“I think you seek to have me underestimate you, Rowan, though I’m confounded by your purpose. Tell me where you fought and with whom. Tell me why you wear the robe of a cleric, which fits neither form nor character. You needn’t put it to rhyme,” she added, knowing that gifts of verse and sword were rarely matched in one person.
It was her turn to be studied. Maire felt the measure of his gaze upon her face, as though he were reaching beyond to ascertain if she could be trusted with his secrets. She withstood it, waiting in queenly expectation. When at last he spoke, she realized she’d been holding her breath.
“My father is from a long line of soldiers. Both parents have Roman and Welsh blood. I was trained to follow in my father’s footsteps.”
As her companion began to unfold his story, his words flowed through her like heady wine, satiating, relaxing. Rowan of Emrys fought against the Picts and, sometimes the Scotti as well, on the northern frontier of Alba. He was a horse soldier, the youngest captain in that theater. But horse soldiers were of little value fighting against those who had no tactical training, save to find the closest foe and split his head open. Rowan became competent in both arenas, but most interesting of all, he made his horse his partner in combat. What glory he did not afford to his God, he gave to his horse, amazing Maire with stories of what a trained warhorse could do.
“And this pair you brought with us can do such things in battle?”
Maire found it hard to believe, magnificent beasts though they were, that horses were good for more than racing, pulling chariots, or delivering a man to the fray. That they could be trained to use their hooves as weapons and their bodies as both rams and shields was beyond her. She could ride Gleannmara’s steeds like a second skin, but if Emrys could train the animals to this extent, then he was indeed gifted as a druid.
She reached again for the wineskin and was astounded to find it empty. Emrys’s words had no bard’s rhythm or rhyme, but she’d not noticed the eve slipping into the deep of the night. Once again fickle time vexed her, skittering fast through her fingers like dry sand. A few yards away, she could hear a group of her men singing. Well in their cups, their besotted mood had swung from jolly to the melancholy forerunner of slumber. She licked the rim of the spout and grinned, fortified by the spirits of the vine and relaxed by the camaraderie she’d shared, one warrior with another. It must be done.
Maire no more looked forward to the task ahead than when Brude convinced her of its necessity, but she was no longer afraid. Rowan was a reasonable man in manner, not some barbarous brute. He, a hostage among captors, had risked his own life to save Declan. She owed him for that.
Besides, the act itself didn’t hurt all that much, or so she’d heard. ’Twould be like mastering mounting an unbroken horse, an intimidating task but not impossible.
“It must be done, I suppose,” she sighed, unaware of the repugnance infecting her voice.
“And what’s that?”
Maire narrowed her gaze at her companion’s shadowed features. Either he was making fun of her or he was an idiot. Since she knew the latter not to be the case, there was only one alternative.
“I’ll not be insulted, Emrys. You know as well as I what we are here for.” With exasperated breath, Maire fell on her back against the pallet, stirring a cloud of dust from the straw in the dim light. “Do what you must.” Curse her if she showed him the least interest.
“Why should I have all the burden?”
Burden? This was supposed to be a natural joy for men.
“Because I’m the queen and the service is yours to perform, not mine.” An unladylike oath hissed through her clenched teeth. “Believe me, Emrys, I’ve no more heart for this than yourself. Nay, I’ve less, to be sure.”
The mattress rustled under his weight as Rowan stretched out full length at Maire’s side. Propelled by his elbow, he leaned toward her as though to kiss her.
She turned her face away. “And keep your kisses to yourself. I’ve no use for them.”
Although his plight was far from humorous, it was all Rowan could do to contain the bellow of laughter welling in his chest at this unorthodox mode of seduction. When the young queen first sauntered up to him and assaulted his lips—for her tight-mouthed, clenched teeth kiss was nothing more—he’d been taken back. Then, in less than a gnat’s breath, he’d recognized her bravado was as false as her passion and fell into the game, wondering how far it would carry her.
