Emerald Prince (8 page)

During sup he watched Alianor with hawk-like fascination. He was seated opposite her at the same table, but two seats down. Once or twice his breath caught in his throat when she glanced his way, but her eyes never really focused on him.

When she noticed her husband tiring during the meal, she murmured something in Coventry’s ear. The old knight nodded. With her help, Coventry rose from the table, still dignified despite his infirmity.

Quintin slipped from his own seat and followed the couple a few paces behind. As they all three crossed the hall together, Coventry’s step faltered.

He overheard the old man’s raspy voice. “Pray rescue me from these prying eyes, Nora. I fear I shall fall and shame you.”

“Nothing you could do would ever shame me, Walter,” his angel of a wife replied. Quintin’s longer stride drew him even with them. The old man’s face was flushed with fever and he paused to catch his breath. Alianor looked stricken and tears rolled down her pale cheeks. She drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at them before they resumed their exit. Quintin stopped, pretending to study a tapestry on the wall.

As the couple moved past him, Quintin spied something caught beneath the hem of Alianor’s gown. It was her handkerchief, fallen to the floor unnoticed and swept over by her long skirts.

He retrieved it, the silk damp in his clenched fist as he hurried after them to return it. Quintin stepped into her path to speak, but something stopped him. Alianor gazed up at her husband with visible love in her shining blue eyes. A love so strong, so pure, it took his breath away.

I
T WAS THEN
Q
UINTIN
knew he must have Alianor, whatever the cost. Her beauty was enough to tempt any man, but it was her devotion he sought. Coventry was dead. She would soon turn her attentions from memories of a moldering old knight to pleasing her virile Norman husband.

He had done what he must to secure Alianor for his second wife. Groveling before Lackland left a sour taste in his mouth, but the prize was a rarefied one.

There was bonus in the fact she came a rich young widow, ripe for the plucking. He suspected Alianor might be a virgin still. There were rumors about Coventry and more than a few at court noted his fatherly air towards her. The thought she might yet be intact excited him; the notion of being the first to know her in the carnal sense was like an elixir spurring him on. Aye, to be the one to shape her passage with his measure would please him.

But someone dared interfere with his plans. That Irish bastard, Caomhánach.

Quintin glanced down and found the handkerchief crushed in his fist. Frantically he smoothed it out again, and realigned the well-worn creases caused by frequent folding and unfolding of his treasure. He tucked it back into his surcoat for safekeeping, but bereft of her scent and the woman who wore it, an abrupt and all-consuming rage claimed him.

Angry, he picked up and hurled a fine crystal decanter against the wall. It burst into hundreds of pieces and the sound of shattering glass echoed in the bedchamber. Dark burgundy wine ran down the wall and stained the Turkish carpet, the pattern spreading like a wound in the wool. He stared at the red pool, wishing it was Caomhánach’s blood.

His temper momentarily sated, he slumped down in a chair, panting as he looked around the bedchamber, a room lacking Alianor’s presence. Last night should have been their wedding night. The bed should bear the stains of their passion.

God’s nightshirt, he’d not be denied his bride. Caomhánach shall rue the day he crossed me, he thought. Aye, he would find and reclaim his rightful property. And kill anyone who dare touch his property in the meantime.

But until he had Alianor in his grasp, another piece of property must suffice. “Ina,” he bellowed. A young Irishwoman soon appeared in the doorway of his bedchamber, her demeanor nervous as a feral cat’s. She avoided his stare as she pushed a lank strand of brown hair behind one ear.

Quintin’s gaze roamed over the maid. She was too thin and none too clean, but beggars could not be choosers. His scowl transformed into a grin.

“Come here, Ina,” he ordered.

“Aye, milord.” Looking miserable, she obeyed. Ignoring her reluctance, he reached out and yanked the girl onto his lap. She knew better than to protest.

“W
ALTER,”
A
LIANOR CRIED AGAIN
as she awakened. The nightmare was vivid as ever, painful as the day she’d watched her husband die. Tears threatened as she fought to right her world and relegate the past where it belonged.

“What’s wrong?”

Alianor sat up in the hay, raking a hand through her disheveled hair. Disoriented, she looked up. A man stood above her, looking worried. Her memory sharpened. She remembered now — he was the enemy.

