Warrior’s Redemption (17 page)

Ungrateful?
At the moment, Dani regretted every drop of milk she’d ever set out for Faeries. Regretted every single minute she’d wasted reading books about them. Regretted ever having heard of them.

“Well, I’m just oh so sorry that you find me ungrateful for this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity you’ve given me, but maybe you missed the last news flash. Malcolm is marrying someone else.”

Elesyria huffed out her breath, looking every bit the irritated Faerie. “Once in a lifetime? You wish. We all do. No, child, it’s more like once in a millennium. Once in a thousand lifetimes, and only then if you’re very, very lucky. You may never see this opportunity again, and what do you do with it?
Pffft
.” Her hand flittered above her head like a butterfly in flight. “You fritter it away as if it has no more value than a cup of dirt. If you place no more value on true love than this, you don’t deserve true love.”

With a flounce of her skirts and a slamming of the door, Elesyria was gone.

“Fine!” Dani yelled at the closed door. “I’m glad you’re not my Faerie godmother, because you suck!”

She sat down on the foot of the bed, head in her hands, rubbing her face with her fingers.

Just like Malcolm did when he was stressed.

“Damn it,” she whimpered, giving herself over to self-pity.

It was all so unfair. She’d just begun to feel accepted here. To feel as if she really belonged. As if these were the people she’d searched for her whole life. As if Malcolm was the one she’d searched for her whole life.

And now this. This other woman that he was going to marry simply to secure an alliance.

Elesyria was wrong. It wasn’t her turning down true love. It was Malcolm. She’d been receptive to his overtures. She’d made every effort.

“Ha!” she snorted, rising to her feet to pace back and forth.

Receptive? Oh yeah. She’d definitely been receptive. And it hadn’t required any effort at all on her part. Hell, she’d been all over the guy. If his brother hadn’t interrupted them yesterday, she’d probably have had him on the floor, and had her way with him.

Like that had required any effort on her part. If anything, the effort was to
not
wrestle him to the floor.

No, Elesyria wasn’t wrong about her.

She’d been a fighter her whole life, willing to go after whatever she’d wanted, grabbing hold and hanging on for dear life. And now that she faced maybe the most important fight of her life? Now she was just rolling over and giving up.

“Oh, no, I’m not.”

That had never been her and it wasn’t going to be her now. The Faeries had handed her a chance at the perfect
life. Her SoulMate. Her true love. And she was by God going for it. She’d been successful for years in
discouraging
men’s interest. Now it was time for success at
encouraging
it.

With a tug at the neckline of her dress and a push to her breasts, she exposed a little more of herself. A flip of her hair and one long curl dangled down on the bare skin.

If she ended up losing Malcolm to another woman, it wasn’t going to be without a damn good fight.

With new determination she flung open the door and found herself face-to-face with a grinning Elesyria.

“I knew you’d come around once you thought about it.”

The Faerie linked her arm through Dani’s, pulling her forward toward the revelry awaiting them one level down.

Midway down the stairs, the music began, slowly at first, picking up in tempo and volume. By the time they reached the double-wide entry to the great hall, the drums were echoing through the cavernous rooms and throbbing in Dani’s chest.

If she were going to describe the scene before her, the one word that came to mind was
Valhalla
.

Delicious aromas wafted to her, reminding her none too subtly that in her pouting, she’d skipped all meals today. The huge fireplaces on either side of the hall burned brightly, an enormous carcass roasting slowly on a turning spit in each one of them.

The tables were filled with more people than she’d
even realized inhabited the castle, all laughing and shouting, trying to be heard over the music. The young girls who normally served at midday were nowhere to be seen, replaced tonight by the women she’d worked with in the kitchens this morning. They laughed and shouted right along with those they served, splashing a dark amber bubbly from the pitchers they carried into the tankards held up as they passed.

The musicians themselves held sway in one corner, three men on drums and one playing a bagpipe. Their rhythm pulsed through the crowd, punctuated by the occasional primitive scream and bellow. The piper’s face was a bright red and the cords in his neck stood out like lines of rope in response to his exertion.

