations.”

“And what might her name be?”

“It was Margaret Doyle.”

Was. He heard the pain in that one word and decided not to press further. “And what might your name be?”

“My name is AnnaClaire.”

“Well, AnnaClaire, if you don’t mind, I’ll take that potion now.” The pain was raging out of control, setting his entire body on fire.

She sprinkled some powder into a tumbler of water, then sat on the edge of the bed. Very gently she lifted his head and held the glass to his lips.

“Has anyone ever told you you have a very gentle touch, AnnaClaire?”

“Are you trying to charm me, Rory O’Neil?”

“Is it working?”

“I think you’d better save that charm for another time. Now drink.”

He swallowed, wondering if anything could put out the flame that raged through his blood. A flame that had flared higher when she touched him.

“Now I must leave you,” she said as she lowered his head to the pillow. Taking a spotless handkerchief from her pocket she mopped the sweat from his face.

He caught her hand. “Aye, a very gentle touch.”

She struggled to ignore the feelings of pleasure that he aroused in her. “My bedchamber is directly below here. When it is safe to return, I shall. But you must not call out or make any sound. Is that clear?”

“Why?”

“Because we must keep your presence here a secret. Since that scene at the docks, there is more than a price on your head, Rory O’Neil. It has been decreed that anyone found harboring you or your men shall be hanged.”

“Bloody English,” he muttered. Then to her he said, “I understand. Have no fear, lovely AnnaClaire. Even if I find myself dying, I’ll see to it that I do so in silence, so as not to call attention to myself.” A shadow of a smile flickered across his lips, making him even more handsome.

“I’ll hold you to that.” She crossed the room and let herself out without a backward glance.

Rory lay very still, allowing the opiates to weave their magic. As he drifted once more to sleep, he found himself wondering if the lovely AnnaClaire was real, or a product of his befuddled brain. Either way, she was the most beautiful creature he’d either seen or conjured. All tiny and slender and golden, with skin like porcelain and a full, pouty mouth that could trap a man with one kiss.

Her hair wasn’t black as a raven’s wing, as Caitlin’s had been. And her eyes weren’t blue. For all of his life, his beloved Caitlin had been the measure of all other women. And not one had ever come close to her beauty. But right now, try as he might, he could no longer hold on to her fading image.

It was the potion, he knew. Not the woman who had just left him. But it worried him all the same.

With Caitlin’s name repeated again and again in his mind like a litany; he fell into a fitful sleep.

Chapter Three

“Good morrow, my lady.” After a single knock on the door, Glinna, the little chambermaid bustled in, her arms laden with clean clothing.

Caught unawares, AnnaClaire had no choice but to dive beneath the bedlinens, to hide the bloodstains on her nightshift.

“You’re up early this morrow, my lady. I heard you stirring and thought you’d be needing these.” Glinna began arranging the petticoats atop a nearby night table, then hung a clean gown in the wardrobe. “What would you like me to fetch for you?”

“Nothing just yet. I believe I’ll stay abed for awhile.”

“Are you unwell, my lady?”

“Well, I…” AnnaClaire smoothed the linens, avoiding the maid’s eyes. “I think perhaps I’m coming down with something.”

They both looked up at another knock on the door. Bridget entered, carrying a tray covered with a linen cloth.

“Good morrow, my lady.” She shot AnnaClaire a knowing look. “I hope your night went undisturbed.”

AnnaClaire nodded. “It went fairly well, Bridget.”

The housekeeper gave a sigh of relief. “I brought you a bit of porridge and some tea and biscuits.”

“My lady won’t be needing them,” Glinna said with importance. “She is feeling unwell and intends to stay abed.”

The housekeeper placed the tray on a bedside table. “Then I shall leave this in the hope that something will appeal to you later on.”

“Thank you, Bridget.” AnnaClaire turned to Glinna. “Since I won’t be needing you today, you may help Bridget below stairs.”

“Aye, miss.” The little maid walked away looking plainly dejected. A day at Bridget’s mercy meant scrubbing floors until they gleamed, then accompanying Tavis to the docks for fresh fish. Chores she would gladly leave for one of the other servants.

When they were alone AnnaClaire slipped out of bed. Glancing down at her nightshift she whispered, “I hope you can find a way to explain these stains to Glinna without arousing suspicion.”

“Aye, my lady. I’ll think of something.” Bridget lowered her voice. “Now about our.guest. Did he survive the night?”

“He did.”

The housekeeper blessed herself and whispered a prayer of thanks. “I’d feared.” She brushed aside a tear. “Perhaps we should see to him now.”

“I just left him.” At the housekeeper’s startled look AnnaClaire felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “During the night I heard him fall from his bed and went to see to him. He asked me to stay, and I…fell asleep on the chaise.”

