Elizabeth McBride (22 page)

She stood just inches from him. Close enough to feel his
heat. She laid her hand on his bare arm. It was warm and
furry with his golden hair.

He spoke again. "Mo milidh, this is so hard for me."

She looked into his eyes. So dark they were. Dark and
tortured.

"I think of you constantly," he whispered.

She raised her hand and laid it against his cheek. His
eyes widened slightly, like those of a wild stallion unused
to human touch.

She rubbed her thumb against his lower lip. It was full
and warm but parched from the sun. Rough, yet soft. Like
him.

She smiled into his eyes. She saw wonder in them and
a question. Slowly, watching, looking for her answer, he
bent his mouth to hers.

The first touch was light, too light. Too brief. When he
pulled away, she gripped the collar of his tunic and tugged
him back to her.

Her lips pressed against his. She reached up to his tousled hair, to his neck, damp with sweat. Her arms circled
his broad shoulders. Then she slid her mouth away and
buried her face in his neck. What was this-this need? This
longing. This storm of desire that filled her and drove her
forward. To where? To what?

He kissed her ear. She lifted her gaze to his.

His eyes were smiling. He ran them over her face, looking. Looking at her. He ran his finger along her eyebrow,
down her cheek. Exploring, taking her in, learning her with
his touch. He met her eyes again, smiled a deeper smile.

He was calm now, a pool of warmth, a pool that surrounded her, bathed her in warmth. Above her, birds
chirped their evening song. The wind soughed quietly in
the trees. The forest breathed.

She stood as still as a heron. What should she do? Lord,
she didn't know anything about this kind of behavior! What
should she do?

Her pulse quickened, a note of panic. But his hold was
steady, strong.

He kissed her until the marrow of her bones melted.

Sometime later, they stumbled back to the fort, under a
turquoise sky fading into evening's pale gray, and drifted
into the gathering hall. They ate quietly, responding to the
curious looks of the others with telling flushes.

"You want me," he accused her with a smile, leaning
close.

"Aye," she breathed, smiling back.

"You're not afraid of me?"

"Nay, not you."

"What then?"

Uncertain, she didn't answer.

Atap on the door woke Drosten just before dawn. It
took a moment for him to realize where he was. He wasn't
used to beds, nor to having a warm, feminine body close
to his.

The knock came again, and with a grimace of annoyance,
he rolled noiselessly onto his feet.

He opened the door. Alfred stood on the other side, and
the look on his face told Drosten there was serious business
to be dealt with.

He reached for his tunic and tugged it over his head.

"Britons?" he asked, as he slipped outside. Alfred shook
his head.

Drosten's hand tightened on his axe. "Danes?"

"There's a courier."

They crossed the courtyard to the fort's outer gate under
a sky still heavy with stars. A pine-knot torch had been
jammed into an iron ring in the wall. Standing within its
flaring, yellow glow was a young man splattered with mud.

"Speak," Drosten said.

"I have a message from your father."

"Say it."

The young man licked his lips. "In the words of Gormach mac Nectan, you are to kill Mhoire ni Colman."

Drosten's head snapped back. "You are mistaken.
Mhoire ni Colman is my wife. I sent a message to my father
weeks ago telling him of the marriage."

"Gormach mac Nectan says that now you are married
and have possession of Dun Darach, you must get rid of
the woman. Those are his orders."

Drosten grabbed the courier by his shirt and breathed
into his face. "If you think I will harm her, you had better
change your mind before I bash your head against the
wall."

The courier paled.

Drosten breathed hard and released his hold. He knew
his father hated the Scots and the Irish both. And so it has
come to this. Because Gormach mac Nechtan cares more
about the survival of his people than the life of one person.
Or the happiness of his son.

The roar rose in his throat. It came from the boy who
had lost all things innocent and kind. It grew as losses
grow, consuming his spirit. And it tore from the man as
the callous of time was ripped from him, and all he could
see was his mother's bloodless face and his sister's mouth
screaming with terror.

"Nay!" he cried, and brought his fists to his eyes.

He willed himself to think. Never would he harm
Mhoire. Never.

He knew what he must do.

He must renounce her. That was the only chance he had
to protect her. He must leave Dun Darach, sever the marriage. For if there was no marriage, there would be no alliance between the Picts and the Scots, and the only way
the Picts could take Dun Darach would be by force. Drosten had to hope that his father would not start a war with
the Scots while the Danes were burning his fields.

He would pay a price for his disobedience, Drosten knew
that. By sabotaging his father's plans, he would lose all his
status in the clan, perhaps even be exiled. A leader should
be cold-blooded, his family would say. But he could not
allow another woman whom he loved to die.

Mhoire stretched as a cat stretches, languidly, from the
center outwards. Her body felt different this morning. It was as if every nerve had been touched by a hazel wand
and magically brought to life.

Sleepily, she turned on her side and opened her eyes.
Drosten was gone. Mhoire inched herself across the bed
and buried her nose in the hollow of the pillow where he
had rested his head.

He had brought to their bed the same mixture of gentleness and directness that characterized all his other dealings
with her. She had never had anyone give her such complete
attention. His willingness-nay, his desire-to be fully occupied with her and her alone, seized her affections.

But where would love lead?

A whistle of birdsong, close, made her jump. A robin,
its breast plumped, sat on the window ledge. It bobbed its
head here and there, and perused her with a bright black
eye.

