The Prize Read online

  Praise for

  BRENDA JOYCE

  and her de Warenne dynasty

  The Prize

  “Joyce writes lush stories with larger-than-life characters and a depth of sensuality and emotion that touches chords within the reader and keeps them coming back for more.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  The Masquerade

  “Jane Austen aficionados will delve happily into heroine Elizabeth ‘Lizzie’ Fitzgerald’s family…. Joyce’s tale of the dangers and delights of passion fulfilled will enchant those who like their reads long and rich.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A passionate tale of two lovers caught up in a web of secrets, deceptions, and lies. Readers who love the bold historicals by Rosemary Rogers and Kathleen Woodiwiss will find much to savor here.”

  —Booklist

  “An intensely emotional and engrossing romance where love overcomes deceit, scandal and pride…an intelligent love story with smart, appealing and strong characters. Readers will savor this latest from a grand mistress of the genre.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  The Stolen Bride

  “Joyce’s characters carry considerable emotional weight, which keeps this hefty entry absorbing, and her fast-paced story keeps the pages turning.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A powerfully executed romance overflowing with the strength of prose, high degree of sensuality and emotional intensity we expect from Joyce. A ‘keeper’ for sure.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  A Lady at Last

  “Romance veteran Joyce brings her keen sense of humor and storytelling prowess to bear on her witty, fully formed characters.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  A “classic Pygmalion tale with an extra soupçon of eroticism.”

  —Booklist

  “A warm, wonderfully sensual feast about the joys and pains of falling in love. Joyce breathes life into extraordinary characters—from her sprightly Cinderella heroine and roguish hero to everyone in between—then sets them in the glittering Regency, where anything can happen.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  The Perfect Bride

  “Another first-rate Regency, featuring multidimensional protagonists and sweeping drama…. Entirely fluff-free, Joyce’s tight plot and vivid cast combine for a romance that’s just about perfect.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Truly a stirring story with wonderfully etched characters, Joyce’s latest is Regency romance at its best.”

  —Booklist

  “Joyce’s latest is a piece of perfection as she meticulously crafts a tender and emotionally powerful love story. Passion and pain erupt from the pages and flow straight into your heart. You won’t forget this beautifully rendered love story of lost souls and redemption.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  A Dangerous Love

  “The latest de Warenne novel is pure Joyce with its trademark blend of searing sensuality, wild escapades and unforgettable characters. You’ll find warmth and romance alongside intense emotions and powerful relationships. It’s a story you won’t easily forget.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews

  BRENDA JOYCE

  NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  the Prize

  This one’s for Aaron Priest and Lucy Childs

  The best team in town! Thanks for getting me back

  on track and where I belong—writing about bygone

  times, alpha men and the women who dare to brave

  all to love them….

  Also by New York Times bestselling author

  BRENDA JOYCE

  The de Warenne dynasty

  A Dangerous Love

  The Perfect Bride

  A Lady at Last

  The Stolen Bride

  The Masquerade

  The Masters of Time

  Dark Embrace

  Dark Rival

  Dark Seduction

  Watch for

  Dark Victory

  March 2009

  and

  Dark Lover

  August 2009

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE: THE CAPTIVE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  PART TWO: THE BARGAIN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  PART THREE: THE BRIDE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  July 5, 1798

  The south of Ireland near Askeaton Castle

  GERALD O’NEILL RUSHED INTO the manor house, his once-white shirt crimson, his tan britches and navy coat equally stained. Blood marred his cheek, matted his whiskers. An open gash on his head was bleeding and so were the cuts on his knuckles. His heart beat with alarming force and even now the sounds of battle, the cries of imminent death, rang in his eardrums. “Mary! Mary! Get into the cellar now!” he roared.

  Devlin O’Neill could not move, stunned. His father had been gone for more than a month—since the middle of May. He had sent word, though, every few weeks, and while Devlin was only ten years old, he was acutely aware of the war at hand. Farmer and priest, shepherd and squire, peasant and gentry alike had risen up to fight the English devils once and for all, to take back all that was truly theirs—the rich Irish land that had been stolen from them a century ago. There was so much hope—and there was so much fear.

  Now his heart seemed to simply stop and he stared at his father, relieved to finally see him again and terribly afraid. He was afraid that Gerald was hurt—and he was afraid of far worse. He started forward with a small cry, but Gerald did not stop moving, going to the bottom of the stairs and bellowing for his wife again. His hand never left the scabbard that sheathed his cutlass, and he carried a musket as well.

  Devlin had never seen his eyes so wild. Dear God.

  “Is Father hurt?” a tiny voice whispered beside him, a small hand plucking at his torn linen sleeve.