“Of course you did, after all you’ve been through. Bless you, my lady. And praise heaven the O’Neil is still alive. Is he in much pain?”

“A great deal of it.” AnnaClaire nodded for emphasis. “Judging by the scars he bears, I’d say he’s accustomed to pain. But I gave him one of the potions. That should make him comfortable for a few hours.”

“Then you think he will live?”

AnnaClaire shrugged. “Only God knows. But he’s strong. A fighter. And he’s already survived the worst hours.”

Bridget pointed to the covered tray. “I thought, if you were going to see to his needs, you wouldn’t care to take breakfast below stairs in the dining hall.”

“Quite right, Bridget. Just see that the servants are warned not to disturb me.”

“Aye, my lady. And if the O’Neil is strong enough to eat, there’s food for him, as well.” The housekeeper took her leave, closing the door behind her.

When she was alone AnnaClaire peeled off her nightshift and crossed to a basin of water. When she had scrubbed away all trace of Rory’s blood from her skin, she slipped into a delicately embroidered chemise and petticoat, then pulled on a gown of pale pink. She secured her hair with jeweled combs and slid her feet into soft kid boots. Picking up the tray she made her way up the narrow stairs to the attic room.

Rory was lying so still she thought he was asleep. But when she drew nearer she realized that his eyes were wide and glazed with pain. The bed linens were damp with his sweat. Still, he neither tossed nor turned nor gave any indication that he was in distress.

She set down the tray and knelt beside him, touching a hand to his forehead. His skin was on fire.

“Ah.” A soft sigh escaped his lips. “My angel has come back. I did as you asked, and made not a sound.”

She was touched by his courage. “I’m sorry it took so long.” She dampened a cloth with water from a basin and began to bathe his face and neck, his chest and shoulders. “It appears the potion didn’t work.”

“It did. For a while. I had a lovely visit in heaven, before the fire of hell came back to claim me.”

She mixed another packet of powder and held the glass to his lips. “Drink this. Maybe it can hold back your pain.”

“I’m feeling better already, now that you’re here.” He drained the glass, then lay back weakly, breathing in the scent of crushed roses that seemed to cling to her.

“You’re a charming liar, Rory O’Neil.” She sat down in the chaise beside his bed, then dipped a spoon into a steaming bowl and held the spoon to his lips.

He turned his head. “What’s this now?”

“Porridge.”

He shook his head. “My mother used to insist that we eat it. I’d have rather eaten mud.”

“I’ll remember to bring some of that tomorrow. But for now, you’ll eat your porridge. My housekeeper, Bridget Murphy, made this for you, to build up your strength. And you’re going to eat at least a few bites.”

“God in heaven, you sound just like my mother.” He opened his mouth and accepted a taste. When he’d managed to swallow it he shot her a look of surprise. “Bridget Murphy must be a sorceress. This tastes unlike any porridge I’ve ever eaten.”

“I’ll tell her you approve. That just might spare you having to eat mud tomorrow.” She held out another bite, and he accepted willingly.

It occurred to AnnaClaire that feeding this man was not at all like feeding her sick mother. Each time he opened his mouth, she found herself fighting a strange yearning to taste those lips. When he swallowed and closed his eyes in appreciation, she felt a sudden tug deep inside.

AnnaClaire felt completely out of her element with this raw, earthy man, who seemed to delight in the simple pleasure of eating. She had never known a man such as this. It didn’t seem to bother Rory O’Neil in the least that he was naked beneath those covers. Yet she was bothered more than she cared to admit. She simply couldn’t get the thought out of her mind.

He managed to devour nearly half the bowl of porridge before he lifted a hand in refusal.

“No more. It’s too much effort.”

She returned the bowl to the tray and poured a cup of tea. “Could you manage a few sips?”

He shook his head. “Not even one.”

“Then we’ll sit a while and wait for the opiates to ease your pain.”

As she settled herself on the chaise he managed a smile. “Just looking at you does me more good than your potions.”

She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “You’re too charming for your own good, Rory O’Neil.”

He passed a hand over his eyes. “You should meet my brother, Conor. He’s the charmer.”

“Really? And what are you?”

“The fighter. Always the fighter.”

She sipped her tea. “Tell me about your family.”

“Conor, at a score and one, is two years younger than I. He was educated abroad, and our mother hoped he would be a priest. But our father has other ideas.”

“What ideas?”

“With Conor’s good looks and fine mind, Father hopes to use his connections in England to see that Conor represents our people at the Court of Elizabeth.”

AnnaClaire smiled. “It would seem to me a far better way to effect change than your way with the sword.”

