Emerald Prince (9 page)

Alianor’s heart sank. The farmers were in league with the outlaws. She had feared as much, but was disappointed nonetheless. As if reading her mind, Hilda added, “I scolded them when I saw they’d brung a lady. Told my Dubh I would not stand for any malarkey going on.”

“Malarkey?”

“What stuff and nonsense men folk work themselves up to,” Hilda said, which did not clarify things one bit. She stirred the contents of another cauldron hung over the fire, and tested its contents with a huge wooden ladle. A satisfied grin tweaked the corner of her mouth.

Then Hilda gave a disparaging grunt. “To be sure, I gave the menfolk plenty of grief for making a lady sleep in the barn. I could have laid out a comfortable pallet here in the house. But not till morn did I hear they brung you with ’em.”

Alianor ate while Hilda rattled on. She managed a few bites of the black pudding before pushing it aside.

“Not good?” Hilda’s brow furrowed.

“No, it’s delicious, but I cannot eat another spoonful. The porridge was so filling.”

This explanation satisfied Hilda and her smile reappeared. “I think clean water is what you wish most of all, aye?” she said when Alianor brushed at her dirty face. “And a moment or two alone for your ablutions.”

“Oh yes, I would be ever so grateful.”

Hilda nodded. “Bahh, menfolk do not stop to think, before they go charging around kidnapping ladies,” she grumbled. “Come, milady, let’s see to your comforts before those ogres hunt us down.”

Chapter Six

L
IAM HAD
B
IORRA SADDLED
and the other men were mounted, waiting. He was on the verge of storming into the cottage when the women finally reappeared. He saw the reason for delay. Alianor’s hair lay in a thick neat braid down her back. Her face scrubbed, her skirts dusted off, she looked as if she felt better.

Hilda joined her husband, and Alianor walked toward Liam. He busied himself with recinching Biorra’s saddle, something he had already done, twice. He gave her a sideways glance and couldn’t help but comment. “You’ll just get dirty again.”

“You could ensure I don’t, Caomhánach.”

“How?”

“By letting me go.” Alianor spoke softly, so the others would not overhear.

Not now, not ever.
The thought came out of nowhere. Unbidden. Unwanted. He did not reply to her suggestion; he could not trust himself to.

She looked worried when he stayed silent, her eyes pleading with him to say something.

“Impossible, milady.”

“Why? When there is no sign or word of me, Lord de Lacy will assume I was killed or died wandering these hills. I shall seek refuge from the Church, and never give my true identity. I vow I’ll not betray you to anyone.”

She was clever, Liam had to admit. The soft tone, the husky tremble within her voice. Her petition for mercy was reflected in the bluest eyes he had ever seen. A man unawares could lose himself in their depths — drowning in sapphire pools framed by a heart-shaped face. Softer men than he must have succumbed to this
Sassenach
witch.

“Enough. I know what I am about.” Liam hoped his curt tone banished any false hopes she held. If she supposed her feminine charms would sway his heart, she was mistaken.

“Time to go,” he said, tossing Biorra’s reins over the horse’s neck. He laced the fingers from both his hands into a makeshift step and held it out for Alianor. “Only one question remains — do you mount like a lady, or shall I toss you up there like a sack of grain?”

Anger flashed in her eyes. “You wouldn’t dare …” When he made a movement towards her, she reconsidered. “Wait.”

Liam cupped her delicate foot in his hands and boosted her into the saddle. With Alianor astride Biorra, he led the gelding over to thank their hosts.

“My gratitude as always,” he said to the farmers, gripping Dubhan’s hand and returning Hilda’s hug. He looked to Torin sitting on his brown pony. At Liam’s nod, Torin pulled several items from his saddlebag, and tossed them to his leader. Liam presented them to the couple by way of thanks.

To Dubhan went a pair of dead soldier’s boots of fine calfskin leather. They would serve the farmer well, or he could sell them. To Hilda, he presented a red cloak trimmed with fur. He heard Alianor’s gasp and knew she was surprised, mayhap even angry.

