CHAPTER THREE
Caitlin stood rooted, unable to move, to think, to breathe. Thick fog swirled around the man, tiny particles of moisture catching the brilliance of the new stars and bathing him in the hero-light of legend. Huge and unconquerable, aglow with an unearthly radiance, he strolled toward her.
Wild and primal urges pulsed through Caitlin, reawakening the slumbering believer deep inside her.
The stranger seemed more myth than human, the Warrior of the Spring from Tom Gandy’s ancient tales, a champion with the aspect of a pagan god.
Still he came on, walking slowly, and still she watched, suspended in a spellbound state woven of whimsy and desire.
She thought him beautiful; even his shadowy reflection in the dark tidal pool that separated them was beautiful. He was strong-limbed and cleanly made, his body pale, his hair aflame with the colors of the sunset, his face shapely and his eyes the hue of moss in shadow. Caitlin felt no fear, only the awe and enchantment that flowed like a river of light through her.
Above tall black knee boots, he wore loose breeches cinched at his narrow waist by a broad, highly ornamented belt. A blousy white shirt draped his massive shoulders, the thin fabric wafting with the subtle undulations of the well-conditioned muscle beneath. His clothing and his astonishing mane of hair appeared slightly damp as if kissed by the dew.
With his deep, shadow-colored eyes fixed on her, he skirted the tidal pool and came to stand before her.
He gave her a smile that she felt all the way to her toes.
Caitlin gasped. “Heaven be praised, you were sent by the fey folk!”
“No.” The smile broadened. His unearthly gaze shimmered over her, and she felt herself vibrate like a plucked harp string. “But I’d swear you were. God, but you catch a man’s soul with your loveliness.”
He spoke softly, his vowels and Rs as light as the mist, his stunning compliment a breath of spring wind on her face. He was so strange, so different…And then realization struck her. He was foreign. English!
The spell shattered like exploding crystal. Caitlin reached for her stag-handled hip knife. Her hand groped at an empty sheath.
Crossing her fingers to ward off evil, she stepped back and looked around wildly. The weapon lay on the ground a few feet away. Had she, in her trancelike state, set it down? Or had he, by some evil witchery, disarmed her by will alone?
Catching her look, he bent and retrieved the knife, holding it out to her, handle first. “Yours?”
She grasped the knife. He was a seonin, an English invader. In one swift movement she could plunge the weapon to the haft in his chest. She should.
But the tender sorcery of his smile stopped her.
She slipped the knife into its sheath, leaving the leather thong untied. “And who the devil would you be, I’m wondering?”
He touched a hand to his damp brow where dark red curls spilled down. “John Wesley Hawkins, at your service,” he said. “And you’re…”
“Caitlin MacBride, and I’m at no Englishman’s service,” she snapped. “What might you be doing here, Mr. Hawkins?”
He plucked a twig from his hair. “I was shipwrecked.”
She lifted one eyebrow. “A likely story, indeed. We’ve had no reports of a shipwreck.”
“Alas, you wouldn’t have. I was the only survivor.” He lowered himself heavily to a flat rock. “Bound away from Galway, we were, on a trading mission. No, not guns, don’t glare at me like that. A squall whipped up. Next thing I knew, the decks were swamped and we’d capsized. Everything was lost. Everyone.”
“Then how did you survive?”
“I’m a strong swimmer and managed to stay afloat. A big rowan branch happened by and I clung to it. It carried me here, and—” He slid her a sideways glance. “You don’t believe a word of this, do you?”
“No.”
“I’d rather hoped you would.”
“You weren’t really on a trading vessel, were you?”
“It was a very small ship.”
“How small?”
He hesitated. “A coracle.”
In spite of herself, Caitlin felt a glimmer of humor. “Then I’m after thinking you were the only one aboard.”
“Aye.” Unexpectedly, he reached for her hand. His was damp and cool from wind and water. “Sit beside me, Caitlin MacBride. I’ve had a close brush with death and it’s unnerved me.”
She didn’t think a howling banshee could unnerve him. Pulling her hand away, she settled herself on the rock a careful distance from him. The sky had melted into a rich indigo tapestry shot through with points of silver. The waves glowed as they curled toward the shore, crashing on sand and rock.
She thought of the letter Curran had stolen from Galway. Could this man have something to do with Cromwell’s new plan? Best to find out. “Well, then, John Wesley Hawkins, I’m waiting for the truth. Why are you here?”
He took off first one boot, and then the other, pouring out the water and then putting them back on. “I’m a deserter.”
She blinked. “From the Roundhead army?”
“Aye.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I don’t hold with killing innocent folk just to make an English colony of Ireland. Besides, the pay—when it came—was poor.”
“Where were you bound for, then?”
“I’d planned to sneak into Galway harbor and find my way onto a trading vessel. Unless you’ve a better idea.”
“I can’t be doing your deciding for you, Mr. Hawkins.”
“Wesley,” he said. “My friends call me Wesley.”
“I’m no friend of yours.”
“You are, Caitlin MacBride.” The evening light danced in the color of his eyes. She saw great depths there, layers of mystery and passion and pain, and an allure that drew her like a bit of metal to a lodestone. “Didn’t you feel it?” he persisted. “The pull, the magic?”
She laughed nervously. “You’re moonstruck. You’re more full of pixified fancies than Tom Gandy.”
