Tarl took a seat by the hearth, waiting for Eithni to finish with Donnel. Once she had tended to his wound, Donnel grunted his thanks and stalked off to his alcove. Eithni watched him go, her expression haunted.
“Don’t mind him,” Tarl said. “He’s not as ungrateful as he appears.”
Eithni shrugged her slender shoulders and forced a smile. “I don’t need his gratitude.” She turned back to Tarl, her attention shifting to the congealed blood covering his left side. “I just want to help.”
Lucrezia sat behind them in silence, while Eithni cleaned and dressed Tarl’s injuries. Both the cuts were deep and so needed some stitches. When the healer was done, Tarl was ashen with pain, sweat beading on his forehead.
Lucrezia leaned down and kissed him gently. “You should rest,” she murmured. “I will see you tomorrow morning.”
He managed a strained smile and reached out, taking her hand. “I don’t want to sleep alone. Will you join me?”
Wordlessly, Lucrezia nodded and followed him to his alcove. She had wanted that too, only a sudden shyness had descended upon her. She was glad he had asked. Stepping inside the chamber, memories of the night before assaulted her, causing a flush of heat to creep up her neck. The way she had come to him—she had never thought herself capable of it. And yet after all that had happened since it seemed a lifetime ago.
They lay down upon the furs still fully clothed, and Tarl stretched out on his back so that his shoulder and arm would be more comfortable. However, he had winced as he lay down, stifling a groan of pain.
Lucrezia curled close to him. She placed her head upon his chest, smiling as she felt his hand stroke her hair. She had also missed this during all those years of marriage to Marcus. Not just the physical union but the tenderness and companionship as well. Her body relaxed into it, and she felt the horror of the day drift away. Here in Tarl’s arms, she felt as if nothing could touch her—she was protected, safe.
Moments later, she felt Tarl’s breathing deepen, and realized he had fallen asleep.
Galan stared down at his half-empty cup of mead, listening to the muted sounds of the hall around him. He should retire—Tea would be waiting for him in the furs—but he could not settle.
This tribe had known so much war and feuding over the years, and he had thought that now peace had been made with The People of the Wolf, they might enjoy a period of stability—that his people might thrive and prosper. Yet the shadow of war was always there, just out of sight but lurking all the same.
Things would not end here, he knew that much. Urcal mac Wrad, chief of The Boar, was not likely to let this lie. Tarl had told Galan that Wurgest had acted alone, that those men who had attacked them followed Wurgest’s orders, not their chieftain’s. Yet Urcal would be angered by their deaths all the same.
So deep in thought was he that he did not notice at first when a shadow fell across him. It was only when he felt the table shift that he realized he was no longer alone.
He looked up to see Donnel seated across from him, watching him. Galan was surprised to see Donnel; he had thought his brother had retired to his alcove for the night. However, it appeared he too could not settle. The intensity in his younger brother’s eyes warned him that this would not be a pleasant conversation.
“We must have reckoning,” Donnel said without preamble. Nearby Galan saw Eithni packing up her things next to the fire pit after tending to Tarl. Her pretty face was pinched, her gaze hooded. Eithni liked most folk, but she had developed an aversion to Donnel of late. Galan did not blame her. As much as he sympathized with Donnel’s loss, his brother’s aggression grated on him these days.
“Reckoning will not change anything,” Galan rumbled. “It will not bring Alpia back.”
“No, but someone needs to teach those Boar bastards a lesson.”
“Tarl says Wurgest acted alone.”
Donnel snorted. “Aye, but their chief would have sanctioned it. Wurgest and his men would have traveled north with Urcal’s blessing.”
Galan inhaled deeply. He was too tired for this conversation. Leaning back in his chair, he folded his arms across his broad chest, and looked down his nose at Donnel. “And what would you have me do?”
Donnel leaned forward. “I say we take revenge. Two Boar villages lie south of The Valley of the Tors. I say we sack them, take the folk there as slaves. Let’s show our enemies what happens to those who cross The Eagles.”
