by Susan Wiggs
“Why you conniving papist devil,” shouted Cromwell.
The Secretary of State examined the documents. “They seem to be in order, Your Highness.”
“I’ve registered copies with the High Court of Justice and the Commissioners. Oh, and also with Viscount Fauconberg.”
Rage blazed across Cromwell’s face at the mention of his son-in-law. Fauconberg had royalist leanings and plenty of influence. He’d not look kindly upon Cromwell’s schemes.
With growing confidence, Wesley curved his arm around Caitlin’s waist. “If you so much as let your shadow fall on this woman, you’ll be exposed as a faithless breaker of promises, unworthy of the trust of the lowliest mongrel in the kingdom.”
“There is no kingdom. I have made of England a Commonwealth dedicated to republican principles.”
“And that’s why you’ll keep your word,” said Wesley. “The public trust is everything, is it not? One slip, Highness, and you’ll find every eye in England turned eastward. To a small town on the Continent. To a man called Charles Stuart.”
Cromwell pounded the table. “Do not dare to utter the traitor’s name in my presence!”
“But who will be called traitor if you break faith with your sworn agreement?” asked Wesley.
“You haven’t stopped the Fianna, my good friend.” Triumph flashed in Cromwell’s eyes as he waved a letter in the air. Wesley snatched the letter. “What’s this?”
“A communiqué from Titus Hammersmith, dated just eight days ago. The Fianna has struck again. And on a day when you and your whore of a wife were at sea.”
“No!” said Caitlin. “That can’t be.”
Wesley forgot to breathe until his lungs screamed for air. Rory Breslin, he thought. Tom Gandy. Conn O’Donnell and Liam the smith and all the others. They must have torn apart the entire west coast of Ireland searching for Caitlin. Damn them. Their loyalty had slipped a noose around their necks.
“This must be the work of a different faction,” he said. “I have done my part. You can’t hold me responsible for the actions of every band of rebels in Ireland.”
Cromwell motioned to Thurloe. “Take Mrs. Hawkins to the outer chamber. She could use a bracing dish of tea.”
Wesley stepped in front of her. “I’m not letting her out of my sight.”
“Quit playing the gallant. She’ll be perfectly safe with Mr. Thurloe. Besides,” he added persuasively, “you and I have further business to discuss.”
Knowing precisely what the Lord Protector meant, Wesley stepped aside. Shooting a last, furious look at Wesley, Caitlin left with Thurloe. The door closed with a loud thump.
Wesley whirled on Cromwell. “Where is she?”
“Patience, patience, my good friend.” Cromwell walked unhurriedly to a side door and tapped on the panel.
In walked Hester Clench, her black-clad arm around a child’s tiny shoulders.
“Laura.” Rushing to her, Wesley dropped to one knee in front of her and cradled her against his chest. Her sweet pure scent flowed like a stream of sunshine through him. “Oh, my Laura.” He kissed both cheeks.
She pulled back. A familiar locket winked on her chest, and sober confusion glowed in her green eyes. “Hello, Papa. You mustn’t kiss me so. Auntie Clench says it’s unseemly.”
His arms went numb. His child extracted herself from his embrace, taking a piece of his heart with her.
“What’s the matter, Laura?” he asked. She was dressed all in black, a pale little mourner regarding a corpse. “Aren’t you happy to see your papa?”
“Laura, dear.” Cromwell’s voice dripped like treacle into the conversation. “Come see what I’ve got for you. Lively now.”
Oblivious to Wesley, Laura skipped across the room and climbed into the Lord Protector’s lap. “What is it, Uncle Oliver?” She pressed her hands to his quilted doublet.
“Here.” He brought out a little silver bell. “Something sweet to remind you of the sweetness of our Lord Jesus.”
She rang the bell, and her laughter joined its chiming. “Thank you, Uncle! I can’t wait to show Miss Bettie!”
Wesley’s heart sank like a rock. He shot a venomous glare at Hester Clench; then he slowly approached the table. It took all his control to keep his expression pleasant and fatherly. Inside he seethed. The bell was one of those rung by Catholics at the consecration. Trust the bastard to turn a sacred object into a child’s toy.
