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

Copyright

“You’re a most unusual woman,Briana O’Neil,” Keane said.

“I’ve never known a highborn woman who mingled with the servants.”

“Highborn.” She gave a snort of derision.

“You have to admit that the O’Neil family is far from poor.”

“Aye. But it’s none of my doing. We have no say over where we’ll be born or how we’ll be taught. What we can choose is how we’ll live our lives once the decisions are in our own hands.”

“And so you choose to live without boundaries.”

Briana thought about it a moment. “If you mean without boundaries of wealth or poverty, aye. It isn’t the coin in a man’s pocket that makes him hero or knave. It’s what’s in his heart. His soul.”

“And which do you suppose I am? Hero or knave?”

“That isn’t for me to judge. You know what’s in your own heart…”

Dear Reader,

Autumn is such a romantic season—fall colors, rustling leaves, big sweaters and, for many of you, the kids are back in school! So, as the leaves fall, snuggle up in a cozy chair and let us sweep you away to the romantic past!

With over thirty books to her name, bestselling author Ruth Langan knows how to bring the fantasy of falling in love to life. Briana, set in England and Ireland, is the final book of THE O’NEIL SAGA. It’s the love story of a feisty Irish noblewoman and the lonely, tormented landowner who first saves her life—and then succumbs to her charms!

In The Doctor’s Wife, by the popular Cheryl St.John, scandalous secrets are revealed but love triumphs when a waitress “from the other side of the tracks” marries a young doctor in need of a mother for his baby girl. Branded Hearts by Diana Hall is an intriguing Western about a young cowgirl bent on revenge who must fight her feelings for her boss, an enigmatic cattle rancher. Jacqueline Navin’s evocative story, Strathmere’s Bride, features a duke who suddenly finds himself the single father of his two orphaned nieces, and in dire need of a wife! But who will he choose— the proper lady or the girls’ very improper governess?

Enjoy. And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

P.S. We’d love to hear what you think about Harlequin Historicals! Drop us a line at:

Harlequin Historicals

300 E. 42nd Street, 6th Floor

New York, NY 10017

Briana
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 Nicole Brooke Langan,

the newest link in our chain of love

And for her big brother, Patrick, and her proud parents,

Pat and Randi

And for Tom, who truly founded a dynasty

Prologue

Ireland 1653

“My lord O’Neil. You must come quickly.” The servant paused in the doorway of the private chambers of the lord and lady of Ballinarin. She clutched the door and choked in several deep breaths before she could find her voice to continue. “It’s Briana.”

At her obvious distress, Gavin O’Neil looked up in alarm. “What is it, Adina?”

“She’s been wounded, my lord.”

“Wounded?” Gavin’s wife, Moira, was already on her feet, clutching a hand to her throat.

“Aye, mistress. At the hands of an English sword, I’m told.” The servant’s eyes were round with fear. “A runner came ahead with the news. Some lads from the village are carrying her across the fields.”

Gavin was already strapping on his sword and striding across the room. At the door he turned and exchanged a look with his wife before taking his leave.

Moira raced after him, calling orders to the servant as she did. “We’ll need hot water, Adina. And clean linens. Tell Cook to prepare an opiate for pain. And send someone to fetch my sons and their wives.”

She had to run now to keep up with her husband’s impatient steps.

There was a murderous look in his eyes as he tore open the massive door leading to the courtyard. “If those English bastards have touched one hair on her head, I’ll kill every one myself.” He had already pulled himself onto the back of a waiting horse when he spotted the procession of villagers walking slowly across the sloping lawns of Ballinarin. At the front of the line was a muscular lad carrying the motionless figure of his youngest child.

His heart nearly stopped.

“Dear God in heaven.” He slid from the horse and crossed the distance at a run.

Seeing the lord of the manor, the villagers paused in their march, whipping the hats from their heads in respect.

“Ah. Briana. Briana.” With a sob catching in his throat he took the limp, bloody form from the lad’s hands and gathered her against his chest.

By the time Moira reached them, he was kneeling in the damp grass, rocking his child the way he had when she was a wee babe.

Rory and his wife, AnnaClaire, came racing from their rooms, with their adopted son, Innis, leading the way. Behind them came Conor and his wife, Emma. All came to a sudden halt at the sight that greeted them.

“Who did this thing?” Gavin’s voice was choked with tears, his face filled with unbelievable anguish.

“That can wait, Gavin.” Moira touched a hand to her daughter’s throat, then gave a sigh of relief. The heartbeat was strong and steady. However much blood had been spilled—for the lass’s gown was soaked with it—the wounds were far from fatal. “We must get her inside.”

Gavin felt as if he’d taken a knife in his chest, making his breathing labored and painful. Nothing in the world mattered to him as much as his children. And this one, his youngest, his only daughter, his beloved Briana, owned his heart as no other.

As tenderly as if she were still that tiny bundle he had first seen ten and five years ago, he cradled her against his chest and made his way inside the keep, with his wife and family and the parade of villagers trailing somberly behind.

In the great hall the servants had gathered in silence.

“Adina.” Moira’s voice was stronger now, relieved that there was work to be done. “You will help me tend Briana’s wounds.”

“Oh, aye, mistress.” The smile returned to the servant’s eyes, for fiery little Briana was a favorite among all of them. Life was never dull, the chores never mundane, when Briana was near.

“Come.” Moira indicated the fur throw in front of the fire. “Lay her here, Gavin, and I’ll see to her shoulder, which seems to be the source of that blood.”

As she and the servant began to cut away the bloodsoaked sleeve and wash the wound, she said softly, “Despite appearances, it is but a small wound.”

Gavin watched in silence. Now that the first wrenching wave of fear had swept away, a newer, stronger emotion was beginning to emerge. He turned to the villagers, his blood hot for vengeance. “Now you will tell me everything. Who did this thing?”

“A group of English soldiers, my lord.” One tall lad answered for the others. “They were coming out of the tavern.”

“How many were there?” Gavin knew he fed the flames of anger, allowing the hatred to grow before he knew the facts. But he couldn’t help himself. He had spent a lifetime hating the English soldiers who moved in small bands across Ireland, defiling, not only the land, but innocent women and children in their path.

“At least a score, my lord.”

“So many?” Moira made a sound of surprise.

Gavin interrupted with a hiss of impatience. “Which way were they headed?”

“The last I saw, they were heading toward the forest, my lord.”

Moira looked up from her work. “But why did they attack our daughter?”

The lad stared hard at the floor.

Gavin’s voice was a growl of command. “Why did they single out Briana, lad?”

“She…” He swallowed, and shot a glance at the others. “She attacked them, my lord.”

Gavin’s brow furrowed. “Briana attacked them?”

The villagers nodded, dreading what was to come. Gavin O’Neil’s temper was a frightening thing to see. It was already there, growing with each moment, darkening his eyes, flaring his nostrils.

“Are you saying the English did nothing to provoke the attack?”

The lad stared at his fingers as they played with the ragged edge of his hat. “The English didn’t even see her until she charged into their midst with her sword aloft.”

“Her sword?” Gavin spun around, glancing upward, seeing the empty space over the mantel where his father’s sword always hung. “What did they do then, lad?”

Briana pushed aside the servant’s hand and sat up, brushing tumbled red locks out of her eyes. Her voice, a husky mix of breathlessness and energy, deepened her brogue. “They laughed at me.”

Everyone turned to stare at her. But the only one she saw was her father. His face, looking tight and angry. His eyes, staring at her with a look of puzzlement. It wasn’t the proud, joyful expression she’d been anticipating.

Hoping to put the light of pride back in his eyes she hurried on in a rush of words. “At first they managed to evade my blows. But when the leader ordered me to throw down my weapon, and I refused, the English dogs were forced to defend themselves.”

“Aye, my lord. ‘Tis true.” The lad nodded. “One of them struck her with the flat of his blade, knocking her from her horse. When she fell to the ground, she seemed stunned, but she’s a true O’Neil. She managed to get up and attack again.” There was admiration in his tone. And a sense of awe, that one small female could take such blows and keep her senses about her.

Briana O’Neil was a constant source of amazement among the villagers, for, despite her life of luxury as daughter to the lord of Ballinarin, she was a wild thing, always plowing headlong into danger. There were those who said she was in a race with her warrior brothers, to see who was the fiercest. There were others who said she was merely trying to please a harsh, demanding father. Whatever demon drove her, Briana O’Neil was surely the fiercest female in their midst.

“That’s when the leader pinned her with his sword, drawing blood. He ordered his men to mount and ride. And when they were safely away, he followed, my lord.”

Gavin spoke to the lad, but kept his gaze fixed on his daughter. “Did the soldier say anything?”

“Only that he had no desire to have the lass’s blood on his hands.”

Gavin’s eyes had narrowed with each word until they were tiny slits. Now he swung the full weight of his fury on his daughter. “You little fool. Is it death you desire?”

“Nay, Father.” She struggled to her feet, determined not to let him see any weakness in her. “I desire the same as you.”

“Do you now? And what might that be?”

“I’ve heard it since I was a wee lass.” With her hands on her hips she flounced closer. “Freedom from tyranny. And death to the bloody English.”

Gavin’s voice rose, a sure sign that his tightly-held control was slipping. “And you thought you’d see to it all by yourself, did you? You’re an even bigger fool than I thought. It’s lucky you are that the leader of that band had the sense to only wound you. He’d have been within his rights to kill you.”

Crushed by his words, Briana exerted no such control over her own temper. With eyes blazing she shouted, “You call me a fool? If I had been Rory or Conor, or even young Innis, you’d have had nothing but praise for my courage. I’ve watched you, Father, sitting around the fire at night, boasting of your sons’ courage. But never once do you recognize that I have the same blood flowing through my veins. The same courage. And the same need for vengeance. Why can’t you see it? Why can’t you see me?”

He caught her arm and pulled her close until his breath seared her skin. His voice trembled with emotion. “Oh, I see you. And do you know what I see? A foolish, headstrong lass who hasn’t one shred of sense in that empty little brain. Don’t you understand that those soldiers could have taken you with them for their sport?”

If he’d expected to shock or frighten her, he was mistaken.

“I wish they had tried.” She tossed her head. “They’d have found my knife planted in their black English hearts.”

