Legacy of Luck (Druid's Brooch Series 3)

by Christy Nicholas

  Portrush didn’t lie far away, so they pushed on toward the town. Relying heavily on fishing, all sorts of men were there—sailors, fishers, and traders. Since evening approached, Éamonn might do worse than to have a drink and perhaps a game or two. Finding out information worked easier when playing dice with a man. Besides, what a good way to increase their limited resources. Turlough had given them what cash he had, but it hadn’t been much. Travelers tended to rely on trade and barter, but boatmen usually wanted paying in cash.

  “Why can’t I come with you? I’m just as good at the dice as you are, cousin mine!”

  Except Éamonn now had his new talent for persuasion and to some extent, feelings. But he couldn’t tell Ciaran that part. “Because Deirdre needs watching. This is a rough place.”

  “She’s a Traveler, no blushing aristo. She can handle herself.”

  Deirdre straightened tall in response to this compliment. “I can, indeed! I need no protection from the likes of you, Éamonn Doherty.”

  “Neither of you have been to this place before—I have. I know the sorts who roam the streets. Please, be smart, aye? It’s just one evening. I’m searching for information. If I’m with others, men won’t talk to me as much.” That wasn’t precisely true, but it sounded plausible enough. Deirdre spoke up.

  “I want to see the town!”

  “And so you will—tomorrow! Not tonight.”

  “We’re leaving tomorrow.” She jutted her chin out in defiance.

  Éamonn heaved a huge sigh. “Deirdre. Please. I need to go and find out if they have come through here. I can’t have distractions while I do it. Can you not understand?” He was tempted to push her into agreeing but didn’t want to waste the headache on her. Using his talent judiciously sometimes got frustrating.

  “C’mon, Deirdre. I’ll keep you company while His Highness goes and delves into the depths of the docks.” Ciaran took her arm with a gallant gesture and shot a grateful glance back to Éamonn.

  The docks were indeed rough, even rougher than he remembered. The stench of fish and unwashed men permeated. He wandered, stopping to watch a game and then moving on to the next knot of players. Every now and then, he would catch a man’s eye, and nod in silent greeting.

  After about a half hour, he took out his own cup. The dice rattled, catching the attention of a group finishing a game. They invited him in with a gesture.

  His talent did work on the gamblers, even without words. He pushed at them to place a bet when obviously unwise, or to hold back when they might have won. It worked too well at first. He had to make a couple of bad throws so as not to arouse suspicion of cheating. Was it cheating to use a Fae-granted gift? Surely it would be more insulting to ignore the gift.

  After a few calculated losses, he had built fragile camaraderie with the group.

  He chose the man on the right of him as his first attempt. The man had an enormous nose like a blotchy potato and no hair at all. “Are ye local, then?”

  “Aye.” The short answer wasn’t encouraging.

  “I’ve just come from Ballyshannon myself. Did trading there.”

  “Oh, aye? And whatcha trade, then?”

  “Horses, mostly.”

  The man spat to the side. “Land creatures are no use to me.”

  “You fish each day?”

  “When the weather doesn’t keep me in, aye.” He hawked and looked as if he would spit again, but coughed instead.

  “I’m searching for a man who sold me a lame horse. Perhaps you’ve seen them come through?”

  The man shrugged. That could mean anything. Éamonn took the plunge.

  “There are two men and a woman. Two horses, carts, and a mule. Does it sound like anyone you’ve seen in the last day?”

  “Pretty lass? Red hair?”

  He tried hard to moderate his excitement. “That’s them, yes. When did they come through?”

  The man scratched his bald pate. “This morning, it was. She looked in bad shape, though.”

  This took Éamonn aback. “Was she ill?”

  “Nay, nay, but she’d been beaten right proper. Big bruises on her face, and a purpled eye. Her face was bonny enough around that, though puffy from crying, belike. I remember thinking it a shame that she be used so.”

  The fury rose within Éamonn like a phoenix from warm ashes. He tamped down on it firmly.

  “She’s… she’s my cousin. I aim to get her back.”

  “Did she run off with the men?” The man was interested now, despite himself.

  “No, she was… she was sold to them.”

