by Brit Darby
Liam moved Biorra up beside her and leaned in close so she was the only one to hear him. “I have never been more serious in my life. You are my concern, Alianor. You must not do or say anything to give de Lacy the impression I am anybody but the Irish bastard who kidnapped you. I want you to play the outraged, high-born lady who once spit in my face with contempt and disgust.”
“I never meant —”
He interrupted. “He will kill you if he finds out about us, Alianor. Do you understand?”
She nodded. “And do you understand he may kill you as well?”
Liam reined Biorra’s head around and urged the gelding on. “Perhaps milady will kindly place a flower upon my grave every so often. Perhaps a little dog-violet,” he called back to her.
He heard Alianor make a frustrated noise, before Niall pulled her along, still leading her horse behind him. Liam did not trust her, suspecting she might ride ahead alone in a ridiculous display of courage. So the reins remained in Niall’s hands.
The fury consuming Alianor did not lessen, not even when the threesome rode from the protection of the forest to meet de Lacy and their fate. The wild ocean surf crashed along the craggy coastline they followed, and a cold wind swept over them, wet and tinged with the salt of the sea. She searched the area, wondering where and how many other men lurked in ambush.
“I was beginning to think you’d lost your nerve,” Quintin de Lacy called out as they reined their respective mounts to a standstill at a point near the cliffs. He rode a sleek dappled gray, his frame appearing too large for the horse. He was not fat but he was a big man, well over six and a half feet and barrel-chested, a testament to his Norman blood. Alianor shivered. She would not be able to fend him off as easily as she had England’s squalid little King.
De Lacy’s light brown hair was neatly barbered like his beard. He was not unattractive but his presence was dark, menacing. He wore a scarlet pelisson with a dagging hem of deep scallops. His cloak was trimmed with dark fur, and gilded crossbands wound up his legs. His ornate girdle was studded with rubies and amber. Numerous rings glinted upon his fingers and thumbs. Alianor was surprised by how pretentious he appeared.
De Lacy did not even greet her, nor ask how she had fared in the hands of supposed vicious brigands. Instead, his cold gray eyes focused on Liam, contempt in their depths. When he spoke his upper lip curled. “Caomhánach.”
“Aye,” Liam said curtly. “As you see, the woman has not been harmed. Now, where is the ransom?”
De Lacy laughed, the mocking sound carrying on the brisk breeze whipping about them. The sun chose to slip behind ominous clouds, a dark omen foreshadowing his words. The sea churned beneath the wind’s plucking fingers, and the fine day turned dark as a storm approached.
“Did you really expect me to hold to a bargain made with a criminal?”
No, Alianor thought, Liam wasn’t a fool. But his Irish wits were missing altogether if he thought they outnumbered de Lacy’s men. Stubborn male pride. It seemed Liam wanted to prove something, if only that Irishmen were scrappy fighters when the odds were against them.
She read the resolve in de Lacy’s eyes — he wanted Liam dead. Her blood raced through her veins like the surf tumbling beneath the precipice. Alianor studied the rocky terrain around them, hair rising on her neck looking over the dangerous drop.
Liam, too, looked tense at their vulnerable position on the cliff’s edge. “You assume I haven’t any men close at hand, de Lacy. I wouldn’t be so foolish to come alone. As you weren’t.”
De Lacy smiled, though the warmth of the gesture never reached his eyes. “Aye,” he said. “I assumed as much. Go ahead — call your pack of wolves to heel. Let them circle and snap at me.”
Liam did not move as he weighed the man’s bluff. He signaled the rest of his men to ride out from the outskirts of the forest. Nobody appeared. Liam signaled again and glanced at Niall, worried when no one appeared.
“Well, this is damme awkward,” Liam muttered, his tone glib, his hands casually draped across the saddle horn, trying to give the appearance he hadn’t a care in the world.
De Lacy chuckled. “See how quickly the cowards desert you when faced with a real threat of a well-trained retinue.” With his gloved hand he gave a signal of his own, and armored men swarmed up over every rock, boiled like beetles from every crevice where they could wedge themselves.
Torin rode forward, nudging his pony up beside the Norman’s mount. “I sent the men back, de Lacy. As we agreed, I have delivered the Emerald Prince to you.”
