Lord of the Isle (18 page)

Morgana pressed his hair away from his face, then shied away from the intensity she found in his eyes. “Aye, I came back.”

Hugh cupped her face in the palms of his hands. “I’m so glad that you’re here. I couldn’t bear losing you.”

Art Macmurrough grunted in disgust. “Well, go on then, O’Neill. Be a bloody fool for a woman. Kiss her. While yer at it, tell her how we all enjoyed every minute of your foul temper. Don’t forget mentioning the long ride covering every trail from here to eternity looking for her. Go on, you damned lovesick fool, kiss her!”

To Morgana’s surprise, Hugh did exactly that—kissed her full on the mouth, in front of God and everybody…including both of her brothers.

“Morgana!” Sean screeched, shocked. “Have you forgotten that you’re a lady?”

Hugh lifted his head from his woman’s lips and glared at the impudent boy daring to insult his lady. “Who the hell are you, little man?”

Morgana couldn’t get out of Hugh’s arms quickly enough to clap her hand over Sean’s mouth and silence him. The boy drew up to his full height, glaring at what he perceived to be an Irish ruffian, and declared to Hugh, “I happen to be John Gerald Fitzgerald, sir. Who the bloody hell are you?”

Hugh growled darkly in Morgana’s ear, disliking being topped by a mere whelp of a boy—even in so base a skill as cursing.

“I happen to be the
O’Neill!”
Hugh’s roar was like a lion’s, in full and terrifying volume. “Swear at me again,
Kildare, and I’ll skin you alive with the first strap I lay my hand on.”

No fool, Sean leaped behind the biggest man present, Loghran O’Toole. “Morgana, do as you bloody damn well please,” he replied.

Maurice broke the terse silence following that injudicious gibe with a burst of delighted, childish laughter. “Morgana, Sean’s about to piss himself.”

“The devil I am, you little monster.” Sean struck out from behind Loghran to pound his little brother. Loghran caught Sean by the neck of his tunic, yanking him back.

“One battle at a time, bantling.” He turned to Hugh, deferring to his judgement. “Are we skinning wee brats alive or riding to Dunluce?”

Hugh cast a look around the assembly, wanting to know first of all whether they had heard the deference in Loghran’s question. The fact that every man present met Hugh’s eyes proved that they all recognized what O’Toole now acknowledged. Hugh could beat them all. He grinned broadly with satisfaction.

“We’re riding to Dunluce.” He reluctantly released Morgana. “You have some explaining to do, lady. You will ride with me on Boru.”

Morgana knew when not to argue. She turned to help Maurice to his feet and dusted the backside of his trews free of dirt.

She thought she heard Kermit Blackbeard grumble over the attention she gave Maurice. As she straightened from neatening the small boy’s clothes and releasing him to run to his pony and mount up, Morgana met Kermit’s harsh and condemning gaze evenly.

“The boy has been ill,” she explained quietly. “I am not coddling or spoiling him unnecessarily. Walsingham did his level best to poison him.”

“Aye-yah.” Kermit cleared his throat, unrepentant. “Did I say a thing, lady?”

“You don’t have to, when your Irish eyes condemn so eloquently,” Morgana countered.

“And you should let the little man in him stand tall,” Kermit replied. “He’s a brave laddie, taking me on for your sake. Don’t discount the heart in him. Size and age isn’t everything.”

“I don’t,” Morgana said. “I’m hoping you don’t, either.”

“Och, he’s a wee small, is all.” Kermit shrugged. “He’ll grow.”

Satisfied, Morgana tucked a button that had come loose from Maurice’s shirt into the pocket of her skirt. She drew her cloak over her shoulders and crossed the hillside to where Hugh stood, discussing the road ahead and the rest of the journey with Loghran and Donald the Fair.

When Hugh finished his conversation, he boosted Morgana onto Boru’s back, then mounted behind her. The kerns were moving out in single file up the northern track. Sean and Maurice rode side by side between Kermit and Rory. Brian and O’Toole brought up the rear, both hauling brushy limbs cut from the trees to obscure their horses’ tracks.

Quiet for the first portion of the ride, Morgana rested against the support of Hugh’s chest, feeling very glad to be back in the strong circle of his arms.

There was very little conversation as the band rode north. Everyone seemed to be thinking his own thoughts. Morgana certainly was caught up in her own. She marveled over the fact that she felt so good, now that she was back with Hugh. She put aside the troubling question of what Sir Almoy wanted of him. She would deal with that when the time came, not before.