“Who’s Tom Gandy?”
“I expect you’ll meet him shortly if I can’t find a way to get rid of you.”
“That’s encouraging.” He took her hand again. A tiny bead of blood stood out on her finger. She tried to snatch her hand away. He held it fast.
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
“A thorn prick, no more,” she stated.
“I didn’t know fairy creatures could bleed. I always fancied them spun of mist and moonlight, not flesh and blood.”
“Let go.”
“No, my love—”
“I’m not a fairy creature, and I am surely not your love.”
“It’s just an expression.”
“It’s a lie. But ’tis no high wonder to me. I’d be expecting falsehoods from a Sassenach.”
“Poor Caitlin. Does it hurt?” Very slowly, with his eyes fixed on hers, he put her finger to his lips and gently slipped it inside his mouth.
Too shocked to stop him, she felt the warmth of his mouth, the moist velvet brush of his tongue over the pad of her finger. Then with an excess of gentleness he drew it out and placed her hand in her lap.
“I think the bleeding’s stopped,” he said.
But something else had started inside her, something dark and fearsome and strangely wonderful. She retorted, “And I think you’re an English spalpeen through and through. You haven’t answered my question. What do you intend doing with yourself?”
“That depends on you, Caitlin MacBride. Will you take me in and succor me, then send me on my way with a fine Irish blessing?”
She needed another mouth to feed like she needed another sister like Magheen. “And why should I be extending the hand of friendship to an Englishman? You Sassenach take what you please without asking.”
“Caitlin. I’m asking.”
Ah, there was magic in the man, in the warm, beguiling honey of his voice, in the comeliness of his face, in the layers of world-weary appeal in his eyes. But there was magic in wolves as well, dangerous magic.
She felt at once angry and confused. She had cast a net of enchantment and managed to land a shipwrecked Englishman. And how had he managed so quickly to lure her thoughts from Alonso? An enemy on the loose was a greater threat than an enemy under one’s roof. She resigned herself. “Come along, then.” She glanced about as she stood, glad that the black horse had followed Tom home. She did not want the stranger to see her treasure. A plundering Englishman would think nothing of stealing her horse.
And as for the Sassenach, she would watch him like a hound eyeing the barn cat.
“Where are we going?” asked Hawkins.
“To Clonmuir. This way.”
* * *
Dark triumph surged in the heart of John Wesley Hawkins. The ugly business would be over before he knew it. He had made a rendezvous with Titus Hammersmith, the harried Roundhead commander who could not best the Fianna, and already he had gained the acquaintance of the maid of Clonmuir.
But God, he thought, his eyes riveted on her as he climbed over brambles and rocks to the top of the cliffs. The last thing he had expected was this. Cromwell had painted a daunting picture of a half-wild barbarian woman. Thurloe swore she was well past marrying age, but Wesley couldn’t believe it.
This, he thought, still gazing at her, is something a man might believe in.
The moon had started its rise, and pale, watery light showered her. She had skin as smooth as cream. Her tawny hair and eyes gave her the fierce beauty of a tigress, while the soft edges of her full mouth and the delicacy of her features reminded him that she also possessed an excess of feminine assets. Caitlin MacBride was a formidable yet irresistible mixture of implacable will, wily intelligence, and endearing Irish whimsy.
And she could lead him to the Fianna.
For a week, Wesley had combed the woods and dales west of Galway where the Fianna had last struck. But heavy rains had washed away any sign of the warriors’ retreat. Then he had scouted about Clonmuir, watching the comings and goings. He had observed no wild warriors, but fishermen and farmers. No mail-clad berserkers, but an old man chasing a shaggy black bullock. No host of heroes, only small bands of half-starved exiles.
Odd that he’d seen no priest.
We’ve culled every cleric from the area. The memory of Thurloe’s words swept like a chill wind over Wesley.
This evening he had watched a girl streak across the heaths on a beautiful black horse. He had followed her to the remote beach and had seen her speaking with a stocky dwarfish fellow.
When the dwarf had vanished, Wesley had initiated the encounter. His story of shipwreck was as weak as watered claret, but the lie about being a deserter from the Roundhead army had gained him a small measure of sympathy.
Sympathy was a useful tool indeed.
They walked across a boggy field. The earth felt springy beneath his feet. The girl beside him was silent and absorbed in thought.
He noticed the forthright manner in which she walked, a purposeful stride mitigated by the slightest of limps. The flaw was subtle but his tracker’s eyes took note. He burned to ask her what unhappy accident had hurt her. He held his tongue, reluctant to provoke her quick temper.
The night wind swept up the dark honey waves of her hair and fanned them out in a thick veil. Her bare foot caught a rock and she lurched forward. Wesley’s first impulse was to put out a hand to steady her, but he drew back.
Pretending not to notice the stumble, he asked, “Your father is the lord of Clonmuir?”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes. He’s the MacBride, chief of our sept.”
“So Clonmuir is your ancestral home?”
“Yes. Since Giolla the Fierce became the servant of St. Brigid. And until the cliffs beneath it crumble and the keep falls into the sea.”
He started to smile at her vehemence, but realized his amusement would not sit well with her. “Cromwell claims the entire coast of Ireland, three miles deep, for the Commonwealth.”
