The Prize (3 page)

Devlin followed the
direction of the captain's gaze, looking south through the open front gates of
the fort, the way he and Sean had come. He started in surprise. A horde of
riders was approaching at a hard gallop, and the banner waving above the
outrider was cobalt, silver and black, its colors

painfully familiar.
Beside him, Sean inhaled sharply, and he and Devlin exchanged a look.

"It's the Earl
of Adare," Sean whispered with excitement.

Devlin clapped his
hand over his brother's mouth. "He must have come to help. Quiet."

"Damn the bloody
Irish, even the English ones," Hughes said to another officer. "It's
the Earl of Adare." He tossed the brandy, snifter and all, onto the
ground, obviously annoyed.

"Shall we close
the gates, sir?"

"Unfortunately
the man is well acquainted with Lord Castlereagh, and he has held a seat on the
Irish Privy Council. He was at a dinner of state, I heard, with Comwallis. If I
close the gates, there will be bloody hell to pay." Hughes scowled now,
and red blotches had appeared on his neck above the black-and-gold collar of
his red military jacket.

Devlin tried to
contain his excitement. Edward de Warenne, the Earl of Adare, was their
landlord. And although Gerald had leased his own ancestral lands from Adare,
the two men were, in fact, far more than lord and tenant. At times, they had
attended the same country suppers and balls, the same fox hunts and
steeplechases. Adare had dined a dozen times at the manor at Askeaton. Unlike
other landlords, he had been fair in his dealings with the O'Neill family,
never rack-renting them, never demanding more than his share.

Devlin realized that
he and Sean were holding hands. He watched breathlessly as the earl and his men
cantered toward the captain's tent. They never slowed and soldiers ran to get
out of their way. Finally, abruptly, the riders halted before Hughes and his
men. Instantly a dozen redcoats armed with muskets formed a circle around the
newcomers.

The earl spurred his
black mount forward. He was tall and dark, his appearance distinct and
formidable, his presence emanating power and authority. But his face was a mask
of

rage. "Where is
Mary O'Neill?" he demanded tersely. A navy-blue cloak swirled about his
shoulders.

Hughes smiled
tightly. "I take it you've heard of O'Neill's untimely demise?"

"Untimely
demise?" The Earl of Adare launched himself to the ground and strode
forward. "Murder is more like it. You've murdered one of my tenants,
Hughes."

"So now you are
a papist? He was fated for the gallows, Adare, and you know it."

Adare stared,
trembling with fury, and finally he breathed low. "You bastard. There was
always the chance of exile and a royal pardon. I would have moved heaven and
earth to make it so. You arrogant son of a bitch." His hand moved to the
hilt of his sword.

Hughes shrugged
indifferently. "As I said, a papist and a Jacobin. These are dangerous
times, my friend. Even Lord Castlereagh would not want to be associated with a
Jacobin."

For a moment, Adare
did not speak, clearly fighting for self-control. "I want the woman. Where
is she?"

Hughes hesitated, his
jaw flexing, more red color blotching his features.

"Do not make me
do something I dearly wish to do— which is choke the very life out of
you," Adare said coldly.

"Fine. An Irish
bitch hardly enthralls me. They're a dozen a penny."

Devlin was so stunned
by the gross insult that he reeled. He would have rushed forward to kill
Hughes, but he didn't have to. Adare strode the brief distance separating him
from Hughes and shoved his face up against the captain's. "Do not
underestimate the power of Adare. I suggest you cease with any further slanders
before you find yourself in command of redskins in Upper Canada. I dine with
Cornwallis on the fifteenth, and there is nothing I would prefer to do than
whisper
some
very unpleasant facts in his ears. Do you understand me,
Captain?"

Hughes couldn't
speak. His face had turned crimson.

Adare released him.
He strode into the tent, his dark cloak billowing about him.

Devlin exchanged
glances with Sean—and then he ran past the red-faced Hughes with his brother in
hand and into the tent behind the earl. Instantly he saw his mother sitting in
a small chair and he knew at once that she had been weeping.

"Mary!" the
earl cried, halting in his tracks. "Are you all right?"

Mary stood, her blue
eyes wide, her blond curls in disarray. Their gazes locked. "I thought
you would come," she said unevenly.

Adare hurried
forward, gripping her shoulders, his dark blue eyes wide. "Are you hurt?"
he asked more softly.

