Pirates of Britannia Box Set

by Devlin, Barbara

  He was fully dressed in his finery from the night before. If that was not a clear sign that he had found his way into a willing woman’s bed, nothing else was. He would not care on most days if it had only been dawn but walking through the palace at this time of day in his finery would shame him. He was a cursed knight! Not some fancy courtier who could drink and whore all night, sleeping off the effects all morning. Never in his life had he slept in or missed training. He considered feigning illness if only to protect his reputation, but that would be a strike against his honor. Nay, he needed to find his squire, get into his armor, and take whatever ribbing should come his way.

  Just as he made his way into the great hall, he found his squire, sweating and darting his eyes around frantically, clearly worried that he had somehow failed to follow his master’s orders. Indeed, this was their first night staying at the queen’s favorite castle and his squire could have easily become lost, but nay, it was not his fault. Frances always traveled with the Queen, while Thomas traveled where he was commanded. So, on the rare occasions they ended up at court together, he sought out her bed, which of course his young squire need not know.

  “Charles. Ye look as if ye are afraid for yer life, lad.”

  Charles stumbled at Thomas’s booming voice, dropping a gauntlet onto the tile floor. The great hall was empty aside from some servants bustling in and out of the room, preparing for the nooning meal. “I… I… I am sorry my lord. I could not find you. I looked all over, even the stables. I will accept any punishment you see fit Sir, for causing us to be late for training.”

  Thomas looked down at his sweaty squire, long blond hair matted to his back. “Alas, it is my fault this time, Charles. Believe it or not, I slept overlong. Let us get prepared for training before it is time to break for a meal, aye?”

  Relief filled the young man’s eyes as he nodded, and Thomas wondered if he was really all that frightening. He was quite tall and full of muscles, aye, but many of the men were. Was it his overly loud voice? His natural confidence? Perhaps the fact that he was Irish? He could not know, but as hard as he worked his squire, he had never given the lad cause to fear him.

  “Right. Let us be off then.”

  It was still early spring, and it seemed as though the nights were longer than the days. Court life bustled as lords and ladies filled the great hall, all wearing their finest silks and velvets with sleeves so puffy it looked like the room was filled with shiny, colorful clouds. Thomas chuckled at that thought. They were a pampered, shiny fog. He had only spent seven years of his life in Ireland, but he much preferred their simple garb. He would defy societal expectations and wear what he preferred, but due to the Queen’s code, every class must dress their part. Alas, he found himself in blue velvet breeches, a matching doublet, white wool stockings, and a shirt with a slightly ruffled collar, though he absolutely refused to wear the large sleeves.

  Sipping on his mead, he observed the wealthiest people in England. They stank of body odor, despite their attempts not to. Resentment was a lifelong companion and though he was loyal to his queen, he found it harder and harder as the years passed to forget how the English misused his own people. Even now, as war raged on his homeland, a few chieftains in the north, mainly Hugh O’Neill, attempted to fight off the English who constantly threatened to take the land. The English fought in the name of their queen, he knew. He also understood that the queen only meant to give them order and support the land, but it was a power struggle nonetheless, and one his people were fighting unto the death.

  Thousands of years of Irish blood ran through his veins and it was hard not to bristle at the situation he had been thrust into at such a young age. Aye, he had been given the chance to grow up in a wealthy household, become a part of the queen’s court, and above all, become a knight. He had earned that honor with every battle and every scar on his body. Yet, every year more news came from Ireland that the English-appointed Governor of Connaught, Richard Bingham, continued to use force against the people. Bingham considered the O’Malleys personal enemies and made it his life’s goal to take down Grace O’Malley, Irish Pirate Queen and Thomas’s beloved grandmother.

