by Amy Tolnitch
He lifted a brow and fixed his gaze on her breasts. “You are naught but an overly coddled young wench. ’Tis fortunate for you that I am here to make decisions for you.”
For a moment, anger surged through Freya with such force that she started to rise. Efrika grabbed her arm and held her in place. “Do not aggravate him,” she whispered.
Freya gritted her teeth. “Any woman likes to feel she has a choice.”
“The illusion of choice, mayhap. You shall be well settled, and that is what matters.”
Efrika clung to Freya’s arm tighter. “As you say,” Freya managed to spit out.
“I have heard from your future husband. He is most anxious for the wedding to take place. Indeed, he shall be here within the fortnight.”
“That seems rather rushed, Grigor,” Efrika said, her voice mild. “Surely Angus can wait a few months. Allow Freya to become accustomed to the idea.”
Grigor snorted. “Time to cause me more trouble. Nay, Angus is eager to claim her and that is what shall occur.”
Freya couldn’t keep the flush of distaste from her face, and Grigor smiled. “Aye, Angus wants to breed a few bairns off her before he grows too old to do so.”
Dear Lord, preserve me, Freya silently prayed. She averted her gaze from Grigor and took a deep drink of wine. Perhaps she would spend the rest of her days so saturated with drink that she would forget the pampered life she’d once led, with people who cared about her.
A loud gasp broke into her morose thoughts. She turned to find Grigor, whose face had turned pale as snow. He clutched his belly and moaned.
“Laird, what is it?” Rauf demanded as he gripped Grigor’s shoulders to keep him from toppling from his seat.
“Pain,” Grigor rasped.
Rauf backhanded the serving girl across the face. “What did you give him?”
The girl’s face paled, but for the vivid red of her cheek. “Naught but what I was given by the butler, I swear it.”
Grigor panted heavily, his face creased in pain. “Get me to my chamber,” he ordered. “And find out who is responsible.”
“Probably just a piece of soured meat,” Efrika commented.
Rauf narrowed his eyes and glared at her. “Then why is he the only one to fall ill?”
Efrika shrugged. “Foul humors, no doubt.”
Grigor lurched to his feet. “Fetch me a healer.” He glanced at Efrika. “Not that fraud, but a real one.” As he stumbled from the hall, he let out a loud groan.
Efrika took Freya’s hand under the table. “Well, that should keep him busy for a time,” she whispered.
Freya’s gaze widened. “You … what did you—?”
“Shush. I am merely buying us some time to figure away out of this.”
“I fear the only way is for Padruig to return.”
“Mayhap. Do not give up, child. And above all, try your best to avoid being confined to your chamber. If we are to find you a way to escape, you must be free to do it.”
“Aye.” Freya quirked a smile. “My thanks, Efrika. ’Tis a fine thing to see that pig brought to his knees.”
“My thought exactly, dearling.”
Queen Sebilla sat at a table topped with gold-flecked white marble. The soft splashing sound of a nearby fountain, and the sweet scent of the gardenias she tended filled the air.
Such frustration gripped her that she could barely speak.
“He must be captured and contained,” she announced. “As soon as possible.”
Lucan, her closest friend and advisor, nodded. “We all agree, my queen. The question is, how?”
“He will expose us all if he is not stopped,” Arailt added. “Someone will discover that he is not of the human world.”
“We know why he is at Castle MacCoinneach,” Niall said.
“Aye,” Sebilla agreed. “He seeks revenge for the aid the Laird of the MacCoinneachs granted us long ago.”
“Why not just destroy the clan, then?” Cinnait wondered. “By now, he possesses the power.”
“Because the laird is not there,” Sebilla told her. “Not the true laird, the descendant of Aelfric.”
“And because he no doubt wishes to play with them before destroying the clan.”
“Aye, Vardon has ever been fond of his games.”
“What shall we do, your majesty?”
