The Maid of Ireland Read Free Page A

hitting short of the mark when she could have hit dead center, losing horse races she could have won, stumbling over poems she could have recited perfectly—all to save the vast male pride of Lord Logan Rafferty.
    She had grown accustomed to deferring to him. But she would never grow accustomed to the bitter taste of it.
    He eyed Magheen’s slowly retreating figure. “A handful, that one.” His gaze drifted to her derriere. “Two hands full.”
    Caitlin faced him squarely across the table. “You’ve come about my sister?”
    “Ah, it’s all business you are. You’re twenty-two years old, Caitlin MacBride. You’ll wither on the tree like an unplucked rowanberry.”
    His sympathy was as insubstantial as the mist over the mountains. Logan cared not a dram for her unmarried state.
    Unmoved, she said, “I know I owe you Magheen’s dowry and that I’m in arrears.” She slid a glance at her father, who sat poring over his book and looking lost, as he had since the castle chaplain, Father Tully, had mysteriously disappeared just after Magheen’s wedding two weeks earlier.
    Help me, Daida. She tried to convey the silent message to him, but he continued his quiet study.
    “Can payment wait until the calving?”
    “I’ve been waiting. And Magheen won’t give herself to me on credit.” Mirth rose from the men at the hearth. “My people have gone without Clonmuir milk and meat since Easter.” Looking for accord, he glared at the men. “And I’ve gone without my husbandly privileges.”
    Caitlin drew a deep breath. Drastic troubles called for drastic measures. “I’ve the best stable of ponies in Connemara,” she said. “Will you accept a mare and a stallion?”
    “The Clonmuir ponies do tempt me. But I’ll not be taking them. They’re only more mouths to feed.” Logan leaned toward her. His black beard brushed the table. “And what are you doing with so much fine horseflesh, eh?” he asked softly.
    She prayed he would not guess her secret. “The stable has been the pride of the MacBrides since the time before time. I’ll not be turning them out because of a few lean years.”
    His thick eyebrows clashed. “You’re putting the welfare of Clonmuir horses before that of your own dear sister.”
    She pressed her lips together, thinking of Magheen, of her other people, women and babies—sweet Saint Brigid, so many babies!—who depended on her. “Give me a week. I’ll send you a bullock as a token of my good intent.”
    “What of my good intent?” Exuding the proprietary air he had been born with, Logan put out a hand and caressed her cheek. “I’ve offered a solution if you would but agree.”
    “Have a spark of sense. You’re married to my sister.”
    His coal-black eyes kindled with annoyance. “By Christ’s holy rood, I have no marriage with Magheen.”
    She glared at him through the light fog of peat smoke. “You could have, if you’d reduce your demands.”
    “Never,” he stated. “A lord can ask no less.”
    “And I can do no better until the calving.” She gathered up her papers. “One healthy bullock. Conn will bring it to you.”
    His fist crashed down on the table, hammering for attention. “It’s not a bullock I want, but a wife!”
    “You’ll have her, I promise. But she’s nearly as unreasonable as you.”
    The wail of a baby laid siege to any reply Logan might have made. The quality of the cry was unmistakable. Only hunger could give that earsplitting edge to a child’s cry.
    Yet another family of starvelings had reached Clonmuir. Forgetting Logan, Caitlin hurried to welcome them.
    Magheen was already there, cradling the baby in the crook of one arm and motioning urgently with the other for someone to fetch milk. Worrying the brim of his caubeen with his fingers, a man approached Caitlin. “You are lady of the keep?”
    No one ever mistook her for an underling. Wondering why, she said, “Yes,” and smiled reassuringly. “Welcome to Clonmuir.”
    “Talk is, your