My Cherished Enemy

He stared down into eyes as green as the hills of Wales, misty-bright and suspiciously moist. For an instant, it was as if he reached clear inside her, all the way into her heart. . .

His own stopped beating, then resumed with thick uneven strokes.

His expression was taut. 'Tell me, Kathryn. Tell me what you feel. .. and why you must hide it."

Tears brimmed anew. "Because it's been you all along! You accuse me of dallying with another, when there has been none but you . .. All along it has been you," she cried wildly. Her voice caught painfully, thick with tears both shed and unshed, the words a desperation of the soul. "I did not want to, but I.. . oh, God! Don't you know that I love you—"

From without came a thunderous pounding on the chamber door. "Milord!" someone shouted.

Guy swore hotly, torn between the trembling woman in his arms and the man at the door. He was sorely tempted to ignore him but the pounding came again.

"Milord! I must speak with you on a matter most urgent!"

Guy spun about, muttering under his breath as he wrenched open the door. Sir Edward and two other knights stood in the hall. Sir Edward stepped forward. "Milord, we've just received a message that Ramsay Keep is under attack!"

"Under attack!" Guy's gaze encompassed the three. "Who are these raiders? Whose pennon do they carry?"

Sir Edward shook his head. "We do not know," he said. "The messenger says he fled under cover of darkness when the siege first began, and thus did not see them." He paused. "Your men-at-arms even now ready themselves in the stable. Will you ride with them, milord?"

Guy's nod was terse. He bitterly cursed the fates for such an untimely intervention. He had no desire to leave his wife's side... now or ever again. "Have my destrier saddled," he told Sir Edward. "I'll be there shortly."

The three hurried away. Guy turned to Kathryn, who hovered just a pace behind him. "I have no choice but to go with them," he said grimly.

"I know." A horrible ache gripped her heart, but she masked it with a tremulous smile.

Hands at her waist, he caught her to him almost roughly. "I'll be back as soon as I can, Kathryn. I swear it." There was barely time to nod her assent before his mouth crushed hers. His kiss was fervent and consuming, passionate and tender. Her arms twined about his neck. She clung to him helplessly, wishing desperately that it could go on and on forever, that never again would he have to leave her.

But it was over far too soon. . . and then he was gone.

Moments later she watched him thunder through the gates along with his troops; it was then that an eerie tingle sneaked its way up her spine. She felt suddenly cold as death, despite the cozy warmth of the fire. Try as she might, she could not banish the terrifying sensation that something awful was about to happen...

In that, she was right.

Chapter 21

Try as she might, Kathryn could not dispel the notion that something was wrong. Though she sought to reassure herself that all was well, that Guy would soon return home safe and unharmed, the feeling of apprehension remained. She retired to the solar to feed Brenna, while Peter played at her feet. Scarcely an hour had passed since Guy's departure than Kathryn heard the watchman shout—the thunder of hooves followed. She rose and eased Brenna into the cradle, then peered toward the bailey. A groom was leading a dark stallion she didn't recognize into the stable. The rider had already disappeared.

A moment later there was a knock on the door. Gerda opened it and peered within. "Milady, you have a visitor."

Roderick stepped around the girl and across the threshold. Kathryn inhaled sharply, stunned at his appearance. "Roderick! Guy told me you'd gone on to Warwickshire."

Gerda had already quietly withdrawn. A smile twisting his full lips, Roderick raised his brows. "I must speak with you, Kathryn." He glanced at Peter. "Alone," he added pointedly.

Kathryn hesitated. His stance was almost arrogant, his manner overbearing. She paused, then lifted Peter to his feet. "Peter, love, can you be a good lad and go find Gerda?" His lower lip trembled. Clearly he was clearly unhappy. Kathryn smiled and tweaked his cheek. "The two of you can ask Cook for one of those fruited honey cakes you liked so well last eve." The boy's face brightened. Kathryn gave him a quick kiss on the forehead and he ran off.

The heavy door closed for the second time. Slowly Kathryn straightened. She did not like the way Roderick eyed her. His regard was avid and bold.

She wet her lips nervously. "I must confess I am surprised you have returned. Why do you not join your men in Warwickshire?"

He shook his head. "I've changed my mind. Instead I return to Ashbury."

His smile sent a prickle of unease winging down the back of her neck. She wished fervently that Gerda had remained, for she had no desire to "be alone with Roderick.

She started toward the door. "I'll have someone prepare food and drink," she said stiffly, "but then you must be on your way."

Ruthless fingers dug into the flesh of her arm. He whirled her around so abruptly that she fell against him. But he did not release her—nay, his arms encircled her. He clamped her tight against his chest, his expression rife with triumph as one hand trespassed over the roundness of her buttocks.

"Roderick!" Kathryn screamed her outrage and slammed her fists against his chest. "I am a married woman! I demand that you cease handling me in this manner and release me at once!"

Unmoved by her struggles, he threw back his tawny head and laughed. "Ah, love, that's rich, for you will be a widow this very day!" A strange light seemed to burn in his eyes. "But fear not, Kathryn. I promise I'll not let you remain a widow for long. We'll be wed as soon as I can arrange it."

Kathryn's heart froze. Her hands became as still as her mind. She stared at him blankly. A vague assumption uncurled in her brain. She tried to thrust it away, for it was too horrible to even consider, but there was no help for it.

"What have you done, damn you? Where is Guy?"

His laugh sent a prickle of warning rippling over her skin. "Even now he rides toward death, Kathryn."

Her mouth had gone dry. "Nay!" she cried. "He rides to Ramsay Keep!"

"Ah, but he'll not reach it! He will be attacked most unexpectedly, Kathryn. He and his men will not expect it so soon and so they will be at their most vulnerable. He was lucky the other day in the forest, you see. But this time my men will make certain he does not survive."

A jolt of raw pain ripped through her; her breath came jerkily. "It's a trap—you tricked him!"

"Aye, and so easy it was, too! He did not even suspect that the messenger was one of my own!" Roderick laughed in evil delight.

Guy... dead. Dead. Nay! Her heart cried out the injustice, even while fury flooded her veins.

She went wild, wrenching from Roderick's hold, pummeling his chest and clawing him. Roderick cursed lewdly when her nails found their mark, tearing into the flesh of his cheek. He shoved her back against the wall with a force that slammed the breath from her lungs.

Huddled against the wall, she struggled for breath, all the while staring at Roderick furiously, hating him with her glare, damning him with all her soul.

"Why?" she cried bitterly. "Why should you seek to kill him? You have nothing to gain from Guy's death."

"But you do, my love." His eyes gleamed when dawning realization widened her own. "Ah, yes, I see you take my meaning. As Guy's widow, you are entitled to one-third of his estates. You'll be one of the wealthiest widows in all of England. And it will all be mine once we are wed!"

"How? Peter is his son!"

An ugly smile dallied about his mouth.

"You are mad if you think I will wed my husband's murderer!"

A tawny brow rose high. "You were not so angry when I disposed of your uncle."

Her blood ran cold. The world seemed to blacken and tilt. "Dear God," she said faintly. "It was you—you murdered Uncle!" She shook her head dazedly. This was too much to take in. "I do not understand... Guy had already taken possession of Ashbury . .. why would you kill Richard instead?"

"Because I'd not take the chance Richard would interfere later." His expression had turned ugly. "You see, Kathryn, Guy would have been the next to die. With Richard and Guy out of the way, Ashbury would have been mine .. . ours! But Guy left before I could execute my plan—and he took you with him. I must admit, for a time I thought there was little hope. I could have gladly killed the bastard when he married you and granted Ashbury's title to Sir Hugh!" The searing hatred in his eyes frightened her, as did the slow smile he gave her. "But as you can see, it's all turned out so much better than I ever dreamed, for now I'll have so much more than just Ashbury."

Kathryn pressed her back against the wall. "The night you came here—" She had to force her lips to do her bidding. "—you and your men were not attacked by cutthroats, were you? Your wound was naught but a ploy."

"I had to gain entrance to Sedgewick somehow. And I could hardly be certain of a hearty welcome by de Marche." His laughter taunted her cruelly. "So little pain," he whispered, "for so much gain."

She tilted her head, fiercely defiant. "And I say again, I'll never marry you, Roderick."

He shrugged. "You loved me once. You'll love me again."

"I never loved you, Roderick. Never! I merely sought to use you to gain Ashbury, even as you now seek to use me to gain Guy's lands!"

'Then we are a well-matched pair, are we not?" His look hardened. He crossed to her. "Pack what you need for yourself and your babe. We leave for Ashbury at once, for I dare not be found here lest someone connect me with the earl's slaying. If you are on your way to Ashbury with me when word of his death is received, no one will ever suspect me."

Her dainty chin tipped high. "I'll go nowhere with you," she said clearly. "Not now, nor ever."

His fingers bit into the soft flesh of her arm so brutally she bit back a gasp of pain. Roderick towered over her, his expression tight, his hp curled into a snarl. Menace raged across his features and for an instant Kathryn feared he would strike her. She braced herself, but the dreaded blow was never to fall.

He dropped her arm and spun around. Before she knew what he was about, he had snatched Brenna from her cradle. "Were I you, Kathryn, I'd reconsider." The softness of his voice belied the savage intent on his face. He lowered his gaze. His bland smile sent chills the length of her. "Your daughter is so tiny and fragile, my love. 'Twould be so easy to snap her neck, so easy to crush the breath from her in but an instant."

Kathryn stared at him in stricken horror. Would he truly rob an innocent child of life? His features bore a look of shuttered indifference. Before her was a cold and ruthless killer. She shuddered, no longer doubting that Roderick would do exactly as he said. She had no choice, she realized—no choice but to do as he demanded.

She turned and stuffed clothing into a bundle, scarcely aware of what she was doing. A curtain of numbness descended over her when they descended into the great hall. Roderick refused to relinquish Brenna. The infant slept on in his arms, unaware of the turmoil all around her.

Gerda was just coming in from the kitchens. She stopped short, her smooth brow knit in puzzlement as she spied the bundle of clothing Kathryn carried.

"My lady," the girl said with concern, "surely you are not leaving!"

Roderick's voice rang out over Kathryn's head. "Aye, but she is," he said coolly. "It has been a long time since your lady has seen her sister. She has decided to return with me to Ashbury."

Kathryn could feel Gerda looking at her. She opened her mouth, seeking desperately to convey some sign of her plight that Roderick would overlook. Alas, his grip tightened to a point just short of pain. Her heart beat with pounding fury, yet she dared not say a word.

""But my lady—" she was wringing her hands. "—what am I to tell the earl when he returns?"

It was Roderick who answered, a smile dallying about his lips. "You may tell the earl he need not worry. I will guard his lady's safety as well as my own."

Kathryn's gaze swung sharply to his. Oh, how she longed to smack the insolent smirk from his handsome face! But already he was ushering her from the hall. Outside the stable, Esmerelda and Roderick's horse were saddled and waiting. A groom assisted her in mounting. Kathryn's lips compressed and she turned to Roderick, holding out her arms for Brenna. For a moment she feared he would refuse. At last he laid the babe in her arms, but his eyes stabbed into hers. Kathryn did not delude herself—he was warning her not to raise the alarm.

The afternoon sun glittered brilliant and golden as they left Sedgewick behind them, but fear enveloped Kathryn's heart like a shroud. Where was Guy now? Did he yet live? Or had the steely tip of some warrior's sword wrenched from him his last gasping breath of life?

Nay! a voice inside her cried. He yet lives, for she could not bear to think otherwise. She clung to that meager hope, and it was that alone which kept her from plummeting to the depths of despair.

Wordlessly she began to pray for Guy's safety, for the safety of their child... She prayed as never before.

"Hold!" Guy flung up his arm and reined his destrier to an abrupt stop. Behind him, the crashing thunder of hooves dwindled as the long column of men and horses behind him came to a standstill.

Sir Michael trotted his horse forward, casting a wary eye beyond his lord toward the encroaching woodland. "Milord?" he queried, drawing up beside Guy. "What is amiss that we halt so soon?"

For a moment Guy said nothing. He could not explain the nagging restlessness within him. He knew only that it grew apace with every step that took him further from Sedgewick... and Kathryn.

"I cannot say for certain," Guy said uneasily, "but I am unable to rid myself of the feeling that something is not right."

"How so, milord?"

Something Roderick had said earlier tolled through Guy's mind. I value my life. . . as you should value yours. Only now did he perceive it for the threat it may have well been. . .

"Roderick left only this morning," he told Michael. "In but a matter of hours we received a message that Ramsay Keep is under siege. I know that is the way of raiders, to attack with the element of surprise in their favor. Yet now that I think on it, it seems almost a little too. . . convenient."

Sir Michael rubbed his chin, his expression now as troubled as his lord's. "You think this summons was meant to lure you away from Sedgewick?"

Only now did Guy fervently wish he'd left more troops in place at Sedgewick. The thought of Kathryn alone there with only a skeleton force to defend her kindled a tingling of unease deep in his gut.

"I do not know," he said grimly. "But I mean to find out."

"You will return to Sedgewick, milord?"

"Aye. And Michael, I wish for you to escort these men the rest of the way to Ramsay Keep. If all is well there, we have lost nothing. If not, my troops are in your hands to lead in battle as you see fit. Guard yourself well against a trap, my friend."

Michael drew himself up very straight. He was aware of the responsibility Guy had placed on his shoulders. False alarm or no, Guy was not a man to entrust another with so great a task. He felt oddly humbled, knowing the earl trusted him as he had trusted few others. "I'll not fail you, milord," he promised.

Guy left a billowing cloud of dust in his wake.

It was his most fervent prayer that when at last he arrived back at Sedgewick, all would be as before. Kathryn would be presiding over the evening meal in his absence, or mayhap tending to Brenna in their chamber. He pictured the tender scene that might greet him—Kathryn enthralled and smiling at the babe, while Brenna supped at her mother's breast, kneading the ivory fullness with a tiny fist.

But he found the great hall at Sedgewick nearly deserted. Guy strode toward the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Nor was Kathryn in her chamber—their chamber. He advanced within, idly picking up the gauzy folds of a wimple and bringing it to his lips, inhaling deeply. The scent of Kathryn's hair still clung to it, flowery and sweet and fragrant. He imagined he could feel it flowing through his fingers, thick and lustrous and silky... Where was she? A flicker of disquiet took root inside him, for it was then that he noted Brenna did not sleep peacefully in her cradle either. Indeed, it was quiet as a tomb.

He whirled, a slight rustle at the door catching his attention. Gerda stood there, her hands gathered tightly at her waist. Guy's eyes narrowed, for he did not imagine her wide-eyed dismay.

"Where is my wife?"

Gerda hesitated. The leap of fear in her eyes gave her away; Guy knew then the answer to his question. There was a sharp, dagger-like twinge in his chest that he refused to acknowledge as pain. A stab of anger pierced through the hurt, and then a violent rage erupted inside him. The delicate material of her wimple rent in two beneath the pressure of his powerful hands. He flung it aside and turned to Gerda.

"By all the saints!" he ground out furiously. "She's gone, isn't she? And taken Brenna along with her!"

Gerda opened her mouth but he gave her no chance to speak.

"I suppose I need not ask if she's gone to Ashbury!"

Gerda winced, for his anger was a terrible sight to behold. "Milord," she began shakily, "not long after you and your troops departed, Roderick returned here alone—"

"Roderick, that bloody bastard! She left with him?" When Gerda nodded miserably, he swore vilely from between clenched teeth. He would have spun and stalked from the room but Gerda latched onto his arm.

"Milord!" she cried. "Will you not go after her?"

"Aye!" he thundered, while Gerda quailed beneath a glare of fearsome intensity. "I'll have my daughter back but I'll be damned if I'll take her mother. I do not know if it's Roderick she wants or Ashbury—but either way she has made her choice for the last time, and by God, she shall live with it!"

Gerda began to weep. "But it is not what you think, milord! Aye, she left for Ashbury because of Sir Roderick, but I cannot believe she left willingly! Oh, milord, she cares naught for Roderick. This I know with all my heart and—and you should, too!"

Gerda could not have known the pain she wrought, for within Guy's breast a fierce and tumultuous battle was being waged. He shut his eyes, feeling as if he were being ripped apart inside. How, he wondered bitterly, with his heart so full of pain and distrust, could he still love Kathryn?

Fool! taunted a voice inside. Was it any wonder that she harbored no tenderness toward him? He had wrested her away from all she held dear. He had toyed with her, stolen her innocence and taken her to him, heedless of her wishes. He had not cherished her tenderly, as a wife deserved to be cherished and adored. Instead, he was ever suspicious, ever wary. There had been so much bitterness between them, so much distrust, he thought bleakly... Everything within him cried out in anguish. Mother of Christ! Did his own wife truly wish him dead?

Gerda tugged frantically on his arm. "Oh, milord, you judge her too harshly and far too quickly! God forgive me for speaking so to you, but how can you not see all that you are to her? She would never willingly seek another man. Not Roderick or any other!"

His eyes opened. He stared at her mutely. In the far reaches of his mind he recalled how Kathryn, too, had accused him of being blind. Her image danced before him, her eyes huge and pleading, silently beseeching, all that she felt nakedly exposed. And again he heard her desperate cry.

Oh, God... Don't you know that I love you!

He despised the voice inside that reminded him she had deceived him before. Still another refuted it. But his heart remembered. His heart knew... Kathryn was strong and fiery, so rebellious and mutinous. She would curse and battle him to the ends of the earth before she would ever yield or surrender. And never—never!—would she swear love so lightly. A fierce exultation shot through him. Suddenly, despite his doubts and fears, Guy was very very certain he would have known had she lied—

She loved him. She loved him.

Gerda wept openly. "Oh, please, you must go after her and bring her and the babe home again, for I say again, milord, something was not right! She said nary a word before they left. She was pale and subdued and... oh, it was almost as if she were afraid. And she is never afraid, milord, never!"

No, Guy thought slowly. Or if she were, she was not one to show it.

All at once he went pale as linen. Was it true then? Had Roderick coerced Kathryn into leaving with him? For all that she was fierce and defiant, she did not possess the physical strength of a man.

In that moment, Guy knew fear as he'd never known fear before.

He spoke quickly. "How long ago did they leave, Gerda?"

"Several hours ago. If you hurry, milord, mayhap you can catch them before nightfall." Gerda choked back a sob, her voice frantic. "Oh, I will never forgive myself if anything happens to them! I wanted to send someone after them but I feared what Sir Roderick might do if he realized he was being followed!"

"You did the right thing, Gerda." He patted her shoulder awkwardly, then strode down the hallway, his mind racing. Roderick was several hours ahead of him. But he could hardly set a breakneck pace for Ashbury. Having Brenna along, he thought, would slow Roderick's speed considerably .. .

His bellow for his destrier shook the rafters.

No sound could have been more dear to Gerda's ears.

Roderick was in no particular hurry; he was convinced the time for haste had passed. Indeed, he was feeling immensely proud of himself. By now his plans had been launched and executed. The trap had been well and truly sprung! His men would not fail him. They did not dare for fear of forfeiting their own lives. The Earl of Sedgewick could not have survived the fray.

His enemy was dead and no longer posed a threat.

So it was that when Kathryn pleaded to stop for the night he did not argue. He led them to a sheltered clearing behind a bluff which shielded them from the night breeze. Roderick dismounted and reached for her. Kathryn stiffened and suffered his touch while he lifted her down, but the instant her slippers touched the ground she jerked away.

Roderick laughed, a sound that set her teeth on edge. "You'll come to me soon enough, I vow."

She gritted her teeth and presented him with her back, marching toward a tall oak tree. She lowered herself to the damp earth and settled herself against the rough bark to watch while Roderick built a fire and set out a meal of bread and cheese. Though she had no stomach for it, she forced herself to eat and drink, knowing she would need her strength. Her arms ached from holding Brenna for so long but she'd not give her babe over to Roderick no matter what! She had barely finished her crust of bread than Brenna began to squirm and cry fretfully. Kathryn tried to soothe her but it was no use.

Roderick's lips pulled over his teeth in a nasty smile. "What ails her, milady?"

Kathryn's lips tightened—as if he did not know! "She's hungry!" she snapped.

He leered openly, refusing to grant her the privacy he knew she craved. Brenna's cries had turned to screams which reached an ear-shattering pitch. Directing a scathing glance at Roderick, Kathryn turned aside and fumbled with her kirtle. Brenna's wails ceased abruptly as she latched onto her mother's nipple. The babe was bundled well to guard against the cold. Kathryn tugged on a corner of a woolen blanket in an effort to shield herself, but even then she felt invaded by Roderick's hated regard.

