WINDREAPER (28 page)

"You see what you want to see," Liza said, jerking her chin from his grasp. "I think you expect everyone to be like you've become—cold-hearted and selfish!"

He grinned. "But I see you for the whore you've become."

Liza struck out at him, intent on wiping the smirk from his lips. But he pushed her away, bumping her into the table where Sadie had been boning chicken. She reached out a hand to keep from falling, and it slid disgustingly through a mass of cold, congealing chicken blood. In fury, she turned to face him. "You enjoy using brute force to make your point, you son-of-a-bitch?"

"I plan on using something else to make my point with you, lady!" He came toward her, with purpose in his gaze.

"Keep away from me." Liza reached for a boning knife. Her fingers closed around the handle, and she drew it toward her chest, blade down.

"Be careful of him, Milady," Sadie warned. "He's a tricky one."

"Get out of here, Sadie," Conar commanded, glaring at her.

"Not on your worthless life," Sadie vowed with malice.

With Conar's attention on the cook, Liza tried to sidestep away from the table, but his gaze jerked back to her and swept down to the knife.

"Put that down before you hurt yourself, woman. You won't be needing it for what I plan for you."

"I'm warning you, Conar," Liza panted, cursing herself for using his given name again. She backed away, bringing up the knife into a fighting position. "I will use it. You know I know how!"

Sadie cackled. "You tell him, Milady!"

"Shut up, Sadie!" he warned.

"It's past time somebody stood up to you," Sadie shot back. "Time somebody put you in your place."

Ignoring her barbed remark, he took another step toward Liza.

"I mean it!" Liza shouted. "I'll stab you!"

"Oh, there'll be a stabbing, Queen Liza," he promised. "But it won't be you who'll be doing the stabbing and it won't be with that silly knife." He reached out for her.

Liza slashed at him, but he stepped back, an unholy light of annoyance on his handsome face. He feigned toward her, but she lashed out again. She barely missed his chest.

"Cut him, Milady! Rip his heart out!" Sadie barked, her hands beating down on the back of a chair. "Make the little son-of-a-bitch bleed!"

Liza lunged with the knife, taking satisfaction that he was forced to retreat. She lunged again. When he took another step back, she grinned.

"That was a mistake," Conar said, watching her closely, circling around to her left side, looking for an opening. He rushed at her, twisting to avoid the knife's thrust. The blade ripped his shirt. "God damn it, Liza!" he spat, looking at the rent in the black fabric. "You're going to regret that!"

"I bet she regrets the day she ever met your sorry ass!" Sadie hooted.

"Shut up!" he bellowed.

When he literally threw himself forward, Liza jerked the knife away from her to keep from skewering him. His fingers closed around her wrist. She screeched as he twisted her hand.

"Let go!" he snarled. "Drop it!"

Liza groaned at the excruciating pressure on her hand, but she kept her possession of the knife. She drove her knee into his groin. His loud gasp was like music to her ears. She thought he'd let go of her hand, but he didn't. Instead, he hit her with his free hand, the back of his knuckles catching her across her chin. Her head snapped sideways. She felt blood, tasted it on her lips. They fell to the floor, Liza crying out with pain as her arm twisted backward.

"You sorry little bastard!" Sadie shouted. "How dare you hit my lady!" She yanked up her broom, obviously intent on pounding him.

Enraged that he had struck her, Liza kicked him in the shin. She jerked violently and kicked him again, managing to free her wrist.

"Cut him, my lady!" Sadie yelled. "Stick him!" The old woman brought the broom crashing down on Conar's back. His yelp of surprise and pain made her chuckle. "How you like being on the receiving end of the blows, you little snot?"

Conar moved away from the blade, eyeing Liza with a look that would have quelled the bravest of men. "Give me that gods-be-damned knife!" he demanded, snarling as Sadie's broom connected hard with his rump.

"Get up, Milady!" Sadie shouted. "I'll keep the bastard off you!" She brought her broom down on Conar's hip.

