Elizabeth McBride (18 page)

She looked up at him, eyes narrowed.

"Well-" He cleared his throat again. "She's very beautiful."

"You said that." She spread the substance over the
wound.

Drosten wrinkled his nose. "What is this stuff?"

"Yarrow. And a little cow urine. Draws out the poisons."

He frowned and watched her work for a moment. "She
is supposed to be my wife, you remember."

"Hah!" Grainne dug into the bowl for another dollop of
poultice.

Drosten shifted his position, searching for a more comfortable spot on the ground. Not only was his head agitated,
his entire body seemed to be in an uproar. He rubbed the
back of his neck.

"So, er-" he said. "-she, er, she kissed me then?"

"You don't remember?"

"Nay, I, er ... don't."

"Aye, she kissed you. For a long time, too."

Damnation! How could he not remember that? "And
then what did I do?"

"Started snoring."

Drosten's mouth dropped again. "You mean we kissed
and I fell asleep?"

Grainne nodded. "Out like a candle."

"I wouldn't have."

"Oh, but you did. From what I hear, that's what men
always do."

She reached for more of the poultice and rubbed it in.

"Did she kiss Irwin too?"

"Not yet."

"Not yet!"

"Must you be so loud?"

"I am not loud. I am perfectly calm." He composed his
face for a moment. Then he threw up his hands. "And you talk about my strategems! What about her feminine wiles?
What about the way she's ... she's seducing Irwin with her
hairpins and brooches and smiles?"

"Mhoire doesn't know a feminine wile from a billygoat."
Grainne reached for a piece of white linen. "All she is
trying to do is protect the people who live here. I brought
the brooch to Irwin, as payment for his help repairing the
wall, and that's all that was paid. There's been no promise
made to him about marriage. Not even a discussion as near
as I can tell. But who could blame her if she did marry
him? She needs help and she's doing what she can to get
it."

"So why did she kiss me? Is she trying to soften me up
so I take pity on her?"

"More likely she took pity on you."

"I don't need her pity."

"I agree with that." Grainne tore off a length of the linen.

Drosten rubbed his face with his hand. His skin felt like
it was stuck to his bones. "So ... would she actually give
herself in marriage to this idiot?"

Grainne narrowed her eyes. "Are you jealous?"

"Why should I be jealous?"

The woman shook her head silently and began to wrap
the cloth around his arm.

"Just because a pretty woman goes chasing after another
man, it doesn't mean it has to affect me."

"Un-huh."

"You know she's not even the right kind of woman for
me. 11

Grainne wound the bandage once around again.

"I need a woman who is ... who is ..." He raked his
hand through his hair. "Well, I can't think of what I need.
But it's not a woman who's always trotting around, giving
brooches to strange men, buying cows, and ... and ... arguing with me all the time."

Grainne tore off another piece of cloth.

"And," Drosten continued, warming to his subject, "I'm
clearly the wrong man for her. Clearly, she likes mousy types of men, who simper around showing off their fine
clothes and elegant manners." He nodded his head emphatically. "So we'd be miserable with each other. It
doesn't matter that I want to kiss her. It's just curiosity.
And that's likely why she kissed me. Like kissing a porcupine or something. Just to see what it's like."

"A porcupine-" A snort burst through Grainne's nose.
She glanced at his hair, which was standing on end. "Well,
I do see some resemblance." She tied a knot in the bandage.
Then she gave him a level gaze. "So why marry her, if you
are so unsuited?"

"Because I must. And what does it matter how we're
suited? That's not the point of marriage."

"But you care for her nonetheless."

"I ... I'm concerned about her."

"How, then, can you deny her her future?"

He flushed. "It's my future too. My country's future. Our
safety." He leaned toward her. "My mother died because
of the Danes. I cannot stand by and see more women struck
down. Not my countrywomen. Not Mhoire. Not you. My
family did not make this marriage contract to thwart her
plans, to ruin her life. It has nothing to do with her."

"It has everything to do with her. A woman is not a thing
to be traded, no matter what law and custom say." Grainne
tapped his bandage. "See this? This is Mhoire's night shift,
I'll have you know. She tore it to pieces to keep you from
bleeding to death, and you don't even remember."

Drosten's eyes hardened. "What is it you hold against
me, woman? What evil have I done?"

"You're standing in her way. You want to keep her from
being herself. And she's never been herself. Always she's
had to hide from her father, not disturb her mother, make
herself invisible. She deserves a chance to discover who
she is and what she wants."

"And she wants poverty and danger and, no doubt, a
speedy death, living alone with these women and this
falling-to-pieces fort?"

"There is the other alternative."

"Irwin again. Irwin is the alternative. And you thinkshe thinks-she can live a good life with him?"

Grainne shrugged.

Lord, he felt like his head was going to blow into pieces.
"Irwin," he went on, "is the one who can't be trusted. He
doesn't truly want her. Not for herself."

Grainne gathered up her bowl and spoon, as if she hadn't
heard him.

"Why does she choose him and not me?" he persisted,
as Grainne lifted herself to her feet.

She looked down at him sharply. "Because you want her
too much."

Mhoire was mortified. And exhilarated. And clumsy.

Every item she picked up that morning-her boot, her
bowl, her shawl-seemed to fall out of her hands of its
own accord. Or maybe it was because her hands were so
very unsteady. As was her heart.

She had blushed when Elanta spooned out her porridge.
Blushed again when one of the men mentioned Drosten's
name. Nearly choked when Brigit joked about "the sorry
state of a man in drink." Finally, she had bolted into the
courtyard without allowing herself more than the tiniest of
glances at the large, quiescent form sleeping near the hearth
that was causing so much turbulence.

