Lady of Conquest Read Online Free Page B

drooped against Conn’s shoulder; his short-cropped hair brushed Conn’s beard and Conn breathed deeply of a scent as fresh as the pure spring waters bubbling deep within the cavern. A searing flash of anger shot through him as his fingers sank into the familiar beaten leather of garments identical to his. Five leather belts hung around the youth’s waist, each marked with the clans name of a man now resting beneath his ancestral cairn. As Conn moved toward the mouth of the cave, his hands cut deeply into the boy’s shoulders and legs. The boy nuzzled his face into Conn’s tunic. A ragged moan escaped his throat. Conn loosened his grip.
    He made his way down the narrow path where Silent Thunder waited, untethered. He heaved the boy onto the horse’s back and climbed into place behind him. The top of the boy’s head brushed Conn’s chin as he slumped against his chest, surprising Conn with his height.
    The pale moon sank behind the horizon as Conn guided Silent Thunder south to a forest of towering trees. A lush carpet of pine needles muffled their steps. They wended their way through the trees until they passed a gurgling stream, swollen by the summer rains and cradled by thick moss. The boy’s moans grew more frequent at the jolting motion of the horse.
    Conn pulled him off the horse and settled him into the mossy bank, his tense fingers checking the bandages for fresh blood. The boy breathed a gentle sigh as Conn lowered his head against a clump of earth. Sooty lashes fluttered against the smattering of freckles on the boy’s cheeks, then lay still. Conn’s thumb traced the Gaelic purity of the boy’s face. The smooth chin held not even the hint of stubble. The lad was young, younger than the boys who came to the Fianna with their hearts full of dreams. Younger than Kevin had been when he had knelt before Conn to swear his fealty. The boy turned his face toward Conn’s hand; his mouth moved against Conn’s callused palm. Conn jerked his hand away. However young the boy was, he was old enough to commit murder.
    With leather canteen in hand, Conn moved a few feet along the brook until he found a wide ledge. He leaned out to scoop up some of the cool, tempting water.
    A sense beyond hearing or sight jerked his head around. He rolled to the side, hearing the dagger whistle past his shoulder. He reached out a powerful arm but caught only air. The boy sailed past him and went tumbling headfirst into the rushing stream. Conn leapt into the chill water. His hands fumbled beneath the surface, closing on the boy’s jerkin and drawing him upward. Conn’s own dagger glinted wet and lethal in the boy’s clenched fist. Conn caught his wrist and gave it a vicious twist, sending the dagger flying out of his grasp to the muddy bank. Ragged nails raked Conn’s wounded arm, igniting a white hot anger.
    Conn clamped his lips together and shoved the boy under the water. He drew him out sputtering and spitting, then shoved him under again as a balled fist caught the underside of his chin. Again he dragged the boy thrashing and cursing from the churning water. It slowly penetrated Conn’s fury that the hands clinging to his neck did so in desperation, their deadly intent forgotten.
    He shoved the boy away from him like a rag doll. Too weak to stand, the boy sank to his knees and disappeared under the water. Conn dragged himself out of the stream and staggered across the clearing.
    He looked back to find the stream’s surface broken only by white-tipped froth. He hesitated, not wanting to care if the demon’s whelp with the pretty face sank back to the hole he had come from. Water rushed over the pocket where the boy had disappeared.
    With a vicious curse Conn plunged into the stream. His hands swept beneath the water and caught in the boy’s hair. He hauled him out of the stream and dragged him across the slimy bank. With a heaving cough the limp body came to life and wrapped itself around Conn’s ankles. The boy’s teeth