Praise for award-winning author Ruth Langan

The Courtship of Izzy McCree

“A very tender romance that touches your heartstrings.”

—Romantic Times

Malachite

“A masterfully powerful end to a thrilling series. It is simply the best!”

—Rendezvous

Jade

“Touching, tender, and heartwarming...a wonderful story as only Ruth Langan can create.”

—Romantic Times

The Highlander

“Powerful story... Exquisitely done.”

—Rendezvous

Texas Hero

“This 5 story wraps a 5 trilogy...”

—Heartland Critiques

Praise for award-winning author Ruth Langan “All night I’ve wanted this. Just this.” Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-one Chapter Twenty-two Chapter Twenty-three Epilogue Copyright

“All night I’ve wanted this. Just this.”

Conor nibbled her lips. The words were spoken against Emma’s mouth, then inside her mouth as he changed the angle and kissed her again, long, slow and deep. “I wanted to be the one holding you.... Watching your eyes as they looked into mine.”

He stared down and saw the smoldering look. A look that told him she was feeling the same things he was feeling.

“I was jealous.” He nibbled his way from the corner of her mouth to her ear. “Jealous.” He spoke the word harshly, with a trace of wonder. “A new emotion for me. I’ve never known it before. Nor would I have believed myself capable of such a thing.” .

“Conor. Conor.” Emma was so confused. It was one thing to flirt. To lead him on, in order to gain information. But now she was feeling things that had her trembling with new awareness.

She wanted him. Wanted him so much, it frightened her.

Dear Reader,

This month we’re giving you plenty of excuses to put your feet up and “get away from it all” with these four, fantasy-filled historical romances.

First, USA Today bestselling author Ruth Langan returns with Conor, the second book in her sensational miniseries, THE O’NEIL SAGA—although you needn’t have read Rory to enjoy this one. It’s the thrilling tale of an Irish noblewoman sent by her evil stepmother to seduce the roguish rebel Conor, who has great influence over Queen Elizabeth. Their instant attraction is only the beginning of a successful partnership in which the two unravel a plot to murder the queen....

If you enjoy half-Apache heroes, you must meet Rio Santee, a world-weary single father who falls in love with the independent female who reluctantly takes him and his children into her home in The Merry Widows—Sarah. It’s fabulous! The Rancher’s Wife by Lynda Trent is about a “pretend marriage” that turns real when an abandoned wife moves in with her widower neighbor to care for his baby girl.

Last but not least, we have Bride Of Trouville, a spine-tingling, forbidden love story by rising talent Lyn Stone. Forced to wed, Lady Anne MacBain struggles to hide her son’s deafness from her husband—whom she has, ironically, grown to love.

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical®.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Conor

Ruth Langan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

RUTH LANGAN

traces her ancestry to Scotland and Ireland. It is no surprise, then, that she feels a kinship with the characters in her historical novels.

Married to her childhood sweetheart, she has raised five children and lives in Michigan, the state where she was born and raised.

For John Ryan Langan,

the newest link in our chain of love

And his brother and sister, Tommy and Annie

And his proud parents, Tom and Maureen

And of course, to Tom, the love of my life

Prologue

Ireland, 1546

“Good morrow, young Conor.” The old peasant woman beamed at the son of Gavin O’Neil, the lord of Ballinarin. “Ye’ve come with your family to market, have ye?”

“Aye, Mistress Garrity.” Nine-year-old Conor O’Neil paused at the table laden with rich, delicate pastries.

This was his favorite stop on market day. At a nearby stall his father was sharing a bit of ale with Friar Malone and some of the men from the village. Just across the green his mother and little sister, Briana, were admiring bits of ribbon and lace that a young woman was holding aloft. In the lane his older brother, Rory, was surrounded by a cluster of lads who were pretending to ignore the pretty lasses who were giggling and blushing as they passed by.

All around were vendors hawking their wares. There were stalls filled with pens of squawking chickens, buckets of wriggling fish, wheelbarrows of mussels and other shellfish. Farmers displayed their fruits and vegetables, or bartered lambs for seafood.

“I’ve raised six sons of my own,” Mistress Garrity was saying in that lovely musical voice that Conor loved. “And I know what most appeals to the heart of a wee lad.”

With a wink she handed him one of the pastries. As always he reached into his pocket for the coin. And as always, she added a second pastry with the whispered admonition, “This one’s free. Just to hold ye until ye get home, lad.”

They shared a secret smile. He bit into the pastry and gave a little sigh of pleasure. But before he could take a second bite he felt a hand against his shoulder as he was roughly shoved aside. As he fell to the ground, he looked up to see more than a dozen English soldiers elbowing their way through the crowd.

The happy voices suddenly faded into silence. Even little children, who had been chasing each other around the stalls laughing and shouting, went still as death.

“What do you want here?” one of the farmers demanded.

“We’ve come for food, old man. We’re hungry.” The leader of the band of soldiers kicked over a stall and reached for a pen of squawking, flapping chickens. While the vendor watched helplessly, the soldier tossed it to one of his men and said with a laugh, “While we’re at it, we’ll have your gold as well.”

The soldiers began snatching up buckets of fish, baskets of bread, all the while filling their pockets with coin from the tables.

One of the soldiers spied the pastries and began scooping them up.

“Where’s your coin, old woman?”

Mistress Garrity emptied her pocket, placing three gold coins in his hand.

He caught her by the front of her gown, dragging her close. Through his teeth he hissed, “I want all of them, old woman.”

She hung her head in shame. “That’s all I have.”

“Liar.” He slapped her hard, snapping her head to one side, then gave her a shove backward.

At that a tearful little girl came forward, clutching at the old woman’s skirt as though to comfort her. She was a wee bit of a lass who often played a game of tag with Conor while her family tended their stall at market.

“Hush, now, Glenna.” Mistress Garrity was more concerned with soothing the child than with her own pain. “Yer old grandmother’s fine.”

Seeing this, the soldier snatched up the girl and pressed a knife to her throat. “You’ll give me the rest of your coins, old woman, or you’ll watch your brat’s blood spill right here at your feet. And just to make certain that you never forget, I’ll have my sport with her before I kill her.”

At the soldier’s words Conor, still lying in the dirt, reached for the small, sharp dirk he always wore beneath his tunic. From his youngest days he’d been taught to think like a warrior. It was in his blood, as it was in the blood of all the O’Neils. The soldier’s threat had his blood running hot through his veins. Despite his tender age, he knew what would happen to his young friend, Glenna. The need to stop these monsters by any means nearly clouded his vision. But before he could attack, he looked up to see his father’s hand go to the sword at his waist. Across the lane he saw Rory unsheath his knife.

Conor knew that the sword of one man and the knives of two lads would never be enough against more than a dozen armed English soldiers. It might satisfy the warrior’s blood in them, but in the end it would only incite the soldiers to more brutality.

His own life mattered not to him. But he had the feeling, in that instant, that the fate of his mother and sister, and the entire village, rested in what he chose to do here. He knew, with perfect clarity, that he could save them all with the only weapon he had. And this time, it was not his knife.

Without thinking of the consequences he leapt to his feet and, in a surprisingly strong voice, asked, “Is it true that you swear allegiance to Henry of England?”

The soldier was so startled by the bold question he turned to face the lad, completely forgetting the threat to the weeping lass in his arms. “Aye. And what’s it to you?”

Conor shrugged. Out of the corner of his eye he saw several of the soldiers begin to circle around him and prayed his father would hold his temper for a minute more. Though he knew he was babbling, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing his brave father and brother to these foreigners’ swords. Not when there might be another way, a better way, to win. “Then it can’t be true what I’ve heard about your king.”

“And what might that be?”

“That he’s an honorable man.”

The soldier’s eyes narrowed with fury. “Are you saying he isn’t honorable? Do you dare to slander the King of England?”

“If Henry of England is an honorable king, and if you swear allegiance to him, then how can you justify taking the life of an innocent lass? According to the laws of your own land, stealing food is a crime, punishable by confinement in prison. But the taking of an innocent life is a crime punishable by death.”

At the look of amazement on the soldier’s face, his comrades began to taunt and jeer.

“This bright Irish lad’s trapped you, Ian.”

“Aye, what have you to say for yourself now, man?”

“Better release the girl before good King Henry himself comes seeking vengeance.”

“I’ve heard these Irish are gifted with words,” another soldier jeered. “This lad’s proved it. He’s bested you, Ian.”

The leader of the band hurried forward and, hearing the taunts, said angrily, “I want no trouble here. We came for food and gold, nothing more. When we leave this place, we leave with no blood on our hands. Is that clear, Ian?”

The two faced each other for long silent moments. Then the soldier dropped the girl and she scrambled to her feet and raced, weeping and wailing, into the trembling embrace of her grandmother.

In the silence that followed the soldier turned and caught Conor roughly by the arms, yanking the lad ,up until they were eye to eye.

“You’ve a glib tongue, Irish.”

Conor’s heart was thundering inside his chest. If the soldier felt the knife beneath his tunic, it would be turned on him. But he swallowed back his fear and met the soldier’s stare in silence.

“That’s better. You’d best see that your mouth stays closed if you want to keep that clever golden tongue. Else you may find it cut out by my blade.” With a vicious oath he tossed the lad down in a heap, then whirled away.

Minutes later the English soldiers disappeared into the forest as quickly as they had arrived.

At once the villagers pounced on Conor, hugging him, squeezing his arm, shaking his hand and exclaiming while Mistress Garrity thanked him over and over again through a mist of tears.

“Ye saved my little Glenna, Conor O’Neil. Had it not been for yer courage, and yer fine words, he’d have brutalized her and slit her throat. I know he would. And all the swords in the land wouldn’t have been quick enough to stop him.”

When Conor’s family gathered around, the villagers stepped aside out of respect.

His mother and sister hugged him, while his brother slapped his shoulder in approval. And all the while his father studied him in silence.

After several minutes, Gavin O’Neil finally managed to swallow back the knot of fear that had been threatening to choke him. “How did you come by the things you said to the soldier, Conor?”

Conor shrugged, prepared for his father’s famous temper to explode. “I know not. The words just seemed to come into my mind. I knew that if I didn’t stop the soldiers with words, you would be forced to stop them with your sword. And Rory with his knife.”

“It is our duty to defend those we love. You know that I’m a skilled swordsman, as you and Rory are skilled with a knife.”

“Aye, Father. But sometimes words are better than swords. Especially if they can prevent bloodshed.”

Gavin glanced over the lad’s head to where his wife, Moira, was standing. A look passed between them. And in that instant they both knew. Though Gavin believed in the power of the sword, he had just witnessed an even greater power. An unbelievable power.

There were places of learning in Spain, in France, in Italy, where a lad with a fine mind could be given every advantage. Fed by the writings of the world’s scholars, a fine mind could be honed until it might equal or even surpass an army of swordsmen.

Could it be that this, their middle child, might prove to be the answer to a nation’s prayer? A prayer for freedom from their hated oppressors?

There was no doubt Conor would be as skilled a warrior as his father and brother, for he had the fearlessness, the steady hand, the vision. But if he could become equally skilled as an orator, he would be a formidable foe indeed.

They owed it to him, to their family, to their country, to do everything in their power to make it so.

In the years that followed, there was much to discuss around Ballinarin. There was the power of Conor O’Neil’s words, for he had become a famed orator. But as skilled as he was, another was even more acclaimed. A mysterious, hooded warrior had begun waging a solitary war of vengeance against the cruel bands of English soldiers that roamed the countryside. A warrior who spoke not a word as he slit the throats of soldiers caught in the act of brutalizing helpless women and children. Because he always dressed in the garb of a monk, with the hood pulled down to his eyes, and the cowl pulled up to hide the lower half of his face, he’d become known as Heaven’s Avenger.

