by Jayne Castel
However, Galan was not looking at her as he stood by the glowing brazier. Instead, his gaze went to the two remaining furs on the other side of the tent. His face was serious when he glanced back at her.
A dark eyebrow quirked. “So that’s how it’s to be? A husband cannot share the furs with his wife?”
The heat in his gaze caused Tea’s pulse to race and she resisted the urge to clutch the furs to her breast in protection. Forcing down her sudden nervousness, she raised her chin and narrowed her gaze. “I won’t have you near me.”
He cocked his head, infuriatingly calm. “You didn’t seem to feel that way last night.”
Anger surged, hot and wild within her. “I told you I was not myself last night,” she replied through gritted teeth. “I took—”
“So you say.” He raised a hand, cutting her off mid-sentence. “But, I think you are just making excuses. The woman I plowed last night is still there—you remember more than you admit.”
Galan strode round to the other side of the brazier, moving with unselfconscious male arrogance. “I’ll let you have your way for now, Tea. You are tired, upset and missing your kin. However, I won’t let you risk peace for my tribe. Tonight you can sleep apart from me—but once we reach Dun Ringill, you and I will share the same furs.” He fixed her with a challenging stare that made her body feel hot while her temper nearly boiled over. “Naked.”
With that, he climbed into the furs and turned away from her.
Tea stared at his broad back, her fingers fastening around the bone hilt of her knife. Just two strides and she could reach him, before plunging it between his shoulder blades.
She would have killed him too, yet something held her in check. Perhaps the fact he had his back to her kept her from stabbing him. Tea preferred to face her enemy, if she was to take his life. Or was it the memories of the night before that still tormented her? He was right, she remembered more than she let on, although she would never say so to him.
Still, Galan’s conceit and dominance turned her vision crimson. If he tried to force himself on her, she would make him regret it.
On the other side of the brazier, Galan stared at the flapping side of the tent and waited for sleep to claim him. Despite his exhaustion, sleep was slow arriving tonight. He could feel Tea’s gaze stabbing into him, her hate emanating across the tent like the glow from a burning forge.
I could have dealt with that better.
He had planned to treat her softly and attempt to win her trust, but her manner had goaded him. She was so haughty … such a savage beauty. He had enjoyed angering her, seeing the rage flare in those deep-blue eyes, watching her high cheekbones flush.
She will never soften toward you at this rate.
Galan inhaled deeply, before letting his breath escape slowly. Tomorrow, he would start again.
Chapter Ten
The Mark of The Eagle
Dun Ringill sat high on the edge of a dark lake; the stacked stone fort perched upon a grassy, windswept knoll commanding a view west over Loch Slapin.
As they approached, Tea noted how different the fort was to Dun Ardtreck. Tea’s home nestled upon a craggy cliff, surrounded by sharp rocks—an austere and isolated spot that caught the prevailing north-west wind. Yet the land on the south-western edge of The Winged Isle was softer, easier to farm and till. Scattered herds of sheep, goats and stocky, long-haired cattle grazed on the gently curved hillside. Tea also noted terraces of vegetable plots protected from the elements by wattle fences.
The company rode by a number of villages on the way in, past squat roundhouses made of timber and stone with conical thatched or sod roofs. Smoke rose from the dwellings, drifting south with the breeze. The isle’s harsh climate meant that folk dug out the ground first, creating a living space surrounded by alcoves, before building a roof over it. Such homes protected them from strong winds and the chill of the bitter months. The villages consisted of tightly packed clusters of roundhouses, wattle animal enclosures and cone-roofed store houses. Animal skins hung outside, curing in the sun.
The smell of smoking herrings reached Tea as she rode in through the gate in the outer defense wall.
It was just after midday and folk emerged from their dwellings as the company rode in, brushing the crumbs of their noon meal off their tunics and leggings. Recognizing their chief, they called out, hailing him. Next to Tea, Galan raised an arm in greeting.
