by Susan Wiggs
Wesley took a step toward her. “It would be a sin to break a vow made before God.”
“It would also be a sin for me to kill you,” she retorted, “but that won’t stop me from slitting you from your gullet to your crotch. Besides, you broke a vow.”
“But I’m a desperate man.” He took another step. In all the weeks he had spent as her prisoner, she had not harmed him. He had to believe she would not harm him now.
Acting on pure instinct, he undid the row of small orb-shaped buttons that ran down the front of his doublet. She watched warily as he shrugged out of the padded garment.
“You see,” he said. “I trust you. I would bare my chest to you so that nothing stands between my flesh and your steel.” Lifting his hand, he found the tasseled ends of his collar tie. The welsche came loose and drifted to the floor. Clad in a white cambric shirt, the sleeves loose but tightly cuffed, the neckline gaping wide, he advanced another step.
“That’s far enough,” she warned.
He yanked the shirt over his head.
“Stop,” she said. “Put that back on.”
“Do you remember what I said to you that last day on the strand? Do you remember how I described all the ways I wanted to make love to you?”
She said nothing, but the furious blush that stained her face from neck to brow gave him the answer he sought.
“I still want those things. I want to feel your bare breasts against my bare chest. I want to touch you—”
“Stop it!” She edged backward so that her hips touched the table. “I’ll cut your tongue out!”
“Go ahead.” In one long stride he closed the distance between them and stood inches from her.
She lifted the dagger. Her gaze fixed on his broad chest. “You have a lot of scars. I suppose you lied about where they came from, too.”
“It hardly matters now. Are you going to stab me? You’re a warrior who knows how to wield a knife.” He pointed to the muscled flesh below his ribs. “This is a good spot here. No bones to get in the way of your blade.” He spread his arms wide and hoped she would not discern the wild pounding of his heart. “Here’s your chance. Will you take it?”
The dagger swung downward. Wesley tensed, awaiting the cold slice of steel. The knife fell with a clatter to the floor.
“Thank you, Jesus,” Wesley muttered. Then he reached for her.
She jumped back. “I’ll scuttle your knob with my daddle, see if I don’t!”
His gaze searched her, wondering if he had overlooked a second weapon. “What’s a daddle?”
“This.” Her hard, closed fist smashed solidly against his jaw, sending him reeling.
Bright points of pain sparkled before his eyes. The entire lower half of his face caught fire. Stumbling back against the bunk, he sank down, cradling his jaw in his hand.
Caitlin looked on with an uncertainty he had never seen in her before. He worked his jaw tentatively. Not broken. But bruised to the bone.
“Good God, woman!” he burst out. “I am heartily sick of your games. Would you fight to the death to protect your hallowed virginity?”
“Men and maidenheads! You’ve probably swived half of England. What matter is it if I’ve had a man myself?”
“Ah, so the Spaniard’s already had y—” He broke off, shook his head. “No. I know better. The first time I kissed you, I tasted your innocence.” He ran his finger along the throbbing tenderness in his jaw. Cavalier’s tricks, forcefulness and logic had gained him nothing. No man would ever have Caitlin MacBride but with true love.
How could he show her what was in his heart if she wouldn’t let him near her, if she clung to fanciful dreams of an elusive Spanish nobleman?
“I’d like to make a bargain with you.”
“I don’t bargain with faithless Englishmen.”
“Just hear me out. You claim to love this Spanish fellow, and I assume you believe he loves you.”
“It’s not a matter of believing, but of knowing beyond all doubt.”
Wesley lifted one eyebrow. “True love? The pure, all-forgiving kind that the poets sing about?”
Her features softened with reminiscence. “Aye. Pure as the green on the hills in springtime.”
“And all-forgiving?” Wesley persisted.
“Of course.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Well. I should not like to stand in the way of a love so great as that.”
For the first time, she seemed to relax, her hands opening and her shoulders sloping downward. “It’s glad I am that you’ve decided to see reason.”
“I’m glad you’re glad. Take off your clothes and get in bed.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“But you said—”
“I did. Play the wife. Share my bed and my life—just until we settle our business with Oliver Cromwell. Then if you still taunt the angels with your towering passion for the Spaniard, I’ll arrange an annulment. And then—” he let a teasing smile curve past his throbbing jaw “—you’ll have the rest of your life to remember how I made you feel.”
Perhaps it was a trick of the swinging lamplight, but he thought he saw her lower lip tremble. “I thought annulment was granted only in cases of consanguinity, or when a couple fails to—to—”
“Consummate the marriage. Quite right. But Father Tully will be more than willing to help us. Think of it. A few weeks with me, and you’ll be free to pine away for Don What’s-his-name. If the love you share is as deep and abiding as you say, then nothing you and I do together will change that.”
“But he’d—” She snapped her mouth shut and turned away.
“He’d what? Regard you as damaged goods? Not if he loves you.”
Caitlin shivered. She reached deep into the channels of her memory and sought Alonso. He hovered there, a shadowy figure, the echo of a whispered promise, the faint fragrance of masculine perfume, the tender brush of lips against her brow.
She swung back to face the Englishman. Alonso’s image drifted away like a wisp of fog before a blast of wind. Now there was only John Wesley Hawkins, standing with his bare shoulder propped against a support post, his chest wearing fearsome scars like medals of honor. His long rusty hair framed a face too comely to look at. One lock fell forward, a teasing question mark in the middle of his brow.
“Well?” he asked. “Is the MacBride not woman enough for an Englishman?”
“Of course I’m—” Caitlin couldn’t continue, for at last she saw the truth he tried so desperately to conceal behind his insouciance.
John Wesley Hawkins was afraid.
Fear shone in his eyes, visible despite the deep magic of his masculine appeal and the subtle wizardry of his smile. Like a siren song his vulnerability drew her, peeled away the layers of her resistance, mocked her denials, and found the truth at the very core of her.
She wanted him.
It was for Clonmuir, she told herself as she took the first step toward him. For the sake of Clonmuir and all the people who depended on her, she would give herself to the enemy.
To her husband.
A soft gasp escaped her. She felt his arms close around her. Her cheek brushed his chest and she turned and put her lips there, for she wanted to taste him.
He was so gentle, this enemy of hers. He lifted her face and lightly traced the outline of her lips with his finger. His hands and mouth seduced her with promises no man had ever made to her before. He was a light glimmering through the darkness, as captivating and compelling as an ancient song.
His fingers manipulated the fastening of her wide belt. The absence of the cinch gave her a feeling of freedom. She became weightless, boneless, a sailing cloud. The long tunic skimmed down her shoulders and drifted to the floor. The shift of gossamer lawn that had once belonged to a great lady followed in its wake.
She embraced a man who was her enemy. But where was the shame, the fear? She felt only a breathless anticipation, and then sheer intoxication as he brought his li
ps to hers. The madness of desire flowed into her, driving out doubts and fears.
Before long, an uncanny feeling of urgency took hold of her, and she gripped his shoulders. The magic seemed so tenuous and fleeting that she feared one wrong move or one errant thought would shatter the spell.
“Wesley,” she breathed against his mouth. “Hurry. Before I change my mind.”
“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
“Bless 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 g
lad 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.”