Some distance past Kilrea, Hugh’s chin nudged the top of Morgana’s head. “You’ll notice I did not ask where you went.”

“Aye.” Morgana nodded, and scooted farther back into the press of his thighs. “I noticed you did not ask.”

His knees tightened. “Don’t distract me.”

The stallion galloped forward. Hugh’s physical signals could be interpreted by both the horse and Morgana. She smiled at the distant black hills on the northern horizon. “How much farther is Dunluce?”

Hugh brushed an annoying mosquito away from Morgana’s cheek. “Far enough. We’ll make the inn at Colraine by dusk. Dunluce will keep till the morrow.”

Morgana scanned the sky, looking for the moon. High tide was her deadline. If she missed the tide, she’d not get Sean and Maurice on board the
Avenger
for the voyage to France.

“Don’t want to talk about it, do you?” Hugh said.

“I’ll talk.” Morgana replied. “I just don’t know what exactly you want me to say.”

Hugh’s chest expanded and contracted against her back. Wisps of red curls lifted from the crown of her head and fell forward to kiss her brow. The breeze made by Boru’s forward movement laid them back on her crown. She’d lost the violets Hugh had placed in her coiled braids.

Morgana decided to risk all. “Do you know of a man named Almoy?”

“Aye,” Hugh said. His lips nuzzled against her temple. The temptation to kiss her intimately overwhelmed him. He pulled his cheek away, and shook his head to clear it.

Morgana frowned at the sharply descending path of the hillside before them. The troop had spread out quite far. Maurice and Sean were out of hailing distance. She shifted and cast a look around Hugh’s shoulder to see how far back those riding behind them were. O’Toole was a small figure in the distance. He raised his hand in a signal, acknowledging her. Morgana waved back.

She sat up straight and said, “Have you ever had any disagreements with him?”

“None that I know of.” Hugh slipped his hand inside her cloak. He would rest it on her waist, that was all. He was a soldier, leader of this patrol. He wouldn’t get distracted by a woman again. “Have you?”

“Disagreement, no. Though I have dealt with him through the post. Dealings regarding the disposal of some of my father’s estate. Possessions, not properties, mind you.”

Morgana looked to the west and read the sun. Long hours remained before sunset. Impatient for the ride to end, she shifted again, then laid her hand over Hugh’s.

Hugh had made some conclusions from what she’d said. “So, now you’ve met him face-to-face, you’ve got questions about Almoy’s trustworthiness, do you?”

“How did you know that?” Morgana wondered—and not for the first time—whether Hugh O’Neill had the ability to read her mind. What she didn’t want him to read.

“It’s logical.” Hugh shrugged. “You disappear, then return, and now ask about someone you’ve never spoken of before.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Gossip, rumors. None of it true, I’m certain. I’ve been gone from Tyrone fifteen years.”

“You knew him before you went to England?”

“Aye, I took lessons under him.”

“In what? Magic?”

Hugh laughed. “Why do you always ask about magic? Has it some importance to you?”

“Suppose it does?”

“I have found in my years that there is usually a rational explanation for all things considered to be magical, mystical, or unexplainable. You just have to look for the true reasons and meaning behind the things that happen. No, I did not study the magi’s art under Almoy at the priory. I studied Greek and mathematics. He is a brilliant man, and a superb teacher.”

“So you know him quite well,” Morgana concluded, more puzzled than ever. Why should the man appear to her, when he could just as easily have transported himself to Dungannon and appeared there to Hugh in person? “Have
you ever seen him appear right before your eyes and speak to you, then disappear right after?”

“You mean as a ghost materializes?” Hugh wondered how they’d gotten off on this tack. “I must give you credit, Morgana. You are very entertaining, exasperating and befuddling.”

“What I mean is, have you ever thought you’ve had a conversation with him? Then, a little while later, realized it was not possible.”

Now she was touching on what Hugh viewed as dreams, daydreams, of which he was fond. But that didn’t mean he would admit his fanciful thoughts. “No.”

“So if he said something important to you in such a visit, or asked you to do a specific thing, would you do it?”

“Suppose I ask you to stay the night with me in my bed at the Bonnie Foyle Inn at Colraine tonight? Would you do it?” Hugh let his breath warm the inner caverns of her ear.

