The Game (40 page)

He laughed. “I don’t know. I must wait to have you until after the pirate is freed? And then have you but once? The stakes are so high, Katherine. The queen would be furious with me if she ever learned of our affair. And we talk about your lover’s life. I do not think one time is enough.”

Katherine shook her head, telling herself not to cry, to remain strong. “After Liam is released, I will come to you but once.” She was firm. She hugged herself to try
to stop her body from trembling. She hesitated. “Before the baby is born then, if that is what you truly wish.”

He eyed her. “And if I refuse?”

“Then you shall never have me,” Katherine said far more calmly than she felt.

He did not laugh. “I could take you now, and you would never dare complain, would you?”

Katherine gasped. “Then you shall not have me willingly,” she cried, frightened now. “I am offering you an endless night of pleasure, Dudley. I will show you each and every one of my temptress’s tricks.” Her voice broke. Tears streaked her cheeks.

He stared at her. “Done.”

Katherine hardly felt any relief. “There is one other thing.”

His brow rose.

“I want to see Liam, one single time, in case you fail to arrange his release.”

“I see.” His jaw flexed, and his tone was harsh.

“If you do not arrange a visit for me, in the next two days, then we have no pact,” Katherine cried, bluffing.

Dudley’s smile was dangerous. “And when you visit him, will you give him what you have just denied me?”

Katherine looked at him. “’Tis not your affair.”

He stared. “Two deeds require two prices, Katherine,” he finally said.

Katherine understood. She nodded and turned to leave.

He grabbed her sleeve. “Not so quickly.”

Katherine faced him with vast reluctance.

“Come here,” Leicester said, “I wish to seal our bargain with a kiss.”

A noise awoke him.

It was a scratching noise. At first, as he stiffened upon his pallet on the floor, Liam thought it was a rat. He prepared to kick the beast should it come near. Kick it and kill it.

But the scratching sound faded. Now he heard a distinct clicking sound. Liam jerked into a sitting position. The door to his cell was being unlocked.

There was no light in his cell. It was always dark, but he was brought gruel and water twice a day, and these meals aided him in keeping track of the time. He knew it was well past suppertime, perhaps as late as midnight. He rose to his feet, fully alert, ready to receive a friend—or an assassin.

The door was pushed open wide. Blinding light spilled into the cell. Liam raised his arm, blocking the torchlight, blinking madly. But he had glimpsed a jailer, and the cloaked, hooded figure of an unknown visitor standing behind him.

There was the rustle of stiff fabric, a sound only a woman could make. Liam froze, dropping his arm, afraid that he was dreaming. Or that he had gone mad.

Katherine moved into the cell.

She carried a lantern, saw him, and became as rigid as he. They stared at each other. Neither one of them saw the jailer leer, nor did they see him close the cell door smartly behind Katherine.

“Liam,” Katherine said huskily. “Oh, God, Liam—are you all right?”

She was a vision of ethereal loveliness. At once a heavenly angel and an earthbound temptress. Liam did not move, did not breathe. Her presence caused a stabbing anguish. He reminded himself that she had been using him to aid her father. That she was treacherous, a deceitful bitch. That she could never love the son of Shane O’Neill. She had told him so herself.

“What do you want?” he said, his tone ringing harshly in the small stone cell. Trying to ignore her beauty, and worse, the open concern he saw in her eyes. That and something more, something that could not be.

Her whisper was raw. “I wanted to see you.”

“Why?” he demanded.

She ducked her head away. But he glimpsed the sparkle of tears in her eyes.

“Why?” he demanded again. “Are you not pleased, Katherine, that I shall soon meet a pirate’s fate?”

She looked up, blinking back tears.

He raised one fist. “Are you not pleased, wife, that your
husband—Shane O’Neill’s son—will soon die? Leaving you free to entrap the noble and saintly John Hawke? If you have not already done so?”

