Lady of Conquest

M
Y
K
INGDOM FOR A
K
ISS
 

H
e is called Conn of the Hundred Battles, the warrior-king who forged a nation from a land of isolated clans. As High King of Ireland, he rides with the legendary Fianna, his elite band of warriors. But a threat to the throne looms from a mysterious scourge who has vanquished several of Conn’s bravest warriors. Conn rides out alone to face a seemingly invincible foe, never expecting that he will confront a grief-maddened hellcat with emerald eyes and hair like liquid flame.... 

Wielding a sword called Vengeance, Gelina Ó Monaghan has sworn to defeat the man she holds responsible for her family’s ruin. 

She never dreamed she’d be bested by him in combat...and lose her heart in the bargain. Their forbidden passion will become a private war fought with swords and kisses, promises and betrayal—and surrender will be only the beginning....

ALSO BY TERESA MEDEIROS

Heather and Velvet
Once an Angel
A Whisper of Roses
Thief of Hearts
Fairest of Them All
Breath of Magic
Shadows and Lace
Touch of Enchantment
Nobody’s Darling

Bantam Books

NEW YORK TORONTO LONDON SYDNEY AUCKLAND

Lady of Conquest A Bantam Book

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley edition published August 1989

Bantam paperback edition / December 1998

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1998 by Teresa H. Medeiros.

Cover art copyright © 1998 by Alan Ayers.

Cover insert art copyright © 1998 by Franco Accornero.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

For information address: Berkley Books 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

ISBN 0-553-58114-7

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

OPM 10 987654321 

For Michael, who holds the dark at bay,

and for Drayton and Linda, my parents,

who read all the first chapters of all the books

I wrote when I was twelve
 

In memory of David Rappaport, a little actor who had a great talent

More than a thousand years before Sir Thomas Malory immortalized the legend of King Arthur and his Camelot, a kingdom arose from the mists of Ireland—a kingdom founded on honor, chivalry, and the dreams of one man.

Conn of the Hundred Battles defeated his rival, Cathair Mor, and united all of Ireland under one high king. Conn’s skills as a mighty warrior preceded his reputation as statesman and king. But once established on the throne at Tara, he devoted himself to fostering a legion of warriors known as the Fianna, who ushered in a glorious age of valiant deeds.

For the first time in Ireland’s history, men knelt before their king to take oaths of chivalry, capturing the hearts and minds of the Irish people for centuries to come. Masters of love and battle, Conn and his Fianna are still celebrated today in poetry, legend, song, and in the romance of
Lady of Conquest,
the tale of a mighty king and the young girl who would test his every belief with her love. . . .

Kevin Ó hArtagain stepped into the cave with sword drawn in shaking hands. Shame wedded with fear as he remembered the oath he had taken before his king. No matter what odds he faced, his weapon must never shake in his hands. If his comrades in arms could see him now, they would scoff in disbelief at his trembling limbs. They had witnessed him savage both men and beast in battle with teeth bared and a growl on his lips. Looming over most opponents, he was not a man many would care to confront in darkness.

And here he stood in the shadowed corridor of this cave, his scalp tingling as sweat poured between his braids in icy rivulets. Fear cavorted in his eyes; the shadows thrown by his torch danced on the walls.

He continued, scuttling sideways like a crippled crab to keep the wall at his back. An oversized torch at the rear of the cave sprang into light with the pop of a small explosion. He tossed down his own torch, leapt to the center of the corridor, and crouched behind a stalagmite that reached to the ceiling. The riotous light revealed what lay in wait for him. His hand slid in the slime that coated the stalagmite. The black void in the pit of his stomach grew, threatening to obliterate him with its terror.

The specter stalked him with stealthy grace, throwing nightmarish shadows against the stony walls. An executioner’s black hood masked its features. Green eyes glittered deep within the recesses of the hood like an illusion, briefly seen and quickly doubted. The massive sword in the gloved hand of the hellish apparition gestured toward the stalagmite Kevin crouched behind, in grim invitation. Kevin closed his eyes and thought of the four men who had come here before him. Four dead warriors tossed out to rot like foul vegetables in the mossy woods.

Anger began to build, displacing the paralyzing fear. It started in his smallest toe and crept upward like a stabilizing vine. It gave his limbs the braces they needed to slowly rise, step out from his mock shelter, and turn to meet the demon. A daring smile twisted his lips. Sword clutched in both hands, he advanced and parried the first vicious swing of the weapon wielded by his foe.

The voluminous black cloak surrounding the monster danced with a life of its own upon each swing; Kevin was dwarfed. The dexterity he had worn like a badge of honor served only to prolong the ordeal into a slow-motion nightmare in the flickering recesses of the cavern. The creature cut at him, each stab tearing smooth flesh and exposing muscle, tissue, and an ever-increasing torrent of blood.

The torch at the back of the cave flickered as Kevin Ó hArtagain, a warrior of the king, went down under a quick thrust of the sword, which pierced his sternum and lodged a blazing fire in his chest. With his final grip he grasped the fine steel from which it was wrought. Holding it tightly enough to slice into the fingers of his right hand, he read the inscription carved into the hilt of burnished gold—
Vengeance.

