Legacy of Luck (Druid's Brooch Series 3) Read online

  Irish Traveler Éamonn loves gambling, women, and drinking, not necessarily in that order. But he’s entangled in a true mess when he falls for fiery redhead, Katie. When she’s married to a Scottish Traveler, Éamonn travels to Scotland to find her, with the help of Katie’s sister and cousin, and the magical brooch gifted by his father. Their quest takes them across the Irish Sea to the Isle of Skye, encountering war, betrayal, death. In the end, Éamonn must make his own luck.

  LEGACY OF LUCK

  Druid’s Brooch Series, #3

  Christy Nicholas

  Published by Tirgearr Publishing

  Author Copyright 2017 Christy Nicholas

  Cover Art: Cora Graphics (www.coragraphics.it)

  Editor: Troy Lambert

  Proofreader: Sharon Pickrel

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not given to you for the purpose of review, then please log into the publisher’s website and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting our author’s hard work.

  This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  DEDICATION

  I lovingly dedicate this book to my husband, who has indulged me with many trips to my soul’s home, Ireland. He has supported me through my growing pangs as a writer. And sincere thanks go to my publisher, editors, and beta readers—without your help, this never would have happened!

  I also dedicate it to those who find fate has not worked out as they had planned. Sometimes this is not a bad thing.

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  Actual pronunciations and meaning in single parenthesis.

  Direct translations in double parenthesis.

  A chailín milis—(uh KHA-leen MEEL-ish)((my sweet girl))

  A chailín rua—(uh KHA-leen ROO-uh)((my red head lass))

  A chara—(uh KHA-ruh)((my friend))

  A chroi—(uh KHRE)( (my heart))

  A iníon—(MIN-yeen)((my daughter))

  A muirnín—(uh MOOYR-neen)((my darling))

  An phìob mhòr—(an feeb vor)((the great pipes))

  Arasaid—(AIR-ah-sed)((a Scottish traditional shawl))

  Cailleach—(CAL-yukh)((the Hag goddess))

  Cláirseach—(CLARE-shock)((harp))

  Dia duit—(JEE-uh GHITCH)((God be with you))

  Fionnuala—(finn-NOO-luh)

  Geis – (GEE-iss)((a curse or prophecy))

  In ainm Dé—(in AN-im DAY)((in God’s name))

  Manannán mac Lír—(MAN-nuh-nahn mac LEER)

  Poitín—(po-CHEEN)((moonshine))

  Sí Bheag, Sí Mhor—(shee beg, shee more)((small fairy, big fairy))

  Sídhe—(SHEE)((the Faery Folk))

  Tír na nÓg—(CHEER nuh NOHG)((the world of the afterlife))

  FOREWORD

  What we want and what we get are two different things in the world. Sometimes we can control our own lives and the others within it. Usually, we cannot. We drift on a tide of action and reaction, only occasionally poking our heads up above the chaos to see where the nearest shore might be.

  PART I

  Chapter One

  Ballyshannon, Ireland, April 1745

  Éamonn Doherty loved the sound of the dice.

  The soft clatter of the bone cubes as they rattled in the cup was music to his ears. As he tossed them onto the dirt clearing, he prayed to Saint Cajetan for luck. A trader from Venice had told him about the Italian saint of gamblers. He didn’t know if an Italian saint would listen to prayers from an Irish Traveler, but prayers could never hurt.

  Éamonn rolled a nine. A good start for the game of Hazard.

  Taking a deep swig of his small ale, Éamonn waited while the other player rolled the dice, to determine their own point.

  It wasn’t easy to see the faded pips on the carved dice by flickering firelight. The spring sunset died, closing the first day of the annual horse fair.

  The second player didn’t cast well. Éamonn smiled. This would be grand fun.

  He jabbed his brother in the ribs.

  “What?” Ruari hissed.

  “Pay attention!”

