The Maid of Ireland (23 page)

“My love, I want this night to last forever. I want you to remember each moment.”

He led her to the alcove bed. A great lassitude gently dismantled her will. She relaxed against the linens, and the spots of holy water cooled her fevered skin. Her lips, slightly parted, still stung from the moist fire of his kisses.

“Cait,” he said, “look at you, lying there like a goddess, awaiting me.”

She reached for him but he put her hands aside, bent and placed his mouth on her throat and then moved it lower, skimming the tops of her breasts. She gasped at the unexpected heat. Arching her back, she reached upward.

She sensed a certain lazy grace in his movements, a teasing quality to his caresses. He kissed a sinuous path across her skin, his tongue flicking at, but never quite touching, the most sensitive spots. She hung suspended, her body in a state of burning awareness, her every sense focused on his warm, wet mouth.

“Ah, for the love of God, Wesley,” she whispered.

“Patience, sweetheart.” With maddening slowness his mouth traced rings around her breasts. Just when she thought she would go mad, his tongue flashed out at one burning peak, bringing forth a gasp from her.

Finally, answering the terrible need he had awakened in her, he closed his mouth over her breast.

She dared to think that she had found the magic at last. She could rise no higher than this dizzying height. And yet...and yet...his hands skimmed down her torso, and she realized she had only glimpsed the very edge of wonder.

“Aye, there is more,” he said, reading her thoughts. He stretched long beside her and bent to kiss her mouth. “Would you like me to show you?”

“Yes. I want to know—to feel—everything.”

His hand slid up her leg, the hand of a master harp maker smoothing a perfect length of ashwood; the hand of a sorcerer conjuring a spell. She was an empty jar which he filled, drop by precious drop with a potion more powerfully intoxicating than poteen. Yet with each drop she craved more.

In the back of her mind she realized that what he was doing was extraordinary. She knew the ways of lusty men; she had heard enough tales whispered in the women’s corner of the great hall. Men did not often trouble themselves to see to a woman’s pleasure.

But Wesley behaved as if her satisfaction were his only goal. She absorbed his unceasing caresses as parched earth absorbs the rain. The pleasure filled her, swirled around her. She forgot to breathe. She forgot to think. She forgot he was her sworn enemy.

Drop by precious drop. The rhythm of his hand matching the pulse of her heart. Finally the passion rose up and spilled over, drenching her in a warm rain of sensation.

A long sweet sigh escaped her. She opened her eyes to find him smiling down at her. He had an odd expression on his face. It was the delight of shared pleasure, she realized, but deep in his eyes she recognized pain, as if he had shouldered a heavy burden. As if the breaking of vows truly distressed him.

“Caitlin,” he said. “Touch me, I beg you.”

She responded because he had asked, not demanded. Her hands made a study of his scarred and thickly muscled body. She discovered the tautness of his shoulders, the silkiness of the hair on his chest. And to her surprise, she discovered that she loved the warmth of his flesh against her palms, the rapid thudding of his heart when she lay her cheek on his chest.

So this was how a man was made. She touched his body in ways she hadn’t dared to dream about. He responded with a hiss as if she had burned him.

He pulled her into an intimate embrace, his arms supporting her back and his legs separating hers. And to think, she reflected languidly, that only a short time ago they had been twined together in the heat of battle, each intent on murdering the other.

Now her emotions flared just as high, but not with rage. She hugged him with her legs, bringing his body close. Closer.

He moved against her, his shoulders trembling and his face a mask of concentration.

Wesley battled the lust raging inside him. He forced himself to remember she was a maiden. He did not want to hurt her. He pressed downward into the deep moist center of her, and then deeper still to the wisp of silk that stood between innocence and fulfillment. With one gentle stroke, the veil was swept aside by his ardor.

Her head fell back, and she smiled. The secret, beguiling smile of a woman. He kissed her closed eyes, her cheeks, her mouth. He whispered words that had no logical meaning.

Caitlin listened with her heart. The pressure inside her built, pressing at the edges of a world that would never be the same again. He was a wizard, full of mystery and magic, and he offered a gift she hadn’t known she had craved.

She lifted her hips and he began to move, long slow ripples of motion that streaked her senses with fire. She was surrounded by a mist that held no beginning and no end. No world existed beyond this small alcove; no time passed beyond this moment.

Wesley’s movements quickened, and she joined him in the rhythm of a song that had no words. She surged toward a great unnameable purity and burst into the light with a cry of joy.

