The Prize Page 2

  Devlin wished desperately that his father would not speak so with the British captain. But Hughes merely shrugged indifferently. “Burn everything,” he said, as if he were speaking about the weather.

  Sean cried out. Devlin froze in shocked dismay.

  “Captain, sir,” a junior officer said. “Burn everything?”

  Hughes smiled at Gerald, who had turned as white as a ghost. “Everything, Smith. Every field, every pasture, every crop, the stable, the livestock—the house.”

  The lieutenant turned, the orders quickly given. Devlin and Sean exchanged horrified glances. Their mother and Meg remained in the manor house. He didn’t know what to do. The urge to shout, “No!” and rush the soldiers was all-consuming.

  “Hughes!” Gerald said fiercely, his tone a command. “My wife and my children are inside.”

  “Really?” Hughes didn’t seem impressed. “Maybe their deaths will make others think twice about committing treason,” he said.

  Gerald’s eyes widened.

  “Burn everything,” Hughes snapped. “And I do mean everything.”

  Gerald lunged for the mounted captain, but was restrained. Devlin didn’t stop to think—he whirled, about to run from the cornfield to the manor. But he had taken only a step or two when he halted in his tracks. For his mother, Mary, stood in the open front door of the house, the baby cradled in her arms. Relief made him stumble. He reached for Sean’s hand, daring to breathe. Then he looked back at his father and Captain Hughes.

  Hughes’s expression had changed. His brows had lifted with interest and he was staring across the several dozen yards separating him and his prisoner from the manor. “Your wife, I presume?”

  Gerald heaved violently at his bonds and the three men holding him. “You bastard. You touch her and I’ll kill you, one way or another, I swear.”

  Hughes smiled, his gaze on Mary. As if he hadn’t heard Gerald, he murmured, “Well, well. This is a pretty turn of events. Bring the woman to my quarters.”

  “Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Smith whirled his mount toward the manor.

  “Hughes! You touch a hair on my wife’s head and I’ll cut your balls off one by one,” Gerald ground out.

  “Really? And this from a man fated to hang—or worse.” And he calmly unsheathed his sword. An instant later, one solid blow struck Gerald, severing his head.

  Devlin stared—beyond shock—as his father’s headless body collapsed slowly to the ground—as his head rolled there, both gray eyes open and still filled with rage.

  He turned, still in absolute denial, and watched his mother fall in a swoon. Meg wailed loudly, kicking and flailing, on the ground by Mary.

  “Take the woman,” Hughes said. “Bring her to my quarters and burn down the damned house.” He spurred his mount around and galloped off.

  And as two soldiers started toward the manor—toward his unconscious mother, Meg wailing on the ground beside her—the reality of his father’s brutal murder hit Devlin with stunning force. Father was dead. He’d been murdered, savagely murdered, in cold blood. By that damned English captain, Hughes.

  He’d left the sword behind in the battle; now he raised the silly little dagger. A scream emanated from somewhere, a monstrous sound, high-pitched, filled with rage and grief. He vaguely realized the sound came from himself. He started forward unsteadily, determined to kill anyone that he could, anyone who was British.

  A soldier blinked at him in wild surprise as Devlin raced toward him, dagger raised.

  A blow from behind took him on the back of his head and mercifully, after the first moment of blinding pain, there was blackness—and blessed relief.

  DEVLIN AWOKE SLOWLY, with difficulty, aware of a sharp pain in his head, of cold and dampness and a vague sense of dread.

  “Dev?” Sean whispered. “Dev, are you waking?”

  He became aware now of his brother’s thin arms wrapped tightly around him. An odd smell pervaded the air, acrid and bitter. He wondered where he was, what was happening—then he saw his father standing shackled between the redcoats; he saw Captain Hughes raise his sword and sever his head.

  Devlin gasped, eyes flying open.

  Sean hugged him harder, once.

  Full recollection made him struggle to his knees. They were in the woods and it had rained some time ago, leaving everything cold and wet. Devlin lurched aside and wretched dryly, clinging to the dark Irish earth.

  Finally it was over. He sat back on his haunches, meeting Sean’s gaze. His brother had made a small fire, just enough to see by, not enough for warmth. “Mother? Meg?” he asked hoarsely.

