Lady of Conquest (10 page)

The thick, sweet scent of azaleas wafted through the room as she drifted into sleep.

From the hill overlooking the courtyard, Barron Ó Caflin watched the scene below, his nose wrinkled in disgust. The sound of laughter floated up to him as he shifted position on his horse. The dwarf and the brat had rigged an outdoor trapeze from a heavy wooden post that stretched over the courtyard. The fool gestured wildly with his hands, trying to coax the girl to somersault off the safe perch to the hay below.

Barron’s scowl deepened as his gaze fell on the dark-haired man who leaned against a bale of hay with arms crossed, his head thrown back in laughter. His tunic lay discarded in the hay. He wore only his leather breeches. With his white teeth flashing against his dark beard and swarthy skin, the king of Erin looked as earthy as any farmer on a hot summer day.

Barron watched as the laughing girl gained momentum, the swing sailing higher into the air with each pass. He wished the rope would break, leaving her to sail into the air and smash against the side of the barn. She balked once, catching herself with her knees to prevent the somersault. The dwarf tugged at his hair in frustration. Conn taunted him until he smiled. Starting again, the girl completed the somersault, coming to land in the soft hay on her feet for an instant and then tumbling to her knees, barely missing the dwarf. Conn applauded and said something that sent them both into gales of laughter.

Barron spurred his horse toward the north, loathing the cozy scene below. He had no eye for the beauty of the day. The gorse’s yellow blooms were trampled under the horse’s hooves without a glance. He had watched the orphan grow from an emaciated waif who seldom smiled to a laughing girl whose fattening cheeks were flush with color.

He snorted in disgust. There was something amiss with the foundling, and he knew it. The strange tension between her and Conn on the night she had been presented to court sent needles of suspicion up and down his spine. Only an idiot would have missed it. Conn had made it clear that she would be treated as his daughter. The arrogant bastard gave no explanation.

Barron did offer one snippet of prayer to the druid gods he so casually worshipped. He gave thanks that Conn’s mysterious orphan was a girl. Had she been a lad and suitably strong, she might have presented a challenge to the throne once Conn met his imminent fate. As it was, she was only a nuisance. He also gave thanks that no bastards had crept out of the countryside to claim the king as their sire.

Since Mer-Nod had revealed his knowledge of these rides, Barron had arranged for one of Eoghan’s men to meet him in the north at the tiny village of Ballybay. He rode into the village with an imperious nod for the peasants he passed. The sun felt warm on his golden hair as he dismounted before the limewashed tavern. A sign hanging from the eaves creaked in the wind. A wolf’s head, its shaggy fur matted with blood, grinned at him from the sign. He smiled back, his grin not unlike the wolf’s.

Tossing the reins over a post, he swaggered into the tavern and slowly made his way to the farthest table, allowing his eyes to adjust to the shadowy gloom. Blinking in surprise, he saw two figures sitting at the table instead of one. His eyes nervously traveled the long cloak and hood surrounding the stranger. He glanced at the man he knew, a question in his eyes.

Standing, the large man gestured toward the stranger, who kept his head bowed. “Eoghan sent him. He wanted you to meet. You’ll be working together in the next few months.”

The thin figure slipped the hood back, and Barron found himself staring into the blackest eyes he had ever seen.

Gelina cursed softly as the knotted embroidery unraveled in her hands for the fourth time. Conn lowered the map he was studying and gently tugged one of her auburn curls. She shook off the caress, shooting him a warning scowl. He raised the map to hide his bemused exasperation. She might tolerate his company, but she still shied away from any hint of affection. Nimbus sat a few feet away, rendered immobile by the bright skeins of thread Gelina had wrapped around his hands and feet.

“I detest sewing,” she wailed, making a great show of dropping the long, golden needle in her cushion and being unable to find it.

“Me too,” growled Nimbus, gnawing at the threads tangled around his elbows.

“I cannot begin to understand why Moira insists on teaching me the womanly arts when I’ve proved I’m totally inept.” Gelina arced a crimson loop of thread around Nimbus’s neck in an attempt to rescue him. She ignored his tiny gagging noises and turned hopeful eyes to Conn. “Isn’t there some useful task I could set my hands to? Perhaps I could rub your boots or sharpen your dagger?”

