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she wouldn't burn. She might go to the sea, but she wouldn't burn, and she would never, ever throw herself on the mercy of a Scotsman!
    "Drop it!" He came forward with a thrust intended to ring power through the steel of her blade, and force her to drop it. She held fast, returning the strike with a speed that caught him unaware. She nicked his arm, drawing blood. Startled, he stared at the wound. She experienced a moment's supreme satisfaction at her small victory and his amazement, but when she quickly thought to make good on the element of surprise, he was ready. She attacked, but he parried. She was backed against the hull. She saw the danger of her position, and thrust and parried in a manner intended to free her from her position, to give her leverage to fight. But each clash of steel cost her more and more. She gained new position, but lost strength. She moved down the deck, grimly fighting, parry for parry. She knew nothing at first but the sound of steel harshly shrilling against steel, over and over again.
    Then she realized that no more battle sounds came from the rest of the ship. Daring to glance around, she saw that the battle had ended. How, and in whose favor, she could not tell. They all stood about: Scotsmen, Frenchmen, Norse sailors. Captain Abram and his English seamen had disappeared; they had either been killed or cast to sea long ago now. Her audience was one of enemies. Pirates. Madmen. Her opponent came at her with a force that first caused her arm to shudder in a terrible reverberation, then the length of her body. Even her teeth chattered and threatened to crack. She held fast to her weapon. But she looked into his face and saw a look of grim determination in eyes a darker blue than the roiling sea. His lips were drawn in a tight line. One hand was held behind his back; he wielded his sword with only the other. He had not so much as drawn a sweat, though she was still glad of the blood that stained his left sleeve. She did not drop her sword. She gasped for breath, and prayed for strength. She flew toward him, aiming for his heart. He watched her ...
    And retaliated at the last minute. And this time, his blow was such that no fear of fire or flame or even eternal damnation could give her the power to hold on to her own weapon. Her steel clattered to the deck. She held herself still then, teeth clenched hard, jaw set, the length of her rigid. She stared at him. No, she did not know him. Yes, she did. There was that something, so familiar ... A hint of recall, of seeing those eyes. Cries went up all around them. Maybe the pirates and ever the Scotsmen applauded her courage—and stupidity.
    But he was staring at her. Just staring at her, eyes narrowing He knew it, too. Knew that he knew her ... from somewhere "Who are you?" he demanded softly, curiously. "Who are you?" she cross-queried. Suddenly, she knew. She barely choked back a gasp. Perhaps he remembered as well, at exactly that moment, for it seemed that his entire countenance tightened and darkened He was prepared to take a step toward her. Her heart was beating faster than a hummingbird's wings. She dived past him, racing down the length of the ship. When she reached the aft, she didn't hesitate. She was aware of Bridie's shriek of alarm, yet it meant nothing to her. She leaped to the wooden ship's railing, looked to the sea. And dived.
     
     
    Chapter 2
     
    Brendan gave pause for one moment, incredulous. She had plunged into the Irish Sea. In the middle of winter. It was freezing, the water was churning. As could all too easily happen, the weather was changing. A beautiful day was turning into a stormy night. The English .. . idiot! Let her drown! For a moment, the bitter thought flashed through his mind. He had given her mercy once, and nearly died for it. He had spent years swearing that he would find her—and avenge himself. And now, suddenly, here she was. Time had gone by, and they had both changed, and it had taken him long moments to