Emma Vaughn was small and slight for her age of ten and two. Dusk had already settled over the land when she began making her way home from the village apothecary. Her beautiful mother had never regained her strength after a difficult childbirth. But Emma was determined to see her mother fully recovered. This day she carried a pouch of special herbs and potions said to have healing properties. They had taken longer to prepare than she’d anticipated, and she was anxious about the lateness of the hour. But her mother’s health was worth any amount of time.

The sound of horses coming up behind her had her turning in alarm. When she caught sight of the band of English soldiers, her heart leapt to her throat, and she cursed herself for her carelessness. She knew, as did every woman and child in Ireland, what these hardened soldiers considered sport.

Hiking her skirts above her knees, she veered off the path and raced across the meadow, hoping the tall grass would slow down those in pursuit. She heard a roar of laughter as the horsemen caught sight of her and began to give chase.

Her chest heaved, the breath burning her lungs as she pushed herself to the limit. But as she headed toward a line of trees, hoping to hide herself, she saw a second group of soldiers emerge from the cover of the forest and advance toward her. She paused. Turned. Then realized, with growing panic, that she was surrounded. The circle of soldiers narrowed as they moved in on their target, who darted from one side of the meadow to the other, like a creature of the wild bent on escape.

“I’ve got her.” One of the soldiers reached down and scooped her up like a rag doll, holding her imprisoned in his arms as he nudged his horse toward the cover of the woods.

The others were laughing and cursing as they made their way to their encampment.

The one holding Emma slid from the saddle. “Since I caught her, I claim the right to be fiat. The rest of you can have what’s left.” He gave a mocking laugh. “From the looks of this scrawny wench, I doubt she can pleasure me much. But I’ll have to make do.”

The others joined in the laughter as a cask was opened and ale was passed among them.

“She’s no more than a child,” one of the men complained.

“All the better. We’ll teach her the ways of a woman. Maybe, if she pleases us, we can keep her around.” The soldier kept a firm grasp on Emma as he dragged her across the camp toward his blankets. Along the way he snagged a tankard of ale, tipping it up and draining it as he walked.

When he reached his bedroll, secured beside a fallen log, he tossed her down, then fell on top of her. Her screams died in her throat. She nearly gagged on the stench of ale and sour breath as her mouth was covered by his.

It was impossible to move. She was pinned beneath him. Still, panic gave her strength she’d never known she possessed. Her hand reached out blindly and encountered a rock. Her fingers curled around it, and she struck the back of his head with all the strength she could manage.

He gave a grunt of pain. “Little witch. I’ll teach you.” He grabbed both her hands, holding them above her head in one of his. Then he slapped her so hard stars danced behind her eyes. “Now you’ll pay.”

Emma braced herself for what was to come. But as he fumbled beneath her skirts, he suddenly went rigid with shock. She caught sight of a flash of silver as the soldier’s eyes went wide, then seemed to glaze over. Blood streamed from a gaping slash across his throat in the moment before he slumped forward, pinning her beneath his dead weight.

With a sense of panic she pushed and struggled to free herself. Her hands, her gown, even her hair were smeared with his blood.

Suddenly his body was yanked roughly away. Standing over her was a figure clad in the garb of a friar, with the cowl pulled up over his mouth, and the hood pulled down to his eyes. And the bluest eyes Emma had ever seen. They glowed in the moonlight like sapphires.

“Who...? What...?”

He shook his head and touched a finger to her lips. Then, without a word, he turned away and began to crawl toward the encampment, where the voices of the drunken soldiers could be heard.

Kneeling up, Emma watched in amazement as the hooded figure moved among them, silently slitting each throat. He moved so quickly, none of his victims had time to notice his approach, or to offer any resistance.

When he returned, she was weeping in relief. Big wet tears that spilled down her cheeks. He lifted her face and wiped the tears with his thumbs. In his eyes she could read both simmering anger and heartfelt compassion for what she was suffering. Without a word he picked her up and carried her to his waiting horse. She could feel the ripple of muscle as he climbed easily into the saddle, all the while holding her against his chest.

“Thank you,” she murmured when she could find her voice. “I know... I know what would have happened if you hadn’t come to my rescue.”

Again he touched a finger to her lips to silence her words. Then he gathered her close, allowing her head to rest on his shoulder. They rode across the meadow in silence. In fact, it seemed to Emma, the whole world had gone suddenly silent. No breeze stirred the leaves of the trees. No night birds sang. Even the frogs in the pond made no sound as the horse splashed through the water, then climbed the embankment and headed toward her village in the distance.

In the circle of this stranger’s arms she felt warm and safe. No harm would come to her, she knew, as long as he held her like this.

When they reached the village he slid from the saddle and set her on her feet.

“I need to know your name, sir, so that my father can properly thank you.”

He shook his head.

“Are you mute? Is that why you don’t speak?”

He merely remained silent.

She offered her hand. “Then I thank you, sir. I will never, ever forget you, or what you did this night.”

Though the lower half of his face was covered by the cowl, she could see the smile in his eyes. He pressed her hand between both of his, then turned and pulled himself into the saddle.

He waited until she ran up the lane and let herself into her house. Then, as she stood in the doorway and waved, he saluted smartly and wheeled his mount. Minutes later he blended into the darkness.

From that day on, Emma Vaughn told all who would listen about the mysterious warrior who had saved her honor and her life. When asked to identify her champion, she could describe only his eyes. Deep blue eyes, filled with ageless wisdom and courage and compassion. Though she was little more than a child, she had already lost her heart to this stranger. To emulate him, she put aside her fears and mastered the art of defense with a knife, vowing that no man would ever again find her helpless.

Throughout all of Ireland the legend grew. And all spoke in awe of the courage of Heaven’s Avenger.

Chapter One

Ireland, 1563

“I wish you weren’t going to England, Conor.” Moira O’Neil struggled to keep the emotion from her voice as she hugged her son. But the pain and fear were there, just beneath the surface. She knew that her middle child was widely regarded as Ireland’s most persuasive orator. Knew, also, that he was a warrior second only to his older brother, Rory. A man adept with both word and sword could surely take care of himself in any situation. Still, the worry persisted. He was going to the land of their enemy. Into the very den of the lion.

It had been his father’s plan since Conor was a lad. And gradually, Conor had accepted the plan as his own. His gift was this wonderful ability to persuade people, through logic and pretty words, to use common sense over emotion. To negotiate rather than fight. To make peace rather than war.

He had another gift, as well. Moira had seen the looks of approval in the eyes of the young women when he passed, and knew that he was a dashing ladies’ man who had caught the eye of the queen. But Elizabeth of England was no innocent. She was a worldly monarch, famous for keeping charming young men around her only so long as they amused her. Once she lost interest they could find themselves in grave peril.

Moira sighed. In her eyes Conor would always be that blue-eyed laughing charmer who had captured her heart when he was born, and owned it still.

“It seems like only yesterday since you and Rory returned from that hellish place. And now you’re going back, to the very palace where your brother nearly lost his life.”

“I’ll be fine, Mother. I’m going at the invitation of the queen. What harm could possibly come to me?”

What harm indeed? She had heard of the villainies and betrayals among those who surrounded Elizabeth at court. But she kept such things to herself as she hugged her son.

“I’m proud of you, Conor.” Gavin O’Neil clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder and dragged him close. “You’ll do us all proud. Your family. Your countrymen. And all those who will come after us will bless your name because of this sacrifice you make for Ireland. If you can’t persuade the English queen to leave us in peace, at least you’ll have your ear to the throne, so that we’ll be prepared for what is to come.”

“I’ll do my best, Father.” Conor turned to his older brother, Rory, and the two men clasped hands. “You’ll see to everything on this side of the sea?”

“Aye.” Rory grinned. “And gladly leave the other side to you.” He gave Conor a cool, measured look. “There was another attack last night upon a group of English soldiers. Heaven’s Avenger found them abusing a wench, and without a word, slit all their throats with a very small, very deadly knife.”

Conor took a step back. “Is that so?”

Rory nodded. “Like all the others, this wench insists her avenger had superhuman strength, subduing all seven soldiers before even one could lift a hand in defense. She is telling all who will listen that he was as tall as a giant, and as handsome as a young god, even though she couldn’t see his face.”

“Thus are legends born,” Conor scoffed. “If she couldn’t see his face, he could be either fair of face, as the wench insists, or perhaps scarred so badly he hides his disfigurement beneath a mask.” Conor’s tone was dry as he turned to kiss his sister-in-law’s cheek. “Continue taking care of my brother, AnnaClaire, for he is surely losing his senses.”

She laughed. “I’ll see to Rory. You’ll give my father my love?”

“Aye. If I should see him before he sets sail.” James Lord Thompson, AnnaClaire’s father, was Conor’s only friend among the queen’s counselors. But he had just sent word that he was being sent by the queen to Spain. Some suggested he was being banished because he had dared to cross words with the queen’s favorite, Lynley Lord Dunstan.

Conor turned to the lad who stood between Rory and AnnaClaire. The orphan, Innis Maguire, had become a son to them, living in their household, blossoming under their loving care. In the past months he had grown more than an inch in height. The beginnings of muscles could be seen beneath the sleeves of his tunic.

Conor tousled the blonde hair and dragged the lad close. “Next time I leave, maybe you can go with me.”

“You mean it?”

“Aye, lad. Though I think, when I return from England, I’ll be home to stay.”

Conor turned to his little sister, Briana, who was openly weeping. “No tears now, lass. I’ll be home before you have time to miss me.”

“I miss you already.” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I know.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “But when the Queen of England issues an invitation, it’s really a royal command. I must go.”

“She isn’t my queen.” Briana pushed from his arms and stomped her foot. She’d inherited her temper, as fiery as her hair, from her father. “Nor is she your queen, Conor.”

“True enough. But I’ve learned that ‘tis ofttimes more prudent to lull an enemy with sweet songs than to approach with sword raised. So I’ll go to England, lass, and watch and listen.” He shot her that charming smile that had broken the heart of many a colleen. “And even croon a minstrel’s song of love to the lady on the throne, if that’s what it takes to keep my people safe from English swords.”

He pulled himself into the saddle and saluted his family smartly. Then, with a last wave at the servants who had assembled to wish him godspeed, he turned his mount toward Dublin.

Before he reached the village he turned for a lingering look at Ballinarin. The sun had burned away the last of the morning raindrops. The sky was awash with feathery clouds that seemed to brush the highest peaks of Croagh Patrick. A waterfall cascaded down the side of the mountain, sending up a misty spray. A flock of sheep undulated across a hillside. This land was so green, so beautiful, it seemed like an artist’s rendering.

He thought of his little sister Briana’s words to him and felt a sigh well up from deep inside. He wasn’t yet gone, and already he missed the land of his birth. At times he felt like a nomad. Since boyhood he’d spent as much time away as he had at his beloved home. He’d lived with a tutor in a villa in Rome, where he’d mastered the classics. Learned to speak fluent Spanish in a monastery. Could converse in French after two years in Paris. What he longed for, more than anything else, was to spend the rest of his life at Ballinarin. Hearing words spoken in a soft, soothing brogue. Riding his horse across the green, verdant hills. But he had a duty. To his father. To his country. This was what he had trained for. What his mother had prayed for. What his father and brother had fought for.

