Page 15 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

R ain came sweeping in from over the sea before the archery contest concluded, chasing them all inside.

Darlei would have liked to stand outside and watch the clouds lower over the sea, absorb the magnificent power of the rain striking the water, for she had never seen the like.

But apparently among the many things women here did not do was stand out in the rain.

A relief, withal, to have the competition ended. It had not gone well for her intended bridegroom, other than his one questionable victory, and he was not in a good mood.

Having seen that, and indeed, having seen more of the man, Darlei could not like him.

She hated to admit that to herself, it being one of the last things her mother had warned her about before they parted.

Daughter, I know you are unhappy about being sent away, but give this a chance. Give him a chance. Your future happiness depends upon it.

Good and fair advice but impossible to follow. Nay, she had not wanted to be sent here like a sacrifice. Not only did she dislike the man to whom she’d been sent, she did not respect him.

She did not know how to overcome that. She supposed if she tried hard enough, she might look past the fact that she was not attracted to Rohr MacMurtray. For she was not. A woman did not strictly have to be attracted to her husband, though it would unquestionably be far better if she were.

But Rohr was a small-minded and bad-tempered man who so far had done little but whinge and frown.

He had not won the pony race, and everyone there from his people to her own had known he felt the loss. She had wanted very badly to compete in the archery competition, for she knew very well she was a dead-eye shot. But due to the rain, that had not taken place.

Even before the rain canceled the competition, Father had taken her aside. “Daughter, it does not seem that the young ladies here participate in the men’s games. I know what a good shot you are. But why not let it go?”

Let her bridegroom win, he’d meant.

Rohr should have had a good chance. Urfet would not have competed due to his wounded arm. And for some reason, Rohr’s brother—Deathan—also stood down. But Rohr had not been ahead and looked set to lose to another of the Caledonian warriors when the rain came down.

She could hear it on the roof of the hall even now as she sat beside the despicable man, who still wore a scowl on his face. And that said something about the power of the elements, for the roof was high and built strong.

Something about the power of it resonated with her. This place she might grow to like. Its people?

Never.

She looked about for Deathan, absent this night from the table below her. He had taken a place at the end of her own table. She leaned forward to steal a look at him.

No more the sort of man to attract her than his brother. And yet…

There was something about him. The way he moved, mayhap. The way he looked at her.

His smile.

He had a singular smile, did Deathan MacMurtray. A shy thing, and perhaps guarded, it made an appearance but rarely, and transformed him when it did.

He, at least, was a warrior—something she instinctively did respect. He had done well in the competitions. Taken losing to her well. He did not sit beside her brooding like a small boy.

By the gods, if she had to marry, she wanted to wed a man, not a child.

She did not speak to Rohr and he did not speak to her. Food was brought and presented, dish after dish. The rain pounded down. The onlookers stared.

Darlei supposed she should make an effort to speak to Rohr for appearance’s sake. But she just did not care.

How was she to endure this life? Curse the king. And curse Rohr MacMurtray.

The dishes were cleared, and an old man appeared to entertain them. He brought a harp and accompanied himself as he told stories and sang, his aged voice beautiful despite a few cracks.

As Darlei listened, she relaxed. Many things she might abhor about the Gaels’ world. Their music, though, was not among those things.

Upon the thought, she looked up across the hall and found a man standing to the rear. Deathan had abandoned his place at the table and stood against the wall.

Watching her.

She tried to convince herself that was not his purpose—that he had perhaps gone there the better to listen, for he seemed as enthralled with the music as she. But nay, his gaze rested unwavering upon her, and whenever she lifted her eyes to his face, it quickened.

Never had any man anywhere looked at her so. It made her pulse speed unaccountably, and had her upright in her seat, as if drawn by strings.

Rohr did glance at her then. He still had not spoken more than a word or two, and now as he followed her gaze to the rear wall, she dropped her eyes hastily.

The last thing she needed was this man, who could not stand a slight or a loss catching her looking at his brother.

A thought came stealing into her mind. Why, oh why, could not Deathan be her intended husband instead?

*

Master Coll’s music wove a spell, and Deathan fell whole into it, leaving his place at the table, the better to listen. He could still hear the rain falling. The notes of the old man’s harp somehow blended with the sound of it, wove a spell to hold the company.

What would it be like, Deathan wondered, to possess the power to evoke such emotions in others? But in truth, mayhap at least part of what Deathan felt stemmed from another source.

She sat beside Rohr at the head table as if upon a throne, brown head high, some of her thick, heavy hair now dampened by the rain. Features like stone. Only the silver eyes glittered, alive with a soul-deep wildness.

Just as if some untamed creature from the far reaches of Scotland, a fox mayhap, had showed up at their gates and come inside to take part in the festivities, sit at their table, grace them with its presence. For all its apparent composure, still wild.

An odd fancy, he admitted. He seemed full of fancies about this woman he did not know. He needed to leave off with it.

Coll, the harper, told a lengthy and winding tale about one of their long-ago ancestors, Adair MacMurtray, it was, who had come out of Ireland and stayed to help grow this settlement.

The bard’s music skipped and danced, emphasizing the words, and the chorus went, “A warrior he was who fought for love. I will find ye always, so he vowed, below or above.”

A life lived for the sake of love, Deathan thought. Could aught be finer? But what sort of man might deserve a love so strong? Surely not an overlooked second son.

Surely not him.

Darlei raised her silvery eyes again and found him, fastened upon him. Connected with him in a way that founded fire deep within, stoked it in his belly and sent it through him in a flood.

He wanted her.

Not so strange. Whatever Rohr seemed to think, she was beautiful, with her strong, graceful body and those proud, somehow canny features. He was not in the habit of desiring women—he had no time for it. In this instance, he had no choice. The desire just came.

She was to be his brother’s wife. His sister, as good as. If ever anything in life could be wrong, it was that.

Frustration crawled up his throat and near choked him. It seemed an old, familiar sensation.

He needed to get away out of this, escape the spell of the music. Despite the rain and despite the way he felt when Princess Darlei looked at him.

He should step outside, let the cold rain wash him down. Perhaps quench this fire.

Yet he stood where he was until Coll’s tale ended, the sweetness of the final notes fair piercing his heart. Not until then did he drag his gaze away from the young woman at the high table and watch the servants begin to circle the hall again, refilling cups one last time.

With the entertainment done, the evening would soon end. Princess Darlei would withdraw to her room.

To her bed.

By all that was holy in the heavens, what was he to do with this desire?

Sure enough, Da was rising at his place, making a speech about what an honor it had been having their Caledonian neighbors share this day in friendship.

King Caerdoc looked gratified. Rohr looked pained. Darlei looked carefully blank.

“In three days,” Da concluded, “we shall hold a wedding that will heal old wounds and begin a new age in our land.”

Three days. Three days only did Deathan have to approach her, speak to her, get to know her.

Before she became his brother’s wife.