Legacy of Luck (Druid's Brooch Series 3)

by Christy Nicholas

  With a frustrated growl, Ciaran grabbed Deirdre’s arm and tugged. She resisted at first but then followed him.

  Ideas swirled through his brain like a maelstrom. What could he do, after all? Follow Katie around like a puppy until her husband took objection and shot him? Skulk around in the night, hoping for a kind glance? Spirit her off against her own will and try to push her to love him again? That last thought disgusted him. Even having thought it made him question his own purpose. This wasn’t about what he wanted, or at least, it shouldn’t be. It should be what they wanted.

  But there wasn’t a ‘they’ any longer.

  Perhaps he would kill Donald. That would at least give her some measure of the protection he had promised. But Éamonn had never killed a man before. Could he do such a thing?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Katie saw nothing but red.

  Éamonn had betrayed her twice over. First, for his failure to come for her before she slept with Lochlann, and second for being with Deirdre. Her own sister! She did not doubt Deirdre had played a large part in that betrayal. But for Éamonn to have succumbed to her sister’s all-too-obvious charms… Katie’s heat rose and flickered in the twilight. Her head ached from the pressure of her boiling blood. She needed a way to cool down.

  She pushed through the group until she caught up with Mrs. MacKensey, another of the soldier’s wives. The older woman had taken Katie under her wing instantly two days ago when they had arrived at the camp. She had shown the younger girl her duties at camp, where to hang the washing, which soldiers were dangerous when in their cups. It was an instant adoption, and Katie was grateful to have someone other than Lochlann and Donald to talk to. She had missed female companionship.

  Lochlann had been conscripted into the general troops, while Donald had been spirited off to where the elite pipers bunked. Katie approved of this, as well. Less exposure to Donald’s temper would always be a good thing. The routine of cleaning, washing, cooking, and mending quickly took over her day. Sleeping in a tent with Lochlann took up her night, though she tried to refuse marital relations with him in the camp.

  “It’s too crowded. I don’t want all these strangers to… to hear us.” She blushed and lowered her eyes.

  “This is a soldier’s camp. There are all sorts of sounds to mask us. We can be quiet.” He stroked her arm in supplication.

  Katie hadn’t wanted to do anything on the trip from Skye, either, but with Donald glowering and leering at her in turns, she hadn’t been comfortable sleeping outside Lochlann’s tent. And it was cruel temptation to sleep next to her own husband and expect him to restrain himself. It’s exactly what she asked of him now, though.

  “It just… it makes me feel like a dirty animal who knows no better.”

  “There’s nothing dirty about it, my wife. It’s our duty as man and wife to couple. And I showed you already it could be better than the first time, did I not?”

  That was true. Learning from each other, subsequent encounters over the last week had been gentler and slower. She had learned to enjoy the sensations he aroused in her. His questing hand now caressed her breast with a feather touch. She was ticklish, and the soft caress was a maddening mix of tickle and pleasure to her.

  And this made her mad all over again. How dare Éamonn show up now? Now that she fit into this new life of hers. She had formed a relationship with her husband. Lochlann may be spineless, but he was kind to her and had a puppy-like adoration. The worship was sweet if cloying at times. Katie might build a life with him if she tried.

  And not a day after her decision—hours—along comes Éamonn, lumbering back into her new life like a bear, expecting her to rush into his arms with joy and relief. Well, she wouldn’t do that! He’d failed her, and he would have to deal with the consequences of his failure.

  The idea of him lying with Deirdre confused her. Anger, yes, she had plenty of anger. And jealousy. But oddly, it was as if she had lost a thing so precious she couldn’t name it. She couldn’t see it, but its absence haunted her.

  Mrs. MacKensey—or Grace, as she had asked Katie to call her several times—asked a question. Realizing she had no idea what it had been, she cocked her head in inquiry.

  “I said, who is yon giant? He’s a lovely one, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, him. Yes, I suppose so. He’s not my husband, though.”

  Grace winked. “I’ve seen your husband, lass. That one yonder is much more the man. I saw that quickly enough.”

