by Susan Wiggs
“I’d have no household, should Cromwell have his way. It’s not a perfect world. Each does as he sees fit.”
“But don’t you prefer peace—”
“Peace is my dream,” she hissed vehemently. “But fighting is my reality. I have to live with that.”
Hearing the fierce words, Wesley felt a rush of love so intense that his head seemed to spin. He knew beyond all certainty that he wanted to spend his life with this woman, to watch her grow round with his children, and then to grow old and mellow as the years passed.
As they entered the lofty hall, he only hoped Rafferty would not see fit to spike John Wesley Hawkins through the gut.
The Lord of Brocach looked as if he’d enjoy it. Rafferty occupied a thronelike chair, the high back carved with rowan leaves and berries. As Wesley and Caitlin, followed by their party, walked the length of the hall toward him, he made no move to rise. Instead he propped an elbow on the chair arm and toyed with the ends of his braided beard. His gaze settled coldly on Caitlin and Wesley, but just for a moment. The Lord of Brocach had eyes only for his wife.
In spite of his distrust of Rafferty, Wesley felt a twinge of empathy for the Irish lord. Rafferty’s dark anger failed to conceal his helpless adoration and frustrated desire, two passions with which, in recent weeks, Wesley had become unwillingly acquainted.
He reached the raised dais and bowed. “My lord.”
One corner of Rafferty’s mouth lifted in a mocking grin. “So you’ve finally come to Brocach, have you, Hawkins? As I recall, you had an invitation some weeks back.”
“I’ve come on my own terms,” Wesley said pleasantly. “As Caitlin’s husband.” He felt her stiffen beside him. He stifled the urge to shake her. He wanted her to feel pride, not resentment, when he announced that he was her husband.
Rafferty’s face contorted with disbelief, then anger, and finally mockery. “Well, well. The lady rebel of Clonmuir has finally been brought to heel. And by an English nobody, no less. Tell me, Caitlin, what brought about this amazing development?”
“True love,” Wesley said before she had a chance to respond. “She couldn’t help herself.”
“My hands were tied,” said Caitlin. Wesley looked at her sharply and saw a spark of amusement in her eyes.
“Well!” Magheen stepped forward and planted herself in front of Logan. “Don’t be expecting such as Logan Rafferty to understand true love.”
“This from a woman who abandoned her own dear husband.” Logan tried to conceal his eagerness as he added, “Are you ready to come back to me, Magheen?”
Her pretty features softened with longing. “Only if you’ll accept me without a dowry.”
“St. Patrick preserve my immortal soul.” He lifted his clasped hands toward the rough-beamed ceiling. “A man who takes a wife with no dowry is less than a man.”
“A theory that bears ruminating...later,” Wesley said. “My lord, I’ve come to swear fealty to you.”
Rafferty lifted his eyebrows in surprise, then shot a look at Caitlin. “What trick is this? You MacBride females are full of tricks.”
“No trick,” Wesley cut in. “It’s a sincere offer.”
“Sure you’re as sincere as a weasel in a dovecote.”
“Look,” said Wesley, “if we’re to live together in this district, we’d best not be at each other’s throats.”
Logan waved a hand, the thick fingers weighted with rings. Reaching to his belt, he withdrew a gleaming, pointed dirk. “Let’s be after it, then. On your knees, Hawkins.”
While every impulse told him to rebel, Wesley knelt before the Irishman. In London Caitlin had seen his pride broken by her Spanish lover. Now again he must allow himself to be humiliated. But it was all part of his plan, he reminded himself.
She looked on gravely, but utterly without sympathy. And why should he expect sympathy from a woman he had forced into Cromwell’s presence?
Because, damn it, said a mutinous voice inside him, it was time she saw the value in compromise.
“Do you swear to uphold the laws of this district and obey my rule?” Logan’s black eyes danced with enjoyment.
“I so swear,” said Wesley in his best bell-toned voice.
Logan extended the dirk for the customary kiss of peace. “And if you break this vow, may this blade bury itself to the haft in your heart.”
His face flaming, Wesley bent over the large, rough hand. He clamped his jaw to stifle a sound of surprise.