It was, for Gavin O’Neil, the final straw. He looked, for a full minute, as though he might strike her. Instead he flung her from him and looked toward his wife. “You were charged with teaching your daughter the ways of a woman.”

Moira stood a little straighter, aware that half the village was witnessing this scene, and the other half would hear every word of it repeated before nightfall. “And so I shall. But you must be patient, Gavin.”

“Patient? Patient?” He slammed a fist down on the mantel, sending candles toppling.

Nervous servants hastened to upright them before they began to smolder.

“I’ve been patient long enough.” He pinned his wife with a look that had long struck fear into seasoned warriors. Moira knew that he had now crossed the line from anger to full-blown rage. There would be no stopping him until the storm had run its course. “Now I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

Moira braced herself for what was to come. Beside her, her daughter watched with wary eyes.

“This very day Briana will go to the Abbey of St. Claire.”

“A cloister? Nay, Gavin. You can’t mean this.”

“You know me better than that, woman. I do mean it.”

Her voice quavered. “I beg you, Gavin, don’t do this thing.”

“It is the only way to assure she will live to womanhood.”

Briana’s eyes had gone wide with shock and fear. “You wouldn’t send me away. I couldn’t live without you and Mother. Without Rory and Conor and Innis. I’d rather die, Father, than leave Ballinarin.”

“You should have thought about that before you took up the ways of a warrior. Now you must pay for your foolishness. In the convent, you’ll learn a woman’s ways.”

“A woman?” Her voice rang with scorn. “What care I about such things?”

“You’ll learn to care. A woman is what you are. What you cannot deny. You’ll learn how to pray and weave. How to be humble and docile and respectful. In the silence of the cloister you’ll learn how to hold that tongue of yours. In the cloister you’ll have time to contemplate your foolish, impulsive behavior.”

“I have no desire to learn a woman’s ways.”

“I care not what you desire. I care only what is good for you. If, after a year, I receive a good report from the mother superior, I’ll consider allowing you to return to Ballinarin.”

“A year. Gavin, consider what you’re saying.” Moira stepped closer to her daughter, while fear began growing in the pit of her stomach. She could see the darkness in his eyes; could hear it in his voice. This time it was more than anger; it was desperation. This time he meant it. He would do whatever it took to keep his beloved Briana safe. Even if it meant breaking her spirit. And her heart. All their hearts. “They’ll dress her in coarse robes, and force her to sleep on the floor. And her hair, Gavin. They’ll cut it all off.”

He couldn’t bear to look at the mass of red tangles that spilled around a deceptively angelic face. It had always secretly pleased him that his only daughter had inherited his mother’s lush, coppery hair.

Because they lacked conviction, his words were hurled like daggers. “All the better. ‘Twill be good for her humility.”

Briana’s eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back furiously. She’d rather die than let the village lads see her cry.

Gavin saw the way his daughter was struggling for control and turned away abruptly. He had crossed a line. There would be no turning back now. By evening, all in the surrounding villages would know that Gavin O’Neil had banished his only daughter to the Abbey of St. Claire, to turn her into a lady.

Because I love her, he told himself. Because I would do anything to keep her safe. Even turn her out of her beloved home, and deny her mother and me the pleasure of her company.

“I’ll have a messenger ride ahead to the cloister. Pack her bags and bid your daughter Godspeed, Moira. Briana leaves on the morrow.”

Chapter One

The Abbey of St. Claire 1656

“Briana.” The voice of tall, stern Sister Immaculata came from just outside the doorway. “You must wake, child.”

“Not yet.” The figure huddled deeper into the nest of coarse blankets, wanting to return to her dream. It had been such a sweet dream. She’d been riding her favorite steed across the lush green hills of Ballinarin, in the shadow of towering Croagh Patrick. Her best friend, Innis, and her brothers, Rory and Conor, had been with her, laughing and teasing. She’d been free. Gloriously free of the odious rules that now governed her life. Prayers before dawn, followed by a meal of tasteless gruel, and then work in the fields until noon, when the Angelus was prayed and they were allowed a meal of meat and cheese before retiring to their cells to pray and rest. The afternoon was the same. Endless work, followed by bread and soup, and then evening vespers. Even sleep was regulated, broken at midnight and again at three o’clock in the morning for common prayer in the chapel.

Out of consideration for their age, the older nuns were given duties inside the convent, scrubbing floors, washing linens, cleaning the chapel. The younger ones, students and postulants alike, worked the fields and tended the herds.

“Briana, you must get up now.” The voice was beside her. A hand touched her shoulder. That, in itself, had her coming fully awake, for there was no touching allowed in the convent. There were no hugs. No squeezing of hands. Even the brush of one shoulder by another caused both parties to stiffen and turn away.

She opened her eyes. The blaze from the candle held in the nun’s hand made her squint. “I’ve only just fallen asleep, Sister. It can’t be time to pray yet.”

“I haven’t wakened you for prayer, child. Mother Superior awaits you in the refectory.”

“The refectory? She’s eating?”

“Nay. She is seeing to a meal for the lads who have come to escort you home.”

Home. Briana blinked, unable to say the word aloud. Her banishment of one year had grown to two, and then to three, as she had railed against the injustice of the rules, managing to break every one of them. For each rule she broke, the prospect of ever seeing Ballinarin again had become so remote, she had feared it would never happen. And now, without notice, she was being given a reprieve. Still, though there was the slightest flicker of hope, she held back, refusing to allow it to burst into flame for fear it would be snuffed, as it had so often in the past. “But why now?”

“I don’t know, child. Mother Superior will explain it to you. Now hurry and dress.” Satisfied that her young charge was not going to fall back asleep, the old nun took her leave as silently as she had come.

Briana slipped off the coarse nightshift and crossed to a basin of cold water, washing quickly. Then she dressed in a shapeless brown garment and scuffed boots, before folding up her pallet and setting it in a corner of the room. A quick glance around assured her that the cell was as clean and as bare as when she had arrived, three years earlier.

Despite the time she had spent here, there was nothing of Briana in this simple cell. No mementoes of home and family. No small comforts. The sleeping pallet consisted of a rough blanket on the floor. On a plain table rested a basin and pitcher, which bore no adornments. There was no mirror. For that, Briana was grateful. She had no desire to see how she must look now, with her hair shorn, her hands, rough and callused, the nails torn and ragged from her hours spent tending the crops and flocks in the fields. Even her body had changed. Gone were the soft, round curves of younger womanhood. Over the years she had grown taller and reed slender, with the merest slope of hips, and breasts so small and firm, they were easily concealed beneath the robes of a peasant.

She stepped from the cell and pulled the door closed behind her, moving soundlessly along the darkened corridor.

When she entered the refectory, Mother Superior hurried over.

“These lads have come to fetch you home.”

Briana glanced at the lads who were seated at a long wooden table, eating a hastily prepared meal of meat and cheese and crusty bread. With a sinking heart she realized that they were the faces of strangers. The lads she’d known in her girlhood had probably moved on with their lives, no doubt with wives and children of their own.

“Why am I being summoned home?”

Mother Superior motioned for her to sit. At once Sister Ascension, the cook, waddled over to place a platter of meat and cheese in front of her.

While Briana dutifully ate, Mother Superior explained. “Your father was recently wounded.”

“Wounded? What…?” Her words trailed off at the look on the nun’s face.

Mother Superior gave a sigh of dismay. Even after three years of training, the lass still hadn’t learned to hold her tongue. But at least she had remained seated. The firebrand who had first come to the convent would have leapt to her feet and demanded all the details immediately.

“The wounds are not serious. But your mother desires your assistance in caring for The O’Neil. She feels that the challenge is too great for her to carry alone.”

Briana’s smile was quick. “Aye. My father healthy is challenge enough. My father wounded would be unbearable. Especially once he started to mend.”

Then another thought intruded. It was her mother who had sent for her, not her father. Did that mean that he had still not forgiven her? She felt the pain, sharp and quick, then quickly dismissed it. It no longer mattered. Once Gavin O’Neil saw her, he would realize that she had changed. She would win his love. She had to. It had been the one thing that had always driven her.

She suddenly found that she had lost her appetite. The thought that she was really going home had her nerves jumping. Because she had often been lectured on the sinfulness of wasting food, she gathered the rest of her meal and placed it in a pocket of her robe, before getting to her feet. Across the room, the lads pulled on their cloaks and headed toward the door. Briana and Mother Superior followed.

In the courtyard, the horses were saddled and ready. Mother Superior handed Briana a coarse, hooded traveling robe. “The ermine-lined cloak which you wore here was given to the poor. As was the purse of gold which your father sent. But though this is a humble replacement, it will serve its purpose, Briana, and keep you warm throughout your long journey.”

“I care not for clothes, Reverend Mother.”

“I know that, child.” It was one of Briana’s most endearing qualities. The lass had no artifice. And though she was an incorrigible rascal, she was much loved by all at the convent.

It had been plain, from her first day, that she would never fit in to the life of a humble sister. But it was also plain that she was kind, and dear, and with her impulsive behavior and irrepressible humor, the most impossible challenge of Mother Superior’s life. As she looked at Briana now, she wondered just how she would fit into that other world beyond the convent walls. She’d had no time to flirt, to dance, to experience the things of young womanhood. By now, the women Briana’s age would be wives and mothers. And though this sweet lass would be treated like a woman by those who met her, she was still, in her heart, that naive girl of ten and five who had burst upon their silence and order, bringing with her chaos and passion.

The older woman lifted a hand and Briana bowed her head. “Until we meet again, child, may God hold you safely in His hands.”

“And you, Reverend Mother.” Briana turned away and was assisted onto her mount.

With a clatter of hooves, the horses moved out.

Briana turned for a last glimpse of the Abbey of St. Claire. Mother Superior stood, her hands folded as always inside the sleeves of her robes. Behind her the roof of the building, and the cross that rose from the highest peak, were still cloaked in darkness.

Briana turned her head and stared straight ahead. Toward the sunrise, just beginning to tint the sky. There lay Ballinarin. Her heart fluttered with unrestrained happiness. At long last, she was going home.

“What is it? Why are we stopping here?” When the leader of their little group signalled a halt, Briana urged her mount forward.

