The Maid of Ireland (31 page)

He carried her forefinger to his lips and kissed it. “I’ve gotten your sister back to her husband where she belongs.” He kissed the next finger. “I’ve gotten us enough beef to last th’ winter.” His lips moved on to her ring finger. “Rafferty’s finally broken faith with th’ English.” He brought his mouth against the flat of her palm and buried it there, inhaling as if she held in her hand the very essence of life.

“Is it enough yet, Cait? Is it?”

Another unspoken question haunted his shadowy green eyes.
Now will you accept me as your husband?

Part of her—the womanly part, the lonely part—wanted to shout, Yes! But another part screamed a denial.

“You overrode my wishes. You turned my men from me.”

“For th’ sake of Clonmuir, my love. But if it’s not enough, I’ll do more, I swear it. Slay dragons, brave th’ fires of hell.” He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “Ah, Cait, you are intoxicating in your loveliness.”

“’Tis the drink, not me.”

He leaned forward. “No drink could so sweep a man’s reason away like you do.” His mouth drew closer and closer. Her lips tingled in anticipation of his kiss.

He hesitated, a breath, a heartbeat away.

His eyes glazed over, and he slipped to the floor, out cold almost before he hit the rushes.

Torn between rage and amusement, Caitlin shook her head.

What the devil would her husband do next?

* * *

“We’re going fishing,” he announced the next day. Still bleary eyed, he blinked in the smoke that pervaded the great hall. A new family had arrived from the Twelve Bens. Getting them settled in promised to take all day.

Wesley’s welcoming grin brought smiles to faces not used to smiling.

Caitlin frowned at the men, who formed a half circle around her husband. “But we’ve only the one curragh and the hooker. Besides, the herring aren’t running.”

“We’re not after herring,” said Rory, buckling on a sword.

“Then what would you be after fishing for?” she demanded.

Blowing her a kiss, Wesley led the way out of the hall. “Priests,” he said.

* * *

“Magheen, I’m so confused.” Sitting in a well-furnished solar at Brocach, Caitlin took a sip of imported tea, let the liquid slide over her tongue, then put down the cup. “One minute I think he’s all I’ve ever desired in a husband, and the next, I feel certain he means to hand Clonmuir over to Hammersmith.”

Magheen smiled sympathetically. Since returning to Logan she had grown even more beautiful—rounder, softer, draped in a veil of womanly contentment. She patted a glossy yellow curl. “How long has he been gone?”

“A week.”

“Well, I’m after thinking that your feelings are natural.”

“Then natural is a sickness.” Caitlin took an oat cake from the tray and bit into it. The food might have been pasteboard for all she could taste it.

“You’re resisting your feelings for Wesley.”

“The only feeling I have for him is contempt.”

Wisdom kindled in Magheen’s eyes. “I think you love him.”

Caitlin tried to deny it. But with a wave of sadness, she realized that everything had changed. She was no longer the girl who had lost her innocent heart to a handsome Spaniard. The sweet idealism of their youthful pledges had turned bitter.

War and privation had forced her to become hard and calculating. With a great sigh, she bade farewell to a long-cherished dream.

“Here, blow your nose.” Magheen handed her a handkerchief. “I haven’t seen you weep since Ma passed. You must have a bad case of it.”

“Of what?” Caitlin sniffed into the fine linen.

“Of love,” said Magheen. “Wasn’t that what we were speaking of?”

“How can I love Wesley? He’s
Sassenach.
He abducted me—”

“Logan abducted me, and I loved every minute of it.”

“I’m not like you, Magheen. I can’t excuse a man’s actions simply because my heart tells me to.”

“You’d be a lot happier if you’d listen to your heart. Tell me, did you expect to rule Clonmuir alone forever?”

“No, I thought—” She broke off. Lord, but she had not even had time to think. She stared out the window. Bristling yellow-brown hayfields rose toward the hills to the east. She turned Magheen’s words over and over in her mind.

And stopped when she came to the truth.

All her reasons for abandoning her feelings for Alonso paled to weak excuses. It wasn’t the years, nor even his betrayal, that had slain the dream.

It was John Wesley Hawkins.

Aye, from the first moment she had seen him walking toward her through a tangled twilit garden, he had invaded her soul.

Each time she had tried to remember her Spanish gentleman, a tall Englishman with blazing red hair and a rakish grin strode into her mind.

