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 theSea Daggerand 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. Forsetting 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.
