by Jayne Castel
Ignoring the jibe, Artair held his brother’s gaze. “The gates won’t hold much longer, will they?”
Cathal clenched his jaw. He wanted to argue with his brother, to deny the question, and yet suddenly he felt too weary to do so. After a long silence, he shook his head.
Artair cut Tormud a look of simmering resentment, before he focused once more on his brother. “When they break through, it won’t matter how well we defend the fort. They outnumber us vastly now. Their sheer numbers will overwhelm us. You know this, brother. Look me in the eye, and deny I’m telling the truth.”
The brothers stared at each and then, finally, Cathal ran a hand over his face. “I can’t believe that all my dreams of a new life for our people have come to this. When we stepped onto these shores, I thought a fresh start awaited us … but I miscalculated. I’ve brought all of you to your doom.”
Artair’s dark gaze gleamed. He leaned forward, still holding Cathal’s gaze fast. “It’s not too late,” he said, his voice low and firm. “Go before them tomorrow and surrender.” Artair glanced then, down at the curtained alcove where wee Bhaltair still wailed like a banshee. “For our children.”
“You’re not seriously considering this, mac Calum?” Tormud’s voice, rough with anger, drove a spike between the two brothers, severing the connection between them. “You’ll not submit to those bastards?”
Cathal leaned back in his chair and did not answer for a few moments. Even though this was his forty-sixth winter, he usually felt invincible, as strong as men half his age. Not tonight though. This eve, after three tough days defending the fort, he felt every one of his years. His body, mind, and heart ached. He felt so incredibly tired.
“I don’t want to let them beat us,” he admitted finally, meeting Tormud’s accusing gaze. The warrior had gone red in the face, his eyes gleaming in the light of a nearby cresset burning upon the wall. “But there comes a time when bravery turns into madness.”
Tormud’s face twisted. “You passed that point moons ago.”
“Perhaps I did not realize it … for tonight, with a newborn among us, I see clearly for the first time in a long while.”
It was true. After Mor’s disappearance and then betrayal, a fury unlike any other he had known ignited in his veins. Ever since, he felt as if he had been floundering around in the fog. But tonight, after another long day of battle, the mist had cleared—leaving him to see the situation as it really was.
Hopeless.
“You know we won’t win this battle,” Cathal said after a pause. “But you are even more stubborn than me about this, Tormud … why?”
The Boar warrior glared back at him. He gripped the horn of mead so hard that his knuckles had turned bloodless. “This is the land of my birth,” he growled out the words. “I’ll not be forced off it.”
“But you’re a Boar, not an Eagle,” Artair pointed out. “Dun Ringill never belonged to your people.”
“When I left The Winged Isle, The Boar and The Eagle had settled into an uneasy alliance.” Tormud’s voice roughened as he continued. “But relations were never good. My own father was killed during a skirmish between our tribes, and my brother’s wife ran off with an Eagle warrior.” Tormud’s face screwed up. “Dun Ringill is for them.”
Cathal watched the warrior who had been his right-hand for many years now, realization dawning. He had never questioned Tormud’s loyalty, yet had not understood that he’d had personal reasons for suggesting they take the tribe to The Winged Isle. He now saw that winning this fort had long been Tormud’s dream—one that Cathal had helped him achieve.
He would not let go of that dream easily.
But it was no longer Cathal’s dream. This great round-tower that looked west over the sea, where he had once hoped to grow old and fat, suddenly felt foreign and lonely.
He had lost nearly every person who had ever meant anything to him. He only had Artair left.
Cathal heaved in a deep breath then, exhaustion pulling him down in a dark undertow. It hurt to think, and yet a decision had to be made. “I will go before the chieftains of the united tribes tomorrow,” he said finally. “And I will place us at their mercy.” His gaze never left Tormud as he spoke, and he watched the warrior’s expression darken. “Even if they take my head for it … they are likely to spare the women and children then.”
