Conor

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  "Please." The younger of the two was trembling so violently, he could

  barely be heard. Those in the queen's court gathered around, eager to

  watch and to listen.

  "So. You can speak." Elizabeth lifted a hand. "Go on. Tell me."

  "I have a good wife and five children. All are hungry."

  "And so you thought you could poach game in the queen's own

  forest."

  "Nay, Majesty." He was wringing his hands and weeping. "I would

  never steal. But a man must feed his family. I couldn't pay what was

  due my lord." The man stared hard at the floor. "When I was brought

  here from Ireland..."

  "Ireland." She seized on the word. "You were brought here from

  Ireland? Who brought you?"

  "It was..." In his confusion the man dared to lift a hand to the hem of

  the queen's skirt.

  With a snarl of rage Dunstan pulled his sword and ran the man

  through. It happened so quickly, there was no time to react. As the

  others looked on with a mixture of shock and amazement, the man

  clutched his chest, then fell forward in a pool of his own blood.

  The queen and her ladies, unaccustomed to such violence, recoiled

  with horror.

  "Dunstan." The queen's voice rang with authority. "How could you

  do such a thing in my presence?"

  "A beggar such as he is not worthy to touch his queen. I had no choice

  but to put a sword through his filthy, lying heart."

  Elizabeth put a hand on Dunstan's arm. "I am deeply moved by your

  concern, my friend. But I desired to hear his story." She turned to the

  other man. "You will tell me what your friend was about to say."

  The man's trembling increased until his entire body was consumed

  with tremors. He couldn't seem to tear his gaze from Dunstan's

  bloody sword. "I know not. Brady never revealed the name of the

  man who offered him gold."

  Elizabeth's voice swelled with anger. "For what purpose was your

  friend offered this gold?"

  "We were told to hide ourselves in the forest and wait until we were

  found."

  "That's it? To hide and to wait?"

  "Aye, Majesty. And now I'm told I will go to Fleet Prison, where I

  will surely die. And my family will surely starve." He was sobbing

  again. Great, wracking sobs that shook his whole body.

  "You should have thought of that before you committed this hideous

  act." Dunstan took aim with his sword. "Your queen was riding

  nearby. That same arrow could have struck her royal person."

  The man turned to the queen. "I shot no arrow, Majesty. I merely hid

  in the forest."

  "Liar." Dunstan's tone rang through the room.

  But before he could run the second man through, Conor unsheathed

  his sword with such speed, everyone gasped in surprise. "Do you now

  declare yourself judge and executioner, Dunstan?"

  Dunstan's eyes narrowed with fury. "Do you dare to challenge me,

  O'Neil?"

  "Aye. If that's what it takes to save this man's life until he can tell us

  all he knows."

  "He has told us." Dunstan took a step closer. His hand holding the

  sword fairly quivered with eagerness. It was well known throughout

  the realm that he was a skilled swordsman. "He has no more right to

  live than you do, O'Neil. But perhaps you plead for this assassin's

  cause because he is from your homeland."

  "The cause I plead is the chance to hear the truth. Or do you fear that,

  Dunstan?"

  Dunstan's blade flashed as he lifted it, intent upon thrusting it through

  the heart of the sobbing captive. But before he could, Conor moved

  with lightning speed. In one swift motion he sent the tip of his sword

  slashing through the air to pierce Dunstan's hand. With a yelp of pain

  and fury Dunstan released his hold on his weapon, and it clattered to

  the floor between them.

  A low murmur of surprise rippled through the crowd as Dunstan,' in a

  rage, bent to retrieve his sword. When he straightened, he found the

  point of Conor's blade pressed to his tunic, directly over his heart.

  "Yield, Dunstan. Or prepare to die."

  For the space of a heartbeat, all who were watching forgot to breathe.

  These two men, whose hostilities had long simmered, made no secret

  of the hatred that had now reached a boiling point.

  "I'll not permit this in my presence." The queen's voice quivered with

  indignation. "Dunstan, you will yield at once."

  As if in a daze he looked up, seeing the queen's regiment prepared to

  take up their own weapons if he should disobey the royal command.

  Though he seethed with hatred, he knew he had no choice. He lifted

  his hands, then took a step backward.

  Conor continued to stand, sword aloft, while he fought his own black

  temper."You will sheathe your weapon, Conor O'Neil," the queen

  commanded imperiously.

  For a moment longer he hesitated, before bending and retrieving

  Dunstan's sword.

  In the silence that followed, Elizabeth averted her head to avoid

  seeing the body of the one man lying in his own blood. Taking a deep

  breath she commanded, "Take this wretched liar and see that he never

  again has the chance to breathe the air of freedom."

  "Please, Majesty. Have pity. Please." The man's cries continued to

  echo as he was hauled from the room and down the long hallway.

  When the dead man's body was dragged from the room, servants

  scurried about to clean his blood from the floor.

