Emerald Prince (7 page)

Liam turned his thoughts from the woman in his arms to the path he had chosen. A dangerous one, but it was too late to turn back.

“We’ve a long ride ahead, milady. Hold tight.”

She said nothing, but the small hand resting on his arm tightened its grip.

T
HE JOURNEY BEGAN AS
a torture of bone-jarring speed. Even Alianor’s teeth ached from clamping her jaw as the band of Irish outlaws thundered their horses through the forest, weaving through the trees. She clung to the bay horse’s mane to keep her balance, even though she knew the man holding her would not let her fall.

Indeed, Liam’s grip about her waist never slackened, and she felt the heat of his hand even through the thick wool she wore. Occasionally, he spoke to her. “Down, milady,” he’d whisper into her ear to warn of a low-hanging branch ahead. But despite his warnings, limbs whipped her in passing. Finally, she hunkered down and leaned forward over the horse’s neck to assure her face was spared the worst of it.

It proved the longest and hardest horseride she ever endured, but weariness had one advantage — she no longer had the energy for fretting over her fate. Even her worry about Edie was relegated to the recesses of her mind. Her wondering if the poor girl had made it to the inn or if she had gotten lost or injured gave way to overwhelming numbness. Her last coherent act was mumbling a prayer for Edie, hoping God would look after her since she could not.

The hours dragged on. By the time the forest gave way to gentle rolling hills, they were forced to slow as the horses splashed through a series of burbling brooks. Alianor had long since lost interest in her surroundings or fretting over whatever destination lay ahead. When the frantic pace slowed late in the day, she slumped in the saddle.

Tiredness overcame her and she felt like a rag doll, limp and worn. During the day she drifted into an exhausted sleep, only to awaken when the horse changed directions. Once she opened her eyes and found her head lolled back upon Liam’s shoulder in a parody of two lovers. She righted herself, ignoring the chuckle in her ear.

Near dusk, the outlaws stopped to let the horses graze and drink, though none dismounted. Liam untied a pouch from the back of his saddle and bade Alianor drink. She was more parched than proud and drank.

After she slaked her thirst, she handed the pouch back to Liam and to her surprise, he put his lips on the same spigot where hers had been, and drank also. Of course, he had but one water pouch. Yet the simple act seemed intimate and troubled her.

Later during this same break, Liam drew something from the depths of his cloak — a black kerchief.

Alianor looked from the kerchief back to him and her heart pounded. “No, please …”

“I regret it, milady, but I must assure you do not betray our location,” he said. When he sounded apologetic, Alianor realized her expression reflected fear.

“Must you? You have my word I will never tell anyone.”

“Let us not take chances. You cannot betray what you do not know.”

She could not still her quiver. His arm about her waist loosed and he ran his hand in a single stroke down her arm, in a soothing fashion, as he might a restive steed.

“Did you know blindfolding horses calms them?” he murmured against her hair. “They cannot fear what they cannot see.”

She exhaled. “Aye.”

“Likewise let the darkness soothe rather than scare you, milady. No harm will come to you. I seek de Lacy’s discomfort, not yours.”

Too tired to argue, Alianor sat still as Liam tied the folds of black cloth around her head, covering her eyes. Despite his gentleness, the knot was firm. The blindfold would not slide loose.

A
N HOUR OR MORE
passed, full darkness fell, and the trotting horses stopped. Liam felt Alianor shiver in his arms, and her fingers clutching Biorra’s mane were white. Tension stiffened her posture. On an ordinary day she most likely would have given him and his men a sound tongue thrashing, telling them all what she thought of Irish thieves and their mothers, too. But she was silent this night.

He guessed Alianor wanted to dismount of her own free will, with all the injured dignity befitting a lady of the court. Somehow, he understood this woman hated showing weakness of any kind and, even more, showing any dependence upon him. Exhausted, she did not move, even when he whisked the blindfold from her eyes.

