Lord Of The Isle. Elizabeth Mayne

had gripped her before she fainted returned. Wryly she said, “Hugh of the O’Neills, then. Has anyone told you you look just like Shane?”

      “Not that I can recall, they haven’t. Who are you?”

      Morgana wet her lips. She took time to count the crumpled bodies of the queen’s soldiers and the number of Irish kerns milling around in the night shadows. She took a second deep breath, this one shuddering inside her lungs.

      Shock was beginning to set in. Her mind wasn’t anywhere near as clear as it should be. Her fingers on his shaved cheek proved he was a man of flesh and blood, not an apparition. She swallowed, then said, “My name is Morgan.”

      Hugh repeated her word. “Morgan?”

      “Aye, Morgana,” she repeated, stopping herself from saying anything more clarifying.

      “Morgana, then.” He grasped a trailing corner of his plaid and wiped at the mud on her face. “What great error on your part made you the prey of an English patrol this stormy night?”

      He saw the whites of her eyes flash, but she made no move to stop his hand.

      Morgana wasn’t looking at her savior so much as she was looking to see where her attackers were before she answered that loaded question. She noted that there was no one standing to contradict her.

      “Truly, sir, I have no idea what their intentions were. Savagery, I suppose.” Her voice shook on her last words, and that much was no act on her part. “Are you certain we are not dead? Is this the afterlife?”

      “No, I assure you it is not. You have not gone on to your reward.” A pair of distrustful and confused eyes looked everywhere but at Hugh O’Neill. She drew back from the casual, servicing touch of his hand as he mopped up her face. “By your language, I assume you are not of Tyrone.”

      Morgana grimaced, recognizing her first mistake. “You’re right. I don’t speak Irish.”

      “Then you are from the Pale, from Dublin, possibly?”

      “Kildare,” Morgana corrected. She could not afford to say more.

      “And what brings you to Ulster, Morgana of Kildare?”

      “I am on pilgrimage to Dunluce.” Again, Morgana looked to the river, seeking Ariel. She exhaled a deep and tired sigh. “Now that I’ve lost my horse, I shall have to go back to Dublin and start all over.”

      Hugh could see her distress. He stroked his fingers over her throat, soothing her as he would a frightened animal. “Nay, you haven’t lost your horse. It is safe on the other side of the Abhainn Mor. One of my men took pity on the beast and rescued it from the flood.”

      “One did?” Morgana turned her face back to the man, her eyes wary. “Are you certain?”

      “As certain as I am of my own name.”

      “God and Mary be praised,” she whispered reverently. A great gush of relief over that news nearly caused Morgana to burst into tears. If Ariel had made it across the river, her saddle and bags intact, then all was not lost. Morgana could continue to Dunluce with nothing lost beyond the cost of her escort. Given any luck, she could hire more men. She could use some of her ready coins to have masses said for those she’d lost.

      Hugh did not urge her to quiet. A woman’s tears after an ordeal were a good thing. He embraced her gently, waiting for the calm that would come soon enough.

      “Tell me,” Hugh asked as he sat her up, mindful that she had injuries other than the ones he could see in the limited light. “Do you think you can stand or ride?”

      “Possibly.” Morgana used her left hand to touch the back of her neck. She encountered mud, matted hair and excruciating pain. This wasn’t the time to start cataloging her injuries. She nodded in the direction of Kelly’s trussed body, easily distinguished from the others because of his silver-gray hair. “Is Kelly dead?”

      “Not yet,” Hugh murmured. “By your question, I take it you are acquainted with him.”

      “Enough to wish I wasn’t,” Morgana replied tartly. She busied her hands, making order of her clothing, and what she couldn’t order she wrapped securely under the sodden tartan to cover the gaps.

      The curious boy kneeling at Hugh O’Neill’s side took off his own belt and offered it to her as a means to hold the plaid secure.

      “That was kind of you, Owen. Now go and fetch my horse,” Hugh said, dismissing the boy.

      “At once!” Owen popped to his feet, bowing deeply. Hugh thought the show of respect attributable more to the English lady’s breasts than to any sign of hero worship honoring Hugh.

      “May I have my knife back?” Morgana asked as she fastened the belt buckle at her waist.

      Hugh swung his eyes from the departing boy, back to the woman. Her intense gaze was leveled, pointed at his waist, where her blade rested in the same sheath as his dirk.

      “Until I know you better, Morgana of Kildare, I think the blade had best rest where it is. I applaud your skill with it. One man of six dispatched to his Maker, three others wounded. My gut tells me that you are a dangerous woman.”

      “A desperate woman, sir.” She challenged him without compunction, proving that she was no stranger to speaking her mind. “I would feel far safer if the blade rested in my own sheath.”

      Hugh leaned over her, deliberately sliding his hand under her skirt to find the deadly dagger’s sheath, neatly buckled below her left knee. She was an Englishwoman from the Pale, and not to be trusted. His eyes met hers. “You will be safe in my care without it.”

      The rhythm of Morgana’s heart arrested. Her breath caught in her throat. The flesh on the inside of her thighs quivered. The touch of his hand was intimate and warm. The implication of that sheath at her knee might have gone unsaid, but his proprietary attitude needed no more vouching for. She knew exactly what he was telling her—he was the one in control, not she.

      Trying to take control of matters between them, Morgana grasped his wrist and removed his hand.

      “I find, sir, my personal security never rests well in anyone’s hands but my own. I repeat, give me back my knife.”

      “Not now, Morgana of Kildare. Not before we know who you are and what you are doing in Tyrone. Come, I will help you to stand.”

      As Hugh assisted the woman back onto her feet, Kermit Blackbeard turned the contents of a filled water skin out on James Kelly’s head and chest. The moment the traitor roused from his stupor, Kermit kicked hard toes into Kelly’s ribs.

      Kelly awoke spitting and cursing, shouting against the bonds restraining him. “God damn you, I’ll have your head for striking me!”

      He sat up, blinking his eyes, and glared at the man assisting Morgana to her feet. “Untie me, O’Neill!”

      “O’Neill!” Morgana gasped. She jerked against the young man whose kind arm gave her the support she needed to remain on her feet. “You’re the O’Neill?”

      “Aye, lady, so he is,” Kermit Blackbeard assured her. He dug his fist into Kelly’s collar and hauled him onto his feet.

      “Those are their words, not mine, lady,” Hugh crooned softly into the woman’s ear, to calm her.

      “On your feet, man!” Shamus Fitz dug his heels into his mount’s ribs, putting hard tension on the rope tied between his saddle and Kelly’s fat neck. Kelly struggled, choking, his wild eyes searching for Hugh.

      “O’Neill! Tell your men to desist! O’Neill!”

      Morgana of Kildare reacted. Her hand shot out to snatch her blade from the sheath at the O’Neill’s waist. He stayed her hand, gripping her fingers firmly, adding a command to desist. “Nay, lady. This is my land, and he’s my prisoner, now. Unless you want to join Kelly in the ranks of the unwelcome,