They were not far from Barrymore.
Liam’s hands trembled on his reins, making his mount nervous. His instincts were urging him to throw all caution to the winds. He could imagine abducting Katherine even now, and riding hell-bent for Cork and theSea Dagger. Once at sea he could not be caught. Once at Earic Island, she would be his until he commanded otherwise. No man would dare assault his island fortress, and Katherine had no protector even if one were insane enough to dare and fail.
Liam knew that he must be far more subtle, and far more clever now than before. A second abduction was the last resort. He preferred not to try the queen’s temper another time. Inadvertently he had aroused her suspicions, which he now wished to allay.
It was a miserable game he played. And in order for Liam to win, in order for him to survive, he must stay inthe queen’s good graces. With the stroke of a pen he could be deemed a traitor, his letters of marque canceled, a bounty placed upon his head. Liam did not relish the idea of being chased across the seas by men like Drake and Hawkins. He did not relish standing completely alone, although he was not so foolish nor so romantic as to think he really had a country or a queen.
How ironic, though, his recent behavior must appear. He had plundered a politically insignificant French vessel, and Liam expected those advising Elizabeth soon to realize this fact, and to wonder at where that single act was leading him. No one could suspect the truth. Not yet. And if anyone were clever enough to suspect it, there would be no proof, merely speculation.
Liam knew he must be cautious, patient, and circumspect. That he had to be more clever than ever before, if he were to outwit all the players in this particular game, if he were to win. Because if he decided to take Katherine to wife—and he was indeed finding her father’s marriage offer more and more intriguing—he must pick up the reins of her father’s fight, and then he would be moving into the very jaws of conspiracy.
No, a second abduction was probably unnecessary in any case. Liam was certain Barry was not interested in marrying an impoverished and untitled woman.
Yet Liam could not be absolutely sure. Katherine was an extraordinary woman, and Barry might lose his head and forget all about her current circumstances. No matter what happened, he could not allow them to marry. He could not allow Hugh Barry or any other man to possess Katherine. Her fate had been decided long ago, when he had first laid eyes upon her. And he, Liam O’Neill, was her fate, one way or another.
Castle Barry rose out of the forest’s treetops, standing on a small, cleared hillside somewhat above them. Liam ground down his jaw, fighting a jealousy and possessiveness he had never felt before. He glanced at Katherine. Her cheeks were flushed with anticipation; her eyes sparkled. He could imagine her running into Barry’s arms. He could imagine Barry’s lusty kiss—and Katherine’s owneager response. Liam reminded himself to go slowly, but surely. This was one battle he must not lose.
Katherine interrupted his thoughts. “Thank God there was no war here,” she said in an unsteady tone.
They rode up the road now toward the castle’s barbican, its outermost entrance, and rumbled over the lowered drawbridge. Iron gates were down, but no watchman appeared to inquire after them. Liam rode forward and found a bell cord and rang the watchtower’s bell.
The bell tolled loudly, breaking the silence of the Irish countryside, scattering pigeons from the walk above. Barrymore had been built in medieval times, no uncommon thing, and the square stone keep dominated the fortress, although other buildings had been added to it over the centuries. Yet there was no brick, nor glass, in evidence anywhere. The inner ward was dried mud, not cobbled stone. There was no sign of modern civilization; it was as if they had traveled back through time, into a world of mailed knights and tunic-clad damsels. The castle appeared to be deserted, adding to the illusion, and Liam almost expected to see the ghosts of these long-dead knights appearing in the courtyard.
Katherine looked at Liam. “’Tis most strange. Is there no one home?”
“It does not appear so,” Liam said, pleased that Hugh Barry was not in residence. “We shall inquire in the village,” he said. He nodded and began to wheel his rangy horse around, Katherine and Macgregor following, when one and all became aware of a contingent of riders approaching swiftly from the west across the flats. The group broke into a gallop, having spotted the trio at Barrymore’s front gates. Liam grabbed Katherine’s reins from her and urged their mounts across the drawbridge and to the road, where, should a fight erupt, they had room to maneuver and flee. Macgregor stayed on Katherine’s other side. He had his hand upon his pistol. Liam opened his cloak, so that he might access his rapier should the need arise.
“Who is it?” Katherine cried in fear. “Surely you do not think to fight a dozen armed men?”
Liam did not answer, watching as the riders thunderedup the road toward them. He heard Katherine gasp, and she clutched his arm. His heart seemed to sink, for he could guess who these Irishmen were. And clearly they were Irish, for all were clad in native gray mantles, many were mounted upon smaller, locally bred horses, and some of the men sported the outlawed glibs—the forelock of hair worn hanging low to hide their features. “’Tis your betrothed?” he asked.
She nodded, beaming.
Liam looked at the man who was her intended, despising him on sight. He was far younger than Liam himself, closer to Katherine’s age, and like her, he was red-haired and fair. In fact, Hugh Barry was an attractive man, far more so than average. His features were rugged but pleasing, his eyes Kerry blue. Liam gripped his rapier. Perhaps the beast in him would win this day after all.
Hugh drew his horse to an abrupt, rearing halt. “I am Lord Barry,” he declared, his gaze on Liam, not Katherine. “Declare yourself as friend or foe.”
Liam gripped the smooth, well-worn hilt of his blade. How his hand itched to do battle now. Barry was but a pup, a brave and battle-hardened one—Liam both sensed and saw that. Yet he was a pup and Liam could kill him in a matter of seconds. If he allowed the beast in his breast to run free.
He dropped his hand. “Liam O’Neill,” he began, smiling unpleasantly, but he was cut off.
“Hugh!” Katherine cried in a husky voice. “Oh, God, Hugh!” Tears spilled down her cheeks.
Liam saw, and froze.
Hugh turned to face her, perplexed.
“I truly th-thought you d-dead,” she cried.
Comprehension—and shock—transformed his expression. “Katherine? Katherine FitzGerald?”
She nodded, unmoving, unbreathing, eyes wide.
“Good God!” he cried. “Katie! Little Katie!” And then he laughed, showing strong white teeth, and a moment later he had ridden over to her and had swept her off her mount and onto his stallion and into his arms.
11
Katherine was so surprised that she clung tightly to Hugh, seated sideways on his lap, his horse moving restlessly beneath them.
