“Oh, no! Not until I meet your father!” She backed against the tent, desperation rising in her throat. It tasted like bile.
Lochlann knit his brow. “But she can’t escape again, not when she’s tied up. She’ll be fine, Donald. I’m not forcing myself on her.”
Katie breathed a sigh of gratitude. He, at least, remained a gentle soul.
With a grunt, Donald waited while she took off her stays. Once that was finished, he re-tied her hands. Then he told her to sit in the tent and made to tie her feet.
“No! You don’t need to do that, really! I can barely get up with my hands tied. What happens if I need to pee in the night?”
“You call for us, and we’ll come untie you. I’m not taking any more chances.” He grabbed one foot, while she tried to keep the other from his grasp, kicking and squirming.
“Lochlann! Please, no feet?”
Lochlann shrugged. He glanced at Donald and then at Katie, and turned away.
“Stop it! No, I won’t let you!”
Her ears were ringing. She blinked a couple times to get her bearings. He had both her ankles now and bound them up. Tears burned, but she choked them back. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her weep.
With another grunt, he shoved her feet into the tent and secured the flap with another tie. Katie inched into the center of the tent, curled in a ball, the only position she could manage other than flat on her back. She found her cloak and used it to muffle her sobs. Oh, God, where was Éamonn?
In the morning, Donald untied her for her morning ablutions. She changed into fresh clothing for the day, and he came to re-tie her.
“My wrists are bloody from the ropes yesterday. Surely just tying me to the wagon should be sufficient? It’s not like I can jump off the moving wagon.”
“It’s thirty miles to Coleraine. That’s a long day, even with fair weather. I don’t want any delays.”
“Then tie me in the front seat, instead of the back. That way I won’t fall over as often.”
He did as she requested, though the tightened ropes around her hands bit painfully into her skin. She celebrated the tiny victory with a secret smile.
The day passed uneventfully. They passed a few people on the road, and one or two glanced at her oddly, noticing the ropes. Most were either single travelers or couples. They passed a group of four elderly women. None were strong or had great numbers. Finally, a kindly-looking middle-aged couple with three strapping sons passed. She called out to them.
“Help me, please! I’m being kidnapped! These men stole me from my parents!” She held up her tied hands as proof.
The couple stopped, considering. They exchanged glances with each other, their sons, and then looked at Donald. He glowered.
“The woman is delirious. We’re taking her to the sanitarium in Belfast. She’s mad.”
With nervous nods, they hurried off.
“Right. That is quite enough of that rubbish.” Donald grabbed a nasty kerchief from his pocket and jammed it into her mouth. She struggled and spat, trying to get the horrible thing out. Her lip caught in the gag, and she bit it, choking. He finished tying a rope around the wad and inspected his handiwork. She couldn’t choke back the tears this time.
“Well, it’s what you get for trying your little stunt, ye fecking shrew. You don’t know when to quit, do you?”
“Is that really necessary, Donald? She did no harm, after all.”
“Lochlann, listen to yourself. She’s trying to get us arrested as kidnappers! She doesn’t care what happens just so she escapes. Your heart is too tender by half, little brother.” He gave his brother a contemptuous look and sat on his bench.
Lochlann usually drove one wagon while Donald and Katie were on the other, with the mule tied to Lochlann’s wagon. This way Donald could keep an eye on Katie, or so he said. She fancied it meant he would be close enough to smack her when he wanted to. Her tears turned to anger.
Katie kicked and managed to connect with his shin, despite the awkward angle. Her nose clogged from the crying, and she couldn’t breathe through her mouth, so she blew her nose. By an odd quirk of fate, he had moved his head to say something at just the wrong moment. A huge glob of snot landed on his mouth.
He spat the glob out and turned to glare at her. His face turned a dangerous red, and his eyes were black with rage.
“Donald, no!” Lochlann’s protest came too late. She didn’t even see Donald’s arm swing, but she fell on the ground, seeing stars. The rope which had held her to the wagon must have loosened, and slipped off the bench with the force of his swing. She couldn’t move or breathe from the impact.
