The Maid of Ireland (11 page)

His expression warmed suddenly. Reaching out, he stroked her beneath the chin. “I could be very useful to you. I could give you what you need.”

His words had layers of meaning that she refused to ponder. “What I need,” she said, drawing away from his disconcerting touch, “is some answers from you.” She paced the yard, aware every moment that his compelling stare dogged each step. Bracing herself against the well, she stopped. “Don’t the English punish deserters with death?”

“I believe that’s the usual punishment.”

“Then you’re no deserter, and never were one,” she snapped. “You came to spy on us, didn’t you?”

Gazing across the yard at her, Wesley drew a deep breath of the salt-sharp air and stood silent, pondering the events that had brought him to this moment.

Fate, was it? he wondered. No, a folly of his own making, the day he’d foolishly bedded a woman he did not love, just for the sheer pleasure of it, and ended up a father.

“Well, Mr. Hawkins.” The rollicking rhythms of Caitlin MacBride’s Irish speech crowded into Wesley’s thoughts. “I’m waiting for an answer. Are you a spy, then?”

Wesley hesitated another moment. He had found the chief of the Fianna as he had been sent to do. But her identity—and the fact that he was her prisoner—changed everything. He would have to negotiate this conversation cautiously, a man testing new ice on a pond. He would have to lie through his teeth.

“Aye.”

She stiffened as if he had jabbed her with a pointed weapon. “For the love of God, why?”

A sadness welled up in him, a sense of futility that tugged at his purpose. “Our nations are at war, Caitlin. War makes men commit acts that go against their principles.”

“Ah.” She shoved away from the well and planted herself in front of him. “So war—and not yourself—accounts for your treachery.”

He wanted to trace the cool curve of her cheekbone. He wanted to taste her lips which, even in anger, were soft and full. He wanted to knead the tightness from her shoulders and recapture the magic of their first meeting. Instead, he aimed a sardonic grin at the iron ball shackled to his ankle.

“Thanks to you, my treachery amounts to nothing.” But not for long, he thought, wishing it were otherwise. Before long, he would have to make his escape. And when he left Clonmuir, he would not be alone.

Six

T
he wild rhythm of tambours and
bodhran
drums jostled Wesley awake. The tingle of bells and the twang of a harp stabbed at his aching head and jolted him to a sitting position. His pillow, a flea-infested wolfhound named Finn, growled in protest.

Wesley rotated his shackled ankle. The chill of the hall invaded his bones. Above the cacophony of the music, the wind howled and the sea crashed ceaselessly at the gray crags of Clonmuir.

He blinked into the predawn dimness. Men snored on pallets, and a few boys slumbered amid the hounds around the low-burning peat fire.

The lack of privacy at Clonmuir appalled Wesley. The men of the household lived as they had hundreds of years ago, crowded around a fire that lacked even the simple invention of a chimney.

Wesley’s joints creaked as he rose to his feet. The distant rhythm thudded at his temples with blurry pain. Poteen. The stuff was pure poison.

“Where d’you think you’re going?” Rory Breslin’s voice rumbled from the darkness.

“To the privy,” said Wesley.

“Can’t hold the poteen, eh?” Rory said in Gaelic. He snickered unpleasantly and cupped his groin.

Wesley forced himself to pretend ignorance. “What’s that racket?”

“That...
Dia linn!
” Rory scrambled to his feet and kicked the man next to him. “Up with you, Conn. It’s time.”

Conn groaned. “My mouth feels like the bottom of a cave.”

“Time for what?” asked Wesley.

“The inauguration, if it’s any of your concern.”

Lugging his iron ball, Wesley went outside and used the privy. Despite the crudeness of the stronghold, its facilities were impressive, with a long shaft in the wall that swept the waste into the sea far below.

The yard was empty and soft with the first pale shimmer of daylight. He eyed the forge barn, a low hive-shaped stone building across from the stables.

It was tempting. Inside lay tools with which he could strike his chains and be off into the woods within five minutes.

But where was the use in escaping? He had found the chieftain of the Fianna. He knew what he had to do.

The question was, did he have the heart to carry out the plan he had made for Caitlin?

The instant he had pulled the helm from her head, he’d realized that he could not perform the task Cromwell had set for him. He could not lop off her beautiful head and toss it at the feet of the Lord Protector.

Nevertheless, he had to take her away from Clonmuir and the Fianna so the raiding would cease. His pained thoughts drifted to Laura, innocent victim in a deadly struggle. Wesley knew he would travel to hell and back to save his daughter.

He rubbed his bristly face and pondered his dilemma. His task was threefold: gain Caitlin’s trust, spirit her away, and then...he could barely force himself to think of what must come next. It was too awful. He had never done such a thing. It went against vows he had sworn before God.

Scratching their beards, their heads, and their crotches, the men of Clonmuir came outside, one by one. A dozen distrustful glares stabbed into Wesley.

Contriving a breezy grin, Wesley waved. He received muttered Irish curses in response.