She bit her lip, staring at him sadly, a tear trailing down her cheek. “I am sorry.”

He froze.

She turned her back on him, raised her fist, about to bang on the door, for the guard.

“Don’t!” he cried, leaping forward. Catching her wrist before she could knock. She did not move.

“Katherine,” he whispered, agonized. He no longer cared about her treachery. Not now. He only cared that she was there, a flesh and blood Katherine, not the figment of his imagination, not an unearthly apparition—and that she had said she was sorry. He was a romantic fool after all, for his breast filled with hope. “Katherine—why did you come?”

She turned slowly, facing him. Only a blade of grass could have fit between them. Her tone was low and barely audible. “I came to tell you…I don’t want you to die.”

The hope overwhelmed him. “You care.”

She sucked in her breath, trembling. “Liam…yes.”

He reached out and cupped her face—her extraordinary face. A face that had haunted him for years—ever since he had first glimpsed her that day long ago at the convent. He was foul and dirty, but he could no more stop himself from kissing her than he could have stopped himself from thinking about her in all the days and hours and minutes since that day at the Abbé Saint Pierre-Eglise, so many years ago. He touched her lips with his. Aware now, of the hot, powerful force of his love, a love he had refused to believe in, a love he had never wanted, a love that had enslaved him then and still did now, a love that had motivated his most significant actions, that had precipitated this game, and had brought them both to this point in time, together and aching in the dungeons of the Tower of London.

Katherine’s lips trembled beneath his.

Lust seized Liam, hot and hard, huge. He shook with it, seized Katherine’s shoulders, and thought of little else
now but taking her, mastering her, and enslaving her to him with the force and power of his body, as she had enslaved him with her beauty, her pride, her determination and intelligence. “Katherine. I want you.”

She clung to his shoulders, swaying against him, her loins soft and inviting against his. She met his gaze, whispering his name, whispering, “
Yes
.”

He wrapped his arms around her, groaning, pressing his face into her neck, savoring the pulsing heat that coursed between their bodies for one more instant. He was huge now, ready to explode, but that was unthinkable, even though her invitation was clear. Even though, despite his determination to live, he might very well die.

“Liam, I am so afraid, please.” She undulated against him, kissing his forehead, and running her fingers through his hair. “I want you, too, darling.
I need you
.”

He had no defenses left. Every single last one of them, erected to guard his heart, were shattered by her words. Liam gazed into her sea green eyes. This was no pretense; there were no theatrics. Desire shimmered in her eyes, desire and something much more powerful. Something irrevocable, something eternal. Something that was meant to be from the very start. Something ordained by fate, that two human beings could not defy.

The words were there, on the tip of his tongue.
I love you. I always have. I always will
.

He caught her mouth with his. Katherine cried out. His lips sucked her, his hands as greedy, touching her everywhere, exploring her curves, relishing them. Then, his palm flattened upon her belly and he froze.

It was hard and round and protruding.

Katherine half laughed, half sobbed. “Yes, Liam, I am going to have your child.”

He raised his head and gazed into her eyes with disbelief, while his hand slid over her swollen belly a dozen more times. He was stunned. His gaze slid to the mound he caressed. “My child,” he whispered hoarsely. And through the haze of shock came a piercing pleasure—Katherine was giving him a child.

Her gaze met his, and although she was crying again, she was smiling, too.

And then his pleasure died. He stared at her, remembering his childhood—all of it. “Oh, God,” he said, torn between utter joy and sheer hopelessness.

Her smile faded. “You are not pleased.”

He stepped back from her. “You do not understand.” Suddenly he was that boy again, filled with pain, and he could hear the taunts, cruel and mocking,
Shane O’Neill’s bastard son
.

She touched him. “I do understand. Liam—I will protect this child. He will not suffer as you have suffered, I swear it to you.”

“You cannot stop the world from cursing him, and you can not change the fact that he is my son.”

She said nothing.

He jerked. “What do you plan?”