“A village, my lady.” From his position at the top of a small green hill, the lad pointed. In the distance could be seen the thatched roofs of sod huts, and the smoke from turf fires, and beyond them, the towers and turrets of the distant keep. “We’d be wise to seek shelter before it grows dark.”

“I’m not yet weary. I could continue for a few more hours.” For every hour would bring her closer to home.

“You have been away now for several years, my lady.” He kept his tone respectful, but Briana felt the sting of censure. “There are many more English soldiers in our land now. And no one, man or woman, is safe after dark.”

It was on the tip of Briana’s tongue to remind the lad that she was an O’Neil, and that the decision should be hers and hers alone. But though it stung, she knew he was right. She had been sheltered so long, she had no way of making a proper judgment. The lad was only looking out for her safety.

Reluctantly she nodded. “Aye. We’ll seek the shelter of a tavern then, and be on our way again in the morning.”

Below them lay a field of green. Peasants from a nearby village could be seen tending their flocks. It was a pleasant, peaceful scene that brought a smile to Briana’s lips as she and her escorts urged their horses down the hill. This was what she had missed. Laughter, as clear and tinkling as a bell, carried on the breeze. The sound of voices raised in easy conversation. How long had it been since she had heard such things? Even in the fields, the sisters and novices never broke their vow of silence.

As her horse moved in a slow, loping gait between the furrows, she lifted a hand and waved, and the men and women straightened and returned her salute.

She was halfway across the field when she heard the thunder of hooves. For a moment she didn’t know what to make of it. Then, seeing the lad in front of her turn and mutter an oath as he unsheathed his sword, she followed his gaze.

An army of English soldiers, perhaps fifty or more, was heading directly toward them from a nearby forest.

With a feeling of dread Briana looked around. They were caught in the open. Trapped. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to seek shelter from the trained warriors bearing down on them.

The leader of her escorts, a fierce, muscular lad of perhaps ten and six, shouted orders. “The village. At once. It is our only hope.”

As they urged their horses into a run, Briana glanced over her shoulder. The peasants, caught offguard, were being cut down by the invading soldiers’ swords. In the blink of an eye, five, then ten, then more, were seen falling to the ground, screaming in anguish.

The air was filled with the sound of voices shouting, swearing. Women weeping. The sharp clang of metal on metal as those few peasants who were armed strove to defend themselves. Horses whinnied in pain as they died, crushing their riders. That only made the soldiers more determined to retaliate against those peasants who dared to fight back.

The once tidy rows of grain were now slashed and torn, the earth red with blood as the mounted soldiers overtook the fleeing peasants and, in a frenzy of killing, left not a single one standing.

When they had finished with the peasants, the soldiers turned their attention on the five horsemen, fleeing across the fields. Within minutes they fanned out, determined to cut off any chance of escape.

Seeing that there was no hope of making it to the safety of the village, the leader of Briana’s escorts signalled for the others to form a circle around her. “Come lads. We must defend the lady Briana with our lives.”

“Give me a sword,” she shouted.

But her voice was drowned out by the thunder of hooves and the shouts and jeers of the approaching army. As soon as Briana and her escorts slid from their saddles, their terrified horses took off at a run. The lads formed a ring around her, swords at the ready, determined to defend her to their last breath, as the soldiers bore down on them.

“Halsey.” A soldier’s shout had the leader of the army turning in the saddle. “Look at this. These lads are spoiling for a fight.”

“Then, let’s give them what they want.” The one called Halsey threw back his head and roared. It was obvious that he was enjoying the killing. “I’ll do the honors myself. The rest of you can see that the sniveling cowards don’t escape.”

His soldiers held back, allowing him to lead the charge. He singled out the leader of the band of defenders, plunging his sword through the lad’s heart with a single swipe.

His voice rang with disdain as the lad fell to the ground, writhing in pain. “Embrace death, Irishman. And may your sons and their sons join you in it.”

At his words the other soldiers began to laugh. When the remaining lads formed a tighter circle around Briana, several of the soldiers slid to the ground and drew their swords.

“Jamie,” Halsey called to a comrade. “Throw me your weapon. Mine’s buried too deeply in the Irishman.”

The soldier tossed his sword, and Halsey easily caught it before engaging a second lad in battle.

Briana watched with sinking heart as the lad fought bravely. But each time he managed to dodge a thrust from Halsey’s sword, the soldiers behind him would strike him about the head and chest with their weapons, leaving him dazed and bloody. Soon, seeing that the lad was too weary to defend himself, Halsey gave a final death thrust with his sword, sending the lad to the ground, where he gasped his last.

“That leaves only three,” Halsey said with an evil grin. “Who would care to test his skill next?”

The last of Briana’s defenders stood back to back, keeping her between them. With drawn swords, they fought with courage and skill, though they knew they had no chance to win. Even if they were to best the one called Halsey, his soldiers outnumbered them by fifty or more. His death would make their own that much more painful. Still, they had sworn to see the lady Briana safely to her home. No matter what the odds, they would fight to the death to keep their word to the lord of the manor.

“Do you think two Irishmen can outfight one English soldier?” Halsey’s voice rang with contempt. “Not even a dozen could best me.”

As if to prove his boast, he cut down the first lad with a single thrust, then turned his attention to the second. Though the lad was clumsy, he was tall and strapping, with muscular forearms. His first blow with the blade caught Halsey by surprise, and the soldier had to leap aside quickly to avoid being wounded.

Annoyed that his soldiers’ taunts had gone suddenly silent, he slashed out, catching the lad’s arm, laying it open. With blood streaming down his arm, the lad fought back, but was quickly slashed a second time, and then a third, until his tunic and breeches were stained with his own blood.

“Come, Irishman. Is this the best you can do?” Halsey leapt forward, causing the lad to back up too quickly.

He tripped and landed on his back. Like a feral dog, Halsey stood over him, the tip of his sword at the lad’s throat.

“You’d best pray that the God you worship is merciful, Irishman. For you’re about to meet Him.” With a laugh he plunged his sword through the lad’s throat. Then, for good measure, he pulled the blade free and thrust it again, directly through the lad’s heart.

His men sent up a cheer as he turned toward Briana, who stood alone.

If her years in the convent had taught her anything, it was that death was not to be feared, but rather to be embraced. She took a deep breath and lifted her head, prepared for what was to come.

“So, lad.” Halsey glanced around at his men, clearly enjoying his role as fearless enforcer. “I see you’re too young to be entrusted with a sword. Is this why the others were protecting you?”

Briana blinked. It took her several moments to realize that this man and the others mistook her for a lad. No wonder. In the coarse robes of a peasant, with her hair shorn, she would never be mistaken for a noblewoman.

“It’s too bad.” Halsey took a step closer, his sword raised for the kill. “I would have enjoyed a bit of a challenge before retiring for the night with my men. Ah well. I suppose it was too much to hope for.”

As he stepped over the body of his last victim, Briana took that moment of distraction to bend toward the lad lying at her feet. In one swift motion she pulled the sword from his chest.

She cursed the fact that it had been too many years since she’d handled a weapon. She was surprised at how heavy it felt. It took both hands just to hold it aloft.

Halsey looked up, his eyes narrowing. Then, seeing how she struggled with the heavy weapon, his lips split into a grin.

“That’s my sword you’re holding, lad. I’d wager it doesn’t like being held by Irish hands. Be careful the hilt doesn’t burn your flesh.”

The others roared with laughter.

“Maybe you’re the one who should be careful.” Briana slowly lowered one hand, flexing her fingers. Though she hadn’t held a sword these last three years, she had held her share of plowshares and scythes. Her work with the flocks and in the fields may have whittled her weight, making her lean, but it had also made her strong. She tightened her grip on the hilt of the sword and tested its strength.

Halsey’s smile grew. “You Irish always have so much to say until you taste an English sword. Then your babbling turns to the bleating of lambs at slaughter. Prepare yourself, lad. You’re about to face your own slaughter.”

He stepped forward, giving a deft jab with his sword tip. To his surprise his opponent danced to one side and caught his arm with a sharp slice. The yelp that bubbled to his lips was quickly turned into a string of oaths, in order to save face in front of his watching men.

“The Irishman must pay for that, Halsey,” one of his soldiers called.

“Aye.” Gritting his teeth, Halsey charged forward, determined to inflict pain.

Instead, his opponent once more managed to avoid his sword and swung out, catching his shoulder with a sword tip.

As blood spilled down the front of his tunic, his eyes narrowed to tiny slits. Gone was the sly smile of a moment ago. Now, this was no longer sport. It had become deadly serious.

“I tire of this game, Irishman.” He signalled to two of his soldiers. “Hold the lad while I teach him a lesson.”

Briana turned to face the two men who advanced. Wielding the sword like a club, she swung out viciously, and had the satisfaction of seeing them back away rather than face her weapon. But, with her back to Halsey, she was defenseless. She felt the white-hot thrust of a sword as it pierced her shoulder. The weapon dropped from her fingers and fell to the ground.

Stunned and reeling, she turned to face her attacker. His smile was back. His eyes were glazed with a lust for blood.

Up close she could see that his face bore the scars of many battles. His nose had been broken. His left ear had been cut away, leaving only a raw, puckered scar.

“Now will you know death, Irishman.” His voice was a low taunt. “Not only your own, but the death of this land, as well. For all of it, and all who live in it, will answer to an English sword.”

“Hold him,” he shouted to his soldiers. “And this time, see that he doesn’t break free.”

With one soldier on either side of her, holding firmly to her arms, Briana was unable to move. She kept her eyes open as the one called Halsey drew back his hand and brought the sword forward with one powerful thrust. When the blade entered her chest she felt nothing at first, as her legs failed her and sent her crashing to the ground. And then there was pain, hotter than any fire, burning her flesh, melting her bones. Pain that seemed to go on and on until she could no longer bear it.

A loud roaring, like thunder, filled her head.

Then, from far away, came the sound of laughter. And Halsey’s voice, that seemed to rise and fall. “Come. Let’s find a tavern, and wash away the taste of these filthy Irish.”

And then, mercifully, there was only numbness. And a deep black hole that swirled and swirled, stealing her sight, her mind, enveloping her in total darkness, as it slowly closed around her and took her down to the depths of hell.

