CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“In my born, natural life,” said Rory, “I wouldn’t have been after believing it would work.” With grudging admiration, he eyed Wesley across the round table in the hall of Clonmuir. “Rafferty’ll keep her, and no more talk of dowries.”
“Aye,” said Tom Gandy, “and Magheen will see to sending food. Well done, a chara.”
“It was just a matter of understanding the nature of a desperate man in love,” said Wesley.
“You’re such an expert,” said Caitlin.
“Long on brains, after all,” Rory said in Irish, “to make up for the shortness otherwise.”
Force of habit had taught Wesley to ignore the recurring gibe. Into the hall came the smallholder named Darrin Mudge, a surly man who had a longstanding debt to Caitlin. Playing upon her generous nature, he had for a few years refused to pay. She had summoned him today, for he was the last of her neighbors who possessed livestock.
“Sure it’s not a thing I remember.” Mudge scratched his head beneath a soiled hat.
“You mean it’s not convenient for you to remember,” Caitlin said. “But it’s past time you paid. I’ve mouths to feed.”
“On my oath, I cannot—”
“Yes, let’s talk of oaths,” Wesley cut in. The smallholder’s manner grated on his nerves. “Would you be willing to swear an oath that you owe no debt to Clonmuir?”
“Aye, of course, but—”
“Then listen carefully and repeat after me.”
“Wesley,” said Caitlin. “This is not your—”
Tom shushed her with a wave of his hand.
Thank God, thought Wesley as she closed her mouth and planted her elbows on the table. At last she seemed to accept that he might have something of value to say. “Now, Mr. Mudge,” he continued. “Here is the oath. If I fail to tell God’s own truth—”
“If I fail to tell God’s own truth—”
“May the bloat poison my herd—”
“Eh? That be a curse, not an oath!”
Wesley fixed him with a commanding stare. “May the bloat poison my herd—”
“Ach, musha.” Mudge pressed his hands together. “May the bloat poison my herd—”
“—and may my fine flock of sheep be clifted—”
Mudge took a step back. “What be this curse you’re trying to bring upon me, Englishman?”
“Don’t argue with the husband of the MacBride!” Rory thundered.
Mudge made the sign of the cross. “And may my fine flock of sheep—” He sent Caitlin a pleading glance. “Can this truly be in the oath?”
“You’re calling on God to punish you if you don’t speak the truth,” Caitlin explained.
“And may the high King of Glory permit my children to get the mange,” Wesley added.
“Oh, God!” Mudge broke out in a fine sweat. “Bedad, I remember me now. ’Tis a debt I’ll be paying you before the sun sets!” Shaken, he scurried down the length of the hall. Silence, then huge gusts of merry laughter, chased him out.
Rory scrubbed the mirth from his eyes and lifted his mug to Wesley. “Well done, by God!”
Wesley raised his own cup to acknowledge the salute; then he looked at Caitlin.
She regarded him with a bitterness that stabbed at his heart. God, would he never learn to anticipate her? He had solved the problem of the debt. But in doing so, he had usurped her authority. And it would not be the last time.
“Let’s get to supper,” she murmured.
The meager meal on the table could hardly be called supper. The turnip and potato soup, already thin, had been doubled by water.
In London, this type of hunger would have incited a riot. But here at Clonmuir, the people accepted deprivation with order and civility, even gratitude.
Wesley’s temper took wing. Had these people been thieves or outlaws, he would have felt nothing for their plight. But they were pious folk who had done no worse than occupy a magical isle coveted by its English neighbors.
English greed made them suffer. In just a few short months, winter would come rushing upon the land, bringing starvation with the cold.
Even as a decision firmed in his mind, he ached for Caitlin. Once again, he would have to override her convictions. But surely she could not resent him any more than she already did.
“We’re going on a cattle raid,” he said.
Caitlin’s spoon dropped with a clatter. “A cattle raid, is it?”
“That’s what I said.” Feeling the heat of a dozen pairs of eyes on him, Wesley explained, “We’ve less than a week’s worth of stores. There is only the milch cow left in the byre. Mudge’s payment in sheep will be gone long before Michaelmas. If we don’t do something, we’ll have to start slaughtering the horses.”
The outraged protests came as expected.
“That’s why I propose the raid.” He allowed himself a look at Caitlin. He wished he could pluck the moment from time and hold it forever in his heart. Unaware of the true nature of his plan, she gazed at him with admiration shining in her eyes and a heartfelt smile sweet upon her lips.
