Page 41 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

“D arlei, you must eat something. Please, before we resume travel. You will fall ill,” Orle beseeched Darlei, a portion of barley cake in her hand. After one swift glance, Darlei refused to so much as consider accepting the food.

They had just passed their first night upon the trail, Darlei and Orle together in their narrow tent. Darlei, unable to sleep, had considered flight even as she lay in her blankets, though she knew her father’s men stood on guard and she could not possibly get far.

Now, as inevitably as every other aspect of her life, morning had come. They mounted up for another day’s travel.

She must face her fate and, as Deathan put it, keep faith. For his sake.

But oh, she did not feel well, had not since they left Murtray, and she swayed on her feet. Father, who had more or less ignored her all day yesterday, walked up and looked at the proffered cake in Orle’s hand.

“Daughter, will you eat?”

“Nay, Father.”

His dark, impatient gaze swept over her. “You had best ride with Orle this morning. I do not trust you on the back of a pony.”

He did not trust her? Because he believed her too ill to ride, or because he thought she might break away?

She scarce cared. She crawled into the bed of the wagon and curled up tight, seeking to shut the world away. They soon jerked into motion.

Yesterday had been a glorious day of bright sunshine with a cool, rattling wind. Today, clouds closed in and promised rain. A reflection of her mood, perhaps. She squeezed her eyes shut and—

She could feel him. By all the gods, she could.

As if he hovered with her in spirit. A warmth at the place where he had been.

And his face danced in her mind, the way he looked when he smiled.

The light that came and flickered in his eyes when he spoke to her.

Kisses dropped into the palms of her hands.

She wept.

Orle let her be, or perhaps she did not hear, for it began to rain, the drops pelting against the wooden awning of the wagon.

Darlei slept. She dreamed.

She dreamed of a man riding a chariot. Tall and slender he was, and taut with strength, a red-brown mane of hair tumbling down his back. Eyes of bright hazel, eyes that anchored her world.

He rode away from her into battle. A terrible, fierce battle it would be. If he did not return—

She awoke to the jolting of the wagon and a crashing cacophony that she realized meant it rained still harder. She sat up to find the interior of the wagon full of gloom.

“Where are we?”

“I am not sure.” Orle tried to peer out. “Do you feel better for the sleep?”

Darlei did not. Had her heart been pulled out by the roots, it might be better. At least then it would eventually stop hurting.

“Have we traveled far?”

“It is difficult to tell. We go slowly for the rain.”

A terrible thought burst upon Darlei’s mind. He could catch them if he tried. Deathan could.

He will not , she assured herself. Did he not promise?

Nay, he had not. He had stopped short of that. And she could feel him.

“We are stopping.”

To be sure, the wagon drew over to the edge of the track and one of the men—Mordoc, his name was—came to the opening.

“We have found a good stopping place. It is raining too hard to go on. Stay in the wagon. We are under the trees and will make camp.”

“Yes,” Orle said when Darlei did not speak.

The wagon shuddered. Orle came to Darlei’s side.

“We will spend the night here, I do not doubt. Now will you take something to eat? Darlei, I am worried for you.”

The very prospect of food turned Darlei’s stomach. Might that be caused by hunger, under the sickness?

They sat side by side on the cot in the wagon and Darlei sought to choke down a bit of barley cake. They listened to the men trying to care for the ponies and set up camp in the driving rain.

Darlei wondered what had happened to her life. Once, she had been strong. Confident. Sure of her place as a princess. Her choices had been taken from her. Sent to wed with Rohr MacMurtray, she had for the first time been subject to command.

She’d fallen in love.

But nay, that did not describe it. She’d remembered love. Reached out with both hands and reclaimed it.

To no avail. For now, she was being sent like a prize cow to someone else. An old man.

That did not mean she could allow herself to become weak. Was she not still the girl who had possessed such strength, beneath all the misery? Just as, all along, she had been Deathan’s love.

Some things, she was beginning to learn, did not change, not even as the wheel of fate turned. Beside her, Orle dozed, exhausted by the hard travel. Outside, the rain crashed down. No campfires tonight, and the men would be miserable. They—

What was that?

Voices, barely audible above the rain. Raised voices. A challenge. A query. Then a voice she would know even when she was dead.

She flew to the opening at the end of the wagon.

A curtain of silvery water fell, obscuring everything to mere blurs. To one side beneath the trees, the ponies had been picketed. Someone had bent a number of tree boughs and thrown a skin over for shelter.

The men, including Father, emerged from that cover now.

A man stood facing them, rain sluicing him down. Tall, lean, and facing away from her, he had a pony behind him and a sword in his hand.

Nay. Oh, nay, nay, nay—

Her heart leaped at seeing him—leaped impossibly—and then slammed so hard in her chest that she could feel it in her teeth.

He had come. By all the powers of the earth and sky.

He spoke to Father, who posed facing him. Though she heard the rhythm of his voice, she could not catch the words.

A challenge.

Nay, oh nay.

Everything she had feared on a level so deep she failed to comprehend it arose inside her. She launched herself from the wagon out into the crashing rain.

Deathan’s head jerked around and he looked at her. Soaking wet, his hair darkened by the rain and his clothes dripping, she might not have known him, except she would know him anywhere. In the dark. If she were blind.

He had followed her. Just what she’d begged him not to do.

Their eyes met. Oh, my love.

She stumbled toward her father, who reached out and snagged her arm. Drew her to him.

“You are mad, boy. Go home. Turn about and go back home.”

“I will not.” Deathan could not be more implacable had his back been set to an oak. “I am taking Princess Darlei wi’ me.”

Darlei’s heart bounded. Poor, abused heart. For it came crashing down so hard again, it nearly shattered.

“Deathan,” she said.

No one heard. Except he did. His gaze moved to her and back again to focus on Father. He said, “I will no’ let ye take her away to a marriage she does no’ want.”

Father, clearly shocked, sneered, “Oh, and I suppose she wants you?”

“She does.”

“I do,” Darlei echoed, but no one heard. No one heard. Her life—her being—at stake, and no one heard.

“You fool,” Father barked, “she goes by order o’ the king.”

“The king will ha’ to be disappointed, as will the chosen bridegroom. She comes wi’ me.”

“He is mad!” Father declared, and the men around him echoed it.

Deathan raised his chin and his sword. “I issue a challenge. I will fight any o’ yer men for Princess Darlei’s freedom. To the death, if it be your demand.”

Nay. Nay!

Darlei tried to step forward. Father’s grip on her arm prevented it.

“Any of us?” It was Urfet who stepped forward. Even through the rain Darlei could see the confident smile on his face. In an aside to Father, he said, “King Caerdoc, allow me. I can end this. It may prove amusing.”

Nay.

Not Urfet. Not this.

“Father,” Darlei began. She could not look at Deathan now. She turned instead and stared at her father beseechingly. “Do not agree to this.”

For an instant, Father’s gaze met hers. She beheld speculation there. Did he wonder or suspect what lay between her and Murtray’s second son?

“Nonsense,” he said from between clenched teeth, and then called to Deathan, “We accept your challenge.” To Urfet, he said, “Go ahead and end it.”