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
