The Maid of Ireland (15 page)

He stroked her upper arms. “There is little to say. You have Clonmuir, and that makes you far richer than I.” He gazed over the horse’s back, where a patch of sunset shone through a barred window. Even the warmth of her pressed against him failed to melt the ice of aloneness. “Sometimes I don’t think I belong anywhere.”

A sense of urgency gripped him. What if Hammersmith reported to Cromwell that Wesley had been killed? What would become of Laura then?

“Mr. Hawkins?” Caitlin’s voice interrupted the terrible thoughts. “You look greensick of a sudden.” She glanced down at his hands on her arms. “And you’re holding on too tight.”

He forced himself to ease the pressure on his fingers, but secret fears still pounded at him. He had best do something about his situation, and soon.

* * *

In June, a sudden unseasonable chill whipped across Connemara. The wind off the Atlantic grew claws, raking them over the desolate cliffs. The greening fields faded once again to the drab hues of death—gray and lifeless brown, the sea painted the shade of a polished gun barrel, the sky watery and with no color at all.

Magheen refused to return to her husband until he reduced his dowry demands to a mere token.

Logan refused to alter his demands until Magheen returned to his hearth and home. And his bed.

She professed to despise him, and each night she cried herself to sleep.

He swore he couldn’t bear the sight of her, and each day found a new excuse to ride the twenty miles to Clonmuir.

Liam the smith’s broken arm healed slowly. Aileen Breslin made poultices for him while Tom Gandy spun tales by the hearth.

And off in Galway, Titus Hammersmith complained about the pissing Irish weather and raged about the fact that, once again, the Fianna had raided his stores, this time right out from under his nose, off a ship in Galway harbor. The crew had been put in tenders and set adrift while the plundering Irish had pirated flour and meat and sailed northward in a swift, uncatchable curragh.

The families of the district began arriving at dawn to claim their shares of the booty from the latest raid. Wesley stood in the yard next to Tom Gandy and Caitlin, who oversaw the distribution.

“Take an extra ration of flour, Mrs. Boyle,” Caitlin urged a quiet, thin woman who kept her eyes focused on the ground.

“Ah, that I couldn’t,” the woman murmured. “’Twouldn’t be fair.”

“Come on, now,” said Caitlin. “You’re expecting again, aren’t you?”

The woman drew her shawl tighter around her. “Seems I scarce wean one of them and another gets started.”

“It doesn’t just happen all of its own accord,” Caitlin chided her gently.

“Ah, that I do know.”

“Mickleen Boyle should be more careful with you, less demanding.”

Mrs. Boyle gave her a smile of startling sweetness. “And who’s to say it’s him doing the demanding?”

Caitlin laughed appreciatively. The Irish, Wesley reflected, spoke openly and candidly of matters the very mention of which would send most self-respecting Englishwomen into a dead swoon.

From the wall walk, Curran’s whistle shrilled a warning. The thud of hoofbeats hammered on the road outside the gates. Like ants whose hill had been disturbed by a giant foot, the people of Clonmuir snatched up the fresh stores and scurried off to hide them.

Into the yard rode Logan Rafferty, flanked by four burly retainers.

Despite the weather, Magheen dropped her shawl and, with a spicy sway of her hips, minced past him on the pretext of admiring Aileen Breslin’s newly knitted hood.

Making a great show of ignoring her, Rafferty dismounted. His big, well-fed body was a marked contrast to the condition of the people of Clonmuir.

To Wesley’s constant amazement, no one ever questioned Rafferty, or wondered why he flourished while others starved.

“Still playing host to the enemy, I see,” Logan boomed, glaring at Wesley.

“My business,” Caitlin reminded him.

“But that could change,” said Logan. “I’ve a new proposal to bring my wife to heel.”

Across the yard, Magheen went completely still, listening.

“Oh?” asked Caitlin.

“Give me the Englishman.”

“What?”

“Instead of the dowry, I’ll take Hawkins.”

Wesley marched forward. “Now, just a bloody minute—”

“So simple,” said Rafferty, ignoring him. “Magheen could be back where she belongs by nightfall.”

“At the cost of a man’s life?” asked Caitlin. “For that is what it would be, would it not, Logan?”

“And how many Irish lives has the scoundrel taken?” Logan demanded.

“This breaks the rules of combat,” said Tom Gandy.