"If you don't stop interfering…" Conar yelled, glaring at the old woman. "So help me Alel, I'll—"

Before she knew what she was doing, Liza struck. Her fear that Conar would lunge at Sadie made her furious. She shoved at his shoulder with one hand, while the hand holding the boning knife stabbed forward almost of its own accord. Even as she reacted, even as he flung up a hand to stop her from cutting him, the Queen of Serenia knew she had done something horribly wrong.

Conar sucked in a breath. The knife had slashed across the fleshy part of his upper left arm from about four inches above his elbow to his shoulder bone. Blood gushed from the long rip in his shirt and spread a deeper ebony over the material, plastering the fabric to his flesh.

"Glory be!" Sadie chuckled, pointing. "You did it, Milady! You really did it!" She hopped up and down on one foot. "You done scored the little snot royally!"

Conar looked at the hand he had used to deflect the blow. The back swing of the knife had scratched him from elbow to wrist. A thin puckering of blood seeped down the scratch. Slowly, he raised his eyes to stare into Liza's shocked face.

Sadie raised her broom and came forward. "Don't hurt her, you little bastard!"

Liza scuttled away from Conar, coming to her feet as she stared at the outrage in his eyes. Her hand, now devoid of the knife she had dropped the moment it wounded him, went out in front of her to ward him off. "I'm sorry," she stuttered, flattening herself against the table, her face paling with terror.

Sadie hoisted the broom higher. "He don't deserve no apology from you!"

Conar looked at the ever-increasing flow of blood dripping down his arm, then turned his head toward Sadie and got to his feet. "If you open your mouth one more time, I'll shut it for you. Permanently!"

Liza hadn't meant for it to go this far, had never intended to use the knife on him. The second she had, she knew he would never forgive her. As he came toward her, she couldn't hold back a whimper of fright. As he grasped her upper arms, his upper lip curled in pleasure when she quivered.

"Please, Conar…"

He tightened his grip. "Come," he said quietly.

"Where are you taking her?" Sadie called, following as Conar drew Liza through the kitchen door and into the service hall.

Liza felt his hard gaze leave her when he stopped and faced Sadie. She flinched at the unbelievable coldness in his voice as he spoke to the old cook.

"Interfere one more time between me and this woman and I swear by all that is sacred, I'll turn you out of this keep!"

Liza flinched. "Sadie, don't make him any angrier. Just leave be. I don't want to be the cause of you leaving."

"Milady—"

"Sadie, please!"

Sadie clamped her lips together, but glared at Conar, making it plain she wasn't afraid of his threats. "One of these days you're gonna be made to pay for all your high-handed ways, Milord."

"Sadie!" Liza gasped.

His grin was malicious, evil, as he turned from the old woman. Pulling on Liza's arm, he continued down the serving hall.

Liza glanced up at his set face. "I'm sorry."

Never looking at her, he continued moving. "Not half as sorry as you're gonna be."

"Legion won't let you beat me."

"I have no intention of beating you. But I have every right to do so." He stopped, jerked her around. "And Legion A'Lex sure as hell couldn't stop me if that was what I wanted to do!"

"I told you I was sorry,"

He yanked her forward, taking her down the corridor leading to the servant's workrooms. "Sorry isn't good enough."

Gezelle was coming out of the sewing room as Conar reached the door. She gasped when he gently shoved her back into the room.

He whipped Liza against the sewing table. "You will repair the damage you've done!"

"I can't!"

"You can and you will!" he shouted, jerking her into the chair.

"Don't make me do this!" Liza begged. "Please, dearling, I can't!"

Ignoring her mistake, he took her chin in his bloody hand. Bending over her, he hissed through clenched teeth. "You will, my Queen. By all that is holy, you will!"

Gezelle gasped, staring at the blood on his hand, the darker stain along his arm. "Milord! You're hurt!"

"Aye, your lady gave me a love tap!" He let go of Liza's arm, grasped the front of his shirt, and tore it from him, rending it down the middle. He threw it down and glanced at the wicked gash on his arm.

When Liza saw the extent of the damage, she felt the blood leave her face. "Oh, Coni, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you. I—"

"Stop apologizing to me!" he bellowed, raising his hand as if to strike her. "You will sew it!"