Each time she had tried to recall Alonso’s courtly caresses, she became enveloped in memories of Wesley’s frankly sensual affection.

And each time she searched her heart for the bright glow of love she had once believed she’d felt for Alonso, she found only the burned-out embers of dead feelings.

I will drive him out of your heart as surely as the sun will rise.
Wesley’s declaration on their wedding night whispered across the weeks to her.

At the time, she had declared it a patent impossibility.

Now she realized it had been true even before she had learned of Alonso’s betrayal.

God, where was Wesley now? He could get killed rescuing the priests.

“Here, you’ve gotten that one wringing wet,” said Magheen. “Take another handkerchief, and do stop crying. This is my last one.”

But Caitlin wept on, for the naive girl she had been and for the confused woman she now was.

“You need something more potent than tea.” Magheen went to the sideboard and returned with a crystal decanter and a small glass. A medallion bearing the Rafferty badger hung around the neck of the decanter.

Caitlin took a large gulp of the amber liquid, then choked into the handkerchief. “What the devil is this, Magheen?”

“Brandy. Logan brought it back from Corrib.”

Caitlin’s heart sank, and she set aside the glass as if it contained poison. “I’d hoped Logan would return with Hammersmith’s head on a pike.”

“That was his intent when he set out after the cattle raid. But he and the Roundhead came to an accord, just as they did when Father Tully—” Magheen broke off. A mortified flush stained her cheeks.

“When Father Tully what?” Caitlin demanded. Her vision swam red with fury. “How long have you known?”

“R-right from the start. But I—oh, God, Caitlin, I’m sorry!” Sobbing, Magheen reached out with a shaking hand. “It’s myself who’s needing the handkerchief now.”

Caitlin slapped her face.

With a yelp of pain and horror, Magheen stood and backed away. “Logan had no choice.”

“He betrayed Father Tully, didn’t he? He sold our chaplain to the priest catchers for the price of tea and brandy, didn’t he?”

“It—it wasn’t like that. Logan arranged to have him transported for his own good. The English would have put him to death.”

Rage surged through Caitlin faster than the brandy. “How can you abide it, Magheen? Your husband is Hammersmith’s pet spaniel. He can be bought off with a juicy bone while everyone else in Connemara starves.”

Magheen sighed miserably. “But at least he keeps the peace and feeds his people.”

Bleak awareness crept over Caitlin. She thought of Wesley, a
Sassenach,
braving peril to save the Irish priests. While Magheen consorted with a traitor.

“Can’t you persuade Logan to join us?” she asked. “Think how much stronger we would be if we were united.”

“I’ll try. Haven’t I already promised to keep you in plenty of food for the winter? But Logan—”

“Caitlin!” A clear voice called from the outer hall. “My lady, where are you?”

She jumped and ran to the door. “Curran Healy, what the devil are you doing here?”

Apple-cheeked and grinning, panting with exertion, he doffed his caubeen and clutched it to his chest. “Come back to Clonmuir, and you’ll see.”

* * *

She burst into the hall and stopped to take in the scene.

Tom Gandy stood atop the round table and spoke faster than a spinning wheel.

Seated around the table, amid the “fishermen” with their windburned faces and triumphant grins, were no less than three dozen priests.

“Praise be to the Lord,” whispered Caitlin. She barely felt herself putting one foot in front of the other as she moved into the hall. Near the fire, a flash of ivory caught her eyes. White hair and a white beard.

“Daida!” She ran to her father, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

“Aye, ’tis back in the fine wide boozalum of Clonmuir I am,
a stor.
” Seamus grinned from ear to ear. “A hundred thousand blessings upon us all.”

She drank in the sight of his dear, noble face, so beautiful in its untroubled simplicity. Feeling a clash of worry and affection, she asked, “You were at Inishbofin?”

“Aye, that I was.” He gestured grandly about the room and raised his voice above the thunder of conversation. “I and the great good men of God, left to starve in that inhospitable place. But I brought them all safely home, aye, just as I said I would.”

Someone cleared his throat. Caitlin spied Rory Breslin nursing a mug of poteen in his large paws. Rory said, “He had some little help in the rescuing.”

“Very little,” said a strong English voice. Caitlin caught her breath at the sight of Wesley. Wind-tossed hair and ruddy cheeks. Broad shoulders and narrow hips. Eyes the color of moss in shadow. And a grin that could melt butter at fifty paces.

