Rory

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Copyright

The moment her hands skimmed his flesh, Rory could feel the changes.

When her strong fingers began massaging his shoulder, his heartbeat became erratic. His breathing accelerated. His mind was swept clean of all thought save one. He wanted more. He was desperate to feel her hands touching him everywhere.

He clenched his teeth to keep from crying out. Clenched his hands into fists to keep from dragging her into his arms and taking what he wanted.

“You haven’t been moving your arm as you should,” AnnaClaire said.

“And how would you know that?”

“Because I can feel a knot of tension here.” She kneaded his flesh, and he bent his head forward slightly to give her easier access. “And here.” She pressed her thumbs over his stiff shoulder, working the flesh in firm but gentle strokes.

“Perhaps the tension is from something other than pain.”

“And what would that be?”

He sighed, as much in pleasure as frustration. “I’ll leave you to figure that one for yourself, my lady….”

Dear Reader,

Entertainment. Escape. Fantasy. These three words describe the heart of Harlequin Historicals. If you want compelling, emotional stories by some of the best writers in the field, look no further.

Ruth Langan is one of those writers. With over forty-five books to her credit, this bestselling author has made a name for herself in the world of romance fiction. We are thrilled to bring you Rory, the first book in her new medieval series, THE O’NEIL SAGA. Legendary Irish rebel Rory O’Neil has a price on his head for his attacks on English soldiers. When he is wounded in battle, he is nursed by an English noblewoman who eventually must choose between her love for Rory or her loyalty to the Queen of England. Don’t miss this heart-wrenching story!

A Father for Keeps is a heartwarming reunion romance by the talented Ana Seymour. A wealthy miner returns to Nevada to win back the woman who secretly had his child. In Robber Bride by Deborah Simmons, the third de Burgh brother, Simon, finds his true love in a runaway bride who is hiding from her despicable would-be husband.

And be sure to look for The Tender Stranger by Carolyn Davidson. In this gripping tale, a pregnant widow flees from her conniving in-laws to an isolated Colorado cabin, and later falls in love with the bounty hunter hired to bring her back East. Whatever, your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a. romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical.®

Sincerely, Tracy Farrell Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to: Harlequin Reader Service U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269 Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Rory

Ruth Langan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RUTH LANGAN

traces her ancestry to Scotland and Ireland. It is no surprise, then, that she feels a kinship with the characters in her historical novels.

Married to her childhood sweetheart, she has raised five children and lives in Michigan, the state where she was born and raised.

For sweet little Macey Langan Bissonnette

And her big sisters, Aubrey, Haley and Kelsey

And her proud parents, Carol and Bryon

And to Tom

Always

Prologue

Ireland, 1560

The chapel at Ballinarin, the ancestral home of the clan O’Neil, was filled to overflowing with family and friends who had come from as far as Malahide Castle in Dublin, and Bunratty Castle in Clare. The mood was festive as they prepared to witness the union of Rory O’Neil, eldest son of Gavin and Moira, and his beloved Caitlin Maguire.

In a small room at the back of the chapel Rory paced while his brother, Conor, stood by the door and watched as the last of the guests filed into pews.

“What’s keeping her?” Rory paused. Sunlight speared through a high window, turning his dark hair blue-black. He was resplendent in black breeches and shirt, with his cloak bearing the O’Neil crest tossed rakishly over his shoulder.

“You needn’t worry that she’s changed her mind, Rory. The lass has loved you since she was old enough to know her own mind. Just be patient.”

“Damn your patience.”

Conor grinned. “Aye, that was never one of your virtues, Rory. But give the lass time to make herself beautiful for her husband.”

“Nothing could make Caitlin more beautiful than she already is. And why should I be patient? I’ve waited a lifetime for this day.”

“Aye. It seems like you’ve been in love with her forever.”

“Since I was ten and two.” He flashed the smile that had caused maidens from Derry to Cork to dream of snagging his attention. But Rory O’Neil had eyes for only one maiden. “I was born for her alone. I tell you, Conor, this day my life will be complete.” He lowered his voice. “Did I tell you that I slipped over to see her last night? I told her I couldn’t wait until today. I wanted to lie with her.”

Conor threw back his head and roared. “Don’t let Friar Malone hear of this.”

“It wouldn’t matter. She refused. She said she wanted to wait for her wedding night. It was to be her special gift to her husband.” He grinned. “Husband. I like the sound of that.”

“And with all this love stored up, I’m sure your wedding night will be one to remember.”

Both brothers turned as the door was thrust in and a slender lass in a gown of pink gossamer hurried inside.

“I was afraid I’d be too late.”

