The Prize (70 page)

selves of my medical
expertise." His dark eyes were now bleak.

She turned.
"Warden! This man is a fine doctor as well as a surgeon! He must be
allowed to help attend the wounded!"

The warden just
grunted.

Sergeant Ames came to
life. "I'll speak with Captain Lewis," he said. "We need every
doctor we can get."

Harvey smiled wanly
at Virginia. She smiled back and squeezed his hand.

He said, "What
are you doing here, Miss Hughes?"

She was grim.
"It is Mrs. O'Neill now, Mr. Harvey."

His eyes widened in
real surprise. Then he shook his head, smiling just a little. "And so it
all begins to make sense. I had never seen Devlin so agitated, not by anyone or
anything, as he was by you."

She gripped his hand
with her free one. "Have you see Devlin? I heard he was shot! I am
desperately trying to find him—I am praying he is alive." And she inhaled
hard, seeking to keep hold of the last shreds of her composure.

Harvey hesitated.

And Virginia saw from
his eyes that he knew something. "What is it! What is it that you know and
are afraid to tell me?"

"I heard he was
arrested, Virginia. Arrested by Admiral Cockburn himself. Apparently he went
berserk and killed his own troops." Harvey winced. "It makes no sense
and obviously cannot be true, but that is the rumor around here."

"He's been
arrested?" she gasped, though she rejoiced because he was alive.
"Where would they send him? Where would he be?"

"I heard he's in
the brig—on the
Defiance"
Jack Harvey said.

"I'm afraid
you'll live, Captain," Paul White, his ship's most recent surgeon,
grinned.

Devlin was shirtless,
seated on the narrow pallet behind bars in the tiny cell that was his own brig.
White had just finished bandaging his right shoulder, which hurt like hell,
but he did not give a damn. He knew the wound was not a serious one.
Fortunately, his senses honed by a dozen years of battle, he had felt the
attacker behind him and had turned just in time. If he had not, he would now be
dead, murdered by Tom Hughes.

He knew with every
fiber of his being that Hughes had followed him to this war to assassinate
him. He did not care.

Because this last
battle had reduced his life to one thing, and one thing only: his wife. He kept
seeing Virginia as she turned the corner and came face-to-face with him, her
visage pale with exhaustion and marred with blood, her eyes huge with fear,
the fear of a hunted animal. He kept seeing her as she aimed her musket at him,
her hands shaking wildly. He kept seeing her as she was assaulted by those
soldiers, her belly swollen with his child. And even now, the memory was enough
to terrify him.

If he lost her, he
could not bear it. If he lost her, he knew he would never recover from his
grief.

Once, long ago,
powerless and afraid, he had watched the redcoats murder his father. Yesterday
he had seen Virginia being assaulted by the British marines, and for one
moment, it had been as if he were a child of ten again. For one moment, the
fear and horror had unmanned him and he had been powerless again, watching the
woman he loved being assaulted, about to be raped and slain.

But the paralysis
gripping him had only been for an instant—because he was not that ten-year-old
boy anymore: he was a powerful man, a captain and commander. And then the rage
had come, a rage that knew no bounds. To save Virginia, he would have murdered
every redcoat in Hampton if that was what had to be done.

Devlin closed his
eyes, trembling. But Virginia had not been raped, she had not been slain, and
dear God, no man had been as foolish as he had been. He had sacrificed her love
and their marriage for his damned revenge. He had given thanks to a God he had
stopped praying to long ago a hundred times in the past twenty-four hours, and
he could not be grateful enough mat Virginia was alive. Before he had been
arrested, he had seen Frank and Tillie carry her safely away.

He cradled his face
in his hands. He desperately needed his wife. He needed her forgiveness and he
needed her love and this last battle had shown him that.

His life had been one
of death and hate. No more. He was choosing joy and love—if Virginia would
forgive him and take him back.

"Do you want
some grog for the pain, sir?"

Devlin looked at the
ship's surgeon. There was so much pain, but it was in his heart, and he knew
the grog would not ease it. Only Virginia could ease it, if she agreed to
return to him, if she could forgive him and if she would love him again, just a
little. "No."

A movement sounded.
It was the hatch being opened. Both men watched as a pair of very shiny boots
came into view, descending the ladder, followed by short thighs encased in
bright white britches, a bluejacket, gold buttons, numerous medals and two gold
epaulets. Admiral Cockburn faced Devlin and Paul White, as a junior officer
descended behind him. It was Thomas Hughes.

Devlin looked at Eastleigh’s
son and with some surprise realized that he felt no anger, no rage. He felt
nothing at all except an odd indifference—and the intense urge to find his
wife.

"How's
Devlin?" Cockburn asked White.

"Got a real sore
shoulder, sir, and a right fine lump on the head, but he should be able to
resume duties in a few days. I mean, if he weren't in the brig," White
amended, flushing.

Devlin slowly stood,
reaching for his bloodstained shirt, aware of everyone's eyes upon him. How odd
this indifference was, how odd and such a relief. Finally, he was done.

And he felt himself
smile as he turned to face Cockburn and Hughes, buttoning up his shirt.
He
was choosing joy and love.

As Devlin turned, he
happened to glance at Hughes. The man's hostile eyes widened in confusion and
surprise when their gazes met. Devlin looked away. He was impatient now to get
on with his life, but he had some loose ends to tidy up— he owed Virginia and
their unborn child that.

"Release
him," Cockburn said.

"But, sir,"
Hughes began in protest. "He murdered British troops!"

Devlin said not a
word as he stepped out of the cell, followed by White.

"We'll speak on
deck," Cockburn said firmly, turning and going aloft first. Ignoring
Hughes, who stared, Devlin followed the admiral up to the main deck, where the
breeze was gentle, the seas soft, the skies bright and blue. In fact, they had
never been brighter or bluer.

