Page 50 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

M istress Roisin returned the next day with a garment for Darlei to try on. She eyed Darlei warily and seemed unwilling to get close to her, bidding Orle instead to help her mistress try on the garment.

“Och,” she said in disgust when the garment hung on Darlei’s frame. “’Tis still too large. There is naught to ye.”

“Can you wonder?” Orle faced off against the woman again. “It is not healthy shut in here all the while. She needs leave to go outside.”

Darlei’s heart leaped. Was it possible? If she were permitted to go outside, she might glimpse the man she’d seen yesterday. Discover whether she’d deceived herself, and sheer longing had made her think she saw what she had not.

She might even be able to spy a means of escape.

But Roisin’s eyes narrowed. “So she can run like a hare? Nay, no’ with the king coming.”

But the mistress must have spoken to MacNabh about it, for later that day MacNabh’s old mother turned up at the door, a stout guardsman behind her.

“Ye’re to come out to supper,” she croaked.

Darlei’s heart fell. Not that, again. “Why?”

“Ne’er mind that. Ye will do as yer husband directs.”

Darlei exchanged a look with Orle and snatched up her shawl, though she could think of few things less appealing than another meal with that crew. She hated leaving Orle imprisoned here alone.

As before, MacNabh and Roisin were already ranged at the table when the old woman ushered Darlei in.

The room, though, had been cleaned, much of the random debris gathered and disposed, the rushes swept up and fresh ones put down over the stones.

The great wafts of dusty webs that had stretched aloft were gone. As was a goodly portion of the reek.

Indeed, much of the remaining bad smell came from the current occupants.

“Sit,” MacNabh ordered Darlei without wasting breath on any other greeting. But he examined her closely. “Ye’re to eat.”

Servants began passing the platters. The food—pottage and a portion of greasy boiled meat—did not look appetizing.

“Are ye sickening for somewhat?” MacNabh demanded as he tore into his food. “Roisin says ye be naught but skin over bones.”

Darlei said nothing. She stared at her platter with dismay.

The old mother said something to MacNabh that Darlei did not understand.

MacNabh barked at Darlei, “Be ye sure ye are no’ wi’ child?”

“She is no’,” Roisin answered for her. “I would ha’ seen.”

“There has no’ been time to show,” MacNabh told his mistress. “I bedded her but the once.”

“’Twould be a fine thing,” the crone whined, “could ye tell the king she is bearing, when he comes.”

Darlei began to shake. She could not endure that again, could not allow this beast of a man to violate her when she loved—

Deathan.

Her heart cried out for him even as her lips remained silent. Had she not chosen this path for his sake? Could she not then endure the price of his safety?

But nay. Not that.

“It would,” MacNabh said, speculation in his eyes.

“She will ne’er carry to term if she is skin and bones,” Roisin declared. “Ye maun get some flesh on her first. Eat, lass.”

Darlei poked at her food, unable to choke down more than a morsel.

Roisin gestured at her and said to MacNabh, “Ye canna show that to the king. Pale o’ cheek and scrawny as a dyin’ hen.”

Darlei spoke for the first time. “I need to go outside. I need the air. I cannot survive shut away in that chamber day and night.”

They all stared at her as if they’d forgotten she could speak.

Before they recovered, she went on, “I am naught but a prisoner—me, a princess. I shall tell the king so when he comes.”

“Weel now!” MacNabh drew himself up and his eyes narrowed to slits.

Roisin snapped, “Ye are no’ a prisoner, stupid wench, but a wild thing. Must no’ wild things be kept carefully?”

“Shut yer trap,” MacNabh told her. His gaze, still narrowed, remained fixed on Darlei. “Ye think to ruin my good favor wi’ the king?”

Darlei pressed her lips together.

“Well, ye canna. The king and I were comrades in arms long ago and fought together against yer kind. I doubt much ye can turn him against me.”

“He did not intend for you to keep me pent up captive. For you to starve me.”

“We ha’ no’ starved ye, wretched bitch!” Roisin burst forth. “There has been food ye refuse to eat.”

“I am sick for lack of the sky,” Darlei said. “For the open air.” For sight of the man she thought she’d glimpsed.

“By God.” MacNabh put down his own knife. “I rue the day I e’er had a letter fro’ the king. Woman, this is a workin’ house wi’ much activity in readiness for His Majesty’s visit. I ha’ no garden where ye can stroll.”

“Allow me, then, out into the yard.” She had thought about it much. Estimated the angle from whence the man with his barrow had come.

“Too dangerous. There are men repairing the walls. Moving stone.”

The old woman babbled again. “Let her come down here part o’ each day. Out o’ the room.”

