Elizabeth McBride (21 page)

"You are marrying Brian, aren't you?" Mhoire asked.

"Aye, I am."

"How can you, Elanta? Have you no loyalty to Oran's
father? You said you loved him, and yet only one year past
his death, you are marrying another man."

"You think that marrying Brian means I did not love my
husband? Neill was my beloved." She leaned toward
Mhoire. "But he is dead. And I have a daughter to care for,
and I will not let her suffer. That-that-would be a betrayal of her father."

Mhoire looked away.

"Do you know what it is like to be hungry, Mhoire?
Desperately hungry? You feel faint all the time, and it
seems as if there is a rat gnawing in your belly. But my
little girl never complained. All last winter, when we
picked frozen berries from the shrubs and searched through
broken beechnut shells for the one or two nuts the animals
hadn't gotten, she never cried or begged for food. She just
got thinner and thinner. I won't let her starve like that
again."

Mhoire stared at the sky, at the sea, at the stone wall that
surrounded them. "Do you love Brian?" she finally asked.

"He's a good man, and I like him. But I don't love him
the way you love Drosten." Elanta shook her head. "You
have so much, Mhoire, and you don't even realize it. You
love Drosten, and he loves you."

`Nay...

"Aye. He loves you. He loves you to distraction. He
loves you as deeply as a man can love a woman."

Color mottled Mhoire's pale skin. "His men say he is
pretending."

"Pretending? Open your eyes! God in Heaven, he's
barely left your side since the moment he saw you. He
would break his own bones for you. He'd do anything,
anything, to keep you safe and make you happy."

"You're mistaken."

"I know what a man in love looks like."

Mhoire gripped the bowl. "I forced him to marry me."

"Are you mad? He wants you."

"Then why doesn't he talk to me?"

"Because he's afraid. He sees how miserable you are,
and he assumes it's because you can't bear being married
to him."

Mhoire's flush deepened. "And so what kind of life is it
to be reigned by a man?"

Elanta looked her in the eye. "Love can feel like a chain
sometimes, Mhoire. But it offers freedom, too. When
you're with a man, a man you love, a part of you that you
never knew existed comes alive. And that-that-is really
what you came to Dun Darach for. It wasn't independence
you were seeking, Mhoire. It was life."

Just as Mhoire opened her mouth to reply, Oran skipped
up to them.

"I've finished helping Grandmother," she announced.
"What are you doing?"

"Talking." Elanta turned to her daughter.

"Oh. So what are you going to do now?"

"I'm not sure. Mhoire, what are you going to do now?"

Mhoire looked blank.

"You might collect reeds for baskets," Elanta said, "or
you could help us wind heather into rope. Or perhaps you
would like to find Drosten and tell him how to arrange your
bedchamber. It's a woman's right to take charge of the
household."

"I know," Oran interjected. "You must kiss him."

"What?"

The child nodded firmly. "Then he'll do whatever you
want him to do."

"Oran, I don't think so."

"Aye," she answered, nodding again. "He will. That's
what my mother did with Brian. She kissed him, and now
he does whatever she says."

Mhoire tried to plunge back into her familiar, depressed
state, but her mind wouldn't cooperate. She couldn't keep
her eyes off Drosten, who moved with animal-like grace
on the roof across the courtyard.

She scurried into the gathering hall and laid down on her
pallet. But still he filled up her mind. His deep, masculine
voice. His golden hair. His guileless smiles. His soft, welcoming mouth that, for the brief moment it was fused with
hers, had made every inch of her body come alive.

He loves you. He would do anything for you.

"Mother of God, I'm going daft!" she muttered to herself
and scrambled to her feet. She had to move. Do something.

She launched herself out of the hall and across the courtyard. Before she knew it, she was at the open door of her
new bedchamber. Wringing her hands, she stood uncertainly on the threshold. Then she tiptoed inside.

It was small, but a long, narrow window let in light. The
cobwebs had been cleaned out, and the stone walls
scrubbed. Furnishings were sparse: There was just the bed,
which looked much too small to Mhoire's eyes, especially
when she imagined Drosten's large body lying on it next
to hers.

She bit her lip and turned away, and her eyes fell on
Drosten's pack and his weapons stashed carelessly in a corner. There was something about the casual heap, its bulk, its hardness, and its aggressive import, that was so obviously masculine, it made her knees buckle.

She heard a scraping noise and looked up sharply. Drosten was bending his head to get through the doorway. In
his hands was a leather bag. Her bag.

Her heart pattered against her ribs like hail on a roof.

"Elanta asked me to bring this." He waved the bag in
her direction.

"I see."

"Where would you like me to put it?"

"Oh. Well. . ." She looked around the chamber and
when her eyes again landed on Drosten's pack, they darted
away. She couldn't put her bag next to his. "Perhaps just
on the bed for now."

He took the few steps to the bed and lowered the bag
onto the coverlet. "Thank you," she said, as he straightened.

They lapsed into silence.

Think of something to say, she commanded herself. But
all she could think of was Oran's directive: Kiss him.

He was saying something.

"What?" Lord, she was losing her mind and her hearing.

"I said, are you pleased with this chamber?"

Mhoire's eyes skimmed the room. The ceiling caught her
attention, and she frowned.

Drosten followed her gaze and shifted uncomfortably on
his big feet. "Aye, well-" He cleared his throat. "The roof
still needs a little patching. I see that it's a bit thin in that
area, but, uh, I'll cut more reeds for it tomorrow."

Mhoire looked at him.

"Tonight," he added quickly. "There's plenty of light yet.
I'll patch it up tonight."

She eyed him thoughtfully. He looked terribly uncomfortable. Contrite even. Not sure of what to make of him,
she returned to examining the room. This time her gaze
lingered on the window shutters.