“The Fianna will ride against the Roundheads again,” she said in triumph. “Oh, Wesley, I knew you’d side with us.” She frowned; he could almost see the thoughts cavorting behind her eyes. “It’ll be a riskier venture than we’ve ever attempted since he’s so well dug in at Lough Corrib, but with—”
“Wait.” He wished he didn’t have to shatter her illusions. He forced himself to say, “We can’t take English livestock.”
Her admiration froze to anger. “I should have known.”
“So whose cattle are we after raiding?” Rory demanded.
“Logan Rafferty’s herd at Brocach.”
Silence dropped like a wet blanket over the gathering.
“Never,” said Caitlin. “You’re mad if you think I’d stoop to thieving a fellow Irishman’s cattle.”
“He’s got more cattle than a tinker has lice.”
“Caitlin,” said Tom, “I think you should hear Wesley out.”
“Logan Rafferty is my lord and my sister’s husband besides. For pity’s sake, Wesley, you just swore fealty to him. Besides, Magheen’s there now. She’ll not be letting us starve.”
“Logan might not give her a choice,” Tom said.
“Rafferty’s also a traitor to the Irish,” Wesley added. A silence even heavier than the first descended on them. With flat regret, he told them his suspicions about Logan.
Blazing with fury, Caitlin jumped up. “None of us will be a party to any of this!”
“Now, Caitlin,” said Rory. “Let’s at least hear his plan.”
She scowled at him. “Not you, too.”
“Times are hard,” Rory said. “A body has to eat.”
“And you call yourself an Irish warrior,” she said. “You’d steal from your lord like a common poacher instead of going to war like a proud Irishman.”
“There’s no harm in listening to the man. Didn’t he settle Magheen and the tinker’s brood, and Mudge besides.”
“God, Rory, do you remember nothing? He lied to us from the moment he stepped foot in Clonmuir. Now you’ll listen to him deride Logan Rafferty?”
“The lord of Brocach is rich on the slainte paid to him by his Irish tenants. The English haven’t touched his estates. I’m after wondering why.”
Caitlin felt sick with the suspicions that pushed into her mind. “Wonder all you like. I’ll have no part of it.”
She bolted outside, across the yard and to the wall walk looking out to sea. Traitor’s Leap framed a view of the waves rushing up to the shore, flinging themselves against the rock in an explosion of translucent foam.
A cold wind gusted over her, chilling her to the marrow. But the cold in her bones was not nearly as icy as the sense of betrayal that froze her heart.
She was losing her grip on Clonmuir. The smooth-tongued Hawkins lured her people to his side. He was the high, shifting wind off the Atlantic, driving them from the old ways.
She gazed steadily at the silvery horizon. She used to stand here and think of Alonso. But even then he had seemed a distant dream, hazy and indistinct, far out of reach.
“Caitlin.”
Refusing to turn, she braced her hands against the wall.
“It has to be this way, Caitlin.” Wesley stepped up behind her so that she felt the warmth of him. “I cannot let the Fianna ride against the English again.”
She whirled and found herself caught in his strong arms. “You cannot?” she demanded, pushing against his chest. “You talk as if you’re the MacBride.”
“No,” he said, “I’ll never, ever take that from you.”
“Then why do you insist on this raid? How can you live with us, break bread with us, and still give your loyalty to England?”
He pressed his lips into a thin, angry line. “I only want you to see that there is more than one way to solve our problem.”
“Such as raiding a neighbor.”
“Aye.”
“I’ll not have it, do you hear me?”
A sweet, regretful smile played about his lips. He leaned down and softly kissed her forehead; then the touch of his lips descended, closing over hers with a silkiness that she felt in places he wasn’t even touching.
Calling up the strength of will that had made her the MacBride, she drew back. “You shall not dismiss me like a chastened child!”
“Cait, I don’t mean to, but—”
“I say you will not raid Brocach. I forbid it. The Fianna will ride again.”
He grasped her shoulders. “Hammersmith knows your secret now. More than ever, he’ll be on the alert. The men of Clonmuir would follow you if you commanded it. They’d die for you, Caitlin, if you choose to make it come to that.”
She shrank from the truth in his words. “I’ll warn Logan.”
“Then you’d be signing the death warrant of your men.”
