Emerald Prince (29 page)

“Juliana crossed me once too often, milady.” His gaze seared into her. “Do not make the same mistake.”

“Oh, I do not intend to, sirrah. Certainly, I do not intend to end up a broken pile of bones at the bottom of Fountainhall’s steps.”

Rage flared in his eyes. He spoke through gritted teeth. “You will never find a place far enough away from me, Alianor. You are mine, you belong to me, and you cannot escape me. You will pay for this transgression — and pay dearly.”

“Perhaps.” Alianor smiled at him with icy deliberation. “It’s a chance I’m willing to take, and one far preferable to rape, even from a husband.”

De Lacy made a move to dash the dagger from her grip, but she expected treachery. She twisted away from him. In doing so she scored a path with the dagger tip across his left cheek.

When he shouted in pain, she leaned back and brought her right foot up. She landed a foot-punch squarely in the middle of his barrel chest, sending him tumbling back over the horse’s rear like a lead weight to the ground. She heard him grunt with pain as he impacted earth, hard.

As de Lacy scrambled to his feet, clutching his bleeding face, Alianor wrenched about in the saddle so she was facing the right way, ignoring her twisted skirts and bare legs. She grabbed up the reins, and circled him, out of range. “If you hurry, milord, you might evade the storm and catch up to your men before midnight.”

“Bitch. Come back here!”

Alianor laughed and dug her heels into the gray’s ribs. At her whistle, Biorra came galloping after as she knew he was trained to do.

As the horses bolted into the evening shadows, she heard de Lacy cursing and stumbling after her. She chuckled under her breath, and leaned low over the horse’s neck for more speed. She did not waste another thought on de Lacy, but rode as if all the curs of hell snapped at her heels. She made a beeline for the coast, back to Liam and Niall.

A
LIANOR CRAWLED TOWARDS THE
cliff’s edge, above the spot where de Lacy had ordered the two Irishmen bound in a grisly sacrifice to the sea. It was dark, but her eyes adjusted to the dimness, aided by the sliver of moon arcing above the water.

She cursed the gown impeding her progress. At least she had chosen the right color by chance. She had assembled an all-black trousseau to make herself less attractive to de Lacy, but it served as camouflage in the night. She needed every advantage.

Staying low, she wriggled ahead on knees and elbows in short bursts. Finally she stopped behind a low mound of scrub to assess the scene. De Lacy’s man stood guard, his duty to ensure Liam and Niall did not escape their fate.

The man strolled along the cliff’s edge and she wondered if she might be able to catch him by surprise and topple him over it. It was too risky, she decided. If he heard her approach and countered, her physical strength was no match for a man’s and, in the end, she might be the one hurled over the precipice, or perhaps they would both fall in the ensuing struggle. Neither case served Liam and Niall.

Alianor glanced down at the boiling sea and saw the two men submerged in the churning surf. The tide was up to their chins, water choking them with each successive wave. The storm threatening earlier had hit the coast at last, wind whining and sea surging. She couldn’t waste another minute.

She had plucked a crossbow from de Lacy’s saddle and lugged it along. Fortunately, it was already cocked and loaded, for she had neither the time nor the brute strength to do so herself. She pivoted a bit into position, still prone, and rose up to her elbows to aim the weapon.

Archery was one of her skills and Alianor sought her target with only a twinge of remorse. This man had secured Liam and Niall to the pilings, laughing as he did so. Alianor had watched him tie them with efficient and deliberate cruelty, yanking the coarse ropes so tightly it cut into their wrists. This man was like his master and deserved his fate. Without further hesitation, she steadied her aim.

A faint “snick” and the guard wavered, clutching at his chest. The quarrel had squarely pierced his heart, a swifter and more merciful death than his master chose for Liam and Niall. He was dead before he hit the ground. Alianor whispered a quick prayer for his soul, and tossed the crossbow aside. She leaped up and half-slid, half-ran down the steep slope to the water’s edge.

She yanked her little dagger from her girdle, and without another thought plunged into the water. Dagger in hand, she treaded through the churning surf, and when it reached her shoulders she took a deep breath, tossed away her fear and dog-paddled out to the pilings.

