The Game (36 page)

Liam could not possibly love her
.

Oh, God
.

Barry moved past her and out of the room, leaving them alone, but Katherine was not even aware of him.

“Katherine,” Liam whispered, gripping her shoulders from behind. “I am trying to explain this game to you. You must listen to me very carefully.”

Violently Katherine shook him off, whirling to face him, her face contorted in rage—and hatred. “No! There is nothing to explain—bastard! Liar! Cheat!” And she began to beat him with her fists.

Liam did not move. He stood still and silent as she
began to sob and pound on his chest, weeping for the loss of a love that she had never had, that had never existed, and for a treachery too painful to bear. Because she wept uncontrollably now, she did not see the tears welling in his own eyes.

“I have been trying to explain to you why I have been supplying FitzMaurice this past year,” he said flatly. “But you refuse to listen, refuse to trust me; you have not heard a single word I said.”

Katherine stared at him, shocked again, flooded with new anguish. He had been supplying the papist lunatic for an entire year? That meant that he had allied himself with her father’s cousin sometime shortly after he had first met her! “No.” She held up her hands as if she could ward him off. She had never hated anyone the way she hated him. “Don’t touch me!”

“You have no choice but to listen,” Liam said, with a flash of anger, dropping his hands.

“I will never listen to you again,” she cried, and in that instant, she wished to hurt him as he had hurt her. But she could not. Because she had loved him—but he did not love her.

“I have a plan, Katherine,” Liam began, his expression so earnest, so deadly sincere, that Katherine backed away from him.

“No!” she screamed. How she wished she had not burned her father’s letter. How she wished she could now shove it in his face.

“Katherine, my plan was dangerous, and not without flaw, and the very first step was to build FitzMaurice up,” Liam told her, never taking his eyes from her face.

“No!” Katherine shouted again. A tiny voice inside her head—and her heart—warned his not to do this, to listen to him, but Katherine ignored it. “Let me tell you about my plan!”

His jaw tightened. “You are overwrought, which I understand.” He turned from her, moving to the sideboard, pouring a glass of whiskey.

“You don’t understand me—you could not possibly,” Katherine cried, having followed him.

He faced her, holding out the glass. “Drink this.”

Katherine struck the glass from his hand. It shattered on the floor, whiskey spilling everywhere. They stared at one another.

“I do not want to hurt you,” Liam said. “I have never wanted to hurt you.”

“You cannot hurt me,” Katherine said, her words so obviously incongruous, for her face was streaked with tears. “We are two of a kind, you see.” She laughed bitterly. “Both adept at playing games, both adept at theatrics—both adept at using one another for purely selfish purposes.”

Liam stared, his body tense. Katherine stared back defiantly, growing dizzy with the flood tide of pain washing over her. Liam finally said, “You are too honest to play the kind of game you speak of.”

“Oh?” She laughed, hysterically. “Don’t you wish to know of what I speak—darling?”

“I don’t think so.” His gray gaze had gone flat and watchful.

“Do you remember the letter my father sent me in July? The letter you brought to me?” Katherine asked harshly.

Liam nodded slowly.

“I burned it,” she said. “Do you know why?”

“No. I don’t want to know why, either.” But he did not turn away from her, he was riveted in place. His eyes held hers.

And the room was so silent that Katherine’s uneven breathing could be heard. “I burned it so you would never find it, never read it—never learn its contents.”

Liam stared into her hostile eyes. “But now you are going to tell me what was in the letter, are you not?”

“Yes!” she cried, and one of her fists landed on his chest. Liam did not appear to notice the blow. “Yes, damn you, yes! Long ago, before I was even wed to Hawke, my father asked
me
to use
you
. To lead you a merry chase right to my bed—and right to the altar! He wished for me to enslave you with my body. He wished for me to play the temptress. He wished for me to entice you into marriage. Have you heard me, Liam?”

Liam’s expression was one of growing comprehension—and growing horror.

Katherine half cried and half laughed. “And I did as he asked. It was a game, Liam, naught but a game, and every moan and sigh was pure pretense, intended to madden you with lust, to chain you to my side. I pretended that all I ever thought of was you and our lovemaking, I pretended that I could not live without you or your touch, and I pretended that I loved you!” Katherine realized that she was weeping again. “In return, you were supposed to aid my father—not FitzMaurice!”

“If it was but a game for you—then why are you crying?” he asked hoarsely.

“Because I have lost! Oh, God, I have lost everything, giving myself to you as I have! And you—God damn you to hell—you have played me false, aiding the papist traitor.”