  “I don’t know where Mother is,” Sean said, his tiny face pinched. “The soldiers took her away before she even woke up. I wanted to go get Meg, but after you went berserk and that soldier whacked you, I dragged you here, to be safe. Then they started the fires, Devlin.” His eyes filled with tears. He began to pant harshly. “It’s all gone, everything.”

  Devlin stared, for one moment as frightened as his brother, but then he came to his senses. Everything was up to him now. He could not cry—he had to lead. “Stop blubbering like a baby,” he said sharply. “We need to rescue Mother and find Meg.”

  Instantly, Sean stopped sobbing. His eyes wide and riveted on his brother, he slowly nodded.

  Devlin stood, not bothering to brush off his britches, which were filthy. They hurried through the glade. At its edge, Devlin stumbled.

  Even in the moonlight, the land had always been soft with meadows and tall with stalks. Now a vast flatness stretched before him, and where the manor once was, he saw a shell of stone walls and two desolate chimneys. The acrid odor was immediately identifiable—it was smoke and ash.

  “We’ll starve this winter,” Sean whispered, gripping his hand.

  “Did they go back to the garrison at Kilmallock?” Devlin asked sharply, grimly. Determination had replaced the icy fear, the nauseating dread.

  Sean nodded. “Dev? How will we rescue her? I mean, they’ve got thousands…. We’re just two—and boys, at that.”

  That exact question was haunting him. “We’ll find a way,” he said. “I promise you, Sean. We will find a way.”

  IT WAS HIGH NOON WHEN THEY arrived atop a ridge that overlooked the British fort at Kilmallock. Devlin’s spirits faltered as he looked past the wood stockades and over a sea of white tents and redcoats. Flags marked the commanding officer’s quarters, well in the midst of the fort. Immediately, Devlin thought about how he and Sean, two young boys, could enter the fort. Had he been taller, he would have killed a soldier for his uniform. However, now he considered the possibility that they could simply walk through those open front gates with a wagon, a convoy or a group of soldiers, as they were both so small and unthreatening.

  “Do you think she’s all right?” Sean whispered. His color had not returned, not even once, since they saw their father so gruesomely murdered. He remained frighteningly pale, his lips chewed raw, his eyes filled with fear. Devlin worried that he would become sick.

  Devlin put his arm around him. “We’re going to save her and make everything right again,” he said firmly. But somehow, deep in his sickened heart, he knew his words were a terrible lie—nothing would ever be right again.

  And what had become of little Meg? He was afraid to even think of the possibility that she had burned in the fire.

  Devlin screwed his eyes shut. A terrible stillness slid over him. His breathing, for the first time, calmed. The churning in his insides steadied. Something dark began to form in his mind. Something dark, grim and hard—something terrible and unyielding.

  Sean started to cry. “What if he hurt her? What if…what if he…he did to her…what he did to Father?”

  Devlin blinked and found himself staring coldly down at the fort. For one moment, he continued to stare, ignoring his brother, aware of the huge change that had just affected him. The ten-year-old boy had vanished forever. A man had appeared in his place, a man cold and purposeful, a man whose anger simmered
far below the surface, fueling vast intent. The strength of his resolve astonished him.

  The fear was gone. He wasn’t afraid of the British and he wasn’t afraid of death.

  And he knew what he had to do—even if it took years.

  Devlin turned to Sean, who was watching him with huge, tearful eyes. “He didn’t hurt Mother,” he heard himself say calmly, his tone as commanding as their father’s had once been.

  Sean blinked in surprise, and then he nodded.

  “Let’s go,” Devlin said firmly. They scrambled down the hill and found a boulder to hide behind just off of the road. After an hour or so, four supply wagons led by a dozen mounted troops appeared. “Pretend we want to welcome them,” he whispered softly. He had seen so many peasants waving and obsequiously greeting the British troops, and fools that the redcoats were, they never knew that after they had passed, the smiles were replaced by leers and taunts.

