12
Liam stared after Katherine. Despite the fact that he had just won a major victory—by Hugh’s default—and he was most definitely pleased with Hugh’s rejection of Katherine, he was concerned for her. But he did not chase after her. The impulse was there, but he resisted it.
Katherine held him in no higher regard than she now held Hugh, and maybe she liked him even less. Once she had loved Hugh, their history together was long and intimate, a shared history no man could undo; perhaps, despite his rejection, which was purely political, she still cherished him. He and Katherine, on the other hand, shared no past, and shared few memories—and those were only memories of her abduction and the moments she had unwillingly passed in his bed.
Liam heard Hugh coming down the stairs and he turned. He had been right. Hugh had rejected Katherine. Although he would not have done so if he had been in Hugh’s place, Hugh had acted as any nobleman would. Landed lords did not marry penniless beggars, ’twas as simple as that.
Hugh’s gaze met and held his. Liam stared back. He understood the other man exactly. Hugh would not marry Katherine, not in her current circumstances, but he was determined to take her as his mistress. They had a great deal in common.
As two mighty elk might lock horns, their gazes fused for many moments, hostile and determined. The challenge was clear and accepted by both men. Only one of themwould succeed in winning Katherine. Liam turned and walked back to the dining table. Hugh followed and refilled both their mugs with bitter beer.
“So, O’Neill, was Katie right—or wrong? Do you traffic with the queen or not?” Hugh asked.
Liam sipped the beer. How he preferred hearty red French wine. “And what concern is it to you?”
“I am not pleased to entertain an Englishman in my home.”
“Then think of me as Irish.”
Hugh stared. “I would like to think of you as Irish, but I am wary of making such a judgment.”
Liam merely smiled, waiting to see where Hugh would lead, but already he guessed his course.
Hugh asked, “Are you a heretic?”
Liam smiled, not pleasantly. “I am a Protestant.”
“Then you do follow yourProtestantqueen.”
Liam noted that Hugh did not dare label Elizabeth a heretic as other papists did. “I follow the winds of fortune.”
Hugh now smiled. “So you are loyal neither to God nor queen.”
Liam smiled again. His eyes gleamed. “And do you wish to offer me a great fortune, Lord Barry?”
Barry smiled. “’Tis not every day that the Master of the Seas comes calling at my home. Would I not take advantage, I would be the greatest fool.”
“I have not yet judged you fool or wizard,” Liam said easily. “Perhaps your offer will tip the scales.”
Barry stared. “This country is at war.”
“As all children know.”
“The Spanish saw the Irish people through the last winter. ’Twas bitterly cold. Without their supplies, many more would have died than the hundreds who did.”
Liam drummed his fingers upon the table. “Do you think to move me with pity? I have no pity—not for anyone.”
Hugh snorted. “So ’tis said. ’Tis said you prey without mercy upon the many nations who sail the high seas. That no one can escape you if you determine to set chase. ’Tiswell-known, also, that you seem to prefer Spanish booty to all other prizes.”
Liam’s gaze was hooded. He shrugged. “You mistake me. Treasure is treasure, and I care not who the holder of it is.”
Barry leaned forward. “We can use you, O’Neill.”
“We?”
Barry’s jaw clenched. “FitzMaurice and the other great lords who fight to rid our land of the English—of the queen.”
“You ask me to throw my lot in with a bunch of papist traitors?” Liam asked calmly, one brow lifted.
