The Game (9 page)

Katherine was white, her heart pounding painfully. “I did not know any of this,” she whispered. But her regard slid to Liam O’Neill again. How did he know so much when he claimed he had no clan, no country, no life but that at sea?

“Now you do know.” Gerald shook in impotent rage. “You should have stayed in France. I cannot support you, Katie.”

Katherine hugged herself.

“I will support her,” Liam said quietly.

Gerald lashed Liam with his angry gaze. “No. I will not have you using my daughter like some common country maid. She is the daughter of two great houses.”

Liam smiled slightly. “I am afraid that, in this instance, you cannot stop me.”

And it was as if the women in the room had left. Gerald stared only at Liam. “How much like your father are you?”

Liam shrugged with indifference. “I am exactly like him—or so ’tis said.”

“I do not think so,” Gerald said, smiling grimly again. “I think you are very, very different from Shane O’Neill. Katie being as yet unhurt is proof of that.”

“You can think whatever you wish, FitzGerald.” Liam shrugged. “But now that I have shown Katherine that she has no choice but to remain with me, she and I will depart.”

“No,” Katherine whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. And she stared with undisguised hostility at Liam—the son of the notoriously vicious Shane O’Neill. He had not told her. She should have guessed. Her father was wrong. The pirate was exactly like Shane—she knew that firsthand.

Gerald stated, “I have a proposition for you, O’Neill.”

“Indeed?” Liam asked skeptically. “What could you possibly propose that would even remotely interest me?”

Katherine looked from her father to her captor, not liking the sudden new direction of the conversation. Her dread had grown by leaps and bounds.

Gerald did not even glance at Katherine. “How badly do you want her?”

Katherine gasped, certain that she had misheard.

“Badly enough to keep her against her will, and against my better judgment,” Liam said calmly.

Gerald paced stiffly to Liam, his eyes bright black flames. “Badly enough to marry her?”

Katherine cried out in horror, but was ignored.

Liam was still but a moment. “What need do I have for a bride?”

“Every man needs a wife. She has no dowry, but I would give her to you with my blessing,” Gerald said. “I might be destitute, Desmond gone, but Katherine’s blood is noble. The FitzGerald line goes back to the Conqueror himself. And she is like her mother—exactly. And her mother gave the earl of Ormond seven strapping sons before he died. You cannot think to do better. You are the bastard of O’Neill, the son of an Englishwoman. Your clan will never appoint you their lord. Your kin will never accept you. The English hate and fear you.” Gerald’s black eyes gleamed with fire. “But I will accept you, Liam.”

“Father!” Katherine cried, shaking uncontrollably. “No!”

Liam’s eyes were slits. “I do not need a wife to give me sons and you know it. Nor do I need sons. As you have correctly pointed out, I am no nobleman. What would they inherit? The pile of rock I call home? My three pirate ships?” He laughed harshly. “I do not wish a wife, FitzGerald. I have never needed a clan. And if she gives me a son, why, then his blood will be blue instead of red.”

“One day,” Gerald whispered feverishly, “your son could inherit a part of Desmond.”

Katherine was hugging herself, telling herself that this was not happening. That this could not be happening.

Liam’s smile was mocking. “Your offer lacks substance. Desmond is no more.”

And Katherine stared at the pirate’s hard, handsome face and hated him more than ever.

For a long, pregnant moment Gerald was silent—a moment in which both men stared into one another’s eyes and assessed one another’s needs and ambitions. Gerald broke the simmering tension. “Were I still the earl of Desmond, you would take her were she an ugly mule—in the blink of an eye—without a dowry!”

Liam inclined his head. “Probably.”

Gerald stared.

“As you can not dissuade me from my goal, my lord, we shall be on our way,” Liam said softly.

Katherine began to weep silently. Some small remnant
of her pride kept her from throwing herself at her father’s feet, from clinging to his knees like a small child afraid of being abandoned or taken away. His betrayal was like a dagger in her breast.

“I will have your head, O’Neill,” FitzGerald finally said. But his tone was mild. And his eyes still gleamed.

“Indeed? I wish you luck in making the effort.” Liam turned toward Katherine. “Come. We leave this instant.”

Katherine lifted her head and saw through her tears that he was completely unmoved—as determined as ever. But he had expected this. For him, it had been a game, nothing more. She was the fool. For she had expected Gerald to make a sincere effort to outwit her captor—but he had not. He had offered her to him in marriage instead.

Liam’s gray gaze met and held hers. His hand closed around hers. She was too numb even to try to shake him off. “Come, Katherine,” he said, almost gently, “your cause is lost.”

Katherine sucked down a sob.

Gerald stared at them both, his expression impossible to read.

Liam strode to the door, one arm around Katherine, propelling her with his strength. She was determined not to think. It hurt too much.