Galan watched him silently for a few moments before answering. “Our father would have followed such advice—yet I think it is folly. The Boar are not our enemies, Donnel. I would not make them so.”
His brother’s expression darkened. “How can you say that? Especially after today.”
“Today was an isolated incident: a madman and his followers with a score to settle. I won’t make an entire tribe my enemy on the strength of that.”
Donnel’s mouth thinned. “So you’ll do nothing?”
“I will shore up our defenses and place more warriors upon our southern borders, but I will not attack our neighbors, nor accuse them of anything without proof.” Galan could feel his own irritation rising. He did not like having to explain himself to Donnel, or to repeat himself for his brother’s benefit.
Their gazes locked for a few moments. Galan saw Donnel’s fury, the simmering resentment on his face. He did not understand Galan’s decision, but then neither did he want to. He wanted blood-letting, not peace. The campaign to the south had not sated him of the desire to wreak havoc on the whole world for taking Luana from him. If anything his experience fighting the Caesars had merely whetted his appetite for more.
“I used to admire your quest for peace,” Donnel began, his voice a low growl. “But now I see it for what it is. Cowardice.”
The insult hung between them, reverberating in the now silent hall.
Galan let it lie. Donnel wanted him to react. He was looking for a fight. After a long pause, Galan finally answered. “You may see it that way, but I don’t.” Galan pushed aside his half-finished cup of mead and rose to his feet. “Battlefields are littered with the bones of men like you, Donnel. You might not care if you drowned in the loch tomorrow, but I’d rather live to see my children grow up.”
With that he turned from the table and walked away toward his alcove. As he did so, Galan felt Donnel’s stare boring into his back, knifing him between his shoulder blades. He would not let this matter lie, Galan realized with a sinking heart.
The battle of wills between them had only just begun.
Chapter Thirty
Awoken
tea sang a lament for Alpia. She had a lovely voice, and it carried through the cool morning air, causing all who heard it to grow still.
Color drains from the sky
The winds of sadness blow
The red sun does not rise
The streams no longer flow.
The tide draws out forever
The stars dim and fade
Summer never comes
In eternal grief I wade.
Lucrezia had never heard such a song. It was both beautiful and haunting. She sang on: verses telling of Alpia’s valor, her strength, and her indomitable spirit. She sang of a woman taken too soon, before she’d had the chance to find a mate or start a family. Lucrezia wept at these words, for they expressed what she too felt. Alpia had been so stoic, so accepting of her end—but Lucrezia still railed against it.
In saving her friend’s life, Alpia had cheated herself out of a future.
Lucrezia stood by Tarl’s side at the front of the crowd of mourners. Like her own people, the folk of The Winged Isle buried their dead in stone mounds—or tumuli in her native tongue. Here they called them cairns, and judging by the line of fresh ones upon the hill east of the fort, it appeared Dun Ringill had seen a lot of death in recent years.
They slid Alpia’s body into the cairn and sealed the door with a stone slab. Women keened and scattered wildflowers before the door. Then the procession of mourn
ers began their slow journey back to the fort. It was a still grey morning, and Loch Slapin was dull and flat like a disc of slate under a washed-out sky.
Walking at Tarl’s side, Lucrezia felt his hand reach for hers. She took it, enjoying the warmth and strength of his fingers wrapped around hers.
“Does Alpia have any kin here?” she asked him. She had not seen anyone resembling her friend among the mourners.
“No,” he replied. “Alpia’s mother died birthing her, and her father fell in battle a year later. She was brought up by the older women of the fort. In a sense, we’re all her kin.”
Lucrezia gave a wistful smile. She liked the sound of that; the folk here looked out for each other. She glanced across at Tarl and found him watching her. His grey eyes were shadowed. Her smile faded. “What’s wrong?”
“Guilt,” he replied with a grimace. “I can’t help but feel responsible for all of this. I should have killed Wurgest the day he tried to rape you. I would have saved us all a lot of trouble.”