  Taking advantage of the commotion, Dunstan leaned close to whisper

  to Conor, ' 'This thing is not over between us, O'Neil. One day soon

  you will taste the sting of my sword."

  "As you wish." Conor handed over his sword, then sheathed his own.

  "Any time. Any place."

  With a shrewd smile, Dunstan handed the queen a goblet of wine.

  "You showed considerable restraint, Majesty. If you had but given

  the word, I would have run the scoundrel through."

  "Let him rot in prison." Elizabeth lifted the goblet to her lips and took

  a long slow drink. Then, squaring her shoulders, she turned toward

  Conor. "So, my fine, clever companion. You appear to be as skilled a

  swordsman as your brother. But I much prefer your charm to

  your...more base instincts. Amuse me, so that I do not dwell on all

  this unpleasaatness."

  It took all Conor's resolve to put aside the feelings that still seethed.

  The O'Neil temper had always been a curse. It was temper that had

  him playing into Dunstan's hand and revealing a skill he would have

  much preferred to hide from these people.

  With supreme effort he managed to summon an array of stories that

  soon had the queen and the others smiling and nodding. But as the ale

  flowed and the evening wore on, he found himself thinking more and

  more about the poor man's tale, and the fate of his friend. And

  wondering why the man's words nagged at the edges of his mind.

  "I must take my leave." Elizabeth put a hand to her lips to stifle her

  yawn. "I have enjoyed your entertaining company. And your many

  naughty stories."

  There was a smattering of laughter. But instead of motioning to

  Conor, the queen poin
ted to Dunstan. "Come, my dear friend. Escort

  me to my chambers."

  "Aye, Majesty." He shot a look of triumph toward Conor, -then

  offered his arm to the queen.

  As soon as they were gone, Conor took his leave of the others. Instead

  of making his way to his own rooms, he moved quickly along the

  hallway until he reached Emma's door. He stepped inside, closing the

  door softly behind him.

  The sun had long ago set. The sky outside the windows of Emma's

  room was dark as midnight. It was evident that servants had come and

  gone all through the evening, lighting candles, laying a fire on the

  hearth, fetching water and ale, and finally, a tray of food that was as

  yet untouched.

  Conor sat beside the bed, watching as Emma slept.

  She was a vision. The bed linens had slipped, revealing a good deal of

  pale, creamy skin. Apparently the servants had cut away her clothes

  and left her in nothing but a chemise, which revealed as much as it

  concealed. And though he knew he ought to look away, at the sight of

  that dark cleft between high firm breasts, his breath backed up in his

  throat.

  Her hair, long and unbound, spilled in wild tangles across her pillow.

  In the candlelight it seemed more red than brown. An errant curl

  dipped over her eye in a most appealing manner, and he itched to

  touch it.

  She sighed in her sleep, and he ignored the warning echoing through

  his mind as he reached over to smooth the hair from her forehead. Her

  lids flickered, then opened.

  "I'm sorry I woke you."

  "I'm not sorry. Have you been here long?"

  He shook his head. "I've only just arrived. I had to first sup with the

  queen."

  Emma studied him by the light of the candles. "You look weary,

  Conor. Far worse than I feel. Perhaps you should go to your bed."

  He shook his head. "I doubt I'll sleep this night. I have too much on

  my mind."

  She gave him a long, steady look. "What is it that troubles you?"

  "It isn't your concern. I'll not burden you with my dark thoughts."

  "So serious. What happened to the queen's charming rogue?'

  "Perhaps he grows weary of the role for which he has been cast."

  "A pity. The queen will surely miss him."

  He gave her a gentle smile. "And she shall have him back. But for

  tonight, I wish to put aside everything and just be myself." He

  touched a hand to her forehead and found it cool. "Are you in any

  pain?"

  "Nay. None." Nor would she feel any, she thought, as long as his

  gentle touch was upon her like this. "Tell me about this evening,

  Conor. What did you and the others talk about at supper?"

  "Things better left unsaid. Gossip. Innuendo. The latest court

  scandals. Crude jokes. They grate on my nerves."

  "Aye. I know the feeling. When I am in the company of the other

  ladies-in-waiting, they pass the hours with such silliness. There are

  apparently no secrets among the titled people who call themselves

  friends of the queen."

  "Their lives seem empty. Meaningless. They actually seem to enjoy

  each other's misfortunes."

  "I found that to be true of my stepmother, as well. She seemed never

  truly happy unless someone else was unhappy."

  "Your stepmother is cousin to the queen?"

  "Aye." Emma's smile faded. "She's the reason I am here."

  "Then I'll have to remember to thank her." At her questioning look he

  smiled. "If you're strong enough to sit up, I could help you with some

  of the food on that tray."

  She glanced over, then nodded. "Perhaps some broth would restore

  my spirits."

  He stood and mounded the pillows behind her, then helped her to sit.