  “Sold? By whom?”

  “Her father.” Éamonn couldn’t say much more without bursting from the anger. He snapped his mouth shut and clamped his jaw.

  “Ah, it’s not right, it isn’t. A fair match is all well and good, but selling your daughter to a brute… that’s not on.”

  Éamonn simply nodded.

  “I wish you luck of your search, lad. I do. And if you find them—give the brute a good punch for me, aye?”

  Éamonn nodded again, unable to speak. He had to get Katie back, even if she’d already wed Lochlann. He couldn’t just abandon her to the tender mercies of beasts like the MacCrimmons. Even if he had to steal her away, he would rescue her.

  The bald man rose from the circle and disappeared into the gathering gloom.

  “It’s your turn, mate.”

  Éamonn grabbed his cup and rolled. He didn’t care anymore if they were suspicious. It was time to win. If they had passed through here this morning, he would have to make tracks as soon as dawn broke. And he needed boat fare, right quick.

  * * *

  All sorts of people passed in the streets of Bushmills, jostling the wagons and alarming the mule. The creature voiced his distress often and loudly, so often Donald kicked it now and then to keep it quiet.

  Their progress that day was severely hampered by one of the horses going lame. They had to unhook the wagon, and Lochlann went off to find a replacement for the mare at a nearby village. By the time he had returned, the sun had already set halfway down the horizon. The sky turned dark by the time they got into Bushmills. They stopped at an inn north of town for the night.

  Katie smelled the strong sour odor of fermented mash on the air. There must be a huge still nearby. There were all sorts in this area, especially smugglers and the like. What she couldn’t understand was how they maintained their secrecy when the stuff smelled so strong. Any English soldiers searching for contraband whiskey could easily trace it to the source. Perhaps they were paid well enough to ignore the aroma.

  She was light-headed herself but it wasn’t the fumes. She still hadn’t caught up on any of the sleep she’d missed in the last week. Had it been a whole week? She’d lost track of the days. It didn’t matter. She was numb, aching, and out of fight.

  Donald had landed one good blow to her eye, and the rest of her body was one big bruise. There hadn’t been much broken skin, but cuts would’ve healed more quickly than the massive purple blotches on her back, legs, and arms.

  Almost worse than the pain were the pitying glances she got from those who passed by. They would look at her eye and the bruises on her arms—the only places which actually showed through her ripped chemise—as if she were but a simple child, no smarter than a stone. And perhaps she wasn’t, to have aggravated Donald in such a manner.

  As the sun dipped into the horizon, Katie stood on top of the wagon seat. The water shimmered in the distance, the Irish Sea in all its splendor. In a day or two, they would reach Ballycastle and get into a boat.

  The idea terrified her more than another beating from Donald.

  Living in Ireland, one was never far from the sea. Water was everywhere, in rivers and burns, in lakes and pools, and in the very air around them. And they were surrounded by the domain of Manannán mac Lír, the god of the sea.

  The fury of that god became apparent whenever a storm hammered the coast. A fierce storm caused considerable damage on land. Wh
at could it do to a tiny boat, bobbing on its surface?

  Even the frightening idea of the alien land of Scotland and all the unknowns she would be facing there was nothing compared to her fear of the open, hungry ocean.

  Violent shivers ran over her body.

  “Are ye cold, lass? Here, take my cloak.” Lochlann put his plaid over her shoulders. It had a soft blue and green faded checked pattern, with narrow stripes of red and yellow. She still shuddered. The chill had nothing to do with the brisk wind which whipped the cloak and her hair.

  The sun finished its descent into the ocean. As she always did, she waited in vain to hear the faint sizzle as it touched the water. Such a foolish notion, one Deirdre had teased her about to no end as children. That’s when she had learned to keep her more fanciful thoughts to herself. It was all well and good to love the stories of magic and fairies, but most people didn’t appreciate the everyday magic. Letting someone else in always invited pain.

  She wanted to climb down, but her hands were still bound. Lochlann saw her considering the jump. He took her by the waist and lifted her off the bench and down on the ground. He tried to be gentle, but the landing jarred every muscle and ache in her body. She sobbed.