The sword was snatched from his weakening grip. The last image imprinted on his dying brain was of the thing in front of him retreating with peculiar grace—and falling apart at its abdomen. The last sound he heard before his eyes fixed at an angle in front of him in a death stare was the sweet ripple of a young girl’s laughter.

A Love Song

He is a heart,

An acorn from the oakwood.

He is young.

A kiss for him!

—Author unknown

7th or 8th century

It was a gray day, as bleak and still as the faces that filled the great hall. Clouds hung low in the late afternoon sky, thick with the promise of rain; tension hung low in the air, promising no release. Mer-Nod frowned, deepening the lines that creased his brow as he contemplated the unnatural pall that had fallen over the court on this dreary day.

Gone were the voices raised in argument. Gone the laughter, the music, the poets’ tales. A thick layer of apprehension had been laid upon the tongues of the people, muffling hundreds of voices to a low murmur. The poets sat at Mer-Nod’s feet, honoring him as chief poet even in their silence. The harps stood untouched, propped against the fine-grained yew walls like forgotten toys. Cupbearers milled through the hall, filling goblets with ale and ears with the rumors they had heard. With his head thrown back and eyes closed in muttered prayer to Morigu, a juggler sat cross-legged on the floor, nine golden apples cradled in his lap.

Mer-Nod pushed back the long dark hair that fell over his shoulder. Soft gray wings framed his face, lessening the severity of his hawklike nose and penetrating dark eyes. A full bottom lip belied the solemnity of a jutting jaw covered by a day’s growth of dark beard. With one foot propped in the chair, he stared over the crowd.

A fine edge of anticipation cut the air, as sharp as the gleaming blades that hung in the scabbards of the men who stood out from any vantage point in the hall. Their sun-darkened faces were etched with the fine lines only the wind can engrave. Tight, sleeveless jerkins exposed not an ounce of excess fat on their hard, muscled bodies.

The fighting men mingled in the great hall, some absently flirting with the young girls, others speaking in hushed tones with the farmers and shepherds. When they crossed the hall, they were greeted with pats on the back and words of encouragement as the crowds parted to let them through. They were the Fianna, the protectors and adored of Erin. Battling and hunting, they roamed the island, making love and making legend each roving hour of the day. And they were dying now, one by one, their mutilated bodies left to putrefy in the dank woods.

Mer-Nod sighed and closed his eyes, knowing no one would dare speak to him in such a state. They would assume he was composing. How he longed to oblige them! His hand itched for a quill. What a tale of victory he would wring from Kevin’s defeat of the monster! Already he was planning the metrics for the piece, his long fingers drumming a rhythm on the oaken arm of his chair.

The murmur at the door rose to a buzz and people stumbled over one another in an excited flurry, clearing a path for the king, who was joining their vigil. Faces stiff with worry cracked into heartening smiles, not daring to show their fear to the man who made his way through their midst.

His stride was long and sure. Replacing his ceremonial robe was a short tunic similar to the one worn by his soldiers. At exactly six feet, he met the lowest standard for entry into the Fianna. His body was muscular, with leonine grace coiled in each movement. A few silver threads sprang obstinately from his dark mane of curly hair.

His face arrested the eye’s attention. Dark blue eyes surrounded by a thick, black fringe of lashes peered out from behind the lock of hair that threatened to hide them. His nose was straight, not thin enough to be called patrician. A dark beard covered his jawline, surrounding full lips. It was a mouth that could be stretched into a boyish smile to dazzle his courtiers; it was a mouth that could tighten to a fine line when leading his men into battle.

He was not a man to hide his emotions and if pushed against the wall, his blue eyes would darken, gleaming like unfathomable gems. They called him Conn of the Hundred Battles, and he had swept through the Isle of Erin like wildfire in a dry forest, uniting and conquering until he was ruler of all.

Mer-Nod allowed a rare smile to cross his lips. Conn’s path to the throne was marked by clasped hands, pats on the back, and an occasional kiss for an infant thrust into his face.

Conn winked at Mer-Nod as he neared the judge’s chair. “Perish the gloom, poet. I’ll waive your taxes for a genuine smile.”

He stood before the throne and raised his arms to the people. An immediate hush fell over the hall. A baby’s cry cut shrilly through the silence.

All eyes turned to Conn as he spoke. “Runners approach from the north. They should arrive within the hour. They bring us the news we seek.” The voices rose, then fell silent again as he stepped off the narrow dais and paced before the throne. “I see many frightened faces.” He turned to look accusingly at the crowd, then resumed his pacing. “We have been presented a great challenge . . . a dragon with a craving for our spirits. It seeks to maim and destroy not only our men, but our wills as well.” Conn faced the crowd, hands resting lightly on hips. “The question is—are we going to let it succeed?”

A woman near the front nervously bit her lip. Two soldiers stared each other down from the floor below the king.

A nasal voice carried over the crowd, breaking the silent spell. “And the answer is . . .”

All eyes, including Conn’s, turned upward. High on the wall was a narrow platform, and perched on that platform was a dwarf grasping a trapeze hooked to the ceiling. An audible gasp rose from the crowd as the small man sailed smoothly from his perch, knees hooked around the trapeze bar. Upside down, his head barely missed the heads of the taller men of the Fianna.