  Devlin didn’t even look at his dark-haired younger brother. He could not take his eyes from his father, his mind spinning, racing. The rebels had taken Wexford town early in the rebellion and the entire county had rejoiced. Well, the papist part of it, at least. Other victories had followed—but so had other defeats. Now redcoats were everywhere; Devlin had spied thousands from a ridge just that morning, the most ominous sight he’d ever seen. He’d heard that Wexford had fallen, and a maid had said thousands had died at New Ross. He’d refused to believe it—until now. Now he thought that maybe the whispers of defeat and death were true. Because he saw fear in his father’s eyes for the first time in his young life.

  “Is Father hurt?” Sean asked again, a tremor in his tone.

  Instantly Devlin turned to him. “I don’t think so,” he said, knowing he had to be brave, at least for Sean. But fear gripped him in a clawlike vise. And then his mother came rushing down the stairs, her infant daughter in her
arms.

  “Gerald! Thank God, I’ve been so worried about you,” she cried, as pale as any ghost.

  He seized her arm, releasing the scabbard of his sword to do so. “Take the boys and go down to the cellar,” Gerald said harshly. “Now, Mary.”

  She cried out, her blue eyes filled with fear, riveted on his face. “Are you hurt?”

  “Just do as I say,” he cried, pulling her across the hall.

  The baby, Meg, began to wail.

  “And keep her quiet, for God’s sake,” he said as harshly. But now he was looking over his shoulder at the open doorway, as if expecting to see the British soldiers in pursuit.

  Devlin followed his gaze. Smoke could be seen in the clear blue sky and suddenly the sounds of muskets firing could be heard.

  Mary pushed the babe against her breast as she opened her blouse, never breaking stride. “What will happen to us, Gerald?” And then, lower, “What will happen to you?”

  He opened the door to the cellar, the opening hidden by a centuries-old tapestry. “Everything will be fine,” he said harshly. “You and the boys, the babe, all will be fine.”

  She stared up at him, her eyes filling with tears.

  “I’m not hurt,” he added thickly, and he kissed her briefly on the lips. “Now go downstairs and do not come out until I say so.”

  Mary nodded and went down. Devlin rushed forward as a cannon boomed, terribly close to the manor. “Father! Let me come with you—I can help. I can shoot—”

  Gerald whirled, striking Devlin across the head, and he flew across the stone floor, landing on his rump. “Do as I say,” he roared, and as he ran back through the hall, he added, “And take care of your mother, Devlin.”

  The front door slammed.

  Devlin blinked back tears of despair and humiliation and found himself looking at Sean. There was a question in his younger brother’s pale gray eyes, which remained wide with fear. Devlin got to his feet, shaking like a puny child. There was no question of what he had to do. He had never disobeyed his father before but he wasn’t going to let his father face the redcoats he’d seen earlier alone.

  If Father was going to die, then he’d die with him.

  Fear made him feel faint. He faced his little brother, breathing hard, willing himself to be a man. “Go down with Mother and Meg. Go now,” he ordered quietly. Without waiting to see if he was being obeyed, Devlin rushed through the hall and into his father’s library.

  “You’re going to fight, aren’t you?” Sean cried, following him.

  Devlin didn’t answer. A purpose filled him now. He ran to the gun rack behind his father’s massive desk and froze in dismay. It was empty. He stared in disbelief.

  And then he heard the soldiers.

  He heard men shouting and horses whinnying. He heard swords ringing. The cannon boomed again, somewhere close by. Shots from pistols punctuated the musket fire. He slowly turned to Sean and their gazes locked. Sean’s face was pinched with fear—the same fear that was making Devlin’s heart race so quickly that he could barely breathe.

  Sean wet his lips. “They’re close, Dev.”

  He could barely make his mouth form the words, “Go to the cellar.” He had to help his father. He couldn’t let Father die alone.

  “I’m not leaving you alone.”

  “You need to take care of Mother and Meg,” Devlin said, racing to the bench beneath the gun rack. He tore the pillows from the seat and hefted the lid open. He was disbelieving—Father always kept a spare pistol there, but there was nothing but a dagger. A single, stupid, useless prick of a dagger.

  “I’m coming with you,” Sean said, his voice broken with tears.

  Devlin took the dagger, then reached into the drawer of his father’s desk and took a sharp letter opener as well. He handed it to Sean. His brother smiled grimly at him—Devlin couldn’t smile back.

  And then he saw the rusty antique display of a knight in his armor in the corner of the room. It was said that an infamous ancestor, once favored by an English queen, had worn it. Devlin ran to the statue, Sean on his heels as if attached by a short string. There, he shimmied the sword free from the knight’s gauntlet, knocking over the tarnished armor.

  Devlin’s spirits lifted. The sword was old and rusted, but it was a weapon, by God. He withdrew it from the hilt, touched the blade and gasped as blood spurted from his fingertip. Then he looked at Sean.

  The brothers shared a grin.

  The cannon boomed and this time the house shook, glass shattering in the hall outside. The boys blinked at each other, wide-eyed, their fear renewed.