Then, his mind boiling with suspicion, he brushed his lips over the blade. But his eyes stayed on Rafferty’s signet ring: a golden rowan branch surmounted on the back of a badger.
Brocach, he thought. Irish for badger’s warren. God, why hadn’t he realized sooner? He straightened, schooled his features to blandness, and lifted his hand in salute. “My lord.”
“Very good, Hawkins. Let us have a cup of usquebaugh, and we’ll discuss the fines owed to me by Clonmuir.”
“Fines?” Caitlin burst out. “What blarney is this?”
He strode to the table. He did not look at Caitlin or Magheen. “No blarney,” he said. “Simply a fine I’m compelled to levy for your disobedience.”
She joined him at the table and slapped her palms on the surface. “What disobedience?”
His face became a hard mask of accusation. “The Fianna.”
Her face paled. “And what’s that to do with me?”
“Don’t waste your wind in arguing. Of course, I knew all from the start, but I waited to be sure. You were careless in that last raid.” He fixed his stare on Tom Gandy. “You were recognized.”
That last raid, thought Wesley, when the men had ridden in a rage without their leader. A feeling of protectiveness rose fierce and hot through him, and he moved to her side.
Caitlin hesitated, then sank onto a bench. “My people are starving. More exiles come every week. How can I turn away the crying babies? Hammersmith has an endless supply of stores from England.”
“I’m your lord. You should have come to me.”
“I did, Logan. Remember? I begged you for provisions but you refused.”
“Didn’t I take Magheen off your hands—”
“For a price, damn your eyes,” Magheen cut in.
“—and I a lord who should have wed high nobility?” Logan’s hands kept busy, handling his horn mug, rubbing the table. His eyes shifted—to the fire, to the wolfhound sleeping at his feet—everywhere but at Caitlin.
Wesley’s suspicions froze into icy certainty. Suppressing his rage, he walked to Tom Gandy and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Scuttle the plan—we can’t leave Magheen here. Rafferty’s a traitor.”
Tom started. “Sure and that’s a hard accusation.”
“That ring he’s wearing. Titus Hammersmith has an ornament in the same design. I saw it in his office.”
“Bless me, are you certain?”
“Aye, and then there’s Father Tully. Didn’t he disappear from Brocach?”
“Aye, but—”
“And Logan’s lying about knowing of the Fianna from the start. He’s got more pride than sense. Would he really sit idle while Caitlin led raids that moved Cromwell to murder and the bards to ballads?”
“The sin upon my head, but you’re right! What are you going to do?”
“I can’t carry on with the plan for Magheen. He betrayed a priest. He’d not balk at betraying his wife.”
“I disagree,” said Tom. “If you’re right, we need her here more than ever.”
“What can Magheen do?”
Tom smiled. “She’s Caitlin’s sister. And tell me, do you relish entirely the prospect of taking Magheen back to Clonmuir to starve with the rest of us?”
Wesley shuddered. “I still don’t like it—”
“It was your idea.” Tom pushed him toward the table. “All will be well. Do something terrifically clever. I’ll play my part.”
Wesley made what he hoped was a deferential bow. “My lord, about the fine.”
“In payment, I offer you a skilled tinker to see to repairing your fine possessions. A good man from Wexford, very—er—prolific. You’ll not find better in Ireland.”
Logan’s eyes narrowed in calculation. “You offer another mouth to feed.”
Try sixteen, Wesley thought. “I offer an honest worker. Surely you can use him.”
Logan’s gaze locked with Magheen’s. She stared at him implacably until he said, “Very well, I accept. But a tinker doesn’t cover the amount owed by Clonmuir.”
Wesley smiled. “I agree. There’s something you need more than a tinker, my lord.”
“And how would you be knowing what I—”
“A wife.”
Logan’s eyebrows crashed together like black lightning bolts. “By God, Hawkins, what kind of a scoundrel are you, to be offering a woman as payment for a fine? Damn it, I have a wife!”
“Take me and cancel the fine.” Magheen braced her arms on the table and gave Logan a heaven-sent view of her bosom. Just as his eyes kindled, she stepped back. “That’s our offer.”