With a shrug, he stripped off his shirt and doused himself at the well with icy water, then shook out his hair and put his shirt back on. He longed for a razor, but these hairy Irishmen seemed to have no more use for razors than for chimneys.

Women poured out of the keep. They looked curiously at Wesley but concluded that a gray-faced Englishman shackled to a sixty-pound cannonball posed no threat.

“Come along,
seonin.
” Rory shook his shaggy head like a wolfhound just out of a river. “Can’t be trusting you alone.”

Wesley walked through the gate. He sought Caitlin, but saw her nowhere. Led by the band of musicians, a small procession marched toward the church. The pipes whistled a wild, discordant tune underlaid by the vaguely ominous thump of the goatskin
bodhran.
The gathering crowd, the ancient music, the tension in the air, all added up to the eerie suspicion that something important was about to take place.

“Thirty years it’s been since we last seated the MacBride.” Conn O’Donnell cuffed young Curran in the head. “Look lively, now. It’s your first inauguration and a proud day for Clonmuir.”

“’Twould be prouder still if we had a priest to sing a high mass.” Tom Gandy trotted up on his pony. He eyed Wesley. “Aye, a priest would be good right about now.”

A prick of guilt stabbed at Wesley. These people put great stock in priests. As a former novice, he could bring some comfort to their souls, but he held his tongue. He strongly suspected a traitor at Clonmuir, for their own chaplain had disappeared. But in their faces he saw only simplicity and strength and faith; he could not imagine who would inform on a priest to gain a bounty.

The only obviously treacherous man among them, he reflected, was John Wesley Hawkins.

The music stopped. The people passed through the church doorway, carved with Celtic and Christian symbols. The mysterious perfume of incense struck Wesley with vivid memories of other masses, other ceremonies. Candlelight danced with the shadows of the north wall, where half columns framed a bank of unglazed windows. The chancel arch opened over a simple stone altar.

Wearing battle gear and chewing on a heel of bread, Seamus stood in front of the altar. Magheen sat on a kneeler turned backward. Arrayed like a princess in a gown of blue linen so fine it was called Irish silk, she glared across the middle aisle at Logan Rafferty, who glowered back.

Seamus brushed the crumbs from his beard and breastplate. Dented and rusted in places, the joints creaking hollowly with each movement, the tarnished armor was a sad reminder that Ireland had been at war for generations.

Seamus wore a long broadsword with a bold tracery of Celtic knots etched along the blade. A single unfaceted garnet winked from the hilt.

Seamus turned to mount the steps to the altar. His broadsword slammed against the rail. His rusty armor groaned. He nearly fell on his face.

“Girded to rescue the priests of Ireland,” remarked Tom Gandy. “What think you of our crusader, Mr. Hawkins?”

“He’d be perfect for the role of Don Quixote.”

Gandy scratched his head. “Donkey who?”

“A Spanish knight in a drama by Cervantes. He treated whores as ladies and went tilting at windmills. But he was wise, in a mad way. Wiser than most.”

“Ah, the perfect role for our Seamus,” said Tom.

“Where’s Caitlin?”

Tom jerked his head to one side. “In the Lady chapel.”

Candlelight illuminated a slim, kneeling figure, her back turned and her head bent in prayer. The flames winked off a statue of a serenely smiling Virgin.

Neither serene nor smiling, Caitlin rose and turned, walking across the front of the church toward the altar.

She wore a long white robe several sizes too large for her. Intertwined Celtic symbols adorned the cuffs and hem. Her head was bare, her hair loose in a shimmering fall of colors ranging from sun gold to deep tawny amber. A quiet power fired the look of determination in her eyes, the clenching of her fists at her sides.

Wesley wondered if he had been mistaken to suggest electing Caitlin as the MacBride.

It was a good move, a wise move, he told himself. Perhaps now Caitlin would have no time to lead the Fianna on more murderous rampages.

“She’s been here all night,” said Tom. “Praying.”

A strange ache lodged in Wesley’s throat. Caitlin would carry the weight of Clonmuir on her shoulders. But she was only a girl, he reminded himself. A girl.

The musicians struck up a new tune as the congregation filed out of the church. Wesley waited on the ancient porch. When Caitlin passed by, she paused before stepping down onto the road.

The look on her face struck him like a blow from Liam’s hammer. Never had he seen such pure, savage purpose. And yet sadness lurked in the shadows beneath her eyes. Her youth—even the small portion of it she had enjoyed—lay behind her. What lay ahead, he knew with a vicious twist of guilt, was heartbreak.

“Ah, Caitlin,” he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

She lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “For what?”

“For proposing you as chieftain. ’Tis too great a burden.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Hawkins. I only pray I’m worthy to bear it.” She went to mount the black horse. Behind her rode Seamus on a tall, tough-looking white pony. Then came Tom, Rory, and Liam, Magheen riding astride with her gown hiked up, followed by a surly Logan Rafferty.

Behind them tramped the inhabitants of the stronghold and village.

Full of a gut-deep, unnameable dread, Wesley joined the march toward the rocky coast.