Conn did not lower the map. “My boots are soft, thank you, and my dagger in your lovely paws is not a sight I care to see.”

A log crashed on the hearth in a shower of sparks. Conn lowered the parchment to find Gelina staring into the leaping flames. The firelight cast pensive shadows across her face, banishing all traces of insolence and softening the sharpness of her features. He frowned, strangely discomfited by the fleeting glimpse of the woman she would become. He tilted her chin upward with his callused fingers. Her green eyes glinted with a wariness he longed to erase.

“Forgive me. I spoke in haste,” he said, his voice a caress soft enough to elude even Nimbus’s practiced ears.

“I dare say ‘tis rude to whisper when a fellow can’t even sidle close enough to overhear,” Nimbus said, bursting from his bonds with a jerk that sent thread flying through the air.

Before Conn could pluck a strand of green from Gelina’s hair, she had ducked out of his reach yet again. Sighing, he settled back in the chair. “I was just telling Gelina of a task that might be more to her liking. The festival of Midsummer is only a few days away. As soon as the goldsmith finishes beating out my mask, I shall need a fierce face painted upon it.”

Gelina sat up. “A masked revelry? Oh, but I'll be far too busy with my own mask to paint yours. Perhaps Nimbus could do the honors.”

Conn’s dark eyebrows drew together. Gelina sank back on her heels, disappointment clouding her face.

“I am sorry, my dear,” Conn said, “but the festival has been known to sink into chaos and rapacious merriment after the first few hundred kegs are tapped and drunk.”

“Indeed it has,” Nimbus agreed with obvious delight. “I remember last year when Colum the beekeeper woke up with the masked beauty he had thrown over his shoulder and carried into the woods the night before only to discover he’d bedded his own wife. And enjoyed it, no less. I don’t know who was more . . .”

Nimbus sputtered to a halt as Conn cleared his throat.

“So you see, Gelina,” Conn said, “a young girl roaming Tara on the Eve of Midsummer could prove to be easy prey for a prowling satyr.”

“Like yerself, sire?” Nimbus offered sincerely.

“Yes, like my . . .” Conn shot Nimbus a glare. “As I was saying, Gelina, you may join in the games of the day, but by nightfall I want you locked safely in your chamber like a good child.”

The set of Gelina’s jaw warned Conn that he had blundered. “I don’t know why you persist in treating me like a child. Even Cook says I’m far too old to be fostered!”

Conn raised an eyebrow. “Cook told you that?”

“Well . . . no. She told one of the serving girls when I was underneath the tablecloth waiting for the tarts to come out of the kiln.”

Conn glanced at Nimbus, who stared pointedly at the rafters. “Do honor us with the remainder of Cook’s wisdom.”

Gelina met Conn’s challenging gaze with one of her own. “She said that most girls my age are already betrothed or wed. Or kept.”

Conn stroked his beard. “Kept?”

“Kept,” she said forcefully to hide the fact that she didn’t have the faintest inkling of the word’s meaning.

Conn steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “And would you like to be betrothed or wed, Gelina?”

“Oh, no. I suppose I’d have to wear dresses all the time then.” She bowed her head, plucking wistfully at the stray threads in her lap. “I don’t suppose being kept would be dreadful if you were kept by the proper person.”

Conn reached to cup the curve of her cheek, but Nimbus’s bright-eyed gaze stopped him. He withdrew his hand before she ever saw it.

He frowned. “I would keep you safely in your chambers on the Eve of Midsummer. Do you understand?”

“Yes, milord,” Gelina murmured. Conn might have been pleased by her surrender if he hadn’t caught the sidelong glance she gave Nimbus from beneath her lowered eyelashes.

The dwarf scrambled to his feet, still scattering bits of thread, and bowed. “If ye would excuse me, sire, I believe I shall retire. It proves to be a busy morrow.”

Nimbus paused at the door, his gaze drawn back to the tranquil scene before the hearth. The fire bathed Gelina’s face in its gentle glow as she returned to the task of picking out the tangled stitches. Conn reached to stroke her soft cap of curls, and for once, she did not flinch from his touch. Nimbus had to strain to hear his murmured words.

