by Brit Darby
She shuddered at the gentle rebuke in Cam’s voice. Her hands gripped the saddle pommel so hard she feared it might snap off. “I know — and I cannot explain it. I cannot defend the decision of my foolish heart.”
Camber frowned, glimpsing the betraying sparkle of tears on her cheeks by moonlight. He hated seeing Nora cry. She was usually so strong, a veritable fortress. Yet, in a strange way, he felt relieved. If Caomhánach was the man who filled her heart with love, Camber simply could not hate him.
“You claim you love him,” Camber said, “yet you choose to leave him. Why, Nora?”
She brushed at the moisture on her cheeks. “To save him, Cam. I cannot be the cause of Liam’s destruction, nor his people’s. If we appeal to The Marshal for aid and he intercedes, perhaps the King and de Lacy will let them all live. Perhaps they will not destroy Wolf Haven.”
He looked grave. “You take a great risk, Nora. Are you sure it’s worth the price you might pay in the end?”
Alianor said nothing. Some questions had no answers.
DUVESSA O’CONNOR CONSIDERED THE man before her, her keen gaze flicking over Lord de Lacy’s elegant garb with appreciation. Many times she had tried to persuade her husband to dress befitting his rank, but O’Connor persisted in looking like one of the common rabble she disdained. He rushed off on campaign with wild hair and ragged clothes, his appearance not befitting a King of Connacht, but a menacing savage. Duvessa oft remarked if nothing else, he could terrorize the enemy with his odor.
O’Connor never found her observations humorous; however, she had a feeling this man would. She sensed de Lacy was a kindred spirit and the thought intrigued her. One met so few interesting people in life.
A jagged white streak of a scar marred de Lacy’s otherwise comely face, contrasting his eloquent attire. She wondered from whence he obtained the mark of battle, and let a slow smile curve her lips. She found the scar interesting, and the man exciting.
“You do our humble hall great honor, Lord de Lacy.” She smoothed her watchet gown over her hips, noting the way the visitor’s gaze lingered on her curves.
Duvessa was no longer a fresh young maid, but she was well-aware of the power of her dark, mature beauty to captivate men of any age. Today she wore three long plaits of her ebony hair wound around her head, while a fourth fell free. A solid gold torc studded with garnets and golden citrine gleamed at her throat, and she inwardly laughed as de Lacy summed up their value in one shrewd glance. Aye, they were cut of the same cloth.
“I regret milord husband is not here to speak with you,” she added, but her look belied the words. On the contrary, she was glad the O’Connor was not here to drive off their guest with his foul manners and fouler temperament. “How may I aid you, Lord de Lacy?”
The Norman proffered an elegant all-be-it, short bow. “You have already done me great service, milady, by the simple fact of your gracious reception.” He raised the jewel-studded goblet of mulled wine offered him earlier by one of the staff, and saluted her. “May I be so bold as to toast O’Connor hospitality, and the beauty of O’Connor women?”
“I doubt I can stop you, milord, if you are so inclined. You do not look the sort who is accustomed to being denied anything.”
He arched an eyebrow at her words, the heavy meaning clear behind them. Their gazes met and locked across the short space separating them. “You are right, Madame. I always get what I desire in the end.”
Duvessa knew his meaning and her loins stirred as surely as his. It had been a long time since she had taken a lover, two months or more. The last one was a servant of lusty Viking descent, and he amused her until Cathal caught them together.
O’Connor killed the lad outright, a genuine pity, for who would satisfy her carnal needs now? Cathal was a blundering bore in bed; she marveled his precious Caireen could ever stand being mauled by the crude oaf.
Her husband threatened the same fate as the servant’s upon discovering Duvessa’s infidelity, but she lost her fear of him years ago and laughed in his face. Cathal thought she was a witch. She encouraged this belief and the control it lent her. The O’Connor might be a mighty warrior, but in Duvessa’s opinion he was dumb as an ox and superstitious. Such men were easily manipulated. This Lord de Lacy, however, did not look so simple-minded. The possibilities excited her, but she maintained a cool mien.
