Emerald Prince (13 page)

The expression on Liam’s face turned stony. His eyes darkened.

“I am only teasing,” Alianor added, and rambled on somewhat flustered, “I can tell Turrean’s never known a cruel act from your hands. It’s more than obvious, the fine care she’s received and the loyalty she’s given in exchange.”

She wondered why it should even matter she had wounded Liam with her careless words. Or why she felt the need to make amends. On impulse, Alianor stepped forward and touched his face, her fingertips lingering where she knew his dimple hid.

“Truly, I meant no harm,” she whispered.

As her hand dropped, Liam captured it with his own. How could he explain her simple gesture meant as apology caused him agony? How could he explain it to her when he did not understand himself? Her teasing words did not trouble him, but her claim she cast no spells did. For Alianor was wrong. From first sight she worked her witchcraft on him, leaving him defenseless to her charms.

He felt frustrated, confused. This tenderness and compassion was nothing he had experienced before. He kidnapped her with the intent to ransom her, believing de Lacy would pay a generous sum to get back this beauty. As would I in his place, Liam thought.

What started as a simple, foolproof plan now seemed so complex. Liam had to acknowledge the crux of the matter — he wanted Alianor. The real reason she was at Wolf Haven was one cast from purely selfish motives.

Liam turned the palm of Alianor’s hand to his lips and kissed it. He heard the sharp intake of her breath, and a sparkle lit her sapphire eyes. She worried her lower lip in a nervous gesture, making him wonder how those lips would taste.

When he pulled her to him, he read the confusion in her eyes. Her dilemma was obvious. Liam ached to taste her lips, parted slightly now from breathlessness. Her hands braced against his chest, as if to stop him, but the desire sketched on her face pulled him further into the realms of passion. Ever so slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers.

Finally, her lips were his to take, to taste, to savor. His mouth slid against hers, coaxing, seeking. Gentle, yet fiercely demanding.

A moan escaped Liam as he tasted Alianor’s sweetness. He felt his loins tighten from the feel, the scent of her. What a white-hot pool of exquisite torture she tossed him into. No woman had ever inspired these painful yearnings. A passionate need mingled with frustration in a rushing waterfall of emotion. He almost feared for his sanity.

Turrean nudged Liam’s elbow. As if dashed by icy water, he released Alianor. Common sense clashed head-on with the burning desire possessing him. Aye, she was a witch, creating a fierce longing within him, so intense he was willing to forsake all else to have her.

He stared into the deep blue loughs of Alianor’s eyes and wondered at how easily she made him forget everything but her presence. He prided himself on being a practical man, a man who let nothing sway his cause nor soften his stance. How did she disarm him so?

“What spells do you cast, woman?” he demanded. “Teasing my cock will not buy your freedom.”

Alianor flinched when the magical moment shattered with his harsh words. Surely he misunderstood her — or did she misunderstand herself? It was like someone else had seized control of her, shutting her down under the torrent of emotions.

With clarity, it struck her. She
desired
this Irishman, her enemy. The realization was as strong and as brutal as his words had been. She stepped back and stared at Liam, her mouth still throbbing from the impact of his kiss. Her shaking hand rose and her fingertips traced the invisible, lingering evidence left on her lips.

I have never been kissed like that. Never.

Now, he accused her of witchcraft. Of trying to seduce him so she might escape. Humiliation burned the back of her throat and tears threatened. God’s teeth, how she hated tears! They were a weakness she must not show and with renewed determination she blinked them away.
Damme him. Damme him to hell.

Turrean whined and Liam’s attention was diverted as he shooed the wolfhound out of her cell. When he turned back to her, Alianor had steadied herself and her voice held strong in confrontation.

“You dare accuse me of casting spells, William.” This time, she took deliberate pleasure in setting a trap for the wolf.

His eyes flashed as he took the bait. “My name is Liam, not William. You’d do well to remember it. I’ll not respond to any cursed
Sassenach
name.”