  The boys stepped onto the road, the sun high now, warm and bright, to smile and wave at the troops as they approached. Some of the soldiers waved back, and one tossed them a piece of bread. As the wagons passed, the brothers continued to wave, their smiles fixed. And then Devlin dug his elbow in Sean’s ribs and they took off, racing after the last wagon. Devlin leapt onto it, then turned and held out his hand. Sean leapt up and caught it and Devlin pulled his brother up. They both dove behind sacks of meal and potatoes and then they huddled closely, looking at each other.

  Devlin felt a small, savage satisfaction. He smiled at Sean.

  “Now what?” Sean whispered.

  “We wait,” Devlin said. Oddly, he was coldly confident.

  Once the wagon was safely inside the front gates of the fort, Devlin peered out from their hiding place. He saw no one looking and he nudged Sean. They jumped to the ground and dashed around the side of the closest tent.

  Five minutes later they were lurking outside the captain’s tent, hiding behind two water barrels, mostly out of sight and, for the moment, safe.

  “What are we going to do now?” Sean asked, wiping sweat from his brow. The weather remained pleasant, although the gray clouds far on the horizon threatened more rain.

  “Shh,” Devlin said, trying to think of how to free their mother. It seemed hopeless. But surely there had to be a way. He had not come this far to let her fall into Captain Hughes’s clutches. Father would want him to rescue her—and he would not let him down again.

  The ghastly memory returned—his father’s severed head upon the ground, in a pool of his own blood, his eyes wide and still enraged, although lifeless.

  Some of his newfound confidence wavered but his resolve hardened imperceptibly.

  Voices were raised. Horses approaching at a fast gait could be heard. Devlin and Sean got to their knees and peered around the barrels. Hughes had stepped outside of the tent, looking quite content, a snifter of brandy in his hand, apparently also interested in the commotion.

  Devlin followed the direction of the captain’s gaze, looking south through the open front gates of the fort, the way he and Sean had come. He started in surprise. A horde of riders was approaching at a hard gallop, and the banner waving above the outrider was cobalt, silver and black, its colors painfully familiar. Beside him, Sean inhaled sharply, and he and Devlin exchanged a look.

  “It’s the Earl of Adare,” Sean whispered with excitement.

  Devlin clapped his hand over his brother’s mouth. “He must have come to help. Quiet.”

  “Damn the bloody Irish, even the English ones,” Hughes said to another officer. “It’s the Earl of Adare.” He tossed the brandy, snifter and all, onto the ground, obviously annoyed.

  “Shall we close the gates, sir?”

  “Unfortunately the man is well acquainted with Lord Castlereagh, and he has held a seat on the Irish Privy Council. He was at a dinner of state, I heard, with Cornwallis. If I close the gates, there will be bloody hell to pay.” Hughes scowled now, and red blotches had appeared on his neck above the black-and-gold collar of his red military jacket.

  Devlin tried to contain his excitement. Edward de Warenne, the Earl of Adare, was their landlord. And although Gerald had leased his own ancestral lands from Adare, the two men were, in fact, far more than lord and tenant. At times, they had attended the same country suppers and balls, the same fox hunts and steeplechases. Adare had dined a dozen times at the manor at Askeaton. Unlike other landlords, he had been fair in his dealings with the O’Neill family, never rack-renting them, never demanding more than his share.

  Devlin realized that he and Sean were holding hands. He watched breathlessly as the earl and his men cantered toward the captain’s tent. They never slowed and soldiers ran to get out of their way. Finally, abruptly, the riders halted before Hughes and his men. Instantly a dozen redcoats armed with muskets formed a circle around the newcomers.

  The earl spurred his black mount forward. He was tall and dark, his appearance distinct and formidable, his presence emanating power and authority. But his face was a mask of rage. “Where is Mary O’Neill?” he demanded tersely. A navy-blue cloak swirled about his shoulders.

  Hughes smiled tightly. “I take it you’ve heard of O’Neill’s untimely demise?”

  “Untimely demise?” The Earl of Adare launched himself to the ground and strode forward. “Murder is more like it. You’ve murdered one of my tenants, Hughes.”

  “So now you are a papist? He was fated for the gallows, Adare, and you know it.”

  Adare stared, trembling with fury, and finally he breathed low. “You bastard. There was always the chance of exile and a royal pardon. I would have moved heaven and earth to make it so. You arrogant son of a bitch.” His hand moved to the hilt of his sword.

