The Hawk and the Dove (25 page)

“It’s such a surprise to see you back in England, Fitz. I thought your permanent home was France,” improvised Shane.

“I’m so delighted to meet a friend of Shane’s. He keeps his life so private,” purred Georgiana. She could not hide the admiration shining from her eyes as she took in the measure of the man who was dining with them. His dress and manner were perfection, his beautiful cultured voice so pleasing to the ear, but above all he was warm and so at ease, you would have thought he had known her for years. “Surely you must have a last name, sir. I cannot call you Fitz,” Georgiana probed lightly.

“’Tis Fitzclare,” Shane lied.

The baron smiled affectionately at Georgiana. “Please call me Fitz. It pleases me to hear it from your lips.”

She lowered her lashes, then raised them again. “Fitzclare is Irish, sir, yet I detect no brogue in your speech.”

“Fitz was educated in Europe. He spent his youth traveling about … Paris, Brussels, Venice,” offered Shane. He was not lying this time. The earl of Desmond had sent his son to be educated in Europe, perhaps fearing contamination from Ireland’s thickheaded, bogtrotting savages.

Sabre sat bemused, trying not to stare at the transformation of the baron. Without his cowl his hair was an attractive silver and his eyes, though dark, flashed silver once in a while. His monk’s robe had hidden a hard, well-made body, and Sabre could imagine the muscles he would reveal when he stripped. She blushed at the picture and Shane, catching sight of her pretty coloring, raised an amused eyebrow at her. Splendor of God, he thought, how like his mother she was. Though their coloring was different, their spirits were kindred. Their eyes flashed a challenge to every man they met, and what mere mortal male could resist? He would have to be very careful that she did not gain too much power over him.

The baron entertained Georgiana with tales of his travels in Europe. He was amusing and could converse easily about fashions, food, native customs, politics, or sailing the seven seas. She could not help but be attracted to this warm man who gave her his complete, undivided attention. It was the most flattering thing a gentleman had ever done for her.

When Shane saw they were totally absorbed in each other, he turned his attention to Sabre. They were saying
good-bye for a few days, each fearful for the other’s safety. He could tell by the quality of her silence that she was angry at him for leaving. She had erected a barrier between them which he thought to penetrate with loving words. “The barge is waiting to take you back to Windsor tonight,” he said in a low voice as he covered her hand with his. “Be careful, my darling, and remember if you ever need help and cannot reach me, I always have men posted in the stables.”

She pulled her hand from his and said, “I’ll take care of myself! Since I’m never to know where you are off to, I have no choice. I think I’ll go upstairs before that wretched man arrives. I don’t want to see him.”

“Did he offend you, sweet?”

“He said the queen set the pace for independence in Englishwomen. That in Ireland they make good women by beating and bedding them regularly.” Her eyes flashed. “I said, ‘I assure you I am bedded regularly and Shane applies his great weapon to my nether regions whenever I am in need of it!”

“Lying Irish!” Shane whispered, and lifted her hand to his lips.

Her fingers were stiff and cold, and she snatched her hand from him deliberately.

When Sabre rose from the table, the others followed suit, and as Fitz assisted Georgiana to rise, she said over her shoulder, “I have decided to stay at Hawkhurst for the winter season. ’Tis only a forty-mile ride. … I would welcome your company if the country wouldn’t bore you to death.”

He said gallantly, “I could never be bored in your company, my lady. Don’t be surprised if I take you literally
and actually visit.” She cast him a sidewise glance that took his breath away. “Please,” she murmured.

The baron pretended that he must take his leave, but actually he intended to be cloaked and spurred in time to accompany Shane to Ireland. If he had been at Shane’s back the night he had gone to meet O’Neill, he would never have received the near-mortal blow.

Sabre went upstairs the moment she heard the booted step in the courtyard, leaving father, mother, and son to their own volatile company.

“Hugh!” Georgiana gasped as she recognized the harsh, rugged features of O’Neill.

He looked with disapproval at the low-cut, elegant gown, the diamonds blazing at her throat, the lace fan waved so artfully, but he approved of the full-blooded woman beneath the frippery.

Somehow Shane was no longer afraid of these two coming face-to-face. It was their lives, and they must choose. “I will change my clothes. I’ll be ready to ride in half an hour,” said Shane, allowing them a little time together.

