CELTIC SKIES
Book 3 in the
Celtic Steel Series
By DELANEY RHODES
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Celtic Skies
Celtic Steel, Book 3
Flynn Montgomery has just taken a new commission as the chieftan of O’Malley clan troops in Western Ireland. His cousin, Patrick MacCahan-O’Malley, is the Lord of the O’Malley clan; and they are expanding their shipping enterprise across the seas. Flynn is needed in O’Malley territory to lead the clan’s defense and military operations.
O’Malley lands are far from his home in the Shiant Islands of Scotland. A highlander by descent, Flynn is well respected among his people, but unknown to the Irish clan he is bid to serve. Will the O’Malley clan grow to accept him as one their own?
Is someone stealing the MacCahan and O’Malley clan ships? The O’Malley Lord, his brother Payton, and Ruarc O’Connell, the former chieftan, must investigate the strange disappearance of three vessels and ensure the clan’s safety during their absence. Are there pirates on the sea, or could this be the work of a much darker force?
Dervilla O’Malley has watched as her sister and friends have found love. Are the goddesses ignoring her? Is she destined to remain alone as most of the women of O’Malley territory; or will her knowledge of clan maps and nautical charts introduce her to a life she never imagined?
Warning: This book contains adult subject matter and adult material not suitable for children. It may contain any or all of the following: explicit sexual contact, graphic language, occult references, and violence and adult subjects.
Celtic Skies
Book 3 in the Celtic Steel Series
Moonlite Publishing
Copyright © 2012 by Delaney Rhodes
eBook ISBN: 978-9853326-1-7
Cover Design by Kim Killion
Edited by Bev Harrison
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or copied in any manner whatsoever except with written permission.
eBooks created by www.ebookconversion.com
WHAT READERS ARE SAYING
ABOUT THE CELTIC STEEL SERIES
“Great read couldn’t put it down. Can’t wait for the next book in the series. You rank up there with Diana Gabaldon of the Highlander series.” ~ B. Breen
“I love the story – I thought it was the right mix of romance, a strong female character, historical setting, and magic/paranormal…” ~ A. Alayna
“What a FUN new author with a fabulous and well written storyline! I wasn’t sure what to expect, but found myself so pulled into the story that I HAD to finish it before I could move onto my daily “to-do’s”; needless to say I recommend doing any and all chores before starting it. I am very much looking forward to the next … books in the series…!” ~ Karen Memmott
“I thoroughly enjoyed Celtic Storms and am way past anticipating the second in the series. I have read historical romance for over twenty years and the way the author transformed the genre and included paranormal elements (witchcraft, ESP, druidism, shape-shifting, etc.) was impressive.” ~ S. Sinclaire
I liked the characters a lot, and they seemed well thought-out. The story flowed fairly well, and even included some surprises I didn’t see coming! The cliff-hanger ending left me ready for the next book!” ~ L. Alexander
Dedication
To my daughter, Savannah, who champions me to authenticity.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
DIALECT DISCLAIMER
The characters represented in this work of fiction come from a time and place unlike our own. In an attempt to create as realistic as possible an atmosphere for the reader; there will be some direct emphasis on accent, dialect and pronunciation in the dialogue. What you will find are not, in fact, misspellings or instances of bad grammar on the part of the author. Rather, you will discover phonetically enriched wordings—to symbolize the language and methods of communication in the period and geographical areas represented.
PROLOGUE
Shiant Islands, Scotland
April, 1458
She was beautiful when she was angry, and she was more than beautiful today. Aisling McTavish had broken every single piece of fine pottery and glassware her nimble hands could grasp. As it stood, the finery hutch was bare, as was the large oak dining table. The walls were nearly blank as well, and all of the servants had escaped a safe distance away, hiding behind the brocade curtains which veiled the dining area from the kitchens.
Not one given to dramatics, Flynn simply sat down on the bench, hands in hair, elbows on knees—and sighed. “Aisling, I know this is no’ what ye wished for, me luv…” he started.
“Oh, ye don’t!” she screeched. “Ye don’t get to pretend ye dinna’ know this was a’ coming, Flynn Montgomery!” Long blond hair whipped through the air and slapped him in the face. She turned to exit the room, but stopped abruptly. Flynn heard the tell-tale sound of Aisling’s leather slippers scooting backwards into the dining hall, and he looked up just in time to catch his father’s pale green eyes.
Farrell Montgomery held even less patience for female theatrics than his son. Farrell was indeed a giant of a man, and he was typically short on patience. Brawny and gruff, he had an attractive charming quality that vanished the second he opened his tightly pinched mouth.
“Why Farrell, ’tis so nice to see ye on such a bonny day as this,” started Aisling toward her future father-in-law.
“Aisling, what is all this fuss about? What has happened to my dear wife’s, God rest her soul, play-pretty plates and pottery?” he growled as he surveyed the chaos in the dining hall. Clutching Aisling about her shoulders, he lifted her off the ground nearly two feet, and she hung limply like a rag doll before him, all blond hair and blue eyes.
