by Brenda Joyce
Devlin felt like telling the old fool to shut up. “It is a mistake, my lord,” he said softly to Liverpool, “to send a rogue like myself to such a duty.”
Liverpool studied him. And then he smiled, rather coldly. “I do not believe that, actually. Because I know you far better than you think I do.” He turned to the two admirals present. “Would you excuse us, gentlemen?”
Both men were surprised, but they both nodded and slipped from the room.
Liverpool smiled. “Now we can get down to business, eh, Devlin?”
Devlin turned the corners of his mouth up in response, but he waited, unsure of whether he was to receive a blow or a gift.
“I have understood your game for some time now, Devlin.” He paused to pour them both fresh drinks. “The blood of Irish kings runs in your veins, and when you joined the navy you were as poor as any Irish pauper. Now you have a mansion on the Thames, you have bought your ancestral home from Adare, and I could only estimate the amount of gold you keep in the banks—and in your own private vaults. You are so rich now that you have no more use for us.” His brows lifted.
“You make me seem so very unpatriotic,” Devlin murmured. Liverpool was right—almost.
“Still, a fine man like yourself, from a fine family, always at sea, always seizing a prize, always at battle—never on land, never at home before a warm hearth.” He stared.
Devlin became uneasy. He sipped his brandy to disguise this.
“I wonder what it is that motivates you to sail so fast, so far, so often?” His dark brows lifted.
“I fear you romanticize me. I am merely a seaman, my lord.”
“I think not. I think there are deep, grave, complex reasons for your actions—but then, I suppose I will never know what those reasons are?” He smiled and sipped his own brandy now.
The boy trembled with real fear. How could this stranger know so much?
“You have fanciful imaginings, my lord.” Devlin smiled coolly.
“You have yet to win a knighthood, Captain O’Neill,” Liverpool said.
Devlin stiffened in surprise. So it was to be a gift—after a blow, he thought.
Once, his ancestors had been kings, but a century of theft had reduced them to a life of tenant-farmers. He had changed that. His stepfather had happily sold him Askeaton when he had come forward with the bullion to pay for it. His grand home on the River Thames had been purchased two years ago when the Earl of Eastleigh had been forced by financial circumstances to put it up for sale. Liverpool knew Devlin had used the navy to attain the security that comes with wealth. What he did not know—could not know—was the reason why.
“Do continue,” he said softly, but he had begun to sweat.
“You know that a knighthood is a distinct possibility—you need only follow your orders.”
The ten-year-old boy wanted the title. The boy who had watched his father fall in an act of cold-blooded murder wanted the title as much as he wanted the wealth, because the added power made him safer than ever before.
Devlin hated the boy and did not want to feel his presence. “Knight me now,” he said, “and barring any unforeseen and extenuating circumstance, I will sail to America and threaten her shores without inflicting any real harm.”
“Damn you, O’Neill.” But Liverpool was smiling. “Done,” he then said. “You will be Sir Captain O’Neill before you set sail next week.”
Devlin could not contain a real smile. He was jubilant now, thinking about the knighthood soon to be his. His heart raced with a savage pleasure and he thought of his mortal enemy, the Earl of Eastleigh—the man who had murdered his father.
“Where would you like your country estate?” Liverpool was asking amiably.
“In the south of Hampshire,” he said. For then his newly acquired country estate would be within an hour of Eastleigh, at the most.
And Devlin smiled. His vengeance had been years in the making. He had known from the tender age of ten that in order to defeat his enemy, he would have to become wealthy and powerful enough to do so. He had joined the navy to gain such wealth and power, never dreaming that one day he would be ten times wealthier than the man he planned to destroy. A title added more ammunition to his stores, not that it truly mattered now. Eastleigh was already on the verge of destitution, as Devlin had been slowly ruining the man for years.
From time to time their paths crossed at various London affairs. Eastleigh knew him well. He had somehow recognized him the first time they met in London, when Devlin was sixteen and dueling his youngest son, Tom Hughes, over the fate of a whore. The wench’s disposition was just an excuse to prick at his mortal enemy by wounding his son, but the duel had been broken up. That had only been the beginning of the deadly game Devlin played.
