Elizabeth McBride (24 page)

It was still deep dark when she roused herself and brewed some yarrow tea. Quietly, they both drank from the
same cup. When Drosten laid down, he coaxed her to his
side again, and she drew her cloak, which had dried by the
fire, over the both of them.

She laid her forehead against his.

He kissed her. His lips were warm and tender.

"Don't you hate me?" she whispered.

"How could I hate you, mo milidh?"

"Because I have done such a terrible thing."

"You tried to save yourself. There is no shame in that."

"But I have made everyone's life worse."

"You made mine infinitely better. I only wish I had had
more than one night with you."

"Drosten ..."

He kissed her again, more firmly. Then he laid his large
hand against her cheek. "I won't let you sacrifice yourself
for me, mo milidh."

"And I won't let you sacrifice yourself for me."

The words hung between them.

She raised her hand and buried her fingers in the soft
hair next to his temple. Like eiderdown it was, strong and
shining.

"Were those your father's men that sought to kill you?"
she asked quietly.

"I didn't recognize any of them."

"Might he have hired them?"

"Mayhap. But I doubt my father was behind this attack.
He would have known it would take more than two men
to kill me. And he couldn't have realized so quickly that I
had disobeyed his command. His courier is still at Dun
Darach."

"Could one of your men be a spy? Could one of them
have heard you say you wouldn't kill me and told your
father?"

He shook his head. "Even if there was a spy among my
men, he couldn't have gotten back to Pictland so soon to
report my disobedience."

"Unless your father is near."

Drosten's face clouded.

"Who then, my heart, if not your father? Who would try
to kill you?"

"I have many enemies, mo milidh." He smiled ruefully.
"Though I must say, this one-whoever he is-is persistent."

"What do you mean?"

"He's tried to kill me three times now."

Mhoire's hand stilled. She withdrew it from Drosten's
hair and rested it against his chest. "Three times?"

He looked amused by her state of shock. "Aye. First the
stab in the arm ..."

"When you went out alone ..."

"Aye. You got me drunk and patched me up, mo milidh."
He drew his face closer to hers and lightly kissed her temple and then her cheek. His lips skimmed the corner of her
mouth. "Do you remember?"

"Aye," she breathed.

He kissed her again, on the mouth. Harder. Hotter.

"Do you know how much I wanted you then, mo milidh?"

"But. . ." She drew away, searched his eyes. "But you
were drunk. I thought ... you said you didn't remember
anything." She looked down, confused and embarrassed all
over again. "You didn't remember that I kissed you."

He tilted her head up, made her take in his words. "My
memory may be faulty, but my desire was true. I wanted
you from the minute I saw you, crawling out of that roof,
with straw in your hair and a dagger in your mouth."

Mhoire pulled herself closer, wrapped her arms around
his waist, and sunk her face into his shoulder.

She felt his breath on her hair and then his lips on her
neck. They were drowning. They both were drowning. And
these kisses were taking them down. Down to where the
pain of loss would be forever unbearable.

But Mhoire couldn't bring herself to stop him.

She shuddered with wanting. Then she pulled in a breath
and forced her mind back to their conversation.

"If this was the third time you were attacked, when was
the second?"

"The raid on Dun Darach."

She drew back again, and looked into his eyes. "You
think those men were after you?"

"Aye."

"But why?"

"If all they had wanted was the fort, they would simply
have lit fire to the place and picked us off like mice running
from a flaming haystack. But instead they came through
the wall and sought me out."

"I thought that raid was just my bad luck."

"Perhaps I am your bad luck."

"It must be the Britons then. Irwin said they were near.
And they've been fighting with you for years."

"Hmm."

"Who else could it possibly be? The Danes? Dear God,
could it be the Danes?"

"Nay. The Danes have more barbaric ways of getting
what they want." She heard the grief in his voice, the grief
that was locked tight within him.

"You know them too well, don't you, my heart?" she
asked gently.

"Aye." His body stiffened protectively.

