Chapter One The English Border, 1492 "Burn her! Burn the witch!" Lora O'Shea shrank away from the angry mob. The brutal hands of the magistrate prevented her escape. Heart thundering in her ears, she struggled against the big man's hold. He laughed, propelled her down wooden steps and maneuvered her through the crowd that filled the town square. The man who called himself a priest, and who had caused this ungodly mess, walked before her. The angry expressions of the crowd blurred before her eyes. The magistrate shoved her again. Lora tripped and landed face first in the mire. The stench of horse dung, mingled with human waste, assaulted her nostrils. Bile rose in her throat. The roar of the crowd echoed in her ears, melding with the frantic beat of her heart. Cruel hands circled her arms. "On your feet, bitch!" The sound of the magistrate's voice caused the hair on the nape of Lora's neck to bristle. He pulled her to her feet and jerked her against his chest. "Do not attempt escape, you Irish whore, or I will let these people loose on you." Lora grimaced and tugged at her arms. "Shove me again and I will crush your balls like walnuts, assuming you have any." His big hands twined in her hair and yanked. Lora winced and struggled against his hold. "Bloody Irish bitch. Move on!" A rotten piece of fruit struck Lora in the neck. The noise from the mob grew and the sky rained rubbish from past meals. She tripped on the hem of her plain wool gown and staggered toward the platform erected in the center of town. A stake awaited her. Around it, men piled kindling in preparation for a human roast. Lora trembled so badly, she was certain her knees would not support her weight. Her Irish spirit tried to escape her in the face of impending death. How she longed for the busy streets of Dublin once more. "Up the stairs, heathen." Lora tripped, cursing the magistrate, the priest, and the fate that led to this. The lout released her hair and shoved her against the stake with such force, the breath rushed from her lungs. A man in the crowd tossed a coiled length of rope onto the platform. The magistrate retrieved it, paused before Lora and grasped both her hands in one of his. Lora braved a look into his eyes. A face ravaged by famine and poverty stared back at her. Rough whiskers covered his chin and brushed his lips. The sting of rope digging into her flesh pulled Lora from her trance. Desperation snaked its way through her stomach. "Nay, this is a mistake." Lora tugged on her wrists. "Please, I have a daughter--" Apathy curled the magistrate's lips into a cruel smile. "The Irish breed like rabbits." He shoved her against the pole again and wound the rope around her arms and stomach. "It would not surprise me to discover you have a dozen bastards running loose." Lora clenched her jaw and kicked him as hard as she could in the shins. The palm of the magistrate's hand circled her throat. He held her against the pole and leaned so close she could smell what he had eaten for dinner. Terror gripped her heart in a cold vice that made breathing difficult. She waited for him to speak; waited for the insults sure to come her way. Instead, the man moved away from her as if she had the plague and finished tying the rope. "Bitch!" He spat at her feet and left the platform. The priest stepped forward. The brim of a wide black hat hid his countenance from the sun. She knew his face well; she had seen him more than she wished over the past two days. His pinched features reminded Lora of her Da when his bowels did not work properly. The tip of his angular nose would no doubt cut flesh if touched. Grey eyes sought hers. A smile void of warmth curled his thin lips as he took a torch offered by a man in the crowd. Its flame sputtered black smoke into the air.

The priest moved forward, malice glistening in his eyes. Each step he took enticed fevered cries from the crowd. They wanted her dead.

He stopped, lifted his face toward the heavens and raised the flaming torch. "Purge this child, oh Lord, and cleanse her soul of evil's embrace. Allow her to be reborn through fire."

The mob rushed forward, the lust for death distorting their faces. The priest turned, basking in the glow of their approval.

"Burn her!" The cry drifted over the crowd from the rear. Others joined in, their voices rising to deafening levels.

Lora searched the faces for any who would save her. She saw naught but hate. Her heart thudded against her breast, matching the rhythm of the chanting crowd. Tears stung her eyes. She raised her face to the clear blue sky and fought to remain calm. If she must die on English soil, for reasons she did not understand, she prayed the end would be swift, if not painless.

"I offer thee to God, my child. Return to the folds of Christ."

She was going to die.

Silent tears slid down her cheeks. She would never see her daughter again. And Da, could he have known the perils that awaited her? For the thousandth time that day, Lora O'Shea silently wished she had never been born.

