by Amy Tolnitch
Morainn slowly lowered herself to the cushioned seat where Cai rested his shaggy, gray head.
“Morainn?”
“Aye?”
Aimili lifted her gaze. “Do you think there is something wrong with me? Something … unlovable?”
“Nay!” Morainn sighed and rested her hand on Aimili’s head. “’Tis just that you are different.”
“Do you mean because of—”
“Shush.” Morainn glanced around them. “’Tis best not to talk about that.”
That, of course, being Aimili’s ability to communicate with animals. Morainn was the only other person who knew.
“I wish Mother were alive. I dinnae ken how to guide you.”
“I wish that, too.” Though Aimili’s memories of her mother were vague, she remembered how her mother would hold Aimili in her arms and sing to her.
Morainn’s face turned pink. “I know naught of the … bedding.”
Aimili laughed, but it wasn’t a sound of mirth. “I dinnae think I need to worry about that.”
“What? But …” Morainn’s voice slowly trailed off. “Oh.”
“’Tis just as well.”
Morainn shivered. “No doubt.”
A sharp knock at the door preceded a woman’s entry. She had bright red hair, deep green eyes, and although she was shorter than Morainn and even Aimili, her presence filled the chamber. She beamed a smile in their direction.
Ever the hostess, Morainn rose smoothly to her feet. “My lady?”
“Call me Efrika, please,” the woman said.
“May we aid you?”
Efrika let out a huge sigh. “Not why I’m here. I am Padruig’s cousin, God bless the stubborn addlepate.”
Aimili bit her lip and shared a glance with Morainn. Cai slinked into the shadows.
Before Aimili could speak, Efrika marched over to the window seat and eyed Aimili from head to toe, tilting her head first this way and then that, as if she were inspecting a particularly dear ell of silk. “How many years have you, child?”
“I am no child,” Aimili snapped before she could stop herself.
“Aimili,” Morainn said.
“I am seventeen years of age.”
“Oh, thank heavens. I had no idea and you, well, surely you know that you appear, well—”
Aimili took pity on her, embarrassed by her earlier outburst. “Younger than my years. Yes, I do know, though I do not like it.”
Morainn giggled. “I imagine she realized that, sister.”
Efrika sat down and poured herself a cup of wine. “Fine thing you did, ridding us of that dreadful woman. Little better than a whore she was, and consumed with gaining power at Grigor’s side.”
Aimili blinked, uncertain how to respond. “I, uh, I acted without thinking, my lady.”
“Efrika. And ’tis good that you did. Else poor Padruig may well have ended up with a dagger in his back.”
“He does not see it that way.”
Efrika mumbled something under her breath that sounded very much like the oath the stable master used when he thought Aimili was not about. Shaking her head, Efrika turned to Aimili and patted her leg. “Since your mother isnae with us, and Mairi will be of no use, I thought to help prepare you for tonight.”
“Tonight?” For a moment, Aimili had no idea what she meant, but then understanding dawned. “Oh.” She reached for a cup and poured herself wine.
“Who is Mairi?” Morainn asked.
Efrika frowned. “Padruig and Freya’s mother.”
Anxious to avoid discussing the bedding that was not going to happen, Aimili said, “I did not see her at the feast. Is she ill?”
“Och, well, no, not precisely. ’Tis a long story and one for Padruig to tell you, but Mairi is a bit teched.”
Aimili and Morainn exchanged a glance. “Has she always been that way?” Aimili asked.
“Oh, no, only since Brona died. And that is all I shall say about it. Now, dear, you must not fear the bedding. I am sure Padruig will be gentle with you even though he does not look the type.”
Aimili blinked.
“Have you any idea what will happen, child?”
“I … I have seen animals mate, my lady.” Aimili was so embarrassed she didn’t even care that Efrika had called her child.
“Hmm, well, ’tis much the same I suppose. Though,” she said with a wink, “if a man is skilled, there is much more pleasure to be had. A satisfactory mating should not be rushed.”
