For the first time her attention was drawn to the man by his side.

“My Lord,” she heard her father say, “this is my youngest daugh-
ter, Skye, who will shortly be the bride of young O’Flaherty. Skye,
this is Niall, Lord Burke, the MacWilliam’s heir.”

“Niall an iarain, Niall of the Iron,” she said softly. This was a
famous man, the secret dream lover of half the maidens in Ireland.

“I see my reputation precedes me, my lady Skye.”

“It is an open secret that you are Captain Revenge, and that you
conduct those daring raids against the English who live in the Dublin
Pale. Of course, no one would dare accuse you of this.”

“Yet you, my lady, do not fear me,” he murmured, holding her
fast with his gaze until she blushed.

The voice was deep and sure, but as smooth as fine velvet. She
shivered. She raised her eyes to his. They were a silvery gray, and
she imagined that in anger they would be colder than the far northern
sea, but in the heat of passion they would be fiery warm like rich
wine. Guilty color flooded her cheeks at these immodest thoughts.
The gray eyes twinkled infuriatingly, as if reading her mind.

He towered over her by a good eight inches. His smoothly shaven
face had been tanned by the outdoors. The short-cropped hair was
as midnight dark as her own.

Raising her hand, he kissed it. It was all she could do not to
snatch it away, for his lips burned her flesh like a brand. Sweet
Mary, she thought, he’s so much more sophisticated than Dom, yet
he’s only ten years older than I am.

“My lord, welcome to Innisfana,” she murmured politely. Dear
God! Was that husky, breathless voice hers? And why was Anne
staring at her so strangely?

Her father’s voice brought her back to reality. “These are for your
dowry, poppet,” he said, handing her a marvelous collection of
rubies set in gold. They were a necklace, earrings, bracelets, a ring,
and a hair ornament. Everyone exclaimed, and Dom O’Flaherty
congratulated himself as though he had been personally responsible
for choosing his bride.