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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

MILLS & BOON

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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….

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 tripped 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.”

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.

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.

Part One

CHAPTER ONE

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.”

Virginia missed Sweet Briar, but not half as much as she missed her parents. A wave of grief crashed over her, so much so her eyes flew open and she found herself standing back in the damnable ballroom of the school she had been sent to, the dance master looking extremely put out, his hands on his slim hips, a grim expression on his dark Italian face.

“What’s she doing with her eyes screwed up like that?” someone whispered.

“She’s crying, that’s what she’s doing,” came a haughty reply.

Virginia knew it was the blond beauty, Sarah Lewis—who was, according to Sarah, the most coveted debutante in Richmond. Or would be, when she came out at the end of the year. Virginia turned, fury overcoming her, and strode toward Sarah. Virginia was very petite and far too thin, with a small triangular face that held sharp cheekbones and brilliant violet eyes; her dark hair, waist long, was forced painfully up, as she refused to cut it, and appeared in danger of crushing her with its massive weight. Sarah was a good three inches taller than Virginia, not to mention a stone heavier. Virginia didn’t care.

She’d been in her first fight when she was six, a fisticuffs, and when her father had broken up the match, she’d learned she was fighting like a girl. Instruction in how to throw a solid punch—like a boy—had followed, much to her mother’s dismay. Virginia could not only throw a solid punch, she could shoot the top off a bottle at fifty feet with a hunting rifle. She didn’t stop until she was nose to nose with Sarah—which required standing on her tiptoes.

“Dancing is for fools like you,” she cried, “and your name should be Dancing Fool Sarah.”

Sarah gasped, stepping back, her eyes wide—and then the anger came. “Signor Rossini! Did you hear what the country bumpkin said to me?”

Virginia held her head impossibly higher. “This country bumpkin owns an entire plantation—all five thousand acres of it. And if I know my math—which I do—then that makes me one hell of a lot richer than you, Miss Dancing Fool.”

“You’re jealous,”’ Sarah hissed, “because you’re skinny and ugly and no one wants you…which is why you are here!”

Virginia landed hard on her heels. Something cracked open inside of her, and it was painful and sharp. Because Sarah had spoken the truth. No one wanted her, she was alone, and dear God, how awfully it hurt.

Sarah saw that her barb had hit home. She smiled. “Everyone knows. Everyone knows you’ve been sent here until your majority! That’s three years, Miss Hughes. You will be old and wrinkled before you ever go home to your farm!”

“That’s enough,” Signor Rossini said. “Both of you ladies step over to—”

Virginia didn’t wait to hear the rest. She turned and ran from the ballroom, certain there were more titters behind her, hating Sarah, hating the other girls, the dance master, the whole school and even her parents…How could they have left her? How?

In the hallway she collapsed to the floor, hugging her thin knees to her breasts, praying the pain would go away. And she even hated God, because He had taken her parents away from her in one terrible blow, on that awful rainy night last fall. “Oh, Papa,” she whispered against her bony knee. “I miss you so.”

She knew she must not cry. She would die before letting anyone see her cry. But she had never felt so lost and alone before. In fact, she had never been lost and alone before. There had been sunny days spent riding across the plantation with her father and evenings in front of the hearth while Mama embroidered and Papa read. There had been a house full of slaves, each and every one of whom she had known since the very day of her birth. There had been Tillie, her best friend in the entire world, never mind that she was a house slave two years older than Virginia. She hugged her knees harder, inhaling deeply and blinking furiously. It was a long moment before she regained her composure.

And when she did, she sat up straighter. What had Sarah said? That she was to remain at the school until her majority? But that was impossible! She had just turned eighteen and that meant she would be stuck in this awful prison for another three years.

Virginia stood up, not bothering to brush any dust from her black skirts, which she wore in mourning. It had been six months since the tragic carriage accident that had taken her parents’ lives and while the headmistress had expressed an interest in Virginia giving up mourning, she had solidly refused. She intended to mourn her parents forever. She still could not understand why God had let them die.

But surely that witch Sarah Lewis did not know what she was speaking about.

Very disturbed, Virginia hurried down the wood-paneled hall. Her only relative was an uncle, Harold Hughes, the Earl of Eastleigh. After her parents had died, he had sent his condolences and instructions for her to proceed to the Marmott School in Richmond, as he was now her official guardian. Virginia barely recalled any of this; her life then had been reduced to a blur of pain and grief. One day she had found herself in the school, not quite recalling how she had gotten there, only vaguely remembering being in Tillie’s arms one last time, the two girls sobbing goodbyes. Once the initial grief had lessened, she and Tillie had exchanged a series of letters—Sweet Briar was eighty miles south of Richmond and just a few miles from Norfolk. Virginia had learned that the earl was trustee of her estate and that he had ordered everything to continue to be managed as it had been before his brother’s death. Surely, if Sarah was correct, Tillie would have told her of such a terrible and cruel intention on the part of her guardian. Unless she herself did not know of it….

Thinking of Tillie and Sweet Briar always made her homesick. The urge to return home was suddenly overwhelming. She was eighteen, and many young women her age were affianced or even married with their own households. Before their deaths her parents hadn’t raised the subject of marriage, for which Virginia had been grateful. She wasn’t quite sure what was wrong with her, but marriage—and young men—had never occupied her mind. Instead, since the age of five, when Randall Hughes had mounted her on his horse in front of him, she had worked side by side with her father every single day. She knew every inch of Sweet Briar, every tree, every leaf, every flower. (The plantation was a hundred acres, not five thousand, but Sarah Lewis had needed to be taken down a peg or two.) She knew all about tobacco, the crop that was Sweet Briar. She knew the best ways to transplant the seedling crop, the best way to cure the harvested leaves, the best auction houses. Like her father, she had followed the price per bale with avid interest—and fervent hope. Every summer she and her father would dismount and walk through the tobacco fields, fingering the leafy plants in dirty hands, inhaling their succulent aroma, judging the quality of their harvest.

