“I hear her.” Brannaugh set down her basket, moved over to lift her waking daughter, snuggled her in with kisses as Eoghan rode up beside her.
“Look here, would you, what I found on the road. Some little lost gypsy.”
“Ah well, I suppose we should keep him. It may be he’ll clean up fine, then we can sell him at the market.”
“He might fetch us a good price.” Eoghan kissed the top of his giggling son’s head. “Off you go, lad.”
“Ride, Da!” Brin turned his head, beseeched with big dark eyes. “Please! Ride!”
“A quick one, then I want me tea.” He winked at Brannaugh before setting off in a gallop that had the boy shouting with delight.
Brannaugh picked up her basket, shifted young Sorcha on her hip. “Come, old friend,” she said to Kathel. “It’s time for your tonic.”
She moved to the pretty cottage Eoghan with his clever hands and strong back had built. Inside, she stirred the fire, settled her daughter, started the tea.
Stroking Kathel, she doused him with the tonic she’d conjured to keep him healthy and clear-eyed. Her guide, her heart, she thought, she could stretch his life a few years more. And would know when the time came to let him go.
But not yet, no, not yet.
She set out honey cakes, some jam, and had the tea ready when Eoghan and Brin came in, hand in hand.
“Well now, this is fine.”
He scrubbed Brin’s head, leaned down to kiss Brannaugh, lingered over it as he always did.
“You’re home early,” she began, then her mother’s eye caught her son reaching for a cake. “Wash those hands first, my boy, then you’ll sit like a gentleman for your tea.”
“They’re not dirty, Ma.” He held them out.
Brannaugh just lifted her eyebrows at the grubby little hands. “Wash. The both of you.”
“There’s no arguing with women,” Eoghan told Brin. “It’s a lesson you’ll learn. I finished the shed for the widow O’Brian. It’s God’s truth her boy is useless as teats on a billy goat, and wandered off to his own devices. The job went quicker without him.”
He spoke of his work as he helped his son dry his hands, spoke of work to come as he swung his daughter up, set her to squealing with delight.
“You’re the joy in this house,” she murmured. “You’re the light of it.”
He gave her a quiet look, set the baby down again. “You’re the heart of it. Sit down, off your feet awhile. Have your tea.”
He waited. Oh, she knew him for the most patient of men. Or the most stubborn, for one was often the same as the other, at least wrapped inside the like of her Eoghan.
So when the chores were finished, and supper done, when the children tucked up for the night, he took her hand.
“Will you walk out with me, lovely Brannaugh? For it’s a fine night.”
How often, she wondered, had he said those words to her when he wooed her—when she tried flicking him away like a gnat in the air?
Now, she simply got her shawl—a favorite Teagan had made her—wrapped it around her shoulders. She glanced at Kathel lying by the fire.
Watch the babes for me, she told him, and let Eoghan draw her out into the cool, damp night.
“Rain’s coming,” she said. “Before morning.”
“Then we’re lucky, aren’t we, to have the night.” He laid a hand over her belly. “All’s well?”
“It is. He’s a busy little man, always on the move. Much like his father.”
“We’re well set, Brannaugh. We could pay for a bit of help.”
She slanted him a look. “Do you have complaints about the state of the house, the children, the food on the table?”
“I don’t have a one, not for a single thing. I watched my mother work herself to bones.” As he spoke he rubbed the small of her back, as if he knew of the small, nagging ache there. “I wouldn’t have it of you, aghra.”
“I’m well, I promise you.”
“Why are you sad?”
“I’m not.” A lie, she realized, and she never lied to him. “A little. Carrying babies makes a woman a bit daft from time to time, as you should know. Didn’t I weep buckets when carrying Brin when you brought in the cradle you’d made? Wept as if the world was ending.”
“From joy. This isn’t joy.”
“There is joy. Only today I stood here, looking at our children, feeling the next move in me, thinking of you, and of the life we have. Such joy,