Elizabeth McBride (23 page)

The sky had sheathed itself with clouds by the time
Drosten reached the hills at the northern end of the island.
His first task was to find the priest that had married them
and demand a divorce. Normally, a Pict seeking divorce
would secure one from the Pictish court of law, but in this
case, his influential father would make that impossible.
Nay, the priest was his only hope, though God in heaven
knew what grounds Drosten could come up with to convince the church to sever the marriage. One could argue
that a dowry was smaller than promised, or the bride was
not a virgin. But it wasn't in Drosten's nature to lie. And
his mind, ordinarily clever and quick, was so dulled by
grief that it couldn't devise anything subtle. He guessed he
would have to resort to intimidation.

He headed into a glen. The mist settled in his hair and
lay cold against his face. Icy rivulets of water slipped under
the collar of his cloak and down his neck. Shivering from
the wetness, he sat half-bent in the saddle. Fleetingly, he
thought of finding shelter and building a fire. But he took
no action. For he knew that the chill that racked his body
came from his soul.

For nigh on twenty years, he had borne the guilt of his
mother's death. All these years, he had sought to make up
for his sin: through loyalty to his clan and protectiveness
toward his people, even through his dogged resolve to shelter Mhoire from harm.

But the guilt never went away. It was a mark upon him,
like the paintings pricked into his skin that could not be
erased even if scoured with the roughest stone.

But now, now he could rid himself of it. This was his
chance for redemption.

He wouldn't see Mhoire again. He would give up the
marriage. He would give up, too, all his hopes for leadership. And it could be worse. His father could easily decide
to banish him to some monastery clinging to a rock in the
sea. Perhaps he should banish himself. First, divorce. Then,
exile. He would sacrifice his life for that of the woman he
loved, something he should have done all those years before.

Drosten heaved a breath that was close to a sob. Where
was the joy in redemption? Why was it filled with so much
pain?

His horse stumbled, and the sudden movement jerked
him to awareness. He mustn't fall off his horse and break
his neck, at least not yet. If he died before divorcing
Mhoire, his father would take over Dun Darach and simply
arrange to have her married to another Pict. That thought,
if none else, forced Drosten to carry on.

He patted his horse's neck with his large hand and
coaxed it forward. When they came to a small waterfall,
he directed it to a firm spot next to the water where it could
bend its shaggy head and drink.

Lady's mantle nodded in the rush of air. The tiny green
blossoms reminded him of the herbs that Mhoire had
tucked beside her breast the evening he had made love to
her. His heart tightened.

Then the world exploded.

The blow came from behind and would have killed him,
except that his horse, more alert than he was, flinched and,
ears back, skittered sideways.

The axe grazed his thigh. He reacted as thousands of
encounters had taught him. With a series of smooth, violent
movements, he had his own axe in his hand, one foe dead on the ground, and the other more than an arm's length
away from him. But the second man was quick and ready.
He spurred his horse directly at Drosten, and their weapons
crossed with a clang. The assailant was heavy and experienced, and in other circumstances it would have been a
close match. But Drosten had passion to draw upon and a
transcendent desperation to have the last days of his life
play out right.

With inhuman force, he drove his axe forward until his
assailant yielded his hold. And then he took him down with
a single blow. The violence of Drosten's thrust made his
horse stumble, and with an uncontrolled slide and a hideous
thud, Drosten was on the ground. A burst of pain turned
the world white, and then he was consumed by darkness.

Mhoire was unstoppable. She knew what she wanted,
and like an arrow shot with such force that neither wind
nor man could distract it, she hurled herself toward her
goal: to find Drosten.

The women murmured misgivings. She would be captured, raped, killed. Or she'd fall prey to fever. The rain
is coming down in buckets.

Alfred argued. Drosten had made his decision, and it
would be impossible to change his mind. The forces at work
are larger than her, larger than him. Larger than love.

She saddled her horse herself, mounted, and wrapped her
cloak about her. Then she addressed the assembled warriors, stone-faced.

"I need three men."

A gust of wind blew from the mountains and skittered
pebbles across the courtyard.

Brian nodded and trotted, grim-faced, toward the stable.
Fergus lumbered after him.

Mhoire stared down at Alfred, who stood with his chin
lowered. Finally, he shot her a dark gaze. She tugged on
her reins and whirled her horse toward the gate, trailing
dust behind her.

Alfred watched her leave. Then he headed toward the
stable and found his mount.

They spied Drosten's horse first, standing in the windflattened grass of the glen. Instincts bred of long companionship had kept the beast near its master. As Mhoire and
the men approached, it blew softly through its nose, glad
for company.

Mhoire slipped off her horse and fell to her knees at
Drosten's side.

His lips were blue, and his face the color of parchment.
She bent her head and lay her ear against his cold mouth.
A slight breath tickled her skin. She placed her hand under
his ear. A pulse. Rapid but regular.

"He's alive," she said.

Quickly, she explored his body, feeling for fractures and
looking for wounds. The hair on the back of his head was
matted with blood, but otherwise he was sound.

"He's cracked his head, and the cold's taking him. We
need to make a fire."

"Aye, but not here," Alfred replied. He looked at Fergus
and Brian, who had just finished examining the two dead
bodies lying in the grass. "We'd best get away, before
someone comes looking for them."

Alfred lifted Drosten's shoulders and Brian took his feet,
and they draped him like a carpet over his horse.

They found a cave farther up the glen-a long, vertical
fissure in the rock wall, formed not by the sea but by some
titantic heave of stone in the time of the ancients.

Brian took flint from his belt pouch and started a fire.
They laid Drosten near it. Mhoire ran her hands over him
more slowly and deliberately. She told herself she was
checking for wounds, but in truth, she just needed to feel
him, to touch his solid bulk.