She had had other duties and responsibilities as well. No one was kinder than her mother, and no one knew herbs and healing better. No one cared more about their slaves. Virginia had attended dozens of fevers and flux, right by her mother’s side. She was never afraid to walk into the slave quarters when someone was ill—in fact, she packed a darn good poultice. Although Mama had not allowed her to attend any birthings, Virginia could birth foals, too, and had spent many a night waiting for a pregnant mare to deliver. Why shouldn’t she be at home now, running Sweet Briar with their foreman, James MacGregor? Was there any point in being at this damnable school? She’d been born to run the plantation. Sweet Briar was in her blood, her soul.

Virginia knew she wasn’t a lady. She’d been wearing britches from the moment she had figured out that there were britches, and she liked them better than skirts. Papa hadn’t cared—he’d been proud of her outspoken ways, her natural horsemanship, her keen eye. He had thought her beautiful, too—he’d always called her his little wild rose—but every father thought so of a daughter. Virginia knew that wasn’t true. She was too thin and she had too much hair to ever be considered fair. Not that she cared. She was far too smart to want to be a lady.

Mama had been tolerant of her husband and her daughter. Both of Virginia’s brothers had died at birth, first Todd and then little Charles when she was six. That was when Mama had first looked the other way about the britches, the horses, the hunting. She had cried for weeks, prayed in the family chapel and, somehow, found peace. After that, her smiles and sunny warmth had returned—but there had been no more pregnancies, as if she and Papa had made a silent pact.

Virginia couldn’t comprehend why any woman would even want to be a lady. A lady had to follow rules. Most of the rules were annoying, but some were downright oppressive. Being a lady was like being a slave who didn’t have the fine home of Sweet Briar. Being a lady was no different from being in shackles.

Virginia paused before the headmistress’s office, the decision already made. Whether Sarah Lewis had spoken the truth or not, it no longer mattered. It was time to go home. In fact, making the decision felt good. For the first time since her parents had died, she felt strong—and brave. It was a wonderful way to feel. It was the way she had felt right up until the minister had come to their door to tell her that her parents were dead.

She knocked on the fine mahogany door.

Mrs. Towne, a plump, pleasant lady, gestured her inside. Her kind eyes held Virginia’s, solemn now, when usually they held dancing lights. “I’m afraid you will have to learn to dance sooner or later, Miss Hughes.”

Virginia grimaced. The one person she almost liked at the school was the headmistress. “Why?”

Mrs. Towne was briefly surprised. “Do sit down, my dear.”

Virginia sat, then realized her knees were apart, her hands dangling off the arms of the chair, and quickly rearranged herself, not because she wished to be proper, but because she did not want to antagonize the headmistress now. She clamped her knees together, clasped her hands and thought about how fine it would be to be in her britches and astride her horse.

Mrs. Towne smiled. “It isn’t that difficult to cooperate, dear.”

“Actually, it is.” Virginia was also very stubborn. That trait her mother had bemoaned.

“Virginia, ladies must dance. How else will you attend a proper party and enjoy yourself?”

Virginia didn’t hesitate. “I have no use for parties, ma’am. I have no use for dancing. Frankly, it’s time for me to go home.”

Mrs. Towne stared in mild surprise.

Virginia forgot about sitting properly. “It’s not true, is it? What that wicked Sarah Lewis said? Surely I am not to remain here—forgotten—a prisoner—for another three years?”

Mrs. Towne was grim. “Miss Lewis must have overheard me speaking privately with Mrs. Blakely. My dear, we did receive such instructions from your uncle.”

Virginia was shocked speechless and she could only stare. It was a moment before she could even think.

For a while, she had been afraid that Eastleigh would send for her, forcing her to go to England, where she had no wish to go. That, at least, was one dilemma she did not have to face. But he would lock her up in this school for three more years? She’d already been here six months and she hated it! Virginia would not have it. Oh, no. She was going home.

Mrs. Towne was speaking. “I know that three years seems like a very long time, but actually, considering the way you were raised, it is probably the amount of time we need to fully instruct you in all the social graces you shall need to succeed in society, my dear. And there is good news. Your uncle intends to see you wed upon your majority.”

Virginia was on her feet, beyond shock. “What?”

Mrs. Towne blinked. “I should have known you would be dismayed by the proposal. Every well-born young lady marries, and you are no exception. He intends to find a suitable husband for you—”

“Absolutely not!”

Mrs. Towne was now the one speechless.

Anger consumed Virginia. “First he sends me here? Then he thinks to lock me away for three years? Then he will send me to another prison—a marriage with a stranger? No, I think not!”

“Sit down.”

“No, Mrs. Towne. You see, I will marry one day, but I will marry for love and only love. A grand passion—like my parents had.” Tears blurred her vision. There would be no compromise. One day she would find a man like her father, the kind of love her parents had so obviously shared. There would be—could be—no compromise.

“Virginia, sit down,” Mrs. Towne said firmly.

