Page 9 of For a Wild Woman’s Heart (Ancient Songs #3)

D eathan watched the Caledonian princess simply because he could not seem to do otherwise.

She was not beautiful, nay, not in the ordinary way.

Too much strength in that face. But there were beautiful things about her.

That glorious hair, all wild and tumbled.

The graceful way she moved. A body like a goddess from an ancient tale.

She fascinated him.

Well, that was not so unusual, was it? A royal party of Caledonians did not turn up at the keep every day. At least, not without knives and spears in their hands.

Now they drew their knives only to cut their meat. He was impressed by their manners and by the fact that they spoke his tongue.

She—Princess Darlei—produced a knife from her belt and cut her own meat, a service Rohr might well have offered to perform for her.

He was meant to be looking after her, was Rohr.

But, keeping a close eye on Rohr, Deathan could see his brother, usually all bold confidence, appeared cautious and careful. Cowed.

She put him off, did the princess. Not what he had expected, perhaps.

Would he fall for her? Abandon his lover who already carried his child and tumble into the princess’s arms?

How could he help it?

That thought startled Deathan, so he turned his gaze away from the two at the high table and concentrated on his food. Spoke to those around him.

Yet something made him look back again. The princess leaned toward Rohr and said something that brought the color to his face.

A strange reaction on the part of his brother. A very strange one.

The welcome feast went on and on, Da doing his best to make an impression.

He and the Caledonian king spoke at length and most earnestly.

Deathan began to see what perhaps King Kenneth had been trying to accomplish with this union—with these unions all over Scotland.

Bring together people who otherwise might not have met except on the field of battle.

The princess and Rohr did not speak for long, and Rohr wore an expression like a man who had been kicked in the face. What had she said to him?

Her gaze fell upon him, Deathan, a few times, but she turned her eyes as swiftly away. She had plenty to look upon, did the woman who was to be—

His sister. As good as.

The realization started a sick feeling in his gut, a churning conviction of a wrong done. An odd familiarity, as if all this had happened before.

Only it had not.

He’d taken too much ale, that was it.

The evening moved on and the music began. Old Coll, his father’s harper, had much skill in his hands, and his songs always affected Deathan most strongly. Stirred up unaccustomed feelings.

At last the party at the head table rose. Their guests had traveled far, he could almost hear Da say, and must be weary. They would be shown to their quarters.

When she came down from the head table, still with Rohr at her back, the princess passed close by Deathan. And they looked into one another’s faces once again.

Aye, she had silvery eyes, bright silver, like a glass women used for primping. Like light on water or, more properly, the polished surface of a war shield.

She did not appear the slightest bit friendly or welcoming of his interest. And yet…

He felt precisely as if he’d been anchored by a rope and drawn toward her.

In reaction, he took a swift step backward, almost treading on his neighbor’s feet, and bowed.

She did not so much as incline her head, and sailed by. Disdainful of him.

And yet…

There had been something. Glittering bright in the depths of those unusual eyes. Acknowledgment. Curiosity.

Recognition.

But how could that be? They did not know one another.

He quit the hall, but he did not go to his bed. Instead, he walked far up the shore, alone in the dark save for his feelings.

*

Darlei did not know what to make of her quarters. A prison, it looked like, all bound round with stone walls. A bed such as the westerners used instead of a sleeping bench, standing out into the room as if sleep—or some other act that might take place in a bed—was of primary importance.

Only one window.

She went to it immediately, ignoring Orle, who stood in the middle of the floor looking bewildered. Could she escape through the window? Given, she was terribly high in the building, but hurling herself to her death would, at this point, be preferable to her other choices.

The window was too narrow for her to fit.

“Darlei? Are you unwell?”

All at once, Darlei wanted to weep. She wanted to rage and scream and stamp her feet, and tear the room apart in protest of her fate.

Instead she stood staring at what little she could see of the outside world. Darkness. A few stars.

“Darlei?”

Emotion choked her throat so she could not speak. She turned from the slit window and looked at her friend.

“Oh!” Orla tossed aside the robe she’d been holding and hurried to embrace Darlei. “My dear one. Is he so terrible, this man you must marry?”

Darlei said nothing.

“Is he ugly? Old? Nasty?”

“None of those things.”

“Well, then.” Orle drew away far enough to look into Darlei’s face. “It might be worse. Tell me of him.”

“He—” Darlei tried to focus on the man she was to wed. Fair hair, freckles. A frowning face. Another image intruded instead—the man who had been seated near her feet.

He was not good looking either. Not the way Urfet was. Too foreign. Too Celtic.

When she’d left the hall, she had walked right by him, close. They had looked into one another’s eyes. His were…

Curious. Nay, not as much as he appeared curious about her, though everyone here must be. But curiously unusual eyes in a man—neither blue nor green, something in between. Fringed with long, light brown lashes.

Very fine eyes.

Oh, and she must be tired if she had begun admiring the eyes of random strangers. She must be overwrought and overcome.

Orle still waited for an answer to her request. Tell me of him.

“He did not say much to me. I do not think he is impressed with his bride.”

“Ah, well, you will become better acquainted, I do not doubt, before the wedding.”

“I need to sleep.” She’d done little of that during the journey, her anger and rebellion making it impossible. Now she felt she might drop where she stood.

“Yes, come. I have your robe ready.”

With careful, gentle hands, Orle helped Darlei out of her fine gown and into her robe. Out of her shoes. Braided her hair for sleep.

“I am so glad you are here.” Darlei hugged her. “Will you stay with me?”

“If you like.”

They lay in the strange, high bed. Orle soon fell into a doze, but Darlei found she could not sleep after all.

“I am afraid, Orle,” she said into the dim air of the room. It was a thing she rarely admitted, and she said it only because no one could hear. Caerdoc’s bold daughter did not admit to being cowed or uncertain.

But…

Terrible as all this was, it would only get worse. She would have to wed the dull specimen she had met this day. Settle into a life here. The festivities over, Father would leave. All their folk, save Orle, would go home.

She would have to stay.

She feared if that happened, she would lose herself. Become a woman she was not and had never meant to be.

Because she could not imagine it. That man, for her husband. Raising children among strangers.

They would eventually no longer be strangers. That terrified her most of all. Because if she ceased to be Princess Darlei, if home became so distant that she no longer reached for it, who would she be?

She could not let that happen. Lying there with Orle breathing peacefully beside her, she vowed it. She must do all she could to keep her heart wild and Caledonian.

She must have dozed eventually, the weariness of body overtaking the agony of mind, for morning came with a trickle of gray light.

She lay with her forearm bent over her eyes and listened to Orle moving around the chamber, and sickness stirred in her gut.

Not sickness. Dread.

What would this day bring? Entertainments, no doubt. A whole raft of activities in which she would be expected to partake.

Back home, she liked mornings. She would rise early, dress herself, and go out to visit the ponies. She spared a thought for Bradh, whom she had injured and who she hoped was all right. She envied Bradh—he had been allowed to go home.

Home was a sizeable settlement in a small glen surrounded by steep mountains. His fortress, so Father always called it. Her tribe had been there a long time, fighting against the encroaching Gaels. Holding the western gate, as Father put it.

Was that why the king had given them the honor of this union? A kind of reward? A role in making Scotland one country?

Yet in her heart, it was not one country. She doubted it would ever be. And she did not appreciate being made the sacrifice.

Yet only a coward would lie here and refuse to face the day. And a coward, she would not be.