William inclined his head.
“So what do we do?” the queen asked.
“We wait,” Cecil said. “We wait and see.” But Cecil already knew what not to expect. O’Neill was far too clever to move so swiftly, to tip his hand. What Cecil didnotknow was whattoexpect.
Hawke ignored the stares he received as he strode through the palace. Some pitying, others snide. A few men, jealous of his growing influence and power, snickered at him openly. Hawke ignored them too, for otherwise he might very well skewer someone, so angry was he. And his queen would then throwhimin the Tower.
“Sir John?”
Hawke missed a stride. His heart skipped a beat. Against his will, his steps slowed.
“Sir John?” she called again.
He stopped, tensing, to face the petite form of the ladyJuliet. And then, seeing her, he forgot his own anguish and anger. She had been crying. Her lovely complexion was blotched from her weeping, her eyes and nose were red. “Lady Stratheclyde,” he said, bowing abruptly.
She pressed a wadded-up kerchief to her nose, and when she spoke, her words came in a rush. “I just want you to know that I am sorry, so sorry.”
He stared at her.
“And…I am so worried about Katherine!” Tears spilled down Juliet’s cheeks.
Hawke felt a strangely tender urge to touch her, hold her, but he ignored it. “Your concern is admirable,” he said rather harshly.
“What will happen now?”
Hawke stared at her, but this time it was not Juliet he saw, but his beautiful bride—in the arms of Liam O’Neill. And every time he saw them in his mind’s eye, together and entwined, it was not a rape he saw. God’s blood! O’Neill was a handsome rogue, with a rogue’s reputation. Despite the fact that he was Shane O’Neill’s son, Hawke knew he was no rapist. Hawke shook. Even now, undoubtedly, they were in bed. But was Katherine resisting him? He might never know. There was always the possibility that she could succeed in thwarting him.
“My lord?” Juliet said uncertainly.
Hawke jerked his attention back to her. Despite her recent tears, he could not help but remark how utterly lovely she was. “Nothing will happen now,” he said bluntly. “Her majesty has denied me troops and ships, and I have not the means to storm the damned island where he lives without her aid.”
Juliet gasped.
Hawke half bowed again. “Thank you for your concern,” he said, turning from her. But she touched his hand, halting him in his tracks. Hawke was acutely aware of her touch. Slowly he faced her.
“If it makes you feel better,” she said, blushing now, although he knew not why, “I am certain O’Neill will never hurt her. He may be a pirate, but he is also a gentleman. I have heard about his father. He is not a man like that. Not at all.”
Hawke’s expression did not change. “If he will not hurt her, then why are you so worried about her?”
Juliet’s color increased, and she could not meet his gaze. Nor could she answer.
And dismay filled him. Juliet was Katherine’s friend. What did she hide? Hawke did not have to be a wizard to guess. For he had heard the gossip too. The gossip about O’Neill and Katherine. Perhaps Katherine had confessed to Juliet some small thing about him—about them. No, O’Neill would not hurt her. Despair finally claimed him. And even if Katherine tried to remain faithful to him, O’Neill would woo her until he won her.
Katherine was awakened by the sound of a sharp knocking upon her door. She sat up, groggy, not having been able to sleep until well past midnight. Her mind cleared and she looked at the bed in which she had slept alone. It was her second night on the pirate ship—and she had not seen her captor since their one, single passionate encounter soon after they had first boarded.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and straightened her clothes, which she had slept in. Ultimately she had been forced to wear a dress which she had found in one of the trunks in his cabin; undoubtedly it had belonged to one of his mistresses. She had donned a gold silk with a leaf design and encrusted with tiny glass beads. Katherine glanced at her reflection as she passed the looking glass. Miraculously, she did not look tired. Although her hair was unbound and her head uncoiffed, in fact, she looked quite elegant, even beautiful.
Katherine opened the door, well aware that she would not find Liam on the other side, for he would hardly condescend to knock. The ship boy, Guy, greeted her. “The captain says you can come up on deck, my lady.”
Katherine glanced over her shoulder toward the porthole, and saw dusky light bathing the dark ocean. “It is but dawn,” she said.
“Aye, not even, but we are putting into Earic Island,” Guy said solemnly. “Will you come up?”
Katherine stared at Guy. “Earic Island?”
“’Tis the captain’s home.”
But she had already guessed that, yet the confirmation made her heart sink. As she followed the boy out of the cabin, she tried to fathom why he dwelled in a place named Earic Island. Certainly he had not coined the name. For “Earic” was the Gaelic term for blood money—the money a murderer paid to the family of the man he had killed. Blood money was an ancient practice—one that condoned murder and legitimized it.
