The Game by Brenda Joyce

him.”
    Liam was annoyed. “You speak in riddles and I have no time for games. Speak plainly, Lady FitzGerald.”
    “Aye, then, I shall. I am speaking about Hugh Barry.”
    At the name of her dead betrothed, Katherine froze.“What game is this!” she cried. “Hugh is dead, Eleanor. He died at Affane. He died six long years ago.”
    “No, Katherine,” Eleanor said. “Did you not know he survived his wounds? When ’twas time to bury him with the others, it was realized that he still lived. Yet he was close to death, and many weeks went by before the physicians knew he would survive his many wounds. ’Twas a miracle, a gift of God, they said. He lives, Katherine. Hugh Barry lives.”
    Katherine reeled. Liam caught her. Katherine knew this must be a lie, a horrible, evil, hurtful lie. For if Hugh were alive, he would have sent for her long ago. Yet—Eleanor could not possibly tell such a lie. The floor seemed to be tilting precariously beneath her feet, and her world had become dizzy; she sagged in Liam’s arms.
    And when the pirate spoke, his voice sounded strange and far away. “Who in hell is Hugh Barry?” he demanded.
    Eleanor chuckled. “Katherine’s childhood sweetheart—the man she was to wed on her fifteenth birthday.” She directed a long look at Liam. “Perhaps you will decide to marry Katherine after all, O’Neill.”

5
    H e had stopped caring about most things long ago, when he had been a small Irish boy at court, an outcast and a bastard, cruelly taunted and teased by the other children. Liam watched Katherine wiping her eyes with the corner of her cloak. He told himself he did not care. He refused to care.
    Caring in itself was dangerous, but for him, it might open up old wounds he had long since healed—or long since closed and set aside.
    His face impassive, Liam led her toward his blood bay stallion, one arm still around her, supporting her. In her hysterical state, she would not be able to ride by herself.
    Suddenly what he was about to do must have registered through Katherine’s shock, because she balked. To his surprise, she whirled to face him, speaking through her teeth. “I won’t ride with you, O’Neill!”
    “You are not fit to ride alone,” he countered.
    Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “I will not ride with you,” she cried again, and she rushed to her own mount, which Macgregor held, and mounted in a flurry of skirts and leg.
    “Then you must concentrate on riding,” Liam said flatly. Despite himself, his tone softened. “Can you do that, Katherine?”
    She glared at him as if he had betrayed her love and trust, then yanked her reins free of Macgregor. Liam understood what she intended instantly. As she sawed on thereins, whirling her mount around while viciously kicking the mare’s sides with her heels, Liam lunged for the bridle.
    He missed. The mare took off. Katherine was galloping through the front gate as Liam jumped into his own saddle with a curse.
    Even though her actions irritated him, he could not help but admire her as he quickly drew abreast of her, their mounts’ hooves clattering loudly upon the road. Reaching down, he caught her mare’s bridle, and both horses slowed from their headlong gallop to an uneven trot. Katherine uttered a strangled, angry cry.
    He stared at her. Dawn was breaking behind her and her hair, long since free of its coif, was set aflame by the rising sun. Her beauty held him entranced. Her spirit amazed him. How unusual she was. How she tempted him, even now. His loins throbbed at the thought of what it would be like to mount and then tame such a woman.
    Liam urged his stallion up against her gelding, his knee touching hers. “I am not going to allow you to escape, Katherine.”
    She was pale and furious, and still tearful. “But I can try!”
    Not trusting her, Liam took the lead line firmly in hand. With her emotions running so wild, she might very well try to escape him again. He counted on the fact that,