Elizabeth McBride (11 page)

Mhoire picked up the corner of her apron and wiped a
speck of dirt from her blade. "Aye. He's kind to the child."

"They say the Picts are good to their women, too," Elanta
went on. "It's the daughter in a royal family that carries
the title, you know. Even if a man's in the royal line, like
Drosten is, he only gets to be a king if he marries a royal
woman. I think that must make them respect women more."

"And so you think Drosten respects women?" Mhoire
picked with intense concentration at the bits of dirt that
clung to her dagger.

"Well, he does listen to you, Mhoire. He's allowed you
to do just about everything you've asked. And he's given
you a chance here."

Mhoire's head jerked up. "A chance? You call this a
chance?" She gestured to the weedy field that surrounded
them. "If Drosten was so respectful of women, he would
have been honest with me about Dun Darach. He only gave
me this `chance' because he believed I would fail, that I
would have no chance at all. He thinks I'm foolish and
incompetent and, no doubt, the most ridiculous woman he's
ever encountered." Mhoire's grip tightened on the dagger.
Suddenly, she was tired of Elanta's insinuations, tired of
all the chatter about men, and tired of being considered an
unfeeling idiot. "You think I am out of my wits to reject
this man, don't you, Elanta?"

The young woman flushed. "I think you could do worse
for a husband."

"I see. Well, let me ask you this. What was your husband
like?"

"My husband?"

"Aye. Your husband. Was he a handsome man?"

Elanta looked baffled. "Aye. Why do you ask?"

"Was he a kind man?"

"Aye. Very kind."

"How did you know him?"

"We grew up together. Here, at Dun Darach."

"And you were sweet on him?"

Elanta's blush deepened. "Aye. I was very sweet on
him."

"So you wanted to marry him?'

"Aye. I did."

"And if you hadn't, would your father and mother have
forced you to?"

Elanta glanced over her shoulder at Nila, who shook her
head. She turned back. "Nay. I don't think they would have
forced me."

"So you had a choice." Elanta didn't answer. Mhoire
pressed. "You had a choice, Elanta, did you not?"

"Aye. I suppose I did."

"And if Brigit married Fergus or if you married Brian,
it would be a choice, would it not?" Mhoire waited for
Elanta's nod. "That is all I am asking for. A choice. To
marry this man or that man or no man at all. But I was
given no say in the matter. My father sold me to Drosten
for a gold brooch. I know that's the way of it for all the
daughters of kings and chieftains. But, tell me this: Would
you want that? Would you want to be sold to a man with
no thought given to your feelings or desires, just for a piece
of gold?"

She stopped speaking and pressed her lips together. But
she held Elanta's gaze until the young woman dropped her
eyes.

Drosten couldn't help but smile at Oran's lavish praise.
She certainly seemed to think he was the greatest hunter of
all time, having felled two deer in so many days. She
wanted to know all the details: how he had stalked it, where
he had shot it, how many other deer he had aimed for and
missed before bringing this doe down.

"None."

"None?" Her small mouth fell open.

He grinned. He found himself enjoying her admiration,
even though she was just a child. Out of the corner of his
eye, though, he was acutely aware of a different female.

As Oran walked around the doe, exclaiming over its beauty, Drosten positioned himself so he could see Mhoire
more directly. He watched her bend to her weeding. She
certainly wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty, unlike the
other women of standing he had known. If Fionna had seen
Mhoire in the fields, she would have called her a peasant.
But there wasn't a shred of coarseness about this Irishwoman. The movement of her arms as she handled her
dagger was confident but graceful. Her bare calves, which
were sticking out from her skirts-unbeknownst to her,
Drosten was sure-were firm yet alluringly feminine. In
profile, her nose was dainty, the line of her brows fine, and
her neck as elegant as that of a swan's. And yet she flung
her dagger into the ground with as much precision as a
warrior.

