Warrior's Secret (The Pict Wars Book 2)

by Jayne Castel

  Gavina, who had once shown him the ways of the furs, had wed again just over a year earlier. When Muin had come of age, Gavina had just been widowed. Wed to a cruel man, she had been relieved to find herself alone again, and had taken Muin to her furs for a short while.

  Muin had been an eager pupil and was disappointed when, after six passion-fueled months, Gavina had ended the affair. She was ten years his elder and wished to wed again. Although they had become close, she had also realized that Muin’s heart belonged elsewhere, even then.

  A shadow passed over Gavina’s face. “Donnan will be going with you to An Teanga,” she said softly. “I’d prefer he remain here to help protect Balintur, but Galan has insisted.”

  Muin tensed. Of course he had. Donnan mac Muir was one of their fiercest warriors. Galan would want him at his side for the siege.

  “Will you look out for him, Muin?” Gavina asked. “Make sure he comes back to me safely?”

  Muin held her gaze, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Donnan doesn’t need protecting,” he reminded her. “If anything, The Serpent will fill their breeches at the sight of him.”

  Gavina gave a shaky laugh, although the shadow never left her eyes. “Even so, I’d feel better knowing you were watching out for him.”

  Muin’s smile faded, before he nodded. “Of course I will.” The music changed then, slowing to a mellow, lilting tune. A song for lovers. “Go find Donnan,” Muin murmured. “Enjoy your time together.”

  Watching Gavina walk away, Muin felt an odd pang. He remembered when Donnan had first started showing an interest in the comely widow; Muin had been irritated and jealous initially. But now, three years later, the couple were deeply in love, and he was glad he had stepped aside so they could be together.

  Of course, at the time he had hoped for a future with Ailene.

  He spotted the seer then, on the other side of the gathering. She had finished her conversation with Fina and now stood apart from the dancers. She looked as if she was about to leave.

  A man was preventing her.

  Fingal mac Diarmid—The Wolf warrior who had wooed Ailene over the past few months.

  However, unlike at Gateway, Ailene did not look pleased to see the warrior. Fingal had hold of her arm and was attempting to haul her into the dancing. Ailene was saying something, her face taut with displeasure.

  Muin tensed. It was clear that Ailene did not want to dance.

  And then Fingal yanked Ailene against him and tried to kiss her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I Can’t

  AILENE KNEED FINGAL in the cods.

  The Wolf warrior sank to his knees, face twisting in anger and pain. But he did not loosen his grip on her arm.

  Half a dozen long strides brought Muin across the space and to Ailene’s side. She was struggling to free herself from Fingal’s bruising grip. Reaching out, Muin took hold of the man’s wrist, his fingers tightening until he heard the bones creak.

  With a curse, Fingal released Ailene’s arm and staggered to his feet. Bent over as he recovered from the blow to his groin, he wheezed. “Stay out of this, Eagle. This is between me and my woman.”

  “I’m not your woman,” Ailene hissed. Her face had gone pale, her blue eyes narrowed into glittering slits. She drew the boning knife from her belt and took a step toward him. “Touch me again, and I’ll geld you.”

  “Ailene.” Muin cast her a warning look as he stepped in between the two of them. He admired her fire, but even recovering from a well-aimed knee to his cods, Fingal was dangerous.

  The Wolf warrior’s expression darkened further as his gaze raked Muin from head to foot. “So that’s how things are?” he sneered. “You prefer being ridden by a chieftain’s son, do you?”

  Ailene stepped around Muin, her tall frame bristling with outrage. She held the boning knife with vicious intent, her fingers flexing around its hilt. “Say that twice, and I’ll cut your tongue out.”

  Fingal’s lip curled. “Slut. I wager you’ve been spreading your thighs for half the men in this village … just not for me. Not anymore.”

  With a snarl, Ailene leaped for him.

  Muin caught her around the waist and pulled her back, shoving her behind him, just as Fingal barreled into him. A heavy fist pummeled into Muin’s belly, driving the breath out of him.

  Recovering swiftly, Muin shoved the man away, balled his right fist, and slammed it hard into Fingal’s nose.

