The Maid of Ireland (7 page)

“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’ve 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

F
ootsore 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.

Seeing the expression on his face, Hammersmith gave a satisfied nod. “Mild as new milk, eh? The Irish make good whiskey and comely women.”

Wesley was disinclined to pursue the topic. “Why do you insist on marching now? Wouldn’t it be safer to take Rafferty first?”

Hammersmith slapped his hand over the papers by the map. “New orders. I tell you, you’re wrong about Rafferty, and I can spare you no men. Cromwell’s son, Henry, wants that port now.”

For God’s sake, Wesley thought, isn’t the entire east of Ireland enough?

“We’re to garrison an abandoned stronghold on the western shore of Lough Corrib,” said Hammersmith. “After that’s established, we’ll march up from the south and take Clonmuir in a pincer movement.”

Crushing Caitlin MacBride’s home like a grape in a winepress, raping the women, and turning the battle-maddened survivors out to starve.

“Damn it!” Wesley slammed his empty glass on the desk. “Rafferty’s your man! Take his stronghold instead.”

Lifting an eyebrow up into his lovelocks, Hammersmith studied his guest. “What is it about Clonmuir that fires your passions?”

Wesley immediately saw his mistake. Never show you care, he reminded himself. He should have learned that lesson with Laura. He evaded the question with one of his own. “Have you been sent reinforcements?”

“No.”

“Then what makes you think your march will succeed this time?”

Hammersmith’s smile was the cold curve of a brandished blade. “Don’t be modest, my friend. This time, I have you.”

* * *

“Pissing Irish weather,” muttered Edmund Ladyman, a soldier riding beside Wesley.

A clod of mud flung up by a horse’s hoof struck Wesley on the knee. “I’m with you there,” he said as the mud slid down into his cuffed boot.

The roadway had been churned up by hundreds of hooves and the iron-bound wheels of supply carts. A thick mist surrounded the plodding army, turning the woods into a dark, dripping prison of lichened trees. Since the reign of Elizabeth, Englishmen had set themselves to the task of deforesting Ireland. But even the most greedy of shipbuilders hadn’t yet made a foray into the untamed western lands.

Galway lay miles behind them, but the difficult part of their march still loomed ahead, in the crags of Connemara where secrets wafted on the wind and wild warriors hid in the fells.

Wesley disliked Ladyman, a thick-lipped, foul-mouthed Republican from Kent. Wesley found that he disliked most of the English soldiers. But they had their uses. “Were you on the last march, Ladyman?” he asked.

Ladyman tugged at the towel he wore beneath his helm to keep the rain off his neck. “Oh, aye. And the four bleedin’ marches before that as well.”

“So you understand the way the Fianna works.”

“Aye. Bastards always go after the supply carts, that’s why we’re riding behind them. They won’t be expecting that. Pillaging natterjacks. Stealing the food from our very mouths, they are.”

“Probably because they’re starving.”

“That’s the whole idea, eh?” Ladyman peered through the damp green gloom. “We’re safe hereabouts, ’deed we are. They never strike in daylight, sneaking bloody kerns.” A drop of rain gathered on the tip of his nose. With a curse, he wiped it on his sleeve.

“So why do you carry on?”

Ladyman regarded him with astonishment. “The friggin’ booty, what else?”

“Any booty to be had in these parts has surely been picked over by now.”

“I’m speaking of Clonmuir,” Ladyman replied. “There’s a treasure in that castle worth a king’s ransom.”

“Who told you that?”

“It’s all the talk, has been for years.”

Wesley shook his head and stared downward. Between his aching thighs, the sodden body of his cavalry mare plodded with patient stupidity. A shame he could not reveal that he had been at Clonmuir.

Ladyman had been deceived, as had every other man who believed the tale. The advantage to Hammersmith was obvious. By enticing the men with the promise of rich spoils, he kept interest high and the desertion rate low.

Ladyman rode with the careless ease of a professional soldier. The fool. There was no treasure at Clonmuir.

Ah, but there was, he corrected himself. There was Caitlin MacBride. More precious than gold, she was a fiercely beautiful woman desperate to protect her own.

He didn’t want to think about her. He had deceived her about his purpose. Now he was marching toward her home with an army. He couldn’t afford to harbor tenderness toward her.

But thoughts of her dogged his path each day and plagued his sleep each night. In fact, he was dreaming of her one night as he slept in his damp bedroll near the banks of Lough Corrib. She stood on the strand amid a tumble of rocks. Proud and vulnerable, a look of stricken wonder on her face, the breeze blowing her tawny gold hair in billows about her shoulders. Her loose blouse seemed exotic in its simplicity; her feminine lines needed no molding by stays. He could sense her need, her desire, because within him burned an answering need of equal intensity.

She lifted her arms and stepped toward him, reaching, smiling, as if he were the answer to her most cherished wish. He brushed his lips against hers, just so, increasing the pressure until she surged against him and cried out—

“Guards!”

Wesley sat straight up and blinked into the darkness.

“Guards!”

Scattered campfires burned low, throwing the huge shadows of hurrying men against a wall of woodland.

“Guards!” The furious shout came from Hammersmith’s command tent. “Smith! Bell! Lamb! Front and center!”

By the time Wesley reached the tent, the commander had lined up the night watch outside and was pacing in front of them, a quirt slapping his thigh. “Not one of you heard anything?”

“Not a sound, Captain. I swear it, nary a peep. Naught but the whir of bats’ wings.”

“Then how, pray,” said Hammersmith sarcastically, “do you explain this?” Between his thumb and forefinger Hammersmith dangled a freshly picked shamrock.

“Why, these grow like weeds in Ireland, sir?”

“Not on my chest while I sleep they don’t!” Titus Hammersmith roared. “Some sneaking Irish left it as a sort of sign, or—or—”

“Warning?” asked Wesley. He moved toward the rear of the tent, which faced the rock-rimmed lake. He touched the canvas and saw where it had been slit with a knife. A grown man could never fit through the opening.

Puzzled, Wesley entered the tent through the front. Torchlight from outside threw eerie shadows on the canvas. Hammersmith’s cot stood several feet from the opening. It was not simply a matter of reaching inside, then.

“Here’s where the intruder entered.” Wesley indicated the sliced-open canvas. “Was anything else disturbed?”

Hammersmith gave a cursory glance around. “No, I—” He tugged distractedly at a sausage curl. “Cut!” he roared, making Wesley jump. “By God, the Irish devil has cut a lock of my hair!” He stumbled back as if he’d been mortally wounded. “I’ve heard the old Celts use human hair in their spells.”

“It could have been worse,” Wesley murmured. “The intruder could have slit your throat.” But he was beginning to understand the Irish character. They were warriors, not cold-blooded murderers.

“Jesus, Captain,” said his lieutenant. “D’ye think one of ’em’s havin’ ye on?”

“Shut up,” snapped Hammersmith. He whirled on Wesley. “Find the devils. Find them now.”