Conor

by Ruth Ryan Langan

  Celestine began to undress. She was a woman accustomed to pleasing

  men. As she slid the gown from her shoulders, a sly smile played on

  her lips.

  "You needn't worry about Emma."

  "I won't, my dear. I won't." He thought about Emma's pale, firm flesh.

  Of the fear in her eyes when he'd ripped the bodice of her gown.

  When he thought about all that he wanted to do to her, he grew hard.

  "In fact, when she's served her purpose, I'll dispose of her myself."

  "She's done little enough to earn her keep." Celestine stepped out of

  her petticoats and untied the ribbons of her chemise, baring her

  breasts.

  Seeing the hungry look in his eyes she threw back her head and

  laughed. "We're good for each other, my love. We each know exactly

  what the other is thinking. Now..." She sipped her wine, then crossed

  to him and settled herself on his lap. "...If I help you think of a way to

  dispose of Conor O'Neil, what will I get in exchange?"

  "What you always get, Celestine. My faithful, undying love."

  "You're about as faithful as a rutting goat." She wound her arms

  around his neck and pressed her lips to his. "What I want is an

  invitation to the Earl of Blystone's home in Warwick."

  "Why?" He nibbled her throat.

  "So I may begin a search among the nobles for my next husband."

  "You mean victim, don't you, my love?" They both laughed. But

  when he started to lever himself above her she pushed away. "Nay. I

  want your word. I know you are responsible for Blystone's invitation

  to the queen and her company."

  "Aye. It took little time at all to have him fall into my trap. All I did

  was appeal to his vanity, and he couldn't wait to invite Elizabeth and

  her entire court to his home.

  Once there it should be an easy matter to put the rest of my plan into

  motion."

  "I want to be there."

  "Why?"

  Her voice was smug. "Maybe because I have the Vaughn jewels now,

  and I want to flaunt them before my cousin." Her tone lowered with

  venom. "Elizabeth thinks herself above mere mortals. But she'll soon

  learn that she's just like the rest of us."

  "All right. You'll get your invitation. Now, come here." He pulled her

  close, and this time she relented.

  As his mouth began a slow exploration of her body, she smiled. "I

  believe I've just thought of a way to thank you, Dunstan."

  He lifted his head.

  "I've just thought of the perfect way to besmirch the good name of

  your enemy, Conor O'Neil."

  Conor went very still. At last. It hadn't taken nearly as long as he'd

  feared. The thought of sitting through hours of this was repugnant to

  him. But if they should reveal their secrets quickly, he'd be on his

  way, leaving them to each other. These two vile creatures deserved

  each other.

  Suddenly Conor heard the thundering of horses' hooves. From his

  position on the balcony he watched as a contingent of soldiers

  clattered into the courtyard and milled about.

  From inside the room he heard Celestine's voice purring. "I hear your

  guards."

  "They'll wait." There was a muffled laugh. "They'll have to. I can't

  possibly leave just yet. Not in this... condition."

  Conor pressed himself into the shadows, prepared to wait as long as

  necessary.

  From somewhere in the house came .a cry. Then a shout. Doors were

  slammed. Hurried footsteps sounded along the hallway, then another

  cry.

  A pounding on her door had Celestine muttering oaths usually

  reserved for sailors and stable hands.

  "How dare you disturb me?" she demanded.

  "My lady. This is of the utmost urgency." The voice of the servant

  was muffled behind the closed door.

  Conor pressed close to the window to overhear.

  "What is it?" Celestine's voice was louder now, as she scurried to pull

  on a wrap before yanking open the door.

  "It's the lord." The servant was clearly out of breath.

  Celestine chuckled. "Is he dead?"

  "Nay, my lady. He's gone."

  "Gone? What do you mean gone, you stupid wench? He can't be

  gone. The man can't even sit up, let alone walk."

  "His bed is empty, my lady. As is little Sarah's."

  Celestine's screams brought the entire household to its feet. Doors

  were slammed. Candles were lit. Conor peered through the window

  in time to see Dunstan struggling into his clothes, while Celestine

  raged against the one who had done this thing. The name that brought

  the most curses was Emma's.

  Conor barely had time to pull himself back into the shadows before

  Dunstan had poked his head out the open window and began shouting

  orders to the guards in the courtyard to search every inch of the

  grounds.

  Conor cursed his luck. Just when he'd thought to best his opponent,

  his fortunes had turned. He couldn't stay here any longer. The soldiers

  would search the balcony as well as all the rooms.

  With an oath he watched as dark shadows began circling the house.

  One soldier had already begun climbing the arbor.

  He scrambled across the roof, grateful for the darkness.

  Taking refuge behind a turret on the far side of the house, he whirled

  at a sound behind him.

  Two soldiers stood facing him, swords drawn.

  "Look what we've found," the first said with a sneer.

