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into other arms in what must have been the pitching dinghy. An icy feeling in the pit of her stomach warned they had reached their destination. Surf sounded and the dinghy lifted and rolled forward as the oars maneuvered, controlling the vessel's path up onto a pebbled shore with a grating shudder. The men in the bow went over the side and dragged the boat up onto the beach.
    She was lifted again and passed over the bow. Then it seemed they walked and climbed forever, shifting her from man to man every so often. Periodically hearing dripping water, she imagined a cave or dungeon and bit the cloak to still her chattering teeth. Heels sounded on stone, then a finished floor. She was swung from a shoulder and dumped. Scared as she was, she felt a wave of rage at her captors' roughness. Well, let Valera enjoy her—if he could! She was dirty, smelly, mad as a hornet, and stiff as a board.
    She heard Flannery's voice in a strange language, then Liam's; finally, a last one, deep and unfamiliar, in a tone of dismissal. The door closed and silence fell.

CHAPTER 2

    Angel on Fire

    Catherine rolled as the cloak was snapped away with an abrupt tug and dropped near her feet. For a moment, she lay rigid with apprehension, then cautiously opened her eyes to stare at a polished pair of boots carelessly crossed just beyond her nose. Her eyes followed the boots up long legs encased in black breeches to a white-shirted chest. While his head and shoulders were nearly obscured in shadow, the man seated before her was too tall to be Valera. Quickly she scanned the dim corners of the room searching for the Spaniard, then realized no one else was there. Nonplussed, she wondered what was going on. Who had kidnapped her, and why? Her attention darted back to the stranger. He leaned forward slightly and a dark face took form from the shadows, a form as beautiful as Original Sin must have seemed to Eve, with all its lure and its pain. As eyes the smoky green of storm seas caughtrhers and held, a phrase from Milton's Paradise Lost whispered through her mind:

    His form had yet pot lost
    All his original brightness, nor appeared
    Less than Archangel ruined . . .

    He might be Lucifer, she thought. How sad he is.
    Sean was equally unprepared for her. As the dark torrent of hair fell away from her pale face, her breathless, controlled fear was as tangible in the firelit room as a small fist in his belly. God, she was young. He had pictured some blond, simpering bitch, unconsciously attributing to John Enderly's daughter characteristics he detested in Englishwomen. He had never imagined a dark forest creature, this childish Ondine. She has eyes out of legend, he thought. But legends sharply reminded him of Megan and the tales she had told him in childhood; the fleeting impulse to free the English girl left him.
    Seeming to be unafraid now, the girl watched him as if he were some mythic beast caught in her virginal snare. Still, she paled and drew back when he rose and went to. her with his knife unsheathed. He cut her bonds with two quick moves, then walked to the fireplace and poked the fire until it blazed. He turned and hunkered down to watch her chafe her wrists; they were purpled beneath the light froth of lace, but she made no murmur, and began systematically to rub her ankles. The silence was almost companionable.
    In the heightened firelight he saw part of the reason her eyes were so compelling. Veiled by heavy lashes, they were slightly oblique, crested by brows like a lark's wings. Above high, slanting cheekbones, her features were finely chiseled, but placed upon a too-thin face; she looked a year or so younger than she was. The mouth was finely drawn, with a tender, full underlip. Dishevelment added to her appearance of vulnerability, but now that he saw his prisoner more clearly, he also noted the proud, almost arrogant set of head and the determined jaw.
    Aware of his intent assessment, Catherine also saw it had subtly taken a hostile turn.