Conor

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  Kneeling up, Emma watched in amazement as the hooded figure

  moved among them, silently slitting each throat. He moved so

  quickly, none of his victims had time i to notice his approach, or to

  offer any resistance.

  When he returned, she was weeping in relief. Big wet tears that

  spilled down her cheeks. He lifted her face and wiped the tears with

  his thumbs. In his eyes she could read both simmering anger and

  heartfelt compassion for what I she was suffering. Without a word he

  picked her up and carried her to his waiting horse. She could feel the

  ripple of muscle as he climbed easily into the saddle, all the while

  holding her against his chest.

  "Thank you," she murmured when she could find her voice. "I

  know...I know what would have happened if you hadn't come to my

  rescue."

  Again he touched a finger to her lips to silence her words. Then he

  gathered her close, allowing her head to rest on his shoulder. They

  rode across the meadow in silence. In fact, it seemed to Emma, the

  whole world had gone suddenly silent. No breeze stirred the leaves of

  the trees. No night birds sang. Even the frogs in the pond made no

  sound as the horse splashed through the water, then climbed the

  embankment and headed toward her village in the distance.

  In the circle of this stranger's arms she felt warm and safe. No harm

  would come to her, she knew, as long as he held her like this.

  When they reached the village he slid from the saddle and set her on

  her feet.

  "I need to know your name, sir, so that my father can properly thank

  you."

  He shook his head.

  "Are you mute? Is that why you don't speak?"

  He merely remained silent.

  She offered her hand. "Then I thank you, sir. I will never, ever forget

  you, or what you did this night."

  Though the lower half of his face was covered by the cowl she could

  see the smile in his eyes. He pressed her hand between both of his,

  then turned and pulled himself into the saddle.

  He waited until she ran up the lane and let herself into her house.

  Then, as she stood in the doorway and waved, he saluted smartly and

  wheeled his mount. Minutes later he blended into the darkness.

  From that day on, Emma Vaughn told all who would listen about the

  mysterious warrior who had saved her honor and her life. When

  asked to identify her champion, she could describe only his eyes.

  Deep blue eyes, filled with ageless wisdom and courage and

  compassion. Though she was little more than a child, she had already

  lost her heart to this stranger. To emulate him, she put aside her fears

  and mastered the art of defense with a knife, vowing that no man

  would ever again find her helpless.

  Throughout all of Ireland the legend grew. And all spoke in awe of

  the courage of Heaven's Avenger.

  Chapter One

  Ireland, 1563

  ' 'I wish you weren't going to England, Conor." Moira O'Neil

  struggled to keep the emotion from her voice as she hugged her son.

  But the pain and fear were there, just beneath the surface. She knew

  that her middle child was widely regarded as Ireland's most

  persuasive orator. Knew, also, that he was a warrior second only to

  his older brother, Rory. A man adept with both word and sword could

  surely take care of himself in any situation. Still, the worry persisted.

  He was going to the land of their enemy. Into the very den of the lion.

  It had been his father's plan since Conor was a lad. And gradually,

  Conor had accepted the plan as his own. His gift was this wonderful

  ability to persuade people, through logic and pretty words, to use

  common sense over emotion. To negotiate rather than fight. To make

  peace rather than war.

  He had another gift, as well. Moira had seen the looks of approval in

  the eyes of the young women when he passed, and knew that he was a

  dashing ladies' man who had caught the eye of the queen. But

  Elizabeth of England was no innocent. She was a worldly monarch,

  famous for keeping charming young men around her only so long as

  they amused her. Once she lost interest they could find themselves in

  grave peril.

  Moira sighed. In her eyes Conor would always be that blue-eyed

  laughing charmer who had captured her heart when he was born, and

  owned it still.

  "It seems like only yesterday since you and Rory returned from that

  hellish place. And now you're going back, to the very palace where

  your brother nearly lost his life."

  "I'll be fine, Mother. I'm going at the invitation of the queen. What

  harm could possibly come to me?"

  What harm indeed? She had heard of the villainies and betrayals

  among those who surrounded Elizabeth at court. But she kept such

  things to herself as she hugged her son.

  "I'm proud of you, Conor." Gavin O'Neil clapped a hand on his son's

  shoulder and dragged him close. "You'll do us all proud. Your family.

  Your countrymen. And all those who will come after us will bless

  your name because of this sacrifice you make for Ireland. If you can't

  persuade the English queen to leave us in peace, at least you'll have

  your ear to the throne, so that we'll be prepared for what is to come."

  "I'll do my best, Father." Conor turned to his older brother, Rory, and

  the two men clasped hands. "You'll see to everything on this side of

  the sea?"