The priest lowered the torch to the parched wood piled around her. The dry fare caressed the fire and hungry flames leapt to life, crackling as it devoured the dead timber. She closed her eyes as the smoke reached her nostrils and filled her lungs.

The heat of the growing fire singed her flesh. She coughed and opened her eyes only to have them sting against the billowing smoke. She was going to wet herself. Her legs trembled. The fire licked over the wood, growing ever closer to her feet and the soiled hem of her gown.

Dear Lord, please save me. Megan needs a mother.

The frantic neigh of a horse rose above the noise of the crowd. Through the black smoke swirling into the air, Lora glimpsed a piece of red cloth that flickered like a banner through the orange flames. A plaid! Light flashed on the steel edge of a sword as a man on horseback parted the crowd like Moses had the sea.

Green eyes glistened through billows of smoke as he leaned forward, his sword swinging in an arc toward her.

Lora sucked in her breath, closed her eyes and turned away, certain he meant to slay her and spare her a tortured death. Instead, the rope binding her fell away.

"Take my hand!"

Burning eyes searched his and confusion clouded her head.

"Now, lass! Unless you wish to see me slain, or tied there beside you."

Orange flames leapt between them. The stench of smoldering wool drifted to her with the cries of outrage from the crowd. His hand stretched toward her and Lora reached for him. The moment they touched, his fingers curled around her wrist and he pulled her through the rising curtain of flames. She landed with a thud behind him. The back of the saddle dug into her thigh and her smoldering gown burned her leg. She beat her hand against the cloth and caused the horse to rear.

Her angel glanced over his shoulder and shouted, "Hold fast!" He kicked his horse firmly in the flanks, raised his sword and rode through the crowd.

Lora closed her eyes and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. She felt the rapid beat of his heart and the caress of soft wool against her skin.

A stone hit her back. She cried out against the pain and opened her eyes. The angry citizens of Carlisle hurled more stones their way. Men tried to grab the horse's reins, only to be kicked away by the rider.

"Do not fear, lass. I will allow no harm to befall you."

She stared at the back of his head. Why had this man saved her? All the men she had known in her life would do naught to endanger themselves for the sake of a woman.

He turned to raise his sword. Lora followed the trail of black hair that brushed his collar. The part of his face she could see showed her she rode behind a powerful man. He was quite handsome, in a rugged sort of way. Thick black brows, straight perfect nose and a jaw now set in anger.

"Damnation," her rescuer muttered and looked down the street. His bottom lip curled around his teeth and a loud whistle pierced the noise of the crowd.

Lora raised herself enough to see over his shoulder. A dozen men emerged through the throng, their horses and blades making a path for them. The man urged his horse forward and avoided the hands that tried to pull them from the saddle.

"What the devil took you so long?" he growled as he moved past the men.

One of them smiled, tugged on his reins and followed. "We thought we would bide our time until you truly needed our assistance."

Her savior grunted and raced around the corner, riding hard through the lonely streets of Carlisle. Lora heard a rumble from behind and knew his companions followed.

She rested her cheek against his broad back, closed her eyes and whispered her thanks to God for sending this magnificent man to her rescue. The man deserved her undying loyalty. If repaying him required the last breath in her body, Lora would gladly yield.

*****

An hour clear of Carlisle, and the angry mob, the group now traveled at an easy pace.

"Who are you and why did you help me?" Lora felt laughter rumble in the chest of her black-haired green-eyed guardian.

"What is this, no word of thanks to me?"

Lora bit her lip and lowered her gaze. From behind she heard the steady rhythm of hooves against the earth. This man and his companions had saved her from certain death. She owed them more than a few humble words.

"Sir, your gallantry this day--I canna express what it means to me." She peered around his shoulder and looked up at him. "I prayed for a miracle and you appeared. How does one repay such bravery?"

He glanced over his shoulder at her and smiled. "Where I come from, a mere thank you would suffice."

Lora returned his smile. "Thank you, milord."

One dark eyebrow rose. "Milord? Och, lass, you make me feel like my papa."

His words prompted memories of her Da as she saw him last. His hard mouth turned into a frown of disapproval and his eyes as grey as English wool filled with contempt. She shivered and asked, "What is your name?"

A smile as warm as Irish ale curled his lips. "Daniel Sinclair, at your service." He slowed the horse and eased it over the edge of a short embankment. "Who might you be, lass?"

