Chapter 2

The magnificent dragon symbol on the sail was sighted from Devonport long before the ship was brought expertly into harbor. A cry went up from the seawall and was carried to every person abroad in the port town this fine May morning. "The Sea God! The Sea God!" The children took up the cry until the cobbled streets rang with it. Shopkeepers left their stores and along with their customers came out to witness the spectacle that always accompanied the arrival of their beloved native son, for the Sea God did not refer to the name of one of his ships, but to the man himself.

The Hawkhurst family, with its vast shipping empire, had ruled the sea town of Devonport near Plymouth for over a century, but it had taken the good sense of the present queen to reward that family with its first title of nobility. Early in Elizabeth's reign Sebastian Hawkhurst had been named Lord Devonport and appointed her lieutenant for the County of Devon. Now his seafaring days were past, but his sons carried on the glorious name of Hawkhurst, rivaling Howard, Raleigh, and even Drake in the eyes of the townfolk of Devonport.

His elder son, Captain Hawkhurst, had been at sea for almost six months and did not know yet that his father was ailing. A crowd had gathered on the seawall and jetty, all jostling for a position that would afford them a look at the magnificent, near-legendary figure. The women almost swooned in anticipation of a glimpse of the handsome, powerfully built man the queen called her Sea God. They were agog over the prize he had in tow. It was obviously a Portuguese or Spanish galleon and they speculated about its cargo of gold or silver, or jewels at the very least. They would have called a liar any man who referred to Hawkhurst as a freebooter or pirate. To them he was a merchant seaman, a privateer, and a defender of England's sea lanes. No wonder Britannia ruled the waves when the queen had the sworn loyalty and strength of men such as the Sea God.

He stood on the forecastle bridge, his deep masculine voice booming forth his orders to his seamen. The steering sails were pulled in by sailors high in the rigging, then the ship lowered anchor, once more safe in harbor. A cheer went up from the crowd and The Sea God's teeth flashed white in his bronzed face as he waved his acknowledgment. He was well over six feet tall, with surely the broadest shoulders in England. He was deeply tanned and his hair, which was naturally black, had highlights where the strong sun had streaked its tips. He wore it long and it reminded one of a lion's mane.

The crowd waited patiently until he came ashore, knowing the show he would provide would be well worth the wait. Seamen carried his trunks and chests up to the big house on the cliff. Then came his matched pair of Irish wolfhounds, which traveled everywhere with him, and his beloved black stallion, Neptune. Sooner or later his personal manservant would emerge from belowdecks —the monklike "baron," who wore a long dark robe and never uttered a word. Lastly would come the small doll-like woman with the slanted almond eyes, dressed in richly embroidered silk pantaloons and slitted tunic. The tales of her strange origins and the Sea God's possession of her would run the gamut from concubine to slave.

At last Hawkhurst stepped ashore to wend his way to the mansion. When men shouted his name, he answered them by their names. He blew kisses to the women who were waving at him wildly and tossed handfuls of coins to the boys who ran after him, imitating his bold gait as he regained his "land legs."

The women sighed after him, but excitement lingered within each bosom, for arrived home with the Sea God were a hundred of his sailors—husbands, lovers, unattached bachelors all starving for the company of a generous woman to warm their beds this night and the nights yet to come. Hawkhurst men were special—all seasoned veterans, utterly without fear, for their commander was a genius at seamanship and a master of deceit. He concentrated on richly laden Spanish treasure ships and stalked them with an unholy fervor. Hawkhurst men received a share of the prizes they took and always had well-lined pockets.

Every servant Devonport House possessed managed to be on hand for Hawkhurst's arrival and assure him of their warmest welcome home. His beautiful mother, Georgiana, had been watching for him from the highest window in the house and rushed down the spiral staircase to be engulfed in his great arms. She was a dark-haired beauty, her eyes the deep, deep blue of a summer's sky. Always very feminine, she was elegantly fashionable in the extreme.

"My darling Shane," she said, "I'm so glad to have you home." She was the only one who called him Shane. He signed his documents only S. Hawkhurst, and since his father's name was Sebastian, most people assumed that they shared their Christian name. Mother and son had such a deep bond, he was instantly aware that she was upset.

"What's amiss?" he asked, keeping a steady, protective arm about her.

"Your father's been gravely ill, Shane." She hastened to reassure him. "He is improved … a little … but" —she hesitated in order to steady her voice—"he has a paralysis all down one side of his body."

"Will he recover? What does the physician say?" he demanded.

"He holds out little hope. I even sent to London for a physician, but he attributed your father's affliction to a stroke, and said another one such as that will kill him."

"I'll go to him," he said quickly. He was halfway up the stairs when she called softly, "He's not to be excited, but already he's at fever pitch knowing you are returned. You are not to argue with him, and no strong spirits!"

"Hawk, my boy! God's bones, I hate for you to see me so diminished."

