The Red Drifter of the Sea (Pirates of the Isles #3) - Celeste Barclay Page 0,81

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