Emerald Prince (6 page)

Alianor stared at the handsomest Irish knave she’d ever seen. Though, in truth, she had seen few genuine knaves in her life, much less Irishmen. But all ruffians could not be as attractive as this one. If so, ladies would never loathe surrendering their purses.

Though only a few inches taller than she, the Irishman made her feel petite. His solid frame showed no ounce of easy living. He was sturdy, yet looked lithe as a cat. He stared shamelessly back at her. His square jaw was firmly set, belied by a twinkle in his eyes. Eyes, not dark after all, but a brilliant emerald green. Wavy, midnight-colored hair brushed his shoulders, curling at the ends. He wore plain black breeches, shirt and cloak, no doubt the better to waylay his victims in the dark.

Alianor realized sometime during her wild flight she had lost her veil and the wind whipped her hair out of its plaits. He studied her shaking hand as she gripped the dagger. Then his gaze drifted to her undone hair, tumbled about her hips.

He arched an eyebrow, and she wondered if he had read her mind. Surely he had not heard her intake of breath upon seeing him clearly? Or noticed the unladylike manner in which she gawked at him. Perhaps so, for he seemed amused and flashed a disarming smile.

“Take care with that toothpick. A lady could hurt herself.”

Alianor frowned and jabbed the air with her blade. “Or you.”

She heard a crackle in the nearby undergrowth. She glanced over, a mere second of inattention. Quick as the proverbial adder, he struck.

His hand seized her wrist. Alianor gave a startled cry of pain when he forced her to drop the dagger. It thudded to the earth between them, their stances squared off.

He yanked her against him and clamped his hands round both her wrists, wrenching them high above her head like manacles.

“Never underestimate a snake, milady,” he said.

Alianor winced, but refused to let him see her fear. “Is this a robbery?” she demanded, lacing her words with as much authority as she could muster. She refused to recall their first undignified encounter back in the carriage. “If so, sirrah, you waste your time. I am but a poor widow. I have only a few cheap baubles to my name.”

His insolent gaze dropped to her bosom. “Don’t sell those fine baubles of yours short, milady.”

His left cheek dimpled. A dimple! Alianor gasped in astonishment when he threw back his head and laughed at his own jest. As if Luna’s madness seized him, though it was unlikely given the fact the moon had set.

His mirth met with stony silence. Serious again, he transferred both her wrists to one hand, confining them together in one fist. Still holding her immobile, he swept up the dagger and examined it.

“Rubies and pearls. It will bring a fair sum.” He thrust it into his belt, well out of her reach.

“’Twas a gift from milord husband.”

He was unmoved. “Aye? Your husband is not renowned for his generosity, Lady de Lacy.”

De Lacy? Alianor’s brow furrowed. How did he know the name?

“You mistake my identity. I am Lady Coventry. My husband is —
was
Sir Coventry of Warwickshire.” She raised her chin and blinked back tears. His grip loosened and she sensed a change in him.

She had hoped her title might intimidate or impress him, but the Irishman seemed more respectful of her momentary sorrow than her anger.

He released her hands. Alianor rubbed her wrists and tried to think of something else to sway this man or elicit his mercy.

Whatever she said or did, she must seem confident. If she had learned nothing else at court, especially when dealing with the King, it was how to bluff when cornered.

“You
are
de Lacy’s betrothed?”

She hesitated. Was it safer to admit or deny it? It seemed he already knew, so she nodded. “But we have not yet wed. The wedding is tomorrow — no, today.” The thought made her wince.

Now his handsome face split into a grin, not easing her mind one bit. On the contrary, it made her belly knot.

“Apologies, Lady Coventry. Let us begin again. Well-met.” He sketched her a mocking little bow. Had he worn a cap, she was certain he would have swept it off with an exaggerated flourish. When he straightened, an inky black curl fell and dangled across his brow, calling to mind a mischievous little boy.

“Who are you?” she demanded, disturbed by her thoughts.