For the first time in her life, Sebilla railed inside at the burden of her position, resented the fact that ultimately it fell upon her to safeguard their world. “We must study the old books. If there is an answer, it must lie in what our ancestors did long ago. Arailt, you are the one most familiar with our archives.” She had decided not to tell him of his daughter’s unwitting involvement in Vardon’s escape. Arailt would be beyond mortified. She would, however, speak to the girl herself when time allowed.
“Aye, my queen. I shall commence my study at once.” He rose and with a bow left her presence.
Sebilla drummed her fingers on the smooth surface of the table. “I may have to tend to this matter myself.”
She’d expected immediate protests from her other advisors, but none came. Each gazed at her with a somber expression.
“You may,” Lucan said. “As much as I do not like the idea. You are the most powerful of all of us.”
“With the possible exception of Vardon.”
Lucan’s face darkened. “I shall not believe that.”
Sebilla smiled gently. “Thank you for your confidence, my friend.”
“Let us pray that Arailt discovers something in the archives and it will not come to that,” Niall said.
Sebilla’s smile faded. “I fear prayers shall not suffice this time.” She rose. “I wish to be alone. You may go about your duties.”
After her advisors left, Sebilla went to her private chambers. Her retreat was usually a place of calm, comprised of spacious rooms draped in light shades of sea foam and turquoise. Her rooms opened to a terrace overlooking a clear blue pool. Pink and white flowers cascaded from stone arches above.
Today, she felt as if she had no refuge. After lighting a brazier set on the terrace, she retrieved a wide copper bowl and a box filled with various plants, herbs, and other sacred objects. She poured clear water from the pool into the bowl, and set it over the fire, then added pinches from her cache. Borage, fennel, fumitory, pennyroyal, rosemary, and mugwort. Lastly, a sprinkle of amber fragments.
The water began to simmer and swirl, changing colors as it did. Blues and golds melted into greens, finally leaving the center clear. Sebilla sat cross-legged on a cushion, closed her eyes, and stretched her arms to her sides.
“Mother Goddess, aid me,” she said. “Show me what I must do.”
She opened her eyes and peered into the bowl. Slowly, an image took shape. A girl; no, a young woman. She stared at Sebilla through dark, deep eyes, auburn hair curling around her lovely face. Clad in a dark green tunic and braies, she stood in a forest clearing, mist swirling around her legs. In the background, Sebilla saw the faint shape of a horse tethered to a tree and something else, another animal. A deer perhaps? No, Sebilla realized as the image cleared a tiny bit. A wolf. The girl’s hand rested atop its head.
The image disappeared.
Puzzled and disappointed, Sebilla sat back. What could it mean? Could the girl be meant to help her?
Beset by confusion, Sebilla drew off her robes and dove into the water. She floated among the flower petals and stared up at the lavender sky, mulling over the image she’d seen. There had been something about the girl, something different.
Could she somehow be the key to vanquishing Vardon?
Sebilla clung to that hope and let her body relax, buoyed by the soft, warm water. For the span of a few moments, she let herself believe that they would succeed in regaining control of Vardon.
Before he did something that would bring angry outsiders to the portals of Paroseea. Before he killed more innocents in his quest for power.
For if Sebilla knew naught else, she knew V
ardon would not stop with simple revenge. He had always lusted for more. Hundreds of years in a cell barren of all but basic needs would have honed that lust to something fearsome.
Chapter Three
His calloused hand caressed her neck, then slid over her shoulder and down her arm, his touch leaving tingles of awareness in its wake. Enfolding her in a warm embrace, his low, rumbling voice whispered words of love, of desire, of things that inflamed her senses. She turned in his arms and traced the lines of his face, her fingertips learning him, claiming him as hers.
When he kissed her, she opened her mouth, greedily tasting him, sinking into the magic of his lips. It was madness; it was glorious; it was all of that and more. Yet not enough.
When his big hands cradled her bottom and pressed her close, she whimpered, feeling him through the fabric of their clothes, hard with his own need. She shivered, her mind imagining, anticipating what was to come. What had always been inevitable, meant to be.
“Yes,” she whispered.
