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

  Deirdre made her escape and skipped to the tinker’s stall.

  Katie fumed. She’d been hoping to get back to the fair this afternoon. She wanted to watch the dance competition. Damn Deirdre and her manipulations! She always managed to botch Katie’s plans, without even trying. Katie took her frustrations out on the wool as she sat untangling the thread, rolling it into tight balls. Her hands would be horrible tonight, but at the moment, she didn’t care. She imagined her sister’s head as being at the center of each ball and wound it tighter and tighter, cutting off all her air.

  “Katie! Undo it and rewind it properly. You know it will stretch the wool.”

  With a grimace, she complied, her lips pursed in displeasure.

  “And stop scowling so. You’ll never get a husband if you’re a sour old maid.”

  She saw her father glance at her mother. They both quickly dropped their gazes. What had that been about?

  “Katie.”

  Her father glared at her. What had she done now?

  “Yes, Da?”

  “No running off tonight. I need you here.”

  That was so unfair. She wanted to be out with everyone else, dancing and enjoying the fair. Besides, how would she find a husband if she didn’t meet anyone? She didn’t answer back, but her protest must have shown on her face.

  In two steps, her father loomed over her, and she cringed.

  The sharp pain of his fist slammed on the side of her head. Despite her best efforts to keep them at bay, tears welled up. She fought hard to keep from being bowled over. She knew better than to look up in protest. If she kept her head down, maybe she could escape another clout. She waited.

  Another smack, lighter, then her father stomped back to his trunk. Her right ear pounded. It could have been worse and the pain would fade. Still determined to slip out later, she would have to be canny about it.

  Katie, as the eldest, had to be married off first. At eighteen, most girls her age had a babe or two. She’d had offers, but she’d turned each one down, much to her parents’ frustration. She had no wish to be saddled to a man like her father, someone who would own her and control her entire life. If Katie were ever to escape, she would need to choose carefully. But her temper and sharp tongue were well known, and her family wasn’t well-regarded. Her offers were dwindling.

  How would she escape this evening? Deirdre would be allowed to go, of course. She always got more liberties. Deirdre just charmed their mother, and she got what she wanted. Katie’s temper flared back up again in resentment.

  Father usually indulged in the evenings, but it might take hours until he fell asleep from the small beer they could afford. Maybe if she found stronger spirits? Several of the young men had bottles of poitín last night. If she got her hands on some…

  “Ma, I’m finished with these. Shall I go and fetch the horsebread for our supper? I’ll come straight back, I promise.”

  Saoirse narrowed her eyes. She reached into the pocket tied to her waistband and pulled out another doit. “Get your da something to drink, too.”

  Success! She even had funds. Not enough money for what she wanted, but she’d figure something out. She bobbed a quick curtsy to her mother and dashed out the door.

  The sunlight burned bright after the dim hut, and she squinted, trying to remember the young man from last night. He had been in the gambling group and left to come back with a stone bottle, certainly poitín. What had he looked like? She remembered a vague impression of black curls. Tall and slim, like one of the Fae. Katie stood too short to see over the heads of most of the crowd, so she scanned for a vantage point.

  Climbing on a fence, she did a quick search. The few tall heads poking through the crowd were all fair. She saw a young man with white-blond hair stuck up like hay, a ginger lad with frizzy, flyaway hair… there, near the tanner’s stall, someone with black hair. And curly… was it the same man? The lad looked young and handsome. Katie was never as charming as her sister, but when she worked at it, she might flirt well enough.

  Katie used her elbows to jostle through the crowd. She hated being only five feet tall. At least she had too many curves to be mistaken for a child, and far more than Deirdre had.

  She found the tanning stall by the reek of the hides. She searched the shop for her mystery man. He stood behind the counter, dickering with someone who caressed a bridle. Could he be a tanner, himself, then?

  Katie browsed the wares, stroking an undyed rabbit skin until he became available. When he completed his dicker, he turned his attention to her.

  “Softest rabbit this side of Dublin, mistress!” He flashed a grin, handsome hazel eyes crinkled in the sun. She smiled back, blinking her own eyes. She felt foolish but knew how this play-act worked.