“Milady,” he said again, his voice gentle. “Are you all right?”

She stared at Liam, still battling visages from her dream. His voice was kind, but she experienced a surge of anger. She was tired, dirty, and hungry. She owed him nothing.

“No,” she snapped, more irritated than fearful. “I’m not all right.”

He didn’t seem to know what to say to her outburst. They stared at one another in awkward silence until a third voice intervened.

“Well,” Niall said in a cheery tone, summing up the tense scene between them. “I suppose if I’d been dragged from the lap of luxury an’ spirited God-knows-where to end up in an old barn with Irish outlaws, I’d be a wee bit cranky, too.”

Alianor’s eyes widened. “Cranky?” she echoed, sure she hadn’t heard him right.

“Aye,” Niall affirmed. “
Cranky
.” He emphasized the word as if she were a child being scolded for pitching a tantrum.

Liam raised an eyebrow, but did not disagree with the verdict. Niall shrugged and retreated, leaving them alone in the barn.

Liam offered her a hand up. “Who is Walter?”

Alianor ignored his question. She also refused his helping hand and stood on her own. It was not easy. She stifled a moan at her aching muscles, determined not to show her discomfort. Instead she concentrated on picking off the hay clinging to her dress and hair.

Liam watched her. Like a dog worrying a bone, he would not let it rest. “Who is Walter, milady?”

“My husband.” She saw him flinch at her vehement reply, and softened her tone a bit. “My late husband.”

“Ah.” Unspoken questions hung in the air, but Alianor would not give him the satisfaction of offering more information. He knew she was a widow and de Lacy’s intended. What did any villain deserve to know about a woman he’d kidnapped? Nothing.

He walked past her and picked up his saddlebag. “Come, let’s get you something to eat.”

She refused to be mollified by his apparent concern. “I’m not hungry,” she said. In response, her stomach growled so loudly she feared the King himself could hear it back in England. Her cheeks warmed.

Liam looked amused. “We’ve long hours yet to ride, and it may be awhile before we stop.”

She could not hide her dismay. “Again?”

“Aye, milady, again.”

She was sure she glimpsed the dimple, but the light was poor in the barn and she was still so tired.

“Perhaps hearty Irish cooking will put the spunk back into your step. You’re light as a sparrow and as weak as a kitten.”

Reminded of Walter’s endearment, tears pricked her eyes again. Oh, how she hated showing weakness. It seemed the nightmare upset her even more than usual.

Aye, she reasoned, she needed to preserve her strength so she might seize any chance at escape. Somehow she must run fast and carry Goliath’s weighty cage as well.

Thinking of Goliath’s welfare, she looked at Liam, but even before she could speak, he did. “The bird is fine. I tended him best I could. A lively mouse was offered but he preferred my finger.” He cast a rueful glance at his right hand.

Despite her misery, Alianor smiled a little. “Are you a mind reader, sirrah? I confess the notion a tad unsettling.”

He shrugged. “’Tis said all Irish have a fashion of the Gift.”

“Well, Goliath is quite proud, you know. He prefers hunting for his own meal. May I let him fly before we press on?”

“Nay, I cannot chance him not returning. He does not know these hills and dales, milady.”

 Nor I, Alianor thought, but the idea occurred to her if she could convince Liam to let her bird hunt, she might be able to slip away while the men were distracted by the sport.

Goliath of course had a far keener eye than any human, and would find his mistress again no matter where she fled. The real risk was not in losing him but in the outlaws finding her again.

“I do not wish him to weaken,” she said.

“Birds of prey can go days without eating if need be, milady.”

“Yes, but not without water. All living things need water.” She cast what she hoped was a wide-eyed appeal for sympathy to him. She wrung her hands for added effect.

Liam sighed and slung the water pouch and saddlebag over his shoulder. “Follow me.”

A
LIANOR GATHERED UP HER
skirts and trailed Liam out of the barn. She blinked against the light, and when her vision settled saw they occupied a little valley still wreathed in morning mist. Besides the barn there were smaller outbuildings, and a cozy stone cottage with a curl of smoke coming from its chimney. Sheep and cattle grazed alongside the outlaws’ horses in a field lush with grass and dotted with wildflowers.

