Captive Heart [The Dawn of Ireland 3] Read online

  The Dawn of Ireland 3

  Captive Heart

  Even as Caitlín and Liam O'Neill prepare for a happily ever after, she is faced by two problems. Her mother, once held captive by a band of murderous Pictish raiders, has caught a glimpse of one of her former captors in the very church they attend. And Caitlín is visited by a kinsman of Liam—the unhappy, brooding Murdoch, who has fallen in love with her and seems to be stalking her.

  Caitlín and her sensuous husband become caught up in the adventure of pursuing and capturing the savages who had once taken her mother and freeing their current victims, even as she struggles to cope with Murdoch, who has found where they are hidden in tacit exchange for her affections.

  Caitlín becomes more emotionally tormented as she begins to understand the wounds inflicted on her mother, and as she fights against the unseemly feelings of Murdoch—whom she inadvertently inflames even more.

  Genre: Fantasy, Historical

  Length: 97,912 words

  CAPTIVE HEART

  The Dawn of Ireland 3

  Erin O’Quinn

  ROMANCE

  www.BookStrand.com

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  A SIREN-BOOKSTRAND TITLE

  IMPRINT: Romance

  CAPTIVE HEART

  Copyright © 2012 by Erin O’Quinn

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-61926-447-2

  First E-book Publication: July 2012

  Cover design by Jinger Heaston

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  www.BookStrand.com

  DEDICATION

  Once again, my editor, Stephanie Shea, has seen the dark spots and brought them to the light. I am indebted to her careful and discerning eye. I feast on her words of support.

  Thanks also to the entire team at BookStrand Publishing who worked to bring this book (and others) to the light, who somehow put up with me through all the difficult labor of giving birth to Captive Heart and others.

  And thanks to the readers who give meaning to all of us by their buying of our books and their helpful comments. I welcome you always at [email protected] and http://erinsromance.wordpress.com/

  CAPTIVE HEART

  The Dawn of Ireland 3

  ERIN O’QUINN

  Copyright © 2012

  PART I: Captivity

  Chapter 1:

  Quickening Fires

  “Hello again, Father Patrick. Um, maidin mhaith. Good morning. How are you? I am here in the clay church, waiting for your visit.”

  The clay church…I had never thought it odd before. But just then, thinking about Father Patrick’s imminent visit, I began to ponder the construction of a new building—a wooden one, more permanent than our daub-and-wattle round-house. I was sitting alone in the bright morning, watching the shafts of sun move through unshuttered windows across the shining oak floors of the Derry church. My mind was shamelessly not on religious matters but on my coming child, on Liam’s tender lovemaking this morning, on the antics of my frisky mare, on Patrick’s promise to visit us in early winter after the Samhain festival in Tara…And still my mind darted and swiveled and danced as though I were in a shillelagh ring.

  I heaved a great sigh and moved on my bench, and again I lowered my head as though in prayer. I was still not used to the life religious, and I thought in all honesty that I never would be quite accustomed to kneeling, praying, uttering pious greetings, and all of the trappings of the quiet life of a pregnant married woman in a small bally in Éire.

  I had begun to notice that the local women—not our emigrants, but the Éireannach ladies—draped in sober léines with their hair demurely braided behind, looked at me askance as though I were a fair juggler or an unfettered madwoman. It could have something to do with my penchant for wearing men’s trousers, or draping myself in a red-fox tunic, complete with a bushy foxtail. Or perhaps they were reacting to my arsenal of weapons, whether shillelagh, war hammer or long knife, that I preferred to wear in my belt even when dressed in a pretty gúna and dainty leather shoes. Or they might be scandalized by my truant hair, fiery red, that no amount of combing could tame, that tended to follow every swirl of every errant breeze.

  I stifled a giggle, even though no one else was in the church so early in the morning. I had not come here to follow any particular ritual or church-prescribed prayer, but to have a small conversation with Father Patrick. From the time I had met him, in the perilous days following my sixteenth feast day, when I was forced to flee the destruction of my ancestral home, I had started to have small talks with Patrick even when we were many scores, then many hundreds of miles apart.

  Now, three years later, I was near my mentor again for I had followed him with my emigrants to the mysterious island of Éire. I started again. “Father Patrick,” I whispered, “greetings. Here I am again—Caylith. First of all, thank you for receiving my Liam, and his family, into the bosom of our Lord at the Paschal rites. And for helping me see the goodness in the people I thought were my enemies. That was difficult, I know. How could I know that Owen Sweeney was no murderer or even slave holder? Your own nature, so—so full of mercy, Father, your own forgiving nature led to his present joyful life. And thank you for keeping Liam and me from the sin of fornication. We went to our marriage bed, um, mostly without sin, Father, because of your wise words.”

