“If Morlach is indeed the reason for our speedy return, I cannot compete with such magic.”
“A sacrifice then.” How foolish she’d been! But there’d been so little time to consider all consequences when the deal was agreed to.
“The blood of your innocence, Maire. That is the only sacrifice that will stand.” Brude reassured her with a knobby hand on her shoulder, but it did not help the panic running amok in her mind.
“I’ve no training—”
“To become what you already are requires no training. You were born a woman.”
“But I told him this would be in name only. ’Twould be dishonorable to change now.” Honoring the verbal agreement had stood Rowan well during the wedding rite, when he’d changed the wording to suit his purpose. Maire hoped against her last hope it would stand now.
“From the way his gaze mated with yours during the pattern dance, I don’t think he’ll mind a change of heart.”
Maire wanted to pretend she didn’t know what the druid was speaking of, but she couldn’t. The unsettling awareness of each other, which charged across their arm’s length as they’d moved in unison over and about the crossed symbols of their marriage, flared anew. She could hear the sudden rush of blood past her temples above the clamor of drink, dance, and song surrounding them. How could it rise so strong when she felt her pride sinking to the pit of dark defeat?
But she was queen first, warrior second, and woman last. She had no choice but to protect her people in whatever manner she could. Since hers was not the saving sword of Gleannmara’s, she must seal the union with the man who possessed the key. Foolish hopes of love, even courtship, were a luxury not often afforded a queen.
“It isn’t my heart I’m changing, Brude,” she answered at last. “Only my mind. And that I’m doing for Gleannmara, nothing—”
“Man overboard!”
The warning from the loft above fell like a sobering blanket upon the celebration below, settling first upon a few, then upon all. Men scrambled to the sides of the ship, straining to peer at the rolling green water in search of the floundering soul.
“To the larboard!” came the direction from above, sending those who’d gathered to the right over to the left. Elbows and shoulders collided in the confusion exacting grunts and curses.
Eochan was the first to spy the unfortunate. “Cling to this, lad!”
With bearlike strength, the warrior lifted the empty wine keg he’d been sitting on and heaved it over the side. Maire squeezed through the crowd to her foster brother’s side and watched the cask splash into a deep rolling trough, where it bobbed as if on the tongue of a gaping watery mouth.
“I don’t see—”
A golden head surfaced beside it, gasping for air and cutting her off in midsentence.
“Declan!” she shrieked, recognition and horror colliding.
She rose on tiptoe as if that might help her to see better as her foster brother clawed his way toward the floating barrel. Someone steadied her from behind. The voluminous folds of Declan’s brat worked like an overblown monster against him, holding him in place. He might as well have tried to pull himself up a rope of air, for all the progress he made. Then his head disappeared beneath the foamy surface again, and Maire strangled as though she were with him.
“Throw him a rope!” someone shouted along the rail.
“Aye, hand it to me and I’ll take it to him!” Eochan vaulted up on the ship’s rail with amazing agility for his size and turned to catch the heavy line tossed his way. The whip of the rope past her face shattered her numbing fear. Reason rallied. Maire stayed his arm in protest.
“Ye can’t swim any better than him.”
“He’s my brother!” the man bellowed back at her, as though that would give him the skill he needed.
He was her brother as well, but Maire had heard too many tales of well-meaning men drowning with the victim. She knew she was no match for the waves on her own, much less with the weight of another dragging her down. Eochan was no more at home in the water.
Declan broke the surface again, shoving against it as if to lift himself from it. He coughed up water, unable to cry for the help he needed. Where the swelling sea left off, his hair closed about his face to smother and blind him to the presence of the barrel, floating just a body’s length away.
Eochan leaned forward, tearing out of Maire’s grip, but instead of diving into the water, he sprawled backward as though an unseen ram had driven into his chest. Landing upon the deck amid the feet and legs of his clansmen, he shouted in outrage, but the man who’d thrown him aside was already in the water. It wasn’t until his head broke the crest of a swell a few feet from the thrashing Declan, that Maire recognized him.
