The Game (24 page)

Katherine felt her cheeks heat. “He is a pirate,” she said grimly. And she prayed Gerald would find another topic upon which to converse. Surely he did not still think the unthinkable. Katherine was glad that he did not know about Liam’s proposal of marriage to her.

Gerald took her hand. “You are in a position to help me, sweetheart. And I need your help desperately. Will you aid your poor, exiled father?”

Her heart thundered. “How can I help you?”

“You are installed at court—it could not be better. Befriend the queen. Woo her gently, very gently, to our side. Once she loved Joan. She loved Joan greatly and it aided me time after time. If she comes to love you, and I am sure she will, we might be able to win my release. I can regain Desmond, Katie, if I am returned to Ireland. Once home, the lords will join me—and so will the people.”

She looked at her father, who stood tall now, oblivious to his pain, his dark eyes burning with the fervor and the excitement she remembered seeing so often as a child. He did not ask too much. The queen had unfairly deprived
him of his home, his rank, and his land, and Katherine knew she must help him regain all that he had lost. He was her father. But…she felt that even to contemplate doing as he asked was somehow wrong. For already she loved the queen. The queen who had been nothing but kind and generous to her. It did not feel right to use her friendship, to use her love, for any cause—not even this justifiable one.

Gerald took her arm. “And we must play O’Neill as carefully, nay, far more carefully, than Bess.”

Katherine had stopped breathing. “Wh-what?”

“He lusts for you. A man lusting for a woman is a powerful thing. Such a man is easily led. I need him, Katie. He is the Master of the Seas. If I am returned to Ireland, how easily he could aid me! And even now, if he were allied with us—how easily he could thwart FitzMaurice, who relies upon the Spanish, the French, and the Scots for his victuals and supplies. Yes, we must have O’Neill at our side.”

“What are you asking me to do?” Katherine asked fearfully.

“Lead him on a merry chase. Do not allow him his way with you, girl. Too often men grow bored with the spoils, ’tis the hunt they enjoy. Let him hunt. Lead him on. Bring him to our side. If his lust grows great enough, I might be able to entice him right to the church’s altar. ’Tis my grand desire, Katherine, to see you wed to him.”

Katherine choked. She had thought this horrific subject dead. Oh God. ’Twas hardly dead—and now she began to understand the jeopardy she was in. “Father—he is a pirate,” she managed thickly. “I did not understand before—I do not understand now. I am your
daughter
. How could you suggest this alliance—again?”

“Because I have no other allies,” Gerald cried. “And if I must gain but one, then let him be greatly powerful. And he is the key to my future and my freedom, Katie. He is the key to your future and your freedom, as well.”

“He commits murder—and mayhem—he is a thief—ignobly born—the son of a murderer, the son of a rapist—he is conscienceless!” And she refused to think of that
other side of him, the one that was hardly vicious, hardly ignoble.

Gerald faced her, his jaw clenched tight. “O’Neill wants
you
badly. He is playing right into our hands! ’Tis a kind act of Fate, my dear—an act we must seize to our advantage. You must do as I instruct you to.”

Katherine looked away, sick at heart and shaken. “I wish to marry honorably,” she whispered. “I want what is my due.”

“You will never be honorable, not until I have Desmond again,” Gerald snapped. “Barry did not want you for a reason. All men of consequence will share his view. You have no choice, Katie—I am not giving you a choice in this matter.”

Somehow Katherine squared her shoulders. Somehow she lifted her chin. A tear spilled from the corner of one of her eyes. “I cannot,” she said. There was a lump in her chest and it hurt terribly. “I cannot do this.”

“You will do it,” Gerald said sharply. “Because you are my daughter, Katherine FitzGerald, and you are loyal to me before anyone else—even before yourself.”

Katherine tried to pull away.

“Katie.” His tone softened. “You are the only one who can help me now, do you not see that? You have the power now to breathe life back into my dead soul. Katie? You
must
help me.”

Katherine stared, torn, wiping away her tears. And although she knew that she had little choice in this matter, not if she were to remain loyal to her father, she did not speak up, she did not tell her father that Liam O’Neill had already proposed marriage to her, and that in all likelihood, he would do so again if she gave him the least encouragement. Stubbornly, defiantly, her dreams of the future would not die. And they did not include Liam O’Neill. They did not.