When they were in the dark hall downstairs Eleanor called out to them from behind, making Liam pause, his arm still around Katherine. She hurried down the stairs and to them. “O’Neill. There is something you should know.”

Liam paused. “Be quick, then.”

Katherine did not want to hear any other thing that Eleanor might have to say, but despite herself, she lifted her gaze to her stepmother’s.

Eleanor smiled. “Although I do not think he will interfere, I cannot be sure. Perhaps he will be enraged—that you have stolen what belongs to him.”

Liam was annoyed. “You speak in riddles and I have no time for games. Speak plainly, Lady FitzGerald.”

“Aye, then, I shall. I am speaking about Hugh Barry.”

At the name of her dead betrothed, Katherine froze.
“What game is this!” she cried. “Hugh is dead, Eleanor. He died at Affane. He died six long years ago.”

“No, Katherine,” Eleanor said. “Did you not know he survived his wounds? When ’twas time to bury him with the others, it was realized that he still lived. Yet he was close to death, and many weeks went by before the physicians knew he would survive his many wounds. ’Twas a miracle, a gift of God, they said. He lives, Katherine. Hugh Barry lives.”

Katherine reeled. Liam caught her. Katherine knew this must be a lie, a horrible, evil, hurtful lie. For if Hugh were alive, he would have sent for her long ago. Yet—Eleanor could not possibly tell such a lie. The floor seemed to be tilting precariously beneath her feet, and her world had become dizzy; she sagged in Liam’s arms.

And when the pirate spoke, his voice sounded strange and far away. “Who in hell is Hugh Barry?” he demanded.

Eleanor chuckled. “Katherine’s childhood sweetheart—the man she was to wed on her fifteenth birthday.” She directed a long look at Liam. “Perhaps you will decide to marry Katherine after all, O’Neill.”

H
e had stopped caring about most things long ago, when he had been a small Irish boy at court, an outcast and a bastard, cruelly taunted and teased by the other children. Liam watched Katherine wiping her eyes with the corner of her cloak. He told himself he did not care. He refused to care.

Caring in itself was dangerous, but for him, it might open up old wounds he had long since healed—or long since closed and set aside.

His face impassive, Liam led her toward his blood bay stallion, one arm still around her, supporting her. In her hysterical state, she would not be able to ride by herself.

Suddenly what he was about to do must have registered through Katherine’s shock, because she balked. To his surprise, she whirled to face him, speaking through her teeth. “I won’t ride with you, O’Neill!”

“You are not fit to ride alone,” he countered.

Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “I will not ride with you,” she cried again, and she rushed to her own mount, which Macgregor held, and mounted in a flurry of skirts and leg.

“Then you must concentrate on riding,” Liam said flatly. Despite himself, his tone softened. “Can you do that, Katherine?”

She glared at him as if
he
had betrayed her love and trust, then yanked her reins free of Macgregor. Liam understood what she intended instantly. As she sawed on the
reins, whirling her mount around while viciously kicking the mare’s sides with her heels, Liam lunged for the bridle.

He missed. The mare took off. Katherine was galloping through the front gate as Liam jumped into his own saddle with a curse.

Even though her actions irritated him, he could not help but admire her as he quickly drew abreast of her, their mounts’ hooves clattering loudly upon the road. Reaching down, he caught her mare’s bridle, and both horses slowed from their headlong gallop to an uneven trot. Katherine uttered a strangled, angry cry.

He stared at her. Dawn was breaking behind her and her hair, long since free of its coif, was set aflame by the rising sun. Her beauty held him entranced. Her spirit amazed him. How unusual she was. How she tempted him, even now. His loins throbbed at the thought of what it would be like to mount and then tame such a woman.

Liam urged his stallion up against her gelding, his knee touching hers. “I am not going to allow you to escape, Katherine.”

She was pale and furious, and still tearful. “But I can try!”

Not trusting her, Liam took the lead line firmly in hand. With her emotions running so wild, she might very well try to escape him again. He counted on the fact that, later, when she was calm, she would become reasonable, finally recognizing that she had no choice but to remain with him.

Yet a deep sense of guilt he had never felt before nagged at him. For keeping her against her will. No woman had ever resisted him before. He glanced at Katherine as they galloped across the London Bridge, past wagons and carts, drays and mules. He had never tried to seduce a virgin before.

He thought of Hugh Barry. Her betrothed, who yet lived. Savage emotion rose up in Liam, hot and hard. He most certainly was not freeing her so she could return to him.

He had wanted her from the moment he had first seen her—and never had he been so patient in his life. He
would take her sooner or later—no matter that Hugh Barry lived. He was her protector now. He alone.

She turned her gaze to his and lifted her chin. Her glare was defiant. A challenge was definitely there. She intended to fight him until the end. Liam’s admiration for her grew.

