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her
mouth. "We get it whenever we're sick, too. Awful, isn't it?"
    "Terrible. Would you be able to make me a cup
of real tay? I've a powerful thirst."
    "I'd be happy to." She paused then added
shyly, "Are you hungry? I'll bring you some soup."
    "An angel of mercy, you are indeed," he said,
smiling at her. "Thank you, love."
    She blushed at that. "I'll b...bring it quick
as I can," she stammered, and hastily retreated, pulling little
Miranda with her. "C'mon, Chester."
    The dog hesitated, looking from him to the
girl and back again. He uttered another growl as if telling Conor
he'd better behave himself, then he followed the girls out of the
room. That dog definitely did not like him. But then, he'd always
heard dogs were excellent judges of character. Perhaps there was a
lesson in that.
    The two girls and the beast had scarcely
departed before he heard a door slam in the distance and more
footsteps coming down the hall toward his room. He watched as
Olivia Maitland stepped through the doorway. She marched to the
bed, placed hands on hips, and frowned down at him, her brown eyes
no longer soft. "You're a prizefighter," she said, with such
loathing she might as well have accused him of being the devil
himself.
    "I am indeed." She looked so appalled, so
full of self-righteous indignation, he couldn't help tweaking her
tail a wee bit. "Damn good at it, I am. You should come and watch
me sometime."
    "I suppose men place bets on you, gambling
away their hard-earned money, don't they?"
    "Of course they do, God bless 'em."
    Her full lips pressed into a disapproving
line, and she turned away. "Did the Lord give men no sense at all?"
she muttered under her breath, and began to pace. "Up four nights
running, tending a man who makes his living with his fists. A man
who curses in front of my girls. Sinful."
    He didn't think now was the
time to point out he hadn't exactly cursed in front o f her daughters, and he
certainly hadn't done it on purpose.
    She glanced up at the ceiling. "I won't have
him here. I won't."
    He watched her resume her pacing back and
forth across the rug, muttering to herself, and he wondered if
perhaps she were touched in the head.
    "Prizefighting," she repeated, still pacing.
"And gambling."
    He could have added several other sins to the
list, but he didn't want her to have apoplexy. Instead, he remained
silent.
    She stopped wearing out the rug and turned to
glare at him. "Is that how you got all those scars?"
    His eyes narrowed. "Of course. I always get
scars like this when I'm punched in the gut."
    The sarcasm wasn't lost on her. "How
then?"
    Damn her questions and her curiosity. He
lifted his head and glared right back at her, all the defiance of a
lifetime in that look. "Prison."
    Stunned, she stared at him, horror dawning in
her eyes. "Prison?" she whispered. "I don't understand. What did
you do?"
    "Does it matter?" He flung back the sheet,
uncovering his chest. "I got exactly what I deserved."
    Her face went white. She swallowed hard and
lowered her head, murmuring something softly under her breath. It
sounded like a prayer.
    "Don't pray for me, Mrs. Maitland," he said
harshly. "There's no one listening."
     
     
     

Chapter Four

    Fuatha í m
     
     
     
    County Derry, Ireland, 1846
     
    Men with crowbars were in the yard. Conor was
eleven years old, old enough to know what that meant. The house
wreckers had come. He stopped at the edge of the clearing, the two
precious trout he'd poached out of the landlord's stream that
morning clutched in his hands. He watched, sick with fear.
    His mother stood before the hated man on
horseback, and Conor could hear her anguished pleas. But the
landlord's agent looked down at her with an impassive face and did
not seem to hear. He signaled to the men behind him, who started
forward, armed with their crowbars and ready to do their job.
    Pleading had failed, so the keening
began.
    His mother started the lament with a piercing
shriek that set everyone shivering, even the