by Jayne Castel
Why does he have to be so good to me?
She did not deserve his kindness, or his consideration. She was merely a wife he had wedded to secure peace. It would have made it easier to hate him if he was cruel or thoughtless. However, his wordless gestures made her feel confused, upset and angry. His kindness made her want to lash out at him.
Instead, she took a large gulp of sloe wine and welcomed the numbness it brought.
Chapter Fourteen
Between Man and Wife
Galan lay upon the furs and watched his wife undress. He had deliberately avoided doing so of late, for the hostility between them had been too great. She had wounded him with her accusation against his father; a charge that still haunted him. He had not spoken of it to Tarl before his departure, and he would not say a word to Donnel either.
He could not bear to taint their father’s memory so. Yet if it was true …
The sight of Tea’s nakedness drew his thoughts back to more pleasant things. She was magnificent: tall and strong, hard and soft in all the right places. Her assertion that she could fight did not surprise him. One look at her long, finely muscled limbs told him that she would be an agile, resilient fighter. However, the lush curve of her buttocks and her large, high breasts told another story.
Under the cover of furs, he felt his cock harden. She was a goddess in human form. He remembered every moment of their handfasting night: how her skin felt under his, the tight heat that wrapped around him as he took her, and the column of her neck stretched back as she groaned her pleasure.
Stop it.
Galan tore his gaze away, just as Tea turned toward the furs. He stared up at the stone ceiling of their alcove and willed his erection to subside. His wife was not willing; there would be no coupling tonight, or any night soon.
He felt the furs shift as Tea climbed in next to him. He glanced over at her, knowing that—as always—she would be facing away from him. The light of the one cresset still burning on the wall, cast a soft, burnished light over the smooth skin of her shoulder. His gaze slid down to the blue tattoo of a wolf’s head upon her upper-arm. It had been finely done, by an artist of skill.
“Tea,” he said gently, not wishing to startle her. “You are welcome to keep up your warrior training here. If you wish to have a partner for swordplay, we can spar together.”
There was a moment’s silence before Tea responded. “I would like that … thank you.”
Galan lay there, watching her for a short while longer, gathering his thoughts before speaking again. “Tea,” he repeated her name, continuing in the same tone he used with a nervous pony. “I wish to know more about you.”
As expected, he saw her body tense. He had seen her discomfort at dusk, when they had spoken outdoors, and at supper. She was on her guard against him; he had to find a way to lower her defenses, for her to realize he was not the enemy.
“What do you wish to know?” she asked finally, her tone wary.
“Tell me of your childhood. What was it like to grow up at Dun Ardtreck? I’ve heard it is a great stone broch—far grander than this fort.”
“It is an impressive structure,” she admitted. “Higher than this building. There are alcoves around the walls like Dun Ringill, and a great central hearth, but there are also two levels above, where the chieftain and his kin sleep. The broch sits high on the cliff, looking north and west over the sea. On a clear day it seems you can see forever.”
She paused here, and silence stretched out between them for a few moments. Galan had thought she would say no more when Tea continued. “I grew up clambering over the cliffs, and getting into trouble with my brother. We would often involve our sister Eithni in our mischief, although she was different to us and preferred quieter games.”
“You miss your sister.”
Tea hesitated a moment before replying. “I should, but I am angry with her.”
His gaze narrowed. “Why?”
She looked away, making it clear she did not wish to discuss her siblings with him. “It doesn’t matter.”
“In the spring, if you wish it, we can send for her. She can stay with us under mid-summer if your brother allows it.”
Tea turned to face him. Her expression was guarded, her eyes—the color of the sky just before nightfall—wary. “Why are you so kind to me?”
Galan gave a soft laugh. “What a question—did you really expect me to treat you roughly?”
“You are the son of Muin mac Uerd,” she replied softly. “I expected a different sort of man.”
The lingering smile faded from Galan’s lips. She had brought the conversation full-circle to the shadow that was never far from his thoughts.