She grabbed the wooden bucket that sat by the door and
strode toward the gate, thinking to fetch water from the
spring. What did it mean-that kiss? Did he truly desire
her? A man deep in ale could say all sorts of unexpected
things, but his tongue was usually loosened to the truth,
not tied up in deception.

You are beautiful, Drosten had said. Passionate. She
clung to the words as she clung to her shawl.

She slipped through the gateway and stopped. She
needed to think. She needed privacy. Instead of heading
down to the spring, she turned right and skirted the outside
of the wall. After a dozen paces, she tucked herself into a
spot where the wall was high enough to keep her out of sight of the sentries and other curious eyes. She leaned back
against the cool stones and looked toward the loch.

She closed her eyes, and immediately, her mouth recalled
the touch of Drosten's lips. How pliant they were, yet firm.
Responsive and sweet. Patient and enticing. She imagined
pressing up against him. Feeling all of him-his chest and
his thighs and his shoulders. And his warm lips, traveling
over her brow and her cheeks and her throat.

"He was fooling."

Mhoire's eyes snapped open.

"You think so?"

The voices came from the other side of the wall. Two
of Drosten's soldiers.

"What else? You know Drosten. He's got a silver tongue
when it comes to getting what he wants out of people."

"Aye. When it's a soldier afeared to march into his first
battle. But a woman now? He's never had much to do with
them."

"Och. It's all the same. Canny, he is."

"Aye. I'll give him that."

"Got her, too, didn't he?"

The men laughed, their voices fading as they walked
away.

Mhoire's chest tightened, and for a moment she didn't
think she could breathe. Then the muscle of her heart knotted and hardened and shrunk till it was nothing but a pebble
rattling around in her chest.

She heard voices on the hillside below her-men coming
to work on the wall. Panicking-Please, God, don't let
anyone see me now!-she scrambled, head down, back toward the path to the spring, bucket knocking against her
knees.

Near-frozen with shock and blind with hurt, she nearly
ran into him.

He had come looking for her, needing to test the truth
of Grainne's words. Was it possible to kiss a woman and
not remember it?

One look at Mhoire's scarlet face told Drosten that it
was.

He felt as awkward as a two-year-old.

He was blocking her way, and so she stopped. But it was
not lost on him that she did not care to.

"You are fetching water?" he asked, nodding at her
bucket. Stupid question.

She didn't answer but stared at something past his shoulder, her face set, her flaming skin the only sign of emotion.

He burned with remorse. What had it cost her to kiss
him? To touch a man, and a drunken one at that? Lord in
heaven, how could he have asked it of her?

Because he longed for her, longed for her now, for the
softness that he knew was there, underneath the shell she
wore to keep her fears at bay.

"I'll help you," he said, reaching out.

She scrambled back a step and slipped on the scree that
littered the path. "Nay. I can do it."

He stood silently, struck dumb by her rejection.

She glanced at him and looked away. "How is your
arm?"

He looked at his arm, as if he had forgotten it was there.
"It's fine."

"You think the Britons attacked you?"

"Who else? Though they were fools to come after me.
Now we know they're near. We can prepare."

She nodded, her eyes still fixed on some far point.

"Mhoire, I'm sorry."

A line appeared between her brows. Deepened. Her lips
pressed together. She was crumpling now, her fragile shell
collapsing, the shards of it turning inwards and tearing as
they fell.

"You humiliated me!" Her words were strangled. Anger
was fighting to get out and find him, and cause him pain.

For her sake, he let it. "I know."

"In front of all those people!"

"I know. I was wrong."

"You think I'm a silly maid? You think one kiss will
win me over and then you can do what you will with me?"

"Nay, Mhoire. Nothing like that."

The gulls set off a clamorous cry. They had found a
school of fish.

"I will not be dallied with." Her body was shaking now.
Her emotions knocked against her bones in a way he had
come to know, in a way he knew frightened her. He said
the only thing he thought he could to calm her.

"I will never ask you to touch me again, Mhoire. If I
should, you need not respond."

He didn't know the damage that he caused.

The nightmare is always the same. His mother is kneeling. A man crouches over her, like a panther. Only the
man's hair is yellow-red, and a bronze serpent coils around
his arm, and the serpent's head is raised and ready to strike.
And the man's hands are around his mother's throat.

Her face is gray, still, as if she were already dead.

His sister is screaming. Two of the yellow men grip her
thrashing body between them. She is a wild thing, a banshee of terror, howling for her mother.

No one touches him. His ears ring from the blow they
have given him. His mouth is filled with blood, more bitter
than bile. He can barely see, the pain a tunnel he must peer
through. The men are asking him a question. They ask the
same question over and over. And whenever he tries to
answer, blood spurts from his mouth. He tries harder and
harder to hurl out the words, until the ground is scarlet-red
and his mother's face fades. And still his sister's screams
rattle in his ears.

Drosten jolted awake, drenched in sweat. Then he realized that the crazed sound he was hearing was not his lost
sister's cry, but horses whinnying with fear.

He knew the sounds of battle in his bones, and instinctively, he grabbed his sword and his axe and leapt to his
feet. He headed toward the commotion at a dead run.

"Mhoire!" he shouted, as he reached the door of the gathering hall.

"I'm here! What is it?"

"Stay inside!" he yelled into the darkness. "Gather the
women. Keep everyone inside." In rapid Pictish, he brought
his men to arms.

The courtyard was in chaos. Men were swarming over
the wall, and Drosten saw his sentries fall. "Stay together!
Defend the hall!" he shouted. It was too late to secure the
fort.