by Susan Wiggs
“Pregnant!” Her hands lifted to cover her midsection.
“I thought you had conceived my baby on our wedding night.”
The anger melted from her expression. “Ah, Wesley—”
“Do you know how that made me feel?”
She shook her head.
“My heart took wing, Cait. I felt so proud, I wanted to ring all the bells of London.”
“You shouldn’t have leapt to an unlikely conclusion.”
“Unlikely? Caitlin, we made love in the deepest, richest way possible. I gave you a piece of myself, of my body and soul. Is it any wonder that I fancied my love had borne fruit?”
She cast her eyes down. “You should have asked me. You might have spared yourself the disappointment.”
“I’ve coped with disappointment before, believe me.” With an angry motion, he yanked off his doublet and shirt. “You’ve seen the scars. I’ve been tortured. Whipped, stretched, mangled. But your fatigue vanished when you saw your lover. It gave me a pain worse than any torture.” At least under torture he could retreat from the agony. But nothing could shield his heart from Caitlin.
She said, “You knew when you forced me to wed that I didn’t want you.”
He touched her beneath the chin, drew her gaze up to meet his. How was it that she could embody both misty sweetness and implacable will? “What I didn’t know is how much I would come to love you.”
She took his hand and set it aside. “You can’t love me.”
“I do, Caitlin. From the very depths of my soul, I do.”
“Then stop. Just stop it, now.”
“Better I should stop the sun from shining.” He caught her again, pressing her to his chest. The silk of her hair threaded his fingers. “Tell me you care for me.”
“You’ve captured me. You’ve conquered me. What more do you want?”
“I want you to look at me and see no other than the man you love. I want you to feel a start of pure joy when you awaken in the morning and find me beside you. I want you to wish you could rush the sunset so that we can be together sooner.”
She pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks. “You ask the impossible.”
“No. By God, we could have a love such as the angels would envy if you would but let down your fierce Irish pride.” With a groan of yearning he pulled her closer. “These days and nights of silence have been torture.”
“Because you won’t even think of compromising,” she whispered, and he heard the ache of sadness in her voice. “You haven’t even told me the conclusion of your business with Cromwell.”
The pain burrowed deeper into his chest. “Thanks to your friends at Clonmuir, I am still obligated to Cromwell.”
She lowered herself to the bed. The skin tightened across her cheeks. Her distrust was so tangible he fancied he could reach out and grasp it. She asked, “Why do you let him force you to attack my people?”
“He’ll not be satisfied until the Fianna stops raiding.” He held her gaze. “And I will stop it.”
Her cheeks blanched, then flooded with livid color. He thought she might strike him and found himself wishing she would. Instead she twisted her fingers into the bedclothes. “You faithless blackguard,” she said. “You profess to love me. You expect me to be fool enough to believe you. And then you propose to keep me from protecting what is mine. You call that love?” She raised her wide, pleading eyes to him. “If you love me, you’ll turn your back on Oliver Cromwell and give your loyalty to Clonmuir.”
He had seen the challenge coming. He should have been prepared. More than anything, he wished to be honest with her. Cromwell has made a hostage of my child, he wanted to say. She is the lever that forces me to do his bidding.
Wesley held the words at bay. Caitlin was a woman of compassion who took strangers into her home. For that very reason, he couldn’t tell her about Laura. Her knowing could make no possible difference now; it would only manipulate her emotions further, confront her with a choice that could tear her well-guarded heart in two. He refused to make her choose between the safety of a child and the security of her people.
Besides, a confession now was too risky. One slip, and Laura was forfeit.
Would Caitlin keep faith with him? Or would she divulge the secret? Yet who could she tell?
Logan Rafferty.
She would scoff at Wesley’s distrust of the Irish lord. Rafferty was overbearing, stubborn, and arrogant, but she would never believe him capable of intriguing with the Roundheads for his own gain. She was blind to Rafferty’s darker side, just as she had been blind to the Spaniard’s faults.