His agents had sabotaged Hughes’s lead mines, instigated a series of strikes in his mill and had even encouraged his tenants to demand lower rents en masse, forcing Eastleigh to agree. The earl’s financial position had become seriously eroded, until he teetered on the verge of having to sell off his ancestral estate. Devlin looked forward to that day; he intended to be the one to buy it directly. In the interim, he now owned the earl’s best stud, his favorite champion wolfhounds and his Greenwich home. But the coup de grâce was the earl’s second wife, the Countess of Eastleigh, Elizabeth Sinclair Hughes.
For, during the past six years, Elizabeth had been the woman so eagerly sharing his bed.
And even now, she was undoubtedly waiting for him. It was time to go.
WAVERLY HALL HAD BEEN in the possession of the earls of Eastleigh for almost a hundred years—until two years ago, when a cycle of misfortune had caused the earl to put it up for sale. The huge limestone house had two towers, three floors, a gazebo, tennis courts and gardens that swept right down to the river’s banks. Devlin arrived at his home in an Italian yacht, a prize he had captured early in his career. He strolled up the gently floating dock, his gaze taking in the perfectly manicured lawns, the carefully designed gardens and the blossoming roses that crawled up against the dark stone walls of the house. It was so very English.
Unimpressed, he started up the stone path that led to the back of the house, where a terrace offered spectacular views of the river and the city. A man rose from a lawn chair. Devlin recognized him instantly and his pace quickened. “Tyrell!”
Tyrell de Warenne, heir to the earldom of Adare and Devlin’s stepbrother, strode down the path to meet him. Like his father, Ty was tall and swarthy with midnight-black hair and extremely dark blue eyes. The two men, as different as night and day, embraced.
“This is a very pleasant surprise,” Devlin said, pleased to see his stepbrother. It made the homecoming to which he was so indifferent suddenly inviting.
“Sean told me you were on your way home, and as I have had some affairs to see to in town, I decided to stop by the mansion to see if you were here yet. My timing is impeccable, I see.” Tyrell grinned. He was darkly, dangerously handsome and had had many love affairs to prove it.
“For once,” Devlin retorted as they strolled up to the terrace. “How is my mother? The earl?”
“They are fine, as usual, and wondering when you will come home,” Tyrell said with a pointed glance.
Devlin pushed open French doors and entered a huge and elegantly appointed salon, choosing to ignore that particular subject. “I have just accepted a tour of duty in the North Atlantic,” he said. “It is unofficial, of course, as I have yet to receive my orders.”
Tyrell gripped his shoulder and Devlin had to face him. “Admiral Farnham is in a rage over the Lady Anne, Dev. Everywhere I go, I am hearing about it. In fact, even Father has heard that Farnham plots against you. I thought this was your last tour.” His gaze was dark and frankly accusing.
Devlin moved to a bell pull, but his butler had already materialized, smiling as if pleased to see him. Devlin knew the Englishman detested having an Irishman as his overlord; it amused him, enough so that he had kept Eastleigh’s staff when he had boug
ht the mansion. “Benson, my good man, do bring us some refreshments and a fine bottle of red wine.”
Then Devlin turned back to his stepbrother. Like the rest of his family, Tyrell thought he spent far too much time at sea and there was a general effort being made to convince him to resign his commission. “I am being offered a knighthood, Ty.”
Briefly Tyrell stared in surprise; then he was smiling, smacking Devlin’s back. “That is fine news,” he said. “Damned fine!”
“Materialist that I am, I could not refuse the opportunity.”
Tyrell studied him for a moment. “A storm gathers behind your back. You need to take care, Dev. I don’t think Eastleigh has forgiven you for your purchase of this house. Tom Hughes has been lobbying around the Admiralty for a general court-martial,” he said. “And he spreads nasty rumors about you.”
Devlin raised a brow. “I really don’t care what he says.”
