His eyes widened with more disbelief.
She decided she had gone too far. She backed up. “But you are only heartless because of the terrible circumstance of your father’s murder, which you unfortunately witnessed. That would scar anyone, Devlin,” she cried in a rush. “But I understand you now, I do!”
His gray eyes huge and disbelieving, he leaned over her. “If you are such an expert on my character, Virginia, then you will know that you expect more from me than I can ever give. I sincerely hope that you will return to Askeaton after your ransom, that you will marry Sean—who loves you—and that the past will be forever buried, where it belongs.” He straightened. “Red!” he barked. “Escort Miss Hughes below.”
The first mate materialized from the deck below.
“No!” She stood her ground, refusing to move, although a terrible dismay and hurt claimed her and she doubted herself, in spite of the conviction with which she spoke. Because she wished to save this man, but feared it was impossible. “I understand now! I understand your anger toward my uncle, your obsession with revenge! No matter what you say and do, I am not the enemy, I am your friend!”
Very grimly, Devlin said, “Take her below.”
“Aye aye, sir. Miss Hughes? Captain says—”
“I am not afraid of you, Devlin O’Neill,” she flung, cutting the sailor off. “But apparently, you are very afraid of me.”
He had placed his broad back squarely to her; now he whirled. “Why do you think to provoke me?” He leaned close, actually leaving the helm, which Red seized with a gasp of horror. “I suggest you rethink your position, Virginia, because you had damned well better be afraid of me.”
“I’m not,” she lied, because now her heart was slamming in fear. “I’m just sorry, I am so sorry about your father, and that’s all I wanted to say!”
Devlin took her arm and handed her over to Red. “Get her off of my quarterdeck,” he said.
October 29, 1812
Eastleigh Hall, the south of Hampshire
WILLIAMHUGHES, LORDSTUCKEY,heir to the earldom of Eastleigh, strode into his father’s suite of rooms without knocking. He was a man in his mid-thirties, already a bit thick in the middle, dressed in a fine scarlet coat, britches and stockings. He wore a number of rings, his hair was thick and black and his attractive face was flushed. “Father!” he demanded, his pale blue eyes flashing. He had a wife whom he did not care much for and two children whom he adored.
The Earl of Eastleigh, Harold Hughes, had once looked exactly like his son. Now he was a very heavy man, hugely overweight, and because of it—and his penchant for tobacco—his complexion was distinctly pasty. He wore his gray hair pulled tightly back, his sideburns thick and long. At first glance, he seemed a well-dressed and wealthy man. Only a second glance revealed that his once-fine gold velvet frock coat was tired and worn. Only a second glance showed that his britches boasted several stains that the laundress could not remove, that his stockings were carefully turned so as to not reveal the beginning of a fine run or two. His patent shoes gleamed but were heavily scratched, the soles so thin a hole might soon be in the making.
Eastleigh sat at the desk in the sitting room that adjoined the master bedroom and William could not imagine what he was penning that was so important. William ran the estate—or what was left of it—along with the steward, Harris. Any regrets to be proffered due to the social engagements his father refused to attend fell to his wife. His father looked up, setting his quill aside.
“Father!” William paused beside the desk and with some disgust, he saw that his father was composing a letter to a male friend, and the subject was horse racing.
Eastleigh clasped his hands calmly in front of his face. “You seem upset, William. Do you bring me poor tidings?”
William was furious. They hovered on the brink of real destitution because of a single man—and he did not know why Sir Captain Devlin O’Neill had decided to bring the Hughes family down. But last month they had received an absurd letter from the man. He claimed to have William’s American cousin at his home in Ireland, as hisguest.Apparently he had taken her off theAmericanaas it foundered, saving her life. “As graceful as my hospitality shall be, the time soon comes when Miss Hughes shall wish to go forth to meet her British family,” he had written. “I am certain that such a reunion can be arranged to all parties’ satisfaction.”
William had no clue as to what that odd statement meant. His father had read the note, torn it up and put the pieces calmly in the fire. He had been utterly dismissive and refused to discuss the subject at all. In fact, he never discussed anything having to do with O’Neill, not since he had been forced to sell the man their Greenwich home.
“TheDefiancehas just sailed into Southampton port, Father, with that lunatic O’Neill. I can only assume he has come to visit his new country home! What if he thinks to stay in residence for a while, with Wideacre but miles from Eastleigh?”
Eastleigh stood and laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “He has every right to reside at Wideacre, if that is what he wishes to do.”
Impatiently, William tore free and paced. “Goddamn it! I knew it was only a matter of time before that scum of the earth would appear here, to taunt us beneath our very nose! He must intend to take up residence at Wideacre. Damn those stupid fools at the Admiralty! Damn them for letting him off the hook again! I do not understand how this hearing failed—Tom swore it would not!”
Eastleigh folded his hands in front of him. “I don’t understand why you are so upset. It is not our affair if he resides so close to us.”
William whirled in disbelief. “The man stole our home in Greenwich! He lives there like a goddamned king! He stole Tom’s mistress and flung it in his face! I happen to know that the countess—” He stopped.
“The countess what?” Eastleigh asked mildly, his brows lifted.
William stared, trembling with his rage. Then he drew himself up stiffly, his mouth pursed. He had discovered a year ago that his stepmother was having an affair with the man he so hated. It was beyond belief and he had been outraged, enough so to confront her about it. She had denied the entire affair, but he had managed to hire a spy to confirm what he had already guessed. He didn’t know why that, at every turn, the goddamned pirate—and that was what he was, a pirate, not a naval captain—was always there, a huge thorn in his side. It was as if O’Neill were an avowed enemy of the Hughes family, but that, of course, made no sense.
And what did that insane letter mean?
William grimaced. “Nothing,” he said. “Have you forgotten that absurd letter?” he said more calmly.
“Of course not. Perhaps he thinks to bring my brother’s daughter to our doorstep? If she is alive, if she truly lives and did not drown, we are indebted to him for saving her, are we not?”