  The crunch of breaking sinew and bone followed.

  Fingal sank to his knees with an explosive curse, hands going up to where blood gushed from his crushed, bleeding nose.

  Muin shook out his hand, stepped back, grabbed Ailene by the arm, and steered her out of the gathering space. The crowd closed behind them, and Fingal’s muffled threats faded, replaced by the lilting sound of Eithni’s harp and Tea’s soulful voice. Most of the gathering had not even noticed the fight, it seemed.

  Maneuvering Ailene down the network of narrow streets, Muin did not release his grasp on her arm until the seer dug her heels in and twisted away from him. In the narrow alley, illuminated only by a flickering pitch torch at one end, she turned to him, eyes blazing.

  “Let go of me!” she panted. “You shouldn’t have interfered.”

  Surprised by her vehemence, Muin stepped back. “Could you have held your own against Fingal?” he asked.

  “I can defend myself.”

  “By sinking your knife into his gut? How would that help relations between The Eagle and The Wolf?”

  Ailene’s lip curled. “Ever the peace-weaver, Muin … just like your father.”

  Muin went still. “I’m not like him.”

  “Even so, that wasn’t your battle.”

  “He was pushing himself on you, frightening you.” Muin clenched his hands by his sides as he spoke. He could not believe Ailene was speaking to him like this. They had always been kind with each other, and yet the woman before him was a shrill, angry stranger.

  A wildly beautiful one.

  Under usual circumstances, Ailene possessed a gentle, earthy beauty, but when riled she transformed into the most stunning creature he had ever seen. She stood tall and straight, barely having to lift her chin to meet his eye. Anger made her features more chiseled, darkened her eyes. Her full breasts heaved with the force of the outrage that churned within her.

  “Fingal thinks that just because he lies with a woman, it means he has claimed her,” Ailene replied, her voice rough. “A confrontation was brewing between us … but you butting in just made things worse. You should have let me be.”

  Muin drew in a sharp breath, his own anger kindling. He moved toward Ailene then, forcing her to take a step back against the stacked stone wall of the dwelling behind her. “I couldn’t let you be,” he growled, his gaze never leaving hers. “And if I ever see you threatened again, I will step in.”

  Ailene raised her chin a little higher, although a muscle flexed in her jaw, betraying her nervousness. “What if I don’t want you to?”

  “That doesn’t matter. Until the last day I draw breath, I will protect you, Ally. Only The Reaper will stop me.”

  Ailene’s lips parted. “Don’t say that,” she whispered.

  Muin moved closer still. He knew he should not—but he did it anyway. After the argument with his father and the altercation with Fingal, his blood was up; wildness surged through him. “It’s the truth.”

  “You need to let this go.” The words were barely audible. “You must.”

  “I can’t.”

  A heartbeat later he was kissing her.

  Muin was not sure how it started. He did not know what madness possessed him to step forward, so that their bodies grazed each other, and to claim her mouth. All he knew was that those full pouty lips had been tempting him from the moment she had rounded on him in the alleyway. He could not blame drink, for he had barely touched any mead during the gathering. He could not blame Ailene for encouraging him either—for she had done the opposite.


  And yet there he was, ravaging her mouth like a starved man.

  Ailene had gone still against him, her body rigid with shock. Heedless, Muin moved closer still so that he pressed her up against the wall, his hands cupping her face as he deepened the kiss, his tongue parting her lips. She smelled and tasted wonderful: warm and sweet. Better than the scent of heather in bloom in early summer; sweeter than the first gulp of ale after a hard day’s work.

  Ailene gasped, and he gently bit her full lower lip.

  He realized then that something was pressing against his chest. Pulling away, he glanced down to see that her balled fists shoved against him, trying to push him away from her.

  Ice washed over Muin like a dip in a wintry loch.

  What in the name of the Gods was he doing? What madness had seized him to kiss a woman who had made it clear she did not want him?

  Releasing Ailene abruptly, he stepped back. Cold air rushed in between them, and Ailene shivered, pulling the woolen cloak she wore tightly about her.

