“Gerald FitzGerald.”
Liam tensed. The man pulled a sealed parchment from under his cloak, handing it to him. Liam hesitated, then stood, moving to the fire. Trying not to display his blazing curiosity, he slowly opened the letter. A moment later, as he read, his eyes widened—and his face turned white with shock.
Katherine FitzGerald was betrothed to Sir John Hawke, and would be wed at St. Paul’s on the fifteenth day of April. The Queen had even dowered her with a small but fine estate in Kent.
Liam began to turn red. Fury overwhelmed him. “What goddamned day is this?” he roared.
Macgregor laid the pipes aside. “’Tis the thirtieth of March,” he said.
Liam fought for control. But he could not stop the rage that boiled in his veins as he imagined Katherine in another man’s arms, as another man’s wife. He shook with it. But when he spoke, his voice was ice-cold. “We go to London,” he said calmly, his tone belying the fact that the beast within him had been set free. “Immediately.”
But the snowstorm delayed their departure. For twelve full days.
London, April 15, 1571
The church bells tolled.
The great bells of St. Paul’s Cathedral rang and rang and rang yet again. The street before the cathedral was highly congested. Queued in the avenue were the numerous coaches and chariots that awaited the noblemen and noblewomen attending the nuptials inside. Dozens of mounted, liveried outriders milled about as well. And hundreds of Londoners lined the sidewalks outside the soaring cathedral, yeomen and gentry alike. A wedding of the nobility was a great event, and curious they were to see the couple who had just married.
The bride and groom finally appeared. The crowd espied the groom first and burst into applause—some of thewomen swooning. Sir John Hawke wore his scarlet-and-gold uniform, his great ceremonial sword, high black boots, and a plumed hat. Murmurs began, turning to rapid, hushed whispers. The bride was a vision as lovely as the groom was dashing. Her pearl-seeded white velvet gown drew the envy of many a maid, especially as it revealed the bride’s ideal form. But it was her face that drew actual gasps, from both men and women alike, because it was so utterly lovely, oval shaped with high cheekbones and full lips. It was her face that made the men envy the groom and think lecherous thoughts.
They threw seeds at the couple, wishing them a fertile and fruitful union. It was not until the couple had ascended into a waiting coach, drawn by two matched white horses, that one and all remarked that neither the bride nor groom had been smiling. How very strange that was.
The fire leapt in the granite hearth, warming up the linenfold, wood-paneled master bedroom at Barby Hall. Fresh, sweet rushes were strewn about the oak floors. A four-poster bed, not canopied but massive nevertheless, stood in the chamber’s center, covered with blue-and-gold velvet and furs. The coverings had been turned aside.
Katherine’s heart was beating wildly. The exhaustion she had felt after the strain and stress of the wedding and the celebration at Richmond Palace was gone. Now she was nervous. Now she was John Hawke’s wife. Oh, God. Katherine closed her eyes as Helen helped her out of her dress and undergarments.
She thought of her father, who had refused to attend her wedding, sending her a private missive instead, one filled with an icy cold reprimand. She thought of the golden pirate, even though she did not want to think of him at all. Now, on her wedding night, she recalled his searing kisses, which she should have never enjoyed.
Her heart beat like a drum.What had she done?The thought crept unwanted into her mind. It angered Katherine. It was too late, she told herself sternly, for doubts or misgivings. After all, she was almost certain that she loved John Hawke.
And she was happy, she was. This was all that she had dreamed of, all that she wanted—life was finally giving her due: respectability and gentility, and soon, she prayed, her first baby.
Katherine inhaled, going to the fire to warm her cold hands before it. She was married; it was for the best. And tonight was her wedding night. She would welcome her husband with open arms. Thank God she had a lusty nature. In all probability, she would enjoy herself—or so she hoped.
Helen had unpinned Katherine’s wild red hair and it flowed to her waist. “There, mistress, you are lovely. Sir John will be most enamored this night.”
Katherine thought of John, who had not smiled at her even once all day. Had he been afflicted with nerves, as most grooms were? Or with doubt? Suddenly she thought of Juliet, who would soon be forced to wed a stranger. Juliet had attended the wedding with her uncle, and Katherine had seen the way she’d regarded John. An inane thought occurred to Katherine—that Juliet should be standing in her place right now, Juliet should be John Hawke’s bride, awaiting him on their wedding night.
Katherine began to shake, aghast with such thoughts.Everything will be fine, she told herself, inhaling hard, beginning to perspire—once we spend this night together.
And even if everything were not all right, it did not matter. She was John’s wife, both under law and with God’s sanction—until death parted them.
Helen left. Katherine was alone. She went to the fire again, hoping to warm her nearly naked body, clad as she was in a completely sheer wisp of ivory silk that revealed every single curve she possessed. A gown meant to entice. Katherine wished she had chosen a more modest gown now. Then she reminded herself that she wanted a baby—therefore, she must entice her new husband to her bed.
She heard them coming up the stairs. Katherine froze. John’s family and closest retainers had accompanied them to Barby for more festivities. Her heart began to pound. Katherine stared at the door, listening to John’s comrades shouting at him, offering him lewd advice and knowingencouragement. Katherine shuddered. Some primitive instinct urged her to run to the bed and hide there, but she knew such an impulse was foolish, and she would not give in to it.
The door was opened and John appeared, and before he shut it, Katherine glimpsed some dozen inebriated men behind him—men who stared at her and shouted even more ribald comments upon seeing her. Katherine blanched, folding her arms over her breasts, unable to move now. John’s eyes widened the instant that he saw her. A moment later he turned, swore savagely, and slammed the bedroom door closed behind him in the faces of his drunken, lecherous friends.
He faced her, unmoving. He wore but hose and a tunic that was mostly unlaced. His eyes were glittering now, a look Katherine recognized well.
Katherine began to blush even though she was his wife. John continued to stare. She managed a small smile, and despite how chilled she now felt, dropped her arms to her sides. She met John’s gaze again, saw that he gazed at her breasts, saw his glance sweeping lower, to the joining of her thighs. A wild thought ran through her mind—he will not be thinking about Juliet this night.
And she was appalled with herself. “John,” she began, “would you like some wine?”
Before he could respond there was a great crashing noise from downstairs. John had begun to walk toward her and he froze. From below, a man screamed. An instant later swords began to clash and clang violently, the sounds unmistakable.
And the sounds grew louder, footsteps sounding as men rushed up the stairs.