“Too late for what, Briana?” Rory couldn’t help grinning at the sight of his little sister. Her waist-length hair, the color of flame, was wind-tossed. Her cheeks were bright with color. From the sound of her breathing, he could tell she’d just run the entire distance from the keep to the chapel. All her young life she’d been running to keep up with her two older brothers.

“Too late to kiss my brother before he left me for good.”

“You talk as though I’m going away. Caitlin and I will be living right here on the grounds of Ballinarin.”

“Aye. But you’ll be a husband.” She dimpled, and the two brothers knew she’d overheard at least some of their conversation. But it would go no further. Briana could always be counted on to keep a secret. “And in no time, seeing the way you two look at each other, you’ll be a father as well. And you’ll have no time for a sister.”

Rory drew her close and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I’ll always have time for you, Briana. And you can come over every day and help Caitlin with the wee ones.”

“Just how many are you planning to have?”

“At least a dozen. All the lads will be handsome like their father, and all the lasses will have dark hair like their mother, and skin as fair as the crystal water in the River Shannon, and so beautiful that I’ll have to lock them up to keep the local lads from stealing them all away.”

Conor and Briana burst into gales of laughter.

“That’s what I like about you, Rory. When you dream,” his brother said with a laugh, “they’re always such grand dreams. Let’s just hope it isn’t the other way around. After all, your sons could be small and delicate like their mother, and your daughters could all be giants like you.”

“Not a chance. They’ll.” He paused at the sound of a commotion in the chapel and gave a smile of relief. “Finally. I was beginning to think—” At the sudden chorus of shouting voices his smile dissolved.

He hurried from the room, followed by his brother and sister.

A lad of six or seven, clothes torn and bloodied, stood gesturing wildly. “English soldiers. More than a dozen of them.”

Rory’s heart nearly stopped as he shouldered his way through the guests. He recognized the lad as a son of Caitlin’s eldest brother. He knelt down, caught him by the shoulders. “Where are the others, Innis?”

“By the bend in the road.” The boy’s eyes were wide with pain and shock. “My da fell on top of me, pinning me to the ground. All I could do was watch. They’re all dead, Rory.”

“No!” Rory’s voice echoed through the chapel as he released the boy and jumped to his feet, pushing and shoving through the stunned crowd.

Outside he grasped the reins of the first horse he spotted and leapt onto its back, urging it into a gallop. He could hear the sounds of other horses following behind, but he never looked back.

He followed the bog road until he came to the bend. Even before he got there, he could hear the strange, eerie silence. No birds sang. No creatures moved. It was as though the entire land was holding its breath.

And then he saw them. The mass of bodies. Animal as well as human. The ground ran red with their blood. The horses had died where they’d fallen, with lances through the neck or heart. The men had fought a fierce battle. Many lay, face up, still holding their swords. But the worst savagery had been inflicted upon the women.

Rory saw the flutter of white. Caitlin’s bridal gown.

It was the only way he could identify her. He picked his way through the carnage and knelt beside her. The gown had been cut away, except for one sleeve that still clung to her wrist. From the marks on her body he could see that she’d been brutalized before her throat had been cut so violently her head had nearly been severed from her body.

With a cry of pain and rage he gathered her against him and buried his face in her bloody hair. His body shook with great, wrenching sobs that spoke of a heart shattered beyond repair.

“Rory. God in heaven, Rory.” Conor was the first to find him. He could do no more than weep as he stood, watching his brother silently rage against the horror of it.

As the others arrived, Gavin O’Neil strode through the carnage to stand over his firstborn son. His voice shook with raw emotion. “The lad, Innis, says the leader was called Tilden by the others. Tall, brawny, with yellow hair and a face disfigured by a scar that ran from his left eye to his jaw. ‘Twill not be an easy face to hide.”

“I’ll find him.” Rory unfastened his cloak and used it to cover Caitlin’s nakedness. He staggered to his feet, cradling the broken body of the woman who had been his reason for living. This night she would have lain in his arms, in their bed. Instead she would lie forever in the cold, hard earth. He looked up to stare at his family and friends. All were weeping uncontrollably.

His own tears had dried. His eyes, hard as stone, stared beyond the bloodstained ground. “I give you my word. I’ll not rest until I find the English bastard who did this.”

His father laid a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll fetch a wagon to take her and the others to be buried.”

Rory shook off the hand. “No one will touch Caitlin. I’ll carry her. It’s all I can give her now.”

It was a somber, silent procession that made its way back to the chapel. The guests in their wedding finery were a sharp contrast to the bloody bodies being hauled in hay wagons. At the head of the column walked Rory O’Neil, his tunic and breeches clotted with blood. The body in his arms was completely covered with his cloak, except for a spill of raven hair matted with blood and grass.