Tea felt his gaze shift to her. It was the first time Galan had looked her way since they had set off that morning. “These are your people now, Tea,” he said. “Greet them as their leader.”
Gritting her teeth, Tea glanced across at him. She had no wish to hail these folk, for she barely suffered being among them. She was about to defy him—but when she met Galan’s storm-grey eyes, her words of scorn caught in her throat. She had expected to see a stern expression upon his face, but his look was almost pleading. Did it matter so much to him?
Irritated, she looked away before raising a hand to the crowd of men, women and children who now clustered around the entrance to the fort. She felt their gazes, curious and wary, upon her as she rode under the massive stone arch and into the yard beyond.
Tea swung down from her mare and took in her surroundings. Unlike Dun Ardtreck, which was shaped like an enormous beehive and perched high upon a platform above the rest of the fort, Dun Ringill was a squat and broad structure. There was more space here; a wide yard ringed the base of stacked stone. Fowl pecked at grain nearby and the children ran, shrieking as they chased each other around the base of the high stone wall ringing the fort.
Galan stepped up close to her, his gaze seeking hers. “This is your home, Tea.” His voice, as often, was low yet commanding. “My people will accept you, if you pay them the same courtesy.”
Rage clawed its way up her throat. Either he was dense-headed or stubborn as a boar, for he already knew her feelings on the subject. Meeting his gaze, she saw Galan was no fool. Although she had only known him two days, she had already assessed him as an intelligent, deep-thinking man. She hated him for that too—it was easier to despise a man she thought stupid.
“This will never be my home,” she snarled, before she turned away to see to her mare.
Dun Ringill held a great feast that night, in honor of the chief and his bride.
Tea sat at the chieftain’s table next to Galan, and wished she could disappear. The feasters sat at long tables around a central hearth in a wide, cavernous space. Oil-filled cressets studded the stone walls, casting a gilded light over the interior. High, smoke-blackened beams reached overhead, and alcoves draped in furs and tapestries had been set into the walls.
A harpist played upon a wooden dais behind them, the strains lifting high and echoing against the stone. The music was beautiful, but it reminded her of Eithni. Her sister was a talented harpist. Tea had spent many a long evening playing knucklebones with her brother or cousin, while listening to Eithni’s playing. Tea clenched her jaw, her fingers tightening around the cup of wine she held.
Eithni and Loc’s deceit still felt like a knife-blade to the back.
Contrary to Tea’s black mood, the people of Dun Ringill appeared in high spirits this afternoon. Mead, ale and wine flowed, and they passed around the drinking horn.
When the food arrived at the table, Tea could see they had spent days preparing it while Galan and his party had been away. Lads carried in spit-roasted haunches of venison, while women carried roast puffin, braised onions, boiled eggs rolled in flaked sea-salt, and barley bread with fresh butter.
The smell and sight of the venison, usually Tea’s favorite meat, made her feel queasy. It reminded her of her handfasting feast, and of the spectacle she had made of herself. Nonetheless, her appetite had returned and although she avoided the venison, she managed to eat some of the meal, including the crab-apple and bramble tarts, served with thick cream, the women brought out later.
As the feast dragged on, Tea started to feel uncomfortable. Few of
the people looked her way, and when they did she found their gazes hard and assessing. Their chief’s handfasting was an opportunity to feast and drink, yet she sensed the good cheer was a thin veneer. Like her own people, they did not trust the enemy. She was a Wolf woman, and many at these tables would have lost kin in skirmishes between the two tribes.
Galan might have welcomed her, but she noted the cool looks his brothers favored her with. More than once, she saw Tarl and Donnel look her way before speaking together in low voices. Tarl especially looked at her with insolence, and his laughter after Donnel murmured something to him made her hackles raise. She knew he was laughing at her.
Next to Tea, Galan refilled her bronze cup with sloe wine. “Is my feasting hall pleasing to your eye, wife?”