Lucrezia gave a rueful shake of her head. “I wish you had too, but you weren’t to know what he’d do.”
“I should have guessed—he was a mad bastard even before we were enemies.”
They approached the outer walls of Dun Ringill, taking the path that led to the gate. Ahead, Lucrezia saw Ruith quicken her pace so that she could walk next to Donnel. She watched the bandruí speak a few words to him, and saw Donnel’s broad shoulders grow tense.
Tarl snorted. “Ruith’s wasting her time. In his current mood, Donnel won’t listen to anyone.”
“Galan’s afraid that Donnel will do something rash, to take revenge against The Boar,” Lucrezia replied, frowning. “Tea told me yesterday that they argued, and haven’t spoken since.”
Tarl’s gaze narrowed. “Aye, I’d noticed something amiss between them.”
“Maybe you should speak to Donnel. He’s closer to you than anyone.”
Tarl gave her an incredulous look. “And it’s for that reason I’ll let him be.”
Up ahead Ruith and Donnel had concluded their brief exchange of words. Donnel snarled something at the seer and strode on ahead, making it clear he did not wish for her company.
“But what if he rides off, kills someone, and starts a feud between your tribes?” Lucrezia asked.
Tarl sighed. “I think Galan worries unnecessarily. Donnel’s not himself these days, but he’s not a murderer.” He slung his good arm around her shoulders and drew her against him as they walked. “He’s cleverer than me … he won’t do anything foolish.”
Lucrezia gave him a censorious look, digging her elbow gently into his ribs. “You’re impulsive and irritatingly sure of yourself, but you’re not dull-witted, Tarl mac Muin.”
He grinned back at her, the melancholy in his eyes that had been there ever since Alpia’s death lifting. “Impulsive and irritatingly sure of myself—so you like such men?”
She smiled back. “It would seem so.”
Tarl awoke to the feel of something tickling his chest.
He stirred against the furs, his eyes flickering open. A delicious sight greeted him. Lucrezia—naked, her skin glowing in the light of the single cresset that guttered behind her—was kissing her way down his chest, her long dark hair trailing over his skin.
He lay on his back, naked to the waist. He had lain down for a doze in the late afternoon, dressed in leather breeches, and had obviously fallen into a deep sleep. For the first time since he had sustained them, the wounds on his shoulder and arm had stopped throbbing. Initially the pain had drained him. Since returning from The Valley of the Tors, all he had wanted to do was sleep.
Right at this moment though, rest was the last thing on his mind.
His gaze devoured his lover, sliding over her smooth limbs, the long curve of her back, and her lush breasts. She was deliberately grazing their tips along his chest, before trailing after with her lips and tongue.
Lust shot through his groin, and he felt his shaft harden and lift toward her.
Lucrezia gave a soft, throaty chuckle. “I see you’re awake then.”
“How can you expect me to sleep?” he replied with a groan. “When you’re doing that …”
She glanced up, her dark eyes full of passion and mischief. “Would you prefer I let you be so you could go back to sleep.”
“No,” he countered swiftly. “Just get back to work, woman. Don’t let me distract you.”
She laughed, the sound heating his blood. He wanted to grab her, throw her onto her back and plow her till she screamed, but his injuries would make that difficult. He groaned again, this time in frustration. “I feel like a cripple.”
Lucrezia gave him a soft, beguiling smile. “This won’t give your shoulder any problems. Just lie back and let me take the lead.”
Tarl gave her a slow smile. He loved how forthright this woman was in the furs. “Go on then.”
Lucrezia flicked her hair back and lowered herself to his torso once more. Moments later Tarl was lost. The way she raked her fingernails over his skin, how she licked and kissed her way down his body, drove him insane. And when she took him in her mouth, he nearly lost control completely.
All teasing was gone now. He panted, writhing under her mouth and hands as she pleasured him. “Gods,” he groaned, closing his eyes as he sought to keep himself under control. “Lucrezia.”