Alianor heard Liam’s angry snarl and her heart sank. Sweet Jesu, Torin had betrayed them. She closed her eyes to gather her composure. They were doomed.
Chapter Nineteen
“PRINCE, IS IT?” DE LACY sneered. “Prince of poverty, mayhap.”
When Alianor opened her eyes again, she saw the rage on Liam’s face. She tensed, knowing he was ready to pull his sword, to fight and die a warrior, and take as many of de Lacy’s men as he could with him. But Niall’s hand shot out and stilled his nephew from drawing his weapon. He said something terse in Gaelic, and Liam’s gaze met hers, his anguish clear. Without a word, Liam surrendered and Alianor understood it was for her sake. This close to the precarious cliffs, her mount might take a misstep and send her plunging over the edge.
Her throat burned from unshed tears as Lord de Lacy finally turned his attention to her. His false smile never wavered, although his chilly gaze thawed a bit. “Well, at last we meet my little bride-to-be. I cannot begin to tell you how much this whole affair has inconvenienced me.”
Knowing de Lacy studied her, Alianor did as Liam had asked and feigned outrage. Perhaps if she stalled long enough, Liam’s men would reappear. Perhaps they would realize Liam had not sent them away.
“You were inconvenienced, milord! Why, I am the one who had to endure this Irish ruffian’s presence. You will not believe where I’ve been kept prisoner. A pig’s sty would be cleaner.” She cast a disparaging look at Liam, praying de Lacy took the red herring.
“And milord de Lacy,” she continued, punctuating her rant with a spirited toss of her head, “I am sorely offended by your neglect. I shall not forgive you for it easily.” She added a pouting lip, a glistening eye, and she saw de Lacy’s look change.
“Forgive me?” he objected in obvious surprise. “What have I done to deserve uncharitable thoughts, milady?”
Alianor sniffed. “You are to be my lord husband, sirrah. King John gave his consent in good faith I should be your wife and my welfare properly attended. I am certain he was most vexed to hear of my horrendous ordeal. None of this would have happened if a proper escort had been provided.”
De Lacy nudged his horse closer to her. “How could I know you would be kidnapped, my dear? I assumed you safe in the care of the King’s men. That those bumbling oafs failed to defend you aggrieved me greatly. I promise, milady, I shall endeavor to make it up to you.”
He reached over and took her hand, bringing it to his lips. She saw something strange in his gray eyes, an obsessive gleam that made her look away. She quelled the instinct to yank her hand free as his wet lips met her flesh. He turned her hand over, and swirled the point of his tongue in the center of her palm. Le Anguille, indeed. Alianor feared she might retch.
Unable to suppress a shiver, she pulled her hand away, but disguised her revulsion by drawing her cloak tighter about her shoulders. “’Tis fearfully cold, milord.”
He was immediately solicitous. “Of course, my dear, let’s get you out of this wind with all due haste.” He offered her an ingratiating smile, which Alianor returned with all due insincerity. He turned his attention back to Liam and Niall.
“Take them down and tie them to the pillions,” he told his men.
Alianor glanced over the cliff’s edge, paling at the sight of large, thick posts, situated in a row out from the water’s edge. They looked like remnants of a boat dock and the rising tide already lapped at the wooden bases. The storm st
irred the rippling, swells and the water’s level rose perceptibly with each wave rolling in. Her heart constricted within her chest, robbing the precious air from her lungs.
Hearing her swift intake of breath, de Lacy spoke softly, but the sound was like the hiss of a snake to Alianor’s ears. “Patience, dearest. This tiresome business will not take long. We shall be off in no time. I have a priest waiting to marry us at Rockfleet. I find I cannot wait to hold my wife in my arms.”
“I-I feel the same,” she stammered. The thought of de Lacy touching her shook Alianor to the core, all her bravado gone at the naked lust she saw in his eyes. She prayed for a solution.
Helpless to do anything, she watched as Liam and Niall were pulled from their horses by de Lacy’s men. At sword point, they were marched down the steep winding path to the shallow beach below, then prodded out into the water and bound to the posts to drown in the incoming tide. An ignoble end to two noble men. She felt sick and ashamed; all this trouble revolved around her.
