The Maid of Ireland (24 page)

“Around your gullet if you don’t shut that great trap,” Caitlin retorted.

His face as dark as a thundercloud, Wesley stepped from the barge. His booted foot landed squarely on the man’s instep.

“Ouch! ’Ave a care there, sir!”

“So sorry,” Wesley murmured. Reaching down, he took Caitlin’s hand and helped her to the stone quay.

She ignored the hapless footman. MacKenzie led the way along a passageway past the chapel and the Great Hall, across the broad courtyard and under the palace gate, and finally into the Outer Chamber, teeming with protectoral officials, dark-clad clerics, and foreign dignitaries. She fought an urge to hold onto Wesley’s arm for support. At the same time, her eyes combed the crowd. Possibly, just possibly...

“He wouldn’t be here,” Wesley muttered under his breath. “Your grandee wouldn’t mingle with commoners.”

Caitlin flushed, wondering at the ease with which he read her thoughts. She gave her attention to the Great Chamber and then the Presence Chamber. Opulence shimmered in the rooms, dripped from the crown of candles suspended by a chain from the ceiling, and glowed in the sober portraits that lined the walls.

Wesley’s gaze searched the busy room even more desperately than hers had. Whom did he seek? she wondered. A former lady love? For the first time, it struck her that she still knew little of his past, nothing of the people he had known.

“The Lord Protector is with his daughter Bettie, the Lady Claypole, at Hampton Court.” A liveried man hurried forward, extending his hand to Wesley. “He will be back within the week.”

Wesley swore under his breath.

MacKenzie blew the red bulb of his nose. “The puir lady’s still ailin’, is she?”

The messenger lowered his eyes. “Lost her baby son a fortnight ago. Oliver, he was called, after his grandsire.”

Caitlin pressed her lips together. She did not want to think of Cromwell as human, a grandfather grieving with his daughter over a baby’s death.

The official turned to Wesley. “You’re guests of the Protectorate.”

Two soldiers marched forward, swords slapping against their blousy trousers.

“We’re not guests at all,” she snapped, her heart catapulting to her throat. “We’re prisoners.”

* * *

For three days, Caitlin lived alone in guarded luxury. A snap of her fingers brought hot water for a bath. A nod of her head summoned a houseboy with firewood. The amount she ate at a single meal would have fed Mrs. Boyle and her entire brood.

Wesley sent a mercer, a clothier and a seamstress. Simply to escape the stultifying boredom, Caitlin submitted to their measuring and pin sticking.

Her heart ached with loneliness as she gazed out a high window at the cold stone buildings that housed the privy apartments of the Protectorate. She longed for the wild splendor of Connemara, the sharp smell of the sea in the summer air. She missed the evenings in the hall, listening to Magheen playing the harp or Tom Gandy spinning hero tales that grew more and more improbable with each cup of smoky, rye-flavored poteen.

And finally, she admitted to herself that she missed Wesley.

He had banished her from his heart because she would not yield her own to him.

He spent his days closed in a library, a room devoted entirely to books. He met daily with protectoral officials. Sometimes she heard the sound of hearty laughter and thought bitterly that they must consider it a grand joke that Wesley had taken an Irish bride. Other times she heard voices raised in anger and wondered if they would have her head, after all.

On the fourth day, the dressmaker arrived with her trunks and assistants. “The master wants you gowned straightaway.”

A frisson of fear sneaked down Caitlin’s spine. The summons could mean that Cromwell had arrived from Hampton Court. “I dislike these fashions.”

“Ladies of quality adore my designs.”

“As a game hen adores being trussed for the roasting spit,” Caitlin retorted, but she gave in. The sooner Wesley dragged her before Cromwell, the sooner she could go back to Clonmuir and be done with this farce. Besides, the rebel in her wanted to meet Cromwell, wanted to face the devil who murdered Irish babies because, as he put it, “Nits make lice.” She wanted to tell the Lord Protector of England to go to hell.

An hour later, Caitlin studied her wavy image in a tall standing mirror. Wicker farthingale hoops shaped an overskirt of emerald velvet, parted in the center to reveal a silk petticoat. Satin slippers with chunky high heels peeped from beneath the hem. Glittering with gold thread, the bone-stiffened bodice rose in a V from waist to shoulders. The dresser had swept her hair into a loose braid and pinned it up with shell combs.

