Captive Heart Page 15

  He had begun his renewed friendship last week with another provocative hand kiss, and even though I had quickly withdrawn my hand, I did not confront him on the spot. What did I do? I invited him to supper! And I had the arrogance to take him to Persimmon, a fetching young woman who could be a substitute lover.

  “Father, I have made one mistake after the other. For I like him very much, and I want to be his friend. And yet I love him not as a lover. I cannot have both. And so I grieve.” I listened for any words from Father Patrick, but I heard only a resounding silence.

  I stood, marveling that the eastern windows no longer held shafts of light. I must have sat here for more than an hour. As I passed before the dais containing the simple altar, I bowed my head one last time. “Thank you for listening, Father. I will talk with you again soon.”

  Outside, under the oak, I was reaching for NimbleFoot’s rein when I heard the voice I quailed to hear.

  “Cay, I leave in two days. Perhaps we should exchange mounts now.”

  I looked some ten feet away and saw Murdoch standing, Fintan’s bridle in his hand, the oak canopy over his head still shedding small pearls of raindrops from the leaves. His dark hair was swept back from his high forehead, lifting and falling a bit in the light wind. His eyes, usually somber, held a sadness I had never seen before, as though a deeper grief had been added to sorrow. I imagined that he looked like this the day he found his mother lying dead, his father keening at her side.

  He looked so forlorn that my heart reached out to him, in spite of all my resolve. “Oh, Murdoch, you are wet. Stand over here.”

  “The sun and wind will dry me in no time at all. I can take NimbleFoot now. I will see that he is returned to you in about a month.” I could hear the distance in his voice, as though he were already practicing being far away.

  “Very well. Will you be comfortable in his saddle? It is much smaller than Fintan’s.”

  “Yes. We will make it work.”

  “Then—farewell, Murdoch.” I stood back from my pony, inviting him to mount and ride away.

  Without moving, letting yesterday’s raindrops roll down his face like tears, he regarded me beneath his wing-like eyebrows. “Cate. Where did I go wrong?”

  I could feel my whole body stiffening, my throat closing up. I did not want to talk about old mistakes, old feelings. I turned away from him.

  “Please tell me.”

  I stood with my back to him for a while, wondering how I would talk about the bitterness of the past. At last I spoke, still turned away. “When you broke your word to me. You told me you would respect the bond of friendship—and then you broke that bond.”

  “How, Cate?” His voice sounded almost strangled, as though he really did not know.

  I sighed. He had broken it every way he could break it, and yet he was pleading with me to tell him. I turned quickly, now almost angry. “You bade me farewell in Tara with an unseemly kiss. When you were needed in Inishowen, you returned here instead. You would not—or could not—banish that–that look from your eyes. The one that is breaking Liam’s heart, and mine, too.”

  Then he seemed suddenly angry, too. “And yet you encouraged me. You bade me sup with you. You accepted my offer of a booley on your behalf. You came almost to the very house where I am staying, dressed as though to seduce a saint. What am I to think?”

  I paced in front of him, thoroughly exasperated. “Listen to me. You are mistaking my innocence for devious intent. I told you—I invited you to supper because I like you. The booley—how could I refuse you? Your search may lead to taking the savages who defiled my mother. And just look at your outrageous statement about my clothing! I will admit that I did not dress to please my husband. The selfish reason was—I dressed to please myself. I actually hid my horse so you would not see me. Can you understand that?”

  He seemed to brush away my words as though they were June flies. “I have one last question, Cate. What did you hope to achieve by taking me to see Persimmon?”

  I caught my lip in my teeth, trapped in a corner. Only the truth would do, as much as I hated to tell it. “I could lie to you, Murdoch. But I respect you, and I will tell you the bitter truth. It was an act designed to draw your attention away from me to–to someone else. A despicable thing to do. And I am truly sorry.”

  “I love you the more for it. Oh God, Cate. You have bound me so closely I will never escape.”

  He covered his face with his hands, as though to hide his stricken eyes.