“Ah. I hear a note of disapproval from my angel.”

“I don’t hold with fighting.”

He shot her a look that made her blush. She decided to change the subject. “Do you have any more brothers?”

He shook his head. “There’s just our little sister, Briana.”

“Does she take after Conor? Or does she favor her eldest brother?”

“The lass was my shadow since she was born.” His tone warmed with affection and pride. “She can wield a sword better than most men. And no one is better with a knife.”

AnnaClaire couldn’t help laughing. “Heaven help us. Another O’Neil warrior.”

“Aye. She is the despair of our parents.”

“Tell me about them.”

“My father, Gavin, is from a noble line. Descended from King Brian himself. My mother, Moira, can trace her own lineage to the ancient Druids, then later to the Celts. After all these years, their love still blazes brighter than all the stars in heaven. It’s a lovely thing to see.”

She thought of her own parents’ love. Of her father, who had suffered so gravely during his wife’s long illness. No one would ever take the place of his beloved Margaret. “They’re very lucky to have each other.”

“Aye. That sort of love is rare indeed. And even more wondrous when the two lovers have so many years together.” He fell silent, and AnnaClaire wondered if he was thinking about the woman who had almost been his bride. What sort of bitter taste would it leave to have a lover snatched away without the chance to say and do all the things locked in one’s heart?

She set the tea aside. “I think you’d better try to sleep now.”

“I believe I will.” He closed his eyes. When he heard her getting to her feet he clamped a hand around her wrist. “Thank you, lovely AnnaClaire.”

“For what?”

“For allowing me to forget my pain for a few minutes.”

“That wasn’t me. It was the potion.”

He merely smiled. “And thank Bridget Murphy for the porridge. I do believe I’d prefer it again tomorrow, instead of the mud.”

“I’ll tell her.”

She watched him a moment, then let herself out, knowing he was already asleep.

At noon, Bridget returned to AnnaClaire’s room with another tray.

“How much longer do you wish to feign illness, my lady?”

AnnaClaire shrugged. “I suppose sometime late this afternoon I must make an amazing recovery, for I have to attend Lady Thornly’s dinner party tonight.”

“Very well. I’ll check with you before sending Glinna up to help you dress.”

“Thank you, Bridget.” As she. picked up the tray and headed toward the narrow staircase she paused, turned. “By the way, Rory O’Neil sends his compliments on your porridge. He found it far superior to his mother’s.”

The housekeeper was beaming with pride as she scurried away. AnnaClaire marvelled that such a simple remark from a hardened warrior could elicit such feelings in the old woman.

In the little attic room, AnnaClaire found Rory sweating profusely as he struggled to lift his sword from the floor where it had fallen. It took both his hands to retrieve it, and the effort left him lying weakly against the pillows.

The wound to his shoulder, she noted, had opened and was oozing blood.

“Now look what you’ve done.” With a hiss of anger she set down the tray and bent over him, touching a square of linen to the wound. “And all for a foolish weapon.”

“Foolish?” He clamped a hand around her wrist and stared up into her startled eyes. “Woman, you wouldn’t think that if you found yourself facing a line of soldiers brandishing swords. Then it would be worth any price to have a weapon with which to defend yourself.”

“But there are no soldiers here, Rory O’Neil. You’re safely hidden away.”

He gave her a long, thoughtful look. “So you say. But how can I be sure?”

“You have my word. Isn’t that enough?”

He nodded. “Aye. It is. If you say it is.”

“You’d be wise to save your strength and give your wounds a chance to heal.”

“So I would.” He relaxed his grip and allowed her to mop up the fresh flow of blood. But he didn’t completely let go of her, instead keeping his fingers wrapped lightly around her wrist. “Old habits are hard to break.”

While she bent to her task, she could feel him boldly studying her. It brought a flush to her cheeks. Worse, she knew her pulse was racing. Knew, too, that he could feel it at her wrist.

To cover her confusion she poured a liberal amount of spirits on the wound. “This will hurt a bit.” She heard his quick intake of breath. “Hold still now while I tie this clean linen.” She glanced down and realized that he was still staring at her. Only now his gaze was fixed on her mouth. Her throat went dry. Their lips were so close they were almost touching. She need only make the slightest move to taste him.

As if reading her mind he drew her fractionally closer. “You smell like my mother’s rose garden.”

She swallowed, and it sounded overloud in her ears. She knew he could hear the tremor in her voice. “I’m not your mother, Rory O’Neil.”

“I never had a minute’s doubt of that.” His lips curved in a dangerous smile. “I never wanted to kiss my mother the way I want to kiss you.”

She braced a hand against his chest, intending. to push away. “Don’t….”