But her challenge was dangerous. She was dangerous. He must somehow pick up the gauntlet she threw at him, yet he could not beat her down as he would a real enemy. He must tame her, seduce her, win her.

For he was not like his father, as Gerald FitzGerald had seen. Shane O’Neill would have already used the girl, mercilessly, and by now would have tired of her and tossed her to his men. Liam knew damn well that he was not like his father at all, despite the fact that the comparison was ofttimes made. Still, damnably, he felt qualms. And Shane O’Neill had never felt a single qualm in his life.

But there was no place for a conscience in his life. Men who survived by wit and will, by sword and cannon, did so because of an utter lack of conscience. His was a life of constant warfare. Victory meant survival. And to the victors went the spoils—and Katherine FitzGerald was another prize in a long line of prizes he had won. But not just any prize—oh no.

Gerald FitzGerald’s offer to give Katherine to him in marriage came back to him, as cruelly teasing as those highborn British youths had been when he was a boy at court. Good God. He did not need a wife. He did not need sons. In fact, he was determined to remain childless. And the mockery of his life would end with him. He would not bequeath it—or any anguish—to a son.

Besides, too well, he recalled her horror when Gerald had offered her to him as his bride.

Still, even though he did not need a wife, even though he refused to have children, Liam found the thought of taking Katherine FitzGerald as his bride vastly tempting. It was unthinkable that a man like him might wed with such a woman.

Liam comforted himself with cynicism. How eagerly impotence sought an alliance with power, he thought. Fitz
Gerald, once a great earl, was now eager to give his daughter in wedlock to Shane O’Neill’s son.

Liam wondered what Gerald hoped to gain by making him his son-in-law. Did Gerald hope to use him to escape Southwark as he had tried to use that other sea captain who had turned Judas on him two years ago? Liam doubted it. Only a fool made the same mistake twice. In all likelihood, Gerald sought far more than escape from his prison.

Did he think to harness Liam’s control of the seas he sailed? To undo his cousin, FitzMaurice? Liam could easily prey upon those Spanish and French ships who brought the rebel Irish leader his victuals and supplies. But that alone could not help FitzGerald, who was a prisoner in exile, who had lost Desmond forever. That would but weaken FitzMaurice, making him ripe for capture by the queen’s men.

What did Gerald hope to gain from an alliance with the man the world had labeled the Master of the Seas?

A possibility began to tease Liam. He straightened in his saddle, shot Katherine another, but sharper, look. There was no rush, he reminded himself. Katherine was his, and should he dare to think the unthinkable, to do the undoable, a mistress could become a wife easily enough.

Despite his intentions to remain as cold as stone, to remain conscienceless, guilt nagged at him. He stole another glance at Katherine. He had her best interests at heart, did he not? Otherwise, she would return to Ireland to beg for bread, no different from the other homeless victims of the wars there. She needed his protection, she needed him. And in time, she would be as pleased with him as his other women had been. He would make sure of it. He would satisfy her in bed, and out of it, he would shower her with more wealth than she had ever seen.

Their gazes collided and held. Her defiance remained strong. Animosity and resentment made her green gaze glitter brilliantly. They were leaving Londontown behind them now, and Liam felt a flaring of pity for his captive that he could not rein in, that he could not control. His heart seemed to lurch with it, the feeling sickening. Too
well, he recalled what it was like to have everything taken away from oneself, to be powerless, an innocent, unwilling victim of those in power, in absolute control. As he himself had been on that day sixteen years ago when Shane O’Neill had so abruptly appeared in his life, changing it forever.

Essex, 1555

The boy heard them shouting and he crept silently to the window, crouching below it. He realized that his mother was weeping, and his fear intensified. He lifted his head to peer outside.

He gasped.

Some dozen men sat a dozen horses in the small yard outside their home. They were all big men, wearing shaggy bearskins and old iron shields upon their backs, their heads shaved, huge swords strapped to their sides. Beneath the fur cloaks they all wore coarse woolen tunics, and their legs and feet were bare. The boy stared. He had never seen such strange and savage men before.

“You cannot do this, Shane!” his mother cried.

The boy glanced at his mother. Mary Stanley was a fair woman with fine, delicate features. She was elegant of bearing and dress, but now her gray eyes were wide with fear. The boy cried out as the huge, shaggy-haired stranger facing her raised his arm upward. “Enough, woman!” Shane shouted. And he hit her.

The boy’s mother fell to the ground. The sound of the brutal slap resounded in the courtyard.

With a cry, the boy rushed from the house, realizing too late that he had no weapon with which to fight this intruder. “Halt!” he shouted. And he jumped at the stranger.