Trying to spit the gag out, she wriggled and flipped. She couldn’t get the vile thing out. The rope around the gag had slipped when she hit the ground. She stuck her tongue to the edge of it to work it out.
A kick to the stomach stopped her efforts. The pain throbbed unbelievably. Curling into a ball to avoid another clout, she waited for the next blow. She had flashes of her father’s heavy hands. The sobs were gone now. She tried to retreat to a numb neverland of escape, the created place she had inside her head, but it didn’t work. Every blow was as painful as the last.
Kicks rained on her back and legs. She vaguely heard Lochlann yelling, and perhaps he even tried to pull Donald off her, but still the strikes came. She cowered further into her hidden refuge.
Finally, the new pains stopped. Katie’s entire body ached, but there were no fresh blows. She didn’t uncurl, but she did return to the real world, opening her senses. She heard Lochlann yelling at Donald. So, he’d finally found a backbone, had he? But Donald yelled back. She thought she heard a blow. Would Donald beat his own brother? One of the horses whickered, and the mule joined into the cacophony. She heard more voices, but she surely hallucinated now.
Another kick got her in the head.
* * *
Deirdre descended into a miserable silence. She was soaked to the skin, shivering, with her hair straggly and tangled, streaming down her back. Éamonn had barely spoken two words to her, and even Ciaran remained taciturn.
And what would they do if they found Katie? Wrench her back from her lawfully wed husband? Sure, it wasn’t consummated, but what then? Would Éamonn rescue her sister and then do his own consummation? And run for the rest of their lives?
Deirdre questioned her decision to come along on this mad quest. She had her reasons, of course. As much as she fought with Katie, she remained her sister. And who’s to say her parents wouldn’t do the same thing to her in turn? Being the favorite meant nothing to her mercenary mother.
As mad as the quest was, though, she was loath to quit it. She had developed a strong attachment to both Ciaran and Éamonn. Truth be told, she would rather wed Éamonn than help him find her sister. Ciaran was sweet, but Éamonn made her blood run hot with anticipation and desire. This quest would be a chance to make him realize she’d be a better choice for him.
They’d heard tell of the MacCrimmons from several travelers along the road now. One said the woman was mad, blathering about a kidnapping. Éamonn’s face grew red with frustration at this news. Had Katie actually gone mad, or was it simply a convenient excuse offered by the brothers? She wished she knew the truth of it, but had to make do with speculation.
As they passed Londonderry, the dusk fell quickly.
“We’ll have to stop for the night. The clouds are thick, and there’ll be no moonlight to guide the horses.” Ciaran sounded frightened.
“They’ll be grand, Ciaran. We can go just a bit farther,” Éamonn countered.
“Do you want to lame one of them? How fast will you catch your lady with a lame horse?”
He heaved a sigh. “Fine. Find us a decent campsite. I’ll scout ahead.”
Éamonn had acted moody and frustrated during the journey. She’d had little chance to talk to him of an evening, as the rain drove them into their tents as soon as they made camp. Tonight remained dry, though, and a campfire offered m
ore chance of conversation.
She got the fire started and soup cooking. They still had horsebread left, though it had hardened by now. The moisture in the air made it a veritable brick. Soaking it in the soup would be best. Better than chipping a tooth on the stuff.
Deirdre sprinkled salt and dried seaweed from her bag. She had talent at cooking and had grabbed her herbs when she’d left her parents. She’d brought clothing, a comb, and a few personal keepsakes. A necklace a young admirer had once given her, her looking glass, a prize from another young man, and her herbs. A couple other things she left in Turlough’s care. No matter what happened, she trusted the older man far more than she trusted her own parents.
She might never see her parents again, which filled her with conflicting emotions. Her words to Éamonn were part hard truth and part bravado. Her mother wouldn’t really care she had gone, but that her potential as a bride was lost. Women were scarce among the Travelers, and often high dowries were paid for young, attractive girls. Sometimes the matches were made when the girls were ten or eleven years old, though the ceremony wouldn’t take place until they were women.
