Conor

  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.