“Must we stay?” she asked de Lacy, her eyes pleading with him to say no.
“Are you certain, my dear? I thought perhaps Caomhánach’s death would entertain you. Remember the horrid affair you endured at his hands.”
Alianor could not tell if he was serious, or if his choice of words held some hidden meaning. She proceeded cautiously. “But we must hurry, milord — didn’t you say a priest awaits us?” She glanced down over the cliff, the sea foam rushed in already, swirling around the men’s knees.
Liam’s beloved dark head was turned away from her as he gazed out across the waters. Niall’s head was bowed, his eyes closed. She knew he must be thinking of Sorcha and the little ones lost.
Her fists balled on the saddle pommel in frustration. She resisted the urge to fling herself at de Lacy, drag him down, screaming and scratching like a hellcat. Yet she knew she would not accomplish much before his men seized and subdued her, or de Lacy himself killed her. She shuddered. She must surely be a coward, for she had no wish to die at the hands of this Norman lout today.
The next breaker reached the men’s thighs and Alianor trembled. Noting her shiver, de Lacy said with mock-gallantry, “Forgive me, milady, you did say you were chilled. How thoughtless of me.”
He leaned over and stroked her arm. His voice was silky, dangerous. “One last question, merely out of curiosity: How does my little bride feel about Caomhánach ending up fish food?”
Alianor was careful not to flinch, nor to show any hint of the fear clamoring inside her. “Fish food?” she mumbled. “It’s not a pleasant image, my lord. But it’s a fitting end for Irish scum.”
De Lacy studied her, then nodded. “I am pleased to see you were not charmed by the Irish knave. He is accounted handsome by the ladies, I hear.”
“Is he?” she echoed quietly. “I did not find him so.”
“Tell me,” de Lacy asked the traitor still at his side, “does milady speak the truth?”
“Aye, milord.” Torin nodded. “Your lady seems to despise all Irish, but especially Caomhánach.”
De Lacy snickered, pleased. “Then the death of this wastrel should please you, Alianor.”
She felt the predatory gaze of The Eel upon her and tried to answer him as calmly as she could.
“I confess,” she swallowed past the lump in her throat, “death of any sort distresses me, even an animal’s. I fear I might be ill should we stay.” Lord, give me strength, she thought, casting a glance heavenward. She must find a way to save them.
De Lacy spied the real tears in her eyes. “I see you are a tender-hearted little thing, Lady Alianor. I find the quality endearing, when not overdone. My late wife, Juliana, was over fond of the well-timed tear.” He reached over and dashed the moisture from her cheek with his gloved finger. “See you do not make the same mistake, and I daresay we shall get on famously.”
Alianor recognized the threat in his words, even delivered in a pleasant tone. Nibbling her bottom lip, she turned a wide-eyed appeal to him. “In truth, I cannot say I feel much of anything. Caomhánach was a vulgar man, his actions and behavior base and coarse, unworthy of my regard. But, Quintin, there are some things a bride should not bear witness to on her wedding day.” She forced a shy smile, and for crowning effect, she even said his Christian name like a caress, though the taste of it was vile on her lips.
Le Anguille took the bait, smiling at her again. “Of course not, ma chere. Let us depart. I don’t want you feeling sick on this night of nights. After all, our bridal eve is long overdue.”
Alianor offered him a simpering smile and a blush. God’s blood, she would be sick if he went on. “And I am likewise anxious to see my bridal gift, milord. It will certainly lift my spirits from this dreadful business.”
His look of surprise was genuine. “Gift?”
“Aye, ’tis tradition you know.” She gave him what she hoped was a convincing pout. “I assumed you held with proper tradition like all true, blue-blooded noblemen.”
He looked uneasy. “I have some jewelry for you at Fountainhall,” he replied, but they both knew he lied. Alianor made her lower lip tremble. “But how can I please you right now, my dear?”
She pointed at Biorra. “I want that horse, Quintin.”
“Ah, you’ve an eye for fine horseflesh, milady. As I have for beauty.” He leered at her and shrugged. “He’s yours. I shall see him brought back to the stables for your pleasure.”