Her hand cradled the soft dark fuzz that covered Brenna's head. A painful tightness crept around her chest, threatening to choke her. Guy, she thought piercingly. Did he yet live? Or did he lay sprawled upon the damp, bare earth, his heart still and silent? She inhaled sharply, for the thought pained her. She could not bear to think him dead and so she must believe that he still lived.

She raged inwardly, torn between helpless despair and a bittersweet hope. She loved him, but she knew not if he had believed her! Oh, if only she had told him days ago—weeks ago! What would happen when he returned to Sedgewick and discovered her gone? She trembled to think of it. What if he were convinced she had deserted him? What if he were convinced that she had gone willingly with Roderick? He would hate her—despise her as never before. Mayhap he would not even come after her.

Yet all that mattered was that he be spared. A silent litany poured through her, over and over, as she beseeched and pleaded with her maker. She would gladly forfeit her own life—if only Guy was alive, if only he could somehow escape Roderick's treachery.

Darkness fell while she nursed Brenna, and with it an air of impending doom. Roderick drank freely from a skin of ale. Kathryn watched uneasily, dreading the moment when Brenna slept again.

Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed. The guttural sound sent a jolt through her. She raised her chin and met his brazen stare. "You appear well satisfied with yourself," she observed tightly.

"Mayhap because I am, for soon I will have all I ever wanted and more," he boasted. "Sedgewick is grand indeed, don't you agree, love? Aye, and mayhap someday we'll even have Ashbury back. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Marrying me may gain you lands, but it will not gain you Sedgewick Hall. You forget Guy already has an heir!"

"Aye," he agreed mildly. "But for how long?"

He laughed again, a sound that sent eerie tingles along her skin. At first Kathryn could not fathom why. Then icy fingers of dread plied their way the length of her spine. Stricken, she stared at him numbly. Dear God, it wasn't enough that he had murdered Richard and sought to murder Guy. He intended to kill Peter, too! And for what? Her stomach heaved and churned. For land and power and wealth. He cared naught about her. She was but a tool to help him attain his goal. It sickened her to realize that, in her own way, she was nearly as guilty as he. All those months before her marriage, she had thought of nothing but reclaiming Ashbury for herself and Elizabeth—it mattered not that it was for love of home and family. Like Roderick, her motives had been selfish... but no more. No more.

Her heart pounded a rampant rhythm. She lowered her head so he would not glimpse her intent. She had to stop him, but how? Her beleaguered mind could form no clear-cut plan.

Roderick spoke, his tone cold. "Put her down, milady—" He nodded at Brenna, who had fallen asleep. "—for if you do not, I will. And in my haste to claim you, I cannot promise I will be gentle with her."

Just the thought of him touching her made her skin crawl. But she did as he demanded, laying Brenna on a small pile of furs between two trees.

She rose slowly, delaying the inevitable as long as possible. She knew he meant to bed her. Desire was plainly writ in the glitter of his eyes. Never had she decried her womanhood more than at this moment. She feared there was little she could do to stop him, for her strength was as nothing compared to his—and there was Brenna to think of. The thought of his possessing her disgusted her, but she dared to hope she could flee afterward in the dead of night, while he slept. If she were to escape, she could rally Guy's men—if there were any left after Roderick's butchery.

He strode to where she stood, yanking her hard against his chest. He bent his head to seek the sweetness of her mouth but she flung her head back, straining from him in a futile attempt to escape his hold.

"What is this?" he sneered. "You met my kisses eagerly enough once before, Kathryn."

"'That was before I had known the touch of my husband. You can take my body. I can do little to stop you. But know this, Roderick. My heart belongs to Guy! And only he can stir me, not you, never you!"

"He was never half the man I am!"

Kathryn taunted him with a soft laugh. "Surely you jest! Why, you are naught but a coward! You murdered Richard while he slept! And you feared facing Guy in battle. You left him to your men because you feared defeat."

His arms tightened so that she was half-afraid he would snap her spine in half. Anger transformed his features into an ugly mask. His voice deepened to a raging snarl. "By God, woman, you've the tongue of a shrew. I wonder that Guy has not cast you off long ago!" he jeered. "Mayhap I shall be the one to cast you off, eh? If you are wise, Kathryn, you'll try hard to please me, lest I decide you and your brat are not worth the trouble."

His mouth came down on hers, searing and wet. His breath, sour and hot, nearly made her gag. With a twist of his body, he tumbled her hard to the ground. She fought wildly, arms and legs flailing, seeking to pummel him with her fists. He caught her wrists and clamped them above her head, his grip savage and merciless. His weight was like a pile of stone atop her chest so that she could scarcely breathe. She gasped for much-needed air and he pounced. The pressure of his mouth parted her lips cruelly. He violated the silken interior of her mouth with rapacious strokes of his tongue. Kathryn gave a choked little scream and bit down hard.

He jerked away, falling back upon his knees though he continued to straddle her. The blazing fury of his gaze fell full upon her as he touched a hand to his bloody lip.

"You vicious little bitch!" His lips flattened against his teeth in a feral snarl. His bloodied hand raised high, balling into a huge fist. Kathryn braced herself. Mayhap it was better this way, she thought dimly. If he beat her senseless, perchance she'd be lucky enough to remember little of his assault.

The blow never fell.

His weight was plucked from her, like a bird from its nest. Hauled to his feet, Roderick's jaw sagged in bewildered astonishment. Kathryn jolted upright with a cry of joy—Guy was here! He was not dead!

But in the instant between one breath and the next, her cry became one of horror. Roderick leaped across the fire and snatched up his sword, whirling to face Guy.

"You claim what is mine for the last time, Roderick. And I have no need of a weapon to kill you." Guy's words were a silken taunt. "You will meet your death with naught but my bare hands." He ripped his sword from its scabbard and tossed it aside.

But Roderick did not meet his challenge. He merely retained his grip on his sword and smiled, an evil, cunning smile.

Kathryn began to tremble; panic raced through her. Mother of Christ! Was Guy mad? Unarmed, with no weapon, how could he defend himself?

But she had forgotten. . . Guy was a warrior, all power and grace, his muscles splendidly atuned to his every need, his reflexes quick and instinctive. When Roderick barreled forward, blade upraised, Guy had only to step neatly aside. His laughter only enraged Roderick all the more.

"What, Roderick! Have you consumed too much ale this night?"

"You bastard!" Roderick bellowed. "Ale or no, I'll see you dead at my feet!"

Kathryn snatched up Brenna and ran to the edge of the clearing. Sheltering her babe in her arms, she looked on, her heart beating high in her throat. Roderick's rage made him reckless. His face contorted and ugly, he stomped and weaved back and forth, slashing and slicing while Guy continued to spin and elude him, taking him further from the firelight and into the shadowed woodland. Only then did she guess Guy's ploy—if Roderick could not see he could not strike out.

The moon slid out from behind a cloud, casting an eerie halo of light all around. Kathryn cried out sharply as Roderick rushed savagely forward.

Kathryn thought surely she would faint when Guy stood his ground, as though he welcomed the blow that would strike him dead. But at the last instant he leaped aside. His boot lashed up and out, knocking the sword from Roderick's grip. It flew high and away, end over end until it landed far distant.

A bloodcurdling howl erupted from Roderick's chest. Fingers curled and outstretched, like the claws of some hideous demon, he lunged for Guy's throat.

Guy's fist hit him in his gut and felled him to his knees. Guy half-turned, his chest heaving, searching frantically for Kathryn. He did not see Roderick lurch to his feet and reach inside his boot.

But Kathryn did. She gave a strangled scream. "Guy! Behind you!"

Guy whirled and flung up an arm to ward off the attack; the dagger sliced a bloody furrow in his shoulder. He lost his balance and fell backward. Roderick followed him down and she heard the thud of bodies upon the ground. Then suddenly they were both rolling and twisting in the dirt, grappling for control of the dagger. Kathryn had one terrifying glimpse of Roderick atop Guy, the dagger raised high, and then the veil of darkness was no longer friend but foe as the moon slipped behind a cloud once more.

Terror clogged her throat as she strained to see. There was a heaving grunt, followed by a horrible gurgling sound—

Then all was quiet.

Chapter 22

The silence was more terrifying than all that had gone before.

Through the darkness, the shadowed outline of a man staggered upright. The body of the other lay sprawled on the ground. Kathryn's heart seemed to stop beating. Her worst fear took hold and blotted out all else. She imagined she could see the stain on Guy's breast spreading like a crimson river.

"Guy!" It was a cry of anguish, a scream of pain. Brenna awoke and began to wail piteously. Kathryn's eyes closed as she clutched the babe tighter to her breast. Jagged sobs tore from deep inside her.

Strong hands closed about her shoulders. Exhausted, his breathing heavy and belabored, Guy dragged her against him, burying his face in the fragrant cloud of her hair. A low, tortured whisper rushed past her ear.

"Hush, sweet. Do not cry so. 'Tis over and done."

He was alive—Guy was alive!

She began to tremble. "I thought you were dead," she choked out, over and over. "Oh, Guy, I thought you were dead!"

His heart twisted. She was shaking, he realized, and suddenly so was he. "I assure you, love, I am alive and well—and heartily glad to be so."

"He murdered Richard. Guy, it was Roderick who murdered Richard. And you were right all along! He sought to have you killed that day in the forest. And the messenger from Ramsay was one of his own men. There were no raiders! It was a trap to lure you from Sedgewick—he had a party of men lying in wait to kill you!"

"I suspected as much," Guy said grimly. "That's why I returned to Sedgewick."

Her breath caught at the tension that gripped his rugged features. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she raised her face to his. "He forced me to leave with him," she cried. "He said he would kill Brenna if I did not. Guy, I did not aid him in this treachery, I swear!" She wept brokenly. "I did not betray you—I would not! Oh, Guy, I beg of you, you must believe me. I would never leave you... never... I love you far too much..."

Her desperation gouged at him, even as a rush of emotion crowded his chest. He could feel her against him, quivering as if she were weak and frail. But weak and frail she was not, he thought achingly. She was strong and so very, very proud. Yet here she was, casting heart and soul before him.

With his muscular arms, he tugged her closer still, smiling a little at Brenna's indignant mewl. But he was not satisfied until Kathryn's heart beat hard against his... and his against hers. With his mouth he stifled her halting entreaty.

"Nay, wench," he said against lips gone slack in surprise and wonder, "you'll not leave me again... for you are right where you belong."

Kathryn was not sure she dared speculate on his meaning. But throughout the long ride home, hope beat in Kathryn's heart like the fluttering wings of a butterfly. They spoke but little, both anxious to be safely within the walls of Sedgewick once again.

They had scarcely passed through the gates than Sir Michael and the rest of Guy's men returned as well. It seemed that shortly after Guy had departed for Sedgewick, they had ridden straight into an ambush. Luckily, they were on guard and prepared for such an attack. Only two of Guy's men had been wounded, neither mortally.

Kathryn shuddered to think how close Guy had come to death—not once this night, but twice. Thankfully the gash on his shoulder was only a flesh wound.

While Guy heard further news of the battle in the great hall, Kathryn nursed Brenna back to sleep upstairs. Easing the infant into her cradle, she moved silently down the passage to check on Peter. The boy was asleep, one small hand tucked under his chin. Her expression soft, she bent low and pressed a kiss on his cheek. As she returned to her chamber and settled down to await Guy, her thoughts strayed inevitably to the woman who had been Peter's mother.

Elaine. Her heart filled with sad yearning. She could feel no envy, if indeed she ever had, for poor Elaine would never again stand at her husband's side; she would not see her son grow sturdy and tall as the oak trees which grew by the stream... The door swung open.

It was Guy. Hazy firelight flickered over the striking symmetry of face and form. For the span of a heartbeat, he was bathed in golden silhouette, a presence so commanding and handsome he robbed her of breath.

He paused several paces distant. "You look so troubled," he murmured. "The danger is over, Kathryn. You need not worry any longer."

Her courage was elusive at best. Quickly she spoke before she lost what little she had. "I was thinking about Elaine." She swallowed bravely and went on, her voice scarcely audible. "You loved her very much, didn't you?"

She saw him go very still. She remained poised on the edge of the bench, afraid to look at him, just as afraid not to.

It was love of Elaine that had driven Guy to Ashbury to seek vengeance for her death. Kathryn did not begrudge him the love they had shares. Truly she did not! But all at once she wondered... Had time healed the wound in his heart, the bitter emptiness in his soul? She prayed that it had, for she could not bear it were it not so!

Yet still he said nothing, and the silence scraped her nerves. Just when she was certain she could stand it no longer, he held out a hand.

"Come here," he said simply.

Kathryn rose, her legs so unsteady she feared they would crumple beneath her. His fingers closed about hers, hard and warm and strong. He tugged her to stand directly before him.

"Aye," he said slowly. "I loved Elaine very much."

Raw pain throbbed in her breast. All at once Kathryn was unprepared to deal with such honesty. "Nay, love, do not turn from me," he said quickly, dragging her against him when she would have twisted away.

"Please, Guy—" She gave a choked little cry and would have buried her face in the hair-roughened hollow of his throat but he would not let her. A lean hand splayed against the small of her back, molding her close against his hips. With the other he threaded his fingers in her hair and pulled her head back so that she had no choice but to face him.

"Listen to me, sweet. Aye, I loved Elaine." His voice was very low. He bestowed on her a gaze of scorching intensity, his own eyes lighting to a smoldering flame. "But 'tis you, Kathryn, you who command my heart as no woman ever has—" His voice went lower still. "—as no other ever will."

The words washed through her. Kathryn stared. Tears stung her eyes but she scarcely noticed. Her lips moved but no sound came out. Guy arched a brow in utterly wicked amusement. "What are you saying?" She drew a shaky breath, her lips trembling. "That you... that you love me?"

He bent so that his lips just grazed hers. "Aye," he whispered. "I love you, Kathryn."

A rush of emotion swept through her, rendering her dizzy and weak from the force of it. Everything inside her came all undone. Her cry of joy quickly became a watery sob. She could do naught but cling to him, overwhelmed and awed.

Words poured forth unbidden, her voice husky and shaky. "Oh, Guy, I love you, too," she cried. "I loved you long ago. .. even when I hated you for making me love you... I did not want to, but I could not stop it.. . and then I was terrified you could never come to love me in return."

Her eyes were huge and glistening. She sought to blink back the betraying moisture but it was no use. Her eyes brimmed and overflowed. Guy skimmed the salty heat from her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs; he had not expected tears. With infinite gentleness, he lowered his head and kissed them away, one by one.

"Never doubt that I love you," he whispered. "Before you came into my life, I feared winter's cold would forever reign within me. But you have brought fire and the warmth of summer and driven away the wintry chill in my heart, sweet." The intensity of his tone shook her anew. "By all that is holy, I swear I love you more with every beat of my heart."

Kathryn smiled through her tears, a brilliantly sweet smile. "At times," she teased, "the only thing I fire is your temper."

'True," he conceded with a crooked grin. "You are obstinate and defiant and prickly as a rose." His laughter faded; he was suddenly intent.

" 'Tis not in spite of those things that I love you," he said quietly. " 'Tis because of them, for I love you as you are, Kathryn, no matter how stubborn and willful you are—" His eyes darkened. "—and I would have you no other way."

Both his look and his tone rocked her to her core. There were no ghosts between them now, she thought wonderingly—not Elaine, not Roderick, not even Richard. They were both free to love as they would. She twined her arms about his neck with a low moan and offered the tempting sweetness of her lips. Guy fed greedily, his kiss hungry and tender, gentle and fierce.

With a groan he lifted her and carried her to their bed, where passion's fury wrapped them in splendor.

It was only when Kathryn lay peaceful and replete in the shelter of Guy's arms that she realized . .. Nearly a twelvemonth had passed since Guy had brought her to Sedgewick. She remembered how heartbroken she had been that he had forced her to leave Elizabeth and Ashbury.

But Elizabeth and Hugh were happy. She knew it with all her heart. And Ashbury. . . well, she had once been certain that Ashbury was her whole world—that without it, she had nothing.

A secret smile curved her lips. How wrong she had been—how foolish.

Because here in Guy's arms, she had discovered something far more precious, far more lasting than a jutting pile of stone and timber. Guy loved her—and she loved him. And in loving him she hadn't lost a part of herself at all—

She'd found the other half.

The End

Like this book? I have more ebooks available for your eReader right now!

My Rebellious Heart

LADY'S VENGEANCE

Determined to avenge her father's death, fiery Princess Shana lures Thorne de Wilde, Earl of Weston, into the forest to have him killed. But face to face with the earl's devilish good looks, Shana is compelled to spare his life and take him prisoner instead…a decision she quickly regrets.

LORD'S DESIRE

The power of Weston's presence has been known to strip many a brave man of courage and will, but this bold Welsh beauty meets the mocking black eyes of this giant of a man with defiance, accusing him of crimes he hasn't committed. Furious with his lovely and brazen captor, Weston manages not only to escape, but to take Shana as his captive. And with tempers flaring, nations collide, binding the two in a searing alliance that will either destroy them both, or unite them in love for all time.

Get My Rebellious Heart for your eReader now!

Outlaw Heart

WYOMING WILDCAT

Stringer Sam killed their father—and now beautiful strong-willed Abby MacKenzie fears her vengeance-seeking brother Dillon will suffer a similar fate. Determined to find the killer before her hot-tempered sibling does, Abby uses her wiles and her sensuous curves to seduce a handsome gunslinger called Kane—then force him to agree, at gunpoint, to lead her to Sam's hide out.

OUTLAW HEART

Kane feels a damned fool for letting a two-faced temptress hold him hostage—and with his own un! But the stunning spitfire is calling the shots—and Kane would hate to see Abby's fire cruelly extinguished by Stringer Sam's menace. Besides which, the high-spirited hellion has offered to pay any price for the rugged manhunter's assistance—a debt Kane intends to make Abby honor with her passion…and her heart.

Buy Outlaw Heart for your Kindle now!

Or just read on for excerpts of my other historicals!

My Rebellious Heart

Prologue

Wales, Summer 1282

The battle had scarce begun ere it was over.

For Shana of Merwen, no passage of time was ever more immense.

When the cry of alarm went up, her father had thrust her into the arms of his knight, Sir Gryffen. Gryffen wasted no time herding Shana and the women of the household to the cellar. Twice Shana had sought to push past him; twice he blocked her way.

"There is naught you can do, milady!" His eyes pleaded with her. "Would you have me break my sworn vow to see to your protection? Your father would never forgive me were I to let any harm befall you, and I would never forgive myself! I pray you, milady, you must remain here until the fray is over!"

And so she huddled against the wall, arms banded tightly around her chest, her gaze fixed tirelessly on the trap door high in the ceiling. The air was cold and damp, but Shana did not notice. High above, the ground reverberated with the thunder of hooves and footsteps. The ring of steel against steel was unmistakable. Though muted and far away, she could hear men shouting and yelling—and screaming in agony.

Her limbs were trembling, though it was not fear for her own safety that rendered them so. Dread abounded in her heart, for her soul was in terror for those she held near and dear.

Then all was silent.

The chill that swept through her turned her veins to ice, for the quiet was even more terrible than all that had gone before.

Shana leapt to her feet. "Gryffen, you must let me pass!" she cried. "I must know what has happened!" Gryffen did not try to stop her; he slipped the ladder in place and followed behind her.

Seconds later, the young girl burst through the door of the ancient keep. With long, golden hair streaming behind her like a banner in the wind, she lurched down the stairs and out into the evening stillness.

The stench of death was everywhere. Blotches of crimson puddled the ground. Revulsion roiled inside her like the churning of the sea. Swallowing the bitter taste of bile, her feet carried her across the valley floor, weaving among the dead and the dying. Bodies lay strewn across the earth like fallen trees flung from a mighty hand above. Villagers had been struck down where they stood, planting corn in the field, drawing water from the well.

With a gasp she drew to a halt. Her gaze chanced to fall on a man who lay nearby—the oxherd. She bent forward, thinking he yet lived, for his eyes were wide open. But the vacant emptiness she encountered struck her like a blow.

Shana had seen men wounded in battle, but nothing like this ... never like this!

With a choked cry, she picked up her skirts and ran. This was not war, she thought sickly, this was slaughter, foul and fetid.

And then she spied her father.

She fell to her knees with a sob. "Oh, merciful God in Heaven, this cannot be!" She cried out in desperate entreaty. "Father, you have done nothing to deserve this—nothing!"