He would do his best to turn away from his legacy as a warrior and become, instead, an advocate for peace. But if peace could not prevail, he would never submit to the oppressor. He touched a hand to the knife at his waist. A knife that had spilled too much English blood.

There was no turning his back on his destiny.

Clermont House, Outside London.

“I grow weary of waiting for the throne.” Henry, Earl of Huntington, paced back and forth. “Elizabeth grows more popular with her subjects every day.”

His sister put a hand on his arm. “Queens have a way of dying.”

He turned on her with a snarl. “Elizabeth is young and healthy. She could live for years.”

“She need not die of...natural causes.”

He studied her with new interest. “What are you planning?”

“What I have always planned. What we have always planned, brother. You will be king.” She turned to the other man in the room, who had remained silent throughout their exchange. “You, Dunstan, will get richer. And I...” Her smile bloomed. “As the new Lady Vaughn, I hold power over a certain someone who will do exactly as I say.”

Her brother Henry’s frown deepened. “How can you be certain your stepdaughter will spy for us, Celestine?”

She walked to the window and pointed. “You see? Even now she rides up the lane. The girl is as predictable as the English rain. She thinks herself smart and strong. But I intend to prove her wrong.” She touched a hand to his arm. “Leave Emma Vaughn to me. And put your fears to rest. Prepare, instead, for your reign as King of England.”

Huntington’s voice was rough with impatience. “I am not prepared to wait forever.”

“Nor am I,” Dunstan said. “For I have a few plans of my own.”

“Then see to them. But if your plans fail, mine will not.” She left her brother and Lord Dunstan and went to her chambers to prepare herself for her performance. It was an art that she had perfected.

When she was ready she descended the stairs and made her grand entrance. “Foolish, defiant child. I ordered you to stay away. It is enough that I permit you use of your father’s London townhouse.” Celestine swept into the parlor with the polished air of a courtesan. Her gown had been artfully designed to show off her lush figure to its best advantage. Her eyes blazed as she confronted the young woman who was pacing before the fireplace. “Did you think the servants wouldn’t tell me you were lurking about?”

“I am not lurking.” Emma stopped her pacing and lifted her head to stare at the older woman. “I’ve come to see my father and little sister.”

“I’ve told you before, Emma. You are forbidden to see them.”

“You have no right, Celestine.”

“I have every right. I’m your stepmother now. Yours and little Sarah’s. And your father’s wife. It is a wife’s duty to look out for her husband.”

“Husband.” Emma’s hands knotted into fists at her sides. “You care not a whit about being a wife to my father. All you care about is securing his wealth.”

The woman gave a chilling smile. “It is my wealth now. I’ll use it as I see fit. And you, my girl, will not see a farthing.”

“I care not for my father’s wealth.”

“If that is true then leave.”

“Oh, I shall. But first I will see my father and little sister.”

“I forbid it.”

“You cruel, wicked creature. If my father knew what you were doing, he would renounce this farce of a marriage and have you publicly flogged.”

“Beware that idle tongue, my girl. For I am the mistress of Clermont House now. And I am telling you that your father and sister do not wish to see you.”

“That’s a lie. My father loves me. He would never turn away from me. Sarah adores me. I’m like a second mother to her.” With an anguished cry Emma crossed the room and caught the older woman’s arm. “What have you said to them? What have you done to turn them against me?”

She looked up into those narrowed eyes and saw a flicker of amusement. “They don’t know, do they? You’ve never told them that you banished me from this home. Oh, how could they not know? Unless...” As a thought struck, she cried, “What have you done? Are they unwell? Dear heaven, are my father and little sister ill?”

Celestine stared at the offending fingers wrinkling her sleeve. “You will unhand me at once, or I’ll see that you are physically removed from this house and never permitted to return.”

When Emma released her, Celestine stiffened her spine and with a haughty gesture crossed to a side table. Pouring herself a goblet of wine she sipped, regarding her stepdaughter in silence.

She was pleased to see that all the anger had drained from the girl. In its place was fear. A terrible, palpable fear that her beloved father and sister had fallen under some horrible spell.

That must be the reason for this silence, Emma thought. Her strong, handsome father had been duped into marriage and was now being betrayed by this woman. And her sweet little sister, who had already suffered the loss of their mother, was now being denied the only comfort she had ever known.

Just how far would this new bride go to insure that all the Vaughn wealth, all the power, all the titles, would be in her hands? Would she poison not only their minds but their bodies as well? At the very thought, Emma felt the terror begin to grow. A woman as ruthless as Celestine would be capable of anything.

“Just how much do you desire to see your father and sister, I wonder?”

“I wish it desperately.” Emma felt a tiny flicker of hope. “Just to assure myself that they are not ill. And if, after seeing me, they should order me to leave, I will do so and never darken their door again. But please, I beg of you, I must hear it from their own lips. Let me speak with Sarah and my father.”

“Sarah is no longer here.”

“Not here? Where has she gone?”

“I had her sent to the country. To stay with friends.”

“But why would you send her away? She’s only six years old. Far too young to leave her father.”

“Aye, young. Young enough to forget.”

“Forget?”

“I wanted Sarah far away from you, Emma. You’ve had too much influence in her young life. Like you, she refused to accept my authority. But she will learn.” A hint of a smile touched the corner of Celestine’s lips. “I intend to keep Sarah away from you. But I might be persuaded to let you see your father.”

“Oh, thank...”

She held up a hand. “Save your gratitude. Before I grant this favor, you must do something for me, to prove that you deserve such kindness.”

“Anything. Anything,” the girl said with a sob of relief.

“As you know, I am cousin to the queen. As such, I can arrange for you to live in the palace, and act as lady-in-waiting to Elizabeth.”

“But I...have had no training in such things. I wouldn’t know what to do. And I would be all alone, for I know nobody at court.”

“All the better. You will get to know them. And one in particular.” Celestine lowered her voice, to avoid being overheard by any of the servants who might be passing by. “It is rumored that the queen is enamored of a certain Irishman, whose advice she values. I need to know what advice he gives the queen, and precisely how she intends to act upon that advice.”

The girl’s hand flew to her mouth. “You wish me to spy?”

“Don’t be so melodramatic. There are no secrets at court. I merely wish to know what everyone else shall eventually learn. Only I wish to know it sooner.”

The girl was already shaking her head. “I cannot do this. What you ask is wrong.”

“So be it, Emma. The choice is yours.” Celestine turned to stare out the window. “I have heard of so many... accidents in the country. A frail child falling from a hay wagon or from the back of a runaway steed.”

Emma sucked in a breath at the bold threat to her little sister.

Celestine turned to fix her with a steely look. “Know this, my ,girl. You will never see your father or sister again. Until,” she added with a sneer, “they are laid in the ground.”

“Oh. How can you be so heartless?” The girl turned away to hide her tears.

“Very well, you sniveling little coward.” Her stepmother waved a hand. “Go. Leave me now. Put your own comfort and your lofty scruples above the safety of those you profess to love.” She turned toward the door. “One of the servants will see you out And the entire household staff will be instructed that you are forbidden to enter your father’s house again.”

“Wait.” Emma began to pace.

Her stepmother counted to ten before saying aloud, “I grow weary of your foolish indecision.”

“All right.” Emma’s shoulders sagged. “I’ll do as you ask.”

Celestine carefully composed herself to hide the glint of triumph in her eyes. It had all been so simple. She had correctly guessed Emma’s one weakness. “I will send word to the palace at once.” She looked the girl up and down and said sarcastically, “I would hope you can find something more fetching than those horrible rags you are wearing. And try to do something with that unfashionable hair. After all, your only purpose in serving my cousin is to snag the interest of the Irishman. See to it as quickly as possible. His name is Conor O’Neil.”

Chapter Two

The Court of Elizabeth I of England

“Your Majesty must, I beseech you, bring the power of your Throne upon these obstinate peasants.” Lord Dunstan, trusted advisor to the queen, was charged with the “Irish problem.” That was how everyone in England referred to the constant upheaval between their land and the tiny island across the sea. At the moment Dunstan was holding forth at a gathering of the queen and her council in a lavish suite of rooms at Greenwich Palace in London.

“Our control over these barbarians remains precarious, Majesty. They defy our laws. They betray our trust. Why, they even revile our religion. A religion, I might add, over which you are charged with supreme governorship. Why, I remember when your father...”

“Leave that.” Elizabeth’s voice had the sting of a scorpion. “I tire of this subject. Besides, I would greet my fine Irish orator.”

Dunstan went deathly pale. Then he glowered at the handsome young man who bowed before the queen. At once she ordered her aged counselor Lord Humphrey to vacate his chair so that the newest arrival could be seated directly beside her.

“Here you are, Conor. You are late again.”

“Aye, Majesty.” More than a little out of breath, Conor bowed before the queen and brushed his lips over her outstretched hand. “I beg your forgiveness. I have no sense of time.”

“You are forgiven, my rogue. Come. Sit beside your queen, Conor O‘NeiL”

Conor O’Neil. The very name curdled Dunstan’s blood.

He turned to several advisors, who were watching in stony silence. “Ever since the Irishman has arrived at court, our young queen has been acting besotted.”

“Aye.” The florid-faced Lord Humphrey nodded. “Every day this past fortnight O’Neil has been invited to take the place of honor beside her at court. At dinner parties, she has insisted that he be her companion. Why, the Irishman has been included in every hunting party, every picnic, every dazzling ball, since his arrival.”

Dunstan glowered. “Women are charmed by him. Men seem to find him both bright and witty. And to add insult to injury., Conor O‘Neil makes no apologies for the behavior of his countrymen. Everyone knows his own brother, Rory, the infamous Blackhearted O’Neil, murdered dozens of the queen’s own soldiers. Was he punished for such atrocities? Nay. Instead, he has been pardoned by the queen and allowed to return to his family estate, Ballinarin, where he lives this day like a free man.”

Lord Humphrey gave a sly look. “I understand Rory O’Neil wed your woman.” .

Dunstan shrugged, denying the bitter taste of defeat. “I had no use for AnnaClaire Thompson. But I did covet her Irish estate, Clay Court.”

“And now you have it.”

“Aye.” The boast rang hollow. The Irish servants who had staffed Clay Court for generations had fled rather than serve their new English master. He’d been forced to send over his own loyal English servants, at considerable cost. And still the estates were falling into disrepair.

But he would show her. He would show all of them. He had already persuaded the queen to banish AnnaClaire’s father, Lord Thompson, to Spain. He would soon persuade the queen to take similar action against the Irishman. Banishment back to his own miserable country would be the sweetest revenge.

“Rory O‘Neil lives like royalty while he incites other Irish warriors to take up arms against England. And all the while his brother, Conor, plays fast and loose with our virgin queen. Why, she has even bestowed on him the title of Lord Wyclow, and presented him with a manor house and hunting lodge in Ireland.”

That knowledge, more than any other, stuck like a stone in Dunstan’s throat. He hated any man who acquired what he himself coveted. And he had long coveted Wyclow. What was worse, the Irishman steadfastly refused to acknowledge the title, and it was rumored he’d turned over the land around Wyclow to the villagers, along with a purse of gold to maintain it.

There had been a time when Elizabeth would have bestowed the title and land on Dunstan, as she had bestowed her friendship. Dunstan was a man who relished being part of the queen’s inner circle of advisors. He loved being the center of attention, just as he loved the power which came with it. But that had been before the arrival of the Irishman.

“I weary of this place.” Elizabeth stood, and at once every man in the room got to his feet and bowed, while the women curtsied. “We will retire to a withdrawing room.”

