Conor

Praise for award-winning author Ruth Langan

The Courtship of Izzy McCree

“A very tender romance that touches your heartstrings.”

—Romantic Times

Malachite

“A masterfully powerful end to a thrilling series. It is simply the best!”

—Rendezvous

Jade

“Touching, tender, and heartwarming...a wonderful story as only Ruth Langan can create.”

—Romantic Times

The Highlander

“Powerful story... Exquisitely done.”

—Rendezvous

Texas Hero

“This 5

—Heartland Critiques

Praise for award-winning author Ruth Langan “All night I’ve wanted this. Just this.” Letter to 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 Chapter Twenty-two Chapter Twenty-three Epilogue Copyright

“All night I’ve wanted this. Just this.”

Conor nibbled her lips. The words were spoken against Emma’s mouth, then inside her mouth as he changed the angle and kissed her again, long, slow and deep. “I wanted to be the one holding you.... Watching your eyes as they looked into mine.”

He stared down and saw the smoldering look. A look that told him she was feeling the same things he was feeling.

“I was jealous.” He nibbled his way from the corner of her mouth to her ear. “Jealous.” He spoke the word harshly, with a trace of wonder. “A new emotion for me. I’ve never known it before. Nor would I have believed myself capable of such a thing.” .

“Conor. Conor.” Emma was so confused. It was one thing to flirt. To lead him on, in order to gain information. But now she was feeling things that had her trembling with new awareness.

She wanted him. Wanted him so much, it frightened her.

Dear Reader,

This month we’re giving you plenty of excuses to put your feet up and “get away from it all” with these four, fantasy-filled historical romances.

First, USA Today bestselling author Ruth Langan returns with Conor, the second book in her sensational miniseries, THE O’NEIL SAGA—although you needn’t have read Rory to enjoy this one. It’s the thrilling tale of an Irish noblewoman sent by her evil stepmother to seduce the roguish rebel Conor, who has great influence over Queen Elizabeth. Their instant attraction is only the beginning of a successful partnership in which the two unravel a plot to murder the queen....

If you enjoy half-Apache heroes, you must meet Rio Santee, a world-weary single father who falls in love with the independent female who reluctantly takes him and his children into her home in The Merry Widows—Sarah. It’s fabulous! The Rancher’s Wife by Lynda Trent is about a “pretend marriage” that turns real when an abandoned wife moves in with her widower neighbor to care for his baby girl.

Last but not least, we have Bride Of Trouville, a spine-tingling, forbidden love story by rising talent Lyn Stone. Forced to wed, Lady Anne MacBain struggles to hide her son’s deafness from her husband—whom she has, ironically, grown to love.

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

Conor

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 John Ryan Langan,

the newest link in our chain of love

And his brother and sister, Tommy and Annie

And his proud parents, Tom and Maureen

And of course, to Tom, the love of my life

Prologue

Ireland, 1546

“Good morrow, young Conor.” The old peasant woman beamed at the son of Gavin O’Neil, the lord of Ballinarin. “Ye’ve come with your family to market, have ye?”

“Aye, Mistress Garrity.” Nine-year-old Conor O’Neil paused at the table laden with rich, delicate pastries.

This was his favorite stop on market day. At a nearby stall his father was sharing a bit of ale with Friar Malone and some of the men from the village. Just across the green his mother and little sister, Briana, were admiring bits of ribbon and lace that a young woman was holding aloft. In the lane his older brother, Rory, was surrounded by a cluster of lads who were pretending to ignore the pretty lasses who were giggling and blushing as they passed by.

All around were vendors hawking their wares. There were stalls filled with pens of squawking chickens, buckets of wriggling fish, wheelbarrows of mussels and other shellfish. Farmers displayed their fruits and vegetables, or bartered lambs for seafood.

“I’ve raised six sons of my own,” Mistress Garrity was saying in that lovely musical voice that Conor loved. “And I know what most appeals to the heart of a wee lad.”

With a wink she handed him one of the pastries. As always he reached into his pocket for the coin. And as always, she added a second pastry with the whispered admonition, “This one’s free. Just to hold ye until ye get home, lad.”

They shared a secret smile. He bit into the pastry and gave a little sigh of pleasure. But before he could take a second bite he felt a hand against his shoulder as he was roughly shoved aside. As he fell to the ground, he looked up to see more than a dozen English soldiers elbowing their way through the crowd.

The happy voices suddenly faded into silence. Even little children, who had been chasing each other around the stalls laughing and shouting, went still as death.

“What do you want here?” one of the farmers demanded.

“We’ve come for food, old man. We’re hungry.” The leader of the band of soldiers kicked over a stall and reached for a pen of squawking, flapping chickens. While the vendor watched helplessly, the soldier tossed it to one of his men and said with a laugh, “While we’re at it, we’ll have your gold as well.”