“Probably,” Morgana replied without hesitation. “Once I made certain Sean and Maurice were sleeping for the duration of the night.”

Hugh’s pulse jumped a beat. He slid his hand upward and cupped her breast. She closed her eyes, leaning into his hand, giving him all of her to touch and fondle.

“I’ll make it my mission to see that the boys are exhausted and ready for the deepest sleep. My promise, my sweet.”

Morgana’s eyes opened. She turned her face slightly, looking up into his. “Am I shamefully wicked to give in to you so easily, my lord?”

“There is nothing shameful in your giving in to me. I think you are enchanting, quite the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes upon in my life.”

“That is very kind of you to say, sir.” Morgana’s cheeks dimpled. “Enchanting is a reference to things magical, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Hugh drawled. His hand tightened over her breast, coaxing a firm response from the nipple underneath
her gown. “Do you find this magical, lady? I find it highly natural. It is a normal response of a healthy, loving woman to her lover’s evoking hand. Not magical, but surely mysterious.”

As he’d also coaxed a blush onto her cheeks, Morgana took firm control of his hand and lowered it back to her waist. “Control yourself, my lord. I have agreed to meet you late tonight at the Inn at Colraine.
Attendez-moi.
We were speaking of Sir Almoy. What is he, really?”

“An alchemist.”

“An alchemist? Is that all?” Morgana couldn’t believe that simple explanation. She patted Hugh’s hand, detaining it. “I would, sir, have you remember we are in public and you must respect me. Now, about Almoy. Why only an alchemist?”

“Well, he is that. And more.” The corners of Hugh’s mouth twitched at the skillful way Morgana chided him back to perfect, gentlemanly behavior. He loved her all the more for that.

“And more?” Morgana looked off into the far distance, where a low line of shadowy haze lay over the sunny horizon. She wondered whether it would rain on the morrow, as Hugh had predicted. Time would tell, she concluded.

“Well, somewhat more,” Hugh responded, misinterpreting the nature of her wonderings. “When I was a boy, I was told he was a Templar Knight. Now that I have all the facts to mind, I know the Templars were disbanded two hundred years ago. Most were martyred. I expect he is in reality a knight of the order of the Hospitaliers of Saint John of Jerusalem. His age may have affected his mind.”

“How old is he?”

“Old,” Hugh said emphatically. “No one knows exactly. By my reckoning, he is well over a hundred.”

“A hundred!” Morgana repeated. Her great-aunt Eleanor Fitzgerald had lived to a great age—her nineties. Rarely did anyone live past the century mark. If they did, they certainly couldn’t walk two leagues as if it were a race
to the hill of Tara. Almoy had disappeared from her sight, vanished, the moment he stepped out Luke Tanner’s door.

“Aye, well…” Hugh shifted on the saddle, a bit uncomfortably. He rubbed his leg to smooth out a wrinkle in his leather trews. Exactly where Morgana’s bottom made him acutely aware of his aching loins.

“So what else do you know about him?”

Hugh shrugged. “Why are we talking about an old man? Was he your brother’s caretaker?”

“No. Heaven forbid the day. We Fitzgeralds have had enough trouble being branded as warlocks and witches. I wouldn’t dream of turning my brothers over into the care of an obvious eccentric.”

“You’re speaking from ignorance. The rabble in the street do no worse when they call a woman a witch and demand the authorities burn her. If we all fell into that trap, nothing new would ever be discovered. We’d still be burning folk for saying the world is round.”

“I’m not accusing him of anything. I’m trying to understand how it was he appeared to me at Landsdowne. It was very strange. Unexplainable. One moment, he was there, and the next he wasn’t. He also told me I must bring you to him very soon. There is a child he expects you to bring him as a new pupil.”

“What child?”

“Now that’s what has me stumped more than anything. He didn’t say what the child’s name is.”

“How odd. Are you certain he wasn’t referring to one of your brothers?”

“No. He wasn’t. I’m certain of that.”

“Speaking of your brothers, the boys look healthy enough to me. You told me one had been poisoned.”

“Aye, Maurice. The little one.”

Hugh hated to be the one to break the news to her, but both boys were little. No match for Walsingham’s spies, thugs and deputies. “I would know the truth, Morgana. Are your brothers the only reason you came back to me?”

T
hat Morgana delayed her answer too long was answer enough for Hugh. He revolted against being second in Morgana’s thoughts.

