The Game (27 page)

For the first time in minutes, he faced them. His glance strayed to Juliet, lingering upon her delicate heart-shaped face. “Katherine, we must not delay. My father has invited several guests to meet you at dinner. ’Tis almost noon, now.”

“I know. Please?”

He softened, nodding. “Be quick,” he said.

Juliet took Katherine’s hand, giving Hawke a grateful look. The two girls hurried outside and into the garden. Beneath a cherry tree they paused. “Juliet—is something bothering you?”

Juliet looked at Katherine, suddenly miserable. “How lucky you are,” she whispered. “To be marrying a man like Sir John.”

Katherine froze, imagining that Juliet was about to confess her sudden attraction to John Hawke.

“My uncle intends for me to be betrothed by my six
teenth birthday, which is but six weeks away. He has narrowed down the possible candidates for my hand to three men. Oh, God! Lord Carey is three times my age, although still of a fine figure—but he has already had two wives and six children. Ralph Benston is a skinny pimply-faced
boy
who cannot keep his hands to himself. And the third suitor, Simon Hunt, he is actually very kind, but he is hugely fat. I hate them all!” Juliet cried.

“Oh, Juliet,” Katherine said, relieved that her fears were at least not being voiced aloud. But she sympathized with Juliet, greatly, and she did not know what to say. A lady did not marry for love, but good matches were possible. “Can you discuss this with Hixley? Can he not select a husband for you of whom you also approve?”

“’Tis impossible.” Juliet said. “He doesn’t care at all how I feel. He is leaning toward Lord Carey, who is so terribly frightening. I do not know what to do; how can I marry a complete stranger, who only wants Thurlstone, and live as this man’s wife for the rest of my life?”

Katherine took her hand. “You are very beautiful, Juliet. I am sure all three men want you as much as Thurlstone.”

Juliet colored. “That is horrible, too! Could you take a man you did not love into your bed, let him touch you, kiss you?” She shook.

Katherine instantly felt guilty, thinking of Liam O’Neill. She was spared having to make a reply, because Juliet said bitterly, “But you do not have this kind of problem. You are marrying a handsome, noble man. How I envy you, Katherine.” She looked away, flushing. “How lucky you are,” she whispered.

“Yes, I
am
lucky,” Katherine returned, still feeling guilty—and now her heart lurched hard.

Shortly afterward, she and John left for Hawkehurst, Juliet waving good-bye, her color far too high, a smile fixed upon her lips—her gaze following Hawke. Katherine waved back, but Hawke did not. To the contrary, he seemed determined to ignore Juliet, staring straight ahead out at the moors. But once again, his cheeks were flushed, and Katherine thought that his gaze was troubled.

I am wrong
, Katherine thought, suddenly dejected.
Lightning did not flare white-hot between them. Of course, Juliet would find him handsome, every woman does. But he is to be my husband. I am to be his wife. He does not find her attractive—it is I he loves
.

And to make matters even worse, Liam O’Neill dared to intrude yet again, and in her mind’s eye he was smiling—and his smile was mocking.

G
erald sat in the dark hall of St. Leger House alone. He was cursing his own daughter.

She had disobeyed him, betrayed him. She had not heeded him at all. She had not enticed and entrapped Liam O’Neill, Gerald’s last, desperate hope. No, the queen had betrothed her to a damnable Englishman instead, and not just any Englishman, but one unquestionably loyal to the Crown, Sir John Hawke, the captain of her Guard. Did Katherine not understand that, with every day he spent in forced exile in Southwark, he was breathing his last dying breaths? He could not live like this, impoverished, impotent, and in exile, he could not. How could she have done this! And to ignore his summons, by damn!

He could not help thinking that she was every bit as headstrong as her mother had been. Suddenly he felt an intense longing for his first wife, Joan. Although she had been thirty-six to his sixteen when they had first met, their passion had known no bounds. Joan had still been stunningly beautiful, somehow far more beautiful than pretty girls half her age. And in bed…Gerald sighed. She’d had tricks of which he’d never dreamed. Her passion had been as willful as she.