“Caitlin, I’m asking you. Help me keep the peace with Hammersmith.”
She reclined and drew her knees up to her chest as if to shield herself from him. “I liked our silence better.” She lay quiet, unmoving, while the water rushed past the hull and twilight slid into deep night. At some point, she drifted off to sleep.
Watching her, Wesley recalled that some postulants saw their vocations as clearly as a reflection in still water. His own calling, if it had ever existed at all, had been submerged in the murkiness of duty, frustration, and a desire to rebel.
The prior of Douai had recognized this. He had sent Wesley back to England to minister to the underground Catholics. In braving the dangers of practicing an outlawed religion, Wesley had hoped to find his vocation, shining like a beacon fire in the night.
Instead his purpose had dimmed, his loyalties had been divided among Charles Stuart, the Holy Church, and finally—irrevocably—Laura.
He smiled bitterly at the woman sleeping on the bed. At last, John Wesley Hawkins had learned the terrible joy of finding a vocation.
And then, as the frigate smashed through the waves of the cold sea, he realized what he must do.
He must prove himself to her. Mere words were not enough, for she was a woman of action. And in the proving, he would win her love.
He gazed at the uncompromising beauty of her face and suppressed a sigh. She would resist him every step of the way. She would call him names, scream at him in anger, and when she thought he wasn’t looking, she would gaze at him in desire.
And he would love every minute of the fight.
Fourteen
They came to Clonmuir at night, the crew expertly heaving to at the outer banks of the rocky shoreline. Caitlin stood on deck amidships. Like a mother inspecting a babe, she probed the darkness for signs of trouble. Her heart exulted at the sight of the familiar profile, majestically intact, against the night sky.
MacKenzie clasped hands with Wesley. “Yon ship’s boat is yours to keep. We’ll nae be waitin’ for its return.”
Caitlin shot him a wry glance, understanding what the man refused to say. He feared the Irishmen of Clonmuir and would not tarry any longer than necessary.
The boat settled into the water with a resounding splash. Wesley picked up the oars and began rowing. Caitlin fixed her gaze behind him, on the huge craggy shadow of her home.
How would they receive her? When she left, she had been the MacBride, chieftain of the sept.
Now she was returning as an Englishman’s bride.
“Cold?” asked Wesley.
She realized she was shivering. “No.”
“I’ve worked up a fine sweat.” He pulled off his shirt, flexed his fingers, then resumed rowing. He extended his sinewy arms forward, then drew back, plowing through the swells. His flesh was pale in the moonlight and shaped by rippling muscles. Moisture dewed his neck and chest. His face wore a look of intent concentration, as if he enjoyed physical exertion.
Reach and pull. Reach and pull. The rhythm pulsed through her veins. She tried to disregard him, tried to focus her thoughts on Clonmuir.
But against her will, her whole awareness stayed fixed on Wesley. Reach and pull. The powerful cadence held her spellbound. She remembered the feel of his arms around her, his mouth pressed to hers, the giddy delight she felt when he caressed her. It was mad to want him so, mad to feel yearning w
hen she should loathe him.
The sweat rolled in rivulets now, coursing down the center of him, into the cuff of his wide belt. Her gaze strayed lower; she saw the fullness there and realized what it meant.
Mortified, she jerked her gaze back to his face. And was struck by the knowing charm of his smile.
I want you. Silently he mouthed the words to her.
Frustrated, Caitlin buried her face in her sleeves and did not look at him again until the boat slid ashore on the strand below Clonmuir.
“We’re home,” Wesley said. “Give me your hand.”
His palm was hot and moist and sticky. She turned his hand over. “Blessed St. Brigid, you’re bleeding.”
“Bother it.” Bending, he plunged his hands into the surf and winced as the salt water bit into the broken blisters.
She would never get used to him. One moment he acted the conqueror. The next he worked his hands raw to get her home. Guessing his motive, she said tartly, “You’re in quite a hurry to flaunt your new status as my husband.”
He straightened, wiping his hands on his loose breeches. “I was in a hurry to bring you here. Right here where the magic between us started.”
