The Maiden of Ireland. Susan Wiggs
“Cromwell’s army exceeds the entire population of Ireland,” said Hawkins. “He has enough men and guns to lay waste to every stone of Clonmuir. How will you stop him?”
“We’ll—” She clamped her mouth shut. How careless this disarming man made her. “You’d be surprised, Hawkins, what a few deeply committed warriors can accomplish.”
“No,” he said with an odd, wistful shimmer in his shadow-colored eyes. “No, I wouldn’t be surprised. And you’re to call me Wesley.”
“It’s such an English-sounding name.”
“That it is, Caitlin MacBride. A man can’t change what he is.”
How true, she thought. It was that very truth that had led her, again and again, to forgive her father’s follies. If she and Hawkins had been other than they were, they might have been friends.
“Tell me about Logan Rafferty and your sister.” He had moved closer again, a brush of heat against her arm.
She knew she should retreat, or better yet, push him away. Yet the commanding beauty of his face, the obvious ease with which he held himself, kept her in a thrall of curiosity. She knew she shouldn’t confess the turmoils of Clonmuir to an English stranger, but where was the harm in it? She had no confidant save Tom Gandy, and her steward’s habit of speaking in riddles was more vexing than satisfying. Despite Hawkins’s intimidating good looks and blatantly English character, something about him put her at ease. Just looking into his eyes gave her a feeling of peace, like the rocking motion of a boat on a calm sea.
“Logan comes from an old and industrious clan,” she explained, “although he’s taken on some English ways. That should please you.”
“So far, nothing about the man has pleased me.”
Caitlin held back a smile. “He should have chosen a wife of higher rank but...well, you’ve seen Magheen.”
“She’s very pretty.”
A tiny ache flared in Caitlin’s chest. Pretty was a word that could never apply to her. Tall and gawky, wild of hair, her face made up of harsh lines, she was not one to escape men’s attention. But it was not the soft, poetic devotion of smitten swains. Instead she commanded soldiers who had no choice.
Images of Hawkins dancing with Magheen harried her thoughts. He had moved with animal fluidity, a perfect foil for Magheen’s winsome grace. In looks, Hawkins was her masculine equal. She wondered why he wasn’t paying court to her now instead of pursuing Caitlin.
“Magheen’s not merely pretty,” she said. “She’s bright and amusing and wise in...important ways. She’s had many suitors, but would settle for no less than Logan. But nothing is simple. Because of her lower station, he demanded a large dowry. I tried to hide the sum from Magheen.”
“I take it she found out.”
“She did, and it burned her pride.” Reluctant amusement tugged at the corners of Caitlin’s mouth.
“So what did she do about it?”
“She refused to share his bed until he reduced his demands.”
“Ah. Your little sister has some of your defiance in her.”
Caitlin erected a wall of defense around her emotions. “We’ve been without a mother for six years. You’ve seen...our father. We don’t have the luxury of behaving like conventional ladies.” She sighed. “The matter might have been settled this very day. Logan would have had a live bullock, not one turning over a cookfire.”
“Your father’s doing?”
“Aye. So now I must find another means to appease Logan.”
His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You? You alone, Caitlin?”
“Aye.”
“It’s a heavy burden for a young girl.” His large hand came up. Like the brush of a feather, it coasted along her jawline.
Caitlin was so surprised by his touch that for a moment she stood unmoving, hearing the crash of the sea and the dull thud of blood in her ears. Her skin tingled where his rough knuckles caressed her. Pulled by a force woven of longing, loneliness, and magic, she leaned toward him, staring at his strange English-made shirt and the thick belt he wore at his waist. St. George’s cross was stamped into the leather.
The patron saint of England brought her to her senses. She drew back quickly. “You mustn’t touch me.”
Very slowly, he lowered his hand. “You need to be touched, Caitlin MacBride. You need it very badly.”
She girded herself with denial. “Even if it were so, I would not need it from an Englishman.”
“Think again, my love. We’re easy with one another despite our differences. Remember our first meeting—the shock of it, the knowing? We could be good for each other.”
“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