Drosten's brows lowered. He walked past her to the window, so close she felt the air stir. He peered at the shutters, and then fingered the latch, which was hanging loosely by
a single nail.

"I, uh-" He turned. "I don't know what's happened
here. The other nail must have come loose, you see. Just
one more nail-" He gestured with his hand. "-one more
nail and it'll be stout as can be. I can do that tomorrow.
Er, tonight! I can do that tonight as well."

He was close. So close she could smell him. A delicious
smell of muscle and skin and the outdoors. A warm smell
that was all Drosten.

Kiss him.

Her eyes traveled to his neck. The laces of his tunic were
undone, and he had no shirt on. She could see the golden
hairs of his chest and underneath them, dark-brown
splotches of mud.

"You've already worked hard today," she murmured.

"It doesn't matter. This would be no trouble."

Kiss him.

She brought her hand to his chest and pulled the cloth
of the tunic aside. "You're all scars," she said, frowning.

She felt him take a deep, shuddering breath before answering.

"Those are just old battle scars." He paused. "Do they
disgust you?"

"Nay." He was beautiful, every inch of him. Fine skin
over hard muscle over strong bone.

Her gaze traveled to his arms. The sleeves of his tunic
had been torn off, and his arms were bare to the shoulder.
She touched the spot where he had recently been stabbed.
The wound had healed, but it had left a scar-a white ridge
of flesh with little white points on both sides that marked
where her needle had taken its stitches.

"Does this hurt when you use your arm?"

I'NNay.

Kiss him.

Mhoire looked up at Drosten's face. His eyes were
closed and his expression strained. She dropped her hand.
Maybe he didn't want her to touch his scars.

Maybe she should concentrate on learning how to manage a man first, and save kissing him for later.

"Um, I was wondering, Drosten..."

"Hmm?" He opened his eyes. They were so close she
could see little specks of brown in the blue irises.

"I was wondering if you might help me bring in the rest
of my things. It's hard for me to lift anything heavy."

He blinked a few times and then looked-this was curious-pleased. "I would be happy to."

His eyes traveled over her face and her neck and down
to the bodice of her dress, which was cut low enough that,
from his height, he could easily see the swells of her
breasts. "I'll patch the roof and fix the shutters and carry
in all your things." His voice was low and mesmerizing.

She gulped.

The ground seemed to roll beneath Mhoire's feet as she
walked across the courtyard from the bedchamber back to
the gathering hall. Once inside, she groped through the
dimness to her pallet and sat down with a thump. She wiped
her sweating brow with her sleeve and smoothed her hair
behind her ears. Then she blinked a few times and stared
into space.

She didn't notice Brigit's curious stare or Elanta's smug
half-smile.

"I'd be happy to carry anything you want me to. "

"I'll do it tonight. "

"He'd break his bones for you. "

Kiss him!

She shivered.

Why was she shivering when she was so hot?

She rubbed her sleeve over her cheeks and the back of
her neck. Mother of God, the hall was stifling!

She stood, grabbed a willow basket from the floor, and
wobbled toward the door.

She would gather herbs, that's what she would do. Most
of the healing plants she had brought with her from Ireland
had already been used-on her-and it would be wise to restock the supply. Now that it was spring, many helpful
plants would be in flower.

She headed for the gate in the outer wall. It was so much
cooler outside. Out here she could breathe. She would collect plants now, and later she would think about Drosten,
and why it was that his mere presence made her faint.

She waded through the slender grasses at the base of the
fort. Above her, meadowlarks swooped and sang.

Ah, thyme! She smelled it on the air before she saw it.
Bending, she plucked a sprig and held it to her nose. Thyme
was the plant of kings and princes, with an aromatic scent
that bestowed courage and strength. She felt a need for
courage. She tucked the sprig into her bodice. Then she
gathered a few more stalks and dropped them into her basket.

She scanned the meadow. A clump of meadowsweet was
just ahead. Meadowsweet was a cure for fevers and headaches. She picked two handfuls.

Butterwort. A magical plant. She could give some to the
cow so that fairies wouldn't spoil the milk. Butterwort protected people from fairies, too. Mhoire plucked a dozen of
the small yellow flowers and slipped a sprig into her bodice
alongside the thyme.

She straightened and looked around. A light breeze,
smelling faintly of the sea, lifted the tendrils of hair near
her face. Common sense told her she should return to the
fort. She glanced over her shoulder, hoping to see one of
Drosten's men following her. But no one was in sight.

She turned and faced the woods. So alluring they were,
green and thick. Shaking off her fear, she stepped into
them.

It was cool under the trees. The oak and hawthorn leaves
filtered the heat of the sun. The evening light beamed down
in long, slender rays. Sprays of ferns unfurled here and
there, yellowy-green in their newness.

Just at her feet, she caught a glimpse of wood sorrel. She
bent and plucked a stalk and nibbled on it. Wood sorrel
would be handy to have. It made a good poultice for wounds, and Lord knew they would need that. And it improved the appetite. Maybe it would help her get more food
into her stomach.

She was deep in the woods now. Here, beyond the reach
of the wind, nothing moved. The oaks stood steady. Even
the birds had grown silent.

Suddenly, a twig snapped. Her head sprung up.

Drosten.

"I saw you leave the fort alone," he said. "I was worried."

He stood in shadow. Tall and solid as the trees around
him. She could just make out his face. Tension furrowed
his brow. His voice sounded rough. From what? From
worry? Worry about her?

She took a few steps toward him and bent her head upwards to look into his eyes.

"I didn't know where you were going ..." he continued
in a voice like sand. "I thought someone had better keep
an eye on you."