“You are kind to visit us, milord, when so far from home.” She moved past him, ostensibly to fetch her embroidery left upon a chair, but rather so he might catch a scent of the heady musk drifting in her wake. Duvessa saw his nostrils flare in passing, and he pivoted after her, like a stallion sniffing a mare. A tingle raced down her spine and she turned to boldly meet his gaze.
De Lacy smiled and tossed back the last of the wine in a meaningful gesture. They understood one another. Once business was concluded, pleasure would follow in due course.
He set the empty goblet aside on a table. “’Twas no coincidence, alas. I seek discourse with the O’Connor on an urgent matter. It concerns an Irish outlaw, one of his subjects who is proving most troublesome.”
Duvessa carried her embroidery back to O’Connor’s high seat, and, as was her wont in Cathal’s absence, reposed there like a queen holding court. “Outlaw?” she inquired, one eyebrow rising. “There are many who might be branded outlaws in this land, milord.”
“True. Yet this one, I believe, has a following. At least, his name never fails to provoke reaction whenever spoken. Liam Caomhánach.”
Duvessa frowned. “Your jest is not amusing, milord.” She poked the embroidery needle through the cloth with brutal emphasis.
“Ahh, you do know of him. I thought as much.”
“Well, what of Caomhánach? Why do you seek him?”
With a maddeningly cool smile, he mused, “Why do you react so vehemently, I wonder?”
Duvessa glared at him, wanting to loathe the man, but a betraying dampness between her thighs told her otherwise. De Lacy aroused her with his mere aura. It was black and fierce. He was not a man to be tricked nor trifled with, and this excited her.
“If you must know, Caomhánach is milord husband’s bastard.” She spat the word so he did not mistake the dark emotion it engendered in her.
“No, I did not know. How interesting. It explains the vitriol in your lovely eyes, my dear.”
They had gone from formalities to intimacies in a matter of minutes. This realization caused a corresponding shiver to touch her, and Duvessa wished she truly was a witch so she might bend de Lacy to her bidding. Nay, she decided on second thought. She preferred him dangerous, unpredictable.
She had not been this aroused since she had coerced three peasant lads into joining her for sport in the chapel after matins. That had been a thrill unlike any other, only a few wavering candles illuminating their writhing bodies upon the altar, knowing the priest might wander in to begin Mass at any moment. The risk only heightened the drama, with Duvessa’s screams of pleasure fortunately drowned out by the timely pealing of the laud bells.
De Lacy smiled, as if reading her mind. She grew warm beneath the fire in his eyes and her direct gaze challenged him.
“You did not say why you hunt Caomhánach, milord.”
“No, I did not. But hunt is, indeed, the proper word. You see, my dear, he stole something precious to me. And I do not take kindly to sharing my possessions.”
“What was it? A jewel?”
“You could say so, I suppose. A jewel of a woman. My betrothed.”
A hot flash of jealousy scorched Duvessa. She had not even coupled with de Lacy, yet already felt proprietary towards him. “Some Irish peasant?” she sniffed.
De Lacy laughed, but the coolness of it was belied by the heat in his eyes. “No, she is of proper English nobility, I assure you. Besides, my dear, if memory serves, you are an Irishwoman yourself.”
“Aye, but my mother was a princess of Connacht.” Duvessa lifted her chin.
“Surely every bit as beautiful.” De Lacy step
ped forward, seized her hand and raised it to his lips. He slid her middle finger into his mouth, and suckled it sensuously. Duvessa forgot the embroidery in her lap. She gasped, staring at him in a heady mixture of outrage and arousal.
“Will you kill Caomhánach?” she whispered hopefully. When her finger slipped from his lips, she stroked his scarred cheek, a hint of sweet reward for the proper answer.
“If I can, but I must find him first. He has spirited my poor intended off somewhere. ’Tis said he has a secret hideaway in the hills.”
Duvessa nodded. “I have heard the same. I suspect my husband might know his whereabouts. He follows the adventures of his bastard, out of misbegotten love for the bitch who bore Liam. He worships a long-dead memory, the old fool.” A sneer curled her lip.
She must admit she was worried. Liam was starting to present a serious threat. Because Irish kingship was not strictly conferred to the firstborn legitimate male of the current king, but rather to any worthy male relative, the sword was double-edged. Her Dermot could become King in lieu of Mor’s sons, but so could Liam, a bastard.