She turned pale. Except for two bright spots of pink upon her cheeks, the signs of her guilt.

And he recalled her treachery again, and thought of how clever she was—how determined. “What do you plan Katherine?”

“The queen is furious. Hawke says you will hang.”

Hawke. John Hawke—her other husband. “I am not dead yet, Kate. Nor do I intend to die anytime soon—or have you already buried me?”

“I do not want you to die!”

“And I will not die. I will escape this prison, return to the seas, and finish the game I have begun. Do you hear me, Katherine?” he shouted. “And you will be with me. You and the child,” he cried.

She did not answer him. Her silence told him everything that he needed to know. “You are my wife,” he said, his chest heaving. And suddenly he could not stand it, not his captivity, not the powerlessness of it, and he was consumed with rage. He gripped her chin, forcing her to face him. She was shaking her head no. “Has he taken you to his bed, Katherine? Has he?”

“No!” she cried, frightened.

Liam did not relax. She was deceiving him now, damn
her soul. Suddenly the walls of the cell felt as if they were closing in on him. He was acutely aware of being reduced to a state of impotent wretchedness. Frustration made him shake. “You have not answered me, Katherine.”

“Hawke says you will hang. I am doing everything in my power to prevent that, but I do not know if I can succeed,” she cried in a rush. “Hawke says…” she stopped.

Hawke. Hawke. Hawke. “What else does he say?” he snarled.

“He will give your child his name—even if it is a boy!”

He saw it all then. The future—her future with John Hawke. The two of them ensconced cozily in Barby Hall, his child growing up a little English lord, clad in plumed hat, doublet and hose, taught by the best tutors, conversant in English, French, and Latin, moving with ease from the London court to any country hall. And undoubtedly there would be other children as well, little boys and girls—the children Katherine would eventually give John Hawke, as any wife must do.

Liam hated him.

In that moment, he hated her.

He turned with a cry of rage and smashed his hand into the wall. Katherine cried out in fright. Liam punched the wall again. And again, and again. Until he realized that Katherine clung to his back, weeping, weeping and shouting that he must not do this, please, please stop.

Panting, his fist bloodied and hurting terribly and probably badly broken, Liam leaned his face against the wall. Katherine sagged against him from behind. She sobbed softly. He felt his own tears streaking down his cheeks. And for the first time in his life, he doubted himself.

He was going to lose everything. His woman, his child, his life.

Fear almost paralyzed him.

And then some inner strength surged forth. The fear remained, but determination pulsed now in his veins, roiled in his blood. He must gain his freedom, and he would. Before Katherine did the unthinkable and returned
to John Hawke. Before she gave herself to John, or any other man, in the hopes of using them while they used her—in order to free him. Before she became a political sacrifice, her altar his life, and before he truly succumbed to madness.

Hawkehurst

I
t was exactly one year since Katherine had first visited Hawkehurst. Then she had been John Hawke’s betrothed, soon to be his bride. It seemed an eternity ago. She remembered how naive and innocent she had been, both of the ways of the world, and of the ways of men. She felt as if she had aged a decade since that time.

Now she was returning to Hawkehurst in circumstances which she would have never dreamed even remotely possible.

They traveled slowly along the rutted, muddy road that wound down through the moors toward Hawkehurst. Although Katherine had spent much of the past week traveling in a carriage, today she had insisted upon riding astride. Hawke had conceded. Last year Katherine had found the windswept, gorse-covered moors picturesque and somehow romantic. This year she found them desolate and inhospitable.

The stone walls and slate roof of the old manor, with its several limestone chimneys, was already visible below them, and Katherine felt a bubble of panic rising up in her. Her life was pure madness. How could she carry on as Hawke’s wife when she yearned so desperately for another man? When she carried that other man’s child? When that other man might very well hang? How?