Virginia shook her head and Mrs. Towne stood. “I know you have suffered a terrible tragedy, and we all feel for you, we do. But you do not control your fate, child, your uncle does. If he wishes you to stay here until your majority, then so it shall be. And I am sure you will come to be fond of your future husband, whoever he may be.”

Virginia couldn’t speak. Panic consumed her. A stranger thought himself to be in control of her life! She felt trapped, as if in a cage with iron bars, worse, the cage was being immersed in the sea and she was drowning!

“My dear, you must make an effort to become a part of the community here. You are the one who has chosen to be disdainful of the other fine young women here. You have not tried, even once, to be friendly or amusing. You have set yourself apart from the moment you arrived and we allowed that, being respectful of your grief. I know why you held your head so high, my dear, but the others, why, they think you prideful and vain! It is time for you to make amends—and friends. I expect you to make friends, Virginia. And I expect you to excel in your studies, as well.”

Virginia hugged herself. Had the others really thought her too proud and vain? She didn’t believe it. They all despised her because she was from the country, because she was so different.

“You are so clever, Virginia. You could do so well here if you bothered to try.” Mrs. Towne smiled at her.

Virginia swallowed hard. “I can’t stay here. And they don’t like me because I am different! I’m not fancy and coy and I don’t faint at the sight of a handsome man!”

“You have chosen to be different, but you are a beautiful girl from a good family, and in truth, that makes you no different at all. You must cease being so independent, Virginia, and you will be very happy here, I promise you.” Mrs. Towne walked over to her and clasped her thin shoulder. “I am sure of this, Virginia. I want nothing more than for you to become a successful graduate of this school—and a very happy young lady.”

Virginia forced a brittle smile. There was nothing more to say. She was not going to stay at the school, and she was not going to let her uncle the earl choose a husband for her—and that was that.

Mrs. Towne smiled at her warmly. “Do give up your rebellious nature, my dear. The rewards will be great if you do.”

Virginia managed to nod. A moment later, the interview was over and she fled. As soon as she was alone on her cot in the dormitory, Virginia began to plan her escape.

TWO DAYS LATER, VIRGINIA performed her morning ablutions as slowly as she could. The other young ladies were filing out of the dormitory while she continued to wash her hands. Early morning light was filtering through the dormitory’s skylights. From the corner of her eye, Virginia watched the last of the young ladies leaving the long, rectangular room. Miss Fern paused at the door. “Miss Hughes? Are you unwell?”

Virginia managed a weak smile. “I’m sorry, Miss Fern, but I am so dizzy and light-headed today.” She hung on to the bureau beside the washstand.

Miss Fern returned to her, touching her forehead lightly. “Well, you do not have a fever. But I suppose you should go to Dr. Mills directly.”

“I think you are right. I must be coming down with influenza. I need a moment, please,” Virginia said, sitting down on the edge of her narrow bed.

“Take a moment, then.” Miss Fern smiled, walked down the aisle between the twenty beds and finally left the room.

Virginia waited, silently counting, “One-two-three,” then she leapt to her feet. She hurried across the aisle to the fourth bed. She went right to the bureau there and began rummaging through contents that did not belong to her. Guilt assailed her, but she ignored it.

Sarah Lewis always had pin money, and Virginia quickly found twelve dollars and thirty-five cents. She took every penny, leaving an unsigned note instead. In it, she explained that she would pay the sum back as soon as possible. Still, it felt terrible being reduced to thievery and she could almost feel her mother’s disapproval as she watched over her daughter from heaven.

“I will pay Sarah back, Mama, every darned penny,” she whispered guiltily. But there was just no choice. She needed fare for a coach and an inn. As brave as she was, she didn’t think she could walk the entire eighty miles to Sweet Briar without several nights’ rest and a few good meals.

Virginia then reached under her bunk. In her cloak—despite the spring weather, the nights remained cool—she had wrapped her few precious personal belongings: her mother’s cameo necklace, her father’s pipe and a horsehair bracelet Tillie had made for her when she was eight. She also had an extra shirtwaist, gloves and bonnet. The entire cloak was bundled up and tied with string. Virginia went to a window at one end of the room, heaved it open and dropped the bundle to the sidewalk below.

Virginia somehow slowed her eager legs and walked demurely downstairs, passing two of the school’s staff as she did so. Finally she reached the end of the hall. Ahead lay the gracious, high-ceilinged foyer of the building. There, marble floors vied with dark wood columns and even darker wood paneling. The front door wasn’t kept locked during the day, as no student ever walked out. Virginia looked carefully around. This was her chance to escape, but if someone saw her now, it was over before her journey had even begun.

Footsteps sounded from a different hall. Virginia darted back around the corner, not daring to breathe, hearing two voices and recognizing them as belonging to the music master and the French professor. She assumed they would cross the foyer and come her way—all of the classrooms lay behind her. Virginia looked around and slipped into the janitor’s closet.

The pair of instructors passed.

Virginia was sweating. She had also lost all patience. She cracked open the door and saw that the hallway was empty. She slipped out, peered into the foyer and found that empty, too. She inhaled hard for courage and rushed across, flinging open the huge and heavy front door. She stepped outside into bright spring sunlight and she smelled and even tasted freedom. God, it was good!

She ran down the walk and out the wrought-iron front gates, down the public sidewalk, around the corner, and found her bundled cloak. Virginia seized it and ran again.

“I’M SO HAPPY WE COULD see you most of your way, my dear,” Mrs. Cantwell said, smiling and clasping Virginia’s hands.

