by Brit Darby
As they coupled again, slowly at first and with increasing ferocity, Duvessa found she needed even harder stimulation to reach the pinnacle.
Sensing her need, he flipped her over onto her belly, dragged her up on all fours and pummeled her fiercely. She screamed with the intensity of their mating, her nails shredding the linen sheets before reaching back to pull him tighter against her. She bumped his bandaged wound, and he howled with pain that drove him faster, harder. When Duvessa swooned in orgasmic delight, he struck her. Mouth bloodied, she collapsed against the bolsters, and he roughly took his pleasure from her inert form until his own release came.
She was still slumped there, gasping, when a scratching came at the door. She tasted metallic blood in her mouth as she querulously called out, “What is it?”
“There is a visitor, milady,” It was the quavering voice of her maid.
“Send them away. I am busy.” Already she anticipated the next round of lovemaking, wondering what he would do to her.
There was a long pause. The maid’s timid voice came again. “She asks to see the O’Connor and she claims it is a matter of life and death, milady.”
“She?” Irritated, Duvessa flung off Quintin’s limp arm and sat up, wincing when she touched her sore lip. “Bastard,” she hissed at the drowsy man who had collapsed languid beside her, but he merely smiled.
“Aye, milady. Says her name is Lady Coventry.”
At the reply Duvessa heard Quintin’s intake of breath and saw his eyes widen in shock. When he bolted upright his teeth came together with an audible gnash.
“Alianor,” he exclaimed.
“Who is Alianor?”
“My wife.” His expression changed from surprise to sly gloating.
Duvessa did not like the look on his face. She felt the worm of jealousy turn in her belly. “Your wife uses another man’s surname?”
“She knows not her true master yet. But she will, oh yes. She will.” He reached out and twisted Duvessa’s nipple, and she gasped from the pain along with the revelation he had a wife. “Like you do, my pet. You are coming along nicely. Perhaps, one day I will take you both, in the same bed, at the same time.”
“Bastard,” she said again, with less conviction. His cold cruelty excited her. She imagined his wife some mousy little thing, a Church-bred virgin he’d been forced to wed. But once Duvessa dressed and summoned Lady Coventry to her chambers, she was dismayed by the silvery-blonde vision who stepped forward and greeted her.
God’s teeth, the little bitch was beautiful. Even clad in simple brown worsted, she had the radiant loveliness men slayed dragons for in days of old. The earlier hint of jealousy became a full-blown hatred, twisting through Duvessa like a poisonous snake. But, ever the artful actress, she hid her turmoil and forced a smile to her lips.
Quintin remained hidden behind a faux tapestry panel in the bedchamber, saying he wanted to make his presence a surprise. Duvessa understood why. She sensed this fragile beauty did not welcome his dark caresses as eagerly as she did.
“Welcome, my dear. What brings you to my humble home?” she inquired, managing to sound calm and pleasant. She crossed the large chamber to a sideboard, still smiling, and met Alianor with a goblet of mead and a platter of sweet cakes.
Alianor declined the refreshment, her hands clasped before her. She glanced nervously at the rumpled bed. “If possible, milady, I wish to see your husband,” she said.
Duvessa tilted her head, considering. “I am sorry, but it’s impossible, Lady Coventry. He is quite ill.”
Alianor nodded. “I have heard that he is sick. I regret the imposition, milady. However, this is a matter of great urgency,” she paused and licked her lips in a nervous gesture, “a matter for the ri tuathe.”
Duvessa imagined Quintin ravishing that rosy mouth, and her petty resentment quickly churned into a vile hatred. It was all she could do to keep from flying at the angel-faced woman and clawing her eyes out. Instead she maintained a cordial, aloof facade.
“What a shame, my dear, that you came all this way for nothing.” With her point made clear, Duvessa savored the other woman’s disappointment. The despairing plea in Alianor’s eyes satisfied her peevish mood. She gambled her dismissive air might push the wench into revealing more information, and it did.
“I believe, Lady Duvessa …” Alianor hesitated again, uncertainty in her voice, “that you are aware of a man called Liam Caomhánach?”