His eyelids opened slowly, as though weighted with lead. Kendal, youngest son of Gruffydd, grandson of Llewelyn the Great, the first prince of Wales to be so recognized by the King of England, beheld the features of his only child.

Her hands touched his breast. Her fingertips came away bloodied and stained. She paid no heed as she fumbled with the hem of her white linen undershift, tearing away a strip. With shaking fingers she pressed the wad of cloth to the gaping wound in his chest.

"Oh, Lord, Father. Who dared to do this? It was the bloody English, wasn't it?" In her heart she knew she was right. Once again the drumroll of rebellion—the cry for independence—had rolled across the land.

"They were English, aye," her father rasped. "I did not recognize the pennon they carried. 'Twas blood red with a black, fierce, two-headed creature of the deep. But I have cause, daughter, to believe they came from Castle Langley."

"Langley! But the Earl of Langley passed on some months ago!" The Earl of Langley had been a powerful Marcher lord. He and her father had had several run-ins, but they'd managed to settle their disagreements without taking up arms against each other.

"Aye, daughter. But I received word only yesterday that some brave Welsh soul has been stirring up our own along the border—making fools of the English knights—a man who distinguishes himself by wearing a mantle of scarlet and calling himself the Dragon."

The merest trickle of breath soughed through lips that were nearly bloodless. "Ah, Shana. I have erred greatly, I fear. For now King Edward seeks to put an end to the Dragon—and the threat of rebellion. He has summoned one of his earls to Castle Langley to snuff out the fires here." His sigh held a world of regret. "The English will not be satisfied until we are beaten into the ground. I truly thought they would leave us in peace, if only we did the same. Now—now it is too late."

Shana shook her head furiously. "Do not speak so! You will be fine, truly, Father."

"Nay, Shana. ''Tis my time, and well we both know it."

"Father!" A painful ache constricted her chest, an ache she was afraid to acknowledge. With her fingertips she wiped the grime and dirt from his cheeks.

He smiled slightly. "You have the fighting spirit of our ancestors, daughter, and the courage of your Irish mother. I brought the two of you here to this valley to shield you, but I can no longer protect you. You must look to Barris, for I know he will make you a good husband."

His hand clutched at hers. "All my life I have believed there was no greater measure of a man's worth than his honor and loyalty. My brothers warned me the English would not be satisfied until we were broken. I had hoped they were wrong, but alas, it is not so. I was the one who was wrong, Shana. I only regret that I did so little to help unite this land I so love. Only now do I realize how selfish a choice I made."

Shana defended him staunchly. "Nay, Father, you have never been selfish! You fed the village when the harvest was meager. You gave them shelter when the rains washed away their homes. The people of Merwen love you dearly. Surely you know this!"

"I prayed that it was so," he admitted. Then his expression grew bleak. "But the winds of change are blowing, daughter, and I cannot predict what lies ahead. All that I have is yours, but you alone must decide if you follow Barris and your uncle Llywelyn, or if you trod your own path. But above all, Shana, be true to yourself above all others, for your heart will never forsake you."

She cradled his head in her lap. Tears slipped unheeded down her cheeks.

He summoned the last of his strength and gazed upon her face, anguished now, but as lovely as ever. He knew that this was the vision he would take with him to his grave.

His chest heaved. He drew a gasping breath. "Remember these things, daughter. And remember me...

The words were his last, for he had already fled this world for another.

A sob tore out of Shana's throat, a sound that held all the pain and despair shredding her heart. "You shall not die in vain," she cried. "I will find the man beneath whose pennon this foul deed was committed. His retribution shall be swift and just!" Deep inside a burning rage began to flame and swirl, a rage that spiraled along with her voice.

"Your death will be avenged, Father! This I swear by the Holy Rood. I will not rest until I have found this blasted English earl and he lies dead at my feet."

Thus began her thirst for vengeance.

Chapter 1

He was called the Bastard Earl.

But not a man in the whole of England would dare to say it to his face.

The sheer power of his presence was such that it wrought first silence, then whispers to the fore, whispers that had little to do with his heritage—or lack of it. His size alone inspired no little amount of awe. It took naught but a look to strip many a brave man of courage and will.

But on this particular warm spring afternoon, Thorne de Wilde sat his steed with bone-stiff weariness. He'd been at Weston when King Edward's summons had come. Edward and the Welsh princes had signed the treaty of Aberconway more than four years past. For a time there had been a cautious peace. But of late, skirmishes blazed anew along the border Marches. It was for that very reason that Edward had called him to London.

It was there Thorne learned he was to join forces with Geoffrey of Fairhaven, Lord Roger Newbury, and Sir Quentin of Hargrove at mighty Castle Langley. Newbury's lands adjoined the late Earl of Langley's, while Sir Quentin had been a vassal of the old Earl's. Thorne had spent mere hours in London before continuing on to the Marches and Castle Langley. Indeed, he could scarce recall the last time he'd had a proper night's rest. With a grimace of relief, he swung from his destrier, weariness plainly etched on his features.

The inner bailey of Castle Langley was teeming. Geese and ducks dipped lo and about, flapping their wings wildly to make way for the stream of men and horses filing through the gate. High above, a parade of soldiers patrolled the wall- walk.

A young groom scurried out to greet him. Thorne tossed his reins to the boy, while another horse and rider drew up alongside him. He waited as Geoffrey of Fairhaven, a baron from York, leaped to the ground beside him.

Though the two were well matched in height and breadth, Geoffrey was as fair as Thorne was dark. Like Sir Quentin, Geoffrey had also been a vassal of the Earl of Langley. Thorne had visited Geoffrey's manor many times, and it was Geoffrey who had helped Thorne draw up the plans for his own castle. Thorne was pleased to call Geoffrey his friend, for Geoffrey was one of the few he was certain judged him on his own merit.

"I hope you fared better than I," Geoffrey said, greeting him. "Mine was a wasted trip if ever there was one. The Dragon is a crafty foe, indeed."

Thorne's mouth thinned to an ominous line. There had been no respite from the troublesome Welsh of late. They were hell-bent on rebellion. King Edward was furious. He was determined to put the stubborn Welsh in their place once and for all, and so he had placed Thorne in command of the united forces at Langley. But their task here was twofold. He and the others were to seek and stamp out the pockets of resistance in the border lands—and roust out this elusive, scarlet- mantled brigand the Welsh hailed as the Dragon.

He suspected it would be no small task.

Though Edward's patience was worn thin, he had recognized the storm clouds brewing ahead. He had concurred with Thorne's request to proceed with caution. Thorne was determined not to flood the region with his troops, for needless bloodshed would only antagonize the Welsh further. In time, a mighty show of force might well be unavoidable. For the moment, Thorne was determined to maintain the delicate balance that existed up until now.

To this end, he'd divided the troops among the other lords gathered here at Langley. Their first charge was to ferret out information about the man known as the Dragon, and those who aided him.

In truth, Thorne longed for the day this campaign was over and done, so that he might make haste back to Weston. A stab of regret pierced him. Weston was his pride and joy, indeed his greatest accomplishment. His tenants had proved themselves loyal and true, for he had shown himself to be a strong but just overlord. It was there, high upon a hilltop overlooking the sea, that he'd built his castle, grand and sprawling and uniquely his own. It was forged from his own hand, the product of years of toil and sweat. Alas, he'd spent precious little time there since its completion three months ago.

If the bend of his mind was a trifle bitter, it was little wonder. Providence had not seen fit to cast a blessed eye upon him. He knew not who his father had been. If his mother had known, she had kept it to herself. Thorne remembered little of that heartless woman who had left him alone in the midst of a frigid winter night, when he was but a lad.

His mind resurrected all too keenly the taunts and curses heaped upon him in his youth. Bastard... little bastard whoreson...

So it was that as a child, Thorne had naught but the rags on his back. Living in filth and squalor as he had, there was scarce a night he'd slept with a roof over his head. As a man, he'd spent most of his life in the saddle with only the ground for a bed. He was a soldier by choice, a knight and lord by the grace of the king. He would never forsake his king, but he yearned for the day he could return to Weston and live his life in leisure.

And these days no one dared to call him a bastard.

Thorne's laugh held no mirth. "Did I fare well? From the sound of it, no better than you." A scowl darkened his expression as he glanced at Geoffrey. "I take it you learned nothing about the Dragon."

"Oh, I heard a theory or two. One man said he's a farmer from the north who forfeited his land to taxes. Another said he's the grandson of an old Welsh chieftain. Still another claims he's King Arthur the Pendragon, cast off his cloak of death and come to rescue his people from the scourge of the English." Geoffrey sounded disgusted.

"Then you did better than I, my friend. Why, they all stared at me as if I were the devil himself—and my men the legion of doom. They vowed they knew nothing about these raiders— that they'd never even heard of their leader, let alone a man called the Dragon. And all the while they swore from here to the heavens above, you knew they wanted nothing more than to spit in your eye and stomp your soul into the furthest reaches of hell."

He brooded for a moment. "These Welsh," he muttered aloud. "I've never seen a more silent lot of people in my life! 'Twould seem he has many friends, this man who calls himself the Dragon."

They both fell silent, then at last Geoffrey clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I have a remedy for what ails us, Thorne." Geoffrey's warm brown eyes had taken on an unmistakable gleam.

A reluctant smile lined the hard edge of Thorne's mouth. He sighed. "Geoffrey, you are remarkably predictable."

"And you are ever as willing as I. As I always say, a man has but three necessities in life—bread, ale, and the warm embrace of a woman for the night." He grinned wickedly. "What do you say we share a spot of ale, and then set our sights on a wench. Aye, maybe even two!"

Thorne shook his head. "My necessities are a little different than yours, my friend. A hot bath and food for my belly come first, I'm afraid. And the only embrace I wish right now is the embrace of a soft mattress clinging to my weary bones."

"Oh, come now! Why, I've been told numerous times, and by numerous sources, I might add, that you've the stamina of an ox. I'll refrain from making another comparison," he went on brashly. "Although I could, and that on good authority, too!"

Thorne laughed, his exhaustion of the moment forgotten. "Geoffrey," he began, "were I the type to boast, I could tell you tales that would make even a man of your ilk blush hotter than an untried lad." Nearby there was a shout. Thorne broke off, the grin wiped clean from his lips.

Geoffrey turned as well. Across the bailey, the body of a man was being dragged through a doorway. Thorne was already halfway across the bailey. Dust swirled around his heels as he strode to where the body had been dumped upon the ground. He crouched low and pressed two fingers beneath the man's jaw.

"Won't do ye no good, milord," piped a voice behind him. "We tried to save him, but he was already gone."

Thorne swore silently, staring down at the man's blood-spattered chest. He whirled around to face the straggly line who had gathered behind him. "Who is this man?" he demanded. "How did he die?"

One of the men stepped forward. "He's one of Lord Newbury's troops, milord. They had a skirmish with a band of raiders the eve before last, as did some of Sir Quentin's men. Lord Newbury thought we might be able to save him, but alas, the good Lord willed otherwise."

Thorne clenched his jaw in anger and frustration, yet even as he stood there, an eerie foreboding prickled his skin. First blood had once again been drawn between England and Wales. He had the uneasy sensation the land would run crimson before peace reigned anew.

"Milady," Gryffen pleaded, " 'twould serve no purpose if you were to go to Castle Langley. I know 'tis vengeance you seek, but shouldn't such matters as this rest in the hands of your betrothed?"

Shana's mind sped straight to Barris of Frydd, whose lands butted her father's to the west—her beloved, her betrothed. If only he were here, she thought, a yearning ache spreading throughout her breast, even as his image filled her mind. He was tall, with hair as black as ebony and eyes of gold, the handsomest man she'd ever laid eyes on. She knew an overwhelming urge to see him again, to seek comfort in the haven of his embrace against the pain of her loss. But perhaps it was a blessing after all that he was in Gwynedd, for what if Merwen's attackers had gone on to lay waste to Frydd as well?

But even as she directed a fervent prayer heavenward that his people had been spared, a brittle determination sealed her heart.

"Barris is in Gwynedd," she told the old knight. "He is not expected back until several days hence, mayhap more. And 'twas not his father who was slain, Gryffen. 'Twas mine." Shana's calm was deceiving. Her eyes sparked with fire and fury. "The responsibility is mine... nay, the duty is mine!"

"But milady, you cannot take on the whole of King Edward's army!" Gryffen thrust his hand through his iron-gray hair. In the space of just minutes, he seemed to have aged years.

Her delicate chin tilted. "That is hardly my intent, Gryffen. But I will find the man who dared to attack Merwen."

Gryffen rubbed a hand against his leathery cheek, clearly in a quandary. "Milady, I fear for you if they should discover you are Llywelyn's niece!"

In truth, her uncle Llywelyn, named for his grandsire, was the reason her father had taken up residence here at Merwen those many years past. Though he seldom said so, Shana knew her father considered his elder brother domineering and stubborn. Kendal had wanted no part in the squabbles between his brothers. He harbored no hunger for land or power. Indeed, most of his people had known him only as Lord Kendal.

But although Kendal had chosen to distance himself from his brothers, shunning his princely lineage and retreating to this mountain vale to live his life as he would, he loved his country and the Welsh people deeply. The blood of the Cymry flowed strong and swift in his veins.

And he had passed on to Shana that same pride in their heritage. Like her father, Shana had little tolerance for her uncles' pettiness.

But mayhap it was time she joined the battle for her people.

"We have kept to ourselves here at Merwen, Gryffen. Though my father saw me well-skilled in the English tongue, in all the years we've lived here, not once have we shared our table with an Englishman." Nor, she resolved darkly, would they ever.

"Nay," she went on. "My identity is safe. Not a soul at Castle Langley knows me, and I'll not give myself away." With that, the matter was settled. Neither Gryffen or the other knights could sway her, though they tried in earnest. Nor did they dare to stop her, for even as a child, their princess was ever staunch, ever decisive. She had grown to womanhood no less determined. They had also sworn to protect her ... and so they would.

She left for Langley the next morning, with half a dozen of her father's men-at-arms as escort.

Although the journey was not an easy one, neither was it grueling. The mountains gradually gave way to fold upon fold of lush rolling hillside. They passed through several villages, where they heard tales of English soldiers further north who razed hill and vale, plundering and burning without mercy.

It was a solemn party indeed that forged a path toward Castle Langley. Late in the day, they crested a small rise. Below them, the land was smothered in thick green forest.

Shana could not appreciate the beauty set out before her. Her gaze was bound by the massive gray structure that dominated the horizon. She scarce noticed the tiny village huddled in its shadow.

Sir Gryffen came up alongside her mount. "Castle Langley," he said quietly. It was truly a sight to behold, with towers and turrets that swept high into the sky and crowned the treetops.

To Shana, it was naught but a jutting pile of cold gray stone, a loathsome symbol of the English stranglehold upon Wales.

No one spoke a word as they forged onward.

They had nearly breached the edge of the forest when Shana called a halt in the midst of a small clearing. She turned to the group and bid them listen.

"Mark this spot well, for 'tis here I will return come nightfall."

A low murmur went up. "Milady, you cannot think to enter Langley alone!"

"I must," was all she said.

"Milady, 'tis too dangerous! At least take one of us!"

Shana was adamant. "With two there is twice the risk. We've lost enough lives as it is. I'll not chance any more. Should trouble befall me—"

" 'Tis exactly what we fear!" Sir Gryffen's countenance was like a thundercloud. He dismounted and stood at her side, glowering up at her beneath shaggy gray brows, much as he had when she'd misbehaved as a child.

She sighed. "You, of all people, should know I'm hardly a meek and helpless maiden. You forget, Gryffen, that you yourself taught me to hunt and ride and shoot. And 'twas you who boasted to Father's knights that my aim with an arrow was as straight and true as any of theirs."

Gryffen muttered under his breath. Only now did he wish he'd kept such lofty pride to himself. Never had he thought his young charge would toss his boast back at him so. For all that Shana played the role of great lady with dignity and aplomb, as a child she'd been a hell-raiser. Lord Kendal had not been pleased that Gryffen had so indulged his only daughter in such an unseemly sport. It wasn't that Shana had been so damnably insistent, though in truth she had . Nay, it was more that he'd never been able to resist a tearful plea from those huge silver eyes. Were he her father he'd have said her nay and that would be the end of this foolishness. But alas, he was only her servant and proud to be so honored.

Still, Gryffen could not keep his silence. "I wonder," he said slowly, "how well milady has thought this through." He paused. "You may well gain entrance to Langley and find the man you seek. But what then, milady, what then?"

A faint smile graced her lips. "I have a plan, Gryffen, a simple one, I admit, but one that should be most effective."

"I'd be more heartened if I knew what this plan was."

"Very well then, I will tell you. The English seek the man called the Dragon—the villagers we spoke with today confirmed this. And so," she said lightly, "I shall give them what they want."

"What!" A cry went up among the men. "But you don't know who he is, nor do you know where he is!"

"Nay," —a laugh spilled out, as sweet and pure as the tinkling of a chime— "but they don't know that, do they?"

A moment later, she bid them farewell. "Let us meet here again at nightfall. If I am to be delayed, I will try to send word."

"What if you've not returned by nightfall on the morrow?" someone asked worriedly.

Shana hesitated. "Then you must return to Merwen." Her voice rang out low but clear. "Under no circumstances are you to storm Langley, either now or later. I'll have no more bloodshed."

With that she touched her heels to her mount. Not a sound was heard as she disappeared from sight. Fear for their mistress thrust a weighty burden on their shoulders. It was madness to think that she, a princess of Wales, would seek entrance to Castle Langley without fear of discovery!

That was exactly what she did.

Chapter 2

Shana found there was little need to attempt to conceal herself. Carts of hay weaved across the drawbridge. Tugging the drape of her hood forward ever so slightly, Shana guided her mount around them. Chin high, eyes cast forward, she trotted her horse briskly through the gates as though she'd done so every day of her life. Her heart was pounding so that she could scarcely think, but she'd done it! She was inside Castle Langley!

In the bailey, she slid from her saddle. Soldiers and horses milled about. Across the way, servants hurried to and from the kitchens, great platters of food on their shoulders in preparation for the evening meal.

A young groom darted over. "I'll stable your horse, milady."

Shana pressed the reins into his hands with a murmur of thanks, then set about her business. Ignoring the curious glances thrown her way, her gaze restlessly scanned her surroundings. High above the main watchtower, the Langley flag fluttered in the breeze—white with ornate lettering emblazoned in the center. Her eyes flitted to a building across from the well, soldiers' quarters judging from the look of it. It was there she spied a triangular pennon, bright purple with a crouching lion, and behind it another.

Saints be praised, there it was, the one her father had described, blood red with a fiercesome, two- headed creature of the deep!

In her eagerness she took an involuntary step forward. A slight weight stumbled against her. Shana glanced down just in time to see she'd tripped a small boy. He sprawled flat on his belly even as she watched.

"Oh, pray forgive me!" she gasped. "I did not mean to trip you." Without a second thought she reached down and grasped the boy's elbow, pulling him to his feet.

He didn't bother to dust himself off. Warm brown eyes flashed up at her. "No harm done," the boy said with a shrug. "I wasn't watchin' where I was goin'."

She smiled. "Nor was I."

The boy was young, no more than eleven or twelve. Dirt smeared his cheeks and his tunic was torn and ragged, ripped at both shoulders. Strips of linen bound his feet. With a faint tug on her heart, she realized he was probably a poor youngster from the village.

It gave her a start to realize his own appraisal of her was no less curious, but far more frank. "I haven't seen you here before, have I?" he asked.

Shana shook her head.

"You're a lady, aren't you? I mean, a ... a real lady."

She laughed. "I suppose you might say that." She bobbed in a tiny curtsy. "You may call me Lady Shana, if you like."

"And you may call me Will—Will Tyler." He swept her an exaggerated bow. When he straightened, the grin had reappeared, quite audacious this time. Urchin or no, there was something quite endearing about this boy.

"I wonder if you might help me, Will."

"If I can," he stated promptly.

She gestured toward the blood-red pennon. "That pennon, Will, the one with the two-headed creature. Whose pennon is it, do you know?"

" 'Course I do. 'Tis the Earl of Weston's." He eyed her as if she were the strange creature from beneath the sea, then half turned. "That's him yonder, there near the entrance to the stable, with Sir Geoffrey. The earl's the one with the black mantle."

Shana's gaze cleaved sharply toward the stable. Sure enough, there were two men, one with hair as gold as a field of ripened wheat, the other with hair as dark as the midnight hour.