“Forget I asked that,” he snapped. He dropped his hand from her waist and used it to change his hold on Boru’s reins. “Don’t struggle to come up with some explanation that coddles my vanity.”

“Wait!” Morgana raised a silencing hand against his brief tirade. Again, too little action, too late.

Hugh’s spurs dug into Boru’s sides. The stallion shot forward on the downhill slope. Morgana caught hold of the short pommel to steady her balance.

“’Tis perfectly obvious what is my use to you.” Hugh bit out each word, hurting himself as well as her, with the telling. “You have need of a protector. So do those small and innocent boys. Correct?”

“Hugh!” Morgana’s shout was torn from her lips as Boru galloped down the dangerous slope. His hooves struck the rocks with jarring ferocity, and Morgana’s bones took the impact. Boru stretched out, giving his all to Hugh’s demand. Morgana grabbed Hugh’s hands in a vain attempt to pull back on the bit.

“Don’t!” Hugh warned. He used one hand to keep Morgana’s hands at bay, the other to skillfully guide his horse.
“Unlike his master, Boru is a sensitive beast. Desist, Morgan le Fay. Bewitch me not with your schemes.”

“Bastard, you’ll kill us all!” Morgana hissed through her clenched teeth. Hugh laughed boldly.

Brush ripped at their clothing. Stinging limbs scraped at their arms and faces. Morgana held her breath on the mad race to the very bottom of the steep hill.

There, a swiftly flowing brook cut a cleft in the stones, leaving a shelf of rock overhanging the brook. Hugh’s kerns waited there, dismounted to drink and ease their horses. Morgana’s brothers splashed in the shallows under Shamus Fitz’s careful watch.

Boru thundered toward them all at breakneck speed. Hugh risked what a cautious man never would, listening only to the roar of the rushing wind in his ears, which abolished Loghran O’Toole’s whoop of alarm.

Morgana half turned. At least her head turned, or her neck bent. Somehow she managed to get a clear view of Hugh’s dangerous, mood-blackened face.

“I came back because I need you!” she shouted.

For a heartbeat, in the stallion’s headlong rush to the bottom, Hugh’s eyes locked on Morgana’s. He judged what he saw there, and it wasn’t fear.

No, no, his Morgana did not know the meaning of fear. Even now, when both their lives hung by a precarious thread, she was as bold and hardheaded as he. He almost shouted the triumph of his knowledge of her to the heavens. Her courage matched his own.

A shivering hand pressed against his heart. Hugh turned his attention back to Boru, guiding the horse to a surefooted stride down to the rocky ledge. Then he drew back on the bit. The stallion dropped his haunches on command and skidded to a breathless halt before the startled kerns and the two boys.

“Cor!” Sean Fitzgerald whispered. He didn’t know whether to throw up his hands and shout or jump into the shimmering pool of water and get out of the way.

Maurice dropped onto his bottom at Shamus Fitz’s feet. He was incapable of saying a word as his sister and the O’Neill came to a standstill a king’s yard from his nose.

The great horse snorted in Maurice’s face. Then Boru tossed his mighty head, shaking black mane and forelock for all he was worth. Maurice thought the stallion laughed at him. The O’Neill was certainly laughing.

Hugh’s laughter cut the kerns’ silence in two. He tossed his reins into Brian’s hands and dismounted. Exhilarated by the wild ride, he reached up and brought Morgana to the ground. Her hands clamped on to his shoulders. Her lips were white-ringed as she unlocked her teeth. “My brothers are here because I have to keep them with me!”

“For the time being.” Hugh set her down with a snap and released her waist. He bowed and turned to the boys. “Lads, your sister needs your attention. Walk her to the woods, then escort her back to me.”

He gave the whole company his back, and walked into a bower of blooming hawthorn and strawberry trees.

“Cor,” Sean repeated. Maurice put up his hand to stroke the velvet nose of the stallion blowing hot wind in his face.

Morgana grabbed Maurice’s fingers. “Don’t, Maurice! This is a war-horse. Never risk your fingers round a beast like this.”

As she took Sean by the hand and walked them to the woods, Morgana’s very words echoed in her head. How much did she risk, dancing with fate around the O’Neill?

She ducked under the hawthorn and straightened in the wood beyond it. Hugh had gone in the same direction. She saw no trace of his passing as she walked the boys into an oak grove.

When she came out from taking her own privacy behind a patch of honeysuckle, she found Maurice collecting wild-flowers. He raised a handful to her nose. “I picked them for you, Morgana. What are they?”