  I could not help just then thinking of the many ways that Liam and I had toyed with the letter of the law in those tempestuous days before our marriage. But still, we fulfilled my promise to the good bishop—perhaps the biggest challenge I had ever faced. I blushed even now to think of my own wanton nature, how close we had come to sinning before marriage.

  “Well, I do not want too much, Father. I am hoping you will say a few words to our Lord for me. Please, please keep my unborn child safe and whole and well. Even if she is a boy, I think she will need the Lord’s protection. I would rather not give up my warrior ways just yet…or certain other unruly behavior. So I want you to ask him for me, if you have a few moments to spare. That is all for now. I hope the Lord will always smile upon you also, dear Father. Amen.”

  The monk Brother Galen had taught us the words to the Lord�
��s Prayer one Sabbath day, right here in this church. But I still did not know how to address an almighty power with a direct request. I felt more comfortable asking Father Patrick to talk to him on my behalf. Besides, I had always thought that the Lord had better things to do than listen to the entreaties of an awkward young girl. If Father Patrick were to ask, I thought the Lord would surely bend an ear. I put one hand protectively over my stomach, in case Father Patrick might be engaged just then and had not heard my words, even though I was dutifully sitting in church.

  I stood, remembering to bow my head toward the unadorned altar. A plain wooden cross was erected there with twin candles on each side. They were as yet unlit, for the cold fire pit held no flames to light them with. Then, gathering up the skirt of my too-long tunic, I strode to the door and opened it to a warm summer day.

  As soon as I stepped outside, I impatiently shifted my shillelagh and tucked extra material up under my belt so that I could mount my mare. My garment, called a “léine,” was a wondrous invention. Worn by either men or women, a léine was little more than a long tunic that could be tucked up in a belt to whatever length the wearer desired. Its most distinctive features were the long, trailing sleeves of many colors that gave each one its distinctive character. The gúnas, or gowns that women often wore over their léines were sleeveless, allowing the long tunic sleeves to emerge and charm the viewer with their multitude of colors.

  The morning sun, now that June had come, already felt too warm. With no slight breeze to temper the heat, I felt sweat already gathering at the nape of my neck under all my thick hair.

  I walked to where my chestnut mare stood patiently browsing the stubble near the oak-branch tether. “You will never enjoy long grass here, Macha,” I told her. “Not as long as scores of horses are tied up here every Sabbath. Come, take us home to the cold river.” I grasped the pommel of her saddle and leapt astride her back. And then we were moving swiftly from the churchyard in almost the same moment, toward the beckoning coolness of home and the River Foyle.

  The day was still very early. For years, I had cherished the time one hour before dawn until two hours after. Not only did I have the vast, immodest sky all to myself and the soaring birds, but most people preferred to snuggle under their coverlets for an extra dream or two, leaving me alone to frisk unclothed in the swift river.

  All that changed when I married Liam about seven months ago. A warrior himself, he woke early, too. When we were not held overlong with predawn urges, we often played together in the rushing waters of the Foyle while the rest of the world slept.

  Macha’s supple muscles welcomed the three-or-so miles from the church to the small teach where Liam and I lived. I rode her once every three days, alternating with my other two darlings, the strawberry roan Clíona and the Welsh mountain pony NimbleFoot.

  I saw a familiar figure approaching and reined Macha’s exuberance to a restive standstill.

  “Dia duit,” I sang out to Liam’s brother. He, too, reined his horse and smiled his usual sideways grin.

  “Maidin maith, a Cháit. Ye be galloping the wrong way.”

  I smiled at Torin. “What mean ye, lad?” I asked, mimicking his lilting voice.

  “Why, ’tis too early to be going home when ye should be leaving home.”

  “No, it is not too early, for I have been awake for several hours. I am no slugabed, like some people I could name.”

  “Ah, such impudence from the mouth of a proper young lady. But if ye insist—yes, I did awaken a bit late this morning. So I cannot loiter here talking with ye.”

  “And if you are late to work in the tunnels, who will punish you?”

  “I answer to meself, Cate,” he said, suddenly serious.

  I could see in his eyes, so like Liam’s, that Torin was a bit hurt by my careless speech. “Ah, dear one. I did not mean—”

  “Shush, now.” A real smile emerged then. “I am glad to see ye, for Swallow has begged me to ask ye an’ Liam to come for supper. Will ye? Tonight? Her mother an’ me uncle will be leaving soon. ’Tis a chance to say fare thee well.”

  “I will answer for Liam and say yes. What time, a chara?”

  “Any time, a chara mo chroí. I end me workday at sundown. Slán!”