  “I’m actually hoping for something … stronger.” She peeked up at him. Though slim, he had a wiry strength. He blushed. How endearing. Her next smile was more genuine.

  “Actually,” she glanced around to make sure no one stood too close and lowered her voice, “I noticed you had a wee bottle last night. I wondered if you had any… to spare for a lass?”

  He cleared his throat and glanced around. If anyone saw them, it would be clear they were up to no good.

  “Aye, well, yes, I do have a few bottles. I’ll bring one out tonight at the dance if you like. We could share… some of the drink?” He smiled slightly.

  Tonight would be too late. “Well, to be honest—”

  “‘Tis best to be honest, to be sure.” A wry voice from behind startled her, and she whirled around. One of the other gamblers loomed over her, the young man with the hair like hay. He bore a wide smile with white, straight teeth.

  She glared at the interruption, crossed her arms and turned back to the black-haired man.

  “To be perfectly honest, I won’t make it out at all tonight, to share anything… unless I can get my da to sleep with drink first…” she raised her eyebrows at the man and shrugged. “I don’t have much coin, but I can pay some…” her fingers brushed her pouch.

  The blond man put his hand over hers, his skin cool.

  “No need for coin, then, my dear. Sure and Ciaran would be happy to lend you a bottle… on future consideration, as it were.” He winked at her and smiled. She flushed and looked to Ciaran. He blushed and ducked back into the wagon behind the booth.

  While they waited, she turned. “And what is your name, then?”

  “Éamonn Doherty, at your service.” He tried to execute a bow, but he was bumped and jostled by a surge in the crowd behind him. He managed to bump his head into hers instead.

  “Ow! Bloody be-damned idjit! What in Brid’s name are you playing at?” She rubbed the sore spot, the same place her father had hit her.

  He tried not to laugh, she could tell. He tried to place his hand on her head, but she batted it away. Ciaran returned with a cool bottle of the needed spirits. He handed it to her, and she flashed him a grateful smile.

  “I’ll come find you when I can escape to thank you properly.” This made Ciaran blush again, and her grin widened. How sweet. She turned to glare at his friend. “You, on the other hand, need to move now. I have to make it to the baker’s stall and home again before I’m missed. Come now, you big oaf, out of my way!” She tried to push past him. He resisted for a moment, giving her an admiring leer, but let her pass with a smirk.

  She tied the bottle under her skirts and grabbed several loaves of horsebread. It should last a day or two at least. The stuff tasted like rotting peas, but cheap and filling. She hadn’t even had to use the coin.

  Katie returned to the hut, walking as tall as her short frame would allow. When she approached, she saw two men leaving with her Da. She didn’t recognize them, but they looked her up and down as they left. One was a fighting man: big and burly, older, with short brown hair and hard, black eyes. The younger one was solid, as well, but had flyaway blond hair and a distant look in his eyes.

  “Ma? Who were those men?” She handed the loaves to her mother wh
ile still staring back at the door.

  “Just someone your Da is dealing with. They’re hoping to sell a horse, I think.” Her mother’s tone sounded unusually light.

  “Horses? How can we afford horses? We can barely afford horsebread!”

  “You leave the dealings to your da. It’s not your place to second guess his business.” Her mother’s tone snapped back to its normal sharpness.

  Katie hid the bottle in a discreet corner and went about the rest of her chores. When her da went out, she placed the bottle where he would be sure to find it, but Ma wouldn’t. Ma would keep him from getting too drunk. She needed to distract her so Da would guzzle the poitín.

  “Ma? I saw new fabrics in the stalls on the way to get the bread. They had fine serge, but not expensive at all. Would you come? It might work with some of the garments you’re making to sell, to bring up the class, I mean.”

  Her mother narrowed her eyes at her for several moments before saying, “Fine, then, we’ll go out. Your da will be back shortly, anyhow.”

  Mother did buy some of the serge, and when they returned, Da sat in his alcove. The bottle had disappeared, and Katie smiled to herself. Her plan had worked, for once. She put the success down to Deirdre not returning home in the interim.

