Mounting the horse, Moira continued in the direction she presumed was still north, not entirely sure since the sun was at its zenith by the time she set off. She wondered if she would encounter any travelers or tinkers along the road, or even a village where she could get her bearings and ask for directions. She and her steed plodded along, no longer racing away for danger. Moira wanted to conserve her horse’s energy lest she had to spur him into a gallop to avoid any threat. By midafternoon, Moira was once more struggling to stay awake. Her time in the water and the cave, along with the fear that accompanied her since the O’Malleys’ attack, had sapped the hardiness she’d always possessed. When she found a stream, she decided it was time for both woman and beast to rest. She dug in the sack for a chunk of bread, disappointed to find it was already rock hard. She couldn’t even feed it to the horse. She nibbled on the cheese as she gave the horse the apples. Once they’d both eaten, she wandered down to the water, her horse eager for a drink.
As Moira kneeled alongside the brook, she inhaled the perfumed scent of honeysuckles. It was a smell from her childhood. Her mother had taught her how to pick the blossoms and carefully pull the stem free to release the nectar. Her mother told her about the superstition that those who wore honeysuckle would dream of their true love. The memory collided in her mind with an image of Kyle as he sat beside her in the dinghy, how he’d sheltered her from the wind. She pictured how their bodies moved in synchronicity. Her heart ached for the freedom she felt with him, even when he asserted control. She wondered if Kyle was a man who she could grow to love. The thought brought a disquieting feeling of peace and fear. As she recalled that Kyle sailed away from the cove without her, she resigned herself to Kyle not falling in love with her.
If he won’t reciprocate my feelings, why the hell am I chasing him down? Why aren’t I headed in the opposite direction and trying to reach the O’Driscolls? What are you hoping to accomplish? Another tumble in his bed? Rejection? Because you’re a daft fool who still has hope. You hope he’ll be looking for you. You hope he’ll be happy to see you. You hope he’ll want you back aboard his ship.
If he doesn’t want me, maybe he’ll be decent enough to take me to the O’Driscolls or even Barra. At the very least, he could help me secure passage to Baltimore. And if he won’t, Wicklow is still closer than riding through O’Malley territory to get to the O’Driscolls. You only got separated from him yesterday morning. Go to the town, see what there is to see, then decide.
With a plan in place and a honeysuckle tucked behind her ear, Moira rose from the stream bank just as her horse released a pained whinny. The gelding stomped its hoof twice before whinnying again, its eyes rolling around. Moira saw in an instant what happened. The horse had a bee sting. The swelling was immediate. She’d seen a horse die once from a horrible reaction to a sting, so she prayed her horse wasn’t like that one. She drew the animal into the water and cupped liquid in her hands to pour over the wound. The water was brisk, but not cold enough to take down the swelling. But the steed calmed, nonetheless.
When Moira believed the horse was as ready as it was going to be, she led it back to the path. However, when she tried to mount, the horse was not in agreement. It stomped and bucked, nearly throwing her into a bramble patch. With a curse and an oath, Moira inhaled deeply, then puffed out the breath. She set off on foot, foul tempered.
With raw feet and aching legs, Moira breathed easier when she spotted plumes of white smoke over the next hill. She was certain they came from holes in cottage roofs and signaled a village lay ahead. The sun was setting, and she was growing too weary to continue. When people came into sight, Moira stepped off the road and observed. It appeared to be a normal country village with farms stretching out from the perimeter. She observed a man herding a flock of sheep into a pasture, and a gaggle of geese chased after a group of children. She could hear the angry squawks and thought of the farmwife’s reaction when she learned Moira was supposedly a pirate’s sister. She chuckled as she turned her attention to a pair of women standing at the village well. She expected them to be suspicious at first, but she prayed they would be generous. As she approached the village, she planned her story, not wanting to trap herself like she had before.
“Lass!”