Her protest was swallowed as his mouth covered hers.

His lips were warm and firm and practiced. They moved over hers, tasting, teasing.

At the first contact her breath backed up in her throat. She would have pulled back but he had anticipated her move and now held her firmly against him. He pressed a palm to the back of her head while his other hand slid across her shoulder and along her back. And all the while his lips moved over hers until she could no longer hold back a sigh of pleasure.

“Let this be a lesson to you, AnnaClaire. Never tell me what to do,” he muttered against her mouth. “There’s just something in my nature that refuses to accept orders.”

She took in a deep breath, feeling her head swimming. “I’ll remember that in the future. Now release me, Rory O’Neil.”

He flashed that dangerous smile, and she realized, too late, her mistake.

“You see?” He framed her face with his hands. “You’ve done it again.” With no effort at all he drew her head down for another drugging kiss. This time his fingers tangled in her hair, and, while her senses were still reeling, he kissed her until she was breathless.

He knew the exact moment when her resistance gradually turned into acquiescence. Her hands, which had been pressed firmly against his chest, now lifted to encircle his neck. Her breasts were flattened against him in a most enticing manner. She lay, warm and pliant, in his arms.

Arousal was swift, insistent. He felt the rush of desire pulse through him before he carefully banked it.

In one smooth motion he caught her firmly by the shoulders and held her a little away. It was all the time he needed to clear his head and calm his pounding heart.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Never tell me what to do.”

Her eyes darkened with anger. Though it was difficult to speak, when her heart was still tumbling helplessly inside her chest, she managed a note of sarcasm. “You mean, in order to keep this from happening again, I ought to order you to kiss me?”

He threw back his head and laughed. What a delight she was. “Do you take me for a complete fool? Whether you told me to kiss you or not, you’re too lovely to resist. I’d simply have to kiss you.”

“And I simply have to leave you.”

“Now? Before you’ve properly tended my needs?”

“Your needs.” She tossed down the square of linen and indicated the tray on the night table. “Last night I feared you would die in your bed. But you’re far from dead, Rory O’Neil. Any man strong enough to hold a woman can surely hold his own bowl of broth. I hope you find Bridget’s soup as appetizing as her porridge.”

“I’m sure I will.”

When she yanked open the door he added, “But it won’t be nearly as pleasant without you feeding it to me.”

In reply she pulled the door firmly shut behind her.

When she reached her own room, she sank down onto the edge of the bed and pressed a hand to her lips. They were still tingling from the touch of his mouth. And his dark, dangerous taste still clung to them.

This was a foolish game she was playing. All because she had allowed this Irish warrior to touch some romantic chord in her heart. She wouldn’t be the first maiden to have her heart broken by a rogue. But, she reminded herself, there was more than her heart at stake here. She was playing a game with people’s lives. And the consequences could be deadly.

Chapter Four

“How are you finding your first visit to Ireland, Lord Dunstan?” Since her hostess had insisted upon seating AnnaClaire beside the handsome young visitor, she had no choice but to attempt pleasant conversation with this dour, brooding man. Apparently she was the only female in the room who hadn’t fallen under the spell of his chilling smile and icy gray eyes.

“Fascinating. From what I’ve seen, a savage land. And savage people.” He acknowledged the nods of agreement around the table. “Were it not for meeting you, my lady, I would have returned to England without a single good thing to say for my time spent here.”

She felt his knee nudge hers beneath the table cover. When she moved aside, he shifted closer, so that she couldn’t escape his touch.

“I’ve had the good fortune of meeting your father several times in London, my lady.” He laid a hand over hers, pressing firmly when she tried to pull it away. It was obvious that he enjoyed being the center of attention. Knowing that the others were watching and listening, he began to play to his audience. “Had I known that Lord Thompson’s daughter was so lovely, I would have made the journey across the Channel much sooner.” If he felt her cringe, he took no notice of it.

“I wish we could persuade you to stay a while longer, Lord Dunstan.” Lady Thornly sipped her wine, thoroughly enjoying the company of her countrymen. “I grow so weary of this local dialect, and do so yearn to be among my own kind and hear the language spoken as it was meant to be.”

The young man gave her his most charming smile. “Perhaps you should sell your estates to me, Lady Thornly. Then you could return to England to live out your years among your own kind.”

“As if you need more land.” She waved a hand in dismissal and laughed like a coquette.

The others joined her laughter. It was common knowledge that Lynley Lord Dunstan was quickly becoming one of the richest men in England.

A gentleman across the table said, “You were recently at Court with Her Majesty, Dunstan. How does Elizabeth intend to deal with this Irish problem?”