Her life had taken a turn she never had anticipated. She
had fallen in love with the man she had hoped to be free
of. And now she wanted so much to be with him. How
could that have happened?

She had been lonely. Now she had companionship.

She had been fearful. Now she had hope.

She had craved freedom. Now she had love.

She had felt hollow. And now-now she was full. And
happy.

Perhaps what she had thought was emptiness was simply
life waiting to be born.

The robin's wings fluttered. As quick as a blink, it flew
off the ledge and away. Mhoire sat up and gave her head
a shake. What would life be like now? Well, the only practical way to answer that, she told herself, was to climb out
of bed and find out.

She was disappointed but not surprised that Drosten was
nowhere in sight. She had never had a husband before and
did not know what to expect of one. Her own father had
disappeared for days on end without a word to her mother.
Mhoire didn't think Drosten would be that unfeeling, but she also knew that he wasn't the type of man who would
ask for her permission before heading off.

She busied herself with household chores. For an hour,
she wove baskets of sedge and honeysuckle. Then, feeling
restless, she went down to the beach and collected seaweed
and blueberries.

Her shoulder wound, she was happy to discover, did
nothing more than pinch as long as she did not extend her
arm too far. But there was another feeling that was not so
controllable. Didn't he want to see her after such a momentous night together?

She would sew. Sewing calmed her nerves. Intent on
retrieving her needle and thread, she marched into her bedchamber. And it was then that she felt the first glimmer of
anxiety. Drosten's pack was missing from its spot in the
corner, along with every weapon that he owned.

She emerged from the chamber as if from a fog, seeing
things she should have noticed earlier. Alfred, for example,
who often accompanied Drosten on an expedition, was
crouched by himself in the courtyard, shaping arrowheads
out of quartz.

She approached him as calmly as she could. "Alfred, do
you know where Drosten has gone off to?"

He didn't look up. "Nay. Can't say that I do."

"Did he go hunting?"

"Didn't notice."

"But you saw him this morning?"

Alfred hesitated. "Aye."

"He didn't tell you where he was going?"

The man didn't answer, but his hands stopped moving.

"Alfred . . ." She struggled to keep her voice steady.
"You know something that you are not telling me. What is
it?"

Alfred pinched his lips together, and his brows lowered.

"Alfred ..." Panic was rising now.

"He made me swear not to tell you."

"Made you swear?"

"He's left. That's all."

"Left? What do you mean?"

Slowly, Alfred stood. "I mean he's gone from the fort.
Gone from Dun Darach." He threw down the grinding stone
he held in his hand and wiped his brow with his sleeve.
"He won't be back."

Mhoire swayed on her feet. "I don't understand," she
said, her voice high and thin. "Why would he leave?"

Alfred's shoulders sagged, but he kept his voice strong.
"He's going to divorce you. He instructed me to tell you
that later, this evening, when he was full away."

"Divorce me?"

"Aye." Alfred glanced away and back again.

"And he's gone alone?"

"Aye."

Behind her, there was the sound of shuffling feet. Some
of the others, the soldiers and the women, had come into
the courtyard.

Mhoire shook her head. This didn't make sense. "He's
divorcing me, but he has left all of his soldiers here. Why?"
She looked up at the big man, and this time her intelligence
dared him to lie. "Why alone?"

"I cannot tell you."

"You must tell me!" She stamped her foot, furious. "I
command you to tell me! He is my husband and I am mistress of this fort. He has left you here and all these men,
and you are clearly under my control." She was shouting
now. "You must tell me!"

Grief poured into his eyes. "He has gone back to his
clan."

"His clan? Why in the name of Mary would he do that
and leave you here?"

Alfred stood silent.

He was tall, almost as tall as Drosten, but Mhoire remembered Drosten's instructions. Come from below. In an
instant, she had her dagger out and at Alfred's throat.

"It's a small weapon, but it will cut nonetheless." She
pressed the tip against Alfred's skin. Then she made herself ask the question that was tearing at her. "Is it another
woman?"

Alfred looked down at the dagger. "Nay. A courier arrived before dawn. From his father."

"And what was the message?"

"Drosten was told to kill you."

The others gasped. Mhoire stared into Alfred's eyes and
saw the pain of truth there. She lowered the dagger. "Because they don't need me now. Because I am a Scot," she
said flatly. "Because Drosten is a Pictish prince, and Gormach mac Nechtan does not want to sully the Pictish blood
by bringing a Scot into his family."

"Aye. All of that is true. But Drosten won't hurt a
woman. Especially you. Even for his father." Alfred's features blurred around the edges, as if his warrior's strength
was draining from him.

Draining into Mhoire.

Her jaw set. "They'll shame him if he breaks the marriage and loses the land. Or banish him." She looked Alfred
square in the face. "And I'm not going to let that happen.
I'm going to stop this foolishness before it goes any farther."

Alfred shook his head. "You can't. This is the only way
Drosten can save you. His father would not dare attack you
and seize Dun Darach for fear of retaliation from the king
of Dal Riata. Drosten said he wants you to have what you
always wanted. This place. He wants you to live your
dreams."

"So he'll throw away his future? That's his scheme?"

"It's the only scheme possible. You can't stop it."

Mhoire squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. "The
truth can stop it. So the truth will be told." She turned and
found Grainne in the crowd. "Bring me my arrows and my
bow."