Aye, she was a curiosity. Biting but compassionate. Fearful yet willing to take great risks. Combative. Drosten's
eyes fell on the quiver of arrows on her back. That was
unusual. It would be interesting to see what she could do
with those arrows. As long as he wasn't the target.

Drosten shook his head. Damnation, she had a way of
slipping into his mind. What poor luck that she didn't have
a drop of tender feeling for him.

Drosten's chest heaved. All those women who had cornered him in the banquet halls, who had pursued him
shamelessly, who made him feel like a prize stallion instead
of an ordinary man, who talked so much and left him so
tongue-tied he wanted to bang them over the head-why
hadn't he taken a fancy to one of them? Instead of this
woman, who no doubt lay abed thinking of ways to get rid
of him, if she thought of him at all. But that was part of
what he liked about her, he realized. Mhoire never flirted.
She spoke to him so straightforwardly it didn't occur to
him to feel self-conscious. Aye, she was no seductress. But
then, how could it be that she was so enchanting? Drosten
raked his hand through his hair. Lord, it hurt his head to
think about it.

As he stood there musing, he noticed a change in ex pression on Mhoire's face. She was upset. He straightened
and wondered if he should go over and do something.

He felt Oran tug on his sleeve. "Drosten, how come
you're not helping us sow the seed in the fields?"

"Hmm?" He looked down at her absently. She repeated
the question.

Drosten hesitated. How much did the child know or understand? "Didn't ... ah ... didn't your mother talk to you
about this?"

Oran shook her head, sending her hair bouncing.

"Nay? Well . . ." He cleared his throat. "Mhoire and I
have this agreement, little one. She and your mother and
your grandmother and the others have to try to grow the
crops without my help."

"Why?"

Drosten grimaced and then scratched his head. "It's hard
to explain, Oran. But Mhoire wants it this way. It's the best
thing to do right now."

"Why?"

Drosten closed his eyes briefly, opened them, and blew
out a breath. "It's complicated, little one."

"But if we can't do the planting properly, then there
won't be enough food."

Drosten's expression softened, and he laid his big hand
on the child's small head. "Don't worry, little one. We'll
manage."

She looked up at him with round, dark eyes. "You don't
want us to have a good harvest, do you?"

Drosten studied her a moment, and then ran his fingers
gently over her hair before dropping his hand to his side.
"I know it's hard for you to understand this, Oran, but if
the crop fails, then Mhoire will have to marry me. And
that's what I would like to have happen. But you won't go
hungry. I promise you. No one here will go hungry."

"But she won't."

"Won't what?"

"She won't marry you."

Drosten's mouth tightened. "She has to. She gave me her
word."

"She'll run away."

Drosten folded his arms across his chest. "She has nowhere to go."

"Then she'll shoot you with her arrows."

He took in a big breath and let it out. "I'll watch my
back."

"Then she'll marry Irwin."

"Who?"

"Irwin." Oran raised an arm and pointed. A pale man on
a dark horse was trotting across the fields from the north.

Drosten stiffened, as alert as a hawk. "Who is he?"

"He's our neighbor. I don't like him."

Drosten's eyes followed Irwin's passage. "I don't like
him either."

"Maybe Mhoire will." Oran tugged on his sleeve again.
"You'd better kiss her."

"What?" Drosten turned and gaped down at Oran.

"Kiss her." She nodded emphatically. "People always get
married after they kiss each other."

Drosten looked over at Mhoire. She had gotten to her
feet and was eyeing Irwin's approach. "It's not that simple,
little one."

As they watched, Brigit leaned toward Mhoire and said
something. Mhoire laid her knife on the ground and
smoothed down her gown. Then she patted her hair.

Oran tugged on his sleeve. "You'd better kiss her now."

"Well, she's not going to kiss that fool." Then he charged
across the field, leaving Oran and his horse behind.

Irwin of Kingarth was an average-sized man with bony
shoulders that drooped toward his chest and wispy hair the
color of old carrots. A large nose splayed above thin, pale
lips.

