The Red Drifter of the Sea (Pirates of the Isles #3) - Celeste Barclay Page 0,79

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