Legacy of Luck (Druid's Brooch Series 3)

by Christy Nicholas

  He played with the idea, rolling it around in his mind. A life without Katie. Married to someone else. Whom would he marry? Not another redhead. Surely such a girl would always remind him of Katie. He glanced over at Deirdre’s midnight waterfall of hair. He remembered how silky and glossy it was. That afternoon by the river, he’d spent a considerable time playing with it. The sleek way it had fallen on his chest, his body ached to take her into his arms. But then he recalled his vow to Katie. His promise to protect her from her father, from anyone who would harm her. With his name and his body, he’d vowed. And he had failed her.

  Sleep remained fitful and scarce. At one point Éamonn heard Deirdre stirring in the next room. He heard her mumbling or singing to herself. He couldn’t tell with the sound of the wind.

  Once again he found himself in the dream bog. This time he knew his pursuers—faerie forms with grotesque faces, twisted by nature or magic. Horrifying and disgusting, he pulled away so they couldn’t touch him, but he had no place to go. They surrounded him and forced him to go into the murky marsh.

  The next morning, Éamonn paced back and forth in the common room. He jerked every time someone spoke to him. Every sound outside made him check if the storm had lessened. Enough to let him get on a boat across the Irish Sea.

  “Will you sit already, Éamonn? You’re making me nervous.” Ciaran sat with his tea, relaxing by the crackling fire.

  “I can’t relax, Ciaran. I feel trapped here.”

  “It’s a trap of your own making then, cousin. Hell, she can’t be worth all this, can she? I mean, you’ve not even—”

  The punch sounded loud in the quiet room.

  Ciaran shook his head, stood and faced him. “That was uncalled for, Éamonn Doherty.”

  “Don’t you speak so about Katie.”

  “Like what? Like she’s a married woman? Like she’s got a husband to bed her each night?”

  Ciaran stood ready for him this time and ducked, getting a shot of his own into his cousin’s stomach. Éamonn bent over in pain, but he didn’t care.

  He swung around to knock Ciaran on the head, but only got a glancing blow. Ciaran tripped him and they were on the floor, grappling around.

  “She’s not… yours, Éamonn! She never… was! Give… her… up!”

  “I can’t… leave her… to them!”

  Éamonn got on top, choking Ciaran to shut him up. His cousin’s face turned red, and then an alarming shade of purple before he came to his senses and jumped off.

  “Oh, God, Ciaran. What the hell am I doing?” He sat with his head in his hands.

  Ciaran coughed and sat up. “I have no idea, Éamonn. I just know you’re headed for trouble.”

  “I can’t leave her to them, Ciaran.”

  “Why? What is so important you must be the conquering hero? Are you so arrogant, you must be the king in every castle?”

  Éamonn stared at his cousin in astonishment. “No, Ciaran. It’s not like that, not at all. It’s… it’s her father.”

  “What in the name of all that’s holy does her father have to do with it?”

  “He beat her.”

  Ciaran shrugged. “That’s common enough.”

  “She was terrified of him, Ciaran. I promised her I would take care of her, that she’d never be beaten again. That I’d protect her from harm. And then… well, I heard… they beat her on the road here. One of the dock men said she looked in horrible shape.”

  “Beaten? By Lochlann?”

  “I don’t know. Probably Donald, but does it matter? I promised to protect her, and I failed. Can’t you see? I must make sure she is safe.”

  Ciaran didn’t answer, and they both stared at the fire.

  * * *

  The storm blew on all night and again most of the next day.

  Finally, the afternoon brought relief to the raging weather. Éamonn leapt out of the inn as soon as it lightened, combing the docks for any captain willing to take them across the water.

  The first captain was a weathered old man. Surely he was ninety years older than God himself.

  “Nay, I’ll not be takin’ anyone across today nor yet tomorrow. Yonder storm cracked my mast. I’ll need to do repairs first.”

  The second captain, another older man with skin like mahogany, considered it. Finally, though, he refused. “For just the three of you, it ain’t worth it, aye? If you had perhaps a half dozen passengers, then all would be well. I’ll have to wait until I’m full up.”

