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    Captive of Desire
    Captive of Desire
    Captive of Desire
    Ebook440 pages7 hours

    Captive of Desire

    By Ruth Ryan Langan

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    About this ebook

    A Ruth Ryan Langan Historical Romance Classic.

    A blood feud.
    Blazing hatred.
    Love denied.

    As the last survivor of her clan, Alana O'Donnell is targeted for death by Sloan Townsend, son of an aristocratic English mother and raised in the Court of Charles I after his Irish father was murdered at the hands of the hated Curran O'Donnell.

    Sloan returns to the land of his birth to avenge his father's death. Instead, he finds himself bewitched by the beautiful Alana. To save her inheritance, she is forced to marry the hated son of her enemy, even though she vows to make his life a living hell.

    These two proud, strong-willed warriors must join forces if they are to survive betrayal and a bloody war. By doing so, they uncover a blazing passion. But can their forbidden love survive the pain of their past?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRuth Ryan Langan
    Release dateJun 18, 2012
    ISBN9781452488950
    Captive of Desire
    Author

    Ruth Ryan Langan

    New York Times best-selling author Ruth Ryan Langan, who also writes under the pseudonym R. C. Ryan, is the author of over 100 novels, both contemporary romantic-suspense and historical adventure. Quite an accomplishment for this mother of five who, after her youngest child started school, gave herself the gift of an hour a day to follow her dream to become a published author. Ruth has given dozens of radio, television and print interviews across the country and Canada, and has been quoted in such diverse publications as THE WALL STREET JOURNAL and COSMOPOLITAN. Ruth has also been interviewed on CNN NEWS, as well as GOOD MORNING AMERICA.

    Read more from Ruth Ryan Langan

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    • 5/5
      A wonderful love story about the history of the country of Ireland

    Book preview

    Captive of Desire - Ruth Ryan Langan

    Captive of Desire

    by

    Ruth Ryan Langan

    Smashwords Edition

    Electronic Edition Copyright 2012 Ruth Ryan Langan

    Originally published in paperback, 1990.

    www.RyanLangan.com

    * * * * *

    Smashwords Edition, License Notes

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    * * * * *

    Titles

    by Ruth Ryan Langan

    Historical Romance Classics

    Now Available as EBooks:

    Heart’s Delight

    Paradise Falls

    Ashes of Dreams

    Duchess of Fifth Avenue

    Captive of Desire

    Passage West

    Nevada Nights

    September’s Dream

    The Heart’s Secrets

    Destiny’s Daughter

    Texas Heart

    Texas Hero

    Mistress of the Seas

    Deception

    Christmas Miracle

    Angel

    Exciting Highlander Series

    Now Available as EBooks:

    Highland Barbarian

    Highland Heather

    Highland Heart

    The Highlander

    Highland Heaven

    * * * * *

    Visit Ruth’s website for more information at

    www.RyanLangan.com

    * * * * *

    To my father, John Edward (Jack) Ryan

    Proudly Irish

    Determinedly political

    A man of books and letters

    A gentle man

    Who left neither sons nor brothers

    Ah, but he left wife, daughters, grandchildren

    Irish, political and fiercely independent

    Who proudly carry on his name.

    * * * * *

    Author’s Note

    Ireland’s history is a rich tapestry of bloody battles, fierce loyalties and religious differences that have existed for centuries and continue today. Something about that tiny island of my ancestors touches a chord deep inside me. I hope these people and their stories touch you as well.

    Chapter One

    Ireland, 1648

    Alana. Wake up, child. Alana.

    Strong bony fingers dug into the young woman’s shoulders as she was jarred from a peaceful sleep.

    Blinking against the unexpected light of a torch, Alana rubbed her eyes and peered at the proud, handsome face of the abbess.

    Before she could frame a question the nun said, Dress quickly. Men from the village have come to fetch you home. They are warming themselves in the refectory, where the sisters are preparing a cold meal. Hurry, child. Your father is gravely ill. He calls for you.

    Father. Unmindful of her immodest night shift the young woman threw back the covers and began rummaging through the trunk at the foot of her crude bed.

