Lady of Conquest (32 page)

“Come, Gelina. Let us ride this windy night.” He led the horse out of the stall.

“You mean”—Gelina stuttered in her doubt—“you will allow me to ride?” She could not hide the light that sprang to her eyes.

“I will allow us to ride,” he corrected.

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not going to leave me strangled on the moors, are you?”

He raised a sinister brow and hissed, “Perhaps.”

Gelina followed as he led the animal into the moonlit night. He watched her curiously as she backed up several feet from the horse and ran toward it. Catching her around the waist as she passed him, he halted her in mid-vault.

“That might be more difficult in a skirt. Allow me.” He interlaced his fingers, providing a stepping place for her.

With a mocking curtsy she swung herself on the horse, spreading her skirts on his back the best she could. Conn swung himself behind her. He handed her the reins and placed his hands on her waist. Her body was warm as she leaned against him, the top of her head barely brushing his chin. He touched his lips to her hair in a gesture as soft as the wings of a butterfly. His arm, pressed against her bare one, felt the gooseflesh rise on her silky skin.

They both kicked, sending the stallion into a gallop. The clouds gusted across the moon, creating a patchwork of black and silver on the long grass. They raced through the night. Gelina laughed aloud as she guided the horse across the meadows, the laughter snatched by the wind before it became audible. Conn smiled down at her as she glanced over her shoulder, his eyes sparkling in the moonlight, the wind whipping his hair. The horse thundered over the moors, its muscles moving in careless arrogance. As they reached the foothills, Gelina reluctantly steered the stallion in a wide circle.

She made no protest when Conn took the reins from her hands. He steered the horse with one hand, leaving his other arm nestled around her waist. She leaned against his broad chest and rested her head on his shoulder, relishing the unstable peace between them. The moon broke through the last of the clouds, bathing the night in its luminous glory.

Gelina tensed, her back going ramrod straight as Conn guided the prancing horse into a moon-dappled forest. The muscled forearm around her waist did not relax its firm but gentle pressure. She leaned back, surrendering to the hard cup of Conn’s body against hers. He halted the horse beside a splintered wooden bridge that spanned a rushing brook. They sat in silence, listening to the water dance over the rocks.

Conn’s warm breath, scented with ale and cinnamon, stirred the tendrils of hair at her earlobe. “Shall I strangle you on the moors or toss you in the brook?”

She giggled, not quite certain he was joking. “I’d prefer to be throttled, thank you. I cannot swim, and the last time you and I ended up in a brook, I fear you were the victor.”

“You once told me you weren’t afraid of anything.”

“I lied.”

He dismounted without a word, then raised his level gaze to her. Gelina stared at her freckled hands. They tangled in the black silky mane with a will of their own. Conn knew he would have to drag her off the horse. He turned away to hide the wrench of his heart as he realized the depth of her fear of him. His fingers circled her bare ankle like a chain of velvet. He rubbed his bearded cheek against the satiny skin of her calf.

“I built this bridge, you know,” he said softly, “when I was just a lad.”

Gelina stared at his bowed head, unable to fathom the agonizing gentleness of his touch. Her trembling fingers brushed his hair. He looked up at her, and she was reminded of the night he had sat in the mud outside the cavern, begging her with his eyes to kill him.

“The bridge has lasted well,” she said, her voice the murmur of a stranger.

He nodded. She felt the burning touch of his lips against her calf, coaxing a response from her heartbeat that she could not stop. His hand glided upward until his fingers found the pounding pulse sheathed behind her knee.

Gelina drew in a ragged breath, struggling to remember that his tenderness was a gift more easily snatched away than given.

“I wasn’t even born when you built this bridge,” she breathed.

Conn jerked his hand and lips away from her. He took a step backward. “We have more in common than I’d care to admit, milady. Neither one of us fights fair.”

Without another word he swung himself behind her and urged Silent Thunder out of the forest and into the meadow. His arm circled her waist like an iron band, dragging her softness against every unrelenting inch of his body. Gelina smiled.

He slowed the horse to a walk as they saw the torches of the fortress shining below them. He loosened his grip with a sigh. Gelina’s shoulders stiffened, and he tousled her curls with his hand.

She relaxed against him, tears springing to her eyes. The horse walked into the courtyard and halted in front of the stables.

Neither of them stirred for a long moment, both reluctant to break the calm. With a sigh Conn swung his leg over and stepped to the ground. He held out his arms to her. She slid into them, finding her body pressed close to the hard length of his. He loosed her, his eyes distant.

“Rub down the horse, please,” he said, already turning away from her.

She nodded and started to speak, only to find him already covering the distance between the stable and the fortress in long strides. She stared after him, bewildered that she could know him so well and not know him at all.

Conn entered the castle through the kitchen door, startling Cook so badly that she almost slipped into a round barrel of dishwater as he gave her a terse command and disappeared into the great hall. He stalked through the hall without a word, although every eye followed him and the music stumbled to a halt. He went straight to his room, where a fire had been built to drive away the chill. Sitting down in the chair before the fire, he waited.

Gelina ambled toward the light of the fortress, reluctant to surround herself with laughter and questions. She knew Audren would interrogate her mercilessly about the night’s events. She veered away from the kitchen and ducked into the servants’ quarters. Audren’s plump form rounded the corner, and Gelina silently groaned. To her amazement the girl brushed past her in the narrow corridor without lifting her eyes. Gelina stared after her with a frown of confusion before she shrugged and opened the door to her tiny cell of a room.