“Actually, William is Anglo-Norman in origin.”

He grimaced. “Even worse.”

“Well, I prefer this version of your Christian name.”

He stepped forward and grabbed her shoulders, his touch no longer gentle but bordering on painful as his anger surged. Alianor sensed the peril, saw the fury smoldering in his eyes, yet felt a strange exhiliration.

“You dare much,” he muttered.

She saw something else reflected in his eyes. Some emotion she could not read, or mayhap, did not wish to. He released her and she stumbled backwards.

“God’s blood,” he swore, backing away. “From now on, woman, keep away from me. Others will see to your needs. But I … I will have none of you.”

Without another word, he turned and stalked from her cell.

Chapter Nine

M
ANY MILES TO THE
northwest, in the province of Connacht, a shaggy-haired man sat slumped in the great hall of O’Connor, a flagon of ale dangling from his big fist. Brooding, he stared into the glowing embers, the fire neglected since his wife had retired for the eve. Bah, Cathal Crovderg O’Connor thought, I am getting old.

Since he and his elder brother Rory had scrapped over Connacht seventeen years ago, it seemed not a moment’s peace graced his kingdom. He took up arms against the English in Munster when they first started their settlements. Their settling was an ominous sign, one many of his fellow kings did not see for the threat it was.

At one time or another, O’Connor fought de Burgos, de Courcys and de Lacys. He sacked castles at Cashel and signed a treaty at Athlone; an uneasy peace held for four years until he got wind of fresh grants given Normans in Limerick, and de Lacys began to run unchecked again.

What satisfaction it brought to burn the castle at Athlone, in effect spitting on their truce. With his appetite whetted, O’Connor went on to attack the King’s own castle at Limerick, de Burgo’s at Castleconnell, and he launched a great raid into Westmeath. He also seized opportunity to heckle an old enemy, Carrach, but the tide of fortune turned, and when the outraged
Sassenach
and an Irish rival united to bring him down, O’Connor was driven north.

Two years later he came back, with the support of O’Neill and other northern powers. A fierce struggle and bitter defeat ensued, resulting in loss of his precious lands west of the Shannon. Lands belonging by birthright to his sons.

O’Connor spent the next several years warring, wrangling and conniving both with and against the
Sassenach
, fighting on the side of whichever Norman lord offered him the best terms, with no particular preference. In the end, he was allowed to hold Connacht in fee as a barony, as long as he paid an annual tribute to the Gall. Realizing they were there to stay, and being a practical if greedy man, he proceeded to artfully play one against another until King John arrived.

In a canny gesture with view to securing these lands forever in O’Connor control, he offered his youngest son Dermot up as a hostage, with the King’s promise of a charter entitling him to a third of Connacht. Lackland agreed, knowing O’Connor was one of the few who could hold his own against his enemies like de Braose.

Unfortunately for O’Connor, his goose-witted wife did not see things the same way, and hid Dermot away when he went to retrieve the boy as a hostage for the King.

Furious, O’Connor had demanded Duvessa turn over Dermot. He saw Connacht slipping through his fingers, but in a gesture of defiance she refused, and he was forced to meet the King at Rathwire without his promised hostage. This was unwise. In his fury, Lackland seized four members of O’Connor’s court as substitute hostages. It took quick dancing, indeed, for O’Connor to extricate himself and his men intact and alive.

In the end, they came to a truce. Though neither English nor Irish king trusted the other, theirs was a practical alliance. On Lackland’s return to England, his justiciar negotiated the last of the terms with O’Connor, and made provision for securing the approach to Connacht with a castle and bridge at Athlone. O’Connor returned to his keep in a white-hot fury, and beat Duvessa black and blue for her insolence. But the bitch was an over proud O’Flaherty by birth, and never did an apology cross her lips.

