by Susan Wiggs
Caitlin scrambled to her feet. Wesley fixed an easy smile on his face, leapt onto the rock, and slammed his elbow into the seaman’s ribs.
The man tottered at the edge of the dock, failed to regain his balance, and toppled into the cold waters of Galway Bay.
“Sorry, my good man,” said Wesley, speaking above the laughter of his crewmates. “Haven’t gotten my sea legs back to land yet.”
Captain Tate and a company of musketeers accompanied Wesley, Caitlin and Father Tully to Titus Hammersmith’s residence in Little Gate Street. An aide directed them to the rear of the building, where Hammersmith stood behind a field table, paying out bounties to wolf hunters who looked as wild and dangerous as their prey.
The aide whispered in Hammersmith’s ear. The commander turned, and wonder broke over his face. “Hawkins, is that you? By God, man, I thought you were dead!” He raised a distracted hand to his temple where a lock was missing from his beautiful glossy hair. The new growth resembled a bottle brush, Wesley saw with some satisfaction.
A few minutes later, Captain Tate had been dismissed with a citation for a job well done, and Wesley and his companions were accompanied by an armed guard into Hammersmith’s drawing room.
Barefoot and bedraggled, Caitlin stood beside Father Tully and gaped at the room, taking in the velvet hangings on the windows, the cut-crystal service on a rosewood sideboard, the ivory Aran wool carpet.
He knew she had never set foot in a town house before. And he knew she realized that all the luxurious trappings, from the brass and etched-glass lamps on the mantelpiece to the brocaded settee facing the hearth, had once belonged to an Irish family.
“And who are these...” Hammersmith paused a moment, studying Caitlin and Father Tully “...people?”
Wesley cleared his throat. “Sir, they are—”
Caitlin slapped him on the chest and stepped forward. “I don’t need an Englishman to speak for me. I’m Caitlin MacBride of Clonmuir, and this is my chaplain, Father Tully.”
“The blessings of God be upon your head, sir,” Father Tully said obligingly.
Hammersmith leaned over and had another murmured conversation with his aide. When the man left, the captain turned to Wesley. “I trust you have some explanation for this.”
Before Wesley could answer, Caitlin strode across the carpet, set her hands on her hips, and thrust up her chin. “No, you must do the explaining, sir. I have been dragged from my home, pirated by your Roundheads, and held prisoner by this—this—” For want of an adequate insult, she gestured furiously at Wesley.
Hammersmith glared at her in distaste. “Madam, no one speaks to me in that tone—least of all an Irish wench.” He held his arm toward the doorway. “Mr. Hawkins?”
Wesley stepped into the hall and nearly collided with Edmund Ladyman. The soldier blanched, then hissed a curse through his drooping mustache.
“I’m no ghost, Ladyman,” Wesley assured him grimly.
“Keep them under guard,” Hammersmith instructed his men. With a wave of his hand, he gestured Ladyman into the room. “If she so much as blinks, clap her and the priest in irons.” He wrinkled his nose. “Oh, and don’t let her sit on the furniture.”
Wesley restrained the urge to throttle his commander. Hammersmith’s contempt for Caitlin was but a mild foretaste of what she would soon face.
Hammersmith stalked into his office, jerked his head to indicate that Wesley was to enter, and slammed the door.
“Damn it, Hawkins, this had better be good. If Lord Cromwell didn’t have such high regard for your abilities, I’d have you transported to the Barbados where riffraff and madmen like you belong.”
Wesley stood easily against a thick carved chair. “Are you finished, Captain?”
Equally sarcastic, Hammersmith made a small bow. “I await your explanation.”
“It’s simple enough.” His plan had to work. He had to bend Hammersmith to his will. “I’ve captured the leader of the Fianna, and I’m ready to take ship back to England.”
Hammersmith’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve captured the devil? God’s blood, why didn’t you say so right off? Where is the scoundrel?”
“In your drawing room.”
“The priest? Impossible! The popish lout doesn’t look capable of leading a flock of spring lambs much less a company of rebels. Impossible, I say.”