Chapter Two

“Bloody barbarians.” The old man from the nearby village knelt beside the body of his brother, cradling the familiar head in his lap.

“Aye.” His son nodded toward the lord of the manor, who had brought a wagonload of servants to survey the carnage. “And there’s another one of them.”

“Aye. Bloody Englishman. A pity, what he’s become. I knew his grandfather. Now there was a true and loyal son of Ireland.”

“You can’t say the same for his father.”

“Nay. A wastrel, true enough. And now his son has returned as a titled gentleman. The only reason he came home was to claim his inheritance. With his father dead, he’ll take the fruits of our labors back to England, to live as his father before him, like royalty.”

“The bloody English will soon enough own all the land and everyone on it.”

Though Keane O’Mara couldn’t help but overhear the mutterings of the villagers, he gave no indication as he moved among the dead. On his face was a look of complete disdain. It was the only expression the villagers had seen since his recent return to his childhood home.

When he came upon a body that had not been claimed, he paused.

“How many, Vinson?” he asked his servant.

The old man hobbled closer. “I’ve counted a score and ten, my lord.”

Keane struggled to show no emotion. Thirty men, women, even a few children. All caught by surprise, apparently, while tending the fields. With nothing more than a handful of weapons among them with which to defend themselves.

He’d come upon this sort of thing so many times lately, he’d begun to lose count of the bodies. The bloody scenes of carnage had begun to blur together in his mind, so that they all seemed one and the same. And yet, each was different. Each time, he was reminded of the families who would grieve. The widows who would never again see their husbands. The orphans who would grow up without knowing their parents. He winced. The parents who would carry the loss of their children in their hearts forever.

“Has Father Murphy finished the last rites?”

The old man nodded.

“Order the servants to begin loading them into wagons for burial.”

“Aye, my lord.” Vinson shuffled off, and soon a staff of servants began the terrible task of lifting the bloody, bloated bodies onto carts and wagons for burial in the field behind the chapel, on the grounds of the family keep.

Many of the villagers had brought their own carts, and they now trailed behind in silence, unable to give voice to their grief. Only the anguish in their eyes spoke of their pain and sorrow.

As Keane approached yet another bloody section of field, his servant looked up. “These five were not of the village, my lord.”

“You’re certain?”

“Aye, my lord. Neither the priest nor the villagers has ever seen them before. They must have been strangers, who were just passing through.”

“A pity they chose this time.” Keane turned away. “Before you bury them, examine their cloaks and weapons. Perhaps you’ll find a missive or a crest that will tell us the name of their village.”

He hadn’t take more than a dozen steps when the elderly servant called excitedly, “One of these lads is alive, my lord.”

Keane returned and stared down at the figure, crusted with mud and dried blood, the face half hidden in the folds of a twisted hood.

“You’re certain?”

“Aye, my lord.” Vinson leaned close, feeling the merest puff of warmth from between lips that were parched and bloody. “There’s breath in him yet.”

“From the looks of him, he put up a bit of a fight. Take him to my keep and see to him, Vinson.”

“Aye, my lord.” The old man got to his feet. “Though his heartbeat’s so feeble, he might not survive the trek.”

Keane gave a sigh of disgust. So many wasted young lives. “All we can do is try. And hope he survives.”

A servant approached, leading the lord’s stallion. Keane pulled himself into the saddle and began the long sad journey to the chapel, where he would try to give what comfort he could to the grieving villagers. If he were his grandfather the villagers would accept what he offered. But because he was viewed as an outsider, his attempts would be rebuffed.

All along the way he prepared himself for the storm of anger and grief and bitterness that would be expressed. There was a groundswell of hatred festering, and for good reason. There would come a time, he knew, when it would spill over into war. And when it did, there would be even more death and destruction. For the English would never give up their hold on this land and its people. And though he understood the need for vengeance, he also knew the futility of it. Despite the growing tide of sentiment against the English, this small, poor land was no match for England’s armies.

Hadn’t he learned the lesson well enough? And hadn’t he already paid the supreme sacrifice for his devotion to the wrong cause?

The thought of his loss brought an ache so deep, so painful, it nearly cut off his breath.

Aye. He’d paid. And he’d learned. But that didn’t mean he’d given up hope. It just meant he’d mastered the art of patience. For a while longer he would bide his time and get his father’s affairs in order. And then he would leave this sad land, with its sad memories, and try to make a life somewhere. Anywhere. As long as he would no longer have to remember the past with all its bitterness.

“Good even, my lord. Mistress Malloy has kept a meal on the fire for you.”

Keane shrugged out of his heavy cloak and shook the rain from his hair. “I’ve no appetite, Vinson. Bring me a tankard.” He started toward the stairs, favoring his left leg. He only gave in to the pain when he was too tired to fight it. At the moment, he was on the verge of exhaustion. “I’ll be in my chambers.”

“Aye, my lord.” The old servant cleared his throat and Keane paused, knowing there was something important Vinson needed to say. It was always the same. When the old man needed to speak, he first had to clear his throat and prepare himself for the task.

“Perhaps, my lord, you could step into the chambers next to yours on your way.”

Keane gave a sigh of impatience. The events of the day had dragged him to the depths, and all he wanted was to wash away the bitter taste with ale. “I’m sure there’s a good reason?”

“Aye, my lord.” The old man carefully hung the damp cloak on a hook, then picked up a tray on which rested a decanter and a silver tankard. He climbed the stairs behind his master.

At the upper hallway Keane gave a fleeting glance at the door to his chambers, then resolutely moved past it to tear open a second door. Inside a serving wench looked up from the figure in the bed, then stepped aside to make room for the master.

“Ah. The lad.” Keane walked to the bedside. “With all that transpired this day, I’d nearly forgotten about him. I see he survived, Vinson.”

“Aye, my lord. But…” Vinson cleared his throat again.

Keane waited, a little less patiently.

“The lad isn’t. A lad, I mean. He’s a…lass, my lord.”

Keane turned. The old man was actually blushing. Carrick House had been, after all, a male bastion for a quarter of a century. Except for the serving wenches, and a housekeeper who had been in residence since Keane’s father was a lad, there had been no females under this roof.

“I’d managed to wash away most of the mud and blood from his…her face. But when I cut away his…her cloak, I…” Vinson swallowed. “I summoned young Cora to see to her.”

Keane took a closer look at the figure in the bed. Several thicknesses of bed linens hid the shape of her body, but he could recall no hint of womanly curves beneath the shapeless robes she’d been wearing on the field of battle. Now that the face was washed, it was obvious that the features were decidedly feminine. A small, upturned nose. High cheekbones. Perfectly sculpted lips. The hair had been cut so close to the head, it was little more than a cap of tight red curls.

“A natural enough mistake. What do you make of it, Vinson?”

“Cora found this around the lass’s neck.” The old man held up a small cross, tied to a simple cord. “A nun, I’d say.”

Keane nodded as understanding flooded his tired mind. “Aye. Of course. That would explain the simple garb and shorn hair. But what of the lads with her?”

The old servant shrugged. “I haven’t fathomed that, my lord. We can only hope that the lass will live long enough to tell us.”

“How does she fare?”

The old man and the young servant exchanged glances. “The wounds are extreme. The one to the shoulder is festering. The one to the chest left her barely clinging to life. The sword passed clear through, missing her heart. She hovers between this world and the next. If her heart and her will to live are strong enough…” The old man shrugged. “The next day or two will tell the tale.”

Keane nodded, then turned toward the door. “You’ll wake me if she grows weaker.”

“Aye, my lord.” The serving wench returned to her bedside vigil, while Keane and Vinson took their leave.

In his chambers, Keane strode to the fireplace and stared into the flames.

Vinson filled a tankard and handed it to him. “Will I fetch you some food now, my lord?”

Keane shook his head. “Nay. The morrow will be soon enough. Take your rest, Vinson.”

“Aye, my lord.” The old man seemed eager to escape to his bed. Nearly disrobing a young female had left him badly shaken.

When he was gone, Keane drained the tankard in one long swallow. Then, after prying off his boots and removing his tunic, he refilled the tankard and drank more slowly, all the while staring into the flames.

He thought about the lass in the next room, hovering between life and death. She’d barely had time to live. If Vinson was correct, what few years she’d had were lived in the shelter of a cloister. No time to laugh, to play. He frowned. No time to know the love of a good man, nor the joy of children.

A pretty enough face. No visible scars, though heaven knew, most scars were carefully hidden. Weren’t his own? Still, he wondered what it was that drove young women to seek the seclusion of an abbey. Were they really there to serve God? Or were they hiding from the world?

No matter. This one appeared young and innocent. Why was it always the innocent who must pay for the sins of arrogance committed by those in power?

He walked to the bedside table and picked up the framed miniature, studying once again the face of the one who held his heart. There were times, like this moment, when the pain was too deep, the sense of loss too painful to bear. But he had done the right thing. The only thing. Yet, if that be true, why did he feel like such a failure?

Suddenly overwhelmed by sadness and frustration, he hurled the tankard against the wall. With a string of oaths he dropped onto his back on his bed and passed a hand over his eyes.

Would there ever be an end to the misery? Or would he be forced to watch helplessly as all those he loved were forced to pay for his mistakes?

Dear God, he was weary. So weary. He prayed sleep would visit him. Else, he would be forced to fight his demons until dawn chased the darkness away.

“My lord.”

Keane awoke instantly and found himself bathed in sweat. The demons, it would seem, were especially vile this night.

“Aye, Vinson. What is it?”

The old man stood beside the bed, holding aloft a candle. His robe had been hastily tossed over a nightshirt, his silver hair sticking out at odd angles. “The wench, Cora, summoned me. She feels the lass is at death’s door.”

Keane sprang from his bed. Without taking time for a tunic or boots he led the way to the room next door.

The young servant straightened when the lord entered the room. In her hand was a square of linen, which she had been wringing out in a basin of water.

“Oh, my lord,” she whispered. “The lass is slipping away.”

Keane touched a hand to the lass’s forehead and pulled it away with a jerk. “Her flesh is on fire.”

“Aye. I can no longer bring down the fever, my lord.”

He studied the still, pale figure in the bed, seeing another’s face in his mind. How tragic that so many innocents were lost in battles not of their making.