It was shaping up to be some amazing party.

Presiding over it all, seated at the middle of the great table set upon the dais, was Malcolm.

Their eyes met across the room, locked to one another like iron filings to a magnet. Slowly, as if he weren’t even aware of his actions, Malcolm rose to his feet.

“Showtime,” Dani whispered and stepped into the room.

D
ANIELLE!

She stepped into the great hall, her eyes boring into Malcolm’s very soul.

As if a great warhorse sat on his chest, he struggled to fill his lungs with air, even as his feet moved him toward her of their own accord. The noise around him
dulled to a dim roar even as the path ahead of him narrowed like a tunnel, focused on a thing of beauty at the end.

He met her halfway down the aisle separating the two halves of the enormous room, aware of nothing more than the way she looked this evening.

Most of her hair had been piled up upon her head in a most artful manner, but a couple of curls fell carelessly loose, trailing onto her bare skin, tracing a path downward, leading his eyes toward the swells of her breasts.

He met her gaze again to find her smiling, a soft, seductive turn of the lips aimed directly at him. And good that was, too. He had not a single doubt that he’d draw sword and skewer any other man she graced with that look.

She held out her hand and he took it, leading her back to the dais and behind the table to the seat next to his. On the morrow he might well owe his soul to Angus MacKilyn, but for this one night, he would enjoy the lady of his own choosing at his side.

One of the women stopped at their table, her large pitcher held high on her shoulder. He lifted his tankard and she streamed the battle brew into his cup.

Dani held her cup aloft when the woman offered, but he placed his hand over it.

“This is no the normal ale we drink with our meals, my lady. This brew is from an ancient recipe, made potent with the strength of the bog myrtle.”

Dani grinned and pushed his hand away. “I had no
trouble with Guinness back home, so I doubt your bog myrtle beer will do me in, either.”

She touched the rim of her tankard to his and took a sip before leaning her head close to his in order that she might be heard. “Interesting flavor. Is it true that your men drink this before battle to turn them into berserkers?”

Someone had been filling her ears with the old stories.

“It is the custom of my people.”

He spoke into her ear as she had into his, breathing her in, reveling in the tingles shooting through his body. Whether it was her loose hair tickling his face or the effects of the battle ale, he could not say. Did not care. It only mattered that his senses were alive with her.

Another small sip and she set her cup down to lean close again. “I never heard of that custom. Never read about any such Scottish tradition, never saw it in a single mov—well, let’s just say, it’s not a Scottish tradition I was familiar with.”

“I never said it was, my lady.” It was all he could do to keep from taking her earlobe between his teeth. “I said it was the custom of my people. My father’s people. He came to these shores long ago, a Viking raider. After defeating the MacDowylt in battle, he settled in as their laird, bringing his wife and son from his homeland to join him. When his wife passed on, he married my mother, and though he committed himself to this land to raise his family, he raised us in the ways of our ancestors lest we forget who we were.”

“Thus the Odin feast,” she said, sweeping her hand
to encompass the activity in the room.

“Thus the Feast to Odin,” he confirmed.

Food was brought to them course by course, each served in a trencher he shared with Dani. Pottage, soups, roasted meats, and sweet creations all made from the MacDowylt’s meager storage of supplies. Every dish accompanied by a seemingly endless supply of the ale and served to the soul-searing beat of drums and pipes.

While the feast itself was a custom of his father’s people, the music belonged to his mother’s world. Primitive, ancient, it stirred his blood.

At intervals the music would pause long enough for the players to rotate, allowing each group of four musicians to rest until it was their turn to play again.

During one such interval the old cook, Ada, appeared at his side, a cloth-wrapped box held reverently in her hands.

It was time.

He accepted the bundle, laying it on the table in front of him. Peeling back the soft linen he exposed a box, hand-carved in generations past from the wood of the sacred rowan tree. He lifted the lid to reveal three large drinking horns, each engraved with the symbol of one of their gods.

