Emerald Prince (38 page)

Her question challenged his decision. He looked half-mad, a bit of spittle clinging to his bearded chin. She thought he might collapse in a fit of apoplexy, right there in the great hall.

“Hist, woman,” he warned. “Be silent or a change of heart might occur.”

“Answer but one question, Sire — to what do I owe my salvation?”

“Not what, but whom.” Quintin de Lacy stepped from a shadowed corner, smiling with satisfaction as Alianor whirled and her eyes widened with fear. She mocked the King openly and this truly surprised him, something he did not feel often. God, she was proud, divinely so.

When she walked into his hall, anger took second place to lust. Even in her disheveled state she was so damned beautiful he felt physical pain. Her soft voice stoked his loins, her haughty demeanor made him long to punish her more. Quintin wanted to nourish the fury, feed it so he could make her scream for mercy as planned. Instead, he feared he might lose its intensity to a more immediate, pressing need. His cock responded to her presence; her loathing was but an elixir to his dark lusts.

King John motioned him forward. He obliged and Alianor looked back at Lackland, her shoulders straight, head held high. The initial flash of fear was gone, as was the hatred. Quintin experienced a twinge of disappointment. He wanted to see terror in her eyes; instead he was left to study her indifferent expression.

“You owe our change of heart and mercy to Lord de Lacy,” the King snapped, as if it hurt him to say it.

“I see,” Alianor replied, revealing nothing in the two simple words.

Quintin suppressed a growl. He wanted to grab her, shake her, make her cry out. Anything but this damned serenity she reflected. It was more unsettling than her outrage.

The King cleared his throat. “Lord de Lacy has kindly agreed to forgive your imprudence prompting these unpleasant incidents. We must say, your lord is generous, Lady Alianor. We would not be so inclined to excuse your unseemly behavior.”

“De Lacy is not my lord.”

Lackland smiled. “Not yet.
That
is easily rectified.”

At last Alianor glanced at Quintin, her demeanor calm, careless. “How you persist in trying to fill my late lord’s shoes, de Lacy. In truth, I cannot countenance it, for you are but the dung clinging to them.”

He gritted his teeth, and the King cackled. “It appears your sharp tongue still shreds all in your path, Lady Coventry. Either you are the bravest of ladies, or a most addle-pated one.”

Her attention returned to the King. “
If
I have any choice in this matter, Your Grace, I prefer your punishment to his.”

Quintin seethed. Alianor’s hatred was as obvious as his lust for her, but the woman must be mad. She was willing to face the King’s judgment and punishment, and suffer imprisonment rather than become his wife. It galled him to no end. Yet, it also caused the fire in his loins to burn so hot it was painful. Aye, he must have her, if only to break her spirit and crush it beneath his heel.

“Well,” the King said, stroking his sparse beard, “I suppose we must rethink our decision, as Marshal advised us.”

Quintin tore his gaze from Alianor and looked angrily at Lackland. “Sire! You promised she would be mine. It was our agreement.”

The King ignored him and he waved impatiently to his guards. “Take Lady Coventry back to her cell.”

Both men watched as Alianor was led away. Quintin noticed the lust shining in the King’s eyes as he stared after her. Aye, the old bastard still wanted her for himself. Fuming, he debated how he might handle the delicate negotiations. First, he tried to ease over the tense situation by reminding Lackland of his loyalty.

“If it please my liege, I must remind Your Majesty I have done everything asked of me; I have held up my part of the bargain. I’ve raised taxes on my lands to your benefit.” He heard no objections, and continued. “I harassed de Braose and I routed de Courcy, asking nothing in turn but the privilege of this woman’s hand in marriage. What more must I do to make Alianor my wife, Sire?”

Lackland continued stroking his beard, doubtless still ruminating upon the fair Alianor. “’Twas your own foolishness which caused the loss of Lady Coventry in the first place — you all but handed her and the bride’s price over to Caomhánach.”