A simmering fury stoked her ire. So this was Edward's mighty earl, the sword of England. Ah, but he would be the one brought low, she vowed. She'd bring the Earl of Weston to his knees if it were the last thing she did.

"You haven't heard of the earl, have ye?" demanded the boy.

She shook her head. "I've been ... away in Ireland for a number of years and am only just now returning to my home." The excuse was a lame one but all she could think to say.

"The earl first caught the king's eye when Edward went on crusade in the Holy Land. He was a groom for one of the lords who fought with Edward there," Will went on. " 'Course, Edward was only a prince then, and the earl only a boy, why, not much older than me. And when his lord was struck down, the earl took up his sword and fought as well as any of Edward's royal troops! 'Twas then that Edward decided to take the earl as his own squire. And not a year later, 'twas the earl who slayed the assassin who sought to put an end to the king. If it weren't for Thorne de Wilde, King Edward wouldn't even be here. It's no wonder he's such a hero!"

The earl was still deep in conversation with his companion. From the corner of her eye, Shana watched as he pivoted, one arm sweeping high aloft in some grand gesture. Ah, these swaggering English and their egos! she thought scathingly. He postured himself as one whose opinion of himself exceeded his true worth.

It was all she could do to keep the bite from her tone. "I trust the king rewarded him amply."

Will chuckled. "That he did, milady. He granted him an earldom! And now the king has chosen the earl to lead his forces here!"

Shana silently scoffed. Hero, was he? Thorne de Wilde, Earl of Weston, was naught but the king's puppet!

But to hear the boy tell it, the Earl of Weston was the stuff of which tales were made. According to him, children gaped when he rode by. Men and women alike strained to catch the merest glimpse of him.

"... fond of the ladies, if you know what I mean. But not half as much as the ladies like him, so they say."

So he had an eye for a lusty maid, did he? Shana's opinion of the earl sank ever lower.

"They all swoon for the chance to be his chosen one. Why, it don't matter none at all that he's—"

His words were lost in the clatter of hooves. Shana stepped quickly aside, pulling the boy back with a hand on his shoulder. A frown marred the smoothness of her brow, for beneath her hand, he was naught but skin and bones.

She glanced at the deep violet fringe of twilight that had begun to gather to the west. "The village isn't far, Will, but you should be on your way before it begins to grow dark. Your mother is probably waiting your supper."

To her surprise, he hesitated. "I don't live in the village, milady," he said at last. "And my mother passed on when I was but a lad."

And what did he think he was now? The comment nearly slipped out before she could stop it. Shana heeded her tongue just in the nick of time, for Will's thin shoulders had gone rigid with what could only be called pride. She dared not ask after his father, for she suspected she already knew the answer.

"Have you no guardian, Will?"

Her tone was sharper than she intended. She knew it when flashing eyes rose to appraise her. "Got no one but me," he stated clearly, "and that's all I need, milady."

"Where do you sleep and eat?"

"I get scraps from die kitchen sometimes. And there's a lady in the village gives me meat pies whenever her husband butchers. And I sleep wherever I can find a place to lay my head." He gestured toward the stable. "Most times the stable master lets me sleep in an empty stall."

A helpless indignation rose inside her, she who had known only coddling and indulgence every day of her life. Why had fate blessed her with so much, yet chosen to be so cruel to one so young yet? This was no life for a child, no life at all!

"You needn't look at me like that, milady. I get along better 'n most."

Shana did not argue, for it was clear Will neither wanted or expected pity. Instead she untied the pouch at her waist and held it toward him. "Here, Will. Here's bread and cheese, enough for your supper and to break the morning fast. And when that' s finished you'll be able to buy more with the coin inside."

His pointed little chin went up a notch. "I only beg when I've need to, milady," he said stiffly.

"You did not beg," she stated crisply. "And now there will be no need to."

The pouch dangled between them. He stared at it, brushing the shaggy hair from his eyes, but he made no effort to take it.

Shana's lips pressed together. 'Take it, Will. Call it a gift, or a payment if you would. You've enlightened me greatly, and for that I thank you." Her tone was just as stubborn as his. She seized his hand and dropped the pouch into it, curling his fingers around the leather tie with her own.

For the longest moment she feared he would refuse yet again. She sensed he wanted to say something, for his unsmiling regard meshed with hers endlessly, oddly piercing for one so young. Then, ever so slowly, he began to inch back, retaining his hold on the pouch. At last he wheeled and darted away.

Shana's hand slipped back to her side. She watched him lunge across the bailey ... ah, straight toward the Earl of Weston. With no more ado the boy grabbed a fistful of his mantle and tugged insistently. With a horrified inevitability, Shana realized Will had snared the earl's attention. The boy said something and gestured.

Then he pointed directly to her.

Geoffrey had no regrets about turning his affection to matters other than war, especially one as lovely as this. He let a broad smile snare his lips. "Jesu, but she looks to be a beauty, eh, Thorne? I don't recall seeing her when we arrived. How about you?"

Thorne had turned as well. Nay, he thought, for he'd have remembered a woman such as this one. She was elegant of stature, tall and slender, clad from head to toe in folds of deep green velvet. She was too far away for her features to be presented in detail, but the lovely profile she portrayed promised beauty untold.

"The boy was right," said Geoffrey. "She must be passing through for the night."

Thorne raised a brow. "She could be wife to one of the men here."

"Saints forbid!" Geoffrey's laugh was low and suggestive. "But I'm about to find out. If it's a bed for the night she's after, I'll gladly share mine."

Thorne shook his head as Geoffrey crossed the bailey. The woman was no camp follower, that was for certain. Even from here, he had no trouble discerning the richness of her clothing. And she carried herself like a woman accustomed to having others do her bidding. But Geoffrey was a man of the times. He loved fighting, hunting, drinking and wenching ... but at least when his pursuits ran to the latter, he never forgot he was a gentleman.

"Milady, it seems someone has neglected their duty." Geoffrey blessed her with his most dashing smile. "I am Sir Geoffrey of Fairhaven, and I apologize that none has greeted you before this."

He bowed low over the hand she extended, bringing her fingers to his lips. "Sir,," she murmured. "I am—Lady Shana." Shana held her breath, afraid he might ask from whence she came.

Praise the saints, he did not. "Milady, your young friend mentioned you are on your way home from Ireland. I hope your journey has not tired you overmuch."

"Not at all, milord."

"Do you need lodging for the night, mayhap?"

For all that he was English, his eyes were warm and kind, his manner gracious and genteel. She decided to throw caution to the wind. "In truth, sir, I am here to seek audience with the Earl of Weston."

Bloody hell! Geoffrey uttered a silent curse of good-natured vigor. What was it about Thorne that so drew the female of the species? He eyed her curiously. "Milady," he murmured. "Do I dare ask why?"

She lowered her gaze. "It concerns a private matter, my lord."

Geoffrey sighed. Whether the matter be business or pleasure, it seemed he would have to concede this beauty to Thorne. "In that case, milady, I've no choice but to aid you in your cause." He offered her his arm.

Thorne had watched the pair from the corner of his eye. He could only guess at their conversation, but he'd seen Geoffrey's charm thaw the iciest of maidens more than once. Thus he was mildly surprised when he saw the pair approach.

"Thorne," Geoffrey greeted. "The lady here has expressed a desire to make your acquaintance. Lady Shana, may I present Thorne de Wilde, Earl of Weston." With a flourish he transferred her hand from his elbow to the earl's. "Milady, I deliver you into Thorne's hands, with the utmost regret, I might add. But I wish you well on your journey home from Ireland."

With that Geoffrey was gone. Shana found herself perversely wishing he had stayed. Her heart was drumming so that her chest hurt. Such forwardness was hardly like her, but only now did she consider what interpretation the earl might apply to her conduct. Would he think her loose or wanton? God forbid!

He was broader than he looked from afar, yet still lean. His skin was weathered bronze from wind and sun. Shana had not thought to find him handsome, yet he was, and wickedly so. His jaw was square, ruggedly configured. His eyes shone brilliant and hard, as black as his heart, she decided with no little amount of rancor.

He did not kiss her hand, as Geoffrey had done, but he held her fingers far longer than she liked—

And she had the feeling he knew it. It was all she could do not to jerk away from the blasted rogue's touch.

"Lady Shana, 'tis a pleasure indeed to be sought out by one so fair as yourself. In truth, 'tis usually only my enemies who single me out."

His words gave her a weighty pause, for he hit dangerously close to the truth. The merest of smiles lurked about his mouth, but there was a slant to it that made her want to flinch. She quelled it swiftly, for already he'd proved he'd not be an easy one to fool. She knew she must be ever wary and watch her step.

"Your enemies, my lord? Are there so very many then?"

Still he smiled, a devil's smile, she decided, yet his voice was chillingly soft. "A wise man once told me one should discover all one can about one's enemies. However, I can scarce believe one as lovely as you could harbor ill toward anyone. And yet, I wonder why you should so honor me."

She wasted little time in her reply. "There is little to wonder about, my lord. 'Tis said you are King Edward's arm, come to conquer the Welsh. Why, your name is on everyone's lips—I daresay, in every household."

There was naught but silk and honey in her tone, but her words, so pleasant to the extreme, grated on him like iron scraping rock. A curious tension sprang up between them, for he sensed her words were almost a challenge, a challenge he did not fully comprehend. He leveled on her a gaze of probing intensity, yet her own never faltered. After a moment, he decided he was mistaken.

"You know these Welsh," he said with a lazy shrug. "Their fondest wish is to stir up trouble."

Aye, thought Shana with a fervid prayer. The more, the better.

His gaze, dark and depthless, rested upon her. "Where did you say your home is, milady?"

"As I recall, milord, I did not."

Once again Thorne's eyes narrowed. If this was a game she was about, she'd find that two could play as well as one—and she'd find herself well matched.

"But you've journeyed all the way from Ireland?"

"Aye, milord." A flicker of disquiet ran through her. Had she aroused his suspicion? He asked so many questions; that was something she'd not counted on. "My home," she hastened to add, "is nearly a day's ride from here. But before I venture on my way," a strange jolt went through her as she laid her hand beseechingly on the sleeve of his tunic, "I must speak with you in private, on a matter most urgent."

The touch of her hand went through Thorne like a brand. He remembered well the feel of her hand lying in his. It was dainty and soft, small and supremely feminine. It proclaimed to the heavens— and to him—that she was a woman who had never known a hard day's work in all her days. Was she the pampered paramour of some nobleman, mayhap? One who had been cast aside in favor of another?

She was too lovely to remain unclaimed for long, that was for certain. Indeed, so close at hand she was utterly exquisite, even more than he'd imagined. Her features were finely sculpted and flawless, her lovely mouth hued with the palest of rose. Wide gray eyes, clear and translucent as a rushing mountain stream, gazed mutely into his. All that was male and primeval within Thorne clamored to the fore. A surge of desire, potent and unchecked, heated his veins. He damned the concealing hood that hid the glory of her hair. What little he could see was rich and tawny-gold.

But she wanted something from him, he realized curiously. And all at once he wondered just how far she would go to achieve her purpose... whatever that purpose might be.

So it was privacy she craved, was it? Nay, he decided with a touch of cynicism, in this he was not averse to obliging her. Nor would she be the first to ply her body in exchange for some small favor. Privacy would indeed suit what he had in mind.

"Come," was all he said. A single movement flattened her hand against the crook of his elbow. With the pressure of his palm, he fettered her to him as surely as a shackle encircling her wrist. He paused only for a word with a young serving girl. Another twenty paces took them to a tower door and through. Before she knew what he was about, he was leading her up and around a winding stair, through yet another door and into a large chamber.

The door swung shut behind them with a dull thud.

There Shana gaped in shock, the beat of her heart wild and rampant. Her gaze skimmed the huge curtained bed, then the shield propped against the far wall, which bore the same two-headed beast as his pennon. Mother of Christ, this was his private chamber! She'd been prepared to come face to face with a savage lion. She had not been prepared to face the lion in his den.

She dare not stay with him here, a man with his reputation yet! With a gasp she pulled free. "This is your bedchamber!"

"You would berate me for honoring your wishes? Milady, you wished to speak with me in private. This is the one place where we may achieve at least a semblance of privacy."

Without further ado, her hood was plucked from her head. She could only stand in shocked disbelief as warm fingers deftly freed the brooch that held her cloak in place. She felt it whisked from her shoulders. And then he raked her with a glance so unabashedly brazen it stripped the color from her cheeks. It lingered on the shining coronet atop her head, the thrust of well-rounded breasts beneath her gown, the sweep of gently rounded hips.

No man had ever dared to gaze upon her thus—as if she were a common strumpet—and by God, none would ever do so again!

Both his gall and his utter calm were maddening.

"Milord," she chose her words carefully, "I fail to see why we cannot conduct this meeting elsewhere."

"And I fail to see why we cannot conduct it here. Or do you fear I think you make advances no proper lady should make?"

Fire sparked in her eyes. " 'Tis not my conduct I question!"

Jet brows shot up. "What! You question mine? Lady Shana, surely you cannot think my intentions less than honorable."

Less than honorable. Aye, he had that right! But his mockery kindled a ready indignation. "You mistake my reasons for accompanying you here. 'Tis not for such—" to her horror she felt herself falter, "such sport as you may think."

His parry was swift and unrepentant. "And why should I think thusly? After all, milady, might I remind you, 'twas you who sought me out. Though I must say, I do wonder that you dared to come to Langley unescorted."

Shana flushed. She could find no words to refute his, for he was right. Usually only a woman of questionable virtue dared to travel alone.

"Indeed, milady, it occurs to me that mayhap you are in need of a protector."

Her chin came up and she fixed him with a glare both challenging and defiant. "I fear no one," she stated clearly, "least of all any man. And I have no need of a protector."

No, Thorne thought slowly. She did not. Her annoyance did not escape him. She was, he realized, not used to being questioned.

He was both piqued and irritated, though he knew not why. The color of her hair was unusual, a dark gold, shot through with copper, rich and gleaming. Her beauty struck him like a blow to the gut. But the Lady Shana also projected a surety of herself that was rare in a woman. Her posture was coldly dignified, her demeanor one of haughty pride. Why, she acted as though she were the queen herself!

Thorne found himself possessed of a sudden, ruthless desire to see her tumbled from her throne.

"If I wanted you, mistress, I'd not hesitate to say so. But lovely as you are, at this moment I fear your charms escape me. I am too tired and hungry to partake of..." he smiled benignly, "such sport, as you call it."

Ah, but he was bold! Fury wrapped its stranglehold around her. The man was a beast, with no manners whatsoever. She opened her mouth to deliver a scorching retort, but as if on cue, there was a knock on the door. He bade a young maid enter. The girl carried a tray laden with food which she deposited on a small table before the hearth. She curtsied, then left.

The earl crossed to the table, then turned to her, as if she were no more than a troublesome afterthought. "Will you join me, milady?"

Shana took a deep, calming breath, secretly glad she'd curbed her wayward tongue. She dared not antagonize him, not yet. She let him seat her, then serve her, all the while faultlessly polite. And all the while Shana thought secretly that he need not bother. He disliked her. He disliked her intensely. She could feel it with all that she possessed.

She accepted only wine and a small portion of herring. The earl attacked his meal with relish. Clearly her presence did not hinder his appetite. Shana chafed restlessly, wishing he would hurry. She was anxious for this encounter to be over and done with.

He sliced a tender morsel of roast lamb and offered it to her. The tempting aroma teased her nostrils, yet she hesitated. She wanted the tidbit, she realized, but was loath to take it from his hand. She chided herself impatiently, wondering what madness seized her. It was usual for a man to carve for a woman. She'd often eaten thusly from Barris's fingers, so why was she so reticent?

She shook her head. There was a subtle tightening of that harshly carved mouth. Had she given herself away?

At length he pushed aside his trencher. "For a woman who professed the need to speak to me on a matter most urgent, you are remarkably silent, milady."

His voice held all the warmth of a winter wind blowing from the mountaintops. It seemed, Shana concluded grimly, that he played at pretense no more.

"I merely wished to let you eat in peace," she said coolly. "But if you are ready to tend to business, I shall gladly oblige."

"By all means, please do so." His expression was distantly aloof.

Shana took a deep breath. "You have come to Castle Langley in order to bring the Welsh to heel, have you not?"

"I've made no secret of that, milady."

Her heart began to beat with thick, uneven strokes. "I believe you've also come to roust out the rebel known as the Dragon."

He went as still as a statue, yet she sensed a rapier-sharp alertness which had not been there before.

"And you, Lady Shana—" his lip curled, "you profess to know the Dragon's whereabouts, is that it?"

His scorn stirred her anger. "I did not say that I know, milord. I am, however, acquainted with a man who does know." She gathered every scrap of her courage and went on boldly, "A pity you would refuse my help, milord. Because no man's sword is all-powerful. I daresay, even yours."

"So you are wise as well as beautiful. Milady, I begin to wonder what treasure I've stumbled upon."

His sarcasm cut deep. She bit back an impotent cry of fury and despair. She could never hope to lure him from the castle—never! She had thought herself so clever, but alas! she was not clever at all, for she had just gambled greatly and lost.

She rose to her feet and blindly turned, her every intent to flee this chamber, this devil's lair! But she hadn't progressed more than three steps than he was there before her, tall and commanding, as formidable as a fortress of iron.

Only now no mockery dwelled in his countenance. There was only a silent probe of eyes that cut sharp as a blade.

"This man, milady. Who is he?"

"His name is Davies," she lied. "He is kin to one of my housemaids, a freeman who has proved his loyalty to my family countless times over the years." A stab of guilt sheared through her, even as she spoke. A part of her was appalled at how easily the lie came to pass. But she had only to remember how she had held her father's body, bloodied and dirty, limp and prone and lifeless. Once again, bitterness sealed her heart.

"And how does he know the Dragon?"

"The Dragon sought him out for his skill in bow-making. He is to meet Davies several days hence."

"Where?"

She shook her head. "I do not know. Davies thought it best not to tell me."

Thorne's eyes narrowed. "Why didn't he come to me with this information?"

"He is Welsh, milord, though he married an Englishwoman. He does not wish to have his identity known for fear of being branded a traitor by his people. And he dare not come to Langley for fear of being branded a liar. He will meet with you at a clearing in the woods. But he bade me tell you it must be this very night, otherwise it may be too late."

She held her breath and waited. Her story was well thought out. Indeed, her mind was filled with little else on the long ride here.

Thorne stared at her in silent speculation. Did he dare believe her, considering the outrageous stories he'd heard these past few days? He found himself admitting he could find no fault with her explanation, and yet—

"Your motives, Lady Shana, elude me. Indeed, I must ask myself why you should so trouble yourself."

Lord, but he was a crafty one! She assumed an outrage that was not entirely feigned. "You forget it is I who oblige you, milord!"

"And I say again, there must be some reward for you."

Shana tried not to panic, for he stared at her with scorching intensity. Those devil's eyes never once strayed from her face. He unnerved her, she realized, as no one had ever done. And for all that he was but a man, it was as if he were a wall of stone. She sensed no softness in him, none at all.

"You are right," she said, her voice very low.

"My reasons for coming to you are not without selfishness."

Ah, so now the tale would finally be told. Thorne arched a brow and waited.

Her lashes lowered, shielding her expression. "I ... I recently lost someone very dear to me, milord... "

"Who?"

"My husband." She wet her lips nervously and uttered a silent prayer that the Lord would not strike her dead for such blasphemy. "The Dragon himself was responsible for his death."

The earl's silence was never ending. Shana's nerves were scraped raw. She dared not look at him, for fear she would give herself away and he would discover her deceit. At length he spoke, and there was neither pity nor condemnation in his tone, only a curious whimsy.

"Somehow you do not strike me as a grieving widow."

Shana thought wrenchingly of her father. "I spend my grief in vengeance"—she spoke with quiet fervor, for God above knew it was the truth—"a vengeance only you can satisfy, milord." At last she looked at him, and it was all there in her eyes, the bitter ache of her loss.

Something ... a tingle of warning ... prickled up his spine. It whispered that all was not as it should be. For all that she chanced to meet his gaze with earnest regard, she was cloaked in mystery... veiled in secret allure.

But her distress was genuine. The pain that shadowed her face was real And so Thorne dismissed the flicker of disquiet within him, for she was but a woman. Of a certainty she could do him no harm.

He turned and swept her cloak from the chair, then held it out for her with an arrogant arch of jet-black brows.

Shana could hardly believe her good fortune. "You'll come with me to meet Davies?" Even now, her steps carried her blindly forward. She turned so that he could set the cloak upon her shoulders.