Three days had passed. Virginia had spent most of the first morning on foot until she had left the bustling city of Richmond behind. At a country inn she had eaten a hearty lunch, famished from her long walk. There, she had stumbled across the Cantwell family.

A matronly wife, three proper children, a plump, bespectacled husband—all traveling in a pretty private coach. Virginia had overheard their conversation, learning that they had been to Richmond to visit the husband’s ailing parents. Now they were on their way home to Norfolk. Which meant they would pass within miles of Sweet Briar.

Virginia had helped one of the small children blow his nose and had quickly become the interest of Mrs. Cantwell. She had lied about her age and marital status, claiming that she was returning home to her husband after visiting her ailing mother in Richmond. She had quickly slipped her mother’s ring to her left hand to corroborate her story. Mrs. Cantwell, upon learning of her destination, had quickly offered her a ride, clearly desperate for company and help with the children.

Now Virginia hardly heard the pleasant lady. They were at a crossroads, one sign reading Norfolk, the other reading Land’s End, Four Corners and Sweet Briar. Her heart beat so hard that she felt faint. Five miles down the road was her home. Five simple miles…

“You must miss your husband so much,” Mrs. Cantwell added.

Virginia came to life. She turned and clasped the blond woman’s hands. “Thank you so much for the ride, Lilly. I cannot thank you enough.”

“You have been so wonderful with the children!” Lilly Cantwell exclaimed. “And if we weren’t so close to home, I would insist we take you all the way to Sweet Briar so we might meet your wonderful husband.”

Virginia flushed with guilt—she’d become an adept liar as well as a thief in a very short time, and how she hated it! “May I write you?” she asked impulsively. She instantly decided she would write Lilly Cantwell and tell her the entire truth, while thanking her once again for her kindness.

“I should love to hear from you and remain friends,” Lilly cried, beaming.

The two women hugged. Virginia then hugged tiny Charlotte, tugged Master William’s ear and winked at little Thomas. She thanked Mr. Cantwell as well, and as their carriage pulled away, she thought she heard him remarking, “There’s something odd about that young lady and I still don’t think she’s old enough to be married!”

Virginia grinned. Then she spread her arms wide and laughed loudly, spinning around and around, until her feet hurt and her ankle twisted and she was so dizzy she had to drop to the ground. Lying there, she laughed again. She was home!

She quickly got up, adjusted her bundle and began running down the dirt road. The five miles passed endlessly, but every gentle field, every spring-green hill, every gushing stream only made her hurry even more. She was breathless and hot when she first spied the beautifully engraved wood sign hanging between two stately brick pillars: SWEET BRIAR. A long dirt drive wound from the entrance up a hill all the way to the house, and surrounding it were the red curing barns, the whitewashed slave quarters and the fields and fields of rich brown sandy earth.

Her heart hammered like a drum. Virginia dropped her bundle and lifted her skirts and ran up the dirt drive. “Tillie!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. “Tillie! Tillie! Tillie! It’s me, I’m home, Tillie!”

Frank, Tillie’s husband, was hitching up a wagon not far from the front of the house and he saw her first. His mouth dropped open and he gaped. “Miz Virginia? Is that you?”

Behind him, his little twin boys were wide-eyed. Then, from the corner of her eye, Virginia saw the front door of the house open as Tillie stepped onto the veranda. But it was too late, she was already in Frank’s arms. “Have you lost your wits?” she cried, hugging him so hard he choked. “Of course it’s me! Who else would it be!” She stepped back, laughing up at the big young man.

“God Almighty, that fine an’ fancy school sure ain’t made you a lady,” Frank said, grinning, his teeth stunningly white against his dark skin.

“You do mean ‘thank God,’ don’t you?” Virginia teased. “Rufus, Ray, get over here and give me hugs, or don’t you remember your mistress?”

The boys, both just shy of seven, rushed forward, grabbing her around her thighs. Virginia finally felt the tears rising in her eyes as she tried to bend down and hug them both.

Then she felt Tillie behind her, and slowly, she turned.

Tillie smiled, tears staining her coffee-and-cream complexion. She was as tall as Virginia was short, as voluptuous as she was thin, and very beautiful. “I knew you’d come home,” she whispered.

Virginia moved into her arms. The two young women clung.

When she could control her tears, she stepped back, smiling. “My feet hurt like hell,” she said. “And I’m starving to death! How did the burning go? Did we find rot? And what do the seedlings look like?” She grinned as she wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

But Tillie didn’t smile back. Her golden eyes were frighteningly solemn.

“Tillie?” Virginia asked, not liking the look she was receiving. Dread began. “Please tell me everything is all right.” For something seemed terribly wrong and she was so scared to learn what it was.

She’d had enough of misfortune. She couldn’t stand one more stroke of bad luck.

Tillie gripped her arms. “They’re selling the plantation—and everything and everyone on it.”

Virginia didn’t understand. “What did you just say?”

“Your daddy’s in debt. Beg pardon—Master Hughes was in debt—and now your uncle has an agent here and he’s started selling off everything…the land, the house, the slaves, the horses, he’s selling it all.”

Virginia cried out. A huge pain stabbed through her chest, so vast that she reeled. Tillie caught her around the waist.

“What’s wrong with me! Here you are, skinnier than ever, as hungry as a winter wolf, and I’m telling you our troubles! C’mon, Virginia, you need some hot food and a hot bath and then we can talk. You can tell me all about what it’s like to be a fine lady!”

Virginia couldn’t respond. This had to be a nightmare, an awful dream—it couldn’t be reality. Sweet Briar could not be up for sale.