  "I see. Is this not the queen's own Irishman?" The soldier advanced,

  the tip of his sword pointed at Conor's heart. "What are you doing so

  far from the palace, O'Neil?"

  "I might ask you the same." Conor measured the distance between

  soldiers, wondering which one to take first.

  "We're here at the invitation of Lord Dunstan. And a lucky thing, I

  surmise. But you haven't told us what you're doing here, O'Neil."

  "Visiting an old friend. Tell me, why is the queen's own guard

  protecting Lord Dunstan?"

  "We do not compromise our duty to the queen. But while she sleeps,

  Lord Dunstan pays us well to guard his person. And since he is a

  close friend to the queen, we are simply doing her bidding as well as

  his."

  "I see." He could see something else, as well. The first soldier's

  footing was none too steady. The fog and mist of night had made the

  roof slippery. Conor took a step closer.

  "Perhaps you'd like to come with us and explain yourself to Lord

  Dunstan and Lady Vaughn," the soldier called.

  "I'd be happy to." Beneath his tunic Conor's fingers closed around the

  handle of his knife.

  As the soldier turned to allow him to move past, Conor reached out a

  hand. It happened so quickly the man never had a chance to do more

  than cry out before the knife was imbedded in his heart. As he toppled

  forward, Conor snatched the sword from his hand and turned to the

  second soldier, catching him completely off guard.

  "You're mad, O'Neil." The soldier raised his sword, prepared to run

  him through. But Conor was faster, driving the blade of his sword

  through the soldier's throat.

  The man's eyes widened as he struggled in vain to pry the blade free.

  His l
ifeblood draining, he toppled from the roof with the sword still

  imbedded in his flesh.

  Hearing more soldiers scrambling over the roof, Conor looked

  around for a means of escape. There was a tree, tall enough, and,

  hopefully, sturdy enough to hold his weight. But not a single branch

  was close enough to grasp.

  As their voices drew nearer, he knew he had no choice. Leaping

  through space, he reached out and managed to wrap his arms around a

  branch. For a moment the limb swayed, and he feared it would snap.

  But as the movements stilled, he continued to cling, and the branch

  continued to hold his weight.

  Hand over hand he scrambled from branch to branch until he caught

  hold of the trunk of the tree, then climbed down until he was at last on

  the ground. Keeping close to the hedges, he managed to circle the

  yard until he reached the spot where he'd left his horse tethered.

  Before he could pull himself into the saddle, he felt something heavy

  crash into his skull. He crumpled to the ground. And though his eyes

  were closed, he continued to see stars as a voice said, "So. Are you a

  highwayman? Or just a common scoundrel?"

  A soldier stood over him, his sword drawn. A branch as thick as a

  man's thigh lay by his feet.

  Conor shook his head, hoping to clear the fog that seemed to be

  clouding his vision. He could hear the thundering of his horse's

  hoofbeats as the frightened animal ran off into., the darkness. In some

  small part of his mind he Realized his only means of escape had just

  been snatched from his grasp. Still, he had to fight for his very

  survival.

  Instinctively he reached for the small, deadly dirk he always kept at

  his waist. But it was gone. And then he remembered. He'd left it in the

  heart of the soldier he'd first encountered on the roof.

  Setting his teeth against the pain he got to his knees and shook his

  head. Lights danced behind his eyes, and he struggled to clear his

  mind. From the sound of voices nearby he knew the soldiers had

  fanned out and were combing every inch of grounds. He had to find a

  way to overpower this lone soldier before the others overheard and

  came to their comrade's assistance. Once the area was overrun with

  soldiers, there would be no hope of escape.

  "Haven't you heard?" His fingers closed around the tree branch, and

  he knew he would have but one opportunity to swing it before the

  soldier's sword found his heart. "I'm Heaven's Avenger."

  "Aye." The soldier threw back his head and laughed. "And I'm the

  King of Spain."

  Conor sprang to his feet with surprising agility, and with one blow

  from the club sent the soldier sprawling in the dirt.

  "Sleep long and deep, Your Majesty," he muttered, as he bent and

  retrieved the fallen man's sword.

  "Aye." At the sound of a raspy voice, Conor felt the tip of a sword

  against his back. "And you're about to do the same. Now lower your

  sword at once."

  Conor felt a rush of anger at his miscalculation. He hadn't heard the

  approach of another soldier.

  He looked around for escape, but there was none now. ' 'And if I

  should choose not to lower it?'

  The man's laugh scraped like a rusty hinge. "Then I'll have to run you

  through. It matters not to me whether I present you to Lord Dunstan

  alive or dead."

  Keeping his back to the soldier Conor calculated the odds of escape.

  Of even staying alive. They were becoming slimmer by the moment.

  When he didn't immediately release his hold on the sword, he felt a

  sharp, searing pain as the soldier's blade sliced across his hand,

  knocking the weapon from his grasp. It landed in the grass with a dull

  thud.