The two men were nearly invisible, the dark, swirling sea surrounding them all. Alianor caught only occasional glimpses of Liam’s dark head silvered by the moonlight between the surge and ebb of the tide. Fear collided with despair. Was she too late?

Her strength faltered in the icy water. Her muscles cramped in protest and her heavy gown threatened to drag her down. Gasping, she struggled blindly on, praying she did not swim in the wrong direction.

She bumped into something; the sea had shoved her up against one of the pilings. She seized the wooden post and clung for dear life. Waves battered her against the rough wood, splinters grazed her palms and cheek and she almost dropped the dagger. Panic drove her, but time was running out — by now the men might be fully submerged.

Alianor had no choice but to dive into the dark abyss. Holding the old terror at bay, she took a deep breath, released the post and went down. She pushed off with her feet, striking out for the next piling.

As luck would have it, she encountered a flailing leg instead. Instinct took over when her mind faltered, and she groped for the bindings holding Liam to the post.

She hacked at the rope with the dagger, in a frantic burst of strength that surprised even her. The rope sagged and his struggling body did the rest. He headed for the surface, and when she came up beside him they both clung to the piling, gasping and choking for air.

“Alianor,” he called to her over the thundering surf. “The knife — give me the knife.”

Weakly she handed it over, knowing she didn’t have the strength left to dive again and cut Niall free. Liam disappeared beneath the angry black waves. Alianor gripped the piling, her fingers bloodied from splinters. The tide surged back and forth, the strong current trying to drag her into the undertow.

Liam was gone a long time. She feared the worst and a shuddering cry broke from her lips. No — she could not lose him!

Niall’s head burst above the ocean’s surface, her last vision as the surf tore her from the post. Darkness engulfed Alianor; invisible fingers clawed at her and dragged her down into the icy depths.

She struggled up to the surface, and gasped down one gulp of air. “Liam,” she screamed into the void. Or perhaps she only thought it. “Liam.” A hard jerk sucked her back into the wet darkness. It was as if a monster from the deep seized her by the legs, pulling her down, down into his swirling domain.

Màthair. Athair.
Alianor’s mind cried, the words making no sense in her conscious mind, yet somehow hauntingly familiar.
I am joining you in your watery grave.

Liam heard her last cry. Frantic, he searched the ebony waves stretching out forever before his tired, burning eyes. “Alianor!”

He dove below the waves, ignoring the warning cramps in his muscles, swimming deeper and deeper, arms spread out before him in a blind search. Alianor, his mind cried out to her, I’m here —
m’leannàn
, answer me.

Liam prayed like he never had before. A cold, stiff, flailing little hand brushed against his. With every ounce of strength he had, he pivoted and gripped Alianor around the waist, and swam back towards the surface, as the last of the air burned from his lungs and saltwater scorched his throat.

The surface taunted him with its promise of relief. It beckoned him with its clean, crisp oxygen. He kicked desperately, fighting the urge to surrender and sink down into the silky depths of the sea. He was a fighter, and nothing would take Alianor from him — nothing.

Finally, he broke the surface.

With great ragged gasps of relief, Liam gulped in the rejuvenating air. He struggled back to the shore with his limp, beloved burden. Stumbling from the surf, he lowered Alianor upon the sandy shore. “Don’t you dare die, Alianor. Don’t you dare die!”

He rolled her over and pushed the water from her lungs.

Niall staggered over them, dripping, his face drawn and pale. He sank to his knees beside them. “Breathe, damme it, colleen!” His hoarse plea was torn away by the howling wind.

Seconds stretched into eternity. At last Alianor choked, coughed and her lungs surrendered the remaining sea water in them. She gasped like a newborn babe and drew in life-giving air.

Her weak, confused cry ripped through Liam’s pounding heart and he nearly wept with relief. He pulled her into his arms and rocked her, soothing her fear as she clung to him. Wiping a strand of seaweed from her cheek, he held her shaking figure against his own. “Hush, little one, you’re safe.”

Gradually she calmed and lay exhausted in his embrace. Liam stroked her silvery wet head, damp and sleek as a seal’s. Cradling her head to his chest, he whispered. “Alianor,
leannàn
, sweetheart, are you all right?”