He smiled and in his
mind's eye he saw Virginia, her expression bright, forgiving him, wanting him,
and his heart quickened. Devlin quickly took in his surroundings. He instantly
recognized where they were—just outside the mouth of the Chesapeake, perhaps a
mile from the Virginia shore. The day looked to remain pleasant and he did not
feel any stronger wind coming. He saw they were tacking south at three or four
knots. He could be at Sweet Briar within two hours. He could not wait.

"I am being
released?" he asked as Tom Hughes joined them.

"Yes, you are.
Unfortunate events occur in battle, my boy, and I'll be damned if I am losing
my best captain over some

bloody frogs.
Besides, any man would have acted as you did to protect his wife."

Hughes seemed to
choke.

"It was a
stunning triumph," the admiral continued. "I will make full reference
to the part played by your marines and the
Defiance.
A good job,
Captain, a very good job, indeed." Cockburn smiled at him.

Devlin did not want
to discuss the terrible battle of Hampton. He chafed to leave. Instead, he
faced his commanding officer. "I am resigning my commission,
Admiral."

Cockburn gaped. So
did Tom Hughes at his side.
"What? "
the admiral cried.

Devlin smiled.
"I do believe you heard me," he said. "Excuse me. I am going
home." Leaving both men staring in disbelief, he strode to his cabin,
something light and joyful unfurling in his chest, like a ready sail in a fresh
breeze.

He knew nothing about
joy and love but surely Virginia could teach him. For she knew enough about
those things for the both of them.

And he laughed.

Then, still smiling,
he sat and quickly penned the resignation, blew it dry and folded it, then
sealed it with wax. He returned to the deck outside, handing the notice of his
resignation to Cockburn. "I would recommend turning the command of the
Defiance
over to Red Barlow," he said.

Cockburn was livid.
"If I didn't know better, I would call you a coward, sir." He
signaled his men, indicating that he wished to be taken to his flagship,
stalking off.

Devlin shrugged, not
perturbed. Then he turned and faced an incredulous Tom Hughes. "I have
something for you," he said mildly.

"Is this a
trick? If so, it is exceedingly clever," Hughes accused, stiff with alarm
and watching Devlin's hands as if he expected to be assaulted with a dagger.

570                           

"My tricks are
done. The game is over," Devlin said, "and I am wasting time.
Here." He handed another parchment to Hughes, written while in the brig
earlier that day.

Hughes was wary.
"What is this?"

"A deed,"
Devlin said, and took a deep breath of the sweet Virginia air. It felt
different, tasted different, smelled different—it was somehow clean and fresh.

"I have no use
for Sweet Briar!"

"The deed is to
Waverly Hall. I don't want it. It's yours."

Hughes gaped.

Devlin gestured to a
seaman who came running. "I am going ashore," he said. "Prepare
a dinghy." And his heart raced as he thought of seeing Virginia again.

"Aye, sir!"
The sailor ran off, barking orders.

"You are
returning Waverly Hall to us?" Hughes had followed him to the railing of
the ship. He was clearly in disbelief.

"Yes, I
am."

"I don't
understand."

"It doesn't
matter." He stared at the sandy beach and the forest beyond, thinking of
Virginia again.

"It
matters!" Tom Hughes cried. Then he lowered his voice. "My father
murdered your father. You have committed your entire life to revenge. You have
stolen our home, bedded my stepmother, made a mistress out of my cousin,
beaten me to a near pulp and I almost murdered you the other day! So it does
matter!"

Devlin didn't even
bother to look at him, for the dinghy he had requested was being lowered into
the swells and his heart raced with excitement. "I no longer want
revenge," he said. "I want something else."

Virginia felt beaten.
The buggy paused before the house and she was so tired she just sat there,
staring at the white

columns on the porch
and the pink roses growing up against the railing. At least Devlin was not
among the dead left at Hampton.

But he was a prisoner
now, a prisoner of his own people.

Tillie patted her
arm. "We'll send a letter to Admiral Cock-burn right away. You're his
wife. The admiral has to tell you how he is and where he is," she said
firmly.

Tears filled
Virginia's eyes. "He was protecting me. He only killed those soldiers to
protect me. Surely if I tell that to Admiral Cockburn, he will let Devlin
go."

"First we have
to write him," Tillie said as firmly. And suddenly she stiffened.

Virginia saw her
surprise and turned back to the house, following her gaze. And standing there
on the porch in a sun-pie shirt, britches and high boots, was the most welcome
sight she had ever seen. She cried out, incapable of movement, as Devlin came slowly
down the porch steps, his gaze upon her, intense and unwavering.

"Devlin,"
she managed, beyond relief.

He came to the buggy
and clasped her hands. His face was strained with emotion, his eyes wide with
anxiety. "Thank God you're all right," he said roughly.

Virginia could not
speak. She was stunned—for his eyes were also shining with
tears.

He smiled a little
and cupped her cheek. "I have never known so much fear, Virginia, as when
I found Frank in town and he said you were there...." He could not continue.
He choked.

Virginia watched in
amazement as tears rolled down his cheeks. "You're crying," she
whispered, shocked. She felt certain that this man had not cried since he was a
small boy, watching his father die.

He nodded, still
unable to speak, and the tears continued to slide down his sun-bronzed cheeks.
He opened the carriage

door to help her out,
but he pulled her into his arms instead. He held her hard against his tall,
powerful body. "You almost died, Virginia. It was my fault. Because of my
damned need for revenge, you could have died yesterday in Hampton. Everything
that you have suffered, you have suffered because of me and my revenge. /
am
sorry. I am so sorry.
But a mere apology is not enough."