MacNabh sighed. “I suppose that will be all right. Though someone will ha’ to watch her closely.” He pointed at Roisin. “Ye.”

“Och, is it no’ enough I ha’ to sacrifice one o’ my dresses as well as sew on it for her?”

“Ye will do as ye’re told, if ye want to keep my bed.”

Darlei shuddered.

“Now ye’ve had yer way,” MacNabh told her, “eat.”

She’d not had her way. Time spent here in the hall did not give her access to the busy yard where she might catch more than sunlight. And it would force her into proximity with these people she abhorred.

But from here she might at least see the main doors. Should they stand open…

It was better, anyway, than a cruel slit of a window.

Determinedly, and with her stomach protesting, she addressed herself to her plate.

*

“I will tak’ ye on.” The man who spoke was tall and dark-haired with a look of MacNabh about him. Young enough to be a by-blow, perhaps.

Deathan had caught sight of MacNabh when the man came out to direct those repairing the walls, or inspect their finished work. An aging warrior, comfortable enough in his status and as unappealing as a man could be.

The very idea of him touching Darlei fair had Deathan’s blood turning cold.

“Ye sure about that?” he asked the young man.

“Aye so. I fancy my chances.”

Did he? Young and green and no doubt nearing the end of his training. Deathan would hate to kill him.

The fellow already had his sword in hand, though, a third-rate weapon that looked like a castoff.

“Ye will ha’ to ask Master Ardroch’s permission,” Deathan told the boy.

The lad went pelting off without a word. The other men in the yard left off their work as if at an inaudible signal and began to drift up.

“That is young Tighe,” one of them said. “He’s a canny lad and good wi’ a sword.”

“MacNabh’s son?” Deathan asked.

The man looked surprised. “Got on a serving lass.” He grinned, showing gapped teeth. “Roisin fair killed him. That was when the mistress was still alive, and himself had Roisin on the side.”

“If MacNabh values him, then I’d best no’ take off his head.”

“Wha’ makes ye think himself values the lad?”

Tighe came running back with Ardroch striding behind him.

“Wha’ is all this? An excuse to stop working?” Ardroch asked.

“The lad challenged me,” Deathan told him. “Wha’ is a man to do?”

Ardroch rolled his eyes. “Go and get yer sword.”

A hum had started up by the time Deathan returned, and another circle formed. Men eager for diversion. He tried to loosen the muscles of his shoulders. He’d been laboring since dawn and certainly was not at his best.

Think of Darlei. A step closer to her, mayhap.

Nielan, the man Deathan had defeated last time, stood at the forefront of the circle, his gaze skeptical.

Tighe, though, had stars in his pale-blue eyes.

He was younger than Nielan, aye, and younger than Deathan himself. Quicker too, as Deathan found out when they engaged.

But clumsy. Unpracticed at controlling the power of his blows. A bit impetuous with his slashes.

Deathan circled in a half crouch, happy to let the lad expend his energy. And the old knowledge stirred within him, ran out through his limbs and banished his weariness.

He did not know from whence this knowledge, this warrior skill came. But by all the powers, he began to rely upon it.

He blocked the lad’s hasty blows and ignored opportunities that would have allowed him to remove Tighe’s head. The men wanted a show, and that was what he needed to provide. He backed and backed, luring Tighe to think he had the advantage before dancing forward again.

Like training a youngster, this was. Surely he had done that long ago.

Only, he had not.

His muscles remembered. As did something in his head. His heart.

Round and round he half lured his opponent while the men, becoming invested in the contest, called encouragement.

Not till the lad began to tire did Deathan press his attack, like a turning of the tide, letting the skill that filled him burst forth. He made the strikes delicate so the boy could catch them before setting up for the finishing blow.

It connected, and the lad’s sword broke, clanging in two separate pieces at his feet.

Deathan withdrew immediately and stood back on his heels, breathing hard.

Tighe stared at the hilt of his sword still in his hands while the men all exclaimed in amazement.

“Ye ha’ some ability,” Deathan told the lad. “Ye need a better sword.”

The lad raised dazed eyes to Deathan’s face, and thence to his weapon. “Yours is magnificent. May I see it?”

Deathan passed it over, hilt first. As a second son, he did not possess Murtray’s finest, but it was a far cry from what was dealt out here.

“Aye so,” Ardroch said. “The lad has some ability. I will see can I find him a better weapon.”

Deathan nodded and accepted the return of his blade from Tighe. With the remnants of the battle knowledge still running through him, he found he did not want to return meekly to work.

He wanted to storm the house. And take what belonged to him by right of love.