Seeing her seated, laughing and secure, in the Lord Protector’s lap, Wesley felt his plans unravel, and panic broke in a cold sweat over him. He had to get her out of here, and fast. “Laura, darling,” he said. “I’ve come to take you with me. We can be together again.”
Instead of the joy he had expected, instead of the smile he had envisioned during the long weeks in Ireland, she clutched at Cromwell and regarded her father with apprehension. “You’re taking me away?”
“Yes, Laura. We’ll be together again.”
“Uncle Oliver says it’s not safe to wander the roads with you.”
“I’ll keep you safe, Laura. And haven’t I always? I swear it.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “But I don’t want to go! I have a skin horse and a dollhouse and my friend Lisbeth to play with at Hampton Court, and—” She pressed her face into Cromwell’s doublet. “Please don’t make me go away. I want to stay with you and Auntie Clench and Miss Bettie.”
Cromwell stroked her hair. “There, there, poppet.”
Wesley tried to deny the gentleness in the way Cromwell handled the child. He tried to deny the real affection the Lord Protector showed to Laura. But despite his reputation, despite his manipulative ways, Cromwell did possess a softness. “Run along with Mrs. Clench and she’ll help you draw a nice picture to take to Miss Bettie at Hampton Court. And you can have seed cakes and oranges for tea.”
Wesley thought of the crude meals he had scraped together for her over the years of running and hiding.
Laura sniffled. “Can I have honey on my cakes?”
“Of course, poppet.”
She dropped from his lap and ran to Hester Clench.
“Laura...” said Wesley, his voice close to breaking.
Almost as an afterthought, she called, “Goodbye, Papa!” She skipped out, her father already forgotten.
Wesley shuddered with a feeling of betrayal and inadequacy. How easily he had lost his daughter’s affection. “Damn your soul to hell,” he whispered to Cromwell. “I’m surprised you didn’t see fit to flaunt my daughter before my wife.”
Cromwell rubbed his temples. “I’d not bring shame upon that child, Mr. Hawkins. And no one must know of our arrangement.”
Wesley gave a bitter bark of laughter. “Ah, yes, your precious reputation once again. The public trust and all that. I’ve a mind to let the public know that you take children from their parents—”
“Do that,” said Cromwell, each word a ball of hot lead in Wesley’s gut, “and you’ll never see the girl again.”
“You bastard.” Wesley itched to pound Cromwell’s face into a pulp. “You turned her against me.”
“I fulfilled her needs. As you can see, we treat the child with love and care. She’s been such a comfort to my Bettie.”
A comfort, thought Wesley, his panic burning hotter. For a woman who had just lost a small child. God, Lady Claypole might never let Laura go. “You’re manipulating an innocent mind.”
Cromwell’s face chilled. “Look at the facts, man. When Mrs. Clench brought Laura here, the child was a bedraggled urchin, unwashed, ill-fed, crude of manner and ungovernable.”
Against his will, Wesley remembered nights she had fallen asleep hungry because they were on the run from priest catchers. He remembered the times they had slept in hayricks or cellars. He remembered picking lice from her hair, his clumsy mending of her clothes when she tore them. But through all the hardships, her sunny disposition had rarely dimmed. “She was a happy child,” he insisted.
“She simply didn’t know any other li
fe,” Cromwell said reasonably. “But thanks to Mrs. Clench and my own dear daughter, Laura has learned that there are such things as warm baths and comfortable beds. Forks and plates. Good, hearty meals.”
“Creature comforts are nothing.”
“That’s an ignorant statement even from you. You dragged the child from pillar to post, sleeping in the rain and taking her among people of questionable character. Is it any wonder she prefers her new life?”
“It’s an artificial life. She’s been rewarded like a pet spaniel for performing a clever trick.”
“She has been loved and comforted.”
Desperate, Wesley leaned toward Cromwell’s face. “She’s my daughter. I want her back.”
