The Maiden of Ireland. Susan Wiggs

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      “Then from Galway we’ll take all the coastal districts of Connemara,” Cromwell stated with an air of finality. “We’ll put a noose around the rebels in Connaught.”

      Wesley no longer wondered why Cromwell had cut him down from Tyburn Tree. He knew.

      “Mr. Hawkins,” said Cromwell, “do you value your life over that of a murdering outlaw?”

      I’m a Catholic, not a madman, thought Wesley. “Absolutely, Your Honor.”

      “I thought so,” said Cromwell. “You’re to find the chief of the Fianna and bring his head to me before the year is out.”

      The ship’s timbers creaked into the silence. The smell of brine and mildew pervaded the air.

      “Why me?” asked Wesley. “I’m a king’s man, and one of the few left in England who’s not afraid to say so.”

      “Where’s Charles Stuart now, eh?” Cromwell sneered. “Helping the man who helped him escape Worcester?” He planted his elbows on the table. “He’s wenching on the Continent, Mr. Hawkins, and doesn’t give a damn about you.”

      Wesley wouldn’t let himself rise to the taunt, wouldn’t let himself think of the night spent in an oak tree with a frightened young prince. “What makes you think I’m your man?”

      “I’ve learned much about you. Your parents sent you overseas for rearing among papists. You returned to England to become a thief taker, growing rich on bounties and blood money.”

      Tightening his muscles, Wesley fought to govern his emotions. Few knew of his parents or of the deeds he had done, tracking thieves, hauling them kicking and screaming to justice.

      “Then you threw in your lot with the royal tyrant,” Cromwell went on. “We lost track of you. But we knew you were in England, spreading sedition and popish idolatry.”

      “I seem to have been a busy man,” Wesley said wryly.

      “It’s your reputation for tracking that put the idea on us,” said Thurloe. “Men swore you were capable of finding the path of a snake over stone, or a bird’s flight through a cloudy sky.”

      “I think that’s overstating my talents a little.”

      “In your time, you were the most successful thief taker in England.”

      “There are others who have given their loyalty to you.”

      “True, but you’re fluent in Gaelic. From your training in Louvain.”

      Wesley made no reply. This was no bluff, then. Thurloe was conscientious indeed. He had done his research.

      “Ah, and one final thing.” Cromwell smiled, the drawn-back grin of a viper about to strike. “Your success with women. Even as a postulant you couldn’t resist.”

      Wesley went cold inside. He wondered how much the Lord Protector actually knew of his lapse.

      He found out when Thurloe presented him with a letter. “From William Pym,” the Secretary of State announced in a voice hot with venom. “You seduced his daughter, Annabel, and she died three years ago birthing your bastard.”

      Wesley closed his eyes as shame scoured his soul. Here was his penance. He forced his eyes open. “I comported myself poorly. How will that help me corner an Irish outlaw?”

      Thurloe produced another letter. A whimsical script danced across the page. “There is a reference to the Fianna in this, from a woman of Connemara to a Spanish gentleman in London.”

      “You intercepted it?” Wesley asked.

      He nodded. “The woman’s name is Caitlin MacBride. She’s mistress of a coastal stronghold called Clonmuir.”

      “An excellent place to start your conquest,” Thurloe put in. “The attacks of the Fianna began not long after the English burned the fishing vessels of Clonmuir.”

      “If you can sweet-talk your way into her bed as easily as you did into the beds of English ladies,” said Cromwell, “you’ll be able to coax secrets from the Irish whore.”

      “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, my lord?” asked Wesley.

      The Lord Protector lifted his glass. “An unenviable task. Irishwomen are Amazons—dirty and ugly—and this Caitlin MacBride will likely be worse. She’s twenty-two and unmarried despite her holdings. But you’ll put up with her barbaric ways. Knowing your proclivities, you’ll probably find her interesting.”

      “I cannot seduce a woman,” Wesley stated with a rush of guilt. The appearance of Laura in his life had made him swear off meaningless dalliances.

      “You’ll do as I say now, my friend,” said Cromwell.

      “And if I fail?”

      Cromwell smiled grimly. “You won’t. My commander in Galway is Captain Titus Hammersmith. I sent letters ahead, explaining what is expected. You are to cooperate with him in every way.”

      “I can’t work with Roundheads breathing down my neck.”

      “Believe me, Mr. Hawkins, you won’t have to.”

      An arrow of suspicion embedded itself in Wesley’s mind. Cromwell was too confident. Something rang false. “What’s to stop me from losing myself in Ireland?”

      Cromwell waved a summons at someone standing outside the door. Wesley heard the sound of approaching feet, one pair heavy, the other light and rapid. The back of his neck began to itch. He rose from the stool and turned toward the door.

      “Papa!” A tiny girl burst into the stateroom.

      Wesley’s legs wobbled. He dropped to his knees. She leapt into his arms and pressed her warm, silky cheek to his.

      “Laura, oh, Laura.” He kissed her, then pressed her face to his chest.

      “Papa, you sound funny,” said Laura. She touched his throat. “What happened to your neck?”

      “I’m all right,” he whispered. Tears needled the backs of his eyelids but he conquered them. Think. Cromwell had the child. Wesley raised his eyes to the woman who stood wringing her hands. He held Hester Clench captive with the same furious thief taker’s stare he used to employ on recalcitrant prisoners.

      The truth shone brightly on the woman’s frightened face. She had told Cromwell everything.

      Every blessed detail she’d vowed to take to the grave.

      “Damn you,” he said quietly.

      She had dark eyes and a handsome face he’d once thought kindly. Her chin came up, and she said, “It’s best for the child. Lord Cromwell swore he’d keep her safe and save her immortal soul from your popish training.”

      Wesley regarded her over the top of his child’s head. “You lied to me,” he said in a low, deadly voice.

      “For СКАЧАТЬ