Rich green velvet caught her snug in its enveloping folds. "Aye, milady, I'll go with you—" — husky laughter reverberated at her back—"and mayhap we'll catch ourselves a dragon."

Chapter 3

Shana did not like the sound of that laughter. It hinted at an arrogance that revealed Thorne de Wilde as a man who knew little of defeat—and much of triumph. Try as she might, she couldn't quite banish the feeling that she, not he, was the one about to ride straight into a trap.

It didn't take long for several grooms to saddle their horses. They left the gates behind within minutes. Several times Shana cast a discreet but distinctly wary glance over her shoulder, anxious to make certain Thorne had not given orders that they be followed.

The purple haze of twilight spread its veil across the land. Birds and insects ceased their strident call. There was naught but an almost unearthly stillness. She shivered in spite of herself. Behind them, Castle Langley jutted into the sky, looming like a silent sentinel.

At last they breached the sanctuary of the forest. The earl's mount, a massive gray with a coat like polished armor, kept pace alongside her own. They forged ever deeper through a luxuriant undergrowth of trees, shrubs, and wildflowers. Her pulse began a clamoring rhythm, all through her body. Soon they would be there. Soon—

"Wait." A gloved hand intruded into her line of vision, seizing her mount's bridle and thus calling a halt to her progress. "How much further?"

Shana was quick to note his air of watchful awareness, yet there was naught in his tone to alarm her, neither suspicion nor worry. But her heart was thudding so she feared he might see as well as hear it. "Not far," she said quickly. "There is a clearing nearby, just beyond those bushes."

He released her bridle, yet his eyes continued to hold her in thrall. His pose was almost lazy. One lean hand rested casually on the pommel of his saddle. A faint smile lurked about his lips. She stilled her apprehension and glanced toward the clearing.

"We should hurry, milord."

"In time, milady. In time."

He dropped to the ground in one fluid move. Before she knew what he was about, those steel- gloved hands swept aside her cloak and settled on her waist. He lifted her effortlessly from the saddle. There was scarce time to draw a startled breath than her feet touched the ground.

Shana stepped back as if she'd been scalded, her movement purely instinctive. She did not want him to touch her. Yet it came as a shock to realize it had nothing to do with the fact that this man was responsible for her father's death.

Her reaction did not go unnoticed. There was a subtle hardening of the plane of his jaw.

"I fear I've been remiss, milady. Indeed, it occurs to me it might be wise to demand some form of good will on your part—a forfeit, if you will."

Shana stiffened, for though he smiled as he spoke, his smile was wolfish, his regard almost leering. She gathered her cloak about her like a shield. "I am not averse to that," she said coolly. "My family is wealthy."

"I've no need of your coin, Lady Shana. Nay, milady, I should prefer something else entirely."

He indulged himself with a thorough inspection of her form, lingering with blatant interest on the sleek coil of her hair, the slender arch of her throat, the merest hint of breast beneath her cloak. Another time, another place, and she might have dared to slap the arrogant expression from his features. She was not entirely ignorant of a man's base desires—not all men were kind and gentle like her father and Barris! Many took their pleasure where they pleased, and if that pleasure included having their way with a woman, so be it.

Nay, there was neither admiration nor adoration in the earl's gaze. Indeed, she was well aware he deliberately mocked her, yet she sensed a ruthlessness about him that almost frightened her.

A shiver played over her skin. He made her feel weak and uncertain, terribly aware of him as a man, and in a way she had never felt before, even with Barris—a way she was not entirely comfortable with. His was a strong, intensely masculine presence, a presence she could scarcely ignore.

She was suddenly anxious to be quit of him, to be quit of the unwelcome sensations he aroused in her, no longer caring if she had her revenge or no. She attempted to step past him but he blocked her way. Her chin climbed high as she summoned all her dignity. "Let me pass," she said quietly.

His teeth flashed white. "Milady, may I remind you that you've yet to yield your forfeit?"

"And may I remind you that you demanded no forfeit?"

"Only because I hadn't yet decided on it. But now—" his gaze lowered to settle on the fullness of her mouth, "—now I have."

A frisson of panic trickled up her spine. She masked it by loosening the full force of a chilling gaze upon him. "My lord earl, it is not an hour since you made it a point to tell me my charms escape you."

"It seems I've changed my mind."

"But I, milord, have not!"

He had moved so close that they stood but a breath apart. Shana's pulse began to throb as his eyes traced slowly over her features, coming to rest once again on her parted lips.

"You are a beautiful woman, Lady Shana," he mused aloud. "There must be many, many ways in which a woman like you could please a man."

"Aye," she stated daringly. "And my husband found just as many ways to please me." She was grace and poise, the slant of her head regal as she met his challenge, seemingly unafraid.

He clamped his jaw tight. God, but she was a cool one, all haughty and aloof and he would have none of it. But even as a dark resolve slipped over him, her beauty struck him like a blow. He could not deny that she was by far the fairest piece of womanhood he'd set eyes on in a goodly number of years.

A white-hot shaft of desire pierced his middle. In truth, he'd have liked nothing more than to tumble her to the ground and slake his passion in the heat of her body. He was, however, a man who had no patience for those who could not curb their desires. And regrettable though it was, he could not forget that the Lady Shana was a widow who still mourned the loss of her husband.

A grim smile creased the hardness of his lips. "I ask but a kiss. It seems a small enough forfeit, wouldn't you say?" Thorne was determined. If he could not have what he wanted, but he would at least have this.

By some miracle she managed to still the frenzied thunder of her heart. Where, she wondered frantically, were Gryffen and the others? Had they forgotten where they were to meet after all? Her mind tripped ahead. A kiss, he said. But would he be satisfied with that? She did not like the glitter in his eyes, nay, not at all.

"You ask much," she began.

"And you've asked far more, milady. You've asked my trust when I can think of no reason I should give it."

"Milord, I scarcely know you!"

Shana thought fleetingly of escape—of screaming at the top of her lungs in the hope that Gryffen and the others lurked nearby. Yet even as the notion chased through her mind, he reached for her. She braced herself for his loathsome touch as warm hands descended on her shoulders. An odd shiver coursed the length of her. She could only stare helplessly into the hard-featured face of the man whose harshly carved lips hovered but a breath above her own.

The kiss brought to bear on her lips was never to be.

Behind her a voice thundered, "You mishandle a princess of Wales, man! Leave off her before I cut off your hands!"

Those words brought Thorne upright as no others could have done. All around was the thunder of hooves, the hiss of steel. In that instant Thorne cursed long and fluently. Christ, it appeared he'd just been done in by a woman...but not just by any woman, it seemed.

A princess.

That was his last thought. There was a stunning blow to the back of his head. His knees crumpled, and he tumbled headlong into an endless tunnel of darkness.

Shana couldn't move. She stood as if rooted to the spot like an ancient tree, unable to tear her eyes from his figure.

She had sworn she would not rest until he lay dead at her feet. And aye, he now lay sprawled before her, but he was not dead. Nay, she thought numbly, at least not yet.

The knight who'd struck down the earl stepped forward. Hatred glowed from his eyes as he raised his battle-ax high. Only then did Shana rouse herself from her trance. A strangled sound emerged as he prepared to finish the job.

Sir Gryffen seized his arm in the nick of time. "Nay, man, not here!"

"And why not? It's what we came for, isn't it?" The one who wielded his ax so eagerly remained adamant.

Gryffen shook his head. "To slay him here would be too risky. We'd have the English army down on us in a thrice."

"We came here to do our lady's bidding." Still another spoke up. "Seems to me the choice is hers."

Six pair of eyes swung to her. The fate of the Earl of Weston—nay, his very life!—lay solely in her grasp.

The night fell still and silent.

She suddenly felt ill. There was naught in her existence that prepared her for such a burden—and oh, how heavy a burden it was, she realized desperately. In all her days, she had known naught but love and comfort. The harsh realities of life sometimes troubled her, but had never truly touched her. She had known little of heartache and pain, save this last horrendous day.

And never had she willfully harmed another.

Her nails bit into her palms so deeply they brought blood, but she paid no heed. She was tempted to leave the Earl of Weston as he was, to fly into the night like some mythical creature of old, never to be seen again.

But the man-at-arms who sought so coldly to slay the earl was right. She had come here to seek justice; to see her enemy vanquished. But what justice was there in killing a man who already lay bleeding and defenseless? Everything within her decried such a deed as dastardly and wrong.

Yet how could she grant mercy when he had spared none?

Her stomach heaved. In her mind's eye, she saw once again the fields of Merwen, strewn with bodies and blood, people who had been slaughtered and left to die. A simmering resentment smoldered in her veins. Such carnage could not go unpunished, and before her was the man who had Drought about such death and destruction.

One word, she realized numbly. One word from her and he would meet his Maker. One word...

It was a command she could not utter. Her stomach twisted inside her; she was painfully aware of her dilemma. She could not see him slain—nor could she free him.

"Lady Shana." Gryffen presented himself before her. He glanced at the prone figure that now lay between them, then rubbed a hand against his lined cheeks. "If we tie him securely, he'll give us no fight. But we'd best hurry, for there's just enough light to get us through the forest. The moon is full so we'll have no trouble once we're clear of the trees."

Her eyes conveyed a silent message of gratitude. For all that he'd been trained in the arts of war, Gryffen was a man much as her father had been, gentle and peace-loving. She raised her head and nodded at the earl, stating clearly, "We will take him with us back to Merwen and decide his fate there."

Even as she spoke, he began to gain consciousness. He fought like a wild boar, agile and fiercely determined. It took every one of her men-at-arms to subdue him, yet in the end he was overcome, for he was but one. Six men pinned him to the ground while Gryffen bound his hands behind his back with strips of leather. He was seized by the arms and hauled upright, but there was naught of submission in his bearing. He flung back his black head, lips drawn back over his teeth. The very air was charged with the force of his wrath. Chills raked up and down her spine, for his rage was a terrible sight to behold.

His eyes lit upon her. "Princess, is it?" He sneered. "Well, curse you to hell and back, princess. I do not know what game you play, nor do I care. You may have caught me in your trap, but you'd best be wary, for when I find myself free, you shall be the first one I seek out."

One of her men dealt him a blow to the jaw that snapped his head back "Cease!" the man roared. "Our lady does not have to listen to the likes of you!"

The earl's head came down slowly. Shana stood as if she'd been cast in stone. She was horrified to see a trail of blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Still he taunted her. "Remember, princess. I'll have my revenge somehow ... someday. This I promise—by God, this I vow!"

With a snarl of fury, her man drew back his hand yet again. Shana moved without volition, putting herself between the two. "Nay!" she cried. "Did you not hear Sir Gryffen? We must be off, and quickly now!"

The earl was put forcibly upon his horse. All the while his gaze stabbed at her like the tip of a lance, as if she were the one he sought to kill, with naught but the touch of his eyes. It was almost a relief when Gryffen bound a doth around his eyes so that he could not see. But her stomach churned anew when Gryffen looped a noose around his neck; the other end of me rope was tied to the horn of his saddle. Oh, she knew it was done so that he could make no attempt at escape. Yet it sickened her to see any man—aye, even this one!—treated so. As if—if he were an animal.

He and Gryffen rode ahead while she and the others brought up the rear. There was something so rigidly dignified in his posture that she felt herself pricked by some nameless emotion. Shame? Nay, surely not, for she had no reason to be ashamed. Nor, she reasoned, should she feel guilty. Didn't he deserve to be punished? Didn't he deserve to pay in kind for such vileness as he had perpetrated?

The heavens were clear and bright. The full moon spread its silver veil across the land. They made good time, for it was nearly as light as day. They rode hard, in part to elude any English soldiers that might have followed, in part because they were anxious to return to Merwen. Shana spoke little throughout the journey, her mind all ajumble. She had captured her prey, but the triumphant satisfaction she'd expected to find was simply not to be. Nay, there was naught of victory in her heart, only a peculiar sort of resignation.

The first faint traces of dawn streaked the eastern sky when at last Merwen came into view. Tears stung Shana's eyes, but they were scarcely tears of gladness, for there would be no hearty welcome from her father. Instead she was filled with a despairing bleakness that yawned ever further.

A youth huddled beneath a blanket near the entrance to the keep, no doubt keeping watch. His eyes opened blearily when he heard their approach. They widened when he spied Shana. He bolted upright. Within minutes, the entire household—what was left of it, she reflected bitterly—was up and about.

The hours on horseback and the chill night air had left her muscles cramped. Her knees nearly gave way beneath her when she slipped to the ground. The earl, she noted darkly, had no such problem. Despite the bonds at his wrists, his stance was as boldly defiant as ever.

She motioned for Gryffen to remove the cloth from his eyes. He blinked, protesting the sudden light. Then his gaze slid slowly, inevitably, to where she stood in the center of the bailey.

"Princess." He greeted her with a mocking smile. "You've fed my curiosity these many hours. How do you come to be a princess? I know for a fact Llywelyn's daughter is scarce more than a babe."

"Llywelyn is my uncle," she informed him coldly. "My father was Kendal, Llywelyn's younger brother."

"I see," he said smoothly. "Well, princess, you needn't have kidnapped me. Had you but issued the invitation, I'd have come with you ever so willingly."

Shana's temper soared stark and furious. "My lord earl, you strike me as a man who does what he pleases and goes where he pleases. And I know for a fact that you make war as you please, for not two nights past you and your men bloodied the very ground on which we stand!"

His eyes narrowed, dark as agates. "Milady," he stated flatly. "I made no war on this place, nor did any of my men. I've never set foot on these lands in all my days."

Ah, but he was a cool one! He gazed at her head-on and spoke the lie as if it were the most divine of truths. "What! You do not recognize the place where you struck down so many of our own? How conveniently you forget, milord." Shana was suddenly so angry she trembled from head to foot. She turned to Gryffen. "You may take him to the blue chamber on the second floor. See that the door is bolted and two guards are posted outside."

She spun to face the earl. It gave her no small amount of pleasure to see that his anger blazed as keenly as her own. "I truly regret that we have no dungeon here at Merwen. I'd gladly see you spend the rest of your days there."

She whirled and ascended the stairs into the keep. Not once did she deign to look back.

Thorne was indeed furious, furious with himself for foolishly playing into the lady's hands, and furious with Shana for daring to make him her victim. To think that he'd actually compared her to a queen—and her a princess yet, a princess of Wales at that! He couldn't have known, for her English was faultless. Yet it might have crossed his mind, for only now did he realize her fair coloring bespoke her Celtic heritage.

If there was a twinge of admiration for a plan so boldly carried out, it was swiftly suppressed. He paced the chamber in which he'd been imprisoned like a caged animal, back and forth, incessantly. And he swore over and over again, cursing her, cursing himself, until at last the red mist of rage left his mind and he was able to think more clearly.

Only then did he take note of his surroundings. A smile of little mirth creased his features. "You provide a prison cell unlike any other, princess," he murmured aloud. The chamber was not overly large, but elegantly furnished. The bed was draped in rich blue velvet. The only window was long and narrow, set high in the wall. Not even a child could manage to wiggle through.

He raked a hand through the tumbled darkness of his hair. He dimly recalled that someone had cut his bonds—the old knight, Gryffen.

Stretching out on the bed, he considered what little he knew. Apparently they thought he was to blame for whatever battle had ensued here. He did not doubt that the loss of life had been staggering. He'd seen only a handful of servants and men-at-arms other than those who had brought him here from Langley. A melancholy sorrow shadowed those he passed. There was bitter hatred reflected when they looked at him.

But their suffering was not of his doing.

He could not dwell on their problems for long, however. He had his own to confront, such as how to escape.

With a grimace he moved to stare out the narrow window. And it was there, a long time later, that he spied the she-devil who no doubt plotted even now to see an end to him.

She stood on the last of the steps that led into the hall. There was no concealing cloak to hide the slender lines of her body. Her flowing white gown rippled sinuously about her legs as she strode across the courtyard, all fluid grace and lithe beauty. Her hair was caught in a ribbon at her nape, a rich, lustrous gold streaked through with living fire. Despite the hatred simmering in his veins, Thorne stared as if spellbound. But he did not fall prey to her spell, nay, not this time, for such delicate beauty defied all that he knew her to be.

Beware, princess, he whispered silently. You will soon rue the day you dared to cross my path.

His face settled into a, hard, implacable mask. He was about to turn away when a white stallion raced across the courtyard, straight toward Shana. She showed no fear, but stayed her ground with her head held high, facing the intruder unafraid. The stallion stopped in a flurry of dust. A dark-haired man leaped from the saddle. She was caught up against his chest, clearly a willing captive of his arms. Thorne's lip curled as their mouths clung together in an unbroken kiss that spoke of long— and intimate—acquaintance.

Shana clung to Barris long after he released her lips. She was very much afraid she was making a brazen spectacle of herself, but she couldn't bring herself to care right now. It felt so good to be held again, to cling to someone near and dear and comfortably familiar.

Even as a child, Shana had loved and admired Barris. He was keen of wit, clever, and passionate, yet Shana was certain no man was ever more sensitive and tender. But it was only when she'd grown to womanhood that Barris had truly begun to notice her. Kendal had been reluctant to wed his daughter out of expedience and not for love, for he and her mother had loved each other deeply. He could not bear to see her marry a man she did not love, and so he had held off. Shana, too, had been determined to settle for no less than the happiness her parents had shared. Springtime had seen the culmination of all her secret yearnings.

Barris had asked for her hand in marriage. They were to wed after the fall harvest.

Now her beloved caught her in his arms, availing himself of a long, sweet kiss that sent her heart spinning. "I've only just returned from Gwynedd and learned Merwen was stormed a few days past." He searched her features anxiously. "You are all right, love? You were not harmed?"

Pain burned like fire in her chest. "I am unharmed," she said unevenly. "But my father ..." A hot ache closed her throat.

Barris was stunned. Nay, he thought, it cannot be! "Your father is dead?"

Her eyes filled with tears. It was all the answer Barris needed.

He wrapped her close once more. "You need not worry, love. I will care for you, this I swear. And I will find the fiend responsible for your father's death," he vowed. "I will search him out and see that he pays."

Shana pulled back, shaking her head. "There is no need," she said quietly. "I have already seen to it."

His hands tightened on her shoulders. He stared at her, convinced his hearing had failed him.

A ghost of a smile grazed her lips. " 'It's true, Barris. My father yet lived when I reached him. He did not recognize our attackers, but he, and others, saw the pennon they carried."

Barris's face was like a thundercloud. "Englishmen?"

She nodded. "They gather at Castle Langley," she said bitterly. "It appears Merwen was one of their targets." She told him how they had gone to Langley to seek out and identify their quarry.

Barris was both furious and aghast. "Are you mad?" he cried. "You marched straight into the hornet's nest with no fear of being stung? Why didn't you wait until I returned?"

"The duty was mine and mine alone." She withdrew from the binding of his arms, her eyes flashing silver fire. "My plan was simple but effective. I was able to find the man behind the attack on Merwen. I merely told him I knew someone who might lead him to the Dragon, then lured him outside the castle where we were able to capture him."

"Sweet Mother Mary," he muttered. "I pray you didn't tell him who you are!"

Shana bristled. "I was careful to speak to as few as possible. I had no wish to attract attention to myself."

"But you must have been seen leaving with him!"

She bit her lip. This was one detail she had overlooked. It seemed she hadn't been so clever, after all. "We've kept to ourselves here at Merwen, Barris." She sought to assure both him and herself. "I know not a soul in England, so how could anyone at Langley possibly suspect who I am? They may search the area around Langley, but they will never search this far into Wales. The earl told no one of his plans, and I sent a man back to release his horse in the border lands. If perchance they find his horse wandering, they will think he's been thrown—or has met with some other foul play."

Barris had gone as pale as a mountain snow. "I pray you are right, for all our sakes."

Shana felt a hand at her sleeve. One of the kitchen boys stood at her elbow. "Begging your pardon, milady, but the prisoner demands to speak with you."

She glanced inquiringly at Barris. "By all means," he muttered. "I've an urge to meet this butcher."

Shana nodded to the boy. "Please ask Sir Gryffen to bring him into the hall." The boy ran off. She and Barris followed more slowly. They had been waiting in the great hall for several minutes when they heard footsteps on the stairs. Gryffen descended the last steps, slightly behind the earl, whose hands were still tied behind his back. The grizzled knight guided him to a low- backed chair in the center of the room.

Shana and Barris had been standing in the shadows at the edge of the hall. Once seated, the earl tilted his head to stare at them. In so doing, the light fell full upon his face.

