Thistle and Roses Collection: A Bundle of Scottish, Irish and English Historical Romance

by Eliza Knight

  Antónia laughed bitterly. “We all know I’ve no love in my heart. I am the daughter of the Devil’s Hook. Black suits.”

  Granuaille grunted. “He may be a harsh and wild man, but he loves your mother.” Granuaille touched the ring. “I never wanted ye to suffer as I have. Knowing no true love.”

  Antónia swept her arm out toward the sea and smiled softly at her grandmother. “I have a true love, the sea.”

  Granuaille touched her cheek, looking deep into her eyes. “Ah, but I think ye must have found another.”

  With a violent shake of her head, she said, perhaps a little too harshly, “None.”

  “But why was the ring black on your finger? It sensed your heartache.”

  “I am not aching.” Something pulsed behind her ribs. The something she’d refused to think about the entire journey back to Ireland.

  “Ye’ve never been able to lie to me. Why try?” Granuaille gazed down below. Sweeney was barking orders at the men, his face red as a fresh apple. “Is it Sweeney? Do ye love him? He seems angrier than usual.”

  Aye, he’d been so angry aboard ship, she’d had to stop him from laying the lash into one of the men’s backs for dropping a bucket. “I love him like a brother.”

  “Then who?”

  Antónia chewed her lip. “’Twas a mistake, nothing more. We are both wrong for each other.”

  “The heart does not always recognize what is right and what is wrong.” Granuaille tapped Antónia’s head. “Nor does the head.”

  “This is very wrong. Trust me.” Antónia swiped at her hair.

  “Tell me.”

  “Ye will not like it.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “He is a captain in Elizabeth’s Navy.”

  Granuaille let out an abrupt cough, or perhaps she was choking. “Ah, I see. Aye, he is very wrong.” The softness she’d shown about love a moment before was quickly replaced by rage. “No kin of mine will sully themselves with an Englishman.” Granuaille clucked her tongue in reproach. “And yet the ring says ye’re heartbroken. How can this be? How can ye love our enemy?”

  “I don’t love him. And my heart will get over it.” Antónia let out a long sigh. Love… A fool’s emotion. “Take the ring, I want nothing to do with it. I need to rest.”

  Antónia kissed her grandmother, and descended the ramparts, in search of her bed within the castle. With every step, she tried to push thoughts of Titus further and further from her mind, but they only seemed to grow larger until every breath constricted in her lungs, and her limbs itched to climb aboard her ship, not to plunder merchants, but to seek out the captain. Her bed was hard, uninviting, and she drank entirely too much whisky in order to finally fall asleep.

  When she woke the next morning, a headache pounding behind her eyes, the ring was on the table beside her bed, taunting her.

  “You did what?” Queen Elizabeth’s voice boomed through the velvet-draped walls of her privy chamber.

  She sat upon her throne chair, face thick with white makeup, red hair piled high, and jewels sparkling from every inch of her gown and every finger. The starched white ruff around her neck looked confining enough to still even Titus’ breath.

  Titus cleared his throat. “I allowed her to get away.”

  “You allowed a lawless pirate to steal what belonged to the crown—and get away with it?”

  He nodded, though technically his queen was giving the ring away, he wasn’t going to correct her on that point. Those in attendance tittered behind their hands, whispering of his failings. No doubt he’d be stripped of his position in Her Majesty’s Navy, his title and lands, and tossed in the Tower, heavily fined for the rest of his days—however numbered they were.

  “I admit to playing the fool. She was very… persuasive.” Titus bowed before his queen, ready to take whatever punishment she exacted on him. Hoping that a swift death would dull the pain in his chest that grew with every passing hour.

  But Elizabeth’s laughter was the last thing he expected.

  And, apparently, it was not what the other courtiers expected either, as her reaction seemed to finally still their wagging tongues.

  “Well, Lord Graves, if you were so willing to let the pirate wench take our ring, perhaps you’d be willing to take her in hand another way—through marriage, further solidifying our hold in that godforsaken savage land.” Elizabeth’s voice was calm, extremely clear.