“It’s preposterous. I won’t hear of it.”
True to the plan, Tom tapped his mug on the table. “Saints of heaven be praised, the mood has been hurled upon my tongue!”
Everyone stopped what they were doing. When a gifted bard felt the urge to relate a tale, it was a special occasion. England had outlawed the bards of Ireland, so this treat had the fine seasoning of the forbidden to sweeten it.
Logan looked torn between continuing the argument and listening to Tom. Seizing the moment, Tom stood on a bench and drew his audience in with the long sweep of his gaze.
To Wesley’s surprise, Caitlin inched down the bench toward him. He felt her presence like a warm glow, a flicker of light in his heart. “I hope your plan works,” she whispered.
“I must know. Do Logan and Magheen love truly?”
“Look at them. Do you have to ask?”
Magheen sat across the table from Logan, staring at him with pained yearning. She had dropped her shawl. Her unbraided hair hung like a long, loose veil around her face and down her back. Rosy color suffused her cheeks. Her moist lips and blue eyes gleamed in the rushlight.
Rafferty had one elbow propped on the table. His lidded gaze clung to Magheen in silent worship.
“You’re certain he’d never hurt her?”
She shifted away from him on the bench. “He’s not like you. He doesn’t use women.”
Her statement slapped him in the face like a bucket of ice water, awakening rage. “I went on my knees before him for your sake! What else must I—”
“Hush. I’m listening to Tom.”
He made himself smother the fury. Giving no sign that he understood the Gaelic, Wesley pretended great interest in the bottom of his mug and prayed Tom’s powers of persuasion would weaken Rafferty’s stubbornness.
The narrative came forth in hushed whispers, bursting shouts, dramatic pauses. The audience listened, enraptured, absorbing every word as grass in springtime absorbs sunlight.
“What’s he saying?” Wesley asked Caitlin.
“It’s the tale of Bridie McGhee. An abduction tale.”
Caught up in his own recitation, Tom paced the narrow bench, gestured and contorted his face. The audience listened in a state of breath-held captivation.
“What’s happening to Bridie now?” asked Wesley.
“Faith, she thinks she’s lost him. She’s standing on the edge of Leacht Cliff about to hurl herself over.”
Tom lamented in dirgelike tones.
In an undertone, Caitlin translated, “She’s calling out to Ruath, begging him to snatch her from black suicide, but he doesn’t hear.”
To Wesley’s surprise, he noticed tears in Caitlin’s eyes. She slid her hand under his beneath the table. Very gently he moved his thumb in slow circles in her palm. With absurd swiftness, his body jolted to life.
He had been indifferent to ladies of the blood royal. He had resisted with ease the arts of talented courtesans. And yet the simple act of holding Caitlin’s hand filled him with a sharp, sweet yearning that left him breathless.
It must be true love, he thought. I could die happy just holding her hand.
Her grip tightened. “Ruath has bridled a wind horse and is after saving her.”
Forcing an agony of suspense on the audience, Tom described in minute detail Ruath’s flight to the coast. The love-struck hero battled her kinsmen and braved a storm.
Bridie stepped off the edge of the cliff.
Magheen wailed and buried her face in her hands. Logan rushed to her side and cradled her against him. He inhaled, his face blissful and stupid from the scent of her.
Ruath sailed off the cliff after her. Just as Gandy had convinced the listeners that the lovers were falling to their deaths, Ruath scooped Bridie onto his horse. The enchanted beast landed with exquisite ease in a dark meadow.
To the glory of Ireland, Bridie and her lover lived happily ever after.
Women dabbed their eyes with their shawls. Men wiped their noses with their sleeves. Tom winked at Rafferty. “Nothing like a good abduction to prove who’s master,” he said.
Sensing Logan’s perfect state of vulnerability, Wesley rose and announced that it was time to go. Logan had the look of a dying man about him as Magheen drew herself from his arms.
They had ridden a mile to the south when hoofbeats drummed behind them. Like a horseman from the underworld, Logan Rafferty galloped out of the twilight.
