“I’m Moira. I’m pleased to meet you.” The woman appeared younger than Senga, as though she was barely out of girlhood. Senga couldn’t tell if the woman was shy by nature or just around strangers.
“I’m happy to speak to another woman. It has been a while.” Senga smiled warmly, and the woman appeared to relax. “Have you been married to the MacDonnell for long?”
“Oh, Dónal’s not my husband. He’s my brother.” Moira chuckled and blushed as she swept her gaze across the people who remained in the Great Hall. Senga got the impression the woman went unnoticed most of the time. She wondered if it was by choice or by Dónal’s mandate.
“I have to admit I wondered since you seem quite a bit younger than him. I worried you might have been a child bride.”
Moira’s face fell as she shook her head. “I’ve never married, and I’m not as young as I appear. I’m past my twentieth year. No one has accepted any of Dónal’s offers for my hand.”
Senga glanced about the keep and over the food that remained on the high table. Her eyes swung to the tapestries on the walls, the hearths, and the candelabras overhead. “It’s obvious you're a well-trained chatelaine. You have a well-kept home.”
“Aye, and thank you, but it’s because Dónal is miserly. He’s not willing to pay a decent dowry, so I’m unconvinced I’ll ever marry. He won’t let me marry any of the men in this clan, and no one outside of it wants me. He says marrying anyone who isn’t of noble birth is beneath me.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Senga mumbled before offering another smile.
“Are you a noblewoman, too?” Moira’s tone was timid, and Senga could tell she didn’t want to insult Senga.
“I am again now. I wasn’t for several years. I did marry beneath me, according to my uncle.”
“But they say Captain MacNeil once was the nephew of a laird.”
Senga wasn’t sure how Ruairí would want her to respond to that, but she’d just admitted to being a noblewoman once again. “I was a laird’s daughter, then a laird’s niece, but my first husband was a farmer. He died several years ago, and Ruairí comes from a noble family. I don’t think of myself as a lady, considering where I live.”
“You mean aboard a pirate ship,” Moira bluntly stated.
“Aye, aboard a pirate ship,” Senga grinned. She wasn’t embarrassed of her husband, and she would never allow anyone to assume she was.
“Do you care to join me for a walk in our garden?”
Senga’s gaze darted toward the chieftain’s solar. She didn’t want Ruairí to come looking for her and assume she’d disappeared. She was certain he would lose his temper before he asked questions. She knew she’d be foolish to trust anyone at this keep, even Moira. But she wanted the fresh sea air without the rocking motion of the ship. She considered the seven dirks she had strapped to various parts of her. Unlike at the MacAlisters, the guards insisted Senga remove her sword before entering the keep. With some hesitation, she nodded her head.
Chapter Thirty-One
The two women moved through a dimly lit passageway, and Senga kept her hands on the dirks on either side of her belt. She pulled them halfway out of their sheaths, so she was prepared if someone attacked. It wasn’t until they stepped into the daylight that she pushed them back in, but her hands remained near the hilts as she scanned the garden. She searched the branches in the orchard, then the bushes within the flower garden, and finally to the rows of flowers and vegetables. She eased her hands away from her knives, but she didn’t relax her guard. Something about the MacDonnell keep put her nerves on edge. She hadn’t felt this degree of unease since she went to Skye as a young woman to meet her potential betrothed.
“Would you like to see my lavender? It’s my favorite,” Moira suggested.
“That sounds nice. It’s a favorite of mine, too,” Senga smiled once more, but she scanned the garden to orient herself before they stepped forward. She wasn’t pleased to realize the lavender was at the far side of the garden, toward a shady section. She had no view of the other side of the trees or what lurked behind them. Moira offered lavender sprigs, but Senga had nothing to carry them in. As Moira chattered, becoming more confident, Senga spied the entrance to the lists across from the garden. She could see most of the training field. It shocked her to realize there were far fewer men practicing their fighting skills than she expected. It was midmorning, and the grounds should have been teeming with warriors.