What a stranger she looked. A
Sassenach
stranger.

A footman came to accompany her down the grand staircase to the broad foyer. Wesley stood at the bottom.

He, too, looked the stranger, dressed in loose black trousers cinched at the waist by his ornate belt, and cuffed knee boots polished to a high sheen. A flowing black cloak was drawn back to reveal a dress sword at his hip. A hat with the brim turned up jauntily on one side shadowed his face.

She caught her breath. Were she an artist, she would yearn to capture the picture he made—his easy pose, his insouciant grin and the riveting masculinity that emanated from him. Were she a poet, she would try to shape his appeal in words—the blithe charm on the surface, the undercurrent of pain and regret in his eyes, the nearly invisible world-weary lines about his smiling mouth.

She must be losing her mind. They were enemies. Her goal was to be rid of him and find Alonso, whose memory became more distant each day she spent with Wesley.

“I’m ready,” she stated.

He used one finger to tip back the brim of his hat. His expression changed from astonishment to delight, then finally to a frank lust that nearly propelled her into his arms.

Instead she fixed him with a frosty stare, swept out the door, and marched across the green quadrangle with no notion of where she was going. Wesley’s long, swift strides quickly brought him to her side. “You didn’t give me a chance to tell you how beautiful you look.”

She smoothed her hands over her skirts. “It’s the dress that’s beautiful, by English standards. Devil admire me, but I’m the same as I’ve always been.”

He reached across and cupped her face gently in his hands. “What you are, Cait, and what you have always been, is beautiful.” Leaning down, he kissed her, his lips lingering over hers until she clutched at him. He pulled back, a grin playing about his lips. “I’ve missed you, too,” he said. “But when you come back to me, I want all of you.”

“Forever is a long time.”

“I invited you to dine with me each evening. Why did you refuse?”

“I don’t like being summoned. Besides, England puts a great weariness upon me, and the food disagrees with me.”

His eyebrows clashed in concern. “Are you ill?”

“In the way of a swallow put in a cage, perhaps,” she said.

He subjected her to a long, probing stare that traveled from her face to her breasts to her belly. “Could it be—”

She thrust up her chin. “I presume I’m all tricked out like this because you’re taking me to see the murderer, Cromwell.”

“In time.” Wesley started along a path to the left. MacKenzie scudded watchfully in their wake. “And it would behoove you to refrain from calling him a murderer.”

“You’re right. It’s too good a word for the devil.”

“If you want to get back to Clonmuir, you’ll keep your opinions to yourself and show respect.” His voice dropped, and she heard real fear in his tone. “I mean that, by God. You risk both our necks with your tart tongue.” He took her hand, rubbed her chilled fingers. “So cold.”

“England is a cold country, even in summer.”

A look of revelation passed over his face. “You’re afraid, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m afraid, you great lout. What Irishwoman would not be afraid of Oliver Cromwell?”

“It’s a side of you I’ve not seen before, not even when I abducted you, not even in the heat of battle.”

“When I can meet a man on a battlefield and pit my speed and my wiles against him, I have no reason to fear. In an honest battle, God’s will prevails. But I’m not used to battles of words, waged by cheaters and traitors.”

“Just remember, I’m on your side. I want to protect you, and then I want you to go free.”

She sensed excitement in him and wondered what he was about. “Do you, Wesley?”

No, he thought with a lurch of his heart. I want to hold you and keep you always. I want to bring you and Laura together.

But he could not speak of Laura yet. He was too close to getting her back to risk a confession now. Later, when Laura was safe in his arms and the confrontation with Oliver Cromwell was behind them, he could tell all to Caitlin.

And probably lose her for good.

They entered the privy chamber. Perfect. His timing was perfect. The scene he had orchestrated so carefully was about to unfold. God forgive my cruelty, he thought.

No, he told himself. He would not feel guilty for grinding Caitlin’s dreams to dust. She needed to see the truth, to see that her ideal image of the Spaniard was false.

His hand brushed the dress sword that rode at his hip. If Caitlin’s grandee dared to harm her, Wesley would take great pleasure in running the bastard through.

A shiver passed over Caitlin as she studied the men and women in the crowded room. Gowned officials, resembling crows in their black winglike cloaks and with their shiny dark eyes, stood deep in conversation. Other groups spoke in foreign tongues. Ambassadors, she realized.