“I’ve done all I can, my lord. But I fear we’ve lost her.”

Perhaps it was the finality of the servant’s words. Or the futility of his own nightly battles with his demons. Whatever the reason, Keane became infused with a new sense of purpose, a fresh burst of energy. This was one battle he wouldn’t lose without at least putting up a fight.

“Wake Mistress Malloy. Tell her to prepare a bath.”

“A…bath, my lord?”

“Aye.” He took the linen from her hand and dipped it into the basin. “A cold bath, Cora.”

As Vinson watched, Keane placed the cool cloth on the lass’s forehead, then moved it across her cheeks, her mouth, her throat. As quickly as the cloth touched her fevered flesh, it became warm to the touch. Keane then dipped it into the basin once more, wrung it out and repeated the process.

Holding the candle aloft, the old man watched the lass’s face for any reaction. There was none. No sign of relief from the fever that burned. Not even a flicker of movement from lids that remained closed.

“My lord. I fear the lass is beyond help.”

Keane didn’t even look up. “Go to bed, Vinson.”

“My lord…”

“If you cannot help, leave me.”

The old man recognized that tone of voice. It had been the same for the young lord’s father and his father before him. With a sigh of resignation he placed the candle on the bedside table and shuffled across the room, taking up a second cloth. The two men worked in silence, taking turns bathing the lass’s face and neck.

Minutes later the housekeeper bustled in, trailed by half a dozen serving wenches, carrying a tub and buckets of water.

“You ordered a bath, my lord?”

“Aye, Mistress Malloy.” Keane wrung out the cloth, and placed it over the lass’s forehead, while Vinson dipped his in the basin.

The housekeeper watched for several seconds, then motioned for the servants to begin filling the tub. When that was done they waited for further instructions.

They were shocked to see the lord of the manor pull back the bed linens and lift the lass from bed. With no thought to her modesty, he carried her to the tub, where he plunged her, nightshift and all, into the cold water.

“My lord,” the housekeeper cried, “on top of a fever, the cold water will cause her to take a fit.”

“Perhaps, Mistress Malloy. But since she’s near death, it’s a risk I’ll have to take. Fetch some dry blankets, please. And clean linens to dress her wounds.”

While the servants scurried after fresh bed linens, Keane gently cradled the lass’s head against his chest and splashed water over her face. Within minutes he could feel her body temperature begin to cool.

He glanced at his butler, who had knelt beside the tub. “She weighs almost nothing, Vinson.”

“Aye, my lord. I thought that same thing when I carried her up the stairs. Though at the time, I thought her a young lad.”

When the housekeeper and her servants returned with blankets, Keane lifted the lass from the bath, dripping water across the floor as he carried her to the bed.

“You’re not going to return her to her bed in that soaked nightshift, my lord.”

At the housekeeper’s outraged tone, he shook his head. “I thought I’d remove it first.”

He glanced down. Now that her gown was plastered to her body, the decidedly feminine outline was plain to see. Small, firm breasts, a tiny waist, softly rounded hips.

“I’ll do that.” The housekeeper’s tone was brisk and left no room for argument.

Keane stepped back while Mistress Malloy and her servants removed the lass’s wet garments and wrapped her in fresh blankets, after first dressing the wounds to her chest and shoulder.

“Now what, my lord?” Mistress Malloy asked.

“You may all return to your beds.” He turned. “And you, as well, Cora.”

“But what about the lass?”

“I’ll sit with her. I’ve no more need for sleep.”

When his elderly butler made ready to pull a second chair beside the bed, Keane shook his head. “Nay, Vinson. You require your sleep for the day to come.”

While the others eagerly sought their beds, Vinson remained a moment longer.

He cleared his throat. His voice was low, so that a passing servant wouldn’t overhear. “I know the battles you fight each night, my lord. And why you have decided to fight for the lass. But this one is futile. You can see that she is at death’s door.”

Keane met the old man’s look. “You know me well, old man. It’s true. I have no desire to face my demons again tonight.” He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, in exactly the same way his father used to. “But this is one battle I don’t intend to lose. Now go. Leave me.”

When the old man shuffled out, closing the door silently, Keane turned to study the lass. Her breathing was ragged, her lips moving in silent protest. Or perhaps prayer.

“Go ahead, little nun. Pray. But I hope you know how to fight as well.” Aye, he could see that she did. By the jut of her chin. By the clench of her fist. The lass was a scrapper.

He sat back, his eyes narrowed in thought. Vinson was right, as always. This was, he realized, the perfect excuse to avoid returning to his own bed. But he had meant what he’d said. This was one battle he intended to win.

Chapter Three

Briana lay perfectly still, wondering where she had finally surfaced. Earlier she had visited the fires of hell. She knew it was hell, because she’d felt her flesh burning away from her bones, and her entire body melting. But then, just as she’d resigned herself to that fate, a fate she surely deserved for all the grief she’d given her family, she had found herself thrust into the icy waters of the River Shannon. She’d heard voices coming from somewhere along the shore, but she’d been too weary to open her eyes. And so she had slept and drifted in the calm, soothing waters.

Now she was awake and determined to see where she had landed. Wherever it was, she must have been tossed onto the rocks on shore, for her body felt bruised and battered beyond repair.

Her lids flickered, and light stabbed so painfully she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Gathering her strength, she tried again. Her eyes were gritty, as though she’d been buried in sand. Her throat, too, was dry as dust, and her lips so parched she couldn’t pry them apart with her tongue.

“So, lass. You’re awake.”

At the unexpected sound of a man’s deep voice, she blinked and turned her head to stare at the sight that greeted her. And what a sight. A man, naked to the waist, was seated beside the bed. He leaned close and touched a hand to her brow. Just a touch, but she could feel the strength in his fingers, and could see the ripple of muscle in his arm and shoulder.

“I see the fever has left you.” He could see so much more. Up close, her eyes were gold, with little flecks of green. Cat’s eyes, he thought Wary. Watchful. And her skin was unlike any he’d ever seen. Not the porcelain skin he was accustomed to. Hers was burnished from the sun. But it was as soft as a newborn’s.

That one small touch had caused the strangest sensation. A tingling that started in his fingertips and shot through his system with the speed of a wildfire.

It was the lack of sleep, he told himself. He was beginning to see things that weren’t there. To fancy things that weren’t even possible. The lass in the bed was a nun. Only a fool or a lecher would permit such feelings toward an innocent maiden who’d promised her life in service to God.

“For a while this night, I thought the fever would claim you.”

Briana couldn’t help staring at him. His voice was cultured, with just a trace of brogue. But not Irish. English, she thought, like the soldiers who had attacked. She cringed from his touch.

Seeing her reaction, he felt a quick wave of annoyance. “I’ll not harm you, lass. Not after what I’ve gone through this night to save you.”

“Save…” The single word caused such pain, she swallowed and gave up the effort to speak.

“Aye.” To avoid touching her again he leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs. All the tension of the night was beginning to ease. He had fought the battle, and won. The lass had passed through the crisis. At least, the first crisis. He hoped there wouldn’t be many more.

“Earlier, I thought you were ready to leave this life.”

She studied him while he spoke. His face could have belonged to an angel. A dark angel. Aye, Satan, she thought. Thick black hair was mussed, as though he’d run his hands through it in frustration. A sign of temper, she’d wager. His eyes, the color of smoke, were fixed on her with such intensity, she found she couldn’t look away. His dark brows were lifted in curiosity, or perhaps, disdain. His nose was patrician, his full lips just slightly curved, as though he were the keeper of a secret.

“Where…?” She struggled with the word and closed her eyes against the knife-blade of pain that sliced down her throat.

“Where are you?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re in my home. Carrick House. I had you brought here after you were found in the fields not far from here. There was a battle. Do you recall it?”

She nodded. How could she forget? It had seemed like a nightmare of horrors. One that never ended. Even now she could hear the cries of the wounded, and feel the thundering of horses’ hooves as if in her own chest. Worse, she could still smell the stench of death all around her. That had been the worst. To surface occasionally, only to realize that all around her were dead.

“…others?” It was all she could manage.

He shook his head. “You were the only one who survived.”

She felt a wave of such sadness, she had to close her eyes to hold back the tears. Four lads, with so much to live for. But instead of the promising future they should have enjoyed, they had given it all up. For her. She was unworthy of such a sacrifice.

“Here, lass. Drink this.”

She opened her eyes to find him sitting beside her on the edge of the bed, holding a tumbler of water. With unexpected tenderness he lifted her head and held the glass to her lips.

Again Keane felt the heat and wondered what was happening to him. He must be more weary than he’d thought. That had to be the reason. It couldn’t be this plain little nun in his arms.

She sipped, then nearly gagged.

“Forgive me, lass. I should have mentioned that I had my housekeeper prepare an opiate for your pain. Drink it down. It’ll help.”

Though it burned a pathway down her throat, she did as she was told.

He laid her gently back on the pillow, then set the glass on the bedside table and bent to smooth the covers. As he did, he realized she was watching him with the wariness of a wild creature caught in a trap.

He picked up something that he thought might soothe her, and held it up. “My servant found this around your neck.”

She stared at the simple cross, then reached for it, before her hand fell limply against the bedcovers. When he placed it in her hand, their fingers brushed. At once she pulled her hand away, and shrank from him until he took a step back.

His frown returned, furrowing his dark brows. It was obvious that she disliked being touched by him. It was probably the way of holy women. “I’ll leave you to rest now. My servant will be in shortly to look after you. Let her know if you need anything.”

She nodded and watched until he walked away. By the time the door closed, sleep had claimed her. And the dreams that haunted her were dark. Dark angels. And a chilling laugh from a soldier whose name she couldn’t recall, but whose face tormented her. A soldier who enjoyed killing.

“How is the lass?” Keane stepped quietly into the sleeping chambers and paused beside the bed. In the hush of evening his voice was little more than a whisper.

He had spent nearly the entire week in and out of these chambers, bullying the servants, seeing that the wounds were carefully dressed, to avoid more infection. Through it all, the lass had surfaced only briefly, before drifting in a haze of delirium and opiates.