“You’re right. It’s not the priest.”
Red faced with frustrated confusion, Hammersmith burst out, “Enough of riddles. Just tell me—”
“It’s the girl.”
Shock, disbelief, and suspicion led the Roundhead’s features through a series of contortions. “Impossible!”
“It came as a surprise to me as well.” Wesley suffered a vivid memory of the night he had nearly killed Caitlin. “But it’s true. I witnessed her in action the night of the Lough Corrib raid.”
“None of the survivors of that raid mentioned a girl.”
“She fights in a war helm with a veil.”
Hammersmith rubbed his jaw. “Ladyman did say he saw you bring down a man on a black horse. He was under the impression you’d perished in the raid.”
“The horseman was Caitlin MacBride.”
Rocking back on his heels, Hammersmith pinched his lip between his thumb and forefinger. “Extraordinary.”
“I agree. She’s rather like Joan of Arc.”
“Who’s that?” asked Hammersmith. “Another female chieftain?”
Wesley felt a rare wistful longing to be in the company of scholars at Douai, where they not only had heard of Joan, but could tell her story in seven languages.
“Never mind.”
Hammersmith steepled his fingers. “So. Since you and Ladyman are eyewitnesses to her treachery, I think we can dispense with a trial.”
“I think dispensing with a trial is an excellent idea, sir.”
“I’m glad you agree. Honestly, I confess I had my doubts about you, but we finally seem to see eye to eye on this matter. Now. I’ve a full schedule tomorrow. We’re getting ready to send a shipment of wenches to the Indies, and—”
“A shipment of what?”
“Of wenches, Mr. Hawkins. Women.”
“Irishwomen?”
“Of course. You don’t think we’d subject good Englishwomen to transportation, do you?”
“So these women volunteered to be transported to the colonies?”
“Are you daft? Of course they didn’t volunteer.”
Wesley’s vision swam with rage. “You’re forcing them?”
Hammersmith laughed. “Forcing is just a word. Their villages are rubble; their fields bear nothing but weeds. Their men are all killed or exiled. They have no life here.”
Because we took it from them, Wesley thought. And then, like pieces of a puzzle, a picture formed in his mind. His hand went to the fold of his belt, where his papers were stored, including the list of names he had purloined from Hammersmith. Now he realized it was not a census roll at all, but a receipt.
“My God,” he said, barely able to govern his fury, “you sold them into bondage.”
“That’s a lie! This is a legitimate enterprise sanctioned by the Commonwealth.”
“No.” Wesley took a step forward. Hammersmith’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. “You collected money for the women. And I doubt the Commonwealth will see a copper penny of it.”
Hammersmith’s color deepened. He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “We stray from the point. I merely brought up the matter to explain why the execution can’t take place until the day after tomorrow.”
Wesley planted his hands on his hips. “You’re not going to execute her.” He was certain of it now.
“Cromwell requires only her head. From the way she behaves, I’d think you’d be grateful. Alive, she’s bound to be a great deal of trouble.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more, Captain. She does indeed promise to be trouble.”
“Damn it, you’re doing it again. You’r
e talking in riddles.”
“I don’t mean to. Captain Hammersmith, the young lady is not to be executed.” The power of his knowledge about the Roundhead’s deceit swelled within him.
Hammersmith slammed a beefy fist down on the desk. “For God’s sake, why the devil not?”
“Because I’m going to marry her.”
* * *
“Impossible!” Caitlin stood in a stateroom of the English trading frigate Mary Constant. In front of her stood John Wesley Hawkins. “Sure that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
Hawkins nodded agreeably. “A few months ago I would never have believed it. But that was before I met you, Caitlin.”
“Save your infernal blather. For once in your life, tell the truth. Just what are you about?”
“First, marrying you. Second, taking you to London. And third, returning to Clonmuir, preferably before it falls to ruins for lack of a chieftain.”
“London? What the devil is this about London?”
“It’s our destination.”
“I won’t go. Hammersmith will punish the people of Clonmuir.”