Cathal, in fact, was himself a bastard — the spawn of a concubine, allegedly cursed during her pregnancy by the King’s betrayed and angry Queen. It was said the witch-queen’s words turned the babe’s hand red. Though born with an ominous sign on his flesh, the Clever Hound of Connacht turned curse into opportunity by starting the rumor that he had proven victorious so oft, his sword hand was permanently stained with the blood of enemies. Thus, a mark from hell became a badge of courage.
In his younger days, O’Connor had excited Duvessa with his roughness, and the visible evidence of warrior’s blood that flowed through the red hand when it struck her. She endured her lesser role as second wife with aspirations for her son. In her view, only Dermot was entitled to O’Connor’s attentions as well as his throne. Mor’s sons were dullards like their prissy, devout mother. They posed no real threat. Liam did, however. She knew of her husband’s grudging admiration and affection for his spawn by that she-bitch, Caireen. She had toyed with the idea of disposing with Liam before, but decided as long as he did not challenge Dermot’s claim to the high seat of Connacht, she would endure his existence.
Now, however, de Lacy offered opportunity to rid herself of a thorn which had chafed for over two decades. She licked her lips. The Norman still leaned over her, his gray eyes burning into hers.
“If I find Caomhánach for you, what will my reward be?” Her breath caressed him as she whispered in his ear.
Without a word, de Lacy’s hand seized her left breast and squeezed roughly. Duvessa gasped in pleasure-pain. His thumb and forefinger circled her hard nipple through the cloth, pinching, tugging. She arched towards him, her hungry mouth seeking his.
His lips hovered above hers, teasing. “I know your price, my dark rose of Connacht. I am more than willing to pay it.”
Duvessa moaned as his other hand wedged between her legs, massaging her through the layers of her gown. His technique was crude, but not ineffective. Her senses flared, her juices flowed as she welcomed the lusts of the man and the power he wielded.
“Aye,” she gasped. “I will help you. I swear it. Don’t stop.”
De Lacy rucked her gown above her waist, where she lolled in unladylike fashion, splayed weak with passion upon her husband’s throne. He smiled down at her.
“Milady, I believe this will be a profitable venture for us both. We understand one another very well.”
QUINTIN DE LACY STROLLED along the castle ramparts in the moonlight and looked with satisfaction over his lands. As he did so, he often pressed a handkerchief to his nostrils, inhaling deeply. A few of his guards in the gatehouse cast him strange looks, not knowing the cloth had once belonged to Lady Coventry. It still bore Alianor’s scent, the violets fainter but still detectable to his keen senses. He closed his eyes, absorbing the essence of the woman he desired.
His luck had turned it seemed. The King himself had come to Ireland with his men to rout de Braose, and mounted his campaign from Fountainhall. So Quintin could use Softsword’s men and money to track down his property. His mission was spurred by the cold fury dwelling inside him, curled like an adder in his belly. It festered, fed his temper with its potent venom.
He opened his eyes, and the silvery moon reminded him of Alianor’s hair. The association wasn’t a pleasant one. “I’ll teach the bitch a lesson she’ll not soon forget,” he mumbled. Since his men had long since grown used to his muttering, none risked his wrath with a comment. “Aye, she’ll rue the day she betrayed me.”
His hand traced the fresh scar upon his face, inflicted by the same woman he cursed. The reminder was a testament of Alianor’s treachery, one destined to remain with him forever. He felt the welt, starting above his left eyebrow, slicing through it and down across the bridge of his nose, ending its destructive path at his lower right jaw. He was lucky she hadn’t blinded him.
The physical manifestation of her rejection only added fodder to the hissing snake in his gut. After her assault and escape, he had walked for miles, shivering in the downpour, before he caught up to his men. He ordered them out in a search, but the damned rain obscured all tracks and Alianor was long gone. Later he learned of Caomhánach’s escape, when the man left to guard the Irishmen and assure their deaths did not appear. He was found with a crossbow bolt in his chest, and there were no bodies tied to the pilings.
