The work was near done when Connor strode back into the stable. The trapdoor was closed, with straw swept over it so that none would ever guess of its existence. The take had been divided up; Fharannain was still saddled, and Cormac and Liam were tying the filled saddlebags to the horn. His cloak and mask rested across the saddle. Mickeen was scooping what was left into the strongbox that stayed hidden in the bam. That was something else for Connor to take care of, but later.
As he entered, shaking the rain from his hair, Cormac and Liam turned from their task to look at him. Anxiety was plain in both faces. Connor allowed himself a brief moment of self-congratulation. Whatever else he had done, or not done, he had raised his brothers well. They cared for one another truly, as a family should.
"Rory?" Cormac asked quietly as Connor came over to check Fharannain's girth.
"He's well enough. He'll suffer no lasting harm."
Liam looked as relieved as Cormac. Mickeen, having finished what he was doing and now in the act of carrying the strongbox to the place where it was customarily secreted, said over his shoulder, "Aye, and didn't I tell you that only the good die young? Young Rory should have a grand long life."
The three remaining d'Arcys grinned. Mickeen, for all his gruff exterior, was as fond of Rory as they were. The old osder had been with them from the beginning and would lay down his life without hesitation for any one of them.
'What about Caitlyn? Did you… tell her anything?" Cormac asked as Connor donned cloak and mask and swung into the saddle.
"Nothing. And you're not to, either of you. Not that I don't think we can trust her, but the fewer people who know the truth the safer we are." He signaled with his knees to Fharannain to move out, adding over his shoulder, "Go on up to the house now and get some sleep. Your part is done for tonight.''
Then he was out in the rainswept darkness, setting Fharannain at a canter over the hills toward Navan. Fortunately, he knew tonight's route as well as he knew the layout of his own house, as did the great black beast beneath him. Fharannain flew effortlessly over fences and streams that both could barely see, leaving Connor's mind free to wander.
Rory had taken a bullet. It was the first time in the years they had been riding with him that one of his brothers had been hurt. Connor felt a deep anxiety as he thought about it. Mayhap he should put a halt to things now, while he could with all of them whole. His brothers were, and always had been, his first concern. His father had given them over to his keeping on the night he died, and Connor had honored his promise to his sire to care for them to the best of his ability ever since.
They had been rough years, those first ones. There was no money, only the land and the few pieces of furnishings and gewgaws that could be salvaged from the charred ruins of the Castle. As a lad of twelve, left with three young brothers ranging in age from four to seven to provide for, to say nothing of the peasants who had traditionally depended upon Donoughmore for support and now were forced to make their own way with much hardship and suffering, Connor had been at his wit's end. At first he had sent Mickeen to Dublin to sell what few possessions they retained that were worth anything, but he had known that when the possessions ran out, the money would too.
In a desperate search for some means of earning a living for his new responsibilities, Connor had gone to Dublin on his own and had quickly discovered that thievery or buggery was the only way for a lad his age to get money. As he was not inclined to permit some fat rou6 the use of his body, he had turned to thievery. In the intervening two years he had spent at least half the time in Dublin, leaving Mickeen behind at the farm to care for his brothers, picking pockets and thieving from market stalls and stealing whatever he could find that could be converted to cash. With no small degree of success, either. He had kept his brothers alive and the farm going while the injustice of it all burned at him. He, Connor d'Arcy, Earl of Iveagh, should by rights have been master of a handsome estate, with a fortune to command. His brothers would have known a life of ease and plenty. Instead they were poorer than the poorest peasants, often hungry and in rags, with only a lad not much older than they to provide for them. His hatred of the bloody Anglicans who had stolen everything of value from the Irish and killed his father besides became a living thing inside him. One day, he vowed, he would have his revenge. And that day had come, though the vengeance was small compared with the magnitude of the grievance…
Seamus McCool was standing in the mouth of the cave where they always met. Connor reined in Fharannain, untied the saddlebags, and tossed them to the bluff Irishman. Seamus would see to it that the items were sold and the money distributed to those whose need was greatest.
"Lord keep you, sor," he said fervently to Connor, his eyes bright in the darkness as he hefted the bags to test their weight.
"And you, Seamus," Connor replied, wheeling Fharannain about. He rode back into the night, his business concluded. Until the moon waned again.