The Red Drifter of the Sea (Pirates of the Isles #3) - Celeste Barclay Page 0,4

head. She tilted her head toward the bed within the chamber. “I can’t.”

“Your time to raise the lad is over. You’ve done more than any of us could have expected. But once you’re shipped off to the O’Malleys, you won’t have the lad with you. This way, you’ll live.”

“But until it’s time, I have a duty to stay with him,” Moira argued.

“Aunty Moira,” a soft whisper came from beside her. She’d never heard him stir, let alone walk across the chamber. “Is Beagan here to rescue you?”

“Rescue me? Why do you say that, lovie?” Moira stroked back the mop of black curls from Sean’s sleepy face.

“Because Uncle Dónal is going to hurt you before I’m big enough to defend you,” Sean stated, with a tremble in his voice. Moira pulled her nephew into her embrace, her heart breaking to know that the boy understood more than she realized. Guilt sank its teeth into her; as duty bound as she felt toward Sean, the little tyke felt the same for her. “I don’t want you sent off to the fucking O’Malleys.”

“Sean!” Moira gasped. “Where did you learn that? I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”

“Uncle Dónal. All the men. We all talk like that,” Sean said with a shrug.

“You aren’t a man till you have hair on your chin,” Moira asserted. “So that filth will not come out of your mouth. Promise me that, Sean. Don’t do what Uncle Dónal does.” She gripped both of the boy’s shoulders before bending over to embrace him.

“I’m sorry, Aunty Moira.” Sean stretched to kiss her cheek. The light flickering in the passageway shone on his upturned face, and it stunned Moira to see how mature he looked. It was a glimpse at the man he would one day become. With a stoicism she didn’t know he possessed, he continued. “If Beagan is here to rescue you, you must go. I won’t say a word to anyone. I’ll pretend that I have no idea where you’ve gone.”

“Moira, we have to hurry,” Beagan pressed. “We must get you away while the tide is with us.”

“We’re sailing?” Moira looked at the faces of the hardened warriors, who were also among the best sailors in Ireland. Or at least that was what her clan boasted.

“We’ll take you to Fionn first. We can make it look like we did a trade run,” Grady explained. “From there, either he and his men or we will take you to Ruairí and Senga.”

“Ruairí and Senga,” Moira breathed. She couldn’t think of a better place to make her home. She’d met Senga during her only visit the year before, but she’d taken to her immediately. She’d always liked Ruairí, and while he was usually indifferent to her, he was never unkind. She’d marveled at the changes she’d seen in Ruairí since he met Senga, and she wondered if going to the Isle of Barra would offer her the opportunity to find love, too. If nothing else, it would gain her a reprieve from her brother and sister.

“Let me dress and slip into my chamber for a few things,” Moira whispered as she picked Sean up and clung to the boy. He smelled of soap, the scent clean and fresh. She suspected she would never see the boy again, and that caused her a moment of doubt.

“You must go, Aunty Moira,” Sean murmured against her ear, seeming to sense her upheaval. She kissed each of his cheeks, his forehead, and the tip of his nose, just as she had every night since he was born. She lowered him to the floor and watched him scamper back into bed. Looking down the passageway once more, she eased the door shut behind her.

“Grady and I will sail with you,” Malone explained as they walked to her chamber, the other men seeming to vanish into the darkness as they padded away. “Pack only what you must.”

Moira was in and out of her chamber in less than five minutes. She pulled a sack from her chest, swiping a bar of soap and her comb from the washstand. She grabbed two chemises and two kirtles before donning a fresh chemise and gown. She looked in the corner, where her ruined gown from earlier that night lay. She turned her back on it as easily as she turned her back on her life at Dunluce. With stockings and boots on, she swept her gaze around the chamber, not with a longing last glance but a practical mental checklist. When the