  “I shouldn’t have done that.” The sound of his voice made him cringe inwardly; it sounded so raw, so desperate. “I’m sorry.”

  Ailene did not reply. She only stared at him as if he had just sprouted two heads. Her eyes had grown huge upon her pale face. She looked afraid, as if she feared he would maul her again.

  Muin moved back from Ailene. “I don’t know what came over me,” he said. The Reaper take him, how he hated the need, the self-loathing in his voice. “It won’t happen again.”

  And with that, he turned on his heel and strode away.

  Ailene leaned back against the wall and tried to quell the rapid beating of her heart. Her legs trembled under her, and she pressed her fisted hands to her thighs, willing her breathing to return to normal.

  Watching Muin disappear into the shadows, she slowly raised a hand and touched her lips.

  They still burned from his kiss.

  He had taken her by complete surprise. One moment they had been arguing, the next his mouth had slanted over hers. And when it did, Ailene ceased to think. The contained power of his body pressed against hers, the hunger yet tenderness in the way his mouth had teased her lips, had driven everything from her mind. And when his tongue had sought entrance to her mouth, her lower belly had caught aflame.

  Yet she’d had the presence of mind to try and stop him. Pummeling against the wall of Muin’s chest had been like trying to shove a broch aside. But he had realized that she was trying to push him away and had ended the kiss.

  And to her eternal shame, loss had arrowed through her when he stepped away.

  The horror on Muin’s face had cut her deep, as did the pain in his eyes.

  She had wanted to tell him all was well, that she was not angry or afraid, just surprised, but her tongue had refused to obey her. She had been unable to do anything save stare at him like a lackwit, while he turned and walked away.

  Whispering an oath, Ailene ran a hand over her face.

  What had just happened?

  She and Muin had quarreled—something they had rarely ever done before the past few days—and then he had embraced her. Although Ailene had only ever lain with Fingal, she had been kissed by a handful of men over the years; usually warriors well into their cups who stole a kiss during one of the many festivals that broke up the year. But none had been like the one Muin had given her.

  Muin’s kiss was hungry, demanding, and masterful—and it had consumed her, awoken her in ways she found both arousing and disturbing. The sensitive skin between her thighs now ached, and heat pulsed from her lower belly. Her breasts felt swollen and her skin overly sensitive.

  Ailene pushed herself up off the wall with a curse this time. This was not what she needed. Her life was already far too complicated, but now things had just escalated to another level.

  How would she ever be able to meet Muin’s eye again? She did not want him, did not want anyone—and yet her body had just responded to her oldest friend like dry tinder to a flame.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Think Like Your Enemy

  Dun Ringill

  Territory of The Serpent

  “THE ONLY WAY to win against your enemy is to think like him.”

  Tormud mac Alec’s gravelly voice echoed through the broch, causing all seated at the long table to turn to him.

  Cathal glanced up from where he had been toying with his bowl of stew. His appetite was poor these days—it had been ever since Dunchadh’s death. Tormud sat a few feet down the table. He was a stocky man who was a couple of years older than Cathal. Heavy-set with penetrating, dark eyes, Tormud’s short dark hair was now peppered with grey. A faded blue tattoo marked his right bicep, the mark of The Boar. Even decades living amongst The Serpent could not erase this warrior’s origins.

  “Is that so,” Cathal rumbled, pushing aside his stew. “And how does our enemy think?”

  Tormud gave a tight smile. It was rare to see the man show amusement; he was difficult to read at the best of times. “Like me.”

  Beside Cathal, his son Tamhas snorted. Next to him, Cathal’s brother, Artair, smirked.

  Of course, Tormud was one of The Boar. He had fought at the Great Wall to the south over twenty years earlier, and instead of returning home to The Winged Isle had gone to live with the Cruthini. He had wed one of Cathal’s tribe, a fire-haired wench who had died giving birth to their first child. Cathal had expected The Boar to return to his own people after that, yet he never had.

  Instead, he had remained with The Serpent, and when feuding with their neighbors escalated, it had been Tormud’s idea to seek a new life for their people upon this isle.