An unearthly quiet prevailed.

Beside her, Barris drew a harsh breath. She felt him go rigid as stone and glanced at him in surprise.

His gaze was riveted to the earl. "Jesu," he whispered. "Shana, do you know who this man is?"

Her reply was a bit indignant. "This is the man who saw my father and all the others killed—the Earl of Weston!"

"Aye," Barris said grimly. "The Bastard Earl."

Get My Rebellious Heart for your eReader now!

Outlaw Heart

Prologue

Wyoming Territory, 1878

Stringer Sam.

There wasn't a man, woman or child west of Deadwood who hadn't heard of him. Some said he was spawn of the devil. Some predicted that— good or bad—he'd end up a legend. But for those unlucky enough to cross his path, Stringer Sam was more like a nightmare come to life.

His nickname was apt. Stories about his trademark display of deadliness soon spread from barroom to barroom, from parlor to parlor, from cow town to cow town. Little boys listened in terrified awe as their fathers recounted grisly tales of Stringer Sam's savagery. Women shivered in fear at the mention of his name, while little girls hid their faces in their mothers' skirts.

But it wasn't Stringer Sam sitting in the Laramie jail that warm May night. Instead it was Rowdy Roy, reported to be one of Stringer Sam's gang. There were two deputies guarding him, Andy Horner and Nate Gilmore. Andy was a rangy youth of twenty who had decided six months ago to put an end to his cowboy days. To Nate, who was nearly ten years his senior, Andy had a tendency to run off at the mouth. But he could draw and hit a target with a six-shooter faster than a man could spit, and that was why Marshal Dillon MacKenzie had hired him.

"Don't know why the marshal insisted both of us be here tonight," grumbled the younger man. He thumped his boot heels against the wide-planked floor, his lips twisting in a grimace as he glanced at their prisoner.

Nate puffed on his cheroot, then blew a lazy ring of smoke into the air. "The territorial marshal should be here tomorrow night at the latest to take him off our hands," he said with an idle shrug. "Besides, one thing about Dillon. He usually has a good reason for doin' whatever he does."

Like Andy, Nate had drifted into town several years ago. He'd promptly been accused of cattle rustling. Buck Russell, who owned the Triple R Ranch just east of Laramie, had been quick to accuse him. It was Dillon who'd rescued him from a vengeful lynch mob and ferreted out the real rustlers, several of Russell's own men.

Nate had been quick to gather that there was no love lost between Dillon MacKenzie and Buck Russell. He'd later learned that Dillon's daddy owned the Diamondback Ranch, which shared its northern boundary with Russell's. On that boundary was a section of rich grassland that Russell coveted for himself, and it had provoked many a harsh word between the two men.

No one was more surprised than Nate himself when Dillon offered him the job of deputy marshal. He had reservations about working for the law after what had happened. But Dillon was willing to give him a fair shake and Nate felt obliged to pay him back. Three years later he was still here in Laramie, but now he had no thoughts of pulling up stakes and moving on. Dillon had become his friend as well as his boss. Rumor had it that the governor was thinking of appointing Dillon county sheriff, and Nate couldn't have been more pleased.

Andy blew out a gusty sigh and glanced once more at the cell where their lone prisoner sat huddled in a corner of the narrow bunk. Gaunt and thin, with an ugly puckered scar on one cheek, Rowdy Roy Parker stared through the barred window at the inky sky above, as he had throughout the evening. It was odd, Andy thought vaguely. Though he was spike-whiskered and dirty, Rowdy Roy was anything but rowdy, as Andy had expected. Instead the man looked almost. . . fearful.

Roy had been caught yesterday trying to steal a horse from the livery stable. He'd been quickly recognized as one of the men with Sam when they'd pulled off a bank robbery in Rawlins last month. Incredibly, he had most of the bankroll still with him. Unfortunately, Stringer Sam wasn't with him. Sam was a crafty one, all right. Sometimes he worked alone; other times he had as many as five or six accomplices.

Andy inclined his head slightly. "Roy there's as quiet as a stone wall," he mused thoughtfully. 'To tell the truth, I expected a little more trouble from one of Sam's boys." His eyes narrowed. "You don't think he sent the marshal on a wild-goose chase, do you?"

Nate hesitated. He didn't want to think so. Damn, but he didn't! Dillon had at first been skeptical of Roy's claim that he was breaking all ties with Sam and his gang. But when Roy blurted out that he knew the location of Sam's hideout, everything had changed. Dillon had grilled him for hours, determined to find out if he was telling the truth.

Apparently Dillon was convinced, for he'd ridden out late this afternoon, intent on capturing Sam once and for all.

Nate scraped back the chair and stood up. He pulled off his hat and dropped it on the desktop, running his fingers through his hair. "I don't think Dillon would have gone after him if he didn't think Roy was telling the truth," he said finally.

For the longest time, neither one said anything. An uneasy, ominous silence descended. It was as if an oppressive black cloud had dropped its smothering folds over the jail.

For the first time, Nate wished fervently that Dillon hadn't gone after Sam. Sam was not a man to be crossed. He was unpredictable. Wily and cagey, as the lawmen scattered across the Territory knew. For Sam, it wasn't enough just to steal and rob; it wasn't enough to cold- bloodedly shoot a man dead between the eyes.

But to think of Sam inevitably brought thoughts of death... and dying. Nate was rather grateful when Andy cleared his throat and turned the conversation elsewhere. And so the two men put Stringer Sam out of their minds.

It would prove to be a costly error in judgment. . . a deadly mistake.

Andy's eyes lit up like firecrackers on the Fourth of July. "Say, Nate. You seen that new singer at the Silver Spur? Now there's a lady makes a man hot as a ruttin' elk."

Two fervent gazes looked as one toward the open door and down the street. Most of the town's male population liked nothing more than to bend an elbow at the Silver Spur. A constant hum of raucous talk and laughter reached their ears. Someone pounded out a bouncy, slightly off-key tune on the piano, trilling along with the melody.

A sly grin etched its way along Nate's mouth. "Done more than seen her," he offered casually. "And her name's Tina, kid."

Andy's chair thumped to the rutted wooden floor. He gaped in astonishment. "What! Are you telling me that you ... that she ... that you and her..."

Nate nodded. His self-satisfied smile spoke for itself.

"Why, she told me she never mixed with the clientele!"

Nate just laughed. "That's 'cause she's looking for a man," he drawled. He chuckled when Andy turned red clear to the part in his tousled blond hair.

Andy's jaw clamped shut. He regarded the older man suspiciously. "Oh, yeah? Well, I think you're all gurgle and no guts."

Nate chuckled and arranged his hands over his belt buckle. "Oh, yes," he said. "Tina's a mighty juicy little piece. Fact is, she gave me a ride I won't soon forget."

Andy nudged his chair closer. This time he was all ears. Unable to resist, Nate went on embellishing the tale.

Outside, the ever-present wind had not yet ceased its restless scouring of the plains, though the hour was past midnight. A half-moon spilled translucent spears of light down upon the earth, where a chestnut stallion broke free from the waist-high feathery grass along the dirt road. In the gloom, his rider appeared dark and featureless; his build was wiry, lean and tough. The man wore a black broad-brimmed hat, dark clothing and boots. . . and no spurs.

The man was alone. He passed two other riders on their way out of town, but spoke to neither. He betrayed no hint of stealth whatsoever as he guided his horse toward the small building squatting near the end of the street. Indeed, his was a bold and daring approach—

But that was his way.

When he reached his destination, he slid from his horse. Inside the jail, two male voices joined in laughter.

A shadow spread through the doorway. The man stepped inside.

Nate leaped up in startled surprise, a hand already reaching for his gun.

Andy never made it that far.

There was a deadly staccato of gunfire. Andy's chair tipped backwards. Nate slumped to the floor.

Inside his cell, Rowdy Roy began to pray for the first time in his miserable life.

The man with the gun blew a wisp of smoke from the barrel, then slipped the weapon back into the holster at his hip. An expression of distaste on his face, he stepped around the pool of blood on the floor. With the toe of his boot, he flipped Nate's body onto his back, then bent to unfasten the ring of keys at his waist.

Eyes as black as hell slid toward Roy. An instant later, the door of his cell creaked open.

But Roy made no move toward freedom.

The intruder inclined his head. At last he spoke. "Roy, Roy," he murmured. He shook his head. "Did you really think you could rob me and get away with it?"

Roy fell to his knees. "I was bringing the bankroll back, Sam, I swear. But then my horse went lame and the marshal caught me trying to steal one—"

An odd gleam entered Sam's eyes. 'The marshal," he repeated. "Where is he anyway? I have to admit, I was hoping that son of a bitch MacKenzie would be here." His .gaze was utterly remorseless as it encompassed the two bodies lying on the floor.

Roy blanched. He could almost feel the tickle of hemp against his neck. "I don't know," he hedged. "Though it seems he might have found out where your hideout is ... I heard 'em talking, you see..."

Sam had gone very still. "Is that where he is? Gone to the hideout?"

Roy swallowed, unable to tear his eyes from the other man's face. "I don't know," he whined.

"The hell you don't!" Sam's shout rang from the rafters. "He went after me, didn't he? MacKenzie went to the hideout. And you told him where it was, didn't you, you squirmy little worm?"

Roy's skin was as pasty-looking as flour and water. "I had to, I swear. Sam, I had no choice. He told me he'd blow my head off if I didn't."

Sam ground his teeth in order to keep from snatching his gun from his holster and blowing Roy's head off himself. Goddammit, he raged inwardly. Even if he'd wanted to leave the Territory, he couldn't—not yet. He had a fortune cached at the hideout. He couldn't leave without one last trip there.

Sam's face was stripped of all expression, but the fires of hell blazed in his eyes. "When did MacKenzie leave?" he demanded.

"I don't know for sure. He just found out this afternoon, Sam, I swear." Roy was whining like a puppy dog. "I heard one of the deputies say his old man's got a ranch just east of town ... the Diamondback or something like that. Could be he's gone there for the night and intends to head out in the mornin'."

Sam's mind was racing. Maybe, he decided, Roy had done him a favor after all. It had been an unpleasant surprise to discover that Dillon MacKenzie was still alive, and a lawman yet... Why, not six months ago the bastard had killed two members of his gang.

And that same day, MacKenzie had found out for himself why the legendary Stringer Sam had never been caught. No doubt he was the one MacKenzie had really been after, but so what? Sam had slipped beneath the long arm of the law too many times to be bothered by the likes of Dillon MacKenzie.

His mind sifted back. MacKenzie hadn't been a lawman two years ago ... He recalled that long ago day he'd hauled MacKenzie from his stage coach, him and his ladybird. Shit, but the man had a mouth! MacKenzie had sworn to see him in his grave ... A smirk curled Sam's lips. It was with a great deal of pleasure that he'd decided MacKenzie deserved a slow, painful death. He'd taken even more pleasure in taking MacKenzie's woman as his own...

Cruel lips flattened in a vicious sneer. But the bastard hadn't died, God rot his soul!

This time, Sam vowed coldly, he wouldn't fail.

Roy's eyes darted back and forth between Sam and the door. Could he make it? he wondered frantically. It was worth a try, he decided. But before he could make a move, Sam lifted his head. His smile was purely malicious.

In his hand was a length of rope.

Roy staggered back. "Please, Sam." He was blubbering like a baby. "Please don't kill me. Please ..."

Down the street, the merry song-and-dance at the Silver Spur continued. A shout of ribald laughter drifted on the air as Rowdy Roy choked his last breath—

The townspeople found his body strung up from the gnarled branches of the old cottonwood tree behind the jail the next morning.

Chapter 1

The house was two-story and sprawling, set back among a windbreak of towering cottonwood trees. Beyond the house and cluster of outbuildings, the Laramie Mountains rose in shadowed silhouette against the backdrop of a cloudless sky.

Abigail MacKenzie stood on the porch, her slender figure garbed in faded brown cotton. A gust of wind blew a stray strand of hair across her cheek. She pushed it away and flipped the thick chestnut braid from her shoulder to her back. A faint frown marred the honeyed skin of her forehead as she anxiously scanned the horizon.

Lord, but she regretted her argument with Pa this morning! She had stewed and fretted since he'd left, so much so that Dorothy had finally chased her outside.

Yet it wasn't all her fault! Her life revolved around the Diamondback ranch, and her marital status—or lack of it—had never concerned her. But lately Pa had begun to bring up the subject more and more often. It didn't help that Dillon had begun to chide her about it as well.

"No one could put up with you, little sister," he'd told her just last week. "You're too damned full of starch and sass. And no man likes to be told what to do—especially by a woman."

The usually soft line of Abby's lips tightened. Just thinking of Dillon's lofty tone and mocking grin infuriated her all over again. And now Pa had practically called her an old maid, too!

Her father's approval was the one thing she'd always sought—and most of the time she succeeded in getting it. She could ride and shoot and rope as well as any of the ranch hands, which was why she'd gone after that stray calf yesterday morning.

Sure enough, she'd managed to find him. He'd also managed to get himself cornered by a timber wolf; a skitter of excitement had raced through her. They'd lost a dozen calves and yearlings the last few months. Lucas was convinced a wolf was responsible. Could this be the one? And wouldn't Pa be glad if she nailed this critter straight through the heart?

But the wolf had bolted, and he was a wily one indeed. He'd led her in circles for hours before she finally found his trail again, which was why she hadn't gotten back to the ranch until well after midnight. Pa was pacing a hole through the rug in his study. Lord, but he could boom and bluster! He'd shouted so that Abby was certain she'd heard the windows rattling in their frames.

"God Almighty!" he exploded. "What possessed you to take off like that? Do you know what's been going through my mind? I thought you were lost. Lying hurt somewhere—maybe even dead!" Duncan MacKenzie ran a meaty hand through the thatch of iron-gray hair on his head and glared at his daughter.

Abby dropped her gloves on his desk. "I told Lucas where I was going," she said coolly. Lucas was her father's foreman. "Besides, it's not the first time I've chased down a stray calf."

"It's the first time you didn't have sense to come back before nightfall!"

He leveled a gaze of fearsome intensity upon her—not that she showed any signs of backing down, or even bending a little. The seconds ticked by while they fought a silent battle of wills. Finally Duncan swore silently. Abby was a strip off his own hide, all right. And so was her brother.

"Isn't it enough that your brother risks his damn fool hide trailing outlaws from here to kingdom come? And all in the name of law and order!" He snorted, and Abby was heartily thankful Dillon wasn't there to hear him. "Now you're chasing halfway across the country after a five-dollar calf!" he finished. "I'm not so greedy that I'll miss that five dollars, missy!"

"But it wasn't just the calf," she proclaimed with a shake of her head. "There was a wolf on his heels when I found him. He ran off when I showed up but I tracked him down." Her eyes gleamed. "I found the wolf's den, Pa, and his mate, too!" She thought of the pelts tied to her saddle and tossed her head triumphantly. "I made sure we won't lose any more calves to those two, Pa."

It was a hollow victory. Pa remained unimpressed, and Abby slipped upstairs to her room, more than a little disappointed.

When she'd come downstairs before sunup this morning, she had decided it might be wise to say no more about the whole episode. They planned to start branding out in the summer pasture today.

Abby had taken it for granted that she would be present as usual.

Pa had curtly refused.

Abby shoved back her plate and regarded him with narrowed eyes. "I haven't missed a branding in years, Pa!"

"Well, you're going to miss this one," he shot back.

Abby glanced at Dorothy, who stood at the stove in the corner sliding flapjacks onto a plate. Dorothy was Lucas's wife; she and Lucas had a small house out behind the barn, and Dorothy did the cooking and cleaning for them as well. Was it her imagination, or were Dorothy's shoulders shaking with laughter?

Her gaze slid back to Pa. "You're still riled up about last night," she muttered.

"Damn right I am. I want you close to home, Abby, do you hear?"

When Abby said nothing, his eyes sought Dorothy's. "Dorothy," he said more quietly, "would you go out and ask someone to saddle up Brandy for me?"

Dorothy flitted from the kitchen, her lips still twitching in amusement.

His gaze returned to Abby, who hadn't relieved him of that accusatory stare. Her chin jutted out, a smaller, more delicate version of his. "Why?" she demanded. "Why now?"

"Because I can't trust you further than I can see you, young lady." Duncan's chair scraped against the floor. "Maybe I ought to marry you off to Buck Russell and be done with you!"

Abby gasped. Buck Russell, who owned the neighboring ranch on their northern border, had made it known to Pa that he wasn't averse to uniting the two families—and their ranches.

"Pa, I can't believe I heard you right! You don't even like Buck Russell. Besides, we're a team, Pa. You always said so. We love this place! Why, what would happen to the ranch if I weren't here? Dillon wouldn't be here for you like I am... you were right when you said he'd rather be off chasing outlaws than chasing stray calves!"

An odd expression crossed Duncan's features. Too late Abby wished she hadn't spoken. While there was a part of him that was proud his son was Laramie's marshal, she alone knew how deeply it pained him that Dillon had never been interested in the ranch. But she didn't dare say so, for that very reason.

Instead, she let an uneasy laugh escape. "Besides," she went on quickly, "you don't like Buck Russell. We both know the only reason he would ever marry me is to get his hands on the Diamondback!"

Duncan let his eyes drift slowly over his daughter, taking in the rich mane of chestnut hair that tumbled down her back. Her shoulders were stiff with pride, the tilt of her chin defiant. Her eyes were snapping, as blue as the summer sky outside. She was a beauty, all right. Oh, not the conventional kind; she wasn't frail and fragile. He thought of how she'd grown up right before his eyes, and somehow he'd never even noticed until lately—or perhaps he hadn't wanted to. But Abby was full of fire and passion, just like her mother—the kind of woman that drove a man to heaven and hell and back again. . . The kind that made each day better than the last.

Duncan plucked his hat from the peg on the wall. He stared at Abby, fingering the wide brim in his hands. "I'm not so sure about that," he said slowly. "I don't think there's a man alive wouldn't give his soul to get his hands on a sweet little thing like you, daughter." He saw her eyes go wide with shock and knew he'd startled her with his bluntness. A grim smile etched his lips. "But Buck Russell knows how to run a ranch, Abby. And at least the Diamondback would be in good hands when I'm gone."

When I'm gone. It was odd, the effect those words had on her. Pa... dead. The chill that slipped over her penetrated clear to her bones. She shivered. She didn't like to think of it. Nor could she ever remember him speaking of his own death before.

Now, hours later, that same prickly sense of unease ran up her spine. All at once the wind began to lull. There was a peculiar stillness in the air, as if the entire world held its breath. Even the blue jays ceased their screeching.

Abby's hands tightened around the wooden railing of the porch. Something was wrong, she thought vaguely. Her reaction was more instinct than conscious thought.

The sound of drumming hoofbeats reached her ears. It was then that she saw a buckboard rounding the last bend in the road. Hazy clouds of dust spiraled skyward behind it. Hitched to the back was a strawberry roan that looked just like Brandy.

Abby stood as if paralyzed. Some strange force beyond her control held her rooted to the floor of the porch, like an ancient tree. She could only watch with a horrifying sense of inevitability as the buckboard drew nearer to the house.

There was a tall male form stretched out in the back, limp and prone.

Her first thought was that she'd never seen a dead man. Her second was that this was a dream ... A dream? Dear God, a nightmare..!

Because the man was her father.

Nor was he dead.

There was a low moan as the buckboard rolled to a halt. It was that sound which finally galvanized her into action. Abby flew down the stairs and climbed into the back of the buckboard. She sank to her knees and cradled her father's head in her lap.

A thin aborted cry tore from her lips. "Pa! Oh, Pa—" A crimson stain darkened the front of his shirt. His skin was as white as snow. Her heart lurched. "Pa, what happened? My God, what happened?"

Lucas hovered across from her, his leathery face lined and anxious. "We got worried when he didn't show at the branding site. Grady and I rode out to see where he was. We found him out near Sparrow Creek. He's been shot, Miss Abby. Grady and I. .. we did our best to stop the bleeding ... I sent Grady into town after the doc..." Lucas swallowed, unable to go on.

At that, Duncan's eyelids fluttered open. Abby stared into blue eyes so like her own. Only Pa's were dull and clouded with pain.

"It's too late," he rasped.

"Don't say that! Don't even think it!" The words were torn from deep inside her, a cry of outrage, a fervent plea.

Duncan's lips twisted, more grimace than smile. "You'll never change, will you, Abby?" His feeble tone tore at her heart. "Always ... have to have... the last... word."

