Elizabeth McBride (6 page)

After a few moments, he slowed. Turning at the far end
of the room, he looked up at her. Rather grimly, she
thought, but without rage.

"I will offer you a deal."

"A deal?" She eyed him warily.

"If you can make a living at Dun Darach for one year,
I will release you from the marriage agreement, and my
clan will find another way to dispense with the Danes."

Mhoire gasped. Hope lifted in her like a bird in flight.

"But. . ." He raised a hand and looked at her keenly. "If
you cannot do so, you will marry me willingly and without
complaint."

She blinked, scarcely believing her ears. He was offering
her a challenge. But he was offering her a chance at freedom, too.

"Your father will agree to this?" she asked with a note
of disbelief.

His mouth twisted. "It will take some convincing. But I
believe so."

She tensed, suspicious of his intentions. "Why are you
doing this?"

He studied her face, running his eyes over her hair, her
brow, her mouth, before meeting her gaze.

He replied very evenly. "I am no more eager for marriage than you. But if I must marry, then I prefer it not be
to a reluctant bride."

The color rose in her face again, and she cursed herself
for the reaction. Terror mixed with joy ran through every
bone and muscle. She had no idea of what the future might
hold but she knew she must walk toward it.

She had one last question. "How will you know how I
fare?"

He lifted one gilded eyebrow. "Because I will go to Dun
Darach with you."

Mhoire's mouth fell open. Before she could compose
herself enough to close it, he had left.

Striding into the sunlight, Drosten got as far as the outside wall of the hillfort before he realized he had no idea
where he was going. But he went through the gate anyway
and out toward the fields. It felt good to be moving outside
the confines of the fort's walls.

Damnation! Why was he feeling so angry when he had
gotten what he wanted? His goal had been to lead the
woman into a trap by tempting her with her own desires,
and that's exactly what he had done. He had offered her
the slimmest chance to take Dun Darach, and she had
grabbed it, like a dog snapping at a piece of meat. Drosten
knew there was no way she could eke out a living from
Dun Darach on her own. Her attempts would come to nothing, and she would have to drop this foolish resistance and
marry him. He was sure she would keep her side of the
bargain. As Alfred had pointed out, the woman was honest.
From now on, all he had to do was bide his time and watch
her fail.

And that was the problem.

Drosten stopped, blew out a breath, and scanned the
newly planted fields without really seeing them.

He had been trained both to destroy and to protect. For
the first time in his life, he found himself wanting to do
both to the same person.

They set off the next day on a journey that was the hardest Mhoire had ever undertaken. With spring coming on,
the days were long and growing longer, and Drosten made
sure they used every bit of light to travel, rising before the
sun and taking only brief breaks to rest the horses and chew
on oat cakes until darkness descended. Now, midmorning
of the third day, Mhoire found herself wondering if Drosten
always drove his men so hard, or if his real intention was
to kill her off in the saddle before they even reached Dun
Darach. There was no doubt that if a person could die of
aching thighs and a sore bottom, she was halfway to the
grave.

Her heart, however, sang. She tried not to be too optimistic, tried not to imagine too much. But in the sustained
silences that accompanied the long days of riding, her
thoughts leapt ahead of her, picturing Dun Darach just over
the next ridge, at the bottom of the next glen, suffused in
sunlight, waiting.

She knew she was being indulgent. Don't stir your hopes
too much, she chastised herself. There is much to accomplish before you can call Dun Darach your own.

Still, she let herself dream. It was a small, secret pleasure, harmful to no one. And it kept her mind off the mysterious man riding before her.

Drosten sat easily in his saddle, he and his horse as comfortable with each other as only near-constant compan ions can be. The horse was magnificent, as all Pictish
horses were-a pale gray, expertly bred, and fifteen hands
high. From this solid perch, Drosten scanned the surroundings, the wind lifting and caressing his fair hair. Clearly
these mountains were his domain. Mhoire could see it in
the set of his shoulders and the line of his broad backloose yet alert and, above all, confident.