“Da!” shouted Flynn. “Da— ye must put her down, this instance.” Grabbing Aisling by the hand, Flynn led her to a nearby stool and reprimanded her with his eyes before turning to his father.
“Da, I was jest explainin’ the situation to Aisling, and she is no’ taking the news verra well,” said Flynn, resting his hands on his hips as he looked up to his father. Nearly four inches more than six feet tall, there weren’t many people that Flynn Montgomery had to look up to. Except for Farrell, who had a good two inches on his eldest and only son.
“Aye, what o’ the situation?” asked Farrell.
“I’ll tell ye!” shouted Aisling standing up in feigned courage, sticking her nose in the air. “When Flynn and I were handfasted last Bealtaine, ’twas with the understandin’ that we would reside here, on the island, afte
r our wedding.”
“And what o’ it?” growled Farrell.
“Well, yer son here has been tellin’ me that we are to move to Ireland, and I am no’ goin’!”
“Is that so?” asked Farrell nonchalantly.
“Why, aye ’tis,” she responded calmly.
“I see,” he replied grabbing a flask from his belt and taking a long swig of sour Scottish whiskey. “And pray tell how do ye intend to repay the bride price we have given yer family?”
Aisling’s face grew red and she broke out in a cold sweat. “What do ye mean a bride price? There was nay bride price given for me!” she screamed.
“Aye, there was,” interrupted Flynn. “A considerable one at that,” he said as he shook his head.
“As I see it,” Farrell broke in, “ye would owe us a great deal o’ coin should the marriage fall through. T’would be most unfortunate, indeed.”
Aisling balled her hands into fists and clenched her teeth. “I was bought like a common whore?” she shouted towards Flynn.
“More like a common horse,” Farrell replied between chuckles. “Aisling me dear, we paid a fair bride price for ye, and ye ken that me son, Flynn, is more than suited for ye. He is, after all, a nobleman’s son,” he smirked.
“A noblemon, me lily white arse,” she retorted.
“Ye see,” said Farrell pointing to his son. “The MacTavish’s were more than well compensated for their troubles. They’ve only dealt with this little minx for goin' on—what now—how ole’ are ye, Aisling?” he paused. “Oh that’s right, goin' on nigh to twenty-two summers I ’spose now. Some might say yer a spinster dear. Much too ole’ for Flynn, with him being nearly thirty summers, but we couldna’ talk him out outa’ it; although his mathair and I sure tried.”
Aisling flung the last tray from the dining table, and it struck Farrell solidly in the chest—leaving a heap of dried fruit and bread in its wake. Positioning himself between his betrothed and his father, Flynn grasped them both by the shoulders and grew oddly quiet.
“Aisling, ye accepted me proposal o’ marriage, this business about the business o’ marriage contracts does no’ matter; it’s no’ between us—’tis between our families. I am leavin’ on the Sarysin on the morrow. I’ve a commission to fulfill. I am to be the new chieftan o’ the O’Malley clan forces. It’s an honorable and prestigious position—I should think ye would be happy to be a lady about the manor.”
Aisling’s eyes grew wide, and the anticipation of wealth and status washed across her face. She never was good at holding her ideas, Flynn thought to himself. Farrell snorted and Aisling blushed.
He continued, “I’m leavin’ at first light. ’Twill be nigh on a fortnight a’fore I reach me cousin’s clan, as we are stoppin’ at two ports with merchandise. I’ll give ye two fortnights to join me there. Da can get ye on a galley goin’ that way without any stops. If ye don’t arrive in two fortnights, the marriage is off. Do ye ken what I’m sayin’?” he asked her.
She nodded as tears welled in her eyes.
“Da, if she doesna’ make it to the galley in timeto’morra, ye can speak with her family about either makin’ arrangements to get her there, or gettin’ yer money back for the bride price. At any rate, I’ll expect word to arrive by the time I get there.”
“I want more,” the elder Montgomery grumbled.
“Ye want more than the bride price?” Aisling asked. “For what—yer troubles in dealing with the likes o’ me?” she asked, shrugging her shoulders and highlighting her barely five-foot frame.
“I want more—to repay the fancy trinkets and dinin’ wares ye broke that belonged to me Ellen,” he replied, pain washing over his face.
“I’ll replace those, Da,” Flynn said as he loosened his grip on the two.
Turning to Aisling, Farrell commanded, “I expect ye to clean this mess up, and ye’ll spend the afternoon washin’ in the kitchens.”
“And, ye’ll do it too,” Flynn added, looking down at his fiancé, the love of his life, the woman he feared he would never see again.
ONE
O’Malley Lands—Western Ireland—The Sick House
Late May, 1458
The screaming was nearly unbearable. It was as if someone was purposefully torturing her, and he couldn’t bear to hear it any longer. Ruarc paced in front of the hearth in Vynae’s makeshift sick house, a crude combination of former roundhouse cottages brought together by an intertwining corridor of dried basket-weaved reeds. Vynae’s voice was calm, yet loud, and drifting down the corridor to the frightened ears of those waiting, hoping for sweet relief, for something—anything that would end the labored cries for mercy.