It was Emrys, his wet shoulders glistening in the setting of the sun. He moved as if he’d been born to the sea, with fins for feet and arms. With long powerful strokes, the Welshman closed the distance between him and the thrashing Scot, but Declan went down again, just before Rowan reached him.
It felt as if a team of oxen were pulling at her chest, Maire was so drawn to the drama unfolding below. Rowan rose like the sea god himself, his upper torso shooting above the water. With a mighty lung full of air, he dove into the deep again after her foster brother. Maire leaned further over the rail, her own breath corked in her chest.
Brude!
Not even her fervent plea for the druid to use his powers escaped, but she felt the responding cold of his hand upon her arm, drawing her back. She’d never known the old man to have warm hands.
The riggings clapped and billowed above with the crew’s effort to slow the ship, but the scene between her and the spot where the two men had gone down was as still as the mosaic pictures on Emrys’s villa walls. A whispering wave passed through it, distracting her gaze until Maire wondered if she was searching the wrong place for signs of movement.
Please! She pleaded in silent desperation, not really knowing which spirit, if any, would listen. Please!
“There they are! By the barrel.”
The sea had played a sleight of hand with her eyes. Maire moved toward the stern and fixed her gaze to where Rowan struggled to shove his uncooperative comrade’s upper torso over the slippery barrel. Declan’s face was out of the water, but it appeared to do him no good. The water had bleached the color from his skin, leaving a ghastly pallor. The color was not unfamiliar—Maire had seen it too many times—that which had lived in the young Scot’s carcass had fled to the other world.
“Toss me the line!”
Two lines went out simultaneously at Rowan’s hoarse command, one landing short of its mark; the other struck his shoulder. In an instant, it was in his grasp. He wrapped it around one muscled arm, keeping Declan’s head and shoulders over the barrel with the other. Once it was secure, he devoted both hands to stabilizing the barrel and shouted for the men at the rail to haul them in.
Time, in its fickle way, struck a leisurely course. It seemed to Maire an eternity before Declan’s limp form was pulled over the side and dragged onto the deck. His lips were blue, his skin bloodless and cold. She wanted to cry, but that was a luxury not afforded a warrior, much less a queen. Even so, emotion welled up in her, demanding release.
Silly fool, how could he have fallen overboard? Only a while ago she’d warned him about perching on the rail, drunk as he’d been.
“Curse you, Declan! I told you to get down from the rail.”
Crying was not allowed, but anger was. Maire fell upon him, striking his chest a sound blow with all her weight. It was her queenly right to admonish him for not heeding her word. By her mother’s gods, she’d not have it. To her astonishment, the moment she landed on his cold, still form, his knees drew up in a spasmodic response. What little breath was left in his chest loosened, bullying seawater from his throat in a spurt.
Riding fierce on emotion’s tide, Maire tugged at his shoulder. “Help me turn him! Give us room!”
Eochan rolled his brother on his side an
d held the young man’s head as his body convulsed and purged the death-dealing brine. Maire felt no sympathetic nausea, but an exhilarating relief. He was coming back to her! Just as she thought he could cough no more, Declan fell weakly on his back and moaned. His eyes fluttered, reluctant to return to the waking world.
“So the wine wasn’t enough for you, was it?”
Joy rather than admonishment flooded Maire’s voice. She placed her hands on either side of Declan’s face and shook him until his gaze widened enough to ensure her he was going to stay with them.
“First you fight the sea, and now you try to drink it.”
The young man’s mouth twitched with an attempt to smile, but it had clearly sapped all his strength to fight his way across the divide between life and death. He shivered uncontrollably, folding his arms across his chest.
“Let me get you out of them wet clothes and into a dry, warm bed, whelp,” Eochan offered, recognizing the ensuing shock taking hold of his brother. Before Declan could protest, the bear hoisted him up like a babe. “A bit of rest, and you’ll be ready to fight the wind.”
