Emerald Prince (34 page)

“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 stepped 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.”

Q
UINTIN
D
E
L
ACY 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.”

Camber examined it, holding it closer to the candle’s flame, so light reflected through its facets. “’Tis said the finest emeralds have a deep blue flame within them,” he said. “Look, Nora.”

She leaned closer, the spark of blue fire clear in the stone’s depths. “How did you know that, Cam?”

“Beginner’s alchemy.” His eyes twinkled as he laid the cross back down, but his serious side emerged again with a deep sigh. “I believe the emerald is real enough, though whether some legendary gem is unknown. The truth may never be uncovered. Yet, we must be cautious; we can trust no one with this knowledge.”

Alianor nodded agreement.

“After evening prayers, I mentioned to Father Glaisne I had heard a legend about a great emerald of Ireland,” Camber said. “Imagine my surprise when he not only knew of it, but he claimed the stone came to light at St. Galls, almost three hundred years ago by a monk called Brother Donal.”

Donal
. The name stirred her memory and Alianor recalled Felicity’s tales at Wolf Haven. “Go on.”

“Well, Father Glaisne told me Brother Donal’s story and how the stone came unto him. He was one of the illustrators who recorded history for the early Church. The details are known because he wrote about them, and some of those manuscripts survived.”

“At St. Galls?” Alianor exclaimed hopefully.

Camber shook his head. “Nay, unfortunately Brother Donal’s works were sent to Rome long ago, and are housed amidst other Vatican treasures. But the collective memory of any religious order is a long one, passed down over centuries, and this is how the monks here still know the story of the Jewel of Knowledge today.”

“Do they know what happened to it?”

“Well, once the emerald came into the possession of the Church, the monks saw fit to encase it in this cross. Brother Donal died in the Year of Our Lord 957, and, unfortunately, the trail ends there and nobody knows exactly where or to whom the cross went. Everything thereafter is rumor and speculation.”

Alianor thought back to the legend. Felicity’s version filled in many of the blanks, yet still fit with the monk’s written accounts. Was it possible this could all be true? Could the stone in this cross really be
Seòd Fios
?