Lady of Conquest (28 page)

“You’re nearly as tiresome as Mer-Nod said you would be. First you’re begging to go look for them, and now here you are, acting the fool. I guess you can’t help that, though.” Sean chuckled at his play on words.

“Perhaps ye should have been the jester and not I, Ó Finn. Ye’re a real wit—a dimwit.”

Sean refused to rise to the bait, choosing instead to seat himself against a rise in the land and take a ravenous bite of the cheese. Nimbus approached with out-stretched hand.

“Get that hairy little paw away from me. I refuse to reconcile with you after that last insult.” Sean choked out his words from a cloying mouthful of cheese.

“ ‘Tis not reconciliation I’m interested in. ’Tis the cheese.”

Knowing how vicious the dwarf’s kicks could be to a man his size, Sean decided it would be wiser to yield than to argue. He tore the round of cheese down the center and handed the smaller half to Nimbus. Nimbus stared at it for a long moment, then turned narrowed eyes to Sean. Without a word Sean handed him his half and took the smaller half cradled disparagingly in Nimbus’s fingers.

They ate in silence, the morning rays lulling them into tranquil drowsiness. The sun danced on the plains below. A warm breeze blew from the west, stirring the tall grasses. In the distance a forest shimmered in the heat, the dark green of its leaves spun from the richness of the soil. Nimbus sighed, wondering how everything could be so wrong on a morning that looked so right.

“I don’t know why we seek them. They’ve probably killed each other by now,” he said, more to himself than to Sean.

“I seek Conn. I am here on a mission of state to obtain instructions as to the disposal of a prisoner of war.” Sean’s words were clipped.

Nimbus applauded. “Well said. I suppose ye have no interest in the disposal of another prisoner of war—Gelina.”

“Realistically speaking, Nimbus, disposal is probably the correct word. You didn’t see Conn leave the fortress with her. I have never seen him so . . . resolute. Conn has never raised a hand to me, but I saw death in his eyes when I stood before him that night. He came storming down that corridor with blood all over him, carrying her in his arms like a child. Her neck hung limp and she was so pale I can’t swear she wasn’t already . . .” His words faded to an awkward halt.

Nimbus rose and paced to the edge of the cliff, hands on hips, lips clamped together. He stared blindly down the hillside.

“Forgive me, Nimbus. That was brutal. I wish I understood his feelings for her.”

“I’m afraid I do,” Nimbus muttered.

Sean’s appetite deserted him, and he tossed the rest of the cheese away. “I cared for her, too, you know. I don’t desire to discover that he’s killed her or worse. It doesn’t make my life any better to know she’s probably lying dead on the floor of one of those caverns.”

Nimbus’s mouth opened and closed but he couldn’t manage more than a squeak.

“I didn’t mean to grieve you, Nimbus.” Sean went to stand beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

It was he who needed the support as his mouth fell open at the sight on the cliff below them.

Floating through the blackest tunnel in a stream of warm water with only his head above the surface, Conn went limp and surrendered to the joy of unconsciousness. No light and no pain; delicious warmth surrounded him. He was a small boy again drifting through life without a single flaw to mar his virgin honor. He would stay forever. Then came the voice.

It wasn’t a bad voice but it droned on, talking incessantly. He longed to silence it, knowing it was the only thing holding him back from drowning in the sweet water with only the broken surface to mark where his head had been. But still it continued.

It was his father’s voice. “Hold the bow steady. You shall never hold the kingdom of Erin if you cannot hold a bow.” Its very severity was comforting.

“Of course, I love you. You are my only son.” He was pulled to his mother’s bosom; he breathed in the scent of sandalwood.

A boy’s voice taunted him. “You’re only a bastard. You will never be a real man.”

There was silence. The water closed over his head.

Then came the dwarf’s voice, the very sharpness of it buoying him out of the water with a jolt. “She loved ye like a woman loves a man. She loved ye before ye ever left for Rome.”

