In the mists of a Dublin dawn, a troop of mercenary soldiers grumbled onto their horses, but every one of them knew things could be worse. The pay was good and the plunder better. There were worse professions than employment with the king’s governor in Ireland.

Motionless, the justiciar, Wogan, watched from horseback, supervising the muster as the soldiers mounted up. The sound of heavy boots and creaking leather bounced back off the wall of mist.

Always a march and battle, taking here and giving there, only to have it taken back again. Irish king-making and deposing, releasing men held hostage and rescuing besieged ones, appointing good men and burying dead ones. His face revealed nothing; he was a chiseled sculpture whose craggy presence made his men mount up more quickly when his gray eyes settled on them.

King Edward would follow shortly, but Wogan had orders not to wait. The king had received news that greatly displeased him. Wogan was to begin settling the matter. Soon the Irish would understand the king’s terms. They would capitulate, or they would die.

Wogan’s fingertips were damp and chilled, and he blew on them absently as he straightened in the saddle. His gelding nickered at the sudden movement and skittered sideways over the wet cobblestones. Wogan spoke a soft word, and the horse quieted.

Turning, his hand in the air, he swept his arm down in an arc, and the retinue headed off into the mists. They would make good time, bound for northern Ireland where the devil-try dwelt.

They wouldn’t see him coming for a long time. When they did, it would be too late.

When the sun was midway through its western arc the next afternoon, Finian lifted his hand and pointed into the valley below.

“O’Fáil lands.”

Senna nodded calmly, belying her fluttering heart. Her entire life had been spent on a remote manor, locked away with profit sheets and a stylus. Exactly as she’d planned it. Finian seemed to feel sad about that, that she’d somehow been injured as a result, that a loss had been suffered. But she’d never seen it that way.

As a widow, she’d made the final decisions about her life. Bought a dying business and made it thrive, raised her brother and, until their father gambled it away, ensured a rich manor remained for the ensuing generations—that would probably never come, she suddenly realized, because neither she nor Will seemed inclined toward unions. Marriages, children, that sort of thing. Being connected.

They’d been ruined for it.

Each of them lived ferociously solitary lives, connected only to each other by steely thin threads of devotion, and to their father by knotted ropes of dismay. Dread. Desolation.

Until now. Senna had let go the rope and gone over the edge of that particular, spectacular cliff with Finian.

She tried frantically to straighten the wild curls of her hair into a semblance of a braid. It helped little to realize now that she was terrified of meeting people. That her self-imposed sequestration had not simply been a preference for numbers or the clarity of a contract. It had been—and was—fear.

She admitted it now: fear had ruled her life. For good reason. There was much to fear, and it was all inside her, flowing like blood. Just like blood.

The same blood that gave her powers to create the most rare, coveted dyes in the West. Dye-witch, indeed. A dye-witch was someone who courted terrible, dangerous things, who let passion rule her life. Senna knew now she was no better than her mother.

They were met long before the castle gates by warriors who obviously knew Finian on sight. Solid muscle locked on muscle as the long-lost warriors pounded each other on the back, hooting and hollering.

“Finian O’Melaghlin, ye crooked Irishman,” roared one voice above the others.

“Ah, Saint Pat, Finian, we thought ye were dead,” said another, and she could hear the despair the thought had conjured.

A burly arm wrapped around his shoulders, and her escort disappeared beneath the hearty welcoming of those who flocked to the gates.

Someone pounded Finian on his shoulder and roared, “’Tis more than good to have ye back. ’Twas grievous when we thought ye were captured and killed with the rest.”

“’Tis grievous enough that the others were killed,” he replied grimly.

“Aye, that it is,” the other man said. “But the king has need of all his nobles, and to lose a great lord and councilor like yerself would be a loss too tremendous to bear.”

Finian grunted noncommittally, but Senna’s weary eyes were yanked open by the recognizable English words. Great lord? Councilor? Her great, hulking warrior? What, with his irreverent jokes and earthy ways, favored by a king?

Lord Finian. Good Lord. He was noble.

The rest of the household greeted them just inside the inner bailey gates. Older men, women, and a bevy of children swarmed into the bailey or hung out of windows, waving and calling. Afternoon shadows stretched across portions of the bailey, and a golden glow of firelight formed a backdrop for the silhouetted figures.

Women of the household flitted and fluttered nearby, bright Irish butterflies. Senna was quick to note them pinch their cheeks and brighten their smiles when Finian’s gaze turned to them. A chill of worry slunk across her breast.

Someone approached. Tall, long-haired, and kilted, he nodded levelly at Finian. “Our king will no’ believe me when I tell him you made it out of yet another close call, O’Melaghlin. I was just on my way to save your sorry arse.”

Finian turned. “The day I need a Scot gallowglass to save my arse ’twill truly be a sorry day.”

“A regular day,” retorted the other, crossing his arms. “A day like any other. I’ve saved you too many a time to count.”

Finian snorted. “Ye’ve drunk me under the table too many times to count. Saved me? I think not.”

“Saved you, indeed. That’s why The O’Fáil was sending me out, to save you. As usual. I was just leaving.”

“Aye, well, ye’re too late. As usual.”

They stared for another moment, then suddenly embraced with hearty thumps on the back. These men did like to thump. Senna couldn’t help smiling, but the smile fled when she heard Finian’s low-pitched words. “The O’Fáil received word of my capture, then?”

The other man pounded him on the back, replying in a voice just as low, “Aye, we’ve a word: bastard.”

“I’ve two,” Finian said as they released. “Dead man. Where is the king?”

“Inside. He’s been worried like a sick cat, Irish. He’ll be glad you’re here.”

“Maybe,” Finian said flatly. “Until he hears my news.”

“We’ve had some news ourselves,” said the tall Scotsman.

Finian looked at him sharply. “Of what?”

The Scotsman’s eyes drifted in Senna’s direction for a moment. “Rardove has spun a fascinatin’ tale about your escape.”

“Is that so?” he replied grimly. “I’ve a tale as well. But for later,” he said, passing a sharp glance around the circle of warriors. “For now, all ye need to know is that this,” he reached out to Senna, “is my savior.” He tugged her into their circle.

“This comely vision was yer wings, ye lout?” one man roared in laughter and turned to her in mock reprimand.

Finian took a deep breath. “I’d have you meet Senna de Valery.”

Stunned silence swept through the group. Someone said in a quiet voice, “Rardove’s betrothed?”

He jutted his chin out. “She never was.”

“Rardove says she was,” another man said grimly.

“Rardove lies when he breathes.”

“Sweet Jesus, O’Melaghlin, why is she here?” someone else demanded.

“She’s here because I’ve brought her here.” Finian’s gaze glittered dangerously over the group, and Senna felt the tension ratchet up another notch. Her heart started that familiar thundering, and the resultant dizziness tingled at the base of her neck. The Scot who’d embraced Finian turned to her with a smile.

“Now, why would you have done such a thing as that, lass, setting a scoundrel like Finian O’Melaghlin free?”

She gave a weak smile. “Had I known the depths of his depravity, rest assured I would have found another.”

The crowd broke into noisy, if tense, laughter and turned to enter the keep. Finian looked down at her.

“They don’t want me here,” she whispered.