  Shaking his head in disgust, Éamonn tried yet another captain. This one was a younger man, perhaps a few years younger than himself.

  With a weather eye on the sky, which still looked dark but rapidly lightening, he said, “I’ll do it, if it’s worth it, to be sure.”

  Worth it meant money. Éamonn considered his gambling winnings from the other night and grinned. “I’ll make sure it’s worth it, you can be sure of that.” He jingled the belt pouch under his shirt. The captain grinned at the sound of coins, showing three gold teeth. A man who liked to keep his wealth mobile.

  With some dickering and a price agreed upon, Éamonn rushed back to the inn to fetch his traveling companions.

  “I don’t know, Éamonn. It’s still rough out there,” Deirdre said. Ciaran nodded.

  “Besides, it seems God or the Fae are out to keep you from this quest. I wouldn’t trust my skin to their revenge on the open sea if I were you.” Ciaran glanced at Deirdre, who nodded. As a united front, they turned to Éamonn.

  With a sigh of exasperation, Éamonn stared at both of them.

  “With or without, I’m going. If you’re pleased to stay here, then stay. I’m off across the water.”

  “Wait! Éamonn, wait. At least let’s get the ship blessed before you go. Better to hedge your bets, aye?” Ciaran stared at him with pleading eyes.

  The fool truly believed this malarkey. “Fine. Do what you must, but be quick about it. I mean to sail within the hour.”

  An hour is not when they set sail. Between Ciaran finding a priest willing to do the blessing and the subsequent haggle about his price, it was closer to three before they finally left the harbor of Ballycastle. The sky had almost cleared by then, in the fickle way of Irish weather. The wind still blew strong, though, and it pulled them across the bay and out into the ocean.

  PART III

  Chapter Ten

  It was a miserable trip. The storm tossed their ship about like a toy, and she lived in dread each wave would engulf them and pull them to the watery depths. Manannán mac Lír laughed in the wind.

  The sight of Éamonn galloping headlong down the cliff road toward the dock had made her spirit soar. He came for her after all! But he arrived too late. She hadn’t been strong enough to free herself from the MacCrimmons’ iron grip.

  After that, it was one nightmare after another. Her stomach let her know, in no uncertain terms, it had no liking for the pitching ship. Lochlann even looked green, so it wasn’t just her own terror of the sea.

  They were surrounded by mist and rain. Certainly, they’d fly off course with nothing to guide them. Perhaps they would end up in England, or south along the coast of Ireland. Or they would keep sailing into the dusky mist into an unknown land. The land of Tír na nÓg, where gods lived in everlasting youth and beauty. Or Hy-Brasil, the mythical land west of the waves, a land only visible one day every seven years. But who knew if this was that day?

  She tried to distract herself and imagine what the land of ever-young would look like. What sort of trees grew there, and what sort of fruit would she pluck? But the fruit reminded her of her time with Éamonn by the riverside, and she sobbed again in a stab of pain and loss.

  For once, Katie remained unbound. The captain had told them the trip would take about six hours, depending on the weather. Six hours. What an incredibly long time to be—she rushed to the edge of the ship to throw up.

  She stayed at the railing, studying the maelstrom below. A dangerous fascination, like a bird gazing into the eyes of a
snake. It would make her ill again, but she followed the patterns and movement of the sea spray and whitecaps.

  For a brief moment, she considered jumping. She couldn’t swim. She would only be ending her own life.

  And would it be so horrible? It would be a form of escape, after all, like the fire. Toying with the idea, she knew she’d never do it. Giving in would not only be a sin, it would be cowardly. No, Caitriona O’Malley would never take her own life. Well, Caitriona MacCrimmon now. She shivered.

  Lochlann had come up beside her.

  “Are ye well, lass? I’ve brought another cloak. Here, it’s dry on the inside at least.” He wrapped her in his own cloak, threadbare but serviceable. It did help, still holding his own body warmth.

  “Thank you, Lochlann. That was kind.”

  “Ah, and what sort of husband would I be if I let you freeze to death on our way to our home?”

