by Susan Wiggs
She had nearly given herself to him. The answer was written on her face as clearly as fresh ink on parchment.
Meeting Rory’s fury with a careless grin, Wesley acknowledged that his plan had failed. He had shown Caitlin her own vulnerability; now she would be more cautious than ever.
He would need a new plan to lure her away from Clonmuir.
Three nights later, the solution dropped into his lap.
Nine
It happened in the deepest part of the night, when even the most vigilant of the wolfhounds lay twitching and snoring among the men and boys in the hall.
Wesley came awake, prodded by a noise so faint he thought he had imagined it. Or dreamed it. But his years as an underground Catholic and royalist had sharpened his senses for the sounds of stealth. He sat still, listening. He heard nothing more, but the hair on the back of his neck lifted.
He tiptoed from the hall, leaving by way of a low side portal designed for escape in times of siege. The yard lay in darkness, the main gate closed fast and the guard at the tower quiet, probably dozing.
Wesley went to the privy stools in a recess of the western wall. He was about to enter the stone enclosure when a strong arm hooked around his neck, closing off his windpipe. Just before his breath was blocked, he had caught a familiar scent. Aye, he knew the smell of men like this: the dust of the open road and the stink of bad food, memories from his days as a fugitive.
He kicked out behind him while his hand plunged into his belt for the knife that wasn’t there. As a prisoner, he was forbidden to carry even a dirk for eating.
Silver stars winked before his eyes. His elbows and knees battered his opponent. Just for a moment, the pressure on his neck eased, and he stole a deep breath. Swearing softly in Gaelic, the assailant said, “Give a hand here. This is the one.”
A second man, a hulk who stank of wet leather and strong drink, leapt in front of Wesley. His fist thudded into Wesley’s gut. A roar of breath emptied from his lungs.
“You’re sure?” the second man asked.
“Aye, ’tis the priest we’re after—the one with ruddy hair and clean-shaven face like a Norman.”
Priest catchers! And Irish ones at that. Wesley’s consciousness had begun to fade, but the realization revived him like a bucket of ice water. He made a strangled sound of fury and lowered his head. The man in front of him doubled his fist for another blow. Inadvertently supported by the man behind him, Wesley drew up his legs, pressed both feet squarely into the broad midsection, and gave a hearty shove. The Irishman fell backward, his knees catching the edge of the privy. His fingers grasped at the empty air.
His body made a muffled crunching sound as he fell down the privy shaft and into the cold sea.
A hiss of horror escaped the man holding Wesley from behind. Wesley seized the moment to twist away and pin the man against the privy seat. A knife flashed; Wesley hammered his assailant’s hand against the stone. The blade dropped to the ground with a dull thud. Eyes bugged with fear stared up at Wesley.
He pressed his thumbs to the man’s Adam’s apple. “Who sent you?”
The man made a gurgling sound. Wesley eased the pressure and heard him say, “Dunno...I swear it! ’Tis rumors we hear in the bruighens, God have mercy!”
The puling plea sickened Wesley. “You dare invoke God’s mercy?” he demanded in a deadly whisper. “You, an Irishman, selling men of faith to the Sassenach?” He centered his weight on the heaving body. The man’s back bowed over the edge of the privy. “Where do you send the priests?”
The man’s face glimmered in the moonlight like damp bread dough. “In...Inish...Inishbofin! Spare me, I beg you—”
“I’m a Catholic. It’s very important that you realize that.”
“Aye. Aye, mercy, I do realize—”
“Excellent,” said Wesley. Lifting with his legs, he pitched the man over the edge.
Shudders convulsed his body as he put his forearm to his brow and vomited, then sank to the ground. The tide would flush the priest catchers away with the filth. Fish would feast on their rotting flesh. And he, of course, would say nothing of the encounter. Caitlin must not know that her home was vulnerable to sneaking traitors. She had enough to fear already.
Then the horror receded, to be replaced by an idea so scathingly manipulative that he shuddered anew. Inishbofin. The isle of the white cow.
Could he deceive these people, these simple folk who put their trust in God and their loyalty in Ireland?