Her chin came up. Her eyes flashed in the moonlight. Her body went as taut as a drawn bowstring. “I spit on Cromwell’s claim.”
“You’re devoted to your home.”
“And why shouldn’t I be?” She spread her arms, embracing the broad sweep of the rugged landscape. “It’s all we have.”
Wesley caught his breath and wondered at the ache that rose in him upon hearing her speak, on watching the reverential and possessive way she walked across Clonmuir land. The mood of the sere wind-torn grasses racing up to meet the broken-backed mountains, the spirit of the misty wide sky crowning the craggy jut of land, flowed in her very bloodstream.
Something about her called to him, and the yearning he felt discomfited him thoroughly. He had made a vow, broken it, and gotten Laura. Her appearance in his life had compelled him to renew his oath of celibacy. Like a drowning man, he had clung to that oath, turning aside invitations that would have brought a smile to Charles Stuart himself.
So how could he be feeling this heart-catching tenderness for a wild, barefoot Irish girl? Damn Cromwell. And damn Caitlin MacBride, for Wesley could not help himself. He stopped walking, touched her arm.
“Caitlin,” he said urgently. “Look at me.”
She stopped and eyed him warily.
“What happened to us, down there on the strand?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do. Don’t deny it.”
“Moonstruck English fool,” she murmured. Her words meant nothing, for the shadowy rhythms of her speech captured him, and the secrets that haunted her eyes beckoned mystically.
“Caitlin MacBride, you do ply strange arts upon a man.”
“I do no such thing.” She drew away and started walking again.
I cannot trust her, thought Wesley. Yet at the same time he admitted to himself that he had never met so compelling a woman. Heather and moonglow colored every word she spoke. Fierce conviction molded every move she made. She plundered his heart like a bandit after treasure.
A dangerous thing. For the plundering of hearts was supposed to be Wesley’s specialty.
They passed a great, brooding rock that sat on the upward-sloping lip of a cliff. Tiny facets in the granite winked in the moonlight. Wesley paused, passed his hand over the surface of the stone. “There are symbols chiseled here,” he said, and the rough whorls beneath his fingers made him shiver.
“So there are.” Sarcasm edged her voice. “Pagan runes.”
“Who put them here?”
“Probably the first MacBride to leave his cave and proclaim this the Rock of Muir, his throne. Come along, Mr. Hawkins. We’re almost to the stronghold.”
Clonmuir crouched like a great beast on a cliff overlooking the sea. Its west-facing walls resembled a set of teeth bared at the snarling breakers. To the east rose rocky hills that disappeared into the haze of the night. In the distance, moonlight glimmered around the high gable of a church topped with a heart-shaped finial.
They entered the stronghold through the main gate and walked across a broad yard of packed earth, empty save for a few weeds straggling along the walls and chickens roosting in nests of dried kelp. Wesley could make out the humped shape of a small forge barn and several thatched outbuildings, a cluster of beehives, and a cloistered walkway leading to a kitchen.
“Wait here.” Caitlin left him standing by an ancient stone well while she crossed to a long, low fieldstone building with a stout door. She opened the door and a chorus of equine noises greeted her. The famed ponies of Clonmuir, Wesley realized.
A man’s voice spoke in Gaelic and Caitlin replied in low tones. Wesley strained his ears but could not hear the words. A small girl with long braids crept around the side of the stable, gaped at him briefly, then darted back into the shadows. The years of conquest, Wesley realized, had taught all Irish to be cautious, even in their own homes. A flash of shame heated his face. He had come here under false pretenses to coax secrets from Caitlin MacBride—secrets that could force her to forfeit her home. The idea sat like a hot rock in his gut.
She rejoined him in the yard. “Come along,” she said briskly. “We deny hospitality to no one—even an Englishman.” They made their way to the donjon, a tall, rounded structure with walls pierced by arrow loops and tiny windows. She pushed the heavy main door open.
Sharp-scented peat smoke struck Wesley in the face, stinging his eyes. A translucent gray fog shrouded the scene in layers, from the woven rushes on the floor to the blackened ceiling beams. The great hall had no chimney, only a louvered opening in the roof to draw out the smoke.
Children cavorted with a lanky wolfhound in a straw-carpeted corner. A group of women sat knitting skeins of chunky wool on fat wooden needles. Most of them conversed blithely in Irish, but the youngest was silent, sulky, and dazzlingly beautiful.
At a round table a group of men drank from horn mugs and cracked nuts in their bare hands, throwing the shells to the rush mats. The eldest wore a knitted cap on his head and had a waist-length white beard. Beside him sat the dwarf Wesley had seen with Caitlin. The fellow spoke rapid, colloquial Gaelic and swung his legs as he talked, for his feet did not reach the floor.
Caitlin headed for the table. Wesley watched her face but she held it set, the pure, sharp lines of her features scrubbed clean of sentiment. “We’ve a visitor,” she announced.
A dozen inquisitive faces turned toward Wesley. He wondered if these rough-hewn Irishmen belonged to the Fianna. On the heels of that thought came a sudden, sharp ache. Too many years had passed since he had enjoyed the company of good friends.
He tried to take in their expressions all at once, but got caught on the dwarf. His face was a picture of such pure delight that Wesley couldn’t help smiling, even as he wondered why his appearance so pleased the man.
“He says his name is John Wesley Hawkins,” Caitlin explained. “He’s English.”