T
he queen loved masques. The current masque told the story of the five daughters of the African river god Niger, and the cast included slaves and sultans, princes and princesses, nymphs, mermaids, sea dragons, and numerous other fanciful monsters.

For this particular masque, the queen had ordered the entire court to attend in some form of costume. Elizabeth’s courtiers had obeyed, and Katherine was astounded to see all manner of dress, everything from ancient Greek goddesses scandalously draped in gossamer silk to tribal kings sporting garlands of flowers and fruits as their crowns. Katherine herself had no funds with which to buy the materials necessary for a costume, but Helen had procured a splendid red satin mask, one beaded and beribboned. She wore it with her tired brown velvet gown.

The pageant had ended sometime after midnight, the queen flushed with pleasure, standing up to applaud the cast of players. And the court had begun carousing in earnest then—the festive revelers growing progressively more animated and inebriated as dawn crept upon them.

Flutists, harpers, drummers, and viol players were performing a lively Irish jig now. A single bagpiper joined them. Despite her perpetual despair over the never-ending resistance of the Irish lords to her authority, the jig was the queen’s favorite tune for dancing. Katherine clapped her hands in delight when the wild jig began. Her feet would not keep still. How she wished to dance.

Leicester partnered the queen. He was dressed as Julius Caesar, wearing naught but a white toga, which left one broad shoulder and part of his hard chest bare, a big leather belt and a huge, ancient sword. Upon his head he wore a crown that bore a remarkable resemblance to one of real gold. Katherine watched them, smiling, admiring not the queen, who was an excellent dancer, but the earl himself, whose white teeth flashed, whose strong bare legs never missed a beat.

Then, in the press of the crowd, someone gripped her elbow from behind. “Come, Mistress FitzGerald, teach me your native dance.”

Katherine turned to look into the vivid blue eyes of John Hawke. Like herself, he had forgone a costume, but he was resplendent in his crimson uniform and pale hose and a demimask. “How could I refuse,” she cried, “when my blood is singing and my feet are itching to perform this dance?”

He grinned at her and proved himself a bit of a liar, for as he whirled her on the dance floor, it became clear that he had danced a jig at least a few times before. But he was not Irish. No one at court was Irish, with the exception of the earl of Ormond, who had already left the festivities, proving himself as dour as his demeanor so often seemed. Katherine knew she could outjig even the queen, and she set about to do so.

Her knees flew so high that her brown velvet skirts and cream-colored underskirts flew up to twirl about her thighs, revealing her long curved calves and her knees. Katherine was wearing her own pale, plain hose, but earlier that day, for some nonsensical reason, just as she had taken to wearing the ruff which had been amongst the clothing given to her by Liam, she had sorted through his gift again, this time choosing a pair of purple garters. They hardly matched her white stockings, her underskirts, or her gown, much less the red satin mask, but Katherine did not care. Laughing, she jigged harder, and higher. She whirled and whirled and stomped and stomped. Sir John was laughing too, gripping her hands tightly, imitating her every movement, determined to keep up with her and to
dance as hard as she. They were enjoying themselves immensely, and they exchanged wide grins. She saw, also, how his glance strayed to her smooth, gartered thighs, and how he watched her heaving bosom, the neckline of her dress creeping lower and lower. Katherine did not care. She was having more fun than she had ever had. She felt beautiful, alive. When the jig was over. Katherine collapsed against him, and into his arms.

“God’s blood,” he gasped into her ear, his arms tightening around her. “No one can dance a jig like you!”

She pressed away from him and he let her go. “I hope not! What kind of Irishwoman would I be if a bunch of English lords and ladies could outdance me?”

“That sounds almost treasonous,” a deep voice murmured from behind her.

Katherine twisted to face the earl of Leicester. Sir John dropped his hands from her arms.

“Would you dance with me?” he asked, smiling pleasantly—but his eyes were smoldering.

Instantly Katherine looked about for the queen. Elizabeth danced with another of her favorites. “I do not know this dance,” she said nervously. She did not have to be very wise to know that the queen would not like her dancing with Robert Dudley. She was often very jealous of him. Recently she had set down two of her ladies, both sisters, Francis Howard and Lady Douglas Sheffield, a widow, for being so obviously in love with him.

