The Maid of Ireland by Susan Wiggs

another means to appease Logan.”
    His eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You? You alone, Caitlin?”
    “Aye.”
    “It’s a heavy burden for a young girl.” His large hand came up. Like the brush of a feather, it coasted along her jawline.
    Caitlin was so surprised by his touch that for a moment she stood unmoving, hearing the crash of the sea and the dull thud of blood in her ears. Her skin tingled where his rough knuckles caressed her. Pulled by a force woven of longing, loneliness, and magic, she leaned toward him, staring at his strange English-made shirt and the thick belt he wore at his waist. St. George’s cross was stamped into the leather.
    The patron saint of England brought her to her senses. She drew back quickly. “You mustn’t touch me.”
    Very slowly, he lowered his hand. “You need to be touched, Caitlin MacBride. You need it very badly.”
    She girded herself with denial. “Even if it were so, I would not need it from an Englishman.”
    “Think again, my love. We’re easy with one another despite our differences. Remember our first meeting—the shock of it, the knowing? We could be good for each other.”
    “And when, pray, has an Englishman ever been good for Ireland?”
    A lazy grin spread over his face. “Even I know that, Caitlin. St. Patrick himself was English born, was he not?”
    “But he had the heart of Eireann.”
    “So might I, Caitlin MacBride. So might I.”
    Ah, that voice. It could coax honey from an empty hive. She wondered at his cryptic words, at the look of yearning in his unusual eyes. Beating back the attraction that rose in her, she laughed suddenly. “You should be Irish, with that head of red hair and that gullet full of blarney, Mr. Hawkins.”
    “Wesley.”
    She stopped laughing. “Go down and enjoy the holiday while you may, Mr. Hawkins. You’ve chosen to leave tomorrow.” The words, spoken aloud, hurt her throat like the ache of tears.
    He put his finger to his lips and then touched hers. “As you wish, Caitlin.” He ambled off along the wall walk and joined the throng in the yard.
    The phantom brush of his fingers lingered like a tender kiss on her mouth. Caitlin faced back toward the sea. Just a few minutes ago her thoughts had fixed on Alonso. But like a high wind chasing the surf, Hawkins had scattered those thoughts. Worse, he had awakened the slumbering woman inside her—the woman who yearned, the woman who ached.
    Dusting her hands on her apron, she scuttled the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. She had no time to be thinking of either man. If Logan was right about the movements of the Roundhead army, she had best be after sending Hawkins away.
    * * *
    The task proved harder than she had anticipated. Early the next morning they stood together at the head of the boreen, the skelped path that wound through the village and looped over the mist-draped hills to the southeast.
    The rich colors of the rising sun mantled him, picking out pure gold highlights in his hair and softening the lines of his smile. She would always remember him this way, with his back to the sun and its rays fanning out around him.
    “Seems we’ll not be seeing each other again,” she remarked, forcing lightness into her tone.
    “So it seems.”
    “Have a care, then, Mr. Hawkins, for Hammersmith doesn’t like to be kindled by des—” Appalled, she snapped her mouth shut. Mother Mary, why couldn’t she govern her tongue in the presence of this man?
    “You speak as if you know him.”
    “And what kind of fool would I be if I made no effort to know my enemy?” she retorted.
    He stood very still, his eyes never leaving hers. “You are no fool, Caitlin MacBride. I could wish—” He stopped and drew a deep breath of the misty air. He seemed as reluctant as her to speak freely.
    “Could wish what?”
    “Just...have a care for yourself. Hammersmith is a powerful man. A dangerous man. If he gets close to Clonmuir, promise me you’ll flee.”
    She laughed. “Flee?