Emerald Prince (33 page)

Felicity chuckled at the memory. “Of course, the prioress and some of us set off in pursuit, but none could run faster than Ailinn — than you, who sprinted past everyone and caught him. You knew the prioress would beat him, as she had before, and you set up a defense in front of a cottage where someone had left a broom out on the steps.

“Faolán — Camber, I mean — clung t’ your skirts bawling while you wielded the broomstick like a sword, fending off the good sisters of St. Mary’s. ’Twas how Coventry found you, snarling protectively like a cat-a-mountain over her young.”

“Walter!” Alianor exclaimed in disbelief. “How …?”

Felicity shrugged. “Seems we’ll never know how he came t’ be in the village that day. Mayhap on his journey t’ find the parents of the squire you spoke of. All I know is God brought him t’ us — t’ you. As soon as you mentioned his name, I remembered ’twas a man named Coventry who offered t’ take you and Faolán. He said dear friends of his in England were unable t’ have children, and he would see their hearts eased.

“I still remember him kneeling down t’ your height. Something in his manner calmed you, assured you he did not intend harm. You made no attempt t’ strike out and dropped your makeshift weapon. He cupped your face with his big hands and gently wiped the tears and grime from your cheeks with his thumbs. You curled your arms trustingly about his neck, and the great knight scooped up both you and Faolán into his arms.
These children go with me
, he told us in a booming voice, and even the prioress dared not protest.”

Hot tears spilled down Alianor’s cheeks. She wanted to deny it, to claim it all false, but she knew it was true. When Felicity mentioned Walter wiping the tears from her cheeks, as he always had, she could no longer doubt the woman’s words.

She wiped the wetness away now, and looked at the shining emotion in Felicity’s eyes, then back to the box again. Something akin to fear rose in her breast. “You’ve hidden it all these years. Why show me now?”

“Coventry took you and Camber away before I could tell him the story and give him the cross, but I realized he would keep you safe. So, I guarded the cross instead, knowing, when the time was right, you would come back t’ me and claim
Seòd Fios
. The time has come, milady, t’ return it t’ the one who must show the Emerald Prince the light.”

A
LIANOR SHOOK HER HEAD.
“I cannot.”

“I do not ask,” Felicity said, laying a hand upon hers, “but beg it, for the sake of Connacht.”

“The timing does not seem right. Liam does not even believe he is this Emerald Prince.”

“Aye,” Felicity sighed, “stubborn he is, cut of the same cloth as O’Connor. But you, milady — you have his love. He will listen t’ you.”

“Do I?” The niggling doubt she had experienced when they arrived back at camp resurfaced. “It seems he does not care whether I stay or not.”

Felicity tsked. “As I said, he is a stubborn lad. Your brother touched upon his own guilt for having kidnapped you in the first place. ’Tis the way of himself, t’ put up a wall of indifference when uncomfortable. Do you not know he has given his heart in t’ your care?”

“Felicity, he has only to say what he feels,” Alianor shook her head, “but he has not.”

Overwhelmed by all Felicity told her and suggested, Alianor sought another recourse, something more sensible. “It seems the cross could aid all of you in a more practical way. The gold and the gem —”

“Nay!” Felicity cried, knowing where she intended to go with the suggestion. “’Tis a sacred trust the Tuatha de Danaan placed in you. Please, milady, take the cross. The stone will give you guidance and strength t’ do what you must. In time, Uilleam will believe as well.”

Sensing Felicity’s desperation, Alianor nodded to calm the woman, but she had already decided it was not the time to indulge in superstition. The cross was apparently hers by right of birth, so she would accept it, but she truly believed the only worth it had for the Irish was in its monetary value.

Felicity removed the cross from its box and handed it to her, all her hopes and beliefs shining on her face. Alianor dreaded disappointing the woman, for she doubted the legend was true.

She gazed down at the cross in her hands, a thousand more questions swirling in her head. Yet Alianor knew no more answers would be found this night. Misplaced or not, Felicity’s unflagging trust upset her. Drained by all she had been told, she tried not to let her dismay show as she hugged the little woman goodnight, and goodbye.

Chapter Twenty-three

“I
DON’T UNDERSTAND WHY
we left in the middle of the night, Nora. Why this furtive slinking about?”

Camber’s troubled words carried too loudly in the dark woods. Alianor rode beside him, frustrated at the slower pace she was forced to take for her brother to keep up, for his seat upon the horse was uncertain.

Unwilling to accept her silence, Camber continued. “You’d think we were the thieves and outlaws, sneaking off in the middle of the night. Stealing horses. Dear Lord … we
are
the thieves!”

“Sssh.” Alianor turned in her saddle and gave an exasperated look. She knew he saw her expression by moonlight, and hoped her glare told him she didn’t care for the conversation he pursued.

Camber didn’t heed the warning and rambled on. “Mind you, I bear no great love for Irish rebels, but Caomhánach’s people were kind enough. Somehow it seems wrong to sneak off like this.”

Still Alianor said nothing, but Camber was determined to break through the wall of silence. Something was wrong, he felt it.

“I heard you saved Caomhánach’s life, and you confessed to me you love him. Yet you didn’t say goodbye. Why?”

“It’s none of your affair, dear brother.” Alianor’s said sharply, not intending to lash out, but Cam’s badgering rubbed her the wrong way. The intense pain inside drove her to find a substitute emotion. Anger served well, though she despised herself for it.

Camber pulled on his mount’s reins, stopping the horse dead in his tracks. “Nora, please. I realize I have arrived in the middle of something but I need you to tell me what is going on. Please … let me help you, once, without argument.”

Alianor halted her horse. She realized she had never asked for his help before, and understood how much it meant to him to be there for her now. He had left everything he held dear to find her, and she owed him an explanation for dragging him out of his bed in the middle of the night. He oft said a shared burden weighed half as much. She knew Cam could do nothing, except offer words of comfort and love her unconditionally. But it was enough, and she gave a soft sigh of surrender. “What I said before is true, I love Liam.”

“I confess I tried to dismiss your earlier words as those uttered in a state of upset and exhaustion. I am not certain I understand how you can love a man like Caomhánach, not only a kidnapper of women, but a man who lives outside the law.”

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.

D
UVESSA
O’C
ONNOR 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.