  Donald finally removed the gag as they came in to town, with the promise from her that she’d behave herself. She was ready to promise anything to have the nasty thing removed.

  What had happened to Éamonn? He should have been able to catch them up by now. Especially after the delay with the lame horse. He likely had given her up as a bad bet. She would have no knight in shining armor galloping to the dock to rescue her at the last moment. She had better resign herself to her fate.

  The inn was simple and poor. Donald obviously wasn’t one to spend money on unnecessary comfort. At least they had hot stew for supper, and fresh bread. She ate tiny bites, careful not to move more than she absolutely had to.

  Several people in the room glanced at her, and their gazes slid from her as if they were guilty for seeing her.

  “Don’t even think about trying to escape again.” Donald’s whisper came harsh.

  Katie nodded, her head bowed. At least he had unbound her hands for a while.

  Tomorrow would be their last day in Ireland. She tried to hold onto the memories like charms against the future. Each hill and river, every wildflower, the aroma of sweet grass on the breeze. She drew on each memory like a talisman, locking them away in her mind for future use.

  Éamonn’s face came into her mind unbidden, a rakish half-smile on his face. It came so sudden she sobbed with the impact. She just needed to forget him. He had abandoned her. He wasn’t worth the remembering.

  That hurt worse than the bruising on her back.

  * * *

  The thick, solid black cloud angled over the sea from the west to form an impressive storm. Curls and eddies swirled and disappeared as the wind sheared the clouds. The sun tried to beat it back but was quickly overtaken. The few beams it had managed to push through were devoured by this monster and replaced with sheets of wind and rain.

  Surely this would keep the MacCrimmons from leaving from Ballycastle. If, indeed, that’s where they had ended up.

  The storm looked to be a good hour off, but Éamonn picked up the pace so they would get to town before the storm arrived. He could easily see it from the cliffs along the Clare Road. He could even make out the town from here, and the natural harbor which made it such a busy sea port. The ships and sailors were scrambling like angry ants around their boats and ships, either making headway out of the harbor at a fast pace or battening down their crafts.

  Hopefully, the MacCrimmons were among the latter.

  He goaded his mare faster along the cliff road. The wind had picked up, tugging at his cloak and trying to shove him off. The metallic, burnt smell of the heavy storm hung in the air, and the temperature dropped abruptly. Ciaran and Deirdre fell behind, but he no longer cared. Here was his chance! He would find Katie and extract her from the clutches of those… those… malicious brutes. Never mind one was Katie’s lawful husband. Lochlann had no right to her heart. That remained hers alone to bestow.

  Éamonn dreamt about her constantly. The crinkle of her red curls in his hands. The fresh scent of her skin in every passing breeze. He heard her low chuckle whenever he passed a burn.

  He scanned the people on the dock, searching for the telltale red hair of his love. He saw a couple redheads here and there, but nothing like her blazing glory. He saw another spot and steadied his gaze. Was it her?

  He saw two wagons, three horses? No, two horses and a mule! Two men and a redhead girl. It had to be them. They were still trying to make it before the storm. The girl slumped on the dock.

  Faster and faster he urged his horse. His teeth were chattering from the cold and the uneven road. He must get there! He couldn’t get this close and still miss them.

  The wagons were already on the boat, and they were coaxing the horses on, one by one. He got closer. He saw the individual people now, rather than colored blobs in the distance. There was Donald, damn his eyes. And Lochlann, who pulled a struggling Katie onto the craft. No! Katie, wait for me!

  “Katie! Katie! Wait!” He shouted as loud as he could until his throat burned, but they couldn’t yet hear him. The wind grew stronger now, whipping his clothes forward even as he galloped down the road. The sails on their craft were billowing madly, and the captain glanced up. The horses were finally secured. Donald glanced backward once before he climbed onto the ship.

  Donald must have caught a glimpse of Éamonn in his mad race to the docks. Éamonn came close enough now he saw the man smile a nasty, self-satisfied smile.

  “Katie! Kaaaaatieeeee!!”

  Her head turned finally, her mouth open in shock. For one glorious moment, their eyes locked.