Pain pressed in on her heart unerringly, very much like
a huge vise. She was counting on Leicester being successful in persuading Elizabeth to pardon Liam, dear God, she was. He had to succeed, but if he did, then she would have to uphold her part of the sinful bargain she had made with him. How powerless she felt. How desperate. How alone.

They clattered into the cobbled courtyard, a dozen men following them. Hawke helped Katherine to dismount. “My parents are not in residence. They are in their London home, so you will not have to face them quite yet.”

Katherine was relieved. But she had been too anxious about Liam’s fate even to think about the unpleasant reception Hawke’s parents would undoubtedly give her.

“I know you are tired,” Hawke said. “Why do you not go upstairs to your chamber and rest? You need not join me for dinner if you are too fatigued to do so.”

Katherine met his troubled gaze. Why did he continue to be so kind when he was, it seemed, as unhappy as she? “Thank you.” She turned to go into the house.

“Katherine.”

Katherine paused.

Hawke’s regard was grave and searching. “We must put the past behind us,” he said slowly. “I know it will not be an easy thing to do. Not for me, and certainly not for you. But we must try.” He forced a smile, still holding her eyes.

Katherine could not reply. In that instant, standing there in the courtyard beneath the warm spring sun, she realized it was going to be impossible for her to put the past—and Liam—behind her.

“We must try,” Hawke said firmly when Katherine did not speak. “I think it best you bear the child here in Cornwall, far from the court, and my motives are not the queen’s. And even after the child is born, you should remain at Hawkehurst, where you will have few visitors, if any. In time the scandal will die down.”

Katherine could not agree. “The scandal will never die completely. Like my mother, they will whisper about me after I am dead.”

“No,” Hawke said flatly. “The scandal will die down,
although it may take some years. But after you have given me children, when we are happy, people will forget.”

And Katherine was stricken. She could not do this. John Hawke was a good man, but she would never be happy if she remained with him as his wife.

“I want your promise, Katherine,” Hawke said, “that you will put the past behind you, forget the pirate, and in good faith, abide with me as my loyal wife.”

Katherine hugged her swollen belly. Logic told her to say the words, to tell the lie, but somehow, she could not. She would never forget Liam. Never.

Hawke’s right eye ticked. “You will not give me the promise I have asked for—knowing all that I will do for you and your child?”

Katherine could hardly speak. Tears filled her eyes. “You ask me to promise the impossible,” she whispered.

He cried out.

“I’m sorry,” she cried back. “I’m sorry, so sorry! But I cannot forget him, I will never forget him, I love him—in spite of all he has done. God help us all!”

Hawke stared at her as her face crumbled and she wept, silently, in great anguish. When he spoke his voice was harsh. “He will hang, Katherine. And what will you do then? Dream of a ghost?” He strode away.

And Katherine covered her face with her hands. Knowing that even if Liam were hanged, she would, always, yearn for a dead man.

Hawke shook with anger and disbelief. He moved across the courtyard with no destination in mind. He spotted a horse and rider cantering toward Hawkehurst’s front gates. He recognized the chestnut filly instantly—just as he recognized Juliet.

Immediately he tensed.

Juliet slowed to a trot and rode into the courtyard.

It had been several months since he had last seen her. He became wary. Not of her, but of himself. If only she were old and ugly and mean-tempered. If only she did not look at him with such big blue worshipful eyes.

In fact, he had forgotten that she was Katherine’s dear
friend. Now he realized Juliet might become a constant presence at Hawkehurst. He did not care for that thought—not at all.

But of course, although Katherine and the child would live in Cornwall, he would remain with the queen and her Guard at court.

Juliet had stopped her frisky mount beside him. Two bright spots of color marred her otherwise flawless face. And her blue eyes seemed to spark as they settled upon his face. He could not help but wonder if she had ever been kissed. He shoved the very thought aside the instant it occurred to him.

“Sir John,” she said unevenly. Her flush was more pronounced now. “I am pleased to see you again.”