“Windflowers, wood anemones.” She knelt beside him, inhaling deeply of the sweet woodland flower. Casting a
glance around, she found prettier clumps of bitter vetch and yellow pimpernels at the child’s feet. Maurice had unerringly picked healing plants. “They smell wonderful, don’t they?”

“Oh, aye, they do. Sweet as buttercups.” Maurice stuck his nose into his fistful of blossoms and came up with yellow pollen smeared on his freckles. “Could you make me a May crown? I didn’t have one this year.”

“You didn’t? Oh, we must remedy that right away, mustn’t we?” Morgana hugged him fondly.

“Make one for everybody.” Maurice shoved all his flowers into her hands. “I’ll pick more.”

“Do,” Morgana told him. She sat on her heels to weave the blossoms into crowns. Maurice ran farther afield to find more of the same blossoms. He came back with an armful of white beauties. Morgana had the first crown ready. She settled it on his head with all the solemnity of a bishop crowning a king. “Windflowers, windflowers, listen to me, make this boy as strong and as sturdy as the nearest oak tree.”

“Tha’s a spell.” Maurice wrinkled his pollen-dusted nose. He put a finger to Morgana’s mouth to silence her. “Yer not supposed to do that.”

“Who’s to tell?” Morgana lifted a brow as she asked her question. “Not you, my love.”

“Oh, no…it sounds like poetry to me. Is this periwinkle here? What do I say when I pluck it?”

Morgana’s busy fingers stilled as she looked at the poisonous lavender flowers Maurice was about to pick. “Wait.” She had to think of the incantation and count the days since the new moon. As a potion, periwinkle was a singularly powerful herb to invoke against poison. “All right, love, say this. I pray thee,
vinca pervinca,
that thou outfit me so that I be shielded and prosperous and undamaged by poisons and water.”

“That’s a very good spell for me,” Maurice said solemnly. Then he repeated her words exactly, and picked all
of the sweet blossoms at hand and gave them to Morgana. “Will you make one for the O’Neill, and his horse, too? They are both strong as oaks already, but I don’t want to slight them.”

“You have a kind heart, little brother.” Morgana tucked three of the brightest periwinkles into the crown on his head. Working as quickly as he found flowers, Morgana made rings of greenery and colors.

“What are you doing?” Sean asked as he emerged from behind an oak, tying up his trews.

“Morgana’s making May crowns,” Maurice explained.

“Did you make me one, Morgana?”

“Sure and to be certain she did.” Maurice went through his collection of flower crowns till he found exactly the right arrangement to fit Sean’s head. “This one.”

He held up a crown of mixed blooms, and plopped it onto Sean’s silky head. “It’s got yellow gentian in it, to break hexes and protect you. You need it.”

Sean pulled the flower crown off to study it a moment, then nodded his approval. “Were you scared, Morgana?”

“Scared of what?” Morgana asked absently. She knew perfectly well what Sean meant by his question. She finished tying the last wreath and stood.

“Scared of the war-horse.” Sean’s attention focused on the flower rings looped over Maurice’s forearm. “Let me pick the one for Morgana, Maurice. Hers needs to be the prettiest.”

“Then it’s this one,” Maurice held out the ring with the most flowers bunched in it. Morgana dutifully bent to have the crown placed on her head. Both boys had hands in settling the wreath around her coiled braids.

“That’s very pretty,” Sean said. His small face twisted for a moment, in his deep contemplation of their efforts. “I’ve come to a decision, sister.”

“Oh?” Morgana turned both of them toward the fast-running brook beyond the trees, more their escort than they were hers. “And pray tell me, what would that be?”

“It’s my duty as the eldest Fitzgerald to get you another husband. “Tisn’t safe for you to be roaming the isle, a widow woman up for grabs by any scurrilous lout. Father would want me to do what’s best.”

Morgana managed to hold her tongue and resist the urge to laugh at Sean’s audacious assumption. He took himself so seriously. Being the next earl of Kildare was as heavy a burden as being an outlaw, especially for a boy only ten winters old. “Sean, if there was someone Father wanted me to marry, he would have written and given his command.”

“Ah, but there you are wrong, Morgana. Father doesn’t know of the troubles we’ve had in his absence. He isn’t like me. I know you like to do what you like. But if Father knew about Lord Grey, he’d be grievously upset. Wouldn’t he, Maurice?”