Rory Breslin clapped a paw over Gandy’s mouth. “Pipe down, you whey-faced imp!”

“Combat?” Rafferty’s thick eyebrows clashed. “What’s this to do with combat?”

Wesley sharpened his attention on the big Irishman. By God, Rafferty truly didn’t know about the Fianna. And from the closed look on Caitlin’s face, she didn’t want him to.

“We’re at war,” she said. “Sure that’s all Tom meant.”

“All the more reason for me to be taking the
seonin
in hand,” said Logan.

Wesley decided he would rather be taken in hand by a banshee. Yet he felt a twist of sympathy when he saw Caitlin’s face, pale and strained with torn loyalties. She glanced from Magheen to Logan, and back again to her sister.

An idea smacked Wesley on the head. Before he could talk himself out of it, he planted himself in front of Rafferty. “Suppose we make a wager. If you win, I’ll go with you and Magheen comes, too. And if I win—”

“You’ll not have your freedom, wager or no,” said Tom, hiking up his pants.

“Nor will I be agreeing to change my demands,” Logan said.

“Then I’ll settle for a forfeit from Caitlin.”

She took a step forward. “What forfeit?”

He let a smile glide across his face. “Something that’s well within your means to give me.”

“But—”

Tom put his hand on her sleeve. “Hush, perhaps the
Sassenach
can help us solve our problem.”

“Those are your stakes,” said Rafferty to Wesley. “What is your game?”

“A horse race,” said Wesley.

Logan threw back his head and guffawed, joined by his men. “A horse race, you say? I accept.”

“No,” said Caitlin.

“You think I can’t best a tight pants?” Logan demanded.

“I’m the MacBride, and I say no.”

“I proposed an honest wager,” Wesley told her softly. He wished he could reach out to her, cradle her head against his shoulder, kiss away the lines of strain on her face.

“You’ve no right to offer yourself as part of the stakes,” she retorted. “You belong to me.”

His grin widened slowly. “Then you’d best pray I win, sweetheart.”

While appreciative laughter rose around them, she blushed like the summer dawn. Wesley drew her aside, out of earshot. “Look, it’s a way to put Rafferty in his place.”

“No one puts Logan in his place, especially on a horse. His mother swears he came into the world screaming for a mount. No one can outride him, no one but—” She bit her lip.

“No one but Caitlin MacBride,” he finished for her.

She scuffed her bare foot at the hard ground. “I have never beaten Logan in a race.”

“Because you couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?”

Her silence gave him the answer. He did understand this woman, her frustration and the delicate balancing act she performed. “Let me best him for you, Caitlin.”

“His horse is superior to any you could ride.”

“Not so.”

“What the devil do you mean? Our ponies can’t best the mare. They’re bred for endurance, not speed.”

“I’ll ride the black.”

“What?”

“I said, I’ll ride the black.”

“No.” She drew back, her eyes as hard as topaz stones. “No one rides the black. No one but me.”

“It’s the only way,” said Wesley. “The black’s my one chance.”

“But he’s mine, he—” Her mouth snapped shut, and pain glimmered like unshed tears in her eyes. He longed to know how she had come by the animal and why it meant so much to her. But now was not the time for discussions of the heart.

“I must ride the black,” he said.

“I don’t even know that you can ride.”

He remembered the battle at Worcester, remembered outriding a troop of Parliamentarians by leaping a series of hedgerows. The memory brought with it a surge of self-confidence.

“I can ride,” he said simply.

“The black will kill you.” The cold wind snapped over her, brushing strands of gold hair across her lips.

“And what is one less Englishman to you?”

“An excellent point.” She called over her shoulder, “Brigid! Fetch the black and saddle him.”

Rory stood arguing loudly with Rafferty. “We can’t let him ride. Sure he’ll just seize the opportunity to escape.”

“If the black doesn’t wrap him around a tree, I’ll be after bringing him in line,” Logan said.

The thought of escape burned across Wesley’s mind like a streak of lightning through a midnight sky. But he doused it with a flood of rationalization. He had to carry out his plan for Caitlin and set his daughter free from Cromwell.

Rafferty’s swaggering confidence boded well for Wesley. The Irish lord was too sure of himself, too sure by far. Wesley knew how to exploit overconfidence.