Tormud lurched from his seat, mead sloshing over the rim of the horn he still gripped. Snarling, he hurled it away from him. Men and women in the hall below the platform turned, their gazes swiveling to where Tormud now glared at his chieftain.
“I never took you for a coward.” Tormud choked the words out.
The insult washed over Cathal. He was too weary of the world to care tonight. And so he said nothing. He merely let Tormud issue a string of insults. Then the man turned and strode from the hall.
It was like watching a storm depart, and when The Boar had disappeared, Cathal sank back into his carven chair, despair washing through him.
Chapter Twenty-four
Freedom or Death
MOR PLUNGED THE cloth into the steaming water and sighed. The rough block of lye soap they had given her had flecks of rosemary in it. The scent wafted up, released by the heat of the water. Mor inhaled deeply, sluicing her face, neck, and breasts with hot water.
Now that she was no longer considered a prisoner, Galan’s wife had brought her a wash bowl. She had also brought her clean clothes very similar to those she wore already: plaid leggings, a thick woolen tunic, and a leather vest.
The woman, tall and proud, with a wary gaze, had not engaged her in conversation, yet the kindness of the act had made Mor’s vision blur. She had not bathed in many days. Her skin and scalp itched. She now knelt naked on the edge of the furs. She did not linger over the bathing. Someone might venture into the tent at any moment, and despite the burning brazier, the air in here held a chill.
Even so, Mor sighed in pleasure as she washed her long hair and massaged soap into her scalp before rinsing it clean. The scent of rosemary enveloped her, and she closed her eyes; it was the perfume of summer, reminding her of the small garden her mother had once tended.
Completing her bathing, Mor dressed in the clothes The Eagle chieftain’s wife had brought. They fitted well, and Mor wondered if they had belonged to the woman herself. She was a tall, statuesque warrior woman, although not as tall as Mor. As such, the leggings were slightly too short in the leg. All the same, it felt wonderful to be clean again.
Mor was standing next to the brazier, teasing out the wet strands of her hair with her fingers to help it dry, when the tent flap drew back, and someone else entered. She had expected to see Galan’s wife again, but instead it was Talor.
He carried a tray of food. Mor’s heart leaped at the sight of him. Then her belly growled when her attention settled upon the tray bearing oatcakes, boiled eggs, butter, and cheese. A jug and two clay cups sat alongside the food.
Talor’s mouth quirked. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” Mor replied, careful to keep her expression aloof. She had been hoping to avoid Talor for the moment. He had been there earlier, had witnessed the entire scene with the chieftains, and listened while she spilled all her father’s secrets afterward. The rosemary scented bath had distracted her for a brief time, but the sight of Talor brought everything back once more.
“Why are you here?” she asked softly.
Talor raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it obvious … I’m about to have supper, and I’d like to share it with you.” He nodded toward the furs. Please, sit down.”
Moving away from the brazier, Mor did as bid. However, she still eyed the warrior cautiously. This was a side to Talor she had not yet seen—charming with a boyish edge that no doubt set many a lass’s heart aflutter.
Is that why mine is beating so fast?
The Reaper take him, her pulse raced as if she had just finished a sprint.
Was this who Talor mac Donnel usually was, before grief and bitterness had dri
ven him to Dun Ringill to kill her father … a man who wore sensuality and self-confidence like a second skin?
He looked good tonight, dressed in leather breeches and a vest, his muscular arms left bare. He had shaved his jaw, and now that the bruises on his face had started to fade, the full force of his chiseled good-looks hit her.
Mor struggled to keep her breathing even and lowered herself onto the furs. Talor sat opposite her, twisting himself into a cross-legged position with ease and setting the wooden tray between them. He then poured them both cups of ale. “Don’t mind me,” he said with a slow smile that made Mor’s breathing hitch. “Dig in.”
Once again, Mor obeyed him. She spread butter upon a large oatcake and took a big bite, chewing fast, before she took another. Ever since she had been taken prisoner, her meals had been tiny and spaced far apart; they had not wanted to waste food on her.