"Milord, let me," Gezelle offered.

"She did it—she'll fix it!"

Liza saw her defeat written in his face. She stood, cautious of him, and moved nervously behind the chair. "S…sit down."

He swept his unwounded arm over the sewing table, scattering the contents. When he sat in the chair, he slammed down his wounded arm, smearing blood on the tabletop.

"G…get me the s…sewing kit, 'Zelle," Liza whispered, staring at the blood running freely down his arm.

"Clean it first," he ordered.

Gezelle handed her a soft square of muslin. Liza's hands trembled as she tried to gently wipe away the blood.

"You can't hurt me anymore than you already have," he spat. "Just clean it!"

She wiped away what hadn't congealed. When the dried blood wouldn't budge, she looked at Gezelle. "Would you get me—"

"If you need something, you get it!" he snapped.

Liza hurried from the room and fled to the kitchen. Servants stood still, looking at her with shocked, worried faces. Sadie took a step toward her, but Liza put up a hand.

"Not now, Sadie! Please!" She snatched up a pitcher of water, grabbed a bottle of astringent from the cupboard where medicines were kept in case of kitchen accidents, and rushed back to the sewing room.

Gezelle was standing quietly. There were several strips of muslin laid out on the table. Liza was frankly amazed Conar would have allowed the girl to do even that much. She tried to smile her thanks, but his words froze her lips.

"I tore the linen, lady."

Liza blanched, but managed to nod. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," he snarled.

Wetting a wad of muslin, she wiped away the blood, patted the seepage. When she was fairly sure most of the bleeding had stopped, she uncorked the bottle of astringent and saturated a pad of muslin.

Conar stared at her, his mouth pursed into a thin, angry line. His jaw clenched to keep from making a sound. Liza could well imagine that the strong astringent felt like liquid fire as she wiped it over the cut.

After threading a needle, she laid it on the saturated muslin and poured more astringent over it. Lifting it in shaking fingers, she tentatively brought it to his wound, but stopped, unable to pierce him.

"Do it," he commanded.

Her chin lifted. She took hold of his arm, pulled a deep breath, and stuck the needle through one side of the thin cut, wincing as she did. Her knees felt like they would buckle, but she eased the needle through the opposite side of the cut and pulled gently to close it. She tried not to falter as she expertly looped the thread under a knot and tugged it tight to secure it. Although the procedure took nearly fifteen minutes, Conar never blinked, never looked away from her, never flinched as the needle pierced his flesh. When she finished, she used a wet cloth to wipe away the remaining blood, applied more astringent, then cut the loose thread with a pair of embroidery scissors.

"Wrap it!" He handed her a long strip of linen bandage that seemed to materialize out of thin air.

She carefully wrapped it around his arm, then tied it securely, just above the elbow. When her hands came nervously away from him, she steeled herself to look into his furious face.

He stared for a long time, no emotion showing. Finally, he stood, tugged at the bandage, then stooped to pick up his ruined shirt. He walked to the door, stopped, and peered over his shoulder. "Thank you," he said hatefully and stalked from the room, never looking back at the two women.

Liza dropped into the chair. Her arms wrapped tightly around her sides, she bent forward, tears coursing down her face. "I hurt him, Gezelle! I didn't mean to."

Gezelle soothed her, stroking her hair. "Hush. You didn't do it a' purpose."

"I've hurt him again! Dear Alel, I've hurt the man again!"

"Aren't you looking pretty today!" Sadie said, ushering Amber-lea into the warmth of the kitchen. "A ray of sunshine, you are, dearie!"

Amber-lea blushed, ducked her head under the affectionate regard of the old cook. "Thank you, Missus MacCorkingdale."

Sadie patted Amber-lea's arm. "You can call me Sadie, you know." She put her hand on the girl's lustrous reddish-gold hair. "Such a pretty color, Amber." She peered into Amber-lea's face. "Such a pretty girl!"

"I keep telling her that, but she doesn't believe me."

