Lady of Conquest (5 page)

Conn closed his eyes briefly. “I spoke in anger and haste, lass. ‘Twas an idle threat to wring the truth from you.”

Her laugh cracked into a sob. “More lies. They flow so well from lips as smooth as yours. Even now you try to disarm me with eyes so blue and kind. All a lie. A vicious, hurtful lie.”

Without lowering his gaze, Conn laid his sword aside. He spread his arms in surrender. “My heart, milady. My heart for your dagger. As proof of my pledge.”

Gelina hurled the dagger. It was a crooked throw, and Conn didn’t have to duck for it to miss him by a hand’s length. She spun around to flee, tripped on a tangled root, and went sprawling onto her stomach.

His arm circled her waist before she could scream. The setting sun burnished the blade in his hand to orange fire. Gelina closed her eyes, oddly thankful that his ruse of halfhearted kindness was over and the monster hiding behind his kind, blue eyes was revealed. She waited for the kiss of his blade on her throat.

The dagger caught in her shirt and jerkin, ripping them asunder and baring her shoulder to the flirting caress of the setting sun. He cut away the bandage from her shoulder. His curse was short and descriptive. His weight vanished. She lay with her cheek pressed to the cool earth, hiccupping softly, until he gently lifted her. He wrapped his shirt around her. She slumped against his bare chest like a cloth doll and closed her eyes.

Conn frowned as the blistering tirade he had planned to deliver fled his mind. After a short, puzzled silence, he asked, “And where were you fleeing in such haste, milady?”

“To bury my”—she came to a dead halt, gave a puzzled frown, then smiled brightly—“lover. Yes, I was going to bury my lover.” This brought forth a rippling wave of mirth that deepened to a shuddering cough. Conn cradled her thin body to his until she lay spent and shivering in his arms. “Forgive me, sire. I fear I’m more of a mind to be cuddled than cursed. Don’t fret. It’ll pass or I will. ‘Twill save you the expense of executing me.”

Conn took her chin between his fingers. “You wouldn’t dare die. I won’t allow it.”

“Ever arrogant,” she said with a faint smile. She reached up and touched the softness of his beard with the tips of her fingers. “I thought kissing you would be like kissing a bear.”

He caught her hand in his. “It was the first time you’d kissed anyone, was it not?”

She nodded. “And the last, I fear.” Her eyes widened. “I wasn’t supposed to tell you that, was I? I cannot keep my lies or truths straight in my pounding head. ‘Tis unchivalrous of you to question me. Cease, I command it.” She closed her eyes and wiggled imperious fingers.

His brogue was soft, almost musical. “Milady, if I had believed you were as versed in all of your alleged lover’s arts as you are in murder and thievery, I would have been hard-pressed to resist your sweet offer.”

“Sweet,” she croaked. The shallow rise of her chest barely stirred Conn’s shirt.

“Sweet,” he said. He was leaning forward to kiss her parted lips before he realized what he was doing. He quickly shifted his kiss to the tip of her nose, afraid to stop touching the fey child for fear she would slip away.

Her chest did not rise for a long moment. Conn touched his cheek to her lips, praying for a whisper of breath. Gelina began to shake with something deeper than the chill of her fever.

“Sweet,” she murmured without opening her eyes. She sniffed twice and realized with disgust that she was going to cry. She buried her face in the damp hairs of Conn’s arm. “Couldn’t you just cut off my head and finish it? Rodney would be so disappointed in me. You’ve been kind, and I’ve kissed you instead of killing you properly.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Conn said quietly. He watched a pink-tipped cloud puff its way toward the sunset. “Rodney? ‘Tis an unusual forename for a lad born on the Isle of Erin. ’Tis a name from Britain across the sea, is it not?” He stroked Gelina’s dry, hot brow. “Indeed, I’ve met only one lad in all of Erin with that name. His father journeyed much on the sea and delighted in naming his children names he encountered during his travels. I believe he had a daughter, too—a flame-haired imp with the sweetest smile.”

Conn tilted her chin with one finger. He searched her drawn face, his eyes shadowed. Gelina flinched as a shooting pain traveled up the back of her neck.