    Like all the cells at the abbey this one consisted of a bed, a prie-dieu, a trunk for clothes and a table, atop which rested a bowl and pitcher of water.

    I will wait for you in the chapel. Sister Mary Margaret placed a candle on the bedside table, then walked from the room.

    From the trunk the young woman lifted the clothes she had worn when she had arrived at the abbey, nearly a year earlier. The color and fabric were in sharp contrast to her drab surroundings. The gown, fashionably cut with low neckline and long, tapered sleeves, was scarlet velvet. It fell in soft folds to the tips of tall black boots made of softest kid. After the coarse woolen garb of the abbey Alana had forgotten how pleasant it was to feel fabric that was soft and soothing against the skin. Reaching into the trunk for her cape and gloves she saw the glint of reflected light in the corner. Bending, she retrieved the dagger and stared at it for long moments.

    Owen’s dagger.

    The pain was sharp and swift. Her beloved brother, Owen, slain by her father’s enemy. Dear Owen. How she missed his teasing and laughter. How she missed her home. It had broken her heart to be sent away, but her father had insisted that this abbey was the only place she would be safe. Even the British sympathizers would not violate the sanctity of a sacred convent.

    She brushed aside the desire to weep. She was going home. Home to her father. Home to the beautiful, rolling hills of Killenen, to the magnificent castle that had been in her family for generations.

    Quickly thrusting her brother’s dagger beneath the sash tied at her waist she tossed a rich cape lined with ermine over her shoulders and gave a last look around the cell that had been her home this past year. With hurried steps she made her way to the chapel.

    The abbess took one look at Alana and thrust a coarse woolen cloak into her hands. It is not safe to travel in such finery. You make yourself a mark for every villain and highwayman. Cover yourself.

    Alana pulled the cloak over her clothes.

    Come, child. We will pray. The abbess led Alana to a hard wooden pew. As they knelt the nun’s voice was hushed. We humbly pray, Father, for the safe journey of your child, Alana, and for the life of her father, my brother, Curran, the O’Donnell. The voice of the abbess became more animated. Thou knowest that without Curran’s strength to guard his people we will be at the mercy of our enemies.

    Alana was touched by the vehemence of the nun’s prayer. The abbess’s normally reserved nature became fiery whenever she thought about the cruelty of English domination over her people. And though she had turned her back on a life of wealth and comfort to serve God, Sister Mary Margaret never forgot that she had once been Maggie O’Donnell, the wild younger sister to Alana’s father, the Irish warrior, Curran O’Donnell.

    Glancing sheepishly at the young woman, the nun realized that she must set a good example for her headstrong niece. She added quickly, As always, not my will, but Thine be done, Father.

    Alana bowed her head and whispered a prayer of her own, then followed the still slender, stiff-backed nun to the courtyard where a dozen horsemen waited. Steam billowed as the horses blew and stamped in the cold night air.

    The men respectfully touched their hats as the daughter of their chief approached.

    One horse and rider separated from the others and moved toward her.

    Paddy. Alana’s face softened into a smile at the sight of her father’s oldest and most trusted friend. It was Paddy who had patiently listened to her childhood prattle, and Paddy who had allowed her to ride beside him in more peaceful times as he visited the villages under her father’s protection.

    An old man with white beard and skin as wrinkled as parchment touched his hat and gave her a wan smile. God love ya, lassie. It’s glad I am that the cloistered life hasn’t dimmed yer beauty. He handed her the reins. His smile, she noted, was a bit forced. We have a hard ride ahead of us, lass. Ye’ll need a giant’s strength for what’s ahead of ye.

    Before taking the reins Alana lifted the hood of her cloak to cover her head, leaving her face in shadow.

    The abbess raised her hand in a blessing Go with God. May He hold you in the palm of His hand.

    The men blessed themselves and turned their mounts, being careful to surround the young woman who rode in their midst. From the tight, pinched looks on their faces she knew that whatever questions she had would have to wait until she reached Killenen. How fared her father? She dared not ask. Nor would she think about death. Her father would not die. He could not. He was her last link with the past. Her mother and her beloved brother, Owen, were gone. The Fates would not deprive her of her father as well.