  And yet, Titus still had to shake his head. He could not have heard her correctly. Nay. He’d not marry her for an alliance. Antónia would only laugh at him. Hold her blunderbuss to his head and pull the trigger.

  “Majesty?” He raised his gaze to his queen’s, stunned to find her smiling.

  “Oh, you heard us correctly, Lord Graves. You will marry the wench. She is of noble blood—however tainted it is by her Irish parentage, it is noble.”

  “But…” He trailed off, stopping himself from complaining before the queen had a chance to lash him truly.

  The queen stiffened, staring him down as though he were no greater than a rat that had trampled across her table.

  He held his breath, waiting for the quick death that was certain to take him. A fit of apoplexy.

  Marriage. Antónia. His forever.

  A death sentence for certain, and yet it gave him another chance to see her face. To kneel before the woman who’d been able to claim him so thoroughly.

  Though his heart pumped a hearty tune, it did not burst. Nor did it pain him. If anything, he felt a great weight lift from his body. An elation taking hold. He bit the tip of his tongue to keep from smiling, for he was actually… happy. Excited.

  “She will not have me,” he said.

  “She has no choice. I am queen and I have ordered it.” Elizabeth turned to Cecil. “Write the edict, bring it to me to sign, and then we can wave Lord Graves off from the quay.”

  “My ship…” He stared. “Her ship…”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, you do strike a hard bargain, Lord Graves.”

  “Majesty?” Again he was perplexed.

  “You are lucky we feel in good spirits today. We are weak and ornery most. We see something in you, something in her.” She sat back in the throne, some of the energy she’d boasted sapping, and then she switched to less formal tones as she spoke, a wistful note to her tongue. “I long for the days when Sir Francis Drake and Sir John Hawkins regaled me with stories of the sea. I want you to follow in the footsteps of my great Sea Dogs. I want you and Lady Antónia to be the new Sea Dogs. My privateers. You’ll sail the Channel together. And when you come to court, you’ll bring me great treasures and tales.”

  Shock made him blanch. “You do me a great honor, Majesty.” Titus knelt to the ground, his hand over his heart.

  “I’m giving you a new ship, Graves. One that has been newly built and will be commissioned next week. We’ll name it Theodosia, seems fitting. Send me your Lieutenant Grenville. I am giving him a promotion.”

  “Aye, Majesty.” Titus was breathless as he stood. “He awaits me in the Presence Chamber.”

  “Send him in. Cecil will bring you the edict tomorrow and in a week’s time, you will set sail on the Theodosia to Ireland, delivering Lady Antónia Burke the news.”

  “And a crew, Majesty?”

  “You may set sail with half a crew. The lady should supply the other half.” She snapped her fingers at her secretary. “Cecil, make certain it states that as part of her dowry, Grace O’Malley and the Devil’s Hook will provide one half a crew for the Theodosia, paying their salaries indefinitely.”

  It seemed the queen did not believe Grace O’Malley was as impoverished as she let on. Perhaps, the older Irish wench had touched on a warm spot with his bitter queen. A place in her heart where she longed to be set free from the responsibilities. Perhaps that was why she’d so loved her Sea Dogs. She longed for adventure. To be free. And she saw in another woman the chance to do so, and she wanted to claim it as her own. To allow it to continue and to thrive fr
om it.

  Mayhap.

  Titus would never presume to know the mind of his queen, for she was often fickle, smiling one minute and roaring the next. Much like her father, though Titus had not been alive during Henry VIII’s rule. He’d heard enough. Knew enough.

  “I will see your will done, Majesty.” Titus bowed low once more, kissing the ring she offered toward him.

  When he stood, there was still some sparkle in her old eyes.

  He backed out of the Privy Chamber to find Lieutenant Grenville anxiously waiting in the Presence Chamber.

  Titus held out his hand and Grenville stared at it a moment before taking it in his grip. “Congratulations. The Queen wishes to speak with you, my good man. I wish you well.”

  “Is she…?” Grenville swallowed hard. “Is she sending you to the Tower?”

  Titus laughed. “She has doomed me to marriage, my good man. And a new ship. The Theodosia.”

  Grenville’s eyes widened. “To whom?”