“I’ll help.” Maire rose, taken aback to find her own legs were not so steady. She might well have been pulled from the water herself, for the way her strength foundered. Declan had not overstated himself in regard to their closeness; they had grown up as close as any blood kin. Her foster brother could make her laugh, even in the darkest of moods. She’d hurt him with her rejection, and guilt would never have let her be if he hadn’t survived.
“A queen learns to delegate what she can, so that she might attend to what others cannot,” Brude reminded her with gentle but firm words. “The cockerel is in good hands. You have a good husband to thank for that.”
Emrys! Maire had forgotten him in her concern for Declan. Across the deck, a handful of clansmen clapped Rowan on the back as though he’d been kin all his life. If his blade had not earned their admiration, his valor had. Few mariners swam well enough to rescue fellows from the churning waters of the sea. Land dwellers such as Maire and her clan might be able to make their way about in a pool or lake, but their skills fell short in the rolling fists of water that could toss a ship about like a toy.
In the dying light of the horizon, his wet body glistened, its scars all but erased. Maire tried not to admire the virile interplay of sinew as he donned his meanly spun robe again, but she dared not glance away like a shy maid as she approached him. There were too many eyes upon her to humor her modesty. She’d seen nearly naked men before; Emrys should not demand exception. At least that’s what her mind said. Her body seemed of another opinion.
“The blood of the Scotti may not run in your veins, Emrys, but you possess its spirit. Your valor has pleased us. Now you must please me.”
At least her outward demeanor was regal and assured. Gripping her father’s torque with one hand, she drew Rowan’s face down to hers and pressed her lips to his with as much fervor as when she’d fought him. When he reacted, threatening to pull away, she caught the back of his head with her free arm, holding him fast. Her clenched teeth would surely grind against his own through the flesh, but she would leave no doubt to the witnesses that this was the beginning of their mating ritual, and that she was as in charge as any swaggering groom at Beltaine.
Apparently her adversary’s shock thawed, for he surprised her by drawing her into his arms. About the two of them, various remarks and sounds of approval echoed, but Maire was too distracted to gain satisfaction or be embarrassed. Rowan’s embrace was rib crushing. She had no choice but to lessen the force of her kiss in order to breathe. Suddenly, she was keenly aware that she was no longer the aggressor.
Like a moth that ventured too close to a flame, her emotions ignited, defying reason. The man’s skin was cold from his saltwater bath. Her fingers, clenched about his bulging biceps told her so, but it made no difference. She’d stepped onto an unfamiliar battleground where senses could not be relied on. Retreat was the only solution. A thousand echoes of how bounced about in her head, dodging traitorous whispers to surrender.
But surrender was not acceptable to a warrior. She reached for her training, shining like a bright spear of hope in a confusing rain of arrows. Driving her heel down upon his instep, she ground it in a slow, deliberate fashion. It was an act of passion, true enough, but a passion to escape, to be free of the emotions roiling through her. Thankfully, those watching could not see her action stemmed from deliberation rather than desire. She felt Rowan’s flinch of pain. Both tensed. Then, as if by mutual accord, a truce was declared.
Maire stepped away, resisting the urge to wipe her lips dry of his taste. “Since I’ve no women to prepare our bridal chamber, you can help.”
Rowan bowed with a cryptic smirk. “At your service, my queen.”
A fluttering rise of humor died with Maire’s forbidding glance at her men. In matters of the conjugal bed, all men were allies, brother beasts in a common pen. She was still, however, queen of that pen.
“Our accommodations are not as luxurious as those you are accustomed to, sir, but I assure you, you’ll find no complaint.”
With a purposeful swagger, she led the way across the deck to her canopy. The curtains that had been dropped to afford her privacy in dressing earlier were still in place. Pulling one aside, she entered the makeshift room, leaving Rowan to follow. Bread, cheese, and a skin of wine lay at the head of the two pallets that had been placed side by side, arranged as one bed beneath a coverlet of white linen. The linen from Brude’s trunk.