He stopped his horse a few feet from where Mhoire was
standing. "You are Mhoire ni Colman?"

She cast an admiring eye over his dark red tunic, embroidered with yellow thread. "I am."

"Irwin of Kingarth. My holding is the next one to the
north." His glance darted over her, pausing an extra moment on the bow that she held in her hand. "You have taken
up residence at Dun Darach?"

"Aye. My mother was born here."

Drosten strode up and planted himself next to her.

"And you are, sir?"

"Drosten mac Gormach."

"From Pictland?"

"Aye."

"I heard this Irishwoman was betrothed to a Pict."

"Not yet betrothed," Mhoire announced.

"Not yet?"

"But we will be soon," Drosten growled.

"Not necessarily," Mhoire noted.

Drosten lowered his head like a bull. A small bead of
sweat broke out on Mhoire's upper lip.

"Do you have your crops in the ground, Irwin?" Brigit
called out.

"Aye," Irwin responded. "All the crops are in."

"What did you plant?" Elanta inquired.

"Ten fields of oats, ten fields of barley, ten fields of rye.
Five fields of turnips, five of carrots, five of leeks, three of
parsnips. And a mixed field of garlic and onions and some
other things."

Mhoire blinked. The man must own a huge amount of
land. "You have good soil then?" she asked.

Elanta answered. "Irwin has excellent land. Very productive." She smiled at Irwin, and his thin lips turned up.

Mhoire studied him. He wasn't bad looking. True, he
didn't appear very strong, but his face had no blemishes.
"Your clan has lived here long?" she asked.

"We've been in Dal Riata for two hundred years. And
in all that time," he said awkwardly, "I doubt we have ever
had a more beautiful neighbor."

Mhoire blushed. No one had ever paid her such a direct
and public compliment. She smiled and glanced around at
the others. Grainne was frowning heavily. Brigit and Elanta
were both looking as satisfied as a cat that had just planted
a mouse at its owner's feet. Nila was watching Drosten,
who, Mhoire realized with horror as she followed Nila's
gaze, appeared ready to haul Irwin off his horse and bash
his head in. Just as she sprang forward to intercede, a high
scream pierced the air.

Drosten leapt toward the sound and pulled out his dagger.

Little one!

Oran screamed again, from across the field, a highpitched wail of terror. A boar charged toward her on short
powerful legs. Drosten's horse whinnied loudly and reared.
But Oran was frozen to the spot, stiff as a cadaver, her eyes
huge with fright. Drosten cursed himself for leaving her
alone and for forgetting his spear, which was holstered to
his horse. All he had on him was the dagger. If he couldn't stop the boar with that, he would have to wrestle it to the
ground.

If only the horse would stay put, he prayed. If only he
could get to Oran and throw her on its saddle. But despite
pouring every bit of speed he possessed into his legs, he
knew the animal would reach the child before he did. He
had to throw the dagger. Now. Dropping to one knee, Drosten pulled back on his arm and took aim at the boar's fleshy
neck.

He sensed something whiz past his ear just before he
flung his knife. An arrow pierced the boar's hide, and the
animal stopped in its tracks. Up and running again, Drosten
saw a second arrow puncture the animal's eye. The boar
fell to the ground at Oran's feet just as Drosten reached her
and scooped her up in his arms.

She was out of her mind with fear, howling like a wild
thing, her eyes round and flooded with tears. She didn't
recognize him. Screaming, she pulled away from his hold
with all her small might. But he dared not let her go for
fear that she would run off into the woods and hurt herself.
Gasping for breath, Drosten gripped the child to his chest.
She pummeled his head with her fists and kicked at his
stomach.

"Oran!"

He turned at Elanta's cry and saw her and the others
running toward him.

Tears streamed down Elanta's face as he lowered the
wailing Oran into her arms. How could I have been so
stupid? Drosten asked himself. How could I have left the
child alone? Of all the senseless, irresponsible things to
do! What an idiot I am.