“Lying Irish!” Shane whispered, and lifted her hand to his lips.
Her fingers were stiff and cold, and she snatched her hand from him deliberately.
When Sabre rose from the table, the others followed suit, and as Fitz assisted Georgiana to rise, she said over her shoulder, “I have decided to stay at Hawkhurst for the winter season. ’Tis only a forty-mile ride. … I would welcome your company if the country wouldn’t bore you to death.”
He said gallantly, “I could never be bored in your company, my lady. Don’t be surprised if I take you literally and actually visit.” She cast him a sidewise glance that took his breath away. “Please,” she murmured.
The baron pretended that he must take his leave, but actually he intended to be cloaked and spurred in time to accompany Shane to Ireland. If he had been at Shane’s back the night he had gone to meet O’Neill, he would never have received the near-mortal blow.
Sabre went upstairs the moment she heard the booted step in the courtyard, leaving father, mother, and son to their own volatile company.
“Hugh!” Georgiana gasped as she recognized the harsh, rugged features of O’Neill.
He looked with disapproval at the low-cut, elegant gown, the diamonds blazing at her throat, the lace fan waved so artfully, but he approved of the full-blooded woman beneath the frippery.
Somehow Shane was no longer afraid of these two coming face-to-face. It was their lives, and they must choose. “I will change my clothes. I’ll be ready to ride in half an hour,” said Shane, allowing them a little time together.
Sabre was surprised to find that Shane had followed her upstairs. She was also pleased. It showed she had some power over him at least. She raised an eyebrow and said in a cool voice, “I thought we had said good-bye.”
“By God, how you madden a man. Are you erecting a barrier between us to see me smash it down?” he demanded.
“’Tis you who erects barriers! I never know when you will suddenly decide to take off. Then when you return and have need of me to warm your bed, you crook your little finger and I’m supposed to come running!”
“You sound like a nagging wife. The last thing I need is a wife; I have one of those, remember?” he sneered.
“’Tis you who needs to remember. The woman could be dead for all you care!”
He threw up his hands in exasperation. “Now I’ve heard everything! My mistress takes my wife’s part in this. I can’t win for losing with you, Sabre.”
She pressed her hand to her mouth so she would not blurt out that she was his wife. By all that was holy she would save that ace up her sleeve until the perfect moment when the revelation would be most advantageous to her.
He closed the distance between them in two strides. She had pushed him to his limit. He grabbed her roughly and gave her a savage kiss that left no doubt who was master. When he felt her resistance begin to melt, he growled arrogantly, “When I return I’ll send a servant to summon you.”
Sabre was left with her mouth open. Damn you to hell, Hawkhurst, she cried silently.
At the top of the staircase Shane encountered the baron. They could clearly overhear the conversation that was taking place below, and they listened without hesitation.
“Ye are more English than Irish, woman! Like yer queen ye spend too much time riding to the hunt, playing at cards, gossiping with yer friends, and wasting money buying geegaws.” He strode toward her and gripped her shoulders harshly. “Yet still I want ye, lass. Come back to Ireland wi’ me!”
Georgiana could not keep herself from comparing this man to the other with whom she had spent the evening. Oh, the feral male-animal attraction was still there, filling the room, but outweighing that was the arrogant, vicious need to rule. The need for power was like a madness in him. He thought he should be the Irish king on the Irish throne and would settle for nothing less, no matter who or what was sacrificed. She saw now that she had done her own share of sacrificing others. She had given him Shane, thinking he would cherish such a son, but it was otherwise. He’d used him ruthlessly and would go on using him. Death would put a stop to it, one day, but she prayed fervently it would never come to that.
“No, Hugh,” she said calmly, “I like my geegaws. I am too old to throw my comfort to the wind and exist in that barren pile of rock you call Dungannon. You have little love to spare a woman. You have your clans to unite— your Maguires, O’Haras, O’Donnells, O’Sullivans, and O’Rourkes.”
His face was vicious as he looked at her revealing neckline and her diamonds. “Whore of Babylon!” he hissed.
