LITMIR.BIZ

      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

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