Sabre was surprised to find that Shane had followed her upstairs. She was also pleased. It showed she had some power over him at least. She raised an eyebrow and said in a cool voice, “I thought we had said good-bye.”

“By God, how you madden a man. Are you erecting a barrier between us to see me smash it down?” he demanded.

“’Tis you who erects barriers! I never know when you will suddenly decide to take off. Then when you return and have need of me to warm your bed, you crook your little finger and I’m supposed to come running!”

“You sound like a nagging wife. The last thing I need is a wife; I have one of those, remember?” he sneered.

“’Tis you who needs to remember. The woman could be dead for all you care!”

He threw up his hands in exasperation. “Now I’ve heard everything! My mistress takes my wife’s part in this. I can’t win for losing with you, Sabre.”

She pressed her hand to her mouth so she would not blurt out that she was his wife. By all that was holy she would save that ace up her sleeve until the perfect moment when the revelation would be most advantageous to her.

He closed the distance between them in two strides. She had pushed him to his limit. He grabbed her roughly and gave her a savage kiss that left no doubt who was master. When he felt her resistance begin to melt, he growled arrogantly, “When I return I’ll send a servant to summon you.”

Sabre was left with her mouth open. Damn you to hell, Hawkhurst, she cried silently.

At the top of the staircase Shane encountered the baron. They could clearly overhear the conversation that was taking place below, and they listened without hesitation.

“Ye are more English than Irish, woman! Like yer queen ye spend too much time riding to the hunt, playing at cards, gossiping with yer friends, and wasting money buying geegaws.” He strode toward her and gripped her shoulders harshly. “Yet still I want ye, lass. Come back to Ireland wi’ me!”

Georgiana could not keep herself from comparing this man to the other with whom she had spent the evening. Oh, the feral male-animal attraction was still there, filling
the room, but outweighing that was the arrogant, vicious need to rule. The need for power was like a madness in him. He thought he should be the Irish king on the Irish throne and would settle for nothing less, no matter who or what was sacrificed. She saw now that she had done her own share of sacrificing others. She had given him Shane, thinking he would cherish such a son, but it was otherwise. He’d used him ruthlessly and would go on using him. Death would put a stop to it, one day, but she prayed fervently it would never come to that.

“No, Hugh,” she said calmly, “I like my geegaws. I am too old to throw my comfort to the wind and exist in that barren pile of rock you call Dungannon. You have little love to spare a woman. You have your clans to unite— your Maguires, O’Haras, O’Donnells, O’Sullivans, and O’Rourkes.”

His face was vicious as he looked at her revealing neckline and her diamonds. “Whore of Babylon!” he hissed.

“We are ready,” said a deep voice from the doorway.

Relief swept over Georgiana as she raised her eyes and saw Shane and the baron cloaked in black for their clandestine journey.

Sabre was pleasantly surprised Kate Ashford didn’t scold her overmuch for her absence. Though Kate had no idea where Sabre had been, she had a damned good idea whose company she kept. In actuality Kate was simply relieved to have her back in time for the move to Whitehall. The whole court was abuzz with the latest on the Essex-Elizabeth contretemps. Kate told her they were actually laying bets on the outcome. Most of the gentlemen had put their money on the queen, but the more astute ladies had bet on Essex. She always gave in to him.

The queen had instructed Kate Ashford to transport ten new gowns she had had designed especially for the winter season. Sabre was on hands and knees in the drafty Windsor wardrobe, stuffing the sleeves of the gowns with tissue. The sleeves were slashed and heavily jeweled and could be crushed so easily. Sabre had devised a cushioning way to pack a gown in its own box and take it out later virtually uncrushed and unwrinkled.

A voice behind her startled her. “So you are Mistress Wilde. You have been conspicuous by your absence since the great hunt on the occasion of my birthday.”

Sabre’s mouth fell open as she found herself in the unenviable position of being singled out by the queen. “Your Majesty.” She sat back upon her heels and bowed her head. “I—I was indisposed, Your Majesty,” Sabre blurted.

“Not the fever?” asked the queen, greatly alarmed.

“Ah, no, Your Majesty. I fell from my horse during the hunt and found it difficult to walk for a week,” she lied.

“It has come to my attention that you ride an Arabian,”
said Elizabeth with a great deal of disbelief mingled with disapproval. The queen made statements in such a bald manner, she compelled you to explain yourself.