“Rodney Ó Monaghan? Was that your brother’s name?”

She nodded wearily.

Conn said softly, “Then you must be . . .”

He hesitated, and she finished for him in a voice that was barely a whisper, “Gelina Ó Monaghan, daughter of Rory Ó Monaghan and Deirdre.”

Conn touched her smooth cheek in wonder. “I used to pick you up and toss you in the air until you squealed. You were a beautiful little thing. Why, you can’t be more than seventeen now.”

“Sixteen.” Gelina looked with blind entreaty into the dark blue eyes that had haunted her for so long. “I don’t want to talk. I hurt.”

The flush in her drawn cheeks had deepened. Conn could feel the heat radiating from her body. He whistled softly. Silent Thunder trotted into the glade.

Gelina put her arms around Conn’s neck, and he lifted her to the horse. He mounted behind her and pulled his cloak around them both. His arm circled her waist with more gentleness than he intended. He urged the stallion into a walk.

Gelina leaned back, surrendering to the seductive comfort of his broad chest. She felt a bizarre sensation of safety unlike anything she had felt in too long to remember. Her trembling slowly eased although her memory of what had caused it did not. Her gaze fell on Conn’s hands wrapped tight around the reins. A jagged scar crossed two of his knuckles. She bit her lip and the trembling started anew. Conn gently rested his chin on her head until he felt her relax against him. Sinking into a stuporlike sleep, she began to dream.

She stood high on a scaffold in the courtyard of a towering fortress. A noose of braided hemp lay around her neck, making her collarbone itch. She flinched as a rotten onion spattered across her face. Blue eyes glittered beneath the executioner’s hood. Scattered throughout the crowd, skeletons with hunks of rotting flesh hanging from their bones leered and pointed at her with accusing fingers.

The scaffold grew hotter; flames reached for her. The executioner stretched out his black-gloved hand and pulled the mechanism that dropped the trapdoor out of the bottom of the scaffold. She hung there, unable to breathe and unable to die. As her body swung around, she faced the executioner. He removed his hood with a flourish and she stared into her brother’s black eyes and heard again the bone-chilling laugh she had heard the night they had ambushed the first warrior of the Fianna. She fought to scream in the unbearable heat, unable to wring any sound from beneath the constricting bond of the noose.

Gelina opened her eyes to find Conn standing over her with a dagger. She choked on the bile rising in her throat and choked on the scream denied her in the dream.

As if still dreaming, she heard Conn’s soft brogue. “Gelina, I must lance your wound and clean it. I want you to drink this.”

She sputtered as a bitter amber liquid was poured down her throat. A warmth that was more pleasant burned a fiery path down to the pit of her stomach. At first she was only aware of gentle hands rolling her over and probing her shoulder; then a searing agony began there and traveled the length of her body, erupting like a volcano into a scream that echoed over the plains.

The next day she awoke only once. She opened her eyes to find bright stars shining in the ebony sky above her. Violent trembling wracked her aching body. The night breeze rushed over her like a frosted north wind. She looked at the stranger lying beside her.

He gently cupped her neck, feeling her uncontrollable shivering. She rested her cheek against his palm, rubbing against his skin in a primitive search for warmth. With an abrupt motion, he tucked his cloak around her, then threw himself on his back, his eyes restlessly searching the night sky. He stole a glance at her, looking no less feverish than she felt. She could not help gazing at him in naked bewilderment, unable to understand what she had done to displease him. He breathed a defeated sigh, then slipped beneath the cloak and drew her into his arms. As Gelina’s shivers subsided, she would have almost sworn she felt his lips brush the tangle of hair at her temple.

Nimbus sat with legs folded and back resting against the wooden wall outside the hall. Curled up beside him was a black and white dog. The jester stuffed a hunk of cooked game hen into his mouth, ignoring the trail of grease that dripped from his chin to his burlap breeches. He chewed voraciously, his jaws seeking to dispel the tension his mind could not.