    As the horses’ hooves, muffled in the soft Irish mist, ate up the miles, she clung to one thought. At long last, she was going home.

    * * * * *

    Riders approach.

    Three dozen horsemen tensed beside their mounts. For hours they had shivered in the cold rain, waiting for a command from their leader.

    One man stood alone on a small rise, straining through the darkness. Though Sloan Townsend was dressed like the others, in heavy woolen cape and plumed hat, with sword at his side, something set him apart. The others stood in clusters of three or four, whispering solemnly, even laughing at times to ease the discomfort. Sloan spoke with no one. All of his energy was focused on the task before him. Though it was distasteful, it must be done. This thing must be ended once and for all.

    Though born in this poor land, he had been sent to England after the death of his father, to be raised by his aristocratic mother in the court of Charles I of England. When his education was complete he had volunteered to fight with the English. Still, he thought of himself as Irish. He had returned now to Ireland to claim what was his. He touched a hand to the scar at his cheek. And to settle a score.

    The O’Donnell was at death’s door, no longer a warrior to fear, if rumors were true. But there was still an heir, a daughter, who must be destroyed, if there were ever to be peace in this battle-scarred land.

    When he pulled himself into the saddle and unsheathed his sword the men fell silent. One by one they followed suit.

    At first, all he could hear was the sound of rain falling softly. But as he became accustomed to the silence he could make out the distant thunder of horses. They were riding hard.

    His fingers gripped the hilt of the sword and he felt the warmth of generations flow through him. How many Townsends had carried this very sword to battle? His great-grandfather, Brian Townsend, the Earl of Goughton, his grandfather, Michael Townsend, the Duke of Cowren, and his father, Kendall Townsend, Lord Atherton. He felt their strength, their power, as he grasped it tightly and urged his mount forward.

    The men fell into line behind him, straining for a glimpse of the enemy.

    At first, horses and riders blended into the misty line of forest. But as they drew nearer it was possible to make them out clearly. From behind the row of low brush Sloan counted a dozen. They were vastly outnumbered by his men. Yet even that knowledge did not allow him to relax. The men of Kilienen were fierce warriors. Nothing short of death would stop them from protecting the woman.

    He signaled to his followers, then led the charge. He would rid this world of the last O’Donnell. And then he would enjoy the fruits of this land.

    * * * * *

    Alana was a skilled equestrienne. Like her brother, Owen, she had been astride a horse since she learned to walk. Despite her mother’s protests her father took delight in teaching her to handle a sword, longbow and knife. And her frail mother had died without ever teaching her untamed daughter a woman’s skills.

    While her mount raced toward its destination her mind was awhirl with plans. She would nurse her father back to health. They would rebuild the faltering army of men loyal to the O’Donnells. They would fashion new weapons. And then they would reclaim the land to the north which had been stolen from them by the traitor, Kendall, and his sons. Black-hearted Irishmen, her father called them, who had turned their backs on the land and sought their fortunes in England. The villagers under their protection were left to fend for themselves. But when they swore allegiance to the O’Donnells, Kendall and his sons returned to steal both men and land.

    Her thoughts were disturbed by a sudden commotion. Trapped in the midst of the horsemen she was unable to see what was happening around her. But at the shout of warning, she reined in her mount.

    All about her swords flashed as men and horses came together in a bloody battle. Men screamed and horses shrieked as they felt the vicious blows of the sword.

    The old man, Paddy, positioned his mount in front of Alana’s and lifted his sword. She watched in horrified fascination as he dodged the blade of his opponent’s weapon and brought his own blade to the man’s heart. As the attacker fell two more charged forward and battled the old man until he fell to the ground.

    Forgetting her own peril Alana began to slide from the saddle. If she could make it to his side she could take up his sword and save her dear friend’s life.

    Run, lassie, Paddy shouted hoarsely. ‘Tis your only chance.

    Alana paused, gripping the reins. She could not leave him.

    Go, lass. Yer father needs ye.