Her nerves thrummed, and her gaze sharpened on a knot of dark-haired men near a marble hearth, chafing their hands near the flames. The beautifully coiffed and oiled hair, the glittering costumes, set them apart from the drab-robed English. One man held himself tall and straight, his head cocked slightly as he listened to his stocky companion.

Alonso
.

Joy washed over her, as sweet and pure as sunshine. She stood riveted by the sight of him. Yet at the same time she felt Wesley tensing beside her.

Her memories of Alonso paled beside the reality. Four years had broadened his shoulders, added maturity and wisdom to his handsome features.

A sense of unreality gripped her. So close. After years of anxious waiting and unbearable yearning, she stood mere steps away from realizing her long-cherished dream.

She pressed her fists to her breastbone, felt the pounding of her heart. How would he react when he learned she had wed another? He would understand, she told herself. He would help her find a way out of the mess with Hawkins. With a guilty thrill, she prayed Alonso would not hesitate to express his jubilation at seeing her again. The one chaste kiss they had shared had sustained her for years. But now she knew the meaning of passion. Like it or not, Hawkins had given her that.

Closing her eyes, she envisioned coming together with Alonso, mouths pressing hard, bodies straining for completion.... Her eyes flew open and filled with tears. For the man in her vision had not been Alonso, but—

“Caitlin.”

She turned at the sound of her husband’s voice.

Hawkins. Damn him. He had invaded her fantasies. His frank, rough affection had overrun her dreams of Alonso as the English had razed Ireland’s forests.

He gave her a gentle push in the direction of the Spaniards. “Go and greet him.” His voice was soft, but edged by irony. “It’s what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?”

She hesitated. What could be his purpose in bringing her here deliberately? She decided it was not important. Smoothing her hands over the bony structure of her farthingale, she tossed Wesley a defiant look and started forward.

“Excuse me.”

The four gentlemen turned to her. She was unprepared for the appreciation that lit their faces. Each smiled. Each allowed his gaze to stroke her from head to toe.

Perhaps this English frippery had a purpose, after all.

Braving a rush of bashfulness, she smiled directly at Alonso. Although his gaze devoured her, no recognition flickered in his eyes. With courtly stiffness, he took her hand and bowed over it. “A pleasure beyond compare, I assure you, señorita.”

The lucid thoughts streaming through Caitlin’s mind surprised her. When Wesley touched her, she could not think at all. “Alonso,” she whispered. “Don’t you know me?”

His eyes narrowed. They were smaller than she remembered. Darker. “No, señorita. Should I?”

She stepped back, her hand going out behind her, reaching against her will for support.

For Wesley. But he stood several feet away, watching, his face unreadable.

Cheeks flaming, Caitlin ignored the curious stares of the other Spaniards. “Alonso, it’s Caitlin MacBride of Clonmuir. For the love of God, do you not remember?”

His face changed. A hardness came over his features.

Questions roared through her mind. Had Alonso already learned of her marriage? Did he understand why she had been forced to break faith with him?

Yes. He must. True love knew no jealousy. True love was the essence of pure understanding, unconditional forgiveness. There had never been a love so pure as the one she and Alonso had pledged to one another that day high on the crags of Connemara.

And yet...what was it she had felt, in the dark when Wesley was deep inside her, and their very souls seemed to mate?

Animal passion, she insisted stubbornly. Not the soft, dreamlike emotions she felt for Alonso.

He cleared his throat. A delicate sound. A sound of polite discomfiture. “I did not expect to see you here, señorita.” He bowed to his companions and said something in Spanish. Then he led her out to the long green courtyard and stopped in the shade of an ornamental yew tree.

“Alonso.” His name came on a rush of breath. “I’ve waited so long and fought so hard. There’s so much to discuss.”

He seemed not to hear her. Furtive hunger shadowed his eyes. “
Dios,
but you have become a beauty!” he exclaimed.

With a cry of joy, she flung her arms around his neck.

With an oath of fury, Wesley strode across the green toward them. Caitlin jumped back. Her heart thumped at the deadly expression on her husband’s face. Fury boiled in his eyes and blazed across his features. As he came forward, his hand went to the hilt of his dress sword.