The Prize Page 13

  He said nothing. If he was at all moved by her plight, she could not see it in his expression, as not a muscle in his face changed.

  “I am the only child. Sweet Briar is mine. But my guardian, the earl, is selling it in order to pay off my father’s debts.” She laid her hands flat on the table, gripping the smooth wood until her knuckles turned white. “I won’t allow it.”

  He stared and it was a moment before he spoke. “I see,” he said flatly. “You will beat the earl about the head until he agrees to pay off your father’s debts and hand you the keys to the plantation.”

  This was her last remaining chance. Virginia seized both of his hands and was stunned at the feel of them in her small palms and against her fingers, stunned enough by the contact not to see the surprise leap in his silver eyes. She looked up and spoke swiftly, hoarsely. “If my uncle has to ransom me, he will never be moved to pay my father’s debts. As he decided to sell the plantation without even consulting me, it will be hard enough to persuade him to change his mind without your ransom! Captain, don’t you see? I cannot survive without Sweet Briar. I have to go to the earl. There can be no ransom! Please, Mr. Harvey told me you are a wealthy man and that you hardly need this ransom. Please, let me go—take me to London where I hope I am expected. Please. I beg you.”

  Devlin removed his hands from hers and stood. “I’m sorry,” he said flatly, “that you will lose your inheritance, but my plans are not flexible.”

  She leapt up with a cry. “I am an orphan now! Sweet Briar is all I have!” she cried.

  He walked to the door.

  “God, you just don’t care! You don’t care about anything or anyone!”

  He opened the door.

  “I am losing Sweet Briar because of you and your damned plan to ransom me,” she shouted.

  He didn’t turn. As he left, he said, “No, Miss Hughes, you are losing Sweet Briar because, apparently, your father was a very poor businessman.”

  Virginia choked on the insult, but before she could fling some equally wounding barb back at him, he was gone, the hatch closing on the graying twilight sky.

  SHE HAD DECIDED THERE WOULD be one final attempt to thwart him.

  Virginia stood by a porthole, which remained open in spite of the blustery day, and watched the Irish cliffs passing. High rock cliffs towered above a strip of sandy beach beginning to give way to more gently rolling country. She had decided not to antagonize O’Neill further and had remained in his cabin since the day before. But hours ago, when the first gulls had appeared overhead, she had cracked the cabin door to overhear that they were already sailing up the river toward Limerick within mere hours.

  Well, several hours had since passed. The frigate was moving swiftly up the River Shannon. Here and there she could make out a manor or a cluster of huts. The Irish countryside was now lush and green, at times sheep dotting the hills.

  How long would it take to go up the river and reach the port at Limerick? She had no idea. A glance at his maps told her nothing. But she was afraid to delay any longer, because if she waited too long to commence her new plan, it would fail.

  Virginia went to the cabin door. There was no sign of the young blond man, Gus. But she did see Jack Harvey, looking sad and severe, standing below the quarterdeck. “Mr. Harvey! Please, sir, I would speak with you!”

  Harvey glanced her way, incredulous.

  Above him, a tall, leonine figure at the helm, Devlin half turned and nodded, saying something to Harvey that Virginia could not hear. Harvey approached so slowly she began chewing on her lower lip. Then she smiled brightly at him. “I must beg a favor of you,” she said.

  “I am not participating in any of your schemes,” he began.

  “Would you please find Gus and send him to me? I need to bathe before I step off of this ship. I only wish to ask him for some wash water.”

  Harvey looked relieved that she had not asked for something else. He nodded and went off.

  Virginia closed her eyes after shutting the cabin door, wishing there could be another way—but Gus was scrawny, and while he was a few pounds heavier than herself and a few inches taller, too, he would have to do. She took one of O’Neill’s silver candlesticks in hand, and positioned herself so that when he came in, she would be behind the door.

  She now prayed he would come in alone.