    Her father. She paused a moment longer, then resolutely pulled herself back into the saddle and wheeled her mount. Without a sword she was helpless to fight. She had to outrun the attackers. As her horse leaped over a fallen mount she glimpsed a swordsman lunging toward her. Deftly sliding from the saddle she clung to the side of her mount, narrowly missing the thrust of the blade. It found its way instead to her horse’s throat. With a gasp the animal toppled and fell. If not for her skill Alana would have been pinned beneath the animal. At the last moment she leaped free and fell to the ground. For long minutes she lay, struggling to regain her breath.

    In the gray light of dawn Alana picked her way over the bodies of men and horses and began running toward a thicket.

    The woman is mine, a man’s voice called.

    She heard footsteps behind her. With her heart hammering and her breath coming in short gasps she gave a last desperate burst of speed. If she could make it to the thicket, she could hide.

    So. Strong fingers grasped her shoulder, stopping her in midstride. From behind an arm locked about her throat, squeezing the breath from her.

    With both hands she pried frantically at the offending arm, desperate to save herself from the suffocating grip.

    When at last she flung herself free of it she fell back against the trunk of a tree, taking in great gulps of air.

    When she could speak she drew herself up to her full height and stared at her attacker. In the first rays of morning light he was clearly visible. He was tall, taller even than her father, the O’Donnell. His hair was thick and black, curling over the collar of his tunic. His eyes too were dark, the color of the midnight sky. They were watching her through narrowed slits. He wore tight breeches tucked into tall boots. His tunic was a fine rich brocade, the sleeves inset with fur. The sword in his hand had a hilt of ornate gold scrolls and precious jewels.

    This man was no ordinary highwayman.

    Sir, do you know that you attack an O’Donnell?

    She expected him to look surprised. Or at least contrite. He looked neither. Instead, a half-smile touched the corners of his lips.

    I do indeed.

    The arrogance she had experienced a moment ago dissolved. In its place tiny splinters of fear began to curl along her spine. This was not some random attack. This man had singled her out from all the rest. He had every intention of killing her.

    My father is the fiercest warrior in all of Ireland. If you harm me you must fear his wrath.

    The coward O’Donnell surrounds himself with an entire village of warriors to hold his attackers at bay.

    Coward? How dare ...

    If I cannot avenge my father’s death on him, I shall avenge it on the O’Donnell’s only daughter.

    Avenge your father’s death? The fear began to deepen as his words sank in.

    Your father killed my father.

    At his simple words he saw her mouth open then snap shut. So, the lady had finally figured out who her attacker was. He studied the face hidden in shadow beneath the hood. Though he knew not what she looked like, he carried an image in his mind. She was evil incarnate.

    You are the son of the traitor, Kendall Townsend.

    Traitor. The word rankled. He lifted the sword until the tip was pointed at her heart. He saw her chest heave and felt a little thrill. He wanted her to sweat, to suffer before she died. My father was no traitor.

    Any man who swears allegiance to England is a traitor to Ireland.

    And that gave your father the right to kill my father?

    Was it pain she heard vibrating in his voice? No matter. The hatred she felt for the Townsends went too deep to care about his pain.

    The Townsends had their revenge. Your brother Keith killed my only brother Owen.

    Keith. Sloan winced. It had been a bittersweet vengeance. Soon after, Keith had been killed by a gang of highwaymen. Or so it had been reported to him in England. Sloan would never be convinced of that. Those highwaymen had been men loyal to the O’Donnells. Of that he had no doubt. And the woman at his mercy was one of them.

    This blood feud ends with me, Sloan said viciously. When I kill you, the O’Donnells will be wiped from the face of the earth.

    Just as she saw him lunge Alana leaped to one side. Surprised, he reached out, catching her by the back of the cloak. She twisted free, leaving him holding an empty garment.

    The moss was wet and springy from the heavy rains. Her boots sank deep with each step, slowing her escape. Seeing several boulders she dashed toward them, hoping to hide herself behind them. But just as she reached their shelter a hand caught her in a painful grip.

    She reached into the waistband of her gown and clutched the dagger. Owen’s dagger, she thought, as she lifted it in a menacing gesture.

    She thrust the knife and felt it tear through the flesh of his upper arm. He swore viciously, then caught her hand and twisted until, crying out in pain, she dropped the dagger and watched in despair as it fell to the ground.