Dawn was cresting on the horizon, gilding the lost garden of Siobhan MacBride. Slowly Caitlin approached the quiet tidal pools, the tumbled stones, the profusion of wind-raked gorse and brambles. A tide of memories washed over her.
Pluck a rose the moment the sun dies, and wish for him.
She had sought her true love. She had found Hawkins, an enemy to her people and a danger to her heart.
How could he be the one? He had been nothing but trouble since that portentous evening. And yet in spite of everything, she had never felt so alive, so...cherished.
She whirled to find him watching her, his eyes mysterious pools with undercurrents of passion streaming in their depths.
“You still feel it, don’t you?” He stepped closer, heedless of the water that closed over his boots.
She opened her mouth to reply but no sound came out.
The enchantment rose through her like the borning sun bursting over the horizon. He wasn’t Hawkins, but the Warrior of the Spring, reaching for a fairy maiden. His outstretched arms promised a world of passion. His deep, shadow-colored eyes pledged a splendor beyond imagining.
Don’t touch me, Caitlin. His words called across the weeks to her. Don’t touch me unless you mean it.
She could not tell who made the first move, the beguiling man or the ancient believer inside her. The cold water swirled around her ankles while his embrace bathed her in a fiery heat that banished the chill.
I mean it now, Wesley, God help me, I do.
“Caitlin,” he said, his mouth soft upon hers as he spoke between kisses, “I’ve missed holding you close.”
A sound of yearning rippled in her throat. She stretched up on tiptoe and pressed her hands to his chest. His heart hammered madly, and she realized he was not so calm or self-possessed as he appeared. Her hands moved up to frame his massive shoulders and discovered a tautness there. He was a man on the verge of explosion, a coiled spring about to be released.
A coiled snake about to strike.
But try as she might, she could read no evil into his intent. The idea that simply holding her strained the very bonds of his control gave her a heady feeling of power and delight.
She lifted her face and saw him framed by the pale sky. He plied his lips in a poem upon her mouth. The taste of him flooded her, racing through her veins and pooling with unbearable heat in the most vulnerable part of her. She pressed closer, discovering his rigidity and an answering softness deep within herself.
Ah, but she wanted him, and she was losing her powers of resistance. He plucked them away, one by one, like red berries picked from a rowan branch.
Unable to stop herself, she pressed her lips to his skin, tasting the salt-sweet flavor secreted in the hollow of his neck.
His hands slid up her torso, his thumbs gliding over her breasts. She caught her breath, then let it out slowly as warm, melting sensations poured through her. He brought her body to life with his touch, and yet he tormented her heart with dreams of what could never be.
“Cait,” he whispered, his voice mingling with the hush of the waves, “London—everything—is behind us. God knows what lies ahead.”
The truth of it caught at her heart. They had only this moment, suspended between their two worlds. And in his eyes glowed a promise that, if she would just open herself to him, he would show her where the stars were lit.
A slow sigh escaped her. She twined her fingers into the thick mane of his hair and drew his head down to hers. Their lips met and clung together; the shared taste of ancient pleasure intoxicated her. They tumbled to the sand, not Englishman and Irishwoman, not even husband and wife, but two searching souls desperate for the narcotic oblivion of physical ecstasy. He took her swiftly, roughly, and she cried out and returned his turbulent caresses with exultant wantonness. The frenzy left them spent, panting, a little dazed.
Something had changed between them, but Caitlin was too tired to puzzle it out. Shivering in the chill dawn, she stood and shook the sand from her clothes.
The furious barking of a dog echoed down from the cliffs. With a gasp of mortification, she stumbled back. Wesley was no Irish legend, but a conquering Englishman, Cromwell’s creature. Whipping a glance over her shoulder, she spied the wolfhound, Finn, bounding toward them. The thick gray fur bristled on his back as he raced down to the strand.
His barking turned to yelps of greeting. His feathered tail drew great circles in the air. Careening through the pool, he made a leap for Wesley, placing huge paws on his chest.
