The Maid of Ireland by Susan Wiggs Page B

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