Could he deceive Caitlin, the fierce, committed woman who defended her home against Cromwell?
Laura, he thought. Her helpless image drifted into his mind, and agonizing paternal love twisted through his thoughts. For Laura’s sake, he would tell any lie, commit any sin, brave any danger.
* * *
“I would have a word with you.”
Seated at her writing desk in her privy apartment, Caitlin raised wary eyes to Hawkins. In the instant that she took in his appearance, she remembered every word he had said to her on the strand, remembered every stirring touch of his hands and lips.
Devil take the man. He always looked so clean, so vital, so maddeningly comely. So what? she concluded in annoyance. She was a woman, after all. He had made her experience desire; for that she was grateful. But she wouldn’t let him turn passion into a weakness.
“Shouldn’t you be after hearing confessions and christening babes, your reverence?” she asked in a cutting tone.
He plowed his fingers through his red mane. “I couldn’t tell them no,” he said. Weariness dragged at the smile lines around his eyes. Since Tom’s recovery, folk had besieged Hawkins with the requests they had stored up since the disappearance of the chaplain, Father Tully.
“I tried to explain that I’ve disavowed the priesthood,” he went on. “But they’re so desperate they’ll confess to an imposter.”
“More’s the pity.” She closed her writing desk. She had been penning yet another appeal to Logan Rafferty, asking—nay, begging—him to dismiss the dowry and take Magheen back.
“What is it, Mr. Hawkins?”
His easy smile did nothing to improve her humor. She clung to anger, for it was a safer emotion than the softer ones her heart urged her to feel for him.
“Let’s go outside to the wall walk. It’s a glorious evening.”
A breeze, fresh with the promise of high summer, gusted through the unglazed window and underscored his suggestion. She pushed back from her desk. “Let’s see what you’re about and be done with it.”
They crossed the yard and mounted the steps. The square-topped merlons framed a view of the sea that was as familiar as a psalm, yet as changeable as the clouds scudding in from the west. Great long fronds of sunlight fell over the horizon. Summer days stretched long in Connemara; for hours, the last rays clung tenaciously to the edge of the earth.
“This is the leim, Traitor’s Leap,” she said, propping a bare foot between two merlons.
“I assume there’s a story behind that.” Hawkins filled the gap with his broad frame, leaning over to inspect the long, sheer drop to the rock-bound seacoast.
“Tom would say the breakers are the lost souls of Ireland, rising up from this place to snatch men with treacherous hearts.” She could not resist adding with a gleam in her eye, “So you’d best watch yourself.”
“I’d rather watch you.”
“What is it you wanted to talk to me about?” Caitlin asked.
“I know where the priests of Ireland are.”
A succession of emotions leapt in her chest: shock, hope, distrust. “Is Daida back? Did he find—”
“No. The knowledge doesn’t come from your father.”
She rubbed the side of her hand over the old stone of the wall. “Sure I thought the priests were dead.”
He winced. “They’re not all dead.”
“Why did you wait to tell me?” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Did Hammersmith bid you tell me this lie?”
“Why should I lie about som
ething so easily confirmed?”
“So where are the priests?”
He shook his head. “I’m not a man to give something for nothing. I’ll take you there.”
“Don’t make me laugh. You’ll tell me, or I’ll assume you’re lying.”
His wonderful smile awakened a throb of yearning inside her. He said, “You don’t give so much as an inch, do you? The priests have been exiled to an island.”
She caught her breath, not daring to believe him. “Which island?”
“If I told you, then you’d have no reason to include me on the rescue.”
“And how would a Roundhead horse soldier be knowing about this island?”
“This Roundhead horse soldier knows how to keep his ear to the ground.”
“I’ll have Rory search for the place. If he finds it, the Fianna will attack by sea.”
He swept his arm in an arc toward the open water. “How many islands scatter the coast of Ireland? How long would it take Rory to find the right one?”
She bit her lip. What trick was Hawkins about? Would he commandeer the boat and attempt to sail to freedom? No, not the way she would transport him, bound like the prisoner he was.
