Conor's look of surprise, she said, "Over there, the Earl of Danville is
dancing with his wife, while his mistress, Brenna Lampley, watches
from the balcony. And across the room, my advisor, Charles
Malcolm, is fetching a pastry for his wife. But watch as he pauses to
speak with the lovely Margaret Childon. Even now they are plotting
their little tryst. But that cannot be accomplished until their queen
takes her leave. Then they will suddenly disappear, to meet at some
prearranged room where they can satisfy more...carnal hungers."
Conor turned to study the queen. "And how do you know all this?"
"There are no secrets at court. Remember that, my rogue." She gave a
girlish laugh. "My spies are everywhere."
Conor coughed discreetly. "Madam, each time I think I know you,
you reveal another fascinating side."
She got to her feet and placed a hand on his sleeve.
"There are many more sides to me, Conor O'Neil. And if you
continue to please me, I may show you all of them. Now you will
accompany your queen to her room."
"Aye, Majesty." He moved beside her, watching as the men bowed
and the women curtsied.
When he saw Emma watching him, Conor felt a flash of annoyance.
She would believe, as did all the others, that he was going to the
queen's bed. Not that it should matter to him. But for some strange
reason, it did.
With the queen's butler in attendance, they walked to her private
suite. Inside, Conor took a seat, as he always did, while the queen was
made ready for bed. Once her servants had completed that chore they
were dismissed. Then the door to the queen's inner chambers was
opened, and Conor was invited to approach the queen.
As always, Elizabeth, modestly attired, offered her hand.
Conor brought it to his lips. "I bid you good-night. Majesty. May your
sleep be deep and dreamless."
"Thank you, Conor O'Neil. Perhaps, when next we dance, I shall
share a few more of my ladies' secrets."
"I'm not at all certain I wish to hear them, madam."
"All the more reason I will share them. Now I must sleep. If anyone
dares to disturb me, I shall have their head."
The queen was still laughing as Conor took his leave.
His own rooms were on the opposite side of the palace, and one floor
above.
Candles flickered in sconces along the hallways. At this time of night,
many of the servants had retired, except for those seeing to the needs
of the guests who still remained awake.
Conor passed a small game room, where several of the queen's
advisors were engaged in cards and chess. He thought briefly about
joining them, then decided against it.
As he passed a closed door he heard what sounded like a woman's
cry. Almost at once it ended, as though abruptly cut off. Two lovers,
he thought wryly. Snatching moments of pleasure where and when
they could.
He was about to move on when he heard it again. Just a sound, really.
Not quite a cry. But there was something familiar about it. A hint of
fear. A trace of breathlessness.
He felt a prickling along the back of his scalp.
Retracing his steps, he paused outside the closed door and listened. At
first he heard nothing. Then as he moved closer, he could hear the
hiss of anger. And the whispered command, "Hold your tongue,
woman. There is no one who would dare interfere. It is simply the
way things are done at court."
Dunstan's voice. He was sure of it. Conor felt his blood freeze.
Without taking time to consider, he turned the knob and thrust the
door inward. With only the illumination of coals on the -grate, the
two figures across the room were in shadow. Both of them looked up
when he entered. As he strode closer, Conor could see that Dunstan
had pinned Emma against the wall. The bodice of her gown was open.
Had it been torn? Her cheeks were moist. From kisses? Or tears?
His first instinct was to grab Dunstan by the throat and rip out his
heart. His hand actually went to the knife at his waist. It would give
him the sweetest of pleasures to slit Dunstan's throat and watch his
lifeblood spill away. But years of training made him swallow back his
black Irish temper. His voice, when he spoke, was almost casual.
"Ah. The very man I was looking for."
Dunstan glowered. "You can see I'm busy, O'Neil."
"Aye. And I do hate to interrupt such... pleasant business. But I was
just told that the queen requests your presence."
Dunstan brows shot up. ' 'The queen? Are you certain?'
Conor could barely conceal his glee at the way this foolleapt at the
bait. He wondered how Dunstan would feel when the queen flew into
one of her famous rages. "That's what 1 was told. She awaits you
impatiently in her private suite."
Everything was forgotten now except this rare opportunity. Dunstan
turned away, straightening his coat, fumbling with the fasteners at his
waist, completely ignoring the young woman who only moments
earlier had been fighting for her virtue.
He brushed past Conor. "Apparently, when it comes to the queen's
pleasure, she would prefer a loyal Englishman over an Irish peasant."
"Apparently."
Conor waited until the door closed behind Dunstan's retreating back.
Then he turned to Emma. Her hands, he noted, were shaking as she
struggled to draw the torn bodice of her gown over her breasts.