    God, what a scrapper she was. She had caught him completely by surprise with that move.

    Oh yes, you are the O’Donnell’s daughter, he whispered through clenched teeth. Grasping both her hands behind her back he shoved her roughly against the boulder and withdrew his own dagger. A wildcat. And a dangerous one. With sharp, vicious claws. Like your father, you would leave your mark on my flesh.

    He pressed his dagger to her throat and she saw clearly for the first time. A scar ran along one side of his face, from eyebrow to jaw, adding a savage look to his darkly handsome features. She shivered at the look of loathing in his eyes.

    She felt the cold steel against her flesh and waited for the pain. Owen, Father, she thought, I have failed you both.

    As Sloan pressed the point of his knife to her throat, he found himself gazing down at a sight that left him stunned and reeling.

    This creature in his arms was like no other he had ever seen. Without the coarse woolen cloak she was now clearly visible. Thick raven hair fell below her waist in a wild tangle of curls. A gown the color of blood revealed a figure that was lush and enticing. Her skin was as fair as porcelain, and soft to the touch. But it was her eyes that held him. They were strange, tawny eyes that glowed like a cat’s in the eerie light of dawn. Never had he seen a woman as stunningly beautiful as this.

    Her mouth was slightly open as she sucked in air and waited for the moment of death. Though there was no fear in her eyes, there was in them a look of defiance. She was like some wild thing, cornered, but unwilling to submit, even in the face of certain death.

    Her chest rose and fell as she fought to still her ragged breathing. His gaze was drawn to the soft swell of her breasts. He was horrified at his reaction to this daughter of his enemy. Just holding her, studying her, had him aroused. How could this be? It had to be the thought of killing her, he told himself. That was what aroused him. The fight. The kill. Not the woman. It was dangerous to have any feeling but loathing for an O’Donnell.

    He hurled her from him as if the very touch of her burned him, then stepped back a pace, watching her through narrowed eyes.

    Her eyes widened. A reprieve? Or was he merely toying with her before ending her life?

    Even as he cursed himself for his weakness, a plan began slowly forming in Sloan’s mind.

    Go ahead, she said, lifting her head in a defiant, haughty manner. I do not fear death at the hands of a traitor.

    His lips curled into a sneer. Perhaps it is not death I have in mind for you.

    He saw the look of fear that flitted into her eyes before she composed herself. There is nothing that you can do that will make me beg for mercy from a traitor.

    His hand snaked out, hauling her against him. His voice was a low hiss of rage. I am sick to death of that word. The Townsends are not traitors. And when I am through with you I will see not only you beg, but also the O’Donnell himself.

    My father? Her voice was filled with contempt. Never.

    Edward, he called to a swordsman who hovered over a wounded man. Hold. Do not kill that man. I need one left alive to carry a message to the O’Donnell.

    The swordsman hauled the wounded man to his feet and shoved him roughly toward the boulders where they stood.

    You will take this message to your chief, Sloan said carefully. He sheathed his dagger and caught Alana roughly by the hair, twisting it until tears sprang to her eyes. Tell the O’Donnell that his daughter is now the prisoner of Sloan Townsend. He saw the loathing in the man’s eyes and felt a surge of power. They would crawl. They would all crawl and beg now that he held their treasure.

    His voice lowered. I shall do with her as I please, and keep her until I tire of her. And then, I may give her to my men for their amusement, or I may send what is left of her back to her father.

    The one called Edward laughed and raked the woman with a look of contempt.

    Alana lifted pleading eyes to her captor. Nay. I beg of you. My father lies gravely ill. This news will kill him.

    So. The lady begs. He smiled, a cruel, evil smile that made Alana’s heart stop. The first part of my plan has already been realized. And if the news kills the O’Donnell I will have accomplished all that I set out to do. He tossed her roughly to his soldier. Put the woman on my horse. She rides with me.

    To the wounded man he said, Be grateful that I spared your wretched life. Now hurry to your chief with my message.

    The man stared at the ground for a moment, then gathered his courage and spoke. The lass Alana means everything to her father. Even if this kills the O’Donnell, his ghost will never rest until he has his revenge.