“We made a bargain. You subdue the Fianna. In exchange, I return Laura to you. If you breathe so much as a word about this arrangement, especially to that Irish wife of yours, the child’s life is forfeit.” He gestured at the communiqué from Hammersmith. “You’ve not yet succeeded. Until I receive word that the Fianna has ceased its murderous rampages, your daughter remains my hostage.”
* * *
An antechamber with two thick doors separated Caitlin from Wesley and Cromwell. Under the watchful eyes of Thurloe, MacKenzie, and a half-dozen pikemen, she paced the corridor.
The revelations of the day cascaded through her mind like a spring torrent over jagged rocks. Fear and rage and confusion mocked her attempts to reason and plan.
Wesley had orchestrated the encounter with Alonso. How it must have gratified him to watch her discover that the man she had yearned for had married and sired a child.
You have to feel the hurt before you can begin to heal.
And yet the pain she felt was vague, uncentered, as if she had known all along that a marriage with Alonso was impossible, as if a chapter in her life had closed.
More significant than Alonso’s betrayal was the meeting with Cromwell. Before today, she had assumed that Cromwell and Wesley were in league against the Fianna. The meeting had shaken the foundations of her belief.
Oliver Cromwell and John Wesley Hawkins were adversaries.
The revelation filled her mind with unanswered questions. Why didn’t Wesley defy the Lord Protector? He had every reason to; he had been tortured for his faith; he possessed an unshakable sense of humanity that even Caitlin couldn’t deny.
Still, he had dedicated himself to stopping the Fianna.
Why?
The door of the antechamber slammed open. Caitlin was about to demand an explanation, but the words died on her lips when she saw the look on Wesley’s face. It was like the day of the race, when his whole manner had changed and he had tamed the stallion. His skin was pale, his eyes hard, ice coated. Yet behind the ice, a fire blazed. She realized he hovered scant inches from losing control. His mouth was as hard and unyielding as stone.
“What is it?” she asked.
None too gently, he took her arm and hauled her toward the door. “We’re going back to Clonmuir. Tonight.”
* * *
The fury of his silence caught Caitlin at a loss. Five days earlier they had left London for Milford Haven and boarded a protectoral frigate bound for Galway. Two days after that they sailed the high, surging seas. The waves had the weight of an old storm in them, and the wind carried a chill not even the balmy streams of air from the west could warm.
They shared a luxurious berth and the ship’s crew treated them with deference. From this Caitlin deduced that Wesley was still in Cromwell’s favor. But she could discern nothing more. He neither spoke to her nor touched her. At night she slept in the cozy bunk while he made do, without complaint, on a hard wooden bench beneath the stern windows.
Pride kept her from initiating a discussion.
Fury kept him from offering an explanation.
Deadlocked, they spent pain-filled days and empty nights in bitter agony.
Desperately bored, her nerves frazzled to shreds, Caitlin sought companionship from the ship’s crew.
They were foulmouthed Englishmen, but at least they spoke to her. The boatswain carved her a whistle from driftwood, and she blew a signal. Delighted by the bright sound, she laughed.
Wesley, who stood at the binnacle several paces away, flinched as if she had struck him.
The sailmaker taught her a ditty about a seal who turned human and fell in love with a mortal, only to revert forever to his original state in order to save her from drowning. Caitlin broke down and wept at the sad tale.
Seeing her tears, Wesley came running, his face gray with apprehension. Upon learning the source of her distress, he turned away with a snort of disgust.
A foremastman invited her to try her hand at climbing the rigging. Dressed again in her comfortable tunic and trews, she grasped the thick ropes and hoisted herself with ease.
The great height exaggerated the pitch of the ship. The swift and breathtaking movement gave her the sensation of flight. For a moment, she soared as free as the gulls that winged beneath a boiling mantle of clouds.
She heard Wesley’s voice from below. “Get her down,” he snapped to the foremastman. “And if you ever endanger her again I’ll have you skelped within a bloody inch of your life.”
Caitlin considered staying aloft just to spite him. But out of concern for the crewman, she descended.