His own voice was the worst. “I shall let you choose between two just punishments. I will either turn you over to the clans of the men you killed . . . or I will have you beheaded.”

Hearing a rhythmic splashing in the water beside him, he dared to open his eyes. They adjusted to the blackness; he turned to follow the sound.

Paddling beside him was the jackal. Its sleek muscles gleaming in the water, it followed him effortlessly downstream. Ragged jaws parted in a smile, sharp fangs dripping crimson blood. If he could, at that moment, he would have pulled the water over his head like a blanket, destroying the jackal forever. But the voice began again, and the jackal disappeared.

It was a girl’s voice, sparkling with the nuances of youth. It spoke of dancing barefoot and which berries made the most brilliant rouge. It spoke of horses traveling faster than the wind and jealousy in a muddy garden. Good swords were distinguished from bad ones by their weight. Lentil soup was compared to steak in the value of warming a cold, empty stomach. The voice continued, speaking of the most trivial and most important things in life as he floated downstream.

Each time he began to sink, the voice grew louder and faster, speaking of life’s pleasures so intensely that he would begin to fight the weight of the water himself. His journey was as endless as the voice. At last he dared to sleep, knowing that he would awake and the voice would still be holding him up.

When he opened his eyes again, there was light and the worst-looking bowl of soup he had ever seen in front of his face.

“There are eyeballs in that soup.” His voice was weak but not nearly as weak as his stomach as he faced the offending bowl.

“They will make you very strong. I ate lots of them when I was younger and look at me.”

He struggled to focus on the blur behind the bowl, squinting at the young cannibal who held the steaming soup. “Whose eyeballs are they?”

A joyous laugh rippled through the air. “No one’s, silly. They come from the fish the soup was made from. I won’t make you eat them. Just take a sip of the broth.”

Before he could protest, a spoonful was sent tumbling down his raw throat. The taste was not unfamiliar. He wondered just how many bowls of eyeball soup he had eaten.

The face behind the bowl came sharply into focus as the fog lifted from his eyes, blown away by the steam from the soup.

“Gelina,” he breathed.

“In the flesh. I fear I’ve been disobedient again. I haven’t gotten around to killing you or running away. You shall have to be patient. Perhaps the soup will kill you.”

She sent another spoonful down his throat as he attempted to sit up. A shock wave of pain sent his head reeling, and she pushed him back down. Shaking her head, she reached for a flagon and poured a few drops of the amber liquid onto the spoon. He took it without argument.

“I am afraid ‘tis the last of it,” she said. “I’ve had to give you a lot in the past few days.”

“Days?”

He struggled to remember, seeing that she still wore his tunic with a narrow rope cinching it shut in the front. Her slender legs appeared tanned in the shadowy cave.

“Three days. You nearly bled to death.” She busied herself with cleaning the spoon and bowl in a still pool.

Blood. He remembered blood. Her blood on his fingertips. “Why . . . ?”

She interrupted him. “You must rest. I’m going to dry these things in the sun.”

She disappeared before he could croak another word. Her voice had been hoarse; dark circles had smudged the pale skin beneath her eyes. He sighed, knowing whose voice had pulled him back from that dark stream of death.

The sun bathed his body in its forgotten comfort. With much effort and giggling, Gelina had dragged him outside inches at a time until he could sit on the sun-drenched rocks in front of the cave. Closing his eyes, Conn wondered if he had ever felt so content. Even the bad fish soup had begun to taste good once he insisted that Gelina remove the eyeballs from his portion. Three days had passed since he had regained reluctant consciousness. He was still as weak as a child, but he could feel the stirrings of strength deep in his belly. He stretched his rusty limbs like a drowsy lion.

Pretending to nap, he watched Gelina beneath lowered eyelids as she bustled around, moving their scant belongings outside. She paused at the makeshift spit that settled over a small pit close to the edge of the cliff. A frown of concentration nestled on her features. She cursed softly as the sticks collapsed for the third time, stubbornly refusing to balance on the uneven rocks. She peered around the clearing until she found a large flat rock to support the sticks, then surveyed her handiwork with a smile.

