Elizabeth McBride (4 page)

What could one small Irishwoman mean to them?
Mhoire had reasoned. Her father had little prominence in
Ireland. As much as he yearned for glory, he had never
gained the respect of the high king or even of the lesser
chieftains over whom he theoretically reigned. Surely, the
Picts could find another, more noble woman to take into
their clan. Indeed, she had convinced herself that once she
returned their fabulous golden brooch, she could simply
leave their inland fort and retrace her steps to the western
coast and Dun Darach. She could put the past behind her
and take charge of her own destiny.

Now she realized how foolish she had been.

"How did you get the gold brooch from your father?"

Mhoire sighed. "I stole it from his bedchamber the night
before we left. He was so ale-headed that he fell asleep
with it right beside him on the coverlet."

"He will be furious when he discovers it is gone."

"Aye."

Mhoire turned to her friend. Grainne had not been forced
to accompany her. The day her father had declared the betrothal, Mhoire had confided her plans to Grainne, and
Grainne had offered to come. She, too, wanted to live
somewhere other than in a small Irish province over which
dark clouds of misery always seemed to hang.

Mhoire knew Grainne was eager to avoid her own marriage, which was to take place that spring to a rough Irish
farmer with the brains of a fish. Grainne deserved better.
She held no stature in the clan, and she was not very pretty,
that was true. Her hair was a dull brown, her skin tended toward sallow, and her body was so loosely put together it
appeared as shapeless as a sack half full of oats. But
Grainne's eyes shone with a deep and keen thoughtfulness
and a loyalty that was as strong as iron.

"I am sorry this has happened, Grainne. But I do not
want a married life. I want to live in my own way, in peace.
You understand, don't you?"

"Aye."

"So we must do something. We can't just sit here."

"We could pray."

Mhoire nodded. "Aye. Perhaps God will help us."

The women slipped onto their knees. For long moments,
neither moved, each intent on her pleas. Then Mhoire lifted
her face. Slowly, her attention focused on a corner of the
hut where the wall met the thatched roof. A gauzy beam
of light shimmered through the thatching.

"Grainne!" she whispered. "Look at the roof!"

"Where? What do you see?"

Mhoire rose and stepped over to the wall. On tiptoes, she
probed the thatch.

"There's a hole here."

Grainne came up behind her. "You're certain?"

"Aye." Mhoire reached under her tunic and pulled out a
knife. The Picts had taken their eating daggers but had neglected to look under her skirts for the larger one with the
stout bone handle that she kept strapped to her leg. "The
rope holding down this part of the roof must have loosened."

She sliced out a chunk of thatch. The opening wasn't
large, but they could wiggle through.

"Here is our plan." She turned to Grainne. "We will
climb out and find the stable and a horse and, please God,
my bow and arrows."

"And the guard? What about him?"

"He's on the other side of the hut. He won't see us."

"And once you have your bow, you can fight off any
man who pursues us."

Mhoire's spirit lifted. "Aye. Then we'll ride out of here."

"You know the way to Dun Darach?"

Mhoire paused. She didn't. Neither she nor Grainne had
ever been outside of her father's holding, let alone in this
country. "I know the holding is on the west coast." Her
mind raced. "We'll head west, back over the mountains,
and make inquiries along the way."

Grainne seemed satisfied with the answer, and Mhoire
turned to face the wall. She could just get her boot in between the timbers. Grasping her knife between her teeth,
she started climbing.

In a moment, she was peeping through the roof. They
were near the outer edge of the hillfort. Below was a large
cistern filled with water, but no one seemed to be near.

She snaked through the hole. Gripping the ropes that
held down the thatch, she dangled her feet over the roof's
edge and dropped lightly to the ground.

The splash from the cistern behind her made her turn
abruptly.

Mother of God!

A man's head was rising from the water.

Mhoire gasped, and her knife clattered to the ground.

He opened his eyes and let out his breath at the same
time. Surprise skittered across his face.

Then he started to stand.

Mhoire panicked at the sight of his emerging nakedness.
"Nay! Nay! Nay!" she pleaded. She squeezed her eyes shut
and held out her arms.

A tense silence followed.

The guard's footsteps pattered around the corner. Her
knife! She opened her eyes and lunged for it.

"Don't."

The naked man's voice was low and deep.

Mhoire froze, half-crouched. Out of the corner of her
eye, she saw the guard stop as well.

She heard sloshing.

"Who are you?" the man asked.

Hesitantly, Mhoire rose, turning toward him at the same
time. She glimpsed his muscled body streaming with water. Light glinted off a large, heavy sword, which he held in
his hand. She squeezed her eyes shut again.

"You know who I am."

"Nay. I do not."

"Then you are the only person in this hillfort who is so
ignorant."

"Apparently so."

Mhoire steadied herself. "I am Mhoire ni Colman."

"You?" She could hear the astonishment in his voice.

"Aye. Don't I look like an Irishwoman to you? Don't I
have some ... some loathsome feature that distinguishes
me from a Pict? That makes me look peculiar and hateful?
Everyone else in this fort seems to recognize me easily
enough."

Desperation was making her angry.

She sensed the guard move. Fear rose in her chest, and,
flinging her eyes open again, she lunged for the knife. But
the guard was retreating around the corner of the hut.

"I wish you would leave that knife alone."

Mhoire stilled in a half-crouch. "And I wish you would
clothe yourself so that I could look at the person to whom
I am speaking."

The water splashed heavily. Frowning, she held her position, trying to judge whether she could reach the knife
before he could reach her. Perhaps. But his sword would
be no match for her small weapon.

"You can look at me now."