  I felt a great lump rise in my throat. “Then we have lost each other forever, Murdoch. Liam and I are agreed—as long as you feel this way, I can never see you again.” I felt a sudden pang of ironic kinship with Murdoch, for I felt shrouded in sorrow and loss.

  He wiped the rain from his face, looking at me again. “What if–if I could hide it, never let it be seen?”

  “But you cannot. In that way, we are alike. Your true feelings are caught in your eyes like a deer caught in sudden firelight. And I have lost someone I would have cherished as a friend the rest of my life. And so I grieve, for the end has come.”

  I did not try to hide the tears streaming down my face. “From this day forward, please talk to me only through other people. Thank you for what you are trying to do for me and my family. Farewell.”

  I turned around, head down, waiting for him to mount NimbleFoot and ride away. My chest was shaking with suppressed sobs. I felt for all the world that one of my best friends had died. And in a sense, he had.

  Why had he returned so soon to Derry? Why could he have not waited and let our growing, pleasing friendship be the memories to look back on? Now the memories would be forever bleak and cold, and I would never again visit the rugged, splendid Bay of Trawbreaga.

  When at last I turned around, I saw Fintan standing patiently, waiting to be mounted. There was no sight of either NimbleFoot or Murdoch—only a golden stallion, his white mane lifting and falling in the light summer wind.

  PART II: Freedom

  Chapter 16:

  Into the Unknown

  It was a warm Sunday afternoon. Liam and I lay next to each other near the edge of the Foyle, in the shade of a grove of young birches growing almost into the sun-dappled water. We had brought a bright woven coverlet, the very one we had spread on the ground on our trip from Limavady the day our child was conceived.

  The crumbling leaves and the layers of moldering pine needles were their own soft bed, and the blanket served only to mark the boundaries of our love play as we sought the cool shade of our private riverbank.

  I was lying with my head resting on his outstretched arm, my undertunic riding up over my thighs as I sought to wrap my legs closer around him. Now, five months big with child, my stomach was so distended that I could not press my groin into his the way I would like, and I had to straddle him with my legs to pull myself close.

  His large hand stroked the lowest part of my back as I pressed against him, and its warmth was a relief to me, even on this hot day. Lately, both my back and my breasts had begun to ache more than I was willing to admit.

  “Mmmn, Liam, that feels good.”

  He lowered his head and kissed the top of my renegade hair. “Do ye feel…pain, Cat?”

  “No,” I lied. “A bit, um, not comfortable. Too heavy.”

  “Child large. Ye not so large.” Reaching his other hand over, he stroked my face, then lifted my chin a little to look at my face. “Mháthair álainn.”

  “I would rather be your beautiful lover.”

  He laughed softly. “An’ sure ye be me lover. But soon a mother. Soon your nipples belong to me son, not to me.”

  Even now, so early in my pregnancy—only five months!—my breasts were so tender that I could tolerate only the softest of caresses. So my breasts really did belong to my child already, instead of being the playthings of my lover. Ironically, even though they had swollen considerably, their growing tenderness made me shrink back more and more from Liam’s heartfelt sucking.


  “Liam.”

  “Hm?”

  “Michael and Brigid should be here—oh, any day. Maybe even today.”

  “B’fhéidir, a Cháit.” One corner of his mouth quirked in the way that told me he was secretly amused.

  “Which means, young man, we will be going on a trip soon. A journey, a trek into the unknown.”

  “An’ ye be bouncing on the back of a large stallion. An’ sure ye will look like…like a pear on a barrel.”

  “Hush! I was hoping you would ride Fintan while I ride the gentle Clíona, or even Macha.”

  “Maybe a stallion…too much for me. Maybe only me cousin should ride him.”

  I was annoyed at Liam then. Ever since Murdoch had left Derry with no word of farewell, leaving only his horse, my husband seemed a bit touchy on the subject of Fintan. Did he somehow liken the stallion to Murdoch himself? Did Liam feel less a man because he rode a gelding? The notion was foreign to me. Having a gelding meant we did not have to fend off unwanted attention to our mares all summer, every summer.