But it was.

SHE WAS WEARING HER MOTHER’S Sunday best. Virginia smiled bravely at Frank, who had driven her into Norfolk, smoothing down her blue skirts, adjusting the bodice of her fitted blue pelisse and then her matching bonnet. Her mother’s clothes were loose upon her small frame, but Tillie and two other slaves had been sewing madly all night to make everything fit perfectly. Now Frank tried to smile back and failed. Virginia knew why—he was heartsick, afraid his wife and children would be sold off to some distant owner and that he’d never see them again.

But that wasn’t going to happen. Virginia intended to move heaven and earth—and more specifically, her father’s good friend Charles King, the president of the First Bank of Virginia—in order to prevent Sweet Briar from being sold. She swallowed hard, her entire body covered with perspiration. The stakes were so damned high. She was so deathly afraid. But Charles King had been a good family friend and now he’d see her not as a child but a capable lady. Surely, surely, he’d loan her the funds necessary to pay off her father’s debts and save Sweet Briar.

Virginia closed her eyes tightly against the glaring sun, her smile faltering. God, she hated her uncle, the Earl of Eastleigh, a man she’d never met. He hadn’t even discussed the state of the plantation with her! Yet it belonged to her!

Or it would, if it hadn’t been sold off by the time she turned twenty-one.

Now the three years between the present and her majority loomed as an eternity.

“Miz Virginia,” Frank suddenly said, restraining her from entering the imposing facade of the brick-and-limestone bank.

Virginia paused, her stomach churning with fear and dread. She managed a small smile. “I may be long—but I hope not.”

“It’s not that,” he said roughly. He was very tall, perhaps five inches over six feet, and dangerously handsome. Tillie had fallen in love with him at first sight, almost five years ago, not that anyone would have known it, with the way she’d snubbed him and put on airs. Apparently it had been mutual—not six months later he’d asked Randall Hughes for permission to marry her, and that permission had been instantly given. “I’m afraid, Miz Virginia, afraid of what will happen to Tillie and my boys if you don’t get this loan today.”

Virginia had been acutely aware of her responsibility to save Sweet Briar and her people, but now it crashed over her with stunning force. Fifty-two slaves were depending on her, many of them children. Tillie, her best friend, was depending on her, and so was Frank. “I will get this loan, Frank. You have nothing to worry about.” She must have sounded forceful and confident, because his eyes widened instantly and he doffed his hat to her.

Virginia gave him another reassuring smile, silently begged God for a little help and entered the bank.

Inside, it was blessedly cool, oddly reverent and as quiet as a church. Two customers were at the teller’s queue and one clerk was at a front desk. At a desk in the back sat Charles King. He looked up then and saw her, his eyes widening in surprise.

This was it, she thought, lifting her chin to an impossible height. Her smile felt odd and brittle, fixed, as she marched forward through the lobby and the spacious back area of the bank.

King stood, a fat man neatly and well dressed, his old-fashioned wig powdered and tied back. “Virginia! My dear, for one awful moment, I thought you were your mother, God rest her beloved soul!”

Her father had told her many times that she looked just like her mother, but Virginia hadn’t ever believed it because Mama was so beautiful, although they shared the same nearly black hair and the same oddly violet eyes. She held out her hand as Charles took it firmly, clearly pleased to see her. “An illusion of light, I suppose,” she said, impressed with her own grace and bearing. But she had to convince Charles that she was a fine and capable lady now.

“Yes, I suppose. I thought you were at school in Richmond. Do come in—have you come to see me?” he asked, leading her back to his desk and the high chairs facing it.

“Yes, frankly, I have,” Virginia said, gripping her mother’s elegant black velvet reticule tightly.

Charles smiled, offering her a chair and some tea. Virginia declined. “So how have you found the big city, Virginia?” he asked, taking his seat behind his desk. His gaze held hers, with some concern. Virginia knew he was finally noticing how peaked she was, due to the terrible strain of her grief and now her worry over the state of her father’s finances.

Virginia shrugged. “I suppose it is fine enough. But you know I adore Sweet Briar—there is no place I would rather be.”

For one moment Charles stared and then he was grim. “I know you are a clever young lady, so may I assume you realize your uncle is selling the plantation?”

She wanted to lean forward and shout that the earl had no right. She didn’t move—she didn’t even dare to breathe—not until her temper had passed. But even then she said, “He has no right.”

“I am afraid he has every right. After all, he is your guardian.”

Virginia sat impossibly stiff and straight. “Mr. King, I have come here to secure a loan, so that I may pay off my father’s debts and save Sweet Briar from sale and even possible dissolution.”

He blinked.

She smiled bleakly at him. “I have helped Father manage the plantation since I was a child. No one knows how to plant and harvest, ship and sell tobacco better than I. I assure you, sir, that I would repay your loan in full, with any necessary interest, as soon as was possible. I—”

“Virginia,” Charles King began, too kindly.

Panic began. She leapt to her feet. “I may be a woman and I may be eighteen but I do know how to run Sweet Briar! No one except my father knows how better than I do! I swear to you, sir, I would repay every penny! How much do I need to pay off Father’s debts?” she cried desperately.

Charles regarded her with pity. “My dear child, his debts amount to a staggering twenty-two thousand dollars.”

The shock was so great that her heart stopped and her knees gave way and somehow, she was sitting down. “No.”