“Oh, aye, he would. We get a letter from France every month. Mother is most distressed about you.”

Sean dug an elbow in his little brother’s side, not wanting Maurice to steal his thunder. “Father might approve a match to the O’Neill. I heard tell he was made an earl in England.”

“And who told you that?” Morgana demanded. “Macmurrough?”

“I don’t know any Macmurroughs,” Sean said soberly.

“Well, it makes no difference,” Morgana replied. “Because that is none of your business, Sean Fitzgerald. I don’t recall mentioning to you that I want to be saddled with another husband.”

“Don’t know why you wouldn’t.” Sean shrugged. “The right husband is good for a woman, especially a sister to an earl.”

“You will keep your big mouth shut about such things. Unless you want your ears boxed, little brother. Don’t be shaming me with such talk.”

Undaunted by her scolding, Sean ducked under the drooping branches of the hawthorn and emerged onto the
rock overlooking the brook, announcing, “Hallo, we’re back. Look, isn’t Morgana pretty?”

Morgana held her peace. Sean, she knew firsthand, was as willful a Fitzgerald as she. Worse, if she added all the catering that had been done in the early years of his life, because he was an earl’s heir.

Given the tempering of proper aging—like good wine and whiskey—most Fitzgerald males managed to control the urges to dominate all and sundry within range. If not that, then they grew up to be charming brutes whose easy smiles won more friends than enemies.

Though each kern looked when Sean made his blatant invitation for a compliment, only Hugh O’Neill actually took the bait.

But then, Hugh stood head and shoulders above any fold of ordinary men. His eyes met Morgana’s. Banked heat simmered in their brown depths as he plucked a periwinkle from her crown and twirled the single bloom under his nose.

“Sorcerer’s violet becomes you, my lady. I vow, I am under your spell. You are fetching. Very fetching, indeed.”

“Well, they will become you, as well.” A touch of perversity edged her lips. “It’s a May crown, and all of us must wear it, to please the boys.”

“A May crown, you say.” Hugh inclined his head, glancing only once at the boys. “Then, by all means, lady. Crown me in this fertile month of May.”

Morgana took a ring from Maurice’s hand and raised it to Hugh’s dark head. “Say the poem!” Maurice insisted. “The one you said for me.”

Hugh watched a small scowl knot Morgana’s brow, but she smoothed it out just as quickly as it had appeared. His mouth twitched with the urge to grin. He’d expected her to crown him after their harrowing ride downhill, but
not
with a ring of flowers!

“I don’t think this man needs to be urged to become any stronger than he is, Maurice,” Morgana said, tight-lipped. “I shall have to alter it.”

“Make it so,” Maurice commanded magnanimously, “if you please.”

Morgana held the crown over Hugh’s head as she recited a quick spell. “Windflowers, windflowers, listen to me, make this man’s hands as gentle as today’s spring breeze.”

Hugh caught her right hand, staying her from lowering the crown onto his head, adding his own incantation to her verse. “And make this man unforgettable to this dear lady.”

Maurice clapped with delight as Morgana lowered the May crown onto Hugh O’Neill’s head. Hugh’s thumb and forefinger encased Morgana’s wrist, his touch as light as the wind she’d invoked. “Is it gentle you want now, my lady?”

Morgana’s lips twitched at the corners as she looked to where his fingers lightly circled her flesh. Hugh followed the direction of her gaze. The bruises had yet to fade from her skin. As it was her right hand he held, Hugh couldn’t have said whether he’d put the marks there or Kelly had. His intense eyes met Morgana’s. Both of them were thinking of her desperate leap out the window of Dungannon’s solar.

“Had I held you this lightly, you’d not be here to please your brothers’ whims, lady. Fear not my hold, Morgana. It will never harm you, no matter how fierce.”

The moment of sublime communication was broken by the restlessness of the others in their party.

“Where’s my crown?” Rory demanded of Sean and Maurice. “It had better smell nicer and look more handsome than the one you give Brian.”

His brother laughed. “On you? Not a chance.”

The crowns were dispensed, and Hugh lifted Maurice up to put the last one on Loghran’s white locks.

“Can’t say that we see the windflowers against that cotton crop, but the greenery stands out well.” Hugh laughed.

O’Toole growled like a wild beast, trying to scare the boy in O’Neill’s arms. Maurice only laughed, knowing the men were teasing him.