Abby began to shake all over. "Pa," she whispered.

His breath was rattling in his chest. "Got to listen, Abby... Stringer Sam . .."

"Stringer Sam! Is that who did this to you? Did he shoot you, Pa?"

His eyes closed once in silent assent. His lips barely moved as he spoke.

"Honey, you got to listen. Last night when you were gone after that calf, Dillon came by ... Had a prisoner in jail by the name of Rowdy Roy who was hooked up with Stringer Sam's gang... Seems Roy knew where Sam's hideout is. Dillon got Roy to tell him, so he rode out late last night to find ... the hideout. Dillon said he'd catch Stringer Sam ... if he had to wait forever. This morning Sam rode out here... after Dillon ... I wouldn't tell him where he was... only Sam—he laughed and said he already knew ..."

Abby's head was spinning. "Pa, wait! He knew that Dillon went after him?"

Pa nodded.

She groaned. "How?"

"Sam said Rowdy Roy turned tail on him... so he hunted him down ... He broke into the jail last night and killed Roy and the two deputies... But before he did, Roy told Sam he'd already let Dillon know where his hideout was . .. that Dillon intended to ride out after him today ..."

Comprehension dawned with a sickening rush. Sam had come here to the ranch to kill Dillon. Instead he'd found Pa.

"Abby, if Dillon manages to find Sam's hideout ... he doesn't know that Sam's right behind him ..."

Oh, God, she thought, sickened. Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins.

Her mind traveled d fleetingly back, to the time nearly three years ago when Dillon, based at Fort Bridger, had still been scouting for the U.S. Army. Both she and Pa had been surprised—but very pleased—when Dillon wrote to say he was engaged to be married. Rose had been the daughter of a captain stationed there.

The wedding never took place.

With a twist of her heart, Abby recalled how he and Rose had boarded a stagecoach headed for Laramie. Not far from the fort, the coach had been robbed—by none other than Stringer Sam. Beyond that, Abby knew little. Dillon had always been very close-mouthed about the details.

But Rose and the driver had been killed. Stringer Sam had shot Dillon and left him for dead. But Dillon had survived. He'd recovered at Fort Bridger, then spent the next year in search of Stringer Sam, to no avail. Pa had begged him to give up the search and come home. Eventually, Dillon had, only because Pa had asked him to.

But he was a changed man, moody and bitter. Abby recalled how Pa had once confided that he suspected Dillon had taken the post of Laramie marshal in the hopes that it might someday put him on Stringer Sam's trail.

Dear God, it had.

Abby shuddered. It was a miracle that Dillon had ever survived—Stringer Sam had left him there to die!

Now the outlaw had done the same to Pa. A dizzying fear swept over her. Surely Dillon couldn't be so unlucky a third time .. . But there was a saying—that bad luck came in threes.

Pa moaned. "Don't want you to lose Dillon, too. Got to have someone to look after you."

Abby stifled a sob. She could see him straining desperately to breathe, trying vainly to drag air into his lungs, struggling to hold on. He clutched at her fingers.

"Abby," he gasped. His chest was heaving, his breathing a mere trickle. She had to drop her head close to his lips in order to hear. "You have to find him ... Find Dillon and warn him before Sam kills him, too." His fingers twisted around hers. His expression was tortured and imploring. "Promise me, honey. Promise... me."

Tears streamed down her face. "I promise," she choked. "Pa, I promise."

His eyes closed; the grip on her fingers grew slack.

"Pa," she screamed. "Pa!"

This time Pa didn't hear.

Abby was only dimly aware of Lucas leading her into the parlor. There she clung to Dorothy.

"Dorothy," she sobbed. "He—he's dead."

Dorothy found it difficult not to break into tears herself. "I know, child," she whispered. "I know." At length the older woman eased her down at the table. She squeezed the girl's shoulder, and went to fetch a cup of strong hot coffee.

After that first small storm, Abby's tears ceased. A curious kind of numbness overtook her. She stared listlessly at her hands, so neatly folded in her lap, and let her mind wander at will.

She noted distantly how tanned her hands were, the color a rich honey. It had never concerned her that her skin wasn't milky-white, which was why she took no precautions to shield herself from the sun. She wore a cowboy hat when she was out riding, but the only bonnet she'd ever owned had been given to her on her twelfth birthday by a schoolmate, Emily Dawson. It was white and frilly and decorated with pink satin ribbons. She remembered how proudly she'd paraded in front of Pa and Dillon. Pa had tried hard not to laugh aloud, but Dillon hooted openly. That was the last time—the only time—Abby had worn a bonnet.

It was Emily's mother who had convinced Pa that her education was sorely lacking when it came to ladylike qualities. When she was seventeen, her father decided maybe Mrs. Dawson was right; maybe it was time his Abigail learned to be a proper lady. Abby had argued and cried and pleaded, but he'd packed her off to that fancy girls' school in Chicago despite her protests. Mrs. Rutherford, the headmistress, had been shockingly appalled at her golden skin—and frankly dismayed at her loose-limbed, leggy stride.

"This creature," Mrs. Rutherford had sniffed disdainfully when her father came to collect her a scant month later, "will never be a lady. She can't sing. She can't dance—but I'm not surprised since she walks like a cow!"

Abby had lost her temper then. "Look who's talking," she retorted. "Did you ever hear yourself laugh, lady? You whinny like a horse who got his behind stuck on a fence post!"

Pa hadn't been pleased that Mrs. Rutherford had dismissed her from the school. It was only later when they were on the train and headed back to Wyoming that he confided he shared her opinion of Mrs. Rutherford—her brain was surely stuffed with chicken scratch.

Abby watched her fingers curl into her palm, so tightly her nails dug into her skin. But the pain was like nothing compared to the ache in her heart. For as long as she could remember, she had relied on Pa. She was seven when her mother died from pneumonia. Dillon had been seventeen, already a man. But Abby was still a child, with a child's tender need for shelter and protection. And Duncan MacKenzie had taken on a role not every man could have accomplished. While Dillon was off scouting for the army, Abby and her father had clung to each other and shared their grief. He had taught her, played with her, and indulged her. Abby had grown up strong and proud, and when she'd needed someone to hold her, her father had always been there. Abby had sometimes teased him that she'd probably never marry.

"I couldn't bear to live anywhere other than the Diamondback," she'd laugh. "Besides, you wouldn't like it if you and Dillon weren't the most important men in my life, would you?"

A wrenching pain ripped through her, as if her soul was on fire. Now Pa was gone. Gone. And all she had left was Dillon.

Abby couldn't suppress a twinge of bitterness. Dillon was never around when they needed him. Her mind screamed in silent outrage. Damn you, Dillon! Where are you? Where? It was just like him— just like a man!—to think he was invincible.

Stringer Sam had already proved he wasn't.

Yet she didn't wonder why Dillon had gone after Sam. To her knowledge, only once had Dillon ever considered marrying and settling down—with Rose. But Stringer Sam had shattered his dreams. For Dillon, in this instance, at least, it was less a job than a vendetta.

But she had made a promise to Pa that she could never hope to keep. A debilitating sense of helplessness seeped through her. How on earth was she to find Dillon? The only man who knew where Stringer Sam's outlaw hideout was had been killed!

"Dillon," she whispered. "Oh, Dillon, why are you so—so reckless? And why can't you love this land like Pa and me?" A hot ache constricted her throat. She battled the overwhelming need to cry.

Behind her someone gently coughed. Abby jerked around in time to see Lucas step into the parlor.

It was a moment before she was able to speak. "Is Dr. Foley gone?" She'd seen his buggy drive up just after Lucas led her inside.

Lucas pulled off his hat and nodded. "He asked me to pass on his respects, Miss Abby." His voice sounded as rusty as hers.

Abby looked away, unable to bear the anguish in his eyes. The burning threat of tears made her chest ache.

She raised trembling hands to her face. "Lucas," she said on a half-sob. "Oh, Lucas, what am I going to do? I promised Pa I'd find Dillon and warn him Stringer Sam was after him. But how?" she cried hopelessly. "I don't know where that damned outlaw's hideout is! No one does—not now!"

Lucas was at her side in two steps. "Don't take on so, Miss Abby." He patted her shoulder awkwardly. "I know it sounds crazy, but maybe we can find Dillon and warn him after all."

She looked up with a gasp, convinced he was only trying to soothe her and make her feel better. But his grizzled expression was deadly serious.

"What do you mean?" Her breathing grew jerky. "Lucas, tell me!"

He half-turned and beckoned to someone in the hall just outside the door. Abby watched as a sandy- haired young man stepped into the parlor, clutching his hat between both hands. It was Grady, the man Lucas had sent into town after Doc Foley.

He tipped his head toward her. "I'm real sorry about your pa, miss."

She murmured her thanks.

Lucas nodded. "Grady, tell Miss Abby what you told me."

The young man shifted his booted feet. "Well," he began. "The doc wasn't in his office when I got to town. I went over to the Silver Spur to wait 'till the doc got back. It wasn't long before this guy comes down the stairs."

Excitement began to mount in his voice; Abby listened intently.

"Things got real quiet all of a sudden. You can tell just by lookin' that this guy's mean as a rattlesnake. All dressed in black, he was, with a pair of Colts strapped to his legs. And his eyes ... I swear he's got the strangest eyes a body ever saw— kinda silvery, like a looking glass that'll slice right through a man."

Abby's brows rose slightly. "Who is he, Grady?"

"Seems his name is Kane—that's all he goes by— Kane. Roger Simms was sitting next to me and he told me town gossip has it that Kane rode with Stringer Sam's gang a few years back."

Abby's jaw clamped shut. "If he's an outlaw and everyone knows it, why isn't he in jail?"

Grady exchanged glances with Lucas. It was Lucas who quietly offered, "Abby, a man values his life above all else. I hate to say it, but after what happened to Andy Horner and Nate Gilmore last night, Stringer Sam and every one of his gang could probably walk straight through town and not a single man would raise a hand against him."

" 'Lest he was a fool," Grady chimed in with a faint smile.

It was a smile that was extremely short-lived. One scathing glance from Abby banished the inclination, while inside she seethed. Was this why Stringer Sam had never been caught? Were people so afraid of him that they would turn a blind eye to his treachery rather than see him put behind bars once and for all?

Fear was a powerful weapon indeed. It was an acknowledgment Abby made bitterly.

"Maybe this man Kane was part of it, too. Maybe he helped Stringer Sam kill his man Roy and the two deputies." She glanced at the two men for their reaction.

To her surprise, Grady appeared uncomfortable. He shifted his feet, his gaze trained on the rug between his feet. "Begging your pardon, ma'am," he muttered, stumbling slightly. "But it seems a—a lady can vouch for the fact she was with Kane most of the night. And someone told Roger he's looking for work."

Abby's eyes had gone wide. A lady. She was under no illusions as to the type of "lady" he meant. Grady's cheeks were flame-red. So were hers. She scarcely heard the last of his words.

Instead she considered the information Grady had revealed. As she did, a burgeoning hope began to blossom inside her.

She laid a hand on Lucas's arm. "Lucas," she said slowly, "if this man—Kane—really was part of Stringer Sam's gang, do you think it's possible that he would know where the hideout is located?" She held her breath and waited.

"Indeed I do," he said grimly. "That's why I brought Grady in to see you."

'Then there's only one thing left to do." She turned to Grady. "Grady, would you go out to the barn and saddle Sonny for me?"

He jammed his hat on his head. "Sure thing, ma'am."

Her steps purposeful, she strode from the room. She was halfway up the stairs before Lucas's voice halted her.

"Miss Abby, where . .. what do you think you're doing?"

Abby paused, turned and looked down at him.

Another time, another place, and she might have laughed at his gaping astonishment.

She smiled faintly. "I think you know, Lucas."

His face had turned dark as a thundercloud. "Miss Abby, you can't. Why, it's crazy! The man's an outlaw! No doubt he's a killer just like Stringer Sam." He stopped and cursed silently. He'd known Miss Abby too darned long not to recognize the stubborn set of that pretty little chin.

Watching him, seeing the bleakness creep into his lined features, Abby felt her heart rend in two. Pa had been gone .. . what? Only a few hours.

She felt as if a lifetime had passed since then.

And yet there wasn't time to see that Pa had a decent burial—she would have to leave that to Dorothy and Lucas. There wasn't time to mourn him ... to say a last good-bye.

There wasn't even time to cry.

Lucas continued to stare up at her. "Miss Abby," he said finally, "you don't have to do this. Let me go instead."

A hot ache constricted her throat. Her heart brimmed with misery. "No, Lucas," she said, her voice low and choked. "I need you here at the ranch. Besides, I promised Pa. I made that promise, Lucas, and it's up to me to fulfill it. I know it's risky, but this may be the only way to save Dillon. This man Kane may be the only one who can save my brother's life." She drew a deep tremulous breath, her eyes full of quiet desperation. "I have to find him, Lucas. I have to find Kane."

Chapter 2

"Let's go upstairs," she whispered.

His lazy slouch against the bar was deceptive. Standing, he was a full six-foot-two inches of lean, spare flesh with the instincts of a predator. His hair was black as a crow's wing, but whether his coloring came from his mama or his papa, he had no idea ... because he'd never known either one. His mother was a drunk who'd left him on his own when he was just a kid; his father had never stayed around to begin with.

"Kane?" The voice came again, a sultry invitation close to his ear.

Soft feminine arms twined around his waist. Daisy draped herself against his back, thrilling to the intimate press of her stomach against his buttocks. She remembered splaying her hands against him last night, glorying in the way he tensed and flexed with each sinuous motion of his hips.

A smile of remembered satisfaction played over her full, rouged lips. Such a man, she recalled. More man than most.

Her fingers toyed with the thick dark strands of the hair that grew low on his nape. He hadn't been inclined to talk last night, but that was all right. And for all that those glittering silver eyes gleamed icy and cool, he was a superb lover, not at all selfish like most of her customers. Why, it seemed almost a sin to take his money!

And it wasn't the thought of his money that was making her burn inside again. Her hands fluttered over his chest. She rotated her hips and whispered his name huskily once again, hoping he would take the hint.

Kane released a long, pent-up sigh of frustration. He turned, trying to ease free of her cloying grip. Christ, she had hands like an octopus! When he would have stepped aside, she raised her head and kissed him. Her fingers plunged into his hair, shaping themselves to his scalp. Her lips clung—like a leech, he thought disgustedly. God, and she tasted like sour whiskey.

He finally managed to tear his mouth from hers. He stared at her, his vision blurred. All that registered was brassy red hair and a figure that had started to go to fat. His mind groped fuzzily for a name. Christ, was it him or was he drunker than he thought? Or had there simply been so many women—in so many towns—that they'd all begun to look alike?

Dolly! That was it, her name was Dolly.

"Dolly," he began.

The furrows on her brow deepened. "Daisy," she corrected with a pout that might have once been pretty. Now it was only pathetic. "Don't you remember, Kane? I'm Daisy."

When he said nothing, only continued to stare at her in a way that totally unnerved her, she eased back from his chest. "Kane?" For the first time a hint of uncertainty underscored his name. "Did I do something wrong?"

Wrong. The word roused a soul-deep bitterness. His jaw clenched so tight he thought it would crack. Here he was, back among humanity, such as it was, and he wasn't sure he belonged. He wasn't sure he was fit to belong. So who the hell was he to judge right or wrong?

Daisy started to step back. The movement reminded Kane of her presence. Some of the harshness left his features as his eyes met hers. She looked so anxious, a twinge of remorse cut through him. He had used her, he realized. He had sought forgetfulness in her arms and her body.

If only he could find forgiveness as easily.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he said softly. "But you're too much woman for an ornery old cuss like me, Daisy." He pressed a coin into her palm at the same time he pressed a fleeting kiss upon her lips. "Find yourself a better man than me for the evening, sweetheart."

He picked up his glass from the bar, turned and walked to a table in the corner... alone.

Hands on her hips, Daisy watched him disappear into the crowd. Lordy, but he's a strange one. She shrugged. With a flounce of her skirt, she twirled to the man on her left.

At the table, Kane wondered why the hell he was here. The ladies were getting to him. He was tired of their simpering and giggling. His head ached and the air was thick with smoke and the smell of stale whiskey. No one else seemed to notice. Everyone was rowdy and rambunctious and having a whale of a good time.

Yet the thought of his room upstairs held little appeal. The room was too small, the bed too empty ... and so was he.

He studied the glass in his hand, aware of a gnawing pain in his gut. The glass was chipped, the contents dark gold and faintly cloudy. With a brooding half-smile, he tipped the glass to his lips and drained it.

When he lowered it, his eyes were watering. For the first time, he understood why this stuff was called rotgut. He'd tasted some strong liquor in his time, but this was powerful enough to burn clear through a man's belly.

Maybe it wasn't the whiskey at all. Maybe it was guilt that forged that searing hole inside him.

But right now Kane didn't care. He didn't give a damn about much of anything these days, and hadn't for a long time. With a flick of his wrist, a tilt of his chin, he raised his glass high and signaled the bartender.

In the back of his mind, he wondered if he'd go to hell for what he had done—

Shit. Maybe he was already there.

For the second time that day, Grady crushed his hat in his hands. He glanced at the saloon. He wasn't sure about this. He wasn't sure at all.

"Miss Abby," he ventured, "you sure you want to do this?"

"I'll be fine, Grady." She squeezed his arm in silent thanks. "Tell Lucas and Dorothy to take care. I'll be back as soon as I can."

His reluctance obvious, Grady took his leave. Abby watched him round the corner where their horses were tethered. It wasn't until he had urged his mount into a trot did she let out a long pent-up breath, marveling that she'd managed to sound so convincing.

What with the piano, the laughter and the shouting, the noise was enough to make her want to cover her ears and run. She'd managed to conceal it from Grady, but one look through those swinging wooden doors had given her the shock of her life. Of course she'd expected the Silver Spur's patrons would all be men. After all, it was a saloon. What she hadn't expected were the women, so scantily dressed! It had been on the tip of her tongue to blurt out that they'd forgotten half their clothes at home.

Again she cast a furtive peek inside. This time there was a woman seated just inside the door. The reason for the smiling cowboy across from her wasn't lost on Abby. Her dress—what there was of it—was made of scarlet lace and barely covered her knees. The bodice was completely sheer. Why, she couldn't possibly have on a single stitch beneath it! And the way she leaned forward provided the cowboy an unobstructed view of what was clearly a very ample—and unfettered—bosom.

Abby bit back a gasp. Lord Almighty! Now the cowboy was sliding his hand beneath the hem of her skirt!

Abby fled unthinkingly. Once around the corner of the building, she collapsed against the wall with a silent groan of distress. She couldn't go into the Silver Spur after Kane—not dressed the way she was. Why, every eye in the place would be on her!

The shuttered doors swung open. With a swish of silk and the clatter of heels, someone swirled around the corner.

The girl had clearly just left the Silver Spur. Abby tried to keep from staring, but a nervous giggle bubbled up inside her. Mrs. Rutherford wouldn't have called this girl a lady either. Her red satin dress wasn't as revealing as the one the woman near the door was wearing, but it was still rather daring.

That was it! If she was dressed like one of the saloon girls, she wouldn't look out of place. But what if someone recognized her? She squared her shoulders. It was a chance she'd simply have to take.

Her feet moved apace with her mind. She tapped the girl on the shoulder. "Excuse me," she said.

"Yes?" Painted red mouth pursed in annoyance, the girl turned to regard her.

Abby was stunned to see the girl was several years younger than she. She cleared her throat awkwardly. "I know this may sound rather odd—" she began. She leaned forward to whisper in her ear.

When she finished, the girl let out a cackle of laughter. "Honey, that's more than I earn in a month, so say no more. Why, I don't even want the damned thing back!" She linked her arm through Abby's. "Come on, sweetie. My room's right over there."

A scant fifteen minutes later Abby poked her head from a small boardinghouse and hastily glanced outside. The dress—or lack of it—made her cheeks flame with embarrassment. The full skirt dipped only halfway to her ankles. The black silk stockings on her legs made her feel indecent as sin. The bodice was so tight that with every breath she took, she felt as if her breasts were about to spill free. All in all, she felt as bare as a baby's behind.

Thankfully, the streets were deserted. Praying that her luck would hold, she hurriedly stuffed her clothes into her saddlebag and led Sonny into the narrow alley behind the Silver Spur. From there she retraced her steps to the front entrance.

