The Maiden of Ireland

Several yards away, another Irishman fell. With relief and astonishment, Wesley realized the Gaels were flagging. For all their fierce bravado, their numbers were small.

He reined the horse toward another pocket of fighting. A motion caught his eye. He turned to see a warrior on a sleek horse sail across the clearing. Centaurlike, he rode with both hands free; one wielding a sword and the other a mace.

Wesley sensed a strange power in the horseman. Perhaps it was a trick of the uncertain firelight, but an aura seemed to hover about the warrior, drawing the eye and evoking a feeling of awe mixed with dread. The very sight of the warrior brought fresh war cries springing from the enemies’ throats.

Bending low over the horse’s neck, Wesley charged.

Lithe as a dancer, the leader of the Fianna guided the beautiful horse in an expertly carved loop. Wesley’s swinging sword hissed through empty air. The iron-spiked mace crashed against his shoulder.

Ignoring the numbness that spread down his arm, Wesley aimed the big Irish pony head-on at the willowy stallion. The beat of hooves kept pace with each quick-drawn breath. The smell of damp metal made his eyes water.

In a trick that had served him well in his cavalier days, he waited until the animals were nearly nose to nose, then hauled sharply on the reins.

The horse stopped while Wesley vaulted forward, wrapping his arms around the warrior, ripping his opponent out of the saddle and flinging them both to the wet ground.

The warrior had a small man’s quickness, twisting lithely beneath him, bringing his foot up toward Wesley’s groin.

Deflecting the strike with his own leg, Wesley grasped a flailing arm. Who is this? he wondered. Surely not the heavyset, broad-shouldered Logan Rafferty.

They tumbled and rolled, breath rasping and hands grappling for discarded weapons. Nearby, the pitch fire had risen to a roaring blaze. Heat lapped at Wesley’s back and singed the ends of his hair. Irish shouts and running feet sounded behind him, coming closer.

He slammed his opponent against the ground. A rush of breath flowed from behind the helm. The silk veil snagged on Wesley’s gauntlet. He heard a ripping noise and a metallic clatter as the helm came off and rolled away.

Wesley lifted his hand. One chop to the windpipe and—

“Good God Almighty!” The words burst from him on a flood of astonishment. Lying beneath him, awaiting the death blow, with tawny hair framing a savagely lovely face, was Caitlin MacBride.

Five (#ulink_916abe68-cf9a-5964-aaf7-f899e5642903)

She stared at him, frozen by awe and disbelief. Her eyes were mirrors of fury, reflecting the blaze of the fire. Her mouth worked soundlessly; then a furious cry burst from her: “Seize him!”

Strong arms jerked him backward. A blunt object clubbed his hand. Dull, cold pain shot up his arm. Fingers gripped his hair and yanked his head back, baring his throat.

“Move back, my lady,” someone said, “else you’ll soon be soiled by English blood.” A blade flashed in the firelight.

The tendons in Wesley’s throat stretched to the point of snapping and tickled in anticipation of the slice of the blade.

“No!” Caitlin scrambled to her feet and grabbed the drawn-back arm. “We’ll spare this one. For now.” Bending gracefully, she retrieved her helm and shook out the veil.

The pressure on Wesley’s neck eased, enabling him to take in the scene. The English had been routed. A few floundered in the lake. Three sprawled on the ground. He recognized Ladyman, horseless, melting into the shadows. The rest, presumably, had fled. Some of the Irish moved across the firelit field, gathering discarded weapons, catching riderless horses, and stripping the corpses of their valuables.

“Spare him?” asked Wesley’s captor. It was Rory Breslin; Wesley recognized the deep rumble of the Gael’s voice.

“Why the devil should we be sparing an English spy?” the big warrior asked. “We never have before. And this Sassenach stole into our stronghold and tried to learn our secrets.”

Caitlin tucked her helm under her arm. Her endless legs, lovingly hugged by tight leather trews beneath a short tunic, took her on a wide, unhurried circle around Wesley. She regarded him like a trader sizing up an inferior bit of horseflesh.