  “The woman I fell in love with.” The moment the words were out of his mouth, Titus could have fallen over. He’d known he felt deeply for Antónia, but love… Aye, he was in love. They’d teased while aboard his ship, but sometime in the past days since he’d returned the emotion had solidified. Taken hold. He couldn’t live without her.

  Titus left the palace with a spring in his step, a whistle on his lips, and a determination to make his bride fall in love with him.

  Chapter Nine

  Antónia glowered at the black ring on her night table.

  “Ye can go to the devil, ye bloody piece of rubbish.”

  Lovely, now she’d taken to speaking to inanimate objects. She’d been at Rockfleet Castle for two days, taking her meals in her room and refusing to see anyone—though Granuaille had barged in more than once, and Sweeney had shouted behind her barred door.

  She lifted her hand, preparing to swipe the ring from the table, let it fly somewhere across the room and hopefully through the floorboards, but at the last second, she stopped, startled by a pounding on her door.

  Granuaille, on one of her visits, had informed Antónia that if she were going to act like a child, she’d be punished like one. Her grandmother had promptly given charge of the Lady Hook to Sweeney, metaphorically grounding Antónia’s ship along the shore. Except the ship wasn’t grounded, it was Antónia.

  “Annie, open up!” Sweeney’s voice boomed through the door.

  Reluctantly, she stood from her bed, pulling on a robe to cover her nightrail. She padded barefoot to the door and opened it, facing her oldest friend, not bothering to hide her irritation.

  Sweeney looked even taller when she was barefoot, and his fierce glower, well, that was entirely familiar.

  “What do ye want?” she asked.

  “I want ye to come out of your stupor. Did ye know Granuaille is giving me the Lady Hook?”

  Antónia nodded. “Ye deserve it. Better than I.” She waved her hand at him, shooing him out. “Go forth and plunder.”

  “What shite are ye speaking?” Sweeney pushed past her into the room, pacing the wooden floor, running fisted hands through his hair.

  Antónia watched him a few moments growing dizzy. “I don’t deserve it. I put the lot of ye in danger. I deserve whatever punishment our fierce lady will give me.”

  Sweeney stopped abruptly, putting his hands on his hips and facing her, his frown even fiercer, if at all possible. “Ye’re a coward, that’s what ye are.”

  “What?” She straightened, glancing around for a weapon so she could challenge him for saying such a thing, spotting her sword, but then deciding she was too tired at the last second. “Did ye come here to insult me?”

  “Ye’re giving up.”

  “I am giving up my ship, aye—to ye. I’d think ye’d be more grateful,” she grumbled, crossing her arms over chest. She hated feeling so defensive.

  Sweeney stormed toward her, lifting her chin so that she was forced to look at him. “Ye’re my oldest friend, Annie. My dearest friend. The only family I’ve got.”

  Looking into his warm, caring eyes, made her want to cry. “Aye. Ye know I feel the same way about ye.”

  “Then ye’d know if I was lying and ye’d tell me if I were being a fool.”

  “Obviously,” she muttered, glancing away.

  “And ye’d expect the same from me,” he stated.

  Now she knew where he was headed. She shook her head and backed up a step. “Nay. I don’t want any advice ye want to give.”

  Sweeney laughed bitterly. “Oh, it’s advice ye’ll be getting, but don’t confuse it with advice I want to be giving. I’d as soon lock myself in a tower and declare myself mad than tell ye what I’m about to, but I’m doing it all the same.”

  “Then spill it and be gone with ye. Ye’ve a ship and a crew and much booty to plunder.”

  Sweeney smirked. “Have it your way then, lassie.” He gripped her shoulders, forcing her to meet his gaze, to listen. “Ye’re a fool.”

  Her stomach sank. “My oldest friend has come to bestow advice only to change his mind in the end and deal me a blow.” Antónia tried to back away from him.

  “There ye go, ye stubborn ox, but let me finish before ye toss yourself from the window.”

  Antónia rolled her eyes and fluttered her hand in a signal to continue.

  “Ye’re a fool, as I said. For I can see your heart is broken, and yet ye refuse to do anything about it. Do ye plan to languish the rest of your days? To grow old in this crumbling castle? I had thought ye stronger than that.”

