Lady of Conquest (34 page)

“I was afraid to see you today,” he said.

She sat down on a slim wooden bench, suddenly shy. He sat beside her and took her hand in his. She traced the black curling hairs on his wrist.

“Why were you afraid?” she asked.

“I assumed that you had taken the time to think about last night and would hate me by now.”

“I do hate you.” His face fell and she smiled. “I hate you for allowing those alleged maidservants to torture me with their pins all day.”

“ ‘Tis a fine way to show your gratitude for a new wardrobe, milady. Most of that fabric was imported from across the sea when my mother was still alive.”

“ ‘Tis beautiful, but I would have done just as well—”

“Absolutely not. I won’t have you parading around here in a pair of satin breeches.”

She hid her smile behind a pout, struggling to look offended. “You would not find me comely?”

“On the contrary. If you were beautiful in that infernal black dress, you would be beautiful in anything. Or nothing.” He gazed into her eyes, leaving little doubt that he meant what he said.

“You flatter me, Conn. I’m far too tall and gangly to be beautiful.”

“By the time I’m through with you, you’re going to believe you’re so beautiful that you shall become impossible to live with.” Conn cupped her face in his hand and touched his lips to hers. “But I’m willing to try anyway.”

Sinking her toes into the cool mud beneath the bench, Gelina remembered another night she had spent in this garden. She pulled away from him and looked around. The plants had begun to die, their dry leaves hanging like surrendered flags from their stalks. Conn watched in bewilderment as her gaze rose above them, her eyes clouding as they rested on a darkened window.

“And shall I stay in Sheela’s chambers, Conn?”

The lifeless quality to her voice sent Conn to his feet. He paced the small garden, his heart racing.

“I want you exactly where you are—in my chambers. Why should you ask such a question?”

Gelina shrugged. “I thought I might be like her now.”

He fought to keep the fear out of his voice. “Sheela was just a . . . diversion. You’re my best friend.”

“And your worst enemy,” she murmured.

He pointed a finger at her. “I was willing to overlook that if you were.”

“What about them, Conn? What will they think of your slave now?” She gestured toward the garden door, only to find her hand caught in his. He knelt at her feet.

He spoke slowly and precisely. “As far as the people know, you were coerced into fighting by the men who abducted you. You chose slavery as a self-imposed punishment for your weakness.”

“You told them that?” In response to his smug nod, she added, “And they believed you?”

“There are certain privileges that go with carrying a large sword and being the king. Your credibility remains unquestioned by those too clever to risk your ire.” He rubbed the back of her hand against the prickly softness of his beard.

“Just don’t let it go to your head.” She boxed his ears softly with her other hand.

“How could I? There is always one woman I can count on to question my credibility.”

He left no doubt in her mind who that woman was as he pulled her to a standing position and pressed his body to hers. His lips devoured hers. His hands glided downward, over her shoulders and the slim contours of her back.

She pushed him away and backed around until the bench lay between them. “If you continue, we might as well go lie in the grass like those two out there.”

He stalked her with a wicked grin. “Would that be so dreadful?”

“Scoundrel.”

“Wench.”

She threw back her head and laughed as he leapt over the bench and swept her up in his arms. He carried her to the inner door that led to their chambers. Staring over his shoulder, Gelina could almost see the forlorn girl crying in the muddy garden disappear as she buried her face in his neck, breathing deeply of his scent.

The scene shifted; the colors faded to gray, then deepened to red. Fog swirled through the narrow corridor, granting teasing glimpses of the two locked in silent combat. Rodney crept down the corridor until he faced the straightened spine of his enemy. His sister’s terrified eyes spurred him to action. He rammed his sword into Conn’s back, laughing aloud at the gratifying sound of metal tearing flesh. Conn sank to his knees, and Rodney faced his sister. Her loving eyes shone with gratitude.

He withdrew his sword. “Now, Conn, your time has come.”

“No!” Gelina’s hand flew out to grip his wrist.

With a cruel smile she wrenched the bloody sword from his hand, swung it in a high arc and severed Conn’s head with a mighty blow. The head bumped against Rodney’s toes; lifeless blue eyes stared into the fog.

Rodney woke up smiling, the nights he had awakened sweat drenched and shaking a vague, unpleasant memory. His sister’s accusing eyes behind the dagger no longer haunted him when he closed his eyes. In a hundred nightmares Conn had jerked the blade across her throat, marring the perfection of her ivory skin with a crimson line before her neck collapsed like the neck of a broken doll.

Rodney sat up, shaking the image out of his mind. His stomach rumbled, drowning out the rustle of the dying leaves. The glade he slept in had become his dearest friend, sheltering him from the winds that blew cooler each day. He crawled to the bubbling spring. Catching a distorted glimpse of himself in the water, he smiled. His hair hung long and unkempt over his shoulders. A fledgling beard had settled on his face, its straggly hairs softening the sharp contour of his chin. His shirtless chest was pale.

He peered out between the trees. Tara, the mighty fortress, perched like a sleeping giant on the plains. He spat upon the ground.

A splash on the surface of the spring drew his attention. He plunged one hand into the cool water. A pang of loneliness shot through him, and he wished his little sister were there to chastise him about his eating habits. He glared at the fortress again.

“When I get you this time, Gelina, I shall never let you go.”

His whispered words were drowned out by a splash as he grappled beneath the surface of the water and drew out a writhing fish. The fin slashed across his hand, drawing blood. He bit off the squirming head with a single bite.

