The Game (37 page)

“In the name of Her Majesty, Elizabeth, the queen of England,” Hawke said, “I pronounce you my prisoner.”

Another week had passed. Katherine found herself counting the days, but she told herself it was because she was eager to see the end of winter, the coming of the spring—and then the birth of her baby. The midwife had confirmed her suspicions. The babe would come sometime in July.

Katherine caressed her swollen belly, a habit she had taken to. Without her mantle, it was clear that she was
with child, but her stomach was still a small mound, and hardly a protrusion. She hoped to comfort the unborn babe. Although she hated its father, Katherine loved the child. Once, she had hoped to have many children, but now it seemed as if she would bear this one single babe. It did not matter. She would love it all the more. And she was determined to do everything she could for it. But what could she really do?

She was forced now to think of the future. Her love for Liam was dead, murdered by his betrayal, and she could not stay on his island much longer. Yet she did not want to go to her father, and share or even compound his disgrace and live in exile. Obviously she would not return to John, nor could she go to the court. Only one thing was clear. Somehow she must get off this island. Somehow she must return to Ireland.

For Ireland beckoned her as a beacon light would a ship at sea. How she wished to go home. Surely her uncles would find some small place for her and her child in their homes, their hearts, and their lives.

But Katherine did not know how she was going to manage to leave, because Macgregor watched her like a hawk. The Scot was protecting what he believed to be Liam’s interests. Katherine stubbornly, no, viciously, clung to her belief that the babe was hers and hers alone. Liam had no rights. He had forfeited all of his rights when he had betrayed her love for him by consorting with FitzMaurice.

Yet even though she knew she must leave, before the baby was born, before Liam returned, she did not seem to have the will or the strength to plan an escape from the island.

A sharp banging sounded upon her chamber door.

Katherine jerked, moving across the small guest room, the same chamber Hugh Barry had used when he had convalesced there. After having learned of Liam’s betrayal, the very first thing she had done was remove herself from the chamber they had shared.

Katherine opened the door. Macgregor stood there, unnaturally pale. Instantly Katherine knew that something terrible had happened—to Liam. “What is it?”

“Prepare yourself,” he said, but it was the big Scot who went to her room’s single chair and sat down heavily there. Katherine saw that he was shocked.

“What is it!” she cried, rushing to him. “Is Liam dead?”

Macgregor looked at her. “No, but soon he will be.” He paused for effect, staring straight at her. “He has been taken prisoner by your first husband, Katherine. Sir John Hawke engaged him and his men south of Galway last week. The
Sea Dagger
escaped. Liam did not.”

Katherine stared. How light-headed she was—and how funny the floor had become, rolling beneath her feet like the deck of a ship.

“He is the queen’s prisoner,” Macgregor continued, beginning to sound strange and far away, “and even now, he is bound for the Tower—where he will be tried for treason, and, like all pirates, hanged at Hangman’s Gate.”

Katherine cried out. And as she fainted, she could see him, his neck broken, his face pale and lifeless, dangling from a noose.

Richmond

C
ecil brought the queen the news. “Sir John Hawke has captured Liam O’Neill, Your Majesty. One of your vessels bearing them put into London this morning.”

Elizabeth gasped. “You are sure, William?”

Cecil waved a small scroll of parchment. “This missive came from Sir John himself. After depositing O’Neill in the Tower, he comes to you posthaste. He gives no details of how or where he caught the pirate.”

Elizabeth was reeling. For, deep within herself, she had never really thought it possible for any man, not even Sir John, to capture the wily Irish scoundrel. But it had been done. O’Neill had been captured. He was in the Tower, where all traitors belonged. She should be thrilled, wildly so. She
was
pleased. Yet…she could not identify another emotion, one which was causing the rapid beating of her heart. “These are good tidings, indeed,” she finally said.

Cecil approached. “I advise that we think very long and carefully on what we do next,” he said in a low tone of voice.