She bit her lip and looked away. She felt torn, her loyalty to Logan pulling against the sick truth that had planted itself implacably in her mind. A moan of frustration escaped her.
Wesley caught her chin and drew her gaze back to his. “Could you bear seeing Rory betrayed by your own, maimed or killed? Or young Curran? How would you face his mother if anything happened to the lad?”
“The risk has always been there,” she snapped.
“I offer you a solution that carries very little risk.”
“I won’t have you stealing from the Irish. From my own sister, for heaven’s sake.”
“Magheen would cheer us on. Logan Rafferty has stores to spare, and you know it, Caitlin. You’re his family, by God. He owes you. Besides, he has ties to the English. To Hammersmith. It would behoove us to drive a wedge between those two.”
The ocean spray leapt up from the breaking waves. Somewhere in a distant part of the keep, a baby cried. Caitlin winced, weighing anguish over her people against the beliefs of a lifetime. Finally she took a deep breath of the briny air. “Do what you must, Wesley. But I’ll have no part of it. The sin’s upon your head.”
* * *
In the deep, mysterious heart of the night, six men emerged from behind a booley hut. The cold blackness enclosed Wesley like an iron gauntlet. Burdened with halters and ropes, he led the way up the summer pastures of Brocach.
A cowherd’s peat fire burned in the lee of a hill. A man sat by the embers, playing a lullaby on a whittled flute. The shaggy hulks of sleeping cattle dotted the landscape. Concealed in the shadows some yards away, the men drew into a huddle.
“St. Peter swoop my soul up to heaven,” Conn whispered. “There’s more cattle here than saints in my canon.”
“He’d have you believing he’s as poor as the rest of the district,” said Wesley. “Get those helms in place.”
The quiet clicking of metal buckles sounded as the men donned Roundhead garb, cuirasses and helms seized in raids. Wearing the costumes of murdered Englishmen raised cold prickles on Wesley’s skin. But his plan required the disguise.
“Remember,” he said, “don’t hurt the cowherd or knock him senseless. We want him to see exactly what we’re about. And for God’s sake, don’t speak unless you’re sure you can sound like an Englishman.”
Round iron helms bobbed in accord. In the distant hills, a wolf howled, and another answered.
Wesley begged in silent prayer for success. Even more than food for Clonmuir, he needed to prove himself to Caitlin.
“Let’s go.” With the stealth that in years past had gained him success as a thief taker, he crouched low and headed for the light. Booted feet crept along the pasture.
He climbed to the crest of the hill above the fire. The howling of the wolves had brought the cowherd to full alert. A robust, stocky man, he stood with his staff dug into the ground and a bog pine torch held aloft.
“Now,” Wesley whispered. He leapt down onto the cowherd’s back and took him in a choke hold from behind.
The man gave a grunt of surprise. He waved his arms at his attackers. Wesley eased the pressure on his throat, and the cowherd spoke brusquely. “Here now, you’re not supposed to take this lot.”
The statement confirmed Wesley’s darkest suspicions. He tightened his grip. “Look, you Irish devil, you’ll spare us a few of your cattle, and we’ll spare your life.”
The man made a strangled sound of accord.
“Come help me bind him, Ladyman,” Wesley ordered.
Curran Healy made deft work of the task. Meanwhile, the others raced down to the pasture, haltering cattle and leading them off toward the coast.
Three hours later, dripping cold water from their swim with three dozen head of cattle, the raiders slogged ashore at a protected grazing island.
After another three hours, news came from Brocach that Rafferty’s estate had been raided by Roundheads. Logan threatened a counterstrike at the garrison of Lough Corrib.
That evening, drunk to the tips of his tonsils, John Wesley Hawkins staggered into his wife’s private chamber. Sounds of revelry still drifted from the hall.
Startled, Caitlin upset the ink bowl, spraying walnut ink over the letter she was writing. A letter to His Holiness the Pope himself, begging for an annulment.
The sight of Wesley made her glad the ink had spilled. Candlelight flickered over his lopsided grin. She bit her lip to scare off an answering smile.
He staggered over to her, plucked the quill from her fingers, and set it on the table. Taking both her hands, he drew her to her feet.
“Well?” he demanded. He smelled of poteen and peat smoke and salt from the long swim.
“Well what?”
He carried her forefinger to his lips and kissed it. “I’ve gotten your sister back to her husband where she belongs.” He kissed the next finger. “I’ve gotten us enough beef to last th’ winter.” His lips moved on to her ring finger. “Rafferty’s finally broken faith with th’ English.” He brought his mouth against the flat of her palm and buried it there, inhaling as if she held in her hand the very essence of life.