Katie had spurned all offers, though, or made the men withdraw them. She hadn’t had any in a while. She had perfected the art of offending her suitors before they had a chance to formalize anything. Look where that had gotten her.
Why had she decided Éamonn would suit her? Deirdre had known Éamonn first, after all. She and Éamonn had already had that lovely afternoon by the river… it had been a particularly sweet day, with the bees buzzing around them in the fragrant spring flowers. She shivered at the memory of his gentle touch on her skin.
“And to what do I owe such a tender smile? Whatever it is, I am grateful.” Ciaran came to sit next to her as she stirred her soup.
“Just remembering a good day.” She must be careful not to alienate the boy. He truly liked her. He remained too annoying and moody for a real match, but he would do if she couldn’t turn Éamonn’s heart.
He peered into her iron pot. “What are you concocting for us? A brew to bewitch our hearts?”
“As if I needed such things, Ciaran Kilbane.” She smiled at him from under her lashes. He flushed, so she knew she had hit her mark.
She had an idea, though. If she found the right herbs—
When she was younger, they had stayed in a village over a particularly brutal winter. The old herbwoman had taught Deirdre about herbs and flowers, potions and concoctions. She may have actually been a witch—Deirdre wasn’t certain and truly didn’t care. She needed to find clover. It should be easy enough. The stuff grew everywhere. She already had rose petals in her pack, and lavender. Maybe a pinch of carrageen moss would help? Old Moira had been a big believer of carrageen for all sorts of potions. They were close to the coast now, and she could restore her own supply readily.
Lost in her plans, she failed to notice Éamonn returning from his scouting. He sat on the other side of her and glanced into the pot.
“She’s brewing a potion for us, Éamonn. Care to become bewitched?”
The comment so matched her thoughts, she glared at Ciaran. From his wide, innocent eyes, it had merely been a jest, though. She smiled.
“No, nothing like that. Here, Éamonn, have bread with it. Soak it first, mind you—the stuff is like a rock.” She scooped the soup into a horn bowl and handed it to him. She waited until his hands were over hers, and gazed at him. She held it a moment too long and saw him flush. Pleased, she turned and served Ciaran in turn.
“Eat well, boys. We need to conserve our strength for the journey.” She scooped out some into her own bowl and tasted it. Good enough. Perhaps she could make her herbed tea for the morning. That would mean Ciaran would drink it as well, though, and he was already well besotted. It wouldn’t do to have him trip over his own drool. If Éamonn came down with a cold, though, perhaps she could nurse him with the concoction?
“We shouldn’t be too far behind them. If we can’t travel at night, neither can they, aye? We might catch up tomorrow. Hopefully, we can get to them before they get to the port.”
“Ballycastle is where they planned to ship out, from what Katie said.” Deirdre offered.
“They’ll probably take the road through Coleraine, and along the coast through Bushmill. It’s a good enough road there. The smugglers are busy in the area and keep them clear. Unless the English are nearby—then there are all sorts of rock falls and washouts, conveniently enough.” Éamonn grinned. It was better than the hangdog look he’d been carrying about like a favorite toy.
“A bit more soup? We should finish it off, no sense wasting good food.” A man rarely strayed from a good cook’s hearth.
He held out his bowl, and she scraped the last bit of the food into it. Ciaran pouted at this, so she handed him the last bit of horsebread. He made a grimace and gnawed on it.
It was so liberating to be traveling without her parents. Why, she might do whatever she liked, and not fear her father’s hand. She could play with Éamonn, with Ciaran, go screaming in circles, or kick off her clothes to swim in the ocean. She shivered—well, maybe not that. It was only just May now, and the ocean remained frigid.
“Are you cold, Deirdre? Here, take my cloak.” Éamonn draped his heavy fur cloak over her. It smelled of him, still warm with his body heat. She cuddled into it and leaned her head on his shoulder. Startled, he put his arm around her shoulder. He remained stiff, but she snuggled in, and he relaxed. Ciaran frowned and stared at the fire.
She fluttered her eyes at him a couple of times. “Ciaran, would you mind fetching me a drink? I think I salted the soup too much.” Ciaran went off to fetch a bottle of ale for each of them.