“Very well. Rory and Conn will accompany us in the big hooker. And if you’re lying, that will ease my decision as to what I’m going to do with you.”
Grinning, he caught her against him and kissed her loudly on the cheek. “If I’m wrong, you can feed me to the sharks.”
“Don’t tempt me.” Pulling away, she stomped down the stairs into the yard.
* * *
“Hold her steady as she goes,” called Rory Breslin, who piloted the single-masted hooker. “There’s a fair wind for westering. No need to tack.”
Patterned after the Dutch-built hoeker, the vessel was made to ply along the treacherous rocky coast. The English had burned the fishing fleet, but the hooker had escaped serious damage.
Sitting in the bow with his booted foot propped on an upended tender boat, Wesley glowered at the receding shoreline. Clonmuir reared up, its profile crowning the high crags. Its majesty caught at his chest. God, what a place to call home. No wonder the Fianna defended it so fiercely. No wonder Hammersmith craved it.
His hands, bound behind his back, itched to throttle Caitlin MacBride.
Distrustful Irishwoman, tying him up as if he planned some piracy.
His annoyance grew, for piracy was exactly what he planned.
She had just thrown a bit of sand in the cogs, that was all.
He fixed a polite smile on his face and addressed Conn. “How are you going to find your way after dark?”
Conn laughed. “A foolish English question if I ever heard one. We steer by the stars.”
“The sky’s clouding up,” Wesley pointed out. “Tonight you’ll have no stars to guide you.”
Conn drank from a clay bottle of usquebaugh. “In that case, I’ll follow my nose.”
“’Twould be simpler if you’d be leaving off your games and tell us where we’re headed,” said Caitlin.
“Not yet,” Wesley said stolidly.
Conn propped an elbow on the gunwale and addressed Caitlin. “You don’t suppose your father’s found the clerics, do you?”
She made a face. “Sure he’s probably lost on the road to Dublin.”
For the hundredth time Wesley thought his plan through. First he needed to get his hands free. That bit was easy enough. The difficult part would be dispatching Conn and Rory, subduing Caitlin, and setting the Irishmen adrift in the tender.
A daunting prospect. Here he sat, a bound prisoner bent on fighting two armed warriors—no, three. He must remember Caitlin’s fighting skills.
But he also remembered the razor-sharp knife in his boot and the stone-cold purpose in his soul.
The sheltering arms of the cove at Clonmuir opened to broad waters. Here, the sea was rough and the wind high. The hooker climbed a swell to stand upright in the trough. The motion slammed Wesley from one side of the cockpit to the other. Without the use of his hands, he bounced about like a freshly landed fish.
Caitlin let out a yell of pure delight and waved at Rory. “A grand day to be riding the high spot of the sea,” she cried.
Despite the bruises he had taken from the rollicking motion, Wesley smiled. To Caitlin, the caprices of nature were a blessing. She threw herself into the adventure with the eagerness of a child.
Conn, on the other hand, gave a great agonized moan and lost his supper over the side.
“Is it seasick you are, Conn?” asked Caitlin, bending down.
“Aye.” His pale face shone like a full moon. “To the death I am.”
“Sure a bit of a sail won’t kill you.” She gave him a friendly punch on the shoulder.
Conn rolled his eyes to heaven. “Faith, it’s the high hope of death that keeps me alive.”
Laughing, Caitlin handed him the bottle. “Have some more of this. ’Twill tame the wildness in your gut.”
Wesley marveled at his good fortune. Conn seasick! Seizing the opportunity, he announced, “I have to take a leak.”
Conn swore into the bottle. “Wet your trews, then, seonin.”
“Good God, man, give me a little dignity.”
“As the English have given dignity to Ireland?” Caitlin asked.
“Look, I didn’t have to tell you about the priests.”
“Very well,” Rory broke in, irritated. “Just be sure you stand downwind and watch your aim.”
“I’ll need my hands undone,” said Wesley. “Unless you want to undo my laces and hold my pecker for me.”
“God Almighty, anything but that,” Rory snapped.
“Damn your Irish hide, you’d have me pitching over the edge to drown.”
