When he caught her looking at him, he smiled and his eyes crinkled. “I do well enough,” he told her. “But it is just my father and me. There are only two mouths to feed.”
“No wife?”
“I was married, once, but she died giving birth to my son, who also died.”
Theodosia sobered. “I am sorry,” she said. “I did not mean to pry.”
The man shook his head. “You did not,” he said, eyeing her now with more interest than curiosity. “My name is Gaius, by the way.”
“I am Theodosia. This is my daughter, Lucia.”
“Where are you going, Theodosia? To see your family?”
Theodosia shook her head and looked away. “Nay.”
“Your husband, perhaps?”
Again, she shook her head. “My husband is dead.”
“And you are running from his cruel family who beats you daily and forces you into slavery?”
Theodosia grinned in spite of her herself. “Nay,” she said. “I have been living with my family. My husband’s family is all dead.”
Gaius was an extraordinarily intelligent man for being a farmer; in fact he had been schooled in his youth and spent several years in the Roman army, but an ill father and a failing farm had caused him to return home.
Bright as he was, he knew there was much more to Theodosia than she was telling him. She was a stunningly beautiful woman with soft white hands and smooth skin and if he could guess about her, he would say she was a noblewoman. She just had that look about her, regal and elegant. But she was running from something, or someone, and the protective male in him seemed to be taking great interest in her. It probably wasn’t healthy for him, for he’d never had good fortune with women, but he couldn’t help himself. Something about Theodosia drew him to her.
But she obviously didn’t feel the same way about him. She had refused to answer his questions about where she was going so he was coming to suspect that perhaps she didn’t even know. She appeared very tired and hungry, and her little girl was exhausted. He was more than likely a fool for being sympathetic to her, but he was.
“If your destination is too far away, my farm is only an hour ahead,” he told her casually. “It is getting late. If you would like to rest the night, as our guest, we would be happy to have you and your daughter. In fact, my dog just had a litter of puppies your daughter might like to play with. Otherwise, they will be very lonely puppies.”
Theodosia looked at the man, shocked by his offer. Do not agree! She told herself, suspicious of the Gaius’ ulterior motive. But the truth was that a night in a safe home with a warm fire was too good to resist. Perhaps it would be the most foolish thing she ever did in her life to accept his invitation, but she found herself quite willing to do it. For her daughter’s sake, she had to.
“Well,” she said, pretending to be reluctant. “I suppose we could, just for the night, of course. We would be gone by sunrise.”
Gaius nodded. “As you wish,” he said, eyeing her. “If… if you perhaps need to earn some money for your trip, there are chores about the farm that need to be done. I would pay you for them.”
Theodosia looked at him in surprise. “Chores?” she repeated, both disgusted and intrigued. “Like what?”
Gaius grinned at the dismay in her tone, which only proved his theory that she was a noblewoman who did not do manual work. “Milking the goats,” he told her. “Sweeping. Cooking. We can always use help if you are looking for a job.”
A job. Theodosia had to admit that she was very interested. It would be some place for her and Lucia to stay, to be together, and for her to earn a living even though she’d never earned a living in her life. Still, it might be the opportunity she needed. She tried not to seem too eager about it.
“We can discuss it, I suppose,” she said. “But you should know I have never milked a goat in my life.”
He grinned, glancing at her lily-white hands. “Is that so?” he said, somewhat wryly. “I would never have guessed. It is easy to learn.”
“Is it?”
“I can will teach you.”
“I cannot cook, either.”
“I can teach you that, too.”
Theodosia thought, perhaps, that it all sounded too good to be true. Were the gods sending her a sign or was Hades providing a trap for being a disobedient daughter? She couldn’t be sure, but she was attracted to Gaius’ offer. It was a struggle not to become excited about it.
“But my daughter must stay with me,” she said. “You do not mind a child about?”
Gaius shook his head. “My father always wanted a grandchild. He will like having her about.”
Theodosia didn’t know what to say; she was coming to think that, indeed, the gods knew of her plight and had brought Gaius into her life at precisely the correct time. Was it even possible that all of this could be true? She would soon find out.
Gaius and his father, Agrippus, lived like two bachelors on a very large farm. There was plenty of work to be done and Theodosia wasn’t afraid to learn. In fact, she rather liked it. Gaius taught her to cook and to milk goats, to press wine and make flour. Theodosia learned quickly. She soon came to love her new life and, in time, love for Gaius bloomed as well. A truly goodhearted man who readily accepted Lucia, Theodosia knew that the decision to leave her parents’ home had been the best decision she had ever made. She knew that Lucius would have approved.
With the introduction of Gaius, the ring that Lucius had given her those years ago once again turned a deep, rich crimson and would remain so until the day Theodosia passed it on to Lucia on the day of her eighteenth birthday. Fortunately for Lucia, the ring would turn crimson two years later at the introduction of a certain young soldier who happened to cross her path.
The ring of Lucius’ family, the ring of true love or of lost love, continued to live on through the ages, passed down from Lucia to her daughter, and from her daughter onward. The story of the ring was also passed along with it, an oral tradition for the female members of the family, and through the centuries, the eldest daughter of each generation would hold great hope that the ring would turn crimson for her. Somewhere along the line, it was said that if one spoke the words inscribed upon the ring, with dreams only of you, that a lover would appear within a fortnight. Many a young woman believed in those words. Many a young woman was rewarded for that belief.
