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 to cross words with the queen’s favorite, Lynley Lord Dunstan.

      Conor turned to the lad who stood between Rory and AnnaClaire. The orphan, Innis Maguire, had become a son to them, living in their household, blossoming under their loving care. In the past months he had grown more than an inch in height. The beginnings of muscles could be seen beneath the sleeves of his tunic.

      Conor tousled the blonde hair and dragged the lad close. “Next time I leave, maybe you can go with me.”

      “You mean it?”

      “Aye, lad. Though I think, when I return from England, I’ll be home to stay.”

      Conor turned to his little sister, Briana, who was openly weeping. “No tears now, lass. I’ll be home before you have time to miss me.”

      “I miss you already.” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely. “I don’t want you to leave.”

      “I know.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “But when the Queen of England issues an invitation, it’s really a royal command. I must go.”

      “She isn’t my queen.” Briana pushed from his arms and stomped her foot. She’d inherited her temper, as fiery as her hair, from her father. “Nor is she your queen, Conor.”

      “True enough. But I’ve learned that ‘tis ofttimes more prudent to lull an enemy with sweet songs than to approach with sword raised. So I’ll go to England, lass, and watch and listen.” He shot her that charming smile that had broken the heart of many a colleen. “And even croon a minstrel’s song of love to the lady on the throne, if that’s what it takes to keep my people safe from English swords.”

      He pulled himself into the saddle and saluted his family smartly. Then, with a last wave at the servants who had assembled to wish him godspeed, he turned his mount toward Dublin.

      Before he reached the village he turned for a lingering look at Ballinarin. The sun had burned away the last of the morning raindrops. The sky was awash with feathery clouds that seemed to brush the highest peaks of Croagh Patrick. A waterfall cascaded down the side of the mountain, sending up a misty spray. A flock of sheep undulated across a hillside. This land was so green, so beautiful, it seemed like an artist’s rendering.

      He thought of his little sister Briana’s words to him and felt a sigh well up from deep inside. He wasn’t yet gone, and already he missed the land of his birth. At times he felt like a nomad. Since boyhood he’d spent as much time away as he had at his beloved home. He’d lived with a tutor in a villa in Rome, where he’d mastered the classics. Learned to speak fluent Spanish in a monastery. Could converse in French after two years in Paris. What he longed for, more than anything else, was to spend the rest of his life at Ballinarin. Hearing words spoken in a soft, soothing brogue. Riding his horse across the green, verdant hills. But he had a duty. To his father. To his country. This was what he had trained for. What his mother had prayed for. What his father and brother had fought for.

      He would do his best to turn away from his legacy as a warrior and become, instead, an advocate for peace. But if