weight.
With a sense of panic she pushed and struggled to free herself. Her hands, her gown, even her hair were smeared with his blood.
Suddenly his body was yanked roughly away. Standing over her was a figure clad in the garb of a friar, with the cowl pulled up over his mouth, and the hood pulled down to his eyes. And the bluest eyes Emma had ever seen. They glowed in the moonlight like sapphires.
“Who...? What...?”
He shook his head and touched a finger to her lips. Then, without a word, he turned away and began to crawl toward the encampment, where the voices of the drunken soldiers could be heard.
Kneeling up, Emma watched in amazement as the hooded figure moved among them, silently slitting each throat. He moved so quickly, none of his victims had time to notice his approach, or to offer any resistance.
When he returned, she was weeping in relief. Big wet tears that spilled down her cheeks. He lifted her face and wiped the tears with his thumbs. In his eyes she could read both simmering anger and heartfelt compassion for what she was suffering. Without a word he picked her up and carried her to his waiting horse. She could feel the ripple of muscle as he climbed easily into the saddle, all the while holding her against his chest.
“Thank you,” she murmured when she could find her voice. “I know... I know what would have happened if you hadn’t come to my rescue.”
Again he touched a finger to her lips to silence her words. Then he gathered her close, allowing her head to rest on his shoulder. They rode across the meadow in silence. In fact, it seemed to Emma, the whole world had gone suddenly silent. No breeze stirred the leaves of the trees. No night birds sang. Even the frogs in the pond made no sound as the horse splashed through the water, then climbed the embankment and headed toward her village in the distance.
In the circle of this stranger’s arms she felt warm and safe. No harm would come to her, she knew, as long as he held her like this.
When they reached the village he slid from the saddle and set her on her feet.
“I need to know your name, sir, so that my father can properly thank you.”
He shook his head.
“Are you mute? Is that why you don’t speak?”
He merely remained silent.
She offered her hand. “Then I thank you, sir. I will never, ever forget you, or what you did this night.”
Though the lower half of his face was covered by the cowl, she could see the smile in his eyes. He pressed her hand between both of his, then turned and pulled himself into the saddle.
He waited until she ran up the lane and let herself into her house. Then, as she stood in the doorway and waved, he saluted smartly and wheeled his mount. Minutes later he blended into the darkness.
From that day on, Emma Vaughn told all who would listen about the mysterious warrior who had saved her honor and her life. When asked to identify her champion, she could describe only his eyes. Deep blue eyes, filled with ageless wisdom and courage and compassion. Though she was little more than a child, she had already lost her heart to this stranger. To emulate him, she put aside her fears and mastered the art of defense with a knife, vowing that no man would ever again find her helpless.
Throughout all of Ireland the legend grew. And all spoke in awe of the courage of Heaven’s Avenger.
Chapter One
Ireland, 1563
“I wish you weren’t going to England, Conor.” Moira O’Neil struggled to keep the emotion from her voice as she hugged her son. But the pain and fear were there, just beneath the surface. She knew that her middle child was widely regarded as Ireland’s most persuasive orator. Knew, also, that he was a warrior second only to his older brother, Rory. A man adept with both word and sword could surely take care of himself in any situation. Still, the worry persisted. He was going to the land of their enemy. Into the very den of the lion.
It had been his father’s plan since Conor was a lad. And gradually, Conor had accepted the plan as his own. His gift was this wonderful ability to persuade people, through logic and pretty words, to use common sense over emotion. To negotiate rather than fight. To make peace rather than war.
He had another gift, as well. Moira had seen the looks of approval in the eyes of the young women when he passed, and knew that he was a dashing ladies’ man who had caught the eye of the queen. But Elizabeth of England was no innocent. She was a worldly monarch, famous for keeping charming young men around her only so long as they amused her. Once she lost interest they could find themselves in grave peril.
Moira sighed. In her eyes Conor would always be that blue-eyed laughing charmer who had captured her heart when he was born, and owned it still.
“It seems like only yesterday since you and Rory returned from that hellish place. And now you’re going back, to the very palace where your brother nearly lost his life.”
“I’ll be fine, Mother. I’m going at the invitation of the queen. What harm could possibly come to me?”
What harm indeed? She had heard of the villainies and betrayals among those who surrounded Elizabeth at court. But she kept such things to herself as she hugged her son.
“I’m proud of you, Conor.” Gavin O’Neil clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder and dragged him close. “You’ll do us all proud. Your family. Your countrymen. And all those who will come after us will bless your name because of this sacrifice you make for Ireland. If you can’t persuade the English queen to leave us in peace, at least you’ll have your ear to the throne, so that we’ll be prepared for what is to come.”
“I’ll do my best, Father.” Conor turned to his older brother, Rory, and the two men clasped hands. “You’ll see to everything on this side of the sea?”
“Aye.” Rory grinned. “And gladly leave the other side to you.” He gave Conor a cool, measured look. “There was another attack last night upon a group of English soldiers. Heaven’s Avenger found them abusing a wench, and without a word, slit all their throats with a very small, very deadly knife.”
Conor took a step back. “Is that so?”
Rory nodded. “Like all the others, this wench insists her avenger had superhuman strength, subduing all seven soldiers before even one could lift a hand in defense. She is telling all who will listen that he was as tall as a giant, and as handsome as a young god, even though she couldn’t see his face.”
“Thus are legends born,” Conor scoffed. “If she couldn’t see his face, he could be either fair of face, as the wench insists, or perhaps scarred so badly he hides his disfigurement beneath a mask.” Conor’s tone was dry as he turned to kiss his sister-in-law’s cheek. “Continue taking care of my brother, AnnaClaire, for he is surely losing his senses.”
She laughed. “I’ll see to Rory. You’ll give my father my love?”
“Aye. If I should see him before he sets sail.” James Lord Thompson, AnnaClaire’s father, was Conor’s only friend among the queen’s counselors. But he had just sent word that he was being sent by the queen to Spain. Some suggested he was being banished because he had dared