A moment later she straddled him, and he felt hot velvet heat envelop his shaft. He opened his eyes to see her astride him, lost in her own pleasure. The sight took his breath away. Her back arched, she threw her head back as she rode him. He had never seen something so beautiful.
With his good arm he reached out, stroking his hand down the soft curve of her belly to the nest of dark curls below. He touched Lucrezia there, where their bodies met, the pad of his thumb stroking each time she slid down his shaft.
Her throaty groan filled the alcove, and he felt a shudder ripple through her. A flush spread up from her breasts, and he watched her give herself up to him.
A fierce love washed over him then, the emotion so strong it took him by surprise. It felt as if his heart had swollen and would explode at any moment.
This woman was his. She was giving herself to him, body and soul, and he would protect her with his life.
He watched her climax, her cries mingling with his. The pair of them were loud, but Tarl did not care. He cared not if the whole world heard them. Closing his eyes, Tarl threw his head back and roared his pleasure.
Lucrezia snuggled against Tarl’s chest, listening to the rhythmic thud of his heart. Their bodies were still slick with sweat, and they were both breathing hard. Her body felt boneless, weightless, as if she was floating three feet off the ground. Their coupling was even better than she remembered. The pleasure had crested so intensely it had made the world spin.
Eventually gathering her scattered wits, she raised herself up on one elbow and looked down at Tarl. He was watching her, his eyes the color of the sky before a thunderstorm.
He reached up then and silently traced the thin scar on her forehead with his fingertip. “This was my fault,” he murmured, his features tensing.
Lucrezia shook her head. “I made the decision to run away.”
Their gazes held then, full of many things still unspoken.
“I hope I didn’t hurt your shoulder,” she said, suddenly shy.
He gave her a lopsided smile. “What shoulder?”
She laughed. “Do you think everyone heard us again?”
“Probably.”
Lucrezia gave his chest a playful slap, her cheeks warming. “Stop it—I won’t be able to face them later.”
“Don’t worry about them.” His gaze was soft now. “Never hold yourself back when you’re with me.”
Lucrezia felt herself grow hotter still under his stare; the throb between her thighs, which had momentarily subsided, returning. “I can’t help myself,” she whispered, trailing a finger down his chest, tracing the whorls of hair there
. “You drive me wild.”
He grinned. “Go on … tell me more. A man loves to hear of his prowess in the furs.”
Lucrezia gave a snort. He really was incorrigible, but then that was part of why she loved him. Tarl made other men seem bland, boring, and predictable. His dry humor, with its wicked edge, would keep her company during the long cold winters here.
“That’s enough,” she admonished him, forcing herself not to smile. “You’re too full of yourself already.” And with that she leaned down and gave him a long lingering kiss.
Epilogue
Across the Threshold
Three months later …
they wed just after Harvest Fire, when the barley had been reaped from the fields outside Dun Ringill and the bounty of summer crops had been gathered. Soon the whole fort would begin preparations for the long bitter season—storing what fruit and vegetables they could, salting meat and fish, and preparing rounds of cheese to age—but for today they would stop work and celebrate the handfasting between Tarl and his sweetheart.
It was a balmy summer’s eve. Tarl and Lucrezia stood barefoot upon the shingle shore beneath Dun Ringill. Tarl wore a leather vest and plaid breeches, while Lucrezia wore a simple green tunic, cut in the style of a stola. She had left behind many things from her homeland, but she would always love the dresses she had grown up wearing. This one was made of fine wool, and girded under the bust with a golden ribbon. She wore her hair loose, although Deri had taken pains to thread daisies through it for the occasion.
A sultry breeze blew in, rippling the waters of Loch Slapin. It also brought the aroma of roasting venison. Two lads were turning three haunches on a spit over hot coals farther down the shore for the feast after their joining. Every man, woman, and child inside the fort had come out to witness their handfasting. All were dressed in their best plaid tunics and leather vests.
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