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
