Page 46 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

D eathan rode through the gates of MacNabh’s fortified dwelling at an easy pace, doing his best to appear nothing more than a humble supplicant. Not too difficult a role to play. After days of rain, he was damp and filthy, and no doubt appeared as desperate as he felt.

But nay, desperate did not fully describe the emotions that filled him. He was indignant, apprehensive, and fearful on Darlei’s behalf. So angry he could barely see straight.

Her father, who claimed to value her, had ridden off and left her at this grim place.

Deathan, who loved her, would not do the same.

He had been watching for two days and had caught not so much as a glimpse of her. Now the sun had come out, and the place had awakened, armed men hanging about and women emerging to do laundry.

The gates stood open when he rode in beneath the morning sun, but guards stepped forward immediately to bar his way.

“Who are ye and wha’ d’ye want here?”

“A traveler looking for work,” he stated with a casualness he did not feel.

They eyed him, the one man older and the other still green.

“We ha’ all the help we need,” said the elder. “On yer way.”

“I am good wi’ horses and no’ bad at all wi’ a sword,” Deathan said as if he had not heard. “I was wi’ MacLeod of Lewis before he disbanded us. I will work for my keep, just need a dry place to sleep if I might.”

The two men exchanged a look.

“Our chief is Dunstoch MacNabh. He does no’ hire swords. I am called Ardroch, head o’ the guard and overseer o’ pretty much all else.” He eyed Deathan once more, thoughtfully. “That is a fine pony.”

“Aye. Trained him up mysel’. But he could use a good feed.”

“I suppose I could use help in the stables. If ye will work for yer food and yer pony’s feed, I can tak’ ye on for a few days.”

“Master Ardroch—” the youth began to object.

“Whisht, Seumas. The chief does no’ have to know.”

“I’m grateful.” Deathan swung down from his pony to find Ardroch continuing to eye him.

“That is a good sword, as well.”

“I earned it. And then I hired it out.”

“Ye will no’ get the pay ye likely deserve here.” Ardroch’s expression turned sour. “Nobody does. But if ye work well, I can offer ye room in the stable.”

“I ask nay more.”

He was in. Ardroch gestured the lad back to guard the gate and led Deathan off toward a group of tumbled outbuildings.

Not a very prepossessing place, this, and Deathan wondered how MacNabh had found favor enough with the king to win a Caledonian princess.

“Wha’ sort o’ family is it here?” he asked as they went, the folk in the yard slanting him curious glances.

“Och, MacNabh is a careful sort o’ man.”

“Careful?”

“Wi’ his coin and wi’ his affairs. I will no’ say overmuch, as he is my cousin.”

“Och, aye. I do no’ mean to offend.”

“Ye ha’ not. This is an old holding he got from his brother, who dropped down dead one day, unexpected.”

“A sudden illness, was it?”

Expressionless, Ardroch said, “A dirk in the back. I tell ye this only to warn ye, this can be a fractious sort o’ place. MacNabh has a temper and is no’ afraid to unleash it.”

A chill chased its way up Deathan’s spine. He did not want Darlei at the hands of such a man.

“I would,” Ardroch continued, “keep out o’ his way, if I were ye. In fact, I will no’ tell him ye are here. A few days work only, aye?”

“Aye. Is it a large family, in the house?”

“Nay. Just our laird’s old mother, the cailleach . The chief’s wife died last year and his daughters are grown and gone. But he has taken a new wife now, so who knows?”

“Ah. Ha’ ye seen her?”

Ardroch gave him a sharper look, as if that were a strange thing to ask. “Just a glimpse before the wedding. But I will tell ye—she is a Caledonian. One o’ them wild savages, ye ken. Supposed to be some kind o’ princess.”

“Och, I would like a glimpse o’ a wild woman.”

“Ye will no’ have it. Like I said, keep out o’ MacNabh’s way. Come on.”

The quarters were not good, and the work—a mountain of manure to be raked out and moved away past the retaining wall—hard and lowly. But Ardroch did feed Deathan first and allow his pony feed and a rubdown.

Deathan did not mind the hard work. He’d often done as much at home. But it took him behind the wall and out of sight of the stone house, where he had a hope of seeing Darlei.

Not much of a hope at all.

But she was here, and he could almost feel her behind the sheer stone walls. She rode the wheel of fortune.

He wanted to seize that wheel in both hands and drag it to a halt. Pluck her off.

How did MacNabh treat her? Had she been forced to lie with him? Frustration combined with the sheer torment of not knowing. If he could only see her with his own eyes.

Only he did not. Two days blurred into three. Ardroch must have liked the way he worked, for he kept him on and set him working with the ponies, bidding him only, “Keep out o’ sight. The chief still does no’ ken ye be here.”

“Understood,” Deathan agreed. But he wanted to storm that stone wall. He wanted inside. To see her, to save her.

For now, he was near her. He told himself it must be enough.

*

Darlei dreamed of Deathan. Again and again, she did.

There was not much to do here at MacNabh’s stronghold but sleep. She and Orle were shut into her chamber all day and all night, and boredom fought with the sickening fear that MacNabh would come back looking for his rights.

If he did, Darlei just might have to kill him.

The anger had not deserted her, but it simmered like a covered pot on the fire.

She had no weapon. She’d lost her small knife somewhere, possibly at Murtray, and MacNabh had taken the one she’d stolen from the cart.

She and Orle both had searched the chamber for another, to no avail.

Unless she wanted to bash MacNabh over the head with a filled chamber pot—a fitting end for him, in her opinion—she stood helpless.

Armed only with this anger and the remnants of her pride.

So she slept away as much time as she could, and she dreamed of Deathan.

At least, she thought she dreamed only of him, though he came to her in more than one guise.

The tall man she had seen before with the bright-hazel eyes and the auburn mane, a silver sword in his hand, riding aboard a chariot.

The man from the wee boat with the rich brown hair and gray eyes, speckled with green.

Her husband. The man she knew with the quick, rare smile, the gentle hands, and eyes that reflected the sea.

He was near to her, so near she could feel him. Only, how could he be?

She had sent him away. Back home.

Yet she dreamed he spoke to her. Made love to her in all his guises. She woke longing to weep and would not give in to the tears.

The dreams made her begin to understand, to comprehend what Deathan had tried so hard to tell her. Their love was not new. They had loved each other before on previous turns of the wheel.

That meant she had lost him before, this man she adored. She must have parted from him, if only at the impetus of old age.

More merciful, perhaps, not to remember. And if this dream of living life after life proved true, was that not so? People did fail mostly to remember.

She knew why. Remembering hurt too terribly.

Almost better never to have known Deathan MacMurtray.

Nay, not that. She would trade her very life for what she’d had of him.

She began to believe she would die here, shut away in this dim, airless room. Prey to her fear and her dread.

Only her anger, and her love, kept her alive.