The Hawk and the Dove (4 page)

Hawk raised a black eyebrow, questioning his father’s meaning.

“On my death the title of Lord Devonport goes to my heir … my legitimate heir …” He left the significant words hanging in the air and Hawk was momentarily shocked into silence.

“How long have you known?” he asked quietly.

“Known what? That your real father is that Irish spawn of the devil, the O’Neill?”

Hawk was afraid that his father would become so worked up he would take another stroke, but suddenly the old man visibly relaxed. He smiled and his face softened with the deep love he felt for this son. “I’ve known for almost twenty years.” He shook his head, remembering all those years back. “We’d enrolled ye at that fine gentleman’s school near London and the summer ye were about nine or ten I was missing ye terrible. I’d sailed up to London on business and went down to the school to visit and that’s when I discovered ye never spent the summers there, only the winters. I was baffled, astounded … I put men on the case to learn yer whereabouts and they traced ye to Ireland … to the O’Neill.”

Shane put out his hand and gripped his father’s shoulder hard. “I would have spared you such knowledge.”

Sebastian shook his head. “The hard part for me wasn’t that Georgiana had been unfaithful to me, for she was a rare beauty and what woman could resist such a wild Irishman as the O’Neill? Nay, the hard part for me was knowing such a fine son was not sprung from my loins. She sent ye off to him every summer and I let it continue, for hadn’t he the right to a share of ye as ye grew to manhood, and hadn’t ye the right to know and
consort with your own father, your own flesh and blood?”

Shane was deeply touched by such an attitude. “You were ever the most generous man on the face of the earth. You forgave my mother and you loved me.” It was a statement of fact.

“That wasn’t generosity. That was selfishness! I wasn’t about to cut my nose off to spite my face. Where else could I have found a woman to equal your mother in beauty or passion? Where else find a strong son who made me burst with pride?” He chuckled softly. “And I’ve always cherished the hope that perhaps, just perhaps, there was the slightest possibility that you could have been my seed.”

Shane felt humbled. How could he refuse this man his dying wish? How could he not be generous in the face of such overwhelming generosity?

“So ye see, ’tis all a sham that I’d deny ye my title, but, Hawk, ye’d make me rest happy if ye’d give me your word that ye’ll wed soon.”

“I’ll give you my word, if we can find a woman who’ll have me, but what makes you think marriage will keep me out of trouble?” he joked.

Sebastian Hawkhurst grimaced. “That whoreson O’Neill—I know you supply him with money … arms … and worse, information! I’ve a terrible fear he’ll get ye hanged, all in the bloody name of freeing Ireland!” He labored for breath. “When I was in London I thought Walsingham had a file on you and I had a hell of a job confirming it. To the best of my knowledge he hasn’t … yet. But I suspect he has a thick file on O’Neill.”

Hawk hastened to reassure his father. “They have spies all over the world—the Netherlands, Italy, France, Spain
—who can tell them when the king farts, but Ireland is another matter entirely. They grope about in a heavy fog and their spies can tell them nothing.”

Sebastian’s face jerked with a spasm, and alarmed, Hawk said, “Leave it, Father, leave it.”

Sebastian shook his head and had his say. “A wife would wean ye from him.”

“And what if I married an Irish girl?” he jested, winking. Actually he did not feel lighthearted in the least. His conscience was like a lead weight in his chest. How much part had worry for him played in Sebastian’s grave illness? He had always congratulated himself on his ability to conceal his dealings with Ireland, yet if his father knew of these things, who else might know? He could see no advantage in sharing their conversation with his mother, for at the moment her own conscience was probably plaguing hell out of her, but it was vital that he tell the baron everything that had been said today. There was many a time that his safety and even his life rested in the hands of the baron and there were no secrets between them, ever.

The promised marriage did not weigh him down overmuch. Marriage was a technicality that could be gotten around somehow. He temporarily dismissed it with the contempt he thought it deserved. “Young Matt should be here tomorrow to cheer you up,” he said, but he saw that his father had exhausted himself and fallen into a heavy sleep. He looked down upon him and thanked God that he did not know that he had already secretly met with O’Neill in a hidden bay tucked beneath the Mountains of Mourne and given him half the silver that the Spanish prize had carried.