Reluctantly, Mhoire stood and faced him. He had gotten
out of the cistern and put on a coarse, dun-colored tunic.
Now he was watching her thoughtfully.

His hair was the color of wet sand, a mixture of gold
and brown that gleamed brightly in the sunlight. Water
dripped from the locks sticking to his brow and streamed
down his face onto a strong neck. He was a tall man,
Mhoire noticed immediately, with broad shoulders and
long, muscled limbs.

His demeanor told her he was a warrior. Barefoot, his
body slick with water, he exuded the kind of physical con fidence that men gained only after years of battle and a
harsh life spent outdoors. He bristled with wariness, toothe wariness of a warrior whose first task was to appraise
the enemy.

They locked eyes. His were dark blue, the color of the
mountains that surrounded them.

"I knew you weren't a Pict, that is true." He leaned his
sword against the side of the cistern and folded his arms
across his chest.

Mhoire tensed. "And how is that?"

"Pictish women usually leave a building through the
door and not the roof."

His eyes went from her to the roof and back to her head.
Instinctively, Mhoire lifted her hand to her hair. She could
feel coarse strands of thatch stuck in it. Mother of God!
She must be a sight. She grimaced. She hated being laughed
at.

"I use a door when it has not been barred," she said,
stiffening her back. "I take the roof rather than remain captive against my will."

He lifted an eyebrow and nodded. His assessing gaze
reached into her soul and made her squirm.

"And you, sir," she continued, her irritation mounting.
"What are you going to do? Everyone here is treating me
like a prisoner. You have me cornered. Will you throw me
back in the trap? Will you, too, force a woman to do what
she does not wish?"

Something shifted in his face. His eyes hardened, and he
unfolded his arms. Every nerve in Mhoire's body leapt.

"I must," he answered quietly.

He stood unmoving, four paces from her. But his presence was suddenly as hot as peat fire.

Mhoire looked into his dark eyes and found she could
not look away. In that instant she realized who he was.

Drosten called for the guard and told him to move
Mhoire and Grainne from the hut in which they were imprisoned and into his own sleeping chamber. He also ordered the man to guard the door. The women deserved
more comfort, but he was not so foolish as to believe they
would stay put.

He was careful to show nothing but resolve during these
proceedings, but inwardly he found himself smiling. The
Irishwoman seemed inordinately disconcerted that she was
caught with her hair tangled. And what a sight she was-
her face flushed, her eyes flashing, her small body drawn
to its full height and trembling with indignation, and that
cascade of dark hair studded with straw. Now, walking purposefully toward the gathering hall, Drosten grinned.

He sobered quickly when Alfred fell into step beside
him.

"You've seen your bride, then?"

"News runs as fleet as a hare around here," Drosten muttered.

"When you house a prisoner in your own sleeping chamber, everyone is curious."

Drosten's frown deepened. "She's the daughter of a king.
We can't treat her like a common thief."

Alfred eyed Drosten closely but said nothing. The men
had been friends since they were both old enough to hold
a weapon. In coloring, Alfred was Drosten's opposite- dark-eyed and dark-haired. But like Drosten, he was unmarried. The son of a common clansman, Alfred seemed
content with a soldier's life-perhaps, Drosten often surmised, because it kept him unencumbered of a wife.

The two walked for a moment in silence, falling into the
same stride.

Everyone, Drosten realized, must know what had transpired. That roused his irritation.

"What are you going to do with her, then?"

Drosten groaned and stopped dead in his tracks.

"I'm going to marry her. Do you doubt that?"

Alfred puckered his lips.

Drosten turned away and continued walking toward the
hall.

"You could do with a cup of ale, my friend." Alfred
clapped him on the back. "It would clear your mind."

The gathering hall was empty, except for a few dogs
stretched out on their sides, sleeping. A hazy half-light, cast
by a beam of sunlight that streamed through the hole in the
ceiling above the hearth, bathed the interior. The noon meal
had been eaten hours before, and it being a rare sunny day,
the women were down by the stream washing clothes and
laying them on the grass to dry. A large kettle of broththe beginnings of supper-simmered unattended over a low
fire.

Drosten was grateful not to have to face inquisitive
looks. Stepping to a heavy oak sideboard, he and Alfred
poured themselves beakers of ale from a bronze jug, and
then strolled toward the long table in the center of the room,
drinking thirstily as they went.

They sat down opposite each other.

"You think she'll come around, then?" Alfred asked over
the rim of his beaker.

"Nay, I don't."

"So what will you do?"

Drosten ignored the question to ask one of his own. "Did
she say anything to my father about why she is resisting?"

"Well, what I've heard is that she told him he was going
about the entire affair the wrong way, and that he should
solve his problems by uniting the provinces instead of marrying his son to his enemies."

Drosten smiled. "Did she now? Brave woman."

"It's a wonder your father didn't slice her to bits and eat
her for supper."

Drosten's smile broadened. "I can just see her fighting
back with that dagger of hers. Who let her keep that?"

Alfred shook his head. "Must have hidden it up her shift,
the little weasel."

"Up her shift?" A part of Drosten wanted to give that
thought full consideration, but his more rational self refused. The last thing he was about to do was let a woman
bewitch him.

"You're interested in this woman, aren't you?"

As quickly as he had smiled, Drosten scowled. "It's my
duty to marry her, and, by God in heaven, I will." He
shoved himself away from the table and headed across the
room toward the sideboard.

"Hmm." Alfred took another swallow of ale. A few seconds passed. One of the dogs groaned in his sleep. "She's
a peculiar female."

"She's a stubborn female."

"Not like Fionna."