Gasps and grumbles colored the smoky air. Large hands closed around knife handles. Women gathered small children to their skirts. Wesley carefully kept his smile in place.
“Is he an idiot?” a big man asked in Gaelic. He had hair the color of West Indies yams and a face that resembled a well-cured ham. He held his horn mug in two great, red-furred paws. “Look at that grin,” the giant said, tossing a nutmeat into his maw. “I say he’s an idiot.”
Wesley made no indication that he understood the foreign, lilting tongue. He was not here to challenge a taunt, but to infiltrate the Fianna, to find out their secrets, and to capture their leader.
“You could be right, Rory,” said Caitlin. “But he’s our guest, and we’ll give him a meal and a place to sleep. Lord knows, Daida has made certain there’s plenty to eat.”
“And why should we be opening hearth and home to a seonin?” Rory demanded. “It’s the business of his kind to take the very food out of our mouths.”
Caitlin’s shoulders stiffened. “I didn’t know having an Englishman under the roof frightened you, Rory.”
He shook his shaggy head. “’Tis not that, Caitlin, but—”
“Then we’ll treat him as a guest.”
Enmity blazed in the huge man’s eyes. “If he makes one false move, I’ll put that gawm of an Englishman right through the wall with one great clout.”
Wesley kept a courteous smile on his face when every instinct told him to lunge for the door.
“You’re such a Goth, Rory,” grumbled the dwarf.
“He doesn’t look like an idiot to me,” the white-bearded man said in English. “He looks properly Irish, save for that naked face of his.”
“Don’t insult us,” said another man, dark-haired and nearly as large as Rory. “An English bastard would never fill the fine, wide boots of an Irishman.”
A roar of agreement thundered from others. Horn mugs banged on the tabletop. “Well put, Conn,” shouted Rory, then turned to the man on his other side. “What think you we should do with our guest, Brian?”
Brian had a quick smile, merry blue eyes, and a deadly looking shortsword at his hip. “I say we give him the same reception Jamie Lynch gave his son in Galway all those years ago.”
Shouts of approval met the suggestion. James Lynch Fitzstephen, Wesley remembered with a chill, had hanged his own son from the window of his house.
Caitlin waited for the uproar to subside. Desperately Wesley searched her face for some hint of mercy. He saw unadorned beauty and strong character, but no sign of whether or not she would let the men do their will with him.
The room quieted, and she spoke in a voice that trembled with grief. “Has it come to murdering strangers, then?” Her soft words captured everyone’s attention. “Have we learned to hate so much?”
“I suppose we might see what he’s about,” Rory grumbled into his mug.
Only when he let out his breath with a whoosh did Wesley realize he had been holding it. Squaring his shoulders, he approached the table and held out his hand to the eldest man. “I assure you, sir, I am English, but I don’t necessarily regard that as a virtue.” He clasped the man’s hand briefly, and their eyes met. The Irishman was handsome, with unusually soft skin and strongly defined facial bones. His eyes were light, the color of damp sand. “You’re the MacBride?” Wesley guessed.
“Aye, Seamus MacBride of Clonmuir, by the grace of God and several high saints. You are welcome by me, although I cannot speak for the others.”
“Devil admire me, but I like him,” piped the dwarf, bobbing his head. “Fortune brought him here.”
Caitlin’s gaze snapped to him. “And what would you be knowing that you’re not telling us, Tom Gandy?”
Tom Gandy’s eyes rounded into circles of innocence and he dropped to the floor. In his beautiful green doublet, silk pantaloons, and tiny buckle shoes, he would not look out of place in a portrait of the Spanish royal family.
Disregarding Caitlin’s question, Tom said, “Don’t we all know that it’d bring the bad luck on us to treat a stranger ill?” Rory slapped his forehead. Caitlin rolled her eyes.
Wesley looked back at Gandy only to find that the man had vanished. “Where did he go?” Wesley asked.
“He can go to the devil for all I care,” grumbled Rory. He scowled up at Caitlin. “You went off alone again. How many times must I tell you, it’s dangerous.”
“You are not my keeper, Rory Breslin,” she replied.
“Not for want of trying,” said Brian with a knowing wink.
Wesley observed the tension in her body, the pause no longer than a heartbeat during which she looked to her father. But Seamus MacBride didn’t notice; he had lifted his gaze to the patch of star-silvered sky visible through a high window.
Suddenly, Wesley understood her problem. He didn’t know which to credit—his experience with women or his experience as a cleric—but he had insights into female hearts, and he was rarely wrong.
Caitlin MacBride wanted her father to be a father, not an old man reminiscing over a mug of rough brew.
Furthermore, Seamus MacBride was completely unaware of his daughter’s needs.
Interesting, Wesley thought. And perhaps useful.
He paid close attention as Caitlin introduced some of the others, rattling off names like a general calling roll. Liam the smith, as wide and thick as an evergreen oak; young Curran Healy whose eyes spoke the hunger of a boy longing to be treated as a man; a surly villager called Mudge; and a host of others united in their loyalty to Clonmuir and their suspicion of their English visitor. In addition, there were wayfaring families who huddled around the fire and ate with the avid concentration of those who had known the ache of hunger.
Wesley told them he was a deserter from Titus Hammersmith’s Roundhead army.