  Upon the sound of his knock, she told him to enter, and quickly saw that another sailor was with him. She moved away from the wall, holding the candlestick behind her back, smiling, while they filled the tub with steamy water. As they began to leave, Virginia called out, “Gus? Please wait. I have never been to Ireland before and I must ask you some questions. It’s terribly important.”

  As usual, he avoided looking at her, while telling the seaman to go. The other sailor left. Virginia, her heart pounding, walked to his side. “I heard most of the country is Catholic. How will I find a Baptist minister?”

  Gus seemed confused by her question. He hesitated. Virginia walked behind him. He said, “I’m sure the captain—”

  Wincing, her desire to escape overcoming her reluctance to hurt him, she hit him with the candlestick on the back of the head. Instantly, he crumbled to the floor.

  She froze, terrified she had hit him too hard, terrified he was dead. She dropped to her knees and saw that he was breathing, but blood was staining the back of his blond head. “I am so sorry,” she whispered, reaching for his belt buckle. She undid it and tugged his rather dirty pants down. The sight of his skinny legs and calves did not affect her at all. In fact, he wore no drawers, but she didn’t even bother to glance that way. She did decide to take his dagger—it might prove useful, indeed. She proceeded, with more difficulty, to get his shirt off. Then she dove under the bed where she had stashed a good length of rope. She tied his ankles, then used the same length to tie his wrists. She gagged him with a stocking.

  “Please don’t hate me,” she said, rolling him under the bed. As she glimpsed his pale face, she wondered if escape was worth it. This man had been nothing but respectful toward her.

  Of course, he dared not be otherwise, given his captain’s penchant for dismissing unruly crew.

  Virginia stripped off her corset, gown and pelisse, leaving on only her chemise and pantalettes. Her shoes followed, all shoved under the bed. She hopped into his pants, knotting the belt instead of buckling it. His shirt followed, and finally, she tucked up her braid under his wool cap. Then she looked down at herself, scowling because her bare feet looked feminine. Then she saw a lacy edge of her pantalettes peeping out from under the loose pants.

  “Damn it,” she cursed, rolling the underwear up. She raced to the porthole and gasped. A good-sized town was in view, a collection of huts on the outskirts, followed by stone houses, a few manors and churches, and finally, the town itself. A dozen ships of varying sizes seemed to be at dock. None were even half the size of the frigate; all seemed to be merchant ships or fishing vessels.

  Then she saw a crowd beginning to form.

  Children were running from the town along the river, screaming wildly, heading toward the approaching ship. Their shouts became more distinct, forming into whoops and hollers. As the ship drew abreast of the motley, tattered group, she saw boys begin to wave, grinning wildly. The ship was now sailing past the children and Virginia gazed back to see them following.

  Then she looked ahead.

  A number of people were rushing down to the docks. She grew disturbed. Some appeared to be farmers in their shabby tunics, others merchants, finely dressed in wool coats and britches. Women were in the gathering, too. The younger ones were waving and smiling. No—everyone was smiling.

  She was uneasy now.

  Virginia heard O’Neill shouting orders as the ship slowed. She saw a titian-haired woman in the simple garb of a peasant step out from the crowd. She was carrying a basket of flowers.

  Someone cheered. The cheer sounded suspiciously like, “O’Neill!”

  She hugged herself. The cheeri
ng began in earnest, then the titian-haired beauty began tossing flowers at the ship. The flowers were caught up in the wind and landed in the harbor’s waters. There was no doubt as to what the crowd was cheering. “The O’Neill! The O’Neill!” they hollered and cried. In fact, Virginia felt certain that there were tears—tears—on quite a few cheeks.

  She did not understand.

  Men clad as seamen—not O’Neill’s crew—dashed forward to catch the Defiance’s ropes. The ship moved laterally now, and Virginia heard a huge anchor being thrown into the river. Why were these people overjoyed by O’Neill’s appearance?

  She told herself it did not matter. She must be ready to escape and the time was now.

  But as she cracked open the cabin door, she knew it did matter—it mattered very much. She simply did not know why.

