She glared at him as ifhehad betrayed her love and trust, then yanked her reins free of Macgregor. Liam understood what she intended instantly. As she sawed on thereins, whirling her mount around while viciously kicking the mare’s sides with her heels, Liam lunged for the bridle.
He missed. The mare took off. Katherine was galloping through the front gate as Liam jumped into his own saddle with a curse.
Even though her actions irritated him, he could not help but admire her as he quickly drew abreast of her, their mounts’ hooves clattering loudly upon the road. Reaching down, he caught her mare’s bridle, and both horses slowed from their headlong gallop to an uneven trot. Katherine uttered a strangled, angry cry.
He stared at her. Dawn was breaking behind her and her hair, long since free of its coif, was set aflame by the rising sun. Her beauty held him entranced. Her spirit amazed him. How unusual she was. How she tempted him, even now. His loins throbbed at the thought of what it would be like to mount and then tame such a woman.
Liam urged his stallion up against her gelding, his knee touching hers. “I am not going to allow you to escape, Katherine.”
She was pale and furious, and still tearful. “But I can try!”
Not trusting her, Liam took the lead line firmly in hand. With her emotions running so wild, she might very well try to escape him again. He counted on the fact that, later, when she was calm, she would become reasonable, finally recognizing that she had no choice but to remain with him.
Yet a deep sense of guilt he had never felt before nagged at him. For keeping her against her will. No woman had ever resisted him before. He glanced at Katherine as they galloped across the London Bridge, past wagons and carts, drays and mules. He had never tried to seduce a virgin before.
He thought of Hugh Barry. Her betrothed, who yet lived. Savage emotion rose up in Liam, hot and hard. He most certainly was not freeing her so she could return to him.
He had wanted her from the moment he had first seen her—and never had he been so patient in his life. Hewould take her sooner or later—no matter that Hugh Barry lived. He was her protector now. He alone.
She turned her gaze to his and lifted her chin. Her glare was defiant. A challenge was definitely there. She intended to fight him until the end. Liam’s admiration for her grew.
But her challenge was dangerous. She was dangerous. He must somehow pick up the gauntlet she threw at him, yet he could not beat her down as he would a real enemy. He must tame her, seduce her, win her.
For he was not like his father, as Gerald FitzGerald had seen. Shane O’Neill would have already used the girl, mercilessly, and by now would have tired of her and tossed her to his men. Liam knew damn well that he was not like his father at all, despite the fact that the comparison was ofttimes made. Still, damnably, he felt qualms. And Shane O’Neill had never felt a single qualm in his life.
But there was no place for a conscience in his life. Men who survived by wit and will, by sword and cannon, did so because of an utter lack of conscience. His was a life of constant warfare. Victory meant survival. And to the victors went the spoils—and Katherine FitzGerald was another prize in a long line of prizes he had won. But not just any prize—oh no.
Gerald FitzGerald’s offer to give Katherine to him in marriage came back to him, as cruelly teasing as those highborn British youths had been when he was a boy at court. Good God. He did not need a wife. He did not need sons. In fact, he was determined to remain childless. And the mockery of his life would end with him. He would not bequeath it—or any anguish—to a son.
Besides, too well, he recalled her horror when Gerald had offered her to him as his bride.
Still, even though he did not need a wife, even though he refused to have children, Liam found the thought of taking Katherine FitzGerald as his bride vastly tempting. It was unthinkable that a man like him might wed with such a woman.
Liam comforted himself with cynicism. How eagerly impotence sought an alliance with power, he thought. FitzGerald, once a great earl, was now eager to give his daughter in wedlock to Shane O’Neill’s son.
Liam wondered what Gerald hoped to gain by making him his son-in-law. Did Gerald hope to use him to escape Southwark as he had tried to use that other sea captain who had turned Judas on him two years ago? Liam doubted it. Only a fool made the same mistake twice. In all likelihood, Gerald sought far more than escape from his prison.
Did he think to harness Liam’s control of the seas he sailed? To undo his cousin, FitzMaurice? Liam could easily prey upon those Spanish and French ships who brought the rebel Irish leader his victuals and supplies. But that alone could not help FitzGerald, who was a prisoner in exile, who had lost Desmond forever. That would but weaken FitzMaurice, making him ripe for capture by the queen’s men.
What did Gerald hope to gain from an alliance with the man the world had labeled the Master of the Seas?
A possibility began to tease Liam. He straightened in his saddle, shot Katherine another, but sharper, look. There was no rush, he reminded himself. Katherine was his, and should he dare to think the unthinkable, to do the undoable, a mistress could become a wife easily enough.
Despite his intentions to remain as cold as stone, to remain conscienceless, guilt nagged at him. He stole another glance at Katherine. He had her best interests at heart, did he not? Otherwise, she would return to Ireland to beg for bread, no different from the other homeless victims of the wars there. She needed his protection, she needed him. And in time, she would be as pleased with him as his other women had been. He would make sure of it. He would satisfy her in bed, and out of it, he would shower her with more wealth than she had ever seen.
Their gazes collided and held. Her defiance remained strong. Animosity and resentment made her green gaze glitter brilliantly. They were leaving Londontown behind them now, and Liam felt a flaring of pity for his captive that he could not rein in, that he could not control. His heart seemed to lurch with it, the feeling sickening. Toowell, he recalled what it was like to have everything taken away from oneself, to be powerless, an innocent, unwilling victim of those in power, in absolute control. As he himself had been on that day sixteen years ago when Shane O’Neill had so abruptly appeared in his life, changing it forever.
Essex, 1555
The boy heard them shouting and he crept silently to the window, crouching below it. He realized that his mother was weeping, and his fear intensified. He lifted his head to peer outside.
He gasped.
Some dozen men sat a dozen horses in the small yard outside their home. They were all big men, wearing shaggy bearskins and old iron shields upon their backs, their heads shaved, huge swords strapped to their sides. Beneath the fur cloaks they all wore coarse woolen tunics, and their legs and feet were bare. The boy stared. He had never seen such strange and savage men before.
“You cannot do this, Shane!” his mother cried.
The boy glanced at his mother. Mary Stanley was a fair woman with fine, delicate features. She was elegant of bearing and dress, but now her gray eyes were wide with fear. The boy cried out as the huge, shaggy-haired stranger facing her raised his arm upward. “Enough, woman!” Shane shouted. And he hit her.