“God’s cock, what is this?” Shane O’Neill was four times bigger than him and swatted at him with little effort. He fell into the dirt beside his mother, who abruptly pulled him into her arms, her face white with fear, tears shimmering in her eyes. But he did not want her protection—
he wanted to protect
her
. He struggled free of her grasp. As he rose to his feet, Shane reached down and grabbed him by the back of his velvet doublet, actually lifting him off his feet.

Shane turned to face his men. “This is my son?” He was incredulous. “A silly English fop?”

Liam ceased struggling, for there was simply no way that he could free himself from this man’s hurtful grip. This man, Shane O’Neill, the father he had never met—the man who had raped his mother once, so many years ago, when she had been traveling at sea. Mary had never told him the truth—but he had heard the story many times, for they had talked about him and his mother behind his back when he and Mary had lived at court, first with the Dowager Queen, Catherine Parr, and then with the Princess Elizabeth.

Now the Irish warriors chuckled and grinned at the sight of the boy in the blue doublet and white hose, hanging from their leader’s hand.

Disgusted, Shane dropped him so abruptly that he landed on his backside on the hard ground. Hatred welled inside him. Immediately he lurched to his feet. “Don’t hurt my mother.”

Shane’s gaze widened, then he laughed. “I do what I please, boy, and from now on, you do as I please. You’re coming with me.”

“No!” His mother rose unsteadily to her feet and clutched at Shane’s arm desperately, one side of her face swollen and mottled an angry red.

He was frozen.

“The boy comes with me!” Shane roared. “God’s teeth, I see now that I am almost too late, that you have turned him into the kind of boy that other men coddle and swive! God’s cock! I’ll not have my son a puny, piss-drinking Englishman!”

“Lord, no!” His mother fell to her knees, clinging to the hem of Shane’s tunic. “Please, Shane, do not do this, please, do not take my son from me. Please, I cannot bear it!”

Shane kicked her away. Before the boy could react and
rush to his mother—or run away from his father—Shane gripped him by one ear. “We’re to Tyrone. Aye, from now on you’re an O’Neill. You ride with me now, boy. I’ll make you a man, a real O’Neill, or I’ll kill you in the trying.” And he dragged him forward, then lifted him and threw him on a huge brown horse.

He was dazed, in pain, his ear feeling as if it had been torn from his head. But he managed to throw one leg over the other side of the horse. Filled with panic now, and acutely aware of his mother’s soft, heartbreaking sobs in the background, he was determined to escape.

“You’d disobey me?” Shane shouted at him, gripping his bony knee, preventing him from slipping off the other side of the horse. One hamlike hand swung out, cuffing him hard on the other side of his head. Sparks exploded in his brain, his stomach heaved. When he regained some of his senses, Shane was mounted behind him and they were cantering away from Stanley House.

“Liam! Liam! Oh, God, Liam!” his mother screamed.

He twisted in the saddle in spite of Shane’s unyielding hold. His mother ran after them, stumbling on her skirts, sobbing, hands outstretched. She screamed for him again, and this time tripped and fell in a heap of silk and velvet into the dust.

A sob escaped his breast.

“No son of mine cries. Tears are for women, not men,” Shane growled, smacking his head yet again.

He sucked down another sob, swallowing it, and then another, and another, ignoring the pain, both in his heart and his head. His first lesson from his father had been a cruel one. But it was a lesson he learned instantly. And he had never cried again.

London, 1571

“Sir William!”

William Cecil was asleep in his canopied bed at Cecil House in London. His valet had to call his name several times before the secretary stirred. Grunting, he sat up.
“What passes, Horace? Good God, ’tis past the midnight hour!”

“Sir William, a gentleman is waiting in the antechamber. He insists ’tis most urgent and that he must speak with you!”

Cecil groaned and threw the heavy down covers aside, sliding to the floor. His valet helped him don his fur-trimmed velvet robe. Following the valet, who held the taper aloft, Cecil left his bedchamber. His eyes widened and then narrowed when he saw his guest. He turned. “You may leave us, Horace.”

The valet obeyed, shutting the heavy walnut door behind him.

Cecil faced his cloaked visitor. “What has happened?”

“’Twas a most strange dawn at St. Leger House,” the stranger began. “When I made my rounds, the guards were waking up. Some gentleman had taken them unawares. But one had just regained his senses in time to hear many voices in the courtyard. One was that of Eleanor FitzGerald. He managed to get to his feet in time to see three riders tearing away toward London Bridge. One of the riders was an uncommonly tall man with fair hair. Of the other two, one was a woman.”

“Eleanor FitzGerald—gallivanting about at dawn?” Cecil asked sharply.

“Nay, ’twas a different woman, far taller than Eleanor. Eleanor returned to the house.”

Cecil absorbed all of this, his brow furrowed. “A trio of visitors at St. Leger House. What in God’s name are FitzGerald and his wife up to now? Who would dare to ally himself—or herself—with FitzGerald?”