She didn’t bother to resist the smile that tugged at her lips. Relief and tenderness glowed in her heart.

“Tell me,” she said softly.

“It was all your father’s doing,” said Wesley.

Seamus drew himself up. Rory opened his mouth to protest.

Wesley shot him a quelling look. “Over Brian’s loud protests, Seamus cleverly disguised himself as a cleric and let himself be seen by a priest catcher in Waterford. They transported him to Inishbofin, and then it was just a matter of waiting for us to play our part. A part that wouldn’t have been possible had it not been for Seamus.”

Seamus launched into a rambling recitation of his exploits.

Caitlin’s gaze met Wesley’s. She felt a sweet gentling inside her, like water settling in a jar. Wesley could have grabbed the credit for himself, but instead allowed the proud old man his moment in the sun.

“A toast!” Tom shouted. Mugs and glasses lifted all around the room. “To the priests of Ireland,” he called. “May you never again stray from your flock.”

Conn O’Donnell stood. “To the clan MacBride, for all that has been done this day.”

Seamus rose. “The holy light of heaven shine upon us all. And if we can’t go to paradise, may we at least die in Ireland.”

Caitlin glanced at Wesley. His full-throated “Hear, hear” before he drank made her believe he truly wished it. The feeling of tenderness inside her tightened, became something stronger. Something she hesitated to acknowledge.

He motioned her to his side, then winced. She longed for him to touch her, longed to feel his strong arm around her waist and his chest against her cheek.

Instead he gave her a familiar smile that had a familiar effect. “We’ve got to do something about these priests,” he said.

“Aye, it would be tragic indeed if they were seized again. I doubt the English would trouble themselves to send them into exile a second time.”

“They’d shoot them on sight,” Wesley said.

Heads together, united in their concern, they made a plan. Caitlin felt herself drawing closer to him, the weight of her office shifting, somehow, becoming lighter. In some part of her mind she knew that it was odd to be sharing her duties with this man, and yet the moment felt comfortable, as if they had done this often.

Some of the priests, they decided, would dress as fishermen and head north for Connaught where the English didn’t trouble the Irish. Others would leave on foot disguised as wanderers. Still more would go to cities and lose themselves amid the crowds.

“And Father Tully?” Wesley asked at last.

“Father Tully stays,” said Caitlin. “Without him, we’re a rudderless ship.”

“He was betrayed once. It could happen again.”

“It won’t.”

“How can you be certain?”

“I found out who betrayed him.” Caitlin took a deep breath. “You were right. It was Logan.”

“When did you decide to believe me?”

“Magheen admitted that Logan sold Tully’s whereabouts to a priest catcher. He swears it’s because he feared for Father Tully’s life but I’ll never believe that.” Unthinkingly she pulled his hand into her lap. “He’s my brother by marriage. It pains my heart to think ill of him.”

He lifted her hand to his lips. “It will pain more than your heart if you continue to trust him.”

A shattering sound broke into their conversation. Rory had flung his mug at the wall and was advancing on Tom Gandy.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Rory shouted.

“Now, Rory, sure and it’s a fine idea—”

“Shut your mouth, you parboiled imp!” Grasping Tom by the shoulders, Rory lifted him off the table and held him so they were eye to eye, nose to nose. Tom’s legs flailed in useless protest. “We’ll hear no more of your English-loving blarney,” said Rory.

“Huh! You are the dumbest Goth in creation. I say we do it.”

“I say we don’t,” Rory snarled.

“Do.”

“Don’t.”

“Do what?” Caitlin demanded in exasperation.

Tom lifted his chin. “Make Wesley one of the Fianna.”

Gasps of surprise gusted from the crowd; then a hush fell over the hall. Unable to look at Wesley, Caitlin said, “That’s absurd.”

“It makes perfect sense to me,” Seamus called.

“There,” said Tom. “You see? And put me down, you great, bad oaf.”

Rory dropped him. “I’m with Caitlin. No
Sassenach
can join the Fianna.”

Tom picked himself up off the floor. “I say he’s earned the honor. Look all these good priests in the eye and deny it.”

Rory stared at the floor.

“Tom’s right.” Seamus MacBride came to stand beside Wesley. “He nearly paid for the freedom of the priests with his life.”