"You know the worst they can do." Once again, her hand
went to his hair, pushed it gently back from his brow. "Tell
me about your mother."

His eyes closed. "Nay, mo milidh. I can't. I can't tell you
that."

"You must."

His voice declined to a whisper. "You'll shun me. I
couldn't bear it. Not now."

She waited two breaths. Three. He was silent.

"My heart, it will be better to say it aloud. Trust me.
Trust how much I love you."

Two more breaths. Five. Seven.

Was he being stubborn? Drosten wasn't like that. Afraid? Mhoire felt a spark of anger. "I've told you my secret. Tell
me yours."

He studied her, saw how her mouth had hardened, and
sat up. He picked up a piece of kindling and poked at the
fire. "It was long ago."

Mhoire raised herself and tucked her feet under her skirt.
"How old were you when it happened?"

"Seven years."

She waited.

"My father was away from home. He thought the fort
was safe. He never believed the Danes would sail that far
inland." Drosten's shoulders hunched, and he pushed at the
fire as if to brighten the blaze. But Mhoire could see he
wasn't truly paying attention to it. His mind was traveling
back. Back to the horror.

"What happened?" she prompted softly.

"They had sailed up the river. It was nighttime. I was
sleeping."

"But you heard them."

"I heard noises. Shouting. Screams." He shuddered. "I
jumped out of bed and grabbed my dagger and ran to the
window. There were fires everywhere. The roofs of all the
buildings were burning. I didn't ... understand. People
were running, everywhere, back and forth, yelling. And the
cows were bellowing. I kept thinking, what are they doing
to the cows?" He shook his head, still amazed at his own
foolish question, a child's question.

"And then the door burst open. I knew immediately that
they were Danes. Huge men, huge shoulders and thick
necks like bulls. They wore bright metal breastplates. For
a minute I thought, `Could they be angels?' But they were
ugly. Horrible. With wild eyes and red mouths. I heard one
of them say something, but the sounds weren't even like
words." Drosten let the stick of wood in his hand fall,
wrapped his arms low across his body, bent over them. "I
flung the knife." His head swung back and forth, as if he
couldn't believe what his mind's eye saw. "I missed."

Mhoire watched the muscle in the side of his face flex. Then she inched closer, laid her hand on his arm. "My
heart, you were only seven years old."

Drosten ran his hands over his face. His breath came in
shivers.

"Where was your mother?" she asked, not sure any more
if she wanted to know.

He shook his head.

She moved her hands to his. Took them in her own.
Waited.

"She was in the hearth room. On her knees." Sweat
beaded on his forehead. "Two men were holding her, one
on each side. They had their hands on her shoulders. They
had my sister Bria, as well. She was frightened. Almost out
of her mind. She ... We used to play together. And when
she saw me, she began to cry and reached for me, but one
of the men hit her hard across the face." Drosten paused,
slipped his hands from hers, wiped his forehead with his
sleeve. "She screamed, and then my mother screamed, and
all I could think of was, I must stop them from hitting my
sister. So I kicked one of the men who was holding me in
the groin and for one blessed second I thought I could get
away. But the other one rammed his fist into my nose. Then
everything went black, and I could taste the blood streaming down my throat. I heard them laugh. And Bria screaming, and my mother ... Sweet God!"

He squeezed his eyes shut, nearly doubled. Mhoire
slipped her arm around his shoulders, leaned him against
her, murmured words that were not words, only croonings
more ancient than language.

Slowly Drosten gathered himself, drew back slightly but
stayed within the circle of her arms. "They tied me to a
chair."

He paused again.

"My mind came back, and I saw them take the torcs that
were around their necks and put them on top of my
mother's head and my sister's head. They thought that was
funny. One of them-their leader, I think-spoke a bit of
Pictish, and he kept saying, `The Pictish queens have Dan ish crowns.' And then he turned to me and said, `You are
worth nothing.'