“Is it enough yet, Cait? Is it?”
Another unspoken question haunted his shadowy green eyes. Now will you accept me as your husband?
Part of her—the womanly part, the lonely part—wanted to shout, Yes! But another part screamed a denial.
“You overrode my wishes. You turned my men from me.”
“For th’ sake of Clonmuir, my love. But if it’s not enough, I’ll do more, I swear it. Slay dragons, brave th’ fires of hell.” He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “Ah, Cait, you are intoxicating in your loveliness.”
“’Tis the drink, not me.”
He leaned forward. “No drink could so sweep a man’s reason away like you do.” His mouth drew closer and closer. Her lips tingled in anticipation of his kiss.
He hesitated, a breath, a heartbeat away.
His eyes glazed over, and he slipped to the floor, out cold almost before he hit the rushes.
Torn between rage and amusement, Caitlin shook her head.
What the devil would her husband do next?
* * *
“We’re going fishing,” he announced the next day. Still bleary eyed, he blinked in the smoke that pervaded the great hall. A new family had arrived from the Twelve Bens. Getting them settled in promised to take all day.
Wesley’s welcoming grin brought smiles to faces not used to smiling.
Caitlin frowned at the men, who formed a half circle around her husband. “But we’ve only the one curragh and the hooker. Besides, the herring aren’t running.”
“We’re not after herring,” said Rory, buckling on a sword.
“Then what would you be after fishing for?” she demanded.
Blowing her a kiss, Wesley led the way out of the hall. “Priests,” he said.
* * *
“Magheen, I’m so confused.” Sitting in a well-furnished solar at Brocach, Caitlin took a sip of imported tea, let the liquid slide over her tongue, then put down the cup. “One minute I think he’s all I’ve ever desired in a husband, and the next, I feel certain he means to hand Clonmuir over to Hammersmith.”
Magheen smiled sympathetically. Since returning to Logan she had grown even more beautiful—rounder, softer, draped in a veil of womanly contentment. She patted a glossy yellow curl. “How long has he been gone?”
“A week.”
“Well, I’m after thinking that your feelings are natural.”
“Then natural is a sickness.” Caitlin took an oat cake from the tray and bit into it. The food might have been pasteboard for all she could taste it.
“You’re resisting your feelings for Wesley.”
“The only feeling I have for him is contempt.”
Wisdom kindled in Magheen’s eyes. “I think you love him.”
Caitlin tried to deny it. But with a wave of sadness, she realized that everything had changed. She was no longer the girl who had lost her innocent heart to a handsome Spaniard. The sweet idealism of their youthful pledges had turned bitter.
War and privation had forced her to become hard and calculating. With a great sigh, she bade farewell to a long-cherished dream.
“Here, blow your nose.” Magheen handed her a handkerchief. “I haven’t seen you weep since Ma passed. You must have a bad case of it.”
“Of what?” Caitlin sniffed into the fine linen.
“Of love,” said Magheen. “Wasn’t that what we were speaking of?”
“How can I love Wesley? He’s Sassenach. He abducted me—”
“Logan abducted me, and I loved every minute of it.”
“I’m not like you, Magheen. I can’t excuse a man’s actions simply because my heart tells me to.”
“You’d be a lot happier if you’d listen to your heart. Tell me, did you expect to rule Clonmuir alone forever?”
“No, I thought—” She broke off. Lord, but she had not even had time to think. She stared out the window. Bristling yellow-brown hayfields rose toward the hills to the east. She turned Magheen’s words over and over in her mind.
And stopped when she came to the truth.
All her reasons for abandoning her feelings for Alonso paled to weak excuses. It wasn’t the years, nor even his betrayal, that had slain the dream.
It was John Wesley Hawkins.
Aye, from the first moment she had seen him walking toward her through a tangled twilit garden, he had invaded her soul.
Each time she had tried to remember her Spanish gentleman, a tall Englishman with blazing red hair and a rakish grin strode into her mind.
Each time she had tried to recall Alonso’s courtly caresses, she became enveloped in memories of Wesley’s frankly sensual affection.
And each time she searched her heart for the bright glow of love she had once believed she’d felt for Alonso, she found only the burned-out embers of dead feelings.