They came to a cliff topped by the Rock of Muir. Tumbled stones, hewn by ancient hands, circled the broad, grassy area.

“The Giants’ Round,” Tom Gandy informed Wesley. “Faith, it’s no accident that the boulders form a perfect circle around the throne of the MacBride. How do you reckon they got here?”

“I suppose you want me to say magic.”

“Don’t you believe in magic, Mr. Hawkins?”

“No.”

Gandy grinned. “What a careless mortal you are then, my friend.”

Caitlin stepped to the center of the circle. Sea mist swathed the scene in silvery mystery. Wesley felt like a spectator at a pagan drama, enacted in a world in which he didn’t belong.

He set his jaw; he should be accustomed to the role of outcast. And yet today the sense of crushing aloneness weighed heavily on his spirits.

Caitlin turned to her father. Her unconventional beauty riveted Wesley. Even Magheen’s delectable comeliness faded in comparison.

Seamus held out a slim white stick. “My daughter,” he said, “you are the hope of Clonmuir. Take thou the throne of the MacBride.”

She grasped the white wand. Acting as the
ollam,
Tom recited the laws she would swear to uphold. She held herself like a queen, her head and feet bare, the wind tossing her hair into a froth of gold and amber. The newly risen sun shot through the mist and bathed her in radiance. She seemed to absorb the light, a precious opal filled with the colors of magic.

As Caitlin approached the rock, the rhythm of the music quickened. A stiff wind skirled down from the granite heights. Her slight limp was the only evidence that she breathed as any other mortal, that she was a woman who could be hurt.

Wesley nearly called out to her to stop, to turn back, to abandon her burden. But he held his silence. She was a woman to run toward danger, welcoming it, embracing it.

When Caitlin reached the rounded crest of the rock, the music stopped, giving way to a breathless silence disturbed only by the crash of the sea and the lonely cry of a cormorant.

Caitlin turned. The white robes parted to reveal a black tabard emblazoned with a golden harp. She lifted the wand toward the blazing dawn sky.

“This is the symbol of the MacBride,” she called in clear Gaelic.
“Is treise tuath no tighearna!”

“A people is stronger than a lord!” the others echoed.

Caitlin turned in a slow circle, viewing her domain.

And it was hers, Wesley realized, chilled to the bone by the primitive ceremony. Aye, the English might claim the land, but Caitlin MacBride owned its soul. He saw the truth in her fierce eyes, in the protectiveness of her regard, in the strange stillness that gripped her despite the swirling, howling wind.

She was the dawn star, her incandescence undimmed even by light of day. Long after her delicate bones were dust, her spirit would shine forever in the sky of eternity.

“MacBride!” shouted Seamus, his voice strong above the battering sea.

“MacBride!” The entire gathering, save a glowering Logan Rafferty, took up the inaugural cry. It carried in a thundering wave across the land.

With all the hopes and promises of her people glowing in her eyes, Caitlin descended from the Rock of Muir. Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks. She passed close to Wesley but did not look at him, only stared straight ahead at an eternity hidden to him. She seemed spellbound by thoughts he could not imagine.

Never, ever, had Wesley felt so drawn to a woman. It was a fever in his body and a madness in his mind, a fire out of control. Shocked at himself, he remembered his plan.

For Laura’s sake, he must get Caitlin to London. For her own sake, he must... Again, the sharp wanting brought him up short. He would do what he must.

* * *

When she awoke the day after the inaugural celebration, Caitlin felt drained. For the hundredth time, she asked herself what devil had goaded her into taking the mantle of the MacBride. For the hundredth time, she forced herself to admit that her motivation had been composed of equal measures of desperation, devotion, and raw ambition.

Holding a large, wooden-bound book, she stood in the yard with the rest of the household to say farewell to her father.

She would miss his wonderful smile, his blithe conversation, even his moments of sheer lunacy.

And she would worry about him. Brian, whose sword arm made him formidable and whose ready wit made him good company, would ride with Seamus as both bodyguard and companion.

Hawkins leaned against the well in the center of the yard, one leg cocked and his booted toe pointed at the ground, the cannonball lying at his feet. His cavalier’s pantaloons and white shirt, parted at the collar to reveal his muscular neck, flapped in the breeze. He gave her a jaunty smile and a wave.

Why, she wondered in annoyance, must I struggle so hard to look away from him? An aura of allure hovered about the Englishman, a curious quality that arrested the eye and tweaked the imagination. Perhaps it was the unexpected red hair, or the unusual hue of his eyes, the color of moss in shadow. Or the smile that caught at her heart and never let go.

She tore her attention from the prisoner and clutched the heavy book to her chest. Like the musty smell of the pages, the ideas contained within the tome lingered in her mind.

Seamus came out of the stable yard mounted on his tall pony. Brian followed on his own mount, leading a smaller pack horse. Caitlin felt a twinge of sadness at the sight of her father. He was a man of great heart and farseeing vision, yet that very vision obscured the everyday problems right under his nose. Deaf to the quarrels of his men, immune to the melancholy of his daughter, he embraced larger purposes most men gave up as lost causes.