CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Papa!” A small figure ran across the yard of Clonmuir. Then she stood still, glancing back uncertainly at Aileen Breslin.
Wesley looked from Caitlin’s smiling face to the red-haired sprite twisting her tiny fingers into her apron.
She’d grown taller. Her hair hung longer down her back. It seemed only yesterday that she had been a cherubic baby, cuddled in his arms, so sweet and trusting. And now she stood before him, a little girl with a mind of her own, fearful, uncertain…
And then he was running, feeling his daughter’s presence like a warm breeze through his soul. He caught her in his arms, swung her around and clasped her to his chest. “Laura.” The tautness in his throat choked off any more words.
He detected the faint stiffness of hesitation in her, and his heart constricted. “Oh, Laura…”
Caitlin’s strong hand clasped his shoulder. “Sure and she’s had plenty of adventures for such a wee one.” Bending, she placed a kiss on Laura’s head. “Haven’t you, a storin?”
Laura nodded gravely. Her little hand fit itself into his.
In Irish, Caitlin said, “She is too young for scars.”
He willed himself to believe it. And then he did believe it, for Laura moved closer yet, laying her cheek to his chest, the way she used to do when they were on the run together, and he’d make a game of sleeping in hayricks and stillrooms. “You smell good,” she whispered. “You smell like Papa.”
Having her in his arms again brought the whole world back in focus, made sense of the months of turmoil that had gone before. His heart brimmed over, full of love and joy and awe for his daughter—and his wife.
“I came on a sailing boat to see you.” She pulled back to study him. Her small hand brushed his whiskers, and she made a face. “Papa, why are you crying?”
“I’m just so happy to see you again, poppet.”
“At first I didn’t want to leave Hampton Court, but wee Tom and Caitlin said you needed me.”
“And so I do, my treasure,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head and inhaling her familiar fragrance.
“Brigid showed me the ponies. Caitlin said I could have one for my very own.”
His tongue felt thick and clumsy. “Of course you can.”
Laura glanced across the yard where noisy children, home from Brocach, played with a litter of piglets. Only the crumbled wall and small mounds of straw placed here and there to soak up the blood gave evidence of the battle that had taken place. Piglets? Wesley rubbed his eyes. Where had they gotten meat on the hoof?
“I like it here,” Laura said. “Aileen says I don’t have to wear shoes anymore, and I like being near the sea. Do you like this place?”
He looked over her head at Caitlin. “Oh, aye, I surely do. We shall stay here forever, or so long as we’re welcome.”
“That’s forever,” said Caitlin.
Laura squirmed to the ground. “Can I go play now?” Without waiting for an answer, she sped off toward the group of children. In a moment of blind panic, Wesley started after her.
“Let her go.” Caitlin’s soft voice stopped him. “You have all your life to hold her now.”
“That’s the truth,” said Tom, coming forward with a spritely step. “Cromwell won’t be getting his hands on her—or any other bairn—ever again. Nor will you be subject to arrest, Caitlin.” He gave an impish grin. “The old devil died, you see.”
Caitlin made the sign of the cross. “Blessed Mary, then the poison finished him.”
“It was more likely the bog sickness,” Tom said over his shoulder as he walked away. “He caught it in Ireland.”
“Poison?” Confusion buzzed in Wesley’s ears. Then he listened, gape-mouthed, as Caitlin told of her capture, her imprisonment at the Tower, and her fateful interview with the Lord Protector on the eve of her execution.
He stretched out his hand and she took it, and together they walked across the yard, past Rory Breslin, who was making calf eyes at the buxom Englishwoman, Daisy Lane; past Father Tully who was tearing charred thatch from the spring house; past Conn and Curran and all the people of Clonmuir who had fought half the night and spent the other half clearing away the stains and rubble of the battle.
When they came to Magheen and Logan, they stopped. Behind the lord and lady of Brocach was a train of carts stuffed to the rails with bags of grain. Drovers tried to keep order amid the sheep and pigs and cows in the bawn.
Wesley’s gaze locked with Logan’s.
Logan stuck out his large hand. “It’s a grand day for the mending of hearts.”