  It had only been a few years before that word had reached Thomas about Bingham’s worst offense of all. The man had tricked Thomas’s kind Uncle Owen, who only ever wanted peace, into believing he wished for a truce. Owen opened his home to Richard Bingham who, in turn, double-crossed him, tied him up, and stabbed him to death while he was defenseless. Then the man arrested his grandmother and kept her locked up for over a year. Just recently, his other uncle had been held captive and Thomas had heard that his grandmother sailed all the way to England to beseech the Queen to release her son. Thomas hadn’t had an opportunity to see or speak to his grandmama and had no idea what was said between the two women, but the Queen of England released the Pirate Queen’s son in a sort of truce. However, things had only darkened for Thomas here at court as more and more battles raged between his family and the Crown. Lately, he found his loyalties tugging him back home, though that was impossible. He was bound to his queen’s will and had vowed to always be loyal. As a knight of the realm, his might must fight for England, even if his heart called to Ireland.

  He wondered about his grandmother. Aye, she was a pirate. She plundered the cargo of her enemies, killed if necessary, and commanded an entire fleet of ships. Yet, she used her riches to feed her people. She was a leader and renowned in several countries. In a way, he envied her. Not for her power or fame, but because she lived life on her own terms, felt the freedom of the wind blowing through her hair.

  The O’Malleys were a seafaring family and had been for centuries. The sea called to Thomas, even in his dreams. His time aboard ship during the invasion of the Spanish Armada, though fighting a battle, had been the best of his life. He found it harder and harder to deny his ancient roots or the promise of a treasure still awaiting him. Every year, he listened for talk of a new treasure being found, wondering if another man would one day find it before he did. It was his family’s legacy and he would be damned if he allowed another man to claim it first… and yet he was here, at court, surrounded by colorful-sleeved clouds.

  “You seem awfully full of despair, Sir Thomas,” a teasing young voice said from behind him. He smirked, already knowing he would find the young courtier he had met the last time he was at court standing there. Long blonde hair and alabaster skin, she was the perfect image of innocence, or so he had thought before she gripped his manhood beneath a table upon their last meeting. She was some Lord’s daughter, though he did not know which one, nor did it really matter.

  Turning to face her, he took in her shiny hair piled high on her head, fashionably coifed with intertwined jewels and pearls. The fact that she could, indeed, wear pearls, told him she was from a very prominent family. Her red damask gown flowed down her body, the skirts fluffing out wide to match her sleeves. The bodice was cut low enough to show off her more than ample cleavage. “Ah. Lady Emily,” he took her hand and grazed her knuckles very gently.

  “It is nice to see you again, Sir Thomas. How long have you been in attendance? I did not see you here last night,” she pouted, her full pink lips protruding invitingly.

  “Ah. I only arrived late last night. I am afraid I missed the festivities. But, I am here now,” he winked flirtatiously. Nothing he had said or done was beyond propriety, as it was simply the courtly behavior expected of a knight. Yet, the glitter in her blue eyes told him she had improper thoughts. However, he was certain hers could not even begin to match his own.

  “I have heard some rather interesting stories about you since our last meeting,” she smiled. He knew what she referred to. For whatever reason, women were particularly enthralled when they learned who his grandmother was. And though it bothered him at times, he had made love to many women who reveled in his pirate blood. With his dark hair, short groomed beard, and green eyes, he may have looked too clean-cut to be a pirate, but he had the body and mind of one.


  “Oh, aye? And what is it ye have heard of me, lass?” He allowed his Irish accent to come to the forefront. It gave him an edge of mystery and danger that the ladies seemed to enjoy. By the way Emily tittered and ran a finger across her bosom, he knew she, too, enjoyed it.

  “I heard that you are the grandson and heir of the famous Pirate Queen, Grace O’Malley, that you come from a long line of pirates and the darkness runs through your blood. And that while you sailed the seas with Sir Drake, you are almost as good at commanding a ship as the captain…” Her eyes grew wide and she whispered the words as if they were some deep, dark secret.