The soldiers began snatching up buckets of fish, baskets of bread, all the while filling their pockets with coin from the tables.

One of the soldiers spied the pastries and began scooping them up.

“Where’s your coin, old woman?”

Mistress Garrity emptied her pocket, placing three gold coins in his hand.

He caught her by the front of her gown, dragging her close. Through his teeth he hissed, “I want all of them, old woman.”

She hung her head in shame. “That’s all I have.”

“Liar.” He slapped her hard, snapping her head to one side, then gave her a shove backward.

At that a tearful little girl came forward, clutching at the old woman’s skirt as though to comfort her. She was a wee bit of a lass who often played a game of tag with Conor while her family tended their stall at market.

“Hush, now, Glenna.” Mistress Garrity was more concerned with soothing the child than with her own pain. “Yer old grandmother’s fine.”

Seeing this, the soldier snatched up the girl and pressed a knife to her throat. “You’ll give me the rest of your coins, old woman, or you’ll watch your brat’s blood spill right here at your feet. And just to make certain that you never forget, I’ll have my sport with her before I kill her.”

At the soldier’s words Conor, still lying in the dirt, reached for the small, sharp dirk he always wore beneath his tunic. From his youngest days he’d been taught to think like a warrior. It was in his blood, as it was in the blood of all the O’Neils. The soldier’s threat had his blood running hot through his veins. Despite his tender age, he knew what would happen to his young friend, Glenna. The need to stop these monsters by any means nearly clouded his vision. But before he could attack, he looked up to see his father’s hand go to the sword at his waist. Across the lane he saw Rory unsheath his knife.

Conor knew that the sword of one man and the knives of two lads would never be enough against more than a dozen armed English soldiers. It might satisfy the warrior’s blood in them, but in the end it would only incite the soldiers to more brutality.

His own life mattered not to him. But he had the feeling, in that instant, that the fate of his mother and sister, and the entire village, rested in what he chose to do here. He knew, with perfect clarity, that he could save them all with the only weapon he had. And this time, it was not his knife.

Without thinking of the consequences he leapt to his feet and, in a surprisingly strong voice, asked, “Is it true that you swear allegiance to Henry of England?”

The soldier was so startled by the bold question he turned to face the lad, completely forgetting the threat to the weeping lass in his arms. “Aye. And what’s it to you?”

Conor shrugged. Out of the corner of his eye he saw several of the soldiers begin to circle around him and prayed his father would hold his temper for a minute more. Though he knew he was babbling, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing his brave father and brother to these foreigners’ swords. Not when there might be another way, a better way, to win. “Then it can’t be true what I’ve heard about your king.”

“And what might that be?”

“That he’s an honorable man.”

The soldier’s eyes narrowed with fury. “Are you saying he isn’t honorable? Do you dare to slander the King of England?”

“If Henry of England is an honorable king, and if you swear allegiance to him, then how can you justify taking the life of an innocent lass? According to the laws of your own land, stealing food is a crime, punishable by confinement in prison. But the taking of an innocent life is a crime punishable by death.”

At the look of amazement on the soldier’s face, his comrades began to taunt and jeer.

“This bright Irish lad’s trapped you, Ian.”

“Aye, what have you to say for yourself now, man?”

“Better release the girl before good King Henry himself comes seeking vengeance.”

“I’ve heard these Irish are gifted with words,” another soldier jeered. “This lad’s proved it. He’s bested you, Ian.”

The leader of the band hurried forward and, hearing the taunts, said angrily, “I want no trouble here. We came for food and gold, nothing more. When we leave this place, we leave with no blood on our hands. Is that clear, Ian?”

The two faced each other for long silent moments. Then the soldier dropped the girl and she scrambled to her feet and raced, weeping and wailing, into the trembling embrace of her grandmother.

In the silence that followed the soldier turned and caught Conor roughly by the arms, yanking the lad ,up until they were eye to eye.

“You’ve a glib tongue, Irish.”

Conor’s heart was thundering inside his chest. If the soldier felt the knife beneath his tunic, it would be turned on him. But he swallowed back his fear and met the soldier’s stare in silence.

“That’s better. You’d best see that your mouth stays closed if you want to keep that clever golden tongue. Else you may find it cut out by my blade.” With a vicious oath he tossed the lad down in a heap, then whirled away.

Minutes later the English soldiers disappeared into the forest as quickly as they had arrived.

At once the villagers pounced on Conor, hugging him, squeezing his arm, shaking his hand and exclaiming while Mistress Garrity thanked him over and over again through a mist of tears.

