The Prize (25 page)

Of course it wasn't
raining. It was only her tears—they simply wouldn't stop.

Vaguely she wondered
if she had somehow fallen in love with the monster that was Devlin O'Neill.

Virginia
mounted the mare and gave her a
loose rein. A moment later they were galloping away from Askeaton and across
the Irish countryside.

* * *

The bay mare picked
her way along a meandering deer path through a stand of sun-dappled woods.
Virginia
was herself again and furiously
relieved because of it. She was Virginia Hughes, a planter's daughter and the
mistress of Sweet Briar. She was an outspoken, independent woman with no
interest in any man, with no interest outside of her home and plantation. With
the utmost determination, she had spent the past half hour plotting a new means
of escape, this time by horseback. Now she was determined to thwart her damned
captor. He no longer expected her to try to flee, and once he found her gone,
he would expect her to go back to
England
by ship. To hell with him! She would first cross
Ireland
on a horse, and she'd sail out from one of
the coastal towns in the east. In fact, as soon as she had the opportunity, she
would sneak into the library and find some useful maps. Maybe she would
steal
one. •

Suddenly the bay mare
nickered.

Virginia
started, so lost in thought she
hadn't been aware of leaving the woods. She halted the mare instantly, wary and
alert. She was on a low, grassy ridge overlooking a small freehold. A stone
farmhouse marked its center, along with several barns, a vegetable garden,
some cornfields and an open pasture where a dozen cows grazed.
Virginia
saw his gray stallion instantly.

She stiffened with
alarm, renewed anger flooding her. The stallion was tied up in front of the
farmhouse with four big-bodied country hacks. Three buggies were parked in
front as well. What was going on? She didn't think the farmer was having an
afternoon tea.

She reminded herself
that she didn't care what Devlin did and whom he did it with. She started to
turn the bay to return to the woods, when she looked at the other mounts tied
in front of the house. Wasn't the heavyset chestnut Sean's?

What was going on?

Virginia
hesitated. Something odd was
happening—her every instinct told her that. She dismounted, tying the mare to a
tree and letting her graze. Scrambling down the ridge, she ran hard to cross
the clearing until she reached the safety of the farmhouse walls.
Virginia
crept up to a window, her heart
pounding with unbearable force. It had no glass and the shutters were wide
open.

Inside, many men were
shouting in an uproar.

What could this be?
If she were lucky, she was going to catch Devlin O'Neill with his hand in
someone else's cookie jar. She fervently hoped so.
Virginia
straightened until her chin was level with
the sill and she could peek inside.

Instantly she saw two
dozen men, maybe more, most of them peasants and fanners. The second thing she
saw was Sean standing on a dais with a Catholic priest, holding up his hands
and asking for order in the room. She quickly spotted Devlin, seated in the
front row of the crowd. Bewildered, she could not even begin to imagine what
kind of meeting was in progress.

"Please,
everyone has a turn," Sean was saying with authority.

The shouting turned
into disgruntled murmurs and mutters.

"Tim
McCarthy," Sean said. "Would you like a chance to speak your
mind?"

A big man with shaggy
gray hair stepped forward. "It's just more lies, it's always been lies,
it's all the English are good for, that and stealing our land!"

"Here,
here!" everyone roared.

Virginia
stood up, stunned. Was this
&
political meeting'?

"They promised
us our rights, the same rights as any Protestant, back in 1800, with the
Union
. And what have they given us? Does a
Catholic sit in Commons? Does a Catholic

serve the king? An' I
still got to take the ungodly oath if I want to buy my land—land that is really
mine!" Tim McCarthy cried.

Everyone began
speaking at once, clearly in furious agreement.

Sean held his hands
up again. "One at a time."

"I ain't
done," McCarthy said.

"Fine, do go
on," Sean returned.

"We been meeting
for two years now, and for what? We need to get them damned bloody British out
of
Ireland
, yes we do, and the time is now!
Because nothing will ever change unless we show 'em the day of steppin' on
Catholics is over. We need to bloody a few noses and get all of our rights,
just the way the French did!"

A huge cheer sounded.

Virginia
bit her lip so as not to cry
out. This sounded very dangerous—it sounded like treason. And what in God's
name were Devlin and Sean doing there?

Virginia
didn't know very much about
Ireland
, but she did know a lot about the
revolution in
France
, which most Americans had
fervently supported, at least until Napoleon had begun his campaign to conquer
Europe
. She wasn't sure what rights Tim McCarthy
referred to, but she knew that
Ireland
was a part of
Great Britain
, and an Irishman shouldn't speak
about driving the English from their midst. That sounded like an impending revolution
to her. It was certainly seditious speech.

Suddenly Devlin
stood. Before he could even step forward to join Sean, lusty cheers rang out.
"O'Neill!" someone cried.

"The
O'Neill," more men answered.

"O'Neill!
O'Neill! Hurrah!" everyone boomed.

Virginia
slammed back against the wall,
shaken and shaking. Was Devlin involved in this unpatriotic, antigovernment

                             
205

conspiracy? But how
could he be! He was a captain in the British navy!

Devlin had joined
Sean on the dais. "May I?" he asked his brother, confirming
Virginia
's suspicion that Sean was in
command of this group.

"They are
waiting for your words of wisdom," Sean said seriously.

The room had become
silent.
Virginia
gripped the sill and stared
inside, mesmerized.