Five days and still silence from the north. The atmosphere inside the castle was dour enough to make waiting for Kevin’s unfortunate return seem like a carnival in contrast. There were no antics from Nimbus to lighten the mood. He had spent the morning crouched under a table in the kitchen, hidden from the cook by a stained tablecloth, suffering through her long-winded diatribe on the king’s foolishness until he could grab the chicken in his hands.

He relished the fowl all the more, knowing how the rotund cook would shriek when she discovered her newly baked bird had flown the coop. A single dramstick remained from the feast when he heard the sound of hoof beats approaching the fortress. The dog beside him raised its head and peered at him with crossed eyes.

Five hefty horses trotted into the courtyard, more suited to the fields than the long journey their sweat-sheened coats spoke of. The men astride them mopped their florid brows, also appearing more suited to the farmyard than the courtyard.

“Idiot, has the king returned?”

Nimbus struggled not to look offended at their use of a common term for jester, although he could not prevent a quick upward roll of his eyes. “No sign of him yet. Ye can stable yer horses yonder.” He pointed, rising to his feet.

They guided the horses away, one of the younger men pausing to call over his shoulder, “We’re the MacRuaircs. We’ve come to see that justice is done.”

The graying man next to him cuffed him smartly on his ear. “No need to explain to him. He be daft. Stunted. He don’t understand.”

Nimbus flipped an obscene finger at their backs, chicken leg hanging forgotten in his hand. The dog gently relieved him of his burden and sidled around the corner. Nimbus shot him a disgusted look, too offended to give chase.

People assumed that a stunted growth included a stunted mind. Nimbus was fond of explaining to Conn that although his height barely reached four feet, three of those feet were occupied by his brain. With a ribald dig to Conn’s ribs and a leer at any passing maid, he would then elaborate on the source of those other twelve inches. A smile appeared on Nimbus’s face as he thought of Conn’s laughter, then faded as rapidly as it had come.

He was again distracted by hoof beats as a handsome white horse cantered into the courtyard, The tall, blond soldier who dismounted drew a sigh of disgust from Nimbus. Barron Ó Caflin had ridden out often in the last few days, spurring his mount north only to return a few hours later with sweat on his brow and a smirk on his thin lips.

Tying his horse to a post, he tossed out, “Any word yet?” in Nimbus’s direction.

The dwarf crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “Ah, kind sir, ye honor me with speech! What be the grand occasion?” He blinked innocent cocoa-colored eyes.

“The grand occasion is going to be your burial if you don’t form a civil tongue in your mouth,” Barron replied, leaning toward him with a menacing scowl.

“Go pick on someone yer own size, Barron . . . like a roach.”

Barron reached down and grabbed him by the collar, lifting his feet off the ground. “I asked a simple question, even for a simpleton to answer.”

“I’ve a question for you, Ó Caflin.”

Barron dumped Nimbus to the ground at the sound of the commanding voice behind him and turned to face Mer-Nod, whose stern visage was twisted in a sarcastic smile.

Barron bowed, giving the chief poet the respect he was due. He swept off his cap with a flourish and said, “And for you, sir, no question is too difficult.”

Nimbus sneered as he climbed to his feet, brushing dirt from the seat of his breeches.

Mer-Nod did not mince words. “Each day you ride north over the plains, then turn and veer south, cutting a wide swath around the fortress. Just what is your business?”

The smile plastered on Barron’s face faded and his skin paled. “Who told you that?”

Mer-Nod allowed his enigmatic smile to spread. “Do not forget my ancestor, Cesard the magician. He deigns to whisper cryptic secrets in my ear.”

Barron struggled to regain his composure. His eyes lingered on the poet as if expecting to see an apparition hovering about his earlobe. With studied nonchalance, he uncorked the canteen at his waist and took a large swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The fine red lines in his eyes seemed to spread spontaneously.

He shrugged. “I enjoy the ride. This inactivity while we await our king’s return is galling to me.” He backed toward the door. “Always a pleasure to converse with you, Mer-Nod.”

As Mer-Nod glanced at Nimbus, Barron swallowed and continued, “And you, too, Nimbus,
of
course.” His shoulder slammed into the doorframe as he whirled around and disappeared into the hall.