Wesley’s voice joined hers. She felt a movement, gentle pulsations that thrust him deeper inside her and seemed to touch her soul. He buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply.

“Caitlin.” Her name blew pleasant and warm near her ear. “We are complete.”

With the steadily slowing beats of her heart, the magic lost its potency. She turned her head away. “I have betrayed myself, my people—”

“No.” He propped himself on an elbow. The high color in his cheeks gave him a robust look of satiation. “I won’t let you say that this is wrong.”

“But we’re enemies—”

“Stop it.” Again, the pain glimmered in his eyes. “You say I broke a holy vow. Contrary to what you think, I did not make the decision lightly. For three years I kept faith with that vow. I’d nearly convinced myself that I could stay chaste until the day I died. But saying our loving was wrong only cheapens it. Don’t do that to us.”

“We’ll speak of it no more, then.” She turned away, drew up the coverlet, and reached out to embrace regret and shame. But when sleep stole over her, it was not Alonso she dreamed of, nor even Clonmuir, but her husband, John Wesley Hawkins.

Twelve

“B
less me, Father, for I have sinned.” Caitlin nervously made the sign of the cross.

“I am here to give you God’s grace,” said Father Tully. They sat together in the galley, empty of sailors now that the morning watch had taken its meal. “What is it that pains your soul?”

Caitlin laced her fingers together. She had confessed to him freely since her youth; she would not avoid his eyes now. “Father, I have committed the sin of lust.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “Sure and have you now?”

“Yes. Last night. With my—with the Englishman.”

“With your husband, you mean?”

“Yes, Father. I beg the Lord’s forgiveness.”

“Faith, not so fast. We must first establish that you have indeed committed a sin. Now, you say that on your wedding night with your new young husband, you committed the sin of lust?”

She remembered the wildness in her heart, the complete abandonment with which she accepted—welcomed—his kisses and caresses, the sweet fulfillment of their joining. “I did.”

He slapped his hands on his knees. “Well, that’s a grand matter indeed, my dear. I’m most happy for you.”

“Happy for me? But—”

“It’s not every woman who can enjoy the conjugal union. Many’s the time I’ve comforted a new wife who has been used ill by her husband. Be glad Mr. Hawkins inspired lust rather than fear or shame.”

“You don’t understand, Father. I don’t want to feel this way about him.”

“You prefer fear and shame?”

“No, but—”

“Then accept what has happened.” He took her hands and chafed them between his own. “Finding delight in your husband is a rare gift.”

Hot anger sped through her, and she welcomed it, for anger threatened her less than the roiling sea of emotions she felt for Wesley. “And should I be delighted that he is dragging me off to London to face Cromwell?”

“He has his reasons.”

“Did he tell you those reasons?”

“The man means you no harm. I believe he will protect you. I advise you to leave the rest in God’s hands.”

* * *

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” Wesley furtively made the sign of the cross.

“You, too?” Father Tully brushed his black hair out of his eyes. They stood at the rail and watched the gulls dive for herring. The high wind snatched at their voices, giving them privacy despite the fact that Hammersmith’s man, MacKenzie, loitered nearby.

“This is not the first confession you’ve heard today, then?”

“On that matter, my lips are sealed.”

So, Caitlin had already confessed. What had she said?

“Mr. Hawkins, would your troubles be having anything to do with that great colorful bruise on your jaw?”

Wesley touched the tender spot. “I’ve fallen in love with her.”

“And you consider love a sin? Faith, I’d call it a blessing. Have you told her?”

“Had I the tongue of a poet, she wouldn’t believe me.”

“You must, with care and tenderness—not just words—bind your two hearts.”

“But the failure to make her love me is not what I came to confess.”

“Then unburden yourself,
a chara.
”

A pleasant warmth washed through Wesley at hearing the priest call him friend. So few men in his life had. “I’m lying to her about a very important matter.”

“Then tell her the truth.”

“I can’t. A person’s life is at stake. My own and Caitlin’s, of course, but there is a third innocent who will be hurt if I tell all to Caitlin. To anyone.” He gazed out at the churning sea, the waves slapping down into shadowy troughs. “The truth would force her to make difficult choices. Besides, she’ll know soon enough.”

“Would you be after speaking of another woman?” Father Tully demanded, his thick eyebrows beetling.

“No! I swear before God, it’s not that.”

“Let no secrets come between you and your wife. Secrets can kill a marriage quicker than poison.”

Wesley studied the priest’s drawn and weary face. He recognized the look of troubled sympathy, for he, too, had borne the burden of confession. Putting a hand on Father Tully’s shoulder, he said, “When we make port, will you use Hammersmith’s safe conduct to return to Clonmuir?”