Elizabeth gazed at him, grateful for his words. Already she could see O’Neill hanging from a gibbet. Somehow she did not like the image—yet the man was the worst scoundrel possible, a traitor to the Crown—and he
must
meet his fate. An example must be made. If only the mere notion did not upset her so. “What do you think, Cecil?”

“I think O’Neill
is
the Master of the Seas. Over the years, he has been invaluable to us. I think we must unravel all the complications of the Irish issue, and decide if hanging the pirate serves us best.”

Elizabeth nodded, relieved in spite of what she knew she should do with her golden pirate. “FitzMaurice has gone so far underground Perrot does not even know where he is,” she commented.

“Yes, and he has been so well supplied by the pirate that he will not come out of his winter den until the weather turns again.”

Elizabeth grew fierce. “We
must
capture him this spring! We cannot bear another year of war with that miserable man! I
hate
having to spend another farthing on the bloody Irish!” If only she could wish that miserable land of papists and savages away, she thought. How worthless it was. Yet she did not dare allow another nation a foothold there.

Cecil inclined his head. “FitzMaurice is damnably clever. If this new treaty comes about with Spain, we must make it clear that we will no longer tolerate their interference in Ireland.”

“Or Scotland,” Elizabeth added vehemently, thinking of Mary and all of the plots that had been seeded about her.

“Yes. But the picture brightens, Your Majesty. With O’Neill imprisoned, and without Spanish support, FitzMaurice will begin to lose ground.”

“I pray so,” Elizabeth muttered.

Looking her in the eye, Cecil said a most peculiar thing. “FitzGerald never gave us half as much trouble as his lunatic cousin.”

Elizabeth met his gaze, suddenly realizing that her councillor was right. FitzGerald had been much like an annoying gnat, forever buzzing about one’s head, taking small bites until swatted away. All that man had wanted was to control Desmond in a despotic fashion, without outside interference.

How Elizabeth now rued the day that she had agreed with her Council to strip Gerald FitzGerald of all he had.
Even then, Cecil had opposed the others, afraid of what would happen in southern Ireland with the earl of Desmond gone. He had been right. FitzMaurice had moved into the breach, seeking not power over the other Irish lords, but the restoration of the Catholic Church and the overthrow of England’s queen.

How sorry Elizabeth now was for destroying Desmond’s earl.

There was no window, no light. The cell was absolutely black. And it was foul with the odors of the many prisoners who had been entombed there before him. The walls were so thick that, although straining to detect any noise, he could hear nothing at all. He finally gave up. He was several stories below ground in the dungeons, and he was not going to hear anything or anyone.

He wondered if his life were about to end. He had been brought to this impasse by a woman. How ironic it was. He,
Shane O’Neill’s son
, had been brought to this moment in his life by a woman—by a woman he had once
loved
.

That single thought generated a terrible stabbing in his breast and Liam rubbed his chest. He closed his eyes. No, ’twas not love, he thought. It had never been love. It had only been lust, a lust that knew no bounds. He had confused his insatiable need for her with love, but it was not, had never been, would never be, love.

Liam forced himself to think clearly. He must not dwell upon Katherine, there was no point. He was finished with her. He had waged a dangerous game for her sake, never realizing the kind of woman that she was. No, it was over, and he must think of naught but his own future—of how to avoid the hangman’s fatal noose.

For Liam did intend to escape the hangman, he did intend to live. He had not made his final move yet. It was a very powerful play, one he had anticipated the moment he had decided to join this game, and delay merely increased its value every day that FitzMaurice lived. But he could not play alone. He needed a partner; he needed the queen.

And it was only a matter of time, Liam thought. For
surely Bess would send for him, to chastise him, to berate him. Liam knew women, and he was betting his life upon his knowledge of the female gender. She had been fond of him, and she would be sorely angered now by his treachery. He must have patience, he must survive the days or even weeks that she might make him await her pleasure in his hellhole of a dungeon. And then he must woo her as he would woo the most beautiful, provocative siren he had yet to see—he must woo her as he had once wooed Katherine.

