The Maid of Ireland by Susan Wiggs Page B

the middle of his thick body dwelt a heart as cold and immovable as Connemara marble. His one vanity was a profusion of glossy brown ringlets that gave him the look of a cavalier rather than a Roundhead.
    “Ah, Hawkins,” he said. “You’re back.” His gaze slid from Wesley’s drooping hat to his damp boots. “Hard journey, was it?”
    “I had to walk.”
    “What happened to that little coracle I gave you?”
    He had given the sailing vessel to a down-at-the-heels fisherman in the Claddagh who had lost his own boat to English thieves. “Battered on the rocks,” he said.
    Wesley studied the maps. They were copies of the ones Cromwell had shown him, but these had been crisscrossed by battle plans. “So it’s true. You are planning an advance.”
    “How did you know?”
    “I heard at Clonmuir.”
    Hammersmith’s jowls quivered. “You were at Clonmuir! But you’ve been gone less than a fortnight.”
    “I told you, I work quickly.”
    “You’re living up to your reputation. I’m surprised that mad MacBride woman didn’t roast your bald parts on a spit.”
    She did worse than that, thought Wesley. She stole my heart.
    “How’d you get out alive?”
    “I overwhelmed her with my personal charm,” said Wesley.
    Hammersmith’s eyes narrowed. “Are your papers still in order?”
    Wesley patted his stomacher. The wide belt was stiff from the inner pouch of waterproof waxed parchment. “I still have my safe conduct from you, and my passport and letters of marque from Cromwell.” He frowned down at the maps. “You shouldn’t have planned to march without consulting me. An advance at this time would be ill-advised.”
    Danger speared like a shaft of light in Hammersmith’s eyes. “And why, pray, is that?”
    “I told you. They know about it at Clonmuir.”
    “Impossible! It was in the strictest of confidence that I—” Hammersmith clamped his mouth shut. “They can’t know.”
    “They do.”
    “What else did you find out at Clonmuir?”
    “The identity of the leader of the Fianna.”
    Hammersmith’s eyebrows lifted, disappearing into the lovelocks that spilled over his brow. He held himself still, waiting, a snake about to strike. “And...?”
    “Logan Rafferty, lord of Brocach.”
    The eyebrows crashed back down. The cruel face paled. “Impossible!” he said again.
    “I’m fairly certain,” said Wesley. “He has great influence in the district, and seems a man made for fighting. He’s also married to a daughter of the MacBride.”
    “Is that all you offer me?”
    Wesley recalled his dance with Magheen, the conversation interrupted by Caitlin’s well-placed foot. “His wife practically admitted he’s involved.”
    “Then she was having you on.”
    “I can find out for certain quickly enough,” said Wesley. “I know where Rafferty’s stronghold is. With a small party of—”
    “I can spare no men.” Slamming the subject closed, Hammersmith gestured at the sideboard. “Will you have something to chase away the chill?”
    Wesley hesitated, trying to see past the guarded look in the soldier’s eyes. “Please.”
    As Hammersmith went to pour, Wesley lifted a corner of the map and scanned the sea chart. Inishbofin, an island off the coast of Connaught, was marked with a crudely drawn cross. Putting down the map, he turned his attention to what appeared to be a bill of lading half hidden under the leather desk blotter. Instead he saw that it was a list of women’s names and ages, each followed by a number. A census roll? Wesley wondered. Common sense told him that it was; the finger of ice at the base of his spine warned him otherwise.
    Quick as a thief, he snatched the paper and slipped it into his belt. It would bear pondering later.
    At the sideboard, Hammersmith splashed usquebaugh out of a crystal bottle. The bottle had a silver collar bearing the claddah, two hands holding a heart, oddly surmounted on a badger.
    Accepting the large glass, Wesley took a long drink. The amber