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

  While they ate the last of the pears, he watched Katie. She sat still, proper and prim. She must be watched at all times, never able to truly relax.

  “Katie. Would you like to tell me about it?”

  She shook her head. Standing quickly, she brushed her skirts.

  “I need to get back now, Éamonn. Thank you, I had a lovely time.”

  Before he got out a reply, she left, running down the hill toward the fairgrounds. He ached to run after her, but his burns still hurt, and she had too much of a head start.

  * * *

  The bay mare whickered at Éamonn as he applied the stiff brush to her flank several days later.

  “Ah, like that, do you, then? Here, I’ll do the other side.” He dipped it in the cool water.

  Éamonn always relaxed when taking care of the horses. It had none of the glamor of dice, but it satisfied him to care for another and get such appreciation right away.

  He whistled a jaunty tune his father liked playing, but he couldn’t recall the name of it. His whistle got louder as he put his back into the work.

  “Are you trying to call the birds from the sky, so?”

  Startled, he whirled around to find the diminutive form of Katie staring up at him, hands on her hips. Her eyes flashed mossy-green, scowling. Had she no joy in life? He wanted to make her laugh, and take her away from all which made her fearful.

  “I’d been hoping for a wee Fae girl with fiery hair to come help me. And see, it worked!”

  She continued to glare at him.

  Relenting, she at least smiled. “Fine, then. You shouldn’t be working so hard just a few days after all those burns, anyhow.” She reached for the brush, but he held it out of her reach.

  She appeared as if she were going to jump for it, but didn’t. Instead, she kicked him in the shin, and he dropped the brush.

  “Ow!”

  She picked it up with a smug smile, while he bent and rubbed his leg.

  “When you’re as ‘wee’ as I am, you learn a few tricks in dealing with tall folk who believe themselves so superior.” With a sniff, she worked on the other side of the mare, sometimes standing on tiptoes to reach the top of the flank.

  He heard giggling behind him. When he turned, he saw Deirdre and his little sister, Etain.

  “Would you like another kick? I’m sure the mare would accommodate!” Deirdre called out in a taunting tone.

  His face burned with red and he wished he could hide. Bravado was the only possible response.

  “I’d rather have a blow by a lovely lass, Deirdre. Come and wallop me!” He puffed his solid chest and patted it soundly several times.

  Deirdre walked up and poked him in the torso. Not a sharp blow by any means, just a soft push, but he staggered back and held a hand over his heart.

  “Struck down by a lovely lass! Surely you’re a goddess, here to steal my heart and soul!” With a dramatic stumble and exaggerated theatrics, he stepped back and forth slowly, as if teetering on the edge of balance.

  This elicited the hoped-for giggles from Deirdre and Etain, but Katie remained silent. Glancing her way, he saw she worked diligently on brushing the horse. Almost too diligently.

  “Are you working the booth today, Éamonn? Or are you helping Da with the horses all afternoon?” Etain had always been a thin girl with long bones. She’d found a good match, though, and had married last summer. Her husband, Tor, had gone off to work with the other journeyman metalsmiths today.

  “I’m on horse duty for the duration. Ruari and Ciaran are both fine in the booth by themselves. I’m sure they would love a visit from fine young ladies such as yourselves. Why don’t you bring them supper?” He wouldn’t mind if they brought him a cool drink. He flashed a smile.

  Deirdre batted her eyes and lowered them, the very picture of a demure young colleen. She glanced up at him under lowered lashes. She indeed looked fine, with blue eyes and straight, black hair. His desire rose as he remembered the afternoon they’d enjoyed by the river earlier in the week. Perhaps if he took time after finishing with the horses he could extract her once again from the bustle of the fair.

  “Should I come back later with your own supper, then?” Her voice sounded soft and inviting. His grin widened.

  A sharp pain in his head made him glance around.

  “Ow! What in the name of all that’s holy was that?” He clapped his hand to the side of his head.

  He glanced around and saw the horse brush lying in the dust. He stared back at Katie. If she were capable of striking him down with her eyes, he would be writhing in exquisite pain. He took a step back from her naked fury. He prepared himself for an onslaught of angry words, but she turned and stomped off.