Father Tully smiled wistfully. “Ah, and isn’t it Clonmuir that brings my soul close to heaven?”

“It’s dangerous for you there. Hammersmith fears what I know about his slave trade and the taking of priests. He’ll stay away from Clonmuir for now, but he’s clever. Don’t gamble your safety.”

Father Tully combed his fingers through his black hair. “A priest goes where he’s needed.”

Wesley envied him at that moment, envied the certainty of his calling, the knowing that he had chosen the right path. For Wesley, the way was marked with torn loyalties, self-doubt, and now the agony of frustrated love.

* * *

“You made your confession today, didn’t you?” Wesley asked that night as he entered their quarters.

Caitlin bit her lip. “Father Tully abides by the seal of confession. Who told you?”

“I made a guess.”

“Guess yourself to Whitehall for all I care.” She chewed halfheartedly on a ship’s biscuit.

“I guessed when I went to make a confession of my own,” he added.

Caitlin inhaled a crumb. Clearing her throat with difficulty, she said, “I’m sure you bent his ear for hours, then, for you’re a black-hearted sinner.”

“I’m also your husband. Come here.”

“No.”

He sighed. “We wasted hours in argument last night when we could have been making love. Let’s not repeat that mistake tonight, or ever again.”

“Not make love ever again?” She dusted the crumbs from her skirt. “I agree completely.”

“I was speaking of arguing.”

“I was speaking of lovemaking.”

“Good. Let’s carry on with that topic.” Evening light streaming through the stern windows touched his eyes, transforming the gray-green tint to the diffuse color of magic. Framed by burnished hair, the bruise on his jaw contrasted with the healthy color of his face.

“How can you deny our passion,” he asked, propping his shoulder against the alcove support, “when I can look at your lovely face and see the yearning there?”

Resisting the urge to make a sign against enchantment, she planted her hands on her hips. “It’s Clonmuir that I yearn for, not you. You’ve forced me to marry you. The union has been consummated. What more do you want from me?”

“I want you as I had you last night, full of a woman’s desires, your face a picture of unguarded surprise and delight.” He reached up with his hand and made a lazy trail down the post with his fingers. The simple gesture raised a havoc of disquieting emotions.

She tried to block out Wesley’s words, but her heart listened as he went on, “I want you in every way a man can want a woman, and in ways we’ve yet to invent. Every single day and night. Now, come here.”

“No.”

“I’ll give you a son for Clonmuir.”

The suggestion shot her through with fear and longing. He stepped toward her. Only pride kept her from fleeing toward the door. “I want no sons from you,” she stated.

“I care for you.’

“Like a drover cares for a prize pig.”

He reached out, fingered a curl that had strayed from her braid. “Don’t you remember the passion? Don’t you remember the sweetness?”

She did, and too well. His nearness scattered her thoughts. Yet at the same time she saw that he, too, seemed discomfited, and the fact somehow endeared him to her.

“You’re trembling,” she said.

“You make me feel too much. I’m not used to this.”

“Then don’t.” She hated herself for being curious about him, for wondering about every aspect of his life and his past.

Taking her in his arms, he kissed her slowly, softly, drawing away her protests as a splinter is drawn from flesh. She leaned into him, loving the security of his arms around her, savoring the taste of him and marveling, as she had the night before, at the uncanny harmony of their bodies. He had turned her world upside down. He had taken her to heaven and to hell. And she would not have traded a moment of it for the very surety of her soul. God, if only he would disavow Cromwell, she would have a name for the things she felt when he kissed her like this. She would call it happiness.

He lifted his mouth from hers. “Caitlin.”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

Not now, she wanted to scream at him. How can I believe you now? She stepped back, shaking her head slowly. “Don’t say those words to me. I can never love the man you are.”

His face paled, but she forced herself to continue. “I have only contempt for a man who does Cromwell’s bidding. Don’t you understand, being married to you changes nothing! It’s Alonso I love!”

He let go of her as if she had burned him. He stepped back, and she saw that his face had changed into a visage she had never seen before. Agony, devastation, and finally rage contorted his features. With a jolt of fear, she realized that this was the first time she had seen him truly angry. At her.

“Very well.” His voice thrummed with carefully controlled fury. “So long as you deny what we are to one another, so long as you cling to dreams of your Spanish hero, I will leave you alone.”

She should have felt relieved. She tried very hard. All she felt was a black emptiness. “I think it’s for the best.”

