by Jayne Castel
Tea reached up, her fingers tracing the necklace’s cool surface. It was one of the few items she had of her mother’s—the rest had been buried with her.
“She would not want this,” Tea said, bitterness turning her voice brittle. “To see me wed the son of the man who defiled and murdered her.”
Eithni stared back, her expression pained. Tea could see she did not want to pursue this conversation, especially now. A moment later, Eithni tried to steer her sister away onto another topic. “Did you see them arrive earlier?”
Tea shook her head. She had retreated inside her tent the moment someone told her of the enemy’s approach. She had no wish to set eyes on any of them until she was forced to.
“I did,” Eithni pressed on. “I saw him, Tea, the man you’re going to marry.”
Tea swallowed painfully. “And?”
Eithni met her gaze, her cheeks reddening slightly. She gave a small smile. “He’s handsome, at least.”
Tea’s lip curled. He could be a fire-breathing demon for all she cared. “He’s an Eagle maggot,” she replied. “I care not if he’s got a pretty face. I’d sooner wed a turd.”
Eithni gave her a pained look but said nothing.
Tea sighed; she could feel the All-Heal taking effect. Her body was slowly relaxing, although she was still too lucid, too sharp. She needed to blunt the sharp edges of the world further if she was to go through with this.
She leaned forward and grasped her sister’s hands. “I’m sorry, Eithni. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just nervous. There’s a skin of wine in my pack, can you pass it to me?”
Eithni frowned. “I don’t think wine mixes well with the potion I just gave you. It could make you light-headed.”
“Please.” Tea hated the desperation in her own voice. She had never felt like this, out of control—weak. She did not trust herself.
Would she be able to face her husband-to-be without knifing him?
Her sister’s mouth thinned before she relented. “Very well, just a couple of sips.” Eithni rose to her feet and went to fetch the wine. She returned to Tea’s side and handed her skin, her brow furrowing. “I’d not touch any wine, mead or ale at the feast this evening. It’s best to be careful.”
Tea was just about to tell her to stop fussing when the flap covering the tent’s entrance opened and Loc ducked inside.
Tea stiffened at the sight of him. Ever since his decision at Harvest Fire there had barely been any civil words between them. Loc’s face was serious, his lean body tense, as he straightened up before his sister.
Tea’s lip curled at the sight of him. “What do you want?”
Loc sighed, his gaze meeting hers. “I didn’t come here to fight, Tea. We only have a short time left before you wed—let’s not sour it.”
Anger choked her for a few moments and it took three deep breaths to master it. “Don’t expect me to pretend I’m happy about this—I won’t.”
He looked steadily at her, sadness on his face, before answering. “I’ve spoken to Galan mac Muin—he seems a decent man, a good choice for you.”
“I should be able to make that choice for myself,” she hissed back.
Loc’s jaw clenched. “Let’s not go into this again. You know why you must do this.”
Tea lurched to her feet. “Don’t stand there and tell me this man seems decent. You know who sired him—a murderer and rapist. The same blood runs through his veins, and you’re giving me to him.”
Loc ran a frustrated hand through his long dark hair. “For the love of the gods, Tea, you test my patience. I’ve told you—Galan isn’t his father.”
Tea straightened up, her anger warring with the numbing effects of the potion, which now settled over her like a soft fur mantle. “And you are nothing like ours,” she snarled.
Color flared in Loc’s cheeks and he grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her hard. “Enough!” he ground out between clenched teeth. “I’ve listened to your venom for too long now. You will do your duty and there will be no more defiance!”
His fingers bit into her shoulders, hurting her. Still she stared back at him, refusing to back down. Their gazes held for long moments. Then, with a look of disgust, Loc released her, turned on his heel and stalked from the tent.
Tea glared at his retreating back, angry words still burning within her. She glanced over at Eithni. Her sister gave her a reproachful look, which only served to fuel Tea’s rage further. Gritting her teeth, Tea unstoppered the skin of wine and drank deeply.
