Ciaran didn’t want to believe that of the handsome man staying in front of her, but life with her husband hadn’t given her a great deal of faith in his sex. Sean had warned her that men would only be nice to her for one reason. If she even let one of them get his hands on her, she knew better than to expect sympathy or mercy from Sean.
“Mama?” Liam said quietly, tugging on her skirt. “Mama, over there.”
Ciaran looked in the direction that her son was pointing and her heart leapt with relief. She finally saw Aiden. He was sitting next to a grizzled old man and listening to him talk.
“Aidan!” Ciaran cried, flying away from the blue-eyed stranger and rushing toward her son. “Aidan, you know not to go wandering off!” She tried to sound angry, but was too relieved to manage. “I’m sorry for the trouble he’s been,” she said to the old man, as she pulled her little boy away.
“He’s been no trouble,” the old man said, smiling toothlessly.
“Well, I’m sorry all the same,” Ciaran murmured, edging away, and ignoring Aidan’s cries that he wanted to ‘hear the rest of the story’.
She hurried off in the direction she hoped the wagon was in, but the back of her neck tingled strangely. She turned her head and gasped, surprised to discover she was being watched. Two cool blue eyes tracked her movements as she rushed the boys away. A flush settled on her skin and she quickened her pace until she felt free of the scrutiny. Ciaran relaxed a little after that, grateful that one set of trials was over at least.
Her relief was short-lived, however. She found the wagon. Unfortunately, her husband was standing beside it, and he looked murderous. Was Sean angry she wasn’t there, or that she hadn’t left any supper, or that the boys were still awake? He didn’t really need a reason. Ciaran stopped trying to figure it out. She drew her boys a little closer, and then steeled her body and her mind against whatever was about to come.
..ooOOoo..
Skittish little thing…
Duncan frowned after the woman who had just crashed into him a moment before, puzzled by the look of terror that had remained on her face even after she spied her little boy, and embarrassed by his body’s reaction to her innocent, inadvertent touch.
God, she had felt like heaven. Duncan felt another wave of shame as he recalled the sensation of catching her in his arms. For one, fleeting second, all the softness and warmth of her tiny curves had been pressed against his skin, igniting prickles of longing, together with a stranger sensation that he knew her from somewhere before. Of course, he didn’t. He’d never laid eyes on the woman in his life. He would remember a face like hers. He couldn’t account for his response, except to admit it had been far too long since he’d held a woman in his arms. Aileen had been in the ground just over a year now and, of course, he’d been faithful to her memory ever since.
Duncan’s frown deepened when he thought of his departed wife. It still felt very disloyal to think of another woman, even though the one who had just rushed away was certainly worthy of a second look. He couldn’t help but glance up to catch a final glimpse of her retreating figure as she scurried off like a frightened rabbit. She was a pretty thing: small and curvy, with hair that flashed copper in the firelight. He couldn’t make out the color of her eyes - only their expression. They were haunted somehow.
“Ah, well. Probably only worried about the wee lad,” he muttered under his breath, still trying to shake off the lingering after effects of the brief encounter and the strange sense of connection he felt to the girl.
She was married anyhow, he reminded himself firmly. She had been looking for her son, and was probably the mother of the babe in her arms as well as the one clinging to her skirts. He spared a wistful smile for the little children. They had looked like little darlings - albeit, obviously prone to mischief. How he wished he’d had some of his own.
Well, he didn’t. That cruel reminder was the slap Duncan needed to get his thoughts firmly back on the ground. He didn’t have anything now but a trio of horses, a wagon, and a ragged band of Scots to lead over the mountains the following morning - and so he’d better try and get some rest.
..ooOOoo..
Duncan slept well that night, and was fully refreshed the following morning when he woke. He had a feeling a woman with copper-colored hair and a tantalizing figure had visited him in his dreams, although he didn’t understand exactly how that had provided a restful night’s sleep.