“I have spoken with your uncle’s agent at great length. His name is Roger Blount and I do believe he is on his way back to Britain in the next few days after seeing to your affairs here. Sweet Briar is not a lucrative plantation, Virginia,” he continued gently. “Your father had loss after loss, year after year. Even if I were foolish enough to lend a young and untried girl such a sum of money, there is simply no way you could ever repay me—not from the plantation. I am sorry. Selling Sweet Briar is the only intelligent and viable option.”

She stood, sick in her heart, in her soul. “No. I can’t let it be sold. It’s mine.”

He also stood. “I know how upsetting this is for you. Virginia, I’m not sure why you are not in school, but that is where you should be—although if you wish, I could try to arrange a match for you, a good one, and speak with your uncle about it. That would certainly solve your problems—”

“Unless you think to marry me to a very wealthy man, then that solves nothing,” Virginia cried. “I cannot allow Sweet Briar to be sold! Why won’t you help me? I would pay you back, somehow, one day! I have never broken my word, sir! Why can’t you see that this is all I have left in the entire world?”

He stared. “You have a glorious future, my dear. I promise you that.”

She closed her eyes and trembled violently. Then she looked him in the eye. “Please lend me the funds. If you loved my father, my mother, at all, then please, help me now.”

“I’m sorry. I cannot. I simply cannot lend an impossible sum to a young girl who will never in an entire lifetime pay the bank back.”

She could not give up. “Then lend me the funds personally,” she cried.

He blinked. “Virginia, I do not have that kind of wealth. I am sorry.”

She was in disbelief. He started to say something about a fresh start, and she turned and ran wildly through the bank and outside. There she collapsed against a hitching post, panting hard, shaking wildly, tears of panic and desperation trying to rise. This could not be happening, she thought. There had to be a way!

“Miz Virginia? Are you all right?” Frank had her by the elbow. His tone was concerned and anxious.

She met his black eyes but did not respond—because an idea had struck her so forcefully that she could not respond.

Her uncle was an earl.

Earls were wealthy.

She would borrow the money from him.

“Miz Virginia?” Frank was asking again, this time with a slight pressure on her elbow.

Virginia pulled free of his grasp and stared blindly across the busy street. She did not see a single wagon, carriage or pedestrian.

She had not a doubt that her uncle had the funds to save Sweet Briar. He was her only hope.

But clearly he didn’t wish to save the plantation, or he would have already done so. That meant she had to confront him directly—personally. A letter would not do. The stakes were far too high. Somehow, she would find the means to cross the Atlantic Ocean, even if it meant selling some of her mother’s precious jewelry, and she would meet her uncle and convince him to save Sweet Briar rather than sell it. She’d beg, rationalize, argue, debate, she’d do whatever she had to, even marry a perfect stranger, as long as he agreed to pay off her father’s debts. Virginia realized she had to make plans and quickly, because she was on her way to England.

She knew she could do this. As her father was so fond of saying, where there was a will there was a way.

She’d always had plenty of will. Now she’d find a way.

CHAPTER TWO

May 1, 1812

London, England

WORD HAD SPREAD OF HIS arrival. Cheering throngs lined the banks of the Thames as his ship, the Defiance, proudly edged her way toward the naval docks.

Devlin O’Neill stood square on the quarterdeck, unsmiling, his arms folded across his chest, a tall, powerful figure as still as a statue. For the occasion of this homecoming—if it could be called such—he was in his formal naval attire. A blue jacket with tails, gold epaulets adorning each shoulder, pale white britches and stockings, highly polished shoes. His black felt bicorn was worn with the points facing out, as only admirals had the privilege of wearing the points front to back. His hair, a brilliant gold, was too long and pulled back in a queue. The crowd—men, women and children, agile and infirm, all London’s poorest classes—raced up the riverbanks alongside his ship. Some of the women threw flowers at it.

A hero’s welcome, he thought with no mirth at all. A hero’s welcome for the man one and all called “His Majesty’s pirate.”

He had not set foot in Great Britain for an entire year. He would not be setting foot there now, had he a choice, but it had become impossible to ignore this last summons from the Admiralty, their fourth. His mouth twisted coldly. What he wanted was a steady bed and a pox-free woman who was not a whore, but his needs would have to wait. He did not wonder what the admirals wanted—he had disobeyed so many orders and broken so many rules in the past year that they could be asking for his head on any number of counts. He also knew he would be receiving new orders, which he looked forward to. He never lingered in any port for more than a few days or perhaps a week.

His glance swept over his ship. The Defiance was a thirty-eight-gun frigate known for her speed and her agility, but mostly for her captain’s outrageous and unconventional daring. He was well aware that the sight of his ship caused other ships to turn tail and run, hence his preference for pursuit at night. Now top men were high on both the fore and main masts, reefing sails. Fifty marines in their red coats stood stiffly at attendance, muskets in their arms, as the frigate cruised toward its berth. Other sailors stood with them, eager for the liberty he would soon grant. Forecastle men readied the ship’s huge anchors. All in all, three hundred men stood upon the frigate’s decks. Beyond the docks, where two state-of-the-line three deckers, several sloops, a schooner and two gunships were at birth, the spires and rooftops of London gleamed in the bright blue sky.

The past year had been a very lucrative one. A year of cruising from the Strait of Gibraltar to Algiers, from the Bay of Biscayne to the Portuguese coast. There’d been forty-eight prizes and more than five hundred captured crewmen. His duties had been routine—escorting supply convoys, patrolling coastal shorelines, enforcing the blockade of France. Nights had been spent swooping upon unsuspecting French privateers, days lolling upon the high seas. He had been rather wealthy before this past year, but now, with this last prize, an American ship loaded with gold bullion, he was a very wealthy man, indeed.