His dark eyebrow shot up, as if he found her predicament entertaining. “Careful, milady, or methinks I shall feel slighted. More oft, you see, my reputation precedes me. I need not suffer tedious introductions.”

She responded to his playfulness with an icy stare.

“Apologies anew. I assumed you knew who I am. Liam Caomhánach. No grand or lofty titles, I regret.”

“What is it you want?”

“Ah. You need not worry on my account. For it seems I’ve found exactly what I want.”

Chapter Four

H
IS DEEP VOICE AND
his words made Alianor shiver against her will. Was it fear? Or anticipation? She didn’t dare pause to examine the feeling. “I …” She licked her lips, began again. “As I said, I have nothing of real value.”

Too late she realized his gaze was drawn past her shoulder by something else. The moment the claim of penury left her lips her dowry was discovered, hidden in the false floor of her trunk. The blond man called Torin had broken the lock and opened the chest, upending it and leaving her garments strewn all over the ground.

From the secret compartment Torin plucked up one of the bags he found, and shook the contents out in his palm. The glittering gems and coins tumbling out revealed her a liar. She flushed when Liam’s gaze returned to her, narrowed this time.

“Poor widow, is it?”

His mockery sounded one side shy of anger, laced with deadly calm. Alianor knew it foolish to poke a hornet’s nest, but she risked it. “I trust the meager spoils were worth the toll in human life.” What had she to lose by provoking him? He’d kill her anyway, as these Irish malefactors had the King’s guards.

Alianor looked around at the six dead English soldiers, their bodies already stripped of any usable or valuable items. She was no frail thing to faint at the sight of blood, for she’d been raised amidst knights, but needless killing angered her.

She swung her accusing look back to the man she knew was the leader of these miscreants, even though he had never said as much. “So much slaughter for a few paltry coins? How hungry Ireland’s sons must be.”

A shadow darkened Liam’s face. “Aye, milady, there’s hunger aplenty here,” he said, brushing by her as he strode over to the carriage. “Take the horses, Niall,” he called out to an older man with a ribbon of gray in his hair.

Knowing she could not escape, yet determined to have the last word, Alianor swept up her skirts and followed Liam. He paused to slap the withers of one of the matched pair of sorrels standing in the carriage traces. “Sell both these beasties to Paddy. He’ll have a fine laugh using the King’s nags to pull his plow.”

“Aye, Liam,” the man called Niall said, glancing with curiosity at Alianor before he unharnessed one of the horses.

When Liam moved again, he found Alianor planted in his path. “I would have a word with you, Caomhánach.”

“’Twould appear you already are.”

She ignored his dry remark and gestured around at the dead. “Surely these men had families — wives, children. Have you no mercy?”

He shrugged at her rebuke. “Had they done as they were asked — not once,” he stressed, “but
twice
— harsh measures would not be necessary.”

“You expect me to believe you?”

“Believe what you will. But take a lesson from it. Resist me, and you risk unpleasant consequences.”

“Stripping them bare before their breath is scarce gone. Aye, I see how much you Irish respect the dead.”

“Speak not of what you know not,” he warned her.

Niall came over and laid a hand on Liam’s shoulder. “Stop baiting the poor lady. Time to go.”

Alianor couldn’t resist one last jibe. “I know your kind well enough, Caomhánach.”

The damnable dimple appeared. Again. Alianor itched to slap it from his cheek. “Here.” She twisted her wedding band from her finger and threw it at him, not bothering to conceal the contempt and venom in her voice. “You forgot something.”

With a lightning-quick reflex, Liam caught the gold ring she flung at him. He stepped closer and took her hand into his, then slipped the band back onto her finger. The dimple was gone and he looked serious as the grave. “Nay,” he said, “I’m not such a scoundrel I’d rob a lady of her wedding ring.” His gaze sought and captured hers.

Alianor pulled her hand away, feeling as if his touch burned her. She glanced down and was relieved when he moved on to the pile of clothes Torin had dumped from her trunk.