But a few were not. No one could be sure why those spellbound words sometimes worked or sometimes didn’t, or why love would turn the stone to crimson and heartache would turn it to black, but it didn’t really matter. It was a glorious tradition within the females of the family and the mystery of the crimson-stoned ring continued to brand Theodosia’s descendants with its particular kind of magic.
The lore of the Lucius Ring lived on.
Prologue
Execution Dock, London
July 4, 1600
Dressed as a common Londoner, as were two from her crew, Lady Antónia Burke, Captain of the pirate ship, Lady Hook, stood amongst the other revelers at Execution Dock. The infamous spot where pirates were hung was situated on the Thames River, which stunk of rot and garbage in the summer sun.
Shouting obscenities from the back of a barred wagon were the members of her crew who’d been arrested by the bloody English captain in her Majesty’s devil-trained Navy. All six of them. They shook their fists, faces swollen, bruised from where the guards had hit them, heads shaved, and torn clothes dirt-smudged.
Onlookers raged at the barred brigands, tossing rotten vegetables and muck. Shouting their own lines of obscenities. Men and women of all ages, even children. An execution was a sideshow, perhaps the most exciting thing to happen in their mundane, bedraggled lives.
Antónia wanted to grab every one of them by their ears like her grandmother used to do to her and drag them back to their hovels, locking them in the dark until their thirst for blood waned.
Her men had been brought to the dock at low tide, for their execution, where their hung bo
dies would dangle for the remainder of the day. Not bloody going to happen. Antónia glowered at the nooses already knotted and waiting. Her men would not dangle today. She was going to help them escape and she’d like to take a few lives of the bastard yeoman standing guard. However, that would interfere with her plans and, so, she’d have to save her revenge for another time.
Though if she was being fair, she’d pardon the English captain and his disciples, for they were only following orders and laws they thought reasonable. Alas, Antónia wasn’t going to be fair. Not today, or tomorrow. She was a pirate by blood and she did not make exceptions for fools.
In fact, if she ever came across the bloody captain again, she’d be hard pressed not to pull out her blunderbuss and put a bullet between his eyes.
Antónia tucked her hat lower, shielding her eyes. She’d ashed her hair that morning to hide the red luster of its color and tucked it into a nondescript lace bonnet with a gray feather. Damn her Irish roots for giving her away when she wanted to be discreet. Her two men, who stood behind her, stooped to hide their Viking-Scots height—they, too, were cursed with an appearance that was hard to miss.
She glanced back at them, giving a slight nod. All their plans would soon be underway and this day would either end in death or victory.
Just before dawn, she’d approached the dock, examining the scaffold and happened to come across a man who had death in his eyes. An executioner, though he’d not admit it without his cap on to hide his face. One wayward soul could always tell another. She’d asked the man if he was the sort to end a life, could he be bribed with Spanish coin to look the other way.
He’d told her, politely of course, to bugger off, though his eyes had said something different, and an imperceptible nod had been all the permission she’d needed to accidently drop a leather pouch full of Spanish gold doubloons near the foot of the scaffold. Inside the pouch, she’d tucked a strip of parchment that read simply: Look the other way when we release the Irish. – Her Grace, the Queen of Pirates.
Of course, she’d used her grandmother’s name, but all the same, one did such things when needing to save their crew from certain death.
Now, Antónia saw that man, standing there, his eyes as stormy gray as they’d been that morning, met hers, and again that imperceptible nod. She returned the gesture. Thank the sea gods for Spanish gold.
A man approaching the scaffold caught her attention and she bit down hard on her lip to keep from shouting her anger at the man who’d brought them into this mess. The English captain.
He was more handsome than she remembered in his crisp and starched white linen shirt, blue doublet with gold buttons, white breeches, and shiny black boots. His sword gleamed at his hip, and beneath his captain’s cap, his hair was dark as night—not powdered or wigged like most men of his ilk.
A silent rebellion? If she didn’t despise him, she might have respected that. But she did despise him, so he could take his lustrous hair and shove it up his arse.
Antónia quickly ducked her face toward the ground; her hat shielded her gaze. When he glanced in her general direction, he’d not see her seething, nor did she risk the chance of him recognizing her despite the soot she’d smeared on her face and in her hair to appear inconspicuous.
The captain had no idea what was coming for him.
Waiting at a dock a half-mile north of this spot, was more of her crew, manning a barge large enough to fit them all but not large enough to draw attention.
One of the prison guards had been replaced by a man in her crew. He would be the one to cut the ropes at the right time. Three men near the wagon would overtake the driver and her crew, if they were smart, would hop back behind the barred cart and hold on for dear life as they rode off.
They would meet at the barge, hide them beneath blankets and row quietly from the Thames out to the Channel where her merchant ship awaited them at a small port in All-Hallows, a small village just at the mouth of the Thames that would take them out to sea.
If it all worked…
Which, it must!