  “I’m more interested in the scenery.” Éamonn’s brother gestured at a gaggle of young women in bright-colored skirts, giggling and glancing in the direction of the gambling men. One with dark hair flashed him an inviting smile.

  “Hmph.” At the ripe old age of eighteen, Éamonn had fantastic luck with lovely ladies. But he got great pleasure from gambling, and he was on a good run. He could always pursue the fillies later. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up. The dice clicked again.

  Ruari tried his chances with gambling occasionally. He wasn’t quick enough to make a great winner but did enjoy the game. Éamonn liked him nearby in case things got ugly. A bad losing streak turned the gentlest of men into an angry lout intent on beating their money from fair winners.

  Éamonn glanced to his other side at his cousin, Ciaran Kilbane. A better gambler than Ruari, but not as reliable. Éamonn sighed and got on with his work. He rolled the dice again, hoping to beat the last roll.

  Ciaran got up without a word an hour later. Glancing up, Éamonn saw his cousin’s slim, dark form disappear behind one of the shadowy wagon shapes. He glanced at Ruari, who shrugged in confusion. They grinned when Ciaran returned with a squat stone bottle. He had brought out the poitín.

  Since the law passed almost a hundred years ago required that a tax be paid on all spirits, many people distilled their own in secret.

  Ciaran handed the harsh spirit around. Éamonn took a long swig, which made him splutter and cough. This batch tasted rough and raw. That was all to the good, though. It would make his opponents sloppy.

  Ruari didn’t take a sip. Stolid and steady, Éamonn’s brother rarely let himself get out of control. The Rock of Gibraltar, that one.

  Staring at the dice, he saw his opponent had beaten him in the latest round. How had that happened? He glared at the poitín bottle. Surely he wasn’t so drunk already?

  He picked the dice up and rattled his cup, with another silent prayer. He closed his eyes, cast, and then opened them. Ah, there, he was on top again.

  Éamonn loved winning. It thrilled him more than tumbling a lovely young lady or riding a spirited horse. Better than dancing or drinking. But he’d never stop when on top. Always one more roll, one more chance to be even better.

  He threw again.

  * * *

  Éamonn couldn’t escape.

  The gloomy shapes grabbed at his ankles and his arms while he slogged past, slow motion. Every step mired in the boggy ground, no matter how hard he ran. With a small cry, he sat up, panting and sweating.

  He’d always had chase dreams. Sometimes he got away more quickly, but usually not.

  Éamonn shook the sleep from his head and splashed icy water on his face. It shocked him awake, but his head still throbbed. He blew his hooked nose and then regretted the action.

  It hadn’t been such a great night. He’d lost everything he had won that evening, plus some of his stake. Ah well, he’d win it back today.

  He wandered through the horse stalls, checking out the racers. He examined the muscular flank of a bay cob and then the strong neck of a roan and white vanner with white feathers. The Percheron would be no good. Éamonn had no idea why the owner would even enter such a he
avy draft horse in a race. The cob had the best chance. The gelding appeared eager, ready to beat every other beast. He liked the horse’s spirit.

  Still gazing at the gelding, he turned to go find the betting stall and slammed into someone. Staggering back, he gazed to who had blocked his progress.

  A slim, raven-haired girl with bright blue eyes stared up at him, her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. She wore a faded, blue skirt and white blouse and a cream-colored kerchief on her head.

  “Well?” One of her eyebrows lifted.

  “Well, what? I was just walking along, minding my own business—” Éamonn started out nonchalant.

  “When you decided—with no warning, mind you!—to turn on your heel and crash into me. You stepped on my foot!” She looked fetching when she tried to be fierce. Freckles stood out stark on her fair skin.

  “Ah, well, we can’t have that, now, can we? Shall I rub your foot to make it better?” He bent as if to take her shoe off

  She skittered back. “Don’t you touch me.”

  He straightened. She’s as flighty as a filly. He arched one eyebrow, trying to keep the smile from his eyes.

  “Aren’t you going to at least apologize?”