He was certainly drawn to the stranger. It was almost inexplicable, given their oh-so-brief encounter. Of course, when Duncan had been a much younger man, it hadn’t taken more than a passing glance to rouse his interest. Perhaps he hadn’t changed as much as he thought, or perhaps there was something special about this woman. He was attracted by her looks but also intrigued by the puzzle of her eyes. He couldn’t stop wondering why she seemed so afraid. It didn’t make any sense, and it left him with a nagging feeling of guilt that he wasn’t at all comfortable with. He tried very hard to clear his mind of the Irish beauty as he was called by Mrs. Ross to breakfast.
Duncan ate a hearty meal with his clan men, and was helping to load the wagons when he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. It really wasn’t that surprising he had noticed the flash of copper hair. He must have been subconsciously looking for her, and once he spotted his temptress, Duncan couldn’t stop staring in her direction.
Luckily, she didn’t notice him. She was quite far away, but Duncan’s keen eyes drank in her lithe, graceful movements as she too packed up her family’s wagon. He wondered what her life had been like back in Ireland. The children he had seen her with the day before were there, bouncing around her feet, but there were two older boys today too, who were being rather more helpful than their younger siblings.
It looked like such a happy, industrious scene. A sharp pang of jealousy gripped Duncan’s heart. How he longed for a fine healthy family all his own. Before his thoughts could depress him too greatly with all the things he had lost, a male presence interrupted the pleasing display.
The father, the husband, Duncan supposed, appeared, and a jealous frown darkened Duncan’s face. Was it just his imagination, or did the happy scene become suddenly strained and stilted? Duncan couldn’t hear what was being said, but he saw the man wave his arm around in a threatening, angry manner, and the woman seemed to draw back in fear.
“Duncan? Hey, Duncan! Can you pass up that bundle?”
Duncan’s attention was reluctantly dragged away from the incident and when he looked back again a wagon had moved and blocked his view. He cursed under his breath. It was none of his business of course. People argued all the time, and he had no business staring at another man’s wife, but something about that family just didn’t seem right.
He managed to concentrate on the task at hand and finish loading up the wagon, but his attention wandered again as they readied to leave. The leader of the expedition, a wiry leathered French trapper named LaSoeur moved through the camp and arranged the wagons in order. The buzz of activity became more organized as the last supplies were roped into place and the families formed a jagged line and began to move.
It was a large party. There were more than twenty wagons and cartloads, and a dozen single riders or more. All in all there were seventeen families and a handful of single men. Half of them were Duncan’s clansmen.
Duncan inspected their ranks, picking out the faces from home. Only one set of MacNabs had come. His younger brother, Ewan, decided to remain behind in North Carolina, but here were the Rosses, the Guests, and the MacKenzies. Two sets of his MacRae cousins had come along with their families as well. Now that he was, once again, leaving the world he knew behind, he took a little comfort from the fact some old friends were coming as well.
Duncan didn’t have a wagon of his own. He had thrown his supplies in with the Ross family, and so he only had to climb up onto his horse and wait. He pulled himself into the saddle and then trotted off onto the sidelines to watch.
Duncan hoped that t
he disorganization and delay at the start of their journey was not an indicator of things to come. There was an argument at the head of the line about who would go first, and who would assume the more protected position in the rear. As soon as the dispute was resolved, they paused again to repair the wheel on a cart halfway down the line.
LaSoeur wove between the wagons, his face going red and his words slipping into his native tongue as he shouted in agitation at the families holding up the departure. Duncan was glad to see that none of the offenders were MacRaes.
The redhead’s wagon wasn’t an offending party either, Duncan noted, spying her in the middle of the line. Her husband and the oldest boy were in the wagon while she and her four youngest children stood alongside. Even the littlest was weighed down with a heavy pack to carry along the trail.
“Top o’ the morning, Laird MacRae!”
Duncan jolted in surprise at the unexpected hail. He shifted in his saddle and traced the lilting voice to Patrick O’Neill, an Irishman he’d been introduced to the night before.
“Morning, Patrick!” Duncan answered, acknowledging the other man with a nod before returning his gaze to her. Like Duncan, Patrick didn’t have a family of his own. He was traveling West with friends, taking a trio of fine bay horses that he intended to breed. He was sitting astride one now: a tall, graceful stallion that looked like it could race the wind.