    Alana. Sloan felt a little thrill at the name. Alana. As beautiful as the woman who bears it. Then, giving a low, mocking laugh, he shoved the man away and watched as he began the long trek to O’Donnell Castle.

    Sloan strode toward his mount. Tearing a strip of fabric from his shirt he sponged blood from the gaping wound in his arm, cursing the one who had inflicted it. He saw her watching him dispassionately as one of his men bound his wound with the cloth. When it was bound he saw that the dead among his men were loaded into a wagon for a proper burial in their village. The wounded were helped onto their mounts. The damp ground was littered with the O’Donnell dead and their horses. He had no doubt that by this time on the morrow, they would be claimed by their own.

    With a last look around he pulled himself up behind the woman. He brought his arms around her and grasped the reins. For a moment he felt her flinch as his arms came in contact with the undersides of her breasts.

    Sloan brought his face close to hers and whispered for her ears alone, That is nothing compared with what you will feel at my touch in the days to come.

    He felt her shiver. Fear? Or cold? No matter. He wanted her to suffer. For a moment he contemplated wrapping his cloak about her for warmth. He paused. There was no room in his life for kindness, especially toward this O’Donnell. Let her shiver in the chill rain. It mattered not to him.

    We ride, he called to his men. Our work here is finished.

    Alana stared at the bodies of her father’s loyal men. She had known all of them since her childhood. Among them would be Paddy. Dear, beloved Paddy. She silently mourned their passing.

    As their horses sped across the rolling hills, Sloan forced himself to ignore the body that trembled in the circle of his arms. He must feel nothing for this woman. She would be an instrument of revenge, he promised himself. Nothing more.

    As for Alana, her thoughts were already racing. She knew where he was taking her. The land to the north of O’Donnell land. Townsend Keep.

    When they arrived, she would look for a way to kill her captor. Or, if he succeeded in carrying out his threat, she would kill herself.

    Chapter Two

    What lay in store for her? The sweet, sheltered girl who had been safely ensconced in the convent couldn’t even bring herself to think about what was to come. For her father’s sake, for the sake of all the O’Donnells who had gone before her, she must be brave. She must hold to one thought. There was nothing, nothing this brute could do to her that would break her spirit.

    Even the terror that gripped Alana’s heart could not sustain her throughout the long ride. As the horse’s hooves ate up the miles her head nodded in exhaustion. Without realizing it she leaned into the arms that held her, her breathing soft and steady.

    Sloan, too, fought an overwhelming exhaustion. All through the long night he had tensed, awaiting the battle. He had lusted for blood. And now, now he felt a growing lust for something more. Revenge, he promised himself. He would have his revenge for the death of his father and his brother.

    His muscles protested as he sat, ramrod straight, leading his men on their homeward journey.

    It was warm where the girl rested, curled against his chest like a kitten. But, he cautioned himself, this was no harmless pet. And though she resembled a madonna in repose, he had tasted her wrath when threatened. The wound she had inflicted caused his arm to throb painfully. And though he fought to ignore it, the sticky warmth beneath his sleeve told him that the gash had opened and was bleeding profusely. He allowed his hatred to fester like the wound in his arm. The O’Donnell would rue the day he had ever heard the name Townsend. If only, Sloan thought, he could be there to see the old man’s face when he heard who had captured his daughter. O’Donnell would know instantly what was in store for the girl. It had always been so in war.

    The victory would be so much sweeter if only he could hear O’Donnell weep, see the pain etched in his eyes as he heard the news of the fate of his only heir. No matter. Sloan would even the score when they reached his castle.

    * * * * *

    It was the sound of voices that roused Alana. As they passed through a village she stirred, then sat bolt upright when she remembered who held her and why.

    The rain and mist had been replaced with gauzy morning sunshine. Women on their way to streams to wash stopped in their tracks at the sight of the dead and wounded being brought home in carts. Within minutes, as the dead were identified, the women set up a loud keening that clawed at the nerves.

    A young woman no older than Alana, with three small children clinging to her skirts, knelt in the damp earth and cradled the body of a bloodied man. He murmured a few words before collapsing in her arms. She came to her feet and stared at Alana with hate-filled eyes. Before anyone could stop her she raced forward.