“I went to see our bandruí after you told me what happened to your mother,” he admitted.
Tea raised a dark eyebrow but said nothing.
“The seer was close to my father,” he explained. “I wanted to see if she knew of the crime you accused him of.”
“It wasn’t an accusation,” she said, her voice hardening. “It was the truth.”
“Did any of your tribe see my father kill your mother?”
She stared at him, her gaze narrowing. However, eventually, she shook her head.
“Then you have no proof.”
“The sign carved into her flesh is proof enough for me.”
Galan’s own gaze narrowed. “Not for me.”
She glared at him then, and Galan had the sinking feeling they had retreated back to where they had been days ago—hostile, untrusting enemies. Yet she did not turn away from him as he expected. Instead, her dark-blue gaze bored into him in wordless challenge.
“What did the bandruí tell you,” she asked finally.
Galan broke eye contact with her and looked up at the ceiling. He suddenly regretted being so open with her; Tea would use his words as weapons.
“She said that Muin and Fina knew each other.”
He heard Tea’s sharp intake of breath. Glancing in her direction he saw she had sat up, clutching the furs to her breasts. “They did?”
“They met at a gathering of the tribes many years ago, when they were both unwed. It seems my father fell in love with Fina but the feuding between our tribes made their union impossible.”
Tea stared at him. Her face had gone pale, except for a flush of color upon her high cheekbones. “There’s the proof you wanted,” she said tightly. “He was angry that my mother wed another, and he exacted his revenge.”
“So many years later?” Galan countered, his own ire rising. “You mean to say he carried hate with him for years while he wed another and sired three sons, before taking his reckoning? Do you have any idea how far-fetched that sounds?”
She looked down her aquiline nose at him. “Men have killed for less.”
He sat up, his gaze drawing level with hers. The scent of her reached him there, the sweet perfume of rosemary and lavender from her hair mixed with a woman’s musk that sent his pulse racing. Pushing the distraction aside, he frowned.
“My father loved my mother. He was never the same after he lost her. Your mother was just a lad’s fantasy, a first love that’s quickly forgotten.”
“You don’t know that,” she countered. “You say you need proof he did it, but I need proof to the contrary. You said it yourself earlier this evening, your father was a hero in your eyes.”
Galan stared at her, aware that his pulse now beat rapidly in his throat. He was not quick to anger, but this woman knew just how to rile him. She wielded words like boning knives. He had wanted to have a quiet conversation with her, to know the woman beneath the wall of ice, yet all he had succeeded in doing was making her even more resentful toward him.
Inhaling deeply, he drew back from her. “Then we will both continue to be at odds with each other,” he said with a shake of his head. “I do not want to fight with you, Tea.”
He saw that the use of her name caused Tea’s pupils to dilate slightly. However, her lips thinned and she shook her head. “We
are enemies,” she said, her words faltering slightly.
Galan’s mouth curved into a humorless smile. “No, we are man and wife. It is a bitter irony that while our tribes are now at peace you and I are at war.”
***
Tea admired the falcon perched upon Galan’s arm.
The bird, whose name was Lann—‘blade’—had a majestic profile, cream and grey markings on its head and a mackerel patterning on its back and wings. Tea was fond of birds of prey—she and her father had always hunted with hawks and falcons in the hills around Dun Ardtreck.
Lann’s talons dug into Galan’s leather glove; its beady-eyed gaze sweeping the valley below in search of prey. Around them spread out a rumpled landscape of soft, shadowy green knolls and hillocks.
“That’s it for today.” Galan reached out and stroked the falcon’s back with his free hand—an act of trust, for like its name implied, the bird’s hooked beak could have flayed his hand open. “You did well, Lann.”
Indeed, the falcon had brought down three grouse and a rook, making it a successful morning’s hunt. The dead birds were tied behind Tea and Galan’s saddles. Tea rode her ill-tempered dun mare while Galan sat astride his black stallion, Faileas. Behind them, one of Galan’s men, Ru, and his brother Donnel rode a discreet distance away.
