Lady of Conquest (13 page)

As the hooded man’s laughter echoed shrilly through the small room, Barron had to clench his fists to keep from slapping out in blind rage.

Spring would not be long in coming. Gelina threw open the shutters of her window and leaned out, inhaling deeply. The cool, sweet air filled her lungs. The mornings were her favorite times but this morning she missed the jovial knock on her door. Nimbus had ridden north, sent by Conn to the rocky coastline where the ships were being prepared to sail for Britain.

Tara hummed with rumors. Some said that Conn was seeking to conquer Britain, while others insisted that he sought to aid the Romans in their conquest to procure a part of the prize himself. Gelina did not care to speculate or even think about the long months when Conn would be gone.

This morning she had her own mission. She bathed and donned the soft leather breeches and vest that had become a familiar sight around the fortress in the early morning hours.

Opening her door, she searched both ways for any sign of Conn. He had already threatened to take her makeshift uniform away if he caught her roaming in it. The corridor was deserted. Jamming her hands deep in her pockets, she stepped out and strolled down the hall, winding through the corridors until she stood outside a massive double door.

As she reached out and gave the handle a hard tug, she was startled to hear a voice behind her. “So you’re the boy who’s been stealing my clothes. I should thrash you where you stand!”

She found her arm caught in a bruising grasp as she swung around to face a flushed soldier. His mouth fell open below his brown mustache as he recognized her. His grip loosened, and she flattened herself against the door. Her emerald eyes widened, their dark fringe of lashes catching him unaware.

Gathering his last shred of composure, he said, “I am sorry. I had no inkling it was you.”

She slumped against the door in relief. “You were right. They are your clothes and I did steal them.”

He wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand. “I’ve never seen a woman in breeches before. And I’ve certainly never seen a woman in my breeches.”

Gelina would have sworn he blushed a tiny amount under his tan. She spoke quickly, trying to ease his embarrassment. “I’m more comfortable in breeches. Of course, that doesn’t justify stealing them. I’ll return them posthaste.”

He stretched out a restraining hand as if fearful she would disrobe right there in the corridor. “They’re old and worn. You may keep them.”

Gelina started to ask if she could keep the vest, too, then decided not to push his generosity. He was staring at the door behind her with a puzzled look.

She hastened to explain. “Nimbus has shown me most of Tara, but I’ve yet to see the weaponry room. I fear that except for juggling them, Nimbus has no interest in swords.”

The soldier arched an eyebrow, longing to ask about her interest. “ ‘Tis locked, you know,” he said. Her face fell in disappointment. “But ... I happen to have the key.”

He pulled the iron key from his pocket, noting with pleasure the grin that spread across her face. He opened the door, pausing only to tell her, “I’m Sean Ó Finn.”

She nodded, biting her lip to keep from telling him that Nimbus had already described his appearance to prevent just this meeting.

The double doors swung inward, revealing a hall as spacious as the great hall of Tara. Gelina gasped. Mounted from floor to ceiling were instruments of battle and death. Swords, battle-axes, picks, maces, morning-stars, and javelins coated the walls in a gleaming layer of gold, silver, and bronze. Fresh pine torches hung in iron brackets from the high, vaulted ceiling.

“ ‘Tis said the light keeps the weapons shining and sharp,” Sean whispered, the hallowed atmosphere of the room adding a solemn note to his voice.

Gelina walked into the room, wondering if she’d ever seen anything so lovely. Sean followed her, mystified. He’d never seen a woman respond this way to the weaponry room. But he silently reminded himself that he’d never seen a woman wearing his breeches, either.

Crystals of light cast by the flickering torches burnished the edges of the weapons fiery orange like the ghost of blood shed long ago. Their soft footsteps echoed in the deserted hall.

Gelina asked, “Are any of these ever used in battle?”

