“Ye did it to me again,” he ground out. “Mayhap ye are a witch after all.”
Her face flamed and she was grateful the moon had gone behind the shadow of a cloud. He probably thought she was leading him on again, to “practice” her skills for Niall. Damn the man’s pride! She was going home. She walked over to Winger and picked up his saddle.
“Let me do that.” His voice was shaky as he took it from her and flung it over the horse’s back. He didn’t speak again as he saddled Malcolm and adjusted the saddlebags. Once she was in the saddle, he looked up at her.
“I told ye earlier ye had nothing to fear from me,” he said in a low voice, “and I almost lost control. I respect ye more than that.” He handed her the reins. “I willna let it happen again.”
Deidre bit her lip in frustration, wishing that he had inherited a little more of his father’s lustful urges. Every nerve ending cried out to be satisfied, but Gilead was the perfect gentleman on the way home.
Merde.
◊♦◊
Gilead finished putting both horses up and moved the saddles to their racks. He and Deidre had arrived back at the castle just before dawn and he’d sent her to her room before anyone was astir. The last thing he wanted to do was explain to anyone, let alone his father, what had transpired during the night. Better that no one knew either of them had been gone.
He didn’t know what to make of her story. A cult of priestesses hidden in the Languedoc, guarding a lost treasure from Solomon’s temple? How long before Frankish soldiers would be sent to find her? He would keep her secret, but if they came looking for her, his father would turn her over. They didn’t need to add war with Gaul to their list of problems. But what concerned Gilead right now was her prediction of future events, either from the magician’s book or from her Sight.
That had to stop. Deidre was already under suspicion because she looked Saxon and had an accent even Turius couldn’t place. Easy now to know why, since they had few dealings with the Franks. Sassenachs were not easily accepted by the Scotti simply because they were outlanders, but if Deidre started telling people what was going to happen—and it did—that uneasy balance could quickly shift into an accusation of witchcraft.
Even their own priestesses had to be careful with the pagan rites these days. The Romans had introduced Christianity into Britain, but it wasn’t until Saint Patrick swept through Eire that the Scotti had begun accepting the religion. Some of the more zealous priests were ready to cry heresy against their Lord for the most mundane of reasons and the Sight—or fortune-telling as they called it—was certainly a work of their devil, at least in their eyes. Even the gypsies had gone to ground.
Gilead didn’t want Deidre to come to any harm. In spite of his honorable intentions, he was drawn to her like a bee to the first bloom of spring. And he’d almost taken her last night! He tried to block the memory of how plush her breasts had felt crushed on his chest or how inviting her full lips were or the sweet taste of her tongue tangling with his. His shaft began to throb just as it had when he’d pressed himself against her soft stomach.
He gritted his teeth. Even pushing aside the very important fact that the alliance with Niall must be kept intact, Gilead had no right to make her break her oath. And that’s what it was, like it or not. She was handfasted to Niall. She had told his father she accepted that, and Gilead would not act like his father did, turning her into a leman for his pleasure.
Still, his father did expect him to watch her. It was the least he could do…just to keep her out of trouble, for certes.
With a lighter heart, he went in to break his fast.
Chapter Eleven
SHATTERED DREAMS
Over the next week, Deidre’s attempts at finding a new escape plan were overcome by her concern for Elen. Gilead’s mother seemed to be getting weaker with each passing day.
“I’m worried, too,” Gilead said when she mentioned it to him one morning after he had visited his mother. He opened the door to the kitchen and Deidre stepped through with Elen’s hardly touched breakfast tray.
“The only thing I can think of to do is taste everything that your mother eats,” Deidre said. “If I get sick, then we’ll know someone is trying to poison her.”
Before he could reply, an immense wad of grey homespun and white linen hurled itself across the floor, shouting Gaelic curses.
“Ye sorry Sassenach!” Meara screamed, wielding a butcher’s knife. “I’ll not be having ye accuse me of hurting the laird’s poor wife!”