I will drive him out of your heart as surely as the sun will rise. Wesley’s declaration on their wedding night whispered across the weeks to her.
At the time, she had declared it a patent impossibility.
Now she realized it had been true even before she had learned of Alonso’s betrayal.
God, where was Wesley now? He could get killed rescuing the priests.
“Here, you’ve gotten that one wringing wet,” said Magheen. “Take another handkerchief, and do stop crying. This is my last one.”
But Caitlin wept on, for the naive girl she had been and for the confused woman she now was.
“You need something more potent than tea.” Magheen went to the sideboard and returned with a crystal decanter and a small glass. A medallion bearing the Rafferty badger hung around the neck of the decanter.
Caitlin took a large gulp of the amber liquid, then choked into the handkerchief. “What the devil is this, Magheen?”
“Brandy. Logan brought it back from Corrib.”
Caitlin’s heart sank, and she set aside the glass as if it contained poison. “I’d hoped Logan would return with Hammersmith’s head on a pike.”
“That was his intent when he set out after the cattle raid. But he and the Roundhead came to an accord, just as they did when Father Tully—” Magheen broke off. A mortified flush stained her cheeks.
“When Father Tully what?” Caitlin demanded. Her vision swam red with fury. “How long have you known?”
“R-right from the start. But I—oh, God, Caitlin, I’m sorry!” Sobbing, Magheen reached out with a shaking hand. “It’s myself who’s needing the handkerchief now.”
Caitlin slapped her face.
With a yelp of pain and horror, Magheen stood and backed away. “Logan had no choice.”
“He betrayed Father Tully, didn’t he? He sold our chaplain to the priest catchers for the price of tea and brandy, didn’t he?”
“It—it wasn’t like that. Logan arranged to have him transported for his own good. The English would have put him to death.”
Rage surged through Caitlin faster than the brandy. “How can you abide it, Magheen? Your husband is Hammersmith’s pet spaniel. He can be bought off with a juicy bone while everyone else in Connemara starves.”
Magheen sighed miserably. “But at least he keeps the peace and feeds his people.”
Bleak awareness crept over Caitlin. She thought of Wesley, a Sassenach, braving peril to save the Irish priests. While Magheen consorted with a traitor.
“Can’t you persuade Logan to join us?” she asked. “Think how much stronger we would be if we were united.”
“I’ll try. Haven’t I already promised to keep you in plenty of food for the winter? But Logan—”
“Caitlin!” A clear voice called from the outer hall. “My lady, where are you?”
She jumped and ran to the door. “Curran Healy, what the devil are you doing here?”
Apple-cheeked and grinning, panting with exertion, he doffed his caubeen and clutched it to his chest. “Come back to Clonmuir, and you’ll see.”
* * *
She burst into the hall and stopped to take in the scene.
Tom Gandy stood atop the round table and spoke faster than a spinning wheel.
Seated around the table, amid the “fishermen” with their windburned faces and triumphant grins, were no less than three dozen priests.
“Praise be to the Lord,” whispered Caitlin. She barely felt herself putting one foot in front of the other as she moved into the hall. Near the fire, a flash of ivory caught her eyes. White hair and a white beard.
“Daida!” She ran to her father, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him.
“Aye, ’tis back in the fine wide boozalum of Clonmuir I am, a stor.” Seamus grinned from ear to ear. “A hundred thousand blessings upon us all.”
She drank in the sight of his dear, noble face, so beautiful in its untroubled simplicity. Feeling a clash of worry and affection, she asked, “You were at Inishbofin?”
“Aye, that I was.” He gestured grandly about the room and raised his voice above the thunder of conversation. “I and the great good men of God, left to starve in that inhospitable place. But I brought them all safely home, aye, just as I said I would.”
Someone cleared his throat. Caitlin spied Rory Breslin nursing a mug of poteen in his large paws. Rory said, “He had some little help in the rescuing.”
“Very little,” said a strong English voice. Caitlin caught her breath at the sight of Wesley. Wind-tossed hair and ruddy cheeks. Broad shoulders and narrow hips. Eyes the color of moss in shadow. And a grin that could melt butter at fifty paces.
She didn’t bother to resist the smile that tugged at her lips. Relief and tenderness glowed in her heart.
“Tell me,” she said softly.
“It was all your father’s doing,” said Wesley.
Seamus drew himself up. Rory opened his mouth to protest.
