Lady of Conquest (18 page)

“Then you must do so with my blessing.”

Conn clasped her hands in his and smiled, surprised to realize how important that blessing was to him. As he stared into her sparkling eyes, he was reminded of his plan to chasten her for disobeying him on Midsummer’s Eve, but the teasing words died on his lips. His broad thumbs caressed the trusting hands entwined in his.

How could he chastise her for offering even in error what he had been only too willing to take? His ale-hazed memories of that night were vague at best, but the sharp clarity of his moments with her were enough to wake him in the night with a longing deep in his gut for something he could not name. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, no more certain of a lecture coming out than an apology.

Overcome by a strange shyness, he shook his head. “Look at you. You’re a woman grown. I don’t think I’ve ever been so proud as I was when I walked into that hall and saw you standing up to Ó Caflin. Your eyes glowed green fire and you pointed at him as if you already knew he was the liar.”

“Did I point? All I remember was your voice coming from nowhere like magic.”

His fingers teased a stubborn curl at her earlobe into submission. “Surely you do not believe in magic. I think even Mer-Nod has given up on his heritage of Cesard the magician.”

“Who knows? Perhaps it was Mer-Nod who conjured you back to me.”

“I regret to disillusion you, Gelina, but a real ship conjured me back from halfway around the world.”

A wistful look crossed her features. “I would like to go to Rome someday. Was it so terrible once your friend rescued you?”

“It took me a full moon to recover from my time on the slave galley, but Demetrius was an able host and he made my stay as pleasant as possible. The one thing Eoghan failed to take into account when he shipped me off to Rome was my father’s many Roman allies. He fought by their side against the Northmen more than once. Demetrius was a dear old friend of my father’s who visited Tara when I was just a boy.” Conn chuckled. “You can imagine his shock when one of his centurions reported that some drunken slave trader who’d just docked his ship was boasting that he had the king of Erin himself trussed up in his hold. You can also imagine my shock when I woke up in Rome, thousands of leagues from both Erin and Britain.”

Conn would always remember that moment when the sunlight had exploded through the darkness. He had fainted dead away, awakening only to find his battered body anointed with fragrant oils and wrapped in myrrh-scented sheets. For a dazed moment, he was convinced that he had died and they were preparing him for burial. Then Demetrius’s face had floated into view, more leathery than Conn remembered, but no less impish.

“I shall always owe this friend of your father a great debt,” Gelina said softly. “For he brought you back to me.”

“I promised you I would come back, did I not? And here I am.”

Gelina stretched out her arms to him and rested her head on his shoulder. He was shocked to discover how pleasant her sweet-smelling body felt against him. His broad hands flexed on her slender back, fighting the urge to draw her into him, the fear that she would not protest frightening him more than the fear that she would. When a sharp rap came on the door, he stood, feeling unaccountably guilty.

Sheela flew into the room, dark hair disheveled. Gelina rolled her eyes and turned her back, staring into the fire.

“Oh, my love! I would have come to you sooner. Didn’t you see me in the great hall? I swooned when you appeared there just like a ghost. I tried to come to you as soon as I recovered but that infernal jackass of a jester sat on me!”

Gelina’s shoulders shook suspiciously. Sheela shot her a venomous look.

“Sat on you?” Conn queried, eyebrows raised politely.

“Indeed! He said that in my weakened condition, I did not need to be walking about. And then he sat on my chest! Everyone was milling around. No one noticed and there he sat for what seemed like hours on my delicate chest. I nearly swooned again.”

She allowed her legs to fold beneath her and pressed her delicate chest to Conn’s arm. He steadied her and led her to a chair. Watching from the corner of her eye, Gelina saw Sheela bestow a hearty kiss on Conn’s lips, looking far from faint. She stood and cleared her throat loudly, which only seemed to intensify Sheela’s grip on Conn. He disentangled himself with difficulty.

“I shall take my leave now. I ate earlier and find myself feeling a bit . . . queasy,” Gelina said, smiling sweetly.