The men of Clonmuir told him they were fishermen and farmers, shepherds and sawyers.
Wesley thought they were lying.
They thought he was lying.
“Our visitor’s got a thirst on him,” Conn O’Donnell announced with a wolfish grin.
To Wesley’s surprise and pleasure, it was Caitlin herself who held out a mug. Their fingers brushed as he took it. The contact sent a shock of heat through him. He sought her eyes to see if she, too, had felt the quick fire.
Her momentary look of confusion told him she had. She drew her hand away, tossing her head as if to shake away the spell. “Drink your poteen, Mr. Hawkins.”
He sniffed suspiciously at the contents of the mug. “Poteen, is it?”
Taking a mug of her own, she dropped to the bench beside him. An almost-smile flirted with her lips. “It’s not usually fatal to drink the poteen.”
Still Wesley hesitated. “What’s it made of?”
“’Tisn’t polite to be asking,” she retorted, taking a slow sip from her cup. Her lips came away moist and shiny. “Just barley roasted over slow-burning peat and distilled. Savor it well, Mr. Hawkins, for you English have burned the barley fields since we brewed this last batch of courage.”
Goaded by the reminder and by the gleam in her eyes, Wesley lifted his mug and drank deeply.
The liquid shot down his gullet and exploded in his gut. A fire roared over the path the poteen had taken. Tears sizzled in his eyes. An army of leprechauns bearing torches paraded through his veins. “Barley, you say?” he rasped.
“Aye.” All innocence, Caitlin took a careful second sip. “Also pig meal, treacle and a bit of soap to give it body.”
Wesley quickly learned the art of judicious sipping. Avoiding questions, he took supper in the hall, then retired with a cup of tame ale to the hearth. The meal of stale bread and something gray and soupy he dared not inquire about cavorted with the poteen in his stomach. He thought longingly of the sumptuous suppers he had enjoyed with England’s underground Catholics and royalists. White-skinned ladies had delighted in teaching Laura her table manners. His former life had been fraught with danger, but he had known occasional comforts.
As the men spoke of an upcoming feast, Wesley expected Caitlin to withdraw to the women’s corner. But she stayed at the central hearth, staring from time to time into the glowing heart of the turf fire as if she saw something there that no one else could see. Wesley wondered what visions lurked behind those fierce, sad eyes. Someday he would ask her.
* * *
“What are you looking at, seonin?” asked Rory. He and Wesley stood in a thatch-roofed outbuilding at Clonmuir. Rory held a broken cartwheel in one hand and a vise in the other.
“Your arm,” said Wesley, eyeing the intimidating bulge of muscle beneath Rory’s tan hide. Lord, they grew men big and tough in these Irish parts. He wore a broad silver armlet engraved with Celtic knots. From elbow to shoulder ran a long, shiny scar. “How did you hurt yourself?”
Rory tried to work a stave around the wheel. The iron hoop slipped. Patiently he set it back in place. “I cut it while sharpening a plowshare.”
And my mother’s the Holy Roman Empress, thought Wesley, propping his elbow on a stone jutting from the rough wall. It was a sword cut if he’d ever seen one, and he had seen plenty, some on his own body. He must remember to ask Titus Hammersmith if he recalled wounding one of the warriors of the Fianna.
Rory Breslin was certainly big enough to make a formidable fighting man. But Wesley doubted he could be their fabled leader. Though strong as a bullock, Rory was also as simple as one of the shaggy beasts that used to graze over the hills of Ireland. He didn’t possess the guile to lead men into battle and out so successfully, time and time again.
“Why don’t you drive a nail into the stave to hold it while you secure the other end?” Wesley suggested.
Rory’s thick eyebrows lifted eloquently. “I’ll not be needing your English advice.”
“I wonder,” Wesley said carefully, “why you and the men aren’t out fishing. It appears Clonmuir could use the food.”
“Because the Sassenach burned our fleet,” Rory snapped. “Every vessel’s gone save a curragh and the leaky hooker.”
Hearing the pain in the big man’s voice, Wesley flinched. “I don’t hold with such practices.”
Rory gave a dissatisfied grunt and went back to his work.
“Why aren’t you at prayers with the rest of them?” Wesley inquired.
“You ask a lot of questions, English.”
“Very well, I’ll leave you to your chores.” Wesley stepped toward the door.
“Wait a minute. I’m supposed to be—” Rory broke off.
“Keeping an eye on me,” Wesley said with a breezy grin. “Don’t blame you a bit, my friend. Seems you’ve ample cause to distrust an Englishman.” He gazed out the doorway. Beyond the walls lay the tiny village of thatched huts clustered shoulder-to-shoulder around the church, bleached white by the wind. Behind them the land rose up, hills scored by deep clefts and clad in budding heather.
No one had invited Wesley to prayers. They assumed that he, like most Englishmen, protested the Catholic faith.
They had no priest to sing mass. He wanted to ask where the cleric had gone, but wasn’t certain they knew. Admitting he was Catholic and had studied at Douai would have wrung some sympathy from the Irish, but Wesley held silent. Something sinister was happening to the priests of Ireland; all he needed was an overzealous bounty hunter after him.
The church bell clanged with the dissonance of aged iron. A few minutes later, Caitlin MacBride and her entourage streamed up the road toward the stronghold.