Liam swung down from the saddle, and lifted Alianor from her perch. He knew she must be numb and sore, muscles aching head to toe from their cross-country journey. Else she would not have suffered the humiliation of being carried by him like a babe in arms, this time into a large barn where he set her down upon a loose pile of clean hay.

He bent over her a moment, whisking his fingertips over her cheek. “Comfortable, milady?”

Alianor nodded, her eyelids already drifting closed. She had not an ounce of energy left.

Liam chuckled. He didn’t even pretend he would stay to keep watch over her, confident she wouldn’t be going anywhere. Drowsy, she struggled up on one elbow and called after him, “Caomhánach …”

Liam paused in the doorway. There was a long silence.

“We’ll finish this conversation later,” she added with a yawn.

Suddenly she was sound asleep. He laughed and left the lady dozing in the barn.

L
ATER, AFTER THE MEN
ate and tended their horses, Niall saw Liam return to the barn, carrying a lantern in one hand and a saddlebag in the other. But instead of entering the barn, his nephew hesitated in the doorway.

Curious, Niall walked over and found Liam watching Lady Coventry sleep. She was curled into a ball on the hay, her pale hair spilled over her shoulders in a tangled mess. Hay clung to the silver-blonde strands where the lantern’s light danced on it.

“I doubt the lady’s moved a muscle since we stopped, Liam. The wee colleen was nigh unconscious.”

“Aye,” Liam said. She wasn’t the only one exhausted from hard riding. He set down the lantern inside the barn door and tossed down the saddlebag. He slumped down on another hay pile.

Niall went and sat by him. “’Tis not too late, Liam,” he whispered. “We could leave her someplace safe. Here with the farmer an’ his wife mayhap. No one would be the wiser.”

Something akin to a soft growl came from Liam’s lips.

Niall persisted. “I’m thinking ’tis enough we’ve her fine dowry. What say we set her free, lad?”

Liam didn’t reply, still watching their sleeping prisoner.

“De Lacy will be out for blood. Taking his wife as well as her dowry —”

“Wife to be,” Liam cut him off. “The joyous occasion didn’t happen today.”

“Aye, thanks to us.”

Liam raked a hand through his hair. “De Lacy’s tantrums do not concern me. Besides, we can ransom Lady Coventry for far more than we took today.”

“Maybe. What if de Lacy won’t pay?”

“God’s wounds, Niall. Look at her. What man wouldn’t pay any price to get her back?”

Liam gestured at Lady Coventry. They both stared at the sleeping woman. Her soft, even breathing echoed in the barn. Something made Liam scowl.

“What is it, lad?”

As Liam’s blood kin, Niall felt it his duty to counsel and set his sister’s boy on the right path. Sometimes, he could almost sense what Liam was thinking and feeling. He did now, and those thoughts and feelings disturbed him greatly. He waited for his nephew’s response, but it was slow in coming.

“Nothing. I need some sleep.”

“Sleep.” Niall slapped Liam on his back. “I’ll watch o’er you both. Nobody will disturb you.”

“Good,” Liam mumbled. He fell backwards, unconscious before his head even hit the hay.

Chapter Five

Q
UINTIN
D
E
L
ACY COULDN’T
believe his ears. How could a thieving Irish bastard know what had transpired over the past months? His meetings with the King of England were secret. As secret as his plans for Alianor.

Yet the evidence was clear — someone had betrayed his plans. He stared in furious disbelief at the man charged with delivering his bride to his bed.

“What have you to say for yourself, Gilcrest?”

The man’s head lowered, his cap strangled in his hands as he twisted it in fear. “I beg your pardon, milord, but there was naught we could do. There were too many of them, and they came upon us a’fore we knew what was happening.”

“Why aren’t
you
dead with the rest? Gutted from head to toe left bleeding on the road? Idiot!”

Captain Gilcrest stumbled back from his wrath. “I-I did my best, milord. I played dead until they left. I thought if one survived to tell the tale …”

“Aye, the tale of your cowardice.”

