Elizabeth McBride (20 page)

She felt as limp as a piece of string, unable to sit upright
on her own, and her mind was wrapped in cobwebs, as if
it had been kept in an old cellar too long.

"We must dry out this bedding."

"Aye. It's wet as a puddle. Drosten!" Elanta called quietly. "Come and hold her for us."

He gathered her into his arms, mindful of her wounded
left side. He felt as solid as a ship on the sea. She buried
her cold nose in his shoulder and felt the warmth of him
reach into her bones.

Holding her against his chest, Drosten leaned back
against the wall. He pulled the collar of the tunic high
around her neck and tucked the hem around her bare feet.
Someone dropped a blanket over the both of them.

"Are you warm enough?" he whispered.

"Aye," she mumbled. "You're like a peat fire."

Elanta put a cup of hot water infused with valerian into
Drosten's hand and tiptoed away. He brought it to Mhoire's
lips. She took a swallow and raised her eyes to his face. It
was haggard, the skin drawn tight against his bones, his
eyes deep in their sockets.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He smiled slightly. "Nothing now, mo milidh." He
pressed the cup to her lips again, and she took another sip.
But when he tried to get her to drink a third time, she shook
her head and turned her face back into his shoulder.

He put down the cup and tentatively began to stroke her
back. When she didn't rebel, he let his hand gently roam
over her, soothing the muscles of her neck and her spine. She
listened to his heart thumping in his chest, slow and regular.

He spoke into her ear: "Do you remember what happened, mo milidh?"

She nodded. "Fighting." Then she shuddered, recalling
the dull thud of weapon against weapon and the screech of
murder and chaos. "Was anyone killed?"

"A dozen Britons. Two of my men. Brendan and Corrac."

"I' m sorry."

His lips brushed her hair. "You saved my life, mo milidh.
Everyone's."

She squeezed her eyes tight. In her mind's eye, she was
on the wall again. Angry, hurling her rage and her arrows.
Until the white-hot pain ripped through her body.

"Do you remember what else happened?" Drosten asked
gently.

She took a deep breath and felt a tug of pain in her
shoulder. "Aye."

"What do you remember?" He stroked her lower back.

"Pain. Heat."

"Aye. I pulled an arrow from your shoulder. The wound
turned bad. You burned with fever." He paused. "The priest
was here. Do you remember?"

A fog of drowsiness crept over her. The valerian was
taking effect, and so was the lull of Drosten's heartbeat and
his patient hand.

"The priest gave me the sacrament."

"Two sacraments." Drosten bent his head and tried to
look into her eyes. She turned her face into his chest so
that he couldn't.

"Aye." Her voice was muffled by the cloth. "He married
us." She drew a shaky breath. The wound tugged and her
chest burned. "I thought I was going to die. I'm so sorry,
Drosten."

She felt him stiffen.

"I thought it was the right thing to do," she whispered.
And then sleep stole her away.

At the edge of the woods, a man sat stiffly on his horse,
hidden by a tangle of gorse bushes bursting with flowers.
With a slow, keen eye, he surveyed Dun Darach on its shelf
of land at the edge of the sea.

She had thwarted him again. A banshee woman who
would not be killed. He gripped the reins, and his horse
reared. Gritting his teeth, he hauled on the horse's mouth
and forced the frightened animal to quiet down. Nay, he
mustn't let his anger show, mustn't waste it. He must conserve the emotion, let it build, until he could unleash it
properly.

it took a month for Mhoire's wound to heal. A second
month passed before they could get her to leave her bed.

The women gave her everything they had on hand to
help her recover: milk in which a curing stone had been
boiled, daily doses of meadowsweet, mugwort, and dandelion water, and as many warm blankets as she could
stand. On her wound, they kept a plaster of plantain, and
then bee resin, carefully collected by Grainne from a buzzing hive.

The wound healed well. Mhoire's spirit, however, was
not so easily restored. She ate only when pressed, spoke
only when spoken to. Day after day, she sat on a bench in
the courtyard with her hands folded in her lap and an ocean
of sadness in her eyes.

What was her life to be now?

She was defeated. That was the truth of it. Nay, that
wasn't the truth. She had given everything up. And willingly, to save the women from harm. She had handed over
Dun Darach to Drosten. She just hadn't thought she would
live to see him take it.

And now he was in charge. She heard him and his men
every day that she sat on the bench: building, repairing,
planting a new crop, taking over. Taking over the women
too. She could hear the men and women flirting. Every gay
note stabbed her heart.

Mhoire filled her lungs with air. One might say that all that had happened was very logical. Women married men.
Men took charge. Together, they created order, although,
she thought wryly, the hall was somewhat less than orderly
now that the women's attentions were distracted from
household duties. Aye, to most observers, life at Dun Darach had fallen very sensibly into place.

Except for two things.

Mhoire clasped her hands tightly in her lap and gazed
blankly at a sky spotted with innocent white clouds.

She no longer felt she belonged here.

And she had a husband who hardly ever spoke to her.

Every time Drosten climbed the ladder to the roof of the
small stone building, he could see Mhoire across the courtyard, motionless and alone. He had watched her closely
these last two months. He had seen her withstand extreme
physical pain with dogged endurance, her face drained of
color and a sheen of sweat on her forehead. He had observed her first wobbly steps. And now, every time he
reached the top of the ladder, he saw the sadness that bore
down on her like a fist.

She looked fragile and vulnerable and lost, and he could
hardly endure it. Every inch of his being wanted to take
her to a private, protected place where he could soothe her
and make her smile. Where he could kiss away the marks
of strain around her eyes. Stroke her body until it thrummed
with energy.