Gilead pushed Deidre behind him and grabbed the cook’s massive arm. His thumb found the pressure point between the knuckles and she dropped the large knife and glared at him.
“I’ll not have mayhem here,” he said calmly. “Is that verra clear?”
She sniffled. “It be her fault, accusing me of such.”
“Dee wasna implying that.”
“That’s true,” Deidre said, stepping out from behind his comfortingly broad, strong back. “I know how much you care for Lady Elen. In fact, you could help us.”
Meara looked at her distrustingly. “How so?”
“I think someone is purposely trying to dispose of our lady and trying to make it look like an accident. Tainting her food would be easy. If you could make certain that her food comes to her directly from you, there’d be no chance of someone putting something in it, would there?”
“An interesting theory,” Formorian said as she entered the kitchen with an empty cup in her hand. “Do ye really think someone is trying to kill Gilead’s mother?”
“It’s obvious something is wrong with her,” Deidre answered.
“It seems to me that Elen has not been well for some time.”
Gilead eyed her stonily. “She seems worse when ye are here.”
Formorian stared back at him for a long moment and then she gave a little shrug as she poured fresh goat’s milk from the ewer on the counter. “I know ye won’t believe me, but I doona wish yer mother ill.” She lifted the cup in a mock salute as she went out the kitchen door.
Meara turned to Gilead. “Aye, my lord. That one bears watching, but she’s ne’r been in my kitchen.” She stared at Deidre. “I doona welcome anyone here but Himself and Her Ladyship.” She reached down and picked up the knife and Deidre involuntarily took a step back. “But I will be bringing the lady her food myself from now on.”
“Thank ye,” Gilead said and took Deidre’s arm and led her to the hall.
“I’m glad Formorian heard that,” Deidre said once they were out of earshot of the kitchen. “If she knows you suspect her, maybe she will stop.”
Gilead shook his head. “I should have kept my mouth closed. If she is behind this, I’ll just have driven her to ground.”
“These accidents happen when she’s here,” Deidre reminded him and then hesitated before adding, “Do you think she acts alone?”
He gave her a level look. “Do ye mean my father may have to do with this?”
She felt herself redden. “I don’t want to think so.”
“Then doona.” He headed toward the door and then turned back. “There may be no love lost between my parents, but I don’t think him capable of murdering my mother.” A muscle tightened in his jaw and he straightened his shoulders. “But ye’ll have a chance to test yer idea. Da and I leave tomorrow for Pictland.”
Deidre was surprised. “Didn’t your father already send an envoy?”
Gilead nodded. “But Turius wants to talk to Gunpar about the Saxon longboats and Da thinks it would be good if we went with him as a show of unity. Niall is going, too. If my mother gets better while we’re gone…”
“It doesn’t mean your father is at fault,” Deidre said gently. “Remember, Formorian has been warned, too.”
Gilead gave her a small smile. “Aye. We will have to wait and see.”
Deidre watched as he walked out the door and headed toward the stables. Wait and see indeed. She just hoped she and Lady Elen would be both alive and well when
he returned.
◊♦◊
Deidre tried to ignore Niall at dinner the night before the men were to leave. As usual, she was seated beside Elen, but tonight, Niall had managed to secure the seat on her other side. His hand kept roving to her thigh and she was tempted to permanently pinion his hand to the chair with her meat knife, but she doubted that anyone would believe stabbing him was an accident. She shifted away from him and closer to Elen.
His face turned dark and his smile only gave him a sinister look. “Ye won’t be able to get away from me for long, lassie. ’Tis not quite two fortnights until Lugnasad. Think on it.”
She was spared an answer by Formorian’s exclamation of surprise from the other side of the table.
“What do ye mean, my father will not join with ye?”
Angus shrugged. “He’s had a change of mind. Comgall’s messenger arrived two days ago. His men are already deployed to wait for Fergus’s advance along the border. My own troops will leave with us tomorrow. Yer father’s scout came this morn.”
Formorian tapped her tapered fingertips on the wooden table and looked thoughtful. “Did he say why?”