“Do not think me too harsh, Gelina. I would never forgive myself if more harm came to you after all you have suffered at my hands.”

Nimbus blinked and turned away from the halo of light that held them, his brow furrowed as he puzzled over Conn’s words. He slipped into the shadows, tucking his small hands deep into the pockets of his jerkin.

The shadows of darkness fell on the warm and windy Midsummer’s Eve. Gelina opened her door a crack and peered into the torchlit corridor. Her eyes dropped to the horned apparition standing outside her door. Two ragged holes in a linen sheet revealed an ear and an unblinking brown eye. The eye traveled Gelina’s costume; the sheet rustled with a disapproving shake that set the tiny bells on top of the horns to tinkling.

“ ‘Twill never do,” came Nimbus’s muffled voice from beneath the sheet. “I did hope that disguising ye as a girl was well thought.”

“I am a girl, Nimbus.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Gelina spread her red velvet cloak in a sarcastic curtsy. “Your mastery of flattery blooms with each passing day.” She stepped into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind her.

Nimbus circled her slowly, grunting and mumbling beneath the sheet. “ ‘Tis your height I fear will give ye away. Try squatting.”

Gelina bent her knees beneath the heavy folds of the cloak and waddled a few steps down the corridor.

The bells tinkled with renewed violence. “No, no, no. Ye put one in mind of a crippled goose.”

She straightened with hands on hips. “I’m certain that no one will recognize you, either. Perhaps they will mistake you for Goll MacMorna or Large Bob the butcher.” She jerked his sheet around until the ragged eyeholes revealed part of his nose and the other twinkling eye. She sighed. “I suppose we shall get no better than this.”

At the sound of throaty giggling on the stairs, Nimbus scurried to the landing and waved her forward. “Just remember,” he whispered, “keep yer hood up and yer head down.”

Gelina drew the velvet hood over her hair until it met the thin, beaten gold of the mask resting on the tip of her nose. She glided after Nimbus with head bowed. They slid past the merging shadows on the steps and found themselves jostled into the laughing crowd in the great hall.

The torches melted into their sconces as night fell, leaving the great hall a shadowy and alien world where masked and cloaked strangers floated with mysterious grace. Gelina and Nimbus moved around them, careful to stay on the perimeter of the crowd lest they be recognized.

Gelina nudged Nimbus as they were drawn into a boisterous circle of men. “They play a game, Nimbus,” she whispered. “Conn gave me his leave to play games.”

The bells tinkled violently. “These were not the games he spoke of.”

Gelina scanned the inner circle, peering around the cloak of a soldier. “What is its object? Why do the women stand around like sheep, giggling and blushing?”

“If the man with the blindfold touches them, they must surrender a kiss,” Nimbus explained. “And if he guesses their name after that kiss, they must surrender another.”

“I have no desire to play that game. Why, I’d stomp any man who dared to kiss me,” Gelina declared passionately.

“Ye’d be hard put to stomp that one,” Nimbus said, his sheet shaking suspiciously.

For the first time Gelina’s gaze fell on the man prowling the inner circle with hands outstretched. A coarse linen blindfold covered his mask and his cloak was that of a peasant but there was no mistaking his deep laughter as one of the soldiers caught his shoulders and spun him around in a dizzying circle. Gelina’s mouth fell open.

“See how the demure widow Ó Brosnahan keeps leaping in front of him while pretending to stand still,” Nimbus hissed.

“If he sees us, we’re done for,” Gelina said.

Conn’s hands came within an inch of Sheela’s craning neck. Gelina tugged on one of Nimbus’s horns.

Nimbus resisted her pull. “He cannot see us. He’s blindfolded.”

A soldier stepped forward to spin Conn, ignoring his laughing protests. The soldier in front of Gelina raised a drinking horn to his lips. As his head tilted to drain the last drop of ale, his body followed in a perfect arc. He crashed to the floor to the cheers and jeers of the crowd. Gelina was still staring at his snoring visage when Conn stumbled out of the circle. His wiry fingers closed around her wrist.