He’d sensed that his presence made her uneasy. And the truth was, she affected him the same way, though he knew not why. Still, he couldn’t stay away. She had become his cause. His fierce obsession. Behind his back, the servants whispered about it. And wondered what drove Lord Alcott to fight so desperately for this stranger.

“Her sleep is still broken by pain, my lord.” Cora looked up from her chair beside the bed.

“Has she eaten anything?”

“Not a thing. And she, so thin and pale. Mistress Malloy sent up a tray, but the lass hasn’t had the heart to even try.”

“And you, Cora?” Keane glanced at the servant, whose head had been bobbing when he’d first entered.

“Mistress Malloy will have something for me later.”

“Go below stairs now.” He motioned toward the door. “Go. I’ll sit with the lass awhile.”

The little serving wench needed no coaxing. The long hours spent watching the sleeping lass had made her yearn for her own bed. But though she gave up many of her daylight hours to the care of their patient, the nighttime hours belonged to the lord. He would dismiss the other servants and sit by the lass’s bedside, ever vigilant for any sign that she might be failing.

When Cora was gone, Keane pressed his hands to the small of his back and leaned his head back, stretching his cramped muscles. Agitated, he began to prowl the room, pausing occasionally to glance out the window as darkness began to swallow the land.

When he wasn’t in there, hovering by the bedside, he was in the library, poring over his father’s ledgers, or huddled in meetings with his solicitors. From the looks of things, Kieran O’Mara, the late Lord Alcott, had long ago lost all interest in his homeland and holdings. Several buildings were in need of repair. The land, though lush and green, had been badly mismanaged for years, yielding only meager crops. Carrick House, it would seem, needed not only an infusion of cash, but an infusion of lifeblood as well.

Not his problem, Keane mused as he stared at the rolling fields outside the window. He would soon enough be gone from this miserable place, with its unhappy memories.

It wasn’t so much a sound from the bed, as a feeling, that had him turning around. The lass, with those strange yellow eyes, wide and unblinking, was staring at him.

“Ah. You’re awake.”

She’d been awake for several minutes. And had been studying him while he paced and prowled. Like a caged animal, she thought. Aye. A sleek, dark panther. All muscle and sinew and fierce energy.

He drew up the chair beside the bed and bent to her, touching a hand to her forehead. It took all her willpower not to pull away. Still, she couldn’t help cringing as his hand came in contact with her skin.

He was aware of her reaction. He was aware of something else, as well, and struggled to ignore the strange tingling that occurred whenever he was near this female.

After so many nights watching her, he had begun to feel he knew her. He’d felt every ragged breath of hers in his own chest. Had marvelled at the quiet strength that kept her fighting when others would have given up. Had felt encouraged with every little sign of improvement.

“Do you remember where you are?”

She nodded, struggling to fit the pieces of her memory back into place. “Carrick House, I believe you called it.”

She was pleased that she’d been able to manage the words without feeling a stab of pain. Her throat, it would seem, was healing, though the rest of her body was still on fire. “I thought I’d dreamed you.”

He found her voice a pleasant change from the shrill voices of the serving wenches. It was low, cultured, breathless. But he couldn’t be certain if it was her natural voice, or the result of her injuries. At any rate, he was anxious to hear her speak again. “And why did you think that?”

She shook her head. “I know not. The fever, I suppose. I began to think of you as my dark angel.”

“Perhaps I am.” His features remained solemn, with no hint of laughter in his voice. “My name is Keane. Keane O’Mara. Carrick House is my ancestral home.”

He offered his hand and she had no choice but to accept. Would she ever get used to touching again? “My name is Briana O’Neil.”

The moment was awkward and uncomfortable. As soon as their hands touched, they felt the rush of heat. At once they each pulled away.

“O’Neil? Where is your home?”

“Ballinarin.”

He arched a brow. “I know of it. You’re a long way from home.”

The mere thought of it had her aching for that dear place. “Aye.”

He heard the loneliness in that single word, spoken like a sigh. “Have you been gone a long time?”

“Three years.”

His glance fell on the cross, lying on the bed linen beside her hand.

Seeing the direction of his gaze, her fingers closed around it, finding comfort in something so familiar. “I’ve been at the Abbey of St. Claire.”

He nodded. “I know of it, as well. At least a day’s ride from here. What brought you to our village?”

“I was passing through.” She sighed, thinking of the eagerness with which she’d taken her leave of the convent. “We’d gone only a day’s ride when the soldiers attacked.”

“Who were the lads accompanying you?”

“Lads from our village. Sent by my family to escort me.” She looked away. “How odd, that I should be the one to live. They will never see their families again.”

He could hear the break in her voice and knew that she was close to tears. “I’ll see that a lad from the village is dispatched at once to your home with the news that you are alive and will be returned as soon as your health permits.”

“That’s most kind of you.”

He pushed back his chair and crossed to the side table. “My housekeeper sent up a tray. Could you manage a little broth?”

“Nay.” She shook her head.

“Nonsense.” Ignoring her protest, he filled a cup with broth and set it beside the bed. Then, without waiting for her permission, he reached down and lifted her to a sitting position, plumping pillows behind her.

He had thought, now that she had confirmed his suspicions that she was truly a nun, that the touch of her would no longer affect him. He’d been wrong. He couldn’t help but notice the thin, angular body beneath the prim nightshift. And the soft swell of breasts that were pressed against his chest, causing a rush of heat that left him shaken.

It had been a long time since he’d known such feelings. Feelings he’d buried, in the hope they would never surface again. Now that he was touching her, there was nothing to do but finish the task at hand. Then, hopefully, he could put some distance between himself and this woman.

For Briana it was even more disturbing. The mere touch of him had her nerves jumping. But it wasn’t this man, she told herself. It was the fact that she had been isolated for too long. Anyone’s touch would have had the same effect.

He picked up the cup. “Can you manage yourself? Or would you like some help?”

Her tone was sharper than she intended, to hide her discomfort. “I thank you, but I can feed myself.”

When she reached out to accept the cup, she was shocked to feel pain, hot and sharp, shooting along her arm. A cry escaped her lips before she could stop it.

“Careful.” His tone was deliberately soft, to soothe the nerves she couldn’t hide. “You sustained quite a wound in that shoulder. Another, more serious, in the chest. Had the blade found your heart, you would have never survived.”

Before she could reach out again, he sat on the edge of the bed and held the cup to her lips. It was an oddly intimate gesture that let him study her carefully as she sipped, swallowed. He could see her watching him from beneath lowered lashes.

To steady her nerves, and his own, he engaged her in conversation.

“Do you recall anything of the battle?”

“I see it constantly in my dreams. But when I’m awake it’s gone, like wisps of smoke caught by the wind.”

“Do you recall how many soldiers there were?”

She avoided his eyes. They were too dark, too intense. “I don’t recall.”

“It would have been a fearsome sight, especially for one who has been so sheltered.” He understood how the mind could reject such horrors.

She shivered. “What I do recall was the sight of so many helpless people cut down without a chance to defend themselves. There were but a few knives and swords among them.”

“The people are ill-prepared for English soldiers.” A fact he bitterly resented, for it had been his own father’s doing. Still, there was nothing to be done about it now. “But it would seem that you put up quite a fight.”

For the first time she smiled, and he realized how truly lovely those full, pouty lips were when they curved upward. “I didn’t always live in a convent. I know how to wield a sword with as much skill as my brothers. In fact, if I were still living at Ballinarin, I’d probably be able to best them by now.”

He tipped the cup to her lips again. “Then perhaps it’s fortunate that you went to live with the good sisters. I’m not sure Ireland is ready to be led into battle by a lass.”

“Spoken like a man.” His words reminded her of her father’s cruel, hateful words hurled in anger so long ago. She pushed his hand away, refusing any more broth.

He glanced down at the cup. “Have you had enough?”

“Aye. Thank you.” And enough of him, sitting too close, causing her heart to do all manner of strange things.

“How did you come by a weapon with which to defend yourself?”

“I pulled it from the heart of a lad who had died defending me.”

He studied her a moment, hearing not just the words, but the underlying fierceness in her tone. What an odd little female. He’d always thought nuns would be more concerned with peace than war.

He stood and returned the cup to the tray. But when he glanced at the figure in the bed, he could see her rubbing her shoulder. The look in her eyes told him she was struggling for composure. Aye, a most peculiar little creature who was trying desperately to be strong despite overwhelming odds.

“There’s an opiate here for pain. I think you ought to take it now.”

“Aye.” She nodded, and was grateful when he offered her the tumbler of liquid.

When she had drained it he set the empty tumbler aside and helped her to settle into a more comfortable position. It was shocking to feel his arms around her as he lifted her slightly, removing the pillows from behind her back. Then he swept aside the bed linens and laid her down, before returning the covers. As he smoothed them over her, his hands stilled their movements.

“You’re so thin. Didn’t they feed you in the convent?”

Her face flamed. “They fed us. Though no amount of food would be enough, considering the work we were expected to do.”

“Work?”

She had forgotten how to speak to others. After the silence of these last years, the art of conversation was new to her. She struggled to put her thoughts into words. “There were classes, of course. History, literature, biology. And the teachings of the Church fathers. But we also were expected to plant and harvest, and tend the flocks.”

“Like peasants?” His tone was one of amazement.

“Aye. Like the peasants we serve.” Her tone softened as she remembered the lecture by Mother Superior, delivered nightly in their common prayer. “Because much has been given us, much is expected. And though we are educated, we are expected to serve all God’s people. By punishing the body, we nourish the soul.”

He was so moved by her words, he caught both her hands in his. “I didn’t know there were such unselfish souls left in this world. Bless you.” He turned her hands palm up. Seeing the calluses, he muttered an oath and, without thinking, lifted them to his lips.

Dear heaven. What had possessed him? He hadn’t intended such a thing. And yet, seeing the ravages of such hard work on those small, delicate hands, he had reacted instinctively. Now there was nothing to do but cover his error with as much dignity as he could manage. Still, though he knew he had overstepped his bounds, he couldn’t seem to stop. He kept her small hands in his and pressed a second kiss, before lifting his head.

At the shocking feel of his mouth against her flesh Briana gasped and struggled to pull her hands away. But it was too late. The damage had been done. She could feel the heat. It danced along her flesh and seared the blood flowing through her veins before settling deep inside her. A heat that had her cheeks stained with color. Her eyes went wide with shock. And though no words came out, her mouth opened, then snapped shut.

