Elizabeth grew fierce. “Wemustcapture him this spring! We cannot bear another year of war with that miserable man! Ihatehaving 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 onceloved.
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. Forsurely 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 moment. 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.