Wesley shot him a quelling look. “Over Brian’s loud protests, Seamus cleverly disguised himself as a cleric and let himself be seen by a priest catcher in Waterford. They transported him to Inishbofin, and then it was just a matter of waiting for us to play our part. A part that wouldn’t have been possible had it not been for Seamus.”
Seamus launched into a rambling recitation of his exploits.
Caitlin’s gaze met Wesley’s. She felt a sweet gentling inside her, like water settling in a jar. Wesley could have grabbed the credit for himself, but instead allowed the proud old man his moment in the sun.
“A toast!” Tom shouted. Mugs and glasses lifted all around the room. “To the priests of Ireland,” he called. “May you never again stray from your flock.”
Conn O’Donnell stood. “To the clan MacBride, for all that has been done this day.”
Seamus rose. “The holy light of heaven shine upon us all. And if we can’t go to paradise, may we at least die in Ireland.”
Caitlin glanced at Wesley. His full-throated “Hear, hear” before he drank made her believe he truly wished it. The feeling of tenderness inside her tightened, became something stronger. Something she hesitated to acknowledge.
He motioned her to his side, then winced. She longed for him to touch her, longed to feel his strong arm around her waist and his chest against her cheek.
Instead he gave her a familiar smile that had a familiar effect. “We’ve got to do something about these priests,” he said.
“Aye, it would be tragic indeed if they were seized again. I doubt the English would trouble themselves to send them into exile a second time.”
“They’d shoot them on sight,” Wesley said.
Heads together, united in their concern, they made a plan. Caitlin felt herself drawing closer to him, the weight of her office shifting, somehow, becoming lighter. In some part of her mind she knew that it was odd to be sharing her duties with this man, and yet the moment felt comfortable, as if they had done this often.
Some of the priests, they decided, would dress as fishermen and head north for Connaught where the English didn’t trouble the Irish. Others would leave on foot disguised as wanderers. Still more would go to cities and lose themselves amid the crowds.
“And Father Tully?” Wesley asked at last.
“Father Tully stays,” said Caitlin. “Without him, we’re a rudderless ship.”
“He was betrayed once. It could happen again.”
“It won’t.”
“How can you be certain?”
“I found out who betrayed him.” Caitlin took a deep breath. “You were right. It was Logan.”
“When did you decide to believe me?”
“Magheen admitted that Logan sold Tully’s whereabouts to a priest catcher. He swears it’s because he feared for Father Tully’s life but I’ll never believe that.” Unthinkingly she pulled his hand into her lap. “He’s my brother by marriage. It pains my heart to think ill of him.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. “It will pain more than your heart if you continue to trust him.”
A shattering sound broke into their conversation. Rory had flung his mug at the wall and was advancing on Tom Gandy.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Rory shouted.
“Now, Rory, sure and it’s a fine idea—”
“Shut your mouth, you parboiled imp!” Grasping Tom by the shoulders, Rory lifted him off the table and held him so they were eye to eye, nose to nose. Tom’s legs flailed in useless protest. “We’ll hear no more of your English-loving blarney,” said Rory.
“Huh! You are the dumbest Goth in creation. I say we do it.”
“I say we don’t,” Rory snarled.
“Do.”
“Don’t.”
“Do what?” Caitlin demanded in exasperation.
Tom lifted his chin. “Make Wesley one of the Fianna.”
Gasps of surprise gusted from the crowd; then a hush fell over the hall. Unable to look at Wesley, Caitlin said, “That’s absurd.”
“It makes perfect sense to me,” Seamus called.
“There,” said Tom. “You see? And put me down, you great, bad oaf.”
Rory dropped him. “I’m with Caitlin. No Sassenach can join the Fianna.”
Tom picked himself up off the floor. “I say he’s earned the honor. Look all these good priests in the eye and deny it.”
Rory stared at the floor.
“Tom’s right.” Seamus MacBride came to stand beside Wesley. “He nearly paid for the freedom of the priests with his life.”
“What?” Caitlin asked.
Father Tully stepped forward, bringing a thin, gray-haired cleric with him. A chain of office glinted on his chest. Lifting his hand to point at Wesley, the bishop said, “This man took a saber cut meant for me.”
Caitlin’s heart dropped to her knees. “Where?” she asked Wesley.
“Just a graze.” He touched his shoulder.
“What say you, Caitlin?” asked Tom. “Has he earned the right to join the Fianna?”
Yes! her heart shouted. But pride made her doubt him.