“I will ride him now,” Alianor declared, dismounting before he could protest. She swung up into Biorra’s saddle, feeling closer to his master in a small way as she leaned down and stroked the gelding’s neck, her hair hiding her tears from de Lacy.
“Since gifting seems in order …” De Lacy turned and tossed a large bag of coins at Torin. “Here’s your reward. Remember, part of the deal is you will keep those Irish rabble from tracking Caomhánach’s corpse to my door. Now, begone with you.”
Torin caught the bag and circled his horse around to leave. As he rode by Alianor, his low words were for her ears only. “Don’t worry,” he sneered, “your secret is safe with me. I couldn’t risk de Lacy no’ wanting you back if he knew how often, and how eagerly, you spread your legs for Liam.”
Torin spurred his mount into a gallop and was gone, leaving Alianor shaking with fury and fear.
THANKFULLY, DE LACY DID not overhear Torin’s parting words as he was busy calling his men to him. They prepared to leave. One man was ordered to stay behind, and Alianor overheard de Lacy’s instructions to him. He was to wait until the tide had finished off the Irishmen and bring the two bodies back to Fountainhall. De Lacy intended to display them openly as a deterrent to other would-be thieves and wastrels.
“Soon a wolf’s head shall decorate my wall,” he said, and laughed along with his men.
When their hearty laughter subsided, Alianor called out, “Quintin?” When de Lacy returned his full attention to her, she entreated him, leaning over from her saddle to place a small hand upon his sleeve for effect. “You are right, milord. On second thought, I long to tell that Irish bastard what I think of him. Might I take a moment to do so?”
He looked as if he might say no, but to her surprise he agreed and a cruel smile quirked his lips. “As you wish, my love,” he said. He lifted her hand from his arm and brought it to his lips.
Alianor nudged Biorra forward to the edge of the cliff, overlooking the raging surf where the two men were bound to the pillions. She shouted into the wind, “You are a fiend, William Caomhánach, and you most certainly deserve this fate. You Irish a luaidh.”
She hurled out the word, making it sound like a curse. Liam looked up, the water swirling around his waist. He smiled, his wonderful, knee-weakening smile, dimple and all. “I’ll never forget you, milady.” He shouted back at her, yet somehow managed to make the words sound angry and accusing.
Nor I, you. She mouthed the words to him so de Lacy couldn’t hear them, and her gaze lingered on him lovingly. If only —
�
�I thought you were cold, Lady Alianor,” de Lacy called after her, and his voice held a tinge of suspicion. It jolted her back to earth. She nodded and clutched the hood at the base of her throat, as she pivoted Biorra back into the wind. She blinked away tears, glad for the excuse of the biting sea breeze. She didn’t want to risk de Lacy’s wrath. She was already angry enough with herself. Because of her, two good men would die today.
De Lacy’s men had already started ahead, but he waited for her. With one glance back at the men trapped in the rising surf, Alianor rode up beside him. Despite her efforts, the wind whipped her hood back. Her hair spilled loose and raged about her shoulders, like the storm fast approaching on the horizon.
They left the coastline behind, hoping to evade the brunt of the storm. The road they traveled was dusty, and the dirt swirled up from the horses’ hooves, choking Alianor. She sneezed as the grime coated her skin and outfit.
They had gone perhaps a quarter mile when she drew Biorra to a halt. “Please, milord,” she called out, stopping de Lacy. He looked back, irritated, and grudgingly turned his mount around.
“What is it?” he questioned her as he rode back. The frown he wore warned her his mood was darkening like the clouds above.
Alianor sneezed again, though this time she had to fake it. “Please, Quintin. I cannot breathe. I don’t wish to arrive at my new home with a dreadful headache and stuffy nose. I do so want to be at my best.” She added another sneeze for effect.
God’s blood, her own whine sickened her, but seemed to sway de Lacy for he sighed and smiled at her, albeit thinly. “I wouldn’t want it either, ma chere. I, too, want you to be at your best tonight.”
How was it when Liam said m’eudail, my love, the words sent shivers of delight through her? When de Lacy said them, it made her want to heave.
“Thank you, my —” she wanted to say it, tried to say it to make him believe it, “my l-lo … milord.” She couldn’t do it. Endearments wouldn’t come with this man, no matter how hard she tried.