She looked up to find him staring at her with a strange, almost haunted look in his eyes. Even as she watched, he blinked, and the look was gone.

Or had she only imagined it?

“I’ll leave you to your rest, Briana O’Neil.” He turned away abruptly and picked up the empty tumbler.

She watched as he set the tumbler on the tray. Then, knowing the blush was still on her cheeks, she rolled to her side, wishing she could pull the covers over her head and hide.

What had just happened between them? She wasn’t quite certain. Perhaps he had merely reacted to her work-worn hands. Or perhaps he was simply trying to soothe her, or honor her. Whatever his reason, he’d had no way of knowing how deeply she would be affected by that simple gesture.

Oh, how she wished she knew how to deal with these strange feelings that had her so agitated. But the isolation of the convent had magnified everything in her mind. All she knew was that the simple press of Keane O’Mara’s lips against her palm had started a fire in the pit of her stomach that was burning still.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, wishing she could shut out her feelings as easily. But they were there, fluttering like butterfly wings against her throat, her temple, her chest. She prayed the potion would soon have the desired effect. She wanted desperately to escape into blissful sleep.

In time her wish was granted.

There was no such escape for Keane. Throughout the long night he was forced to keep his vigil. He sat by the bedside and watched the steady rise and fall of the thin chest beneath the blankets as Briana slept, and wondered why a woman from the noble house of Ballinarin would give up a life of luxury to live like a peasant.

Whenever his gaze was drawn to those small callused hands, he would find himself pacing to the window, to stare moodily into the darkness. It was the only way to keep his gaze from being drawn to her mouth.

The strange desire to taste her lips, just once, had him muttering every hot, fierce oath he knew.

Chapter Four

“Good day, my lady.” Cora swept open the draperies, then paused beside the bed. “You have a bit of color in your cheeks. A good sign. Do you feel strong enough to leave your bed?”

“I’m not certain.” Briana touched her tongue to her dry lips. The days and nights had passed in a blur. But thanks to the opiates, and the prolonged rest, the deep, searing pain had eased. “I’m willing to try.” She sat up and waited until the dizziness left, then swung her feet to the floor. “How long have I been at Carrick House?”

“A fortnight, my lady.”

Could it really be two weeks? “How could I have slept so long?”

“Mistress Malloy said it is the opiates. And the fact that your poor body craved rest in order to heal.”

“Whatever the reason, I feel almost alive again.”

“The lord left orders that, as soon as you were able, we must prepare a bath. Do you think you’re strong enough for that?”

Briana’s smile bloomed. “For the offer of a bath, I’ll muster all the strength I have.”

Cora plumped pillows around her, then flew to the door. “I’ll just summon Mistress Malloy and some servants, and I’ll be right back.”

Briana barely had time to close her eyes and steady herself before Cora had returned, trailed by the housekeeper and a string of servants.

“Well now.” Mistress Malloy had plump apple cheeks and twinkling blue eyes. Her white hair was pulled back in a tight, neat bun at her nape. She stood with hands on her ample hips, studying the young woman who had occupied so much of the lord’s time and energy. “Cora says you’re feeling strong enough for a bath.”

“I think I can manage.”

“Good.” Mistress Malloy took charge, seeing that another log was added to the fire while the tub was filled with warm water, and soft linens were laid out on a chair.

“You’re not to attempt to stand alone, miss.” With the housekeeper on one side of her and Cora on the other, they supported Briana from her bed to the tub. With the servant’s help, Briana removed her nightshift and stepped into the water.

While Cora scrubbed her hair, Briana closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure. “Oh, it has been years since I’ve felt so pampered.”

“You do not bathe in the convent?” one of the servants asked.

Briana laughed. “We wash in a basin of cold water.” She shivered just remembering.

“Could you not heat the water over the fire?”

“There was no time. We had only minutes to wash before we had to hurry to chapel for morning prayers.”

“Did you cry when your hair was cut off?” Cora asked.

“Aye. I wept buckets of tears. But later, when I was doing penance for my display of false vanity, Mother Superior reminded me that it’s not what is outside a person that counts. It is what’s in one’s heart.”

“Well said.” Mistress Malloy nodded in agreement. She liked this lass. A refreshing change from most of the highborn women who thought themselves above the rest of the world. Of course, such humility was to be expected of a woman who’d promised her life in service to the Church.

“But your hair, my lady.” Cora poured warm scented water to rinse away the soap. Then she held up one short gleaming strand, while the others gathered around to study it. “It is the color of fire. It must have been lovely before it was shorn.”

“I always thought so. But it no longer matters.” Briana snuggled deeper into the warm water, loving the feeling of freedom. “I have not seen my reflection, nor cared to, in three years now.”

The servants exchanged looks before one of them said, “But my lady, you are truly beautiful. Even with your hair shorn.”

“Beautiful? Now I know you jest. For Cora told me that even the old man who found me thought I was a lad.”

“Because you were covered with mud and blood, my lady. Now that we can see you, you truly are pleasing to the eye.”

Briana waved a hand in dismissal. “It matters not. What matters is that I am alive. And so enjoying all your tender ministrations.” She found herself laughing, and loving the sound. “It has been so long now since I’ve felt this joyful. But it is the knowledge that I am free. Truly free.”

“Free? What do you mean, my lady?” Cora asked.

“I am free of the confining rules and restrictions of the convent.”

“You are not going back?”

“Nay. I was heading home when we were attacked. And now, for the first time, I realize just how much I have survived, thanks to Lord Alcott. Not only the attack by the English soldiers, but the last threat to my freedom. You see, as soon as I am strong enough, I will be returning home, to my beloved Ballinarin.”

“You’re certain she said she is not a nun?” Vinson stood in the shadows of the hallway, his voice low.

“That is what she just told us.” The housekeeper’s eyes were shining. “You saw how obsessed he was with her. She could be the answer to our prayers.”

The old man shrugged. “Maybe. But you say she is eager to return to her home.”

“Aye. But she is far too weak to attempt the journey yet. It could be weeks, months even, before she could endure it.” Mistress Malloy lowered her voice. “She seems a lovely, simple lass. I see no harm in throwing them together and seeing what transpires.”

“This is a dangerous game we play with other people’s lives.”

“Aye. But there’s so little time. You said yourself he plans to leave. And he is our last, our only hope.”

Vinson stared off into space, mulling it over. Then he nodded. “Leave it to me. I’ll think of a way.”

“My lord.”

Keane looked up from the ledgers and was surprised to see the evening shadows outside the window. Where had the day gone?

“Aye, Vinson.”

“The lass felt strong enough to bathe.”

Keane nodded. “A good sign.”

“Aye, my lord. Very soon now, she will be well enough to leave.”

“So it would seem.” He had won the battle. The patient was not only alive, but growing stronger with each day. He took a certain amount of pleasure in the knowledge that he had played a small part in her survival. There’d been so little in his life to be proud of.

Vinson cleared his throat.

Keane tensed, waiting for the old man to say what was on his mind. He was eager to return his attention to the ledgers.

“I thought, since the lass is strong enough to bathe, you might wish to invite her to sup with you.”

Keane frowned. “I’m certain she’d prefer to eat in her chambers.”

“She has not left her room in a fortnight, my lord. The change might do her good.”

Keane pushed away from the desk and strode to the window. His voice lowered. “I think the lass dislikes being in my company.”

“Why do you think that, my lord?”

“Whenever I am near her, she watches me the way prey might watch a hunter.”

“You can hardly blame her. She was, after all, nearly killed here on your land.”

Keane’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not her enemy. If she doesn’t know that now, after all I’ve done to save her, she never will.”

“It could be because of the horror of what she suffered, my lord.”

Keane nodded. “There is that, of course.”

“Or she could be shy, my lord. She is, after all, a lass educated in the convent.”

“Aye.”

The old servant decided to poke and prod a bit more. “You might find it pleasant to have someone with whom you could talk about the books you’ve read, the places you’ve been. She might prove to be an interesting companion, something in short supply here in Carrick.”

Keane stared out the window, seeing nothing. Neither the green rolling hills, nor the flocks undulating across the valley, nor the way the sunset turned the cross atop the chapel to blood. All he saw was the emptiness, stretching out before him. Endless emptiness.

“She has nothing to wear. I doubt she would sup with me wearing a borrowed nightshift.”

Vinson smiled. He’d anticipated the problem. “There are your mother’s trunks. Mistress Malloy could no doubt find something that would fit the lass.”

Keane turned and met the old man’s look. “You’ve put a good deal of thought into this, haven’t you, Vinson?”

“Aye, my lord.” The old man remained ramrod straight. Not a hint of a smile touched his lips. “The lass needs a chance to properly thank her benefactor.”

Keane gave the slightest nod of his head. “All right. Invite her to sup with me. And tell Mistress Malloy to rifle through the trunks for something appropriate.” As the old man turned away he added, “Suggest that she find something modest. We wouldn’t want to scandalize such an innocent.”

“Aye, my lord.”

When the door closed behind the servant, Keane glanced at the portrait of his father staring down from the mantel, and beneath it, a set of crossed ancestral swords. The two symbols he most detested. Bloodline and misuse of power. Life and death.

He could still hear his father’s harsh tone, lecturing him on his weaknesses. “The man who puts the love of God, country or woman ahead of gold is a fool. For, in the end, gold is all that matters.”

He’d rebelled, determined to prove his father wrong. He’d have the rest of his life to regret it.

To occupy his mind, he returned to his ledgers. But as he bent over the page, he found himself thinking about the lass’s strange voice. And the way her lips looked whenever she smiled. Odd. He hadn’t felt this quickening of his heartbeat for a very long time. But it wasn’t the lass that caused it. It was merely loneliness. He’d kept himself locked away with his ledgers too long now. But they were all he had now, since he’d become a stranger in the land of his birth.

“This will do nicely, Cora.” The housekeeper held up a gown of pale lemon, which she had retrieved from the trunk in the tower room. Though it appeared to be far too big, it was the only one she’d found with a modest neckline. “Can you make it fit the lass?”