Quintin seethed. He wanted them both to pay. Dearly. If he did nothing else in life, he would see they regretted crossing him. Images of what he would do to Alianor played over and over in his mind, in various incarnations, leaving no relief from the rage consuming him.
Duvessa had declared the scar sexy, but he was not mollified. He was considered a reasonably attractive man before, but now women seemed to shrink from his glance. Even a servant like Ina, who had once endured his touch without protest, looked as if she would die from fright seeing his face.
Alianor was responsible, none other. He suspected she and the Irishman had shared more than insults, and their disappearance at the same time could hardly be coincidence. He imagined Caomhánach sporting with her, and burned with impotent fury. He decided his pleasure would be doubled when he caught them together — killed them together. But first, ahhh, first he would enjoy the succulent flesh haunting his every waking moment.
He recalled the lush curves he felt before Alianor pulled the dagger on him. The luscious swell of her breasts, the silken texture of her thighs. The bittersweet tease her kiss offered him. Hers was a promise of pleasure he had never known before. Lady Duvessa was an insatiable wildcat, a high-bred whore who knew all the tricks, but he had sampled a dozen women of the same ilk. They bored him.
Alianor was different. She seemed — ethereal. He knew no other word for it. She was no ordinary woman, now he knew it even more. Her freshness appealed to him; her gentle aura complemented by a defiant spirit stirring his loins to conquest. He likened Alianor to a delicate flower he must taste, plunder, crush and toss aside. First, he wanted to hear her beg for mercy. Beg his forgiveness for her fucking treachery.
It was only a matter of time before he tracked Alianor and Caomhánach down. He had secured Duvessa O’Connor’s aid, though he still awaited her confirmation. Her husband was on campaign in Ulster, and a message would not reach Cathal for days. Duvessa swore, however, she would weasel the information from O’Connor about Liam’s hideout, whatever it took.
Quintin’s groin tingled with the memory of their fierce coupling, their mutual promise sealed during a night of unbridled lechery. His flesh still bore evidence of Duvessa’s dark passions; the scratch of her nails left a criss-cross of bloody welts. He knew her body bore his private brand of perversion, marked by way of teeth and whip. He grew hard with the memory of her screams of pleasure-pain. How much sweeter would Alianor’s cries sound?
With a groan of frustration and impatience, he turned and continued his agitated walk. Aye, he had a master plan worthy of a
king. Like he hunted animals, he would stalk Alianor, trap her, and then — oh, the real games would begin.
“I THINK THIS IS a mistake, Cam.” Alianor’s worried voice drew Camber from his silent reverie as they walked down the abbey hall in weary tandem. “I do not want to endanger any of your holy brethren. Especially since we know the King has men out looking for me. I’m sure de Lacy does, as well.”
He sighed and shook his head. “What choice do we have, Nora? We are destitute.”
The trip south had taken longer than they planned, the travelers waylaid by a storm and the difficulties of obtaining food and lodging without adequate funds. The coins she had won gambling with Liam’s men ran out quickly, for the stakes wagered were meager, the lark for fun, not profit. In the end, Alianor was forced to part with what little remaining jewelry she had, a cabochon-cut garnet ring and a lovely brooch. Both had belonged to their adoptive mother, Lady Maud.
Camber protested the sacrifice, but she pointed out they had no choice. He had no funds of his own, not even his robes would fetch a silver penny. Fortunately, the monks at the Abbey of Kells offered them a free night of shelter, and simple but nourishing food.
Alianor told her brother Felicity’s story of their true heritage and to her surprise, he accepted the tale, much easier than she had. That eve at Kells in the privacy of Camber’s cell, they spoke of the legend and the cross at length.
“So you don’t think Felicity is mad?” Cam asked.
“No, she knew too many details.” Alianor looked at the cross she had placed on the pallet between them. “A daft mind certainly didn’t invent this.”
With reverence, Camber touched the golden relic. “Do you believe you are this legendary daughter of Ireland?”
Alianor shrugged. “Felicity would have me believe so, and she claims the jewel is Seòd Fios. I’ve never seen an emerald so large, even at court. Perhaps it isn’t real, but quartz or a semiprecious stone.”