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  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 mucked 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 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 farmers 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