“I think the lass is insulting me. Is she insulting me?” Sheela turned wide brown eyes to Conn.

He shrugged, refusing to commit himself as he struggled to hide a smile.

“They prepare a feast in the hall. I will see you there, Conn,” Gelina called back as she exited the room.

Pulling the door shut behind her, she leaned against it, her elation mixed with a sick feeling deep in her gut. Looking down the hall, she saw Nimbus leaning against the wall with arms crossed smugly.

“You sat on her?” she said.

Nimbus dragged her around the corner as they both doubled over in paroxysms of laughter.

He sat huddled in the corner, his head between his knees. His lank, filthy hair hung past his shoulders like a faded, moth-eaten mantle. The stone floor radiated a chill that traveled through his bones to the top of his skull. Licking his chapped lips, he ran his hand through his once-glorious hair. Staring into the darkness, his eyes focused beyond the dungeon walls.

Barron Ó Caflin had become a learned man in the past months. He had learned of exile. He had learned of broken promises. He had learned of doubt and uncertainty for the first time in his life. And now he had learned of fear. The men on Conn’s ships had been murdered, their throats cut while they lay in the throes of the vicious illness induced by the poisoned ale. Few awoke in time to offer a feeble struggle to Eoghan Mogh’s soldiers. It had taken every ounce of wit and cunning Barron possessed to stop the men from murdering him at the sides of his companions. As Barron had stood surrounded by the corpses of his friends and comrades, a creeping numbness had settled in his mind. Things were not supposed to happen this way. But they had.

He was home now. Locked in a dingy cell without even a hint of light. He sat with head bowed. He held no illusions that Eoghan Mogh would storm the castle before his impending execution. He spared himself that maudlin hope. Conn had visited his cell already. With the light from the open door framing him, he had appeared as an avenging spirit sent by the gods to torment him.

His plans had gone awry from the very moment that redheaded wench had stood to confront him. She had thrown a shadow of doubt on his words, turning the crowd against him, though that had hardly mattered when Conn’s voice echoed through the hall. He sat in the airless cell remembering other days. His pride in the Fianna had died long ago in the flames of his twisted ambition, but the memory of it stung him now. The laughter of young men haunted him and he bowed his head, learning the one lesson that had eluded him all along. Conn of the Hundred Battles was not a man to betray lightly. The silence closed in around him.

* * *

Tapers were lit from one end of the hall to the other. Glowing faces added to the shining light. In one corner the musicians deftly tuned their instruments. There were to be no ribald ditties sung tonight. The chief minstrel would assure the music of his flutes and harps was so beautiful that it would wring tears from hearts of stone.

The bustling activity halted and a hoarse cheer rose as Conn strode into the room. Waving a hand in recognition, he let an almost boyish grin cross his face as he approached the throne.

He had ignored Nimbus’s whispered suggestion that he make a grand entrance after the people had been waiting, saying only, “They have waited long enough.”

His white shirt shot through with golden threads was covered by a crimson coat that fell to the floor in wide folds. A golden girdle set with emeralds and rubies encircled his waist. A torque of gold was fastened around his throat by a brooch of sapphires that matched his eyes. Unruly dark hair fell to his shoulders, the new silver wings gleaming in the light of a thousand tallow candles. He sat on the throne and stretched his long legs in front of him, watching the frantic preparations with poorly concealed delight.

Cook appeared from the kitchen bearing a boar’s head on a platter precariously balanced between hand and hip. “Get out of me way, ye arseholes! I’ll drop this meat on yer heads if ye don’t!” she announced, scattering the serving girls and cupbearers.

“Perhaps we should recruit her for the Fianna,” Conn whispered as Mer-Nod joined him on the dais.

Catching sight of the king, Cook stumbled backward, nearly dropping her burden. She heaved it to the nearest table and backed out of the room, bowing all the way.