The young man puffed up his chest. His father and grandfather had held important positions with Elizabeth’s father, Henry VIII. A grateful king had granted them generous sections of land, and several of the most beautiful homes in England. The current Lord Dunstan had learned well from his ancestors, using his loyalty to his queen to add to his own fortune.

“The Queen values my opinion. In fact, I am here at Her Majesty’s request, to see for myself if there is a problem.”

“Rest assured there is a problem.” The elderly Lord Davis, seated beside their hostess, spoke in hushed tones. “And it grows more serious with each day.” He glanced around. “Any word on that wounded Irish warrior? The one they call the Blackhearted O’Neil?”

AnnaClaire went perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe.

Dunstan snorted with disdain. “Warrior? Court jester would be a better name. As far as I can determine, he is nothing more than a peasant leading a small band of ruffians, hoping to become a hero to the locals.”

“I saw with my own eyes how that ‘peasant’ and a few of his swordsmen could rout an entire battery of English soldiers.” Lord Davis drained his goblet and paused while a hovering servant filled it. “There is nothing more dangerous than a zealot who appeals to the heart of the masses. Mark my word, Dunstan. The man is stirring a cauldron of simmering passions. Very soon now, they’ll come to a boil. And Her Majesty might find herself with the one thing she has sworn to resist.”

“And what might that be, Lord Davis?”

“A war that drains England’s coffers.”

“War?” Dunstan gave a snort of disdain. “With these peasants?” He threw back his head and chuckled, and one by one the others around the table followed suit. “Queen Elizabeth is no fool. If this so-called Blackhearted O’Neil should begin to take himself seriously, our queen will simply send over a company of her finest soldiers. Believe me, Lord Davis, our swordsmen could put down any rebellion led by an illiterate peasant and his band of lackeys.”

He turned to AnnaClaire. “You’ve grown quiet, my lady. Does all this talk of war upset your delicate sensibilities?”

“Aye.” AnnaClaire swallowed, uneasy at having the attention shifted to her.

“Forgive me, my dear.” Lord Davis pushed from the table and walked to her side. With a hand on her shoulder he said gently, “How inconsiderate of me to have forgotten. AnnaClaire was forced to witness that bloodletting at the docks yesterday. I’m sure it was most upsetting for her.” He leaned close. “Would you care to take your leave, my dear?”

It was the excuse she’d been hoping for. She placed her hand in his. “Thank you. I would indeed.”

“Oh dear.” Lady Thornly touched a fine lace cloth to her lips. “I had so hoped we could keep you here a while longer, AnnaClaire. Lord Dunstan has so little time before he returns to London.”

“I’d be happy to accompany Charles and AnnaClaire to their homes,” the handsome Englishman said gallantly.

It was on the tip of AnnaClaire’s tongue to refuse. But there was no way she could do so gracefully. And so she found herself bidding her hostess good-night and climbing into a carriage with her father’s old friend and a young man whose arrogance was as unsettling as his ignorance.

“How long do you hope to remain in Ireland?” Lord Davis settled himself comfortably across from the young couple, and their carriage started off through the streets of Dublin.

“I had hoped to be here no more than a few days.” Lord Dunstan turned to smile at the young woman beside him, whose face was shrouded in shadow. “But now, I think I might be persuaded to stay a while longer.”

AnnaClaire groaned inwardly.

“Excellent.” The old man smiled in the darkness. His friend, Lord Thompson, would be delighted to hear that his daughter had caught the interest of someone as important as this young friend of the queen herself.

“Shall I have my driver take you home first, Charles?”

Before AnnaClaire could issue a protest, the old man was nodding vigorously. “I was about to suggest it myself. I’m feeling a bit weary after all that food and stimulating conversation.”

AnnaClaire knew exactly what her father’s old friend was up to. And though his meddling was galling, there was nothing she could do about it. He was as determined as her father to see that she made a good match.

Dunstan shouted an order to the driver. At once they changed directions and were soon at the old man’s door.

“Good night, Lord Dunstan.” The older man touched the tip of his hat, then leaned across the seat and brushed his lips over AnnaClaire’s cheek. “Good night, my dear. I can rest easy, knowing I’ve left you in such good hands.”

“Good night, Lord Davis.” AnnaClaire watched him climb from the carriage and ascend the steps of his mansion.

At a command from her companion, the driver urged the team forward and they were once again making their way through the darkened streets.

When the carriage veered to the right and started up a slight incline AnnaClaire found herself pinned against Dunstan’s side. Though his movement was subtle, she felt his hand brush her breast. She stiffened and pushed away. But when she glanced over at him, she could see the smile playing on his lips. His insensitivity was vexing. She experienced a wave of relief when they started up the drive that led to her home.