“Fine weather we’re having,” Patrick noted in a conversational tone. “With any luck we’ll make twenty miles today.”
“With a little luck…” Duncan agreed, “And provided we actually get to set out.”
The line still wasn’t moving, although it looked like that was about to change. One of the wagons had finally moved to the front, and the wheel on the other was nearly repaired. Duncan’s eyes scanned over the ranks again, once more stopping on the woman. Something clicked in his mind. She was Irish. O’Neill was Irish…Perhaps he could learn her name?
“Say, Patrick…” Duncan began in a casual tone. He inclined his chin toward the wagon, “Any idea who that lot is?”
Patrick leaned forward in his seat, craning his eyes in the direction Duncan had indicated.
“That there? Oh! ‘tis the Connellys,” he supplied. “The man’s called Sean, I think. I’ve no idea about the missus, I’m afraid.”
Duncan hoped his disappointment didn’t show on his face as he continued, a little rashly, “And what do you know about them?”
Patrick shrugged. “I can’t say I know a lot…” he began, although Duncan hardly believed him. If Patrick was anything like the other Irishmen he knew, he had an ear for gossip as keen as any hound. He could probably name the stranger’s family tree and what he’d had for breakfast the day before.
Sure enough, Patrick scarcely paused to draw breath before he supplied details. “I hear Sean there likes his whiskey - at least to hear old Flynn tell it. Lord, they had a time of it last night, trying to drag him home from the pub.”
Duncan nodded. Perhaps that explained the tension between man and wife? He mulled it over as Patrick continued speaking.
“I think they said he was a smith up in Georgia…or perhaps it was North Carolina? He was born on this side of the ocean, though the lassie’s a fine Irish girl. She’s from Killarney, if you know it?”
Duncan shook his head.
“Me mother was from Kenmare,” Patrick mused, wandering away from his train of thought, “Which is near Killarney, and a prettier patch of earth you’ve never seen!”
“Er…Killarney?” Duncan asked, impatiently.
“No, Kenmare. I never made it up to Killarney way. Kenmare is further south. I saw a horse at the fair there - SHOOSH!” he made a very Irish sound of excitement, “It must have been eighteen hands, no twenty. If a giant was to-!”
“But about the Connellys…” Duncan interrupted, impatiently. He didn’t know Patrick well, but had the sense if the man started on horses, he wasn’t going to stop.
“Oh…the Connellys,” Patrick muttered, sounding a little dejected. “There’s not much more to tell. They ran into some sort of financial setback or another, gambling if you ask me, and had to pull stakes. I know that Sean Connelly’s said to have a hot temper and…” his voice trailed off as he noticed the direction of Duncan’s gaze. The woman was bending over toward them, hunkered down to give her wee boy a scold, inadvertently treating the men to a generous view of her chest. “…and I know he has a pretty wife!” Patrick finished with a teasing smirk.
Duncan cheeks colored when he was caught, but he didn’t try to lie. “Aye, he does that,” he agreed, and then murmured a quiet prayer of thanks when the command was given to move out, and the line slowly began to move.
..ooOOoo..
Ciaran.
Ciaran Connelly, born Danaugher.
Duncan repeated the words in his head.
After his humiliating lapse with Patrick, Duncan didn’t dare to ask questions again. It had taken several days of careful listening to work out the rest of the woman’s name. Now that he had, he was ridiculously proud of the achievement, although he was embarrassed and surprised to discover he cared.
As the days wore on and familiarity settled in, he expected to grow less interested in the girl, but quite the opposite was true. Most of the women sat together in the evenings, laughing and cooking while the children played, forming fast friendships on the trail, but Ciaran Connelly remained apart. She spent her evenings sitting quietly alone, doing simple mending, tending to her baby and otherwise keeping to herself while her husband drank and caroused with the men. Duncan didn’t understand her behavior. The mystery she presented only sucked him in deeper.