His casual tone was gone. In its place was a rough urgency. "Are you
all right?"
She nodded, too ashamed to meet his eyes.
He caught her by the shoulders. It took all his self-control to keep
from shaking her. He wasn't even aware that he was grasping her so
painfully until she cried out. At once he softened his grip, though he
continued to hold her. "Did he...hurt you?"
"Nay." She swallowed, fighting the sobs that were building inside,
threatening to break free. "I couldn't free my knife from its place of
concealment or the brute would now be nursing his wounds." She
struggled with the sash at her waist, then managed to unloose the dirk
hidden beneath.
He -tould barely hide his surprise that this shy, sweet Dublin lass
carried a weapon on her person. Even while he marveled at that fact,
he could feel the tremors that rocked her. It tore at his heart.
"Come." He caught her roughly by the elbow and began hauling her
toward the door. "Show me to your chambers."
Neither of them spoke as they strode along the hall. When she
stopped before the closed doors of her suite he pushed the door
inward, glancing around before stepping aside and allowing her to
enter. A fire burned on the grate. Through an open doorway could be
seen the shadow of a servant, moving about the sleeping chamber,
where the bed linens had already been turned down.
"You're safe now, my lady. Your servant will see to your needs." He
turned away.
"Wait." She stopped him with a hand on his arm.
He turned to face her. Though she was struggling to hold back the
tears, they were already wet upon her lashes.
"Thank you, Conor O'Neil. You saved me from... from..." She
covered her face with her hands to muffle the sobs that threatened.
"He was going to...I couldn't stop him."
"I know." He wanted, more than anything, to draw her into his arms
and offer her comfort. But the servant had paused in the doorway of
the sleeping chamber and was watching them. He knew there were no
secrets here at Greenwich Palace. The servants gossiped as freely as
the queen.
Taking care, he allowed himself to touch only a hand to her hair. It
was as soft as silk. As lush as velvet.
He kept his tone deliberately harsh. "It's common knowledge that the
privileged few who surround the queen consider themselves above
the laws of common decency. The next time, you would be advised to
know a man before you accept his favors."
She looked up, tears still glistening on her lashes. "Did Dunstan treat
me this way because I am Irish?"
"Nay. Because you are female."
She blinked. "But how can I help that?"
"You can't. So you must learn to be more careful. Of the people you
befriend. Of those you trust. Especially the men. Else, you can't hope
to survive as lady-in-waiting to the queen. For there is much
treachery among these people."
"And what of you, Conor O'Neil? Are you as treacherous as the rest?"
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the servant starting toward them.
"I'll leave you to decide that for yourself, my lady." He stepped back,
turned, then strode from the room.
As he made his way to his own suite, Conor thought about the
warning he'd just given Emma Vaughn. He'd best take heed himself
as well. There were so many secrets in this place. And so many
devious people hoping to use the power of their standing with the
queen for their own advantage. He was no exception. He was here for
one reason. To manipulate the queen for the sake of Ireland. No one
and nothing must get in his way. Especially one shy little maiden
who, it would appear, would need an army of bodyguards to keep her
safe in this den of vipers.
Chapter Four
"Thank you, Nola. You may leave me now." Emma waited until the
servant closed the door before sinking to the edge of the mattress. Her
legs were still trembling, her nerves still jittery from the ordeal.
Dear heaven, what had she gotten herself into?
She pressed her hands to her cheeks. She didn't belong here. These
people were all mad. From the queen to her I silly ladies-in-waiting.
From the evil Lord Dunstan to the Irishman, Conor O'Neil. Especially
Conor O'Neil. Why would a loyal son of Ireland pay homage to the
Queen of England, unless he was a traitor or a complete fool?
And yet, had it not been for that fool, she had no doubt where she
would be now. And in what condition. Still, though she was grateful,
she wasn't about to be won over by his kindness. He'd only saved her
because he'd stumbled upon her in his search for Dunstan.
Dunstan. Her eyes narrowed. How she hated the man. Too agitated to
remain still, she stood and began to pace. The pompous, arrogant
bully. She must see to it that she was never alone with him again.
There was something in his eyes. Something dark and feral. The man
had no conscience.As for Conor O'Neil... She paused, staring into the
flames of the fire. He frightened her in a very different way. When
she'd been forced to dance with him, she'd felt strange stirrings. They
were unlike anything she'd felt before. The mere touch of his hand at
her back had left her with a prickly feeling along her spine, her blood
heating, her mind suddenly going blank. Those deep midnight-blue
eyes of his had pinned her, making her think he could see clear
through her. And when her mouth had brushed him by mistake, she'd
felt a strange yearning. Almost like a...a hunger for more.