“I have heard it said that he has accused you of using vast discretion with French privateers—that is, allowing some to slip through your net for a hefty sum. That kind of gossip could hurt your career—and you, personally,” Tyrell warned.
“If I’m not worried, why should you be?” Devlin asked calmly, but he thought of Thomas Hughes, who had never even been to sea, except on a fancy flagship where he and the admiral and other officers lived in state. Nonetheless, Hughes held the very same rank as Devlin, though Devlin knew the man could not sail a toy boat on a park lake. In fact, Lord Captain Hughes spent all of his time fawning over and playing up to the various admirals with whom he served. Devlin was well aware of the fact that Tom despised him, and it amused him to no end. He did wish he had wounded him that one time when they had dueled over the whore. “I am not afraid of Tom Hughes,” he said dryly.
Tyrell sighed as Benson returned with two manservants, each bearing a silver tray with refreshments. Both men were quiet as a small table overlooking the grounds and the river was quickly set. Benson bowed. “Is there anything else, Captain?”
“No, thank you,” Devlin said. When the servants had left, he handed his stepbrother a glass of wine and walked over to the windows overlooking the terrace. He stared out the window, not particularly enjoying the view.
It was impossible not to think about Askeaton.
Tyrell followed him to the picture window. As if reading Devlin’s mind, he said, “You haven’t been home in six years.”
Devlin knew the last time he had been home, he knew it to the day and hour, but he smiled and feigned surprise. “Has it been that long?”
“Why? Why do you avoid your own home, Dev? Damn it, everyone misses you. And while Sean does a fine job of managing Askeaton, we both know you would do even better.”
“I am hardly at liberty to cruise up to Ireland whenever the urge overtakes me,” Devlin murmured. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but he was avoiding the question and they both knew it. The truth was he could sail up the Irish coast almost any time he chose.
“You are a strange man,” Tyrell said sharply. “And I am not the only one who worries about you.”
“Tell Mother I am more than fine. I captured an American merchantman carrying gold to a Barbary prince, a ransom for their hostages,” Devlin said smoothly. “With my share of the booty, I could ransom a hostage or two myself.”
“You should tell her yourself,” Tyrell said flatly.
Devlin turned away. He missed Askeaton terribly, but he had learned in the past years that his home was a place to be avoided at all costs. For there, the memories were too volatile; there, they threatened to consume him; there, the boy still lived.
A FEW HOURS LATER, pleasantly relaxed from an abundance of wine, Devlin started upstairs, Tyrell having gone to the Adare town home in Mayfair. His private rooms took up an entire wing of the second floor; upon possession of the house, he had gutted the master suite completely, as if gutting the Earl of Eastleigh himself. He strolled through one pretty parlor after another, past vases and artwork others had chosen, past a piano that was never played, aware that not one item in the house—other than his books—gave him pleasure. But he hadn’t bought the house for pleasure. He had bought it for a single purpose—revenge.
A maid met him on the threshold of his bedroom. She was flushed and perspiring, a pretty thing with brown hair and pale skin, and briefly Devlin thought of inviting her into his bed. But she turned a brighter shade of crimson upon espying him and then fled past him and down the hall with a gasp.
Devlin glanced after her, amused and wondering what had caused such a swift retreat. Had his intentions been that obvious? He was horny, certainly, but not aroused.
And then he entered the master bedroom and understood.
A blond Venus arose from the midst of his massive bed, a sheer undergarment caressing and revealing full, billowy breasts with large dusky nipples, round, lush hips, plump thighs and a dark ruby-red delta between.
Elizabeth Sinclair Hughes smiled at him. “I received your message and came as soon as I could.”
His loins filled as he looked at her. She belonged to his mortal enemy, a man he was slowly but surely wreaking his vengeance upon, and she aroused him as no other woman could.
Elizabeth was very pretty, and now her green eyes moved directly to his swollen groin. “You are in need of attention, Captain,” she murmured.
He moved forward, red-hot blood filling his brain, removing his shirt as he did so. With the raging blood came raging lust—blood lust—savage and uncontrolled. The beast always chose this moment to walk the earth. Devlin mounted her as he mounted the bed, pushing her down, unfastening his britches, thrusting his massive hardness inside.
