The Maid of Ireland Read Online Free PDF Page B

dismissed her as soon as Laura could tolerate cow’s milk. When people demanded to know what a cleric was doing with a child, he had passed Laura off as a foundling.
    Most especially, he recalled the cherished moments—holding his tiny daughter close at night and breathing in her scent, noting the imprint of her ear on his arm when she fell asleep against him. Marveling over each little milestone, whether it be a first smile, a first tooth, her first tottering steps, or the first time she gazed up at him and called him Papa. The pure intimacy had planted a seed of paternal tenderness so deep that nothing could touch it. The seed had flourished into a strong, vigorous, protective love.
    “Auntie Clench said I’d never see you again, Papa.” Laura’s voice, calling him Papa, made him believe in miracles again.
    “We’re together now, sweetheart.” But for how long?
    “I cried and cried for you. Then Master Oliver promised he’d let me see you again.” Laura peered over her shoulder. “Thank you, Master Oliver.”
    The words of gratitude knifed Wesley through with fury. But his arms were gentle as he cradled his child, treasured her, felt his heart spill over with love for her.
    “Look, Papa,” said Laura, holding out a silver bauble on a ribbon. “Master Oliver gave me a locket. Isn’t it pretty?”
    Fury stuck in Wesley’s throat.
    While Cromwell and Thurloe conferred over their maps and their plans, Wesley and Laura shared a meal of biscuit, small beer, hard cheese, and grapes. She chattered with the blithe innocence of untroubled childhood, and he listened with a smile frozen on his face. It would serve nothing to let her glimpse the black hatred that gripped his soul, to confess the loathsome thoughts that claimed his mind. To Laura this was all a great adventure. She’d had them with him before, fleeing priest catchers and Roundhead huntsmen, sleeping in haylofts, and bolting down meals in rickety farm carts. She had no idea she was a pawn in Cromwell’s deadly game.
    At length the rocking motion of the ship lulled her; she settled her head in his lap and tucked her tiny hand in his.
    “I love you, sweetheart,” he whispered.
    As she fell asleep in his arms, Wesley felt the walls of the stateroom pressing on him, squeezing at his will. Cromwell had trapped him in a prison more confining than the dank stone walls of Little Ease in the Tower of London.
    The Lord Protector broke Wesley’s reverie by calling out an order. Two burly sailors appeared in the doorway.
    Wesley drew his arms more protectively around Laura.
    “Restrain him,” said Cromwell.
    Big sea-hardened hands grasped Wesley by the arms while Cromwell pried the sleeping child from his lap.
    A roar of protest rose in Wesley’s chest but died on his lips. If he awakened Laura now, she might forever be plagued by the nightmare of being wrenched from her father’s arms. The less she knew of the sinister plot, the better chance she had of surviving the ordeal.
    Cromwell held her in the crook of one arm. He looked so ordinary standing there, an indulgent uncle with a favored niece. Except for the stone-cold glitter in his eyes.
    “You know, Mr. Hawkins, it would be beneath me to harm a child. But have you ever considered the fate of foundlings in London?” Without waiting for a response, he went on, “Lost children become virtual slaves.” He gazed tenderly at Laura, smiling at the way her golden eyelashes fanned out above her freckled cheeks. “This one is pretty and could escape the drudgery. It’s said that dwarves and children are used to serve people in brothels because they’re too short to see over the edge of the bed. Then when she grows too tall...we can always hope she’ll stay as pretty as she is now.”
    The implied threat hit Wesley like a cannonball. “No, goddamn you—” He strained against his captors. The muscles in his arms braided into taut, trembling cords. Hard fingers bit into his flesh.
    “If you succeed in