But she had been fiercely loyal to him, despite the fact that her son was the earl of Ormond and her husband’s enemy. Joan had
never
betrayed him. She had been loyal to him, and she had loved him, until the day she died.

It was one of the great regrets of his life that she had
died alone at Askeaton, without him, while he was in the Tower, a prisoner of the queen. But that had been seven achingly long years ago.

“Gerald? Why do you sit in the dark?” his wife asked, bustling into the room.

Gerald blinked as Eleanor lit candles until the cold, barely furbished hall was ablaze. In some ways she reminded him of Joan. She was very beautiful and very clever—and headstrong as well. A good helpmate, as Joan had been. “I am brooding, what do you think?” he said.

“Well, there is nothing you can do,” she said bitterly, reading his thoughts exactly. “You should disown that treacherous daughter of yours, aye, you should!”

Gerald would never disown Katie. She was disloyal and she deserved a beating, but she was his only daughter and his only child from those few years with Joan. “Disown her?” He laughed, as bitter as Eleanor. “I own nothing now—how can I disown her?”

“She and John Hawke have returned to London this day. If you do not go to speak with her, I shall,” Eleanor stated, her eyes blazing.

Gerald eyed Eleanor. “I want no discord between the two of you,” he stated. “Besides, this matter is not over yet—not until the church bells are ringing.”

Eleanor blinked at him. “What are you thinking, my lord?”

Gerald smiled then. “Bring me a quill, lady. And we shall need a messenger, one firmly loyal to us.”

Eleanor returned with quill, inkhorn, and parchment, excitement flickering in her blue eyes. “What do you do, dearest?”

Gerald thought a moment, then began to write. “I do not misjudge men. I am informing the pirate of what happens. If anyone is clever enough—or bold enough—to undo what has been done, ’tis Liam O’Neill.” He smiled at his wife. “There is just enough time, I think, for the missive to find him—and for him to right things gone awry.”

Earic Island, the Atlantic Ocean

The wind was bitterly cold. It was winter’s last gasp and it howled across the barren island, which was not much more than a huge outcropping of rock and stone, although at its southern end a forest of firs braved the wilds, the winds, and the sea. Its beaches were but narrow strips of sand, littered with boulders, butting up against soaring cliffs. The surf was violent, even in summer, a never-ending collision of water upon rock and land. On the island’s northernmost side was a deep harbor, its mouth narrow and guarded with twin towers and cannon. In the harbor the
Sea Dagger
and several other O’Neill ships, all designed for swiftness and battle, bobbed at anchor.

There was a small village near the docks, where the seamen lived and the shipbuilders worked. There, too, were a few wives and a few children and a few whores. There was a blacksmith, a butcher, a baker and miller, a carpenter, and one merchant who sold all manner of goods, as well as several alehouses.

From the village a narrow path twisted up through the cliffs to Liam’s fortress. At the very top, upon a bed of granite, sat the medieval castle. A drawbridge opened across a deep gorge, and one had to pass through a portcullis and barbican in order to enter the high stone walls. Square guard towers with ancient arrow slits dominated the four corners of the fortress. Inside there was a three-storied tower holding a great hall and several other chambers. The fortress had been used by some exiled lord or other pirates in another time. But it had been added onto recently, and a large brick manor abutted the square keep, with windows of glass, not hide. The manor house was gabled, with a steep, tiled roof and five tall chimneys.

Liam had built the house because he hated the loneliness of the ancient keep, which to him seemed dark and haunted. He was not afraid of ghosts, but he had thought that a newer, brighter home would alleviate the feelings of isolation that assailed him whenever he resided on the island. Yet the manor, despite all of its gleaming wood
work and rich upholstery, could not entice him inside. Once, he had tried to live there. To his horror, it had been a far more lonely experience than dwelling in the medieval stone tower.