Galan turned his attention from the falcon to Tea then, his gaze seeking hers. “Did you enjoy the hunt, wife?”
Tea nodded. Despite that she loved hunting, she had done her best to look unimpressed when Galan had suggested it. Nonetheless, the ride east of Dun Ringill, a rolling landscape framed by smoky, sculpted mountains, had been exhilarating.
The temperatures had dropped, a warning that now that Gateway had passed the bitter weather would soon come. The cold did not bother Tea though—she loved the taste of the air and the feel of the wind on her face.
“Let’s get home,” Donnel called out to them, reining his pony around. “We’ll be late for the noon meal.”
“Always thinking of your belly,” Galan replied, grinning. “Very well—let’s go.”
They turned their ponies west and rode into the wind in the direction of Dun Ringill. Galan and Tea led the way, cantering side-by-side with Cal and Donnel bringing up the rear.
Tea and Galan did not speak on the way home; ever since their conversation on the night of Gateway, tension had settled between them once more. Tea now believed he had not known about the atrocity his father had committed—yet his stubborn refusal to accept it as truth outraged her.
The party of four rode into Dun Ringill as the sun reached its zenith above. Galan shouted out a greeting to the men guarding the outer wall, and they waved back. In the village beyond, two women were hanging up goat-skins to cure outside their roundhouse.
“Good day, my chief!” One of the women, young with a pretty face and curling dark hair, called out to Galan.
Tea watched her husband favor the girl with a wide smile. “Good day to you too, Leia.”
Tea glanced away—irritated that watching Galan flirt with a woman would even bother her.
The four riders entered the fort and were unsaddling their ponies when Luana came out to meet them.
The young woman was now so heavy with child that she could not walk without waddling. Her belly was getting so big that it was starting to make her chores difficult.
Donnel stepped away from his pony and pulled his wife into his arms. Tea watched them embrace. Donnel kissed his wife passionately, not caring that the others looked on. When they drew apart, his dark-grey eyes shone with adoration.
Envy lanced through Tea like a newly-whetted blade, catching her off-guard. She would never know what it felt like to have a husband look at her like that, never know the security and love of being held in a man’s arms.
Throat constricting, Tea looked away from the lovers. Some scenes were too difficult to watch.
Chapter Fifteen
The Red Hill
Tea raised the wooden sword, flexing her hands around its hilt, her gaze meeting Galan’s. In her left hand she carried a rectangular shield made of pine, covered in leather, with an iron-boss.
“Are you sure you want to fight me?”
His answering cocky grin made Tea grit her teeth.
“Afraid you’ll hurt me, wife?” His look was sultry, which angered her further.
Tea glared at him. The Warrior willing, I’ll wipe that smirk off your face.
She had initially been surprised—and pleased—when he had suggested they practice sword play together. She had not lifted a weapon since her arrival at Dun Ringill nearly two months earlier and missed sparring. However, now that Galan stood before her, clad only in plaid breeches, his bare chest gleaming in the watery morning sun, she wished she had declined his offer. Better to practice with one someone else; someone less distracting.
They circled each other, swords and shields raised, legs slightly apart. Tea had donned plaid leggings and woolen tunic, girded at the waist with a thick leather belt. She had removed the soft leather wrappings she usually wore outdoors, preferring to fight barefoot. They stood in the warrior’s fighting enclosure behind the fort. Galan’s trusted warriors—Ru, Namet, Lutrin and Cal—watched them, naked interest on their faces.
Tea ignored them all. Galan was observing her, waiting for her to attack first. His approach did not surprise her. Despite his known prowess as a warrior, he would not be the type to start a fight. He liked to take the measure of his opponent first, to locate their weaknesses and let them tire before he took them down.
Aware that she was being scrutinized, Tea clenched her jaw once more. This was her chance to vent the rage that had simmered within her, to unleash the warrior woman.
