Emerald Prince (14 page)

“
Go dtì Infùrnn
!”

Go to hell
. O’Connor’s eyes widened at the Gaelic curse, and Liam wrenched free from his grandmother’s grasp. He was gone in the blink of an eye, before any in the hall could think to snag the brat in passing. O’Connor threw back his head and laughed; he had not been so entertained in a long time.

Seeing he was more amused than enraged, Eithne’s eyes took on a calculating gleam. “A bit of
òr
is still not out of line, O’Connor. I’m willin’ t’ leave the little bastard in your capable hands.”

“Aye? What does Caireen say of this plan, old woman?”

Eithne hesitated, and smoothed her coarse russet skirts in an uneasy gesture. “Caireen is dead.” He sensed her distress issued more from fear he would refuse her gold than any grief over her daughter’s passing. “She died at Candlemas, of the ague.”

O’Connor felt a pang all the way to his bones. He hadn’t realized how much he missed Caireen until he heard she was gone. His hand trembled from memories as he lifted the goblet to his lips. He had never imagined his one true love would die. But in his mind, Caireen would always be young and beautiful.

He never expected Liam to make it past the fortified gates that night, either, but the canny lad had slipped his grandmother’s clutches and vanished, headed back to Caomhánach lands. O’Connor gave the old woman her gold anyway. He owed the family something. Yet he never achieved his aim, of coercing Liam into the ranks of
aire tuise
under his half-brothers. Even a proposed promotion to a noble Irish rank, the lure of rich trappings and an honor-price, did not lure Liam over the years.

Instead, the young man remained among the
boaire
, commoners, and later took up the sorry cause of outcasts. When his people needed food during the winters, Liam turned not to his wealthy O’Connor sire, but his own devices. Stealing, raiding, whatever it took. Pride, that’s all it was. Stupid, cursed pride. In this he resembled his mother, who had refused to ask O’Connor for anything.

Glowering at the fire-pit, O’Connor tossed back the last of the mead, but it tasted bitter on his tongue.

Liam’s antics had been humorous as a boy, but as a man he threatened his half-brothers’ inheritance. By defying the English King, and kidnapping de Lacy’s new bride, Liam stepped on the toes of enormously powerful men, including his own father.

O’Connor knew it was only a matter of time before Lackland discovered Liam was his son, albeit a by-blow. If the justiciar did not tell him, his bitch-wife Duvessa well might. She was not above sending a missive to the English King herself, if she thought it would protect Dermot’s inheritance. She had lost her fear of O’Connor over the years, and lived only to spite him and further her son’s cause.

He knew what Lackland’s reaction would be when he found out Liam was an O’Conner by blood. He winced at the thought of losing more land than he already had, of forfeiting one precious inch of Connacht soil on account of his bastard’s sheer orneriness.

O’Connor’s fist tightened on the goblet. It looked like he must join the hunt. In the end, the man known as
Cù Glic
, the Clever Hound of Connacht, might well be the only one canny enough to run Liam Caomhánach to ground.

A
LIANOR WOUND HER WAY
through the dark halls of Wolf Haven’s abbey and stepped out into the sunlight. Sounds of life stirred in the camp and comforted her. Her early morning foray to the well went unnoticed. A fortnight had passed, and all but one seemed at ease with her presence.

At the well she hooked and lowered the pail on a rope until she heard it splash into the water below. She then pulled it up and rested it on the well’s lip a moment before carrying the full pail to the abbey steps. Alianor carefully poured the empty pitcher sitting there full of clean, cold water; the rest went into a bowl for Turrean.

Soon Felicity would appear and retrieve the pitcher for her morning ablutions. A devout woman, she always bathed upon rising and said her prayers at the still-standing altar in the abbey. Sometimes Alianor joined her, gaining a curious comfort from their meditations.