His first wife, Mor, resided at his estates near Tulsk with his eldest sons, Aedh and Felim. He had only taken Duvessa as a second wife to secure a necessary treaty with his old and powerful enemy to the west, O’Flaherty. But the gesture rankled, and now the damme woman was stuck in his craw and his castle.

Despite the initial trouble, further negotiations with the English crown were successful, and peace and prosperity reigned, if a bit precariously, for the following years.

His sons all grew and married and started their own legacies, awaiting the fortunes their father had secured them. On the whole, O’Connor was pleased with things as they sat. Except for one niggling little matter. Liam Caomhánach, his bastard.

O’Connor did not learn of the boy’s existence from Caireen, but from her greedy sod of a mother. Caireen herself hid the child from him, perhaps fearing the sire might kill the offspring as the great lions often did.

When Liam was seven, his maternal grandmother brought him to O’Connor’s hold at Baile Átha Luain. She prodded the defiant lad before her. Already young Liam’s jaw bore a stubborn set, and his green eyes glowed with a mixture of defiance and anger that intrigued O’Connor.

“He’s the spittin’ image of you, O’Connor,” Eithne said, grabbing the back of the boy’s hair and forcing him to execute obeisance to the
rí tuathe
of Connacht.

O’Connor saw Liam’s eyes flash during the gesture of submission not only slow in coming, but mocking and insincere when it did. A grin spread across O’Connor’s face. Aye, Liam was his throw, all right. From the shock of black hair tumbling across his brow, to the deep green eyes hurling daggers at him, the lad was an O’Connor.

His eldest sons Aedh and Felim both looked like their mother, Mor, a stout, redheaded O’Brien wench. His third son, Dermot, favored his mother Duvessa’s people as well, and was pasty-skinned and pale-eyed. He could not help but be pleased his affair with Caireen Caomhánach spawned a miniature O’Connor.

O’Connor steepled his fingers under his chin and studied Liam. Bastard sons were oft useful. This lad looked sturdy, one his other sons could use someday in their own retinues. O’Connor intended one of his legitimate heirs assume the
tuath
in his wake, and to this end, the support of kin was critical. Mor was generally indifferent to his schemes and rarely interferred in politics, but he knew Duvessa would not be pleased by his thoughts. She knew of Caireen’s existence and bitterly resented her rival. She sensed her husband’s true affections lay not with the bride bartered from the banks of the Boyle, but the winsome colleen from Inis Córthaidh.

“What is it you want, old crone?” O’Connor demanded, as Eithne’s shrewd gaze observed him and marked his interest. “Money?”

“Why, naught but your promise the boy will come into his rightful inheritance,” Eithne replied, assuming the mock role of a doting grandmother. She pulled Liam back against her, as if threatening to take him away, and stroked the boy’s hair while Liam scowled at his amused sire. “I’ve heard your other wives are unable t’ bear you further sons,” the old woman slyly added with false sympathy.

O’Connor bristled. He got two strapping lads off Mor years ago, but no more since, and all assumed her loins barren now. Duvessa proved a poor breeder, too, presenting him with Dermot who was oft sickly as a babe, and a passel of worthless, mewling girl-brats who must all needs be dowered and tax his precious coffers. He had not bedded her since she produced her fourth daughter a year ago. He had numerous wenches willing to sate his base desires, and he did not find his second wife appealing.

Theirs was a political marriage, and he had only been able to bed the sour-natured bitch by pretending it was Caireen he sported with, she of the bonny blue eyes and silvery laughter. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully upon the result of their fierce and passionate union: Liam. Trust Caireen to throw a son worth ten of any other woman’s.

“How would you like to come live at Baile Átha Luain, boy?” he asked Liam in his booming voice. O’Conner knew everything Eithne told him was a bald-faced lie. She had nothing to do with her daughter when she had discovered Caireen was with child out of wedlock. Driven from her home, Caireen had gone to live with her brother, Niall, but it amused O’Conner to see Eithne would feign a grandmother’s love now for a bastard to extort a bit of gold from him.