“O’Connor’s bastard?” Duvessa saw the younger woman flinch. “Yes, my dear, I am. Is this why you have come? To plead the case of a common thief?”
“Liam is the O’Connor’s son, and he is about to die. I believe he is …”
“He is what?” Duvessa snapped impatiently when Alianor trailed off. She wondered if the wench was dim-witted.
But something stopped Alianor from babbling on. By now, she had learned to trust her instincts, and the warning shrilling within her was more powerful than her desperation to save Liam. Something was very wrong. She glanced around the room, the hair rising on the nape of her neck. She felt the cross heating against her skin, as if the stone warmed with warning.
Duvessa watched her expectantly. “He is worthy of saving,” Alianor finished; realizing this woman would not care if the O’Connor’s illegitimate son was the Emerald Prince and the hope of Connacht. “There is great good in Liam, milady, despite what you may have heard.”
During her desperate appeal, Alianor had not really noticed the way Duvessa’s gaze scoured her, but now the image of a flailing dove being eyed by a hungry hawk came to mind. She knew Liam’s stepmother bore little love for him, and she remembered Niall’s tale of the legitimate heir’s malice towards Liam. She began to think her actions were foolish and would come to naught.
But there was no place left to appeal for help, and she knew nobody else had O’Connor’s influence. She must think only of saving Liam, no matter how unpleasant the task might prove to be. Alianor took a step forward, determined to make one last appeal to his stepmother’s heart, if she had one.
“Please, milady, I know and care naught about family feuds. I only seek to save Liam’s life. Is that so wrong?”
“What is your concern in this matter, my dear?” Duvessa’s gaze swept her coolly, head to toe. “You are young and fair — surely you have a lord husband anxiously awaiting your return. Why should you even meddle in the affairs of a villain, a lowly cur about to get what he deserves? Or is there more to this story than you have told?”
Alianor sensed a trap, but this woman was her last hope for reaching O’Connor. “If only you will let me see your husband —”
“There is a husband here you must see, certainly,” Duvessa replied, a smile curving her lips before she turned away. “But not mine.”
Confused, Alianor gazed helplessly after Duvessa. “Whose?”
A man’s husky voice spoke from the shadows. “Need you ask, my white rose?”
Looking over, Alianor paled at the sight of de Lacy.
SHE WHIRLED TO RUN, but de Lacy stepped before the doors, cutting off her escape. She stared at him in horror as he approached with swaggering ease, toying with her like a cat does a mouse. She had no choice but to face him, this man who owned her in the eyes of both man and God.
“Why, sweet Alianor,” he said, his deep voice holding a thread of dark threat. Her name on his lips became a vile thing. The scar whitened on his cheek when he smiled at her. “How devoted of you to seek me out.” He paused and Duvessa crossed over to him, laying her hand on his sleeve in a familiar fashion.
“You don’t need the girl, Quintin,” she hissed at him. “She is nothing. Let her go.”
He shook off her touch. “Dismiss the servants.”
Duvessa looked at him, angry, but obeyed. She opened the doors enough to speak to the servants waiting outside her chamber. When the heavy doors thudded shut and Alianor heard the bolt slide into place, all hope vanished. She was trapped.
“Now,” de Lacy said,
giving her a slow, deliberate smile of anticipation. He was flushed, with triumph she assumed — she had walked right into his lair this time. “Take off your clothes, Alianor.”
She stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and dread. “I will not.”
“Nay,” Duvessa echoed, equally indignant. “What is this, Quintin?”
“I intend to sample my sweet wife’s charms, at long last and at great leisure. If you do not intend to join us, my dear, you are welcome to leave.” He waved a hand dismissively.
Duvessa seethed. “This is my bedchamber, Quintin. You will not futter the wench here.”
“Why not? Your furs serve as well as any, and they are already well-warmed.”
“Bastard!”
Alianor watched as the dark-haired woman lashed out, her fingernails catching the scar on his cheek. With a roar of fury, de Lacy backhanded her. He knocked her halfway across the room and she landed in a tumble of silk skirts. As Duvessa dragged herself upright, clinging to a sideboard, Alianor was astonished to see her dark eyes held no fear or tears, only icy fury.