Tea stiffened at being addressed as his woman; something he did not plan on letting her forget. “Aye,” she admitted grudgingly. “It is a well-proportioned space.”
Galan smiled while, next to him, his brother Tarl, raised an eyebrow. “You approve of something at last?”
Tea favored Tarl with a dark look. “I give credit where it’s due.”
“How generous of you.”
Tea stiffened. She did not like Tarl or the brazen way he was looking at her. “This union was not my choice, so forgive me if I don’t sit here beaming,” she ground out.
Tarl held her gaze for a moment before a smile split his handsome face. “You’ve got a handful there, brother.” He winked at Galan before taking a deep draft from his cup.
“Aye,” Galan replied, casting his brother a quelling look, “but there’s no need to poke the adder with a stick.”
Tarl threw back his head and laughed, as did Donnel seated next to him. However, Luana, who sat to her husband’s left, did not share their mirth. Instead her gaze met Tea’s and she gave her a sympathetic smile.
Tea was too incensed to return it. Her fingers curled around the edge of the table, gripping hard until they started to ache. She hated the men for laughing at her expense.
The Reaper take you all.
The feasting and drinking stretched out until late. It was a cold, windy night and drafts pushed in through tiny gaps in the stone, causing the embers in the great hearth to pulse.
One by one, folk rose from the table and staggered off to their furs. Many who lived within the hall, bedded down for the night on the rush-strewn floor—the higher ranking warriors closest to the fire while the younger, untested men and women slept closer to the drafts. Others, members of the chieftain’s family, retired to their alcoves.
Reluctantly, Tea followed Galan to their recess. Her husband carried a ewer of wine and two cups as he led the way across the floor. Their alcove was large, hidden from view behind a heavy tapestry. Unlike many of the niches, which were barely large enough to stand up in, this one was a decent-sized, windowless chamber. Two stone cressets illuminated the space, and there was room for a low table and a row of wicker baskets where Tea could store her clothing.
A mound of soft seal fur dominated the space.
Tea’s throat closed—the moment she had been dreading all day had come.
The tapestry thudded shut behind them, sealing her and Galan inside their alcove. She watched Galan set the ewer and cups down on the low table before he turned to her.
“Will you have some wine?”
Tea shook her head. After the handfasting she was wary of drinking too much again. “I’m not thirsty.”
His mouth quirked into a half-smile. “Undress then and let us go retire for the night.”
Stomach in knots, Tea stepped back from him, unfastening her long plaid skirt and removing the leather vest she wore. Underneath, she wore a sleeveless linen tunic that reached her knees. Leaving it on, she moved toward the furs.
“Tea.” Galan’s voice stopped her. She turned to find him standing naked a few feet away, his clothing dropped carelessly at his feet. “Naked.”
She stiffened. “I’d prefer to wear a tunic at night.”
“And I’d prefer you were naked.”
Tea stared at him, deliberately keeping her gaze fixed upon his face and not at his nude body. She lifted her chin, stubbornness rising within her. “Will you force yourself on me, Galan? I won’t lie with you willingly.”
He approached, stalking across the alcove toward her. Tea took a few steps backward till she found herself pressed up against the damp stone wall. He moved close, so close she could feel the heat of his body reaching out to her. She inhaled the warm, male musk of his body and felt her senses reel. Her loins melted, completely betraying her.
The Mother protect her, the effect this man had on her body was frightening. Just his nearness was enough to turn her will to porridge. She had to be strong, to remind herself who he was.
“Do you think me that kind of man?” he said quietly. “I would never take you against your will.”
She lowered her gaze slightly; for looking into his eyes when they stood so close was too intense for her to bear.
“Take off your tunic and come to the furs,” he said softly. “I will not touch you—I promise.”
He stepped back from her, leaving a gulf of chill air between them. Shivering, Tea watched him walk over to the furs. She could not help but admire the muscular column of his back, the firmness of his buttocks and the length of his legs. He was a beautiful man.
