Page 49 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

“C ome,” Deathan cried as cheerfully as he could, though he felt anything but. “A man canna work all the time. Will no’ one o’ ye give me some sport?”

He sat in a group of MacNabh’s men gathered in the yard, taking what passed for a breather in the pale sunshine.

They had come to accept him, these men. Especially since news had arrived that King Kenneth’s tour of the country would indeed swing by this place.

MacNabh had decided the holding must present a respectable face.

There was work to do from morning to night, and an extra pair of hands, willing to labor hard, was welcome.

Deathan had wormed his way in. He just did not know how to make it serve him.

He doubted MacNabh’s dwelling could achieve respectability even if they labored for years. But much of the litter had been cleared away, and he could attest that the stables at least were tidy, their inhabitants, which included his own pony, benefiting much from his attentions.

What might be said about the house, he did not know. Female servants emerged on occasion to shake out clothes and tapestries.

He had never set foot inside and still did not know if MacNabh realized he had taken on a new man.

He had made it his sole intention to get inside. To lay eyes upon Darlei if he could. Because he’d begun to doubt she was there, even though…

Aye, there were still times he could almost feel her, feel her beating heart. A wild woman, pent up. Hurt. Angry.

She had spirit, did his Darlei. Spirit enough to tell him to go away and leave her, for his sake. That had happened before, so he suspected, on other turns of fate’s wheel, in other lives. She feared for him enough to sacrifice herself.

He loved her enough to stay.

But he did not know what had happened behind those sheer stone walls. Had MacNabh abused her? Beaten her? Raped her repeatedly? If she was his wife, none would gainsay him.

And how much could even a woman with such a valiant heart as Darlei’s endure?

He maun get inside.

Ardroch rolled his eyes. “Wha’ d’ye ha’ in mind?”

Deathan liked Ardroch. In fact, he liked many of this motley crew, having got to know them. They suffered as he did and served MacNabh mainly because there were ties of blood and loyalty.

He hoped Ardroch would not get into trouble, having hired him on, after he killed MacNabh.

For he did intend to kill MacNabh.

Playing at the careless rogue—a role he’d adapted here—Deathan said, “A contest at arms, perhaps. To prove we are still men and no’ mere maids. I will tak’ on any o’ ye.”

He had told them he was a western mercenary fallen on hard times, which explained his good pony and his even better sword.

There was a collective groan. “Och,” said Ardroch, “who has the strength left to fight? If ye do, ye must be born o’ the gods.”

“Ye have turned into scrub women.” Deathan put scorn in his voice. “Is there no one who will face me as a man?”

Ardroch eyed him with some interest. As the head of MacNabh’s guard, he was reputed to be among the best of his fighters. “Wha’ do I get if I win?”

“The right to boast o’ it.”

“Och, well, that is naught.”

“If ye best me—that is, either disarm me or draw first blood—I will do some o’ your work as well as my own.”

Another of the guards, Nielan, sat up straighter. “Does that go for any o’ us?”

“Indeed it does. I will face all o’ ye, if ye like.”

“And do all our work after?” someone said, laughing. “That I would like to see.”

“I will perform some o’ your tasks, aye. No’ all.”

“If ye’d haul stone fro’ the quarry, I’d be grateful,” Nielan said.

“Face me, then.” Deathan got to his feet. “I will fetch my sword.”

“Ah, now,” Ardroch objected, “wha’ if MacNabh should find us all bleeding?”

“The chief need no’ ken. And the westerner canna best all o’ us.” Nielan likewise got to his feet. “Go on, then, mercenary. Fetch yer sword.”

Deathan did, his heart beating high up in his chest. He might have one chance to make this work—but one.

His sword felt good, if a bit foreign, in his hand. It had been a while since he’d trained with the members of Da’s guard back home. He’d spent far too much time with the handle of a shovel gripped between his fingers.

He grinned as he jogged back out. In his absence, MacNabh’s men had formed a rough circle, eager for a show.

He meant to give them one.

Nielan, too, had fetched his sword. A man of a score and some, maybe a few years Deathan’s senior, he wore shabby MacNabh tartan and had tied his long brown hair back out of his eyes.

Not a complete stranger to combat, then.

Deathan measured him carefully, his thoughts racing. Could he best the man? Aye. For Darlei, he could do anything. But he would have to try to make it look convincing.

From the first the two swords met, Deathan knew he would have to be careful. Nielan possessed a wicked arm, and his lazy demeanor disappeared into a cool and calculating mien. He wanted to show off before his clansmen, against the boastful interloper.

He just might.

They circled and struck and circled, and the observers backed off a respectful distance, their bone-deep weariness quickly evaporating in enthusiasm. Like Gaels everywhere, they loved a show. Especially one that interrupted tedium.

Most of them called out encouragement for Nielan, but there were a few quips and cheers when Deathan got in a good blow. He felt better, stronger, as his muscles warmed. A measure of skill awoke inside, coming from so deep a place he barely recognized it. He grinned at his opponent.

The combat became a dance. Strike, step, turn, strike again from a different angle. Whirl. He was careful to measure his blows and make sure Nielan could block them.

Nielan began to sweat. Eyes narrowed in a face gone tense, he increased the pace, determined not to be bested by a hired sword. Him, one of MacNabh’s best.

Step, block, absorb the impact of Nielan’s strength, turn. Deathan let the inner knowledge arise and possess him.

A flurry, a bunching of muscle, a burst of speed, and Nielan’s sword went flying out of his hand to land embedded, point down, in the turf of the yard.

The onlookers cheered. They did, regardless of whom they had backed, because they were Gaels after all, and because it was such a beautiful thing to watch.

Deathan lowered his sword, breathing hard. What would Nielan do? Meet him with aggression? Had he made an enemy he did not need?

To his surprise, Nielan grinned ruefully and shrugged at the onlookers. He retrieved his sword and looked at Deathan with a new expression in his eyes.

“How did ye do that?”

Deathan shrugged also. “Practice.” Ancient practice, mayhap. “I thought ye had me there, once or twice.”

“Aye.” The onlookers, Nielan’s friends, after all, took it up and showed him admiration. But there were those who congratulated Deathan also, and eyed him with speculation not unlike Nielan’s.

Would he be able to convince another to take him on? Would a string of victories win his way inside the house?

“Come,” Ardroch said. “Enjoyable as that was—and I canna say I’ve had a better time in a fortnight—we maun get back to work.”

Aye so. Deathan followed him meekly back to the stable where he both lived and labored. He put his sword away carefully. He would do whatever he must to get near the woman he loved.