They followed her from the suite and down the hall until they reached a large formal parlor, where they were joined by Elizabeth’s ladies-in-waiting. Within minutes servants were passing among the assembled with trays of wine and ale.

“Come, Conor. Sit and amuse me.” Elizabeth settled herself on a chaise and patted the place beside her.

“How do you wish to be amused today, Majesty?”

“Tell me more about your irreverent, misspent youth in Paris.”

“Very well. There was the night...” Conor went into a lengthy description of a prank he and his fellow students had played on their very proper French tutor. The evening had involved a great deal of wine and a young woman of questionable morals, who agreed to hide herself in the tutor’s bed after he’d fallen asleep.

Conor knew he was a gifted storyteller. It was an art he’d perfected. He accepted a goblet of ale and sat back, enjoying the amused laughter from the others. As he glanced around, he caught sight of a new face in the crowd.

She was young, no more than eighteen, and moved with coltish grace. In a sea of bright colors, her gown was conspicuous by its pale lemon hue and modest neckline, and by the fact that it was much too big for her. The bodice drooped. The waistline sagged. The skirts were so long, she was nearly tripping over them. While the others surrounding the queen flaunted their charms, this young woman apparently chose to keep hers hidden. Her hair, a nondescript shade of brown, was pulled back from her face in a simple knot. Several strands had slipped free to curve along one cheek. While Conor watched, she lifted a hand to brush at them. It was an awkward gesture that was both sweet and endearing. For a moment he was reminded of his little sister, Briana, who was much more comfortable in the stables than in the company of their parents’ titled guests.

The queen sighed. “I envy you, Conor. If only my own childhood could have been spent in like fashion. Alas, I was never permitted such frivolous behavior.”

“Aye, Majesty. We all know yours has been a dreary existence, locked away in sumptuous palaces, your every whim catered to by devoted servants, adored by your people wherever you go.”

Conor was rewarded by another round of laughter. The queen was clearly enjoying his wry humor. There were few in her company who would dare to ridicule her, no matter how gently. That only added to this Irishman’s appeal.

“Majesty.” Lord Dunstan set aside his goblet, determined to pursue the topic that had been abandoned at court. “I know you are weary of discussing the Irish problem. But all of England is talking about the recent attacks upon our soldiers. Attacks, I might add, that once only occurred in Ireland, but are now happening here on our very soil. A messenger brought news of one such attack this very morning, in a nearby village.”

“They are merely rumors.” Elizabeth’s eyes flashed. “What would you have me do, Dunstan? Imprison every man who wears the robes of a cleric?”

Dunstan shrugged. “Since I have little use for men of the cloth, I would have no problem whatever with such an edict. And it would remove this outlaw’s disguise.”

“If this mysterious outlaw is as clever as everyone says, he will merely find another way to conceal his identity.” Elizabeth turned to Conor. “What think you, my rogue?”

He gave her his famous smile. “I think, Majesty, ’twould would be simpler to imprison every soldier who is found forcing himself on an unwilling maiden.”

Dunstan sneered. “With such a law England would soon find itself without an army.”

The queen arched a brow. “I had no idea such behavior was so widespread.”

“The behavior of soldiers would surely offend Your Majesty’s delicate sensibilities.” Dunstan shot a meaningful look at Conor. “As it would some of the less...stalwart gentlemen at court, it would seem. But such behavior is a fact of life. Our soldiers are trained to kill our enemies. They are accustomed to taking what they want, regardless of the cost to others.”

Conor’s voice was carefully controlled. “Are you suggesting that the virtue of innocents is the price Her Majesty must pay to maintain an army?”

Dunstan nodded. “It is the price every nation must pay. War changes men. They become akin to animals.”

“Some do.” Conor fought to keep the anger from his voice. “And some manage to retain the virtue of nobility while fighting for their rights as men.”

“Are you saying you approve of what this so called Heaven’s Avenger is doing to our soldiers, O’Neil?”

Conor’s tone was dangerously soft. “I suggest you ask the maidens who have been spared by his knife.”

The queen flashed a smile, thoroughly delighted by this skilled battle of words between these two.

A servant approached to whisper softly, “Your seamstresses are here for the fittings for your new gowns, Majesty.”

Elizabeth sighed. “You see how it is, Conor? A monarch’s work is never done. And I was so enjoying this little discussion. Will I see you tonight?”

He kept his smile in place. “If you wish, Majesty.”

“I do. We’ll sup in my private dining room with Humphrey and Dunstan and a few friends.”

“Aye, Majesty.”

Elizabeth set aside her goblet and stood. At once the others in the room got to their feet and bowed as she followed her servant out the door.

Once they were alone, the crowd visibly relaxed. Without the pressure of the royal presence, they could be themselves.

“Wine, O’Neil?”

Conor looked up to find Lord Dunstan standing behind him.

“Thank you.” Though he loathed the man, Conor was adept at playing the game. He kept a polite smile on his face as he lifted his goblet.

“I understand we’ll both be dining with the queen tonight.” Dunstan accepted a goblet from a passing servant.

“Aye.” Out of the corner of his eye Conor saw the young woman talking with Lord Humphrey. She had a way of looking down, and then peering upward through her lashes, that was most appealing.

Seeing the way Conor watched her, Dunstan caught her arm as she passed. “Have you two met?”

She seemed startled, like a creature from the wild about to break free and run. She took one look at Conor and stared down at her feet. Instead of replying, she merely shook her head.

“Conor O’Neil, may I present Emma Vaughn.”

“Vaughn?” Conor couldn’t hide his surprise. “Are you related to Daniel Vaughn, from Dublin?”

“Aye.” Her voice was low, breathy, with that lovely lyrical brogue that years of English tutoring couldn’t erase. At that moment she lifted her head. Up close, Conor realized, her eyes were green, with little flecks of gold. Most unusual eyes, for a most unusual female. “Daniel Vaughn is my father. He lives outside London now.”

“I’d heard. But he still keeps the estates in Ireland?”

She nodded while studying him with equal curiosity. So this was the man who had all of London talking. And no wonder. Thick black hair fell rakishly over a wide forehead. His lips, wide and full, were curved in an inviting smile. But it was his eyes that held her. Eyes as blue as the Irish Sea. They remained steady on hers, holding her gaze even when she tried to look away. “There are tenant fatmers to work the land and tend the flocks.”

Before she could say more she looked up to see one of the women beckoning to her. “Excuse me. I must take my leave.”

“So soon?” Dunstan kept his hand firmly on her arm.

“Aye.” She looked almost terrified at the prospect of being touched in this manner. “I am at the queen’s beck and call.”

Dunstan looked from Emma to Conor and gave a smile. “Perhaps I’ll arrange for you to attend the Queen’s supper tonight. Would you like that?”

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be proper. I’m merely training...”

“Nonsense. There is nothing I would like more than to have such a lovely creature beside me during the long, tedious evening. I still hold considerable sway with Elizabeth. Consider it done.”

When she walked away, Dunstan watched until she exited the room. Then he turned to Conor. “A bit shy for my taste. And then there’s the matter of her clothes.” He wrinkled his nose. “But she’s a fresh enough face. I grow weary of the sport when the players are too eager.” He drained his goblet and set it aside. “I’m sure you know what I mean, O’Neil. Since it’s the same game you play with our queen.”

Conor held his silence as Dunstan sauntered away. Let the others think what they would about his relationship with the queen. So far, though he had managed to stay out of her bed, he had her ear. He hoped it could remain that way.

He was weary of thinking about Elizabeth and struggling to read her many moods. Keeping his features carefully composed he turned to stare into the flames of the fire, and thought about the young woman in the ill-fitting clothes. Emma Vaughn. Daughter of Daniel Vaughn, one of the most respected landowners in Ireland before his wife’s ill health had forced him to seek out the healing waters of Spain. Vaughn’s brother was bishop of Claire; his uncle one of Gavin O’Neil’s best friends.

Conor thought again about the shy, demure young woman, unlike the other ladies-in-waiting who were so bold. There was something about her. Something almost familiar. As though he’d met her before.

He made up his mind instantly. Surely he owed it to his father’s old friend to take her by the hand and lead her through the perils that could befall her at court. Especially at the mercy of one like Dunstan.

Dunstan. That animal would leave her honor besmirched and her dignity in tatters. The thought of thwarting Dunstan was instantly appealing.

Aye. He would do it. Not just because of Dunstan. And not only because her pretty little face had caught his eye. Nor because he’d admired her backside as she’d taken her leave. But because she was a fellow countryman.

Aware that Elizabeth was a jealous monarch, Conor knew he would have to be very careful not to incur the queen’s wrath. He would keep his relationship with Emma Vaughn one of simple friendship. That would be best, especially in his line of work. Anyone who got too close stood a good chance of being burned, should the fires of war be fanned.

Still, it would be good to have someone with whom he could shed some pretense. A true Irish lass with whom he could simply relax and unburden himself.

In this den of vipers, both he and Emma Vaughn had need of at least one true friend.

Chapter Three

“Lord Dunstan has invited you to sup with the queen?” Amena, one of the queen’s favorite ladies-in-waiting, arched a brow in surprise. Then she studied Emma with a knowing smile. “I must admit I’m more than a little surprised. He usually prefers...” She shrugged. “No matter. It is considered quite an honor. What will you wear?”

Emma picked through her meager wardrobe and chose one of her mother’s old gowns, which she had brought along because her own seemed completely unsuitable. “I thought this would do.”

“Hmm.” Amena held it up to the girl and clucked her tongue. “It seems a bit...overlarge. But I suppose I could loan you a sash. And some decent slippers. I’ll send my servant with them.”

“Thank you.” Emma watched as the older woman took her leave. Then she began pacing in front of the fireplace.

Lord Dunstan made her uncomfortable. In fact, the very touch of him made her skin crawl. There was something about his manner. Or perhaps it was the look in his eyes. Whatever the reason, she mistrusted the man. But she would do whatever necessary to see this task to its conclusion, no matter what danger or discomfort it entailed.

With a sigh she slipped out of her gown and into one of her mother’s. Though it was no longer stylish, and far too big for her slender frame, it gave her a sense of peace to feel the fabric against her skin. She breathed deeply. She could still smell her mother. The very thought brought a sting of tears to her eyes.

At a knock on the door she blinked away her melancholy thoughts and opened the door to accept the sash from Amena’s servant. Minutes later, when Dunstan arrived to escort her, she squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. I do this for you, Father, she thought. And for little Sarah.

“Well, Emma.” Elizabeth glanced down the table at the young woman who was seated beside Lord Dunstan. “What do you think about partaking of such a splendid meal?”

Emma’s face turned several shades of pink. She was clearly uncomfortable at having been singled out by the queen. “It is...as impressive as the company, Majesty.”

“Well said.” Elizabeth was enjoying herself away from the pomp that usually surrounded her at court. Though she reveled in her position as supreme monarch, there were times when the burden grew heavy. At such times, she withdrew, with only a few close friends and confidantes to relieve the tedium of public life.

The queen turned to Conor, who sat at her right side. “Have you met Emma Vaughn?”

He nodded. “Lord Dunstan introduced us this afternoon.”

“Her stepmother, Celestine, is my cousin.” Elizabeth pinned the girl with a steady took. “How is my cousin?”

Emma chose her words carefully. “She appears healthy, Majesty.”

“Aye. Celestine is a very healthy woman.” Elizabeth gave a knowing smile. “With healthy appetites. As many of our young men will attest. And your father?”

“He is...not so well.”

“Then it is fortunate that he has a strong young wife to see to his care. You have a sister, I believe?”