But when the black arrived, bridled and saddled, with fire in its eyes, Wesley felt the first uncomfortable twinge of doubt. The beast was as wild as the breakers hurling themselves at the rocks of Connemara. Its long, slender legs danced over the hard-packed surface of the yard. The wind tossed its mane, and its nostrils flared. The horse jerked its head around, spied Caitlin, and seemed to settle somewhat.

Wesley held out his hands for the reins. The black yanked back its head and sidled away.

“There now, my pretty lad,” crooned Wesley. “It’s all right. You’re for a ride now, aren’t you?” The black stood still, head hanging in false submission that could, at any moment, explode into revolt. With his eyes on the tense withers, he took hold of the saddle. The old, well-oiled leather creaked in the waiting silence.

Wesley put his foot in the stirrup. Before he could even swing his other leg over, the black sidled again, sending him bouncing to the ground.

“So it’s a game you’re playing.” He ground his teeth against the bruising pain. He tried again, and this time anticipated the horse’s direction, landing squarely in the saddle. “The stirrups are too short,” he said. “Brigid?”

Suppressing laughter, the girl came forward and lengthened the stirrups. Wesley sat transfixed by the feel of the horse beneath him. Never had he felt such fine, strong bones, such beautiful form, the coiled speed evident in every tightly knotted muscle.

Brigid retreated. Everyone, from the youngest child to the oldest man, edged back and watched.

Wesley’s legs tightened around the black ever so slightly.

The stallion jolted into motion. Its four hooves left the ground at once. Its back arched like a bow and then snapped. Wesley felt himself flung like a rock from a catapult, propelled into the cold gray sky.

He fell fast and hard as if a giant fist pounded him into the ground. His bones compressed. His lungs emptied of air.

Breathless, with lights winking before his eyes, he heard distant, raucous laughter. White heat flashed in his mind. His soul shivered. “Not now,” he muttered, but it was too late. He felt himself swirling away toward a familiar blinding nothingness.

* * *

Caitlin wasn’t prepared for the fear that streaked through her. The accident had happened so quickly, so predictably. The seemingly docile behavior of the black, then the wild detonation of motion. Hawkins had fallen like a rag doll; now he lay unmoving and not breathing, in the dust. She had been prepared for the reaction of the stallion. She had been prepared for the laughter that sifted through the cold breeze.

She dropped to her knees beside him and turned his face to her.

A pallor lay over his cheeks, the flesh taut over a bone structure that, in repose, she found achingly beautiful. “Mr. Hawkins,” she said. “Can you hear me?”

He opened his eyes. The unusual gray-green irises reflected the clouds flying in the wind. She sensed a difference in him; a distant glazed look made him more of a stranger than ever.

“The pain has gone,” he said. It was the same wonderful voice but the round tones sounded even richer, even deeper, even more compelling. The words he spoke struck her with their oddness. Then he took her hands, and the glowing heat of palms warmed her fingers. She gazed into his eyes, seeking answers to questions she could not voice. Hawkins put her hands aside and stood, staggering only slightly as he walked toward the black.

“The fall’s stolen his wits,” muttered Rory.

Grinning, Logan reached for Magheen. “Come along, wife. Let’s go home and find our bed.”

Magheen wrung her hands, torn between being won honorably by her husband and regretting the cost of it.

Oblivious to the mutterings, Hawkins walked directly to the black, which stood trailing its reins in the dust. Its withers trembled with wildness.

Hawkins laid his palm on the horse’s large head. The stallion’s rolling, white-rimmed eyes seemed too calm, and Caitlin wondered if the animal, too, felt the strange heat of the Englishman’s touch. “You are a beast of the earth,” he said quietly, “a creature of the wind. And I am your master.”

The black dropped its head. Hawkins took the reins and mounted in a graceful leap.

And, to the gaping astonishment of everyone present, he rode the horse out the main gate and walked it at a leisurely pace to the head of the boreen. A few of the onlookers discreetly chewed their thumbs in the old sign against sorcery.

“Damn!” Logan mounted and tore after the Englishman while the others hurried to the gate.

Aileen twisted the fingers of both hands into crosses. “The devil admire him! He’s put the beast under an enchantment.”

“Nonsense, woman,” Tom Gandy snapped. He slid a sidelong glance at Caitlin. “Hawkins has a way with wild things.”

The wind stirred little dust eddies over the skelped earth of the boreen. Breathless, Caitlin gazed at the church a mile distant.