As word of Conn’s arrival spread through the fortress and surrounding countryside, the hall filled. No one cared that the hour approached midnight. Children were snatched from beds and thrust into clothes despite their groans. Conn welcomed handclasps from the men and accepted shy pecks on each cheek from some of the bolder women.

Standing with arms outstretched, he had little difficulty gaining the rapt attention of everyone in the hall. “I have come home!”

“And about time it was!” one of the soldiers called out laughingly.

Conn smiled. “Yes, it was time, was it not? I sat many nights on a rooftop staring out over the city of Rome, a city whose beauties you can only imagine unless you’ve seen them. I was surrounded by hospitality, exotic women”—a whoop rang from the corner—“and an abundance of rich, incredible food.” He paused. “And do you know what I craved?” He lowered his voice as expectant faces awaited his answer. “A fresh-faced lass of Erin and a mug of ale.” Laughter rippled through the hall.

The minstrels struck up a rollicking jig, and a jester led the dance, grabbing from the sidelines a comely girl who squealed in mock dismay.

Conn sat back on the throne, searching the crowd as more dancers joined in the reel. “Where are Nimbus and Gelina?” he shouted to Mer-Nod, struggling to be heard over the music and laughter.

Mer-Nod shrugged. “Up to some mischief, no doubt.” He scanned the crowd. “Sean is absent. That might account for Gelina’s whereabouts.”

Conn frowned and leaned forward to question him further as Gelina appeared in the doorway. A ballad singer’s sweet alto rose in a gentle melody as Gelina stood peering through the crowd. Against his own volition Conn rose to his feet as the room narrowed to hold only the slender figure in the doorway. Her gaze halted on the dais, and she spun in a full circle, spreading the golden satin of her skirt, eyebrows arched for his approval.

His expression did not change. He stepped off the dais and made his way through the crowd. A path cleared before him. The dancers paused, and it was only Nimbus’s vicious pinch and frantic gesture that kept the chief minstrel directing his musicians in the lilting melody. Gelina smiled uncertainly as Conn faced her. He saw the familiar flicker of fear that he hated cross her features.

Offering her his arm, he said softly, “Shall we dance, milady?”

“Better than we used to, I think,” she replied, breathing a slow sigh of relief that did not go unnoticed by her partner.

“You still fear me.” It was a statement that Conn made as he swung her into the dance, not a question. Her bare back felt warm and silken beneath the gentle pressure of his fingers.

“I feared you were angry because I wore your mother’s dress. Do you still fear me?” she asked.

He looked deep into her eyes and replied, “Perhaps more than before.”

She looked away and then returned his gaze steadily. “No sword hides beneath this dress.”

He laughed despite himself at her serious words. “The way you fill that dress, I doubt there would be room for any weapon save the beauty given you by nature.”

Blushing, she trod hard upon his toe. He laughed harder even as he stumbled.

“I wish you would not laugh at me. There are some who hardly find me as hilarious as you seem to.”

“Quit pouting, Gelina. I find you far more lovely than funny, and I’m very proud of the way my foundling has bloomed.”

His teasing words stung her, and she pulled away, tossing her head. “If you will excuse me, I believe I promised this dance to someone else.”

He stood in the middle of the room in unfamiliar bewilderment as she flounced through the crowd, disappearing by the long tables. Straightening his shoulders, he sauntered back to the dais where a smirking Nimbus greeted him.

“What ails ye, Conn? Lose yer touch with the ladies in yer travels?”

Swatting him out of the throne, Conn replied, “What lady? I was dancing with Gelina.”

Rolling his eyes, Nimbus muttered something unintelligible.

Eyeing him suspiciously, Conn asked, “What did you say?”

“Nothing, sire. But someone else seems to think Gelina is quite a lady.”

He gestured to the floor. Conn watched as Sean Ó Finn led Gelina into the dance. Her laughing face was turned to him as if they shared some private joke. A strange knot curled in Conn’s stomach as he watched with open mouth. Nimbus studied him, eyes narrowed.

“They’ve become friends. That is wonderful,” Conn said wanly.