At the chapel he continued to stand and hold Caitlin cradled to his chest as a hole was dug and Friar Malone began the words that would consign the body to holy ground.

For hours, while the holes were dug and the bodies buried, Rory continued to kneel silently at the mound of earth that covered his beloved. And when the last body had been disposed of, he looked around the grave site, then fixed his gaze on the distance.

As his family gathered around, he embraced his mother and father, and kissed his sister’s cheek.

Briana’s cries became great, wracking sobs that shook her slender frame. “You musn’t go, Rory. Please, don’t go. If you do, I’ll never see you again.”

“Hush now.” He held her close for a moment, whispering against her forehead, “I’ll return. Trust me.”

Conor clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Will you let me come with you?”

Rory gave a firm shake of his head. “It’s something I must do alone. You’ll be needed here.” He turned to his mother, who stood behind Innis, her arms wrapped around his thin shoulders. “You’ll see to the lad?”

She nodded. “He’ll be a son to me, until my own returns.”

Rory strapped on a sword and tucked a knife at his waist and in his boot.

His father removed his own cloak, which bore the O’Neil crest, and wrapped it around his son’s shoulders. Lifting his hand in benediction he said, “May God ride with you, Rory, and bring you home to those who love you.”

Without a word, Rory pulled himself onto the back of his horse. He turned for one last look at Ballinarin. In the distance Croagh Patrick stood guard over the land. The mountain changed color so rapidly it was never the same. Earlier, it had been a harsh gray-green in the misty rain. Now it had softened to a peach hue in the warmth of the fading sun. Its sides were cloaked with stunted, twisted shrubs and trees and at the base, tall conifers and clumps of rhododendron. Waterfalls tossed themselves over the side, spilling down until they reached the river. Torn shreds of clouds drifted overhead. This lonely, savage piece of land held his heart. It was the only place he’d ever wanted to be. But now, the deceptively gentle scene mocked him. Because of the. violence that had occurred here, he would begin an odyssey. An odyssey that could take him far away for years, or even a lifetime, until this thing was finished.

Chapter One

County Dublin, 1562

“So many of them, Rory.” The voice was little more than a whisper on the breeze.

Half a dozen figures crouched by the banks of the Liffey, watching the English soldiers frolic in the brown water.

“Aye. I’d hoped for only a dozen or more. There must be close to fifty.” Rory turned to the weathered farmer kneeling beside him. “Why so many?”

“Now that the English have discovered the healing properties of the boiling spring, this river has become a favorite place for them to congregate.” He wrinkled his nose at the strong odor of sulphur. “It helps them relax after they’ve had the fun of killing a few of us.”

Rory watched from his place of concealment.

“You’re certain the one with the scar is among them?”

The farmer’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the distant figures. “1 haven’t spotted him yet. But he was with this group of bastards yesterday when they caught my little daughter in the fields and made sport of her.”

His voice betrayed his pain. “She’s only ten and one, Rory. And the things they did to her. The one with the scar demanded to be first. She told me he taunted those who refused to join in.” In a fierce whisper he added, “I want to be the one to kill him.”

Rory touched a hand to his arm. “I know how you feel, Seamus. But you’ve done enough. Go home to your family now.”

“I need to see him dead.” The farmer fingered his only weapon, a small crude knife.

“Your family can’t afford to lose you, Seamus. Go now. Leave the killing to us.”

“You’ll kill him, Rory? For my Fiona? For me?”

“Aye. If he’s here, I’ll see the bastard dead.” For Caitlin, he thought, especially for Caitlin.

Seeing the hatred that glittered in Rory O’Neil’s eyes, the farmer had no doubt that his family’s honor would be avenged. In the past two years, all of Ireland had heard of the quest for vengeance that drove this fierce Irish warrior. Wherever there was a battle between his countrymen and the hated English, Rory O’Neil could be found in the thick of it. He had killed so many soldiers, there was now a price on his head. He was the most hunted man in the land. And the man most despised by his enemy. He was known throughout England and Ireland as the Blackhearted O’Neil. Despite the fact that his likeness was posted throughout the country, Rory O’Neil was so loved by the people, he could count on being safely hidden in any town or village throughout the land. Everywhere he went, men joined his ragged band in its quest for vengeance.

“Can we take them now, Rory?” one of his men whispered when the farmer was safely gone.

“Patience, Colin.” How odd that he now counseled patience, when he’d had so little of it in his life.

He watched as the last of the soldiers stripped off their tunics and walked into the water. Only a handful of men remained as lookouts, while the others swam and bathed and splashed each other like boys.

“Ready, lads?” he asked as he stood and unsheathed his sword.

His men nodded and did the same.

A ripple of anticipation passed through them, charging each man with almost supernatural fervor. The very air around them seemed somehow changed. No one spoke. No one moved as they waited for the signal from their leader.