“Oh,” Aimili managed to say.
“Do not be afraid of Padruig. I know his visage is fearsome, but the man inside is a good one.”
“How did he come by the scars?” Morainn asked, her eyes wide. “Was it when the MacVegans—”
Efrika shook her head sharply. “’Tis not my place to say.” She peered at Aimili. “Do you have any questions?”
Yes! Aimili wanted to shout. Why does Padruig not want me? What happened to him? What happened to the man I knew? What am I to do now? Inside, she cringed in shame, knowing her husband was avoiding their chamber, knowing that the clan was surely talking about the strange fact that Padruig had sent her off alone and yet lingered. “Nay, my lady. I thank you for your concern.”
“Well, then, I shall leave you to enjoy the remainder of the evening. On the morrow, we have much to discuss.”
“We do?”
“Of course. Now that you are the laird’s wife, you will wish to take over the running of the castle no doubt.” She sniffed. “Surely, Ciara did little on that score.”
“Uh, my lady, Efrika, I really have little interest in such things.”
Efrika’s eyes widened. “But … you are the laird’s lady.”
“Aimili, perhaps—”
Aimili cut off Morainn with a sharp look before turning to Efrika. She felt as if she were the object of a great jest. The laird’s lady. Hardly. “My work with the horses takes all of my time.”
“Horses?”
“Aye. I breed and train them. ’Tis what I do.”
“Well.” Efrika blinked. “Well.”
Aimili took pity on her obvious shock. “Padruig is aware of that. No doubt he has someone in mind to manage the castle.”
“But … but he told Freya and me that you would see to things once you were wed.”
“He did?” Anger began a slow simmer in Aimili’s belly.
“Aye.”
Aimili paced across the room, ignoring Morainn’s look pleading her to remain calm. “He assured me that I could continue with my horses!”
“Well, perhaps he meant when you had time away from your duties as chatelaine,” Efrika suggested with a bright smile.
“I will not spend my days counting bedsheets and making sure the cook does not use too much saffron,” Aimili snapped. She started for the door, intending to confront Padruig, but Efrika’s soft voice stopped her.
“Pray, do not begin your marriage in anger. Surely, you must discuss matters with Padruig but … ‘twould be more fruitful methinks if you awaited him in bed.”
Anger surged in her blood. “I am no whore, to bargain my body for the laird’s favor.”
Though Morainn’s face blanched in shock, Efrika simply gazed at Aimili. “’Tis part of a marriage.”
Aimili gritted her teeth. “Your cousin has made it very, very clear that he does not want me that way.”
“Nay,” Efrika gasped. “You must be mistaken.”
It was all Aimili could do not to burst into tears.
“Oh, my dear, you are simply overset with the day’s events.” Efrika patted her shoulder. “Have a cup of wine and rest by the fire. Everything will work out, you shall see.”
As Efrika sailed out, Aimili’s shoulders slumped. “Damn him,” she muttered.
The sympathy in Morainn’s eyes made Aimili feel worse. “I am going to sleep,” she announced. “This day …” She couldn’t even think how to express how she felt. Within the span of mere hours, she’d wed the one man she’d long fantasize
d of, only to find a man who treated her with cool indifference. On top of that, she’d finished the evening by stabbing a would-be murderer to death, not that her husband offered up a bit of gratitude.
Morainn covered a yawn with her hand. “I am weary, too.” She gave Aimili a tight hug. “It will be all right.”
Aimili watched Morainn leave and sat on the window seat staring at the partially open doorway. Would Padruig come? Part of her hoped he would and part dreaded it.
Finally, she stripped down to her chemise and crawled into the big, empty bed alone.
Chapter Five
Padruig walked into his chamber, weighted down with a bone-deep weariness that arose not from lack of sleep, but from the myriad of challenges he faced. Though he had yet to meet with the seneschal, Efrika and Alasdair both had told him they lacked the stores to survive the year. In addition, it was apparent that some of the clan viewed him with, at best, wary suspicion.