  “Aye. ’Tis true, lass,” he smirked, intentionally making her nervous with his intense scrutiny. He was not his grandmother’s heir, for his bastard Uncle Murrough who used to beat his mother still held that honor, but while he refused to speak on that to the lady, the rest was indeed true. He had spent much time on a ship, both against the Armada and as the third mate aboard Drake’s famous ship, the Golden Hind, as well as on other commissions by the queen throughout the years. Indeed, being on a ship and free upon the waters made his soul sing. It was also true that darkness ran through his veins; a need for adventure, the chase, treasure, and wenches called to his every sense. How he missed his dear companion Sir Drake and longed to once again sail the sea. Being stuck on land for the past few years had been driving him mad, and his childhood dreams of the Treasure of Danu had haunted him more persistently with every passing day.

  “How did you end up at court, as an English knight?” she asked, stepping closer than was proper, but she seemed to not care about propriety and he refused to step back.

  “’Tis a long story, that. But my father is an English Baron. Lawrence Esmonde. I am just as much English as I am Irish.” His heart bristled at his own words, but it was the truth.

  She fluttered her charcoaled lashes and smiled shyly, though he knew any lass who would reach beneath a table and grip a man’s cock was not shy, nor was she likely a maiden. Not that it mattered to him for he had no plans for this young lady. Thoughts were one things. Actions had consequences he did not wish to face. Despite his reputation with women, he had scruples and did not bed just any willing lass, especially ones more than a decade younger than him.

  Taking a long swig of mead, he watched her carefully, wondering how he could escape her notice. “Perhaps you would like to take a walk with me in the royal gardens?” she asked, batting her eyes. If that was not an invitation to bend her over and plow her, he did not know what else it was, and though he admitted to himself that he was tempted, his code of honor forbade it. It also forbade affairs with a married woman, and yet he had somehow turned a blind eye to that rule. He also made it a rule to not bed more than one woman in a day, and he was quite sure the sun had been on the rise while his head was buried between Frances’s thighs this morning.

  Och, these thoughts were making his head spin and the mead was not helping. “Lady Emily, ye are a bonny lass, but I am afraid my honor prohibits me from accepting your offer.”

  Her cheeks flamed and she looked around her as if afraid someone would witness her rejection. “I only asked you to walk with me!” she feigned indignation and placed a hand over her protruding bosom. “I am sorry if you thought I suggested anything more.”

  He wanted to remind her that the last time he saw her, she had his bollocks cradled in that same hand, but he decided against it. After all, he had done nothing to stop her before when he hardened in her hand and allowed her to stroke him through his breeches beneath a cursed table. What man in his right mind would stop a beautiful woman from fondling his jewels? He had been deep in his cups and too aroused to move, at the time. No wonder she expected more of him now. But, it was not going to happen.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw the very last man in all of England he wished to see, walking straight toward him with determination. His lover’s husband. With a growl that scared Lady Emily and made her gasp, he squared his shoulders and touched the handle of his rapier, just in case the man meant to run him through.

  “Sir Thomas,” the man said with a stiff nod of his head.

  “Essex,” Thomas responded, as if the man bored him. In truth, he did. Robert Devereux, second Earl of Essex, was one of the queen’s favorites, but he was also duller than unpolished silver and his overlarge ruffled collar made him appear more of a daisy than a knight. “Can I help you, my lord?” Thomas bowed, as the man was an earl and way above his own station. He tried to forget that he had been suckling on the man’s wife’s breasts only hours before.

  “Not me, Esmonde. Apparently, the Queen wishes an audience with you.” A dark brow quirked as curiosity flooded him. The last time his queen had asked for an audience had been after his Uncle Owen had been killed… murdered by that bastard Bingham over in Ireland, and his grandmother had been imprisoned. What ill news did she bear him now? Despite his rock-solid exterior, inside he felt panic. Had something happened to his mother? Or perhaps his father, whom he seldom saw but had grown affectionate toward over the years? Then his eyes narrowed. Why would his cunning monarch send his lover’s husband to fetch him, of all people? She did love to play mind games and mayhap this was a grand one of hers.