  She swallowed the gorge which rose up. Not knowing if it was due to the ship’s motion or his mention of Scotland, she nodded.

  “You’re… you’re a sweet man, Lochlann. I’m sorry I’ve been so… difficult. You don’t deserve that.”

  “I do understand, Katie. You had no interest in this match. I hoped you might give me a chance to change your mind, with time. Will you… do you think you might give me that chance?” He gazed at her with his black eyes, glittering in the rain. His thin blond hair had plastered like a helmet on his head. He must have lost his hat as well as given away his cloak.

  “I… I can try, Lochlann. That’s all I can promise. But my heart, you must know—”

  “Yes, I can tell where your heart lies.” His tone sounded sour as he glanced back towards Ballycastle. “Bloody arse. What can he think to do? We’re married. The deal is done. Is he thinking he’ll steal you away in a grand gesture?”

  She bowed her head. “I don’t know what he thinks.”

  “Well, I’ll not let him. You’re mine, by law and church. I’ll treat you well. I’ll provide for you and care for you. But I won’t let yonder villain take you.” Katie hadn’t before heard the steel in his voice.

  “And what about the villain in your own house? What about your own brother, beating me to within an inch of my life, and you not lifting a hand to stop him? So much for ‘I’ll treat you well and care for you.’ You can start by protecting me from him!”

  She grabbed at the rail as the wind shoved the craft sideways with a fresh wind. Lochlann grabbed as well but missed. He slid down the deck toward the other side. He lost his footing and slid all the way down. The wind didn’t relent, and the ship stayed canted until he reached the rail on the other side.

  With a desperate grab, he latched onto the rusted metal with both hands.

  Katie heaved a sigh of relief as the wind finally eased, and the deck turned horizontal once more. As much as she wished to be out of this marriage, Lochlann dying would simply leave her at Donald’s mercy. She had no wish to discover what he would do in that event.

  Out of either cowardice or illness, Lochlann stayed on that side of the deck. He did not return to answer her challenge. Spineless wretch. Sweet was all well and good, but a man needed strength. Even Donald would have been a better match if he hadn’t been such a vicious swine.

  But now they were on land, blessed, firm land. She didn’t want to move from where she lay, sprawled out on the damp rock. Moss tickled her cheek, but she truly didn’t care. Oh, sweet, unmoving rock.

  Land had never felt as wonderful as it did now.

  Katie sat on the sweet, solid rock and rejoiced in its firm comfort. Her stomach finally settled and the terror which had gripped her soul from the moment they left Ballycastle harbor receded.

  “Get up, lazy girl. Help us hook the wagons, now.” Donald’s gruff voice broke into her reverie of the earth. Resentful, she nevertheless rose to help. She well knew the penalties for disobedience.

  Hopefully, he wouldn’t retie her hands this time and allow her some freedom. It wasn’t as if she could run back to Ireland. She had a few coins, but nothing which would pay for a sea voyage.

  She never wanted to get on a boat again.

  They trudged their way from Campbeltown to Tarbert. From there, they planned on going through Fort William and on to the Isle of Skye. Islands meant another boat. Perhaps a miracle would happen between now and then and she need not continue.

  Lochlann had told her the trip would be about another week or so, depending on the weather. She did wish the wagons had enough room for beds while they were traveling. She had traveled most of her life, but they had always kept at least one wagon to shelter from storms in along the way. Tents eventually became wet sacks dripping with water. No matter how much you oiled the leather, they still let rain in through the seams.

  On the left stood a tall standing stone in a lone, bare field. Nothing grew around it—no trees, no bushes, not even other stones. It stood at a jaunty angle, about the height of a man, perhaps Éamonn’s height. With a painful stab in her heart, she realized everything reminded her of Éamonn. They marched on.

  A couple miles outside Campbeltown, they stopped for the night. Dusk fell fast this evening, as the horizon still loomed dark with storm clouds. Crossing the peninsula, farmland stretched on either side, with mountains to the north and low hills disappearing into the mists to the south. Everything was subdued and gloomy

  Katie had met Scots, as well as Welsh, English, and occasionally someone more exotic, like a trader from Portugal or France. Once she even met a Greek selling rare luxuries.