Neither of those problems posed as great a challenge as the one in this room, he thought. He had delayed as long as possible until too many curious gazes drove him from the hall.
A single candle burned atop a small table, and the remnants of a fire yet sparked in the hearth. He sank onto one of the chairs and stared toward the bed, which was near hidden in shadows. He could just make out a small form, and could hear the soft, even breathing of slumber. Cai lay at the bottom of the bed. He lifted his head at Padruig’s entry, then settled back down with a grunt.
Padruig let out a sigh and poured himself a cup of wine from the flagon he’d brought with him. What in the saints was he to do with his new bride?
Not a single idea occurred to him. At times, Aimili seemed like the child she appeared, impulsive and guileless. At other times, she seemed as old as time, steeped in mysteries no man could solve. Either way, he lacked the slightest notion of how to deal with her.
And she’d killed to save him. He could still scarcely wrap his mind around it, though her feat was the talk of the hall long after she’d retired.
A warrior wife for the laird, one clansman had called her.
A wife he would never touch. He stretched out his legs and leaned his head against the hard back of the chair. His wedding night was not exactly the one he might once have envisioned. But the man who’d once blithely tumbled a comely woman as often as possible was gone. The man who’d once thought that when he did marry, it would be to a beautiful lass with generous curves and the desire to satisfy him found that he didn’t deserve such a blessing.
What could he do? The deed was done. Freya was safe.
Somehow he would work out the rest. As long as Aimili had her horses, she would be content. And he, well, he would keep busy doing what needed to be done to take care of the clan. That would have to be enough.
He stared at the flickering flame and gradually realized that he wasn’t alone. “Brona,” he said, as his sister’s spirit settled into the opposite chair.
“’Tis good to see you back where you belong, Padruig.”
“Aye. You should be happy. I came back as you asked, and Freya is safe from Angus Ransolm.” As long as I can find his coin, he thought.
“You have done well, as I knew you would.”
Brona looked almost solid. If Padruig let his gaze go unfocused, he could nearly pretend she sat across from him in the flesh. “You can be at peace now.”
A soft smile lit her ethereal lips. “Not just yet.”
“What? I defeated Grigor. Freya is safe. I will see to the good of the clan somehow.”
“Ah, Padruig, ’tis not so simple.” She tilted her head toward the bed. “Why do you sit here alone when you have a new bride in your bed?”
“A bride who is an innocent child.” He snorted. “My penance.”
“You still punish yourself.”
“As well I should.” He leaned forward. “I can still remember that day as if it were today. My arrogant refusal to heed your warning that all was not right with Symund yielded disaster.”
“Mayhap there is more to it than that.”
He frowned. “Brona, I was there. I know Symund killed you and Malcolm both. Many more of our people died that day because I was too filled with my own sense of superiority to see Symund for who he was.”
“Och, Padruig, think about that day. ’Tis not all what it seems.” She gave him a sad look and began to dim.
“Brona, wait! What do you mean?”
She faded into nothing.
What could she mean? he wondered. As much as he hated thinking back to that fateful day, he forced his mind back. It had been late afternoon when Brona’s maid had sought him out, told him that her mistress had snuck out of the castle earlier to be alone with Malcolm and had not returned. Padruig had been furious with Brona. He’d forbidden her to be with Malcolm, and had told her that he intended to accept Symund’s suit. Not only had he stupidly believed Symund the better man, but he’d thought that the marriage would cement an alliance with the Clan MacVegan.
He’d found Symund standing over Brona’s bloody body, a dagger in his hand. What happened after that remained a blur of anguish and fighting. He knew he’d slain Symund at once and when the troop of MacVegans arrived, many more.
The one thing that had always bothered him was why the MacVegans had appeared just then. However, Symund had been a favorite of the laird’s, so perhaps his absence had been noted much as Brona’s had.
Padruig shook his head, the memories swirling too quickly to catch hold of. He’d been lucky to survive, though at the time he’d not seen it that way. Idly, he traced a scar on his cheek.