  O’Neill was standing on the quarterdeck, viewing the town and the congregation that had come to greet him as imperiously as if he were a king. He wasn’t smiling. But he was, Virginia thought, completely preoccupied. His expression was strange, both intense and strained. She could not help but wonder at his feelings.

  Then the titian-haired beauty was crossing the deck and climbing up to where he stood. Virginia watched her reach out, a bouquet of roses in her hand. O’Neill suddenly seemed to realize she was present—he started and turned. The beauty tossed the bouquet aside and leapt forward, her hands finding his shoulders, her mouth finding his.

  Virginia blinked in shock.

  O’Neill quickly embraced her, clearly accepting and then deepening and finally dominating the kiss.

  The assembled townspeople went wild, screaming his name, over and over again.

  Virginia could not look away, as if she were hypnotized.

  Then her common sense rescued her. She knew the perfect opportunity when it presented itself and she hurried from the cabin, across the deck and joined several seamen rushing down the gangplank as the townspeople rushed up it to board the ship.

  On the dock, she look back. O’Neill was setting aside the woman, but someone, an official of the town, perhaps, was offering his hand. O’Neill accepted it, his attention never wavering.

  Virginia moved up the dock, hit the cobbled street, passing several drays and wagons, and turned into a tiny cramped street filled with shops below and homes above. Then she ran.

  DEVLIN WALKED SLOWLY TO the captain’s cabin, the decks finally cleared of townsmen, all of his sailors gone on liberty. He was subdued. It seemed a different lifetime completely when he had walked those streets as a boy with his father, their wagon filled with supplies, everyone bowing in deference as Gerald O’Neill passed, his own small shoulders proud and square. It seemed at least a lifetime ago that he had run those streets, half-wild, after Gerald’s murder, with the shopkeepers and merchants glancing after him, whispering about “that poor O’Neill boy” and “that affair up on the hill,” a reference to his mother’s marriage to Adare.

  He’d been home once since he’d joined the navy at thirteen, six years ago, a strapping, cold-eyed youth of eighteen who had just received his first command after Trafalgar. There had been no roses strewn at his feet when he’d sailed his schooner in that day, no cheering throng at the docks. But everyone had snuck out of shop and home to steal a glance at him as he passed their way on his ride to Askeaton. There’d been whispers, but he had refused to listen. He hadn’t known what they said.

  Devlin realized he was not alone. Jack Harvey stood near the cabin, smoking a pipe. “And the prodigal son returns,” he said.

  Devlin halted, no longer angry at Harvey—in fact, he had accepted his treachery the way he would have accepted his death, the time for mourning over. He had no remaining feelings at all except for indifference. “I am hardly anyone’s prodigal son.”

  “You are this town’s prodigal son.”

  “They are filled with delusion and desperate for a hero—any hero—as long as he is Irish and Catholic, no matter if he is a figment of someone’s too-vivid imagination.”

  “It’s funny how everyone in the fleet considers you obnoxious, rude and overbearing, not to mention excessively arrogant. I, however, know the truth. You are one of the most modest men I’ve ever had the good fortune to meet.”

  “Is there a point to your being here, Jack? I haven’t been home in six years and I intend to make Askeaton before dark.”

  “Then I suppose you shall have to hurry,” Harvey said.

  Devlin knew Harvey wished to linger but he did not; he walked into the cabin. There he started, realizing instantly that Virginia was not present. He was disbelieving—and then, when he realized that she had somehow escaped, he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of admiration for her. She was more resolved than even he.

  “Clever little witch,” he growled.

  An odd strangled noise came from below his bed.

  Devlin strode over and hauled the naked, hog-tied and gagged Gus Pierson out. He slit the ties and pulled out the gag. Gus was frighteningly white. “Sir, it was my fault. I take full blame for the prisoner’s escape, sir!” he cried, standing.

  Devlin felt like striking him, but he did not. From the doorway, he heard Harvey murmur, “Well, well, she did it, anyway. Will you dismiss Gus, too, or simply keelhaul him?”

