Page 2 of Ensnaring the Dove

Aedan’s heart kicked against his ribs at the voice he hadn’t heard in years—soft and sweet like a lark’s song.

Tall and slender, her russet hair piled high on her head and a golden torc around her throat, Bronwen had matured from a gangly lass to a lovely woman. Even in the dim light inside the roundhouse, she glowed. Her pale skin was lustrous, and her green eyes gleamed.

An instant later, he noticed the swell of her belly under the long, sleeveless tunic she wore.

The warmth that had suffused him at seeing Bronwen again seeped away, leaving a chill in its wake.

Aedan’s attention shifted right to the man who sat at the head of the great hearth. Unlike his warriors, he reclined upon a low chair carved out of oak.

It wasn’t Colmus, son of Bel.

Instead, the man was young, with a thick head of light auburn hair and a well-groomed mustache as yet unmarked by strands of grey. Sharp blue eyes watched Aedan—a familiar gaze indeed.

Aedan smiled, even as his chest constricted. If his younger brother sat upon the High Seat, then his father was no longer with them. “Deaglan.”

The chieftain stared back at him for a few moments more before speaking. “Greetings, brother.”

It wasn’t the warmest welcome Aedan had ever received. Likewise, the gazes around the fire pit were wary rather than joyful.

It was as if an unwelcome spirit had just ventured into their midst.

Aedan shouldn’t have been surprised. He was a reminder of a bitter defeat they all likely wished to forget. Once again, misgiving tickled his nape.

Maybe the Romans had stolen more from him than he’d realized.

“Back from the dead, eh?” Deaglan took a swig from his horn of ale, his gaze never leaving Aedan’s face.

Aedan nodded. “As you can see, I’m very much alive. I was taken that day … and have been a slave for the past seven years.” He paused then, his pulse quickening. “But no longer … I’ve just been given my freedom.”

This admission caused tension to ripple around the fireside. Warriors exchanged glances, and some of them even murmured oaths under their breaths.

“That’ll account for your strange look,” Deaglan said finally, raking his gaze over his elder brother, from the crown of his head to his feet.

Aedan shrugged. He knew his short hair, clean-shaven jaw, and lack of mustache made him stand out. However, his clothing, at least, was no longer Roman. Before departing from Vindolanda, he’d cast aside the tunica and sandals he’d worn as a slave, for woolen bracae—trousers—and a sleeveless tunic of bright ochre fastened with a narrow leather belt. Light leather boots shod his feet.

“I’m still me, brother,” he murmured, holding Deaglan’s eye.

The pair of them locked gazes for a few moments, the tension inside the roundhouse drawing tighter still.

“Why did those shit-eaters let you go then?” his brother asked finally.

“I was slave to the general, Justinian Aquila,” Aedan replied. The name of the dreaded ‘Eagle’ made the faces inside the shadowy space harden. “And spent much time in Caledonia … mostly at the fort of Ardoch.” He paused then, aware of the aggression that now glinted in the eyes of the men he’d once named as friends. “When the north fell, Aquila moved to Vindolanda. The emperor wasn’t pleased with his failure and stripped him of rank. The Eagle now commands the garrison there … and he took one of the Cruthini as a wife … a womanwho’d once been his slave. After that, he gave all the slaves in his household their freedom.”

Deaglan inclined his head, gaze glinting. Aedan knew how strange his tale sounded; indeed, the love that had blossomed between Aquila and his willful slave Fenella had shocked everyone.

He’d expected a response from his brother, yet none was forthcoming. Eventually, Aedan cleared his throat and broke the heavy silence. “When did father die?”

“Four winters past,” Deaglan replied, no emotion in his voice. “A fever carried him off.”

Aedan nodded, even as something deep inside his chest clenched. Colmus had died thinking his firstborn son was lost forever. He wished he could have said goodbye to him. It was just another regret that Aedan would have to add to a growing list.

Deaglan motioned to Bronwen then. She moved close to the chieftain, taking the hand he outstretched.

No words were needed. With just one gesture, Deaglan had told him that the comely Bronwen—the woman Aedan had once loved—was his wife.

Aedan’s pulse quickened further, a sickly sensation washing over him.

Bronwen watched him steadily, her lovely face veiled. Likewise, Deaglan’s gaze was shuttered.