Though he’d forgotten many things about that day, he could never forget the look on his mother’s face when they’d brought Brona’s body home. That day, whatever love she’d held for Padruig turned to hate.
And he knew he’d earned every bit of it.
Aimili’s eyes flashed open. Her heart raced, her skin tingled, and the feeling that something frightening and malevolent lurked nearby choked her. Where was she? She forced herself to take a deep breath.
Gradually, she remembered that she lay in a strange bed, in a strange chamber, with a wolf lightly snoring from the bottom of the bed. Some weak glimmers of early light drifted through the latched window shutters, but Aimili could tell it was not even full dawn yet. She rose on one arm and scanned the chamber, finding Padruig half-covered by a blanket and lying on the floor in front of the now dead fire.
For a moment, her breath hitched with suspicion. Could the feelings she sensed be from him? No, she thought, she could not believe that.
Still, she stared at him, more stunned than she’d thought she’d be at the fact that not only had he not wished to consummate the marriage, but he could not even bear to share a bed. Her heart splintered even as she admonished herself for being a fool.
In slumber, Padruig looked different, softer, the dim light blurring the scars on his face. She could almost envision him opening his eyes, and smiling at her the way she’d imagined so many times.
A young girl’s dream, spun of naught but moonbeams and stardust. Truth was, she was alone but for her horses, and likely ever would be.
She glanced at the shutters, tempted to sneak out to the stables, but realized it was too early for a new bride to be seen leaving her wedding bed. The clan already had much to talk about their new lady, she thought, a twinge of resentment winding through her at the memory of Padruig’s reaction to her defending him.
She flopped back onto the pillow and stared at the beamed ceiling overhead.
How had she ended up thus? True, she’d never been the biddable lass that Morainn was, but was that enough to deserve a life bereft of warmth and affection but from animal friends? Apparently it was.
How she yearned for it to be different. No one knew, not even Morainn, how Aimili longed for a babe. No one would believe it, considering such a desire far too “womanly” for one such as Aimili. Before she could catch herself, a tear leaked from her eye and trickled down
her cheek. She’d always believed that even if no one else understood her, even if no one else truly loved her, it would be all right if she had a child. One perfect child whom she could lavish affection on, and who would return such affection and love.
That was not going to happen now. Padruig’s position on the floor made it abundantly clear that her heart’s desire was as much a chimera as her girlish dreams of her husband.
She turned her face into the pillow and silently wept.
Sebilla walked slowly along the wide marble road, soaking up the quiet of early morning. The pink sun was no more than a pale shimmer in the sky, and the air was fresh and warm. From the sides of the pathway rose bright gold columns carved with the symbol of Paroseea, a dolphin within a swirling Celtic pattern. Between the columns, at widely spaced intervals, colorful mosaics paved the way to broad homes made of pale-colored stone.
As she continued on, she caught the faint tang of the sea and decided to watch the sun rise over the water. A well-trodden path led to the pink beach, a mild breeze blowing the slight scent of salt to her nose. With a sigh, she settled onto a flat rock and simply watched the sky lighten.
Offshore, a dolphin suddenly leapt from the water, its blue skin melding with the water. Sebilla laughed as the dolphin let out a happy screech and splashed down.
How peaceful it is, she thought. How beautiful.
How threatened. She shivered, contemplating what would happen if Vardon exposed them. The humans of the world would look upon Paroseea as possessing treasures to be plundered, people to be hated and feared. Of course, they could defeat attackers, but at what cost?
“Queen Sebilla?” a voice asked.
For a moment, Sebilla didn’t acknowledge Arailt’s voice. From his tone, he was not interrupting her with good news. Reluctantly, she shifted her gaze from the blue dolphins cavorting in the water and turned to Arailt. “Yes? Have you found anything to aid us?”
Arailt shook his head. “Not yet, my lady, but I am still looking. I thought to engage my daughter Vanasia’s aid if that is acceptable to you. She is quite familiar with the archives.”