“Only that he thinks it foolish to leave both his and Comgall’s lands unattended.”
“Hmmm. He suspects a ruse, then.” She turned to Turius. “What think ye?”
He was silent for some moments before he answered. “I think yer idea that Fergus would prefer to squeeze Angus in from three sides a sound one. To reach the eastern sea would be a boon for him and I doubt that he’d split his army. A show of force would be needed to persuade Gunpar to oblige him. Right now, he doesn’t know that Scotti troops await him. However,” he paused and then continued, “if we’re wrong, we leave Fergus a clear southern path to Oengus. He would find some of my troops awaiting him here, but he would claim all lands he passes through and it would be the devil to get them back. All in all, yer father is probably a wise man to hold back.”
“I agree,” Angus said, “especially since we’ve already treatied with Gunpar. If Fergus moves northward, we can stop him without your father. If he moves south, he’ll have Gabran waiting for him.”
Niall had gone very still. At first, Deidre was just grateful he had stopped making his lewd remarks and kept his hands to himself, but now she noticed he was pale beneath the weathered skin.
“My lords,” he said in a strained voice, “I fear I’ve eaten something that doesna agree with me.” He got to his feet unsteadily. “If ye will excuse me, I think I’d best ride for home.”
Deidre was relieved that he wouldn’t be spending the night in the guest chambers as planned. At least she wouldn’t catch him lurking in the hallways.
Angus looked up sharply, eyes narrowed. “Will ye still be riding with us on the morrow?”
Niall hesitated, as if undecided, and then finally nodded. “Aye. I’m sure I’ll be fine in the morn.”
Deidre caught Gilead’s eye. He looked worried and then she realized why. With Turius, Angus, and Gilead all gone, who would protect her if Niall was the only one who stayed behind?
◊♦◊
Gilead was relieved when Niall actually showed the next morning. There had been nothing wrong with the food, nor had anyone else, even his mother, gotten ill. He had been prepared to dig his heels in and stay if Niall remained, but now there was no need for a confrontation with his father.
The ride north through the Ochil Hills was uneventful, the rolling hills green with high summer. Shimmering waves of purple heather swayed in brisk breezes that crossed the moors and as they drew closer to the old Roman town of Bertha, the scent of sea salt blowing in from the Firth of Tay filled the air with its tang.
Gunpar waited for them several miles up the river where it converged with the Almond. Mounted bareback on shaggy mountain ponies, painted blue with woad, his near-naked warriors were formidable. Not to mention the wicked-looking spears each one of them carried.
He grunted at Angus’s introduction of Niall and motioned for them to follow him. As they progressed toward his campsite, Gilead was amazed at how his band burgeoned, with more of the short, dark Picts joining him. They seemed to materialize silently from nowhere, and Gilead knew that was one of the things that made them so dangerous. Being nomadic by culture, following their herds of sheep from high pastures to low, they had developed the ability to blend in with what nature had to offer. The unsuspecting traveler would find himself relieved of transportation, goods, and clothes, lucky to be left alive. Usually, they weren’t.
Gunpar’s woman, a comely lass with amazingly white teeth in a swarthy face, served them a strong drink that tasted of honey, once they were seated in the main tent.
“Mead?” Angus asked in surprise. “How come ye by a Saxon drink?”
A corner of their host’s mouth turned up in what was almost a smirk. “The light-hairs are an arrogant race. They sent only one longboat to scout the firth.” He shrugged. “They almost made it.”
Turius leaned forward. “How long ago was this?”
Gunpar’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “Less than a sennight.”
“They’re close, then,” Turius said softly. “Have you seen more since then?”
“Nothing on the horizon,” Gunpar answered, “but the captain of the vessel was kind enough to give me the information I wanted.”
The grim set of his mouth and the hard look in his eyes belied the benign tone of his voice. Gilead willed himself not to shudder about how that information had been so “kindly” given. The Norsemen were fearsome fighters; he’d never known one to surrender, and certes, not willingly acknowledge anything. But then, being slowly butchered alive may have had some influence on the man’s tongue. At least, while he still had it.