  No one was like the Irish, though. The Scots she had met were usually dour and brave, while the Welsh loved to sing and had beautiful wood carvings. The English… well, most of the English she had met were soldiers. Her parents usually avoided them. All Travelers did. Travelers were blamed for anything gone wrong in a place for a week before and after their visit. Folk found it easier to blame the transients than to accuse a local of villainy.

  Donald had chosen a sheltered clearing off the main road and set up the tents. Katie set up her own and made a ring of stones for the fire.

  “No fire tonight,” barked Donald.

  “No fire? But I’m chilled through to the bone! And we need to eat—”

  “No fire, I said! Your silly little paramour might still be following us, and I’ll take no chances.”

  She hadn’t dared hope for that. Éamonn surely wouldn’t have been able to follow them with that storm on their backs. Would he persevere and come across to a strange land to seek her? She had no way to know. She peered into the sparse trees around the clearing as if conjuring her lover.

  Katie tried to picture his face but panicked when she couldn’t do it. His hair was easy—messy and pale blond, cut short since the fire. He had a habit of running his hand through it, making it stick up. His face was long and thin, and he had a wide smile with big, white teeth. His prominent nose with the twinkle in his blue-green eyes when he made a joke. The line on his cheek that dimpled just so when he smiled… she relaxed as the details fell into place, and the picture formed in her mind. Closing her eyes to preserve the image, she smiled.

  Pain on the back of her head made her stumble forward.

  “Stop dreaming, you stupid thing. Seriously, Lochlann, I think she’s gone daft. You’ve been cheated. The horse would have been far less trouble than this one has been.”

  Grabbing her tent, she silently finished the preparations for the evening’s camp.

  It had always been difficult to keep quiet, even when it would result in a blow. She had often spoken out of turn with her father and refused to cower when she should. Perhaps she did learn too slowly. Still, it made her furious men could treat her this way. She remained her own person, didn’t she? But society granted fathers and husbands the right to do with their women as they chose. Folk frowned upon it, but it remained within the law. As long as it was discreetly done, people turned a blind eye.

  Most men found no pleasure in beating their wives. Lochlann was ob
viously one of those, and she was grateful for small favors. Some did it reluctantly, believing that physical discipline to be the only way to teach. But others, like her father and her new brother-in-law, enjoyed dealing pain. They loved the power, a lust which fed on itself. Women were an obvious target, as they were too physically weak to fight back.

  Well, she may be a weak woman, but she had her wits, didn’t she? She would fight back in other ways.

  Poison was a traditional woman’s weapon. She had sometimes dreamt of slipping some into her father’s stew but had never gathered the courage to kill him. Alcohol left conveniently where he found it was another matter. He poisoned himself with the drinking well enough. Donald didn’t drink much, but she had less sentimentality where he was concerned. She could never kill a man, but she might make him ill. Perhaps too ill to beat her.

  But Katie had nothing with which to poison him. Several plants would do the job but she had little chance to search for or gather them. And if she were, by some miracle, able to find some, how would she administer it? They ate together, sharing stew or game, ale, and cider.

  That remained a fool’s dream. Perhaps she’d garner help from someone along the trip, though Donald’s reaction to her last attempt made her leery of the possibility. The brothers’ father might even be sympathetic to her, but waiting so long was a dangerous gambit. Technically, the only thing keeping her a maid was her insistence on meeting their father before consummation of her marital vows.

  She slept poorly, memories from the ocean dragging her from a sound sleep. Waves tugged at her arms and sea foam choked her breath. Gasping and in a cold sweat, she sat up several times throughout the night, images of underwater hell swirling in her mind. The nightmares retreated as long as she remained awake, so eventually, she stopped trying to sleep.

  She needed to relieve herself. If she was up anyhow, she might as well take care of business. She rose and pulled her cloak on, stepping into the clearing. There were twin snores coming from the other tent, so she slipped away to take care of her business.