Yet he used her attraction to him like a weapon. He would use it to break down her defenses, till she melted, helpless in his arms. She could not let that happen.
Tea stripped off her tunic and dropped it to her feet. She stood there, naked, aware that her breasts thrust out proudly, her nipples rock-hard from cold and arousal. Galan stood by the furs, and was about to climb into them. However, his gaze rested on her a moment, hot and hungry, raking down her body.
Tea’s breathing quickened and she found herself doing the same to him. When she saw his shaft, hard and swollen against his belly, her body ached with need. She remembered how he had felt inside her on the night of their handfasting—how he had taken her to the brink and over it. How he had stopped time for her.
Stop this—now.
Tea forced her gaze up so that she met his eye.
“So, you’re not like your father then?” she asked.
His gaze narrowed and she saw the desire on his face cool slightly. “What?”
“Not a man to ravish a woman.”
His expression tightened. “What are you talking about?”
Tea drew herself up, scorn obliterating the lust she had been struggling against. “Your father raped my mother—don’t dare deny it.”
He reeled back as if she had struck him. The shock on his face was so real that she almost believed he had no idea about the event that had ripped her family apart. Heedless, Tea pressed on, taking a step forward to show she was not afraid of him, or of any man.
“Ten summers ago, he attacked her party while they were travelling home from Dun Skudiburgh. He raped her before slitting her throat and mutilating her.”
Galan stepped forward, eyes blazing. “He did not. Who told you such lies?”
Tea’s face twisted. She loathed him for denying it; for not owning the truth. It was the act of a coward.
“He scored his mark—the mark of your people into her flesh,” she spat, gesturing to the eagle tattoo that covered Galan’s right bicep. “So that my father would know who had defiled and murdered his wife.”
The look of horror on Galan’s face made her shiver with hatred. He had accused her of being a poor mummer—but he was the best she had ever seen. She could almost believe her words had upset him.
“It’s a lie,” he finally rasped. “Someone must have done it to breed hatred between our peoples.” His gaze, dark with hurt, met hers. “And they have succeeded well. How do you even know my father did it?”
“It’s common knowledge,” she snarled. “My brother betrayed both my mother and father’s memory with this handfasting. But I will never accept it.”
Neither did he climb into the furs beside her.
A tense silence filled the alcove, and she heard the faint rasp of his breathing above the thundering of her own heart. Then, she heard him move, followed by the rustle of him pulling on his clothes.
An odd mix of elation and despair consumed her when the tapestry thudded shut, leaving her alone in the alcove. She should have been pleased her attack had hit home like a knife-thrust to the guts.
Instead she just felt empty inside.
Chapter Eleven
In Search of Answers
Galan stood upon the walls of Dun Ringill and looked west over the glistening waters of Loch Slapin. The moon was out, casting its friendly face over the sleeping isle, turning the lake into beaten silver. It was a breathtaking sight but Galan was blind to it.
Grief twisted his gut. He was in turmoil.
He could not believe his father to be the beast that Tea described—he would not. His parents had been happy together. To Galan’s eyes, his father had always seemed devoted to his wife, and had never appeared to covet another woman.
They were lies—but lies his wife believed.
Despair settled over Galan’s broad shoulders like a stone mantle. This was his fault—he had been a fool to hope for peace, to believe he could end the blood feud between Dun Ardtreck and Dun Ringill. The Eagle and The Wolf could never be friends. There was so much hate between them, too much blood spilled over the years. There were too many who nursed hate in their breasts like a canker.
It cannot be the truth.
Loc, like his sister, must have thought that Galan knew of this incident. The new Wolf chieftain was a brave man indeed to try and forge peace under such circumstances. Galan’s throat constricted—Loc must have wanted peace very much to sacrifice his sister to the enemy he saw responsible for the rape and murder of his own mother.