Felicity had seen to all her needs since coming to Wolf Haven, and the two women had bonded in a quiet companionship, often reading or sewing together. Felicity preferred the cool shadows of the abbey, and Alianor always welcomed the chance to get fresh air and sunshine, if nature chose to bless them. So, every morning she gladly fetched the water from the well and looked forward to her time alone.

Today was perfect. A soft and lovely spring lay over the woods and verdant slopes. Not a speck of cloud marked the sky, only a lone hawk soared into sight. It reminded her she must loose Goliath later to hunt for his meal like his brethren. Something else she looked forward to.

Distant laughter caught her attention. Curious, Alianor set aside the pail and traced its source. She followed the sound floating on the wind through the woods to a clearing on the other side of camp. There, she came upon a large group of boys, ranging in age from about five to fifteen, practicing sword play. The clunks and clinks of their wooden weapons and shields cut through the air, and likewise her heart.

Loneliness struck Alianor as the sounds spurred memories of Walter. How many hours had she watched him instruct the squires under his tutelage? Their practice was much like these young men, mock-serious and playful both. As she watched, one youngster smacked another on the rump with the flat of his sword and dashed off into the protection of the trees, shouting gleefully.

Tears filled her eyes. How far away her old life seemed. Like a dream.

“Here, Grady.” A strong voice broke through her reverie. “Hold it like this.”

Still misty-eyed with memories, Alianor searched for the owner of the deep voice. He towered above the boys as he wove through them, stopping before what looked to be the youngest member of the group. He turned and she half-expected to see Walter, a kind but serious expression on his craggy face as he patiently instructed a squire. It was not Walter, but Liam. Reality crashed into her recollections with a piercing pain.

The intensity of the moment took her breath away and Alianor tried to still her trembling. For days, she had stayed away from Liam as ordered and only glimpsed him from a distance. And likewise, he did not seek her out

Her hand covered her heart and she felt the wild pounding there. She must leave. Liam mustn’t see her there in the shadows of the trees. But she feared the slightest movement might catch his attention. She stood still as a deer, watching, afraid to breathe.

Liam dropped to his knees in the grass beside the youth. He took Grady’s hand and wrapped it around the practice sword’s hilt, his bigger fingers helping the lad to clasp it more firmly in his small grip.

Alianor couldn’t hear Liam’s words anymore, he spoke quietly to the child and the spring breeze carried his words away. But she witnessed the obvious tenderness with which he helped Grady. She watched the wooden blade slicing through the air again and again, each time with growing confidence. Liam turned in her direction, the sunlight casting bluish highlights in his raven hair.

“Come, Breasal, show our Grady how to strike a proper blow.” At Liam’s invitation, another boy a year or two older than Grady walked over to them, ready to fight. Liam remained on his knees behind the smaller lad, moving with him, blow by blow, helping Grady to elude and deflect each parry from Breasal’s blade. Finally Breasal swooned and fell to his knees, executing an overly-dramatic death scene to the cheers of all the boys.

At his mock victory, Grady’s triumphant cry filled the air. His high-pitched giggles came in stark contrast to Liam’s deeper, hearty laughter.

“Now, Grady lad, what do we tell our vanquished enemy?”

“I hereby reclaim Eire for her native sons,” Grady shouted. Both the words and pride in his voice sounded familiar to Alianor.

“
Dhuine! Dhuine!
” Liam yelled, as teacher and victor both were swarmed by the remaining boys. Little Grady valiantly held off the entire mob for a minute with Liam’s help, until they were stormed and taken down in a mass of kicking legs and flying elbows, giddy laughter and joyous cries.

Alianor couldn’t stop the smile curving her lips. The playful scene touched her. How extraordinary to see the contradiction in the man. An outlaw, a thief, mayhap even worse, yet one who showed tenderness and love to these boys. She slipped back into the woods before they disbanded, and hurried back to the abbey. Thank Jesu Liam had not seen her. She remembered the cold anger in his voice the last time they spoke, the way the icy words cut her:
From now on, woman, keep away from me.