“The soup tasted fine, lass. Are you still cold?”
“Just a little, but I’m warming up.” She put a hand on his knee, and he flinched.
“Is aught wrong, Éamonn?”
“No, nothing wrong… just… it startled me, is all. Here, Ciaran, why don’t you sit and warm the poor girl? I’ve got to tend to the horses.”
She sighed when he rose, but she had made a beginning. Ciaran sat and tried to cuddle her in the same position she had been with Éamonn, but he sat shorter, and it didn’t work right. She sat upright, but did turn and leaned back into him. He didn’t put his arm around her, but they shared a sullen warmth.
Chapter Nine
Coleraine was a small town, well filled with English soldiers, so they journeyed around it. Surely the MacCrimmons had done the same, Éamonn reasoned. The niggling doubt worked into his mind, though. He would have to find a way to scout ahead. Maybe an old stone fort on a cliff. He remembered several along the north coast.
Heading north along the road, they passed a steep hill with a lone white stone on the summit. That was exactly what he needed—a vantage point to survey the area.
It commanded a great view of the coastline and down the relatively straight road. When he reached the top, he saw one of the ancient Fae stones. Bits of white paint were flaking off from the weather.
Éamonn went cautiously, remembering his last experience at the stones. He half expected to see sprites dancing in the sunlight. He did spy faint lights sparkling around the stone, but he put it down to his own active imagination. Laying a hand on the stone with a tentative touch, he braced himself for the onslaught of noise, light, and confusion he’d had at the other stones. None of that happened, simply a warm, calming wave of pleasure which washed through him as he placed his hand on the stone and stared out across the horizon.
Éamonn took comfort in the calm. It melted the jagged bits in his heart and in his head. He had much less suspicion and anger at everyone. He even grew a warm spot for Lochlann, the poor lad. He didn’t envy the man Katie’s temper for taking her against her will.
The sky cleared as he stood, peering down the road. Shafts of silvery sunlight pierced the clouds, like arrows from the heavens. The dappled light danced across rolling hills and rocky cliffs, and a glimmer of the ocean flashed
in the distance, light dancing on the waves.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, but Ciaran called his name from the bottom of the hill. He raised his hand in acknowledgement, but didn’t spy anyone on the road who might be Katie’s group. Some of his calm shattered, and with a frustrated curse, he climbed back down the hill.
“What took you so long? You were there a good half hour. Did you see anything worth the trip?”
“Just the coastline. No wagon parties. Either we’ve passed them, or they are already halfway to Ballycastle.”
“A standing stone? You shouldn’t have touched it.” Ciaran frowned.
“It’s grand, Ciaran. Just an old stone someone had painted white.”
Ciaran blanched. “That means it is sacred to the Queen of the Fae, Éamonn. Why did you touch it? No good can come of this. Maybe we should go back!”
“For the love of… we’re not heading back, Ciaran. Certainly not because I touched a bloody be-damned stone!”
Ciaran paled more. “Here, let me find hawthorn. It will help protect you from Her wrath.” He went scrambling into the bushes to the other side of the road.
With a roll of his eyes, Éamonn yelled at him. “There’s no time, Ciaran! Get back here, we’re off. It’s just foolish superstition, anyhow. You should know better, and you a grown man.”
With curses and rustling, Ciaran returned, a prickly sprig of hawthorn in his hand. A few early buds of white blossoms hung on it.
With a cry, Deirdre sprinkled water on it. “You should never cut a hawthorn in the day, Ciaran! Only by the full moon.”
“In the name of all that’s holy, will you two stop it? It’s as if you had the whole host of the Fae behind us in an angry mob. It’s just a bloody stone!”
Pulling too hard on his reins, he got his horse turned onto the road. His cousin was ridiculous, and Deirdre didn’t help. Hawthorn and full moons, my arse.
Since he hadn’t seen them on the road, he’d have to pick up their trail again. He needed to verify they were still on the right track. What if they had headed towards Belfast instead of Ballycastle, and had shipped out from there?
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