“We are ready,” said a deep voice from the doorway.
Relief swept over Georgiana as she raised her eyes and saw Shane and the baron cloaked in black for their clandestine journey.
Chapter 15
Sabre was pleasantly surprised Kate Ashford didn’t scold her overmuch for her absence. Though Kate had no idea where Sabre had been, she had a damned good idea whose company she kept. In actuality Kate was simply relieved to have her back in time for the move to Whitehall. The whole court was abuzz with the latest on the Essex-Elizabeth contretemps. Kate told her they were actually laying bets on the outcome. Most of the gentlemen had put their money on the queen, but the more astute ladies had bet on Essex. She always gave in to him.
The queen had instructed Kate Ashford to transport ten new gowns she had had designed especially for the winter season. Sabre was on hands and knees in the drafty Windsor wardrobe, stuffing the sleeves of the gowns with tissue. The sleeves were slashed and heavily jeweled and could be crushed so easily. Sabre had devised a cushioning way to pack a gown in its own box and take it out later virtually uncrushed and unwrinkled.
A voice behind her startled her. “So you are Mistress Wilde. You have been conspicuous by your absence since the great hunt on the occasion of my birthday.”
Sabre’s mouth fell open as she found herself in the unenviable position of being singled out by the queen. “Your Majesty.” She sat back upon her heels and bowed her head. “I—I was indisposed, Your Majesty,” Sabre blurted.
“Not the fever?” asked the queen, greatly alarmed.
“Ah, no, Your Majesty. I fell from my horse during the hunt and found it difficult to walk for a week,” she lied.
“It has come to my attention that you ride an Arabian,” said Elizabeth with a great deal of disbelief mingled with disapproval. The queen made statements in such a bald manner, she compelled you to explain yourself.
“Ah, yes, Your Majesty. I won it playing cards and was not used to such a high-strung animal.”
“Which gentleman wagers for such high stakes as Arabian horses, pray tell me?” demanded the queen.
Sabre skirted the truth once more. “Matthew Hawkhurst, if it pleases Your Majesty,” she replied primly.
The queen switched subjects with the speed of lightning. Through narrowed eyes she said, “The color of your hair … is it natural?”
Sabre’s hand went to her copper tresses apprehensively. “Why, yes, Your Majesty.”
“I will tell you a secret,” said Elizabeth confidentially. “I am wearing a wig!”
Since nothing could have been more obvious and since Sabre had spent hours cleaning her vast collection of wigs, it was difficult to look surprised.
“Just that shade of copper is what I desire. I have a royal wigmaker, Master Hooker, who has been searching for just such hair as yours,” the Queen said pointedly.
Sabre swallowed with difficulty. She knew without a shadow of a doubt what the queen was asking, nay, commanding of her. Resentment and anger flared up inside her. How demeaning to be down on her knees wrapping this woman’s gowns in layers of protective tissue so she could strut about in her finery. Now the old witch actually wanted the hair from her head to attract young men like Essex and Devonport. Sabre tried to stave off what her heart feared was inevitable. “Your Majesty, the wig you are wearing couldn’t be lovelier. I don’t think my dull shade would flatter you at all.”
> “I say otherwise, Mistress Wilde, and I am unused to being contradicted. Kate Ashford told me what a generous girl you were. I sincerely hope she did not lie to me.”
Sabre had no choice but to acquiesce. She strove to do it with graciousness, but inside she seethed with resentment and added it to the score against this aging, all-powerful creature.
“Your Majesty, I would be honored to provide Master Hooker with a length of my hair to fashion a new wig.”
Now she had exactly what she wanted, the queen reverted to their previous topic. “I warn you, Mistress Wilde, not to play with the elder Hawkhurst, Lord Devonport, lest you get your comeuppance!”