Chapter Five
Handfasted
Galan stood at the edge of the Wishing Pool, watching the water glisten in the dusk, and waited for his bride to join him. The storm was getting close now. The sky overhead had deepened to slate grey and there were specks of rain in the cool wind that had sprung up.
His people had made camp on the south-east slope of the hill, next to the tents of The Wolf. Tarl and Donnel had wanted to put their tents up further away and place sentries on the edge but Galan had refused. They needed to make a show of trusting their neighbors or the coming ceremony would mean nothing.
“Here she comes,” Tarl murmured from beside him.
Something in his brother’s voice, a note of surprise, made Galan glance up from the water. His gaze travelled over the waiting crowd to where a woman walked toward him.
Galan’s breathing caught in his chest.
Tall and statuesque, her long jet hair flowing over her bare shoulders, his bride was a wild beauty. A band of supple leather bound her full breasts, leaving her midriff bare. A long woolen skirt hemmed in gold swished around her ankles as she walked barefoot over the grass. Her garb was simple, the addition of a heavy coil about her throat and heather threaded through her hair, the only concessions to the special occasion. Unlike some of the women present, she did not bear many tribal tattoos—the symbol of The Wolf on her right bicep her only markings.
Galan stared at her, his gaze resting upon her face. She had high cheekbones and blue eyes the color of a summer’s day sky just before dusk. Her mouth was full and soft, although the firmness of her jaw and chin hinted at a strong character. Holding his gaze, she lifted her head slightly in wordless challenge.
Galan slowly let out the breath he had been holding. He felt as if he was coming out of a trance; this woman had held him spellbound for a few moments, as if she were one of the fair folk—come to enslave him.
Another young woman followed his bride; a smaller female with brown hair and a pretty, heart-shaped face. Galan assumed she must be kin, although she bore no resemblance to the majestic beauty before him.
His bride stopped before him, at the edge of the Wishing Pool.
They would wed here, surrounded by nature and under the sky. Like his bride, Galan was barefoot. Clad in plaid breeches, his chest decorated with blue swirls and coils, he had removed his fur mantle before the ceremony.
Loc stepped up with a ribbon of plaid, to perform the handfasting. Usually, an older member from one of the tribes would lead the ceremony, but it had been a harsh past few years. Both Galan’s parents were dead, as were Loc’s.
“Join hands,” Loc commanded softly.
Galan reached out, fastening his hand around his bride’s wrist. Her blue eyes widened as she wrapped her own fingers around his wrist. Galan felt her pulse flutter against his fingertips. He looked into her eyes, searching for the hostility he expected, but was surprised to see that her gaze was slightly unfocused. She seemed to look straight through him. Had she been drinking ale before the ceremony?
“Galan mac Muin, Chieftain of The Eagle, I join you with my sister, Tea daughter of Domech mac Bred of The Wolf,” Loc began. He started to wind the length of plaid around their hands, joining the two of them together. “May The Mother light your way. May The Warrior protect you. May The Maiden grant you healthy children. May The Hag bless you with long, healthy lives—and keep The Reaper from your door.”
Galan inhaled deeply as Loc finished. It was now
his turn to speak. “I, Galan mac Muin pledge to protect you, Tea, daughter of Domech mac Bred, with my body and my life.”
Silence fell then, long uncomfortable moments, before Loc fixed his sister in a hard stare. “Tea, it’s time for you to say your words.”
She blinked, as if trying to concentrate, and wet her lips before speaking. “I, Tea, daughter of Domech mac Bred, pledge to honor you, Galan mac Muin, with my body and my life.”
Her voice was low and musical. So much for his fears that his new wife would be ugly with a voice that could curdle milk. Instead, Tea’s voice was like a caress. Just the sound of it filled him with desire for her.
Relief flooded through Galan. The last few years had been hard, with bitter winters, poor harvests and endless warfare. There had been little time for Galan to indulge himself, to take a lover, enjoy the passing of the seasons and forget about survival. Looking at the wild, dark beauty in front of him, he dared believe that was all about to change.