Shane Hawkhurst was shocked at his father's appearance. He had always been so strong, only showing softness where Georgiana was concerned. The voice was badly slurred from a mouth drawn down at one side. Only his father's eyes were as bright as they had always been.

"So, you plucked another prize from the Spanish fleet. Ha!"

He sensed that his father did not wish to speak of himself and his illness. He would give him time to grapple with the words and the decisions that would have to be shared between them for the Hawkhurst dynasty to be passed smoothly from the elder to the younger while there was still time.

"What cargo?" asked Sebastian.

Shane grinned. "Silver the Spanish were sending home from Peru and Mexico."

"God's cock!" The old man was astounded. "Elizabeth will knight you for this."

Shane's eyebrow slanted quizzically. "I might let her have a quarter of it … might," he emphasized. "Bess is too damned greedy; too tightfisted with her honors. I still don't have official letters of marque to sail for England, but, by God, I'll wring them from her this time, even if I have to bed her!"

The treason joked about in this room would go no farther, but still Sebastian warned him. "Have a care. Her network of spies may have already informed her you have taken a prize."

Young Hawkhurst grinned. He never ignored danger, he simply enjoyed it. "Aye, I have no doubt of it, but I have enough cargo in the caves beneath the cliffs and stored elsewhere to fill the prize with Spanish leather, wine, and artifacts. I may even be generous enough to donate the galleon to our fleet instead of keeping it for myself."

The older man had tired visibly and a deep frown of concern appeared on his brow as he worried how deeply this son of his was involved in dangerous plots of which he knew nothing. He didn't want to know—the shock would likely have killed him long ago, he thought ironically.

Hawk saw his father's agitation. "I'll let you get some rest," he said, rising to leave.

His father raised his hand to stay him a moment. "Tomorrow we will talk at length of more serious matters; tomorrow before young Matthew returns from London."

Now a worried frown marred Hawk's handsome features.

"Ask your mother if she can tear herself from your company to spare an old man a few of her precious smiles." His grin was a grimace. "I worship the woman, what can I do?"

The east wing of Devonport House was Shane's private domain. It had its own outside entrances back and front so that his men and servants need never enter the main house. He repaired there now where a bath awaited him and two fresh sets of garments were laid out. The first were riding clothes, so that he could exercise Neptune over the familiar countryside that they both loved; the second were more formal clothes suited to a drawing room, for this first night at home he would join his mother for dinner.

The baron as usual had seen to all his needs efficiently, smoothly, and silently. Neptune was restive, as if he sensed he would soon be stretching heavily muscled legs across the soft turf of the Devon fields. Hawk patted his neck and soothed him with his deep voice as he saddled him and led him from the stables. "Tomorrow I'll put you to one of the mares," he promised.

His own spirit soared as he let the stallion have his head. Truth to tell, they'd both been confined too long and needed to unleash their pent-up energy and vitality on an unsuspecting countryside. Horse and man seemed to follow a predestined path that took them over seven miles of meadows and rose-dotted hedgerows, finally arriving at a quaint stone inn where they had enjoyed pleasant sojourns for years past.

The pretty barmaid squealed her delight when she saw him, and the corners of her mouth went up in a smile that she couldn't have concealed if she'd wanted to. "Welcome home, m'lord." She curtsied deeply, then hurried to draw him a tankard of strong Devon cider. His bronzed arm slipped about her in a familiar hug though her name eluded his usually perfect recollection. Her Devon burr delighted him. She was a buxom country wench who had never been pampered a day in her life, yet she possessed all the feminine instincts of a London courtesan. She leaned low across the table to display her luscious titties and rubbed the velvet sleeve of his riding coat with roughened fingers. "Ye ben't in 'urry to take yer leave, m'lord?" she asked breathlessly.

He laughed and shook his head and watched her dimple with delight. He was easily the handsomest man she'd ever laid eyes on and she could never believe her own good fortune that occasionally he rode over to sport with her. She caught her breath now as her imagination had flown ahead of her to when they would be upstairs in the feather bed and she would experience the deep pleasure of seeing his magnificent body stretched out in all its naked perfection. Already she had a deep ache in her belly. She reached for his empty tankard and said saucily, "I'll jus' fill ye up again, an' then ye can return the favor upstairs."

He laughed aloud as her name popped into his mind. "It will be my pleasure, Polly."

Her eyes were big and serious for a moment as she said fervently, "Nobody fills me like ye do, m'lord."

He chased her up the stairs, tickling her ankles and letting his hands go up her skirts as she ran before him. He knew he was in for an hour's good fun as they would laugh and tumble about the feather bed. Ah, there was nothing to match the uncomplicated enthusiasm of a sweet country wench.

The dining salon at Devonport House never ceased to amaze him. The ceiling was hung with a gilt-filigreed chandelier holding a hundred candles. The rosewood table and chairs had delicately curved legs and tapestry cushions done in apricot and pale lemon. The sideboards were filled with Venetian crystal and heavy silver; the walls with tasteful paintings. Georgiana's fine hand was evident in every detail, and it was as elegant as the London house, even though it was in one of the wildest parts of the country.