Lord Dunstan turned to study the graceful curve of courtyard, the warmth of candles glowing in the curtained windows. “So this is where you stay when you are in Ireland. What is it called?”

“Clay Court. It was my mother’s ancestral home.”

Something about the way she spoke the words had him turning to look at her. “I would be careful if I were you, my lady. Some might think you consider this place more home than England.”

At his words AnnaClaire felt the trickle of ice along her spine. He had taken no pains to mask the warning. “I’ll remind you, Lord Dunstan, that my father is a respected member of the queen’s council. And though I am of mixed heritage, my loyalty has never come into question.”

“Nor should it, my lady. But there will always be some who will wonder at your allegiance to your mother’s people.”

Lord Dunstan climbed down, then turned and offered his hand to help her from the carriage. She had no choice but to accept his assistance.

At the door she managed a smile. “Thank you for seeing me home, Lord Dunstan. I’ll say good night now.”

When she started to close the door he startled her by stepping inside. “It wouldn’t be wise to see you home and not see you safely settled, my lady.”

“I have loyal servants to see to my safety.”

“Ah. That is reassuring.” He glanced around, noting the highly polished stones of the foyer, the crystal chandelier in which blazed dozens of candles. “I would have expected such loyal servants to meet you at the door.”

“They have their chores to see to. Tavis will be above stairs, no doubt, laying a fire to warm my bedchamber.”

“Tavis, is it? If you but asked, lovely lady, I could do the same. And I would need no wood nor torch. The touch of your hand on mine would be enough to set the blaze between us.”

She hated the smirk on his lips. Hated more the heat that rose to her cheeks at his insinuation.

She kept her voice even, as though dismissing him. “My little housemaid, Glinna, will be waiting to help me undress.”

“A most pleasant chore, I would think. And one I would be most pleased to undertake in her stead.”

She itched to slap him and knew that she had to tread very carefully around this man. She would, instead, ignore him. Something he’d seldom experienced, she surmised.

“And Bridget is most probably in the kitchen, preparing tea before I retire.” She lifted a hand to her lips and forced a yawn. “Forgive me, Lord Dunstan. It has been a long day, and I fear I must bid you good night.”

“Of course.” He caught her hand and lifted it to his lips, lingering until she forcefully withdrew it from his grasp. “I hope I have your permission to pay a call on the morrow.”

“I…” She struggled to think of a polite way to decline. “I fear I will not be home.”

“I see. A pity. But there will be other times.” He gave her a lazy smile, to let her know that he had already seen through her little charade. His voice lowered, as though sharing an intimate secret. “You are unlike so many of your gender who smile and flutter their lashes in invitation. This feigned reluctance on your part is most intriguing. I must admit, you have aroused my curiosity, as well as.other things. Now I simply must get to know you better, my lady. It is my good fortune that Lord Davis and I will be spending a great deal of time together. Perhaps, when he is paying a call, I shall accompany him.”

“Yes.” She kept her tone carefully bland. “Of course.”

In the glow of the candles he studied her more closely. “You are really quite lovely. And more than a little mysterious.” His smile grew as he reached out a hand and stroked her cheek. Her startled reaction made him chuckle. “And now that I have made your acquaintance I have already forgotten whatever objections I had to visiting this damnable land. Good night, my dear AnnaClaire. Until we meet again.”

She watched as he stepped outside and climbed to the seat of his carriage. As the image of horse and carriage disappeared into the darkness she let out the breath she hadn’t even known she was holding.

“So. The vain English peacock makes you sigh, does he?”

AnnaClaire whirled. Rory stepped from the shadows, wearing nothing more than the bloody breeches he had hastily slipped into. On his face was a look of absolute fury.

“What are you doing below stairs?”

“Watching you make a fool of yourself. Is this what our women have come to? Playing coy with our enemy?”

Her chin came up as she fixed him with a hateful look. “Ireland cannot lay claim to me.”

“What are you saying, woman? You’re Irish. You said your mother was Margaret Doyle.”

“Aye. And my father is Lord James Thompson.”

For a moment all he could do was stare at her. When he found his voice he said, “Your father is chief counsel to the bloody Queen of England?”

When she nodded, he shook his head in wonder. “What do you think he would say if he knew you were aiding the Blackhearted O’Neil?”

“It would break his heart. He must never know.”

“So, despite your father’s position and title, you consider yourself Irish.”

She stiffened her spine. “I am neither English nor Irish, Rory O’Neil. I answer to myself. As for playing coy, you are as mistaken as Lord Dunstan was.”