“He will not. I’ve ensured Hammersmith’s cooperation.”
“I trust no Sassenach. You least of all.”
He took her hand firmly and led her to a settle which ran beneath the stern windows. The trading vessel rode deeply in Galway Bay, her holds crammed with spoils from raids on Irish towns and strongholds. “Caitlin, you must stop playing the rebel long enough to listen.”
She tossed back her tangled hair. It hadn’t seen a comb since the day Wesley had pirated the hooker and kidnapped her. “I’m listening.”
His eyes deepened with an emotion she could not fathom. “I came to Ireland in the secret service of the Lord Protector, Oliver Cromwell.”
She leapt up in a fury, her hands forming fists. “I knew it! You sneaking seonin, I should have—”
He grabbed her wrists. “You’re supposed to be listening.”
She pushed his hands away and glared at him.
“My task was to find the leader of the Fianna and bring his head to Cromwell.”
Sheer terror streaked through Caitlin. She did not allow so much as a tremor to betray her. “I see,” she said coldly. “And you think to be amusing yourself by making me your wife, and then yourself a widower.”
“Of course not. Now look. Cromwell wants you stopped, and he sent me to do it. If I fail, he’ll find another assassin who lacks my scruples.”
“You have no scruples. You’re a lying, cheating—”
“My lies will save your neck. I have Cromwell’s sworn statement that neither he nor his agents will bring harm to any of my kin.”
“You have kin?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, and gave her a look of soul-deep pain she did not want to see.
“I doubt you do.” She forced out the insult. “You probably crawled from beneath a rock somewhere.”
His gaze shifted. In nervousness? she wondered.
“I thought it prudent to word the statement so as to include any of my kin.”
“And why are you so afraid for your own life that you would compel the devil to swear such a thing?”
“Because I had been condemned to die for my papist activities. Cromwell’s Secretary of State literally snatched me from Tyburn Tree.” Absently he touched his neck. She recalled the fading marks she had seen there when she had bathed him.
“So that’s how it is,” she said. “Cromwell promised you your life in exchange for mine.” At least she understood him now. But that didn’t mean she had to like him any better.
“Don’t you see, Caitlin? Marriage is a way to solve both our problems.”
And a way, she thought bleakly, to shatter the dream I have cherished in my heart for four years. When she thought of Alonso coming for her only to find her married to an Englishman, she wanted to weep. Yet even in her grief she recognized the humanity of Hawkins’s scheme. He could have simply killed her. Most Englishmen would have.
“Assume I agree to this farce. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Marriages between English and Irish have been outlawed.”
“Titus Hammersmith made the same point. However, the marriage will be perfectly legal so long as it takes place at sea. An interesting loophole, is it not?”
“This is absurd. How can you think that marriage will transform me into some submissive Englishman’s wife—”
“Who says I want a submissive wife, Cait?”
“—and stop Cromwell from doing his worst?”
He gripped her arms. “Damn it, I have to believe that.”
Disconcerted by his urgency, she pulled back. “And do you really think I’ll cease to fight the Roundheads?”
“You’ve tested your luck too often. You’ve challenged fate and won. But one day it will have to end. One day you’ll be stopped by force if you don’t stop on your own. We’ll find a safer way to resist the Roundheads.”
“We? You speak as if you intend to come back to Clonmuir.”
“Indeed I do.”
“Why?”
“Because England is not my country anymore. Cromwell has failed to keep the peace. He’s taken freedom away from good men and women. We’re at war with Spain, with the Netherlands, probably with France, too. I tried my damnedest to help King Charles back to the throne, but it’s not working.”
“And why should I be after caring about Charles Stuart? No English monarch has treated fairly with Ireland. Henry the Eighth gave us his bastard son as a leader. Elizabeth outlawed our faith. King James gave our lands to foreigners. Charles the First forgot we existed except to collect taxes. Why should I expect fairness from a new king?”
“Can anyone short of the devil himself do worse for Ireland than Cromwell has done?”
Painful hope rose inside her. “You seem to have switched loyalties.”