“Ah, yes, Your Majesty. I won it playing cards and was not used to such a high-strung animal.”

“Which gentleman wagers for such high stakes as Arabian horses, pray tell me?” demanded the queen.

Sabre skirted the truth once more. “Matthew Hawkhurst, if it pleases Your Majesty,” she replied primly.

The queen switched subjects with the speed of lightning. Through narrowed eyes she said, “The color of your hair … is it natural?”

Sabre’s hand went to her copper tresses apprehensively. “Why, yes, Your Majesty.”

“I will tell you a secret,” said Elizabeth confidentially. “I am wearing a wig!”

Since nothing could have been more obvious and since Sabre had spent hours cleaning her vast collection of wigs, it was difficult to look surprised.

“Just that shade of copper is what I desire. I have a royal wigmaker, Master Hooker, who has been searching for just such hair as yours,” the Queen said pointedly.

Sabre swallowed with difficulty. She knew without a shadow of a doubt what the queen was asking, nay, commanding of her. Resentment and anger flared up inside her. How demeaning to be down on her knees wrapping this woman’s gowns in layers of protective tissue so she could strut about in her finery. Now the old witch actually wanted the hair from her head to attract young men like Essex and Devonport. Sabre tried to stave off what her heart feared was inevitable. “Your Majesty, the wig
you are wearing couldn’t be lovelier. I don’t think my dull shade would flatter you at all.”

“I say otherwise, Mistress Wilde, and I am unused to being contradicted. Kate Ashford told me what a generous girl you were. I sincerely hope she did not lie to me.”

Sabre had no choice but to acquiesce. She strove to do it with graciousness, but inside she seethed with resentment and added it to the score against this aging, all-powerful creature.

“Your Majesty, I would be honored to provide Master Hooker with a length of my hair to fashion a new wig.”

Now she had exactly what she wanted, the queen reverted to their previous topic. “I warn you, Mistress Wilde, not to play with the elder Hawkhurst, Lord Devonport, lest you get your comeuppance!”

The warning was so pointed, she was afraid the queen had heard a rumor linking her with Shane. Sabre saw red. She wanted to spit upon the floor at the queen’s feet to show her contempt. Jealousy flooded her heart and her brain. Bessie Tudor was speaking of the man who was Sabre’s husband, Sabre’s lover, and she was doing so with such a smug air of ownership, Sabre had to fight the impulse to fly at her and scratch out her eyes. For one dreadful moment when first confronted by the queen, Sabre thought she had been discovered for her masquerade as the goddess Diana. The reality was so much worse! The queen would get her beautiful hair and had warned her to keep her hands off the queen’s Sea God. As Gloriana departed, Sabre smiled a secret, terrible smile. Shane was hers, totally. He was her absolute private property until the time came when she was ready to toss him aside. Then and only then could Bessie Tudor have him! Her
mind was already plotting an outrageous costume for her next escapade, one that would embarrass the queen.

Hawkhurst and the Baron decided that the quickest route to Ireland for O’Neill was the port of Bristol. It was the closest port to London on the west coast, and would entail a hard ride of only a hundred miles. Any assassination attempt on the earl of Tyrone’s life would come on land before he left England. Once he had embarked on a Hawkhurst vessel, he would be safe.

Shane had intended to go all the way to Ireland, but he received terrible news from a captain in Bristol and knew he must get to the queen immediately. Sir Philip Sidney had taken a wound in Holland at the Battle of Zutphen and it appeared he would not recover. Sir Philip was Leicester’s nephew and one of the most beloved of Elizabeth’s peers. He was married to Secretary Walsingham’s daughter, Frances, who had never been invited to join the court, because of her dark beauty.

After placing O’Neill on one of his ships Hawkhurst rode back to London with all possible speed and directed the baron to ready one of their smaller, faster vessels to depart for Holland on a moment’s notice.

During his audience with Bess he kept a tight rein on his temper. That they were suffering defeat after defeat in Holland against the Spanish could be laid directly at the queen’s feet. She kept her purse strings closed tightly, sent only a few thousand men, and equipped them so badly, the officers went deep into debt to pay for supplies. When Shane told her that Sir Philip had been wounded at Zutphen she was visibly shaken.