"Lora O'Shea." The horse waded through a shallow stream and climbed the other side. Lora tightened her hold on Daniel to keep from sliding off. She peered up at him and asked, "Why did you save me?"

"Where I come from, a man does not sit idle and allow a woman to be harmed. 'Tis against my nature and all I have been taught."

Lora lowered her eyes. Could such men actually exist?

He turned a glance on her. "Why were they going to kill you?"

How could she answer his question when she was unsure of the reason herself? All she knew for certain was she would be dead now if not for Daniel Sinclair.

"Lass?"

"Because, that man dressed in the robes of a priest accused me of witchcraft. He produced people I never saw before who claimed I poisoned their wells and cast spells over their cattle which resulted in their deaths."

Daniel cursed.

Lora looked up at the back of his head. She inched her fingers around Daniel again. To her surprise, it felt good to sit behind him. She felt his warmth, his strength, his power.

"Why were you in England?"

"Were?"

"Aye." He glanced over his shoulder at the men who followed. "You are now on Scottish soil, lass. If the magistrate thinks to follow, he will pause at the fjord."

"Does that mean we will be able to stop soon?"

A slow smile touched his lips. "Aye, lass, and hopefully near a loch. I am curious to see what you look like without mire and rubbish covering you."

Lora grimaced. No matter what the condition of her skin and clothes at the moment, 'twas bound to be an improvement.

"What brought you to Carlisle?"

The gentleness of his voice drew her gaze. He puzzled her. Strength and gentleness could not abide in one person, much less a man. From her knowledge, all men turned into beasts sooner or later. "My husband, milord."

Was it her imagination or did he stiffen? She shook her head. Foolish, that's what Da called her over and over again. 'Twas foolishness indeed to have thoughts of a kind man. None existed.

"Where is your husband that he did not defend you this day?"

"Why should this day differ from any other?"

Daniel turned his head and frowned. "You speak in riddles, lass. 'Tis a husband's duty to protect and care for his wife."

A mirthless chuckle escaped her lips. She gently shook her head. "Och, milord, 'tis a far cry you are from Shamus O'Shea. The only thing he longs to protect is the keg during a pub fight."

Again she felt tension stiffen his body. Where their thighs touched, his were hard as stone. His back rigid, Daniel said nothing. Lora could not blame him. He risked his life for her and she repaid him by complaining about Shamus. Her Da was right. She was an ungrateful creature on whom God had wasted his efforts when he created her.

Tears stung her eyes. She closed them and rested her brow against Daniel's broad shoulders. He smelled the way she dreamed a man should. Male sweat tinged with the scent of wood smoke and pine. All she ever smelled on Shamus was ale and the cheap fragrance of tavern wenches.

And she had been sent to England to free him.

*****

"What are we going to do with the lass?"

From his position on the ground, Daniel glanced up at Glen Murray and sighed. "I do not ken." He leaned his back against the wide trunk of an oak, raised his knees and rested his arms across them. "Shamus O'Shea is her mate."

A low whistle escaped Glen's lips as he lowered himself to the ground. "Does she ken--"

"Nay," Daniel said, his gaze drifting across the deep grass surrounding Loch Sark. The faint splash of water reached his ears. Images of what Lora would look like bathing flitted across his mind. "Somehow, I do not believe the lass is aware of her husband's activities."

"It could be cleverness on her part. Why else would she have faced a mob back in Carlisle? Mayhap Erickson discovered her knowledge and longed to silence her?"

Daniel frowned. 'Twas a thought he had himself. He glanced around the area. His men cared for their mounts before preparing for a night beneath the stars.

Lora. Each time he recalled the image of her tied to a stake with flames licking around her, his insides twisted tighter than an Englishman's arse.

Why had Erickson accused her of witchcraft? The cold-hearted bastard could indeed be eliminating those he thought posed a threat to the revolt he planned against the English Crown.

Glen spoke again, his voice just above a whisper. "'Tis Scottish soil beneath us, Daniel. Loyal men are in our company. The lass must be questioned."

Daniel grimaced. "I will do it my own way. If she is ignorant about her husband --"

"And if she is not?"

"Does it matter?" Daniel met his friend's grey eyes. "Either way her life is now in danger. She must be hidden from Erickson until this revolt is over."

