“Why did he send you home?” Caitlin asked, her voice low because of the avid listeners. Tom Gandy, the steward and self-styled bard, looked on with the interest of a bettor at a cock fight. Rory Breslin, who served as both armorer and marshal, set aside the harness he was braiding. Liam the smith put his finger to his lips to shush the brood of children who cavorted with the shaggy wolfhounds at his feet.
Only Seamus MacBride, chieftain of the sept and Caitlin’s father, paid no heed to the drama at the round blackthorn table.
“He sent me home because I refused to share his bed,” Magheen stated loudly.
“And you blame him for sending you back?” called Rory Breslin. The other men chuckled in agreement.
Magheen gave a magnificent toss of her head.
Caitlin pressed her hands hard on the table and prayed for patience. “Why? I thought you loved him well.”
“I do! What woman wouldn’t? The fault’s upon your head. You should have told me what Logan demanded as dowry.”
“I didn’t think you’d be interested,” Caitlin said calmly.
“You knew I’d be affronted,” Magheen shot back. “Twelve head of cattle and a booley hut besides! Sure that’s the price a man demands to take a lesser woman to wife. Logan should be satisfied with me alone.”
“Logan Rafferty is a great lord and a man of business,” said Caitlin. “Even for you, he asked a dowry.” And he was a blessed fool to divulge the amount, she reflected.
Magheen buried her face in her slim white hands. Her shawl slipped back, revealing a sleek blond braid coiled over her head. She was as comely as a primrose, as demanding as a queen.
“Did you ask him to waive the dowry?” Caitlin inquired with a twinge of hope. She had pledged more than she could afford to Logan and despaired of paying it.
“Of course. But he won’t listen to me. You’ve got to put reason in that big thick knob of his.”
“The problem is between you and Logan.”
“Then the MacBride must settle it,” said Magheen.
Caitlin glanced at Seamus, who gazed with feverish concentration at his book of hours. “Daida can’t.”
“You’re as cold as Connemara stone,” Magheen snapped. “You don’t know what it’s like to love a man.”
Ah, but I do, thought Caitlin, closing her eyes for a moment. Ah, I do...
“Caitlin MacBride!”
She opened her eyes to see a familiar figure striding toward her. Light from the yard outside limned his broad shoulders, narrow hips, and mane of curly black hair. Spurs jangled like discordant bells with every step he took. His long beard, parted and braided, brushed against his massive chest.
“Eek!” Magheen leaped to her feet and hitched up her skirts. “Stay away from me, Logan Rafferty!”
“Sure I wouldn’t have you for thirteen head of cattle and two booley huts!” he shouted.
“Well!” Magheen planted her hands on her hips. “You won’t be having me at all.” She started toward the privy apartments at the rear of the hall.
“Don’t you dare leave,” Caitlin said.
“I’ll not be after suffering the insults of this greedy spalpeen.” Magheen walked down the length of the lofty hall, hips swaying, looking over her shoulder in blatant defiance.
Logan watched with longing and regret on his face, but he stood his ground.
From the women’s corner, spinning wheels whirred to a halt. A sense of waiting hung in the peat-scented air.
Shoving aside an inquisitive wolfhound, Logan reached the table and stopped. Caitlin inclined her head slightly. “Logan.” Although he was her overlord, she addressed him informally. To do otherwise would have seemed strange, for she had grown up in his shadow, 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