  “Thank ye, Lord Essex,” Thomas nodded, and turned toward the lass who still stood beside him. “If ye will excuse me, Lady Emily,” he bowed his head politely, then hesitated. “I am sorry. I cannot remember your family name…”

  “Oh…” she hesitated and wrung her hands together nervously. “Bingham. My father is Richard Bingham,” she whispered cautiously. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. She was the daughter of the bastard who continuously harassed his family, the man who betrayed his Uncle Owen and imprisoned his grandmother. Was this some game to her? Had she any idea all her father had done to his family, or was she innocent of all knowledge? By her downcast gaze and the flush in her cheeks, he knew the truth. No wonder she knew so much about him. She knew exactly who he was and, for some reason, she had searched him out, wanting him to ruin her if another man had not already. Had it been a trap? If he had taken her out to the gardens, would someone have stumbled upon them? Of course, as an honor-bound knight, he would have been forced to wed with her; somehow, he knew that was her intention.

  Why the lady would want to trap her father’s enemy into marriage was beyond him, but he was suddenly most glad that he had turned her offer away. He would rather walk the plank and jump into shark-infested waters, than touch the daughter of Richard Bingham. The thought actually made him feel ill.

  With a hint of scorn and warning in his voice, he tilted his head and murmured, “Good evening, Lady Emily Bingham,” and allowed his lover’s husband to escort him out of the great hall, through the corridors and toward his queen’s privy chamber, where he was most curious as to her desire to speak with him. Whatever it was, it could not be welcome news.

  Chapter Two

  “I bear bad tidings, I am afraid, Sir Thomas.” Thomas’s heart plummeted to his feet at his queen’s direct delivery. She was a no-nonsense woman and he appreciated that. Still, thoughts of more bad news revolving around his family made his square jaw tick with anxiety.

  Swathed in an ornate gown made entirely of cloth of gold, her extremely puffed out sleeves had slashes through the material, revealing more cloth of silver beneath. In her sixties, she did her best to cover the signs of aging with layers of white ceruse caking her wrinkles, but it only emphasized the folds of flesh, causing her to look ghostly white with cracking skin. A periwig meant to conceal her gray hair lay atop her head, slightly askew, but he did not dare to stare. She flashed him her usual flirtatious smile, her teeth more yellow than he remembered. Mayhap it was the reflection of so much gold cloth and red hair that only made it appear to worsen? Still there was no denying that her teeth on the left were for some reason longer than the ones on the right.

  After paying her proper respect, he stood up to his full height, wondering how she could attempt to flirt wit
h him directly after telling him she bore bad tidings. Forcing a smile on his face, he was relieved when she waved her hand in dismissal. “None of that now.” She paused and stared at him in silence, apparently scrutinizing him and wondering how much to say.

  “Your grandmother visited me several months past. Are you aware?”

  Thomas felt his breathing quicken. Something had happened to his grandmother, but he knew he must remain calm in the presence of her majesty. “Aye, I am aware, my Queen.”

  With a scoff and another wave of her hand, she nodded. “Of course, you know. You speak frequently to your family in Ireland.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Nay. Not frequently, my Queen. I received a missive in October from my mother about my grandmother’s meeting with you. ’Tis the last time I heard any news.”

  “I see. I suppose you know much about what has transpired during the war in your homeland, then?”

  “England is my home,” he said with as much conviction as he could muster. It was an impossible position to have loyalties for two warring nations.

  “Yes, yes. But you still consider Ireland your home and I cannot blame you. I have avoided sending you overseas during the war. Making you fight against Ireland seems most unfair, even cruel. I do try not to be cruel.”

  “You are a most fair and generous monarch,” he replied, bowing his head.

  She made a face at him that told him she was not so sure she believed that, but in truth, he did. Queen Elizabeth, though not without faults, had always treated him most fairly despite his ties to her enemies. She had knighted him and given him commissions on ships, even allowing him to be Drake’s third mate during a most important battle. He always did his best to serve her well and in truth, it was her fairness that kept him loyal to a nation that he otherwise would have turned away from long ago. Once his Liege Lord had died in battle six years ago, he had come to work directly for her Majesty and found her relatively pleasant.