In an instant, they clung together, skin to skin. As he lowered her to the floor, she opened her eyes wide, not wishing to miss a moment. Finally, to become one with him, to know him completely.
He smiled softly and smoothed a hand over her belly, his fingers probing lower, touching her, preparing her …
Aimili woke up shaking and panting, her sheets twisted around her body. It took a moment to realize she was in her own bed. Alone.
With a groan, she flopped her head back on the pillow and closed her eyes. The dream swirled through her mind, and she bit her lip in embarrassment. Never had she dreamed of him so vividly, so intimately.
By the saints, she was truly pathetic. Padruig barely noticed her existence at all.
Determined to go about her duties, she got out of bed, washed from a bowl of cool water left by the maid, and dressed in her usual attire—Colyn’s old, cast-off clothing and sturdy boots. She bound her hair into a plait and headed straight for the stables, skirting the great hall.
She pushed questions about what her father and Padruig had discussed last eve from her mind, and focused on drawing in the soothing scent of horseflesh and hay. First, she stopped to visit Mist, who was contentedly munching on hay in her stall.
What ails you, lass?
Naught of importance.
Mist snorted in response.
Aimili felt her face relax, only then realizing that since she’d awakened, she’d been gripped tight with tension. That wouldn’t do for the task she had ahead of her this morn.
She continued down the walkway and stopped in front of Loki’s stall. He gave her what could only be termed a baleful look. “Good morning, boy,” she murmured.
Gunnr peeked out of a nearby stall. “Are you goin’ to try to ride ’im again, my lady?”
“Aye. Today, I am going to ride him.” She led Loki out of his stall and began brushing him. He truly was a magnificent, powerful animal. Ember black, with an arched neck, he stared at her from large almond-shaped eyes that seemed to hold a wealth of knowledge, none of which he’d seen fit to share with her as of yet.
Within a few minutes, she had Loki saddled, and led him out to the ring. By the time she was ready to mount, she had gained an audience of Gunnr; the stable master, Thomas; and two of the other grooms.
They each gazed at her as if she’d lost her wits.
“Watch it when he tries to put his head down,” Thomas advised.
Aimili nodded, though she already knew that was Loki’s signal that he was about to try to buck her off. She patted Loki on his withers. We are going to have a nice ride today. No bucking, rearing, or bolting off.
Not surprisingly, he didn’t answer her, but just flicked his ears.
Aimili swung herself into the saddle. She gave Loki a gentle squeeze and he began walking.
“He looks calmer today,” Gunnr called out.
“Aye,” Aimili agreed. Though she had a firm grip on the reins, she let her hands move with the swing of Loki’s head. Nice and easy, Loki.
He blew air out of his nostrils and walked faster.
Aimili slowly eased him into a trot. She grinned as she passed Gunnr, but jolted when she saw that Padruig had joined the group. He stared at her so intently, she felt a flush burn up her cheeks. Images of her dream resurfaced in her mind, and her face heated further.
In an instant, Loki sensed her distraction and gleefully took advantage. Before she could gather herself to respond, his powerful muscles tightened, and he reared straight up. Grimly, Aimili hung on as Loki came down with an angry neigh, erupted with a huge buck, and tore across the ring as if a pack of wolves were chasing him.
“Keep his head up,” Thomas yelled.
Damned beast, Aimili thought as she hauled on the reins and leaned back. Contrary animal. They tore around the circular ring, Loki bucking over and over again despite Aimili’s best efforts.
Damn you, I said nice and easy.
Why?
She yanked the inside rein back to her hip, forcing Loki to turn. Because that is what you need to do. That is what every horse needs to do if they wish a nice place in my stables.
Loki slowed a bit, and Aimili let out a breath.
Only to suck it back in when he spun sideways, dropped partway to the ground, and came up sharply, lifting all four feet off the ground. Aimili sailed through the air once more.
She landed in a heap in the dirt, trying to catch her breath and silently cursing Loki.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Padruig running into the ring. He tried to catch Loki’s reins, but the horse shied away from him.