Liam shoved himself to his feet and began to pace the room, planning the best way to gain his release. But there was no thrill anymore in the play. It had become mundane. For the stakes had changed. It was only his freedom he sought—the freedom to return to his life as Master of the Seas—a life he no longer wanted. What a fool he had become.

Not too long ago the stakes had been Katherine’s hand in marriage and their return to Ireland—the future had loomed before them, sunny and bright. No more. Now he sought only his miserable freedom and his equally miserable life.

Katherine arrived in London with Macgregor and Guy, exhausted from the madcap trip. For as soon as she had learned that Liam had been taken prisoner, she had departed the island. All had changed. Liam’s life was at stake.

Liam had betrayed her, but he did not deserve to die. She had been living for a full week now with heartrending anxiety and crushing fear. She could never forgive him his terribly treachery, nor could she ever forget it, but she did not wish him dead after all. Somehow, she must prevent his execution; she must plead his case with the queen.

The White Bear Inn was popular with foreigners, and they took rooms there. They quickly learned that the Court was at Richmond, Liam imprisoned in the Tower, his fate yet undetermined. But the street gossip was filled with expectation; the common folk looked forward to another pirate hanging at Hangman’s Gate.

Katherine faced a looking glass. She was pale with fright, huge circles under her eyes. Indeed, she was exhausted. But she had a mission now, the mission which had brought her to London—and it was to free Liam O’Neill. And she would do whatever she had to do in order to succeed, even though she could never return to him as his wife.

Elizabeth paced the Presence Chamber. Her heart raced. She had ordered the pirate brought to her because she could no longer wait to confront him about his treacherous ways—and his treacherous heart. She could no longer wait to have him on bended knee, begging her pardon—and offering her some pitiful explanation for his horrendous behavior.

“Relax, Bess,” Leicester murmured in her ear.

“I cannot,” she snapped, annoyed with his unruffled calm. But then, Robin hated rivals, and he had known that she favored Liam from the start—and he was so vastly pleased that Liam had turned traitor. These past weeks he had been advocating that she try Liam immediately, try him, convict him, and hang him.

Now Elizabeth wished he were not present, just as she wished that neither Ormond nor Cecil was present, as well. Yet she knew she needed their judgment on this matter. For she did not trust herself.

The doors to the chamber were thrown open. Elizabeth froze. She faced a dozen members of the guard, all clothed in crimson. But she did not see them. In their forefront stood John Hawke, whom she also failed to notice. Beside him was the prisoner.

Elizabeth’s heart lurched, her eyes widened. Briefly she was shocked by his appearance, and for an instant, her heart was wrenched with pity.

His tunic, once white, was bloodstained and charcoal gray. His breeches were as stained and as filthy. Even from the distance separating them, Elizabeth could smell his dirty, unwashed body. He was unshaven, of course, his beard short but wild and unkempt. Their gazes locked.

Any pity she might have entertained died in that mo
ment. How proud and unafraid he was. Elizabeth looked into his cool gray eyes and thought him as magnificent as ever. This was a man no mortal could defeat. This was a man who would bow only to Death. And even then, he would die wearing the cloak of both his lion’s pride and his lion’s courage.

Elizabeth began to notice many things at once. He stood very tall, his shoulders straight, despite the manacles, which held his wrists behind his back. His head was high. There was even the slightest smirk on his beautiful mouth as he looked far too boldly into her eyes—the way he might at a woman he wished to bed.

No, he was not afraid, not of death—and not of her.

Elizabeth was at once excited and dismayed. As a woman she would never be immune to him—but as a queen, she demanded his fear and his respect.

The fact of his betrayal stabbed her yet again. How could he have turned traitor upon her? Had he no care for her at all? She thanked God—and her own iron will—that she had not invited him into her bed that one night last year—when she had been so tempted. To hide her agitation, she smiled as coldly as she could, yet her mouth quavered. “Come here, pirate.”