Her eyes adjusted to the light of a candle melted to a waxy puddle and knew that something in the room had altered. The narrow cot she tossed on each night remained as she had left it, a linen sheet thrown across it. She went to the table and ran her finger through the thick layer of dust that should have been partly concealed by a chipped basin and pitcher.

Perplexed, she knelt and opened the chest where her ivory comb and brush should be, the only remnants of her life as Conn’s foster daughter. They had vanished. With frantic hands she pressed the latch under the trunk’s lid to reveal an empty compartment. The pendant was gone. Her room was a parchment, erased by an unknown hand.

She shoved her fingers through her hair. With a vain attempt to steady her breathing, she whirled around in search of an answer. Moira’s buxom form stood silhouetted in the doorway, her face in shadows. Gelina sensed rather than saw her discomfort.

Gelina was so afraid of the answer that she could barely form the question. “My things? Surely I am to be allowed to keep my meager things. Where . . . ?”

Moira said gently, “They were moved. The order came tonight.”

“Moved where?”

Moira let her gaze wander the empty room. “They were moved to Conn's chambers.”

Gelina’s whole body began to shake, and for an instant Moira feared the girl would cry. But the emerald eyes she raised to Moira glittered with wrath, not tears.

“I shall not stand for this,” she stated coldly.

She swept past without another word, leaving Moira frozen in the doorway with a silent prayer on her lips. She did not know who she prayed for.

Gelina stormed into the great hall, her face a mask of bitter fury. As she weaved among the drunken dancers, she felt a hand grasp her wrist, tugging her to a halt.

“Where do you go in such haste, milady? Are you not weary of always rushing about?” Sean held her captive, trying to pull her into the reel.

She jerked away. “Leave me be, Sean. I’ve no desire to dance.”

When he refused to loose her, she calmly placed her heel on his instep, painfully reminding him of their first dance together. She disappeared into the crowd, leaving him to curse pleasantly as he rubbed his aching foot. She dodged other hands with equal alacrity, dispatching three soldiers and two farmers to the sidelines with throbbing shins.

She bolted up the stairs two at a time, her side aching from the effort. Traveling the torchlit hallway, she passed her old chamber without a glance, her eyes locked on the door at the end of the corridor.

Without hesitation she shoved the door open, sending it crashing against the wall. Conn sat in front of the fire, his long legs stretched out before him. The look in his heavy-lidded eyes stopped her in the doorway.

“I want my things. You cannot take them from me.” Her voice came out shriller than she intended, and she fought the urge to clear her throat.

“Close the door,” he commanded.

Gelina stood unmoving for a moment, then slammed the heavy door. The sound reverberated through the room. Conn did not move.

She stood in front of him, arms crossed, and repeated, “I want my things.”

“I didn’t steal your things. I just had them moved,” he said with infinite patience.

She peered around the room and saw her brush and comb resting on his chest. The pendant Rodney had given her lay beside them, its contours gleaming in the firelight.

“Why did you move them?”

“Because these are your new chambers. Your things belong here now.” He crossed his ankles and studied his leather boots.

A chill traveled her spine. His perfect calm terrified her.

“And where is Sheela? Under your bed?”

“She has departed.”

Gelina struggled to keep the pleading note from her voice. “I know ‘tis my fault that she left, but I shouldn’t have to take her place, should I?”

“I sent her away.”

His words sent Gelina resolutely toward the door before his quiet voice paralyzed her.

“There’s a guard outside the door.”

She turned. Without meeting his eyes she went to the couch and sat down.

“It seems I’ve walked right into your latest little trick. I have to congratulate you on your cleverness. Your strategy was infallible. You didn’t have to drag me kicking and screaming through the great hall. You did away with the hysterical scene.” She observed him from under her thick fringe of lashes and laughed weakly. “At least you’ve got the good graces to look guilty.”

Arching his eyebrows, Conn replied, “A man in my position has to learn to live with a little guilt.”

He stood abruptly and went to the window. His eyes stared into the night as he raised a hand to either side of the window and supported his weight.

“At some point in his life, Gelina, a man has to decide how much of his power he’s going to use. I decided tonight.”

“Can you live with your decision?”

“Better than I can without it.” He turned toward her. “When I was a boy, I wanted nothing more than to be Ard-Righ of Erin—to unite the tribes of Erin in a common bond. When I faced death with a dagger at my throat, I wanted nothing more than to live. When I faced exile in a strange country, I wanted nothing more than to feel the grass of Erin beneath my feet again.”

He stood only inches in front of her. She locked her hands together to hide their violent shaking.

He tilted her chin up until she was forced to meet his eyes. “But I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you.”

She exhaled slowly, unable to still the sudden trembling of her lower lip. He knelt in front of her and placed a hand on each shoulder. Pulling her to him, he kissed her softly, his tongue exploring the warm contours of her mouth.

Gelina jerked away. “Is this a game, Conn? Is this your final jest on Rory Ó Monaghan? Is this how I pay my debt to the Fianna?” She grabbed the front of his shirt and twisted it between her fingers, demanding an answer.

He captured her hands in his and brought them to his warm lips. “No, Gelina. The debt is mine. I fulfilled a lust born of anger that night in the cavern. I hurt you. ‘Twas not the way things are supposed to be. I must prove that to you.”

“If there’s a guard outside the door, Conn, there is no difference. This is still a battle, and you’re still the enemy.” She struggled for the words to make him understand.

He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Tonight might be a battle and tomorrow might be, but you cannot resist me forever.”

“So once again I have no right to refuse you?”

Conn took a step backward, unable to face the tears of dread that welled in her emerald eyes. He reached out a hand to her cheek, then drew it back in despair. Sitting down heavily on the couch, he buried his face in his hands.