“Too fine for me by half,” Hilda cried, but looked delighted as she clutched the cloak to her ample bosom.

“The color suits you, Hilda,” Alianor said. Liam looked at her, expecting to see judgment in her eyes; instead he bore witness to sincerity. Perhaps he misjudged his captive. Then again, it could be part of her strategy to relax his guard.

He swung up behind Alianor and his body reacted to her warm, soft flesh pressed against his. The faint fragrance of violets still clung to her. The scent annoyed him today as much as it had charmed him yesterday, and he curbed Biorra a tad sharper than usual.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Alianor asked.

The blindfold. Swallowing an oath, Liam yanked it from his pocket and cinched it back in place over her eyes, though not so gently this time. Ignoring her startled inhalation, he set his heels to Biorra and they were off again.

They rode a few miles in silence, until Alianor spoke with a burst of mounting frustration.

“I am of no true value to you, Caomhánach. Why do you insist on pursuing this course? ’Twill come to naught, and you and your men will die for your troubles.”

Liam tensed; his emotions near boiling over. Her touch was like a brand upon his flesh, a fire bolting through him so fiercely he feared he might succumb to its driving need. Only anger could save him.

“You are right in one aspect, milady.
Who
you are is unimportant to me, yet
what
you represent is of the utmost significance. Do not think otherwise.”

She withdrew her dainty hand from where it clutched his arm, as if he had bitten it. A downward glance revealed a frown beneath the blindfold. Liam almost believed her upset to be genuine. He reminded himself Lady Coventry was a canny creature, raised at court and well-trained in the gentle arts of persuasion. He held this conviction in mind until she spoke again, this time softer.

“Forgive me. I shall not trouble you further.”

His anger fled and in its place came a disconcerting shame for his outburst. God’s nightshirt, he swore to himself. She was not only good, she was a master of the game. His captive made him feel guilty with her silence!

More disgusted with himself than her, he whistled to Biorra and the horse plunged into a full gallop. Alianor grabbed his arm again for support, and he felt a flash of triumph when she was forced to depend on him. The feeling was short-lived. The skies above them darkened and rumbled, and the first splash of rain fell upon his cheek like a teardrop.

Liam set his jaw. He had a feeling Eire herself was laughing at him, laughing so hard she cried.

A
LIANOR FELT THE SOGGY
blindfold slip further down her head. The man behind her didn’t seem to notice or care. Liam remained silent as the once-gentle rain lashed at them viciously, aided by the cold wind. He had no choice but to let Biorra slow his break-neck pace, the mud and muck too hazardous. So the horse carried his miserable burden with agonizing, plodding slowness.

Uncertain what had transpired between her and Caomhánach, she thought back on their conversation. Or was it confrontation? One moment he was gentle and considerate, the next angry and hard. How could she reason with this moody man?

What you are is of the utmost significance
. The words rang in Alianor’s mind. What am I? English? That alone seemed enough to provoke any native Irishman’s hatred, but was it enough to risk the hangman’s noose for kidnapping? No, she thought not. Was it her connection to King John, mayhap?

She knew the King had more enemies than he could count. Many bore contempt for the Crown as a result of his cruel actions. Not only was he a bigot where the Irish were concerned, but he was at constant odds with the Church.

But what had any of it to do with her? Or why would it make any difference to this Irishman?

There was her intended, Lord de Lacy. Liam bore a great disdain for the man, which she saw in the curl of his upper lip whenever he spoke the man’s name. Surely he knew she was no willing party to de Lacy’s schemes. He had noticed the black gown and wedding ring she still wore. Neither painted a portrait of romantic devotion.

She swore under her breath. Why couldn’t she think? She had never felt so helpless before — even when confronted with the King’s lust, she had not backed down. Now, it was not the rheumy, piggy eyes of the King disarming her, but the emerald-green ones of a cutpurse. Liam Caomhánach. Even the music of his name teased at her lips; she pushed this thought aside with renewed determination.

Exhaustion, cold, fear; a myriad of reasons explained her wavering confidence and passing fancies. Miserable, Alianor hoped a break from the saddle and the rain might help restore her strength. As if willing it, Biorra stopped and Liam ordered the men to dismount.