“He is no too fond of men just yet,” Aimili croaked as she levered herself to a sitting position.
Padruig scowled at her. “Why?”
Aimili struggled to her feet, realizing that her head ached, and her stomach roiled with nausea. “Angus Ransolm.”
Padruig’s scowl deepened. “What do you mean?”
“Do you see the scars on him?” she asked, pointing at Loki’s flanks. “Those are thanks to Laird Ransolm.”
Something dark and lethal flickered in Padruig’s eyes. “I am no surprised,” he finally said.
“Do you need aid, my lady?” Thomas offered.
“Nay,” Aimili said automatically, though she was beginning to think she might indeed. She forced her aching body forward and took Loki’s reins, who was quiet now that no one was on his back. Padruig brushed her aside and removed Loki’s saddle and bridle, draping both over the railing.
“Sit down afore you fall down,” he told her.
His tone grated. “I am fine,” she insisted.
He gave her a narrow look. “Then, you are lucky.” As Loki loped away, Padruig crossed his arms and studied her. “What were you thinking to ride such an animal?”
Not you, too, Aimili thought, and lifted her chin. “I ride the horses all the time. ’Tis what I do.”
“My lady, are you sure—” Thomas began.
“I am fine,” she assured him. She limped out of the ring, Padruig following close behind. She could feel the heat of his stare burning a hole in her back.
“You lack the age and strength to take on a beast like that.”
Aimili whirled around and immediately regretted it. Her head pounded anew. “I am seventeen years of age.”
“As I said.”
“Do not concern yourself with me, Laird. I am sure you have far more weighty matters on your mind.”
He muttered something under his breath, and fixed her with a steady look. “It seems I must concern myself with you.”
Aimili froze. “What … what do you mean?”
There was no mistaking the dismay in Padruig’s expression. “I have need of your father’s aid to regain Castle MacCoinneach.”
“What has that to do with me?”
“You are the price.”
“What?” She winced at the shrieking sound of her voice.
“Aye.”
“But, I—”
He held up a hand. “Neither of us has a choice. I need your father’s men, and he will not commit them unless I agree to marry you.”
Aimili’s jaw dropped. “Marry?” she whispered. How could her father do this to her? At the same time, a thrill of excitement wound through her. She had imagined wedding Padruig MacCoinneach countless times, had envisioned her heart light with love, safe in the knowledge that he was wholly hers.
His next words crushed her excitement fiat. “I shall be honest with you. I have no wish for a bride, much less an innocent child, but I need your father’s men.”
Her throat burned at the realization that she was naught but an unwanted burden, clearly a woman—no, a child he would never willingly select. She gazed into his eyes, flat with resignation, and something sacred, something carefully tended and guarded, shriveled inside her like an apple left too long in the sun to rot. “You … you are not the man I remember.”
His jaw tightened. “No, I am not.”
“I cannot marry you.”
His gaze narrowed. “You must.”
“Nay.” Despite the pain ringing through her head, she stalked off, torn between shouting out her anger at her father’s casual disposal of her and dissolving into tears at the death of a dream.
Aimili stormed into her father’s solar without knocking. All the way from the stables, she’d cursed her father; Padruig, the patronizing pig she’d once idolized; and most of all, the fact that absolutely no one could accept her as she was.
Her father glanced up from his worktable and immediately stiffened. “Aimili—”
“I shall not marry that man!” she shouted. “How could you … barter me off like some poorly performing cow?”
“’Tis for your own good that I do this.”
“A lie,” she spat. “’Tis to rid yourself of responsibility for me.”
Her father sighed long and hard. “You have ever been outspoken.”
“I am no meek miss to sit on a stool doing embroidery all day and leave the path of my life to others.”
“I knew Padruig’s sire well, as you ken. The de Granthams have long been allies of the MacCoinneachs.”
She crossed her arms and glared at him.
“You need to marry. ’Tis the way of things. And Padruig is willing to take you.”