The young woman’s eyes seemed to mist for a moment before she nodded. “Sarah. She is six years old.”

“I am surprised that a woman like Celestine would take on the care of a child. Your father must be a man of extreme charm and wealth. You will give Celestine my regards when next you see her.”

“Aye, Majesty.” Emma stared at her plate.

In an aside, Elizabeth muttered, “I took this young dullard in as a favor to my cousin, but I feel my generosity has been abused. This simpleton would better serve me if she were a pot of pretty flowers.”

There were snickers from several of those nearby who overheard. Conor coughed discreetly, hoping to muffle the sound of laughter from the poor girl’s ears. If she knew what had been said about her, she would be humiliated.

He picked up his wine, determined to distract the queen from any further thought of insulting the shy young maiden who continued to hang her head.

“I hear you are recently returned from Ireland, Lord Dunstan.”

“Aye.” Dunstan rolled his eyes. “And grateful to be back on English soil. The peasants there live in hovels we wouldn’t even use to shelter our livestock. They breed like field mice, surrounded by their dirty little offspring.”

He glanced around the table, enjoying the laughter from the others.

Conor carefully controlled his temper. “If you feel so strongly about them, I wonder why you go there.”

“As a loyal Englishman, I do it for my queen. Someone must deal with these savages.”

Conor’s tone was dry. “How lucky for England that you take such satisfaction in your work.”

Dunstan’s eyes flashed. “Aye. I do enjoy subduing those filthy animals. And why not? They plot and scheme against my queen.” He turned to Elizabeth, his voice dripping honey. “Let no man ever question my love and loyalty to the throne of England.”

Touched, Elizabeth squeezed his hand and glanced around the assembled at table. “Now you see why Lord Dunstan has known favor with me all these years.” She pushed away and the others got to their feet. “I believe I’m now ready for some entertainment.”

She placed her hand on Conor’s sleeve and allowed him to lead her to the ballroom, where the musicians were already assembled.

When the others entered, Conor noticed Emma walking timidly beside Lord Dunstan. He felt a flash of annoyance, then dismissed it. After all, the lass could have refused Dunstan’s invitation to sup with the queen. The fact that she was here must mean that she desired the man’s company. Still, she had the appearance of a lamb tossed to the wolves.

“Will you dance, Majesty?” Conor asked gallantly.

“Aye, my fine rogue. For I’m feeling especially lively tonight.”

They began to move through the intricate steps of the dance, while the others did the same. Across the room, Emma Vaughn was dancing with Dunstan. The gown she had chosen was pale pink, and was once again several sizes too large, making it extremely unattractive.

Elizabeth leaned close to whisper in Conor’s ear. “Did you see how lovingly Dunstan leaps to my defense?”

“Aye, Majesty.” He couldn’t keep his eyes off Emma, awkwardly attempting to follow Dunstan’s lead. Once or twice she actually stepped on the hem of her gown, nearly tripping both of them.

“I was truly moved by his words.”

Conor tore his gaze away and forced his attention back to the queen. “Words cost little, Majesty.”

“You would know that, wouldn’t you, my silver-tongued rogue. But Dunstan’s loyalty is unquestioned. It is for that reason that I reward him with gold and lavish estates.”

Conor saw Dunstan lean close to whisper something against Emma’s temple. Saw the girl pull back, as though stung. An icy chill raced along Conor’s spine. The man was known to be coarse and crude. “And Your Majesty’s largesse to Lord Dunstan will no doubt assure his loyalty through difficult times.”

“Do you foresee storms in my future, Conor O’Neil?”

“Nay, madam.” He forced himself to smile. “I foresee only blue skies and gentle weather during Your Majesty’s reign.”

She returned his smile. “I do believe, Conor O’Neil, that your presence here is a very good omen.”

“I hope you will always think that, Majesty.” He tried to keep his smile in place as he danced her around the room.

When they drew near Dunstan and Emma, Conor maneuvered the queen close enough that she brushed Dunstan’s arm.

Dunstan looked up sharply. Then, spying the queen, he took the bait, as Conor had known he would. For Dunstan, it seemed the perfect opportunity to press for a dance with the most powerful woman in the kingdom, and to rid himself of his awkward companion.

Dunstan bowed smartly. “Would you care to change partners, Majesty?”

Elizabeth, glowing, gave him the benediction of her smile. “With pleasure, Lord Dunstan.”

The two whirled away, leaving Conor and Emma facing each other. Conor paused for just a beat, so that the others in the room who might be watching would think he’d been caught by surprise. It was a seemingly insignificant victory, but a very sweet one.

He offered his hand. “Will you dance, my lady?”

“I... Yes.” Emma placed her hand in his.

Conor felt a jolt as their bodies came together. Though she appeared even more slender in that ill-fitting gown, the curves brushing against him were those of a woman. A woman who, for some unknown reason, had his blood running hot.

For the space of a heartbeat he forgot to move. How odd that this shy, simple young woman should be the source of such unexpected feelings.

Knowing they were being observed, he forced himself into action. He led her in a slow, rhythmic circle. When the step was completed she turned to face him, and he absorbed another jolt as his lips hovered just above hers.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Emma?”

“Aye.” She lifted her head a fraction, causing her lips to brush his throat. It was the merest touch of her mouth, and both of them pulled away instantly. But the damage had already been done. Her face flamed. His eyes narrowed slightly.

“In truth...” She swallowed, tried again. This flirting business was something so alien to her, it caused her great distress. “In truth, I feel quite out of my element. Everyone and everything seems so new and frightening.”

Again that voice, low, breathless, as though she had been running across a meadow. It touched some long forgotten chord in him. He had an unreasonable desire to press his mouth to a tangle of hair at her temple and soothe all her fears.

“Soon enough you will know everyone here, and it will all feel quite normal.” Without realizing it he drew her fractionally closer. His hand at her waist opened, his fingers splaying across her lower back, and he marveled at how tiny, how delicate she was.

“And you, Conor O’Neil?” She lifted her head again, this time taking care to avoid brushing him with her lips, though she found the thought tempting. “Do you like it here at court?”

“Aye.” He felt the whisper of her breath against his cheek and was suddenly too warm. “I would have to be a fool not to enjoy the luxury of such a life.” Aye. A fool, he thought, as he slowly moved with her around the dance floor. A fool who could find all his carefully laid plans crumbling around his feet if he weren’t careful.

She sighed. “Your words bring me comfort.”

“Truly? How so?”

She gave him a tremulous smile. “If you can feel at home here, then perhaps, in time, I may do the same. I had feared, because of my father’s name, that I would never feel truly at home anywhere but in Ireland.”

He felt a quickening of his pulse at the mention of that dear land. “So, though your home is here in England, you still consider yourself Irish?”

She seemed shocked by his question. “Indeed. Don’t you, Conor O’Neil?”

“Aye.” He chuckled. “But I thought it might be different for you. Your father has taken an English wife, and has settled here.”

At that, her nostrils flared. Her voice fairly trembled with passion. “Ireland is still my father’s home. And mine, as well. Nothing will ever change that. Nothing. Least of all my father’s new wife.”

Conor looked up and realized that the music had ended. The dancers were laughing and chatting as servants moved among them offering goblets of ale and wine. The queen, with Lord Dunstan beside her, was even now bearing down on them.

“Here you are, Conor. I’d feared you had retired to the parlor, to join the gentlemen in a game of cards.”

“And miss the chance to dance with you once more, Majesty?” He bowed grandly before Emma and lifted her hand to his lips. “I thank you for allowing me to be your partner, my lady.”

She blushed, dimpled. “You are most welcome.”

In a proprietary manner Dunstan took Emma’s hand and turned away. She had an almost overpowering impulse to shrink from his touch. But, knowing there were others watching, Emma merely walked along beside him.

Conor led the queen to the dance floor, where they were soon laughing and chatting as they moved through the steps of another dance. And all the while, Conor was aware only of the shy young woman who was once again moving awkwardly in Dunstan’s arms.

What was the matter with him? he wondered. Why was he allowing this newcomer to cause him to veer from his charted course? But as the night wore on, he found himself more and more distracted by the sight of Emma Vaughn in the arms of the lecher, Dunstan.

“Another dance, Majesty?” Conor plucked two goblets from the tray of a passing servant and offered one to the queen.

“No more, Conor.” She took a single sip, then set the goblet aside. “If I do not soon retire to my bed you will have to carry me.”

He shot her a dangerous smile. “A most pleasant chore, madam. I would be only too happy to oblige.”

Elizabeth blushed like a girl. “You always know just the right thing to say, don’t you?”

“It is why you keep me around.”

“Aye. You amuse me, Conor O’Neil. And you also please me. Unlike so many of my advisors, you are honest. At times, a bit too honest.”

He winced. If she but knew. “Can a man ever be too honest, Majesty?”

She studied him in silence. Then, turning to scan the others in the room she gave a shrewd smile. “Look at them, Conor. They all wish I would retire for the night.”

He gave a glance around, then turned back to her. “They seem to be having such a grand time. Why would they wish that?”

“Because their blood grows hot, confined to this room where they must satisfy themselves with occasional touches while they dance. You see Lord Humphrey? As soon as they return to their suite of rooms in the castle, his elderly wife will go to her bed. But he will spend the night in the bed of my lady-in-waiting, Amena.” Seeing Conor’s look of surprise, she said, “Over there, the Earl of Danville is dancing with his wife, while his mistress, Brenna Lampley, watches from the balcony. And across the room, my advisor, Charles Malcolm, is fetching a pastry for his wife. But watch as he pauses to speak with the lovely Margaret Childon. Even now they are plotting their little tryst. But that cannot be accomplished until their queen takes her leave. Then they will suddenly disappear, to meet at some prearranged room where they can satisfy more...carnal hungers.”

Conor turned to study the queen. “And how do you know all this?”

“There are no secrets at court. Remember that, my rogue.” She gave a girlish laugh. “My spies are everywhere.”

Conor coughed discreetly. “Madam, each time I think I know you, you reveal another fascinating side.”

She got to her feet and placed a hand on his sleeve. “There are many more sides to me, Conor O’Neil. And if you continue to please me, I may show you all of them. Now you will accompany your queen to her room.”

“Aye, Majesty.” He moved beside her, watching as the men bowed and the women curtsied.

When he saw Emma watching him, Conor felt a flash of annoyance. She would believe, as did all the others, that he was going to the queen’s bed. Not that it should matter to him. But for some strange reason, it did.

With the queen’s butler in attendance, they walked to her private suite. Inside, Conor took a seat, as he always did, while the queen was made ready for bed. Once her servants had completed that chore they were dismissed. Then the door to the queen’s inner chambers was opened, and Conor was invited to approach the queen.

As always, Elizabeth, modestly attired, offered her hand.

Conor brought it to his lips. “I bid you good-night, Majesty. May your sleep be deep and dreamless.”

“Thank you, Conor O’NeiL Perhaps, when next we dance, I shall share a few more of my ladies’ secrets.”

“I’m not at all certain I wish to hear them, madam.”

“All the more reason I will share them. Now I must sleep. If anyone dares to disturb me, I shall have their head.”

The queen was still laughing as Conor took his leave.

His own rooms were on the opposite side of the palace, and one floor above.

Candles flickered in sconces along the hallways. At this time of night, many of the servants had retired, except for those seeing to the needs of the guests who still remained awake.

Conor passed a small game room, where several of the queen’s advisors were engaged in cards and chess. He thought briefly about joining them, then decided against it.