When Liam lifted her down from the saddle, the sodden blindfold gave way and slipped down to her neck. She tensed expecting an angry reaction, but Liam sighed and pointed towards a large cave opening where some of his men gathered to wait out the rain.

Liam and the remaining men tended the horses, and Alianor slogged up the hillside to the cave in her heavy, soaked skirts. On the way she reflected upon Liam’s prophetic words:
You’ll just get dirty again.

She ducked into the cave, wringing water from her braid. When she arrived, Niall led her to a rock where she could sit. She saw he already had Goliath’s cage in a dry corner of the cave. Poor Goliath, he looked as wet and battered as she was.

“Here, colleen. You must be hungry.” Niall handed her a hunk of dry bread and cheese. “We’ll be off again soon, so make short work of it.”

Alianor took the offering with a nod of gratitude. “Thank you. I hope there is enough to go around.”

Niall heard the sincerity in her voice, and found himself admiring Lady Alianor again. Not only was she beautiful, but she had a kind heart. He found it remarkable she worried about the welfare of a motley lot of outlaws when she did not know her own fate. “Aye, our good Hilda saw us stocked up for the rest of the journey.”

“What is this place?” Alianor asked, nibbling at a wedge of cheese while looking around. The light was dim and only a few feet away the cave plunged into an abyss of darkness.

“The old ones call it
Dearc Fearna
, the Cave of the Alders.” Niall’s voice echoed in the cavern around them. “’Tis said a terrible monster reigned here,
Luchtigern
, the Lord of the Mice.”

“Now only one monster calls it home,” Alianor said with a nod in Liam’s direction.

Niall laughed. “In a mood, is he?”

“I suppose you could call it so, though I might use less polite words.” Alianor perched upon a large boulder near the mouth of the cave, arranging her skirts as if she attended a courtly picnic in the wood.

Between bites of bread and cheese she asked, “Is Caomhánach like your Lord of the Mice, good sir? Perhaps I should beg your protection against the fearsome temper of a man like he.”

Aye, she’s a sense of humor, and one as blunt as the edge of a Sassenach sword, Niall thought. He liked her better by the minute.

“Liam has reasons for what he does, milady. Don’t judge him without knowing the whole story.”

“Please call me Alianor. Formalities seem rather silly in view of my circumstances.” She finished the last of the humble meal and offered him a delicate hand. Niall nodded as he lifted it to his lips. The gallant gesture seemed natural when confronted by a woman like Alianor. He was beginning to understand why Liam was drawn towards and yet disturbed by the beautiful widow.

“I’m Niall. Your faithful servant whilst you are with us — Alianor.”

“At the moment, Niall,” Alianor confessed, shaking crumbs from her skirts, “I’m more in need of a friend.”

“Aye,” he nodded. “’Twould be an honor if you consider me one.” He pressed a finger to his lips and winked. “Hist, ’twill be our little secret though. Don’t tell Liam, else he’ll have me hide for it.”

H
ANDS CLASPED BEHIND HIS
back, King John stared out the window of his royal apartments. A few weeks ago, from this exact spot, he watched a fair young woman ride her white palfrey and bade her tercel hunt.

Christ’s wounds! His eyes narrowed as he gazed at the empty yard, devoid of its former decoration. Damme the little cocktease. Damme de Lacy, too. The idiot lost his rarefied prize before he even sampled it. Trust a Normandy-bred simpleton to allow his own bride to slip through his fingers. Now he didn’t even have the satisfaction of knowing Alianor suffered at the hands of a man renowned for his cruelty. Perhaps humbled enough to wish in her hour of shame she had not been so quick to refuse her King.

Both courts knew of de Lacy’s predilection for bizarre sexual acts, and it amused John to imagine Alianor’s disgust and horror. If he could not have her, he did not mind tossing her to a man so reviled. There was no danger she would fall in love with de Lacy. Even whores were repulsed by the one they called
Le Anguille
, the Eel, for his cold-blooded nature.