My Rebellious Heart

MY REBELLIOUS HEART by SAMANTHA JAMES

LADY'S VENGEANCE

Determined to avenge her father's death, fiery Princess Shana lures Thorne de Wilde, Earl of Weston, into the forest to have him kil ed. But face to face with the earl's devilish good looks, Shana is compelled to spare his life and take him prisoner instead...a decision she quickly regrets.

LORD'S DESIRE

The sheer power of Weston's presence has been known to-strip many a brave man of courage and will, but this bold Welsh beauty meets the mocking black eyes of this giant of a man with defiance, accusing him of crimes he hasn't committed. Furious with his lovely and brazen captor, Weston manages not only to escape, but to take Shana as his hostage. And with tempers clashing and passions flaring, nations col ide, binding the two in a searing al iance that wil either destroy them both, or unite them in love for al time.

"WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF, PRINCESS?"

Blazing black eyes fil ed her vision and the world caved in around her as his mouth came down on hers.

Shana was too shocked to protest, too shocked to do anything but endure, and indeed, he left no room for anything else—his lips were like a searing brand against hers. She had but one thought—that this kiss, stark and hungry and raw, was unlike any in her experience.

In desperation she sought to twist away but the effort was futile. His body lay hard and heavy over hers. A low whimper broke from her throat, and then, in the instant between one breath and the next, something changed. His kiss no longer ravaged with blatant intent. Nay, it was as if he sought to taste her sweetness instead, exploring with breath-stealing thoroughness.

Deep within her, a pervasive, lul ing warmth began to unfurl ...

The battle had scarce begun ere it was over. For Shana of Merwen, no passage of time was ever more immense.

When the cry of alarm went up, her father had thrust her into the arms of his knight, Sir Gryffen. Gryffen wasted no time herding Shana and the women of the household to the cel ar. Twice Shana had sought to push past him; twice he blocked her way.

"There is naught you can do, milady!" His eyes pleaded with her. "Would you have me break my sworn vow to see to your protection? Your father would never forgive me were I to let any harm befal you, and I would never forgive myself! I pray you, milady, you must remain here until the fray is over!"

And so she huddled against the wal , arms banded rightly around her chest, her gaze fixed tirelessly on the trap door high in the ceiling. The air was cold and damp, but Shana did not notice. High above, the ground reverberated with the thunder of hooves and footsteps. The ring of steel against steel was unmistakable. Though muted and far away, she could hear men shouting and yelling—and screaming in agony.

Her limbs were trembling, though it was not fear for her own safety that rendered them so.

Dread abounded in her heart, for her soul was in terror for those she held near and dear.

Then al was silent.

The chil that swept through her turned her veins to ice, for the quiet was even more terrible than al that had gone before.

Shana leapt to her feet. "Gryffen, you must let me pass!" she cried. "I must know what has happened!" Gryffen did not try to stop her; he slipped the ladder in place and fol owed behind her.

Seconds later, the young girl burst through the door of the ancient keep. With long, golden hair streaming behind her like a banner in the wind, she lurched down the stairs and out into the evening stillness.

The stench of death was everywhere. Blotches of crimson puddled the ground. Revulsion roiled inside her like a churning sea. Swal owing the bitter taste of bile, her feet carried her across the val ey floor, weaving among the dead and the dying. Bodies lay strewn across the earth like fal en trees flung from a mighty hand above. Vil agers had been struck down where they stood, planting corn in the field, drawing water from the well.

With a gasp she drew to a halt. Her gaze chanced to fal on a man who lay nearby—the oxherd. She bent forward, thinking he yet lived, for his eyes were wide open. But the vacant emptiness she encountered struck her like a blow.

Shana had seen men wounded in battle, but nothing like this - -. never like this!

With a choked cry, she picked up her skirts and ran. This was not war, she thought sickly, this was slaughter, foul and fetid. And then she spied her father. She fel to her knees with a sob.

"Oh, merciful God in Heaven, this cannot be!" She cried out in desperate entreaty. "Father, you have done nothing to deserve this—nothing!"

His eyelids opened slowly, as though weighted with lead. Kendal, youngest son of Gniffyth, grandson of Llywelyn the Great, the first prince of Wales to be so recognized by the King of England, beheld the features of his only child.

Her hands touched his breast. Her fingertips came away bloodied and stained. She paid no heed as she fumbled with the hem of her white linen undershift, tearing away a strip. With shaking fingers she pressed the wad of cloth to the gaping wound in his chest.

"Oh, Lord, Father. Who dared to do this? It was the bloody English, wasn't it?" In her heart she knew she was right. Once again the drumroll of rebellion—the cry for independence— had rol ed across the land.

'They were English, aye," her father rasped. "I did not recognize the pennon they carried— blood red with a black, fierce, two-headed creature of the deep. But I have cause, daughter, to believe they came from Castle Langley."

"Langley! But... the Earl of Langley passed on some months ago!" The Earl of Langley had been a powerful Marcher lord. He and her father had had several run-ins, but they'd managed to settle their disagreements without taking up arms against each other.

"Aye, daughter. But I received word only yesterday that some brave Welsh soul has been stirring up our own along the border—making fools of the English knights—a man who distinguishes himself by wearing a mantle of scarlet and calling himself the Dragon."