But he recognized her sadness for what it was. The deep
agony of losing what was most precious.

Because of him.

Nay, the best good he could do, he figured, was to not
make her grief worse with his presence.

He had thrown himself into repairing the fort. They had
rebuilt the more important structures first. Now they were
putting roofs on the smaller ones, including the small stone
building that was to be Drosten and Mhoire's bedchamber.

Tension was ever-present. Everyone knew that at any
moment they could be attacked again. There was sexual tension, too. The Pictish warriors were here to stay now,
and scarcely a day went by when Drosten didn't notice one
of his men paired off with one of the women.

He hoisted the bundle of reeds off his shoulder and laid
it onto one of the beams that criss-crossed the roof. Lost
in thought, he handled the feather-light reeds absentmindedly. When a gust of wind whipped around the courtyard, half the bundle slipped through the timbers and fell
to the ground.

"Damnation!" Drosten gazed down through the rungs as
the reeds began to scatter.

"Nasty wind today," Alfred remarked from his perch on
one of the crossbeams.

Drosten snatched up the wayward stalks and climbed up
the ladder again. "The wind's a demon," he muttered.

"The demon's over there." Alfred gestured across the
courtyard with his chin.

"I wouldn't call her a demon."

"She's haunting you."

Drosten did not reply.

Alfred reached for one of the ropes that was secured to
the main beam to keep the thatching in place. "You should
be happy. You've gotten what you wanted."

"And what is that?"

"This place. A wife."

"She's not been that."

Alfred yanked on the rope. "But she will be. Soon as
this roof is finished."

Drosten stared at his hands. When the bedchamber was
ready for occupancy, he and Mhoire would have to face
each other. And he dreaded it.

"A little privacy will take care of things."

Drosten shook his head. "She married me out of duty,
friend."

"You married her out of duty, didn't you?"

"Aye. But duty's poor purpose for a marriage."

Alfred snorted. "Now you're sounding just like her."

Aye, Drosten thought ruefully, Mhoire had been right from the start. Obligation was the most common motive for
marriage, and here they were, dutifully married. And miserable. He spread the reeds along the roof and began to tie
them down.

"Well, we have worse things to worry about," Drosten
said.

"The Britons, you mean."

"Aye, although I'm not certain it was the Britons who
attacked us. Why would they come after Dun Darach now?
These women have been alone for a year."

"So they assumed they could have it any time. When we
arrived and spoiled their plan, they decided to drive us out."

"Maybe."

"And there was that attack on you when you were out
hunting. That seemed typical of those bastards. Sneaking
as they are."

Drosten shook his head. "Why would they single me out?
Killing me might have caused confusion here, but it
wouldn't have given them the fort. Not with the rest of you
around to defend it." He looked at Alfred. "So, the question
is, who would get Dun Darach more easily if I wasn't
alive?"

"Irwin?"

"Perhaps. But if it was him, we're safe now. Mhoire will
likely divorce me and marry him. There's no need left for
him to kill me." Drosten fumbled with the ropes. Divorce
was a common practice among both the Picts and the Scots,
even though the church didn't approve of it.

"Mhoire's not going to divorce you, man."

"Of course she is."

"Nay. You're melting for her. No woman can resist that."

"Melting? I've hardly said five words to the woman in
the last two months."

"And that's the proof of it. We could catapult a cow with
the tension that's between the two of you."

"You're daft."

"She married you, didn't she?"

"She thought she was dying. She never believed she'd
recover and be saddled with me."

"And do you remember nothing of that kiss she gave
you? When she sewed up your arm?"

"Should I?"

"I'd want to."

"And why is that?"

"Well, I'm beginning to think I'd fancy a kiss like that
myself from the right woman."

Drosten gaped at his friend, who, he noticed, was gazing
at a tall, bony figure who had just stepped into the courtyard
with a wash bucket in her hand.

"You're joking. Grainne?"

"What of her? She's loyal. Tough. Like your woman."

"Like boot leather."

"Aye," Alfred said with a note of awe. "Quite a woman
she is."

Mhoire heard the skittering of pebbles and turned her
head to see Elanta and Oran coming around the corner of
the gathering hall. Each carried a bowl. Oran's, Mhoire
surmised, held some sort of liquid, for the child shuffled
along carefully, staring intently into it as if willing the contents not to slosh over the rim.

When she reached the spot where Mhoire was sitting, a
grin of relief lit her face. "I've brought you something.
Here." She held out the bowl.

"What is it?"

"Goose broth. Drink it. It will make you strong." Oran
pushed the bowl a little closer to Mhoire's face.

Mhoire wrinkled her nose. "Why don't you drink it,
Oran?"

"I'm strong already. But you're weak. That's what
Grandmother says. She says your heart is hurting you, and
it's not getting better because you're so weak."

"I see." Anger flickered in Mhoire's chest. They were
talking about her.

"Please drink it."

Mhoire saw the disappointment in Oran's face and relented. The broth, warm and oily, slid like a worm into her
belly.

Elanta sat down beside her. "Oran, my love," she said,
"go help your grandmother."

Oran made a little pout but scampered off.

Mhoire ran her thumb along the rim of the bowl of goose
broth that rested in her lap.

"So you all think I'm weak, do you?"

"Well, you're not moving around very much, are you?"

"And what is there for me to do? I see the Picts doing
all the building, and you women doing all the chores, and
Drosten directing everything, and soon all of you will be
marrying these men and having babies, and quite honestly,
I can't see what there is left for me to occupy my time
with."

Elanta gave Mhoire a long, inscrutable look. Then she
pressed her lips together and glanced away.