  “I will languish, as it befits my lot in life.”

  “I’ve never seen ye happier than I did with that English whelp. I’ve never seen ye risk so much to be with someone.”

  “Ye must have drunk too much whiskey then, for your eyes deceive ye. I risked much for the ring.”

  Sweeney shook his head. “’Tis not I doing the deceiving. I’ll not lie and say it hasn’t always been my greatest dream, since coming to Ireland with my Da when he served your Granuaille, to one day captain a ship of my own. To have ye for myself. But I will not stand by and let ye throw away your life when ye’ve a chance at happiness.”

  “My happiness lies at sea,” she whispered. “And here I am, without a ship.”

  Sweeney groaned. “For the love of all that’s wicked, the both of ye are as stubborn as mules. Talk to her. Talk to Granuaille and convince her ye want your ship back. I will follow ye all the way to England to get that bastard if ye want.”

  Antónia laughed, the sound leaving a bitter taste on her tongue. “Easier said than done.”

  “Ye’ve not even tried. Do ye love him?”

  Her lip quivered and she nodded. “I do love him, Sweeney. I do. And perhaps that is what hurts the most. I wanted to find someone to love, to share my adventures with. And I did. But how could our love ever be? He’s an English noble. By default my enemy.”

  Sweeney shrugged. “Who cares. And how will ye know if ye don’t try to find him?”

  She pressed her hand to his heart and smiled sadly. “I will never know. I cannot. Take the Lady Hook. She is yours. Grasp your dream, Sweeney, for it is coming true.” Antónia leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “Part of it at least.”

  The warrior frowned, his handsome face creasing. “If ye will not, then I will. I will bring that sack of shite back here in chains.”

  Now she laughed in earnest. “Ye’ll do no such thing. But I do thank ye, for ye’ve lightened my heart, and if my ship were to go to anyone, I’d want it to go with ye.”

  Sweeney grunted, but pulled her against him anyway, tucking her in his large grasp, a brotherly hug that seemed to absorb much of her sadness. He believed in her. He believed in her love for Titus. That was enough. To feel that love validated, even if she could never act upon it.

  When Sweeney left her chamber, she returned to the night table and picked up the ring, sliding it onto her finger. The black of the ring would be a constant reminder to her,
that she’d given up so much, for a few fleeting moments of happiness.

  Several days passed and each morning when Antónia awoke, she looked out to see that her ship still sat anchored in the bay beyond the castle walls. Why was Sweeney waiting?

  As the days passed, she still felt numb, but had enough energy to descend the stairs and interact—though mildly—with those in the great hall. Granuaille studied her with hooded, thinking eyes, but Antónia avoided them. If her grandmother was going to forbid her to love an Englishman, and take away her ship, then she was entitled to a few days of sulking. A mood she was thoroughly embracing.

  Then the devil showed up.

  Her father’s loud, booming voice practically shook the rafters. Antónia descended the stairs quickly as she heard him shouting her name.

  “Father,” she said, bowing her head.

  The Demon of Corraun took up the entire expanse of the doorway leading from the great hall. He was tall, broad and armed to the teeth.

  “Daughter, Granuaille sent for me,” he said brusquely.

  “’Tis good to see ye,” Antónia said, ignoring his reason for coming. “Can I get ye an ale or whiskey?”

  “What’s this about ye falling in love with a bloody Englishman?”

  “’Twas a trifle and fleeting.” She turned to a servant asking them for whiskey. She was going to need it for this conversation, for it seemed her father was not willing to let it go.

  “That, or it was bloody inventive.” He wrapped his thick arms around her and tugged her in for a hug, patting her awkwardly on the back.

  “Pardon, me?” Antónia pulled away, eyeing her father as though he’d gone mad.

  “To have an English noble, a Captain in Her Majesty’s Navy, no less, under your thumb… We could go far with the rebellion should he bend to your will.”

  Antónia’s face flamed, anger rising. She’d never use Titus in that way. She loved her people, her country, but she loved him, too, and she couldn’t stoop to such a devious and conniving level. That would hurt him, it would debase her feelings for him. Nay, never would she use him.

  “Well, ’tis a good thing we need not worry over it then,” she muttered.