But the queen did not answer—did not even hear her. She stared at Katherine, gasping.
And suddenly Katherine realized that she had forgotten to hold her cloak together when she rose to her feet, andthat now it hung loosely open about her—revealing her pregnancy. She blanched.
Elizabeth’s wide gaze fixed upon Katherine’s rounded abdomen. “You are with child. I should have guessed. It would have been far more astounding had O’Neill proved himself less than a man.”
Katherine had pulled her cloak together instinctively.
Then the queen said, “It ishischild?”
Katherine gasped. “Yes!”
“When is the child due?” Elizabeth demanded. As unfriendly as before.
“In July.”
“Shameless—you are shameless, as I said. And I will not have a slut here—strutting about my court carrying a bastard babe!”
Katherine fought despair—and fought the impulse to shout that her child was no bastard. “You were Mary Stanley’s friend.”
“I was not a queen then,” Elizabeth snapped.
And Katherine knew she had lost. When, for just a moment, it had seemed as if she might win.
“The child complicates matters,” Elizabeth said darkly. “Liam never mentioned any child.”
“He does not know.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. Then she smiled slightly, to herself.
Katherine did not care for her expression, and unease claimed her. “Your Majesty, will you not spare Liam so that he might know his own son?”
Elizabeth’s gaze was piercing, her laugh was cold. “If I choose to spare that rogue, my reason will have naught to do with his bastard babe.” Then her gaze narrowed. “Is it a son? Have the astrologers said so?”
“I have not tried to determine the babe’s sex,” Katherine said slowly.
“You will see an astrologer immediately,” Elizabeth said. “I want to know if your bear Liam a son.”
Katherine tried to fathom why. The queen was devious, what did she plan? Katherine could not decide.
Then the queen said, “Does John Hawke know yet?”
Katherine grew rigid. “No.”
The queen smiled again. “Then we must summon him. For he must be told.”
Dismay swept through Katherine. John Hawke had been the very last of her concerns—but suddenly he was the most immediate.
“Enter, Sir John,” the queen commanded.
Katherine stiffened as Hawke walked into the chamber, his gaze not on Elizabeth, but on her. He stared at her swollen stomach, which she made no attempt to hide. His own healthy color had faded.
Katherine desperately wished that she had had time to meet with him privately, to break the news gently, to learn what his real thoughts were. This time she refused to meet his gaze. She stared at his buckled shoes. Her pulse raced so forcefully that she felt faint.
“Look at me, Katherine,” Sir John said.
Katherine had no choice but to obey. His mouth was turned down, in bitterness and distaste. “I am sorry,” she said unsteadily. She did not think her fragile nerves could stand too much more.
“Tell me one thing,” John said as shakily. “Tell me that you regret every moment you have spent in his arms—in his bed.”
