Children of the Moon 04 - Dragon's Moon

desire for nothing else.
    Lais scowled, his blond brows beetled. “You would have my…Mairi ride your dragon as well?”
    “You could take her across on a boat,” Eirik offered, expecting Lais to refuse.
    An eagle preferred to fly.
    Besides, the ride to where the Sinclairs kept their boats for the crossing combined with the crossing itself would take several hours longer than direct flight. Even if the eagle was considerably slower than a dragon in the sky.
    But Lais nodded rapidly. “’Tis a sound idea, that.”
    It was a daft idea, but since Eirik was the one to recommend it, even expecting it to be dismissed, he refused to withdraw his words now.
    “I will accompany Lais and Mairi in the boat.” Ciara sounded far too pleased at that option.
    Eirik and her adopted father both said, “No,” at the same time.
    Surprised that the vehemence in the laird’s tone matched his own, Eirik let the other man explain it to his daughter.
    “But why not?” Ciara asked just as Eirik had expected her to.
    “From the moment you leave this keep and until you return to it with the Faolchú Chridhe , you will not leave the dragon shifter’s side.”
    Ah, the man wanted Ciara protected at all costs. ’Twas understandable. Not only was she the laird’s daughter but she was princess of the Faol. The Faolchú Chridhe would be of limited use to their people without one of her blood to bring forth its full power.
    “It is a matter of your safety,” Abigail said to her daughter. “Please do as your father asks.”
    Ciara’s eyes filled and she nodded without another word. Her love for her adopted family at least was not in question.
    No one commented on the Sinclair’s muttering that, “’Twas not a request.”
    T here was little Ciara needed for her journey to the Balmoral holding.
    Laird Lachlan, her adopted uncle, would provide for all their needs on his island, but where their journey would take them after that, she did not know. Best to be prepared.
    She attached a purse made of the Sinclair tartan and lined with leather to the chain she wore around her hips. Inside was a small knife, used mostly for paring vegetables but useful in other circumstances as well. She’d also packed a handkerchief, a packet of herbs to make a tea both good for calming and to pour over a small wound for cleansing, and her last memento of her brother, his ring.
    Under the sleeve of her blouse, Ciara wore the armcirclet of bronze her father had given her mother on their wedding day. She only took it off to shift. The etched image of two wolves rubbing noses and surrounded by intricate lines had always given her comfort. She needed every boost to her courage she could manage for what was to come ahead. Of that she was certain.
    She’d fought the call of the Faolchú Chridhe for so long, giving in to it made her mouth dry with fear.
    The fear shamed her and she would not give in to it.
    Ciara added the short and very sharp dirk with the jeweled handle passed down by her great-great-grandmother. She settled the thin leather around her hips so it rested under her chain and the dirk was almost hidden by the small purse attached to it.
    Then she opened the low trunk Abigail and Talorc had given Ciara when she first came to live with them. They’d told her to keep her treasures in it, and she had. Those she’d brought with her and the few she’d accumulated since.
    She pushed aside the first Sinclair plaid she’d ever been given, just a shawl really. Abigail had explained that Ciara could wear it over her shoulders while still wearing the Donegal’s colors as her skirt. It had given her the opportunity to show her loyalty to the Sinclair while taking her time to give up her old clan…the last link to her dead family.
    Giving her that shawl was the first of many compassions Abigail had shown Ciara.
    Underneath the shawl was a carefully folded plaid of the Donegal colors. Ciara had last worn it six months after coming to the Sinclairs. Abigail had presented her with a skirt in the Sinclair colors, a new, smaller shawl that barely covered her shoulders and pins of bronze stamped with the Sinclair crest to hold it to a new blouse so white, Abigail had to have taken great pains to bleach the fabric.
    The laird’s lady had also included a bodice of finely spun black wool and explained the clothing a fashionable mix of her homeland and the Highland colors. It was too many layers for a shifter to wear expediently, not to mention too English,