The Maiden of Ireland

He touched a hand to his damp brow where dark red curls spilled down. “John Wesley Hawkins, at your service,” he said. “And you’re...”

“Caitlin MacBride, and I’m at no Englishman’s service,” she snapped. “What might you be doing here, Mr. Hawkins?”

He plucked a twig from his hair. “I was shipwrecked.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “A likely story, indeed. We’ve had no reports of a shipwreck.”

“Alas, you wouldn’t have. I was the only survivor.” He lowered himself heavily to a flat rock. “Bound away from Galway, we were, on a trading mission. No, not guns, don’t glare at me like that. A squall whipped up. Next thing I knew, the decks were swamped and we’d capsized. Everything was lost. Everyone.”

“Then how did you survive?”

“I’m a strong swimmer and managed to stay afloat. A big rowan branch happened by and I clung to it. It carried me here, and—” He slid her a sideways glance. “You don’t believe a word of this, do you?”

“No.”

“I’d rather hoped you would.”

“You weren’t really on a trading vessel, were you?”

“It was a very small ship.”

“How small?”

He hesitated. “A coracle.”

In spite of herself, Caitlin felt a glimmer of humor. “Then I’m after thinking you were the only one aboard.”

“Aye.” Unexpectedly, he reached for her hand. His was damp and cool from wind and water. “Sit beside me, Caitlin MacBride. I’ve had a close brush with death and it’s unnerved me.”

She didn’t think a howling banshee could unnerve him. Pulling her hand away, she settled herself on the rock a careful distance from him. The sky had melted into a rich indigo tapestry shot through with points of silver. The waves glowed as they curled toward the shore, crashing on sand and rock.

She thought of the letter Curran had stolen from Galway. Could this man have something to do with Cromwell’s new plan? Best to find out. “Well, then, John Wesley Hawkins, I’m waiting for the truth. Why are you here?”

He took off first one boot, and then the other, pouring out the water and then putting them back on. “I’m a deserter.”

She blinked. “From the Roundhead army?”

“Aye.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I don’t hold with killing innocent folk just to make an English colony of Ireland. Besides, the pay—when it came—was poor.”

“Where were you bound for, then?”

“I’d planned to sneak into Galway harbor and find my way onto a trading vessel. Unless you’ve a better idea.”

“I can’t be doing your deciding for you, Mr. Hawkins.”

“Wesley,” he said. “My friends call me Wesley.”

“I’m no friend of yours.”

“You are, Caitlin MacBride.” The evening light danced in the color of his eyes. She saw great depths there, layers of mystery and passion and pain, and an allure that drew her like a bit of metal to a lodestone. “Didn’t you feel it?” he persisted. “The pull, the magic?”

She laughed nervously. “You’re moonstruck. You’re more full of pixified fancies than Tom Gandy.”

“Who’s Tom Gandy?”

“I expect you’ll meet him shortly if I can’t find a way to get rid of you.”

“That’s encouraging.” He took her hand again. A tiny bead of blood stood out on her finger. She tried to snatch her hand away. He held it fast.

“You’re bleeding,” he said.

“A thorn prick, no more,” she stated.

“I didn’t know fairy creatures could bleed. I always fancied them spun of mist and moonlight, not flesh and blood.”

“Let go.”

“No, my love—”

“I’m not a fairy creature, and I am surely not your love.”

“It’s just an expression.”

“It’s a lie. But ’tis no high wonder to me. I’d be expecting falsehoods from a Sassenach.”

“Poor Caitlin. Does it hurt?” Very slowly, with his eyes fixed on hers, he put her finger to his lips and gently slipped it inside his mouth.

Too shocked to stop him, she felt the warmth of his mouth, the moist velvet brush of his tongue over the pad of her finger. Then with an excess of gentleness he drew it out and placed her hand in her lap.

“I think the bleeding’s stopped,” he said.

But something else had started inside her, something dark and fearsome and strangely wonderful. She retorted, “And I think you’re an English spalpeen through and through. You haven’t answered my question. What do you intend doing with yourself?”

“That depends on you, Caitlin MacBride. Will you take me in and succor me, then send me on my way with a fine Irish blessing?”

She needed another mouth to feed like she needed another sister like Magheen. “And why should I be extending the hand of friendship to an Englishman? You Sassenach take what you please without asking.”

“Caitlin. I’m asking.”

Ah, there was magic in the man, in the warm, beguiling honey of his voice, in the comeliness of his face, in the layers of world-weary appeal in his eyes. But there was magic in wolves as well, dangerous magic.

She felt at once angry and confused. She had cast a net of enchantment and managed to land a shipwrecked Englishman. And how had he managed so quickly to lure her thoughts from Alonso? An enemy on the loose was a greater threat than an enemy under one’s roof. She resigned herself. “Come along, then.” She glanced about as she stood, glad that the black horse had followed Tom home. She did not want the stranger to see her treasure. A plundering Englishman would think nothing of stealing her horse.

And as for the Sassenach, she would watch him like a hound eyeing the barn cat.