  Hughes shrugged indifferently. “As I said, a papist and a Jacobin. These are dangerous times, my friend. Even Lord Castlereagh would not want to be associated with a Jacobin.”

  For a moment, Adare did not speak, clearly fighting for self-control. “I want the woman. Where is she?”

  Hughes hesitated, his jaw flexing, more red color blotching his features.

  “Do not make me do something I dearly wish to do—which is choke the very life out of you,” Adare said coldly.

  “Fine. An Irish bitch hardly enthralls me. They’re a dozen a penny.”

  Devlin was so stunned by the gross insult that he reeled. He would have rushed forward to kill Hughes, but he didn’t have to. Adare strode the brief distance separating him from Hughes and shoved his face up against the captain’s. “Do not underestimate the power of Adare. I suggest you cease with any further slanders before you find yourself in command of redskins in Upper Canada. I dine with Cornwallis on the fifteenth, and there is nothing I would prefer to do than whisper some very unpleasant facts in his ears. Do you understand me, Captain?”

  Hughes couldn’t speak. His face had turned crimson.

  Adare released him. He strode into the tent, his dark cloak billowing about him.

  Devlin exchanged glances with Sean—and then he ran past the red-faced Hughes with his brother in hand and into the tent behind the earl. Instantly he saw his mother sitting in a small chair and he knew at once that she had been weeping.

  “Mary!” the earl cried, halting in his tracks. “Are you all right?”

  Mary stood, her blue eyes wide, her blond curls in disarray. Their gazes locked. “I thought you would come,” she said unevenly.

  Adare hurried forward, gripping her shoulders, his dark blue eyes wide. “Are you hurt?” he asked more softly.

  It was a moment before she could speak. “Not in the manner you are thinking, my lord.” She hesitated, staring at him, and her eyes filled with tears. “He murdered Gerald. He murdered my husband before my very eyes.”

  “I know,” Adare responded with anguish. “I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

  Mary was undone; she looked away, close to weeping again.

  He turned her face forward again and their eyes met another time. “Where’s Meg? Where are the boys?
”

  Tears spilled then. “I don’t know where Meg is. She was in my arms when I fainted and—” She could not continue.

  “We’ll find her.” He smiled a little then. “I will find her.”

  Mary nodded and it was clear that she believed he might succeed against all hope. And then she saw her sons standing by the tent’s front flap, as still as statues, watching her and the powerful Protestant earl. “Devlin! Sean! Thank God you’re alive—you’re unhurt!” She rushed to them, hugging them both at once.

  Devlin closed his eyes, almost incapable of believing that he had found his mother and she was safe, for he knew the earl would take care of her now. “We’re fine, Mother,” he said softly, pulling away from her embrace.

  Adare joined them, putting one arm possessively around Mary. His assessing gaze quickly moved over both boys and Devlin met his gaze. A part of him wished to rebel, though they desperately needed the earl’s help now. But Gerald was not yet buried, and he knew Adare’s real inclinations—he had sensed them for some time.

  “Devlin, Sean, listen closely,” Adare instructed. “You will ride back to Adare with my men and myself. When we leave this tent, mount up quickly, behind my men. Do you understand me?”

  Devlin nodded, but he could not help looking quickly back and forth between Adare and his mother. He had seen the way Adare looked at his mother in the past, but then, many men had admired her from afar. Before Gerald’s death, it had been so easy to tell himself that Adare admired her the way any man would. Now he knew he had lied to himself. He was relieved that the powerful earl was coming to their aid, but he was also resentful. The earl was a widower and he loved Mary. Devlin was certain of it. But what about Father, who was not yet even properly buried? Not yet even cold in his grave?

  “Devlin!” Adare’s words were a whip, his gaze as sharp. “Move.”

  Devlin quickly obeyed, he and Sean falling into line behind Adare and Mary. And the foursome left the relative safety of the tent.

  Outside, the sun was higher, hotter, brighter. An unearthly silence had fallen over the camp and the mountains beyond where more ominous clouds gathered. Dozens of armed British soldiers had formed in banded rows about Adare’s two dozen mounted and armed men. Clearly, if Hughes wished it, there would be another massacre that day.