To Chase the Storm
Page 26
“Fergus.”
The old soldier looked at her, his face silent. Still.
“There are so many of them.”
Fergus scratched his bewhiskered chin. “Yesterday I tried to gauge the number of enemies we face. There are ten thousand of the bastards if there is one. Old Crom is making certain we’ve had plenty of time to let that stick in our gullets before he calls for surrender. He’s been out there for a week, arranging his cannons just so, grinding his troops in our faces like a headsman sharpening his ax. It will be a relief when he makes a start of it.”
Brianna’s stomach churned. “Ten thousand!” she breathed. “But how many have we?”
Fergus snorted. “Sir Aston would be lucky to number two thousand fighters within these walls, let alone have enough powder and shot to fill their musket barrels.” He swept one gnarled paw across his sweat-beaded brow. “Damn, my throat’s parched as an old whore’s stuffing. Did you bring me any brew?”
Brianna untied the strips of leather that laced a flask to the doeskin band cinching her waist. She pressed the vessel’s neck into Fergus’s hand. “If you’re right about Cromwell’s army-- and ours—they outnumber us five to one.”
Fergus downed a swig of the usquebah. When he turned back to Brianna, the smile half-hidden in his grizzled red beard was strained.
“Whist, Bree,” he said, tugging at the plait draped over her shoulder. “You of all people should know it is not size that matters, but the heart in the fighter. Two thousand men like your brothers and that flame-topped Rogan Niall should have little trouble driving such a pack of Bible-waving sops back into the sea, don’t you think?” He pointed to the nearby summit of the city’s wall. “That is, unless I toss the lot of them off the stones myself, first.”
Aware that Fergus was attempting to distract her, yet grateful for his attempt, Brianna followed the path his finger directed. The six-foot-thick barrier snaked beneath them, ringing the town in medieval arrogance. Even the sun danced across the stone, seeming to join in the frolics of her brothers, Daniel and Doyle as they stood atop the wall’s narrow crest four cart-lengths away.
Morning spilled rich gold light across the face of her oldest brother, Doyle. The breeze, sweet and cool on its sweep down the River Boyne, tousled mischievous Daniel’s honey-colored curls. Despite the grim scene on the hills beyond, Brianna had to smile when— with a mock innocence that belied his skill— fourteen-year-old Daniel whooshed a pikestaff about. In a deceptively awkward path, the seasoned ash end whisked bare inches from Doyle’s nose. The pike’s iron point neatly plucked a slab of buttered fadge from the brooding Rogan’s hand.
Daniel snatched his booty with a whoop of glee then dropped the pike before scampering off down the wall top. Robbed of his breakfast, and whatever scraps of good humor he had left, Rogan gave chase, hurling threats that would have made a seasoned soldier blanch. But Daniel, his brown cloak streaming behind him, merely pulled a face, cramming the hearty bread into his mouth as he skittered to the streets below to lose himself in the crowds. Thoroughly enjoying the frolic, the ever-patient Doyle threw back his head, letting one of his rare, yet beautiful, laughs trip along the dawn.
Brianna lifted her hand in greeting as his gaze swept to the steeple, but memories of a distant twilight haunted her mind: Doyle raging at her for the first time in his life. Irresponsible, he had called her then, but in truth she had been responsible. Responsible for the disaster that had struck that fateful night, and for the nightmare that followed.
Her fingers dropped to the window ledge, her smile fading. Yet even from so far away, Doyle’s soft brown eyes tried to soothe her. Brianna blinked the tears from her lashes. No blame clouded his face. Only love. Always love.
Her heart twisted as Doyle grinned up at her. Pressing his fingertips to his lips, he threw his hand outward, sailing the kiss toward her as he had when she was small. Brianna reached out, pretending to catch it. But instead of the gentle sense of security she’d always gathered from the imaginary kisses, self-loathing seared her, leaving her hollow as the blown glass orb Shane had brought her once from Rosecrea.
She looked away, fastening overly bright eyes on a distant Roundhead banner, but it was not the folds of billowing silk she saw, but rather fragments of crystal, scattered like broken dreams across a wrapping of tawny linen. It had only been two months since Dame Death robbed her of one brother. When the fighting began would the old hag be so greedy as to steal Daniel and Doyle as well?
“You’ve nothing to fear, Bree.”