Gilcrest stared at his feet.

“Coward. I should kill you myself,” Quintin said, drinking in the scent of the other man. Fear, joy, lust — all of these emotions and more had distinct smells, if only one paused to savor each like a fine wine.

Terror was the headiest of them all, and he enjoyed the full bloom of it. He toyed with the notion of snapping the fool’s neck and tossing him from the cliff outside his castle walls, but common sense pushed back the red haze engulfing him. Whatever his failings, Gilcrest belonged to the English King. Let Lackland deal with the imbecile himself.

“Begone, you cowardly cur.” He snarled, his tone laced with contempt. “Crawl back to your master with your tail between your legs. And count your blessings you still have anything left between your legs at all.”

He didn’t have to speak another word. Gilcrest fled the room, leaving behind him the sour stench of sweat.

Quintin reached into his surcoat and withdrew a fine handkerchief, pressing it against his nose and lips. He did it as much to savor a memory as to mask the odor in the room.

He closed his eyes and inhaled. The scent had faded since first it occupied his pocket, but enough lingered to send his senses reeling.

Her face flashed across his mind.
Alianor
. He would forever link the delicate scent of violets with the name. He trembled a little, remembering the first time he laid eyes on her.

Alianor accompanied Queen Isabella at tourney one day, garbed and beribboned like the other ladies. The Queen dressed her ladies in matching yellow, but there was something different about Alianor.

Quintin competed in the tourney and fared well. Many women tossed him their favors and proffered sensual delights with their eyes, but his own gaze lingered on the one who did not even glance his way. When the silver-haired beauty left the stands and did not return, it felt as if something was torn from his breast.

Later the same eve, he was about to inquire after her identity when she entered the feasting hall on the arm of an elderly, limping man. Surely it was a sign from God, for the mere thought of the beauty produced her for him.

“Alack! The Coventrys join us this eve, a rare boon indeed,” King John said sourly from his place at the high board. As he spoke, he tossed the chicken leg he gnawed into the rushes for the dogs to fight over.

“The old man must be her grandfather.” Quintin did not realize he spoke aloud until the nobleman sitting beside him laughed and drew his attention.

“Nay, Sir Walter is Lady Alianor’s husband. A pity, aye? He’s envied by more than a few here for his luscious young wife.”

Quintin was annoyed at the thought any other man looked at Alianor. It surprised him more that he envied a crusty, half-dead cur like Coventry. But from the moment he knew her name, he found himself whispering it to himself over and over like a novena.

He lingered on at Lackland’s court as long as he could — fortunately the Irish Sea was too stormy for safe crossing. While at court he heard the tale of Coventry’s jousting accident, and likewise stories of Alianor’s tireless devotion. Devotion he soon witnessed firsthand when he happened upon the couple in the castle one day.

Quintin had not planned it, but he turned a corner and the old man was shuffling down the hall towards him, his wife helping him along. Alianor wore a plain gown of deep blue linen and a simple silver circlet crossed her brow. Her hair fell loose like a maid’s, with neither pearls nor gems arranged in the pale curls, but she needed none. Struck dumb by her beauty, he hesitated. Should he speak, introduce himself? He soon realized she was unaware of anyone save the man she accompanied.

Her firm but gentle grip upon her husband’s arm made it appear she leaned upon Coventry for support, when it was clearly the other way around. She was considerate of the old man’s pride.

The couple passed Quintin where he stood and continued on to the great hall. He slipped from the shadows and strolled several paces behind them. He heard the angel speak for the first time, and found her voice as beautiful as the rest of her.

“You know you should stay in bed, Walter,” she scolded Coventry affectionately.

A lump formed in Quintin’s throat. No woman had ever spoken his name so tenderly, nor demonstrated a shred of the concern Alianor did for Coventry. Not his mother nor his late wife, Juliana.