“Fetch me mead, woman,” de Lacy ordered the Queen of Connacht like he might a common tavern maid, and turned his attention back to Alianor. With a leer he strode over and yanked her into his arms, and she choked on her disgust when he started mauling her.
“Miss me, lovey?” he panted, clawing at her bodice. “I bet you’re hot and ripe for a real man, eh, since ‘Softsword’ could not get the job done.” He gave a snigger of coarse laughter, and crushed his mouth against hers.
Alianor kicked and beat at him with her fists, not caring if he struck her or not. She landed a few blows in the region of his wound, and he snarled like a mad dog.
He managed to pin Alianor’s arms at her sides. “Where’s my mead?” he demanded. Over his shoulder, Alianor glimpsed Duvessa calmly pouring mead into a jeweled goblet. It was a strangely incongruous, frightening scene, yet she had little time for puzzling out the undercurrents when he hurled her onto the bed.
“Here, milord.” There was an odd glint in Duvessa O’Connor’s eyes and a sneer on her lips when she handed the goblet to de Lacy, but he was so intent on Alianor, he did not notice. He quaffed the drink with a grunt and hurled the empty goblet aside, where it clanged upon the floor and rolled until it hit the wall.
Alianor scrambled across the bed, off the other side and crouched there like a snarling cat — de Lacy would have to kill her first. Their gazes met, hers wary and angry, and he laughed low.
“Give up the game, bitch,” he said. “I will tame you in the end.”
No sooner had he spoken the words, than a brutal hammering came at the double doors. Duvessa jumped, looking over, and de Lacy cursed. Alianor had prayed for a savior, but never imagined what form he might take.
The doors burst open, kicked in by O’Connor’s men. As Alianor and the other two stared in shock, an aged, sickly man entered the room, leaning heavily upon a shillelagh, his dark eyes bright with fever and fury both. The O’Connor himself.
“I’m pleased to see you’ve become more discreet, my dear. Instead of mounting guests in the great hall, you bring them to your bedchamber.”
“Cathal,” Duvessa gasped.
“Seize the whore and her lover,” he bellowed. Alianor did not have to guess this man was Liam’s father. She saw it in his every move, the proud tilt of his head, brilliant green eyes and the deep dimple creasing his leathery cheek. Guards pushed in through the broken doors, and restrained the outraged Duvessa and de Lacy.
“Adultery is punishable by death, wife,” O’Connor said to Duvessa, watching her pale with visible satisfaction. “Stoning in the village square.”
“Take this whore, too,” de Lacy sneered, clutching his side as he pointed at Alianor. “For my sweet wife has turned tricks for your bastard son.”
Alianor spoke up to correct his cruel misstatement. “On the contrary, milord husband, I was Liam’s lover long before you and I were wed, but sadly, I haven’t had the pleasure of his attentions since my marital vows were forced upon me.”
De Lacy blanched at her bold confession.
For the first time, O’Connor peered at Alianor. To everyone’s surprise, he nodded at her with respect. “My condolences on your marriage, Lady de Lacy,” he said. De Lacy snarled at the insult, but the guards restrained him, preventing him from leaping for the O’Connor’s throat.
Trying to calm herself, Alianor nodded back and explained her presence without further ado. “I came here to see you, O’Connor. To appeal for your help in saving Liam’s life.”
“Aye,” he said. “I am aware of my son’s troubles. I have sent a missive to the King, asking him to stay Liam’s execution until I arrive.” He trailed off into a fit of hacking coughs, and Alianor saw Duvessa smile, ever so slightly. Her blood tingled with fear and worry this man might die before Liam could be saved. O’Connor looked as if he might collapse.
“Why run to aid your bastard? You have but one worthy heir, Cathal,” Duvessa said.
“You think Dermot a worthy heir? He is but a spineless, nasty-tempered whelp who favors his mother.”
Duvessa flinched at the vehemence in his voice. Perhaps not so much fear for herself, but for the implication of his words for Dermot.