Liam stared at her as if she were a stranger—or a monster.

Katherine’s smile, tear-streaked, was savage. “I was a fool, to think I could best you. But you are a fool, too. To believe that I could ever really love the son of Shane O’Neill.”

Liam inhaled sharply.

Katherine turned away. But his cold, clipped words stopped her in her tracks.

“You are a bitch, Katherine.”

She whirled.

Rage suffused his features. “A cold, deceitful bitch.”

Her eyes widened.

“Hawke can have you.” He turned his back on her and walked to the door.

“Go!” Katherine screamed after him, sobbing again. “Go! Go far away and never come back! I hope you and your damned ship are sunk to the very bottom of the sea! Do you hear me, Liam? Do you?”

But he did not answer her, disappearing into the corridor. And the next day, the
Sea Dagger
set sail.

Only this time, it did not come back.

January, 1572—Richmond

R
ichmond was the warmest of Elizabeth’s many palaces. It was her custom to spend most of the winter months there. Now a fire roared in the hearth of the Privy Chamber. But through the windows, which looked east over the Privy Gardens and the orchard, Elizabeth could see how the leafless trees bent over backward in the constant wind. The sky was dark and threatening overhead, and sometime soon a storm would sweep down upon them. Rolling thunder could be heard in the distance.

Elizabeth had just sent her ladies from the chamber and she was alone. She had received an urgent message from Ormond, who was on his way to meet with her. Tom usually had Ireland first and foremost on his mind, and she was expecting the worst.

Elizabeth paced, her nerves frayed. Just yesterday she had recognized Mary’s brat James as the king of Scotland. ’Twas an action she had been resolved never to take; but circumstance had forced her, finally, to this extreme. The plots against her, favoring Mary, never ceased, nor did the interference of foreigners, and the time had come to abandon one rightful monarch in favor of another. Elizabeth felt the creeping fingers of fear around her throat, almost choking her. Every time a monarch fell, she could imagine herself in the same position. She had no wish to lose her throne—and her head—at an early age—or even at an
elderly one. How tenuous life could be if one were a king or queen.

Ormond burst into the room. “He’s gone mad!”

Elizabeth tensed. “Of whom do you speak? FitzMaurice?” A chill had taken her now. Perrot had driven FitzMaurice into the west, where he was now in hiding. Would the papist fanatic never be taken? Damn Liam O’Neill for supplying him so well that he would survive another winter!

“No, not the papist. I speak of your pretty pirate, Liam O’Neill!”

Elizabeth stiffened. “Now what has Liam done?”

“He has attacked another vessel, this one Spanish, but bound for the Netherlands, not Ireland. That is the second vessel he has seized in as many weeks. And in but a month, he has attacked four different ships, including one bound for the King’s Lords in Edinburgh. He has truly gone mad like some slobbering, bug-eyed dog!”

Elizabeth wondered if it were true. In the past, Liam had been discriminating. No more. He was striking out blindly, it seemed, at each and every passing vessel that crossed his path. And to attack Spain, the very nation which had paid him in gold bullion and silver plate to supply FitzMaurice? It made no sense at all.

“Liam must in insane,” Elizabeth said tersely. “In the past there was reason behind his actions at sea, no more. What do you think, Tom?”

Butler smiled without mirth. “I think he is a man with no master, a man without a country or a king. I think you should raise the price on his head—and pray that Hawke succeeds in capturing him.”

“Can we not play tables, Katherine?” Guy asked.

Katherine stood staring out of the narrow window in the hall. She stared at the wind-whipped snow as it fell ceaselessly upon the island, hugging her mantle to her. The wind moaned incessantly. She hardly heard the small boy who stood beside her, and did not look down to see his face, pinched with anxiety and worry.

Katherine stared at the snow until her vision blurred.
Somewhere, out there in the winter storm, sailing the winter-wild northern seas, was the damned traitor, Liam O’Neill. She hugged herself harder, unable to swallow the lump of anguish in her throat.

She still did not understand. Katherine could not fathom how Liam could have laughed with her, wooed her, and loved her so insatiably for over nine months, while secretly dealing with FitzMaurice all that time. How very little he had cared for her, if he had cared for her at all.

He had been gone almost two months now. There had not been any word. Katherine was adamant with herself. She did not care where he was, or what he did. She did not care if his fate had been as she had prayed it would be—to sink with his ship to the very bottom of the sea.

Guy tugged on her hand. “If you do not want to play tables, do you wish to read to me instead, Katherine?” The boy looked worried.

Katherine forced a smile, bent and kissed his head. “Of course.”