  Without waiting for a reply, Torin urged his dark stallion to a gallop, and he left me sitting with a small scowl, thinking about our conversation. He had bridled at my suggestion that someone might be keeping an eye on him, deep underground in the enclaves the dwarves were digging. He himself had begged to work there, to be close to Swallow. Her mother Mockingbird had reluctantly agreed before he won her over with his sincere respect for her and his unaffected love for Swallow. Even now, after several months, he apparently was still sensitive about Mockingbird’s ever-watchful eye.

  I urged Macha forward again but kept her at a canter, my mind still full of our conversation. He had said that Mockingbird and Owen Sweeney were leaving soon. I knew that Owen could not linger in Derry forever, for he had lands to claim and bailes to settle and cattlemen to hire for driving cows to mountain meadows. I suppose I had lately become accustomed to seeing him and Mockingbird, like dark-feathered birds, preening each other in the myriad lights of the underground enclaves, in love and heedless of who knew it. I could hardly believe that I would miss the man who was once my greatest enemy—but so it was.

  Only a few months ago, Owen Sweeney was still a hunted man, a presumed criminal who had been wrongfully sentenced to death for wife murder and slave holding. Once a very large man, he was now cut in half, crushed under his own horse. Mockingbird, drawn to him immediately, was a woman smaller than I, but her size made no difference to the man now confined to an invalid’s cart.

  Each of those enigmatic people was a study in complexity. But it almost staggered the mind to contemplate the two of them together. Now that I was beginning to know each of them better, I felt almost cheated that they were leaving.

  As I rode, I thought about Torin’s last words to me. A chara mo chroí. O friend of my heart. He and I had been drawn together in close friendship since his youngest brother Liam, then my betrothed, had been captured and held for ransom of my lands. Torin had joined the rescue effort, and his concern for Liam, coupled with my own, had welded a bond between us. The bond was perhaps too strong, for Torin’s eyes and words at times betrayed a deeper link that I wished he did not feel.

  I had looked at Torin with love in my eyes during those anguished hours after Liam had been taken captive. But it was the love I felt for Liam at a time when my beloved was in grave danger. Was it my fault that he looked so much like his youngest brother? And why could he not understand that? It was all too complicated to unravel now. By now, Torin would surely not understand at all, because I truly had grown to love him like a brother.

  For the second time that beautiful day, I sighed deeply. I wanted nothing but happiness for Torin. I myself had introduced him to the lovely Swallow, knowing they would be irresistibly drawn to each other. Perhaps after Mockingbird left, they would emerge from the confinement of the underground chambers and marry, live in the open, love and touch at will.

  As if the words love and touch were signal fires, I began to think about my darling, sensuous, tender-and-tough warrior husband Liam. How long could we continue making love once, twice, sometimes even three times a day, now that a baby was coming? I leaned over the saddle, digging my knees slightly into Macha’s flanks, urging her to a swift gallop. The sooner home, the sooner I would be with Liam.

  Instead of reining Macha in at our little clay teach, I guided her onward a mile or so to the bally works. A small army of men were building a deep, wide trench that would someday surround the entire settlement of Derry. Liam worked there six days out of every seven, stopping only on the Sabbath.

  The trench was deep, almost six feet, and the sides sloped outward from the bottom. Once filled with water it would be no mudhole, for part of Liam’s job was to fit the sides of the trench with smooth, rounded river rocks, fi
t together so flawlessly that no swimmer, no hooves of horses, could gain purchase and thereby cross the defense.

  The high king of Éire had awarded me this bally, and much of the land around it, almost two years ago, and the trench was now more than halfway completed. We needed not worry about the western half of our wall, for the Foyle, Éire’s fastest river, was an impassable barrier.

  In addition to the defensive works, we had constructed the large church that could hold one hundred fifty people, a sizable school next to the church, and over two thousand clay-and-wattle houses for our people to live in. I thought again that soon we should begin building a second church, dedicated to Patrick, made of gleaming oak and fragrant cedar.

  I looked around with satisfaction. Each teach, or little house, sat on a rather large parcel of land with space for a garden, livestock pens, grazing field, a copse of trees, and even, here and there, a blacksmith’s forge, or a tannery, or a potter’s kiln. The homes, instead of being lined up like soldiers, were laid out in various ways along the east bank of the River Foyle, where the landscape was a blend of rounded hills and surprising valleys. Each builder had carefully fit his teach into the existing terrain, and the result was deeply satisfying to me—a rugged natural land with homes, and not homes that cut and bit into a rugged natural land.

  Among forty or fifty workers, Liam was more noticeable than anyone else. It was not just his height—a bit over six feet, taller than most—but his muscular body and his penchant for working faster than anyone around him. He felt deep joy in working with the river stones, and he seemed to have a gift for fitting them together. Whatever surface he finished was smooth and even with no need for any kind of mortar between the rocks.