The Maiden of Ireland. Susan WiggsЧитать онлайн книгу.
reawakening the slumbering believer deep inside her.
The stranger seemed more myth than human, the Warrior of the Spring from Tom Gandy’s ancient tales, a champion with the aspect of a pagan god.
Still he came on, walking slowly, and still she watched, suspended in a spellbound state woven of whimsy and desire.
She thought him beautiful; even his shadowy reflection in the dark tidal pool that separated them was beautiful. He was strong-limbed and cleanly made, his body pale, his hair aflame with the colors of the sunset, his face shapely and his eyes the hue of moss in shadow. Caitlin felt no fear, only the awe and enchantment that flowed like a river of light through her.
Above tall black knee boots, he wore loose breeches cinched at his narrow waist by a broad, highly ornamented belt. A blousy white shirt draped his massive shoulders, the thin fabric wafting with the subtle undulations of the well-conditioned muscle beneath. His clothing and his astonishing mane of hair appeared slightly damp as if kissed by the dew.
With his deep, shadow-colored eyes fixed on her, he skirted the tidal pool and came to stand before her.
He gave her a smile that she felt all the way to her toes.
Caitlin gasped. “Heaven be praised, you were sent by the fey folk!”
“No.” The smile broadened. His unearthly gaze shimmered over her, and she felt herself vibrate like a plucked harp string. “But I’d swear you were. God, but you catch a man’s soul with your loveliness.”
He spoke softly, his vowels and Rs as light as the mist, his stunning compliment a breath of spring wind on her face. He was so strange, so different...And then realization struck her. He was foreign. English!
The spell shattered like exploding crystal. Caitlin reached for her stag-handled hip knife. Her hand groped at an empty sheath.
Crossing her fingers to ward off evil, she stepped back and looked around wildly. The weapon lay on the ground a few feet away. Had she, in her trancelike state, set it down? Or had he, by some evil witchery, disarmed her by will alone?
Catching her look, he bent and retrieved the knife, holding it out to her, handle first. “Yours?”
She grasped the knife. He was a seonin, an English invader. In one swift movement she could plunge the weapon to the haft in his chest. She should.
But the tender sorcery of his smile stopped her.
She slipped the knife into its sheath, leaving the leather thong untied. “And who the devil would you be, I’m wondering?”
He touched a hand to his damp brow where dark red curls spilled down. “John Wesley Hawkins, at your service,” he said. “And you’re...”
“Caitlin MacBride, and I’m at no Englishman’s service,” she snapped. “What might you be doing here, Mr. Hawkins?”
He plucked a twig from his hair. “I was shipwrecked.”
She lifted one eyebrow. “A likely story, indeed. We’ve had no reports of a shipwreck.”
“Alas, you wouldn’t have. I was the only survivor.” He lowered himself heavily to a flat rock. “Bound away from Galway, we were, on a trading mission. No, not guns, don’t glare at me like that. A squall whipped up. Next thing I knew, the decks were swamped and we’d capsized. Everything was lost. Everyone.”
“Then how did you survive?”
“I’m a strong swimmer and managed to stay afloat. A big rowan branch happened by and I clung to it. It carried me here, and—” He slid her a sideways glance. “You don’t believe a word of this, do you?”
“No.”
“I’d rather hoped you would.”
“You weren’t really on a trading vessel, were you?”
“It was a very small ship.”
“How small?”
He hesitated. “A coracle.”
In spite of herself, Caitlin felt a glimmer of humor. “Then I’m after thinking you were the only one aboard.”
“Aye.” Unexpectedly, he reached for her hand. His was damp and cool from wind and water. “Sit beside me, Caitlin MacBride. I’ve had a close brush with death and it’s unnerved me.”
She didn’t think a howling banshee could unnerve him. Pulling her hand away, she settled herself on the rock a careful distance from him. The sky had melted into a rich indigo tapestry shot through with points of silver. The waves glowed as they curled toward the shore, crashing on sand and rock.
She thought of the letter Curran had stolen from Galway. Could this man have something to do with Cromwell’s new plan? Best to find out. “Well, then, John Wesley Hawkins, I’m waiting for the truth. Why are you here?”
He took off first one boot, and then the other, pouring out the water and then putting them back on. “I’m a deserter.”
She blinked. “From the Roundhead army?”
“Aye.”
“Why did you leave?”
“I don’t hold with killing innocent folk just to make an English colony of Ireland. Besides, the pay—when it came—was poor.”
“Where were you bound for, then?”
“I’d planned to sneak into Galway harbor and find my way onto a trading vessel. Unless you’ve a better idea.”
“I can’t be doing your deciding for you, Mr. Hawkins.”
“Wesley,” he said. “My friends call me Wesley.”
“I’m no friend of yours.”
“You are, Caitlin MacBride.” The evening light danced in the color of his eyes. She saw great depths there, layers of mystery and passion and pain, and an allure that drew her like a bit of metal to a lodestone. “Didn’t you feel it?” he persisted. “The pull, the magic?”
She laughed nervously. “You’re moonstruck. You’re more full of pixified fancies than Tom Gandy.”
“Who’s Tom Gandy?”
“I expect you’ll meet him shortly if I can’t find a way to get rid of you.”
“That’s encouraging.” He took her hand again. A tiny bead of blood stood out on her finger. She tried to snatch her hand away. He held it fast.
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
“A thorn prick, no more,” she stated.
“I didn’t know fairy creatures could bleed. I always fancied them spun of mist and moonlight, not flesh and blood.”
“Let go.”
“No, my love—”
“I’m not a fairy creature, and I am surely not your love.”
“It’s just an expression.”
“It’s a lie. But ’tis no high wonder to me. I’d be expecting falsehoods from a Sassenach.”
“Poor Caitlin. Does it hurt?” Very slowly, with his eyes fixed on hers, he put her finger to his lips and gently slipped it inside his mouth.
Too shocked to stop him, she felt the warmth of his mouth, the moist velvet brush of his tongue over the pad of her finger. Then with an excess of gentleness he drew it out and placed her hand in her lap.
“I think the bleeding’s stopped,” he said.
But something else had started inside her, something dark and fearsome and strangely wonderful. She retorted, “And I think you’re an English spalpeen through and through. You haven’t answered my question. What do you intend doing with yourself?”
“That