"I understand
your frustrations," Devlin said slowly, his gaze roaming over the room,
making eye contact slowly but surely with everyone there. "But a rebellion
will only bring pain and death. My family knows that firsthand."

There were some
grunts of agreement—and there were murmurs of anger as well.

"But what can we
do?" someone cried. "I can't pay my rents, which are triple what they
were last year!"

A chorus of agreement
sounded.

Sean held up his
hands for silence, and instantly the crowd became still. Devlin began to speak,
his focus still moving from man to man—and that was when his gaze finally found
Virginia
.

His eyes widened.

As did hers.

Then she leapt away
from the window and back against the wall.
Damn it!

And then there was no
more time for thought. As she began to sprint away from the house, she heard
Sean adjourning the meeting. She ran across the clearing, tripped and fell. As
she got up, she looked back.

Devlin was just a few
lengths behind her. His expression was one of savage determination. And she
realized that a dozen men were streaming out of the house, all angry, and a
chorus began—a terribly frightening chorus.

"A spy! It's a
spy!
An English spy!"

Virginia
bolted. In terror, she took
another step when he leapt upon her from behind. The force of his tackle took
them both instantly to the ground.

As she went down he
twisted sideways and she landed in his arms instead of on the hard ground,
where she would have surely broken a bone. A moment later she was on her back,
however, and he was on top of her. "You followed me here?" he
demanded, and she saw rage in his eyes.

And for the first
time since he had captured the
Americana
,
she
felt real fear. "No! I was out riding—I saw your horse—I thought there was
a party!" she cried.

"You little
fool!" he gritted.

Virginia
looked past his angry silver
eyes. They were surrounded now by the angry mob of men, some of them holding
muskets, others with pikes. Each and every man present looked as if he wanted
to use his weapon on her. Sean stepped through the circle. "It's all
right, boyos," he said lightly, smiling. "This is just a little
misunderstanding."

Virginia
's fear knew no bounds. She knew
what she had witnessed and what she had heard. These men wanted to rise up
against the English government and throw it out of
Ireland
. That was treason. She also knew what she
had just seen in their expressions. She had seen far worse than anger—she had
seen fear.

They were angry
and desperate and they were afraid of what she knew.

"He's a
spy!" someone shouted.

A rumble of
affirmations sounded.

Virginia
looked into Devlin's eyes,
trying not to panic. He wouldn't let anything happen to her, would he?

He gave her a very
angry look. Then he stood, hauling her to her feet.

"It's a
wench," someone cried.

"Damned spy's a
woman," someone else agreed.

"Miss Hughes is
our guest and she is not a spy," Sean said, moving to stand protectively
beside Virginia and Devlin.

Virginia
nodded, wetting her lips, which
felt parched and cracked. She stared into a sea of hostile, suspicious faces
and saw their hatred. "I'm not a spy," she tried. "I saw
Devlin's horse and—"

Devlin jerked on her,
hurting her, a command that meant, "Be silent," and as he did so,
someone said loudly, "She's English! The wench is English!"

Virginia
started, although this was not
the first time she had come face-to-face with people who had never met an
American before and therefore assumed her unfamiliar accent to be British.

"Hang her."
Tim McCarthy stepped forward. "She knows too much."

Virginia gasped and looked
at Devlin but he ignored her, stepping forward. "There's not going to be a
hanging, not of anyone, not today," he said calmly, but with an authority
that only he could muster. "Miss Hughes is American, not English, and
she's my fiancée."

The crowd was silent,
but dozens of eyes had widened in surprise.

Virginia seized at
the hope he offered. "Yes," she cried, stepping forward,
"Devlin is my betrothed and I only came to—"

He took her wrist and
almost snapped it off, but before she could cry out, he had jerked her forward
and smothered her words with a kiss.

Virginia gasped. His
mouth was hard and angry and hurtful. His arms felt like the iron bars of a
prison cage, steel bands tight around her. She vaguely heard some mutters behind
her, mutters about O'Neill having taken a bride. She tried to press him away,
but his grip only tightened, his lips turning more ruthless, and that was when
she felt his arousal.

It was red hot,
leaving no doubt whatsoever as to his state of mind and body, and she instantly
forgot about the terrible meeting she had just witnessed. Instead, as his mouth
started to soften, causing her own lips to instinctively yield and part, she
thought about Fiona. His tongue swept inside.
Fiona.

Last night he had
been in bed with Fiona.

Virginia bit down on
it.

He jerked away from
her, but he did not yelp or release her. Virginia stared furiously up at him—he
stared as furiously back.

"Let me
go," she murmured, low and threatening.

"Like hell, my
sweet little bride." And he smiled and swooped down on her again. But this
time, before he kissed her, he hissed, "Pretend you love me,
cherié,
as
your life might well depend on it."

Virginia felt real
despair, as his lips brushed her mouth, and worse, his hands slid so intimately
over her back and lower still. But he was right. She was trapped. He pulled her
closer still, perhaps thinking to punish her, for the surge of sensation
engendered by contact with him was just that, unfair, unjust punishment.
"Kiss me back," he ordered so only she could hear.

All the hurt she had
thought safely tucked away in some far and distant place where it could never
come back crashed over her now. She knew she should kiss him so that the onlookers
would think their engagement real. She simply couldn't. It was impossible to
kiss a man while crying.