  When the bed linens slipped even lower, he had a quick glimpse of

  shapely thigh and knee before she pulled the covers up.

  He set a small table beside the bed and placed the tray upon it, then

  poured her a cup of steaming broth. As she lifted it to her lips he

  noticed that she used only her right arm.

  "Is your wounded arm paining you?"

  "Aye. There's some pain." She saw the dark, angry look that came

  into his eyes as he poured water from a pitcher and sprinkled a

  powdered opiate into it before holding it to her lips. It was a look

  she'd seen before. But, in her confused state she couldn't seem to

  place it.

  "Drink this, my lady."

  She did as she was told. "From that scowl on your face, I suppose

  you're probably planning to scold me for my carelessness. But I

  assure you, I'd have won that race had it not been for our mysterious

  hunter."

  "He's a mystery no longer." Conor described briefly the scene in the

  great hall as the two men were dragged before the queen. And though

  he told her of the death of one of the men at Dunstan's hands, and the

  imprisonment of the other, he left out the rest of the events, saying

  only, "The remaining man insisted that he and his friend had been

  given gold, not to fire an arrow, but merely to hide in the forest and

  wait until they were found."

  Emma wrinkled her forehead. "Why would he make such a foolish

  claim? Doesn't he know that lying will only bring him a stronger

  punishment?'

  Conor had thought the same thing. "Enough of this talk." He leaned

  over her and held the broth to her lips. "Drink. You need to restore

  your strength."

  When his fingers brushed her mouth she felt a curious heat deep

  inside. She peered at him from beneath her lashes. "Do you do this for

  all the ladies at the palace, my lord?"

  "Only the truly beautiful ones, who share my love for my homeland."

  She felt a warm glow at his words. He thought her beautiful. No one

  had ever said such a thing to her before. It made her heart soar, even

  while she was cautioning herself to pay no heed to this charmer.

  "Now." He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to cut small

  portions of meat and cheese. "I think you should eat a bit more."

  She ate several bites before refusing the rest. "I can eat no more,

  Conor."

  He set the tray aside, then stood beside the bed. "Would you like me

  to go? Perhaps you'd care to sleep now."

  She touched a hand to his, enjoying the quick flash of fire through her

  veins. "Stay awhile longer. Unless you're eager to go."

  "I'll stay." In fact, he couldn't think of anywhere he'd rather be. But

  instead of taking the chair, he eased off his boots and sat down on the

  bed beside her. Plumping a pillow beneath his head, he turned to her.

  "Now, tell me about your life in Ireland before your father took a new

  bride."

  "Oh, it was such a grand life." Just thinking about it had a light

  dancing in her eyes. "My mother was a saint. Sweet and loving and so

  patient. Best of all, she adored my father and my sister and me.'.'

  "How old is your sister?"

  "Six." Emma's voice grew soft with the memories.

  "Is she as beautiful as her big sister?"

  Emma laughed. "She's stunning. Father used to say when Sarah gets

  older, she'll break hearts."

  As she told of her family, and their hors
es, and the life she'd once

  lived in Ireland, she found herself relaxing for the first time since

  she'd arrived at the palace. Odd, that it could he this man who would

  bring her such comfort.

  Beside her, Conor closed his eyes and let her voice wash over him.

  Just hearing that sweet brogue seemed to soothe away the troubles

  that had nagged at him all day.

  Gradually her voice faded, and he realized the opiates were taking

  effect. When he started to get up she rolled toward him, clutching his

  arm. "Don't...go, Conor...want you near."

  "Then I'll stay." He drew her into the curve of his arm and pressed his

  lips to a tangle of hair at her temple. "I think, Emma Vaughn, you

  may be my only true friend in England. With you I can be myself. I

  need not pretend to be silly and charming."

  "You are...always charming." In her befuddled state, she looked up at

  him and saw another. A hooded man, whose blue eyes had flashed

  with danger and compassion. Who, unlike this famed orator, had

  spoken not a word, but who had held her and made her feel safe and

  warm. ' 'And I would like...very much to be...friend."

  Those were her last words before drifting into a deep, dreamless

  sleep.

  While she slept in his arms, Conor leaned his head back, relaxed,

  content. It wasn't the feeling he'd expected to find in a woman's bed.

  And this certainly wasn't the woman with whom he'd expected to

  share a bed.

  Of all the people he'd met since his arrival in England, Emma Vaughn

  was his most unlikely ally. She was as clumsy as he was smooth. As

  rough as he was polished. But this strange, awkward little woman put

  him at ease. Even while she caused an unsettling yearning in his

  heart.

  What he was feeling was extremely dangerous. If Elizabeth were to

  sense that he had eyes for another, she could make his life miserable.

  To say nothing of what she might do to this young innocent beside

  him.

  Whatever friendship he and Emma might enjoy, they would have to

  be extremely careful. And no matter what his feelings for her, he

  would have to continue to remind himself that she could never be