There a flurry of anxious panic gripped her. Could she go through with this? she wondered frantically. The morals of a lifetime stabbed at her. Pa would have been horrified to see her dressed like a soiled dove—and going into a bawdy house yet! And Dillon would have thundered from here to kingdom come if he'd found her here. . . Dillon. Just the thought of the danger her brother faced from Stringer Sam made her cringe in fear.

And she knew she had no choice... no choice at all.

Eyes dark and anguished, she stiffened her spine, gave a futile tug at the top of her dress, collected her courage and stepped through the swinging doors.

She was scarcely inside before she felt herself bombarded on all sides. The noise was deafening. The sound of piano music and boisterous laughter seemed to bounce off the walls and ceiling. The stench of male sweat, whiskey and smoke was overpowering. She felt as if her nostrils were burning.

Swallowing her distaste, she inspected her surroundings more closely and found she was standing alongside a wide walnut bar with a brass foot rail. Hanging on the wall for all to see was a huge painting of a smiling nude woman sprawled out on a sofa. Abby bit her lip. Now there was a woman bare as a baby's behind, she thought.

A man jostled her arm. His eyes lit up when he saw her. He gave her a leering grin. "Say, gal," he said on a ninety-proof breath of air, "how about a little dance, jes' you 'n me?"

Abby lurched sideways to evade his groping hands. She opened her mouth to deliver a stinging rebuff but she never got the chance.

The barkeep stabbed a finger at her. "You there," he barked. He slapped a tray on the bar and jammed a tall bottle and a small glass on it. 'Take this to the fella in the corner."

There was no chance to refuse. The barkeep thrust the tray into her hands. And then refusal was the last thing on Abby's mind.

Her head spun wildly. The man in the corner... it was him. Kane.

Her feet carried her blindly forward. When she finally stopped at the edge of his table, her heart was thudding so, all she could hear was the blood pounding through her ears.

He looked up.

For what was surely the longest moment of her life, Abby stood paralyzed, staring at him. His eyes left her totally unprepared. It was just as Grady said, she thought vaguely. Startlingly light in a starkly masculine face, it was as if he looked not at her, but through her, scalding her, burning her inside and out. Not at all comfortable with such relentless regard, Abby felt her throat tighten oddly. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed to banish the unaccustomed impulse to turn and run as fast and as far as she could.

Her confidence shaky at best, she eased the tray onto the table. "Here's your bottle," she murmured quickly.

If Kane heard, there was no sign of it. This girl. . . he hadn't seen her last night. And she was pretty, he realized suddenly. He was drunker than a man had a right to be, but it wasn't enough to dim her beauty. Her hair was caught up in a velvet ribbon at her nape. He stared at it, momentarily fascinated. The dull, dismal surroundings did nothing to hide the rich, vibrant color. Deep chestnut strands shone with tiny glimmers of gold.

A profusion of curls fell over her shoulder as she bent forward. Unable to stop himself, Kane reached out and tangled his fingers in her hair; the long, chestnut tendril clung greedily, displaying a life of its own. He rubbed the strands between his fingertips, marveling at the silken texture. He found himself battling the urge to crush the lock of hair in his fist and carry it to his nose and mouth, knowing it would smell like a soft scented breeze on a warm spring day.

Caught like a fly in a spider's web, Abby inhaled sharply. Uncertain of his next move, she could only wait for what the moment would bring.

She was pretty, he thought again. The ugliness and sterility of his life suddenly mocked him with a vengeance. Indeed, she possessed the face of an angel. Despite the fact that she worked in this hellhole, she looked as if she'd never suffered a hardship in her life.

The observation triggered a gut-twisting resentment. He'd seen things—done things—that would drive a sane man to the brink of madness. A bitter ache gnawed at his belly as he recalled all the horrors he'd witnessed... Dammit, he thought violently. She had no right to look so—so goddamned angelic! She reminded him of all that had gone wrong in his life... and the little that had gone right.

He dropped the lock of hair as if he'd been burned and leaned back in his chair, boldly meeting her gaze. He nodded at the bottle. "Pour," was all he said.

His voice was low—dry and slightly raspy from drink, she guessed. Oddly, it was not unpleasant. But he still hadn't relieved her of that unnerving silvery stare. Abby endured it as best she could, flustered but determined not to show it. She lifted the bottle and set it on the table, then poured the glass full of whiskey almost to the brim. The task complete, she wet her lips and began to straighten.

Kane's eyes followed the movement of that pink-tipped tongue around her lips with a scowl. But when it appeared she would withdraw, his hand shot out and clamped around her wrist.

"Sit," he ordered on a grating breath of air.

Abby didn't move. Her thoughts were disjointed and tinged with panic. She couldn't seem to control them any more than she could tear her eyes from where Kane's fingers curled around the fragile span of her wrist. His hold was firm and unyielding, yet not hurtful. His fingers were lean and dark and not the least bit fleshy or dirty. She stared as if in fascination. So these were the hands of an outlaw... the hands of a killer. Why wasn't she repulsed by him? she thought wildly. His merest touch should have made her skin crawl, yet she felt all shivery inside. He smoothed his thumb across the fleshy skin of her palm in what was almost a caress. Bemused and dismayed by her unpredictable reaction, she tore her eyes back to his face.

"Wh-what do you want?" Her voice came out high and tight, sounding nothing at all like her own.

For a moment Kane said nothing. He'd startled her, he realized, although why, he couldn't fathom. Surely she was used to it. But her eyes were wide and uncertain and very blue, filled with pinpoints of lights that glittered like tiny jewels. He realized vaguely that he couldn't remember the last time he'd noticed the color of someone's eyes.

His lips curled abruptly. Did she know who he was? Undoubtedly. All at once he had no trouble deciphering her expression. She was afraid and trying hard not to show it.

His eyes glinted as he tipped the chair back on two legs. Shoving his thumbs into his belt, he regarded her through half-closed eyelids. "I don't like to play games, sweetheart," he drawled with a lazy half-smile. "Try to keep that in mind."

It was his tone more than the words themselves that rattled Abby from her daze. Why, of all the arrogant... A swell of indignant outrage swept through her as he proceeded to inspect her from head to toe. His eyes took liberties no other man had dared, lingering with brazen interest on the tempting swell of her breasts and hips.

Well, she thought half-angrily, half-desperately, at least she had his attention, which was what she'd wanted in the first place. But her fingers fairly itched to slap that insolent smirk from his lips.

The chair came down with a resounding thump. "You gonna sit or not?" he demanded.

Abby clenched her jaw so hard her teeth hurt. She dropped down into the chair unceremoniously. Her lips smiled; her eyes did not as she lifted her chin and returned his bold regard.

She said nothing as he turned and signaled the barkeep for another glass. She kept her head down and averted her eyes when the barkeep delivered it a moment later, praying he wouldn't realize that she didn't belong here. She caught a telltale odor when he shuffled past her and experienced a sliver of relief; apparently the customers weren't the only ones who freely imbibed. That was undoubtedly why he hadn't thrown her out on her ear.

Kane leaned forward and tipped the neck of the bottle into the clean glass. He poured it nearly half full, then set it before her. "My name's Kane," he said.

"I'm .. . Abigail." She hated the breathless quality of her voice but she couldn't seem to help it.

His laugh got her dander up further. "Abigail, eh? Somehow that doesn't suit you. Sounds too damned prim and proper. Maybe I should call you Susannah or Polly or something like that." The brash sweep of his gaze made her grow hot all over.

Abby beat down the fury simmering in her veins. It wouldn't do to anger him, she reminded herself.

She conjured up what she hoped was a convincing smile. "I really prefer Abigail," she murmured.

Kane made no reply. There was a faint, nagging feeling tugging away inside him. He couldn't dismiss the notion that something wasn't quite right. Abigail—Lord, but it was hard to call her that!— was unlike any whore he'd ever met. Her skin looked fresh and natural, void of any rice powder; nor were her lips rouged like Daisy's. Nor did she reek of cheap perfume. Those incredibly blue eyes were wide and unerringly direct. The air of purity which surrounded her was puzzling. He had to remind himself that she was no innocent or she wouldn't be here.

Abby curled her fingers around the glass and brought it closer. She glanced at him with a faint smile. "I haven't seen you in town before."

He gave a negligent shrug. "I just got in yesterday."

Abby's nerves were jumping. Simply to have something to do, she brought the glass to her lips and took a small sip.

She wasn't prepared for the taste. The liquid burned her throat all the way down so that she coughed and sputtered. Her eyes began to water. When she finally raised her head, she was totally disconcerted to discover Kane watching her with a mocking light in his eyes.

"It's a little strong for my taste," she defended herself weakly.

I'll bet, Kane thought with cynical amusement.

He reached out and caught hold of her hand. 'Tell me something, sweetheart." Damn, but he just couldn't bring himself to call her Abigail. "How'd a girl like you get into this line of work?"

He began toying idly with her fingers.

Darn! Abby thought frantically. Did he have to touch her? If she could have pulled away, she would have. Why, just looking at him made it hard to swallow. She was so close she could see each thick dark hair of those devilishly slanted brows. She guessed he had shaved earlier, but already a dark shadow lined his cheeks and jaw. The curl of his lips was thin, maybe even a little harsh. He didn't seem brutal, but she sensed a knife-edged hardness in him. No doubt it came from years of living on the fringes of the law, but the realization did little to quell her uneasiness.

"I suppose you could say I came here... out of necessity." Her answer was more instinct than conscious thought. "You see, my father died recently and left me alone with no money." Abby took a deep breath and prayed he wouldn't think she was babbling. "This is my first day, you see. I'm here because I—I had nowhere else to go. No one to turn to—"

Nowhere to rim, Kane finished silently... and nowhere to hide. Unbidden—unwanted—the thought came out of nowhere, bringing a wealth of bitter remembrance ... a wealth of aching pain.

Something inside Kane seemed to shrivel up and freeze. "Amen to that," he said heavily. He stared into the cloudy contents of his glass, a bitter twist to his mouth.

A flicker of panic shot through Abby. He looked as if he were a million miles away. Why, he acted as if he'd completely forgotten her existence. She couldn't let that happen, not when she'd come this far!

"What about you?" she ventured tentatively. "Are you just passing through?"

She breathed a sigh of relief when his gaze lifted, reclaiming hers.

"I've been drifting for a while," he said with a shrug. "Thought I'd stick around for a few days and see if any of the ranchers around here could use another hand."

She tipped her head to the side in what she hoped was an inviting pose. Womanly wiles were totally alien to her, but maybe if he were to fall under her spell, he wouldn't refuse her. "In that case," she murmured, "welcome to town." Summoning her courage, ignoring her trepidation, she boldly laid her hand on his where it rested on the tabletop. At the contact, her nerves seemed to quiver. His, she couldn't help but notice, was much wider and bigger than her own.

He focused where her hand lay atop his, seemingly as captivated as she. She held her breath when his gaze trickled slowly up her bare arm toward her face. It rested for a disturbingly long moment on her mouth.

The next thing Abby knew a muscled arm shot out. She felt herself bodily lifted and pulled onto his lap. Struggling for balance, she was forced to twist her fingers in the front of his leather vest.

A searing heat rose within him; he felt as if a fever had entered his blood. Strange, he thought. Tonight with Daisy, he hadn't been able to summon any semblance of desire at all. But with Abigail... This potent surge of yearning was suddenly all he could feel... and no doubt she could, too.

She wasn't a scrawny little chicken, that's for sure, Kane decided. Her features were delicately molded, yet there was strength in the set of her jaw.

Though she might look—and feel—as fine-boned and breakable as china, she wasn't. As slender as she was, the feel of her flesh beneath his fingers was firm and resilient.

His gaze slid down the ivory column of her neck. Her breasts rose and fell with every breath she took, fanning the burning ache inside him. If they had been alone, he wouldn't delay sampling such tempting bounty with lips and hands and mouth.

No, he thought again, she was no innocent.

"You want to dance?" His whisper was hot and breathy in her ear.

Speech was impossible. Abby's pulse fluttered like a wild bird. The single thought dominating her mind was that he must have been a giant. Even sitting on his lap, she had to tilt her chin slightly to meet his eyes. The hungry way he looked at her did nothing to alleviate her apprehension. His hand scaling up and down the length of her spine left a trail of burning heat wherever he touched. She wanted to scream at him to stop, but she could hardly take in enough air to breathe, let alone speak.

Finally she looked away in confusion. 'Tm not really in the mood for dancing," she heard herself say.

"Good," he said thickly. "Because neither am I." Kane couldn't control his response to her nearness. He was only a man, and not a very upright one at that. She felt so warm, so alive, while he felt a part of him had died inside. Maybe it was selfish, but right now he wanted to claim some of that vibrant warmth for his own.

To hell with the ache in his head, he thought suddenly. It had settled in his nether regions.

One hand came up to tangle in her hair. With the other he guided her chin upward and fused his lips to hers. In the back of his mind he expected her to taste of sour whiskey, like Daisy. But her lips had the lush redness of ripe strawberries—and tasted just as sweet.

Abby had one terrifying glimpse of fiercely glowing eyes just before his mouth came down on hers. Her heart lurched. Her mind, her entire being, spun crazily. Her only thought was how she'd been sweet on Marcus Connors for ages. He'd given her her first—her only—real kiss. But it wasn't long before she realized it was nothing like this!

Shock and panic kept her motionless in his arms. This kiss was far beyond Abby's experience. His mouth was hot and hard against hers; she had no choice but to part her lips against the demanding pressure of his. When she did, his tongue dove swift and sure, ruthlessly stroking the honeyed depths of her mouth. She inhaled sharply, scandalized that he would invade her this way. Part of her wanted to struggle, to push him back and demand that he apologize for his brazenness. Yet it wasn't so very unpleasant after all. She felt her fingers curl helplessly into his shoulders. Everything inside her seemed to melt and go weak. She gave a silent prayer of thanks that she was sitting, for if she'd been standing, she'd surely have fallen into a graceless heap.

By the time he lifted his head she was panting softly.

His arm was tight about her waist. He nuzzled the velvety skin of her temple. "There's a better place for this, sweetheart."

His words were a husky whisper directly in her ear. Abby dragged in a startled, half-frightened breath. "What?" she gasped.

"Let's go upstairs. To my room."

Her mind worked frantically. His breathing was jagged and heavy against her cheek. Surely he wasn't saying that he... that they . .. Abby didn't know exactly what went on in those rooms upstairs, but she had a pretty good idea. She also suspected that Kane—if she let him—was about to further her education.

The problem was that she didn't have a plan beyond demanding that he help her. Mute frustration welled up inside her. Maybe she should have dragged him out of the saloon, tied him up and kidnapped him ... The thought never evolved beyond that.

Because it seemed she had a plan after all.

The quick hard pounding of her heart seemed to jolt her entire body. "Whatever you say," she whispered.

With a surge of power he was on his feet. Abby allowed him lead her upstairs, caught squarely between excitement and fear. There would be no turning back now, she acknowledged. Up until this moment, she could have bolted and ran if the going got too rough. But once she was alone with Kane upstairs, that might prove far more difficult.

In his room, Abby stood near the door and rubbed her hands together while Kane lit a lamp. She glanced around as hazy yellow light began to fill the corner. There was a wide bed pushed against one wall, covered with a faded blue quilt. A cracked, yellowed washbasin that had once been white stood atop a small table on the opposite wall. A worn leather saddlebag slumped on the room's only chair.

A crash from the piano downstairs made her jump. How on earth could anyone sleep here, Abby wondered in annoyance. But all at once she felt like a fool. You idiot! Fiercely she berated herself.. Sleeping obviously wasn't what they came here for.

Trying not to think about the blush that was surely staining her cheeks, her eyes sought Kane's. It didn't help to discover he was standing near the foot of the bed, watching her with those strange silver eyes.

"Come here."

Abby didn't move. She wondered wildly if she hadn't just made the biggest mistake of her life. Kane was so much taller than she. It was a certainty he was stronger.

"The night's not gettin' any longer," he drawled. "What are you waiting for?" His smile was slow and lazy, almost taunting.

Feeling like a man on his way to the hangman's noose, Abby moved forward on wooden legs.

Kane's smile waned as she came nearer. In some far distant corner of his mind, he wondered again why she was here at the Silver Spur. A woman like her deserved far more than the little she had.

No, he wasn't so drunk that he couldn't appreciate her beauty. Just the sight of her made his mouth go dry. His blood pooled thickly in his loins, hardening his cock to an almost painful fullness. For all her slenderness, her breasts were lush and delectably shaped. He'd have bet his last dollar her rounded fullness would fit his hands perfectly.

The thought made him grit his teeth with need.

He ached with the need to strip the clothes from her body and explore every sweet, enticing inch of her. And he promised himself that soon he would... very soon.

His eyes never left hers as he pulled off his gun belt, walked across the rough plank floor and draped it over the chair. A moment later he caught her hand and pulled her against him. He wasted no time feasting on the sweetness of her mouth.

Abby had no choice but to endure his embrace. He held her so tightly she could scarcely move. Her breasts were flattened against the granite plane of his chest. And her tummy was nestled intimately against his... why, she couldn't even think it!

But there was more. Abby didn't realize he was nudging her backward until it was too late. She felt something behind her knees and then she was tumbling back, the weight of his body guiding her fall against the mattress.

She made a faint sound deep in her throat. She jammed her fists instinctively against his shoulders, but he paid no heed. His body was anchored to her own, his mouth on the sweeping arch of her throat. "Relax," he muttered. "I'm not worried about the price. We'll settle up later."

He trapped her mouth beneath his again. His hand swept aside a strap and trespassed beneath the red silk bodice, laying claim to the arching curve of her breast. To Abby, his hand was like a brand, touching flesh that no man had ever touched. As if that weren't enough, she felt the graze of roughened fingertips across her nipple. Once. Twice .. . again. Shocked by such blatant intimacy, Abby lay motionless for a moment. .. but only for a moment.

Somehow she succeeded in twisting her head away. "Wait!" she cried.

Her plea emerged in a strangled gasp. Kane's head lifted slowly. He still lay atop her, his legs tangled with her own. His eyes were glittering shards of light. "Christ! Don't tell me you've changed your mind."

The edge in his voice was just a little frightening. Abby drew a deep, tremulous breath. For just a moment, uncertainty eroded her determination.

But she had come this far. And now she was so close! She forced herself to concentrate on her purpose for coming here. Dillon's life depended on her. And she would do whatever she must to save him.

"No," she denied quickly. "It's just that. .." She broke off, grappling for an excuse, but nothing came to mind. And all the while Kane stared at her— through her. His hand deserted her breast, yet still Abby felt curiously exposed and naked. The only sound in the room was the ragged trickle of her breathing.

"Wait a minute," he said finally. "You said your father just died ... Don't tell me you've never been with a man. . . that this is the first time you've ever.. ."

The word he used was crude. A betraying flush crept into her cheeks. Her eyes flitted away from the relentless demand in his. She couldn't look at him. She couldn't!

She acknowledged his assumption with a tiny nod.

Kane swore with blunt profanity. His body felt like a spring about to uncoil. His desire for her was a twisting ache in his gut. It was that part of him that urged him to be kind to his body and soothe the raging fire inside. Yet he'd never lain with a virgin. Not even Lorelei—

He rolled off her and got to his feet. Disgust marked every taut line of his body. "Thanks, honey," he said tightly, "but I'm afraid I'll have to pass."

His statement brought her upright in a flash. "Please, I—it's all right, really. I mean, if it's not you, it'll just be someone else." She was floundering and prayed he didn't know it. She reached for him, keeping her hands anchored to his shoulders. "And I'd really rather it was you, Kane."

She was a little shocked that she could be so bold, but hoping to add credence to her words, she levered herself on tiptoe and placed her lips on his.

Kane inhaled sharply, suddenly disinclined to argue. Knowing she wanted him only inflamed him further, and the shy, tentative way she moved her lips against his added fuel to the fire. Later, he decided dimly, he'd show her how to kiss properly.

Her kiss couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, but her breathing was quick and shallow when she lowered her heels to the floor once more. The fierce glow in Kane's eyes sent a flutter of alarm through her.

His hands caught at her waist. She felt their warmth burning through the thin cloth of her dress. "You sure about this?" he asked thickly.

As drunk as he was, it didn't take much to push him back on the bed. "I'm sure," she said with a catch in her voice. "Just give me a minute."

There would be no talking with him, no reasoning or persuading, she realized. She'd once heard Dillon laughingly comment to one of the ranch hands about a man whose "brains were between his legs." She hadn't truly understood then, but the hunger in Kane's eyes had broadened her understanding rather quickly—and so had that strange hardness she'd felt pressed against the softness of her belly.