“Enough, you great beast.” Spluttering, Wesley pushed the dog away.
Caitlin barely acknowledged the wet tongue licking her hand. For on the cliffs high above stood a dozen men, their feet planted on Clonmuir soil and their weapons at the ready.
The last pulsations of pleasure ebbed away as she climbed up to face them.
Rory Breslin swung a spiked war flail back and forth, back and forth, with a chained, hypnotic violence. “You’ve had your adventure, Caitlin.” His furious gaze snapped to Wesley. “Now can I kill him?”
She hesitated, became aware of the wind whistling through the crags and the explosion of the surf upon the rocks far below.
The men waited, Rory with his swinging flail, Liam with his iron hammer, Curran with his sling; the rest as well armed and as vengefully angry as Rory.
And before them all stood John Wesley Hawkins with naught but the look on his face for defense.
“Well?” Rory demanded.
Yes, screamed the warrior inside Caitlin. Put him out of my life so everything can be as before.
No, countered the yearning woman inside her, the woman whose thighs still tingled from his loving. Nothing can be the same, for he has transformed me.
“Put away your weapons,” she said wearily.
The men exchanged looks but maintained their combative stances. Caitlin drew herself up. Whatever else had happened, she remained the MacBride.
“Put away your weapons,” she repeated. “Now.”
Rory stilled the war flail. Curran flicked the stone from his sling. Conn put away his crossbow and the blacksmith lowered his hammer. One by one, the others followed suit.
“He lied to us a hundred thousand times,” said Rory.
“Yes, he did,” Caitlin replied.
“He nearly drowned me in the cold sea,” Conn reminded her.
“Aye, that, too,” Caitlin conceded.
“He abducted you.”
“So he did.”
Rory gave a bellow of frustration. “Then by the Blessed Virgin’s sweet smile, why don’t you let us avenge you?”
She glanced at Wesley. He had stood silent through the exchange, distant but respectful. Leaving, as he so often did, the decision to her. Not because he was weak, but because he respected her.
She drew a
deep breath. The surf slammed down on the beach, and the sand hissed as it was drawn back to the sea. The dry grass rattled in the wind.
Then Caitlin spoke: “Because he is my husband.”
* * *
Wesley sat at the round table that evening and surveyed the assortment of people in the hall. The room overflowed with newcomers who had arrived half starved during their absence. Brigid told a tinker’s brood of children how she had helped to swim twenty of Clonmuir’s ponies to Little Island for the high summer grazing. A group of men huddled around the central hearth and worried aloud about rebuilding the fishing fleet the English had destroyed. The few undersized mussels that had been found clinging to rocks would not feed the people through the winter.
At the table, conversation was held exclusively in Irish. Wesley heard himself insulted, vilified and denounced.
Caitlin had told, in one bitter, cathartic rush, the tale of their excursions to Inishbofin, to Galway, and to London. Her marriage to an Englishman on the deck of a ship. Her meeting with Cromwell at Whitehall Palace.
“’Tis a terrible, bad thing you’ve done,” said Tom Gandy, facing Wesley and switching to English.
“Aye.” Wesley saw no point in denying the statement.
Tom brightened. “And yet you did find the captured priests. You rescued our own Father Tully.”
Wesley brooded into the fire. “One day we’ll free them all.”
“We?”
He held Gandy’s gaze for a moment. “I’m charged with keeping the Fianna from raiding. But Cromwell hasn’t ordered me to stay away from Inishbofin.”
“So where’s our good chaplain now?” Rory demanded.
Wesley took a very small sip of poteen. “I thought to find him here when we arrived. But perhaps he took my advice and stayed away.”
“You’d keep the shepherd from his flock?” Conn slammed his fist down on the table.
“He was betrayed once,” said Wesley. “It could happen again.” He drank once more as the horrible implications of his statement found a home in the fierce hearts of his Irish family.
Rory lurched up from the table. “I’ll not be listening to any more of this.” One by one the men followed him to the central fire.