Elizabeth cried out in pleasure, already hot and wet. He moved as hard and fast as he could, images of Eastleigh filling his mind, gray of hair, fatter and fifty now, and then fourteen years ago, slimmer, younger, crueler. His hatred knew no bounds. It mingled with the lust. His mouth found hers and he thrust there deeply, hurtfully, grinding against her, until he had become the beast itself. Elizabeth never knew. She gripped his sweat-slickened back, keening wildly in her ecstasy.
He wanted to release himself, too, but the hatred, the pleasure and the lust were so great and so satisfying that he refused, pounding deeper, harder, but ugly memories rode him now as he rode her…ugly, bloody glimpses of a dark and terrible past, rising fast and furious—a small boy, a headless man, a severed head, sightless eyes, a pool of blood.
He forgot the woman he rode as the wave preceding his climax, a wave of intense, growing pleasure, turned into one of anger and pain, and he was swept forward, against all will, a wave that now unfurled like a topsail, hard and fast. Behind that wave the memories chased him. His father’s furious, sightless eyes accused him now. You let me die, you let me die. Devlin sought now only to escape, and when he climaxed, he did just that.
There was no moment of peace, no moment of relief. Instantly he was conscious, aware of the woman he lay upon, aware of the man he was cuckolding—aware of the gruesome memories that he now must bury, at all cost. Devlin flipped over, away from the countess, breathing harshly. In that instant a painfully familiar emptiness emanated from deep within him and consumed him entirely. It was so huge, so hollow, so vast.
Devlin leapt to his feet.
“Good Lord, one would think you’d been without for an entire year,” Elizabeth murmured with a satisfied sigh. Then she eyed him with a small, pleased smile, her gaze lingering on his narrow hips and muscled thighs.
Naked, Devlin hurried across the bedroom, hardly aware of her words, quickly pouring a glass of wine. He downed it in a gulp, shaken, as always, by the memories he had vowed never to forget. He drained the glass and fought the beast until it finally returned to its lair.
“Nothing ever changes, does it, Devlin?” the countess asked, sitting up.
He poured another glass of wine and approached her, aware of his manhood stirring. Her gaze moved to his groin and she smiled. “You are becoming terribly predictable, Devlin.
”
“I could change that easily enough,” he remarked casually, handing her the wine. As he did, he paused to admire her breasts. “You haven’t changed,” he added.
“And you remain a gentleman, in spite of your reputation,” she said, but she was smiling and pleased. “I’m a year older, a bit fatter and lustier than ever.”
“You haven’t changed,” he said firmly, but now he noticed the slight wrinkles at her eyes and the equally slight thickening of her waist. Elizabeth was several years his senior, although he wasn’t really certain of her age—he had never cared enough to learn what it might be. She had two adolescent daughters, and he thought, but wasn’t sure, that the eldest was fourteen or fifteen. Neither daughter belonged to Eastleigh.
“Darling, would it ever be possible for you to lie quietly by my side?” she asked, setting her glass down and stroking his inner thigh.
He hardened like a shot. “I have never pretended to be anything but what I am with you. I am not a quiet man.”
“No, you are His Majesty’s Pirate, for that is what I hear you called from time to time, when your exploits become dinner conversation.” Her hand drifted upward, its back brushing his phallus as she toyed with his thigh.
“How boring those dinners must be.” He couldn’t care less what he was called, but he didn’t bother to say so. The countess loved to chat idly after their various bouts of lovemaking. She had been the source of much of his information about Eastleigh for the past six years, so he usually encouraged her chatter.
Now she murmured, “I have missed you, Dev.”
There was simply nothing to be said; he took her hand and placed it firmly on his swollen shaft. “Show me,” he said.
“Spoken like a true commander,” she said hoarsely, lowering her head.
He hadn’t meant to give an order, but it was his nature now. He didn’t move, waiting patiently for her to nibble and lick him, watching her dispassionately as she did so. One day Eastleigh would learn of their affair—he had only to decide which moment to choose.