That night in their cabin, she sat across the table from Wesley. She found herself watching his hands, big and rough, yet nimble in the way they twisted the stem of his wine goblet.
His silence, she realized, was making her miserable.
She resented the hold he had on her mood. She resented the fact that he could make her feel anything at all.
She glared at him. Staid and emotionless, he concentrated on the wine in his glass.
Like a too-taut harp string, her control snapped. “Wesley.”
He glanced up, his eyes as blank and impenetrable as shadows.
“If you’ve a point to make with me, I wish you’d be after speaking up rather than sulking in silence like a child.”
Her jerked away from the table and surged to his feet. “Is that what you think? That I’m a child who’s had his favorite plaything snatched away?”
She sighed. “Faith, I don’t know what to think. You won’t talk to me.”
“Is there anything to say?” he asked quietly. “Anything that won’t set us at each other’s throats?”
“We’re people, not a pair of snarling wolfhounds.”
“Very well. What would you like to talk about?”
About the deeds of the ancients. The people of Clonmuir. The color of the sun rising over the crags. Whirlwinds, comets, dark magic. With a painful wave of nostalgia, she reflected on matters they used to discuss with easy amiability and a deep, mutual sense of wonder.
“We could start with Alonso,” she said at last.
His shoulders tensed. “Ah. A favored topic of mine indeed.”
“I told you about him on our wedding night.”
“Give yourself high marks for honesty.”
She hated the terrible expression on his face. She hated the hurt he could not quite manage to hide. Against her will, she felt a pained tenderness toward him. Shoving aside the feeling, she stated, “You knew I loved him.”
“It’s easy to love a man you’ve not seen in four years. Every time you thought of him, your imagination added a fresh patina to his perfection.”
Comprehension blazed through her. “So that’s it, then. You knew I’d never find the man in the flesh as appealing as the man in my memories.” She waited for his response, but he merely stared, unblinking, waiting. “You knew him,” she accused. “And you didn’t tell me.”
“I knew him only vaguely. A lot of the London Catholics celebrated mass with foreign dignitaries. They escaped persecution that way.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that he was married?”
“I didn’t know for certain until we reached London. Then I wanted you to see for yourself what a liar he is.”
“I didn’t make you fling yourself into his arms.”
“How considerate of you. Did you never feel remorse at deceiving me?”
“Every minute of every day.” Then his expression changed, going fierce and hard. His hands shot out, and he gripped her shoulders. “I’m glad he’s married, do you hear me? Damn it, Cait, I want you for myself.”
His touch, and the raw honesty of his admission, awakened a reluctant sympathy in her. “For pity’s sake, why?”
“You know the answer to that,” he snapped. “I’ll not repeat it only to have you fling it in my face.” He let go of her. “We were speaking of Alonso, were we not? Did he match the expectations you’d built up around him? Tell me, how did he explain away the fact that he was married?”
“You drew your sword and challenged him before—”
“Before you let him make adulterers of you both?” he demanded. “Would you have let him take you right then and there? Fling you on the ground in the shadow of Whitehall Palace and—”
“Stop it!” She struck him on the chest. “Alonso would never be so crass as you.”
“Yes, dear Alonso. Always so honorable.”
“I’m learning that honor is a relative thing.” She looked away, summoning anger from the regrets that softened her will. “Why play the jealous husband, Wesley? You said that you were willing to accept that my affections will never be yours.”
“That was before—” Wesley bit off the words, but his heart finished the thought. That was before I learned how much you mean to me. Before I’d discovered the magic of loving you.
Love. What a grand, glorious curse. Love was supposed to make a poet of a man. Of John Wesley Hawkins it had made a wretched, uncontrollable beast.
“Before what?” she prompted.
Reaching out, he took her in his arms once again. The rage flowed out of him like foul water draining from a pond.
“When you kept pleading fatigue, turning aside my invitations at the palace, do you know what I thought?”
“No. But I’ve never understood you.”
“Fatigue is so unlike you. But even the most energetic of women falls prey to weariness when she’s pregnant.”
