“Clearly,” Elizabeth said, her voice shaking, “Liam O’Neill has not a loyal bone in his body, nor a loyal thought in his head.”
Elizabeth shoved herself to her feet, welcoming the rage. “He is every bit a whoreson pirate, a bloody murderer, and loyal to no one but himself. He is a traitor to the Crown, a traitor to Us.”
Perrot snorted in agreement. Neither Cecil nor Tom moved.
“I want his head,” the queen said.
Perrot moved to stand before her. “Put a price on his head. Send Drake after him, or Frobisher. O’Neill is good, but Drake could bring him in.”
Elizabeth swallowed, licked her lips, and could not restrain a shudder at the thought of setting her greatest seaman after Liam O’Neill. Who would win in such a fight? Perhaps, in the ensuing battle, she would lose everyone. The thought was distressing.
Elizabeth closed her eyes. It did not matter. She had to capture her golden pirate, capture him and try him for treason. And then…he would hang, a fate he more than deserved.
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “You are right, Sir John. Fifty thousand pounds will be the reward I give to anyone who brings me Liam O’Neill.”
Cecil’s eyes widened. “Our budget is already strained, Your Majesty,” he murmured in warning.
“I do not care,” she cried. She would worry about the damned treasury another time. “I want his head!” Then she imagined his golden head impaled on an iron pike. Her stomach grew queasy. “I want him alive,” she stated harshly. For the woman who lived and breathed and dreamed inside the queen must confront him privately, make him explain his actions—for surely there would be some explanation for these new foul deeds.
And then a new thought occurred to her. Elizabeth froze. She wanted his head—but so did another man, a man whose motivation would be far greater than greed. A man whose motivation was revenge, a man who even now harbored a deep and dark and personal fury against Liam O’Neill. Surely such a man could bring her the Master of the Seas.
“Send me John Hawke!” she cried.
Juliet pulled up her filly. The horse was but three years old, hardly broken, and she danced about, yet Juliet sat her as she might a rocking chair. She had been riding upon the moors since she was a small child, and it was second nature to her.
She had halted her mount upon a rise and below her lay Hawkehurst. The stone manor had been built some centuries earlier, and although some might have called it run-down and dilapidated, Juliet thought it charming, far more so than her own home, which was so gaudy with itstowers and turrets and stained glass windows. She swallowed. She told herself that, being Katherine’s friend, there was nothing wrong with her going to the manor to visit John Hawke. She had just learned from Thurlstone’s steward that he had arrived at his home yesterday afternoon.
Yet deep inside herself, she was aware that she lied to herself, that it was wrong to visit him—wrong and dangerous.
Juliet forced her thoughts away. Hawke was her best friend’s husband. The last time she had seen him he had been consumed with rage over Katherine’s abduction. Juliet wondered what his mood would be this time. Did he grieve? Had he heard from her in all this time? Over the months, Juliet had thought frequently about Katherine and Hawke.
Juliet urged the frisky chestnut filly down the slope. The young mare broke into a canter. Juliet became increasingly anxious as she approached Hawkehurst’s stone entry way. She should turn around, go away, pretend she had never met him, pretend she did not even know of his existence. The filly clattered onto cobbled stone, through the tunneled entrance, and into the circular courtyard.
Juliet pulled the mare to a prancing halt. She made no effort to dismount. Her pulse was thundering now. She should not have come. She should gallop home. No one had espied her yet. She could still leave. The filly continued to dance, moving in small circles now, pirouetting as if highly trained. And the weathered and heavy front door of the manor opened, Hawke appearing on the threshold there.
Juliet’s gaze went to his immediately. Dear God, she had forgotten how dark he was, how imposing. She had forgotten that he frightened her somewhat.
And she had forgotten just how handsome he was, as well.
He did not smile. He moved forward quickly, clad not in his crimson uniform, but in a plain tunic and a worn leather jerkin, in equally worn breeches and riding boots. He gripped the filly’s bridle, instantly restraining her. His gaze caught hers again.
Juliet felt herself coloring. She reminded herself that he did not know—could not know—anything about her. He could not know her most secret thoughts. He could not know about the shameful dreams that came to her at night.
Nor could he know how carefully she had dressed for this occasion. Juliet had rejected one gown after another that morning, finally choosing a particularly lavish and beautiful taffeta, one whose dark green color enhanced her own ivory coloring and striking dark hair. The gown was richly trimmed with fur, with a matching cloak. John Hawke did not seem to notice how the fashion suited her. His blue gaze remained solely upon her face.
“Good day, Lady Stratheclyde. This is a surprise.” He spoke curtly.
Juliet swallowed nervously. She should not have come. Not after all those terrible dreams, in which John Hawke, her best friend’s husband, kissed her in the most shocking manner. Juliet could feel how high her color was. “I had heard you were in residence,” she managed, but her tone was barely audible and she cleared her throat.
Hawke stared at her.
Juliet licked her lips. “I h-hope you do not mind that I have come to call,” she managed.
His jaw was clenched. He did not appear pleased. His next words confirmed it. “In fact, I have great matters to attend to.”
She froze. He had just made it clear that he had no interest in speaking with her. Juliet was hurt to the quick. So he would not see the tears that welled in her eyes, she looked down, fumbling with her reins. If only she hadn’t come.
He muttered something to himself, and then his strong hands were on her waist and he was lifting her abruptly from her mount. Juliet could not breathe, paralyzed by his touch.