He ignored the remark. “You have come to visit my wife?” He wanted to be rude, he wanted her to leave.

Her gaze slid away. “Yes.”

“She is in the hall. I am sure she will be glad to speak with you.”

Juliet stared at the ground, appearing dismayed and at a loss.

Hawke felt like a boor. He bowed. “Excuse my poor manners,” he said stiffly. “We have traveled for many days now, and we are all overtired.”

“I should not have come,” Juliet said, and she gathered up her reins and began to whirl her mount around. But before Hawke knew what he was doing, he had caught the filly’s bridle with one hand—and with his other he gripped Juliet’s knee.

At the contact, she froze, her eyes wide.

Hawke grew rigid too, and their eyes darted together, held, then skipped apart.

Hawke took a breath. What kind of adolescent behavior was this? He forced a semblance of a smile to his lips. “Lady Stratheclyde, please, dismount. Katherine is in need of a friend right now.”

Juliet studied him for what seemed an eternity, and then she was slipping from her mount, sliding to the ground. Hawke steadied her, and told himself it was not because she was so pleasant to touch.

Juliet drew back. “How is Katherine?”

“Better than one would expect,” he said gruffly, unable to tear his gaze from hers. And her next words rocked him.

“And you, Sir John? How do you fare?”

He stared at her, knowing she did not ask after his health. And suddenly he wanted to pour out all of his anguish, and all of his need, to her, a girl just sixteen. And she gazed at him out of huge blue eyes as if she wanted nothing more than to comfort him, but surely he imagined her sympathy, her caring, her concern. He said awkwardly, “I am well.” A lie. “And pleased that Katherine is back.” Another lie. Dear God, he was not pleased, not anymore, not at all.

Her eyes widened, her small face tensed, and then she smiled gamely. “I am glad Katherine is back, too,” she whispered. Her smile became far too bright. Her voice quavered. “Now she will be able to attend my wedding to Lord Hunt in December.”

Hawke flinched as if struck. For a moment he could not speak. “You are marrying Simon Hunt?” An image of the fat viscount assailed him—an image of him covering Juliet with his soft body, slobbering kisses upon her.

Juliet looked away, providing him with a striking view of her perfect, suddenly expressionless profile. “Yes.”

And Hawke was engulfed with red-hot jealousy.

They did not speak again. Instead, careful not to look at her, not even once, he escorted her into the house so she could visit with his wife. But he could not stop thinking of her in Simon Hunt’s arms, as Simon Hunt’s beautiful wife.

Elizabeth’s favorite summer residence was Whitehall, and with the cheerful advent of spring, she had moved her court there. Outside, trees budded along the Thames, daffodils bloomed. Inside, Elizabeth paced her Presence Chamber. It was time to deal with the issue that lay unresolved and hanging over her like a shroud.

She turned to face those closeted with her, whom she had summoned to aid her in making what could be a horribly painful decision—her cousin, Tom Butler; the earl of Leicester; and William Cecil. She said without cere
mony, “I must try O’Neill or pardon him. I cannot allow him to rot in the dungeons of the Tower indefinitely.”

Everyone began to speak at once, offering their fervent opinions upon the controversial subject. Clearly Ormond was aghast at the thought of a pardon, but Leicester was suddenly speaking against a trial when so far he had been for one. Cecil did not utter a single word. Elizabeth cried out, silencing the two younger men. “If he claims he can deliver FitzMaurice, should I not free him?”

Ormond was incredulous. “Surely you do not think to trust him!”

The queen regarded her cousin. “If he would bring me FitzMaurice, his pardon would be worth it.”

Ormond was angry. “He will not bring you FitzMaurice. He dissembles and lies. He is the papist’s ally! And
you
would trust him now, Bess? You are allowing his handsome demeanor and manliness to interfere with your judgment!”

Elizabeth paled.
How close to the mark was Tom?
She was frightened to think that he was right. No matter how often she brooded upon hanging Liam, her heart always rebelled at the thought.