“We’ll put it to a vote, as we do all clan matters,” she said.
And when the voting was done, everyone save Conn and Liam voted to offer Wesley initiation.
And Caitlin, more torn and confused than ever, claimed the right to abstain.
* * *
The day began bright, cool, and lonely as usual. Wesley rose from his pallet to find that Caitlin had left him and gone about her business. Lord, what he wouldn’t give to awaken with her warm in his arms, to tarry beneath the covers with that firm, silken body, to share intimate secrets and make plans for the future, to fantasize about the babies they would have.
To be fair, she had plenty to occupy her. The dispersing of the priests had taken most of her time.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he went to the basin to shave. Numbed by the icy water, he barely felt the scrape of the razor or the twinge of discomfort in his shoulder.
The shave made him feel human again. He managed a smile when Curran Healy tapped on the door and entered.
“This just came.” The youth handed Wesley a letter. “A courier from the east brought it.” His gaze took in Wesley’s bare chest and the livid gash on his upper arm. “Does that hurt?”
“Not so much.”
Curran went to the door. He hesitated, turned back. “Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Good luck to you, sir.” Curran left.
Wesley dressed in tight leather trews and knee boots. He pulled a plain white tunic over his head. He would endure the initiation bareheaded and bare chested, but first he would go to pray.
He broke the seal of the letter and read it.
His blood turned to ice, and a groan ripped from his throat. Cursing, he crumpled the letter and tossed it into a brazier. As he watched the paper burn, he tried to control his frustration.
Damn Cromwell. Damn Titus Hammersmith.
For a few weeks, Wesley had managed to put them from his mind. To fool himself as he had imagined he had been fooling them. Evidently Titus had decided to call his bluff about the profits gained from transporting wenches. Wesley should have known the threat wouldn’t last.
Twenty Clonmuir horses, the letter had commanded. To be given over to the English cavalry.
Tomorrow.
Regrets crushed his chest. Just when he had come close to winning over Caitlin and the men of Clonmuir. Just when they were about to extend the hand of acceptance to him.
Send the horses, Clonmuir’s one priceless treasure, and lose Caitlin. Ignore the order and lose Laura.
He made a fist and jammed it against his chest as if to keep his heart from tearing in two.
Then he pondered a third possibility. A way to appear to follow Hammersmith’s orders while actually deceiving him. Yes, it could work. Caitlin didn’t trust him yet, but the men of Clonmuir would help.
Wesley smiled and made his way to the chapel.
Kneeling before the altar, he folded his hands and raised his eyes to the smiling Virgin. An old feeling swept over him, a remnant of simpler times, when kneeling in the house of God had brought him close to a state of grace.
Caitlin skidded to a stop when she saw him. Unnoticed by Wesley, she moved silently up the side aisle and settled on a kneeler several feet away.
A pained, pleading expression transformed his rough features. Deep shadows molded the hollows below his cheekbones, giving him the aspect of a statue. And yet vibrancy glowed from him, the warmth of life rather than cold stone. His hands clasped each other, and she had a sacrilegious thought of those hands on her body, that mouth on her mouth.
Wesley spoke. “Make me a part of this place. Make me a part of Caitlin. Please, God, I love her so.”
Caitlin’s jaw dropped. She quickly slipped into the shadows of a round pillar, where she reeled with the impact of the declaration.
He had spoken to her of love before, had sworn it. But she had been skeptical, thinking it simply another of his lies.
But would he lie to the Almighty?
God, I love her so.
She pressed her back to the pillar and inhaled the subtle fragrance of burned-out incense. A feeling of joy rose through her, coursing upward like a fountain of light, bathing her heart and her mind in splendor.
She wanted to run to him, to fling her arms around his neck and cover his face with kisses.
She was the MacBride. Other men respected and obeyed her.
John Wesley Hawkins loved her.
She was inches from reaching out to him when hurrying footfalls sounded.
“Wesley, there you are.” Tom rushed up the aisle. “Come, we’re about to begin.”
Wesley rose and turned. Caitlin caught her breath. He looked much as he had the first time she had seen him: imposing, confident, bathed in hero-light.
Tom, too, seemed struck by his appearance. “Lord, but you’re in the high state of grace. I was about to wish you luck, but I can see you’ll not be needing it.”
Wesley laid his arm across Tom’s shoulders as they walked out. “Wish me luck anyway, my friend.”