He pulled her close, pressed his lips to her hair. “Aye, Cait. So it seems.”
She let him hold her for a moment, enjoying against all reason the comforting feel of his arms around her. “Why go to England at all? Why do you not simply disappear into the countryside or take ship for the colonies?”
“I have to return to London.”
She drew herself out of his arms. “Why?” she repeated.
New pain flickered in his eyes. “I’m bound by my word.”
She turned to the stern windows and stared across the bay. In the distance wallowed a great hulk. Boatloads of people were being rowed to the huge ship. Caitlin squinted through a glare of sunlight. A feeling of dread curled in her gut. “Blessed Mary,” she whispered. “Those are women. Where are they going? Tell me. I demand to know.”
“They’re being transported to the Barbados to help populate the island.”
“As slaves, you mean.” She pressed her hand to her throat and prayed she would not be sick. But she nearly retched, for the thought of all those young women, ripped from their homes and families, made her ill.
She swung to face Hawkins. “I hate all English. You’d be miserable as my husband.”
“I’m no stranger to misery.”
“I will not marry you.”
“Yes, you will.”
“No proper priest would ever consent to this farce.”
“Father Tully agrees with me wholly.”
“That’s a lie.”
Before she knew what was happening, he drew her close. “You will marry me, Caitlin MacBride.”
“Never.”
“Then I’m afraid you’ll never see Clonmuir again.”
A cold shiver passed through her. “That, Mr. Hawkins, would kill me. Believe it.”
“And then where would Clonmuir be? Tom Gandy alone cannot act as chieftain. Your father was no leader. Clonmuir will fall to ruins.” He gestured at the hulk, the women lining the rails. “Your friends would probably be transported—those who didn’t die defending their freedom.”
“Oh, God,” she whispered. She had no choice. No choice.
This English scoundrel had trapped her like a vixen in a snare.
Eleven
Mr. Hopewell, captain of the merchantman Mary Constant, always traveled with his wife. Younger than Caitlin and childless, the lady warbled like a lark at daybreak as she bustled around the stateroom.
“We’ll surprise everyone for certain, oh my, yes. Here, the bath’s ready and I’ll just find something for you to wear.”
Caitlin stood in her shift in the hip bath. The fresh, scented water felt heavenly, and she wished the bath were big enough to immerse her entire body.
“Here’s a silk velvet.” Mrs. Hopewell pulled a garment from a chest. “It will look stunning on you, oh my, yes. See?” The orange confection, bubbling with lace and bows, resembled a floral arrangement rather than a dress.
“I’ll be after wearing my own clothes, thank you.” Caitlin bent to dip her hair in the water.
“Oh, but you mustn’t. Your—er, what is this thing called?”
“Kirtle.”
“Your kirtle is simply in tatters.” She drew out another dress, this one yellow and black. The Mary Constant carried a seemingly endless supply of clothing and furnishings, some seized from the Irish and others confiscated from the English settlers who had embraced the cause of Irish independence. “You can’t go to your own wedding looking like a beggar woman.”
Caitlin scowled. It would serve Hawkins right if she did. “Mrs. Hopewell,” she said, her voice cool but polite. “Those are English fashions. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I’m proud to dress as an Irishwoman.”
“Like it or not, Miss MacBride, you are an English subject about to become an Englishman’s wife.”
Scrubbing furiously at her hair, Caitlin winced. “Other conquered people submit to the ways of their aggressors,” she said. “That’s not true of the Irish. The English who came here under Elizabeth adopted our ways, our culture, our mode of dress. Now they’re as Irish as a singing harp. Many of them are fighting Cromwell alongside their Celtic hosts.” She scooped water over her hair. “I’ll go to this marriage dressed as my mother went to hers, as her mother before her did.”
But I will not have willingness in my heart as they did, she thought bleakly.
Under her breath, the little woman muttered, “Stubborn as Mr. Hopewell on the Sabbath day. Perhaps there’s something...” She opened another chest. “These come from Castle Kellargh.”