  He turned to Deirdre and shrugged. The corner of her mouth tipped up, and she showed a dimple.

  “Come, Deirdre. Leave the man to his chores. We’ll return for him in a while.” Etain dragged off her friend, who didn’t take her eyes off Éamonn. He couldn’t tear his eyes from her, either. As she finally turned away, he sighed and bent back to the mare. He rubbed his head where Katie had thrown the brush. He might get a lump.

  * * *

  The sun barely kissed the horizon when Éamonn got to the Hazard game. He spied a tight knit group of about five players already staring intently at the smoothed circle, waiting for the next player to toss his luck. A chilly breeze kicked up the dust and made the men cough and sputter as Ruari rattled his cup. Not a great roll, but a decent enough start. Éamonn tried to make space for himself between Ruari and the man next to him.

  The man to Ruari’s right glanced up, startled. Éamonn found himself gazing at the unfocused black eyes of Lochlann MacCrimmon, the lad he’d fought with the other night. Éamonn stopped in case Lochlann renewed the conflict, but he simply nodded curtly. Éamonn nodded back and concentrated on the game.

  He would have to wait until the next game to join, but in the meantime, he assessed his opponents. Ciaran sat on the other side of Ruari, already in his cups. Lochlann’s brother, Donald, shifted his glare between Éamonn and Ciaran. He dismissed Ruari as beneath his notice. That angered Éamonn. Sure, Ruari moved slowly, but his brother measured a fair match for any man in a fight. What he lacked in wit or speed, he more than made up for in strength. Éamonn kept his simmering resentment well hidden. It had no place in the dice circle, after all.

  The fifth man Éamonn hadn’t met before. He didn’t speak much and was older than the rest of the group. His black hair grizzled to grey near his ears, a big, bluff man with an enormous pot belly. Éamonn thought he might fall into the pit he was so overbalanced.

  The piggish man rolled a fantastic point. Éamonn was glad he’d sat out this round. He glanced at the piles of coins in front of Ruari and Ciaran. They hadn’t offered much ante this round.

  Donald grabbed the dice next. He closed his eyes when he shook them in his bone cup. They hit the dirt, and it showed an out.

  “Glaikit bastirt!” He spat to the side and stomped off, forfeiting his bet. Éamonn hoped he wouldn’t be back.

  Ciaran rolled next, and he did well enough. Not nearly good enough to beat the old man, though, so he pushed his stake in and sat back. Ruari had evidently already bowed out, as he nodded the dice over to Lochlann.

  Lochlann rolled well. He matched the old man, but as Éamonn hadn’t seen the first round, he couldn’t tell what the point showed. From the expression on Lochlann’s face, he didn’t know either. Could the man be a daftie? Surely he could keep track of the caster’s point?

  “Roll the tie-breaker, Lochlann.” The piggy man’s voice sounded gruff and sharp.

  Lochlann picked up the dice. He rolled a twelve. It must have been the winning roll. The piggy man cursed and threw his own casting cup on the ground and stomped off.

  It took a lot to shock Éamonn, but such blatant disregard for the dice cup made him gasp. Most gamblers took better care of their cup than they would their own child. The cup represented a vessel of luck, the very thing which provi
ded their winnings. He peered at the bone cup, lying in the dust. It had a tiny nick in one edge.

  They started another round without the piggy man and Donald. With only the four players, the rounds were quicker, though Lochlann did win a lot. He had a fool’s luck. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, he had a high, tinny voice. Ciaran kept staring at him and back to Éamonn as if he expected an explosion. He seemed disappointed no one hauled off and punched the blond man. Shaking his head, Éamonn cast the first point of a new round.

  Several bottles and several rounds later, Éamonn had to admit Lochlann played an excellent game. But the lad’s luck had to give sometime, didn’t it? Éamonn bet again, against his better judgment. Lochlann won again. Lochlann didn’t flaunt his winnings, but quietly gathered the bets to his own pile. He put some into his belt bag and left some for future bets. Lochlann must have been run off from his winnings in the past. Most gamblers had at one point or another. Rarely would they leave their entire pile on the ground.

  Lochlann cast next. Everyone tossed their ante into the ring. He put the dice in his own cup, rolled an eight, and it became the fader’s point. He then rolled his own caster point, succeeding with a twelve. A winning roll. The others didn’t even get a chance to try.