Liam walked forward, held her eye, and had the audacity to say, “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” and only then did he drop to his knees at her feet.

“Oh? You are a foul rogue. You do not seem in the least bit repentant.”

“I am very repentant.” He looked up. “I beg your pardon not just for my perceived crimes, but for coming into your presence in such a malodorous state.”

She stared at him as he knelt before her, wondering what he was up to now, not missing his use of the word “perceived.”

His gaze was too bold, too male, and filled with too much promise.

Elizabeth trembled. She felt far less a queen and far more a young and anguished virgin girl. She studied him and saw that the manacles caused him pain. But she would
not order them removed—he deserved to suffer for what he had done to her. “You may rise.”

Liam rose to his feet quite gracefully, a feat few men could accomplish while their wrists were bound behind their backs. “Thank you.”

Elizabeth was disturbed by their small audience, not liking the fact that their every word was overheard, their every gesture watched. Yet she told herself she must not dismiss her advisors. To be alone with Liam O’Neill was far too dangerous. “Next time you are brought to me you must bathe first, for I am offended by the horrid sight you make, and the horrid smell,” she said frankly.

“I hope there is a next time.” He inclined his head. “I cannot tolerate being in my own body,” he said affably, meeting her gaze, “and I am sure I look like a Bridewell wretch.”

“I might send you to Bridewell,” Elizabeth said, wringing her hands. Did he think to seduce her with his too-direct gray gaze?

He lifted a brow quite arrogantly. “But only vagabonds and whores serve in that place.”

“Ahh, then perhaps I should send your strumpet there.” Elizabeth smiled grimly at the thought.

His arrogance was gone. Something not quite cool flickered in his eyes. “A mistress is hardly a whore.”

“Oh? I did not realize there was a difference,” Elizabeth said. “You care for her still?” Elizabeth fought to hide her flaming jealousy.

“She was good bedsport.”

“Where is John Hawke’s wife?”

“Upon my island.”

And Elizabeth wished them to be alone. She had to learn the truth. “Everyone, leave us,” she commanded.

Ormond had been glowering throughout, and with a final murderous glare at O’Neill, as if he had some care for his half sister, he tromped out with William Cecil. Leicester did not rush to obey. Concern plain upon his face, he came close to them. “Your Majesty,” he began in protest.

Elizabeth turned a glacial gaze upon him. God’s blood,
she had no time for Robin now! She had no time for anyone but the pirate. “You, too, my lord. I wish to speak with the renegade alone.”

“’Tis not wise,” Dudley said, flushing with anger.

“But I am queen, and if I wish to be a fool, so be it,” Elizabeth snapped.

Dudley turned on his heel, furious, and marched out.

Then Elizabeth realized that Hawke still stood by the doorway, unmoving and grim. “You too, Sir John.”

Hawke bowed, as red-faced as Leicester, but Elizabeth thought some of his coloring was due to shame. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but the pirate is a dangerous man. I do not think you should remain alone with him.” He hesitated. “And I would learn more of my wife, if I could.”

“The pirate might be a traitor, but he will not hurt me. You may learn of your wife later. Out,” she ordered Hawke.

His heels snapped together. Mouth pursed tightly, he turned and obeyed.

Elizabeth gripped her palms, which were damp now that they were alone. Her gaze fused with Liam’s. “Would you hurt me, rogue?”

He smiled softly. “No.”

Her heart, already wavering, melted. This was the Liam she knew—and was so very fond of. Oh, damn his rascal, mercenary, treacherous hide! She began to pace. “You mastered the seas many years ago, and we have always had an understanding, unspoken, but one you abided by,” she said. “You never attacked except where it did not hurt my own causes at the time, or somehow furthered them—even if those causes were highly secret.” She paused, facing him now. “Why? Why, Liam, why did you turn traitor to me?”