Page 30 of Breath From the Sea
“Ye’re a fool, as I said. For I can see your heart is broken, and yet ye refuse to do anything about it. Do ye plan to languish the rest of your days? To grow old in this crumbling castle? I had thought ye stronger than that.”
“I will languish, as it befits my lot in life.”
“I’ve never seen ye happier than I did with that English whelp. I’ve never seen ye risk so much to be with someone.”
“Ye must have drunk too much whiskey then, for your eyes deceive ye. I risked much for the ring.”
Sweeney shook his head. “’Tis not I doing the deceiving. I’ll not lie and say it hasn’t always been my greatest dream, since coming to Ireland with my Da when he served your Granuaille, to one day captain a ship of my own. To have ye for myself. But I will not stand by and let ye throw away your life when ye’ve a chance at happiness.”
“My happiness lies at sea,” she whispered. “And here I am, without a ship.”
Sweeney groaned. “For the love of all that’s wicked, the both of ye are as stubborn as mules. Talk to her. Talk to Granuaille and convince her ye want your ship back. I will follow ye all the way to England to get that bastard if ye want.”
Antónia laughed, the sound leaving a bitter taste on her tongue. “Easier said than done.”
“Ye’ve not even tried. Do ye love him?”
Her lip quivered and she nodded. “I do love him, Sweeney. I do. And perhaps that is what hurts the most. I wanted to find someone to love, to share my adventures with. And I did. But how could our love ever be? He’s an English noble. By default my enemy.”
Sweeney shrugged. “Who cares. And how will ye know if ye don’t try to find him?”
She pressed her hand to his heart and smiled sadly. “I will never know. I cannot. Take theLady Hook. She is yours. Grasp your dream, Sweeney, for it is coming true.” Antónia leaned up and kissed him on the cheek. “Part of it at least.”
The warrior frowned, his handsome face creasing. “If ye will not, then I will. I will bring that sack of shite back here in chains.”
Now she laughed in earnest. “Ye’ll do no such thing. But I do thank ye, for ye’ve lightened my heart, and if my ship were to go to anyone, I’d want it to go with ye.”
Sweeney grunted, but pulled her against him anyway, tucking her in his large grasp, a brotherly hug that seemed to absorb much of her sadness. He believed in her. He believed in her love for Titus. That was enough. To feel that love validated, even if she could never act upon it.
When Sweeney left her chamber, she returned to the night table and picked up the ring, sliding it onto her finger. The black of the ring would be a constant reminder to her, that she’d given up so much, for a few fleeting moments of happiness.
Several days passed and each morning when Antónia awoke, she looked out to see that her ship still sat anchored in the bay beyond the castle walls. Why was Sweeney waiting?
As the days passed, she still felt numb, but had enough energy to descend the stairs and interact—though mildly—with those in the great hall. Granuaille studied her with hooded, thinking eyes, but Antónia avoided them. If her grandmother was going to forbid her to love an Englishman, and take away her ship, then she was entitled to a few days of sulking. A mood she was thoroughly embracing.
Then the devil showed up.
Her father’s loud, booming voice practically shook the rafters. Antónia descended the stairs quickly as she heard him shouting her name.
“Father,” she said, bowing her head.
The Demon of Corraun took up the entire expanse of the doorway leading from the great hall. He was tall, broad and armed to the teeth.
“Daughter, Granuaille sent for me,” he said brusquely.
“’Tis good to see ye,” Antónia said, ignoring his reason for coming. “Can I get ye an ale or whiskey?”
“What’s this about ye falling in love with a bloody Englishman?”
“’Twas a trifle and fleeting.” She turned to a servant asking them for whiskey. She was going to need it for this conversation, for it seemed her father was not willing to let it go.
“That, or it was bloody inventive.” He wrapped his thick arms around her and tugged her in for a hug, patting her awkwardly on the back.
“Pardon, me?” Antónia pulled away, eyeing her father as though he’d gone mad.
“To have an English noble, a Captain in Her Majesty’s Navy, no less, under your thumb… We could go far with the rebellion should he bend to your will.”
Antónia’s face flamed, anger rising. She’d never use Titus in that way. She loved her people, her country, but she loved him, too, and she couldn’t stoop to such a devious and conniving level. That would hurt him, it would debase her feelings for him. Nay, never would she use him.