And finally, a smile touched his lips.

But the boy trembled and remained afraid. The boy refused to go away. No amount of wealth, no amount of power, could be enough. And the boy had only to close his eyes to see his father’s eyes, enraged and sightless in his severed head, there upon the Irish ground in a pool of his own blood.

Devlin had gone to sea three years after the Wexford uprising, with the Earl of Adare’s permission and patronage. Adare had married his mother within the year, although his baby sister, Meg, had never been found. The earl had fabricated a naval history for Devlin, enabling him to start his career as a midshipman and not as the lowliest sailor far below decks. Devlin had quickly risen to the rank of lieutenant. Briefly he’d served on Nelson’s flagship. At the Battle of Trafalgar, the captain of the sloop he was serving on had taken an unlucky hit and been killed instantly; Devlin had as quickly assumed command. The small vessel had only had ten guns, but she was terribly quick, and Devlin had snuck the Gazelle in under the leeward hull of a French frigate. With the French ship sitting so high above them, her every broadside had sailed right over the Gazelle. His own guns, at point-blank range, had torn apart the decks and rigging, crippling the bigger, faster ship immediately. He’d towed his prize proudly into Leghorn and shortly after had received a promotion to captain, his own command and a fast schooner, the Loretta.

He had only been eighteen.

There had been so many battles and so many prizes since then. But the biggest prize of all yet remained to be taken, and it did not exist upon the high seas of the world.

The heat of highly controlled rage, always broiling deep within him, simmered a bit more. Devlin ignored it. Instead of thinking of the future reckoning that would one day come with Harold Hughes, now the Earl of Eastleigh, he watched as the Defiance eased into its berth between a schooner and a gunship. Devlin nodded at his second in command, a brawny red-haired Scot, Lieutenant MacDonnell. Mac used the horn to announce a week’s liberty. Devlin smiled a little as his men cheered and hollered, then watched his decks clear as if the signal to jump ship had been given. He didn’t mind. His crew was top-notch. Some fifty of his men had been with him since he’d been given his first ship; half of his crew had been with him since the collapse of the Treaty of Tilsit. They were good men, brave and daring. His crew was so well-honed that no one hesitated even when his commands seemed suicidal. The Defiance had become the scourge of the seas because of their loyalty, faith and discipline.

He was proud of his crew.

Mac fell into step with him, looking uncomfortable in his naval uniform, which he seemed to have outgrown. Mac was Devlin’s own age, twenty-four, and this past year he had bulked out. Devlin thought they made an odd duo—the short, broad Scot with the flaming hair, the tall, blond Irishman with the cold silver eyes.

“Ach, got to find me land legs,” Mac growled.

Devlin smiled as the land heaved under them as high and hard as any storm swell. He clapped his shoulder. “Give it a day.”

“That I shall, a day and seven, if you don’t mind.” Mac grinned. He had all his teeth and only one was rotten. “Got plans, Cap? I’m achin’ meself for a lusty whore. Me first stop, I tell you that.” His laughter was bawdy.

Devlin was lenient with the men—like most ships’ commanders, he allowed them their whores in port, but he preferred them to bring the women aboard, so the ship’s surgeon could take a good look at them. He wanted his crew pox-free. “We were in Lisbon a week ago,” he said mildly.

“Feels like a year,” Mac grunted.

Devlin saw the post chaise waiting for him—he’d sent word to Sean by mail packet that he was on his way back. “Can I offer you a ride, Mac?”

Mac flushed. “Not goin’ to town,” he said, referring to the West End.

Devlin nodded, reminding him that he was expected back aboard the Defiance in a week’s time to set sail at noon, with all three hundred of his men. His rate of desertion was almost zero, an astonishing fact that no one in the British navy could understand. But then, with so many spoils taken and shared, his crew were all well off.

Thirty minutes later the chaise was clipping smartly over London Bridge. Devlin stared at the familiar sights. After days spent in the wind and on the sea, or at exotic, sultry ports in the Mediterranean, North Africa and Portugal, the city looked dark and dirty, unclean. Still, he was a man who liked a beautiful woman and refused a common whore, and his wandering eye took in more than his fair share of elegant ladies in chaises, carriages and on foot, shopping in the specialty stores. His loins stirred. He had sent several letters ahead and one was to his English mistress. He fully expected to be entertained that night and all the week long.

The London offices of the Admiralty were on Brook Street in an imposing limestone building built half a century before. Officers, aides and adjutants were coming and going. Here and there, groups of officers paused in conversation. As Devlin pushed open the heavy wood doors and entered a vast circular lobby with a high-domed ceiling, heads began to turn his way. Portraits of the greatest admirals in British history adorned the walls, as did paintings of the greatest ships and battles. His mistress had once said his portrait would soon hang there, too. The conversation began to diminish. An eerie quiet settled over the lobby; Devlin was amused. He heard his name being whispered about.

“Captain O’Neill, sir?” A young lieutenant with crimson cheeks saluted him smartly from the bottom of the marble staircase.

Devlin saluted him rather casually back.

“I am to escort you to Admiral St. John, sir,” the freckle-faced youth said. His flush had somehow deepened.

“Please do,” Devlin remarked, unable to restrain a sigh. St. John was not quite the enemy—he disliked insubordination, but he knew the value of his best fighting captain. It was Admiral Farnham who wanted nothing more than to court-martial him and publicly disgrace him, and these days, he was egged on by Captain Thomas Hughes, the Earl of Eastleigh’s son.