“I’ll do my best, Mistress Malloy.” Cora signalled for Briana to stand. Then she slid the gown over her head and began plying needle and thread, nipping and tucking, until the fabric began to mold to the shape of the slender body.

“Oh, my lady, this is lovely on you.” Cora tied the waist with a lace sash, then, because there were no boots to fit, added satin bed slippers.

“Now, if you’ll sit, I’ll do what I can with your hair.”

Briana did as she was told, closing her eyes as the little servant dressed her hair.

“Are you feeling weak, my lady?”

“Nay.” Briana gave a dreamy smile. “It’s just that these past hours have been so luxurious, I’m beginning to feel whole again.”

Cora stood back, admiring her handiwork. “Now if you’ll just step over here, my lady, you can see what I’m seeing.”

Leaning on Cora’s arm, Briana walked to the tall looking glass and stared in amazement.

“Oh, my.” She lifted a hand to her mouth. Words failed her.

Seeing her reaction, Cora smiled. “Then you are not unhappy with what you see?”

“I’m…speechless.”

Gone was the girl she had once been. In her place was a woman. A stranger.

It was the gown, she told herself. A pale lemon confection with a high, tight circlet of lace at the throat and wrists, and a full skirt, gathered here and there with lace inserts. With a critical eye she studied the slender body revealed in the gown. She hoped she wouldn’t appear frail. In her whole life she had never thought of herself as anything but robust.

And then there was the hair. Or rather, the lack of it. The last time she had looked at her reflection in a looking glass, she’d had thick, fiery tresses that fell to below her waist. Now it was no more than a few inches long, a tumble of curls framing a face bronzed by the sun.

Oh, what had happened to her fair skin? It was not only tawny, it was freckled. Dozens of them. Hundreds, perhaps, parading across her nose, down her arms. And to think she had once protected her fair skin beneath bonnets and parasols.

“Come, miss.” The housekeeper’s voice broke the silence. “Vinson is here to escort you to sup.”

She turned and saw the old man’s look of approval before he lowered his gaze. When she accepted his arm, she was grateful that he matched his steps to her halting ones.

“I see Mistress Malloy found a gown that suits you, miss.”

“Do you think it does, Vinson?”

“Aye, miss. And Cora worked her magic to make it fit.”

“I’ve…” She swallowed. “…lost a bit of weight.”

He patted her hand and slowed his steps.

As they made their way along the hall, she stared at the ancient tapestries that depicted the history of the O’Mara lineage.

“I see from the number of swords and battles that Lord Alcott comes from a family of warriors.”

“Aye, miss. Do you disapprove?”

She shook her head. “My family can trace its roots to King Brian, whose sons were baptized by St. Patrick himself. And we are, proudly, warriors all.”

She missed the old man’s smile of approval as he whispered, “I must share a secret, lass. Lord Alcott disdains his title. He prefers to be known as merely Keane O’Mara.”

“Thank you, Vinson. I’ll keep that in mind.”

The old man paused, knocked, then drew open the doors to the library.

“My lord. The lass is here.”

“Thank you, Vinson.” Keane set aside his ledgers and shoved back his chair. He’d been trying, without success, to keep his mind on the figures in neat columns. But it had been an impossible task.

Briana, leaning on Vinson’s arm, walked slowly into the room.

Keane knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help himself. He hoped his jaw hadn’t dropped. Quickly composing himself, he called to Vinson, “Draw that chaise close to the fire for the lass.”

“Aye, my lord.”

The old man hurried forward to do his master’s bidding, while Keane led Briana across the room. The minute he touched her he felt the heat and blamed it on the blaze on the hearth. He shouldn’t have had the servants add another log. It was uncomfortably warm in here.

When she was settled, he asked, “Would you have some wine?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse, feeling that such a luxury should be saved for important guests. Then, recalling the festive meals at Ballinarin, she relaxed. Before the convent, it had been an accepted custom. It was time she adapted to life outside the convent walls. “Aye. I will.”

Keane turned to his butler. “We’ll both have wine, Vinson.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Minutes later the old man offered a tray with two goblets. That done, he discreetly took his leave.

“Well.” Keane lifted his goblet. “I need to know what to call you.”

“I thought I’d told you. My name is Briana.”

“Aye. You did. But I thought…” He sipped. Swallowed. “I thought perhaps you would want me to call you sister.”

“Sister?”

“You said you spent the last three years in the Abbey of St. Claire.”

“I did.” She swallowed back her surprise. Was that why he had kissed her hand? Out of respect? “But only as a student. I took no vows.”

“I see.” He took another sip of wine and thought it tasted somehow sweeter. “So, you’re not a nun.”

“Nay.” Was that disappointment that deepened his voice? She couldn’t tell.

Keane relaxed. Not that it mattered to him whether or not the lass was a nun. All he wanted was a pleasant evening of conversation with a reasonably intelligent human being.

“Tell me a little about your family.”

“With pleasure. But only if you agree to tell me about yours, as well.”

“Aye.” He forced himself not to frown as he glanced at the portrait above the mantel. That was his usual reaction whenever he thought about his family. He shook off his dark thoughts and concentrated on the lass.

“My father is Gavin O’Neil, lord of Ballinarin.”

“Aye.” His frown was back. “I know of him. All of Ireland knows of him. And your mother?”

“My mother, Moira, is a great beauty.”

“I see where you inherited your looks.”

She blushed, feeling suddenly self-conscious. She had no way of knowing if he was merely making polite conversation, or if he meant to pay her a compliment.

Needing to fill the silence, she said, “I also have two brothers, Rory and Conor. And their wives, AnnaClaire and Emma. And Innis, who is like a brother to me, though he was orphaned when his entire family was killed at the hands of the English. He lives now with Rory and AnnaClaire.” Her eyes lit with pleasure at the thought of those beloved faces. “And there is Friar Malone, who has lived at Ballinarin since before I was born, and who is like an uncle to me.”

She took a deep breath. It was the most she had said in years.

Suddenly, spreading her arms wide she gave a husky laugh. “Oh, it feels so strange and so good to be able to talk without asking permission.”

The sound of her laughter skimmed over him, causing the strangest sensation. “It would be a pity to stifle a voice as unique as yours, Briana O’Neil.”

“Unique?”

“Aye.” Instead of explaining, he said simply, “I like listening to you. Tell me more about your family and your home.”

“Ballinarin is wild. And so beautiful. In all of Ireland, there is nothing to compare with it. We live always in the shadow of towering Croagh Patrick, with its wonderful waterfall that cascades to the lake below. There are fields of green as far as the eye can see. And rolling meadows, where I used to ride, wild and free with my brothers.”

Keane refilled her goblet, then his own, before settling himself on the chaise beside her. Their knees brushed, and Briana’s voice faltered for a moment. “It was…the loveliest life a girl could ever have.”

“Why did you choose a convent so far away?” He found himself studying the way the soft fabric revealed the outline of her thighs, her hips, her breasts.

“I didn’t choose. It was chosen for me.”

He heard the change in her tone and realized he’d struck a nerve. “And you have not seen your home in more than three years?”

“Aye. There were times when I thought I’d die from the loneliness.” She looked over at him. “I suppose that sounds silly.”

“Not at all.” He stared down into the amber liquid in his glass. “I know the feeling well.”

“Have you ever been forced to leave Carrick House?”

He nodded. “For most of my life I’ve been away.”

“By choice? Or were you forced by circumstances?”

She saw a look come into his eyes. “Like you, my education abroad was chosen for me.”

“And then you returned?”

“Not immediately.”

She smiled. “But you’re home now.”

“Aye.” He didn’t return the smile. He had gone somewhere in his mind. A place, Briana realized, that wasn’t pleasing to him.

They both seemed relieved when Vinson knocked, then entered to announce, “My lord, dinner is ready. Mistress Malloy wishes to know if you will take your meal in the great hall or here in the library.”

He had intended a simple meal here in the library, so that the lass wouldn’t be drained by a longer walk. But now, glancing at the portrait over the mantel, he realized he wanted a change of scenery. He wanted, needed, to put some distance between himself and his past.

“Tell Mistress Malloy we’ll sup in the great hall.”

“Aye, my lord.”

The old man took his leave, and Keane stood and offered his arm. “Come, my lady. It’s time you saw more of Carrick House.”

It was, he realized, his first opportunity to show off his home to a guest

Chapter Five

“You’ll let me know when you grow weary, Briana.” Keane deliberately kept his strides easy, the pace slow so as not to tire her.

“I will, aye.” She was grateful for the strong arm to lean on. “This weakness is most distressing.”

“It will soon pass, and you’ll be as you were before.”

She looked up at him with an impish smile. “Do I have your word on that?”

His own features remained impassive. “You do.” He thought about touching that cap of curls and resisted the impulse. “Now tell me how you were before.”

“Before the attack? Or before the convent?”

“Why don’t we begin with your life before the attack.”

“Before the attack I had learned, at great cost, how to keep my head bowed in chapel, how to keep my thoughts to myself, and how to bear the unbearable.”

Though she kept her tone light, he could detect the underlying sadness. “What was this great cost?”

“Penance. It seemed I was always on my knees. If not in chapel, then scrubbing the cold stone floors of the refectory. And when I was allowed to stand, it was to harvest a crop or to fork dung from the barns and stables.”

He couldn’t hide his surprise. “You did all that?”

“Aye. But only after my classes and chores were completed to the liking of Mother Superior.”

“I’d say you were far from weak, if you did all that and survived.”

“I survived all that, and more.”

He knew, by the finality of her tone, that she had no intention of listing all that she’d been through. His admiration for her was growing by the minute.

“Now I would like to hear about your life before the convent.”

She smiled. “That would take hours.”

He paused at the threshold to the great hall. “We have all evening.”

As he led her to the table, the butler, the housekeeper and their army of servants stood to one side, awaiting his command.

Keane helped Briana to her chair, then took his place at the head of the table.

Briana surveyed the table, with its gleaming silver and crystal and the masses of candles that flickered and glowed. “Oh, Mistress Malloy, this is indeed lovely.”

The housekeeper nearly burst with pride. “Thank you, miss. We do our best to please.”

“I haven’t seen anything this grand in years.” Briana turned to Keane. “Isn’t it wonderful knowing this awaits you each night?”

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