Page 44 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

M acNabh’s keep, more a fortified house than aught else, proved a poor sort of place.

Darlei was given a room to share with Orle that was small, cold, and, quite frankly, filthy.

As they settled their belongings and tried to prepare for dinner—all their clothing being damp—even Orle fell silent, as if shocked out of her usual attempts at comforting optimism.

Darlei spoke to herself steadily. This was worse, far worse even than she’d imagined. MacNabh was worse, as was his terrible old mother—and the other, Roisin, that he kept at his side. How could she survive in this grim and comfortless place?

She would surely die by bits, body and spirit.

Yet Father was right. She had chosen this. Oh, not being sent away to wed by order of the king. But she had chosen to continue the journey here, to stop the combat between Deathan and Urfet that might have freed her.

She had chosen her fate. She must now be strong enough, woman enough to endure it—for his sake. But oh, she did not know how.

Dinner proved a poor meal served in a hall that was malodorous, barren, and cold. Dusty webs hung in the rafters. The food was meager, the meat stringy and, so Darlei feared, turned bad.

She could not eat and pushed her portion away. No one seemed to notice, or if they did, they ignored it. Conversation languished. The Caledonians sat on one side of the chamber and the clan members on the other, staring as if, indeed, they expected the blue men to draw swords and attack them.

If only they would.

Father’s attempts to talk with their host fell flat. MacNabh ate like a ravenous boar, which Darlei concluded he fairly resembled. Mercifully, the ordeal did not last long, the courses being few, and ended when MacNabh said, “I ha’ sent for the priest. He will be here by morning.”

“I have my own holy man,” Father put in. “If you want it done tonight.”

Even as Darlei stared at Father in horror, MacNabh, with a glance at Roisin, said, “Nay, mornin’ will be soon enough.” He belched. “So long as the king’s demands be met.”

Darlei had never laid eyes on King Kenneth, she thought as she returned to her barren room, yet his demands ordered her life.

She and Orle lay in the same bed that night, for comfort. Darlei did not expect to sleep, though she must have dropped off before dawn, for she dreamed.

She dreamed of Deathan, only he was not Deathan. That was, he felt like Deathan, and her heart knew him as such, but he appeared different.

They were in a wee boat out upon a silver sea, naught but water to be seen in any direction. And, wonder of wonders, there was a hound with them in the bottom of the boat, a great, shaggy gray beast. It looked very much like a large version of the pups Deathan had showed her, back at Murtray.

A name flittered into her mind. Wen.

The man who was and was not Deathan pulled at the oars, taking her away—away from a place she loved.

He spoke to her, though in the way of dreams, his lips did not move. Ye ha’ done this before, alanna . Chosen as ye thought ye knew best. Made your choice out o’ fear. When will ye believe? Believe in me.

I will be my own woman. No one shall die for my sake.

He had beautiful gray-green eyes brimming with grief. I will find ye. I will always find ye.

She awoke with a start so violent it turned her stomach. Who was he, that man in the boat? Was he the Deathan who had been before?

Orle lay beside her, breathing deeply. The fire had run out of fuel and died.

Darlei faced a future so bleak that she did not know how she would survive it. She had the refuge, still, of dreams.

Morning came inevitably on the turn of the wheel.

Gray light stole through the single, narrow window of Darlei’s chamber as if it were offered as stingily as everything else here.

Father came early to her door to make certain she would be ready for her wedding, though he did not linger long, as if he feared she would beg him for release.

She would not. She was her own woman now, and expected no one else to save her.

That strength, though, came accompanied by a numbing sense of unreality. She could not warrant that she had landed in this position, ended in this place. She could not be about to wed with that horrid, aged man who, if possible, wanted her even less than had Rohr MacMurtray.

A maid brought breakfast to the chamber, and Orle—who appeared nearly as upset by all that had happened as her mistress—once more begged Darlei to eat.

“You must take something. Scarcely any food passed your lips yesterday. You cannot go on so.”

The breakfast, clearly leavings from last night’s dinner, did not look appealing. Darlei shook her head.

“Darlei, please. It will be a long and difficult day. You will need your strength.”

“I dare not, Orle. I will never keep it down.”

Father returned to fetch her, when it was time. Dressed in his grandest clothing, he had Urfet at his back. The warrior eyed Darlei curiously, appearing detached from all sympathy, and she wondered, How could I ever have thought him attractive?

On the way to the hall, her knees trembled so violently that she had to clutch Father’s arm. He said to her, in their own tongue, “Courage, daughter.”

Easy for him to say. He would ride away from here, his obligation fulfilled.

As soon as they entered the hall, the merciful numbness took over.

She could no longer feel the flagstones beneath her feet.

She barely took in the tableau—MacNabh and another man who could only be the priest standing with Father’s holy man, waiting for her with MacNabh’s crone of a mother and, oddly, Mistress Roisin at his back.

The dim air of the room danced before Darlei’s eyes as if she were about to faint.

She barely heard and never after remembered the vows. Did she speak them in truth? She must have, for everyone looked satisfied and it was all swiftly done.

Was she wed? Wed to this dark and burly man whom she could smell even from two paces away?

It must be so.

Orle stepped up on her side and clutched her arm, or she would have fallen. MacNabh and Father stood talking, and Father told MacNabh, “Yes, we are near ready to leave.” He turned away.

He never once looked at Darlei.

Yes, she had been willful in the past. A difficult daughter at times. A trial to him. Now he had washed his hands of her and showed no real regret in it.

She clutched Orle’s hand. “Do not leave me.”

“I will not.”

“Ye”—MacNabh cast a look at her—“gae to yer chamber. I will be there anon.”

He would be there?

“To complete the business,” he told her as if he had heard the question.

Oh, nay. Oh, nay, not so soon. She had hoped, given the presence of Roisin, that he had no interest in that .

She must stop hoping.

They went, she and Orle, with Darlei’s feet tripping on the stones. An argument broke out behind them.

“Ye will no’ move that slag into yer chamber, will ye?” cried Roisin.

“Nay, nay, no’ now.”

“It is our chamber. I did no’ wait so long for your scold o’ a wife to die, only to be pushed out o’ it.”

“Calm yoursel’, lass. But ye ken I maun finish the joining. Once I get her wi’ child, it will be done.”

Get her with child.

Orle’s fingers tightened on Darlei’s arm and clutched hard all the way to their chamber.

“Is there a way to bar the door?” Darlei asked then. Yes, she had chosen this. Opened herself to it. But now the wheel turned and she could not bear where it stopped.

“There is no bar.” Orle sounded breathless. “And the furniture…”

The furniture was sparse and far too heavy for them to move, even working together. A chest. A tall cabinet. The bed.

Oh, by the gods, the bed.

“Can we get away?” Orle asked. “Before he comes.”

“The window is too narrow.” A mere slit in the stones. “He will not come till after Father leaves.”

“Yes, but our party was ready to go.”

“Mayhap he will not come till night.”

Women survived this. She knew they did. But she belonged to Deathan. Deathan. Deathan!

His name became a cry in her mind. Oh, why had she sent him away?

She must be strong. Surely she possessed the required courage? She was a princess. A Caledonian. A woman with a wild heart. But oh, the numbness that sustained her failed. It failed her fast.