A thousand warnings rang in his brain as he’d followed her into the tent, knowing he walked into temptation. This woman was nothing but a means for him to return to Gleannmara, but God knew his human weaknesses. He’d asked fervently for the strength to ignore the carnal longings belonging to the man he once was. That man would have had his fill of her lithe and lovely body by now and been ready for more. Instead, he lost himself in talk of battle tactics and his horses, avoiding the specifics of the blood he’d spilled, particularly of his last day on the field.
Perhaps it was the wonder-filled way she’d clung to his every word, prodding his memory for more. At some point, she’d ceased to be a queen and a woman and became a comrade of the warrior heart. Her admiration was genuine, contrary to the shallow adoration of a camp wench or a general’s wife. Maire appreciated the skill and training involved in the tactics he described. Her questions were of merit, not feminine whimsy. In truth, his vanity had swelled unchecked in the attentive glow of her gaze. From where he sat, he’d watched the lantern light dance amid her eyes’ many shades of green.
Or had it been the wine that washed away the barriers between them? Regardless, Maire of Gleannmara made no pretense of wanting their union, but not to her desired effect. Instead, her words and actions worked their way with the man in him as if she were a practiced courtesan. Heaven help him, for he was on the verge of a dangerous fall! Desperate, Rowan seized at reason, humor deserting as fast as it had materialized.
“If this is so distasteful to you, why go through with it? You’re the queen.”
She took a deep breath, her chest rising beneath the modest cloak of his mother’s gown. Rowan watched her face as she stared at the canopy overhead, unaware of the conflict she fueled in him. She meant nothing to him, yet her troubled expression wrung at his soul. Her vulnerability should be to his favor, not contribute to his undoing.
“Our marriage must be real, or Morlach will use it against us. The king favors the druid marrying me sooner than make him an enemy. And Brude says there must be proof that we…” The girl seized her lip to stop its quiver. “Ah, just get it done, Emrys!”
Rowan was struck with an urge to assuage the quiver with his own lips. Although she’d stood toe to toe with a man half again her size in battle, Queen Maire was afraid—genuinely afraid—of this druid. The Scotti were a flighty lot when it came to spirits. Worse, she was just as afraid of him. That should please Rowan, but it didn’t.
He knew the taste of fear, the icy crush of the monster, but that was before he’d met death face to face and been given another chance at life. Comforting Maire was as futile as convincing a wild animal in a trap that he meant no harm when he freed it. How could he share what he knew so she’d understand? Perhaps in time he’d find a way to win her trust, but, heaven help him, this was now.
“Give me your hand, Maire.”
The dark lashes trembling against her cheeks in dismay flew open.
“My God is stronger than this druid, but for now, we will fight this Morlach’s illusion of power with one of our own. Your hand, little queen.”
She watched with uncertainty as Rowan clasped the finger of the hand the druid had cut for the wedding rite and squeezed it. The dried blood that sealed it gave way to fresh.
“Stain the bedding with it,” he instructed gently.
“The druids will know.” In spite of her protest, Maire did as he asked, wringing her finger and smearing her life’s blood on the white weave of the bedding. “This is an old trick.”
“It will be your
blood.” At least that much would be the truth. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to explain further. “The only one who knows it’s true source, besides you and me, is my God. The powers of others are just illusions.”
“Your god let you become my hostage.”
Despite her words, he could tell she wanted to believe him, but doubt would not let her. Nor could Rowan blame her. There was a time when he’d wanted to believe, but could not. And that was with his parents urging his trust in God, not a stranger, an enemy for all intent and purpose.
“He has a plan for me, just as He has for you.”
“What kind of god plans for his people to be conquered?”
The contempt was familiar too, bringing back forgotten questions he’d had himself. What kind of God allowed good men to die? What good was a God who let His faithful suffer?
“The same God who let His own Son be sacrificed that all mankind might be saved; a God of love beyond all human understanding.”
This clearly extended beyond the borders of Maire’s comprehension. She shook her head, rallying in disdain. “Declan was right. You are a fool, Emrys! But fool or nay, I need your cooperation for this despicable deed. I can’t do it alone.”