*   *   *

While Shane was with his father Georgiana’s conscience was indeed plaguing hell out of her. She thought she had exorcised all her guilt years ago, but now it was as painful as a fresh wound in her breast. What made it worse was that it had all begun while she was on her honeymoon. Sebastian had taken her with him to London, where he was to receive the title of Lord Devonport from the queen. They stayed at Hawkhurst Manor, which had been in his family for near a hundred years. On the days her new husband was busy in London or at the seaports along the Straits of Dover from Hastings to Hythe, she had ridden every day into the Weald and Ashdown Forest. She rode wildly, as she had when she was a child in Ireland before her parents moved to Devon. On that fateful day she had collided with a man who rode faster than she had dreamed possible. At first glance she had been terrified of the giant with the wild red hair and rugged features. He cursed her vilely in Gaelic and she blushed to the roots of her hair.

“You are Irish!” she said.

“Not just Irish,” he shouted arrogantly, “I am a prince of Ireland!”

“You may be a prince, but you are no gentleman!” she cried angrily.

“If you understood me, you are no lady!” he threw back at her.

They both dismounted, blood up, ready to do battle, and then it happened. He raped her. Nay, thought Georgiana, not rape, for she had wanted him with the same all-consuming passion he felt for her. The truth was they had ravished each other, there on the ground where they had met barely moments before.

*   *   *

Hugh O’Neill had a bloody history behind him. His father should have been the O’Neill but he was murdered by his own brother Sean, who would share power with no man. Sean then went off to England to charm the queen and claim the vast O’Neill holdings in Ulster. He swore loyalty to her and agreed to make war on all her enemies. He took his murdered brother’s two younger sons with him and at the queen’s suggestion placed them in noble English households. Elizabeth believed if she got the princes of Ireland young enough, they would become civilized, once weaned from Catholicism to Protestantism. Hugh O’Neill was placed with the aristocratic Sidneys and Sean returned triumphantly to Ireland. It soon became evident that he was thumbing his nose at the young queen. The taxes were not sent to England, but diverted to Sean O’Neill’s coffers. Eventually she had had enough and sent an army to Ireland and defeated Sean O’Neill. He took refuge with the MacDonnells, who promptly murdered him. This left Hugh O’Neill, Baron Dungannon, the heir to Ulster, and when he had been in the Sidney household until he was fourteen, the queen decided to return the civilized young man to Ireland to teach the wisdom of English rule to his subjects. He had been converted to Protestantism and was loyal to the crown. He returned and proclaimed his fealty to the crown. However, so civilized was he that the day he returned he murdered his cousin, the late Sean O’Neill’s remaining son, and then bought time by professing himself the peacemaker. The queen was so pleased with him that she promised if he could keep the peace and keep the unruly clans from rebelling, she would make him the earl
of Tyrone and give him all the O’Neill lands and fortunes in Ulster.

It was when the queen recalled him to England to receive his honors that Georgiana had first met him. The O’Neill had been gifted with more charm than was good for a mere mortal. He would do anything to gain a heart and hold it. Irish princes were famous for carting off other men’s wives, but though the lure of him was magnetic, Georgiana resisted throwing away everything and going to him. Instead she gave him their son. The O’Neill had a great and ruthless mind. There was no crime, sacrifice, or sin that he would not commit to gain his own ends. He kissed the queen’s fingers while cursing her under his breath. He paid lip service to the crown while robbing it blind. For years he had worked at uniting the clans so that they would be under his control for the day when he would order them to rebel en masse and free Ireland from its English yoke of domination. Now he had his rich bastard son to help him.

The only thing that saved Sabre Wilde’s bacon that fine summer was the arrival of a stranger. Since the wedding, which she had so effectively ruined, she had been confined to her chamber with not one member of the family wishing to speak with her. Her only communication was with Mrs. Smite, an iron-faced servant loyal to Reverend Bishop. She had been examined by a doctor, who shook his head portentously and declared that in his humble opinion the girl was willful, wild-blooded, and even eccentric, but he could not go as far as to declare her insane. He prescribed a diet of bread and water to thin and cool her hot blood and recommended that they leave her to her own company for a month to sweeten her temper and make of her a more amenable young lady.