  This simpering little idiot could not be doing this honestly. Éamonn growled, “Cheater!”

  Swinging his hand, Éamonn brushed the dice out of the circle and out of the gambling pit. They scattered outside, drawing the attention of a couple passing by.

  Éamonn didn’t care. He wanted to knock the polite confusion off the idjit’s face. Standing up, he towered over the Scot, fury lashing through his veins. He heard Ruari growl something behind him, and Ciaran shout his name.

  Lochlann slowly got up and stared at him. He took a deep breath, nodded and turned to go.

  That wouldn’t happen. The man couldn’t cheat his way into a win, and walk away unscathed. He reached out to grab Lochlann’s shoulder and swung him around. Lochlann glanced at him again, but he had steel in his eyes this time. Good. Perhaps he would get a good fight out of this, after all.

  A hand fell on his shoulder and by the solid weight it must be Ruari’s. He wanted to shake it off, but it would be futile. His older brother wouldn’t be shrugged off lightly. Nevertheless, Éamonn tried. The hand held firm.

  “Come, Éamonn. It’s no big deal. I’ve got another bottle in the wagon.” Ciaran had the voice of reason, but Éamonn didn’t want to be talked down so easily.

  “He’s got to be cheating! There’s no way he can be so lucky so often!”

  “Éamonn! Leave it. He lost steadily enough before you got here. He just had a good streak, that’s all!” Now Ciaran held his other shoulder, but he didn’t have the bulk Ruari did, and Éamonn wrenched away.

  But by then, Lochlann had disappeared.

  With a snort of disgust, Éamonn turned to Ciaran.

  “Well then, cousin, you’d better break out your bottle!”

  * * *

  The sun had already well-risen when Éamonn stumbled out of his wagon the next morning. His head pounded like a herd of kine had trampled it. His mouth tasted the same, and his healing skin ached. He squinted through the dust at the misty sun and rubbed his hands through his hair. He had trimmed the patchy parts the day after the fire, but it had begun to grow back. He took a long drink from his waterskin, swished the cool water around his mouth and spit it out. He poured more and ruffled it through his hair, over his face, and over his scabs. That made him feel more human.

  He wandered over to the horse stalls. He looked forward to placing a bet on a good race later on today. First, however, he had deals to make. He heard there were good horses on offer at the east end of the stalls. He’d not made it over there yet this week and wanted to check out the stallions. They needed a good stud for their new mares.

  He walked slowly as his head still pounded from the excesses of the night before. He didn’t remember much. He’d been angry with someone, but didn’t remember who or why. Passing their leather stall, he waved at Ruari.

  Ciaran came up behind him and yelled in his ear, “How’s the head, ‘Coz?”

  “Gah!” Éamonn grabbed his hands over his pounding skull and ducked away from his annoying cousin. “You’re a right arse, you are!”

  He tried to escape, but Ciaran trailed after him, screaming in a falsetto voice. “Éamonn! Come home for supper! Éamonn! You shouldn’t drink so much! Éamonn!”

  Éamonn swung out, hoping to catch Ciaran in the mouth to shut him for good, but he missed horribly. Ciaran laughed and made it a screeching donkey’s bray.

  “God damn your soul to hell, Ciaran Kilbane!”

  This stopped Ciaran in his tracks. With a dead earnest face, he admonished, “Éamonn… you shouldn’t say such things, truly.” He appeared worried.

  “Ciaran, will you stop being so silly? I swear, you are more superstitious than an old witch. Now bugger off and leave me to my misery.” Éamonn left while Ciaran still frowned at him. If he couldn’t take it, he shouldn’t dish it.

  He made it to the east stalls in about twenty minutes. The crowd stirred up much dust, and he coughed. Hawkers sold goods, both livestock and sundry, and he winced at their volume. He smelled someone roasting a pig, and his mouth watered, but his stomach warned him in no uncertain terms it wanted no food.

  He heard the whinny before he saw the horse. A magnificent pale grey stallion, with a couple white spots along his flank, shook his head. With beautiful conformation and a sleek coat, his long, sinuous neck stood out of the milling crowd, and Éamonn made a beeline to the stall.