As he passed a closed door he heard what sounded like a woman’s cry. Almost at once it ended, as though abruptly cut off. Two lovers, he thought wryly. Snatching moments of pleasure where and when they could.

He was about to move on when he heard it again. Just a sound, really. Not quite a cry. But there was something familiar about it. A hint of fear. A trace of breathlessness.

He felt a prickling along the back of his scalp.

Retracing his steps, he paused outside the closed door and listened. At first he heard nothing. Then as he moved closer, he could hear the hiss of anger. And the whispered command, “Hold your tongue, woman. There is no one who would dare interfere. It is simply the way things are done at court.”

Dunstan’s voice. He was sure of it. Conor felt his blood freeze. Without taking time to consider, he turned the knob and thrust the door inward. With only the illumination of coals on the grate, the two figures across the room were in shadow. Both of them looked up when he entered. As he strode closer, Conor could see that Dunstan had pinned Emma against the wall. The bodice of her gown was open. Had it been torn? Her cheeks were moist. From kisses? Or tears?

His first instinct was to grab Dunstan by the throat and rip out his heart. His hand actually went to the knife at his waist. It would give him the sweetest of pleasures to slit Dunstan’s throat and watch his lifeblood spill away. But years of training made him swallow back his black Irish temper. His voice, when he spoke, was almost casual.

“Ah. The very man I was looking for.”

Dunstan glowered. “You can see I’m busy, O’Neil.”

“Aye. And I do hate to interrupt such...pleasant business. But I was just told that the queen requests your presence.”

Dunstan brows shot up. “The queen? Are you certain?”

Conor could barely conceal his glee at the way this fool leapt at the bait. He wondered how Dunstan would feel when the queen flew into one of her famous rages. “That’s what I was told. She awaits you impatiently in her private suite.”

Everything was forgotten now except this rare opportunity. Dunstan turned away, straightening his coat, fumbling with the fasteners at his waist, completely ignoring the young woman who only moments earlier had been fighting for her virtue.

He brushed past Conor. “Apparently, when it comes to the queen’s pleasure, she would prefer a loyal Englishman over an Irish peasant.”

“Apparently.”

Conor waited until the door closed behind Dunstan’s retreating back. Then he turned to Emma. Her hands, he noted, were shaking as she struggled to draw the torn bodice of her gown over her breasts.

His casual tone was gone. In its place was a rough urgency. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, too ashamed to meet his eyes.

He caught her by the shoulders. It took all his self-control to keep from shaking her. He wasn’t even aware that he was grasping her so painfully until she cried out. At once he softened his grip, though he continued to hold her. “Did he...hurt you?”

“Nay.” She swallowed, fighting the sobs that were building inside, threatening to break free. “I couldn’t free my knife from its place of concealment or the brute would now be nursing his wounds.” She struggled with the sash at her waist, then managed to unloose the dirk hidden beneath.

He could barely bide his surprise that this shy, sweet Dublin lass carried a weapon on her person. Even while he marveled at that fact, he could feel the tremors that rocked her. It tore at his heart.

“Come.” He caught her roughly by the elbow and began hauling her toward the door. “Show me to your chambers.”

Neither of them spoke as they strode along the hall. When she stopped before the closed doors of her suite he pushed the door inward, glancing around before stepping aside and allowing her to enter. A fire burned on the grate. Through an open doorway could be seen the shadow of a servant, moving about the sleeping chamber, where the bed linens had already been turned down.

“You’re safe now, my lady. Your servant will see to your needs.” He turned away.

“Wait.” She stopped him with a hand on his arm.

He turned to face her. Though she was struggling to hold back the tears, they were already wet upon her lashes.

“Thank you, Conor O’Neil. You saved me from... from...” She covered her face with her hands to muffle the sobs that threatened. “He was going to...I couldn’t stop him.”

“I know.” He wanted, more than anything, to draw her into his arms and offer her comfort. But the servant had paused in the doorway of the sleeping chamber and was watching them. He knew there were no secrets here at Greenwich Palace. The servants gossiped as freely as the queen.

Taking care, he allowed himself to touch only a hand to her hair. It was as soft as silk. As lush as velvet.

He kept his tone deliberately harsh. “It’s common knowledge that the privileged few who surround the queen consider themselves above the laws of common decency. The next time, you would be advised to know a man before you accept his favors.”

She looked up, tears still glistening on her lashes. “Did Dunstan treat me this way because I am Irish?”

“Nay. Because you are female.”

She blinked. “But how can I help that?”

“You can’t So you must learn to be more careful. Of the people you befriend. Of those you trust. Especially the men. Else, you can’t hope to survive as lady-in-waiting to the queen. For there is much treachery among these people.”

“And what of you, Conor O’Neil? Are you as treacherous as the rest?”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the servant starting toward them. “I’ll leave you to decide that for yourself, my lady.” He stepped back, turned, then strode from the room.

As he made his way to his own suite, Conor thought about the warning he’d just given Emma Vaughn. He’d best take heed himself as well. There were so many secrets in this place. And so many devious people hoping to use the power of their standing with the queen for their own advantage. He was no exception. He was here for one reason. To manipulate the queen for the sake of Ireland. No one and nothing must get in his way. Especially one shy little maiden who, it would appear, would need an army of bodyguards to keep her safe in this den of vipers.

Chapter Four

“Thank you, Nola. You may leave me now.” Emma waited until the servant closed the door before sinking to the edge of the mattress. Her legs were still trembling, her nerves still jittery from the ordeal.

Dear heaven, what had she gotten herself into?

She pressed her hands to her cheeks. She didn’t belong here. These people were all mad. From the queen to her silly ladies-in-waiting. From the evil Lord Dunstan to the Irishman, Conor O‘Neil. Especially Conor O’Neil. Why would a loyal son of Ireland pay homage to the Queen of England, unless he was a traitor or a complete fool?

And yet, had it not been for that fool, she had no doubt where she would be now. And in what condition. Still, though she was grateful, she wasn’t about to be won over by his kindness. He’d only saved her because he’d stumbled upon her in his search for Dunstan.

Dunstan. Her eyes narrowed. How she hated the man. Too agitated to remain still, she stood and began to pace. The pompous, arrogant bully. She must see to it that she was never alone with him again. There was something in his eyes. Something dark and feral. The man had no conscience.

As for Conor O’Neil... She paused, staring into the flames of the fire. He frightened her in a very different way. When she’d been forced to dance with him, she’d felt strange stirrings. They were unlike anything she’d felt before. The mere touch of his hand at her back had left her with a prickly feeling along her spine, her blood heating, her mind suddenly going blank. Those deep midnight-blue eyes of his had pinned her, making her think he could see clear through her. And when her mouth had brushed him by mistake, she’d felt a strange yearning. Almost like a...a hunger for more.

Ridiculous.

She resumed her pacing. When she’d begun to weep, she had thought, for just a moment, that he intended to gather her into his arms and hold her. She’d foolishly wanted him to. Perhaps, she surmised, it was because she missed her father so. But even when the moment passed, and Conor had merely touched her hair, she’d felt a wave of trembling that left her weak.

Aye. She had a right to be frightened of Conor O’Neil. The man was a danger to her, unless she could ignore these strange new feelings he’d awakened. But she would have to put aside such things. For Conor was the key. It was plain that he was far dearer to the queen than her stepmother had suspected. A man like that could exert a great deal of influence. It would be no simple matter to keep one step ahead of such a man, but it would be necessary if she intended to get Celestine the information she desired.

No matter what her feelings or fears, Emma knew she was committed to this dangerous situation. For little Sarah’s sake, for her father’s sake, she would watch and listen and learn everything she could about the queen’s intentions toward Ireland. And she would use anyone and anything she deemed necessary. Especially the proud peacock, Conor O’Neil. Of all the men surrounding the queen, he was by far the worst. If only because he was openly courting the avowed enemy of his own land.

One floor above, Conor, barefoot and shirtless, leaned a hip against the balcony and stared into the darkness. His tunic had been tossed angrily on a chaise. His boots had been kicked off in haste, landing against the far wall. In his hand was a silver chalice filled with ale. He downed half of it in one long swallow.

His hatred of Lynley Dunstan had been festering since he’d first heard of the man. It was no secret that Dunstan used his friendship with Elizabeth for his own benefit. Whenever an enemy of the queen had a fortune in gold and precious jewels confiscated, or a lavish estate in England or Ireland taken over by the Crown, Dunstan was the first in line to claim the spoils. At last count he was one of the wealthiest men in the realm. And greedy for more. He had even released Conor’s sister-in-law from her betrothal, in exchange for her lovely Dublin estate, Clay Court.

But Dunstan’s appetite didn’t stop there. He had deflowered so many maidens, it had become something of a joke in the queen’s inner circle. Sadly, that same friendship that earned his wealth and titles was the reason that no man lifted a hand to stop him. All feared Elizabeth’s wrath. She was fiercely loyal to her friends. Like a wounded she-bear when one of them was threatened.

Conor’s hand tightened on the stem of the chalice. Damn the man. He’d had no right to try to force himself on an innocent like Emma Vaughn. Anyone could tell by looking at her that she was as defenseless as a fawn at the mercy of the queen’s bowmen.

Dunstan would try again. Especially when he found out that Conor had lied about the queen wanting to see him. One taste of her temper, and the man would retaliate in kind. With Emma bearing the brunt of his vengeance.

Conor swore and tipped back his head, draining the last of the ale, then flung the empty chalice against the wall before climbing into his bed.

Emma Vaughn wasn’t his business. Ireland was. And he’d better not ever forget it.

“Ah. Here you are, sir.” As the sunrise chased the mist from the land, the stable lad took the reins of Conor’s mount. “Her Majesty’s servants have been frantically seeking you. You are summoned to the queen’s chambers at once.”

“Thank you, Meade.” Connor swung down from the saddle, relieved that, despite a lack of sleep, his early morning ride had helped to clear his mind. The queen would demand to know why he had sent Dunstan to her chambers last night. He would have to find a way to deflect her anger. It wouldn’t be the first time. He was becoming a master of deception.

Deliberately taking his time, he strolled through the lovely formal gardens before entering through a rear door. Inside, the palace was swarming with activity. Cooks milled about, turning a pig roasting over a spit, stirring kettles of soup and gruel. The fragrance of freshly-baked bread wafted from the kitchens. In the hallways, servants bearing armloads of clean linens scurried from suite to suite. Ladies’ maids rushed by, carrying exotic plumed hats or elegant gowns.

Conor made his way to the queen’s quartets. A uniformed soldier stood at attention outside the closed doors. The moment he spotted Conor, he opened the doors and stood aside.

Inside, a liveried butler disappeared to announce his arrival, then reappeared, opening yet another set of doors.

Conor stepped into the queen’s private suite. Elizabeth was seated at a round table set in front of the fireplace. She wore a robe of cut velvet, and beneath it a morning gown of lace with a high ruffled collar. Her hair had been carefully arranged in a coronet atop her head. In her hand was a steaming goblet of hot mulled wine.

She set it down and regarded him in silence.

He waited, knowing he could not speak until invited to do so.

Elizabeth knew it as well, and used it to her advantage, pinning him with an angry look.

Just then the door was opened again and the butler’s voice broke the silence. “Majesty, your lady-in-training, Emma Vaughn.”

“Show her in.” The queen’s words were clipped.

Emma stepped in, then, seeing Conor, stopped in her tracks.

It was clear that she had come running at the queen’s summons. Though her face was pale, her cheeks wore two bright spots of color. Her hair, as yet uncombed, was a riot of chestnut curls that fell to her waist. Her gown was a hideous confection of dull rose, with a sagging neckline and drooping waist, at least two sizes too large.

