He noticed the forthright manner in which she walked, a purposeful stride mitigated by the slightest of limps. The flaw was subtle but his tracker’s eyes took note. He burned to ask her what unhappy accident had hurt her. He held his tongue, reluctant to provoke her quick temper.
The night wind swept up the dark honey waves of her hair and fanned them out in a thick veil. Her bare foot caught a rock and she lurched forward. Wesley’s first impulse was to put out a hand to steady her, but he drew back.
Pretending not to notice the stumble, he asked, “Your father is the lord of Clonmuir?”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes. He’s the MacBride, chief of our sept.”
“So Clonmuir is your ancestral home?”
“Yes. Since Giolla the Fierce became the servant of St. Brigid. And until the cliffs beneath it crumble and the keep falls into the sea.”
He started to smile at her vehemence, but realized his amusement would not sit well with her. “Cromwell claims the entire coast of Ireland, three miles deep, for the Commonwealth.”
Her chin came up. Her eyes flashed in the moonlight. Her body went as taut as a drawn bowstring. “I spit on Cromwell’s claim.”
“You’re devoted to your home.”
“And why shouldn’t I be?” She spread her arms, embracing the broad sweep of the rugged landscape. “It’s all we have.”
Wesley caught his breath and wondered at the ache that rose in him upon hearing her speak, on watching the reverential and possessive way she walked across Clonmuir land. The mood of the sere wind-torn grasses racing up to meet the broken-backed mountains, the spirit of the misty wide sky crowning the craggy jut of land, flowed in her very bloodstream.
Something about her called to him, and the yearning he felt discomfited him thoroughly. He had made a vow, broken it, and gotten Laura. Her appearance in his life had compelled him to renew his oath of celibacy. Like a drowning man, he had clung to that oath, turning aside invitations that would have brought a smile to Charles Stuart himself.
So how could he be feeling this heart-catching tenderness for a wild, barefoot Irish girl? Damn Cromwell. And damn Caitlin MacBride, for Wesley could not help himself. He stopped walking, touched her arm.
“Caitlin,” he said urgently. “Look at me.”
She stopped and eyed him warily.
“What happened to us, down there on the strand?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do. Don’t deny it.”
“Moonstruck English fool,” she murmured. Her words meant nothing, for the shadowy rhythms of her speech captured him, and the secrets that haunted her eyes beckoned mystically.
“Caitlin MacBride, you do ply strange arts upon a man.”
“I do no such thing.” She drew away and started walking again.
I cannot trust her, thought Wesley. Yet at the same time he admitted to himself that he had never met so compelling a woman. Heather and moonglow colored every word she spoke. Fierce conviction molded every move she made. She plundered his heart like a bandit after treasure.
A dangerous thing. For the plundering of hearts was supposed to be Wesley’s specialty.
They passed a great, brooding rock that sat on the upward-sloping lip of a cliff. Tiny facets in the granite winked in the moonlight. Wesley paused, passed his hand over the surface of the stone. “There are symbols chiseled here,” he said, and the rough whorls beneath his fingers made him shiver.
“So there are.” Sarcasm edged her voice. “Pagan runes.”
“Who put them here?”
“Probably the first MacBride to leave his cave and proclaim this the Rock of Muir, his throne. Come along, Mr. Hawkins. We’re almost to the stronghold.”
Clonmuir crouched like a great beast on a cliff overlooking the sea. Its west-facing walls resembled a set of teeth bared at the snarling breakers. To the east rose rocky hills that disappeared into the haze of the night. In the distance, moonlight glimmered around the high gable of a church topped with a heart-shaped finial.
They entered the stronghold through the main gate and walked across a broad yard of packed earth, empty save for a few weeds straggling along the walls and chickens roosting in nests of dried kelp. Wesley could make out the humped shape of a small forge barn and several thatched outbuildings, a cluster of beehives, and a cloistered walkway leading to a kitchen.
“Wait here.” Caitlin left him standing by an ancient stone well while she crossed to a long, low fieldstone building with a stout door. She opened the door and a chorus of equine noises greeted her. The famed ponies of Clonmuir, Wesley realized.
A man’s voice spoke in Gaelic and Caitlin replied in low tones. Wesley strained his ears but could not hear the words. A small girl with long braids crept around the side of the stable, gaped at him briefly, then darted back into the shadows. The years of conquest, Wesley realized, had taught all Irish to be cautious, even in their own homes. A flash of shame heated his face. He had come here under false pretenses to coax secrets from Caitlin MacBride—secrets that could force her to forfeit her home. The idea sat like a hot rock in his gut.
She rejoined him in the yard. “Come along,” she said briskly. “We deny hospitality to no one—even an Englishman.” They made their way to the donjon, a tall, rounded structure with walls pierced by arrow loops and tiny windows. She pushed the heavy main door open.
Sharp-scented peat smoke struck Wesley in the face, stinging his eyes. A translucent gray fog shrouded the scene in layers, from the woven rushes on the floor to the blackened ceiling beams. The great hall had no chimney, only a louvered opening in the roof to draw out the smoke.
Children cavorted with a lanky wolfhound in a straw-carpeted corner. A group of women sat knitting skeins of chunky wool on fat wooden needles. Most of them conversed blithely in Irish, but the youngest was silent, sulky, and dazzlingly beautiful.
At a round table a group of men drank from horn mugs and cracked nuts in their bare hands, throwing the shells to the rush mats. The eldest wore a knitted cap on his head and had a waist-length white beard. Beside him sat the dwarf Wesley had seen with Caitlin. The fellow spoke rapid, colloquial Gaelic and swung his legs as he talked, for his feet did not reach the floor.
Caitlin headed for the table. Wesley watched her face but she held it set, the pure, sharp lines of her features scrubbed clean of sentiment. “We’ve a visitor,” she announced.
A dozen inquisitive faces turned toward Wesley. He wondered if these rough-hewn Irishmen belonged to the Fianna. On the heels of that thought came a sudden, sharp ache. Too many years had passed since he had enjoyed the company of good friends.
He tried to take in their expressions all at once, but got caught on the dwarf. His face was a picture of such pure delight that Wesley couldn’t help smiling, even as he wondered why his appearance so pleased the man.
“He says his name is John Wesley Hawkins,” Caitlin explained. “He’s English.”