  “As soon as they return, we can begin to gather our forces,” I said, ignoring Liam’s sudden petulance. “Thom has found several of his former marine comrades, and even a few Forest Wardens from back home, all the way back in the Hinterland. I know we can count on having ten or so Glaed Keepers.”

  “All these men, Cat. But two small women. One heavy with baby.”

  “No, I think there will be a few Forest Wardens who are women, too.” Again I ignored his undertone of disapproval. “I remember them from my, um, our campaign near Woodcamp in Britannia.” That was three years ago, when we had gathered thirty warriors to subdue three hundred ill-trained soldiers. It had seemed easy back then.

  Liam suddenly rolled me over, taking care to avoid my swelling stomach. He looked down into my eyes, this time seriously. “An’ what of the captive women, Cat? How do they travel back? On our horses, an’ we walk? An’…if they are too sick to travel? What then?”

  “Liam, are you saying that we should not rescue them? We leave captives to be further harmed and defiled?”

  “I am not. I say we need better plans.”

  I thought quickly. Liam was right. If there were, say, twenty captive women, they would be weak and unfit to travel. We could not simply bid them mount a horse, for it was possible that they knew not how to ride. Or—as I had been most of my life—they could be as frightened of the great hoofed beasts as they were terrified by their captors.

  I swallowed, hard. I was loath to admit that in my mind I had envisioned only proud warriors marching into the fray, whatever “the fray” was. “Um, you are right. We need better plans.”

  I started to trace Liam’s dear face with my finger. “When we learn about the island, then I hope we will have a more clear idea of how many men to take. How many horses. And I agree—we will talk about how to care for the captives. A small moving army is one thing, dearest love. An army carrying invalids is quite another.”

  “Cat, what if ye…talk wi’ the caregivers? Quince an’ Persimmon?”

  I was struck again by Liam’s genius. “Ah! Who would know better than the twins? I shall talk with them right away! That is a wonderful idea, Liam.” He caught my finger in his mouth and began to gently play and suck. Our lovemaking of half an hour ago seemed like weeks back as my groin tightened and I felt a hot milkiness between my legs.

  He reached behind my head and brought it to his face, seeking my mouth. I began to bite and eat at his lips. Then I captured his tongue as it began to thrust into my mouth, then recede, and thrust again. “Oh, mmmn,” I murmured as I sucked, and our kiss became a substitute for the very act of love.

  I was wearing my favorite undertunic, the one whose lacy top had once seemed too large. Now, my engorged breasts were almost spilling out, and he gently cupped them in his large, blunt hands and began to graze, his lips soft as the lace they lay in. How did he know to be so tender? I gasped with the sudden stab of pleasure that tore into my groin. “Yes, yes, soft, suck me soft and slow.” I found my whole body rocking and moving, ebbing and flowing against his hard groin.

  “Tell me. Oh, Cat, tell me how ye love it.” He began to move his mouth down my stomach, seeming to be enraptured with the very bigness of it, the way it swelled like a ripening melon. I writhed and moved, opening my legs to him.

  “I do love it. I love you. Suck me, bite me.” Hearing my moans, Liam began to make sounds deep in his throat, husky growls that made me cry out for more. Soon he was sucking and eating at me while I told him all my frantic desire. When at last I climaxed, it seemed like a cascade of ecstasy, tumbling and growing until I could bear no more.

  Afterward, he laid my head in the hollow of his underarm while he stroked my back again. “I love ye so much. Me beautiful Cat. Me own cat to stroke.”

  “An’ sure ye stroke well, lad. Never stop, Liam. I love you always.”

  His eyes closed, my husband let his head roll toward mine and began to breathe softly and evenly. Soon he was dozing in the dappled coolness of singing birch leaves, and I began to feel restless. I eased my head off his shoulder and sat up, my eyes searching for my cast-off brógas. I drew them on my feet and began to walk along the riverbank, delighting in the way the sun played on the surface of the dancing currents, the way the heat of the sun met and challenged the cold spray of the water on my skin.

  I squatted on the bank and played at fishing, dipping a slender broken branch in and out of the water. My mind drifted to Owen’s departure one month ago.