She slipped a folded blanket under his head and
smoothed back the hair from his brow. It was dark from
the rain, like wet sand. Dark bruises lay under his eyes,
and his skin looked transparent. Mhoire rubbed her hand
along her cloak to warm her fingers and then laid them
against his cold cheek.

He opened his eyes.

A tiny crease appeared between his brows. "Am I dead?"
he whispered.

"Nay, my heart. I've found you."

The pucker deepened and suddenly his shoulders were
off the ground. Mhoire pushed helplessly against him to
keep him down. "Go back to the fort!" he yelled. "You
must go back to the fort!"

Then Drosten recognized Alfred, and his thrashings and
shouting intensified. "I told you to keep her there!" he thundered. "Take her back or I swear you'll have my sword in
your gut!"

It took all three men to hold him down. He landed a kick
on Brian's thigh. Grimacing, the young man held on. One
arm came loose from Fergus's hold and an elbow connected with the older warrior's thick chest. For a moment,
it seemed that Drosten in his rage would fling them off.
But Mhoire hurled herself at him and captured his face with
both hands. "Please, Drosten! Please listen! Please listen to
me!" She dug in with her fingernails and held on stubbornly
until he attended.

He turned agonized eyes to hers. "You must go home.
Go back to Dun Darach. You'll be safe there."

She shook her head. "Nay, my heart. Dun Darach is not
my home."

"It is. You don't understand. My father will kill you. I
can stop him but only if you go back." He looked at her
with a drowned blue gaze. "Marry Irwin. Try to be happy.
Keep Dun Darach."

Tears filled her eyes. "My heart, I must tell you something." She ran her thumb over his lips to silence him, to
calm him before the storm she herself had to bring. She let
her gaze wander over the planes of his face, the line of his
brows. Finally, she met his eyes and held them, and forced
the words from her mouth: "Dun Darach does not belong
to me. Colman is not my father." And then she dropped
her hands.

Brian, Fergus, and Alfred released their hold and sat
back, mouths open.

Mhoire bowed her head and folded her arms across her
chest. She waited for Drosten's reaction.

"Leave us," he said to his men. They scrambled out of
the cave.

The air stirred with their passing. For long seconds, the
glow of the fire licked wildly along the stone walls and the
bare ground, and then settled once more into a steady blaze.

When Mhoire looked up, Drosten was lying on his back
again, watching her with exhausted, thoughtful eyes.

"Tell me, mo milidh," he said.

Her story was short. All she knew was that her mother had become pregnant by another man, a man who was not
Colman mac Morgand. Mhoire did not know who her true
father was.

"How are you aware of this?" Drosten asked.

"My mother told me."

"And Colman? What does he know?"

"I'm not certain. Mother said it was our secret. Hers and
mine. My fa ... Colman never spoke of it." Mhoire wiped
her palms on her skirt. Despite the cold of the cave, she
was clammy with sweat. "I have acted deceitfully. I allowed Colman to arrange our marriage and bestow me with
his land, even though I knew I was not his daughter. I have
committed a great sin."

Drosten was silent.

"But I won't let you die for it." The words caught in her
throat. "I was desperate to get away, and I thought I could
live the lie. I did not think it would matter. In my heart, I
had thought it was another reason not to marry you-since
I wasn't Colman's daughter, I shouldn't marry you. And
even though I couldn't reveal the truth, I still thought I was
doing what was right. And then when I did marry you, I
thought that was right, too, because it would mean the
women would be safe." She lifted her eyes. "I didn't intend
to live. I didn't mean to deceive you."

"That's why you said you were sorry you had married
me. 11

Mhoire nodded. "I hated the fact that I had forced you
into marrying a liar. Once again, I had tried to do something right and good, and it had turned out to be bad. I hate
myself for that." She twisted her hands in her lap and
looked up, her dark eyes shining and intense. "But I'm not
completely sorry. I love you. With my body and my heart."

She took a deep breath and continued. "But I have put
everyone in jeopardy. The women. Your soldiers. You. I
won't let you die for my sake. I will tell your father that
Dun Darach is not mine, and all this will end. The fighting.
The marriage. Everything."

For a moment, Drosten watched her in silence. Some where deep in the cave, water dripped. Outside, darkness
fell like a mantle.

"My father will imprison you," he finally said.

"Mayhap." Mhoire's teeth began to chatter. "Mayhap he
will let me go."

"Go where?"

She had no answer. With her secret revealed, she could
not return to Dun Darach, and she must not return to Ireland. Colman would kill her. She was a lone woman with
no patronage, no land, no husband, and no hope.

Drosten lifted his hand. "Come here, mo milidh. Come
lay by me."

A sob tore from her throat. "I can't."

"Please."

She shook her head. She fought the sobs until her throat
ached. "It will be so hard to leave you, if I go near you
now."

He stretched out his arm. "I'm shaking with cold. Mo
milidh, I need you."

She saw the tremor in his hand and the blueness on his
lips, and could not resist his plea. Crawling on her knees,
she went to him. He tucked her against his shoulder, and
folded his arms tightly about her. She gripped his tunic with
her fist, and when he turned his face into her hair, she could
not stop her tears.

They lay together for some time. The soldiers must have
fed the fire, for whenever Mhoire opened her eyes, it was
burning low and bright. She drifted in and out of sleep, but
Drosten never seemed to. Each time her eyes fluttered open,
he would stoke her back or kiss her hair. Once, he grazed
her lips lightly with his. His tender gestures made her want
to weep even more, but she denied the release. She could
see the broken look in Drosten's eyes and dared not add
her misery to his own. She realized then how highly strung
he was-like a stallion, strong and muscled, and sensitive
to the bone.