Moira turned to find an old woman hobbling toward her, her lips wrapped around gums that no longer held teeth. The woman’s gray hair was pulled back into a tight knot, but strands escaped and fluttered beside her ears. She waved a walking stick as she signaled Moira to come nearer. Hesitant and suspicious herself, Moira approached with caution.
“Good evening,” Moira greeted.
“We rarely get strangers. Who are you?” The woman asked, coming straight to the point.
“I became separated from my party this morning during a storm,” Moira said. She knew Irish weather, and she knew somewhere on the island it had rained that day. She also knew no one would question that. “We were headed to Wicklow, but I’ve gotten lost.”
“And do you normally dress like a man when you sound like a lady?” The woman asked.
“Only when I travel. It’s safer for me on horseback,” Moira explained, and it was true. She’d enjoyed the control she had over the animal without layers of fabric in the way.
“And do you always ride bareback?”
Moira was tiring of the questions already. She’d told the woman she wanted to go to Wicklow, but the villager skipped past that. With as much patience as she could muster, she replied, “The reason I got separated in the storm was because of trouble with the saddle. It was old, and the girth was frayed. It snapped, but the thunder was too loud for the others to hear me. I had to leave it behind. I tried to catch up to the people I rode with, but I got turned around. Am I on the road to Wicklow?”
The woman worked her lips over her toothless gums as she squinted at Moira. Moira attempted to look assured of her story without showing her impatience. The woman pursed her lips before nodding. “You are in Kilmacurragh,” the woman stated, as though Moira should know precisely where she was. At Moira’s blank stare, the woman tsked. “You’re a few hours’ ride from Wicklow. You’re too far west of the coast.”
Moira nodded as she looked in the direction she now suspected Wicklow lay. She glanced at the western skies as the clouds turned fiery red, orange, and yellow behind the setting sun. While dusk was beautiful, it meant another night on the open road.
“Who did you say your people are?” The old woman asked.
“Moira O Dunbghaill,” Moira responded. She’d chosen a clan, the O’Doyles, that lived south of Arklow and where the O’Malleys sailed. She hoped that naming a clan from County Wexford, the next one south from County Wicklow, would make her more acceptable. The O’Doyles were large landowners, but Moira doubted anyone would know the names of the ladies in the chieftain’s family.
“And you be headed to Wicklow,” The woman repeated Moira’s earlier statement.
“Aye. My family was going to visit extended relatives in Wicklow.”
“And they would have been?”
Moira wanted to stomp her foot just as her horse did as the animal grew anxious standing around. Moira was certain the gelding was still in pain, even if he’d grown quiet. She forced herself not to snap at the nosy old biddy.
“The O Tuathaills.” The O’Tooles were a powerful clan in Wicklow and Kildare, so she knew the name held weight. She prayed the village lay just far enough from Wicklow that the residents wouldn’t be familiar with the O’Toole chieftain and his family. “If you don’t mind, I’d like the blacksmith or farrier to look at my horse. A bee stung it a while back.”
“Looks fine to me,” came the quick response.
Moira bit her tongue against asking the woman if she was blind or daft. The welt on the horse’s face near its eye was noticeable and troubling. “All the same, if you have a blacksmith or a farrier, I would like them to have a look.”
“And what do you think a man who makes horseshoes or a man who fits horsesh
oes knows about bee stings?” The woman demanded.
“They know horses,” Moira responded with a shrug. She’d indulged the woman long enough and made to step around her.
“What you need is the healer,” the woman responded.
“And who is that?”
“Me.”
Moira tried not to wince. All she wanted to do was escape the overly inquisitive crone, and yet now, she would have to ask her for a poultice for a horse that wasn’t even hers. She’d hoped to find a man who would likely grunt and bark instructions for some medicinal that he would never help her find. She would have her solution without paying a coin. The woman would surely expect remuneration.
“I’m afraid I have no coin with which to pay you,” Moira admitted, but realized her mistake the moment the words came out of her mouth. The woman’s scornful look told her she assumed Moira intended to pay the blacksmith or farrier with something other than coin. She clarified, “I had hoped the blacksmith or farrier could point me in the right direction, and I could find the medicinal my horse needs.”
