The Maid of Ireland

by Susan Wiggs

  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’v
e 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.

  Four

  Footsore and grubby from the long trek to Galway, Wesley reflected glumly on his visit to Clonmuir. He had found no barbarous Irish rebels, but men dedicated to preserving their lands and their very lives from English invaders. Caitlin MacBride was not the uncivilized harpy Cromwell had warned him about, but a fascinating woman with a heart big enough to embrace all of Clonmuir and Irish refugees as well.

  A heart big enough to believe the lies of John Wesley Hawkins. She had believed him when he’d told her he meant to sneak back to Galway and stow away on a ship. She had given him a sack of provisions from her meager stores. She had consecrated his journey with the poetry of an Irish blessing.

  An image of her rose in his mind. Like yesterday, he remembered Caitlin, her skin colored by wind and sun, her features stamped with remarkable character, her hair a waving cloud the color of wheat at harvest time. Most vividly of all he recalled her eyes, soft as honey one minute and hard as amber jewels the next. And filled, in unguarded moments, with a look that almost made him believe in magic.

  Pushing aside the thought, he gazed down the street to the wharves. The English Commissioners for Ireland had promised that Galway would become another Derry, open to Spain, to the Straits, to the West Indies and beyond.

  But no new world port took root in Galway. Its marble palaces had been handed over to strangers, her native sons and daughters banished. The town had become a ruin, a host to a few hulks full of plundering soldiers and Roundhead field artillery.

  Wesley wished he could descend into the blind emptiness that had claimed him when he had faced torture, but the comforting oblivion eluded him. Everything he had done since Cromwell had seized Laura went against his unusual but rigid code of honor. If he thought too hard about capturing Logan Rafferty and delivering his rebel head to Cromwell, he would not be able to live with himself.

  Heartsore, Wesley picked through pitted streets and neglected buildings to the house in Little Gate Street where Captain Titus Hammersmith kept his headquarters. The good stone town house had two chimneys, a neat kitchen garden on the side, and a guard posted on the stoop.

  Where was the family Hammersmith had turned out in order to set himself up in comfort? Probably wandering in exile, possibly begging a meal and shelter at the gate of Clonmuir.

  A sergeant-at-arms let him in and led him down a dim corridor. The house was overheated—Hammersmith complained loudly about the damp Irish cold—and smelled of burning peat and cooked cabbage. Wesley entered a well-lit library. Hammersmith stood at the desk, poring over maps spread out before him.

  The Roundhead commander turned, his well-fed bulk filling the space between the desk and wall. It would be a mistake to assume him soft, though. In the middle of his thick body dwelt a heart as cold and immovable as Connemara marble. His one vanity was a profusion of glossy brown ringlets that gave him the look of a cavalier rather than a Roundhead.

  “Ah, Hawkins,” he said. “You’re back.” His gaze slid from Wesley’s drooping hat to his damp boots. “Hard journey, was it?”

  “I had to walk.”

  “What happened to that little coracle I gave you?”

  He had given the sailing vessel to a down-at-the-heels fisherman in the Claddagh who had lost his own boat to English thieves. “Battered on the rocks,” he said.

  Wesley studied the maps. They were copies of the ones Cromwell had shown him, but these had been crisscrossed by battle plans. “So it’s true. You are planning an advance.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I heard at Clonmuir.”

  Hammersmith’s jowls quivered. “You were at Clonmuir! But you’ve been gone less than a fortnight.”

  “I told you, I work quickly.”

  “You’re living up to your reputation. I’m surprised that mad MacBride woman didn’t roast your bald parts on a spit.”

  She did worse than that, thought Wesley. She stole my heart.

  “How’d you get out alive?”

  “I overwhelmed her with my personal charm,” said Wesley.

  Hammersmith’s eyes narrowed. “Are your papers still in order?”

  Wesley patted his stomacher. The wide belt was stiff from the inner pouch of waterproof waxed parchment. “I still have my safe conduct from you, and my passport and letters of marque from Cromwell.” He frowned down at the maps. “You shouldn’t have planned to march without consulting me. An advance at this time would be ill-advised.”

  Danger speared like a shaft of light in Hammersmith’s eyes. “And why, pray, is that?”

  “I told you. They know about it at Clonmuir.”

  “Impossible! It was in the strictest of confidence that I—” Hammersmith clamped his mouth shut. “They can
’t know.”

  “They do.”

  “What else did you find out at Clonmuir?”

  “The identity of the leader of the Fianna.”

  Hammersmith’s eyebrows lifted, disappearing into the lovelocks that spilled over his brow. He held himself still, waiting, a snake about to strike. “And...?”

  “Logan Rafferty, lord of Brocach.”

  The eyebrows crashed back down. The cruel face paled. “Impossible!” he said again.

  “I’m fairly certain,” said Wesley. “He has great influence in the district, and seems a man made for fighting. He’s also married to a daughter of the MacBride.”

  “Is that all you offer me?”

  Wesley recalled his dance with Magheen, the conversation interrupted by Caitlin’s well-placed foot. “His wife practically admitted he’s involved.”

  “Then she was having you on.”

  “I can find out for certain quickly enough,” said Wesley. “I know where Rafferty’s stronghold is. With a small party of—”

  “I can spare no men.” Slamming the subject closed, Hammersmith gestured at the sideboard. “Will you have something to chase away the chill?”

  Wesley hesitated, trying to see past the guarded look in the soldier’s eyes. “Please.”

  As Hammersmith went to pour, Wesley lifted a corner of the map and scanned the sea chart. Inishbofin, an island off the coast of Connaught, was marked with a crudely drawn cross. Putting down the map, he turned his attention to what appeared to be a bill of lading half hidden under the leather desk blotter. Instead he saw that it was a list of women’s names and ages, each followed by a number. A census roll? Wesley wondered. Common sense told him that it was; the finger of ice at the base of his spine warned him otherwise.

  Quick as a thief, he snatched the paper and slipped it into his belt. It would bear pondering later.

  At the sideboard, Hammersmith splashed usquebaugh out of a crystal bottle. The bottle had a silver collar bearing the claddah, two hands holding a heart, oddly surmounted on a badger.

  Accepting the large glass, Wesley took a long drink. The amber liquid slid over his tongue and down his gullet, heating his stomach.