  With blood streaming from his wound he turned to face his

  opponent.

  "Prepare to die, villain." The soldier raised his sword for the final

  blow.

  Conor tensed, waiting for the death blow.

  Suddenly the man stiffened. The sword dropped from his lifeless

  fingers. As if in slow motion he staggered, then slumped to the

  ground.

  Bewildered, Conor took a step forward to examine the still figure.

  Protruding from the soldier's back was the hilt of a knife.

  Conor looked up as a shadowy figure stepped from a place of

  concealment among the trees. A figure in dark breeches and tunic

  stepped forward, leading a horse.

  "Emma." He shook his head, unable to believe what he was seeing.

  "What are you doing here? I told you to be on the boat to Ireland."

  "Aye. And I fully intended to do as you'd asked." She pulled the knife

  from the soldier's back and idly wiped the blood on her pants before

  tucking it beneath her waistband. "Come now. I think we'd best ride,

  before more soldiers come this way, and I have to save your hide

  again."

  "Aye, my lady." With a laugh he boosted her into the saddle, then

  pulled himself up behind her.

  With his arms around her he grasped the reins and urged the horse

  into a gallop.

  Later, he knew, when he'd had time to think all this through,. he

  would have a million questions for this strange little female who had

  just appeared as if by magic.

  For now he would accept the fact that, thanks to shy sweet Emma

  Vaughn, who seemed not at all shy and sweet at the moment, he had

  survived to fight another day.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Do you think the soldiers follow?" Emma's words were hushed in the

  darkness.

  "Nay." Conor's voice, so close to her ear, made her shiver. "They're

  still combing the grounds of Clermont House, lobking for the

  intruders who freed your father and sister."

  "Then, if it's safe, we should stop here," Emma called over her

  shoulder. "I'll bind your wound."

  "Aye." Weary beyond belief, he reined in their horse and slid to the

  ground, then reached up to help her dismount.

  She shivered at the close contact. Thinking she was cold, he kept his

  arm around her as they walked a short distance until they came to a

  shallow stream. They knelt and drank beside their horses. While

  Conor tethered their horse in a nearby stand of trees, Emma remained

  by the stream. In the darkness she removed the chemise she wore

  beneath her tunic. A few minutes later she approached him and

  ordered him to sit.

  "The wound is of little consequence, Emma."

  "Still, we can stem the bleeding. Let me look at it."

  He held out his hand, and she used a strip of wet cloth to bathe the cut.

  Then she carefully bound it with a clean cloth.

  "Where did you get these dressings?"

  "I used my chemise."

  "So." He grinned. "You wear nothing beneath that tunic?"

  She gave him a long, steady look. "Nothing, my lord."

  The look she gave him quickened his heartbeat. Surely he was

  imagining things. He would have to remember that Emma was an

  innocent. The cloak of night's darkness had a way of making a man

  forget such things.

  He studied her while she bent to her task, loving the way her long hair

  spilled around her angel face l
ike a halo of light. "I can't believe that

  you turned your back on your one chance at freedom, Emma. You

  realize there's no escape now. The boat to Ireland is gone."

  "Aye. But at least my father and sister are safe."

  He smiled. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you. If you hadn't

  returned, I'd be dead now. Or a prisoner of Dunstan. I owe you my

  life, my lady."

  She gave him a smile that would have melted glaciers. "Then we're

  even, Conor. For you surely saved the lives of my father and sister.

  Without you, Celestine would have succeeded in killing them both. It

  relieves me greatly to know that once they reach our home in Dublin,

  the servants will see to their needs."

  He shook his head. "They won't go there. At least not immediately."

  "Why?"

  "I instructed my father and brother to take them to our home in

  Ballinarin, where my mother will watch over them until they're

  returned to good health."

  He saw her blink back tears. "You would do all this for them?"

  He touched a hand to her cheek. "And more, if you but asked,

  Emma."

  "Oh, Conor." Though his wound was dressed, she continued holding

  his hand between both of hers. "You see? It is just another reason why

  I love you so."

  Conor went very still. When at last he found his voice, the words

  were rough with feeling. "You confuse love with gratitude, my lady."

  His words, spoken so fiercely, had her shaking her head. "I know the

  difference, my lord. What I feel for you could never be confused with

  gratitude." She lay a hand on his chest, and could feel the thundering

  of his heartbeat. It matched her own. "I love you, Conor O'Neil."

  He couldn't swallow. Could hardly breathe. And couldn't seem to

  form a single coherent thought.

  When he remained silent she whispered, "I had hoped, my lord,-that

  you might feel the same."

  He heard her words, but couldn't respond. Couldn't speak a word.

  Sweet heaven. She loved him. This innocent maiden was offering

  him the sweetest of gifts. It was almost more than he could absorb.

  Suddenly this whole night seemed like a special gift. A miracle.

  Still, he had to make her see the folly of this situation. "Emma, this is