Brenda Joyce - The Prize

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.

Devlin glanced at the earl, but if Adare was afraid, he did not show it. Devlin’s respect for him increased. Adare was very much like Gerald, and he must be as brave. He tamped down any fear that was trying to rise.

Adare never faltered as he crossed the ground between the tent and his men. He lifted Mary onto his mount. Hughes was watching, his face rigid with tension and hatred. Devlin pushed Sean at a knight, and as he leapt up behind another rider, Sean was hauled up onto the back of a horse, as well.

Adare was already in the saddle, behind Mary. His gaze swept over the boys, then the rows of armed British soldiers, and finally, Hughes. “You have trespassed upon what is mine,” he said, his words ringing. “Never do so again.”

Hughes smiled grimly. “I had no idea you and the lady were…involved.”

“Do not twist my words, Captain,” Adare cried. “You murdered my liege, you burned my land, and that is an affront to me and mine. Now let us pass.”

Devlin looked from Adare to Hughes as the two men locked gazes. He was aware of sweat gathering between his shoulder blades and trickling down his back. For one moment, the fort was so quiet that had a leaf rustled, it would have been heard.

And finally, Hughes spoke. “Stand aside,” he barked. “Let them go.”

And the line of soldiers parted.

Adare raised his hand, spurring his horse into a canter, leading his men through the British troops and out of the fort.

Devlin held on to the soldier he was riding behind. But he looked back.

Right into the captain’s pale blue eyes.

And the burning began.

It began somewhere deep inside his soul, emanating in huge, hard, dark waves, creeping into his very blood, until it consumed him, bitterly acrid, red hot.

One day he would have his revenge. One day, when the time was right. Captain Harold Hughes would be made to pay the price of Gerald O’Neill’s murder.

April 5, 1812

Richmond, Virginia

“SHE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW how to dance,” one of the young ladies snickered.

Her cheeks burning, Virginia Hughes was acutely aware of the dozen young women standing queued behind her in the ballroom. She had been singled out by the dance master and was now being given a lecture on the sissonne ballotté, one of the steps used in the quadrille. Not only did she not comprehend the step, she didn’t care. She had no interest in dancing, none whatsoever—she only wished to go home to Sweet Briar.

“But you must never cease with polite conversation, Miss Hughes, even in the execution of a step. Otherwise you will be severely misconstrued,” the dark, slim master was admonishing.

Virginia really didn’t hear him. She closed her eyes and it was as if she had been swept away to another time and place, one far better than the formidable walls of the Marmott School for Genteel Young Ladies.

Virginia breathed deeply and was consumed with the heady scent of honeysuckle; it was followed by the far stronger and more potent scent of the black Virginia earth, turned up now for the spring burning. She could picture the dark fields, stretching away as far as her eye dared see, parallel lines of slaves made white by their clothes as they spread the coals, and closer, the sweeping lawns, rose gardens and ancient oaks and elms surrounding the handsome brick house that her father had built. “She could have been built in England,” he’d said proudly, many times, “a hundred years ago. No one can take a look at her and know any differently.”