For, if it did not, she would haunt the dreaded captain for the rest of his miserable days.
The captain climbed the scaffold, his height at least a head above the executioner, the muscle in his square jaw ticking. She did not remember him being so tall. So broad. Why did he have to be so fine-looking? The feminine side of her, despite her irritation at his gall to arrest her men—even if she and her crew had been in mid-plunder—enjoyed the sight of his fine physique, his ruggedly handsome face.
“The accused stand before you all, charged with piracy and assault on the queen’s property. They are sentenced to be hung until dead.” The captain stood tall as he spoke, listing the names of the men within the covered wagon. Then he signaled to the guard standing by the cart and that was Antónia’s cue.
She flicked the feather in her bonnet and the poor wench she’d paid to scream did so at blood-curdling levels. All in the crowd turned to look and that was when Antónia’s crew knocked the guards senseless and took hold of the horse drawn cart.
The queen’s men shouted. The captain bellowed.
Antónia smiled.
“Come, Sweeney, Tavish,” she said to the two guards behind her. “We must be away now.”
Slowly they turned and headed toward the quay, walking quickly, but not enough to draw attention, a half-mile down river to their newly acquired barge.
They reached the craft just as the cart did. Sweeney hacked at the lock with his axe and her men spilled out, along with two strangers who immediately swore an oath to her. Into the barge they went, climbing beneath benches, blankets and a few into pine crates.
Tavish smacked the horses’ rumps and they took off back toward the city, hopefully leading the guards in a different direction.
Antónia and her men leapt over the rails. “Go, now! Row for your lives,” she hissed.
They pushed off the quay, eight of her crew rowed with all swift speed, knowing that if they were caught it was death for the lot of them.
Oh, but sweet satisfaction would be hers.
A lone rider, suited in white breeches and a blue doublet rode along the quay. Antónia doffed her cap and tossed it into the Thames.
“Until we meet again, dear Captain,” she whispered.
Chapter One
September 7, 1601
Greenwich Palace
Court of Queen Elizabeth
Lady Antónia was dressed in a most proper gown of emerald green, creamy lace at her cuffs and starched at her neck. Whalebone stays pinched her ribs. She’d not eaten since that morning and here it was now high noon. ’Twas hard to breathe and even harder to stand tall. She wasn’t used to wearing such formal clothing. Nay, indeed. She much preferred the loose pantaloons and doublet she wore aboard her ship. The ribbons and cap that kept her hair from her face instead of the tight knot and pins that held her fiery locks now.
If anyone had asked her the previous year when she’d be back in England, she’d not have guessed it would be this soon. Over a year had passed since she’d freed her men from certain death.
Greenwich Palace was unequivocally the most beautiful and ostentatious place she’d ever been. Her family’s castles in Ireland, where she sometimes graced them with her presence, were nothing compared to this. Terrifying towers truly. They were keeps, strongholds, meant for battle and to keep enemies from within. Greenwich looked as though it had been made for a sovereign’s comfort, for parties and plays.
Velvet draped every piece of furniture and even the walls. Gold rimmed every painting, mirror and candlestick. Where there was no gold, there was silver. As if the monarchs wished to impart a message to every bejeweled or bedraggled person to grace the halls that their wealth far outweighed any other. Richer than gods. No one in the place seemed concerned with anything other than pleasure.
Antónia scowled. ’Twas no wonder the English had not yet been able to beat back the Irish, her people. When they weren’t attempting
to take over every corner of Christendom, they were dancing and playing boules in the courtyard, stroking their gold and silver.
As much as their opulence and frivolity disgusted her, Antónia had to maintain a pretense while here. Granuaille, her grandmother, had made it very clear what her purpose was in coming—to give the queen a birthday gift therefore ensuring that the English Queen believed their ties of friendship were still strong. Some years before, Granuaille had sought out Queen Elizabeth, and though their two countries were at war, they’d formed an alliance with each other. Elizabeth had even freed and pardoned Granuaille’s son, Antónia’s uncle, Tibbot, if Granuaille agreed to continue pirating the Spanish and not the English.
And now, Uncle Tibbot had just been named an viscount—while Antónia’s father had been secretly named by Tibbot as the rebel leader fighting against the English.
Antónia most certainly took after her grandmother in her intelligence, wit and ability to captain a ship, but she had her father’s dark temper. There was a reason he was called The Demon of Corraun. The English even called him Devil’s Hook. He was wild man and fierce in battle.
He didn’t scare Antónia one wit, though, even with the jagged scar on his face that made it look as though he had a permanent vicious smile.
“Lord Dalston,” called out Sir Robert Cecil, the Queen’s secretary, from the gallery leading from the Presence Chamber into the Queen’s privy chamber. The large wood-paneled door behind him remained closed to those waiting an audience.
Though he shared the same surname as the Secretary of State when Antónia’s grandmother had first journeyed to London in 1593, he was not the same man. A relation, perhaps. For it was William Cecil that Granuaille had dealings with.
Antónia cursed herself for not keeping up with the bloody English’s politics. She should know exactly who this man was.
She despised the English. They’d been tormenting her countrymen, her kin, for years, indeed, all of her own life.
Lords of Ireland II Page 42
