The Prize

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PART TWO: THE BARGAIN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

PART THREE: THE BRIDE

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

PROLOGUE

July 5, 1798

The south of Ireland near Askeaton Castle

GERALD O’NEILL RUSHED INTO the manor house, his once-white shirt crimson, his tan britches and navy coat equally stained. Blood marred his cheek, matted his whiskers. An open gash on his head was bleeding and so were the cuts on his knuckles. His heart beat with alarming force and even now the sounds of battle, the cries of imminent death, rang in his eardrums. “Mary! Mary! Get into the cellar now!” he roared.

Devlin O’Neill could not move, stunned. His father had been gone for more than a month—since the middle of May. He had sent word, though, every few weeks, and while Devlin was only ten years old, he was acutely aware of the war at hand. Farmer and priest, shepherd and squire, peasant and gentry alike had risen up to fight the English devils once and for all, to take back all that was truly theirs—the rich Irish land that had been stolen from them a century ago. There was so much hope—and there was so much fear.

Now his heart seemed to simply stop and he stared at his father, relieved to finally see him again and terribly afraid. He was afraid that Gerald was hurt—and he was afraid of far worse. He started forward with a small cry, but Gerald did not stop moving, going to the bottom of the stairs and bellowing for his wife again. His hand never left the scabbard that sheathed his cutlass, and he carried a musket as well.

Devlin had never seen his eyes so wild. Dear God.

“Is Father hurt?” a tiny voice whispered beside him, a small hand plucking at his torn linen sleeve.

Devlin didn’t even look at his dark-haired younger brother. He could not take his eyes from his father, his mind spinning, racing. The rebels had taken Wexford town early in the rebellion and the entire county had rejoiced. Well, the papist part of it, at least. Other victories had followed—but so had other defeats. Now redcoats were everywhere; Devlin had spied thousands from a ridge just that morning, the most ominous sight he’d ever seen. He’d heard that Wexford had fallen, and a maid had said thousands had died at New Ross. He’d refused to believe it—until now. Now he thought that maybe the whispers of defeat and death were true. Because he saw fear in his father’s eyes for the first time in his young life.

“Is Father hurt?” Sean asked again, a tremor in his tone.

Instantly Devlin turned to him. “I don’t think so,” he said, knowing he had to be brave, at least for Sean. But fear gripped him in a clawlike vise. And then his mother came rushing down the stairs, her infant daughter in her arms.

“Gerald! Thank God, I’ve been so worried about you,” she cried, as pale as any ghost.

He seized her arm, releasing the scabbard of his sword to do so. “Take the boys and go down to the cellar,” Gerald said harshly. “Now, Mary.”

She cried out, her blue eyes filled with fear, riveted on his face. “Are you hurt?”

“Just do as I say,” he cried, pulling her across the hall.

The baby, Meg, began to wail.

“And keep her quiet, for God’s sake,” he said as harshly. But now he was looking over his shoulder at the open doorway, as if expecting to see the British soldiers in pursuit.

Devlin followed his gaze. Smoke could be seen in the clear blue sky and suddenly the sounds of muskets firing could be heard.

Mary pushed the babe against her breast as she opened her blouse, never breaking stride. “What will happen to us, Gerald?” And then, lower, “What will happen to you?”

He opened the door to the cellar, the opening hidden by a centuries-old tapestry. “Everything will be fine,” he said harshly. “You and the boys, the babe, all will be fine.”