    My Brian says you are one of the evil O’Donnells.

    She spat upon Alana. She then lifted one arm as if to strike her, but Sloan nudged his horse into a trot, brushing past the woman before she could inflict harm.

    As they rode past she hissed, May you burn in hell. You and all the O’Donnells.

    Sloan felt the tremors that coursed through Alana. It should have pleased him to know that the woman’s words had hurt his captive. But for some unexplained reason it had the opposite effect. Through gritted teeth he denied the feelings that stirred his blood. He would not protect this woman from the hatred that seethed in his people. Let her taste the depth of their anger.

    With great effort Alana straightened her spine and lifted her head in a defiant gesture. I shall be in very good company in hell, I suspect. Your leaders, the traitorous Townsends, will be there with me.

    Even while he railed at her words Sloan couldn’t help but admire Alana’s air of defiance, knowing how much the effort cost her.

    With a sharp command he ordered his men to fall into line behind him. They left the village and crossed the last miles to Townsend Keep.

    Once there the courtyard became alive with activity as servants rushed forward to assist the weary warriors.

    So this is the traitor’s castle. Alana’s voice was low with sarcasm.

    Her taunt snapped the last thread of Sloan’s careful control.

    Sloan slid to the cobblestones and yanked her roughly from the saddle. That is the last time you will use that word in my presence. And while the others jeered, he tossed Alana over his shoulder like a sack of grain and strode into the castle, past the startled servants, past the women and children awaiting the return of their men.

    His arm ached. With every step he climbed his body protested. And though the woman in his arms kicked and wriggled and pounded his back, he continued up the stairs until he reached his suite of rooms. Kicking in the door he strode across the room and dumped her unceremoniously on the bed.

    The servants, women and young girls from the nearby village, stared in open-mouthed surprise.

    Clean her up, he ordered, pointing a finger at the rumpled, muddy figure struggling to get to her feet. And dress the lady like a bride. I will be back later to claim her.

    Claim her, my lord? A timid little girl with stringy red hair stared at the floor, afraid to look upon the lord of the castle.

    Aye. Claim her. As my right. The lady, he said, his face twisted into a sneer, is mine, to do with as I please. Now, he added, casually dismissing her as if she no longer existed, where is Diedre? I need her to look after my wound.

    She is in the great hall, my lord.

    Sloan nodded and turned away. Then, as an afterthought, he turned back. I want all her clothes burned.

    Burned, my lord?

    Aye. Burned. I want nothing left of the O’Donnell stink when I return.

    Then you shall have to burn me as well, Alana said through clenched teeth.

    He shot her a chilling look and the sunlight streaming through the windows illuminated the scar that ran from the corner of his eye to below his ear. In that moment he looked like the devil himself. If it pleases me, it will be done. In this place I am the master. And you, woman, are less than the lowest serving wench.

    With that he strode through the doorway and slammed the door. The sound reverberated through the room, leaving the serving girls cowering.

    Before the servants could react Alana jumped up from the bed and raced to the closed door, determined to make good her escape. To her consternation two burly men, swords at the ready, stood at either side of the doorway barring her way. At their narrowed look she slammed the door and raced to the balcony window. Below two more guards were posted.

    Feeling a rising sense of panic she turned and saw the servants watching her. As they advanced toward her she dropped her arms in a gesture of submission. She was too weary to fight them. And, she knew, they could call on as many reinforcements as they needed to break down her resistance. For now Sloan Townsend had won. She would be bathed and dressed as he had commanded. But before this day ended, she vowed to herself, she would escape. After she had killed the traitor Townsend.

    * * * * *

    Alana leaned back in the warm water and sighed as the serving girl wrapped a length of linen about her damp, perfumed hair. The soothing water and the warmth of the log on the fire were nearly her undoing. For almost an hour she had allowed the tender ministrations of the servants to lull her into a false sense of contentment. But as a girl approached holding a linen sheet and helped her from the bath she felt her nerves begin to jump once more. She must find a weapon, and soon. She had studied the entire room and had seen nothing

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