  He grinned and bowed. “My abject apologies, Mistress—?”

  Her dimples deepened. “Deirdre. I’m Deirdre O’Malley.”

  “Mistress Deirdre. I am Éamonn Doherty, at your service.” He reached for her hand. It was so tiny, held in his own massive hand. He kissed her fingertips, and she snatched her hand away. He still couldn’t tell if she was angry or flirting. Perhaps some of both?

  She flung her long, black hair back off her shoulders and turned to go.

  “Wait, Mistress Deirdre, please don’t go just yet!”

  She stopped but didn’t turn back to him.

  “May I have the honor of a dance this evening?”

  She didn’t answer, but turned her head with a knowing smile and skipped off.

  He grinned and ran a hand through his hair. The day had brightened up already.

  Regardless of lovely lasses with midnight hair and dimples, he still had a bet to place. He hurried to the betting stalls before the races started.

  Éamonn found Ruari at the stall, digging his finger into his ear as the broker took bets. His dirty-blond hair stuck up, so Éamonn ruffled it more. Ruari ducked and mock-punched him in the gut. They play-tussled a while until the broker shooed them off.

  “Which horse did you bet on?”

  Ruari startled. “Me? You know I never bet. But Da wanted someone and sent me to fetch him. I thought he’d be here.”

  “Who does Da want?”

  “Some horse trader named Donald. He’s a Scot.”

  Éamonn stood a few inches taller than his brother. He stood on his toes and scanned the dusty crowd, searching for a flash of plaid. Checkers were common throughout Ireland, but plaid was more distinct. He saw a flash of color near the ale booth.

  “There! Ruari, this way.” He dashed off through the milling crowd.

  Not waiting to see if his brother followed, he emerged from the sea of people near the ale house. The bright-red plaid had disappeared. The day would be improved with beer.

  His brother caught up, panting. “Where?”

  “He’s gone. Sorry, Ruari. I tried.” He shrugged, handed the vendor a coin and drank from the proffered mug.

  His brother scowled and stomped off.

  The bell signaling the start of the race rang, and Éamonn cursed. He’d not gotten his bet placed in time.

  “Damn it to hell.” He finished off his beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and stomped off after his brother. If he couldn’t bet on the race, he didn’t want to see it. Might as well help Ruari.

  He still couldn’t find Ruari in the crowd. He scanned heads. Instead, it steadied on two heads of blue-black hair. He recognized Ciaran as one. Could the other be his midnight lass from earlier?

  Though they had just the brief encounter, he already considered her half-won. It rankled him that his younger cousin muscled in on his territory. He tried to make his way to the fence where the two were talking. The crowd jockeyed for vantage points as the race passed by on the course. He had lost interest in the horses, now. He hoped to win a different sort of race.

  Finally, he emerged, disheveled, from the crowd. Ciaran and Deirdre were sitting on the fence, speaking with their heads close together. The girl smiled brightly, her tinkling laugh tugging at him.

  He walked by as if he hadn’t yet noticed them and brushed her sleeve. He stopped, as if amazed to find them here.

  “Ah, my lovely Mistress Deirdre. How delightful to see you again and so soon after our earlier… tryst.” He made another courtly bow. Women couldn’t resist them.

  Ciaran narrowed his hazel eyes. “A tryst?”

  Éamonn smiled, showing off his own dimples to the girl. “Nothing untoward, I assure you.” Ciaran steamed.

  The girl smiled shyly at him. He took that as encouragement.

  “Might I take you down to the river? It’s lovely this time of morning.” He extended his hand.

  With a guilty glance at Ciaran, she took his hand and hopped from the fence. She hesitated a moment more and then gazed up at Éamonn with bright eyes. Her smile had a most alluring sensual curve, like a woman after being well-satisfied in bed.

  They found the path to the river, made muddy with so many people. Éamonn asked, “Have you traveled far?”