“Your roses are beautiful,” Senga mused, pointing toward the red, white, and pink bushes. She stepped in their direction and hoped Moira followed. The bushes brought Senga to the path that separated the gardens from the entrance to the lists. She bent over in the pretense of sniffing the flowers, but she assessed the warriors in sight. They were skilled, and it was clear they were experienced, but there just weren’t many of them. “I learned there are the MacDonnells of Rathlin, and you’re a MacDonnell of Dunluce. Is your clan spread out even more?”
“Aye. We have people at Kinbane and Dunaneeny. Kinbane, where the MacAlisters live, is about a two-hour ride east of here, and Dunaneeny is only a little further. They’re both a hop, skip, and a jump to Ballycastle. Those are the ones in this region, which we call Antrim. There are others, since we share our roots with Clan MacDonald.”
“Same as in Scotland,” Senga mused as she continued to observe the lists. “Are your branches as fractious as the MacDonalds in Scotland? Do you fight in one another’s battles?”
“Sometimes. We don’t have a good history with the O’Neills, but we’ve put most of that to rest as several generations ago, the clans intermarried. We’ve never taken issue with the Scottish MacNeils though. Similar name, but very different people.”
“We say the same for the MacDonalds on either side of the North Channel. The MacNeils aren’t as large a clan though. We’ve fought the MacLeods of Lewis and Skye many times.”
“You really think of yourself as a MacNeil, don’t you?”
“Aye. I have no ties to the clan of my birth.”
“But your husband has no ties to his clan of birth either. How can you be so loyal to the MacNeils?”
“It’s not loyalty at all. I am a MacNeil now, and so it is their history that I claim. I haven’t said a prideful thing about either clan, only the truth of how much they dislike one another.” Senga glanced at Moira as she straightened. “The MacLeods of Lewis and Skye live separate lives but are allies.” Senga was growing tired of trying to illicit information from Moira, who didn’t seem evasive; rather she did not seem all that astute. “Will the other MacDonnells join this fight?”
“Nay. I doubt it. My brother is more concerned with the coast and sailing than the other branches. He holds a grudge against your uncle for sinking three of his ships after they boarded and raided them. But he might,” she shrugged, and Senga tried not to grow irritated.
“Are those men sailors too?” Senga tilted her head toward the lists.
“Most.”
“Are they like the MacNeils of Barra and MacLeods of Lewis? Do they prefer to fight their battles on the sea rather than land?”
“I don’t know. We lost many of our men the last time we fought the O’Neills. It’s been a few generations, but our sept has been slow to grow. While the clan as a whole is powerful, our branch has sought aid from our Scottish allies in the meantime.”
“It is interesting how connected the Scots and Irish are. I hadn’t realized that before now.” Senga told the truth, but she also wanted to finish their conversation before Moira grew suspicious. She knew she needed to return to the Great Hall before Ruairí tore it apart searching for her. “Shall we return? My husband shall wonder where I’ve run off to.”
“Does he get angry easily too?” Moira’s concern amplified her obvious fear. Senga liked Moira, and her heart broke as she suspected her earlier guess was correct.
“About some things, but almost never at me. Even when he’s angry, I don’t fear him. I’m certain he would never strike me
.”
Moira nodded but remained quiet. She told everything to Senga when she unconsciously rubbed her upper arm as if to rub away a bruise. The two women returned to the Great Hall in time to hear an almighty roar.
“Where the bluidy hell is my wife, MacDonnell?”
“Probably off with my insipid sister,” Dónal tossed back, apparently unconcerned. Senga rushed forward and grabbed Ruairí’s arm as he readied to swing at Dónal. She tugged downward as hard as she could, knowing she was no match for Ruairí’s strength if he punched Dónal.
“I’m here! I’m well, Ruairí. I visited the gardens with the MacDonnell’s sister, Moira.” Senga shot Ruairí a quelling glance and tilted her head toward the doors that lead outside from the Great Hall. She needed to get Ruairí alone and tell him what she’d learned. She feared Dónal might exaggerate the force he intended to provide, forcing them to sail to Lewis at a disadvantage. Ruairí turned toward Senga, the angry haze clearing from his vision when he recognized his petite wife hanging from his arm. “I’m fine.”