  “So, if you had barricaded yourself inside Balintur, what would your next move be?” Cathal asked, ignoring his son’s dismissiveness. Tall, broad, and ruddy-haired, Tamhas was a constant reminder of his elder brother, Dunchadh. Tamhas was a good fighter, but he was not half the man Dunchadh had been. Cathal’s first-born had been a natural leader: strong and charismatic, the perfect choice to lead this tribe to greatness once Cathal’s time passed.

  Now that responsibility would fall to Tamhas.

  Cathal ground his teeth at the thought.

  Tormud poured himself another cup of ale. “First, I would build up my strength again, bring in warriors from the extremities of this isle.”

  “How many more warriors can they muster?” Mor spoke up then.

  Mor, Cathal’s only daughter, was seated at the end of the long table. Long dark auburn hair tumbled down her back. She sat up straight and proud as she fixed Tormud with a cool stare Cathal knew well. She might have shared his moss-green eyes, but sometimes her expressions reminded him so much of Lena that it hurt to breathe.

  Tormud shifted his dark gaze to Mor. He gave her a long intense look that made Cathal’s hackles rise slightly. The Boar had been valuable to him on this campaign, even if Cathal did not always take his advice, but there were times when The Serpent chieftain caught Tormud watching his daughter with hungry eyes.

  Cathal did not like it.

  Mor isn’t for the likes of you.

  When his warrior daughter wed, it would not be to a man old enough to be her father. Once he had consolidated his position here, Cathal hoped to find a match for Mor amongst the people of this isle, a chieftain’s son perhaps. It would be a handfasting that would win The Serpent much needed allies.

  “Dun Ardtreck and Dun Grianan are large strongholds,” Tormud replied after a lengthy pause, “but there are also numerous smaller settlements in the north … I believe they could gather another two to three-hundred warriors.”

  “Wouldn’t that empty out their territory?” Mor asked with a frown. “It would leave The Wolf and Stag vulnerable to attack.”

  A slow smile stretched Cathal’s mouth. Like Dunchadh, Mor had a clever, tactical mind. She often offered good advice before battle—unlike her younger brother, Tamhas, who said little during these discussions. Tamhas was frowning now, his gaze riveted upon Ca
thal.

  No love lost there.

  “Aye.” Tormud’s mouth lifted at the corners in another rare smile. “It would.”

  “And if you were Galan of The Eagle,” Cathal spoke up once more, “what would you do once you’d rallied more warriors? Would you attack Dun Ringill?”

  The words of Old Murdina came back to Cathal then, and it suddenly felt as if a spider had just crawled down his spine.

  The balance of power is shifting.

  Tormud sat back, stroking his chin. “Not right away,” he replied. “He knows our numbers are strong and that the fort is well-defended. He also realizes that the bitter season is upon us now, and soon the snows will come. To lay siege to Dun Ringill could end up a lengthy campaign, one that might last many moons.”

  “They could take back An Teanga instead,” Tamhas spoke up.

  Silence fell at the table. Around them the rumble of conversation at the long tables beneath the chieftain’s platform echoed through the broch of Dun Ringill. The aroma of boar stew and peat smoke lay heavy in the air, causing a fug to hover just below the heavy smoke-blackened beams.

  Cathal had only lived in this broch three moons, and already it felt like home. He never wanted to leave it. He never would leave it.

  “An Teanga?” Tormud’s heavy-featured face twisted at the suggestion. “Varar mac Urcal would never be able to convince the other chieftains to agree to that.”

  Tamhas leaned across the table, his gaze spearing Tormud’s. “Why not?

  “The Boar are loners,” the older warrior replied, his dark brows knitting together. “They have never been friends with the other tribes of this isle.”

  “And yet they joined them to fight against us?” Artair pointed out.

  “Only because they had no other choice.”

  “An Teanga isn’t as heavily defended as Dun Ringill,” Tamhas countered, stubbornness settling in now. Cathal watched him, surprised. It was rare for the lad to speak so boldly on matters of war. Until now, he had always let Dunchadh and Mor lead discussions. “You said to think like the enemy … if it was up to me, I’d attack An Teanga.”