The Prize
Authors: Brenda Joyce
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #United States, #Romance, #Historical, #Historical Romance
Version 0.5
: scanned, controlled for each page being present,
spellchecked with MS Word,
not
proofread, left every fifth pagenumber
for making proofreading easier for me … yet found not the time
2004
Romance
Brenda Joyce
Part
1 – The Captive - Chapter 1
.
21
Part
2 – The Bargain - Chapter 16
.
275
Part
3 – The Bride - Chapter 23
.
408
This one's for Aaron Priest
and Lucy Childs—
the best team in town! Thanks
for getting me
back on track and where I
belong—writing about
bygone times, alpha men and
the women
who dare to brave all to love
them…
July 5, 1798
The south of
Ireland near Askeaton Castle
Gerald O'Neill rushed
into the manor house, his once-white shirt crimson, his tan britches and navy
coat equally stained. Blood marred his cheek, matted his whiskers. An open gash
on his head was bleeding and so were the cuts on his knuckles. His heart beat
with alarming force and even now the sounds of battle, the cries of imminent
death, rang in his eardrums. "Mary! Mary! Get into the cellar now!"
he roared.
Devlin O'Neill could
not move, stunned. His father had been gone for more than a month—since the
middle of May. He had sent word, though, every few weeks, and while Devlin was
only ten years old, he was acutely aware of the war at hand. Farmer and priest,
shepherd and squire, peasant and gentry alike had risen up to fight the English
devils once and for all, to take back all that was truly theirs—the rich Irish
land that had been stolen from them a century ago. There was so much hope—and
there was so much fear.
Now his heart seemed
to simply stop and he stared at his
father, relieved to
finally see him again and terribly afraid. He was afraid that Gerald was
hurt—and he was afraid of far worse. He started forward with a small cry, but
Gerald did not stop moving, going to the bottom of the stairs and bellowing
for his wife again. His hand never left the scabbard that sheathed his cutlass,
and he carried a musket as well.
Devlin had never seen
his eyes so wild. Dear God.
"Is Father
hurt?" a tiny voice whispered beside him, a small hand plucking at his
torn linen sleeve.
Devlin didn't even
look at his dark-haired younger brother. He could not take his eyes from his
father, his mind spinning, racing. The rebels had taken Wexford town early in
the rebellion and the entire county had rejoiced. Well, the papist part of it,
at least. Other victories had followed—but so had other defeats. Now redcoats
were everywhere; Devlin had spied thousands from a ridge just that morning, the
most ominous sight he'd ever seen. He'd heard that Wexford had fallen, and a maid
had said thousands had died at New Ross. He'd refused to believe it—until now.
Now he thought that maybe the whispers of defeat and death were true. Because
he saw fear in his father's eyes for the first time in his young life.
"Is Father
hurt?" Sean asked again, a tremor in his tone.
Instantly Devlin
turned to him. "I don't think so," he said, knowing he had to be
brave, at least for Sean. But fear gripped him in a claw like vise. And then
his mother came rushing down the stairs, her infant daughter in her arms.
"Gerald! Thank
God, I've been so worried about you," she cried, as pale as any ghost.
He seized her arm,
releasing the scabbard of his sword to do so. "Take the boys and go down
to the cellar," Gerald said harshly. "Now, Mary."
She cried out, her
blue eyes filled with fear, riveted on his face. "Are you hurt?"
"Just do as I
say," he cried, pulling her across the hall.
The baby, Meg, began
to wail.
"And keep her
quiet, for God's sake," he said as harshly. But now he was looking over
his shoulder at the open doorway, as if expecting to see the British soldiers
in pursuit
Devlin followed his
gaze. Smoke could be seen in the clear blue sky and suddenly the sounds of
muskets firing could be heard.
Mary pushed the babe
against her breast as she opened her blouse, never breaking stride. "What
will happen to us, Gerald?" And then, lower, "What will happen to
you?"
He opened the door to
the cellar, the opening hidden by a centuries-old tapestry. "Everything
will be fine," he said harshly. "You and the boys, the babe, all will
be fine."
She stared up at him,
her eyes filling with tears.
"I'm not
hurt," he added thickly, and he kissed her briefly on the lips. "Now
go downstairs and do not come out until I say so."
Mary nodded and went
down. Devlin rushed forward as a cannon boomed, terribly close to the manor.
"Father! Let me come with you—I can help. I can shoot—"
Gerald whirled,
striking Devlin across the head, and he flew across the stone floor, landing on
his rump. "Do as I say," he roared, and as he ran back through the
hall, he added, "And take care of your mother, Devlin."
The front door
slammed.
Devlin blinked back
tears of despair and humiliation and found himself looking at Sean. There was a
question in his younger brother's pale gray eyes, which remained wide with
fear. Devlin got to his feet, shaking like a puny child. There was no question
of what he had to do. He had never disobeyed his father before but he wasn't
going to let his father face the redcoats he'd seen earlier alone.
If Father was going
to die, then he'd die with him.
10
Fear made him feel
faint. He faced his little brother, breathing hard, willing himself to be a
man. "Go down with Mother and Meg. Go now," he ordered quietly.
Without waiting to see if he was being obeyed, Devlin rushed through the hall
and into his father's library.
"You're going to
fight, aren't you?" Sean cried, following him.