“I know your every scheme, woman, and over the years I have chosen to ignore your duplicity and sour nature, but no more. I promise, Duvessa my sweet,” his endearment was clearly sardonic, despite the softness of his tone, “you shall die long before I do.”
“What about Dermot?” she demanded, still insolent despite her present situation.
“Never fear, your sorry offspring will get what he deserves, as will you.” He waved at the guards. “Secure them in the dungeon.”
De Lacy shouted as he was dragged past them, “If you release me, O’Connor, I am prepared to reward you.”
“With what? Your charm, or your cock?” The old warrior-king laughed. He glanced at the empty goblet on the floor and Duvessa, amusement tinging his words. “Are you playing with potions again, my dear?”
She stiffened. “You cannot prove anything. Besides, nobody will care when you are moldering in your grave like your beloved Caireen.”
When his next fit of coughing subsided, O’Connor glowered at her. “Speak her name again, witch, and I will slit your throat myself.”
“Potions?” de Lacy demanded, looking back and forth between them.
Duvessa remained silent and would not meet his gaze, and O’Connor laughed.
“Aye. Apparently my lovely wife has a penchant for mischief, de Lacy. Not only has she been poisoning me by slow degrees, but may well have others in mind for her vengeance. The old witch who sells her these deadly wares says my queen here knows more than one way of dealing dark cards to a man.”
Suspicion and fear shone in de Lacy’s eyes. He cast a panicked glance to the goblet on the floor. “Nay!”
O’Connor chuckled. “Perhaps if you had not been so busy futtering my wife, you might have noticed her mixing potions behind your back.” His mirth subsided, and his manner hardened as he turned to his guards.
“Let them share a cell. After all, since de Lacy’s tasted the delights between my wife’s legs, so too should he endure the bite of her viperous tongue. Mayhap she can even be coaxed by his charms into telling him the antidote, if there is one.”
Duvessa cried, “My husband, you cannot … please …”
O’Connor ignored her, and motioned to his guards. “Take them away. I will gaze upon their lying faces no longer.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
LIAM WATCHED KING JOHN enter his cell, holding a scented handkerchief delicately to his nostrils to diffuse the smell. The sight almost made Liam laugh. How rich. The pompous King of England offended by filth of his own making.
“You seem mirthful for a man who’s about to die, Caomhánach.” The King’s voice held a twinge of disappointment, but his gaze told Liam the idea of his death brought him great pleasure.
“You also seem a bit healthier than we anticipated. Obviously our direct orders were ignored in favor of the Queen’s.” The King glanced accusingly toward the guards, who stood stoic and unmoving, avoiding his gaze. “But, mayhap we should be grateful to my wife. Had those orders been followed, you might not have lived long enough for us to see your head roll on the morrow. It promises to be an entertaining event. Already people are coming from far and wide to see their so-called Emerald Prince die the death of a common criminal.”
Liam shrugged. “Death will only render me a martyr.”
King John laughed, his small eyes glinting with malice. “You are mortal, like any other common peasant, Caomhánach. Centuries of foolish legends will die when your head drops into the executioner’s bucket.”
Liam watched the man pacing back and forth in front of him. The King stopped and faced him. “Have you nothing to say, Irishman?” he demanded.
“Beheaded? I thought I was going to hang,” Liam replied. His tone was so casual, the King’s face reddened.
“How you die is of little import,” he snapped. “Surely you wish to beg us for your life?”
“Not particularly.”
Absently rubbing at his shoulder, the King resumed pacing. “The O’Connor,” he paused, glancing at Liam for his reaction. Seeing none, he continued, “Your father has sent a plea, asking for a stay of execution.”
Liam said nothing.
“We are told you deny your relation to O’Connor. Why? Royal blood courses in his veins, though it bears the taint of Irish kings.”
“My reasons are my own.”
King John smiled thinly. “No coincidence surely that our favorite hunting dog is called a liam hound. As we command that great stubborn brute of a canine, so shall we rule you, Irishman.”
He stepped closer, his face only inches from Liam’s. He knew how to get a reaction out of this maddeningly calm man. “Your leman has also come to beg our mercy,” he said, “or try and buy it with the honey between her legs.”