Around them, the gathered crowd waited expectantly. Galan knew his brothers and sister-by-marriage stood directly behind him, while his warriors looked on silently. The tension that had settled over the groups after their first meeting had followed them to the Wishing Pool. Even a handfasting ceremony could not ease the simmering hostility on both sides.
Galan was relieved the initial greetings were over with. Later, Loc would host a great feast, where the two tribes would finally break bread together. Galan just hoped that the rich food and mead would help build a bridge between them. Still he was not foolish enough to believe that a wedding would end years of hatred; it was just the first step on a long road.
“You are now wed.” Loc mac Domech’s voice intruded, bringing Galan back to the present. The Wolf chief fixed him with a cool stare. “You can kiss your bride now.”
Galan nodded and stepped forward, close to Tea. Gently, he reached down and cupped her chin with his fingertips, raising her face to his. She was a tall woman so she did not have to angle her chin far in order to meet his gaze.
Like before, he noted her midnight blue eyes held a glazed, slightly unfocused look. Wordlessly, he leaned down and kissed her. However, it was like kissing a warm corpse. Her lips were warm and soft and she smelled of rosemary and lavender, but she did not move, did not respond.
Trying not to frown, Galan straightened up.
What’s wrong with her? His earlier suspicion that she had been drinking, increased. Had the thought of wedding him been so odious that she had downed a horn of mead?
At that moment, thunder boomed loudly overhead, and the spitting rain grew heavy, stippling the still surface of the Wishing Pool.
Galan stepped back from his bride, blinking water out of his eyes as Loc quickly unwrapped the braided cord of plaid that joined them.
The handfasting was done; they were now man and wife.
Tea sat next to her husband and tried to focus.
They had retreated out of the driving wind and rain to a large conical-roofed tent. Loc had overseen its construction as soon as they arrived at the lochans. A large fire pit sat in its center and long tables formed a square around the hearth. Conversation rose and fell around them, mingling with the boom of thunder as the storm raged outside. At one end of the tent, two harpists had taken their places and were playing a pretty tune. Two lads had just carried in a haunch of venison, which had been spit-roasting outside for the best part of the day—fortunately it had finished cooking just as the storm unleashed its fury.
Tea took a bite of venison and chewed slowly, struggling not to sway against Galan. She was not sure what other herbs Eithni had added to that draft but she was starting to feel very strange. Her body felt boneless, weightless, her mind lost in a dreamy fog. All the anger she usually carried with her, the tension she wore like a mantle about her shoulders, had dissolved.
She felt free, wild … and aroused.
Galan mac Muin was not what she had expected. Not at all.
She had not believed Eithni when her sister told her that he was handsome, had not cared. Yet when she saw the tall, broad-shouldered man waiting for her by the Wishing Pool, she had gone weak at the knees.
It was that potion, she was sure of it. Men did not affect her like this—and certainly not at first sight.
Nonetheless, Galan cut an imposing figure. Heavily muscled, with a brooding presence and eyes the color of slate, he had stared at her as if a goddess walked toward him.
He was handsome, but not in a chiseled way. Instead, he had strong, slightly hawkish features, which only added to the intensity of his gaze. His long dark hair was unbound this evening, falling down his back in glistening waves. He bore a large tattoo of an eagle on his right bicep, and tribal paintings traced the lines of his smooth, bare chest.
Since their handfasting, Galan had said little. He sat beside her now, unspeaking, waiting while a woman—one of his relatives—poured a cup of mead and placed it between them. The woman was small and dark with a large pregnant belly. After she had served them, she took a seat to Galan’s left, further down the table.
“Drink!” someone shouted from across the tent. “Drink to your health and happiness.”
Galan picked up the cup—bronze and decorated with garnets—and passed it to Tea.
Eithni had told Tea to avoid strong drink tonight, but Tea could not refuse to sip from her husband’s cup.
Her fingers brushed his as she took it from him, and her heart started to race. The merest touch from this stranger excited her beyond reason. The pit of her belly had turned molten and need suddenly pulsed between her thighs. She squeezed them hard together, denying her body’s violent reaction.