Quintin was inclined to argue, for this miserly monarch had not sent enough men to guard the procession, but he held his tongue. He wanted Alianor, and annoying Lackland would not accomplish his goal.

“We have but one more request of you, de Lacy.”

Swallowing his pride, Quintin replied, “Name it, Sire, and it shall be yours.”

The gleam lighting the King’s eyes forewarned him he would not like the request. “You will wed here at Fountainhall, in two day’s time. But we will enjoy your bridal night in your stead.”

The blood drained from Quintin’s face. Sweet Christos, the King was serious. He was claiming the
droit du seigneur
of an underling. The old cock intended to enjoy what was a husband’s right to take.

He struggled to reply with coherent words, rather than a string of curses. “I cannot …” he began, and started again, choking on the words. “Agreed, Sire. I ask only you depart my bed at dawn’s light the next morn.”

Lackland nodded, still distracted. Quintin did not have to wonder why. Already His Majesty anticipated with relish the ravishment of
his
bride.

Chapter Twenty-six

L
IAM HAD BEEN IN
town only a day when he saw the banns posted on the street. Alianor was nearby. On Saturday she and Lord de Lacy would be wed at Fountainhall.

He tore the copy of the banns he read from the post as the words burned his mind like a hot brand laid to flesh. Despair wiggled in between the fire — he was too late to speak up for her and to help in any way. Alianor was in an impossible situation, and he could not blame her for capitulating in the end. Few other women would have had the stamina or courage to endure as long as she had.

Still, the thought of her going to de Lacy sickened him, and the realization she was lost to him hurt like a physical blow. How had she managed to placate the King and de Lacy? This question caused the breath in his lungs to freeze; the possible answers tortured his mind.

An abrupt, searing anger destroyed all other thought, save the hard resolve claiming him. Alianor had been naïve to think she could save everyone with her sacrifice. And he played the fool to chase after her, to pursue a dream doomed before it began.

Liam crumpled the notice and tossed it aside. How he wished he could rid himself of the memories as easy, and of the feelings plaguing him. With a frustrated growl he strode down the crowded street but, a minute later, he turned back to retrieve the paper. Smoothing the wrinkles out, his finger traced the letters of her name. A bittersweet ache slammed through him, and he tucked the notice inside his tunic, where it lay close to his heart.

The banns announced a feast and tournament at Fountainhall to celebrate the wedding. Alianor would be there. His heartbeat quickened at the notion. With grim resolve, he banished the reckless thought, pushing it from his mind. Only to have it creep back again. How could he bear losing her?

Brutal images clamored in his head, and he feared he might lose his senses. Never had he felt so lost, so forlorn. Liam recalled the tale of
Leanhaun Shee
, the faery mistress who seeks the love of men — if they refuse, she becomes their slave — if they consent, they are hers. When had he become sweet Alianor’s slave? Someone bumped him, drawing his mind from his pain as the milling throng engulfed him in anonymity — ah, if only the safety in numbers might also serve to keep forbidden dreams at bay.

I
T WAS HER WEDDING
day. Alianor tried to pray for guidance, but her mind protested, and she could not take refuge in comforting thoughts. She did not have the unwavering faith Camber did, and it seemed God had turned his back on her. He abandoned her to the King and de Lacy — men who would never stop in their quests to destroy her. It was blasphemous, she knew, thinking dark thoughts, but despair clung and refused to let her go.

Instead, she prayed God watch over her brother and protect him. Camber had done nothing since he took the cowl except devote his life to God, wholly and without reserve. Surely, if her own sins prompted God’s anger, he would not forfeit a kind-hearted soul on her account. She asked nothing for herself, only mercy for Camber.

Having made her peace, Alianor was ready to face the day. It was no ordinary day, unlike the two she had passed in dreary solitude. The King had not sent her to prison after all, and released her from the cell in Fountainhall. Still, she was watched. The King’s men guarded her door or dogged her every step.