Sadie stiffened, turning to look at the speaker. Her face hardened. "You tell that to every skirt you meet so you can get yourself
up
that skirt. No wonder the gals don't believe you."

Conar sighed. One of these days, he thought with a pang of regret, he was going to have to take the old woman to task for her scathing disrespect. It seemed she had gotten worse while he was away. What he had once passed off as insulting playfulness was fast becoming sheer hatefulness and unrelenting spite.

Sadie looked away from him. "You are one of the prettiest little girls in the kingdom." She cocked her head in Conar's direction. "And far too good for the likes of him."

"That's enough, Sadie," he warned, frowning.

"Just telling it like it is," the old woman snorted. She lifted one shoulder in disdain. "Can't help it if you get insulted by the truth."

He took a deep breath. "Have you eaten?" he asked Amber-lea, not really in the mood to joust with Sadie so early in the morning. The girl shook her head. "Can you get us something, Sadie?"

"I could," she mumbled. "Or you could dish it out yourself."

Conar thought he actually saw dislike in her fading eyes. Wondering what it was he could have done to warrant her ill regard, he looked away.

"I'll get it," Amber-lea said, as sensing the undercurrent between Conar and the cook. "Is that oatmeal I smell? I have always loved oatmeal."

Sadie sniffed. "His nubs don't like gruel. Used to smear it on my floor when he'd be in one of his moods." She cocked her head toward the stove. "There's bacon and eggs there. Help yourself, dearie."

"Are you going somewhere today, Milord?" Amber-lea asked, ladling scrambled eggs and bacon onto a platter.

Conar shrugged. "I thought you might like to ride with me to Corinth."

Amber-lea stopped in the middle of putting a biscuit on a plate. "On horseback?"

"I don't have any ostriches available right now," he teased. "It'll have to be horses, I'm afraid."

"I don't have anything to wear for riding." She put the food on the table.

Sadie sat at another table, setting a bowl of potatoes in her lap. "Her Grace has clothes she ain't never worn. Reckon she's got some she never will."

Conar smiled. "Of course! Liza has riding breeches and skirts that have probably never even been out of her armoire! We'll get—"

Amber-lea gasped, holding up her hands to ward off his suggestion. "I couldn't take Her Grace's things!"

"He paid for 'em," Sadie interjected, her face beaming with spite. "Some of them things are over eight years old."

"That's right, I did," Conar said. "Liza will never miss them."

"Milord, no!" Amber-lea protested. "It isn't right."

"Let the boy give you a gift or two, Ambie," Sadie commented dryly. She fixed Conar with a curious stare. "He ought to get some enjoyment from what his money bought and paid for."

Yes, there was something evil in the old woman's look, something malicious Conar truly couldn't understand. It seemed she was deliberately baiting him about the clothes. Her next words made it all too plain that she found the situation amusing.

"They'll just go to waste up there in that big old chest. Her Grace don't want to be reminded about most of that stuff he bought her. She don't need no reminders of what used to be. Ain't that right, Your Grace?"

Hurt, Conar looked away. "Aye, I suppose so."

"Then go up and get the little gal something to wear." Sadie stood, a twist of pain momentarily touching her wrinkled face as her arthritic bones protested. She put a hand to her back, stretched, and walked to the sink. "Ain't no use letting good clothes go to waste 'cause of pride." She chuckled. "Besides, the King done bought her a lot of pretty things to wear."

Unable to bear one more moment of Sadie's digs, Conar took Amber-lea's hand. "Come on."

"Milord—"

"Not another word," he told her, drawing her behind him. "I want you to go riding with me and that's what we're going to do."

"But Her Grace—"

"If I want you to have the clothes, Ambie, then you'll have them!" His fingers tightened around hers. "I think she owes me that much."

Amber-lea stumbled along in his wake. She had to practically run up the steps to the bedchambers as his long-legged stride never broke.

At the top of the stairs, Conar headed for the Queen's suite of rooms. Not bothering to knock, he wrenched open the door and pulled Amber-lea into the room, kicking the door shut behind them.