Sean nodded. “In peaceful times such as these, only three battalions of the Fianna stand active. That leaves four inactive battalions that could be summoned in the event of war. The weapons would be distributed accordingly.” He took her arm and led her to the far wall. “My favorites. Conn has retired them in honor and memory of our ancestors.”

The weapons bore the stain of age. Gelina read the inscription below a huge ax, painfully sounding out the words as Rodney had taught her to do. “The Battle Ax of Macha Mong Ruad, Daughter of Red Hugh. Oh, Sean, could it really be?”

“As far as we know. Look at this one.” He pointed to a sword with the form of a serpent entwined around its golden hilt. “Sword of Cathbad, Son of Ross, and Wizard. It is said that the sword was stolen but reappeared in the exact spot where we see it now after the thief met an untimely end . . . from the bite of a serpent.”

Gelina let out a slow breath and shook her head.

Sean pointed to an open space on the wall. “Someday Conn’s sword, Deliverance, will hang there. His sword will hang above the swords of the enemies he has vanquished to show his supremacy to the coming generations.”

Gelina nodded, then froze, her eyes locked on the spot he indicated. Her smile faded as she saw in front of her a sword with crooked, awkward lettering engraved on its hilt . . .
Vengeance.
Reaching out a hand, she traced the familiar hilt, the cold metal like an old friend to her fingertips. The memories hugged her heart, stealing her breath away.

Dueling with Rodney, thrusting, parrying away his carved wooden blade until she couldn’t raise her arms another time.

“
‘Tis the sword Conn found in the cave with the monster he slew,” Sean told her, watching her movement.

“I know,” she replied, not removing her hand or eyes from the sword.

Growing in two summers to a height that nearly equaled Rodney’s own. Galloping through the woods, perched on his shoulders. Slamming into a branch as he ducked a second too late. Sailing into the woods, sword still gripped in her hand.

Sean coughed and turned away. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

She reached out her other hand and removed the sword from its mounting. Her eyes were glazed, her movements stiff and mechanical.

Running forward with a high-pitched scream. Driving the sword through the chest of the soldier they ambushed for his cloak. Pulling the sword from his sternum with a grating twist. Giving Vengeance to her brother and begging him to cut the waist-length auburn curls that had lured the man to his death.

She lifted her eyes to Sean’s, a familiar grin appearing in place of the glazed look. “Would you care to duel, Sean Ó Finn?” She leapt backward, crouching in a battle stance.

“I hardly think that would be appropriate.”

“Pilfering your clothes wasn’t appropriate, either. I fear I am a very inappropriate person.” She made a quick feint to his chest, and he stared to find her blade quivering an inch from his belly.

“Milady, you force retaliation. Your challenge is accepted.” He pulled his sword from its sheath, parrying from a safe distance.

He was shocked to find her an apt and worthy partner. He could see the muscles in her lean arms knot as she sought to disarm him without threatening the sanctity of his skin. They both laughed as she ducked his thrust with skill, setting him off balance.

“Where did you learn such skills, milady?” he asked breathlessly, throwing his body to the side.

“I do not remember,” she said cryptically.

Gelina only had time to see Sheela’s shocked face in the doorway before she found herself slammed against the wall, the breath knocked from her lungs. She slid to a sitting position; Vengeance clattered to the floor. A familiar pair of angry blue eyes cut into her. She struggled to catch her breath as those steely eyes swam before her vision, blocking out the rest of the room.

Sean sheathed his sword, mouth open wide in shock. “Conn, what are you doing? ‘Twas just a game.” He stretched out his arm in a plea. “Why did you do that?”

Conn turned to him, his clenched fists and harsh breathing a sign Sean knew well. “Her games can be deadly.” His eyes traveled the length of the room to rest on Sheela, who stood with her hand on the doorframe, frightened eyes on him. “Get out! Both of you! Now!” he bellowed.

Sean made one last attempt. “Sire, I don’t understand—”

“Out.”