Leicester took her elbow. “I will teach you.”

Katherine was alarmed, and she looked to John Hawke for support. He was scowling, but then Anne Hastings came up beside him, and a moment later she was coaxing the captain onto the dance floor and clinging far too closely to him while she was about it. Katherine found herself being led in the steps of a far more sedate dance, her hand in the earl’s. Her heart was speeding, but not from exertion. She met his dark regard again.

He smiled at her, then glanced at her bosom. Although low-cut immodest gowns were fashionable, Katherine, having more to display than most, had never followed the
mode. Her pulse quickened even more as his gaze skimmed her bare flesh.

A memory flashed through her mind: of herself, twisting upon a bed, her hands bound with red-and-gold cords, while Liam O’Neill sucked and then teased her nipples with his tongue.

“That dress does not do you justice, my dear,” Leicester remarked.

“I am well aware of that,” Katherine said somewhat tartly. She recalled Liam’s warning, as well, that Leicester would seek to get beneath her skirts within a sennight. Three weeks had passed since she had come to court, not one, and ofttimes when he came to visit the queen his unwavering regard had settled upon her, however briefly. But they had never conversed or been alone—until now.

“You deserve the finest silks and velvets, the finest emeralds and pearls.”

Katherine missed a step. “And you would give them to me?”

His gaze darkened, moved to her lips, which she had daringly rouged. “Aye, I would. Katherine, these past few weeks, you have run the other way every time you saw me coming. You have no reason to be scared of me, my dear. I do not seek to hurt you.”

“No?” Her tone was dry. “Then what do you seek, my lord?”

His handsome face tightened. “Barring matrimony, I wish to befriend you, and I am certain that you know it.”

She did. Like Hugh Barry, he wished to make her his whore. Katherine tried to pull away from him, but his grip was steel and she could not. She glared at him. He no longer smiled. “Katherine, you misunderstand. God—I am the earl of Leicester now, one of the richest, most powerful men in this realm. I would marry you, my dear, in the blink of an eye, for I need not a dowry, but a warm, willing wife and healthy sons. I sense you would be far more than willing, and ’tis obvious you are made for bearing sons. But I cannot marry.” His tone was not bitter, merely resigned. “I cannot marry any woman. One day, God willing…” he glanced toward the queen, and Kath
erine knew he thought of becoming England’s king, but he did not speak of it. “Come. We must talk in private. This cannot wait another day.”

Katherine was appalled as he put his arm around her and thrust her into the crowd. She flung a glance over her shoulder and saw Elizabeth staring after them. Her heart flipped in fear. She dug in her heels as a wayward child might do, but Leicester was big and strong and not about to be deterred. He propelled her forward, practically carrying her through the animated, raucous crowd. A moment later they were in an empty hall, and then he had pushed her into an empty alcove. He pushed her mask up atop her coif, and gripped her arms, holding her so closely that her knees bumped his.

“Do not say no,” he said hoarsely, pressing one fingertip to her lips. “Katherine, I am your father’s friend.”

Katherine’s protest died.

“I’m the one who opposed Ormond when he brought your father to the queen as his prisoner after Affane. Butler wanted your father stripped of his lands and titles even then. I’m the one who fought for your father in the ensuing years—and even fought against the very idea of a trial for treason.”

Katherine stared into Leicester’s eyes, breathless and afraid. But her mind was racing. Leicester was very powerful—he had the queen’s ear. He could champion Gerald’s cause yet again if he had a reason. She began to shake her head slowly in a frightened negation.

“Do not say no yet,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “I would take you to Kenilworth. Where you would lack for nothing, Katherine. But we would have to be discreet.”

“Discreet!” she gasped, trying once more to pull away from him and failing. “You do not understand the meaning of that word,” she panted. “The queen saw us leaving together! She will dismiss me from my position this very night!” But she was shaking, feeling very much cornered and trapped.

Leicester was silent for a moment. “Mayhap that is for the best,” he finally said. “’Tis not a good thing for us, your being here at court with her.”

Katherine was incredulous. “There is no us! And I do not wish to fall from the queen’s good grace—dear God—I do not!”