Maire stopped short, wondering how he’d known to bring it, much less when he had found time to do this. Had the druid seen the need of a wedding bed before they’d left Erin? Somehow she’d imagined she and Emrys making the best of the single pallet. No, that was not true. She hadn’t imagined anything, because she’d refused to think of this moment. Now that it had arrived, her mind had grown dull as an ox.
“We…” Her voice cracked as Emrys bumped into her. There was no room for anyone to stand in the cubicle. It had but one purpose tonight.
“We won’t have to take off our clothes,” she announced, stepping onto the bed. Her knees turned to water as she knelt down, bone jamming the deck, despite the mattress of straw between. She was not about to wallow naked, queenly duty or nay. “But we should finish this wine,” she went on, sitting back on her folded legs. “Your God certainly blesses the church vineyards.”
By the bones of her ancestors, everything she said sounded as though it came from the mouth of a fool! What did a woman say to a man as a prelude to their wedding night? There was certainly no love to inspire words of endearment or desire.
Rowan dropped down across from her in one fell movement, his legs crossed before him. No doubt he’d spent many a night before a campfire like so when he’d been a warrior. His mouth was curled up slightly on one side, whether in agreement or amusement, she couldn’t discern.
Although this was a political marriage, politics hardly seemed appropriate, either. Certainly, speaking about Morlach would not put her at ease. He was at the root of this predicament. Maire yanked out the stopper of wineskin, as if it were the evil druid’s neck, and took a vengeful drought. At last she wiped on her arm the remnant of their abrasive kiss from her mouth and handed the skin over to her companion, who was not helping this situation at all with his very loud silence.
Talk about him. That’s it, Maire thought, recalling an inkling of the wisdom passed amongst the women doing needlework in the grianán above the warriors’ hall. She wished she’d paid more heed while up there in the sun loft, but Maire had intended to become a warrior and didn’t consider that worth her mind’s time. She gathered confidence from the one observation she knew to be true: Men liked to talk about themselves.
“So,” she said, face brightening. “Tell me how you got that deep scar on your back.”
EIGHT
The surprise on Rowan’s face at her question flustered her. “I… I saw it during our contest,” she adde
d hastily. “And you had no bard to sing of your victories,” Maire explained further, disconcerted by her companion’s silence.
“That is because my victories are of no great concern,” he said at length.
Maire laughed nervously. “Don’t be telling me that you let the men who inflicted those wounds go without their due. Such modesty does not become a warrior.”
“I’m no longer a warrior, my queen, at least not one of the sword.”
“Tell that to my flesh.” Maire pointed to one of several nicks his skillful blade had dealt. “Besides, I’m counting on your sword, Emrys. You gave your word. We took a blood oath.”
“I gave my word to support you and your people, so long as what you require does not conflict with my Lord’s will. And since we are now on so intimate a field, my name is Rowan, not Emrys.”
Although he’d not moved a hair’s width toward her, Maire felt as though she were on the run on some other level of existence. “Rowan, then.”
The name was soft to the tongue, warming as cider served round a fire in the late fall, but Maire refused to be taken in so easily.
“So, what manner of God would have you cast aside your honor and forsake your right to tell of your victories?”
Her curiosity was pricked by the converse humility in the man. It matched neither his skill nor the wealed banners of his triumphs. She’d seen more than that one vicious scar as she locked swords with him. She looked at one now, where it skimmed the top of his left eyebrow, telling of yet another brush with death. This was not the body of a humble man, but one of a brash, valiant fighter.
“All triumph, glory, and honor belong to my God. Without Him, I am as useless as the dust of the earth.”
What a strange concept. Intrigued, Maire leaned on one elbow, her hair falling over her shoulder like a silken mantle. Although there was a small lamp next to the wooden plate of bread and cheese, its light was not enough for her to make out more than Rowan’s profile. The soul of his eyes was hidden to her, evasive as the real meat of his words. It was like listening to Brude.
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