He lifted his hand, stopped himself before touching her. “One day you’ll find the truth in your heart. And then you must come to me, for I won’t reach out again.”

London, June 1658

Caitlin craned her neck to peer out from beneath the canopy of the river barge. “I’ve never seen a paved street before. Even Galway doesn’t have a paved street.”

“Do you like it?” Wesley asked.

“Sure it seems a lot of trouble.”

“The paving’s necessary. The traffic would turn the streets into rivers of mud.” Wesley settled back, trying to appear composed. The ever-present MacKenzie rode astern with the waterman. Caitlin perched on the edge of her seat like a child on her first trip to a fair. The last thing Wesley had expected after their quarrel was that they would become friends. But it had happened. Perhaps it was better this way. Safe. Reasonably comfortable so long as he kept her at arm’s length.

“What building is that?” She pointed to the structure that shadowed St. Katherine’s Street along the wharf.

The thin slits of windows squinted menacingly from towers and turrets. The thick walls of pale limestone and hard, coarse ragstone brought on a rush of memories that nearly made him ill. “It’s the Tower of London,” he said.

Her interest sharpened. “Is it, then? You mean where the poor princes were murdered? Sure and didn’t Silken Thomas, our own Irish hero, wait out his last days there.”

“Indeed.”

“What’s it like, I wonder.”

“Hell on earth.” Wesley averted his glance to the river, where lighters vied for position along the quays. “There are holes called oubliettes so cramped that a man can neither stand nor lie down.”

Hearing the pain in his voice, Caitlin studied his pale face, his clammy hands. “How do you know this?”

“I was there.”

“Visiting prisoners?”

“Caitlin, I
was
a prisoner.”

A cold wind of shock swept over her. “You were?”

“Aye.”

“Did they put you in an oubliette?”

“Aye.”

She remembered the scars that laced his back and shoulders, the horror that, in rare unguarded moments, haunted his eyes. He had suffered for the sake of his faith, probably more severely than he had ever told her.

She laid her hand on his. Since they had come to an accord regarding intimacy—or the lack of it—she was more comfortable touching him. “You should have told me before.”

He stared at her hand. “Don’t touch me unless you mean it.”

She hesitated, liking the rough texture of his hand beneath hers, yet knowing where it would lead if she refused to obey. She drew back her hand. “I wish you’d tell me, too, how a Catholic came to be an agent of the devil Cromwell.”

He leaned his head against the leather cushion. “Cromwell and I have been acquainted seven years. Since Worcester.”

“Did you fight with the royalists there?”

He nodded. “When we realized the battle was lost, I was with those who helped King Charles escape. We spent a long day in an oak tree in Boscobel wood. When the searchers drew close, I gave myself up as a decoy. King Charles escaped, and so did I, eventually. I went to the seminary at Douai.” He gave her a sideways glance. “Am I boring you yet?”

“If you were, I’d be after telling you directly.”

A smile pulled at one side of his mouth. “I was sent back to England. I acted as both priest and royalist messenger, but by that time I was neither. I didn’t know what I was. When the priest catchers finally took me, I was sentenced to die. But Cromwell’s man, Thurloe, stopped the execution.”

Gripping her knees, she leaned forward. “Why?”

“Because he realized I was the man Cromwell had been seeking for seven years.”

“How did he know it was you?”

To her amazement, a blush crept up to the tips of his ears. “It was the women who gave me away.”

“What?”

“The women.” He waved his hand in impatience. “At my execution. Some of them recognized me, by sight or reputation.”

Caitlin blinked, unable to envision the scene. “So why did Cromwell spare you?”

“He needed my skills as a thief taker.”

She braced her hands on the arms of the seat. “You were a thief taker, then a cavalier, then a novice to the priesthood?”

“Aye.”

“That’s more careers than most men pursue in one lifetime.”

He stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers. “I was...searching. Trying to find my place in the world.”

Her eyes narrowed. “And you found it with Cromwell, who spared a thief taker from the gallows to take
me.
”

“Aye.”

As evening gathered in the last rays of the sunset, the barge bumped to a halt at Whitehall Steps. A jumble of boxy buildings loomed over the water’s edge. Torches burned on each side of a doorway, and a footman came to help them disembark.

“Evenin’, gov’nor,” said the footman. “Pleasant voyage, was it?” He gaped at Caitlin in her soft, loose tunic. “Brought along a bit o’ the Irish, did you, sir?” The footman chuckled. “Where’s ’er leash, eh?”