Devlin didn't answer.
A purpose filled him now. He ran to the gun rack behind his father's massive
desk and froze in dismay. It was empty. He stared in disbelief.
And then he heard the
soldiers.
He heard men shouting
and horses whinnying. He heard swords ringing. The cannon boomed again,
somewhere close by. Shots from pistols punctuated the musket fire. He slowly turned
to Sean and their gazes locked. Sean's face was pinched with fear—the same fear
that was making Devlin's heart race so quickly that he could barely breathe.
Sean wet his lips.
"They're close, Dev."
He could barely make
his mouth form the words, "Go to the cellar."
He had to help his
father. He couldn't let Father-die alone.
"I'm not leaving
you alone."
"You need to
take care of Mother and Meg," Devlin said, racing to the bench beneath the
gun rack. He tore the pillows from the seat and hefted the lid open. He was
disbelieving— Father always kept a spare pistol there, but there was nothing
but a dagger. A single, stupid, useless prick of a dagger.
"I'm coming with
you," Sean said, his voice broken with tears.
Devlin took the
dagger, then reached into the drawer of his father's desk and took a sharp
letter opener as well. He handed it to Sean. His brother smiled grimly at
him—Devlin couldn't smile back.
And then he saw the
rusty antique display of a knight in
his armor in the
corner of the room. It was said that an infamous ancestor, once favored by an
English queen, had worn it. Devlin ran to the statue, Sean on his heels as if
attached by a short string. There, he shimmied the sword free from the knight's
gauntlet, knocking over the tarnished armor.
Devlin's spirits
lifted. The sword was old and rusted, but it was a weapon, by God. He withdrew
it from the hilt, touched the blade and gasped as blood spurted from his fingertip.
Then he looked at Sean.
The brothers shared a
grin.
The cannon boomed and
this time the house shook, glass shattering in the hall outside. The boys
blinked at each other, wide-eyed, their fear renewed.
Devlin wet his lips.
"Sean. You have to stay with Mother and Meg."
"No."
He felt like whacking
his brother on the head the way Gerald had struck him. But he was also
secretly relieved not to have to face the red hordes alone. "Then let's
go," Devlin said.
The battle was raging
just behind the cornfields that swept up to the ruined outer walls of
Askeaton
Castle
. The boys raced through the tall plants,
hidden by the stalks, until they had reached the last row of corn. Crouching,
Devlin felt ill as he finally viewed the bloody panorama.
There seemed to be
hundreds—no, thousands—of soldiers in red, by far outnumbering the ragged
hordes of Irishmen. The British soldiers were heavily armed with muskets and
swords. Most of the Irishmen had pikes. Devlin watched his countrymen being
massacred, not one by one, but in waves, five by five, six by six, and more.
His stomach churned violently. He was only ten but he knew a slaughter when he
saw one.
"Father,"
Sean whispered.
Devlin jerked and
followed his brother's gaze. Instantly, he saw a madman on a gray horse,
swinging his sword wildly, miraculously slaying first one redcoat and then
another. "Come on!" Devlin leapt up, sword raised, and rushed toward
the battle.
A British soldier was
aiming his musket at a farmer with a pike and dagger. Other soldiers and
peasants were intently battling one another. There was so much blood, so much
death, the stench of it everywhere. Devlin heaved his sword at the soldier. To
his surprise, the blade cleaved through the man completely.
Devlin froze,
shocked, as the farmer quickly finished the soldier off. "Thanks,
boyo," he said, dropping the dead soldier in the dirt.
A musket fired and
the farmer's eyes popped in surprise, blood blossoming on his chest.
"Dev!" Sean
shouted in warning.
Devlin turned wildly
to face the barrel of a musket, aimed right at him. Instantly he lifted his
sword in response. He wondered if he was about to die, as his blade was no
match for the gun. Then Sean, the musket in his hands clearly taken from the
dead, whacked the soldier from behind, right in the knees. The soldier lost his
balance as he fired, missing Devlin by a long shot. Sean hit him over the
head, and the man lay still, apparently unconscious.
Devlin straightened,
breathing hard, an image of the soldier boy he'd just helped kill in his mind.
Sean looked wildly at him.
"We need to go
to Father," Devlin decided.
Sean nodded,
perilously close to tears.
Devlin turned,
searching the mass of struggling humanity, trying to spot his father on the
gray horse. It was impossible now.
And suddenly he
realized that the violent straggling was slowing.
He stilled, glancing
around wide-eyed, and now he saw hundreds of men in beige and brown tunics,
lying still and lifeless across the battlefield. Interspersed among them were
dozens of British soldiers, also lifeless, and a few horses. Here and there,
someone moaned or cried out weakly for help.
An Englishman was
shouting out a command to his company.
Devlin's gaze swept
the entire scene again. The battlefield had spread to the banks of the river on
one side, the cornfield behind and the manor house in the south. And now the
British soldiers were falling into line.
"Quick,"
Devlin said, and he and Sean darted over dead corpses, racing hard and fast for
an edge of the cornfield and the invisibility it would give them. Sean tripped
on a bloody body. Devlin lifted him to his feet and dragged him behind the
first stalk of corn. Panting, they both sank to a crouch. And now, from the
slight rise where the cornfield was, he could see that the battle was truly
over.