Liam picked up one of her gowns and studied it. “Though I do —” he said, his gaze returning to her, “— find it a trifle odd a bride-to-be still wears the ring of her first husband, and dresses in black.”

Alianor looked away from his challenging gaze. “Take what you will and begone.” She hoped this would set him into motion. It did.

Liam chuckled, a soft, rich sound. “As you wish, milady.”

Before Alianor could protest, he swept her up into his arms, cradling her like a child. He took several long-legged strides towards a saddled horse, barking orders behind him. “Torin, bring her things. This blushing bride will have need of her
trousseau
soon enough.”

She managed an outraged cry. “Are you mad? What are you doing?”

He looked down at her, the wayward curl still dangled across his brow. “Why, I but obey the lady’s command. You told me to take what I want.”

“No, y-you cannot mean …” Alianor sputtered. She didn’t finish. There was no need. His purposeful stride answered her unspoken questions. She struggled in earnest, but he was unfazed by the blows she showered upon him with her clenched fists.

“Put me down, you madman! You blackguard! You, you …”

“Villain?” he suggested.

Alianor opened her mouth to scream, but the scream echoing in the glade was not her own. Instead, she heard Goliath’s protesting cry as they passed the horseless carriage.

“Please,” she cried, twisting about in Liam’s grasp to find her pet. “Pray, do not hurt Goliath. He’s all I have left in this world.”

L
IAM STOPPED IN HIS
tracks at her plea. He felt Lady Coventry’s breath panting warm and soft against his neck. He glanced down at the woman in his arms. Poor widow, indeed.

The jest was rich, but so was the prize, for de Lacy’s intended bride was far more English rose than Norman thorn. Despite her surprising and admirable defiance, he sensed a tender side to her. He saw a glint of tears in her blue eyes before she averted her face.

“Who is Goliath?”

“My tercel. He’s trapped in his cage in the carriage.”

Still she asked no mercy for herself, but for a damned bird. Something touched Liam’s heart as he stared down at her. Having heard de Lacy’s betrothed was a rich widow, he anticipated an ugly old shrew with a temper to match. Nothing could be further from the truth.

He wanted to study this woman in full light of day, mayhap incite a blush to paint those too-pale cheeks. Then he could decide if her eyes were the light blue of fine Persian turquoise, or a darker sapphire-blue.

Next he might muse upon the fullness of her lips. Were they touched with the hue of wild roses or red as rowan berries growing wild in the forest? He shook his head, banishing poetic thoughts. It disturbed him, his attraction to this woman — de Lacy’s woman.

Liam was only too aware of her pleading look. He sighed and started toward the horse again. He gruffly called out to Niall, “Get the damme bird and bring it.”

“Aye, Liam.” Niall’s grin revealed his amusement.

Hearing the words, the woman’s blue eyes reflected relief. They were sapphires, Liam decided. She did not smile, but he sensed gratitude.

“Niall,” he added, his tone softening. “Mind the bird. See it comes to no harm.”

“Thank you.”

Liam heard a murmur so soft, so light, he wondered if she had spoken at all or he imagined it. “What is your Christian name?” he asked.

He saw her hestitation, as if granting him this small boon was difficult. “Alianor,” she finally whispered. He felt her shiver.

“Cold, milady?”

Despite having given her name, Liam decided it best to maintain a formality between them.

“N-n-nay.” Her chattering teeth betrayed her.

“Again, you prove a miserable liar.” Liam chuckled as they reached the blood-bay tethered to a tree.

He boosted her up into the saddle. His burden weighed less than a sheep. Unused to this new and too-light rider, the gelding whickered and sidestepped in protest.

“Easy, Biorra.” Liam’s familiar voice and presence soothed the horse. Once Biorra calmed, Liam untied the reins and mounted too, settling into the saddle behind his prisoner. He drew Alianor back against him, and wrapped and tucked his long cloak about them both. When doing so her pale hair brushed his right cheek and he caught a whiff of violets.