He took a step closer. “So. That was Dunstan? I’ve heard of him. All his titles bought and paid for with the blood of innocent farmers. He’ll say and do whatever it takes to please his queen, so long as she continues to repay his loyalty with more wealth and power.” He gave AnnaClaire a long, measuring look. “And your denial rings hollow, my lady. I heard with my own ears how you allowed him to speak to you.” His tone lowered with feeling. “And saw with my own eyes how you allowed him to touch you.”

The intensity of AnnaClaire’s temper surprised her. Rory’s words brought fury bubbling dangerously close to the surface. She lifted her skirts and started to flounce past him. “I’ll not stand here and argue with the likes of you, Rory O’Neil.”

“Nay. Especially since you’d lose the argument. Nor will I allow you to dismiss me like some groveling servant.” Without taking time to think he caught her roughly by the shoulder and dragged her into his arms, hauling her against his chest.

His temper had always been his undoing. And there had been plenty of time for it to grow as he’d watched the handsome stranger put his hands on AnnaClaire. As if that hadn’t been enough, the mention of her father’s name had caught him by surprise. Now fury propelled him into acting without thinking. His big rough hands closed around her upper arms, lifting her nearly off her feet as he covered her mouth in a savage kiss.

Temper met temper as their lips mated with the heat of the moment. The effect was so potent he felt as if he’d taken a blow from an enemy’s broadsword. He. reared back, lifting his head to study her as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was feeling. Even now his head was spinning, and the blood was roaring in his temples.

AnnaClaire was so startled she was frozen into momentary silence. It wasn’t only the rush of heat from his bold kiss. That would have been unsettling enough. But this man was naked to the waist, and the feel of his flesh against her palms had her thoughts scrambling, her fingertips tingling. It was one thing to touch him when he was unconscious and burning with fever. It was quite another to touch a man whose flesh rippled with muscle, and who burned with heat from a very different source.

When she’d gathered her thoughts, she pushed against him. “How dare you, Rory O’Neil! Unhand me at once.”

He thought about it. Briefly. Then just as quickly decided to ignore her protest. In that one stunning moment all the anger had drained from him. In its place was something very different. Desire curled hotly through his loins.

He felt the warmth of her breath against his cheek. Saw the way her eyes darkened with the gathering storm. Breathed in the fragrance of roses that drifted around her.

He lowered his face and claimed her mouth again. This time his hands softened, as did his lips. But though the kiss was less savage, it was no less potent. The taste of her was unlike anything he’d ever sampled. Sweet as a summer garden. As gentle as rain. Innocent. Untouched. And yet, he sensed in her a slumbering passion. A passion that excited him.

He kissed her with a thoroughness that had her heart pounding, her palms sweating as they slipped around his waist and pressed against his lower back. She wasn’t even aware that she was clutching him frantically, holding on for fear of falling.

AnnaClaire had been kissed before. There had been many a lad who had hoped to stake a claim on the daughter of the wealthy, powerful Lord Thompson. And many more, like Dunstan, who thought their title and privilege gave them the right to take liberties with the women at Court. But AnnaClaire had been equally adept at avoiding all entanglements of the heart. Until now.

The feelings being awakened by this man were unlike anything she’d ever experienced. The hands that held her were so strong they could easily break her in two. Yet their touch was so unexpectedly gentle, she couldn’t help but melt against him. His lips, so warm, so firm and practiced, moved over hers with a gentleness that did strange things to her heart, causing it to pound inside her chest until she feared he would surely hear.

Rory loved the way she became lost in the kiss. A soft sigh escaped her lips and her arms lifted, encircling his neck. He slid his hands down her arms, along her sides, until his thumbs encountered the soft swell of her breasts. When she started to pull away he moved his hands across her back, soothing, calming, while his lips continued to feast:

She was a delightful surprise. Innocent yet sultry. Both shy and bold. Despite her hesitance, there was an underlying strength of will that Rory found deeply arousing.

Desire, swift and fierce, caught him by surprise. The thought of taking her, here and now, had the blood pulsing hotly through his veins. He knew if he didn’t soon end this, he would find himself stepping over the line of reason. Still he lingered over the kiss, loving the taste of her, the feel of her in his arms.

When at last he gathered the courage to lift his head, he was rewarded by her little moan of frustration.

“Just doing your bidding, my lady.” He shot her a wicked smile. “You did tell me to unhand you.”

“I did.” The words nearly stuck in her throat. She took a step back, breaking contact. Still, the taste of him, dark, mysterious, remained on her tongue. Her breathing was shallow and ragged. She had to swallow several times before she managed to say, “And since you’re well enough to force yourself on me, Rory O’Neil, I suggest you’re well enough to take your leave of my home at once.”