Amber-lea gaped, obviously missing nothing of the surrounding elegance, the color scheme that blended delicate shades of pale green and beige with a darker blush of rose. The bed coverings were an intricate design of green and rose bordered in beige lace. Thick folds of lace hung at the windows, skirted the bed and draped its tall four posts. The two facing settees to either side of the beige marble fireplace were covered in rose and beige stripes, adorned with pale green pillows. The complex pattern on the rug blended the three colors along with faint swirls of lavender and creamy pink. The furniture was mellow oak; the lamps, crystal and brass. The entire room was airy, feminine, and the most beautiful room in the keep.

"It's so lovely," she whispered, her fingers trailing over the marble top of a low table.

"She's got taste, if nothing else," Conar quipped. "Most of this stuff she sewed herself before our…" He paused. "She made it before she came to live at Boreas. She picked out the fabric for the furniture…spent hours decorating this place."

"A lot of love went into it."

"I…suppose…"

"Milord? Is something wrong?"

Conar mentally shook himself of the sudden memories. "It's just that I haven't been in this room in…"

"Let's go, Milord. This wasn't a good idea."

He let out a long breath. "We came here for a reason." He headed for the tall, ornate armoire and shuffled through it.

Amber-lea sighed. "Milord, please. It takes hours to iron—"

"This!" he barked, triumphant. "How about this?"

The velveteen habit he held before her was of a dark emerald green trimmed in a paler green. The long sleeves were cuffed in ivory lace. Tiny pearls buttons ran down the jacket and adorned the pockets.

"Here," he said, walking to her. "Try it on."

"I don't—"

"Come on, Ambie!" he said, annoyance rife in his voice. "Put the damned thing on!"

She took the habit and smiled, outwardly marveling at the soft velveteen. "Where can I—?"

He rolled his eyes. "Am I supposed to turn my back? It's not as though I've never seen you naked before, mam'selle."

Amber-lea blushed to the roots of her fiery red hair. She hugged the habit to her and looked up at him through the fringe of reddish-gold lashes.

"All right!" he said, pointing to an inlaid screen. "Get behind that, then."

While waiting, he lounged on a damask settee, stretched out his legs, and let his attention wander about the room. Whenever his gaze fell upon a particular object, a memory would taunt him. Tearing his gaze away did little to stop the flood of memories. Even the lingering aroma of lavender invaded his peace of mind. Trying to concentrate on Amber-lea's little sighs of exasperation as she changed did nothing but forcibly bring back other times when he had sat here, waiting for Liza to dress.

Something sparkled on Liza's dressing table, where a radiant beam of sunlight filtered through a window. Curious, he got up and strolled to the table. What he saw made him hurry back to the settee. He plopped down with enough force to break a spring in the delicate seat.

"Hell!" he hissed, drawing in his legs and sitting up, thrusting his fingers through his hair. "Why did she keep that damned thing?"

Again, his vision leapt to the dressing table. A shaft of memory scalded him. He remembered buying the golden locket for her so long ago. Meant as a peace offering, he had brought it all the way from Ciona to Seadrift Keep, then home to Boreas. When at last he'd draped the pretty heart-shaped locket around her neck, on a hillside overlooking Jasmine Cay the day before they set sail for Boreas, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him…

"Stop it, Conar!" he snarled.

His senses were being bombarded by sights and sounds and smells. Even the feel of the settee's damask had memories, because once he had made love to her on this very spot…

"Just stop it!" Getting up, he began to pace. His eyes jerked to the bed where many an afternoon had been spent. He knew the feel of that mattress, knew the peculiar way the bedsprings squeaked when he reached the height of passion. "Shit!"

"Milord?" Amber-lea called. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he mumbled, tearing his gaze from the bed. He walked to the window and looked at the garden. When his hands shook on the thick lace, he buried them in the pockets of his cords.

"Could you unhook this last button, please?" Amber-lea asked.

He started. "What?"

"This last button? I can't seem to reach it."