Alianor had no choice save accepting her lot. Today de Lacy would become her husband, and tonight … the thought left unfinished, a foreboding omen of what was to come chilled her. She did not harbor foolish notions he had truly forgotten or forgiven her actions.

The scar marring his face was a constant reminder of their first meeting. She should have killed him then, she knew this now. Her mistake was as certain as her knowledge he would most likely kill her tonight.

After she broke her fast, the women arrived in her chamber. Queen Isabella sent her own personal maidservant, Lilith, and several of her ladies to assist the reluctant bride prepare for her wedding.

The women helped Alianor bathe and get ready for the ceremony, though the mood in the room remained subdued, even strained. While she sat before the hearth to dry her hair, her gown and undergarments were laid out for all to admire. All save Alianor.

The Queen’s other gift was a beautiful and generous gesture, but the fact of what it represented made Alianor shudder when she glanced upon it. The tawny-colored gown was made of the finest linen, long and full, with a low round neck. It laced down the back with silken ribbons, a train of heavy folds falling behind.

Open down the front, a sapphire brooch fastened the bodice. The girdle sparkled with sapphires also, and was worn high round the waist in front, crossed at the back, and was brought forward low on the hips. The silken embroidered ends were tied together and hung down the front to the hem of the gown.

As the women oohed and aahed over her wedding raiment, Alianor stared into the fire. Instead of the joy a bride should feel, a sinking sensation of doom haunted her. She wondered if she would even survive her bridal night.

It mattered not; as Lady de Lacy she could expect nothing but misery and suffering. Death was preferable. If only she could find the strength of heart to die well.

Yes, she thought, raising her chin and squaring her shoulders. She must not show her fear; it would not do to give her tormentor the satisfaction. She would walk to de Lacy’s altar of doom as coolly as she had faced the King.

“Milady,” said Lilith, gently tugging at her sleeve. “’Tis near dawn, we must finish your toilette.”

Alianor nodded and rose. She stood stiff as a quintain of wood and straw whilst the women prepared her for the ceremony. When Alianor did not respond to their mirth or compliments, their chatter faded, her silence unnerving them.

Her hair was combed out and rubbed with silk for added shine. They bound it into two plaits with silken ribbon matching her gown, and coiled the plaits around her head. A linen wimple covered her throat, tucked into her dress.

Lilith placed a linen veil over her head, and secured it with a sapphire circlet. The remaining women scurried about, adding the final touches to her wardrobe. As a fur-trimmed cloak settled about her shoulders, they heard a scratching at the door. Lilith answered it and turned to her. “Milady, Lord de Lacy awaits his bride.”

“I am ready.”

As Alianor departed, one of the ladies handed her a psalter, which she gently set aside as she left the room. She was beyond holy comfort now.

A
PAIR OF SOLDIERS
waited for Alianor outside her chamber door. She arched an eyebrow. “What, only two?”

Neither man would meet her gaze. They seemed embarrassed, and well they should, she thought, escorting a bride like a criminal to the ceremony. They flanked her on either side as they traversed the corridors, posing as royal escorts but Alianor knew they were there to assure she did not escape her fate.

Outside Fountainhall, she was handed into a carriage, drawn by matching gray horses bearing de Lacy’s coat of arms. The carriage lurched forward and they made the short journey to the chapel. Alianor settled back against the cushions and drew deep breaths to steady her nerves. All too soon they stopped and she had no choice but to disembark. The time had come.

De Lacy waited on the steps of the church, wearing a rich cerulean velvet tunic and a mantle trimmed with gray fox. His gloves were embroidered and ornamented with jewels. He wore an ostentatious display of gold chains and medallions, reminding Alianor of a prized warhorse decorated for battle.

As she ascended the stairs, de Lacy’s eyes watched her but she stared right through him — he looked too much like a cat ready to devour a mouse. When she started to enter the chapel, he laid a restraining hand on her arm.