The warning was so pointed, she was afraid the queen had heard a rumor linking her with Shane. Sabre saw red. She wanted to spit upon the floor at the queen’s feet to show her contempt. Jealousy flooded her heart and her brain. Bessie Tudor was speaking of the man who was Sabre’s husband, Sabre’s lover, and she was doing so with such a smug air of ownership, Sabre had to fight the impulse to fly at her and scratch out her eyes. For one dreadful moment when first confronted by the queen, Sabre thought she had been discovered for her masquerade as the goddess Diana. The reality was so much worse! The queen would get her beautiful hair and had warned her to keep her hands off the queen’s Sea God. As Gloriana departed, Sabre smiled a secret, terrible smile. Shane was hers, totally. He was her absolute private property until the time came when she was ready to toss him aside. Then and only then could Bessie Tudor have him! Her mind was already plotting an outrageous costume for her next escapade, one that would embarrass the queen.
Hawkhurst and the Baron decided that the quickest route to Ireland for O’Neill was the port of Bristol. It was the closest port to London on the west coast, and would entail a hard ride of only a hundred miles. Any assassination attempt on the earl of Tyrone’s life would come on land before he left England. Once he had embarked on a Hawkhurst vessel, he would be safe.
Shane had intended to go all the way to Ireland, but he received terrible news from a captain in Bristol and knew he must get to the queen immediately. Sir Philip Sidney had taken a wound in Holland at the Battle of Zutphen and it appeared he would not recover. Sir Philip was Leicester’s nephew and one of the most beloved of Elizabeth’s peers. He was married to Secretary Walsingham’s daughter, Frances, who had never been invited to join the court, because of her dark beauty.
After placing O’Neill on one of his ships Hawkhurst rode back to London with all possible speed and directed the baron to ready one of their smaller, faster vessels to depart for Holland on a moment’s notice.
During his audience with Bess he kept a tight rein on his temper. That they were suffering defeat after defeat in Holland against the Spanish could be laid directly at the queen’s feet. She kept her purse strings closed tightly, sent only a few thousand men, and equipped them so badly, the officers went deep into debt to pay for supplies. When Shane told her that Sir Philip had been wounded at Zutphen she was visibly shaken.
“They shall all come home! Why should we fight Holland’s battles for them?” she raved.
He answered stiffly, “Your Majesty, they are England’s battles. It is a dishonor not to sail against Spain!”
A courier with dispatches had arrived from Robert Dudley, earl of Leicester, and she called for his messages while Hawkhurst was there to give her his strength—for she feared the worst. With dry eyes she read the missive that announced Philip Sidney’s death. All her emotion was reserved for her dearest Lord Robert. She knew he would be devastated by the loss of his favorite nephew. She railed inwardly that the sea separated them and she would be unable to comfort him. She clenched impotent fists in frustration and shouted, “Damn the young fool for getting himself killed … ’twas most inconsiderate of the fellow. M’lord Devonport, fetch his body home for burial. I will send instructions to Leicester if you will wait while I compose them.”
“Bess, I am sorry for your loss. I have a vessel standing ready to sail today.”
The whole court was plunged into mourning, and gaudy clothing was forbidden. Shane sought out Kate Ashford and told her that he was stealing Sabre from her for a couple of days. Since Sabre had done most of the packing for Whitehall, she made no protest. She directed him to the water stairs where Sabre was in charge of the stowing of boxes and trunks onto the queen’s barge for the short journey downriver. He took her out of earshot of the servants and said low, “I’m sailing across to Holland and I’m taking you, darling. Pack warm clothes and have your own barge take you to Thames View. I’ll meet you there in two hours.”
Sabre tossed her glorious copper hair over her shoulder. “Ah, ’tis Lord Devonport, I believe,” she said as if they were only slightly acquainted.
A black look of warning flashed from him, which she chose to ignore.
“You, my dearest lord, are laboring under a misapprehension if you think I am solely at your beck and call.”
“Hellcat! You are the one laboring under a misapprehension. Let me remind you the duties of a mistress are exactly that … to be solely at my beck and call.”
She flew at him, fully intending to push him into the river, but he grabbed her, laughing in exultation at how beautiful she was when he angered her. He bit her earlobe and whispered, “I love you, Sabre … come with me?”
