by Susan Wiggs
“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 h
is 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.
Like an awakening dreamer, Hawkins shook his head. Amazement shone on his face, and he sent Caitlin a lopsided grin. “That was easier than I’d expected.”
A feeling of relief gentled the rhythm of her heart. So, he was back to his jaunty English ways. The mist seemed to have lifted from his eyes. He sat the stallion with ease now. Man and horse moved as one, muscular thighs wrapped around muscular hide, and the unmistakable anticipation of speed evident in Hawkins’s face. He held his wrists loose and easy, his back supple, ready to bend with the motion.
Ah, Logan, thought Caitlin, you’re in for it now.
“Easy?” she said. “The beast tossed you off like a load of seaweed.”
The smile lingered about his lips. “Did he now?” Reaching down, he snatched her hand. “A kiss for luck, then?”
She flushed at the thought of kissing him. She snatched her hand away. “Remember your parole.”
“And remember the wager.” His easy grin was full of promises she could not fathom. The certainty in his tone made her shiver—not with fear or cold, but with a feeling she dared not put a name to.
Logan galloped up and slid his horse to a halt. “Ready, Englishman?”
“To give you a mouthful of my dust?” asked Hawkins. “Certainly.”
Caitlin stepped aside, her back to the press of excited onlookers. The Irish took horse racing seriously. And when the race pitted Irish against English, and the stakes determined the fate of the beauteous Magheen, the contest took on the importance of a high holiday.
Tom Gandy lifted an alderwood staff. “Take your marks,” he shouted. “You’ll go to the church and back.”
Hawkins’s gaze focused on the distant steeple. Logan’s knees tensed. The staff sliced through the air. “Go!”
Both horses shot forward in an explosion of speed. Sand sprayed over Caitlin. Dragging strands of windblown hair from her eyes, she knew what the outcome would be. The black’s gallop sang in a rhythm as inevitable and unfaltering as a heartbeat. The chase to the steeple belonged to him and him alone.
Hawkins rode with far more style and grace than one would expect from a Roundhead horse soldier. He bent low over the black’s straining neck, his ruddy hair bright against the ebony hide. Over the thud of hooves, Caitlin heard Hawkins let out a wild yelp of sheer exuberance. The mare had the great unfailing heart of the Irish-bred horse and strove to the last inch of her ability. But Caitlin knew, as she had known from the moment Hawkins had bewitched the stallion into obedience, that all the mare’s efforts would be in vain.
Magic flowed in the black, born of centuries of breeding for beauty and speed. The sight of him in full gallop brought forth thoughts of the mysterious land that spawned the extraordinary breed, and still more thoughts of the man who had given him to her.
“He’s going to break and run!” bellowed Rory.
Hawkins reached the church ahead of Rafferty. Horse and rider disappeared behind the bleached stone building.
“The treacherous devil!” Rory raked Caitlin with his furious eyes. “See how it is with the Sassenach!”
She pressed her hands to her chest as if to keep the heart from being torn out of her. Mother Mary, why had she trusted him? Why—
Hawkins appeared on the other side of the church. He doffed an imaginary hat to his sputtering opponent, then galloped back to the gate. Logan made a valiant final effort, but finished four lengths behind Hawkins.
Indecision held the spectators silent and still. If they cheered Hawkins, would it seem disloyal to the Irish lord? Yet if they hissed at the winner, would it seem disloyal to the MacBride?
Only Tom Gandy let loose with sheer exuberance. “A grand, fine show!” He grinned at Caitlin and danced a little jig. “Now, what do you suppose our guest will have as his forfeit?”
She watched breathlessly as Hawkins and Logan trotted their horses to the strand where they would let the mounts walk off the tension of the race. The sea rushed up to meet them on the sandy beach.
They were so alike, the Irish lord and the English soldier. Both more handsome than any man had a right to be. Both powerful and forceful. They might have been friends had they found themselves on the same side of a conflict. Ireland might have a chance if they were allies.
Absurd. Logan Rafferty was determined to have Magheen at the price he demanded, and John Wesley Hawkins was an English invader. Neither cared a dram for the security of Ireland.
Hawkins rode to Caitlin’s side and dropped to the sand with a quiet thud. Handing the reins to Brigid, he took a step toward Caitlin.
She looked anywhere but at him. She noticed the bellowslike heaving of the black’s sides, the sleekness of its hide in the noonday sun, the sharp imprints of its hooves in the sand. The crowd pressed close, their unspoken curiosity pounding louder than the surf. A rook sang out as it swirled through the crags.
His rough, cold hand grasped her chin. Her heart jolted as she gazed into his moss-gray eyes.
“You owe me a forfeit,” he said. The breeze plucked at strands of his hair, curling them against his windburned cheeks.
She jerked her head away. “Just what is it you want?”
“I’ll have a kiss from you.”
The breath left her chest in a rush. Inhaling slowly, she drew in the cold salt air. “That’s your forfeit?”
“I declare to my soul, this is getting interesting,” whispered Aileen Breslin.
“It’s an outrage,” Rory snapped.
Caitlin challenged her prisoner with a furious stare. “I’d rather kiss a natterjack.”
“You’ll have to settle for me instead.”
In truth the request was modest enough. Yet her nerves rattled like dried reeds in the breeze. “Why?”
His laughter flowed
like warm mead from a crystal goblet. “Do you really have to ask?”
“I’m asking.”
“Because I want to know if the MacBride tastes like a woman, or a warrior.”
Her face heated. “That’s absurd.”
“It’s my request and my prerogative to be as absurd as I please. You knew the stakes. Will you have it said that the MacBride breaks her word?”
Her patience snapped. She wanted nothing more than to have done with the affair and be off about her duties. The spoils of the last raid needed to be tallied and stored. And Magheen was no doubt girding herself for a major row.
Placing her hands against the wall of his chest, she lifted up on tiptoe and brushed her lips over his cheek. “There’s your forfeit, Mr. Hawkins.”
She pivoted and marched away, praying all the while that people would think the color came to her cheeks from the bite of the wind, not from embarrassment.
His large hand clamped down on her shoulder, and he pulled her around to face him. “You call that a kiss?”
“And what would you be calling it?” she flung at him.
“I’ve found more pleasure having corn pecked by a chicken from the palm of my hand.”
In spite of herself, she burst out laughing. “The English have strange tastes.”
Sounds of mirth drifted from the gathered crowd. Some tried to sidle closer. Tom Gandy made a shooing motion and kept them back.
“Caitlin.” Hawkins touched her cheek. “That wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she burst out, “do you not see how silly you’re being?”
“It’s only silly if you continue to shy from me like a maiden. You’re the MacBride. You’ve done worse than kiss an Englishman.” His hands held her fast at the arms, and he bent to whisper in her ear. “I won the forfeit.” His breath caressed the curve of her ear. “I want to feel the fullness of your lips with my own. I want to slide them open with my tongue and taste the sweetness of your mouth. I want to feel your body pressed to—”
Summoning the last of her composure, she said, “You’ve made your point.”
His hands lifted to her shoulders. “Well? I’m waiting.”
She suppressed a shiver. Kissing in the manner he shamelessly described was so...so intimate. It was surrendering a part of herself she held close and inviolable. “No,” she said.