“I think, Guy, you can read with Katherine later.”

Katherine turned to face Macgregor. The big Scot moved so soundlessly for a man of his size. She had not heard him approach. When Liam had sailed away, he had left Macgregor behind. To guard her if she tried to leave the island? Katherine almost laughed at the idea. Where would she go? To her father? To John Hawke? To the queen?

“Lady, I wish to speak with you privily.”

Katherine’s cheeks began to flush. Does he know? She thought wildly. No, she decided, she had been so very careful, he could not know. The only one who knew was her maid, and Katherine had sworn her to secrecy long ago. Katherine turned to Guy. “I will be with you in a few minutes. Why don’t you meet me here a little later?”

Guy nodded, looking relieved, and he darted off. Katherine turned her back on Macgregor, facing the wind-driven snow. Would the wind never stop? She wondered. It howled constantly, sounding very much like a pack of lost and lonely wolves. How could anyone live on this island in the wintertime? And not go mad? Her grip upon
her sanity felt so tenuous. Katherine stared at the swirling snow. She could not help wondering what it must be like to be at sea right then, upon the pirate ship.

Cold and lonely and dangerous.

“He is never gone at this time of year,” Macgregor said from behind her.

Katherine tensed. “I do not care.”

“You do not care if he has been captured? Or run aground? Or worse, run upon rocks by the winter storms and sunk to the very bottom of the sea?”

Katherine hugged herself. “Undoubtedly such is his fate, as he is but a bloodthirsty pirate.”

“Does he know?” the Scot asked.

Katherine inhaled. The sound was loud and sharp; Macgregor must have heard it, too. She still did not turn from the window. “I beg your pardon?”

“Does he know that you carry his child?”

Katherine could not breathe. She felt light-headed and faint. Such a feeling was not new to her. There had been moments these past few weeks when she had become short of breath and dizzy. She had no experience in these matters, but she guessed it was because of the life growing inside of her womb. She did not answer Macgregor.

“Lady Katherine, I have known many women in my many years, and although you wear that cape as you would a shield, I have seen how your belly is expanding. And there are other signs as well. Please, let us talk frankly.”

Katherine whirled, angry and frightened, hugging herself, tears trickling from her eyes. “This is my baby,” she said fiercely. “Not his!”

Macgregor was gentle. “Does he know?”

“He has no rights,” she shouted, flooded with hot anger, recalling his terrible betrayal. “None!”

“You refuse to answer me. But I do not think, no matter how angry and hurt he was, that he would leave you like this if he did know. When is the babe due?”

Katherine stared at him mutinously. “Liam, hurt? A man must have a heart in order to be hurt, and he has none!” Then she started to weep, but softly.

“Liam has a heart and if you do not know that, then you are not the woman for him,” Macgregor said quietly.

“I am not the woman for him!” She glared at him. “I hope he is dead.”

Macgregor held her gaze, and she was startled by the sadness in his eyes. “When, Katherine?”

Katherine took a calming gulp of air. “In July, I think. I am probably four months along, maybe more.”

“There is a midwife in the village. I want her to examine you.”

And suddenly Katherine was relieved, so very relieved, that her secret had been discovered. She had been afraid. Being pregnant and alone, having no one to ask the many questions she had, with no one to turn to, and no one to trust. “Yes.” She nodded, the color returning to her pale cheeks. “The sooner the better, I think.”

South of Galway, Ireland

Liam stared at the timbered coast of the inlet. Every instinct he had told him not to go ashore. These past two months at sea he had learned that he was a hunted man. Three times British ships had espied the
Sea Dagger
and had made chase. Three times Liam had successfully out-sailed, outmaneuvered, and outraced his pursuers, engaging only in the shortest exchange of cannon fire.

He was a hunted man now, wanted for treason against the Crown. As he had, indeed, committed treason, he was not surprised. He had known that the game could boil down to this. He had been prepared to live the life of the hunted for a while. He had been prepared to live that way, and to successfully defy all pursuit.

Now he no longer cared.

Indeed, he welcomed anyone who dared to hunt him.

His instincts warned him strongly not to go ashore, but Liam climbed into the longboat and ordered the oarsmen to proceed. He itched to do battle. With any foe, imaginary or real.

His jaw tightened. Katherine’s image invaded his mind.
He no longer cared that he had not explained his master plan to her; in fact, he was glad he had not explained how he had intended ultimately to aid her father in regaining Desmond. Damn her. The bitch. The treacherous bitch—his treacherous wife. Using him all along, feigning her love.