She reached the abbey steps and found the pitcher was gone as expected, but so was the pail she had left there. Had Felicity picked it up, too? Alianor frowned, puzzled as she looked about. A noise nearby startled her and she turned to find Liam at the well a few yards away. He lowered the bucket back down for fresh water, the clank of the pail hitting the stone walls in its descent. Once retrieved, he hefted the bucket off its hook and sat it on the ground beside him, then pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside.

How in the world did he reach the abbey before her? He must have run, an easy enough feat for a fit man. Seeing him, Alianor found she couldn’t turn away. She knew it was indecent of her to stare, but found herself in an unwilling trance.

The sight of Liam’s bare chest caused a strange flutter within her belly, and stoked a withering heat between her thighs. She remembered with startling clarity how his lips had felt when he kissed her, the way his tongue had touched her own. How his masculine smell infused her and she thrilled at the feel of his hard muscles pressing against her. She saw those muscles now, sculpted by hard labor and gleaming with sweat.

Liam lifted the bucket and dumped it over his head. He vigorously shook the rivulets of water from him like an overgrown pup. When he opened his eyes, pushing back his wet hair from his face, his gaze caught hers.

Alianor gasped, shame crushing her. Only minutes ago her eyes filled with tears at memories of Walter, yet here she stood gaping like a bitch in heat at another man. What sort of woman was she?

Tears threatened again and confronted by Liam’s stare, she could only do one thing. She turned and ran back to the abbey and the cool, secure darkness of her little cell. Away from those emerald eyes that both entranced and impaled her with their demands.

L
IAM STEPPED TOWARDS
A
LIANOR
, but the storm of emotion in her eyes stopped him. When he first looked over and found her watching him — her face flushed, her lips parted — his blood caught fire. Here he stood breathless from running and cold water, yet she was breathless, too, for different reasons.

Those eyes, those damme beautiful eyes, darkened to midnight blue as she stared at him like a startled doe. For a moment, he feared he would run to her like a lap-dog eager to please. But something changed and a shadow crossed her face. Visible pain replaced desire, shattering the moment. Passion’s flush vanished and Liam sensed some other emotion he could not define. Along with the haunting despair in her eyes, it left him unable to move.

Chapter Ten

L
IAM PULLED THE BRUSH
through Biorra’s mane, catching on a tangle. The horse snorted his objection and stamped his hoof. “Sorry, my friend,” he muttered, patting Biorra’s neck in apology. “It seems I am taking my frustration and bungling ways out on you.”

Biorra nodded his head up and down as if he agreed, and returned to munching his oats. Liam continued to groom the bay in the stall, trying to let the repetitive motion soothe the turmoil inside his mind. But no matter how hard he tried, it seemed he couldn’t force Alianor from his thoughts. Like the
sidhe
she haunted him, stealing his strength and resolve.

Anger rose, choking him with its bitterness. Why did this woman tie him up in knots? Alianor could not possibly be as innocent as she seemed. He had heard stories of the King’s court, the politics and perversions going on behind closed doors, and sometimes in plain view. She was no maiden; she was a young and beautiful widow. Perhaps she had taken many lovers — a common practice of the nobility.

A pang pierced his heart at the thought. “Fool,” he scolded himself. “What sickness has taken hold of you?”

Why should he care whom the
Sassenach
siren lured to her bed, yesterday or tomorrow? Let Softsword and de Lacy fight over Alianor Coventry — he had no stomach for it.

The stables door creaked open and a petite figure slipped inside. When Alianor turned to face the row of stalls, she saw him there and froze. In a dusty ray of sunlight streaking through a hole in the roof, Liam read the flurry of emotions on her face.

“Are you going to flee again?” He knew the answer, but his challenge flummoxed her into staying. He smiled, though he felt far from carefree inside. For his innards knotted up at the sight of her, and it took every ounce of will he possessed to continue grooming Biorra.