  "Aye." Rory grinned. "And gladly leave the other side to you." He

  gave Conor a cool, measured look. "There was another attack last

  night upon a group of English soldiers. Heaven's Avenger found them

  abusing a wench, and without a word, slit all their throats with a very

  small, very deadly knife."

  Conor took a step back. "Is that so?"

  Rory nodded. "Like all the others, this wench insists her avenger had

  superhuman strength, subduing all seven soldiers before even one

  could lift a hand in defense. She istelling all who will listen that he

  was as tall as a giant, and as handsome as a young god, even though

  she couldn't see his face."

  "Thus are legends born," Conor scoffed. "If she couldn't see his face,

  he could be either fair of face, as the wench insists, or perhaps scarred

  so badly he hides his disfigurement beneath a mask." Conor's tone

  was dry as he turned to kiss his sister-in-law's cheek. "Continue

  taking care of my brother, AnnaClaire, for he is surely losing his

  senses."

  She laughed. "I'll see to Rory. You'll give my father my love?"

  "Aye. If I should see him before he sets sail." James Lord Thompson,

  AnnaClaire's father, was Conor's only friend among the queen's

  counselors. But he had just sent word that he was being sent by the

  queen to Spain. Some suggested he was being banished because he

  had dared to cross words with the queen's favorite, Lynley Lord

  Dunstan.

  Conor turned to the lad who stood between Rory and AnnaClaire.

  The orphan, Innis Maguire, had become a son to them, living in their

  household, blossoming under their loving care. In the past months he

  had grown more than an inch i
n height. The beginnings of muscles

  could be seen beneath the sleeves of his tunic.

  Conor tousled the blonde hair and dragged the lad close. "Next time I

  leave, maybe you can go with me."

  "You mean it?"

  "Aye, lad. Though I think, when I return from England, I'll be home

  to stay."

  Conor turned to his little sister, Briana, who was openly weeping.

  "No tears now, lass. I'll be home before you have time to miss me."

  "I miss you already." She threw her arms around his neck and hugged

  him fiercely. "I don't want you to leave."

  "I know." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "But when the Queen of

  England issues an invitation, it's really a royal command. I must go."

  "She isn't my queen." Briana pushed from his arms and stomped her

  foot. She'd inherited her temper, as fiery as her hair, from her father.

  "Nor is she your queen, Conor."

  "True enough. But I've learned that 'tis ofttimes more prudent to lull

  an enemy with sweet songs than to approach with sword raised. So I'll

  go to England, lass, and watch and listen." He shot her that charming

  smile that had broken the heart of many a colleen. "And even croon a

  minstrel's song of love to the lady on the throne, if that's what it takes

  to keep my people safe from English swords."

  He pulled himself into the saddle and saluted his family smartly.

  Then, with a last wave at the servants who had assembled to wish him

  godspeed, he turned his mount toward Dublin.

  Before he reached the village he turned for a lingering look at

  Ballinarin. The sun had burned away the last of the morning

  raindrops. The sky was awash with feathery clouds that seemed to

  brush the highest peaks of Croagh Patrick. A waterfall cascaded

  down the side of the mountain, sending up a misty spray. A flock of

  sheep undulated across a hillside. This land was so green, so

  beautiful, it seemed like an artist's rendering.

  He thought of his little sister Briana's words to him and felt a sigh

  well up from deep inside. He wasn't yet gone, and already he missed

  the land of his birth. At times he felt like a nomad. Since boyhood

  he'd spent as much time away as he had at his beloved home. He'd

  lived with a tutor in a villa in Rome, where he'd mastered the classics.

  Learned to speak fluent Spanish in a monastery. Could converse in

  French after two years in Paris. What he longed for, more than

  anything else, was to spend the rest of his life at Ballinarin. Hearing

  words spoken in a soft, soothing brogue. Riding his horse across the

  green, verdant hills. But he had a duty. To his father. To his country.

  This was what he had trained for. What his mother had prayed for.

  What his father and brother had fought for.

  He would do his best to turn away from his legacy as a warrior and

  become, instead, an advocate for peace. But if peace could not

  prevail, he would never submit to the oppressor. He touched a hand to

  the knife at his waist. A knife that had spilled too much English

  blood.

  There was no turning his back on his destiny.

  Clermont House, Outside London

  "I grow weary of waiting for the throne." Henry, Earl of Huntington,

  paced back and forth. "Elizabeth grows more popular with her

  subjects every day."

  His sister put a hand on his arm. "Queens have a way of dying."

  He turned on her with a snarl. "Elizabeth is young and healthy. She

  could live for years."

  "She need not die of...natural causes."

  He studied her with new interest. "What are you planning?"

  "What I have always planned. What we have always planned,

  brother. You will be king." She turned to the other man in the room,

  who had remained silent throughout their exchange. "You, Dunstan,

  will get richer. And I..." Her smile bloomed. "As the new Lady

  Vaughn, I hold power over a certain someone who will do exactly as I

  say."