How Drosten had gotten his father to agree to this deal
of theirs, Mhoire could not fathom. They had left Strath
Erne with twenty men and nary a hint of opposition. Odd,
Mhoire mused. These Picts were not very logical. It would
certainly have been more expedient to march her to the
church. Unless Drosten was so sure of himself-and so
scornful of her-that he assumed she would quickly give
up her pursuit of independence.

He didn't want to marry, he had said. He had to marry.
But I do not want a reluctant bride. A shiver ran down
Mhoire's spine whenever she recalled those words. What
would he expect of her, if it came to marriage? But it won't,
she quickly assured herself. I will make Dun Darach prosper if I have to wear the flesh off my bones to do it.

A fitful sun broke through the clouds, and the wind blew
hard. When it gusted under Drosten's short tunic, Mhoire
could see the bulge of his leg muscles as he gripped his
stallion's flanks. She noticed, too, the blue tattoos etched
into his skin-one on his calf and another on his thigh. All
the Pictish warriors had them. The skin was pricked with
iron pins and herbal dye rubbed into it. Mhoire wondered
what this man's images were.

Suddenly, Drosten jerked on his reins, pulled out of line,
and slipped his horse tight beside hers.

"What's wrong?"

"What?"

"Your eyes are burning a hole in my back. What's
wrong?"

"Nothing."

His stare forced her to look at him.

"You're tired."

"I am not." She gave him a hard stare back.

"You should be."

"You mean after crossing a hundred ridges and fifteen
streams, not to mention spending two nights lying on the
ground listening to wolves howl their throats dry? You
think that would make me tired?"

"Seventeen."

"What?"

"We've crossed seventeen streams. River Ern, River Tay,
River Lyon, River Lednock..."

"I don't need to know the names."

"You may some day."

She stared straight ahead and pressed her lips together.

"You're tired," he said abruptly. "We'll stop. There's an
ash grove just ahead. You can rest out of the wind."

"NNay.

He stiffened in his saddle. She sensed it more than she
could see it. His horse sensed it, too, and shook its head,
sending its long mane flying. Then, in a flash, Drosten
spurred his horse forward. Mhoire frowned as he cantered
away and up the next hill through a bank of dark green
heather. The man was rude and perhaps a bit impulsive.
Mhoire sniffed. She didn't like impulsive men.

She was still frowning a few moments later when Alfred
appeared next to her. "Your friend is chasing the wind,"
she said, pointing her chin toward the crest of the ridge,
over which Drosten was fast disappearing.

"Aye," Alfred replied gravely. "Making haste over uncertain ground-bad luck, that."

Within the hour, they came upon yet another water
crossing. As the horses padded onto a narrow strip of
beach, Mhoire sought out one of the kinder-looking men-
a young man named Brian, with dark curly hair and warm
brown eyes-to ask where they were. "The Kyles of Bute,"
he answered. "The narrows. That's the island of Bute over
there." He nodded toward the land across the channel.

"An island? Dun Darach is on an island?"

"Aye, down at the tip. Just at the edge of the sea."

She stared southward.

"You can't see it from here, nor the sea neither, because
of the angle of the land. But we'll be to Dun Darach soon
enough."

"You've been there?"

Brian didn't answer. She tore her gaze from the view
and looked at him, but he wouldn't meet her eyes.

"You've been to Dun Darach?" she repeated.

He shifted uneasily in his saddle. "I've been
thereabouts."

"And what's it like?"

"Oh, well." He looked everywhere but at her. "It's, ah,
well..."

"Well?"

Brian cleared his throat. "You'll be there soon. You'll
see for yourself." Then he clucked to his horse and moved
forward.

