“Fascinating,” Hugh said as he bit deeply into a bun stuffed with slabs of mutton. “You believe those old tales, Mrs. Carrick? Of witchcraft, and curses that pass on from generation unto generation?”

“Believe them?” She laughed a little too brightly, then reached over Hugh’s shoulder and took a pinch of salt from the cellar on his tray and tossed it over her left shoulder.

“I’m Irish, laddie. I believe in all of it, from leprechauns and pots of gold under rainbows on down to our Lord Jesus Christ and all his blessed saints. You’d be well served to believe in things you can’t explain, too.”

Now it was his turn to laugh, and Hugh did, chuckling deeply, but not scorning what the old woman said. “Ah, you’d have loved attending Queen Elizabeth’s court, Mrs. Carrick. She’s an astounding wizard in her employ, a Welshman by the name of John Dee. Some say his skills put the fabled Merlin to shame. I’ve seen him do fabulous tricks with my own eyes.”

“Such as?” Mrs. Carrick demanded, distrusting anything that came of England’s court out of hand.

“Why…” Hugh paused, thinking for a moment of Dee’s most outlandish trick—sawing people in half, which was pure fakery and illusion, not magic. “I saw him levitate a yeoman guard in full armor in the bailey at the Tower of London.”

“You don’t say?” Mrs. Carrick inhaled deeply. “There must be many a sorry prisoner that wished for the same skill and craft to escape that hellhole.”

Reminded of the true nature of the Tower, Hugh agreed. “I expect their grieving womenfolk were of the same mind, and would have gladly paid for any bit of magic that would have enabled their men to escape the queen’s clutches.”

“That reminds me, your Morgana of Kildare wants to be woken at first light on the morrow, so she can continue her pilgrimage to Dunluce.” Mrs. Carrick fixed Hugh with her steady eyes.

“I’m not surprised.” Hugh replied, easily enough.

“Do you ken why she would want to make a pilgrimage specifically to Dunluce?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, though she did mention that as her destination, once in passing.”

“It doesn’t seem right.” Mrs. Carrick went on. “What with Drake harrying all of Antrim, bombarding the coast and laying siege to Glenarm by sea. I’ve advised her not to go, but I don’t think she cares for my wisdom. Perhaps you should talk to her about that. Surely you’ll not let her leave Dungannon to travel north without suitable escort.”

Hugh knew very well what roving factions of soldiers could do to a woman traveling alone and unprotected. Today had been a prime example of that folly at its worst.

“Morgana of Kildare will not be leaving at dawn or noon or at any time alone,” Hugh said firmly. “I’ll see to that. Did she tell you why she wants to go Dunluce?”

“No, milord. I was hoping she’d told you.”

“Humph.” Hugh considered Mrs. Carrick’s words carefully. “I’ll tackle that tomorrow. She’s exhausted by her…uh… ordeal. So we can assume she’ll sleep long and deep. The best way round about detaining her is to just let her sleep in. Don’t let anyone go to the solar to wake her.”

“But you said she shouldn’t sleep, and I left Brigit chattering to her to keep her awake.”

“Ah, but Mrs. Carrick, you don’t know a woman can be perverse? She’ll sleep, just because I told her not to.”

“And aren’t you sure of yourself?” Mrs. Carrick teased. “Oh, and by the way, milord—Her hair’s as red as holly berries.”

“Is that so?” Hugh chuckled softly under his breath. “No wonder she fights with such passion. A redhead, then?”

Mrs. Carrick left him to his thoughts. On her way out the door, Hugh detained her with another question. “Did you send a tray to her yet?”

“No, but I will.”

“I’ll fetch it to the solar. Say, in a quarter hour.”

Mrs. Carrick glanced at the standing clockwork next to the bank of oaken bookshelves that covered one interior wall. “A quarter hour it is, milord.”

Chapter Six

Sleep was the last thing Morgana intended to do in Dungannon Castle. The bath restored her as nothing else could have. Once she had something substantial to eat, she was certain, she’d have the energy to get on her way.

The chattery maid Mrs. Carrick left to watch over Morgana was no citadel against Morgana’s inborn ability to dominate and influence. First she requested that Brigit find her something more substantial than a night rail to wear. Brigit didn’t hesitate for a moment to open two trunks and a wardrobe in the spacious chamber and let Morgana take her pick from the carefully stored-in-tissue gowns.

“Everything in these trunks belonged to Sir Hugh’s mother,” Brigit explained. “They’ve gone to waste these many years. No one ever uses these rooms, you see.”

“Why’s that?” Morgana gingerly eased one knee down onto the hard floor, examining a trunk’s contents.

Brigit shrugged. It wasn’t her place to tell the girl the solar was haunted. She’d know that soon enough, if she actually had to sleep here. “I expect that if His Lordship gave you these rooms to sleep in, he won’t mind you making use of the clothes, too.”

“Well, I’ll just have to see if there’s anything that I can use. Could you go and fetch me something to eat? I hate to be an outright bother, but I’m fair starved. It’s been a very long and exhausting day.”

“You won’t go to sleep if I leave you, will you?” Brigit asked. “Lord Hugh said you were to stay awake. He’ll have my head if I don’t do my work right.”

Morgana answered that question with the absolute truth. “I couldn’t sleep here if you gave me ten sleeping potions.”

“Are you certain? A little while ago, you looked as if you would drop right off in the tub.”

“Oh…” Morgana stalled while she looked around the room for a suitable answer to that question. “Shall we say, I feel the presence of ghosts?”

“You do?” Brigit’s eyes rounded. She gulped and crossed herself, hurrying out, saying, “Och, then, I’ll get yer food.”

Morgana held on to the urge to laugh. Claiming she felt ghosts lingering in Dungannon Castle wasn’t stretching the truth all that much. Her great-aunt Catherine Fitzgerald had died within a week of arriving at Dungannon Castle.

Morgana knew from reading all of Gerait Og Fitzgerald’s journals that he’d done everything in his power to unite all of Ireland’s powerful clans. The one mistake he’d never gotten over was the unexplained death of his favorite sister after she was forced to wed Conn O’Neill.

Prior to her death, Catherine had been mentioned often in her grandfather’s journals. Very little had been written about her following his terse words regarding her death. He blamed himself for forcing a loveless marriage on a young and precious sister. After that, he never mentioned the O’Neills again, except to damn them and their portion of Ireland forever.

All the other political marriages Gerait arranged between his numerous siblings, nephews and nieces had worked to his benefit, uniting by blood nearly all of Ireland’s most powerful families and separate counties.

Morgana removed a suitable gown from the trunk and stood up, holding the gown to her shoulders to judge its possible fit. She was tall for a woman. The skirts of the gray silk were long enough that without a farthingale or too many petticoats, it would sweep the floor at her feet.

One of the maids had taken charge of Morgana’s boots, cleaning and drying them. She found silk stockings aplenty in the other trunk, and kirtles galore, though she did have to exert some care in choosing from the other trunk. Most of its wools had been ravaged by moths. Samites, linen and silks were apparently less palatable to marauding insects.

Morgana dressed with practiced efficiency, making do with an old-fashioned short-waisted stomacher to lace over the shapeless gown, giving it some form. It accomplished what she wanted it to accomplish, lifting her breasts enough to support them against the uncomfortable and sometimes painful jarring that a woman’s unbound breasts suffered when she rode horseback. The only trouble with it came from the fact that it was designed to lace up the back. As her right hand was somewhat impaired, she couldn’t pull the laces as tight as she was used to wearing them.