The sight of her struck Wesley with a fresh bolt of yearning. His hand gripped the door frame, and his eyes devoured her. She wore a clean kirtle and apron. Her loose blouse and skirt molded a form similar to those he had heard described in the confessions of notorious skirt chasers. Suddenly he felt every minute of his three years of self-imposed celibacy.
She walked beside an exceedingly pretty girl with sleek blond hair and pale skin. He remembered her from the night before; she had been sulking in the women’s corner.
“Who is that with Caitlin?” he asked Rory.
“’Tis Magheen, Caitlin’s younger sister.”
“So there are two MacBride sisters.”
“Magheen’s not a MacBride any longer. She wed not long ago.” Rory scowled in disapproval. “She came back home because Caitlin failed to make good on the dowry.”
Wesley eyed the voluptuous younger sister, a blooming Irish rose who lacked the savage appeal of Caitlin. “What man would turn such a beauty out?”
“You’ll see.” Rory returned to his chore.
And Wesley did see, later, at the feast. People swarmed to Clonmuir from the countryside. They came on foot or crammed into carts, or by sea in pucans and curraghs—large, loud families who brayed greetings to one another and ate and drank as if the meal laid out on tables in the yard were their last—or their first in many days.
A high whistle pierced the noise. Heads turned toward the main gate. A large man on a handsome mare came clattering through, followed by two sturdy-looking retainers. He wore a long tunic woven of heather wool and studded with polished stones. His mane of black hair flowed around a face fashioned of strong, clean lines and draped with a long, braided beard.
The quintessential Irish lord, thought Wesley as the man dropped lithely to the ground, tossed his reins to a boy, and strode toward Caitlin and Magheen. He might have ridden off the tongue of a gifted bard.
Putting down his mug of ale, Wesley moved closer to the lord’s table to await the approach. Above his white beard, braided with brass bells for the occasion, Seamus MacBride’s face was florid, his eyes sparkling, and his mood blissful from drink.
Caitlin sat beside him, silent and watchful, her plate of spit-roasted beef untouched.
“Logan Rafferty!” Seamus spread his arms. “’Tis well come you are to our feast!”
Rafferty aimed a thunderous glare at Magheen. She moved closer to Caitlin and peeked demurely at him from beneath her long golden lashes.
Logan tossed back his inky hair. “And while the lot of you makes merry, Hammersmith is on the move again.”
“Hist!” said Caitlin, her amber eyes wide and fierce. In rapid Gaelic she added, “Have a care with that tongue of yours, a chara. We’ve an English visitor.”
Wesley stood with one hip propped on the table edge and an easy smile on his face. Inside, he seethed like the Atlantic in a gale. Surely this arrogant lord was the leader of the Fianna. Why else would Caitlin have been so quick to silence him? And who else would know the plans of Titus Hammersmith? For that matter, why had Hammersmith decided to go on the offensive so quickly? Damn the murdering Roundhead! Only a week ago they had agreed he would wait for a report from Wesley.
Rafferty subjected Wesley to a long perusal punctuated by flaring nostrils and glowering black eyes. “English, you say?”
“John Wesley Hawkins.” He lifted his mug. “My friends call me Wesley.”
“My inferiors call me Logan Rafferty, lord of Brocach.”
“I’ll do my best to remember that.” Wesley pulled himself to his full height. The two men stood as equals, eye to eye, each broad of shoulder and narrow of hip.
“What do you intend doing with yourself, Hawkins?” Rafferty demanded.
I’m here to take your head off, thought Wesley. Aloud, he said, “I’m for Galway tomorrow.”
Rafferty hooked his thumbs into the band of his trews. “Galway, is it?”
“Aye.” Wesley had just made the decision. With a stab of loss he realized he no longer needed to seduce Caitlin MacBride in order to coax secrets from her. “If I manage to give Hammersmith the slip, I’ll take a ship to England.”
“The sooner the better,” muttered Rafferty. Turning his back on Wesley, he said to Magheen, “The fiddler’s playing a reel, agradh.”
She gave him a beautiful, false smile. “Why, thank you for telling me so. I was just thinking, our English guest might like to learn the steps.”
Wesley found himself pulled into the center of the dancers. Magheen danced like a shadow on a breeze, light and graceful, conscious that the movements of her willowy body attracted every male eye in the yard. Although she smiled up at Wesley, her gaze kept straying to Logan Rafferty.
Wesley was curiously unresponsive to the lovely woman on his arm. Again and again his attention strayed to the golden-skinned girl who stood with her father and Logan Rafferty by the table.
“It’s generous of you,” said Wesley, “to give an Englishman this dance when your husband’s obviously such a great lord.”
“My husband’s a great fool,” she retorted. “I’m using you to show him so.”
Wesley could not suppress a grin. “All men should find themselves so used.” The pattern of the reel brought them near the table. Like a she-wolf guarding her cubs, Caitlin watched their every move. Feigning casual interest, he remarked, “Rafferty must be a busy man, times being what they are.”
“Aye. He expects me to sit and warm the hearthstones while he—oh!” Magheen lurched against Wesley. He whipped a glance over his shoulder in time to see Caitlin drawing back the foot she had stuck in her sister’s path.
The deliberate interruption convinced Wesley that he had guessed correctly about Rafferty.