“Of course. A God-fearing lass such as yourself would never offer herself.” As the old woman observed her, Moira wanted to roar with laughter.
If only you knew how I offered myself to a pirate captain. And I haven’t been remorseful since.
“Can you sew?”
Moira’s brow furrowed. “Yes.”
“Come with me. I have a mountain of mending to do, but my old eyes trouble me. You sew; I’ll treat your horse. I might even give a scrawny lass like you some meat to chew on.”
“That is most kind of you.” Moira forced the words out from between her lips. She scowled at the back of the woman’s head when the healer turned away from her. She smoothed her features as she drew closer to other people, aware that they would stare and judge.
Twenty-Five
Moira sat darning stockings while the healer hummed an out of key melody that made Moira’s head pound. Tuning the woman out as best she could, Moira’s mind drifted to Kyle as she stitched. Years of sewing made her efficient, and the task needed little of her attention.
If Wicklow was only a half day’s sail from where the O’Malleys attacked us, then Kyle would have made it to port before I fell asleep at the farmer’s. Did he go ashore last night or this morning to look for me? Was he disappointed when he didn’t find me? Does he know I couldn’t have made it there before him even without the hours in the cave? Where would he have gone after that? Too many questions with no answers.
Maybe he’s going back to fight the O’Malleys, assuming Dermot was searching for me instead of fighting. That bastard would run away from a battle. Maybe Kyle will finish what Dermot started. Searching for me this morning and sailing back to fight Dermot or even looking for me would have filled the day while I’ve been riding with no sense of direction. When he doesn’t find me with Dermot, will he give up? Has he sailed away for good? That’s assuming he cares.
Even if he isn’t in Wicklow tomorrow, I still have more chances of surviving there unnoticed than I do in a tiny village like this. If Dermot is alive, he may still look for me. No matter what Dermot believes, Dónal will give him nothing unless there’s proof that we married, or that Dermot at least consummated our betrothal. Is that enough incentive for Dermot to continue searching for me—if Kyle doesn’t go back and kill him—or will he find another clan and another bride? God, how I hope he just finds someone else.
Enough, Moira! It doesn’t matter one way or another at this point. You’re alone until you figure out otherwise. You can pray all you like that Kyle is in Wicklow when you arrive tomorrow. But if he’s not, or he doesn’t want you, then you’d do well to sort yourself out.
I refuse to return to Dunluce. I refuse to go to Dermot. What I need to do is get my head straight and figure out how to get to Barra. By the time this woman finishes the poultice, my horse will be healed or dead. Either way, the only thing I need from her for now is shelter and food, if I’m lucky. If I have to run again in the night, I will. But I need her to tell me how to get to Wicklow first. If I don’t discover that, then stopping in the village will have been truly worthless. Maybe I should have pushed on, even if I had to walk beside the bluidy beast rather than ride him. But I’m here now, so time to make the best of it.
“This seems like an ancient village,” Moira mused without looking up.
“Aye. The Norsemen came many moons ago and started a settlement. Been here ever since,” the healer responded.
“Does that make it older than Wicklow?” Moira inquired.
“About the same age. Same wave of invaders who started this village built the beginnings of Wicklow,” the old woman explained.
“Did no one live here before them? The Irish are an ancient people.”
“Some tribe passed through here often, so the legend goes, but never settled.”
“I can’t imagine what our people must have thought when the Norsemen arrived. Did they come by sea or by land?” Moira asked. At the healer’s suspicious glare, Moira clarified. “My mother told me stories of the ancient Irish kings. I always loved hearing them. Your story reminds me of hers.”
“Aye, well, the story goes that they did both. They attacked by sea first, but some traveled by land and made their home here.”
“I wonder if the road to Wicklow is the very same as they used,” Moira said with feigned awe.
“It is.”
“I wonder where the road starts,” Moira said wistfully before picking up a new stocking to mend.
“By the blacksmith’s,” the healer said unwittingly.