“Ye saved my little Glenna, Conor O’Neil. Had it not been for yer courage, and yer fine words, he’d have brutalized her and slit her throat. I know he would. And all the swords in the land wouldn’t have been quick enough to stop him.”

When Conor’s family gathered around, the villagers stepped aside out of respect.

His mother and sister hugged him, while his brother slapped his shoulder in approval. And all the while his father studied him in silence.

After several minutes, Gavin O’Neil finally managed to swallow back the knot of fear that had been threatening to choke him. “How did you come by the things you said to the soldier, Conor?”

Conor shrugged, prepared for his father’s famous temper to explode. “I know not. The words just seemed to come into my mind. I knew that if I didn’t stop the soldiers with words, you would be forced to stop them with your sword. And Rory with his knife.”

“It is our duty to defend those we love. You know that I’m a skilled swordsman, as you and Rory are skilled with a knife.”

“Aye, Father. But sometimes words are better than swords. Especially if they can prevent bloodshed.”

Gavin glanced over the lad’s head to where his wife, Moira, was standing. A look passed between them. And in that instant they both knew. Though Gavin believed in the power of the sword, he had just witnessed an even greater power. An unbelievable power.

There were places of learning in Spain, in France, in Italy, where a lad with a fine mind could be given every advantage. Fed by the writings of the world’s scholars, a fine mind could be honed until it might equal or even surpass an army of swordsmen.

Could it be that this, their middle child, might prove to be the answer to a nation’s prayer? A prayer for freedom from their hated oppressors?

There was no doubt Conor would be as skilled a warrior as his father and brother, for he had the fearlessness, the steady hand, the vision. But if he could become equally skilled as an orator, he would be a formidable foe indeed.

They owed it to him, to their family, to their country, to do everything in their power to make it so.

In the years that followed, there was much to discuss around Ballinarin. There was the power of Conor O’Neil’s words, for he had become a famed orator. But as skilled as he was, another was even more acclaimed. A mysterious, hooded warrior had begun waging a solitary war of vengeance against the cruel bands of English soldiers that roamed the countryside. A warrior who spoke not a word as he slit the throats of soldiers caught in the act of brutalizing helpless women and children. Because he always dressed in the garb of a monk, with the hood pulled down to his eyes, and the cowl pulled up to hide the lower half of his face, he’d become known as Heaven’s Avenger.

Emma Vaughn was small and slight for her age of ten and two. Dusk had already settled over the land when she began making her way home from the village apothecary. Her beautiful mother had never regained her strength after a difficult childbirth. But Emma was determined to see her mother fully recovered. This day she carried a pouch of special herbs and potions said to have healing properties. They had taken longer to prepare than she’d anticipated, and she was anxious about the lateness of the hour. But her mother’s health was worth any amount of time.

The sound of horses coming up behind her had her turning in alarm. When she caught sight of the band of English soldiers, her heart leapt to her throat, and she cursed herself for her carelessness. She knew, as did every woman and child in Ireland, what these hardened soldiers considered sport.

Hiking her skirts above her knees, she veered off the path and raced across the meadow, hoping the tall grass would slow down those in pursuit. She heard a roar of laughter as the horsemen caught sight of her and began to give chase.

Her chest heaved, the breath burning her lungs as she pushed herself to the limit. But as she headed toward a line of trees, hoping to hide herself, she saw a second group of soldiers emerge from the cover of the forest and advance toward her. She paused. Turned. Then realized, with growing panic, that she was surrounded. The circle of soldiers narrowed as they moved in on their target, who darted from one side of the meadow to the other, like a creature of the wild bent on escape.

“I’ve got her.” One of the soldiers reached down and scooped her up like a rag doll, holding her imprisoned in his arms as he nudged his horse toward the cover of the woods.

The others were laughing and cursing as they made their way to their encampment.

The one holding Emma slid from the saddle. “Since I caught her, I claim the right to be fiat. The rest of you can have what’s left.” He gave a mocking laugh. “From the looks of this scrawny wench, I doubt she can pleasure me much. But I’ll have to make do.”

The others joined in the laughter as a cask was opened and ale was passed among them.

“She’s no more than a child,” one of the men complained.

“All the better. We’ll teach her the ways of a woman. Maybe, if she pleases us, we can keep her around.” The soldier kept a firm grasp on Emma as he dragged her across the camp toward his blankets. Along the way he snagged a tankard of ale, tipping it up and draining it as he walked.

When he reached his bedroll, secured beside a fallen log, he tossed her down, then fell on top of her. Her screams died in her throat. She nearly gagged on the stench of ale and sour breath as her mouth was covered by his.