“Aye, my lady. As you wish.” His smile widened. “But if you wish to be perfectly honest, you’ll have to admit that it required no force on my part to involve you in that kiss.”

She felt her cheeks flame as his words found their mark. It was true. She had been more than willing to shamelessly indulge herself. For if truth be told, ever since that first kiss in his room, she had wanted him to kiss her again. And the feel of his lips on hers had been every bit as wondrous as the first time.

She turned away to hide her shame. “I’ll expect you to be gone before the first light. That way there will be no chance of the servants spotting you.”

She expected some sort of argument. Relished the thought of another duel of words.

When he didn’t respond she turned back, eager to attack.

Rory was gripping the edge of a table. His face had lost all its color. Blood was seeping from his wounded shoulder to snake along his back in a thin line of dark red.

Rushing to his side she examined his wound, then draped his arm around her shoulder and began to lead him toward the stairs. “Now look what you’ve done.” Anger was a much safer emotion than what she’d been feeling just moments before. With anger there would be no guilt, no recriminations. With anger she could force herself into immediate action.

“Where…are you taking me?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Up to bed.”

“You just ordered me to go.”

“That was before. Now, I’ll have to tend that wound again.”

He didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He’d just been given a reprieve of sorts. But as he moved along beside her up the stairs, he wasn’t certain whether to curse the Fates or bless them.

Chapter Five

“You wish to break your fast in your chambers again, my lady?” Glinna was looking at AnnaClaire in a strange way as she moved around the room. “Could it be something you ate at Lady Thornly’s last night?”

“Of course not. I’m not ill, Glinna. Just a bit tired. Leave the tray now, and go help Bridget below stairs.”

“Aye, my lady.”

As soon as the door closed behind her, AnnaClaire bounded out of bed and completed her toilette,, slipping into the clothes Glinna had laid out. Then, balancing the covered tray in her hands, she climbed the cramped stairs to the little attic room. No doubt, she thought with a sigh, the little maid was still fretting over what might have caused this sudden malaise.

In truth, AnnaClaire would have gladly remained in her room rather than face Rory O’Neil this morning. She’d had enough of him throughout the long night. Even after she’d dressed his wound and put him to sleep with one of Bridget’s opiates, he had remained with her. Dark thoughts and images of him holding her, kissing her, had tormented her, robbing her of precious sleep. The handsome rogue had her thinking of things that were better left alone.

She sighed. Another day or two and he would be out of her life. As she nudged the door open and swept inside, she wondered why that knowledge didn’t cheer her. In fact, it only added another layer of tension.

“Good morrow, Rory O’Neil.” She set the tray on the night table with a flourish, then turned.

His features were ashen. He was holding his left hand firmly against his right shoulder.

She was beside him instantly. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t…make this damnable arm work.”

She sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m sure it’s nothing more than the strain of the fresh wound.”

“Nay. My sword slipped from my grasp during the night. I couldn’t retrieve it.”

Up close she could see the sweat beading his brow and upper lip. “You’re much too hard on yourself, Rory. I’m sure by tomorrow….”

“You don’t understand.” His left hand clamped around her wrist. As always, the strength in his grip caught her off guard. “I’ve been coddling myself too long. Lying abed when I should have been leading my men into fresh battles. And now, as punishment, I’ve lost my strength.”

“As punishment?”

“Aye.”

“For the sin of laziness, no doubt.”

He glowered at her. “Do you mock me, woman?”

She tried not to smile, though her lips quirked. “I? You think I would dare to mock Ireland’s fierce Blackhearted O’Neil?”

His eyes narrowed. She looked far too fetching, in a gown the color of heather, and the bloom of youth and innocence on her cheeks. Her eyes danced with a teasing light that only made her all the more desirable. Her low, breathy voice whispered over his senses, teasing him, taunting him, even through the pain.

“You’re having fun with me, AnnaClaire. And all the while I’m lying here weak and helpless.”

She glanced at the hand gripping her with such strength. “If this is how you are when you’re helpless, I’d hate to see you when you’re feeling strong.”

At once he realized what he was doing and released her, hoping his touch hadn’t left bruises on that fair skin. He struggled into a sitting position.

AnnaClaire could see the pain even that small movement caused him. She busied herself plumping pillows behind him, smoothing the blankets, before removing a bowl of porridge from the tray.

“Perhaps some food will help. Bridget made this especially for you.”

When she offered him a spoonful, he glowered at her. “I’m not an infant to be coddled. I can see to my own feeding.”

“Suit yourself.” She handed him the bowl and proceeded to pour tea into two cups.

When he’d managed to empty the bowl, she took it from him and replaced it with a plate of biscuits and a steaming cup of tea. Though he ate in silence she could see that his spirits were slowly being restored.

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