Liam sat at the heavy, scarred trestle table, alone. Macgregor sat by the fire on a stool, playing a soft tune on bagpipes. The boy, Guy, crouched at Macgregor’s knees, firelight playing over his thin, rapt face. The music was meant to soothe, yet Liam had never been more restless. The days passed slowly, with gaping emptiness. How in God’s name would he endure even another day here if he felt as though he could jump out of his very own skin? He had never hated being island-bound because of the harsh winters before.

Carefully Liam unfolded the letter again. It was from his mother, Mary Stanley, and had been dated two weeks earlier. Although he always visited her when some affair brought him upon England’s soil, this last time he had not. In fact, he had not seen her in a half a year, making him a very poor excuse for a son.

“My dear son, Liam,”
she wrote,
“As always, you are foremost upon my mind. I trust that all is well with you, that God keeps you safe and out of harm’s way. My dear, please guard yourself well. Remember, I could not bear it should aught happen to you
.

“I have heard the latest gossip and in truth, because of our many conversations, I was not that surprised. I should have guessed that this would happen one day. But to abduct the Lady Katherine FitzGerald at sea, as if you were but an evil pirate—and a man like your father?

“Dearest Liam, I know you are not like Shane, that you could never be evil and cruel like him. But ’tis said that Katherine greatly resembles her mother, once both countess of Ormond and Desmond. Well do I remember Joan. She was far more than beautiful, she was strong and intelligent, unusually so. If her daughter resembles her greatly, I fear a great clash of wills betwixt you. Dear Liam, have a care with this girl. Her value to you will far exceed that which is political.

“And remember, too, that Joan was kind to us both when you were but a babe in swaddling. Of all the ladies I met then, in those sad but somehow joyous days (you having been the joy), she was one of the few who were not cruel, who befriended me. I know you would not harm her daughter, Liam, not apurpose. And I understand why you would seize her as you did. Just be temperate, my dear, if you wish to win her, as I suspect you do
.

“Hope stirs alongside the love in my breast.”

Liam had read her letter perhaps ten times. And he was ashamed. It was not often that he reflected upon the path of his life with regret, for only fools dwelled on what could not be changed. And although Mary had never openly condemned him for his pirate ways, Liam knew that she secretly wished that he might one day transform himself into a noble and pure English gentleman. Her wishes were impossible, fanciful dreams. He could not undo the fact of who and what his father had been, and undoubtedly Katherine would never forget it. His having been born outside both the English and Irish worlds had forced him to the high seas. Mary knew this as well as he.

Liam folded the letter very carefully and placed it in a small coffer, the kind ladies favored for their jewels, which he then locked. The key he wore on his belt. The coffer he picked up and placed on a sideboard.

Liam began to pace. At least in the past he had but to deal with himself when confronted with the emptiness of his life on the island. He could handle that. But now…now he saw a flame-haired seductress everywhere he went and everywhere he looked. Even his mother wrote of her.

He recalled Katherine’s adamant rejection of his marriage proposal; his face turned red. Both anger and humiliation flooded him. He knew he was too proud to beg her to change her mind, or even to try to change her opinion of him.

Liam faced the fire, reining in his hot emotions with an iron hand. Katherine was now at court, and in this interim, ’twas not a bad place for her to be. The game was moving along now, although no end was yet in sight. But there
would be an ending. Liam wondered, though, if he would take Katherine as his wife against her will when that ending came. Knowing her as he did now, he did not think he could do such a thing. Yet neither could he let her go, especially not to another man. A curse slipped from his lips, breaking the silence of the stone-walled hall.

He paused in his pacing, realizing that Macgregor had ceased playing the pipes, and that both he and the boy watched him. Liam forced a smile for the boy’s benefit. Guy got to his feet. “Captain, sir, is there aught you need?” His anxious gaze was riveted upon Liam’s.