Shane complimented his mother upon the superb dishes she had had set before him this night.

"I brought the chef back with us from Hawkhurst Manor. We'd spent the winter there because it was a comfortable forty miles from London." She closed her eyes momentarily to still her quickened pulses that Hawkhurst Manor evoked still, after all the years. Shane saw the emotion wash over her and knew of whom she thought, but kept silent. She was in control again and finished her tale. "Your father went twice to the royal court, then had many business meetings at Hawkhurst. I don't know what happened in the last weeks there, but we came home abruptly and no sooner did we arrive than he was stricken down. My heart aches to see his great physical deterioration."

"I admit I was shocked by his appearance, and his strength is all but gone," he said gravely. "Yet his mind is still keen."

"Thank God for that, at least," she said fervently.

"I have much business in London. If I sail up there at the end of the week, will you be able to manage him on your own, do you think?"

"Shane, my darling, I always have managed him one way or another." She smiled sadly. "I haven't always been the perfect wife, but I am very, very fond of him, you know." She added wistfully, "Almost twenty-nine years … and I'm so afraid we won't make it to thirty."

He got up and poured each of them a brandy. He warmed the bowl of the snifter by cradling it in his palms, then sipped it slowly, savoring the magnificent French brandy pilfered from some ship long ago.

"I'll take some of this to Bess when I go up to court next week. She doesn't drink much herself, but she takes pride in serving the best."

"The queen is ungrateful, I don't know why you bother." She tossed her head.

He nodded. "Shrewd and ungrateful, that's Bess."

"Mayhap that's how all women should be. Mayhap that's the way to have men at your feet."

He smiled. There was never any love lost between Elizabeth and beautiful women. They could never comprehend the allure of an aging, vain woman, and really it was so simple—the greatest aphrodisiac in the world was power.

"Would you like me to stay with him tonight?" he offered, worried about the anxiety he saw written plain in her beautiful face.

"Nay, I'll stay with him until he sleeps, then retire to my own chamber. I've left the door open between our two chambers all our married life. He knows if he needs me I'm there." She smiled at him.

"Well, I hope you know if you need me … I'm there too," he offered simply.

***

The master bedchamber in the east wing glowed with sandalwood-scented candles and the fragrant fumes of incense curled from a jade burner, as Shane Hawkhurst entered. Immediately, Lak Sung Li came forward to relieve him of his doublet and shirt. The first time he had heard her name it had sounded similar to "Larksong," and so he called her because the name pleased his senses.

She bowed low, her straight black hair flowing forward like a silken waterfall. "Does my master wish to smoke?" she asked softly, indicating the hookah water pipe in the corner of the room.

He shook his head, declining, and said, "Why must you call me master, Larksong?"

"It is fitting," she insisted in her low musical voice. "I will get the oil for your massage," she said, and when he did not decline she bent low to a lacquered red-and-black cabinet and took from it a flask of perfumed oil and a thick towel. She removed the cushions from the long wooden window seat and spread out the towel, a ritual that had been observed many times before.

He stripped off the remainder of his clothes and stretched out naked upon the wooden bench. Larksong knelt beside him, poured the perfumed oil into her small cupped palm, and began the slow, smooth, rhythmic massaging she had learned while she was still a child. He felt the tension begin to leave his taut muscles and as he gave himself up to the sensual pleasure of her ministrations his mind went over all the people he must meet with in London. Some of these meetings concerned business. His solicitor was tracing who owned the land in Ireland he wanted to purchase. Some of these meetings combined business and pleasure—the queen along with certain members of the court. Other meetings would be covert and he hoped he would have enough time to make all the necessary contacts before he had to return here, where he was soon going to be needed.

The pressure of Larksong's small hands urged him to turn over onto his back so that she could attend to the muscles of his wide chest, his belly, and play her magic fingers about the area of his groin. She offered such a varied menu of erotic delights, yet her attitude was always one of meakness and passivity. In sensual matters she was expert, yet he was growing a little disappointed that he could get no great emotional response from her. She was meek, submissive, and polite, everything a woman should be, and yet … and yet … Gently he pushed her fingers away and stood up. He held out his hand to her and said simply, "Come, Larksong."

Sebastian Hawkhurst looked pitifully frail, yet Hawk sensed that he was gathering all his strength to approach his son on a matter of grave importance.

When he told Hawk what he wanted of him, the younger man was both annoyed and amused, and refused to take his father's request seriously. "Marry? I have no intention of doing any such thing." He laughed heartily.

"Hawk, you are twenty-eight. You should have been settled years ago." He was losing patience now and said angrily, "Marriage would be a steadying influence. God knows you need one! Before you come into the title, I want you to marry."

"I'll not do it," said Hawk lightly. "You can't force me to it." He grinned to soften his words.

"I can and I will if I have to," shouted Sebastian Hawkhurst.

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.