Damn Eithni and her potions.
She cast her sister a look of censure. Eithni was sitting further down the table, in-between Loc and Forcus. Was she imagining things or did her sister look worried. A crease had formed between her finely drawn eyebrows, and she watched Tea with a slightly narrowed gaze.
Feeling the weight of her husband’s stare upon her, Tea turned her attention back to Galan and raised the cup to her lips. She held it with both hands, and took a sip of mead. Then, as tradition dictated, she passed it to Galan. His dark-grey gaze snared hers and Tea felt her breathing still for a moment. Then he took the cup from her and completed the ritual.
A roar went up inside the tent. A cup of mead and good food had eased the tension between the two tribes a little, although Tea found it difficult to concentrate on anything except the brooding, virile man seated on the bench next to her. They sat so close that their thighs accidently brushed every time he leaned forward to help himself to more meat.
Tea took another bit of venison and inhaled deeply.
Breathe.
She trusted her sister with her life—otherwise she would have thought Eithni had played some cruel trick upon her and given her a love potion rather than a draft to calm her nerves.
Her skin felt heated and sensitized. Her nipples chafed under the supple leather wrapping and sweat beaded upon her skin when she thought about Galan freeing them, and suckling her.
Gods, no—stop it.
Blinking, Tea reached for a tureen of braised onions, and immediately regretted the action when her leg shifted against Galan. She felt his hard, muscular thigh against hers and lost all train of thought. Fortunately, he had not noticed. Galan was speaking with one of his warriors, who sat directly to his left.
In an effort to distract herself from her body’s traitorous response to her new husband, Tea took a moment to observe his escort. Galan had introduced his brothers to her before they took their seats at the table. The three of them had the same slate-grey eyes and muscular builds, but the similarities ended there.
Tarl, the brother who sat nearest to Galan and Tea, had a cocky, swaggering manner, shaggy dark brown hair and the kind of brash self-confidence that Tea had never liked in men; it reminded her too much of Forcus—who was sulking this evening at the end of their table, stabbing at his venison as i
f he wished to kill it twice.
Next to Tarl sat the youngest of the three, Donnel. With long eyelashes, a sensual mouth and cleft chin, he was the most handsome of the brothers. Donnel had dark hair, like Galan, but he wore his short. He had a calm, self-assured manner, and Tea noted how much attention he paid his pretty, dark-haired pregnant wife. The woman smiled back at him, letting him feed her choice pieces of meat. Clearly, they were very much in love.
Tea looked away, dropping her gaze to her half-eaten meal. The Warrior preserve her, how she wished she did not feel so odd. She could have burst into tears, she felt so emotional. Where was her fire, her anger? She felt naked without it.
Chapter Six
A Stormy Night
The feasting and drinking continued late into the evening. Outside, a violent storm battered the large tent, causing its hide covering to billow and snap. Yet inside, no one seemed to notice. The men passed a large drinking horn around the table—and many of the warriors grew raucous and red-faced as the night stretched out.
Galan was expected to drink twice as much as any of the men here, yet he refused the drinking horn more often than he accepted it. This was his wedding night; he wanted to be lucid when he took his bride to the furs. No woman wanted to be plowed by a swaying, drunken oaf. Galan wanted to remember this night.
Mid-way though the feasting, a fight broke out.
Tarl, who often got mouthy when he was in his cups, had been trading insults with a Wolf warrior across the table. The situation escalated when Tarl got over-exuberant and told the man his mother must have rutted with a hog to produce such an ugly son. In response, the warrior bellowed a curse, leaped to his feet and launched himself across the fire at Tarl.
Food and drink went flying, and Donnel, who was seated next to his brother, barely avoided getting punched in the face as he yanked Luana to one side. A roar went up in the tent—but Tarl and The Wolf warrior were oblivious to it. Teeth bared, fists pummeling, they were still snarling insults and threats when other warriors pulled them apart.
