Page 52 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

N o one had heard from the king, though as Darlei learned during her forced suppers with MacNabh and his two dreadful female companions, the chief had sent out a man to try to locate His Majesty’s party and estimate his arrival. That man had not yet returned.

Darlei chafed. But nay, that did not describe her state of mind. She felt fairly sure she’d gone at least three parts mad.

She endured rather than lived through the days, dreading—always dreading—every nightfall that MacNabh would come to her. Orle endured with her. They had both lost weight and near suffocated for want of a breath of air.

Though Darlei argued for it often, when she saw MacNabh at supper, he had not agreed to let them out into the yard.

“No’ while the repairs are ongoing,” he replied again and again. “’Tis nay place for women.”

Once, when she lost control and cried that she was naught more than a prisoner, he’d struck her across the face, knocking her right out of her chair.

“Ye’ll be silent till I need ye. Do I no’ ha’ enough women chirping at me?”

He did. Roisin complained endlessly, and the old woman delivered garbled words to his ear.

Darlei returned to her chamber after that meal with a livid bruise on her cheek, and Orle wept over her.

Darlei had not wept. She was too desperate and far too angry.

She’d not caught another glimpse of the man she’d seen out the window, pushing the barrow. But she remained convinced he was Deathan. That somehow, despite every wish of her heart to keep him safe, he was here.

Terrible, it was, to be so conflicted. To long so hard for him while wanting him far away. Back at Murtray.

Safe.

For she was not safe here. She lived her every moment in peril. Her only hope of withstanding her fate lay in trying to believe no danger threatened the man she loved.

So she needed to get out into the yard, to make certain he was not there, even though every part of her heart wished he was.

No wonder she felt mad. No woman could withstand this. No woman who loved as she did.

Over and over again, she relived the moments they’d shared. The walks up the shore. Those moments out in the tiny boat upon the sea. Making love in secret, to the sweet notes of Coll’s harp, while a whole hall full of listeners sat beyond the thin wall.

She recalled all he’d said about the wheel of time. Turning inevitably and bringing them together. Taking them apart again.

Just because they may have loved one another in the past and had met to love again did not mean they were destined to be together in this life. Far otherwise, it seemed.

She’d been allowed a glimpse of him in her life, just like out that narrow window. Allowed to touch him, share his kisses, hold him inside her.

That might be all, for this lifetime. And if it were so, at least she’d known him, if only for a brief glimmer in time.

But och, how was she to survive it? Year upon year in this terrible place, subject to MacNabh’s will.

Could a woman live on hate? For now, she decided, it would have to remain her strength.

Roisin came to the chamber door and presented her with the twice-altered gown, which she forced Darlei to try on. When Darlei did, resentfully, Roisin stood studying her and looking proud of her work.

“It will do. Ye look less the wild woman, withal. Though I suppose the king knows ye for a wild woman, since he sent ye here as such.”

Darlei formed her hands into fists. She had been a Caledonian princess once. What had become of her spirit—that which made this woman call her wild? Now she—who had been capable with a bow and unbeatable on the back of a pony—cowered here in a wretched state.

Unacceptable.

“We maun do somewhat wi’ yer hair,” Roisin went on.

“Cover it, perhaps. There is fabric left over, so I will mak’ a wimple.

” She eyed Darlei critically. “’Twill be well if that bruise on yer face heals before the king arrives.

I told MacNabh he canna go hitting ye again before then.

After the king’s visit”—the woman sniffed—“he can do as he likes. He can throttle ye, for all I care.” Her eyes narrowed in spite.

“To be sure, it might be better if he did.”

Orle, who usually kept silent in Roisin’s presence, stepped forward. “How dare you speak to her that way? Is she not the mistress of this place?”

In truth, Darlei was. In practice, naught but a prisoner.

“Who do you think you are?” Orle said, unwisely. “Show some respect.”

“To her? The daughter of some savage king? I will tell ye who I am, wench—the woman who ruled this place before ye came. Who had things in order just the way I wanted them.”

“He had not married you, though,” Orle objected.

“We were planning the wedding. And ’tis ye, wee peasant, who should show some respect.”

She hauled off and struck Orle where she stood. A solid blow it was that had poor Orle sitting down abruptly on the edge of the bed.

Darlei ran to Orle and wrapped her in a protective embrace, her anger flaring.

“You can take your disappointment out on me, if you like. But not on Orle. She has done naught.” Except be a sturdy friend, suffering through this journey of missteps with Darlei, for little reward.

“Och, I will tak’ it out on ye, ye may be certain. Once this troublesome visit fro’ the king is done, ye can be sure I will. Ye might be MacNabh’s wife, but he can soon be a widower. And ye may be certain”—Roisin’s eyes flared with malice—“ye will ne’er bear him a mongrel child.”

She went out, taking her needle and thread with her. A moment of terrible silence ensued before Darlei stirred herself. She used the sleeve of the fine new gown to dry Orle’s tears.

“You should not have risked yourself on my behalf, Orle, or got between her and me.”

“She threatened you! You heard her. You are treated worse here than the lowest hound.”

“We both are.” And that did not look to change.

Unless Darlei herself changed it. She did not quite know how. But if she were still a Caledonian princess of any kind, if she retained the roots of any wildness in her heart, she would call upon it now.

For Orle’s sake, if not her own.

“Come now, stop your weeping,” she tried to comfort her friend. But Orle could not stop. All the past days had caught up with her, the weariness, the confinement, and the fright.

Darlei held her, and they curled up in the bed while the tears flowed. She whispered comfortingly into Orle’s ear, “Do you think I will let her harm me? Or you. I shall find a way to get us free from this terrible place.”

“How?”

“They are a wretched, stupid lot. Surely I can find a way to outsmart them. Me, a Caledonian princess and all.” She tried to persuade Orle to smile.

The attempt failed. “The door is always watched with a man outside.”

So it was. Orle was allowed out never, and Darlei but seldom.

There would come a day, however, when Darlei would be ushered out wearing her new finery. Perhaps she could make of the king himself her very best weapon.