Ruth Langan - Conor

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.