She began to pull the hem of her dress up, angrily resolved to her dark destiny, but Rowan stopped her. The warm smoothness of her skin against his fingers made that of the silk hem seem lifeless and rough in comparison. Rowan willed away the urge to assuage the entire flat of his hand, which had starved for the softness of a woman without his realizing it until now. With a silent plea of Father!, he stepped off destiny’s ledge.
“Maire, I’ll take the sheet to Brude. If the druid knows it’s a farce, then I’ll do what you ask. I give you my word.”
“Your word seems good.”
There was no doubt that Maire wanted desperately to believe Rowan’s scheme would work. Her words were brittle, as though a Dane’s winter had settled in her chest. Her chin was palsied, trembling like an ancient one’s hand. Finally she thawed enough to roll to one side, allowing Rowan to pull the stained coverlet out from under her.
“And I sacrificed my blood. Perhaps between that and your God’s sway, you might convince Brude.” She wrapped her arms about herself and rubbed them, as though becoming aware for the first time of the chilly fear entrapping her. “And you certainly have some power, Rowan of Emrys. Brude said so, but even I begin to sense it now. You’ve a way of… of making me feel safe.”
Safe. It was the last thing Maire should feel with him, considering the effect of her sudden trust and that wide-eyed look of innocence she turned his way. Rowan cleared the raw huskiness from his throat, wishing he could rid himself as easily of the rest of the desire that suddenly overtook him. Faith, it had been years since he’d felt like this toward a woman—like a man in need. But he had no real right to the feelings. She was not his wife—not in God’s eyes, nor in his own—and that was that. God would see him through; God was his strength.
“We’ll wait an appropriate while in the darkness.” With a renewed discipline, he turned his back to temptation and reached for the light.
NINE
Oddly content to let this curious man take charge, Maire watched as Rowan blew out the flame. With the scent of smoke in the wake of the vanquished light taunting her nostrils, she lay back against her pallet and stared up at the darkness. Next to her, Rowan’s mattress rustled as he settled on it to wait. In little more than a sun’s cycle, she’d battled him as her enemy and now she’d handed him her trust in lieu of Brude, who never failed her.
Unlike hers, Rowan’s breathing eventually fell into a natural pattern. Maire tried to coordinate hers with it, to ignore the haunting plague of doubt that played cat and mouse with her mind. What if Morlach knew of their deceit and Brude did not?
True, Rowan of Emrys was a man of courage and honor. His namesake, the tree, was almost as sacred as the oak, a symbol of power and purity. It was his sword, Brude had said, that would triumph for Gleannmara, even though the warrior himself belittled his skill. She could still see his face just before he rushed to blow out the light. It was flooded with relief—relief that he had been spared sharing a bed with her.
Yet another emotion tore into Maire’s fragile defenses, that of wounded vanity. It was new and not at all welcome. What a confounding man!
Maire tossed over on her side, placing a cold back to her companion. She would oust him with her foot, if his plan weren’t so suited to her purpose. Her seesawing thoughts made her head ache. Dare she listen to her heart instead of her mind? In which should she place her faith? As a woman, she had the right to do this, but did that right extend to a queen?
Time hammered away the night in concert with the ache in her head until she became aware of a quiet, rhythmic sound. Soothing as a lullaby, Rowan’s snoring stirred envy and resentment in her soul. At least a fool’s God lets him sleep in peace.
When slumber finally claimed her, Maire didn’t know. Suddenly it was morning, and Rowan was no longer at her side. She’d missed the sun song, welcoming the day. It was a geis to do so, forbidden for the elected leader of the tuath. Her pulse quickened, banishing the last of sleep fog from her mind. She was approved by Brude but not yet elected. Bones, but she was sinking deeper and deeper into trouble, breaking tradition like so many eggs.
The linen coverlet was gone. Rowan evidently had kept his promise. Everyone on deck either believed by now that they were man and wife in the most physical sense or Brude was waiting for her with a terrible penance in mind.