Once across the channel, they followed the island's
coastline south and rounded its tip. Directly before them
was an expanse of short green grass, and in the middle of
it stood a large hill. A fairy hill, Mhoire thought it must
be, of great bulk and with the curiously rounded top that
distinguished all fairy hills. Just beyond it, at the very edge
of the island, was an upsurge of rock, flat topped, with steep
cliffs on three sides. At its pinnacle was a hillfort, its walls
an extension of the ramparts of stone that had been thrust
from the earth.

Mhoire's pulse quickened at the sight.

They passed a small lochan, dotted with ducks and
rimmed with silky grasses. The sea wind blew against them
with a fresh, greening smell. Above Mhoire's head, a stonechat chittered.

She was charmed, almost mesmerized. And so it wasn't
until they reached the very base of the hillfort that she
realized something was wrong.

The silence was the first peculiar thing Mhoire noticed.
She rose in her stirrups and strained her neck to see over the shoulders of the others. Ordinarily, at midday, a hillfort
would be filled with the voices of women cooking and
washing, of blacksmiths striking iron, of dogs barking and
cocks crowing. And there would be men in the fields
nearby joking and calling to each other.

She saw no men. No tilled fields.

Her eyes searched out Drosten, who was riding at the
front of the line. But this time her stare could not capture
his attention.

Anxiety turned into dread. Where was everyone? Was
there a terrible sickness? Had they come to the right place?

"Wait!" she called out.

The men drew up on their reins and stopped. Drosten
turned in his saddle.

She trotted her horse up to his. "This is Dun Darach?"

"Aye."

"I will go first then."

He frowned but nodded.

She moved slowly, examining what was before her with
disbelieving eyes. The palisade was gone. On every hillfort,
atop the high stone walls, a wooden palisade of tall, pointed
timbers was erected. A palisade raised the walls higher and
provided added protection. But there was none here. None
at all. Moving closer, Mhoire could see why. Mother of
God. The wall itself was in shambles, half-tumbled to the
ground as if a giant creature had come by and swiped it
with its paw.

She rode through a yawning break in the wall where a
gate must have hung and stopped on the other side. Here
was the common ground, where there should have been a
kitchen, a stable, a smithy, a butchering room, a tanning
shed, an alehouse, and other assorted small buildings, along
with the fort's most important structure-the gathering hall.
But there were no outbuildings, only chaotic piles of rubble.

The hall was here. Mhoire scanned its outlines. Then her
eyes focused on the small fire that was burning in front of
the doorway.

It looked so odd, its flames leaping and crackling with
life in the midst of stony desolation. There were other signs
of life around it: an iron pot hung from a trivet over the
flames, and a crude wooden spoon lay nearby. It appeared
as if someone had just abandoned her cooking a mere moment ago. Or, perhaps, Mhoire considered with a pang of
fear, there were fairy people living here and she just
couldn't see them.

She slipped down from her horse. Aye, there was food
cooking. She wrinkled her nose. Fish.

Someone was here. Someone-fairy or human-had
made this fire and was cooking this meal. Perhaps whoever
that was could tell her what, in the name of God and Mary
and all the saints, had happened to Dun Darach.

She smoothed her skirt with her hands to wipe off the
sweat and stepped to the large wooden door of the gathering hall. Tentatively, she lifted the latch and pushed in.
The door squeaked on its hinges as it opened. She stepped
over the threshold, and immediately, her eyes were drawn
upwards. Where the hall's roof should have been, there was
nothing but flat gray sky. And it revealed an interior that
was absolutely bare.

Within an hour, Alfred had found the fire's makers, who
proved to be entirely human. A small group of women was
hiding in a cave carved into the shoreline below, clinging
to each other in terror. The rebellious squawk of a goose,
which one woman had clasped to her breast, gave their
presence away. It required a fair amount of talking on Alfred's part to convince the women that, despite his Pictish
accent, he was not the enemy. It took considerably more
words before they would accept the idea that there was an
Irish princess traveling with him and that she was their kin.