It was a moment
before she could speak. "Not in the manner you are thinking, my
lord." She hesitated, staring at him, and her eyes filled with tears.
"He murdered Gerald. He murdered my husband before my very eyes."

"I know,"
Adare responded with anguish. "I am sorry. I am so sorry."

Mary was undone; she
looked away, close to weeping again.

He turned her face
forward again and their eyes met another time. "Where's Meg? Where are
the boys?"

Tears spilled then.
"I don't know where Meg is. She was in my arms when I fainted and—"
She could not continue.

"We'll find
her." He smiled a little then. "I will find her."

Mary nodded and it
was clear that she believed he might succeed against all hope. And then she saw
her sons standing by the tent's front flap, as still as statues, watching her
and the powerful Protestant earl. "Devlin! Sean! Thank God

you're alive—you're
unhurt!" She rushed to them, hugging them both at once.

Devlin closed his
eyes, almost incapable of believing that he had found his mother and she was
safe, for he knew the earl would take care of her now. "We're fine,
Mother," he said softly, pulling away from her embrace.

Adare joined them,
putting one arm possessively around Mary. His assessing gaze quickly moved over
both boys and Devlin met his gaze. A part of him wished to rebel, though they
desperately needed the earl's help now. But Gerald was not yet buried, and he
knew Adare's real inclinations—he had sensed them for some time.

"Devlin, Sean,
listen closely," Adare instructed. "You will ride back to Adare with
my men and myself. When we leave this tent, mount up quickly, behind my men. Do
you understand me?"

Devlin nodded, but he
could not help looking quickly back and forth between Adare and his mother. He
had seen the way Adare looked at his mother in the past, but then, many men had
admired her from afar. Before Gerald's death, it had been so easy to tell
himself that Adare admired her the way any man would. Now he knew he had lied
to himself. He was relieved that the powerful earl was coming to their aid, but
he was also resentful. The earl was a widower and he loved Mary. Devlin was
certain of it. But what about Father, who was not yet even properly buried?
Not yet even cold hi his grave?

"Devlin!"
Adare's words were a whip, his gaze as sharp. "Move."

Devlin quickly
obeyed, he and Sean falling into line behind Adare and Mary. And the foursome
left the relative safety of the tent.

Outside, the sun was
higher, hotter, brighter. An unearthly silence had fallen over the camp and the
mountains beyond

                              
25

where more ominous
clouds gathered. Dozens of armed British soldiers had formed in banded rows
about Adare's two dozen mounted and armed men. Clearly, if Hughes wished it,
there would be another massacre that day.

Devlin glanced at the
earl, but if Adare was afraid, he did not show it. Devlin's respect for him
increased. Adare was very much like Gerald, and he must be as brave. He tamped
down any fear that was trying to rise.

Adare never faltered
as he crossed the ground between the tent and his men. He lifted Mary onto his
mount. Hughes was watching, his face rigid with tension and hatred. Devlin
pushed Sean at a knight, and as he leapt up behind another rider, Sean was
hauled up onto the back of a horse, as well.

Adare was already in
the saddle, behind Mary. His gaze swept over the boys, then the rows of armed
British soldiers, and finally, Hughes. "You have trespassed upon what is
mine," he said, his words ringing. "Never do so again."

Hughes smiled grimly.
"I had no idea you and the lady were...involved."

"Do not twist my
words, Captain," Adare cried. "You murdered my liege, you burned my
land, and that is an affront to me and mine. Now let us pass."

Devlin looked from
Adare to Hughes as the two men locked gazes. He was aware of sweat gathering
between his shoulder blades and trickling down his back. For one moment, the
fort was so quiet that had a leaf rustled, it would have been heard.

And finally, Hughes
spoke. "Stand aside," he barked. "Let them go."

And the line of
soldiers parted.

Adare raised his
hand, spurring his horse into a canter, leading his men through the British
troops and out of the fort.

Devlin held on to the
soldier he was riding behind. But he looked back.

Right into the
captain's pale blue eyes.

And the burning
began.

It began somewhere
deep inside his soul, emanating in huge, hard, dark waves, creeping into his
very blood, until it consumed him, bitterly acrid, red hot.

One day he would have
his revenge. One day, when the time was right. Captain Harold Hughes would be
made to pay the price of Gerald O'Neill's murder.

April 5, 1812
Richmond, Virginia

^S
he doesn't even know how to
dance," one of the young

ladies snickered.