It was impossible to move. She was pinned beneath him. Still, panic gave her strength she’d never known she possessed. Her hand reached out blindly and encountered a rock. Her fingers curled around it, and she struck the back of his head with all the strength she could manage.

He gave a grunt of pain. “Little witch. I’ll teach you.” He grabbed both her hands, holding them above her head in one of his. Then he slapped her so hard stars danced behind her eyes. “Now you’ll pay.”

Emma braced herself for what was to come. But as he fumbled beneath her skirts, he suddenly went rigid with shock. She caught sight of a flash of silver as the soldier’s eyes went wide, then seemed to glaze over. Blood streamed from a gaping slash across his throat in the moment before he slumped forward, pinning her beneath his dead weight.

With a sense of panic she pushed and struggled to free herself. Her hands, her gown, even her hair were smeared with his blood.

Suddenly his body was yanked roughly away. Standing over her was a figure clad in the garb of a friar, with the cowl pulled up over his mouth, and the hood pulled down to his eyes. And the bluest eyes Emma had ever seen. They glowed in the moonlight like sapphires.

“Who...? What...?”

He shook his head and touched a finger to her lips. Then, without a word, he turned away and began to crawl toward the encampment, where the voices of the drunken soldiers could be heard.

Kneeling up, Emma watched in amazement as the hooded figure moved among them, silently slitting each throat. He moved so quickly, none of his victims had time to notice his approach, or to offer any resistance.

When he returned, she was weeping in relief. Big wet tears that spilled down her cheeks. He lifted her face and wiped the tears with his thumbs. In his eyes she could read both simmering anger and heartfelt compassion for what she was suffering. Without a word he picked her up and carried her to his waiting horse. She could feel the ripple of muscle as he climbed easily into the saddle, all the while holding her against his chest.

“Thank you,” she murmured when she could find her voice. “I know... I know what would have happened if you hadn’t come to my rescue.”

Again he touched a finger to her lips to silence her words. Then he gathered her close, allowing her head to rest on his shoulder. They rode across the meadow in silence. In fact, it seemed to Emma, the whole world had gone suddenly silent. No breeze stirred the leaves of the trees. No night birds sang. Even the frogs in the pond made no sound as the horse splashed through the water, then climbed the embankment and headed toward her village in the distance.

In the circle of this stranger’s arms she felt warm and safe. No harm would come to her, she knew, as long as he held her like this.

When they reached the village he slid from the saddle and set her on her feet.

“I need to know your name, sir, so that my father can properly thank you.”

He shook his head.

“Are you mute? Is that why you don’t speak?”

He merely remained silent.

She offered her hand. “Then I thank you, sir. I will never, ever forget you, or what you did this night.”

Though the lower half of his face was covered by the cowl, she could see the smile in his eyes. He pressed her hand between both of his, then turned and pulled himself into the saddle.

He waited until she ran up the lane and let herself into her house. Then, as she stood in the doorway and waved, he saluted smartly and wheeled his mount. Minutes later he blended into the darkness.

From that day on, Emma Vaughn told all who would listen about the mysterious warrior who had saved her honor and her life. When asked to identify her champion, she could describe only his eyes. Deep blue eyes, filled with ageless wisdom and courage and compassion. Though she was little more than a child, she had already lost her heart to this stranger. To emulate him, she put aside her fears and mastered the art of defense with a knife, vowing that no man would ever again find her helpless.

Throughout all of Ireland the legend grew. And all spoke in awe of the courage of Heaven’s Avenger.

Chapter One

Ireland, 1563

“I wish you weren’t going to England, Conor.” Moira O’Neil struggled to keep the emotion from her voice as she hugged her son. But the pain and fear were there, just beneath the surface. She knew that her middle child was widely regarded as Ireland’s most persuasive orator. Knew, also, that he was a warrior second only to his older brother, Rory. A man adept with both word and sword could surely take care of himself in any situation. Still, the worry persisted. He was going to the land of their enemy. Into the very den of the lion.

It had been his father’s plan since Conor was a lad. And gradually, Conor had accepted the plan as his own. His gift was this wonderful ability to persuade people, through logic and pretty words, to use common sense over emotion. To negotiate rather than fight. To make peace rather than war.

He had another gift, as well. Moira had seen the looks of approval in the eyes of the young women when he passed, and knew that he was a dashing ladies’ man who had caught the eye of the queen. But Elizabeth of England was no innocent. She was a worldly monarch, famous for keeping charming young men around her only so long as they amused her. Once she lost interest they could find themselves in grave peril.

Moira sighed. In her eyes Conor would always be that blue-eyed laughing charmer who had captured her heart when he was born, and owned it still.

“It seems like only yesterday since you and Rory returned from that hellish place. And now you’re going back, to the very palace where your brother nearly lost his life.”