Every so often, he promised himself he was going to push the girl out of his mind. It was true she was beautiful, but she was married, and he knew better than to covet another man’s wife. He was also achingly aware of the fact his own dear, departed wife’s memory was being tarnished by the crush as well.
He tried to avoid her, and to clear Ciaran from his thoughts, but the caravan was too small for his attempts to find success. Every time he turned around, his eyes caught on a flash of deep red hair, or he picked her soft voice out of the crowd.
He noticed her children and stepsons too (Duncan’s spying had revealed that the two oldest belonged to Sean’s now-deceased first wife). They were a lively bunch. The oldest boy seemed to mind and to help his stepmother as well as he could, but the two next oldest were wild, forever being scolded and called to heel for running, climbing or screaming, and he was already well aware of Aidan’s propensity for wandering off. The entire group had learned to watch him with hawk-like eyes to ensure he didn’t slip away in pursuit of a butterfly, or a bunny or flower that had caught his eye. They were more than one woman could handle - and Sean didn’t seem to pay them any mind. Therefore, it was hardly a surprise to Duncan when, the wagons having stopped on a riverbank to spend the night, Liam Connelly wandered out of the shallow water with a gash across his foreleg and his parents were nowhere to be found.
“Hey there laddie, what have you done?” Duncan asked, crouching down on his haunches so he didn’t tower over the child.
“Fell in,” Liam said unhappily, pointing to the river, his bottom lip trembling. “It hurts!” he added with a great gasp, as though he were sucking in the air to hold down his tears.
“Aye, I’m sure it does,” Duncan said in a low sympathetic tone of voice. “Would you let me have a look at it for you?” he asked gently.
Liam raised his hand to his mouth and bit down on the top of his thumb nervously. “I didn’t mean to do it,” he said quietly.
“I shouldn’t imagine that you did mean to hurt yourself!” Duncan laughed, trying to set the little boy at ease, judging from his wary behavior Liam seemed to be rather shy of strangers. “I know, why don’t we go and find your mama instead?” he suggested. “I’m sure she’ll fix you up as good as new,” he smiled.
“Yes,” Liam nodded, his little head bobbing up and down
in agreement.
“Do you know where she is?” Duncan asked, standing up, and trying to tell himself that he was only acting in the best interest of the child. It wasn’t as though he had any interest whatsoever in speaking to Ciaran Connelly… liar, a voice piped up immediately.
“Washing clothes,” Liam admitted, although he seemed loathed to let Duncan in on even that guarded secret.
“Alright, you lead the way then, lad.”
“Liam,” the little boy corrected him seriously.
Duncan chuckled. “Aye, Liam, of course, I’m sorry,” he grinned. “I’m Duncan,” he said, taking the child’s hand and shaking it - this, it seemed, impressed Liam, and he flashed a grin for the first time since he had come trudging out of the water.
“Ma’s this way, Mr. Duncan!” he said, scampering along the riverbank, none the worse for his cut leg.
Duncan smiled and followed after him, trying not to show his excitement, trying to deny that he even felt excitement at the prospect before him. It was wrong to go and see another man’s wife feeling this level of anticipation, but he couldn’t seem to help it.
He skirted around a little crop of young trees and bushes, and into view came the most enticing sight. Ciaran Connelly stood in the shallow water. Her babe was tied to her back, and Aidan was playing in the sandy mud. Her skirts were tied up around her knees to keep them from falling into the water as she scrubbed clothes on a river stone.
“Ma!” Liam called, tripping down to where she was working.
Duncan followed slowly, hands in his pockets, watching the mother’s pretty face light with surprise when she caught sight of her son.
“Liam Connelly! What are you about?” she cried, her soft Irish lilt very pleasing to the ear. “I thought you were with your brothers?”
“They said I was too little to go with them, Ma! Look!” he said, hopping on one foot in an effort to show her injured leg. “I fell! But Mr. Duncan said you’d make it better, Ma.”
It was then that Ciaran looked past her son and saw Duncan MacRae.
His Heart's Home Page 2