She nodded, and to his surprise the first thing she said was a colorful Gaelic oath. Niall croaked a laugh and Liam’s eyes widened. “Where did you hear that word?” he demanded with a raspy cough.

“I’ve heard you bellow it more than once at your men.” She looked up at him and asked in a trembling voice, “What took you so blasted long, William?” When Liam heard that name and her teasing tone, he knew she’d be all right.

Alianor turned next on the still-sniggering Niall. “And where the bloody hell were you when I was drowning, my friend?”

Niall went silent, his look sheepish.

This time it was Liam who chuckled. Alianor’s arched eyebrow questioned him. “He can’t swim, Alianor. Not a bloody stroke.”

“You told me every Irishman is born to the water.”

Liam shrugged. They couldn’t still the mirth that erupted and all three collapsed on the sand, laughing uncontrollably, too weary and relieved to care one whit about the rain pounding on their heads. At last they caught their breath and headed for the safety of the woods, the sea denied its fresh souls hurling a tantrum of waves after them.

C
AMBER WAS STRICKEN WITH
frustration, upset. He couldn’t believe he was too late. It took him much longer than expected to track down Caomhánach, even with his church connections. People were reluctant to talk, protective of the Irish rebel and quick to defend his reputation, despite his choice to live outside the law.

When Camber finally found a monk who knew Caomhánach personally, and they met at an abbey, he learned how deep local devotion ran to the one they called the Emerald Prince. He might have admired Caomhánach, but for one thing. The fact his sister was gone, taken away the same morning he rowed out to meet with the man from Caomhánach’s camp. Poor Nora had been handed over to Lord de Lacy for ransom. What price a human life?

A chill swept over Camber, causing the hair on the back of his neck to rise in alarm at the thought of Quintin de Lacy. How he had prayed her second husband might be a good man, a husband Nora would have chosen for herself. Someone Camber could respect, a godly man who would be kind to her.

Her headstrong nature needed guidance, and a man she could cling to in times of trouble. Aye, she was a remarkably strong woman, but Camber had also seen her softer side — her vulnerability.

Nora’s emotions ran deep. Quicksilver flashes of temper and merry laughter might surface in the same hour. Camber knew her overwhelming grief when Walter died, and wished he had been more of an anchor, someone to calm and comfort her during the dark hours of her despair. He should have stayed with her after the funeral — perhaps if he had, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.

Now, it was obvious de Lacy was not a man he would have chosen for his sister. He’d heard far more than he wanted to know about the man King John had chosen for Nora. If she ended up married to de Lacy, he would never forgive himself. His own selfish need for seclusion and complete devotion to God caused him to fail as a brother and protector.

He had heard more than unsavory rumors about de Lacy in his investigation of the man; he also spoke with the priest who had performed last rites over Juliana de Lacy. Father Kilkenny said he had been the first to examine Lady de Lacy’s body. Already suspicious of her death, the furtive exchange of glances amongst the Fountainhall servants told him there was dissention in the household and confirmed his fear of wrongdoing.

Lady de Lacy’s bones were broken in five places, the priest told Camber. Some of the injuries could have come from her alleged tumble down the stairs, certainly, but not the most glaring one. Deep purple fingerprints on her flesh lent the first clue. Her neck had been snapped. She was dead before she hit the stone floor.

The poor woman had been hurled down Fountainhall’s steep stairs to make it appear an accident. That someone, or so the priest believed and the servants’ nervous demeanors seemed to confirm, was Quintin de Lacy.

Despite his virtual certainty a crime had been committed Father Kilkenny said nothing by way of accusation until he spoke with his superior. The church’s chain of command was sacrosanct, and by rights the leader of the local priory, Cloghan, was responsible for pursuing any legal recourse. Surprised when the prior did not evidence concern, but indeed even waved aside the evidence, Kilkenny did something unprecedented and appealed to the bishop.

This time, the harsh reality of mixed justice came home to roost. Bishop Scartaglin was not at all evasive. Simply put, de Lacy was a generous benefactor of the church. His lavish donations assured easy winters, built a new sacristy and, as Kilkenny now understood, guaranteed silence. The matter of Juliana de Lacy, along with the woman herself, was laid to rest with all due pomp and circumstance — and silence.