She relented. At least this time he had asked her to go along with him.
They had ridden side by side to Harwich, where the baron had the vessel readied to sail. The wind snatched away their words, so they had little opportunity for speech, but he was aware of her every moment. One of the things he found so exciting about her was that she was ready and eager for adventure on a moment’s notice.
She stood on deck and marveled at the easy way he took command, shouting his orders from the forecastle. Now she understood why his voice was deep and commanding, even rough at times. It was from a lifelong habit of shouting loud and clear to be heard above the slapping waves, flapping sails, whining winds, and creaking timbers. For a terrible moment she thought she might turn green faced while still riding to anchor in the harbor. Then, as she filled her lungs with the tang of sea air, pitch, and tar, her stomach righted itself and she laughed aloud as she pulled her pale gray, fox-trimmed cloak about her and watched him direct his men to heave-to and hoist the sails.
They cleared harbor, and the sails bellied out like pregnant women. As she looked about there must have been over three hundred lines and ropes, each with a name and a proper place and a special knot all of its own. Shane left his command post to give a hand with the hauling and hoisting, and she shuddered at the pain she knew the recent wound would give him. Then she thought of his strong, callus-palmed hands on her body and shivered again. Finally he joined her, bracing a protective arm across the small of her back and grinning down at her.
“How did you learn all the different ropes?” she asked.
“Not by my quick brain,” he said, laughing. “When I was a boy on my first voyage out, the boatswain instructed me with a knotted rope to my bare arse!” He hugged her to him. “Come below while I settle you in my cabin.”
As soon as they were enclosed in the small cabin he took her in his arms and kissed her deeply. “Splendor of God, how I missed you,” he said, looking down at her with wonder in his eyes. “Thank you for coming, love. It’s not a happy voyage. Sir Philip Sidney died of a wound he took in the Battle of Zutphen. I’m going to Holland so that his widow Frances can bring his body home.”
She put her hand on his arm gently. “Was Sir Philip a friend?”
He nodded. “O’Neill was placed in the Sidney household and lived there many years until he returned to Ireland. Philip never questioned our association. His widow Frances has a young child. That’s why I asked you to come with me, Sabre. Frances will need a woman’s gentle company in her time of sorrow.”
Sabre let the fur hood fall from her hair. “Is she one of your conquests, m’lord?” she asked, feeling a stab of jealousy.
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“Nay, yet she is certainly fair enough to spark jealousy in the queen. Frances Walsingham is daughter to the queen’s secretary. You know enough about my affairs, Sabre, to realize he is my enemy and a constant threat. If I can be of any service to Frances, it will be to my advantage. If we support and comfort her in her time of need, she may one day be able to render me a great service.” He stroked her cheek with his roughened hand. “If I leave you belowdecks alone, you won’t be afraid?”
“I’m afraid of neither man nor beast,” she boasted.
He leered down at her. “We’ll put that to the test when I return, little wildcat.”
He was gone an hour, which seemed like two at least to Sabre, crossing the treacherous North Sea for the first time. She had unpacked her warm clothing and explored the well-appointed cabin. It was snugly paneled in warm satinwood and furnished with a tabletop desk and swivel chairs. The berth was fastened sturdily to the wall and was just wide enough to hold two if they were on very intimate terms. A thick Turkish carpet patterned in red and blue added to the warmth, and brass lanterns swung on rings attached to the walls. Charts and instruments filled the desk drawers, and she noticed a large iron safe had been built into one corner. A great cedarwood chest held thick, warm blankets and fur bed coverings, and a satinwood wardrobe held many changes of dry clothing for the captain.
When Shane came into the cabin he was soaked to the skin. It was second nature to him to strip immediately without drenching the cabin. Sabre watched him rub his body vigorously with a towel, and unable to resist, she took up another and rubbed his wide back. He was freezing cold at first, yet with amazing speed the vigorous rubbing soon had him restored. He tried to take her in his arms, but she resisted.
“Let me see your wound first,” she said softly.