  Liam and I had stood at the portal stone of the enclaves watching a slow, regal parade of our kinfolk begin their long journey. Owen and Moc took the vanguard in the ingenious chariot. The clansman looked as though he belonged there, as though it were a command post, as he moved the reins up and down, urging the brace of horses forward. Moc’s hand was resting lightly on his covered legs, and a slow smile played around her mouth, watching Owen.

  Behind the chariot rode Echach, the second oldest of his sons, almost as tall as Murdoch. His dark hair, instead of being swept back over his forehead, was cropped close to his head and almost curly, like his small, neat beard. And behind Echach, a queen in her enchanted blanket throne rode Nuala Sweeney. Michael had built the contraption she rode in—a heavy, tarred cloth attached by braces between a pair of horses, trained to move at exactly the same speed and ridden by two of Owen’s daughters, Orla and Cara.

  Yes, I thought then, and now again. I was witnessing a royal procession. This man Owen Sweeney MacNeill would not just reclaim his land. Now that he had been recognized as part of the royal line of Niáll, Sweeney was riding to claim his very heritage.

  I was not at Michael and Brigid’s door to bid them good-bye, for we had said our farewells on the prior evening. I was relieved, for I was loath to set my eyes one last time on Murdoch, riding north to seek my Isle of Captives. It would have been not just awkward but hypocritical to wave him a fond farewell when I had told him never to talk to me again.

  Liam had seemed to understand the day I arrived home riding a palomino stallion instead of a pony. I knew that my eyes were swollen from crying and my face was set in a stone mask. Much later, more than two weeks after, he had asked me one night before we drifted to sleep, “Cat. Are we ever to see me cousin again?”

  I reached out to stroke his soft hair, and I knew my eyes betrayed my sadness. “I think not, Liam. He is lost to us. And I am sorry.”

  I thought that distance would be the cure for the ache left in my heart by his leaving. Distance, and time. I felt as grieved for his loss as I had when my old friend Andreas lay on the floor as though dead. No gruit, no curative, would ever heal the loss. I sighed. Someone—perhaps Brindl, perhaps my mother—had once told me that the loss of one often heralded the arrival of another. My heart was already full of love for Liam. And soon, I knew, I would somehow make room for one more. I rubbed my abdomen and smiled in spite of my inner sadness.

  Can a heart be too full of love? I though
t about Liam’s words one night as we talked about the meaning of Christian love. “No wonder the heart of Jesus burst.” I rose, throwing the stick into the heedless river, forcing thoughts of Murdoch from my mind.

  I went back to our blanket, where Liam was sitting, waiting quietly for me, not wanting to interrupt my meditations along the river.

  As soon as he and I emerged from the trees near our teach, we immediately saw my sleek palomino pony tethered next to the other horses. That meant two things. First, it meant that Murdoch had come back to his father’s brugh in Inishowen, back from his booley, his search for the Isle of Captives. It also meant that Michael and Brigid were back, for they had promised to return my pony when they returned to Derry. We looked at each other with delighted grins and hurried to our door. No one was inside the house.

  “A sign,” said Liam.

  “Yes. NimbleFoot is a signal fire,” I said, thinking of his cousin Ryan’s instruction in leaving one’s sign in the smoke of a fire.

  “Let us give them an hour or so to—to be alone,” I told my husband. “Then we can take supper to them, the way we did once long ago on the shore of the Lough Neagh.”

  “I remember,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “The day Michael came home with…bride to come.”

  I smiled inwardly, thinking about Liam’s unintended play on the word “come,” knowing that Michael and Brigid, like Liam and I, had held themselves for their wedding night.

  “An’ now,” he said, drawing me close. “What about husband to come?”

  Liam was getting altogether too practiced in my own language. I was still practicing “Is tú mo ghrá,” I thought as I reached for his flaring signal fire.

  * * * *

  Liam and I entered his kinsman’s teach to much hugging and kissing. “We have brought supper,” I told Brigid, and she and I went to the fire pit to unwrap and rub the salmon.