  Such a magnificent creature in too small a stall. Though none of the stalls were spacious, this lad needed room to burn off his energy. Éamonn grabbed the apple he had in his coat pocket and offered it in greeting. With a snuffle of his velvet muzzle, the stallion took the proffered gift with delicate precision. He crunched the succulent treat, leaving bits of apple flesh here and there.

  “Ah, you’re a grand lad, you are. Are ye racing today, then?”

  “He is, and I’ll thank you not to fatten him up before the time.” Éamonn twirled around to find Donald MacCrimmon glowering at him with black eyes.

  Éamonn’s heart sank. “He’s yours?”

  “He is. Come away, now, Smúid.” The older man drew the horse away with a practiced hand. At least he treated the beast well. Did the creature run like his namesake mist?

  Éamonn made his way around the other stalls but no horse caught his fancy as deeply as Smúid had. Damn the man to hell, why did MacCrimmon have to be the owner? Anyone else he might bargain a deal from, but with such bad blood between Éamonn and the brothers… perhaps his father would do better. He must talk to him this evening. Of course, if the horse did well in the races, the price would rise. Perhaps he could hedge his bets in that regard. Finding the betting tout, he placed a couple judicious wagers and decided his belly had settled enough to break his fast.

  While he munched on a hot pork bridie, mopping the dripping juices and licking his hand to catch the last of them, he pondered on how he would present the issue to his father. Turlough was a horse trader, but a gentle one. He didn’t go for underhanded tactics. He had a fantastic reputation as an even dealer, though, all to the good. His father enjoyed playing his damned Fae-touched harp than dealing with horses, any day of the week. Éamonn snorted. As if anyone might make a life from music since the last Bard had died.

  Turlough had tried. He had traveled the land as his putative father had, drifting from grand house to grand house. After Éamonn’s mother, Maeve, had died in childbirth, he’d dumped four of his five children on a cousin and went tramping across the land with Ruari in tow. The vagabonds had returned two years later, dressed in nothing but rags, stooped and defeated. He’d still had his harp—nothing on God’s green earth or beyond could pry that sacred instrument from Turlough’s talented hands—but little else. With the help of an uncle, he’d started ‘a real trade’ and
joined a Tinker band as a horse trader.

  Éamonn remembered the rainy day his father had returned. Already a sturdy lad at twelve, he had barely recognized the man. Two years were an eternity to a child. This ragamuffin creature had walked the sodden trail to the wagons. The harp, wrapped in a bag on his back, had made him look horribly deformed. His dread at his reception showed with every step, even to a child. Éamonn had run to get Uncle Pat to save them from the spook.

  It had taken lots of convincing for Éamonn to accept this broken creature as his father. His aunt described his Da as a shining creature of Fae magic, off to regale the land with magical tales and music. Not this… shattered thing which smelled of wet dung.

  Éamonn sighed. Such a long time ago. He’d spent most of his adult life trying to make up for the initial mistrust of his father. Turlough would never hold such a thing against him, which simply made it worse. If Uncle Pat said this was his da, then this was his da. Etain had been eight at the time and loved everyone, while Fionnuala acted too shy to exert an opinion. Síle had been barely two and had loved to play with Turlough’s beard.

  He loved his father dearly and now respected him, as well. But sometimes a touch of madness still shone through his father’s eyes.

  Perhaps Turlough wouldn’t be the best person to get the horse from the MacCrimmon’s, after all. Éamonn sighed. Ruari had little skill as a trader, though he broke beasts well and knew how to handle the high-strung ones. Ciaran—Ciaran did well at trading. He worked better at the leatherwork, but he held his own. Maybe Ciaran’s relationship with the MacCrimmon brothers worked better than Éamonn’s own.

  Lost in his assessments, he didn’t notice anyone coming up behind him until a hand came around his waist.

  He spluttered the last few crumbs of his bridie and turned to see who had touched him so familiarly. He saw the bright eyes and freckles of Deirdre O’Malley. She giggled and brushed the rest of the crumbs from the front of his shirt. She did it slowly, her hand lingering on his chest with exaggerated care and glanced up at him. He wished he had something to clear his mouth of bread so he could talk without showering her with more pastry.