Page 10 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

“S o wha’ d’ye think of your bride?”

Da asked the question almost jovially, as if he thought Rohr should be overjoyed with the situation in which he found himself.

Deathan looked up sharply to catch his brother’s response. The three of them were at breakfast in Da’s quarters, the hall still being cleared of last night’s feast.

Rohr looked like a ghost and as if he had not slept all night. Wandering the shore, perhaps, as Deathan had. Or visiting his lover?

“She is bonny, is she no’?” Da asked when Rohr did not speak at once.

“Bonny?” Rohr repeated as if he had never heard the word. “Nay, I should no’ say so.” His lips curved in a bitter smile. “No’ at all to my taste.”

“Well.” Da appeared taken aback. “Ye must admit, she is no savage.”

“I am no’ certain about that.”

“But—” Da frowned. “I ha’ to say I was most impressed by the whole party. Their demeanor. The fine clothing.”

“If ye suppose, Da, that lifts them from savagery, ye are verra much mistaken. As for the wench—did ye no’ look into her eyes?”

Da put down the cup he had just picked up, and Deathan could see him fighting against his annoyance. “Rohr, are ye certain ye are no’ just taking against them—against her—because ye do no’ want the marriage? For to be truthful, I saw naught wrong in her.”

“It is no’ that.” Rohr got to his feet and took a restless turn around the room. Would he tell Da the truth? That he was in love with someone else and that his lover carried his child?

“Son, we ha’ been over all this. A decree fro’ the king canna be disobeyed. And it might be far worse. She is young, healthy, and whatever ye say, no’ ill favored. Once ye get to know her—”

“I will fall in love wi’ her, is that it?”

“Not every match is for love. I was fortunate wi’ your mother, aye. And I would have wished the same for ye. But many matches made for the sake o’ an alliance do grow into love. That may well happen.”

Rohr snorted and tossed the cup he held, fortunately empty, across the room.

“Come, finish eating your breakfast.”

“I am going out.” Rohr turned for the door.

“Ye will be here to entertain our guests.” Da issued it as a command. “Ye will no’ embarrass me by absenting yoursel’. We ha’ events planned—”

Da spoke to the empty air. Rohr had gone.

Da’s jaw grew tight as carved stone. In the past, when he got such a look, there had usually been some form of retaliation. Now he fought through the anger again and drew a breath.

“This grows more difficult than I anticipated. I had thought when he met the lass, he would become reconciled to it.”

Deathan said nothing.

“So.” Da sent him a somewhat challenging look. “What d’ye think o’ yer new sister?”

Sister. The name grated on Deathan, all out of proportion. Like salt swiped across an open wound.

Once more, not waiting for an answer Da went on. “I was surprised in her, I will admit.”

“She speaks our language.”

“She has been educated. Far better than your own sister.”

“I did no’ ken that was customary among the Caledonians.”

“It is not. She is a princess. I did not think her ill favored.” An open-ended invitation to Deathan’s opinion.

“Not did I.” Beautiful hair. And those wild, warlike eyes. Carefully, Deathan said, “Mayhap Rohr favors a different sort o’ lass altogether. Quiet and biddable.”

“We do no’ ken Princess Darlei is no’ that.”

Oh, Deathan knew. He knew.

“Rohr maun mak’ up his mind to it. As ye would, aye, if ’twere ye?”

If it were he.

Da looked at Deathan with rare approval. “If only ’twere yoursel’ set to wed the lass, I doubt I would ha’ all this trouble.”

If only.

*

Darlei forced herself to stand still and endure it as Orle helped her into yet another grand gown, remaining motionless as the woman dressed her hair, struggling with the near-impossible task of coaxing it into some form of obedience.

Her hair at least seemed bent on retaining its wild character.

Whether she would, here, remained at question.

She felt ill, stifled, as if fingers clutched her around the throat, cutting off her air.

The big chamber, cool and dim, seemed far too removed from the life that might be glimpsed through the narrow window.

One of the Murtray’s servants dropped off their breakfast, which Orle neglected while struggling to perfect Darlei’s appearance.

A good thing, that she would not have to face all the company at breakfast. A bad thing, as she could not possibly eat.

Orle’s efforts completed at last, Darlei crossed directly to the slit window, her hands stealing to her neck as if she would loosen a bond. Nothing there. The restrictions she felt were not physical ones.

Only, they were. For she would be kept here, would she not? Trapped in this place with no means of escape.

Cool autumn air poured through the window, though she still could not see much beyond a strip of sky. Despair hit her a terrific blow, and she clenched her hands to fists against the stone sill.

How had her life come to this? She had known, even if she refused to admit it, that Father would eventually choose a husband for her.

She had thrust it from her mind, not having the same urge to wed as most young women.

She had hoped—vaguely—her future husband would be a good man from one of the local tribes. A warrior, mayhap.

Like Urfet.

She might respect him. Perhaps be attracted to him, again like Urfet. Eventually become fond of him.

She did not expect love, as such. She did not know that she believed in it. Women fell victim to foolish infatuation, yes. She’d watched that happen often enough, and had watched it transform, over time, into either friendship or tolerance.

She had never anticipated this. An order from a king who was a Gael upending her life.

A husband at whom she would never have looked twice.

Or perhaps even once.

Her father would remind her she was a princess and would instruct her to behave as such, with dignity and acceptance. The trouble was, not only was she a princess, but Caledonian to the heart.

She did not want that to change. She did not want to become like these people here. Gaels.

Behind her, Orle laid aside her brushes. “Darlei?”

Darlei turned away from the window with its narrow illusion of freedom. “What did you think of the strange bed?” she asked her friend, employing a sharp edge of sarcasm. “I near thought I would suffocate.”

Orle gave her a doubtful look. She had tried hard to be Darlei’s strength since the news of the marriage had come down, and during the journey. Now she looked as low in spirit as Darlei felt.

Darlei had been thinking only of herself, but Orle too had lost all she knew and loved. She would stay here with Darlei when the rest of their party left. At least, Darlei prayed Orle would not refuse to stay, now that she saw what it was like here.

“Come,” she told her woman more gently. “Let us eat some of this food. There are no doubt many activities planned for the day, and I must appear well and strong, that I may impress these self-important Gaels.”

Not as a princess—nay, she did not care about that. But as a capable woman in her own right. One who did not need a man. One who did not need the husband being thrust upon her.

Let him prove he was worthy of her, not the other way round.

Despite her determination, she merely picked at the food, finding her stomach did not welcome it.

This was odd fare, not like what she was used to at home.

Yet another thing to which she would be expected to accustom herself.

Halfway through the procedure, there came a scratch at the door.

One of Father’s guards stood there, and a whispered conversation with Orle took place.

“You are expected in your father’s room. He wishes to escort you out.”

Darlei puffed out a breath. “How do I look?”

“Magnificent,” Orle assured her.

Darlei nodded. The fine clothing would have to serve as her armor. What would sustain her far better, though, was a hard and sharp attitude behind which she might conceal her fear and dread.

No one should guess her true feelings. With luck, no one would.