“Hmm,” Moira said as she bit off the end of the thread. She’d learned what she needed. Whether she left in the morning with a full belly or ran in the night, she need only look for the smithy.
Moira continued working until the healer announced her ointment was ready for Moira’s horse. Before she passed the odiferous glob to Moira, she inspected Moira’s handiwork. She grunted in approval and gave Moira the bowl. Moira made her way to where she’d tethered her horse in a lean-to. The horse blinked at her but didn’t shift as she applied the medicinal. The swelling had gone done, but a bump remained. She prayed the ointment helped and that the horse would be ready for a rider whenever it was time to leave.
“Come in and eat, lass,” the healer said. Her tone was lighter than it had been. Moira questioned whether the crone was happy with her stitching or if there was a nefarious reason to lure her back. As she entered, she noticed the woman ladling a bowl of pottage. The older woman motioned for Moira to sit at the table and laid the steaming bowl before her. Given a chunk of bread and dried fruit, Moira blew on the boiling food twice, then pretended to wait for it to cool. She ate the bread and fruit while she watched the woman move about her cooking space. It was nearing the time for the evening meal, yet the healer poured no pottage for herself.
Moira’s heart sped as she glanced at her bowl, then at the woman’s back. Doubt niggled in her mind about why the woman wouldn’t serve herself. Moira wondered if the healer added something to the food that would make her ill. When her hostess offered her another chunk of bread and laid butter beside Moira, she dared to add a thin layer. She ate the bread, admitting to herself that the butter was a delicious addition.
“Your bread is very hardy,” Moira observed. “Very filling.”
“You look like you need more than bread and butter,” the healer noted.
“I eat little, I confess. Makes my stomach hurt to have large meals. Won’t you join me?” Moira nodded to the stool across from her. She waited to see if the woman served herself any of the pottage, but the woman took a seat with nothing before her. Pushing the now-cooled bowl before her hostess, Moira added. “I would hate for this to go to waste.”
The healer nodded but glanced down at the bowl. “We are alike. I eat little too. This will last me several days on my own.”
The healer’s evasiveness made Moira suspect the woman had dosed the pottage with a plant t
hat would leave Moira sick or dead. Sending her hostess the same smile she used to placate Dónal, she nodded. She didn’t have to feign the yawn that tried to escape. The woman’s questionable behavior made Moira wonder if she dared close her eyes within the cottage. But pragmatism won out. She needed more sleep, or she would be ill. It was the only way her body would recuperate from her time in the sea.
“May I rest my head near your fire?” Moira asked politely. The healer’s smile was too sugary for Moira’s taste. She would do well not to sleep too deeply, but she knew she had no control over that. Taking a spot before the hearth, Moira closed her eyes as the woman continued to bustle around her cottage. Forcing her mind to remain busy until the healer retired, Moira eventually fell asleep.
Coming awake to the sound of a closing door for a second time in two nights, Moira lay still. She strained to hear who entered the cottage and whether they approached. Opening her eyes just a crack, she noticed a middle-aged man shaking the healer awake. In the silent cottage, Moira heard them whispering.
“Is she the woman I told you about yesterday morning?” The man asked.
“I believe so,” the healer responded. “She claims to be an O’Doyle and has said nothing about a pirate nor a chieftain.”
“But do you think she could be the pirate’s mistress or the chieftain’s missing sister? Wicklow is abuzz with word that the Red Drifter seeks a young woman who went missing. We already ken Chieftain MacDonnell looks for his missing sister. Are they one and the same, Mother?”
Moira listened in stunned silence. She wasn’t sure what pieces of information to dissect first. Kyle was looking for her. Her brother was looking for her. Somehow people in Wicklow knew of Dónal’s search. Word spread that the Red Drifter wanted her back.
“Did you hear her described while you were at market? When she arrived alone yesterday afternoon, I guessed she might be,” the healer whispered.
The Red Drifter of the Sea: A Steamy Opposites Attract Pirate Romance (Pirates of the Isles Book 3) Page 19