Snarling a curse, she leaped for him.
The rhythmic thud of wooden sword-blades colliding rang out across the arena. Tea attacked and parried, circling her opponent with calm determination, warding off his strikes with her shield.
He was good—better even than her brother. A match even for Forcus, who had always been her father’s best swordsman. She had thought his size would go against him, for a lighter-built man could move faster, but Galan made sword-fighting look easy. He expended only enough energy necessary, all the while watching his opponent and biding his time.
Thud. Clack. Clack. Thud.
Tea side-stepped the thrust of Galan’s sword, feeling the draft of the wooden blade as it skimmed past her flank. Galan’s reach was longer than hers. She skipped back and struck at him in a wide arc—their blades joining for a moment before Tea twisted away and dodged out of reach.
Cheers of approval rose from the sidelines. The crowd had grown as the fight progressed, although neither Tea nor Galan had noticed it.
The joy of the fight sang in Tea’s blood as she engaged Galan once more. He too was grinning. A faint sheen of sweat now covered his broad chest, while Tea had started to pant with effort. He was both stronger and fitter than her; if this fight turned into a test of endurance he would surely win it.
They circled each other once more, Tea leading the attacks, although Galan’s parries and feints grew gradually more aggressive.
Then, he suddenly attacked, swift and silent as a bird of prey.
Tea leaped backward to avoid him, but she was too slow. Galan knocked her sword from her grip and sent it spinning across the enclosure. Tea staggered back and fell on her rump as the watching crowd hooted and cheered.
His chest heaving with exertion, Galan stepped up and looked down at her.
“You weren’t boasting about your skill with a sword,” he said, his mouth curving into a smile. “I’d happily fight with you at my side.”
Despite that her defeat stung, his words pleased Tea. She had never bested Forcus in a fight and Galan was easily his equal, if not better. She was proud to have held her own against him for so long.
“I’d better get back to work then,” she replied, fighting a smile of her own. "I’ve got baskets to weave.”
He shoo
k his head. “Enough of that—you’ve done nothing but toil since coming here. It’s time you explored your new home. How about we take a ride together? I’d like to show you Beinn na Caillich. It’s not a long journey—we can take food with us and make an afternoon of it.”
Tea gazed up at him. The fight had eased the tension between them, and had allowed her to give her anger a target. She felt oddly relaxed and calm in the aftermath. She did not want to spend time alone with Galan, for he was too easy to like, but his offer tempted her. She had indeed toiled since coming here; it had been her means of escaping her new life, and husband.
The thought of visiting Beinn na Caillich, the ‘Red Hill’ to the north-east of Dun Ringill excited her and she found herself nodding. “Aye, I’d like that.”
Galan’s smile widened, and he reached down to help her up. With all eyes upon them, it would have seemed rude to brush aside his offer of help, even so Tea hesitated before taking his hand.
She had not touched him since coming here.
Their hands clasped together, and the strength and warmth of his fingers as they closed around hers, made Tea’s breath catch in her throat.
May her mother and father forgive her, but her body and soul hungered for this man. It was only her iron will that kept her from succumbing to the attraction that pulsed between them.
Galan pulled Tea to her feet. “Come then,” he said still smiling, although she saw his grey eyes had darkened with arousal. “Let’s ready the ponies.”
They rode out of Dun Ringill a short while later, upon two sturdy stallions—one black, the other chestnut—with a brisk easterly wind in their faces. Tea was relieved that Galan had not given her that cantankerous mare she had ridden here on. The chestnut stallion was fiery but much more manageable, and he kept up easily with Galan’s feather-footed black pony, Faileas.
Together, they thundered over velvet-green moorland, a wild sky above them. The air tasted wonderful, like a fresh mountain stream. As when they had gone out hunting, Tea felt joy rise in her breast. It was as if a great weight had lifted from her shoulders; she had not realized that her anger and resentment had become such a burden. They had been such constant companions she felt as if she was missing a limb without them.