“He interests me,” she stated. “I should like to know why he entered my household under false pretenses and lied to us.”

“But the man almost killed you. It’s the closest anyone’s ever come to—”

“Nevertheless, perhaps he’s of more use to us alive than dead. A spy as bold as this one might be worth something to Hammersmith.”

Someone tossed the reins of the black to her. “Bind him and give me the rope,” she ordered. Then, for the first time, she spoke directly to Wesley. “You’ve a long march ahead of you, my good friend.” Her very words made a mockery of the moments they had shared at Clonmuir. “I do hope you’ll cooperate.”

As Rory bound his wrists so tightly his fingers went numb, Wesley resisted the impulse to wince. He made a parody of a courtly bow. “My lady, your wish is my command.”

She curled her lip in distaste. Yet in her firelit eyes he saw a brief wistfulness. “I knew there was no more magic in Ireland,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

An ache of regret flared in Wesley’s chest. He had come to Ireland to romance secrets out of Caitlin MacBride and to destroy the chieftain of the Fianna. Instead, he had managed to get himself captured. And in unraveling the tangle he had made of things, he would have to hurt her.

If she didn’t kill him first. She swung into the saddle. He had never seen anyone, male or female, move with her grace, her movements as fluid as a mountain stream spilling over rocks. Her center on the horse was faultless, her posture perfect, all the more astonishing because he knew he had bruised her badly.

“God forgive me for hurting a woman,” he muttered.

She jerked the rope that bound him. “What did you say, Englishman?”

“I never would have attacked you if I’d known you were a woman.”

“English chivalry,” she snapped. “You’d not skewer a woman with a sword, but you’d steal our land and leave us to starve. More fool you, because I would not have hesitated to kill you.”

“You nearly succeeded.” A lingering sense of disbelief thrummed in his voice. “But thank you for sparing my life.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Mr. Hawkins. Before long, you may be wishing you’d died a quick death among your friends.” She nudged the sleek horse with her knees and started into the woods. The rope pulled taut. Wesley lurched forward, stumbled, then regained his footing. Half running, he forced himself to keep pace with the trotting horse. A jagged stitch seized his side, and his breathing came fast and harsh.

Caitlin’s warriors surrounded them, some ahead, others bringing up the rear. Wesley tallied no more than a dozen men. A dozen, yet Cromwell swore the Fianna had the strength to best legions of Roundheads.

To draw his mind from discomfort, Wesley concentrated on the extraordinary woman dragging him through the wild woods. He still reeled with the shock of his discovery. Beneath the tunic her armor, which must have been cast especially for her, molded her lithe form with delicate artistry. She rode with a dogged will that a cavalry captain would envy.

Tripping over rocks and ducking under branches, he tried to equate this new Caitlin with the vulnerable woman he had met on the strand. Even then he had guessed at the substance of her character, but never could he have anticipated this. He remembered wondering about the visions that lurked behind her fierce, sad eyes; he had meant to ask her.

He didn’t have to ask her now.

Caitlin MacBride, the leader of the Fianna. She was Joan, the martyred Maid of Orleans, incarnate. A century before, that young woman, crude of manner but possessed of an abiding dream, had led men to victory and laid waste to English claims on the French throne. Men thrice her age and thrice her size obeyed her smallest order. Such a woman was rare and dangerous, he realized with a shiver. Men followed her, enemies feared her, and Wesley had to stop her.

“Well?” she said over her shoulder. “You’re quiet as a sleeping saint. Saying your prayers, are you?”

Her fury had subsided. Yet he felt no easier about his situation. “You’ve given me much to ponder, Caitlin MacBride.”

“Ah. And just what would you be pondering?”

“Joan of Arc,” he said, trying not to pant.

“Joan of Arc? And who would she be? Your lady love?”

“You don’t know?” He leapt over a knotted tree root.

“That’s what I said.”