“So what did you learn?” Turius asked.
“Famine has ravished their lands these past two years. They are looking to settle along the coast.” Gunpar allowed a faint smile. “The one survivor took back the message: ‘Not along my shore.’ That leaves yours, Angus. You are wise to guard it.”
“We intend to do that,” Angus answered. “If we can count on you to block any move that Fergus might make.”
Gunpar made a guttural sound. “I’ll not allow him a hide of land. Or you, either,” he said to Angus in warning.
“Fair enough. If ye hold fast, I can concentrate on keeping the northern barbarians from invading. Did yer man say how many of them were coming?”
“Near to five thousand is what I finally got out of him.”
Angus sucked in his breath and even Turius looked disconcerted. “That would be over five hundred ships,” Angus said.
“They’d be hard to hide,” Turius replied. “They’d have to wait over the horizon until dark and then invade unknown shores.”
“No doubt ’tis the reason they sent the scouting keel,” Gunpar replied and motioned for another round of drinks.
Angus sent a questioning look to Gilead and he knew that his father was thinking that mayhap they already had a spy in their midst who was sending information back to them. But Gilead was more convinced than ever that Deidre was no informer. He shook his head slightly.
Angus turned back and accepted a cup from Gunpar’s pretty wife and, to Gilead’s relief, thanked her respectfully with hardly a glance. Observing propriety was a wise choice, given their tenuous circumstances. Even with their heavily armed guard, they were sorely outnumbered and, at best, their alliance with the Picts was dubious.
Niall, however, was leering at the woman and managed to brush her hand as he accepted a tumbler that he drained in record time. Gunpar’s eyes narrowed slightly, his hand sliding casually to the knife he wore in his belt. An image of Niall, lying on the floor with his throat slit, flitted through Gilead’s mind. Dee would be spared a marriage. He sighed. Tantalizing at the thought was, they could not risk raising the Pictish king’s ire, or for that matter, Niall’s father, either. Gilead reached for his cup, accidentally knocking it over.
The contents wet Niall’
s crotch. He leaped up with a roar. “Ye bloody fool!”
“Sorry,” Gilead said as he righted his cup. “Clumsy of me.”
Angus’s glance swept across Gunpar’s hand and he looked quickly at his son. Gilead could have sworn he almost smiled
“Mayhap ye need to take yer leave, Niall. We can finish up here.”
Niall gave Angus a surly look and drained his fourth cup before setting it down with a clatter. “I’ll be back.”
“There’s no need,” Turius said evenly. Niall glared at him for a moment, but Turius gave him the penetrating, bald stare that made even his seasoned commanders not question him. Niall sputtered for a moment and then turned on his heel and stormed out.
“Well, now,” Turius said pleasantly as he turned back to Gunpar. “Where were we? Ah, yes. Do you know who the leader is?”
“A man called Ida,” Gunpar answered.
Gilead felt a chill run through him and the hair on his arms pricked up. Ida? That was the name Dee had given him. His stomach roiled and he put down his goblet. It couldn’t be.
Dee couldn’t be a witch. Could she?
◊♦◊
Niall cursed all the way back to the Scotti campsite. That loutish son of Angus had spilled the mead on purpose. He was sure of it. And just when he might have been able to grab a little free feel of Gunpar’s wife. And who knew? Maybe the wench would have welcomed him later, once her husband was asleep. He’d heard that Pictish women practiced thigh freedom. He’d never swived a Pict before. The woman was fine-looking, to boot. He doubted whether she’d had a strong, braw Scotti like himself, either.
He might even think on being gentle with her, at least at first. He let out a string of Gaelic oaths. He’d not had enough time to judge her reaction and he couldn’t take a chance on surprising her. Damn Gilead, always thwarting his plans.
He hoped the messenger he had sent to Fergus late last night when he’d feigned food poisoning made it on time. No sense sending a decoy to the North now. Fergus would need all his men to meet Gabran’s defense.
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