“You dissemble,” he told her, abruptly pulling her up against him. Katherine stiffened. She had been aware of the heavy, thrusting bulge of his loins on several occasions; more than once since she had come to court she had noticed his manliness, but those prior times she had chosen to ignore it, thinking, as some of the other ladies did, that he wore a codpiece. He certainly did not wear a codpiece now, or any other thing, under his Roman toga. His phallus, unrestrained by his wool garment, rubbed against the well-worn velvet covering her belly. “I have seen how you look at me,” he whispered, pressing her into the wall. “Do you think I am a foolish boy, to make such a mistake?”

Katherine choked. “Do not do this, my lord,” she begged. He did not repulse her. Like Sir John, he was a fine, virile man, and she could not be immune to him, not like this, when his hard body pulsed against hers. But it was a mere shadow of the kind of desire aroused in her by Liam O’Neill and she was acutely aware of the difference.

He studied her drawn expression, then bent his head. Katherine turned her face quickly away, and instead of plundering her mouth, his lips plied the delicate skin of her throat. She tried to push him off. One of his hands slipped into her bodice, his thumb flicking her nipple, which instantly grew taut.

Finally, because he too knew they could be discovered with grave consequences, he ceased his manhandling of her and she darted away from him. She stared at him, wide-eyed, flushed, and truly afraid.

“You will enjoy it, Katherine,” he told her.

She wanted to tell him that she would not, because there would be no liaison between them. Yet he was, as he had said, one of the most powerful men in the realm. If anyone could help her father, it was the earl of Leicester. Katherine knew that Leicester was a far more powerful ally than Liam O’Neill.

“I will not take no for your answer,” he whispered, his breath stroking her cheek.

And Katherine knew that he would force her into his bed whether she wished it or not. And should he do so, should it even be rape, she would have no recourse at all—because the queen would blame her, not him. But if she were clever, she would use him the way Gerald had asked her to use Liam. Muffling a cry, she turned and fled—not back to the dining hall, but to the stairs and her own small chamber on the upper floor. Never had she felt so adrift upon stormy seas that could only be navigated by one far more astute than she.

With but a single taper casting a dim, dancing light, Katherine hung up her beautiful mask and plain dress on a bedside hook. She wondered where Helen was, whose duty it was to help her prepare for bed. Undoubtedly she was involved in the festivities as well, not having expected her mistress to retire so early. Katherine could not blame her.

It was a damnable task, unlacing the farthingale herself, but she managed, trying not to think about Leicester and what might become of her should he seek to finish what he had begun this night. She placed the whalebone corset on the room’s single trunk, slipping off her chemise and then her linen drawers. Sitting, she slid off her shoes, then rolled down her stockings, one by one.

The undersides of her breasts were red from where the whalebones had dug into them, the price one paid for wearing a small corset in order to flatten oneself, and she began to massage herself gently. It was a nightly ritual. Once, at the convent, it had been innocent. Then, she had ignored the sweet tightening of her nipples, caused by her own fingers, and the pulse of pleasure shafting her loins. Now it was impossible to ignore the stirrings of desire. Molding her breasts, Katherine thought about how Leicester had touched her. He was the kind of man a woman—any woman—dreamed of marrying, at once powerful and rich, both virile and handsome. But Leicester was not
available, not as a husband, not to her, not to anyone. He belonged to the queen and everyone knew it.

Katherine whimpered a little. She crushed her breasts just once, wishing it were Liam O’Neill, a man no woman dreamed of marrying, who had touched her tonight as Leicester had. Her hands stilled. Her nipples pointed over her fingers, red, rosy, and so erect that they hurt. It was impossible to ignore the feverish heat that throbbed between her thighs, a heat so strong that it made Katherine moan.

“Of whom are you thinking, Sir John Hawke, Robin Dudley—or me?”

Katherine shot to her feet with a gasp.

Liam stood in the open doorway of her room, leaning against the door. Her eyes were wide—because, for a single instant, she had not recognized him.

He was dressed as a blackamoor. He wore loose white breeches, a wide purple sash, and his own sword—which she now recognized. His broad chest and powerful torso were bare—and the color of dark oak. He had also stained his arms, neck, and face, even his hair, while wearing a red turban to complete the disguise. His gray eyes appeared remarkably silver in contrast to his dark skin.