Drosten took a shaky breath. "He knew, you see, that
our royalty and our titles are handed down from mother to
daughter. And then he said ... then he said, `You are too
worthless to kill, Pictish boy.' "

Drosten closed his eyes for a moment. Opened them.
Sweat dripped down his temples, wetting his hair. "He said,
`So we'll let you choose. We'll kill one of your queens and
let the other one live. You choose.' "

He began to shake. Mhoire reached for his hands again,
and he gripped them so hard she thought her fingers would
break.

"I couldn't do it. I couldn't choose. I wouldn't say either
name. They kept asking, over and over, who should livemy mother or my sister. I kept shaking my head. My whole
body was shaking. My teeth were knocking against each
other, and there was all this blood in my throat. I thought
I was drowning in it. They hit me again and again. I don't
know how many times."

He swallowed hard. "Finally I blacked out. The next
morning someone found me still tied to the chair. They said
the Danes were gone, and they had taken my sister with
them. And ... and my mother ... my mother ..." His face
twisted. ". . . had hung herself in the night."

Mhoire pulled him close, anchored him. Her tears fell
like rain in his hair.

Finally, she spoke. "She spared you, my heart. She made
the choice you could not make."

"I never would have spoken. I never would have given
in."

"She knew that."

"They could have tortured me. I never would have
yielded."

"She knew that, my heart. Your mother knew you. She
knew how strong you were, even at seven. She could not
bear the thought of your being harmed. She killed herself
to prevent it."

"I didn't want her to die ..."

"Nay, my heart. Of course you did not."

"I should have done something. I should have taken better aim with the knife. Or had my axe ready. Or tricked
them somehow. Had some strategy. Something ..."

"There was nothing you could have done-a boy against
so many men."

"She shouldn't have died like that. Taken her life with
her own hand."

She held him closer. "Your mother only did what you
have been willing to do for me, my heart.,','-

He turned his head, spoke in her ear. "I love you, mo
milidh. More than life."

"As she did you."

He gripped her, and she let him hold her, took the heat
that poured from him, let his sorrow burn. When finally he
slumped in her arms, she laid him down to sleep.

Now it was Mhoire who lay awake. Her heart ached for
the man sprawled on the cold ground beside her, for the
boy who had been so cruelly mistreated, for the warrior
who had carried such a burden of guilt. No wonder he
insisted on protecting her, as if he could make up for what
he hadn't been able to do for his mother on that long-ago
day. But his love went beyond guardianship, Mhoire realized now. Drosten wanted her to be happy, to be well, to
have what she most wanted. And he was willing to give
her up-even give up his own future-so that she could
have those things.

He lay on his stomach, his face toward her. His hair had
dried wispy and golden around his ears, and his lashes lay
like strands of flax against his cheeks. The crease between
his brows was still there, even in sleep, as if trouble was
haunting him still.

Burning from the heat of emotion, Drosten had pushed
the blanket down to his waist, exposing his broad back. His
skin gleamed golden in the firelight. Mhoire ran her hand
along the smooth muscle. He sighed, still sleeping, and the lines in his face relaxed. Gently she kneaded his shoulders.
Lowering her head to the crook of his neck, she breathed
in his scent. She buried her nose into his skin, rubbed her
cheek against his hair. Her hands moved carefully, lovingly, down his arms. Along his knuckles and rough fingers, across his back. Smoothing the knots of guilt, and
pushing out the poison of shame.

He rolled onto his side, facing her. His eyes gleamed
like the embers of the fire.

He murmured something in his Pictish tongue.

"I've awakened you," she whispered.

He stretched out an arm and brought her to him.

He kissed her so hard she almost stopped breathing. But
then she forgot about breathing, only thought about Drosten, and his kisses that warmed her like the sun.

She wanted him. Wanted him close to her. Wanted him
to feel her love. Love that was compassion and passion
both. Love beyond thought, beyond fear, beyond hope.

She pulled him closer. Unlocked the doors and windows
of her soul and flung them wide. And when he whispered
her name, his lips on her ear, she knew she could not give
him up.