He turned and saw her poking her head from behind the screen. Relieved at having something to take his mind from the torture running roughshod over it, he stalked to the screen. Seeing Amber-lea standing there, the smooth expanse of her creamy back open to his view, the high curving rise of her rump pushing against the gown's fabric, made his mouth water.

"Milord?" She craned her head. When she obviously viewed a look on his face she had grown to know intimately well, she shook her head. "Not here, Milord."

"No better place."

* * *

Liza stood with her hand on the door knob. She didn't make a sound, didn't move, didn't blink. She took in the scene unfolding before her as though she were a detached part of the room's scenery. Her breath was even, her heartbeat slow and just as steady. She wasn't sweating; she wasn't cold or hot or feeling faint. What she was feeling was immense, soul-shattering fury.

"Are you finished, Conar?"

Amber-lea gasped, looking over Conar's shoulder at the Queen standing in the doorway. A whimper of fear escaped her throat.

Conar, who had stilled at the soft mention of his name, craned his neck to peer behind him. "You should have knocked."

Regardless of his stupid comment, Liza kept her face calm, her words soft and civilized. "I would appreciate it if you vacate these quarters as soon as possible." She raised her chin. "I will give you ample time to do so."

Conar pushed away from Amber-lea and covered her with the sheet. He shifted on the bed. As Liza's gaze clawed over his nakedness, he dragged up the coverlet to hide himself. "Are you going to watch?"

Liza's mouth tightened. "I would consider it an immense favor if you hurry." She stepped back and gently closed the door behind her.

* * *

For a moment Conar didn't move, just stared at the door like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He felt Amber-lea trembling beneath him and slid off the bed.

"It's all right," he said. "Just get dressed."

Her body one immense blush, Amber-lea rolled from the mattress, dragging the sheet with her, and hurried to the screen where her clothes draped the mother-of-pearl panels.

It was hard to dress with one eye cocked to the door that separated Conar from the irate woman he knew waited on the other side. He heard her pacing, her heels clicking on the parquet. The healing wound on his left arm throbbed and he absently rubbed at it.

Amber-lea came from behind the screen, the neatly folded sheet in her arms. Not looking at him, she put the sheet at the foot of the bed and waited for him to tuck his shirt into his breeches.

"Ah, you ready?" he asked, casting a nervous glance at the door.

Obviously mortified, she nodded. Her hands were tightly clutched together, the fingers threaded.

"She won't dare say anything to you," he said, a fervent prayer on his lips that it would be so. He took her arm, pulled her gently to the door. "At least, she'd better not."

When he opened the door, Liza stopped pacing. Conar tried to gauge her anger. No emotion showed on her lovely face. He might well have been one of the cleaning boys, for all she appeared to care. But there was a pinpoint fire blazing in the green depths of her eyes that he knew, from close contact with the lady, would soon burst into a roaring conflagration.

"I…" he started to say.

She cocked her head to one side. "Yes?"

He swallowed, feeling both foolish and terribly guilty. "Nothing at all."

When Liza entered her room and shut the door behind her, Conar breathed a sigh of relief. There had been no angry confrontation, no screaming recriminations. He loosened his grip on Amber-lea's arm. When no sound came from the room, save for the bolt being secured, he gently guided Amber-lea to the stairs.

* * *

Elizabeth A'Lex surveyed her bed. A hiss of anger issued from her lips as she took in the crumpled sheets and sagging coverlet. When she detected a faint odor emanating from the sheets, she spat a filthy epithet. Then, with a howl of animalistic rage, she gathered sheets and coverlet, pillows and blanket, and rushed to the blazing fireplace, stuffing them into the yawning maw.

"Damn you, Conar McGregor! Damn your unfaithful soul!"

With a heavy iron poker, she shoved every inch of fabric into the fire. The coverlet caught, flared, and soon crinkled into ash. The pillows let out a musky odor as the goose-down burned. The satin sheets and wool blanket took longer to burn, but the constant stabbing of the poker, thrusting them further into the flames, soon reduced them to blackened soot.

* * *

Conar wasn't prepared for Amber-lea's outrage, guilt, and shame after he brought her to his dungeon cell.