Brianna started, Fergus’s voice more gentle than she had ever heard it. “They are a fine brace of boys. Erin’s best.” The tender light in his eyes was that of a weary father as he turned away from the young men, letting his gaze drift to Brianna again.
The keen, questing expression beneath the scarred lids made her squirm. “You are quiet, all of a sudden,” Fergus said. “Are your fairies whispering?”
“No. It’s Rogan.”
“You and the lad warring again?” Fergus glared down at the sullen young man. “If words were sabers, that stubborn oaf would have cut his way through every man in this garrison by now. He twists every word anyone says to him into a slur on his sainted father’s honor. There are times I could thrash him myself, plaguing you as he does.”
“He tries not to,” Brianna said softly. “It’s just that he . . .”
“Loves you?” Fergus snorted in disgust. “That is no excuse for driving a body mad. You’ve made your feelings on the matter clear. The boy had better honor them and find some other wench to foist himself on.” For all his bluster, Fergus’s mouth widened in a disgruntled grin. “Ah, well, maybe I am too hard on the boy,” he admitted. “It cannot be easy, being the son of the man who turned traitor at Gobbin’s cliffs.”
“Tomas Niall was no traitor.”
Her indignant defense was cut short by Fergus’s battle-hardened hand against her lips. “I mean the boy no harm, Bree. It is just hard for people to forget. Women, children driven like cattle, forced off the cliffs to die on the rocks below.” Fergus stopped, his attention shifting to the English encampment below.
When he turned his gaze back to Brianna at last, he raised her chin with a finger so stiff from past injuries its joints were almost useless. One corner of his mouth tipped up in a gentle smile. “It’s little wonder the poor lad is so smitten with you, colleen. You’re passing fair when you bristle up to shield him so. I could vanquish thrice the number of Cromwell’s army, if I had a dozen with courage such as yours.”
Her cheeks burned with pleased embarrassment at Fergus’s praise, but Brianna detected wariness beneath the old soldier’s eyelids. He stared over the heads of his three young charges, out across the myriad of tents blighting the grassy swells beyond. “You will take care, child? In what is to come?”
“I will. And you?”
“My eyes have seen a lifetime of wars.” Fergus’s shoulders squared, facing unafraid what Brianna was certain he, too, knew was disaster. “You had best go down, Bree. There are fires, now, near the cannons. They’ll soon be firing.” She turned, a first, distant rumble unfurling fear inside her.
“Fergus, I—“
“Hush, now. There is nothing either of us can do but fight bravely. Bree?”
She turned. One corner of Fergus’s mouth twisted up, the smile tragic, tired.
“What?”
“You might speak to your fairies for me, if you chance to see them.”
Foreboding trickled down Brianna’s spine.
“It’s miserable fighting in the rain,” Fergus said softly. “And I think I hear the thunder.”
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About the Author
Kimberly Cates
When Kimberly Cates was in third grade she informed her teacher that she didn't need to learn multiplication tables. She was going to be a writer when she grew up. Kimberly filled countless spiral notebooks with stories until, at age twenty-five, she received a birthday gift that changed her life: an electric typewriter. Kimberly wrote her first historical romance, sold it to Berkley Jove, and embarked on a thirty-year career as an author. Called “a master of the genre” by Romantic Times, her thirty-three bestselling, award-winning novels are noted for their endearing characters, emotional impact and their ability to transport the reader to the mists and magic of the British Isles.
Kimberly has also penned historical romances as Kimberleigh Caitlin and contemporary romances under the pseudonyms Kimberly Cates and Kim Cates.
Also by Kimberly Cates
ROGUES, RAKEHELLS AND REDEMPTION:
Culloden's Fire Series
Gather the Stars
Angel's Fall
Crown of Dreams
Crown of Mist
Morning Song
Saving Galahad (Coming Soon)
Celtic Rogues Series
Black Falcon's Lady
The Black Falcon's Christmas
Her Magic Touch
Briar Rose
Stealing Heaven
Lily Fair
The Raider Series
The Raider's Bride
The Raider's Daughter
To Catch a Flame
To Chase the Storm
AMERICAN WEST
Only Forever
FUTURE RELEASES:
Restless is the Wind
Contemporary Romance:
Fly Away Home
Historical Fiction:
The Queen’s Dwarf by Ella March Chase
The Virgin Queen’s Daughter by Ella March Chase
Three Maids for a Crown, a story of the Grey sisters by Ella March Chase