Ruarc raked a leathery hand through his beard and breathed, “How long can this go on?”
Deasum returned the sentiment with a sideways glance, and stood to face his friend and commander, “Ruarc, I know verra little about the ways o’ birthin’ bairns, but I will tell ye, yer daughter, Kyra, she is a strong one.”
“This has been goin’ on nigh to three days,” Ruarc retorted and then took a large swig of ale from his mug. “No one is that strong,” he muttered.
“Kyra, nay!” he heard his Atilde scream from down the hallway. “Kyra, stay with us, please luv,” Atilde begged. A commotion arose, and Ruarc could make out faint shouts between Atilde and Vynae, and then more tortuous cries from his daughter.
“Get out!” Kyra shrieked faintly. “Leave me be—go on!” she continued before resuming her earsplitting yells. “I dinna’ want ye in here. I dinna’ need yer help, and I dinna’ want ye to come back either.”
“Kyra, ye dinna’ mean that,” Atilde’s voice pleaded.
“I mean ev’ry word o’ it, now leave!” Kyra retorted.
There was a shuffle, someone dropped something heavy, and pounding footsteps grew closer; and then Atilde stood pale-faced and stone-like before Ruarc. Grief, fear, panic, anger, and misery were written all over her. “Ruarc, she wants ye to leave,” she said.
Deasum shook his head in pity, and stood stoically alongside his closest friend. Ruarc gathered Atilde in his arms and they cried together. Mourning the loss of his daughter, which had really happened months before, but only now was clear to him.
“Ye should have supported her marriage to Parkin MacCahan,” Atilde said, shaking her head in regret. “I dinna’ ken why ye were so hard on her about that. He is the Lord’s brathair, after all,” Atilde reached up and touched Ruarc just under his chin, bringing his head down to hers.
“Ruarc, she is as bull-headed as ye are. I tried to warn ye no’ to come between her and the mon she loves, but ye would no’ listen. Now she wants nothin’ to do with ye, and she is about to bear yer first grandchild. Ye best get yer stubborn highland arse in there and beg her back, else ye may neva’ see her again, or that babe.”
Ruarc fumbled with his mug, but finally handed it over to Deasum. It took several moments for the giant red-headed warrior to muster the courage to see his only daughter, Kyra. Before he could make his way down the corridor, Vynae strode towards them—a solemn look of restrained emotion painted on her elderly face.
“I’m no’ at all sure that she will make it,” she breathed. Atilde wailed and Deasum clutched her to his side. “At this point, she has been laborin’ for nigh on three days straight. She’s had nothin’ to eat, and canna’ even keep down the water I gave her. She has lost an awful lot o’ blood, and she is weak. In and outa’ consciousness—I’m no’ sure she even realizes what is happenin’,” she said, bowing her head lowly.
“What can be done?” asked Deasum, as he examined Vynae’s blood-drenched clothing.
Ruarc grew pale and reached for Atilde, as he brought them both down to sit upon the bench in front of the hearth.
Vynae shook her head and wiped her bloody hands and arms on a nearby linen. She turned to stoke the fire and put more water on to boil.
“Surely, somethin’ can be done!” shouted Deasum from behind her.
Vynae grasped
Deasum by his forearm and placed a motherly hand to his cheek. “At this time, all I can do is make her as comfortable as possible. I can give her some herbs and elixirs to settle her, mayhap help her to sleep and dull some of the pain.”
“How long?” breathed Atilde.
“No’ long,” responded Vynae.
“What are ye talkin’ about?” cried Ruarc, tears running down his rugged warrior face.
Atilde grasped his hands in hers, and together they cried. Atilde spoke, “Ruarc, ’tis either her or the babe, and there is no promise that she will make it either way. The babe is simply too big. Our only hope for savin’ the babe is to take the babe—but that will most surely kill Kyra.”
Ruarc blanched at the thought, and sunk his hands into his hair, his elbows to his knees, and wept; a loud, melancholy roar that filled the chamber. “She is all I have left,” he grumbled. “If only me seesta was here, to help, to talk to her, to tell me what to do.”
“What do we do?” asked Deasum to Vynae.
“We ask Kyra to decide,” Vynae stated matter-of-factly.
“How can we do that?” asked Atilde.
“How can we no’?” responded Deasum.
“Where is Parkin?” questioned Vynae.
“His ship is missin’, he was due here last week and there is no sign,” Deasum said. “Macklin went to Lord O’Malley, Patrick, when they didna’ arrive as planned. He gathered a search party; they should have left by now. Parkin had no intention o’ bein’ this late—he knew Kyra was expected to deliver. He even made arrangements to forego any further passages for two fortnights—to be with her and the bairn,” said Deasum.
“I see. And where is Macklin and Winnie?” asked Atilde.
“They are with Minea at the inn.”
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