Drawing the curtain slightly aside, Maire peeked out, almost afraid of what she might see. Those of her men who were not curled here and sprawled there on the deck, still in the grip of last night’s drink, were gathered about a kettle near the cook’s shed. An outburst of hearty laughter rose from the group as the cook, a swarthy slave from the east with a stump for a foot, handed a steaming bowl to Rowan. Maire’s cheeks burned like forge coals as he was teased about taking seconds and needing to rebuild his strength after his wedding night.
“‘Haps Brude has a potion to revive ye, Emrys,” one of the Muirdach shouted.
“Aye, if Maire is half the woman she is a fighter, he’s in sore shape, to be sure.”
Maire didn’t hear the druid’s reply to the merriment, if he even dignified the crudeness with one. Letting the curtain drop, she leaned back, hardly knowing whether to be relieved or indignant. She should have been the first one up and about. Now it looked as though Rowan had bested her. It was beyond her ken why men always considered themselves the conquerors in the bedchamber.
Except that she wasn’t about to be the one to show Brude the proof of their union. It was best this way, she admitted, sitting back on her folded legs. Still, she dreaded facing the druid. Her face was always like a mirror of her mind to him.
Sunlight suddenly burst into the room preceding Rowan of Emrys. In his hand was a bowl of porridge. His smile was toothy as a donkey’s and twice as grating.
“Good morning, Maire. I thought you might like something to eat.”
“What of Brude?” she asked, more urgent matters on her mind than stung ego.
“He’s well.” Rowan dropped cross-legged on his side of the bed.
“Did he believe you or not?” Maire demanded, her patience tested beyond its limit. The buffoon was enjoying this!
“He showed the coverlet around to the guardian spirits. The men couldn’t possibly have missed it. Then he put it in his trunk and welcomed me into the Uí Niall.”
“So he believes.”
“He gave no sign that he didn’t.”
If Brude did not see through their charade, the chances were good that Morlach wouldn’t either. Closing her eyes, Maire heaved a sigh of relief. The gods were still with her.
“My sentiments exactly.”
Rowan’s remark snapped Maire to sharp attention. “For one who finds the idea of our marriage bed so repulsive, you certainly seem to take a lion’s share of credit! And if you
keep that ridiculous grin on your face, I’ll be obliged to remove it with my fist.”
His features pulled into a model of innocence, her companion shrugged. “I am only trying to be convincing, my queen. A man fresh from a night of conjugal bliss walks on air, lifted by the wings of love.”
“Lifted by the hot air of his conceit, more likely.”
“You would do well to act as if you, too, were… well….er… satisfied,” he decided, obviously charmed by his word choice.
Curse him, the man was right, but Maire didn’t like it or the fact that he did! Yet, two could play the game. She pushed herself to her feet and shook out the hem of the dress from where it had cinched up about her hips. It clung of its own accord to the taper of her legs, where the short leine she wore in battle ended.
“Aye, I suppose you’re right.” She pushed aside the curtain, flooding the enclosure with sunlight.
“What about your breakfast?”
“You eat it,” she shot back, aware of the undivided attention her emergence drew. “’Tis you who needs it, sir, for my appetite has just been appeased.”
With a perfectly wicked grin, she ignored the poorly disguised snorts and sniggers echoing among those close by and gathered her unfurled hair off her neck in a long feline stretch.
“Good day, gentlemen!” she greeted them. “Glorious, don’t you think?”
Upon unwinding a leather thong from her wrist, she tied her hair neatly at the nape of her neck. That done, she helped her face to a refreshing splash of water from a bucket hung on the sides of the ship for the purpose of bathing. A deep breath of salt air was equally renewing, ridding her body of sleep’s stale remnant. With the sun at her back, Maire studied the horizon ahead, where the morning mist still clung to the sea green water.
Behind her, Rowan exited the makeshift bedchamber. “Nothing like a satisfied woman,” he remarked, slapping her backside with the palm of his hand in passing.
Maire nearly choked on the affront. Spinning around, she returned the gesture, striking his hard buttocks with such force that it stung her hand. Having earned Rowan’s abrupt attention, she lifted her chin in defiance.
Maire Page 10