He stood and poured a draft of ale from his tankard into the first horn, lifting it above his head.

A hush fell over those gathered in the room, many of whom had followed him for years. The warriors among
the assembled lifted their tankards above their heads in a duplication of his move.

“For victory and power,” he called out.

“For victory and power,” they echoed.

“For Odin,” they all yelled in unison with him, downing their drinks even as he swallowed the contents of the drinking horn.

He laid it back on the table and picked up the second, once again pouring a swallow from his tankard into the horn before lifting it above his head.

“For faith in yer own strength and power,” he called, waiting until the room had once again filled with the echo of his words. “For Thor,” he yelled above the noise, leading the room in the toast before downing that drink as well.

A third time, he picked up a horn and poured the remainder of his ale into it before lifting it above his head to lead his people in the final blessing.

“For good years and peace.” He waited until the echo died to lead the chant of “For Frey.”

He downed the last of his ale and sat, carefully replacing the three horns in their box while the room reverberated in shouts and cheers that were quickly drowned out by the resumption of the pounding, pulsing music.

“Did you think to keep this from me? Did you no think I’d be smart enough to recognize the purpose of this gathering?” Dermid shoved his way to the table, his fair skin mottled with anger and too much ale. “Patrick says I’m to be left behind on the morrow. I want to go with you, Colm. You need me there.”

Malcolm had known this moment would come, just as he’d known his answer would be a blow to Dermid’s pride, no matter how he might try to position it. All the same, he would not see the young man’s life at risk.

“I’d ask yer understanding. I leave you behind to see to my castle. To see to my people.”

“Do you take me for a fool? It’s horse dung you think to rub my face in now. I’m no a youngling. I’ve a right to go with you. Christiana is my sister too.”

If Dermid wouldn’t accept an excuse, he’d have the truth, though Malcolm doubted it would satisfy him any better.

“Yer my brother, Dermid. As I’d have Christiana safe with me, so, too, I’d have you safe. You stay behind.”

“Patrick is yer brother too, but he trails along, sniffing yer butt like a dog on every campaign, does he no?”

Beside him, Patrick rose to his feet.

“Patrick is a seasoned warrior, fighting at my side as my right hand. You’ve no his experience.” Malcolm reached out, laying his hand over Dermid’s. “Yer my brother. I love you. I’d no ever place yer life in jeopardy.”

Dermid slapped his hand away, staggering back at his own exertion. “Love me? Ha!” He spit on the floor at his feet. “Torquil was right about you. You care for nothing but yer own glory.”

“Dermid . . .” Malcolm thought to soothe, but his brother
stormed away, weaving a path through the crowd.

“He’ll be fine.” Patrick reclaimed his seat, shaking his head with a grin. “Well, fine once the ale-sick passes. He’ll come to his senses when his head clears. He’s no one to hold on to an anger.”

Malcolm nodded, hoping his brother was right. But angry or no, Dermid would remain behind. He might be angry, but at least he’d be alive. More than many in this hall would be able to say in a week’s time.

Ada leaned in and swept the box away and Malcolm looked out over the hall, an enormous regret filling the hollow between his shoulders.

The Battle Sorrow, he and Patrick called it. The knowledge that these warriors stretching out in the hall before him would ride into battle on his word. The knowledge that not all of them would return.

A soft touch to his shoulder and he turned to find Dani leaning close.

“What’s wrong?”

He shook his head to dismiss the conversation. He could not speak of this now.

“We should probably talk.” She stood up and reached a hand out to him. “Come on,” she yelled over the commotion in the room.

They did need to talk, though he dreaded the words he would have to say.

He rose to his feet and took her hand, allowing her to lead him out of the hall and through the narrow hallways to the kitchen and beyond, out into the dark.

Out here, with the moon shining brightly in the cloudless sky, the music was but a faint beat in the night. The early snow that had plagued their journey back from the stone circle had fallen only lightly here and melted into the thirsty soil almost as soon as it had touched ground.

Dani’s steps slowed and she glanced up at him, a shy smile perched at the corners of her lips.