  Katie suspected Grace was right, but what could she do? She was married in the eyes of God and the law.

  “Still, you’ve got your man well and truly wound about your little finger, so you do. Your one back there would fight you all the way, I’m sure. But what a battle it would be!” With that, Grace went on to ramble about other things. Katie faded out again.

  According to Lochlann, they were headed to a manor house south of Inverness. There were reports a large group of Jacobite rebels were staying there, and the British soldiers were being sent to rout them or kill them, as needs be. He shouldn’t have told her all this, he said. He blushed at his wickedness, but obviously, the discipline of the army hadn’t settled over this new recruit. Besides, he didn’t know which house or what town. Lochlann’s obvious need to impress his wife with his worldly knowledge sounded painfully green to her.

  It took them all the morning and most of the afternoon to get to their destination. A large field became a camp while the troops rested before going out to their target. The women set up camp and prepared to feed their men.

  The long, hot, dusty walk exhausted her. She had been traveling for weeks now, but usually on a wagon or on horseback. This time she walked with the rest of the followers. Horses were valuable commodities, and theirs were impressed into service as soon as they arrived on site. Donald kept his for the nonce as he had his piper’s status. He came to check on them when they stopped, talking to Lochlann in low whispers. Katie ignored their hurried conference and served them both tea. She smiled sweetly at her detested brother-in-law as he sipped and grimaced at the strong taste.

  “Mint?” Lochlann asked her, “Where did you find mint?”

  “It’s actually catmint, different from the regular sort. Mrs. MacKensey had some. I brewed it as soon as we settled. Freshly brewed for my men.” She kept the smile on her face so long it ached. She hoped she’d put enough herbs in Donald’s tea this time.

  Finishing off the last dregs, Donald tossed the dirty cup to her, grabbed his package of travel food, and swung on his horse. A last significant look at Lochlann, and he went off.

  “Take care of yourself, Lochlann.”

  Looking up from his own pack, his eyes widened at her good wishes.

  “I’ll come back, I promise.” He kissed her on the mouth, a soft, sweet kiss. She smiled at him, with a twinge of concern.

  Then, like millions of women in ages past and days to come, the women hunkered and waited for their men to return from battle.

  Grace stirred the stew pot. “It takes a great deal of courage to go off into battle, especially if the enemy numbers are greater, or their arms are better. To face someone down who is trying to kill you takes the greatest strength.”

  Katie said, “But they still go.”

  “Of course they go. They must. However, perhaps it is even more difficult to wait for those you care about to come back from battle. There is no way to know if they will come back at all, and you have no control over the outcome. If they do come back, often they’re wounded, in either body or spirit. Sometimes their wounds are difficult to see. A severing of a part of the mind, the spirit, a cleaving of a piece of their humanity. Too many of these wounds and the soldier is no longer the person once cared for, but the shell of what they once were.”

  All Katie knew was the horrible waiting. She didn’t love Lochlann, but she had come to care for him. He also represented her only family in this land and her only means of support. It was strange, realizing she would miss him. She had becom
e reconciled to her fate. Not that she had much choice in the matter, thanks to Éamonn’s blundering idiocy. Damn Éamonn.

  Stewing about Éamonn worked no better than worrying about Lochlann. She must find a constructive task. Grabbing her pack, she rummaged around for her needle set. She had plenty of mending to be done, and now would be the perfect time to start.

  Several hours passed, and no word came of the soldiers. Some few remained with the camp followers, but they were set on guard duty. Grace MacKensey set up a communal hearth for the tents in one area, and Katie gladly nestled her own stewpot in the coals. If he came home tonight, he would be hungry. If not, he might arrive in the middle of the night. Better to be prepared.

  One of the other women talked about a battle she had been to, at Fort Augustus.

  “‘Twas different from this—a siege rather than a pitched battle. Closeted in the fort, unable t’ leave for the troops outside… ‘twas horrifying. I thought for certain we were all going to die.”

  Katie’d heard the Jacobites had taken the fort after an explosion within. The siege had lasted two days. Not much in comparison with many sieges, but those within weren’t to know.

