“What?”Edward had been stunned.
“Just in case…” Gerald stared savagely. “They’ll only have you to turn to. Promise me, make it an oath. You’ll see to their welfare, you won’t let them starve. And…” He hesitated. “And you’ll find her another husband, a good, decent man.”
By then, his own wife had died several months before in childbirth, his second daughter not surviving, either. He was still grieving, and he hadn’t even dreamed of what the future held. “Stay out of the rebellion,” he ordered. “You have a fine family, a fine wife, and they need you alive.”
“My country needs me,” Gerald retorted. “Promise me, Edward!”
He had promised, but it wasn’t necessary, because he would have moved heaven and earth, anyway, to protect Mary and the children.
It had been an incredible stroke of a terrible fate—his own wife dying and then Gerald murdered by the British. But now, almost fifteen years later, having attained a personal happiness and a joy he had never dreamed possible, he could not imagine his life without Mary as his wife. He stroked her hair again and murmured, “We will send her back to Eastleigh. I’ll arrange it on the morrow.”
“No!” Abruptly Mary sat up, her eyes wide.
“No? Darling, Devlin has kept her against her will,” he said gently, refusing to actually call Virginia Hughes either a prisoner or a hostage. He and Sean had chosen their words around her very carefully.
“Devlin abducted her and holds her hostage,” Mary said flatly. “You need not think to mince words around me now!”
He smiled grimly and squeezed her hand. “I only wish to spare you any further hurt,” he said.
“I know,” she cried. “But what about Virginia? Should she not be spared any further hurt? Should she not havejustice?”
He searched her blue eyes. “What do you have in mind?”
“Devlin will do what is right,” she said flatly. “He is going to fix this in the only possible way.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HE SQUINTED INTO THE GRAYday.
Ahead of him the country road from Limerick wound away, disappearing into the now-harvested fields and rolling hills, crisscrossed with stone walls. For one moment he stared, and as he sat his mount, he was very, very careful not to allow any feeling to creep over him. He succeeded. This time, there was no warmth within him in coming home. It was merely another mission he must accomplish.
Devlin spurred the liveried gelding into a canter, well aware that around the next bend he would be able to see his fields, his pastures, his land. But it didn’t matter. He had an iron grasp on himself—he had never been more in control.
He rounded the bend and finally took some small, idle pleasure in the sight of the harvested fields that lay bare and brown ahead of him. As he passed the first farmhouse, he noted, almost indifferently, that McCarthy must have had done well that year—his flock of sheep seemed twice the size and his house had been recently whitewashed.
A stone wall cut across the field. Devlin rode his mount at it, and when the animal wavered, he spurred him on, clamping hard with both legs. The gelding took the wall, landing roughly. When he’d recovered his stride, Devlin gave the animal a pat for his courage. The skies finally parted and a light drizzle began.
A field lay ahead, the earth being turned over by a laborer. Devlin saw two horses grazing by its border and he instantly scanned the area for the riders. When saw two figures standing by the edge of a stream, apparently in conversation, he halted his horse abruptly. His heart quickened but he ignored it. One of the figures was small enough to be a child—or a very petite woman—and he knew beyond any doubt who she was.
He was grim. His legs tightened so hard around the horse that the animal shot forward. Instantly he jerked to a halt, causing the gelding to rear. He could not look away from his brother and Virginia.
He reminded himself that he controlled his men, his ship, the enemy. That he had done so for a good ten years, and never more effectively than this past summer and autumn, while patrolling the coast of Spain, while guarding the Straits. His heart mocked him, hammering hard and fast.
He had also controlled his thoughts. He had not thought about anything other than his mission, his ship, his men and the enemy in the course of the past five months. With an iron fist, he’d beaten each and every unwanted thought back into the shadows of the past, where they belonged.
He had come back for one reason and one reason only, and he had come back knowing he was in absolute self-control.
He told himself, very firmly, that he did not care what they were discussing. Let them debate the merits of the Irish soil. He held the impatient gelding at a halt, continuing to stare.
They were too far away for him to make out their features, their expressions or anything other than the fact that Sean’s shirt was white, his boots black, and that Virginia also wore pale britches and knee-high riding boots. Her hair seemed to be pulled back—left loose or braided, he could not be sure—but the mass of dark hair fell down her back. He strained, looking for some telltale sign of any pregnancy, but at this distance, it was simply impossible to tell.
His mouth twisted grimly. The insane attraction lay in the past, he felt certain. When they came face-to-face he would feel no differently toward her than he did Elizabeth or Fiona or any other woman. He was through with thinking—he was wasting his time—there was nothing more to think about.
He whirled the bay and galloped to Askeaton.
“IT’S A SECRET RECIPE,”Virginia said, smiling, as they walked into the house. “Not my mother’s, but Tillie’s great-grandmother.”
“Tillie, your best friend, the slave?” Sean asked, following. He was carrying a dozen ears of corn.
