Page 13 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

D a’s hand came down upon Deathan’s shoulder. The gesture mirrored that of Androch only moments before, yet could not be more unlike.

“Son, I do no’ think ye should take part in the competitions.”

Da did not look at him but gazed away across the turf to where the first of the races was set to begin. The footrace this was, in which Darlei would not compete.

“We want to show well, do we no’? To best the Caledonians?” Deathan questioned.

“Aye so,” Da admitted.

“I ha’ a good chance o’ doing that.”

“We want your brother to win.”

Deathan felt that. It went through him like a blade to the heart, even after all this time. Would his father not be proud if he bested the Caledonian warriors? Only Rohr?

He said quietly, “I am no’ certain Rohr can beat that front man o’ theirs, Urfet.”

Da sent him a sharp glance. “And ye think ye can?”

“I do.”

“Aye then, do it. But if ye come up on your brother in the lead—”

Deathan pulled away from his father’s hand. He did not care so much about being first. But perhaps Androch was right. There was only so much a man could cram down his craw.

“I know I can rely upon ye,” Da said. “As yer mother always tells me, we can count upon Deathan as on solid rock.”

Thick as rock, was he? Scant praise, and the equivalent of admiring how well a man took a stab in the back.

Not till Da walked away did Deathan fully appreciate what his father’s words meant. Da knew he could best Rohr. For all his apparent disfavor, he did. Else he would not feel it necessary to ask Deathan to hold back.

That caused some satisfaction. Not enough. With rebellion in his heart, he stepped forward and took his place in the line of runners.

They were to run down the length of the field where the ponies were exercised, around a small tree at the bottom of the field, and back again. Deathan hoped someone had been assigned to pick up the offerings the ponies left ahead of time.

He glanced at the tent, set on the elevated area up beside the keep. Princess Darlei was not there. Looking around, he saw her standing behind the starters.

She did not so much as glance at him, but his heart beat hard. Harder. He could make her see him.

A primitive urge it was, to want to win. To want to win in order to gain a woman’s attention. An urge he denied far too often.

At the center of the line, the members of the Caledonian guard jostled and shoved one another playfully for position. Rohr was at the far end of the row, well separated from Deathan.

King Caerdoc stepped up, raised his arm, and brought it down with a shout.

They ran.

It took Deathan a moment or two of pounding over the turf to figure out what was going on. That this was not like any race they normally ran. Indeed, the jostling at the beginning should have told him.

The Caledonians pushed one another, tripped one another—or tried to—all while laughing and leaping free of the obstacles. They shoved the Gaels also, who did not react at all well.

One of them came at Deathan, and he dodged nimbly, leaping free. That was when he realized some of the Caledonian runners sacrificed their race to take out the competition. So their man, Urfet, could win.

Indeed, Urfet was well in the lead, striking across the green turf like a bolt of lightning. Lithe of limb and full of vigor, the man looked unstoppable.

Not on my ground , Deathan thought, and took off after him.

He had to dodge two more Caledonian runners. The rest could not catch him now. He and Urfet were way out in front.

They rounded the tree, Urfet making a neat loop of it, Deathan losing a few steps. He could no longer hear the onlookers hollering, so loud did the blood rush in his ears.

He passed Rohr heading the other way to round the tree.

Waiting for them was the crowd of Caledonian runners they would have to pass going the other way. They let Urfet through and looked to bar Deathan’s way, but they did not, merely held out their arms and made good-natured faces, letting him pass.

He was right on Urfet’s heels.

He could see his father and the king waiting. He could see Darlei.

Darlei.

He put down his head and ran.

For all that, he did not know he had won till he skidded to a halt in front of his father and King Caerdoc—with Urfet now at his heels.

Urfet slapped him on the back. “A good race!”

King Caerdoc beamed. “How close it was. But your man, Chief MacMurtray, won.”

“I am his son,” Deathan said.