  “Éamonn!” It sounded faint, but he heard her. She tried to rush to the edge of the ship, but Lochlann and Donald held her tight. She struggled to wrench from their grip, but it was no use. The captain stood on the ship, and the hands were rapidly untying the craft from its moorings. The ship creaked and groaned, eager to get into the wind of the open sea.

  By the time Éamonn’s horse finally made it to the dock, heaving and sweating, the sailing ship had already departed. The dwindling craft took his dreams with it.

  He stood there a long time. Ciaran and Deirdre finally caught up and stood with him as he watched the ship disappear into the rousing storm. The winds whipped and howled, but Éamonn stood still as if carved from stone.

  “Come inside, cousin. Out of the wet. Obviously, it wasn’t meant to be.” Ciaran took an arm and urged him off the docks.

  Éamonn pulled away with one last gaze towards the callous sea. Tears ran down his cheeks, mingling with the first heavy drops of rain. Too late, again.

  Numbly, he stumbled back to the horses and let Ciaran lead him to an inn. It wasn’t fancy, merely a ramshackle dock building which an enterprising soul had set up with private rooms. The wind howled through multiple gaps in the planking, but it kept the worst of the fury outside. The peat fire in the hearth crackled, and they pulled stools up to a nearby round table.

  “Hear, man, have a seat. I’ll get us rooms, and we’ll get going once the storm has passed, aye?” Éamonn nodded dully.

  “Éamonn, maybe this is how it should be, as Ciaran said. After all, they are legally wed, are they not?” Deirdre put a hand on his knee. Her warmth seeped through his wet breeks.

  He made a noncommittal sound.

  “We’ll have supper and ale. You’ll feel better once you’re warm and dry. I thought you were going to pitch headfirst over the cliff a couple times. How you managed to stay on your horse, I’ll never know.”

  Her chatter annoyed him, but he had neither the energy nor the will to stop her.

  Ciaran returned with a chunk of bread and cheese. “We’ve two rooms—one for you and me, Éamonn, and one for Deirdre. We got supper thrown in as well. Here, have some.”

  “I
’ll get us drink.” Deirdre rose to find the kitchen.

  Éamonn took the hard bread and moldy cheese. The bread had seeds and bits of sand in it. He hoped for ale to blunt his pain.

  Deirdre returned with tea, giving him a large mug of the hot liquid.

  “Hey, what about me?” Ciaran asked.

  “In a moment, greedy guts. Éamonn needs it first.”

  “I was out in the rain, too.” He pouted, but she knew he wasn’t seriously upset. She went back into the kitchen and handed him one of two mugs.

  “Here, silly man. Be happy you got any.”

  The storm raged outside, buffeting the shaky structure with steady winds. A slow drip formed above Éamonn’s head, but he wouldn’t move out of the way. Deirdre noticed the splatter of the drops and insisted he move closer to her. She studied him carefully as he sipped his drink.

  “The tea is good, Deirdre. What’s in it?” Ciaran asked.

  “My own secret blend. Good for what ails you.”

  * * *

  Éamonn sipped his tea in silence, staring at the flickering and glowing of the peat in the hearth. He might have gotten them better rooms with the money he’d won the night before, but he deserved to suffer for his failure. He did suffer, every time he pushed someone. It wasn’t always right away, but he’d learned he paid for each use of the faery-gift. One or two small pushes and his head ached, but it would fade pretty quickly. If he used it too hard or too long, he would be sick most of the next day.

  If he’d been a few minutes quicker… he had spent so much time gawking about on the hill near the standing stone. What if they had left earlier in the morning? What if the MacCrimmons had been delayed longer? What if they hadn’t found a ship so quickly? What if the storm had come sooner—or late enough that he got a ship as well? The ‘what ifs’ swirled in his head as he cursed himself, Donald MacCrimmon, the Fae, God and all his saints, and finally both Ciaran and Deirdre.

  That idea brought him up short. Why did he curse Deirdre and Ciaran? The girl tried to be helpful. And Ciaran, his own cousin. He’d never steered Éamonn wrong. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was all for naught. Perhaps he should leave Katie to her new husband, and find a life for himself without her.