  Shortly after her mother went to her alcove—she always went to bed early—and her father passed out from the drink, she slipped on a brightly colored overskirt and a shawl and escaped into the cool April evening air.

  Chapter Two

  Dusk had fallen in an intense indigo, a blanket which snugged in the folks at the fair, keeping them safe and sound against the outside world.

  Katie spied the groups by the fires and noise. There were several groups around fires, but a large group of players and dancers played near the race track. She made for the light.

  She loved music, especially singing. She didn’t do a lot at home, as Deirdre inevitably mocked her, and her father had little use for it. But song took her away on wings of freedom, at least for a while. She also had a duty to the sweet, blushing Ciaran. A kiss should be adequate payment for his kindness. It might even be enjoyable. She smiled.

  It hadn’t rained, so the dust rose with all the stomping of the day and night. The firelight made it glow like the pits of hell. Perhaps she would end up in hell for her machinations, but she didn’t care how wicked she felt. She needed to have fun.

  Katie spied the dark curls of her quarry, sitting with the blond man—Éamonn?—and a bulky man. An older man, possibly a father, sat beyond them. Unfortunately, Deirdre already sat with them.

  With a sigh, she walked up to the group. “Ciaran, how lovely to see you again.” She smiled down at him, but he sprang up and offered his seat to her. Deirdre scowled.

  Soon Katie became ensconced with Ciaran and his family.

  She took another drink from the stone bottle—Ciaran must have an endless supply of the stuff—and passed it to Éamonn on her other side. Deirdre pulled Éamonn to his feet and cajoled him into the dancing area. His blond hair glowed in the firelight. He grinned as he sent an apologetic glance to his cousin. Ciaran shrugged and grabbed the abandoned bottle. He passed it on to Éamonn’s brother, Ruari, a huge, solid man with neatly combed hair. He didn’t say much, and Katie had seldom met two brothers less alike.

  Sitting past Ruari, their father, Turlough, looked more like Éamonn. Shorter, but he had the same blond hair, a shade or two darker and worn in a long pony-tail. Being a storyteller, he had already regaled them with hilarious tales. He had a harp behind him, so perhaps later he would sing.

  The two men her father had spoken to were out on the dance floor, with girls of their own. She didn’t recognize either of the girls, but they were too young for the men, surely—they weren’t more than twelve years old. They might be twins, with matching dark curls.

  Katie played with one of her own red curls, sparkling cinnamon in the dying light. She grimaced at it. She had always hated her hair. So different and bright, not elegant like her sister’s straight, dark tresses. She caught Ciaran’s eye. He grinned at her.

  “Might I collect the reward you promised earlier, Mistress Caitriona?”

  She liked the way he used her full name. It made her sound sophisticated and adult. She blushed.

  “I suppose it’s only right. Your help is the only reason I could come tonight, after all.” The bonfire lit his face in yellow light.

  Leaning over, she planted a light kiss on his lips. His arm tentatively reached around her shoulders, controlling the length of the kiss. He pressed them together firmly, holding the kiss longer than she had intended. She didn’t truly mind, though. When they did break, his eyes glittered.

  “Ah, a sweeter reward one could not ask for, to be sure.” His face looked to crack from his smile. A stray curl flopped down his forehead, and he brushed it aside.

  She grinned back, feeling the loon. Despite his shyness, she recognized a romantic heart.

  Their interlude shattered when one of the dancers stepped too close to them and clipped her foot.

  “Ow! Oaf!” Katie yelled. One of the horse traders stumbled, the fair one. He scowled at Ciaran and careened into Turlough.

  “Pay attention, Lochlann!” A Scottish voice called out. The other man spoke, the fighter. He had a low, gruff voice, and glared at Katie and Ciaran as he pulled Lochlann away. They walked off together, muttering.

  Why in Brid’s name would they glare at her? Lochlann acted the clumsy idjit. She snorted and turned back to Ciaran.

  He had disappeared.