The merest trickle of breath soughed through lips that were nearly bloodless. "Ah, Shana. I have erred greatly, I fear. For now King Edward seeks to put an end to the Dragon—and the threat of rebel-

lion. He has summoned one of his earls to Castle Langley to snuff out the fires here" His sigh held a world of regret. "The English will not be satisfied until we are beaten into the ground. I truly thought they would leave us in peace, if only we did the same. Now—now it is too late."

Shana shook her head furiously. "Do not speak so! You wil be fine, truly ..."

"Nay, Shana. "Tis my time, and wel we both know it."

"Father!" A painful ache constricted her chest, an ache she was afraid to acknowledge. With her fingertips she wiped the grime and dirt from his cheeks.

He smiled slightly. "You have the fighting spirit of our ancestors, daughter, and the courage of your Irish mother. I brought the two of you here to this val ey to shield you, but I can no longer protect you. You must look to Barris, for I know he will make you a good husband."

His hand clutched at hers. "All my life I have believed there was no greater measure of a man's worth than his honor and loyalty. My brothers warned me the English would not be satisfied until we were broken. I had hoped they were wrong, but alas, it is not so—I was the one who was wrong, Shana. I only regret that I did so little to help unite this land I so love.

Only now do I realize how selfish a choice I made."

Shana defended him staunchly. "Nay, Father, you have never been selfish! You fed the vil age when the harvest was meager. You gave them shelter when the rains washed away their homes. The people of Merwen love you dearly. Surely you know this!"

"I prayed that it was so," he admitted. Then his expression grew bleak. "But the winds of change are blowing, daughter, and I cannot predict what lies ahead. Al I have is yours, but you alone must

decide if you fol ow Barris and your uncle Llywelyn, or if you trod your own path. But above al , Shana, be true to yourself above all others, for your heart will never forsake you"

She cradled his head in her lap. Tears slipped unheeded down her cheeks.

He summoned the last of his strength and gazed upon her face, anguished now, but as lovely as ever. He knew that this was the vision he would take with him to his grave.

His chest heaved. He drew a gasping breath. "Remember these things, daughter. And remember me ..."

The words were his last, for he had already fled this world for another.

A sob tore out of Shana's throat, a sound that held all the pain and despair shredding her heart. "You shal not die in vain," she cried. "I wil find the man beneath whose pennon this foul deed was committed ... his retribution shall be swift and just." Deep inside a burning rage began to flame and swirl, a rage that spiraled along with her voice.

"Your death wil be avenged. Father! This I swear by the Holy Rood. I wil not rest until 1

have found this blasted English earl and he lies dead at my feet."

Only then could the fiery thirst for vengeance be quenched ... only then.

e was cal ed the Bastard Earl. But not a man in the whole of England would dare to say it to his face.

The sheer power of his presence was such that it wrought first silence, then whispers to the fore, whispers that had little to do with his heritage—or lack of it. His size alone inspired no little amount of awe. It took naught but a look to strip many a brave man of courage and will.

But on this particular warm spring afternoon, Thorne de Wilde sat his steed with bone-stiff weariness. He'd been at Weston when King Edward's summons had come. Edward and the Welsh princes had signed the treaty of Aberconway more than four years past. For a time there had been a cautious peace. But of late, skirmishes blazed anew along the border Marches—'twas for that very reason that Edward had cal ed him to London.

There Thorne learned he was to join forces with Geoffrey of Fairhaven, Lord Roger Newbury, and Sir Quentin of Hargrove at mighty Castle Langley. Newbury's lands adjoined the late Earl of Langley's, while Sir Quentin had been a vassal of the old Earl's. Thorne had spent mere hours in London before continuing on to the Marches and Castle Langley. Indeed, he could scarce recall the last

time he'd had a proper nights rest. With a grimace of relief, he swung from his destrier, weariness plainly etched on his features.

The inner bailey of Castle Langley was teeming. Geese and ducks dipped lo and about, flapping their wings wildly to make way for the stream of men and horses filing through the gate. High above, a parade of soldiers patrol ed the wal -walk.

A young groom scurried out to greet him. Thorne tossed his reins to the boy, while another horse and rider drew up alongside him. He waited as Geoffrey of Fairhaven, a baron from York, leaped to the ground beside him.

Though the two were well matched in height and breadth, Geoffrey was as fair as Thorne was dark. Like Sir Quentin, Geoffrey had also been a vassal of the Earl of Langley. Thorne had visited Geoffrey's manor many times, and it was Geoffrey who had helped Thorne draw up the plans for his own castle. Thorne was pleased to cal Geoffrey his friend, for Geoffrey was one of the few he was certain judged him on his own merit.

"I hope you fared better than I," Geoffrey said, greeting him. "Mine was a wasted trip if ever there was one. The Dragon is a crafty foe, indeed."

Thorne's mouth thinned to an ominous line. There had been no respite from the troublesome Welsh of late—it appeared they were hell-bent on rebel ion. Edward was furious. He was determined to put the stubborn Welsh in their place once and for al , and so he had placed Thorne in command of the united forces at Langley. But their task here was twofold. He and the others were to seek and stamp out the pockets of resistance in the border lands—and roust out this elusive, scarlet-mantled brigand the Welsh hailed as the Dragon.