Looking around at the emerald green slopes surrounding them, Alianor remembered the color of Liam’s eyes. It seemed they had been fashioned somehow from these hills.

Fortunately he did not seem to read her mind this time. Her unbidden thoughts disturbed her, but for Liam to know she girlishly mused on the color of his eyes would be too much to bear.

“Fetch yon tankard,” he said to her. “I’ll fill it with water for the bird.”

 She nodded and grabbed a half-full pewter tankard someone had left sitting on a nearby fence post. She sniffed its contents. “Ale?”

“’Tis
Uisce Beatha
, milady, and ’twould double the curls in your fine
Sassenach
hair.”

His eyes twinkled with laughter. Ignoring his comment, she dumped the contents, jumping back from the splash it made. Why she bothered she knew not — her skirts were filthy. Liam stepped close to fill the mug from the water pouch.

Niall walked over to them, carrying Goliath’s cage. “Aye, the Water of Life is stout stuff. Perhaps this feisty fellow needs a sip. Seems you’re not the only one cranky this morn.” He set down the cage on the ground and nursed his injured finger. Alianor saw Goliath had nipped him as he had Liam, this time drawing blood.

She resisted a smile. Truly, her Goliath was loyal to her as no other. He would see these Irish outlaws taken down a peg or two. “I suppose if you’d been bounced around like a sack of grain on the back of a horse for hours on end, you’d be a bit bad-tempered as well. I’d bite your finger, too, were I in his place.”

A laugh-like snort escaped Niall at her spirited retort, one he tried to cover with a cough. But his eyes showed merriment he could not hide.

Alianor knelt beside the cage and spoke to Goliath, offering her sympathy for his plight. Aware of the two men watching, she dared not make a move to flee. Instead she opened the door and offered the tankard of water to the tercel sitting on his perch. Goliath ruffled his feathers and tilted his head to one side as if to say, “Is that the best you can do?” But he bobbed his head a few times and drank. When he was done, Alianor withdrew the tankard and refastened the latch.

When she finished tending her bird, she rose to her feet and returned the mug where she had found it. She spotted an older couple walking towards them, both short and stout of frame, wearing clothing fashioned from coarse homespun. The woman was garbed in a long russet-brown gown, and the man’s tunic and breeches were the same color. Their mantles likewise matched, though the woman’s was pinned with a brooch and the man’s an ornate pin. Their hair was equal mixtures of ginger and gray. They looked so alike she assumed they were related somehow, but when Liam and Niall greeted them she realized they must be husband and wife. Perhaps they had been wed so long they resembled each other.

“Dubhan and Hilda were kind enough to offer us shelter on their farm,” Liam said to Alianor.

She nodded and tried to smile but feared she came across as insincere. Were these farmers sympathetic to the outlaws, or were they unaware she was a captive? Could they help her? She could tell nothing by their expressions.

“Would milady like to break her fast?” Hilda invited her in a thick brogue. “The men already ate, and I’ve plenty of goosefoot porridge and black pudding left.”

Alianor glanced at Liam and when he nodded at her, she followed Hilda back to the cottage while Dubhan remained with the men. Surprised she was allowed to move out of earshot from her captors, Alianor’s pulse quickened with anticipation. Was this her chance to tell her story and beg for help?

All the way to the cottage Hilda chattered about cooking, and did not seem to find it odd when her guest remained silent except for a soft murmur when politeness demanded it. Inside the cottage, the stout woman bade Alianor sit at a simple wooden table. She ladled up porridge from a blackened pot hung over the hearth and set a mighty truncheon before her.

“Eat hearty, milady,” Hilda said. “It will put color in your cheeks.”

Alianor had to admit she was ravenous. The thick wooden spoon Hilda gave her was perfect for scooping up the steaming porridge. While she ate her gaze darted around the little cottage. She only saw a few rooms. Everything was clean if Spartan.

“Very good, thank you,” she said to Hilda.

Hilda beamed at the praise. “Just you wait. I make the finest black pudding in the parish,” she said, already filling another bowl with a generous portion for her guest. Alianor hoped the woman might mention where this parish was, give her a clue as to how far she’d traveled, but no luck.

As she gathered the courage to ask, Hilda said, “Milady, I know you must be scared. But no harm will come to you.”