  She gazed across the empty space to find Turlough arranging his instrument. Ruari had described it as a cláirseach or a harp. A tall, elegant instrument, nearly as tall as she, with a beautifully decorated sound box. Interlaced designs traced from the box up into the top, which held a double row of strings. She held her breath. She had only once before heard harp music, long ago as a child. In her memory, it sounded like angels singing.

  Katie wanted to get up and shout at everyone to be quiet. She wanted to hear. As soon as Turlough plucked a few of the strings, everyone stopped dancing.

  The liquid notes rang across the silent party like raindrops of fire. The notes melded and harmonized as Turlough ran up and down in a heavenly glide.

  He stopped, and it was as if someone poked her with something sharp. She gasped.

  “Now I have everyone’s attention, I shall play a tune by my namesake, Turlough O’Carolan, The Last Bard of Ireland.”

  Everyone knew of O’Carolan, a blind bard who had travelled the countryside fifty years before, composing and playing music across the land. He had surely passed on by now, but his music lived on.

  The tune started out slow and dreamy, even majestic. It picked up as the melody repeated, becoming lively and people danced. Katie’s feet itched to join them.

  The circle of dancers welcomed her, and she spun until her skirts billowed out, almost touching the fire in the middle of the circle. She spun until dizzy and fell laughing into someone’s arms. She glanced up and saw Ruari smiling at her. She laughed again, more nervous this time, and stood up. He smelled of leather and soap.

  Turlough began another tune, a sprightly jig. Ruari put his hand out to her. Shrugging, she took it, and he whirled her about. She underestimated his strength and stumbled. Soon she had passed on to the arms of the next man and made her way around the circle. She became breathless by the time the melody ended. She sat on the log and fanned herself to cool off.

  Ciaran still hadn’t returned, and she felt exposed with no one beside her. Where had everyone gone? Neither Éamonn nor Ciaran were dancing. Lochlann and the other man were gone as well. Deirdre still danced, this time with a young redheaded lad. She didn’t look happy, though, and kept glancing around.

  Turlough stopped playing and took a sip from his cup. She started at the sound of a grunt in the darkness. What had it been?

  A mass of men erupted into the firelight. There were two men, in a wrestling lock, staggerin
g towards the fire. Katie gasped, as did several of the stilled dancers. They managed to steer away from the danger, though, and another man joined in the scuffle. She recognized Éamonn.

  She could make out the original fighters now. Ciaran and the man who had knocked into her earlier, Lochlann. They grappled with each other, struggling to get their hands free. Éamonn got in a few punches in Lochlann’s kidney, but Lochlann kicked to keep him at bay. A fourth man made his way into the fray, with a precise strike at Ciaran’s ear. Éamonn tried to trip him but ended up falling off balance himself and windmilling dangerously close to the fire. The new man was Lochlann’s companion, the fighter. The dust flew even more than it had when people were dancing.

  Turlough remained calm. This must not be the boys’ first fight. Then she saw why Turlough appeared unconcerned. Ruari had come.

  He might be slow to realize what went on around him, but once he did, no one stopped the giant of a man. He waded in, pounding his huge fist into the new man’s nose with a crunch. He got in a jab to Lochlann’s shoulder, making him spin away from Ciaran.

  Lochlann stumbled toward the fire, and this time he pulled Éamonn with him. They both fell into the flames. Katie jumped up, screaming. Other screaming filled her ears.

  Katie ran and tried to pull them up, but she failed. Why did she try? There were many men stronger than she was, who should help. But no one came. She had to try. Something burned on her legs, but she kept pulling, tugging at Éamonn’s shirt. He didn’t move.

  Someone lifted her easily, as if she was a toy, and set down. Ruari had come in again. He extracted Éamonn and, lastly, Lochlann. Her legs hurt.

  She batted frantically at her skirts. They were glowing with burning embers. She sat in the dirt and slapped them until the glow died. She coughed several times.

  “Come, Katie, ye’r burned. Come to the healer’s tent.” Turlough drew her up.

  She coughed again and stood up. Her skin hurt, but she daren’t check how bad her legs were.

  She must have whimpered. Turlough tightened his grip on her shoulders.