  “We weren’t prepared, you see. We had a week or two of good food before we would need to eat the horses. They had a well inside, so water wasn’t an issue. But we’d heard tell of sieges which lasted months. I remember finding a corner as dark as I could find to hide in, so the rebels might miss me as they passed.”

  “I never heard tell of soldiers ever ‘missing’ a pretty girl.” One of the younger women piped up, looking apprehensively at the direction their own men had departed.

  “You might as well just leave off the word ‘pretty’, my girl. And ‘young’ while you’re at it. Some men couldn’t care less how woman looks, as long as he can stick it in her,” one of the older women quipped. The younger girl paled. Even Katie swallowed against nausea. As much as she had resisted Lochlann, he didn’t treat her with cruelty or violence in their lovemaking. Donald, on the other hand—she had no trouble believing such acts of her brother-in-law.

  She was quickly accepted into this sisterhood. She’d never been an army wife before, but she wasn’t the only new one. Slipping into the role wasn’t easy, but she managed well enough. Now she just had to wait for her husband to come back from his first battle.

  Had Éamonn left on the way back to Ireland by now? Despite the fact she wanted him to travel to the gates of hell, the idea of him actually leaving made her bereft. Shaking her head, Katie tried to dispel the sadness. He was none of her business any longer.

  A commotion on the south side of the camp caught their attention. Were their soldiers returned already? She stood up, trying to make out what made the noise.

  Her short stature kept her from seeing what caused the kerfuffle. Grace had a better vantage, perched upon a bench.

  “I can’t see… wait… no, it’s not our men, but… Bloody hell! Everyone, hide! It’s the rebels!” She jumped from her bench, grabbed a pouch from the ground and ran for the trees. Glancing around, Katie saw the other women doing the same. She already kept her valuables sewn into the lining of her skirts, so she had what she needed. She grabbed a carving knife before she fled.

  Hide? Where would she hide? She found nothing suitable that wasn’t so bleeding obvious as to be laughable. Under a bush? Climb a tree? Most of the trees near them were tall Scotch pines with no low-hanging branches to grab. She saw one tree which had partially fallen, held by the crutch of another tree. Those might do! She scrambled up the fallen tree to the straight one and kept climbing up and up.

  Her skirts kept snagging on the branches, and she had sap and scratches all over her hands by the time she reached a spot sufficiently shielded from the ground. Trying to calm her labored breathing, she pushed down on the fear that crept up and threatened to smother her. Not a terrible place, but not by far the best, either. The worst part was she had no way out, should someone come up the fallen tree.

  Now all she could do is wait and hope no one saw her. The stories the women had shared about the atrocities committed during war swam through her head with alarming, graphic detail. Thankfully, Katie hadn’t worn her red skirt today.

  Today she wore her mid-blue skirt and bodice, the color of the summer sky. Her shift was cream colored and freshly cleaned before she had begun her mad climb up this tree. Lochlann had bought her a Scottish shawl in a muted plaid which he said was a MacCrimmon pattern, a darker grey-blue with wide bands of black and thinner stripes of faded yellow and red. He called it an arasaid, and it was enormous. She wrapped it under her as well as she could, to mask from eyes below. With luck, the muted colors would fade in with the greens and browns of the trees. The kerchief she normally wore in her cleavage would be of no use there now. She pulled it out and did her best to hide her hair under it. It took a great deal of tucking and cursing, but it worked better now. Cream wasn’t much better than red, but it might help.

  The first stirrings of sound came through the trees. They came into the woods, Highlanders dressed in kilts and breeks, pushing through the bushes and beating them with sticks. Her heart beat more rapidly, and she tried to remember to breathe.

  One man, a particularly tall man with hair as red as hers, peered into the trees. He scanned behind him first and then saw the fallen one. He followed the line straight to where she perched. She hid her face and tried not to move a muscle. Had he noticed her?

  Evidently, he had, for the tree shook and trembled as he climbed the fallen one.