When they passed the table a second time, the lord of Brocach reached out and grasped Magheen’s arm. “Get some manners on you, wife,” he ordered.
Magheen tossed her head. “I’ll not be your sometimes wife, Logan Rafferty. ’tis a full partner I’ll be or none at all.”
His spine stiffened. The people nearby hushed, the better to hear the quarrel.
“I came here to make a bargain,” said Logan. To Wesley’s surprise, he addressed not Magheen or Seamus, but Caitlin. “I’ve decided to reduce the dowry, out of the goodness of my heart.”
Magheen’s face blossomed into a smile that might have set the mountains to singing.
“The betrothal papers specified twelve healthy cows,” said Rafferty. “You offered one bullock as a token of good faith. I’ll take that, and call us even.”
While the onlookers gasped, Magheen buried her face in her slim white hands. Seamus hid behind the wide rim of his mug. Caitlin closed her eyes, nostrils thinning as she tried for patience and lost the battle.
“You picked the wrong time to let reason come on that great fat head of yours, Logan,” she burst out. In one swift movement she picked up her untouched wooden trencher of beef and thumped it down on the table in front of him. “There’s your bullock, and welcome to it!” Leaping up from the table, she stormed across the yard and disappeared up a crumbling flight of stairs to the wall walk.
* * *
Christ have mercy, Caitlin seethed, her bare feet clapping against age-worn flagstones. “Will nothing go right with me these days?”
She had arranged a brilliant marriage for her sister only to have the two fighting like Roundheads and Irishmen. She had cast a spell for her lover and had conjured a renegade Englishman. And to cap all her woes, Hammersmith was on the march again.
She paused at a wide break in the wall. Her gaze traveled down the sheer drop of Traitor’s Leap, where the sea hurled white-bearded breakers at the pointed rocks. Back in the Tudor queen’s time, a member of the MacBride sept had tried to adopt English policies. His efforts had driven him to this spot; his guilt had hurled him over.
Her thoughts circled round and round like a flock of gulls after a fishing boat, and came to rest on John Wesley Hawkins. She should feel relieved that he had decided to go. And yet a hidden voice in her heart whispered that he must stay, for there was unfinished business between them.
“I’d been wondering why you wouldn’t touch your meal,” said a smooth, golden voice.
She spun around. There stood Hawkins, smiling that heart-catching smile, transfixing her, backing her against the rough crenellated wall.
“I take it that roasting the bullock wasn’t your idea,” he added.
“My father’s.” She swung back to look over the wall. Waves exploded against the shore but farther out, the waters lay dark and calm. How many times had she stood here, gazing at the flat empty line of the horizon, seeking a glimpse of a tall ship coming toward her, bearing her heart’s desire?
“It’s a good harbor,” Hawkins said.
He stood very close to her, so close that her shoulder grew warm. “Yes.” She took a step away from him. The natural harbor had a narrow entrance leading to a deep, horseshoe-shaped cove.
“Cromwell is determined to have Clonmuir in Hammersmith’s control, isn’t he? So he can have a port of his own, a port capable of accommodating deep-draught vessels.”
“Yes,” she said again. “That’s why we’re so determined to hold it for our own.”
“Cromwell’s army exceeds the entire population of Ireland,” said Hawkins. “He has enough men and guns to lay waste to every stone of Clonmuir. How will you stop him?”
“We’ll—” She clamped her mouth shut. How careless this disarming man made her. “You’d be surprised, Hawkins, what a few deeply committed warriors can accomplish.”
“No,” he said with an odd, wistful shimmer in his shadow-colored eyes. “No, I wouldn’t be surprised. And you’re to call me Wesley.”
“It’s such an English-sounding name.”
“That it is, Caitlin MacBride. A man can’t change what he is.”
How true, she thought. It was that very truth that had led her, again and again, to forgive her father’s follies. If she and Hawkins had been other than they were, they might have been friends.
“Tell me about Logan Rafferty and your sister.” He had moved closer again, a brush of heat against her arm.
She knew she should retreat, or better yet, push him away. Yet the commanding beauty of his face, the obvious ease with which he held himself, kept her in a thrall of curiosity. She knew she shouldn’t confess the turmoils of Clonmuir to an English stranger, but where was the harm in it? She had no confidant save Tom Gandy, and her steward’s habit of speaking in riddles was more vexing than satisfying. Despite Hawkins’s intimidating good looks and blatantly English character, something about him put her at ease. Just looking into his eyes gave her a feeling of peace, like the rocking motion of a boat on a calm sea.
“Logan comes from an old and industrious clan,” she explained, “although he’s taken on some English ways. That should please you.”
“So far, nothing about the man has pleased me.”
Caitlin held back a smile. “He should have chosen a wife of higher rank but…well, you’ve seen Magheen.”
“She’s very pretty.”
A tiny ache flared in Caitlin’s chest. Pretty was a word that could never apply to her. Tall and gawky, wild of hair, her face made up of harsh lines, she was not one to escape men’s attention. But it was not the soft, poetic devotion of smitten swains. Instead she commanded soldiers who had no choice.
Images of Hawkins dancing with Magheen harried her thoughts. He had moved with animal fluidity, a perfect foil for Magheen’s winsome grace. In looks, Hawkins was her masculine equal. She wondered why he wasn’t paying court to her now instead of pursuing Caitlin.