Gelina sat bolt upright in bed, a cold sweat on her brow. Conn stirred beside her and laid a warm, possessive hand on her thigh without opening his eyes. In the light of the full moon pouring through the unshuttered window, Gelina watched him sleep, delighting in the vulnerability of his open mouth. She softly kissed his fingertips before laying his roaming hand on his chest. She tucked the coverlet around him and slid her feet sideways until they touched the cold floor. The fortress slept around her as she pushed open the door and padded into the corridor.

This was not the first time she had awakened from a sound sleep with her heart pounding in her chest like a captive bird. She could remember no dreams, but a sensation of dread lay curled in the pit of her stomach. Restlessness sent her to prowl the fortress, unable to return to sleep. She felt in the pocket of her long nightdress for the cold iron of the key. The weaponry room beckoned her just as it had on the night of the catastrophic siege.

She pushed open the door. A cool draft sent a chill down her scantily clad back. The torches burned low in their sconces with the approach of morning. Crippled shadows limped across the walls, transforming her shadow into a looming giantess stomping over the swords and lances. She roamed the room until she faced the far wall.

Vengeance hung where Conn had replaced it. She ran her finger over the familiar hilt, wiping away a light layer of dust. Her fingers itched to remove it, to feel the cold comfort of the metal in her hand. She placed her hands behind her back, resisting the temptation with difficulty.

“You look like a guilty child caught eyeing the tarts.”

The voice snapped her out of her reverie. She turned to see Conn leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his bare chest.

“I wasn’t planning a revolt. I was just”—she searched for the right word—“restless.”

He strode toward her, then stopped as he saw the brief flare of fear in her eyes. “Please don’t look at me like that. You look as if you expect me to rush in here and pitch you against the wall.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps I do.”

Shaking his head, he strode past her and took Vengeance from the wall. He tossed the weapon to her. Caught off guard, she let the blade slide until it clanked against the floor.

“You are a natural warrior, but there are certain skills that you can achieve only with practice.” Conn took a thin, silver sword from the wall and crouched in a fighting stance. “Have you ever fought as a partner?”

Gelina shook her head.

“I thought not. You’ve never had a partner worth fighting for.” He glared at her from under his dark eyebrows. “But that is another matter altogether.”

She fought the urge to turn as he circled her and placed his broad back firmly against hers. “If you are outnumbered and there are two of you, the best way to fight is back to back. Circle with me.”

She struggled to keep up with him as he moved about the room, jabbing at an imaginary enemy.

“Tell me, Gelina. Is Eoghan Mogh as skilled a warrior as I?”

Her feet stopped at his question, but his back prodded her on. She tripped over her own feet in an effort to match his long strides.

“He shares your modesty if not your skill,” she replied.

“And where do his skills lie?” His voice remained as calm as if he were standing still instead of galloping around at her back.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself? He is languishing in your dungeons.”

At her answer, Conn doubled his pace.

“He is a strategist, not a warrior,” Gelina cried breathlessly. “I never saw Eoghan lift a sword.”

Conn slowed, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Eoghan was truly kind to . . .”

His pace doubled again, and Gelina wisely closed her mouth.

Conn guided her through a series of drills until her arm ached with the sheer effort of holding up the sword.

“ ‘Tis like dancing,” she gasped.

She giggled as he whirled and knocked the sword from her hand with a gentle blow. She sank to the floor in an exhausted heap, only to find her arm caught in an iron grip.

“There is one more thing you must learn. If you or your partner is ever disarmed like I just disarmed you, ‘tis imperative that a weapon reach your hands,” he explained.

He pulled her to her feet, then went to stand forty feet away, taking her sword with him. She watched in bewilderment as he flung the sword into the air. Throwing her hands up, she ducked and ran toward the door.

The sword clattered to the floor. Conn said, “Nice catch.”

She uncovered her head with a sheepish grin. The grim set of his lips did not relax as he strode to her and laid both hands on her shoulders.

“This involves a consummate amount of trust in the person responsible for getting the weapon to you. Your life is in their hands.” She trembled beneath the warmth and strength of his hands; his thumbs gently traced her collarbone beneath the thin linen of the nightshirt. “Do you trust me?”

She nodded an assent in one beat of her heart.

He moved behind her; his arms circled her, lingering at her waist for a moment before rising to her shoulders. “Show me where you want the sword to fall. What is the most natural position for you to catch the sword and be able to swing with your next move?”

She stretched out her arm and felt his follow like a shadow.

“Stay where you are,” he commanded.

He crossed the room in long strides, leaving her to still the trembling of her hands. Without a word he drew back his arm and hurled the sword in a high arc. It spun toward her, the reflection of the torches flashing from its gleaming blade. Her feet cried out for movement, but she kept them locked in place.

The sword hurtled toward her outstretched arm. Its path was cut short by the firm grasp of her palm as it landed in the precise spot she had designated for Conn. Her palm stung, but she hardly felt it as Conn rushed across the room and swept her up in his arms, swinging her around until her feet left the floor. She dropped the sword with his blessing as he laughed aloud, covering her forehead and cheeks with kisses.

The days passed in a dreamlike state for Gelina. The nights were even better. The weather mellowed to a gentle fall, ideal for long rides on Silent Thunder. On days when Conn was closeted inside, he allowed her to take the horse out alone. The first day she had done this, she had returned to find him pacing in front of the stable with only Nimbus for company. As he pressed his warm lips to her temple, she realized what this extra piece of freedom had cost him.

His dark head next to her auburn one became a familiar sight at Tara. Cook declared they had all taken leave of their senses when she caught them in the kitchen at midnight with Gelina on the king’s lap, clad only in their nightclothes, eating yesterday’s tarts and giggling like children.