  She was well and truly trapped. How would she get out of this bloody mess? Bravado and temper were really her only weapons… weapons! She still had the carving knife! She had stuck a chunk of wood on the tip and tucked it into her pocket for her climb. She retrieved it now and pulled off the cork. It hadn’t a huge blade; it only measured about seven inches or so, but it was heavy.

  A young man who fancied her once had spent an afternoon teaching her how to use a smaller blade. He had demonstrated where to stick it, explained how hard she had to push, and told her what not to do, should she be attacked.

  “You’ll have to use it underhand, as you’re shorter than everyone. Overhand has more power, but unless you’re sticking a chicken, you’ll not have the right angle.”

  She’d shoved him for his remark. What had his name been? Fionn. He’d looked a likely lad, but his parents had traveled on the next day, and she never saw him again.

  “The kidneys are a good target,” he had said. “Or the neck, if you can reach it. If all else fails, hamstring him. Then he can’t run after you. Don’t bother trying for the stones. Most men are experts at protecting that particular area.”

  She had no idea if she could do any of this while perched in the tree. Putting the wood back on the end of the knife, she hid it once again in her pocket. She would likely have a better chance once on the ground. If she knifed the man well enough to make him fall, his comrades would just hear him and come see. This would do her no good whatsoever.

  The man took a long time getting to her. Had she taken so long? It was forever and no time at all.

  Finally, he came to within ten feet of her.

  “Stop! Don’t come any closer!” She yelled with far more bravado than she had. She brandished a branch she had worried free from the tree itself.

  “Ah, lass, ye’ll not put me off so easily. You’re a fine prize, and worth a whipping about!” He kept moving.

  “I’m warning you, you’ll regret it!”

  He just chuckled in response. He had a large nose and a bushy red beard laced with grey. As he got close, she smacked him with the tree branch and tried to kick him in the face with one foot. The other she needed to brace herself. Her thrashings were to no avail, alas. He grabbed her foot and climbed up her leg to her waist. Having secured himself around the tree with his legs, he grabbed her waist and plucked her from her perch.

  She hoped he got wood lice in his private parts.

  Struggling whil
e being slung over someone’s shoulder while he carefully descended a tall tree was a sure recipe for a cracked skull. Katie waited until they were to the ground before she walloped him again. Laughing, he set her down and examined her.

  “Hmmmm. Yes, you’ll do nicely. Definitely worth the work!”

  Aching from the climb and the ignominious descent, her muscles pulled and screamed as she punched at him. Remembering her knife, she whipped it out and pulled the wood off the tip. She managed to cut his hip, but he twisted around before she got a good angle for the kidney.

  “Hey now! This kitten has claws! Now be a good girl and give me your knife.”

  “I am not a good girl. Now get the hell away from me, you bloody Highland bastard!” She brandished her weapon in front of her, point up as Fionn had taught her. She took a couple steps back. Could she run from him? His legs were long. He’d catch her in an instant. No one else was around—

  Someone grabbed her from behind. She screeched and kicked, and flailed about with her knife to no avail.

  “I see you’ve caught yourself a wee hellcat, Angus.” The new man plucked the knife from her hand with no trouble while she continued to struggle against his strong arms.

  “Put me down, you manky gobshite!” He may have taken her knife, but she still had teeth and nails and put them to good use.

  “Are you sure you want this one? She’ll be a while taming.”

  “Ah, but what a time it will be. Here, hand her over, will ye?”

  The red-haired men slung her over his shoulder again, where all she could reach with her nails was his back, well armored with leather. Twisting and squirming simply earned her a smack on the arse, so she stopped with a sigh. She’d find a way later to get away—if there was a later. At least he hadn’t attacked her right away. Perhaps he had other plans for her.

  * * *

  Éamonn had spent the day in the woods, wallowing in self-pity and guilt. He’d made his own mess of things. He couldn’t blame Katie one bit for rejecting him. It didn’t mean it hurt any less, though. He’d cried in frustration, pummeling his fists against a tree until they were bloody. Then he’d walked through the forest, intent on making himself lost. He had no idea where Ciaran and Deirdre had gotten to, or even where their supplies were. He only carried his pack and his anger.