  Keelhauling usually meant death and no one used such a method of punishment anymore. “Tell me exactly what happened,” Devlin said, ignoring the taunt and tossing Gus a pair of his britches and a shirt.

  Gus donned the garments, turning red as he spoke. When he had finished, Devlin said, “You will help me find Miss Hughes, Gus, and when she is back in my charge, you will relieve the watch of this ship. Your privilege of liberty is suspended for the duration of our stay, until I deem otherwise.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gus mumbled, but he looked relieved, as if he had expected far worse.

  But Gus was a fine sailor and a very brave lad, and Devlin was well aware that his orders not to even look at the prisoner had aided her in her successful escape. His punishment of Gus was perfunctory at best—he needed the rest of the crew to witness it in order to maintain his discipline of the ship. But he did not blame Gus for her escape. There had been no treachery. Virginia Hughes was simply far more clever than the young Dane.

  “And how will you find her?” Harvey asked. “By now, she is surely halfway to the next village—wherever that may be.”

  Devlin smiled coldly. “Actually, you are wrong. There is only one sane way for Miss Hughes to get to London, and that is by another ship.”

  Harvey raised his brows.

  “Am I not the prodigal son? Did not the mayor greet me with a medal of honor? Did not Squire O’Brien invite me to supper? Did not the captain of the Mystère invite me to dine with him tonight?”

  “I begin to see,” Harvey murmured.

  “Two can play this game,” Devlin said, turning to Gus. “Put out word on the docks. My reluctant fiancée is trying to find a passage to London, and her return to me, her heartbroken groom, will be amply rewarded. I will speak with the mayor and town council myself.”

  Gus rushed off to obey.

  Devlin left the cabin. Harvey followed more slowly, and he muttered, “Poor lass. She doesn’t stand a chance.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SOMETHING WAS TERRIBLY amiss.

  Virginia crouched on her knees in the hayloft of a dark, sweet-smelling barn, peering through the window onto the narrow, twisting street. Night had fallen and the street was now entirely deserted. Virginia had been hiding in the barn, which was somewhere in the center of town behind a carpenter’s shop, for several hours. In all that time, she had seen only the occasional pedestrian, a few pairs of sailors and a cart or two. Why hadn’t there been a huge search party?

  Surely her clever captor had discovered her disappearance shortly after she had escaped. Surely he had organized his men into various groups in order to thoroughly search the town. But she hadn’t heard a search party, and from her hiding place she could hear the laughter and mu
sic coming from the wharf-front inns and bars. From time to time she could even hear drunken conversation on the streets just beyond the one where the barn was situated.

  What could it mean?

  Virginia stood, her knees aching, and stretched. As worried and suspicious as she was, she knew she must move on. She had to find a ship leaving for London, or if that failed, for any port in Great Britain. That seemed to be the only intelligent way to get to London—traversing Ireland, on foot and penniless, would be absurd.

  Virginia climbed down the ladder and left the barn. She hurried toward the wharf, certain that, at any moment, her captor would appear from around a street corner, legs braced apart, a wicked and cool smile on his disturbing features, determined to capture her all over again. But neither O’Neill nor a search party materialized around any bend.

  This was very odd, indeed.

  Virginia’s unease and alarm grew as she faced the docks. Limerick had a few oil lamps on the main public streets, but the wharf was left mostly in shadow, except for the occasional glow of torchlight. It did not matter. Instantly she saw the dark outline of the Defiance rocking gently at its moorings, shadowy and huge, proud and beautiful even in the cloak of night. The reefed sails stood out starkly against the inky black sky. No lights burned from the captain’s cabin, although one torch signaled the presence of the watch. She half expected Devlin to suddenly appear on the quarterdeck, a ghostly figure in his white shirt and pale britches, but he did not.

  Her heart beat far too hard. Why wasn’t he searching for her? Had her plea been effective, then?