“I know men of the Fianna who know less about living outdoors than you do,” he said softly.

She beamed at him. Her smile faded as she was caught and held by his intense gaze. She glanced away shyly, wondering what thoughts lurked behind the sapphire of his eyes. Seeking any chore to end the awkward silence, she started for the cave.

“Come here.”

She stopped in her tracks, sensing a note of command in his voice. She stood in the entranceway with her back to him for a long moment before turning to face him.

She moved toward him, mouth tight and eyes carefully veiled. “Yes, sire.”

His eyes revealed nothing but she sensed a brief flare of anger at her words. She knelt beside him.

He took her hand in his; his fingers played across her palm in a tender caress. “You saved my life.”

“I confess to that. Perhaps you can give me a medal of honor to wear on your jacket.” Attempting a wan smile, she stared at their entwined hands as if they belonged to someone else.

“I hurt you.” His gaze raked the sunlit valley below them, but his hand traveled gently up her arm. “I took you for all the wrong reasons.”

Color stained her cheeks. Her words tumbled over one another. “They say it hurts anyway. It would have hurt even if you hadn’t intended it to.”

“Oh, I intended it to,” he said huskily. “You must know I could have made it easier for you. Or maybe you don’t.” His eyes caught and held hers with the hurt bewilderment of a child. “I would have died for you, Gelina. What did you want from me that I denied you? Why did you betray me? If anyone had tried to tell me I would ever force my will on you, I would have killed them where they stood.”

He bowed his head. It was she who tilted his chin and saw the remorse in his eyes. It was she who placed her lips on his without thought, attempting to draw forth his pain. His lips parted against hers, guiding her inexperienced kiss. Unable to pull away, she put her hands around his neck, sensing a promise of tender sweetness foreign to her. Conn’s strength surged. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her body to his.

A mocking voice cut through them, abruptly breaking their embrace. “So this is how the high king of Erin spends his time while his favorite jester is out busting his ass searching for him!”

Conn groaned, wasting no time on his reply. “My ex-favorite jester, thank you.”

Nimbus stood with arms crossed and legs akimbo, a smile twitching on his lips. Sean surveyed the view from the cliff with mock interest, poorly hiding his consternation at their untimely interruption. Gelina scrambled to her feet and stalked into the cave without so much as a look at Nimbus. Exchanging an uneasy glance with Conn, the jester followed her.

The king’s posture and pallor were not lost on Sean. He knelt beside Conn, his practiced hands examining the bandage on his shoulder. “Are you all right, Conn?”

He shrugged. “I live.” Not missing Sean’s glance at the cavern, he added, “It wasn’t her. Her brother ran me through from the back.”

“Did you get him?” Sean’s handsome features twisted in uncharacteristic bloodlust.

He shook his head. “I guess that means you didn’t get him either.”

Sean bowed his head, suppressing a grin. “No. But we got someone else.” In answer to Conn’s raised eyebrow, he said, “Along with about three hundred Castilians, a certain Eoghan Mogh is languishing in our dungeon.”

Conn laughed bitterly. “Dear Eoghan. Death is too good for him. What shall we do with the black-hearted traitor?”

“You know the law of De Danann as well as I. A maimed man may never sit on the throne of Erin.”

“You make a worthy point. Perhaps I shall tear out his eyes and make the last sight he sees the throne he will never have.”

Sean rose and stood at the cliff’s edge, his back to Conn. “I regret to bring you another difficulty.”

“What is it?”

Sean turned, hesitant to continue. “‘Tis Gelina. There are those who say she aided and abetted the rebels. They say Eoghan Mogh’s fate should be hers.”

Although Sean would have sworn it impossible, Conn paled a shade whiter. “Who dares to say this?”