But now that she would fight alongside them, she had earned the right to eat properly again.
“I’m surprised you dare visit this tent,” Mor said as she swallowed the last of her oatcake and reached for an egg, which she began to peel. “Everyone here looks at me as if I am the bean-nighe.”
Talor pulled a face at the comparison. The bean-nighe was a female spirit: an omen of death and a messenger from the Otherworld. Taking the form of an old woman, the bean-nighe was said to haunt desolate streams, washing the clothing of those about to die.
“A very attractive bean-nighe nonetheless,” he replied, helping himself to a wedge of cheese.
Mor’s fingers stumbled as she continued to peel her egg. Now he was flirting with her. She did not know what to say, how to respond to him. After everything that had happened that evening, she felt drained of words.
“A shadow lies across your eyes, Mor,” Talor said when she did not answer his comment. “I don’t like seeing you like this.”
She raised her gaze, meeting his squarely for the first time since he had entered her tent. “I’m a traitor,” she murmured, “I feel as if I don’t belong anywhere now.”
His brow furrowed. “Why did you offer all that information? I can see it has cost you.”
Mor inhaled sharply, her gaze dropping to the egg. She finished peeling it but did not take a bite, considering her next words carefully. “For freedom, Talor. Whatever happens next, I want to face it as a free woman. The Serpent can only hold out for so long … and when they fall, I don’t want to still be a prisoner.”
“It seems like a high price though.” Talor reached for his cup of ale.
“Freedom or death,” Mor replied, her tone flattening. “There’s nothing in between. Would you have liked to have remained my father’s prisoner? To be kicked and beaten, given scraps to eat, and then put to work cleaning privies before you slept with the dogs.”
Talor took a draft of ale before meeting her gaze once more. “And you think we’ll treat you this way?”
Mor held his gaze. “I know you would.”
Talor’s expression sharpened. “I wouldn’t.” He inclined his head then, his sea-blue eyes searching. “There’s something else, Mor … something you’re not telling me. What is it?”
The Hag curse him. How had he sensed it?
She was so good at hiding her thoughts and feelings from others; few people suspected she withheld things. But not Talor. He saw right through her.
Mor’s throat thickened. She could not confide in him though—it was too risky. No one could know what she was planning.
And so she shoved her urge to confide in him away and buried her feelings deep. “There is nothing else … if I seem on edge, it is because I told you all my father’s secrets. You know now that he hates being on the defensive. If cornered, he will attack. The moment you breach the gates, he and his warriors will come at you.”
Talor nodded, his gaze hooding. “Aye … and we will put up ladders on the walls and attack him from behind.”
Bile rose, stinging the back of Mor’s throat. “Don’t forget also that as soon as they are cornered, my father and his warriors will cast aside their swords and fight with daggers. They carry many strapped to their bodies. They will try to get as close as possible to you, and under your guards, before you can draw your own knives.”
Talor continued to watch her. “And we will be ready.”
Mor stared down at the egg she still held. She had been famished a few moments ago, yet now her belly churned. Self-loathing pulsed within her like a stoked ember. She had known that betraying her father would take its toll on her, but it hurt more than she expected. “How can you bear to be in my company,” she finally managed. “A warrior does not betray their own … I deserve death, not freedom.”
A beat of silence passed between them, and then Talor reached out, placing a hand over hers. The heat of his skin, the strength of his fingers, sent a blade of lust through Mor’s lower belly; the sensation was so acute that she nearly gasped in response.
It had been like this from the moment of their first meeting—this pull, this attraction. One touch and her mind turned to porridge, and every nerve in her body grew taut.
“You’re an incredible woman, Mor,” he said, his fingers closing over hers. “Braver than anyone I’ve ever met. I look into your eyes, and I know you are a survivor. There’s no one else’s company I’d rather be in right now.”
Mor’s gaze flicked upward, meeting his once more. Her mouth lifted at the corners. “You have a honeyed tongue, Talor mac Donnel … I never realized just how charming you are … till today.”