“That might not be such a—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Caitlin burst out. “I’ll hear no more bickering about...about such a ridiculous thing. Just loose his hands and stand ready with the rope.”
“I don’t like it,” the Irishman grumbled.
“Just do it.” Her movements jerky with annoyance, she climbed toward the bow and disappeared on the other side of the tightly pulled foresail.
At the same time, Wesley moved aft, nearly falling on his face more than once. Rory wrestled with the tiller. Foam rushed past the hull, evidence of their high speed.
He presented his back to Conn. “Would you mind hurrying?”
Conn jerked at the knots. Wesley eyed the mainsheet that held the boom in place.
Conn yanked the rope free. Wesley flexed his fingers. “I thought I’d lost my very hands, you had that pulled so tight.”
“Just be about your business.” Conn belched miserably and clutched at his stomach.
“Of course.” Bending his knees to absorb the swells, Wesley turned out to sea. Rory called out a familiar insult in Irish.
Conn stood ready with the rope in one hand and the jug of usquebaugh in the other. He hugged the bottle protectively. “You’ll not be getting so much as a drop to drink,” he said. “It goes through you too fast.”
“I am fast,” Wesley murmured as he finished lacing his trews. With lightning speed, he reached down and snapped the mainsheet free. The rope sang through the pulleys.
The thick boom swung wildly.
Conn ducked, but not fast enough.
The boom thumped into Conn’s shoulder. With a howl of pain, he pitched to the deck.
Wesley shoved him over the side. He made a splash like a geyser, drenching Wesley with cold salt water.
Caitlin scrambled from the bow. “What the—”
“Duck!” shouted Wesley.
The boom sped toward her. For a sick moment he imagined her brains smashed, her dead eyes staring at the sky. “Caitlin!”
She stooped low. Wesley grabbed the flailing sheet and jerked it back into place.
Conn surfaced, spluttering and cursing.
Caitlin gripped the rail. “Conn!”
Wesley moved to her side. His
hand slipped into his boot and withdrew the knife he had seized from the priest catcher. “Can he swim?” he asked.
“Conn! We’ll tack around and pick you up,” she shouted. Rory was already hauling on the tiller.
“I said, can he swim?” Wesley demanded.
“A Clonmuir man? Of course he can swim.”
“Good. Then he can stay afloat until Rory fetches him in the tender.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll just tack around and—”
“You and I are going on alone.”
She gasped as if he’d struck her. She reached for her stag-handled knife. Before her fingers even touched the hilt, Wesley snatched the weapon from its sheath and stuck it into his belt.
Comprehension stormed across Caitlin’s features. In Irish, she screamed to Rory. “He’s turned on us!”
A bellow of rage blasted down the pitching deck. Rory abandoned the tiller and drew his own knife.
Caitlin lunged for Wesley. He caught her against him. “Ah, Cait,” he said, “I’ve dreamed of the day you’d throw yourself into my waiting arms. I’d hoped you would be in a better mood when it happened.”
She kicked and swore. The Irishwoman had more strength than ten English ladies. “Dog!” she yelled. “You kinkish bog-trotting muckworm! You threw Conn overboard!”
“It was you who insisted on bringing him. Good God, woman, will you be still? You’ll have us both in the drink.”
Rory stood in the middle of the cockpit. The sight of the Irishman with teeth bared and weapon ready daunted Wesley enough to make him throw off the last of his principles.
Very carefully, he placed the blade of his knife against Caitlin’s throat.
“You slimy bastard,” she hissed.
“A hundred thousand curses on you,” Rory bellowed.
Thrashing in their wake, Conn added a hundred thousand more.
“Listen carefully,” said Wesley. “I dearly hope you’ll do as I say, for I don’t want to have to kill the MacBride.”
Rory demanded, “What be your will?”
“Get in that tender and go fish Conn out.”
Indecision wrenched the big man’s features.
“Do it,” Wesley ordered.
“But—”
“Either get out of this boat, or I cut the girl.” Wesley used the voice that had once set thieves to quaking in their purloined boots. “Now.”