Ridiculous.
She resumed her pacing. When she'd begun to weep, she had thought,
for just a moment, that he intended to gather her into his arms and
hold her. She'd foolishly wanted him to. Perhaps, she surmised, it was
because she missed her ,father so. But even when the moment passed,
and Conor had merely touched her hair, she'd felt a wave of trembling
that left her weak.
Aye. She had a right to be frightened of Conor O'Neil. The man was a
danger to her, unless she could ignore these strange new feelings he'd
awakened. But she would have to put aside such things. For Conor
was the key. It was plain that he was far dearer to the queen than her
stepmother had suspected. A man like that could exert a great deal of
influence. It would be no simple matter to keep one step ahead of
such a man, but it would be necessary if she intended to get Celestine
the information she desired.
No matter what her feelings or fears, Emma knew she was committed
to this dangerous situation. For little Sarah's sake, for her father's
sake, she would watch and listen and learn everything she could
about the queen's intentions toward Ireland. And she would use
anyone and anything she deemed necessary. Especially the proud
peacock, Conor O'Neil. Of all the men surrounding the queen, he was
by far the worst. If only because he was openly courting the avowed
enemy of his own land.
One floor above, Conor, barefoot and shirtless, leaned a hip against
the balcony and stared into the darkness. His tunic had been tossed
angrily on a chaise. His boots had been kicked off in haste, landing
against the far wall. In his hand was a silver chalice filled with ale. He
downed half of it in one long swallow.
His hatred of Lynley Dunstan had been festering since he'd first heard
of the man. It was no secret that Dunstan used his friendship with
Elizabeth for his own benefit. Whenever an enemy of the queen had a
fortune in gold and precious jewels confiscated, or a lavish estate in
England or Ireland taken over by the Crown, Dunstan was the first in
line to claim the spoils. At last count he was one of the wealthiest men
in the realm. And greedy for more. He had even released Conor's
sister-in-law from her betrothal, in exchange for her lovely Dublin
estate, Clay Court.
But Dunstan's appetite didn't stop there. He had deflowered so many
maidens, it had become something of a joke in the queen's inner
circle. Sadly, that same friendship that earned his wealth and titles
was the reason that no man lifted a hand to stop him. All feared
Elizabeth's wrath. She was fiercely loyal to her friends. Like a
wounded she-bear when one of them was threatened.
Conor's hand tightened on the stem of the chalice. Damn the man.
He'd had no right to try to force himself on an innocent like Emma
Vaughn. Anyone could tell by looking at her that she was as
defenseless as a fawn at the mercy of the queen's bowmen.
Dunstan would try again. Especially when he found out that Conor
had lied about the queen wanting to see him. One taste of her temper,
and the man would retaliate in kind. With Emma bearing the brunt of
his vengeanc
e.
Conor swore and tipped back his head, draining the last of the ale,
then flung the empty chalice against the wall before climbing into his
bed.
Emma Vaughn wasn't his business. Ireland was. And he'd better not
ever forget it.
"Ah. Here you are, sir." As the sunrise chased the mist from the land,
the stable lad took the reins of Conor's mount. "Her Majesty's
servants have been frantically seeking you. You are summoned to the
queen's chambers at once."
"Thank you, Meade." Connor swung down from the saddle, relieved
that, despite a lack of sleep, his early morning ride had helped to clear
his mind. The queen would demand to know why he had sent
Dunstan to her chambers last night. He would have to find a way to
deflect her anger. It wouldn't be the first time. He was becoming a
master of deception.
Deliberately taking his time, he strolled through the lovely formal
gardens before entering through a rear door. Inside, the palace was
swarming with activity. Cooks milled about, turning a pig roasting
over a spit, stirring kettles of soup and gruel. The fragrance of
freshly-baked bread wafted from the kitchens. In the hallways,
servants bearing armloads of clean linens scurried from suite to suite.
Ladies' maids rushed by, carrying exotic plumed hats or elegant
gowns.
ConoF.made his way to the queen's quarters. A uniformed soldier
stood at attention outside the closed doors. The moment he spotted
Conor, he opened the doors and stood aside.
Inside,-»a liveried butler disappeared to announce his arrival, then
reappeared, opening yet another set of doors.
Conor stepped into the queen's private suite. Elizabeth was seated at a
round table set in front of the fireplace. She wore a robe of cut velvet,
and beneath it a morning gown of lace with a high ruffled collar. Her
hair had been carefully arranged in a coronet atop her head. In her
hand was a steaming goblet of hot mulled wine.
She set it down and regarded him in silence.
He waited, knowing he could not speak until invited to do so.