“Now,” Rory called in a fierce whisper.

They scrambled down the banks of the river, screaming like banshees. The hapless guards didn’t even have a chance to unsheath their swords before they fell in their own blood.

The English soldiers, who had only moments earlier been laughing and calling to one another, now struggled feverishly to retrieve their weapons. Though they outnumbered the Irish warriors almost ten to one, they had the disadvantage of being caught unawares.

Rory plowed into the water, using his sword with an economy of movement. With each thrust of his blade, another man stiffened, gasped, tumbled headlong into the river. In no time the brown waters of the Liffey ran red with blood. And still the killing went on.

Each time he encountered another soldier, Rory stared into his opponent’s face, searching for the telltale scar. And each time, he experienced the sting of disappointment when he realized this wasn’t the one he sought.

He had long ago stopped feeling the shock along his arm when his sword encountered muscle and bone. And was able to block out the muffled sobs and high-pitched shrieks of the dying. What he couldn’t erase from his mind was the sight of his beloved Caitlin, her body bloodied and battered beyond recognition. This was what drove him. This was what gave him the will to go on, no matter what the odds.

As he stepped over yet another body, he caught a glimpse of a soldier with yellow hair plucking a sword from one of his fallen comrades.

At last, Rory thought. At long last, his quest would be ended. With a cry of pain and rage he lunged through the water lapping at his hips and stumbled forward.

Hearing his voice, the soldier momentarily dropped the sword.

“Pick it up, you coward.” Rory’s voice was thick with passion. “Pick it up and face your death like a man.”

Rory saw the soldier grasp the sword as he lifted his own. The thought of victory sang through his blood and misted his vision.

“Now,” he shouted. “Now, Tilden, will you taste the vengeance of Rory O’Neil.”

He could no more stop the thrust of his blade than he could still the waters churning beneath his feet. And yet, in that last moment, he realized his mistake. This man had no scar. His face was unlined. It was the face of a youth. The eyes wide with terror. The mouth round in surprise.

The force of the thrust sent his blade through the lad’s. chest and out the other side. The young soldier was dead before his body hit the water.

With a feeling of horror and revulsion, Rory pulled his sword free and watched as the water around the body turned blood red.

For the first time he stared around at the scene of carnage. Not a single soldier remained. The Liffey and its banks were littered with bodies. Three of his own men were sitting in the shallows, looking dazed. One was tying a tourniquet around his bloody leg. Another was leaning against a tree, retching.

How long had this killing lasted? Minutes? Hours? Time was nothing but a blur.

Had he really been on this quest for two years now? Two years of blood and violence and death. Two years of being hunted, and hiding out in hay barns and accepting food from strangers.

And yet, how could he stop the carnage? In every village he heard the stories of cottages burned and crops destroyed and women and children violated.

He was weary beyond belief. The thought of Ballinarin taunted him, tempted him. At times all he could think of was turning his back on this quest and returning to his home and family.

But then, he would see again in his mind his beloved Caitlin. And he knew, no matter how weary, no matter what the Fates meted out to him, he could never stop until he found the English bastard who had brutalized and murdered his future bride and her entire family. Tilden had to pay.

“Will we stop awhile, Rory?” one of his men called.

“We’ll move on.” He forced the weariness aside as he allowed the water to wash the blood from his sword. Then he sheathed it and stepped from the river. “If we move quickly, we can sleep tonight in Dublin.”

* * *

“I’m sorry I must leave you, AnnaClaire.”

“I understand, Father. You have your duties.”

“But it’s so soon since Margaret.”

The young woman touched a hand to her father’s lips to still his words. “I’ll not deny I miss Mother. As do you. Every day of our lives we’ll miss her. But I can’t ask you to forsake everything and spend the rest of your life holding my hand.”

“The grief is still so raw.”

“Aye. I expect a year from now I’ll still be grieving. But I’ll find ways to stay busy. I promise.”

“I wish you’d change your mind and come with me.”

“We’ve gone over this before, Father. I’m just not ready to leave Mother’s home, her grave.”

“I know. And I understand, my dear. I’ve asked Charles Lord Davis to look in on you. And Lady Alice Thornly is planning a lovely dinner party. She hinted that there would be several interesting men recently arrived who might snag your interest.”

AnnaClaire managed a smile. “You just can’t help yourself, can you, Father?”

“Do you blame me? You need a husband, a family. You’re far from home, without the comfort of your mother, and now your father abandons you as well.”

“You aren’t abandoning me. You said yourself you’ll be back in time for my birthday.”

“And I shall. But I’d feel better if I knew you had a young man looking out for you while I was gone.”

“I’ll have an old one. Lord Davis is a dear.”