Ruairí took a deep breath but returned his glare to Dónal, as if to warn him that he wouldn’t be so patient the next time. Ruairí had no intention of backing down despite his overreaction. Dónal wasn’t a man to show weakness before; he would attempt to exploit that weakness. He nodded to Aidan and Fionn, who stood at the sidelines. Aidan appeared surprised, but Fionn grinned; the older man was familiar with a protective husband’s nature. Ruairí wrapped his arm around Senga’s waist and kissed the top of her head. While he refused to apologize for overreacting, he had no qualms showing the MacDonnells that Senga was precious to him. It was a silent warning.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The three pirate captains and Senga left the keep and walked back to the harbor in silence. Before returning to their ships, Aidan, Fionn, and Ruairí shook hands. Senga once again wondered if there was a pirate code of honor. She had deduced there was some honor among thieves, but she hadn’t figured out the dynamics of piracy with regard to alliances. She presumed all truces ended if the battle turned away from their favor. It would be each captain for himself and his crew. Once aboard the Lady Charity, Senga motioned toward their cabin.
“What happened with the MacDonnell?” Senga went straight to the point.
“Not much. He agreed to sail with us in return for the largest portion of any spoils we take from Stornoway. Senga, I will take anything that was yours or that you want. I made that provision with all three of them. It was your home and your people for more of your life than it wasn’t.”
Senga shook her head. “There is nothing left there that I want. I have my father’s cross. It was all that I took from Stornoway, and it’s all that I took from my cottage.”
Ruairí twisted his mouth as he considered whether he should share a secret now, or wait until the time came when he wouldn’t need to hide the surprise. He opted for now. “The cross isn’t the only thing you have. Senga, I had the men bring the cradle, too. It’s stored in the hold wrapped in sailcloth to protect it.”
Senga’s mouth dropped open before she launched herself into Ruairí’s arms. He staggered backwards until his legs hit the table. Senga pressed him onto it as she brought their lips together. Ruairí was unprepared for the intensity of the kiss. There was giddiness, thankfulness, and a heavy dose of passion. He spread his knees for her to step further into his embrace. She drew back and wrapped her arms around his back as she rested her head on his chest.
“Thank you. I never thought I’d see it again. I admit it was hard to leave it behind, but there seemed to be no reason to take it, and I didn’t want to ask to use the space in the hold.”
“It seemed wrong to leave it behind. It was clear how much it meant to you, and after my vision of you standing over it, I knew it had to come with us. Even if we never fill it with a bairn of our own, it’s an important part of your past.”
Senga cupped his jaw, this kiss short and light. “I am the luckiest of women to have a husband like you. You’re better than any other. I’m sure of it.”
Ruairí grinned as he tucked hair behind Senga’s ear. “Don’t let our cousins hear that. I would venture Caragh and Rowan disagree.” He dropped a quick kiss on Senga’s cheek. “But I’m certain no other woman could ever bring me the peace and happiness that you do. You have freed me from the emotions that drove me for so long. I was a prisoner to them, and so I deserved the name Dark Heart.”
“Shall I call you cridhe blàth from now on?” Senga giggled.
“You may call me warm heart or anything else you’d like, so long as you call me.”
“I shall hold you to that, cridhe blàth. But Ruairí, I need to talk to you about what I saw and learned while I was in the garden. The MacDonnell force is small. It doesn’t seem like there are many men to spare if Dónal plans to keep his home protected while he’s gone. Moira said they suffered heavy losses before they made peace with the O’Neills, but their branch hasn’t grown nearly enough to offer a real fighting force. He might fill two ships, but that’s a stretch. Fionn filled three and still left a strong guard at Dún na Séad.”
“Did you notice anything else? Did they appear well-trained?”
“Aye. They all appeared experienced and able to fight. It concerned me how few of them there are. What type of ships do the MacDonnells sail? Sails or oars?”
“Sails. I wouldn’t have agreed to seek their help if they rowed. I don’t want his warriors, regardless of how many or how few there are, exhausted before the fight begins.”
Senga nodded. Much of her anxiety eased as she listened to Ruairí. It was clear he appreciated the information she shared, but he didn’t appear surprised.