Conor tried not to stare. But in truth, even the ill-fitting gown couldn’t hide her youth and beauty. She was such a contrast to the queen, she nearly took his breath away. Elizabeth, despite her lavish trimmings, looked plain by comparison.

“Well.” Elizabeth looked from Conor to Emma, then back again. “What do you two have to say for yourselves?”

“Majesty, I don’t—” Emma began.

But Conor interrupted by stepping forward and holding up a perfect red rose. “On my way here I plucked this for you, Majesty.”

Elizabeth was so startled she merely stared at it. Then she wrinkled her nose. “You smell of horses.”

“Forgive me, Majesty. I was out riding on this splendid morning. But if I offend, I will go now and change my clothes.”

“Nay.” She placed a hand on his sleeve to stop him. “Being surrounded by so many women, I rather like the smell of a man. You will stay.”

“As you wish.” He pressed the flower to her hand.

She couldn’t resist accepting it and lifting it to her nose, breathing deeply. On a sigh she asked, “How did you know I love roses?”

“I didn’t. But since you are England’s rose, I hoped it would appeal to Your Majesty.”

She was smiling now, her earlier temper forgotten. “Sit with me. Both of you. We will break our fast together while we talk.”

Conor held a chair for Emma, then settled himself beside her. A mistake, he quickly realized. He was far too aware of her. Of the way her knees were trembling beneath the table. Of the way her eyes kept darting to the queen’s face, then away, to stare at a spot on her plate.

At a nod from the queen, her servants began circling the table, offering quail, pork, venison, as well as crusty rolls and goblets of wine or mead.

As she ate, the queen’s spirits continued to rise. Her appetite was amazing. She ate slowly, deliberately, washing everything down with more wine.

When she was finished she turned to Conor. “So, you like to ride, do you, Conor?”

“Aye, Majesty. There is something about giving a steed its head and racing across a meadow. It allows the mind, the heart, the very soul to soar wild and free.”

She was watching him, clearly enthralled. “Why is it that everything sounds so much better when you describe it?”

He shot her a wicked smile. “Perhaps because I believe in what I say. Would you care to ride with me one morning, Majesty?”

She considered a moment, then nodded. “I believe I would.” She turned to the timid young woman. “Do you ride, Emma?”

“Aye, Majesty.” Emma was relieved to speak on a topic about which she was knowledgeable. “On my father’s estate outside Dublin, we have some of the finest horses in all of Ireland.”

“A woman after my own heart. Then you shall join us for an early morning ride. And we will see if our English horses measure up to yours.”

Emma gave a shy smile. “I’d like that, Majesty, for I’ve missed the horses.”

In the doorway the queen’s butler cleared his throat. She looked toward him with annoyance.

“Majesty, your Keeper of the Treasury and your financial advisors have assembled for the meeting you requested with your Lord Chamberlain and your Lord Steward.”

She gave a look of distaste. “Why can I never have enough time for my own pleasures?” She took a deep breath. “I must be about the business of England. A pity. There was much I wished to discuss. Such as why Dunstan came to me last night, disturbing my rest. After I’d finished my litany of insults, he told me a wild tale that you, Conor, were the one who had sent him to my chambers.”

Instead of offering an explanation, Conor merely gave her his most charming smile.

Dazzled by him she turned to Emma. “And I’d hoped you would explain what Lord Dunstan told me about you.”

“M...Majesty?” Emma paused with the goblet halfway to her lips.

“That you caught your heel and fell against the wall, tearing your gown. Then you fell into a fit of weeping for which you couldn’t be comforted.”

“Homesick, no doubt,” Conor muttered aloud.

Some of the wine sloshed from Emma’s glass, and she began to wipe at it.

Before she could speak the queen gave an exaggerated sigh. “Ah. No matter. I must attend to more important matters.” She lifted the rose and inhaled its perfume, then got wearily to her feet.

At once both Emma and Conor stood.

“Stay,” Elizabeth commanded sternly. “Finish your meal. And tomorrow, while the others are still abed, we shall ride. Do I have your word on it, Conor?”

“Aye, Majesty. I shall see to the arrangements myself.”

She nodded. “A dawn ride then. I am eager to see if my mind and heart and soul will actually soar as you described.”

With a swish of skirts she was gone.

While the servants began to clear the table, Conor picked up his goblet and drank. Emma did the same. Her hand, he noted, was trembling.

She turned to him. “What do you think...?”

He gave a firm shake of his head and the question she was about to ask died on her lips.

He waited until the servants were about to leave. Setting down his goblet he offered his arm to the young woman. “Perhaps you would care to take a walk in the gardens, my lady?”

“Aye.”

Conor glanced at the back of a retreating servant, then added, “I believe the sunshine will be quite refreshing.”

They moved stiffly out the door and down the long hallway to the stairs. Once outside Emma turned to him. “You don’t trust the queen’s servants?”

“I trust only myself. And you should do the same.”

“Aye.” Good advice, she knew. Especially in the game she’d been forced into playing. She took a breath. “How am I to explain my tears to the queen?”

“With all that goes on in the palace, the question may never again come up. If it should, I think your safest explanation is that you are feeling adrift, so far from home.”

“Aye. ’Twould not be a lie.” For a moment her thoughts strayed, but to her credit she managed to compose herself. She hugged her arms about herself and lifted her face to the sun, breathing deeply. “Each time I step out of the palace, I feel as if I’ve been freed from a prison.”

“If you feel so strongly, why are you here?”

She began to move beside him along the stone-paved walkway. “To please my stepmother.”

“What about your father? Has he nothing to say about it?”

“He...also wishes to please her. Like her cousin, the queen, Celestine is a strong-willed woman.”

Conor paused beside a curved bench and waited until Emma sat before seating himself beside her. “Will you ever return to Ireland?”

She looked away to hide the trembling of her lips. “It is my fondest wish. But I couldn’t leave without my father and sister. And I fear they will never leave England.”

“Because your father has made a new life for himself here in England with his bride?”

“Aye.”

He stretched out his long legs, enjoying the sunshine. And the company. It occurred to him that there were few in England with whom he could converse. “Perhaps, if your stepmother could be persuaded to visit our island, she would learn to love it as we do, and your family could settle down in Ireland.”

Emma shook her head. “Celestine is like so many in this land who have already hardened their hearts against Ireland. They see no reason to ever visit its shores or get to know its people.”

He nodded. “Aye. And the feelings against our land continue to grow. Dunstan is urging the queen to send more soldiers, to bring the Irish rebels to their knees.”

She held her breath, wondering if what he had just revealed might be important to her stepmother. Gathering her courage she asked, “And what do you urge the queen to do?”

He shrugged. “What I always urge. Patience. Compassion. But Elizabeth is not a patient woman. And her closest advisors agree with Dunstan. I stand alone in this battle of wills.”

“Oh, you’re hardly alone, Conor O’Neil.” Emma turned to him, and he was aware that all her shyness had somehow disappeared. In its place was a strange mix of emotions. Anger seemed the strongest, along with a strength he hadn’t noticed before.

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

She had no idea why she was experiencing this sudden rush of temper. This man was nothing more to her than a means to an end. But just thinking about his relationship with Elizabeth of England had her blood boiling. It wasn’t jealousy, she told herself. It was righteousness. He was a son of Ireland, openly courting the Queen of England.

She stood, shaking down her skirts. “From what I’ve heard, you have the queen eating out of your hand like a favorite pet. And, if what I witnessed this morrow in the queen’s chambers was typical, I’d say you’ve found many ways to win her with your charm.”

Though he was annoyed, he hid his feelings behind a lazy smile as he got to his feet, towering over her. “Haven’t you heard? Women can’t resist me.”

She turned on her heel and started back along the path. “You’re very sure of yourself, Conor O’Neil.”

He merely chuckled as he kept pace beside her. “Does that annoy you?”

“I care not one way or the other about you. But I am grateful that you managed to deflect the queen’s questions.”

“Aye. I thought the rose was an especially nice touch.”

“It was all an act?” Stunned, she suddenly stopped and turned to him.

When he said nothing in his own behalf she studied him more closely. “What arrogance, that you would use even the queen in this fashion. What favors do you hope to obtain for yourself, I wonder?”

Without thinking he caught her roughly by the shoulders. “Beware my temper, Emma. Though I keep it on a tether, it breaks free from time to time. And when it does, it is a most unpleasant sight.”

She lifted her chin, refusing to back down, though the mere touch of him caused her heart to stutter. “And you avoid all unpleasantness, don’t you, Conor O’Neil?”

“Aye.” He hadn’t meant to touch her, but now that he had, he couldn’t think of any good reason to release her. Up close she smelled as fresh as the flowers in the garden. Her hair gave off a fragrance of rose water. “You might consider doing the same, Emma Vaughn, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Is that a threat?” Her eyes narrowed. Gone was all pretense of the shy, timid young woman she showed to the rest of the world. And though her blood was pounding in her temples, she refused to back away.

“Call it whatever you wish. If you’re wise you’ll take care not to make enemies among the queen’s friends at court. There may come a time when you’re in need of a friend.” He found himself staring at her pouting lips. Lips that were made for kissing. That thought had the blood rushing from his brain.

“Are you suggesting that I should allow an animal like Lord Dunstan to do with me as he pleases?”

“Of course not.” At the moment, there were any number of things he would be pleased to do with her himself. None of them polite. All of them far too tempting. “But you would be well-advised to find a way to hold him at arm’s length while not incurring his wrath. Dunstan is much favored by Elizabeth. Should you arouse his ire, you arouse the queen’s as well. And those who are not favored by this monarch sometimes find themselves and their families in grave danger.”

“Then you need not worry, Conor, since you are obviously much in Elizabeth’s favor. Everyone at court whispers about her strange alliance with her...” Emma’s tone lowered in scorn “...her charming rogue.”

She saw the sudden change in his eyes. She knew she had said too much, had gone too far. Alarmed, she tried to push free of his hands. But it was too late. The last thread of his frayed temper snapped.

“Do you know how weary I am of that name?” He dragged her close and saw her eyes widen.

Ignoring her little cry of distress, he lowered his head and covered her mouth with his.

Heat flowed between them. Heat that softened her lips, and tightened his hands on her arms.

She tried to pull back, but her strength was no match for his. And then, as his mouth moved over hers, she was caught up in something so new, so powerful, she lost the will to fight.

She had been kissed before, but never like this. At first, the kiss was harsh, demanding. Filled with anger and impatience. But even as she absorbed the first jolt, the kiss suddenly softened, gentled, causing her even greater distress.

Conor lifted his head for a moment, staring at her as if seeing her for the first time. And then he lowered his head and kissed her again, almost hesitantly. The lips moving over hers seemed to be tasting, sipping, absorbing. The hands at her back were holding her as carefully as if she were made of glass. And though she could have easily pulled away, she felt frozen to the spot, mesmerized by the feel of his clever mouth on hers.

He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. Like all in his family, he’d always known that his temper was a source of trouble, and so he always kept it under tight control. But once loose, it took over his will, taking him places better left untraveled.

At the first touch of her, everything had speeded up. His pulse. His mouth on hers, tasting, devouring. His hands on her body, wanting to touch her everywhere, needing to feel her in every part of himself.

One small section of his mind was shouting a warning. It was midmorning in the queen’s own garden. Any number of people might see them. All his plans could be spoiled by this one foolish act. But another part of his mind ignored the warning. He didn’t want to stop holding her, kissing her. He would pay any price, forfeit any success, to go on like this forever.