I need a red-haired wench whose lust matches mine
, Liam thought. “No, Guy.”

Guy hesitated.

“Sit down and listen to Macgregor play,” Liam said, his tone far too gentle to be a command.

Guy relaxed and obeyed and Macgregor said, “Someone comes.”

Liam had heard the faint tolling of the watchtower bell as well. In winter, the only bell that could be heard was from the tower, because of the shrieking winds. A moment later one of his men entered, his cheeks ruddy from the cold, a cloaked visitor with him. “Captain, sir. ’Tis a messenger for you that has just arrived.”

Liam stared as the messenger took off his hood and gloves, shivering. Undoubtedly he had come to the island aboard the monthly supply ship which Liam dispatched to Belfast. Liam did not recognize the man. He nodded for him to sit, and turned slightly.

His steward had materialized, saw Liam’s look, and hurried out to return with hot, spiced wine and other refreshments. Liam said to his own man, “Jackie, go into the kitchen and warm yourself and if you have not eaten, nourish yourself with hot food.”

The red-cheeked man nodded, disappearing in the steward’s wake.

Liam sat down on the bench across from the messenger. Macgregor had begun to play again, but very softly, and Guy had turned away to face the Scot. Quietly Liam asked, “Who sends you?”

“Gerald FitzGerald.”

Liam tensed. The man pulled a sealed parchment from under his cloak, handing it to him. Liam hesitated, then stood, moving to the fire. Trying not to display his blazing curiosity, he slowly opened the letter. A moment later, as he read, his eyes widened—and his face turned white with shock.

Katherine FitzGerald was betrothed to Sir John Hawke, and would be wed at St. Paul’s on the fifteenth day of April. The Queen had even dowered her with a small but fine estate in Kent.

Liam began to turn red. Fury overwhelmed him. “What goddamned day is this?” he roared.

Macgregor laid the pipes aside. “’Tis the thirtieth of March,” he said.

Liam fought for control. But he could not stop the rage that boiled in his veins as he imagined Katherine in another man’s arms, as another man’s wife. He shook with it. But when he spoke, his voice was ice-cold. “We go to London,” he said calmly, his tone belying the fact that the beast within him had been set free. “Immediately.”

But the snowstorm delayed their departure. For twelve full days.

London, April 15, 1571

The church bells tolled.

The great bells of St. Paul’s Cathedral rang and rang and rang yet again. The street before the cathedral was highly congested. Queued in the avenue were the numerous coaches and chariots that awaited the noblemen and noblewomen attending the nuptials inside. Dozens of mounted, liveried outriders milled about as well. And hundreds of Londoners lined the sidewalks outside the soaring cathedral, yeomen and gentry alike. A wedding of the nobility was a great event, and curious they were to see the couple who had just married.

The bride and groom finally appeared. The crowd espied the groom first and burst into applause—some of the
women swooning. Sir John Hawke wore his scarlet-and-gold uniform, his great ceremonial sword, high black boots, and a plumed hat. Murmurs began, turning to rapid, hushed whispers. The bride was a vision as lovely as the groom was dashing. Her pearl-seeded white velvet gown drew the envy of many a maid, especially as it revealed the bride’s ideal form. But it was her face that drew actual gasps, from both men and women alike, because it was so utterly lovely, oval shaped with high cheekbones and full lips. It was her face that made the men envy the groom and think lecherous thoughts.

They threw seeds at the couple, wishing them a fertile and fruitful union. It was not until the couple had ascended into a waiting coach, drawn by two matched white horses, that one and all remarked that neither the bride nor groom had been smiling. How very strange that was.

The fire leapt in the granite hearth, warming up the linenfold, wood-paneled master bedroom at Barby Hall. Fresh, sweet rushes were strewn about the oak floors. A four-poster bed, not canopied but massive nevertheless, stood in the chamber’s center, covered with blue-and-gold velvet and furs. The coverings had been turned aside.