Magheen gave a shriek of both terror and triumph. Logan bore down on her. Their horses ran neck and neck, so close that their shoulders bumped. He snatched her from the saddle in a move worthy of a carnival gypsy.
Magheen screamed. And then fell silent.
Wesley’s last glimpse, just before they crested a rise in the road, was of the lord and his lady embracing passionately, on a horse galloping back to Brocach.
Fifteen
“In my born, natural life,” said Rory, “I wouldn’t have been after believing it would work.” With grudging admiration, he eyed Wesley across the round table in the hall of Clonmuir. “Rafferty’ll keep her, and no more talk of dowries.”
“Aye,” said Tom Gandy, “and Magheen will see to sending food. Well done, a chara.”
“It was just a matter of understanding the nature of a desperate man in love,” said Wesley.
“You’re such an expert,” said Caitlin.
“Long on brains, after all,” Rory said in Irish, “to make up for the shortness otherwise.”
Force of habit had taught Wesley to ignore the recurring gibe. Into the hall came the smallholder named Darrin Mudge, a surly man who had a longstanding debt to Caitlin. Playing upon her generous nature, he had for a few years refused to pay. She had summoned him today, for he was the last of her neighbors who possessed livestock.
“Sure it’s not a thing I remember.” Mudge scratched his head beneath a soiled hat.
“You mean it’s not convenient for you to remember,” Caitlin said. “But it’s past time you paid. I’ve mouths to feed.”
“On my oath, I cannot—”
“Yes, let’s talk of oaths,” Wesley cut in. The smallholder’s manner grated on his nerves. “Would you be willing to swear an oath that you owe no debt to Clonmuir?”
“Aye, of course, but—”
“Then listen carefully and repeat after me.”
“Wesley,” said Caitlin. “This is not your—”
Tom shushed her with a wave of his hand.
Thank God, thought Wesley as she closed her mouth and planted her elbows on the table. At last she seemed to accept that he might have something of value to say. “Now, Mr. Mudge,” he continued. “Here is the oath. If I fail to tell God’s own truth—”
“If I fail to tell God’s own truth—”
“May the bloat poison my herd—”
“Eh? That be a curse, not an oath!�
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Wesley fixed him with a commanding stare. “May the bloat poison my herd—”
“Ach, musha.” Mudge pressed his hands together. “May the bloat poison my herd—”
“—and may my fine flock of sheep be clifted—”
Mudge took a step back. “What be this curse you’re trying to bring upon me, Englishman?”
“Don’t argue with the husband of the MacBride!” Rory thundered.
Mudge made the sign of the cross. “And may my fine flock of sheep—” He sent Caitlin a pleading glance. “Can this truly be in the oath?”
“You’re calling on God to punish you if you don’t speak the truth,” Caitlin explained.
“And may the high King of Glory permit my children to get the mange,” Wesley added.
“Oh, God!” Mudge broke out in a fine sweat. “Bedad, I remember me now. ’Tis a debt I’ll be paying you before the sun sets!” Shaken, he scurried down the length of the hall. Silence, then huge gusts of merry laughter, chased him out.
Rory scrubbed the mirth from his eyes and lifted his mug to Wesley. “Well done, by God!”
Wesley raised his own cup to acknowledge the salute; then he looked at Caitlin.
She regarded him with a bitterness that stabbed at his heart. God, would he never learn to anticipate her? He had solved the problem of the debt. But in doing so, he had usurped her authority. And it would not be the last time.
“Let’s get to supper,” she murmured.
The meager meal on the table could hardly be called supper. The turnip and potato soup, already thin, had been doubled by water.
In London, this type of hunger would have incited a riot. But here at Clonmuir, the people accepted deprivation with order and civility, even gratitude.
Wesley’s temper took wing. Had these people been thieves or outlaws, he would have felt nothing for their plight. But they were pious folk who had done no worse than occupy a magical isle coveted by its English neighbors.
English greed made them suffer. In just a few short months, winter would come rushing upon the land, bringing starvation with the cold.
Even as a decision firmed in his mind, he ached for Caitlin. Once again, he would have to override her convictions. But surely she could not resent him any more than she already did.