“Are you all right with having so few men?”
“I bring the least amount. Aidan will have another ship join us on the way, Fionn has his three, Dónal will have two, and I only bring one.”
“But I’ve seen your men fight. They’re all worth three of anyone one else’s men.”
Ruairí beamed. “I shall have to tell the men that, and I’ll give them extra rations. That’s high praise coming from you, little one.” It was Senga’s turn to grin. She squeezed Ruairí once more before they went above deck, Ruairí to speak to his men and Senga to the stacked crates by the mast.
The day dragged on, and Senga didn’t understand why they weren’t underway. She wanted to sail to Lewis, survive the battle, and then meet Rowan and Caragh. She wanted to learn when they would sail to Barra, if they sailed there at all. She was fairly certain that they would. She’d seen Ruairí change during the time they were together, and she understood he no longer wanted to sail as a pirate. He would always belong on the water, but she suspected he’d be happy to finally be a merchant.
She observed Ruairí as he talked to his men, his authority clear for anyone to recognize. Not for the first time, she wondered if Ruairí could settle back into a clan lifestyle where he would have to follow orders from a laird, most likely his father or even his younger brother. She feared it would rankle and that Ruairí would grow restless. Her brooding must have shown because Ruairí moved toward her with concern etched on his face. He ran the pad of his finger over the deep grooves between her eyebrows. Senga’s face relaxed, though she hadn’t realized she furrowed her brow.
“What troubles you, little one?” Ruairí smiled as he offered Senga his hand. She hopped down from the crates, and they walked to the rail where they gazed out at the open water. She wasn’t sure which thoughts to share: her remaining concerns about having too few men or her concerns about making a home on Barra. Ruairí solved it for her. “Tell me what concerns you in the here and now, then we can talk about Barra.”
“How’d you know?” Senga gasped.
“Because our minds are very similar, and those are thoughts that concern me,” Ruairí shrugged.
“It makes me uncomfortable sailing into battle with so few men. My uncle has hundreds of men at the ready. Between those who live at Stornoway and those he
can summon as soon as they spot the ships, he will have a veritable army. Do you and the others intend to lay siege? I don’t know how else you’ll be able to prevail. Going head-to-head will almost certainly guarantee failure. Ruairí, this is the first time I’ve ever feared you won’t come away victorious.” Senga trembled as she whispered, “I’m scared.”
Ruairí wrapped his arms around her, and Senga settled into the shelter of his embrace. The sound of Ruairí’s steady heartbeat under her ear calmed Senga, and she let her eyes drift closed. She absorbed Ruairí’s heat as her body gradually released its tension until she leaned heavily against him. Ruairí ran his hand over her back as he rested his cheek on the crown of her head. He refused to keep secrets from Senga, but he chose not to disclose how he shared the same fear she did. They stood together as the boat rocked against its mooring; the sounds of the crew working filled the surrounding air, but their world shrank to the two of them as they gained strength from one another. They drew apart when Kyle approached as the sun dropped low over the western horizon.
“It appears O’Flaherty and O’Driscoll are going back ashore,” Kyle reported. “Do you need the dinghy lowered?”
Ruairí nodded. He didn’t relish having to return to the keep or MacDonnell’s company, but there was no avoiding the man’s hospitality without driving a larger wedge between the two. Senga’s scowl made both men raise an eyebrow.
“The bluidy bastard beats his sister. Ruairí, keep me away from him, or I will gut him like you did Padraig. She’s a sweet lass, and he’s a bully. She’ll never stand up to him; she can’t. So he will continue to mistreat her.”
“He’ll marry her off soon. She looks nearly old enough,” Ruairí reassured.
“She’s more than twenty summers. She told me her brother won’t pay a decent dowry, so no one’s asked for her hand.” Senga shook her head. She knew there was nothing to do about it, but she wasn’t eager to break bread with a man who took advantage of those who depended upon him and were so much smaller. Moira appeared to be in need of several solid meals.
The Dark Heart of the Sea: A Steamy Fated Lovers Pirate Romance (Pirate of the Isles Book 2) Page 22