  Devlin wet his lips. “Sean. You have to stay with Mother and Meg.”

  “No.”

  He felt like whacking his brother on the head the way Gerald had struck him. But he was also secretly relieved not to have to face the red hordes alone. “Then let’s go,” Devlin said.

  THE BATTLE WAS RAGING just behind the cornfields that swept up to the ruined outer walls of Askeaton Castle. The boys raced through the tall plants, hidden by the stalks, until they had reached the last row of corn. Crouching, Devlin felt ill as he finally viewed the bloody panorama.

  There seemed to be hundreds—no, thousands—of soldiers in red, by far outnumbering the ragged hordes of Irishmen. The British soldiers were heavily armed with muskets and swords. Most of the Irishmen had pikes. Devlin watched his countrymen being massacred, not one by one, but in waves, five by five, six by six, and more. His stomach churned violently. He was only ten but he knew a slaughter when he saw one.

  “Father,” Sean whispered.

  Devlin jerked and followed his brother’s gaze. Instantly, he saw a madman on a gray horse, swinging his sword wildly, miraculously slaying first one redcoat and then another. “Come on!” Devlin leapt up, sword raised, and rushed toward the battle.

  A British soldier was aiming his musket at a farmer with a pike and dagger. Other soldiers and peasants were intently battling one another. There was so much blood, so much death, the stench of it everywhere. Devlin heaved his sword at the soldier. To his surprise, the blade cleaved through the man completely.

  Devlin froze, shocked, as the farmer quickly finished the soldier off. “Thanks, boyo,” he said, dropping the dead soldier in the dirt.

  A musket fired and the farmer’s eyes popped in surprise, blood blossoming on his chest.

  “Dev!” Sean shouted in warning.

  Devlin turned wildly to face the barrel of a musket, aimed right at him. Instantly he lifted his sword in response. He wondered if he was about to die, as his blade was no match for the gun. Then Sean, the musket in his hands clearly taken from the dead, whacked the soldier from behind, right in the knees. The soldier lost his balance as he fired, missing Devlin by a long shot. Sean hit him over the head, and the man lay still, apparently unconscious.

  Devlin straightened, breathing hard, an image of the soldier boy he’d just helped kill in his mind. Sean looked wildly at him.

  “We need to go to Father,” Devlin decided.

  Sean nodded, perilously close to tears.

  Devlin turned, searching the mass of struggling humanity, trying to spot his father on the gray horse. It was impossible now.

  And suddenly he realized that the violent struggling was slowing.

  He stilled, glancing around wide-eyed, and now he saw hundreds of men in beige and brown tunics, lying still and lifeless across the battlefield. Interspersed among them were dozens of British soldiers, also lifeless, and a few horses. Here and there, someone moaned or cried out weakly for help.

  An Englishman was shouting out a command to his company.

  Devlin’s gaze swept the entire scene again. The battlefield had spread to the banks of the river on one side, the cornfield behind and the manor house in the south. And now the British soldiers were falling into line.

  “Quick,” Devlin said, and he and Sean darted over dead corpses, racing hard and fast for an edge of the cornfield and the invisibility it would give them. Sean tripp
ed on a bloody body. Devlin lifted him to his feet and dragged him behind the first stalk of corn. Panting, they both sank to a crouch. And now, from the slight rise where the cornfield was, he could see that the battle was truly over.

  There were so many dead.

  Sean huddled close.

  Devlin knew his brother was close to crying. He put his arm around him but did not take his gaze from the battlefield. The manor was to his right, perhaps a pasture away, and there were dead littering the courtyard. His gaze shot back to the left. Ahead, not far from where they hid, he saw his father’s gray stallion.

  Devlin stiffened. The horse was being held by a soldier. His father was not mounted on it.

  And suddenly, several mounted British officers appeared, moving toward the gray steed. And Gerald O’Neill, his hands bound, was being shoved forward on foot.

  “Father,” Sean breathed.

  Devlin was afraid to hope.

  “Gerald O’Neill, I presume?” the mounted commanding officer asked, his tone filled with mockery and condescension.

  “And to whom do I have the honor of this acquaintance?” Gerald said, as mocking, as condescending.

  “Lord Captain Harold Hughes, ever His Majesty’s noble servant,” the officer returned, smiling coldly. He had a handsome face, blue-black hair and ice-cold blue eyes. “Have you not heard, O’Neill? The Defenders are beaten into a bloody pulp. General Lake has successfully stormed your puny headquarters at Vinegar Hill. I do believe the number of rebel dead has been tallied at fifteen thousand. You and your men are a futile lot.”

  “Damn Lake and Cornwallis, too,” Gerald spat, the latter being the viceroy of Ireland. “We fight until every one of us is dead, Hughes. Or until we have won our land and our freedom.”