Wesley clasped the proffered hand. “Aye, my lord. It certainly is that.”
Magheen and Caitlin let out their breath in a burst of relief. Seamus strolled up, buckling on a sword belt. “Ah, Rafferty, I see you got some manners on you at last.”
“Aye, sir.”
“None of this sir business,” said Seamus. “You’ll call me your da now.”
“Daida?” asked Caitlin, eyeing his antique armor. “What are you up to?”
“Another quest, and a grand one this time. Brian and I are off to France to join Charles of the Stuarts. Tom says he’s returning to the throne. I hear one of his mistresses is going to bring him back to the True Faith.”
His daughters shook their heads as he walked away, his old armor creaking. Logan went to oversee the unloading of the supplies.
With their hearts united and their world at peace, Wesley and Caitlin made their way up the stone steps to the wall walk. Already the English had abandoned the village, and people were returning to their houses.
Wesley looked down the west wall. The shore was empty save for the weed-draped crags. “I battled Titus Hammersmith here,” he said. “He went to hell by way of Traitor’s Leap.” The tide had sucked the body out to sea, just as the events of the night had leached the evil from Clonmuir.
“You gave the murderer no more than he deserved,” she said.
He pulled her against his chest. “At last,” he said, breathing in the sea scent of her hair, “at last I feel you are truly my wife.”
“I’m still the MacBride.” A smile he could not see sweetened her voice.
“And so you shall always be. Chieftain of the sept.” He lifted her hair and kissed her neck. “And mistress of my heart.”
“I thought there was no more magic in Ireland. But you’ve proven me wrong. Thank God we lost never a soul last night.”
He closed his eyes, thought a moment. “There was one loss.”
She stiffened. “Who?”
“You don’t know him. Or perhaps you know him very well.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m not sure I do, either. It was someone who…lived inside me. I can think of no other way to explain. He…was a priest, a stranger who had the vocation I could never find with the church. When I was tortured, he came forth and accepted the pain for me.”
She made a sound of confusion in her throat, and he went on. “He helped me pass the initiation.”
“Aye, you did seem charmed during the ordeal.” He heard no surprise or disbelief in her voice.
“It wasn’t really me, but this other part of me, this Father John.” Wesley rested his chin on her head and gazed out at the dazzling golden line where the risen sun struck the sea. “I never knew it until last night.”
She shuddered a little. “What happened last night?”
He held her closer against him. “During the battle, he came to me. Not to fight for me as he had in the past, but to bid me farewell. He vowed I didn’t need him anymore. And he was right.”
She laid her hands over his. “I should call you a madman, but I cannot. There were times when you seemed strange to me, not yourself at all. That first time I bathed you. And when you tamed the black. Perhaps it was the stranger I was seeing.”
She turned in his arms. “I don’t see a stranger now, but the man I shall love for all my days and longer, into forever.”
“We’ve much work to do,” he reminded her.
“And much love to make.”
He smiled. Together they watched the breeze rippling through the green-clad hills. “Men will always try to conquer Ireland.”
“And the Irish will always resist.”
“Always.” He skimmed his fingers delicately over the rise of her cheekbones, loving the softness of her skin. “And she will always rush out to greet her invaders, grab them to her breast and fill them with the fine, soft essence of the land. In that way, Ireland will endure.”
“How wise you sound—for a tight pants, that is.”
“It’s a wisdom I learned from you and your people. I came here to conquer you. And here I stay, a willing prisoner of your heart.”
She reached up to kiss him. Pure as rain, love flowed across the bond. All around them, the great heart of Clonmuir beat in the breast of the wild and vital land.
The sea crashed over the rocks; dogs barked and men shouted in the yard, but for Caitlin and Wesley there was a stillness. She drew back, and her hand tenderly brushed his face. “Do you feel the magic?”
“Aye,” he breathed into her salt-dusted hair. “It’s all around me, but most especially, here in my arms.” As he bent to kiss his wife, the mist of enchantment rolled forth to fold them in gossamer softness, to sweep them away to the long, shining years ahead.
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