His mouth curved, and the sensuality of the expression made Mor’s heart leap once more. Her skin burned where he touched it, the sensation making her incredibly aware of his nearness. She could feel the heat of his body, reaching out and wrapping itself around her. His hair was slightly damp, hinting that he too had bathed this evening. He smelt of leather, mixed with a spicy scent that was pure male. Mor’s breathing quickened, her nostrils flaring as she inhaled him.
“Aye … you haven’t seen this side of me,” he admitted. “Instead, you saw my ugly twin … the man I’d rather others didn’t witness. You saw it all, and yet you don’t hate me as a result … I don’t know whether to be impressed or alarmed.”
Mor stared back at him, realizing what he was trying to say. She had seen the worst of him—his hate and vitriol—and yet she had still tried to help him and had suffered his company. Likewise, he knew her to be a traitor to her own father, and despite that, he was sitting with her.
His fingers entwined with hers, and the uneaten egg dropped onto the tray between them.
“I don’t know what tomorrow will bring,” Talor said softly, “for either of us. All I know, Mor, is that from the moment you appeared in my life, everything changed. You burn as bright as a Gateway fire … you draw me to you. When I’m in your company, I like who I am. If I’m no longer eaten up by a hunger for reckoning, it is your doing. You bring out the best in me.”
Mor’s heart was beating so wildly now, she was sure he must have been able to hear it. A wave of want swept over her, dizzying in its intensity. “Do I?” she whispered back, as her fingers tangled with his. Talor’s thumb brushed across her palm, and her breathing caught. “I don’t think I have that much influence over you.”
“Aye, you do.” Talor reached up with his free hand, leaning forward as he cupped her face. “You have far more power than you realize … and if you would wield it, there is little you couldn’t achieve.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Patience
MOR MOMENTARILY LOST the ability to speak. Instead, she merely stared back at Talor as he gazed into her eyes, his hand still cupping her cheek. Words deserted her. All she could focus on was the heat of his palm pressed against her skin.
The Mother preserve her, she had never known desire like this.
Need for Talor writhed in her belly. Despite their stillness, she sensed the lust that raged within him too—he held himself back, but his eyes had darkened to an inky blue, his pup
ils huge.
Energy crackled between them like the air before a violent storm.
Slowly, deliberately, Talor drew back from her. Then he picked up the tray and set it aside, placing it away from the furs so that nothing lay between them.
“You feel it too, don’t you?” he asked. The rasp in his voice nearly undid her. The raw need that made her core ache for him. “This pull between us … it has been there from the beginning.”
Mor nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“I want to lose myself in you, Mor,” he continued, his words weaving a spell around her. “I want to forget the rest of the world and everyone in it.”
Mor’s lips parted, a soft gasp escaping her. “I want …” she breathed, the word catching in her throat. “I want you so much … it scares me.”
He shifted forward on his knees so that barely a hand-span lay between them on the furs. “I’m yours,” he said, the words coming out in a low growl. “Take me.”
And with those words, he released her from the last bindings of self-restraint. Before Mor knew what she was doing, she launched herself at him.
Talor was ready for her. They came together with a clash of lips, tongues, and teeth—a wild embrace that ended up with Mor sitting astride Talor. Her hands were everywhere, exploring the hard-muscled contours of his chest before sliding up to the bare skin of his neck. She did not know where to touch first. With a gasp, she dug her fingers through his short, thick hair, pushing herself hard against him as he slid his hands down the column of her back.
Their kisses softened. The first wave of desperate hunger had passed, and a soft mist of throbbing desire settled over Mor. Talor deepened his kisses, his tongue sliding against hers in a sensual caress that made Mor groan into his mouth. His hands cupped her buttocks then, and he drew her even closer to him. Mor felt the hard, throbbing heat of him pressed up against her, and despite that layers of clothing still separated them, shivers of pleasure rippled through her lower belly. Slowly, sensually, she rubbed herself against him, sliding up and down the magnificent length of his shaft.