He took the kiss deeper and was rewarded by her sigh. Her hands, which had been pushing against his chest, were now clutching him to her. Her body was pressed to his, imprinting itself on his flesh. Her full pouty lips were as eager as his to taste, to feast, to devour.

He was, in the space of a heartbeat, fully aroused. He wanted more. Wanted all. A most dangerous situation, he knew. He needed to step back. To think. To breathe.

Sweet heaven, to breathe.

One last touch, he promised himself as his hands moved along her back, stroking, soothing, exciting. One last kiss, he vowed, as his mouth moved over hers.

At last, drawing on all his control, he managed to lift his head.

Filling his lungs with air he took a step back, breaking contact. “Let that be a lesson to you, Emma. Even the most charming of rogues has a limit to his patience.”

“Aye. A rogue. An arrogant, pigheaded....” Her words came out in a rush, threatening to choke her. She would never let him know how difficult it was to speak. “But there is nothing charming about you, Conor O’Neil. And I’ll remind you that I am not one of those brainless little butterflies who flit around the men at court, hoping to play at love. If I were, it would be with a heroic figure, like...like Heaven’s Avenger, who saves helpless maidens, and certainly not with the likes of you.”

She drew back her hand to slap his face. Reading her intention, he caught it and dragged her close.

His breath was hot against her cheek as he whispered, “Aye. That’s why you refused to cooperate in that kiss, isn’t it, Emma?”

She was stung by his jibe. It hit too close to the mark. She knew she’d wanted what he’d offered, and had made no move to stop him. But now that she had her wits about her once more, she was feeling shamed and embarrassed. It was one thing to pretend to be interested in him, in order to learn his secrets. It was quite another to allow herself to get caught up in any real emotion for this man.

In order to cover her rush of feelings she said, “You’re no better than Dunstan. Like him, you think all women will fall at your feet. Well, I’m not the queen, blushing and giggling at your every word, Conor O’Neil. I intend to save myself for a real man, not some pompous peacock.”

She turned and caught at her skirts, racing as fast as she could toward the palace. Leaving him standing alone in the sun-drenched garden. With the taste of her still on his lips. And the scent of her filling his lungs.

Chapter Five

“Good morrow, sir.” The stable lad had seen Conor coming and was already leading his mount from the stall.

“Good morrow, Meade. I hope you haven’t forgotten that the queen will be joining me.”

“Nay, sir. I’ve forgotten nothing.” The boy’s smile was dazzling. It was a rare opportunity to serve his monarch. “I have Her Majesty’s mount saddled and ready. And a third horse suitable for the young lady you mentioned.” He looked beyond Conor. “I believe this must be your young lady now.”

Conor turned. Emma was striding toward him, looking slightly uncomfortable in a heavy riding gown the color of green leaves. As with all her clothing, it was obviously borrowed from one of the other ladies-in-waiting, since it was as ill-fitting as the others. Her long hair was tied back with matching ribbons. Perched on her head was a most fetching bonnet, adorned with feathers and lace.

When she drew close he called, “Good morrow, Emma.”

“Good morrow, Conor.” She avoided his eyes, feeling the old shyness take hold. She had managed to avoid him since that scene in the garden yesterday. But this morning she had awakened with a sense of excitement. It wasn’t the knowledge that she would be spending time in this man’s company that had her pulse racing. After all, she could hardly tolerate Conor O’Neil. She was convinced that her eagerness was really caused by the opportunity to ride in the open air.

The stable boy led a spirited mare from its stall, and Conor studied the horse with suspicion. “Are you certain you want such a headstrong animal, Emma?”

“I’ve told you I’m an accomplished rider.”

“Very well.” He offered his hands, and she placed one dainty foot in them. She was boosted into the sidesaddle, where she quickly arranged her skirts. The heat she’d felt at his touch was merely generated by the excitement of the ride, she assured herself.

As for Conor, he took a moment to enjoy the sight of shapely ankles and legs, before her skirts tumbled down to hide the view. When he heard the sounds signalling the arrival of the queen, he turned.

Elizabeth bustled along the walkway, accompanied by a maid, a footman, a butler and several ladies-in-waiting, who were all talking at once.

“Good morrow, Majesty.” Conor bowed. “Will we saddle more horses for the others?”

“Conor. Emma.” Elizabeth, in high spirits, lifted a hand in greeting. “Nay, these others have merely come to see me off on my little adventure.” She studied Conor and added, “How is it that you manage to look so handsome this early in the morning?”

“The same way you manage to look so regal, Majesty.” Conor cast an admiring glance at her scarlet riding gown with matching jacket and hat.

“Ah. I see.” Elizabeth gave him a knowing smile. “You were born to it?”

From her position in the saddle, Emma gritted her teeth. The queen and her Irishman were equally adept at flattery.

Conor merely laughed and turned to the stable lad. “Fetch the queen’s mount, Meade.”

When the horse was led from its stall Conor said, “I hope the chestnut mare meets with your approval.”

“Aye. And well she should. She was a gift from Philip of Spain. He was hoping to win favor so that he might press for a betrothal.” She gave Conor a sideways glance as he helped her into the saddle. “Does that bother you, my Irish rogue?”

“That the King of Spain desired you? Nay, madam. All the world desires Elizabeth of England.”

She laughed as he stepped back and her maid arranged her skirts and petticoats. “As always, you know just the right thing to say. Come. Let us be on our way. I wish to ride.” She waved to the others, then wheeled her mount and led the way toward a distant meadow.

Conor pulled himself into the saddle and followed.

The horses moved in single file, following a welltraveled path, with Elizabeth in the lead, Emma in the middle, and Conor trailing behind.

It was a perfect summer morning, with the grass damp with dew, and a misty haze hanging over the edges of the forest that ringed the meadow.

As the path gradually widened, Elizabeth slowed her mount until the other two drew abreast. They rode up a steep incline, then came to an abrupt halt. Ahead of them was a small herd of deer grazing. For the space of a heartbeat the entire herd seemed to freeze. Then, as several does and their young took off at a run toward the shelter of the forest, the buck stood his ground. Only when his herd was safe did the buck follow.

“Magnificent.” Elizabeth watched as they disappeared into the underbrush. “How I long for my bow and arrows. But I have ordered no hunting in this forest today.”

“A wise move. You shall hunt another time, Majesty. For today, it is enough that we are free to ride.” Conor pointed to a falcon riding the breeze high above them. “As free as the birds.”

“Aye.” Elizabeth gave a little laugh. “I’ve always wished I could fly. Come then, my friends. Let us fly across the meadow to the far side where the forest begins.” Without waiting for their agreement, she urged her mount into a gallop.

Emma’s mare, eager to run, took off at a thunderous pace. For a moment Conor held his mount steady, enjoying the sight of her astride her horse. The fact that she was a skilled rider made the sight all the more pleasurable. Her hair streamed out from beneath her hat as she bent low over her steed’s head. Her laughter filled the morning air.

At last, feeling the tug on the reins, he gave his horse its head. Halfway across the meadow he caught up with her. As he rode alongside, he felt a jolt of pleasure at the sight that greeted him. Emma’s cheeks were a becoming shade of pink; her eyes were warm with excitement.

A peal of delighted laughter rose up from her throat. “Oh, how I’ve missed this. I hadn’t realized just how much until now. I do thank you, Conor.”

“You’re welcome, my lady. It pleases me to see you so happy.”

Gone was the awkwardness that always seemed to set her apart from the others at court. Here, astride a sleek animal, she was definitely in her element. There was such grace and poise in this young woman who turned to him with a smile of pure pleasure before she spurred her mare into a gallop.

Seeing her, the queen followed suit.

Conor watched, then urged his horse to follow. Just ahead of him the two horses remained neck and neck.

Emma called over her shoulder, “Look at me, Conor. I’m flying.”

Emma’s horse began to inch ahead. Conor urged his steed into a last burst of speed. But even that effort couldn’t overtake the lively mare. She fairly flew across the meadow, slowing only when Emma reined her in. As soon as Conor and Elizabeth joined her, they began congratulating one another on an excellent ride.

“Oh, Conor.” Emma’s eyes were shining. “It was as you said. I felt as though I were flying.”

“I do believe that was as close to it as you’ll ever be.” He turned to include the queen. “Both of you looked as though your steeds had sprouted wings.”

Emma leaned down to run a hand affectionately over her mare’s neck. “It has been too long since I’ve enjoyed this pleasure.”

“Is this how you spent your childhood?” Elizabeth asked.

Emma nodded. “Riding wild and free across the green meadows outside Dublin. Oh, Majesty. If you could but see the wild beauty of my homeland. It truly takes the breath away.”

“I’ve not heard much about the beauty of Ireland from Lord Dunstan,” Elizabeth said dryly. “Most of what he has relayed is about the savagery of its people. Especially this Heaven’s Avenger who seems to have spawned a twin on our shores.” The queen glanced upward, watching the path of a falcon as it glided across the sky. “Come. I wish to fly again.” She wheeled her mount and took off at a brisk pace, leaving Emma and Conor to follow.

As they started off Conor held his horse to a more gentle trot.

Emma, keeping pace beside him, turned to him with a worried frown. “Do you think I offended the queen by mentioning my home?”

Hearing the concern in her voice he shook his head. “I’ve learned that this queen is accustomed to saying exactly what’s on her mind. If she had been offended by your words, she would have told you. At the moment, the only thing that concerns Elizabeth is the feel of sunshine warm on her face, and a strong, solid horse beneath her.” He reached over and placed his hand on Emma’s. At once he felt the jolt and was startled by it. Why did the touch of this simple young woman arouse him so? “Let’s do the same, Emma. We’ll put away our worries, and enjoy the day.”

Her smile faltered. Just the feel of his hand on hers brought a strange ripple of pleasure. What sort of power did this man have? Whatever it was, she wanted none of it. She had to remember that all she wanted from him was his secrets.

With an impish grin, Emma nudged her horse into a gallop, determined to escape his charm. Over her shoulder she called, “I do believe my mare can outrun your mount, my lord.”

For a moment he was so surprised, he could only stare after her. Then, he threw back his head and roared with pleasure as he spurred his horse into a gallop. Halfway across the meadow Emma’s horse passed the queen’s. A few moments later Conor’s mount did the same. By the time he reached the far side of the meadow, Emma was standing beside her horse, watching his arrival.

“I knew I could beat you.” Her voice, still breathless, rang with pride.

“That was fine horsemanship, my lady.” Conor remained in the saddle, enjoying the color that suffused her cheeks.

The queen rode up, clearly pouting at having been left out. “Had I known this was to be a race, I would have won it easily. I demand another. And this time I must be included.”

Conor nodded. “Fair enough, Majesty. But a race is not a race unless there is a prize to be won. What will we race for?”

“Gold always works,” the queen said regally.

“Alas, I have none.” Emma’s cheeks reddened.

“I see.” Elizabeth pondered for a moment, then said, “I have it. The winner shall choose an article of clothing from each of the losers.”

“An article of clothing?” Emma looked perplexed.

“Aye. For instance, if I should win,” Elizabeth said with a glint of teasing laughter in her eyes, “I should require of you that delightful riding hat, for it is far more fashionable than mine. And no one should look more fetching than the queen.”

Emma blushed. “The hat isn’t mine, Majesty. It belongs to Amena.”

“I thought I recognized it.” The queen’s laughter grew. “All the more reason why I desire it. Amena owes me a gold sovereign from an earlier wager.” She turned to Conor. “And from you, my dashing companion, I would require those riding gloves.”

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