"Our lives are in jeopardy as well. I am sure Erickson kens 'twas you who pulled the lass from the flames."

Daniel shrugged and turned his attention to the glistening waters of the loch. "I do not care . . ." His words died away and thoughts of a revolution fled his head. All he could see or concentrate on was the image of Lora appearing from the protection of shrubs around the loch.

She moved toward him with the grace of an angel. Flame-kissed hair brushed against slender hips. The fabric of her simple gown hugged her breasts.

A vision. Lora O'Shea was loveliness in bloom. How the hell had a lout like Shamus captured such a treasure?

He noticed dark spots on her gown as she drew near. 'Twas then he realized she had scrubbed the garment clean and it had yet to dry. She paused before him and smoothed the rough cloth he had lent her for drying.

"I thank you for your kindness, milord."

Her voice startled him. Heat rushed to his cheeks and blood surged to his loins. He frowned and avoided the intensity of her indigo eyes. "'Twas my pleasure, lass, and pray, call me Daniel."

Glen cleared his throat and climbed to his feet. "If you will excuse me, I will help the others prepare camp."

Daniel said nothing. He glanced toward the lavender sky. The wings of a bird sliced dark images against the horizon. Soft wool rustled. He took a deep breath, willed his blood to cool, and looked at her. His body attempted to betray him once more. She knelt before him, head bowed, and placed his things at his feet.

"I thank you once again."

Something in her voice tugged at his heart. She sounded so very sad. Did she long for Shamus?

"Lora?" He paused until she met his gaze. "Do you ken where your husband is staying in Carlisle?"

She looked down and tucked her hair behind her ears. A strand escaped her fingers and brushed her cheek. Daniel swallowed hard. He longed to reach out and tuck it into place, but did not dare. If he did, his fingers would linger on her cheek, slide to her chin and lift her face to his.

"Aye."

He realized, once again, that he stared. It could not be helped. How could anyone gaze upon this beautiful creation and not long to touch her?

She is married.

The thought abruptly doused Daniel's desire. He adjusted his legs and asked, "What are your plans, lass? Shall I escort you to a ship so you can gain passage back to Ireland?"

Her head snapped up and fear touched her eyes. "I canna return without Shamus."

Daniel felt his heart sink in his chest. "I understand, Lora."

"I do not think you do." She worried her lower lip, as if she contemplated revealing a dire secret. 'Twas then Daniel noticed the freckles sprinkled across her nose. He had never seen anything so endearing before in his life.

"Shamus is in the magistrate's prison. The tale that reached me in Ireland claims he was arrested for horse theft and would face the gallows if heavy fines were not paid. Da gathered what he could and bade me here to gain Shamus his freedom."

Daniel studied her in the light that drifted through tree branches and wondered if she spoke the truth. "Your Da sent you alone?"

Lora glanced at him, shook her head, and continued. "Da would never entrust me with such a sum. Being his own health is poor, he sent one of his pub mates along. We encountered rough weather while crossing the drink. The man was lost at sea."

It was possible. Heavy storms had plagued the coastal area for the last week. "Did this man carry the funds?"

Again Lora shook her head and braved a look at him. Damn, but he wanted to pull her into his lap and stroke her hair while she told him her tale.

"Nay, fortune smiled upon me. I hid the money in my cabin. When the boat landed, I journeyed to Carlisle. When the magistrate saw the amount I carried, he took it then insisted I sign papers that would free Shamus. Since I cannot read, and only make a mark for my name, I did as he asked. The moment I did, the priest raised the fine, declared me a witch and demanded my immediate death."

This news did not surprise Daniel. He knew Erickson controlled the magistrate and no amount of money would gain Shamus his freedom.

"I canna return to Dublin alone. My Da holds my daughter, Megan, against my return. If I fail, which I have thus far, I lose Megan forever."

A tear slid down her cheek and Daniel resisted the urge to wipe it away. How could a father do such a horrific thing to his own daughter? Her eyes, filled with sadness, met his, and his heart ached.

"You may think me a horrible person, Daniel Sinclair, but I could gladly leave Shamus to rot in that English prison. Da kens my feelings, or lack of, for Shamus. 'Tis why he took my Megan." She twisted her hands in her lap. "I have nowhere to turn and I do not ken what to do. Will you help me?"

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