No one heard him. Rohr came running up, face red with either effort or anger, and spat in Urfet’s face, “That was no’ fair! Wha’ kind o’ race is it where the runners attack one another?”

Urfet’s expression went from congratulatory to cold. “It is our way,” he said, “to try to trip one another. All in fun.”

“It is cheating!” Rohr stepped up. “I would ha’ won but for it.”

“As your brother did?” Urfet gestured at Deathan. He at least had heard him identify himself.

It was the wrong thing to say if he wanted to allay Rohr’s anger. Deathan thought he did not.

“It is cheating, and ye will pay for it!”

Princess Darlei appeared and inserted herself between Rohr and Urfet. It brought her so close to Deathan that he could smell the fragrance coming off her hair.

“It is our way,” she told Rohr, “in friendly competition.” Her eyes glowed wild silver. “If you have a difficulty with that—”

Rohr backed down, but Deathan could see it cost him. Cost him in pride and self-discipline.

“As ye say, princess.”

“A misunderstanding only.” King Caerdoc stepped forward. “We are not used to one another’s ways.”

“Indeed.” Da did not look at all happy. His gaze slid over Deathan as if he did not exist.

But Princess Darlei turned to him. “Congratulations. You ran well.”

All the reward he could fairly ask.

*

Darlei gazed into the face of the man who stood before her.

He who had beaten her hero, Urfet, in the race.

Wild emotions pumped through her. Annoyance, yes, that Urfet had not won, though Urfet himself did not seem upset by the loss and, indeed, at least a Caledonian had not been last. Disquiet with her bridegroom and his ill-tempered acceptance of his defeat.

Deathan MacMurtray—the victor—returned her look in full from his curiously colored eyes, which held an equally curious expression, one she could not quite identify.

His skin glowed with moisture; his chest still rose and fell from exertion.

His hair, loosed during the run, tumbled down his back.

Unlike earlier in the muted light of his mother’s chamber, she could see it was indeed a shade darker than his brother’s, and made up of half a score colors from golden to brown.

No more the type of man she preferred than his brother, especially standing there next to Urfet. And yet—something about him made it difficult to look away.

By all that was holy, he could run.

She looked him in the eye and asked loudly for Master Rohr’s benefit, “Do you have any objections to how the race was run? After all, you managed to win despite our supposed cheating .”

Everyone there stared at her, and then at Deathan.

A glint of some emotion entered his eyes. Curiosity, mayhap. Or appreciation. Mischief?

He inclined his head. “Princess Darlei, I won by pure luck, I am sure.”

“Nay. You won by effort. Let none here deny it.” What incredible eyes the man had. Fringed by brown lashes longer than her own.

She looked at Rohr. “Surely you are pleased with your brother’s victory.”

Rohr’s expression turned sour. “To be sure, my brother ne’er ceases to surprise me.”

Oh, but Darlei despised this man.

Chief MacMurtray said quickly, “Why do we no’ move on to the pony races?”

“Yes.” Darlei put herself forward. “In which I will compete.”

“Daughter—” her father began.

“As,” Darlei smoothly overrode him, “I always do at home.” Would he deny her here before these strangers, and try to exert his authority? Cause another embarrassment?

“Princess Darlei,” Urfet said softly, and with a note of laughter in his voice, “rides better than most our men.”

“’Tis no’ appropriate,” Rohr said. “Mistress, please go and sit in the tent where ye will no’ get hurt.”

“Hurt?” She stepped up to him, not bothering to hide the disparagement in her eyes when she looked into his face. “I am not afraid of an injury. Are you?”

Rohr looked angry enough to spit, but he glanced to his father the chief.

“To be sure, ye may compete,” Chief MacMurtray said, “wi’ yer father’s permission. We are honored.”

“I would like to offer Princess Darlei my mount,” Urfet said, “since hers had to be returned back home.”

Darlei stared at him. His mount was a wild-headed creature that took all his skill to handle.

He winked at her. As they started away, he spoke into her ear in their own tongue. “You wish to win, do you not?”

Oh, she did.