Sabre, for so she now thought of herself rather than as Sara, welcomed her solitude at first. She was rid of her family’s hated company, she was spared attending church thrice a week with the reverend’s repetitive sermons predicting hellfire and brimstone, and she was free to spend hours daydreaming about
someday.

Someday
she would own a dress that had been chosen especially for her. It would be pale green or deep cream or perhaps a daring peacock-blue. Her imagination conjured up a myriad of shades from which she was free to choose.

Someday
a man, other than a brother-in-law, would try to steal a kiss from her. Her imagination was vivid and the men she pictured were as varied as the dresses she dreamed of owning. She sighed.

Someday
she would leave this dreaded place. Once she
had gone she vowed she would never return. Her dream destination was, of course, the royal court. Her favorite fantasy consisted of telling her stepfather and stepsisters that she was going to court and watching their faces turn pea-green with envy.

Her reverie lasted a week, by which time she felt frustrated enough to scream. Without freedom she realized life was intolerable. She had always been so active but now that she was deprived of riding, even of walking, she felt restless and imprisoned and, yes, hungry! She was trapped, and until the key to unlock her misery should be found she was helpless.

When the stranger arrived she saw him from her window; the same window the good reverend had nailed shut with his own spotless white hands. The stranger’s horse, his clothes, and his bearing bespoke a man of affluence; a man with business to conduct. She was filled with curiosity and highly annoyed to think she might never discover who he was or the reasons for his coming here.

She watched and waited for his departure, but after two hours he was still within the house. She began to speculate about him, but never in a million years could she have guessed the reason for his visit.

Downstairs in the reverend’s study Jacob Goldman painstakingly explained matters one more time. “Mr. Bishop, I appreciate the fact that you are the young lady’s stepfather, but in this matter it is impossible for you to act on her behalf. I am a solicitor, sir, and I do know the law. It has taken me months to trace the person who has legal title to these particular lands in Ireland. My principal has authorized me as his agent to acquire these lands from whoever owns clear title to them. Since that title passed from one Rory Wilde, upon his death, to
his sole survivor, one Sara Wilde Bishop, I will need Sara Bishop’s consent, Sara Bishop’s signature, and Sara Bishop’s receipt for the monies paid to her.” Jacob Goldman gave two quick nods with his head to indicate there should be an end to the argument. Behind hooded lids his shrewd eyes had weighed up and assessed the small-town cleric with the authoritarian’s need for control and obedience.

“Very well, Mr. Goldman, I shall allow you to speak with my daughter. But I shall remain, and hope you entertain no objections to her being guided by me in these transactions. Women, you must agree, have no comprehension of business or legal matters. These Irish lands were considered worthless tracts of barren soil piled with rocks and stones. If I had known they had any value I should have had them transferred into my keeping years ago when I married her mother and became Sara’s stepfather.”

“Mr. Bishop, you are probably right in thinking them barren tracts,” Goldman said. “Their only value lies in the access they afford to other more valuable holdings.”

The Reverend Bishop stepped from his study and dispatched a servant to summon Sara. His wife overheard the order and approached him with a question in her eyes. He dismissed her with a pat of the shoulder. “Business, my dear, don’t worry your little head over it. Run upstairs now and make sure that Sara’s appearance is respectable before she presents herself.”

Sabre hesitated at the study door. The room held only hurtful associations for her. She could not help thinking the next blow would not be long in arriving.

“Come, come, girl, our time is precious,” said her stepfather impatiently. It galled him to have her consulted on
any matter, let alone one connected to Rory Wilde, his dead rival for his wife’s affections. “Mr. Goldman, this is my daughter Sara.”

She curtsied to the short, dark man. “Good day, sir.”

Goldman was startled, though he didn’t show it outwardly. The girl was breathtaking. The ill-fitting, nondescript gown did little to conceal her glory. Her beautiful face was crowned by a coronet of red-gold braids. Her mouth was set in stubborn lines at the moment, but if it smiled she would be glorious. Her pale green eyes, set off by dark brows, long, dark lashes, and the black beauty mark, were startling, almost mesmerizing, when she leveled them at him.