“Magheen’s not merely pretty,” she said. “She’s bright and amusing and wise in…important ways. She’s had many suitors, but would settle for no less than Logan. But nothing is simple. Because of her lower station, he demanded a large dowry. I tried to hide the sum from Magheen.”
“I take it she found out.”
“She did, and it burned her pride.” Reluctant amusement tugged at the corners of Caitlin’s mouth.
“So what did she do about it?”
“She refused to share his bed until he reduced his demands.”
“Ah. Your little sister has some of your defiance in her.”
Caitlin erected a wall of defense around her emotions. “We’ve been without a mother for six years. You’ve seen…our father. We don’t have the luxury of behaving like conventional ladies.” She sighed. “The matter might have been settled this very day. Logan would have had a live bullock, not one turning over a cookfire.”
“Your father’s doing?”
“Aye. So now I must find another means to appease Logan.”
His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You? You alone, Caitlin?”
“Aye.”
“It’s a heavy burden for a young girl.” His large hand came up. Like the brush of a feather, it coasted along her jawline.
Caitlin was so surprised by his touch that for a moment she stood unmoving, hearing the crash of the sea and the dull thud of blood in her ears. Her skin tingled where his rough knuckles caressed her. Pulled by a force woven of longing, loneliness, and magic, she leaned toward him, staring at his strange English-made shirt and the thick belt he wore at his waist. St. George’s cross was stamped into the leather.
The patron saint of England brought her to her senses. She drew back quickly. “You mustn’t touch me.”
Very slowly, he lowered his hand. “You need to be touched, Caitlin MacBride. You need it very badly.”
She girded herself with denial. “Even if it were so, I would not need it from an Englishman.”
“Think again, my love. We’re easy with one another despite our differences. Remember our first meeting—the shock of it, the knowing? We could be good for each other.”
“And when, pray, has an Englishman ever been good for Ireland?”
A lazy grin spread over his face. “Even I know that, Caitlin. St. Patrick himself was English born, was he not?”
“But he had the heart of Eireann.”
“So might I, Caitlin MacBride. So might I.”
Ah, that voice. It could coax honey from an empty hive. She wondered at his cryptic words, at the look of yearning in his unusual eyes. Beating back the attraction that rose in her, she laughed suddenly. “You should be Irish, with that head of red hair and that gullet full of blarney, Mr. Hawkins.”
“Wesley.”
She stopped laughing. “Go down and enjoy the holiday while you may, Mr. Hawkins. You’ve chosen to leave tomorrow.” The words, spoken aloud, hurt her throat like the ache of tears.
He put his finger to his lips and then touched hers. “As you wish, Caitlin.” He ambled off along the wall walk and joined the throng in the yard.
The phantom brush of his fingers lingered like a tender kiss on her mouth. Caitlin faced back toward the sea. Just a few minutes ago her thoughts had fixed on Alonso. But like a high wind chasing the surf, Hawkins had scattered those thoughts. Worse, he had awakened the slumbering woman inside her—the woman who yearned, the woman who ached.
Dusting her hands on her apron, she scuttled the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. She had no time to be thinking of either man. If Logan was right about the movements of the Roundhead army, she had best be after sending Hawkins away.
* * *
The task proved harder than she had anticipated. Early the next morning they stood together at the head of the boreen, the skelped path that wound through the village and looped over the mist-draped hills to the southeast.
The rich colors of the rising sun mantled him, picking out pure gold highlights in his hair and softening the lines of his smile. She would always remember him this way, with his back to the sun and its rays fanning out around him.
“Seems we’ll not be seeing each other again,” she remarked, forcing lightness into her tone.
“So it seems.”
“Have a care, then, Mr. Hawkins, for Hammersmith doesn’t like to be kindled by des—” Appalled, she snapped her mouth shut. Mother Mary, why couldn’t she govern her tongue in the presence of this man?
“You speak as if you know him.”
“And what kind of fool would I be if I made no effort to know my enemy?” she retorted.
He stood very still, his eyes never leaving hers. “You are no fool, Caitlin MacBride. I could wish—” He stopped and drew a deep breath of the misty air. He seemed as reluctant as her to speak freely.
“Could wish what?”
“Just…have a care for yourself. Hammersmith is a powerful man. A dangerous man. If he gets close to Clonmuir, promise me you’ll flee.”
She laughed. “Flee? Not likely. Clonmuir is my home. I’d defend it until the last stone is torn from my dying hands.”
His mouth thinned in disapproval. “I was afraid of that.”
“Don’t fear for me. ’Tisn’t necessary.” She glanced at the angle of the sun. “You’d best be on your way.”
But he continued to stand still, gazing at her while larks and sparrows greeted the day. Against her will, she remembered that other parting, the tears that had flowed as freely from her eyes as the pledges that flowed from Alonso’s lips. Somehow, this tense, dry-eyed farewell hurt more.
“God, I don’t want to leave you,” Hawkins burst out.
Stricken by his vehemence, Caitlin dove for the haven of formality. “The blessings of God be on you, Mr. Hawkins. And may your way be strewn with luck.”
He lifted his arm, reaching for her but not touching her. Caitlin understood the unspoken question. He wanted her to take the next step, to come into his arms.
But with the self-control bred into her by generations of warriors, she stood her ground. For if she stepped into his arms now, she knew she would never leave.