Briana. Ruth Langan

       Prologue

       Ireland 1653

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

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

      “She’s been wounded, my lord.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

      His heart nearly stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      In the great hall the servants had gathered in silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      “At least a score, my lord.”

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

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

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

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

      The lad stared hard at the floor.

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

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

      Gavin’s

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