He stood in the prow, surveying the approaching shoreline. There was no sign of the Irish rebels, no sign of FitzMaurice, but his pulse was pounding now with excitement. He could feel the danger. He could feel the impending attack. How he welcomed it.

“Ready yourselves,” he murmured to his five men. “We are not alone.” He had seen the flash of metal in the trees.

The several longboats, containing a dozen men, all beached. His men leapt out. Everyone was silent and tense. Liam’s hand moved to his sword. And when he saw the riders and soldiers bursting from the trees, he threw back his head and laughed.

In that single instant, it occurred to him that he had a death wish—but he would go down fighting to the very end.

As the mounted troops descended the slope, infantry behind them, Liam realized that he and his men faced no small force but some hundred attackers. As rapidly as it had come, his death wish vanished. He owed it to his men to live so he could lead them to safety. He could not allow this massacre, no matter how he wished to do battle himself.

“Put down your weapons,” he snapped, sheathing his rapier. “Put your empty hands into the air.”

Everyone obeyed. The troops thundered down upon them. Horses blowing, ears laid back, the soldiers with their rapiers drawn and held high. At the last moment, the cavalry skidded to a halt, surrounding them on all sides and cutting off any escape they might make to the sea by the boats. Liam’s eyes widened when he saw John Hawke seated in the very forefront upon a black charger. Hawke smiled slowly at him.

Liam’s surprise vanished. Silently he saluted Bess. For
setting against him the one man who most wanted him. His hand crept to the hilt of his weapon again.

Hawke moved his mount forward to face him. “Do you surrender without a fight, O’Neill?”

“Do you wish me to fight?” Liam asked calmly. In his mind he saw Katherine standing lush and nearly naked in the master’s chamber of Barby Hall, awaiting Hawke on their wedding night. He wondered if Hawke had divorced her. He told himself he did not care. Hawke could have her now, if he still wanted her.

“You know that I do.” Hawke said softly, his gaze locked with Liam’s.

Liam no longer had any interest in death, but here, at last, was a real enemy with which to battle. He smiled back, menacingly. “Come, Hawke. Come.”

Hawke slid from his horse.

Liam taunted, “Surely you wish to avenge Katherine? Surely you wish to kill me for the many endless nights she spent so eagerly in my bed?”

Hawke stiffened, his face paling. Then he ripped his rapier from its hilt. “Bastard. I will deliver your head on a pike, make no mistake about that!”

Liam also drew his rapier, laughing with real pleasure. The two men thrust and parried. Only the first blows came slowly. Swords crossed, Liam and Hawke strained at one another the way two stags might lock horns. As one, they broke and fell back.

Immediately their weapons rose and clashed again. Both men locked blades and withdrew. Neither Hawke nor Liam was able to take up the offensive, for they moved at one another simultaneously. Again their rapiers crossed. Both men were panting now, their expressions murderous.

Liam feinted, lunged, and thrust. Finally he suceeded in getting past Hawke’s quick defenses, and he nicked a gash on Hawke’s cheek. A line of red appeared there.

Hawke snarled and wielded another blow, which Liam blocked. They danced around one another, their blades striking back and forth. Suddenly Hawke’s blade sliced open Liam’s tunic, leaving a fine razor-thin gash down the center of his torso.

The two men withdrew, sweating and breathing harshly. But only for a heartbeat. As two mighty rams might charge at once, so too they lunged and thrust again, with even fiercer determination. Their rapiers rang, the fine steel blades vibrating. Steel screeched as the weapons were disengaged. Liam thrust again, almost blinded by sweat. And this time his blade was quicker than Hawke’s, evading his blocking maneuver, the lethal tip piercing the soldier’s chest dangerously close to his heart. But Liam did not thrust home.

Hawke stood unmoving, frozen.

Liam smiled savagely. “Do you wish to live?” he asked, his blade still pushing up against Hawke’s chest.

Then Hawke’s smile mirrored Liam’s. “Do you?”

Liam realized that a dozen muskets, primed and loaded, were pointed at his head.

“Drop the rapier, pirate,” Hawke commanded. “You have won the battle—but I have won the war. Drop your weapon, now—if you wish to live.”

Liam slowly withdrew his rapier, then let the long, fine blade fall to the ground.

Hawke, ignoring the blossoming of blood on his chest from the light flesh wound, bent and picked up the blade. He handed it to another soldier and moved forward swiftly, removing Liam’s dagger from its sheath as well. Liam stood as still as any statue. Two soldiers quickly pulled his hands behind his back as Hawke watched with savage satisfaction. A moment later steel manacles were snapped on his wrists.