  “No, we’re just up from Sligo, this summer. Last summer we spent in the south, though.”

  He nodded. Travelers often summered in different places, while wintering in the same location each year. “We usually winter in Donegal.”

  They compared notes as they walked until he found the bend in the river.

  “Oh, this is delightful!” Deirdre clapped her hands together.

  His place. A secluded alcove under two huge willows. Éamonn spread out his long coat on a flat rock and they sat as the river flowed by.

  Taking her hand, he kissed her fingers again. Her blush enticed him, dappled by the sunlight through the willow branches. It blossomed in her cheeks, down her neck, and into the pale-blue kerchief tucked into her bodice. How much farther does it go?

  She giggled when he turned her hand over and kissed the palm.

  “That gives me the shivers.”

  “Do you want me to stop?”

  “Nooooo—” She peeked up under lowered lashes. Her smile curved again. He returned the smile and kissed her wrist, light as a feather. She moaned softly.

  He took her reaction as praise and made his way up the soft, tender skin of her forearm, the crook of the elbow, and her shoulders. He moved the faded cotton shift and kissed more tender places.

  * * *

  When Deirdre came home that afternoon, she looked flushed.

  Her sister, Caitriona, asked sharply, “What’s got you so flustered?”

  “None of your business.” Deirdre snapped. She pushed by Katie and entered the shelter her parents had set up for the fair. The bow tent had saplings bent over and secured, covered in oiled canvas. Long enough to have semi-private areas for sleeping, it had a central chamber for a table, a workbench, and a hearth.

  The annual horse fair at Ballyshannon lasted three weeks every spring and drew people from all over northwest Ireland. While the fair was for Traveling folk, there were ‘settled’ people who came to sell food, beer, livestock, and even clothing and luxuries. It turned into a three-week city with several hundred people. There were dances most nights, with races and contests taking place during the day. Family groups and Traveler tribes set up camps around the perimeter, often setting up temporary dwellings. Others used the wagons they normally lived in when on the road.

  The girls’ mother, Saoirse, sat at her loom, setting up the weft for a new project. The wooden frame only worked for small tasks, not the broadcloth which would sell for a higher price, but she did well enough in her trade. Their father, L
iam, sorted through one of the trunks in the back. He muttered curses as he pushed through the piles, banging and growling in frustration.

  Katie said, “Ma, I need some pennies. Bread is more expensive this year, and I’ve not got enough for our supplies.”

  “Nonsense. Just buy cheaper bread. Try the horsebread—that’s always filling.”

  Katie made a face. Horsebread consisted mostly of beans and dried peas. It stuck in her throat. It tasted like the horse feed it was meant to be.

  “Deirdre, come here.” Liam pulled a platter from the trunk.

  She approached her father cautiously, obviously not wishing to be in the line of fire.

  “Take this, this… and this, to be sure.” He piled several dented tin platters on her outstretched arms. “Take those down to Sean. Get him to bang them out.”

  “Yes, sir.” She moved quickly. Too quickly, as it turned out. When she spun around, she barreled into her sister. The platters clattered to the ground with an enormous racket.

  “Dolt! Get out of my way!” Deirdre’s eyes were flashing.

  “You should watch where you’re going!” Katie shouted back, moss-green eyes bright with fury. She hopped, as one of the trays had landed on her foot.

  Deirdre bent to pick up the platters with a nervous glance at their father, but he paid no attention.

  Good.

  As Katie inspected her toe for damage, Deirdre bumped her with a shoulder. Katie fell over with an exclamation.

  “You did it on purpose!”

  “Of course I didn’t. Ma, tell her. I just picked up the trays as father needs them fixed. It’s your own clumsy self that fell.” Deirdre smiled and opened her eyes wide, all innocence.

  “Caitriona, let your sister do her errand. Come help me with this thread.”

  Deirdre hid her smile. Katie hated weaving with a passion, despite having skill at the task. The wool was so itchy, her hands always turned bright red from the task.