Ormond continued, a tirade. “You forget he is Shane O’Neill’s son. Yet how you could forget
that
when my sister arrived at your court, swollen with his child, God’s blood, I do not know! You were there, Bess, not too many years ago when poor Mary Stanley came to court, carrying Shane’s son! It is ironic, it is not, that Mary’s son has now inflicted the same grievous crime upon Katherine as his father inflicted upon his mother? You are mad to think to trust O’Neill.”

Leicester remarked, “Are you accusing O’Neill of rape, Ormond? I hate to say it, but Katherine did not appear hate-filled toward the pirate when I last saw her.”

Ormond had no chance to respond. Elizabeth moved in front of Leicester. “And when was that, Robin?”

He started. “I beg your pardon, Bess?”

Elizabeth did not repeat the question. A gossip had told her of a strange rendezvous a week ago in the Privy Gardens of Richmond. A rendezvous at the midnight hour.
The witness swore that the woman was Katherine. The spy had not glimpsed the man’s face, but swore he was very tall, broad-shouldered, and very dark. Elizabeth stared at Robin, wondering if he betrayed her with Katherine FitzGerald. She shook even to think of them together. Was it not enough that the slut had worked her wiles upon O’Neill? Was it not enough that Elizabeth had exiled her to Cornwall?

Leicester spoke, as if Elizabeth had never questioned him. “If O’Neill can deliver FitzMaurice, he should be freed.”

Elizabeth raised her brow. “You have changed your tune, dear Robin. Why, just the other day you were advising me to try him swiftly—and hang him just as swiftly.”

Leicester smiled. “We can not afford these Irish wars. FitzMaurice is too capable a leader. If O’Neill can bring him down, it is far better to free him than to hang him. No one else is capable of capturing the papist and you know it, Bess.”

Elizabeth stared coldly. Something was going on—she was certain of it. Dudley had changed his mind too quickly—and too fervently. Now he was an advocate for the pirate’s freedom. The girl was behind it. Elizabeth sensed it—just as she sensed that removing the girl from court was not enough to dull Leicester’s desire to have her. It flashed through Elizabeth’s mind that she could have the girl hanged as a traitor alongside her pirate lover.

“Your Majesty, please,” Cecil intervened. Elizabeth turned to him with relief. “We must give up on Sir John Perrot. He cannot catch the wily papist. The best he could do was to challenge him to a duel, and make an utter fool of himself.”

Elizabeth met Cecil’s direct brown gaze. “I have already given up on Sir John,” she said. “Since hearing that most incredible tale.”

Both Leicester and Ormond snickered, unable to help themselves.

Elizabeth sent them both a quelling glance. “Clearly he has gone mad,” she said. “To challenge FitzMaurice to
meet him in a duel! Dear God! Sir John must have lost his wits if he thought a private duel would end a public war.”

Leicester still grinned. “At his age, and bulk, too.”

Ormond also chortled. “And FitzMaurice, the fox, failed to show up, making Sir John twice the fool.”

“Thrice,” Leicester said, and both men erupted into laughter.

“Cease this at once,” Elizabeth cried. “How cruel you are to make fun of a man who has served Us well, then loses his mind in Our cause!”

“’Tis a difficult land,” Cecil said softly, an apology for Perrot’s failure and apparent madness.

“Should I trust the pirate?” Elizabeth asked him.

Cecil smiled slightly and when he spoke, it was only to her. “If O’Neill can deliver the papist, we are indeed very fortunate. Of course, that leaves us with a whole new rotten carcass.”

“What mean you by that?” Leicester demanded.

Cecil barely looked at Leicester. “With FitzMaurice gone, who shall rule the south of Ireland and the Irish there?”

“I will rule the south of Ireland,” Ormond said.

Cecil looked at him. “You are more English than Irish and a staunch Protestant. The Irish lords tolerate you—but they will never follow you.”