His voice was quieter but more deadly. Sean knew it was the last time Conn would ask them to leave. Mystified, he took Sheela’s arm in his and led her from the room without a backward glance.

Gelina closed her eyes, waiting for the pounding in her head to cease and trying desperately to swallow around the lump in her throat. The silence became unbearable. She opened her eyes to find Conn standing a few feet in front of her, his arms crossed and his gaze locked on her face.

His voice was cold. “Go ahead and cry.”

Her muffled voice replied, “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

Something akin to shame flickered across his face, but he didn’t speak.

“He was telling the truth,” she began hesitantly. “ ‘Twas just a game.”

“How do I know that? How do I know you weren’t waiting for just the right moment to run him through?” He paced in front of her.

“I’ve been at Tara for almost a year, Conn. How many of your men have I run through in that time?” She shook her head in silent frustration.

“It was like my worst nightmare, Gelina. I walk in here and find you dueling with one of my best fighters. I recognize your moves, the way you handle the sword. I remember what it was like to have you coming at me.”

Her voice surged with anger. “You must still hate me a lot then. Admit it. You walked in here and assumed the worst.”

He did not reply. Letting out a huge breath, he watched her struggle to keep the tears out of her voice and eyes. Looking at her, he did not see a tall, skinny girl huddled against the wall. He saw laughing emerald eyes challenging him across the chessboard. He saw whirling satin skirts and hands clasped in his in the midst of a rollicking dance.

He knelt beside her and placed a gentle hand at the back of her head. She shrank from his touch.

“You think I hate you?” he asked, his voice quieter.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” She sniffed.

He stood, running a hand through his shaggy curls. “I should have never brought you here. I brought this on myself. ‘Twas not fair to expect you to face the Fianna every day of your life.”

“You wish you had left me for dead in the cavern?”

“
Of course not. I could have sent you to Rath Crogan, my fortress in the north. The Fianna do not venture there.”

“And neither do you,” she murmured, too softly for his ears to hear.

“Perhaps it would be better for you if you didn’t have to see them every day . . . or me,” he added. He pretended to stare at the weapons on the wall to mask the cost of his words.

“Perhaps,” she said coldly, her face emptied of both emotion and color. “May I take my things with me?”

He could not stop himself from turning, shocked at her abrupt surrender. He struggled to match the toneless quality of her words. “Of course. I can make the arrangements today.”

“Thank you, sire.”

Conn did not know how to halt this avalanche of wrongness that had slid between them. To hide his helplessness, he strode to the door, unable to meet the glassy green of her eyes. He pulled the door shut behind him and collapsed against it, a peculiar mixture of emotions draining the strength from his body.

With a solid thunk, seven inches of steel appeared beside his cheek. He recognized the sword’s silver tip protruding from the door where it had been hurled with furious strength.

“The wench is trying to kill me,” he breathed.

He threw open both doors, stopping to pull the still vibrating sword from the thick wood. Gelina sat a few feet from where he had left her, her face buried in her hands. His numb mind realized that she could not have known that he stood on the other side of that door. The tears inside her had freed themselves in hoarse sobs.

He walked across the room until he stood directly in front of her. She raised brimming eyes to him, staring at the sword in his hand.

“Your weapon, milady. Perhaps you’d like another try at skewering me.”

Gelina’s eyes widened, but instead of taking the sword, she sobbed even louder. Conn sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Do stop, Gelina. You’ll rust the weapons if you go on like this.”

She bawled louder, pausing only long enough to drag her nose across her sleeve.

He knelt beside her, pulling her up until he could rest his chin on her head. Her curls felt like silk beneath the scratchiness of his beard. She cried hoarsely into the rough linen of his shirt.

“I shall not send you away, Gelina. I never wanted to anyway.” He could think of nothing to add that would quiet her bitter sobs. He continued to talk, hoping to soothe her with the sound of his voice. “Soon, Gelina. Soon we’ll go on your picnic.”