Her cheeks burning,
Virginia Hughes was acutely aware of the dozen young women standing queued
behind her in ' the ballroom. She had been singled out by the dance master and
was now being given a lecture on the
sissonne ballotte,
one of the steps
used in the quadrille. Not only did she not comprehend the step, she didn't
care. She had no interest in dancing, none whatsoever—she only wished to go
home to Sweet Briar.

"But you must
never cease with polite conversation, Miss Hughes, even in the execution of a
step. Otherwise you will be severely misconstrued," the dark, slim master
was admonishing.

Virginia really
didn't hear him. She closed her eyes and it was as if she had been swept away
to another time and place, one far better than the formidable walls of the
Marmott School for Genteel Young Ladies.

30                             

Virginia breathed
deeply and was consumed with the heady scent of honeysuckle; it was followed by
the far stronger and more potent scent of the black Virginia earth, turned up
now for the spring burning. She could picture the dark fields, stretching away
as far as her eye dared see, parallel lines of slaves made white by their
clothes as they spread the coals, and closer, the sweeping lawns, rose gardens
and ancient oaks and elms surrounding the handsome brick house that her father
had built. "She could have been built in England," he'd said
proudly, many times, "a hundred years ago. No one can take a look at her
and know any differently."

Virginia missed Sweet
Briar, but not half as much as she missed her parents. A wave of grief crashed
over her, so much so her eyes flew open and she found herself standing back in
the damnable ballroom of the school she had been sent to, the dance master
looking extremely put out, his hands on his slim hips, a grim expression on his
dark Italian face.

"What's she
doing with her eyes screwed up like that?" someone whispered.

"She's crying,
that's what she's doing," came a haughty reply.

Virginia knew it was
the blond beauty, Sarah Lewis—who was, according to Sarah, the most coveted
debutante in Richmond. Or would be, when she came out at the end of the year.
Virginia turned, fury overcoming her, and strode toward Sarah. Virginia was
very petite and far too thin, with a small triangular face that held sharp
cheekbones and brilliant violet eyes; her dark hair, waist long, was forced
painfully up, as she refused to cut it, and appeared in danger of crushing her
with its massive weight. Sarah was a good three inches taller than Virginia,
not to mention a stone heavier. Virginia didn't care.

She'd Been in her
first fight when she was six, a fisticuffs, and when her father had broken up
the match, she'd learned

she was fighting like
a girl. Instruction in how to throw a solid punch—like a boy—had followed, much
to her mother's dismay. Virginia could not only throw a solid punch, she could
shoot the top off a bottle at fifty feet with a hunting rifle. She didn't stop
until she was nose to nose with Sarah—which required standing on her tiptoes.

"Dancing is for
fools like you," she cried, "and your name should be Dancing Fool
Sarah."

Sarah gasped,
stepping back, her eyes wide—and then the anger came. "Signer Rossini! Did
you hear what the
country bumpkin
said to me?"

Virginia held her
head impossibly higher. "This country bumpkin owns an entire
plantation—all five thousand acres of it. And if I know my math—which I do—then
that makes me one hell of a lot richer than you, Miss Dancing
Fool."

"You're
jealous,'" Sarah hissed, "because you're skinny and ugly and no one
wants you...which is why you are here!"

Virginia landed hard
on her heels. Something cracked open inside of her, and it was painful and
sharp. Because Sarah had spoken the truth. No one wanted her, she was alone,
and dear God, how awfully it hurt.

Sarah saw that her
barb had hit home. She smiled. "Everyone knows. Everyone knows you've
been sent here until your majority! That's three years, Miss Hughes. You will
be old and wrinkled before you ever go home to
your farm!"

'That's enough,"
Signor Rossini said. "Both of you ladies step over to—"

Virginia didn't wait
to hear the rest. She turned and ran from the ballroom, certain there were more
titters behind her, hating Sarah, hating the other girls, the dance master, the
whole school and even her parents... How could they have left her? How?

In the hallway she
collapsed to the floor, hugging her thin knees to her breasts, praying the pain
would go away. And

she even hated God,
because He had taken her parents away from her in one terrible blow, on that
awful rainy night last fall. "Oh, Papa," she whispered against her
bony knee. "I miss you so."