  Her brother Henry's frown deepened. "How can you be certain your

  stepdaughter will spy for us, Celestine?'

  She walked to the window and pointed. "You see? Even now she

  rides up the lane. The girl is as predictable as the English rain. She

  thinks herself smart and strong. But I intend to prove her wrong." She

  touched a hand to his arm.

  "Leave Emma Vaughn to me. And put your fears to rest. Prepare,

  instead, for your reign as King of England."

  Huntington's voice was rough with impatience. "I am not prepared to

  wait forever."

  "Nor am I," Dunstan said. "For I have a few plans of my own."

  "Then see to them. But if your plans fail, mine will not." She left her

  brother and Lord Dunstan and went to her chambers to prepare

  herself for her performance. It was an art that she had perfected.

  When she was ready she descended the stairs and made her grand

  entrance. "Foolish, defiant child. I ordered you to stay away. It is

  enough that I permit you use of your father's London townhouse."

  Celestine swept into the parlor with the polished air of a courtesan.

  Her gown had been artfully designed to show off her lush figure to its

  best advantage. Her eyes blazed as she confronted the young woman

  who was pacing before the fireplace. "Did you think the servants

  wouldn't tell me you were lurking about?"

  "I am not lurking." Emma stopped her pacing and lifted her head to

  stare at the older woman. "I've come to see my father and little sister."

  "I've told you before, Emma. You are forbidden to see them."

  "You have no right, Celestine."

  "I have every right. I'm your stepmother now. Yours and little

  Sarah's. And your father's wife. It is a wife's duty to look out for her

  husband."

  "Husband." Emma's hands knotted into fists at her sides. "You care

  not a whit about being a wife to my father. All you care about is

  securing his wealth."

  The woman gave a chilling smile. "It is my wealth now. I'll use it as I

  see fit. And you, my girl, will not see a farthing."

  "I care not for my father's wealth."

  "If that is true then leave."

  "Oh, I shall. But first I will see my father and little sister."

  "I forbid it."

  "You cruel, wicked creature. If my father knew what you were doing,

  he would renounce this farce of a marriage and have you publicly

  flogged."

  "Beware that idle tongue, my girl. For I am the mistress of Clermont

  House now. And I am telling you that your father and sister do not

  wish to see you."

  "That's a lie. My father loves me. He would never turn away from me.

  Sarah adores me. I'm like a second mother to her." With an anguished

  cry Emma crossed the room and caught the older woman's arm.

  "What have you said to them? What have you done to turn them

  against me?"

  She looked up into those narrowed eyes and saw a flicker of

  amusement. "They don't know, do they? You've never told them that

  you banished me from this home. Oh, how could they not know?

  Unless..." As a thought struck, she cried, "What have you done? Are

  they unwell? Dear heaven, are my father and little sister ill?"

  Celestine star
ed at the offending fingers wrinkling her sleeve. "You

  will unhand me at once, or I'll see that you are physically removed

  from this house and never permitted to return."

  When Emma released her, Celestine stiffened her spine and with,.a

  haughty gesture crossed to a side table. Pouring herself a goblet of

  wine she sipped, regarding her stepdaughter in silence.

  She was pleased to see that all the anger had drained from the girl. In

  its place was fear. A terrible, palpable fear that her beloved father and

  sister had fallen under some horrible spell.

  That must be the reason for this silence, Emma thought.

  Her strong, handsome father had been duped into marriage and was

  now being betrayed by this woman. And her sweet little sister, who

  had already suffered the loss of their mother, was now being denied

  the only comfort she had ever known.

  Just how far would this new bride go to insure that all the Vaughn

  wealth, all the power, all the titles, would be in her hands? Would she

  poison not only their minds but their bodies as well? At the very

  thought, Emma felt the terror begin to grow. A woman as ruthless as

  Celestine would be capable of anything.

  "Just how much do you desire to see your father and sister, I

  wonder?"

  "I wish it desperately." Emma felt a tiny flicker of hope. "Just to

  assure myself that they are not ill. And if, after seeing me, they should

  order me to leave, I will do so and never darken their door again. But

  please, I beg of you, I must hear it from their own lips. Let me speak

  with Sarah and my father."

  "Sarah is no longer here."

  "Not here? Where has she gone?"

  "I had her sent to the country. To stay with friends."

  "But why would you send her away? She's only six years old. Far too

  young to leave her father."

  "Aye, young. Young enough to forget."

  "Forget?"

  "I wanted Sarah far away from you, Emma. You've had too much

  influence in her young life. Like you, she refused to accept my

  authority. But she will learn." A hint of a smile touched the corner of

  Celestine's lips. "I intend to keep Sarah away from you. But I might