Admiral St. John was waiting for him. He was a slender man with a shock of white hair, and he was not alone. Farnham was with him—at once bulkier and taller, with far less hair—and so was the Earl of Liverpool, the minister of war.

Devlin entered the office, saluting. He was intrigued, as he could not recall ever seeing Liverpool at West Square.

The door was solidly shut behind him. Liverpool, slim, short and dark-haired, smiled at him. “It’s been some time, Devlin. Do sit. Would you like a Scotch whiskey or a brandy?”

Devlin sat in a plush chair, removing his felt. “Is the brandy French?”

The earl was amused. “I’m afraid so.”

“The brandy,” Devlin said, stretching out his long legs in front of him.

Farnham appeared annoyed. St. John sat down behind his desk. “It has been some time since we have had the privilege of your appearance here.”

Devlin shrugged dismissively. “The Straits are a busy place, my lord.”

Liverpool poured the brandies from a crystal decanter, handing one over to Devlin and passing the others around.

“Yes, very busy,” Farnham said. “Which is why deserting the Lady Anne is an exceedingly serious offense.”

Devlin took a long sip, tasting the brandy carefully, and decided his own stock was far superior, both on his ship and at home.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” St. John asked.

“Not really,” Devlin said, then added, “she was in no danger.”

“No danger?” Farnham choked on his brandy.

Liverpool shook his head. “Admiral Farnham is asking for your head, my boy. Was it really necessary to leave the Lady Anne in order to chase that American merchantman?”

Devlin smiled slightly. “The Independence was loaded with gold, my lord.”

“And you knew that when you spotted her off the coast of Tripoli?” St. John asked.

Devlin murmured, “Money, my lord, buys anything.”

“I know of no other commander as audacious as you. Who is your spy and where is he?” St. John demanded.

“Perhaps it’s a she,” he murmured. And in fact, the wench in Malta who ran an inn often used by the Americans was just that. “And if I do employ spies, I am afraid that is my affair entirely—and as it does aid me in the execution of my orders, we should lay the question to rest.”

“You do not follow orders!” Farnham said. “Your orders were to convey the Lady Anne to Lisbon. You are lucky she was not seized by enemy ships—”

He was finally annoyed, but he remained slouched. “Luck has naught to do with anything. I control the Straits. And that means I control the Mediterranean—as no one can enter her without getting past me. There was no danger to the Lady Anne and her safe conveyance to Lisbon has proved it.”

“And now you are rather rich,” Liverpool murmured.

“The prize is with our agent at the Rock,” he said, referring to Gibraltar. He’d towed the Independence to the British prize agent there. His share of the plunder was three-eighths of the total sum, and a quick estimation of that figure came to one hundred thousand pounds. He was wealthier than anyone would ever guess, and he had far exceeded his own expectations some time ago.

“But I do not care about the fate of the Lady Anne, a single ship,” Liverpool said. “And while you directly disobeyed your orders, we are all prepared to ignore the matter. Is that not right, gentlemen?”

St. John’s nod was firm, but Devlin knew it killed Henry Farnham to agree, and he was amused.

“I care about finishing this bloody war, and finishing it soon.” Liverpool was standing and orating as if before the House. “There is another war on the horizon, one that must be avoided at all costs.”

“Which is why you are here,” St. John added.

Devlin straightened in his chair. “War with the Americans is a mistake,” he said.

Farnham made a sound. “You are Irish, your sympathies remain Jacobin.”

Devlin itched to strangle him. He did not move or speak until the desire had passed. “Indeed they are. America is a sister nation, just as Ireland is. It would be shameful to war with her over any issue.”

Liverpool said bluntly, “We must retain absolute control of the seas, Devlin, surely you know that.”

“His loyalties remain selfish ones. He cares not a whit for England—he cares only about the wealth his naval career has afforded him,” Farnham said with heat.

“We are not here to question Devlin’s loyalties,” Liverpool said sharply. “No one in our navy has served His Majesty with more loyalty and more perseverance and more effect.”

“Thank you,” Devlin murmured wryly. But it was true. His battle record was unrivaled at sea.

“The war is not over yet, and you know it, Devlin, as you have spent more time than anyone patrolling the Straits of Gibraltar and the Mediterranean, as well. Still, our control there is without dispute. You will leave this room with your new orders, if I can be assured that you will effect them appropriately.”

His brows lifted with real interest. Where was Liverpool leading? “Do continue,” he said.

“Your reputation precedes you,” St. John pointed out. “In the Mediterranean and off these shores, every enemy and privateer knows your naval tactics are superior, if unorthodox, and that if you think to board, you carry fighting men, men who think nothing of carrying a second cutlass in their teeth. They fear you—that is why no one battles you anymore.”

It was true more often than not. Devlin usually fired a single warning shot before boarding with his marines. There was rarely resistance—and he had become bored with it all.

“I believe your reputation is so great that even near American shores, the enemy will flee upon the sight of your ship.”

“I am truly flattered,” he murmured.

Liverpool spoke. “We are trying to avoid war with the Americans.” He gave Devlin a look. “Sending you there could be like releasing a wolf in a henhouse and then expecting healthy, happy hens and chicks. If you are sent westward, my boy, I want your word that you will follow your orders—that you will scare the bloody hell out of the enemy but that you will not engage her ships. Your country needs you, Devlin, but there is no room for pirate antics.”