She knew she must not
cry. She would die before letting anyone see her cry. But she had never felt so
lost and alone before. In fact, she had never been lost and alone before. There
had been sunny days spent riding across the plantation with her father and
evenings in front of the hearth while Mama embroidered and Papa read. There had
been a house full of slaves, each and every one of whom she had known since the
very day of her birth. There had been Tillie, her best friend in the entire
world, never mind that she was a house slave two years older than Virginia. She
hugged her knees harder, inhaling deeply and blinking furiously. It was a long
moment before she regained her composure.

And when she did, she
sat up straighten What had Sarah said? That she was to remain at the school
until her majority? But that was impossible! She had just turned eighteen and
that meant she would be stuck in this awful prison for another three years.

Virginia stood up,
not bothering to brush any dust from her black skirts, which she wore in
mourning. It had been six months since the tragic carriage accident that had
taken her parents' lives and while the headmistress had expressed an interest
in Virginia giving up mourning, she had solidly refused. She intended to mourn
her parents forever. She still could not understand why God had let them die.

But surely that witch
Sarah Lewis did not know what she was speaking about.

Very disturbed,
Virginia hurried down the wood-paneled hall. Her only relative was an uncle,
Harold Hughes, the Earl of Eastleigh. After her parents had died, he had sent
his condolences and instructions for her to proceed to the Marmott

School in Richmond,
as he was now her official guardian. Virginia barely recalled any of this; her
life then had been reduced to a blur of pain and grief. One day she had found
herself in the school, not quite recalling how she had gotten there, only
vaguely remembering being in Tillie's arms one last time, the two girls sobbing
goodbyes. Once the initial grief had lessened, she and Tillie had exchanged a
series of letters—Sweet Briar was eighty miles south of Richmond and just a few
miles from Norfolk. Virginia had learned that the earl was trustee of her
estate and that he had ordered everything to continue to be managed as it had
been before his brother's death. Surely, if Sarah was correct, Tillie would
have told her of such a terrible and cruel intention on the part of her
guardian. Unless she herself did not know of it....

Thinking of Tillie
and Sweet Briar always made her homesick. The urge to return home was suddenly
overwhelming. She was eighteen, and many young women her age were affianced or
even married with their own households. Before their deaths her parents hadn't
raised the subject of marriage, for which Virginia had been grateful. She
wasn't quite sure what was wrong with her, but marriage—and young men—had never
occupied her mind. Instead, since the age of five, when Randall Hughes had
mounted her on his horse in front of him, she had worked side by side with her
father every single day. She knew every inch of Sweet Briar, every tree, every
leaf, every flower. (The plantation was a hundred acres, not five thousand, but
Sarah Lewis had needed to be taken down a peg or two.) She knew all about
tobacco, the crop that was Sweet Briar. She knew the best ways to transplant
the seedling crop, the best way to cure the harvested leaves, the best auction
houses. Like her father, she had followed the price per bale with avid
interest—and fervent hope. Every summer she and her father would dismount and
walk through the tobacco fields, fingering the leafy plants in dirty

hands, inhaling their
succulent aroma, judging the quality of their harvest.

She had had other
duties and responsibilities as well. No one was kinder than her mother, and no
one knew herbs and healing better. No one cared more about their slaves.
Virginia
had attended dozens of fevers
and flux, right by her mother's side. She was never afraid to walk into the
slave quarters when someone was ill—in fact, she packed a darn good poultice. Although
Mama had not allowed her to attend any birthings,
Virginia
could birth foals, too, and had spent many
a night waiting for a pregnant mare to deliver. Why shouldn't she be at home
now, running Sweet Briar with their foreman, James MacGregor? Was there any
point in being at this damnable school? She'd been born to run the plantation.
Sweet Briar was in her blood, her soul.

Virginia
knew she wasn't a lady. She'd
been wearing britches from the moment she had figured out that there
were
britches,
and she liked them better than skirts. Papa hadn't cared—he'd been proud of her
outspoken ways, her natural horsemanship, her keen eye. He had thought her
beautiful, too—he'd always called her his little wild rose—but every father
thought so of a daughter.
Virginia
knew that wasn't true. She was
too thin and she had too much hair to ever be considered fair. Not that she
cared. She was far too smart to want to be a lady.

Mama had been
tolerant of her husband and her daughter. Both of
Virginia
's brothers had died at birth, first Todd
and then little Charles when she was six. That was when Mama had first looked
the other way about the britches, the horses, the hunting. She had cried for
weeks, prayed in the family chapel and, somehow, found peace. After that, her
smiles and sunny warmth had returned—but there had been no more pregnancies, as
if she and Papa had made a silent pact.