by Amber Scott
“What’s this then?” Rose asked, speaking low so none of the others would hear them in their corner of the Grianan.
“I do believe I’ve been decided for, Rose,” she said, the words feeling strangled.
Rose gave her a sympathetic look and cluck of her tongue as Breanne walked past her. She followed the way her mother had come, through the main hall and into a small room filled with books, inks, rolled tapestries and Niall O’Donnell’s broad frame.
It wasn’t the walk she’d taken this morning, sneaking up the stairs to her mother’s door. This walk, all could see and most did. The curious stares and hand-covered mumblings made putting one foot in front of another, trying to appear casual but proud, difficult. She swore the clusters of men and their speculative mutters were worse than any of the women. They seemed to relish a good tongue-waggle much more than any of the numerous females Breanne grew up listening to.
Before entering the room, Breanne stopped and swung full around, her hands on her hips, and glared at every man she could meet eyes with. Most had the decency to look away. One smiled toothsomely right at her. Shane MacSweeney. What had Niall said when Shane asked for her hand? She might be about to find out.
Niall’s earlier mention of him to her mother recalled in her memory. She narrowed her eyes on him, raised her chin a notch. We’ll be seeing about that, MacSweeney.
She knocked on the heavy door causing it to open. Bravely, she stepped in. Her stomach roiled with nerves and her pulse slammed.
“My lord has asked to speak with me,” she said, with a deep feminine bow. Though she disliked the idea of her mother marrying the man her father had died protecting, she couldn’t resent him.
“Breanne, yes, please come in,” Niall said in his booming voice.
He looked distressed, his brow heavily creased, mouth tight-lipped. Breanne did as asked and came forward. He rose from his seat and came around the table. Ula remained seated. Her mother’s distress showed singularly in fidgeting fingers toying with the hem of her blue and silver gown.
Niall circled the room, closed the door, and continued. “Please, be seated.”
Breanne took the deep chair opposite her mother. She bit the inside of her lip when it trembled. She fought to maintain outward calm, as well. Niall did not. He paced the floor in large circles, his big hands clasping behind him, moving to the front, to his chin and returning to his back.
She wanted to scream out. She wanted to order him to speak so they all could breathe again. But, she didn’t.
“Breanne, how are your studies coming along?” he asked, a relief in his tone belied the procrastination.
“Very well. Aside from today, that is.”
He stopped, met her eyes, and frowned. “Oh?”
“Heremon was distracted and saw fit to reschedule for a more opportune time.”
“Distracted.” Niall looked away. “When?”
Breanne gulped. She couldn’t very well tell him midnight tonight. While he was quite aware of her tutelage, her safety being risked would not be tolerated. Since the death of Breanne’s father, Ula’s husband, Niall O’Donnell took his role as their guardian and protector on earnestly.
“Tomorrow morn.”
“Has Heremon related to you your progress? When will you complete it?”
Even his voice grew direct. Breanne breathed deep and didn’t fidget. “Nearly a year, depending on frequency of meeting and lesson quantity.”
“Too long,” Niall said to himself and shook his head. “Too long,” he said to her. “I’ll not meander about. Breanne, you’ve been asked for. It is time you marry.”
There they were, the words overheard in her head and from the shadows, real and alive before her. Breanne exhaled inaudibly and sat up a bit straighter.
“I agree.”
Niall stopped, scowled at her. “You agree.”
“I agree,” she said again and felt the strength in the declaration. No longer did she feel helpless. Now, it was her decision. “I would like some time to choose, of course, but not an unreasonable amount.”
Niall’s scowl darkened. Ula’s hands twittered to her chest.
“Are you not curious who asked?” Niall demanded, his eyes narrowing.
She realized she should be and used the first excuse that came to mind. “Quinlan Blake made his intentions clear enough this very morning. I assume he spoke with you.” His intentions were likely wagging tongues already after the display of flowers. Which meant Rose must know, Breanne suddenly thought.
“Quinlan Blake?” Niall looked appeased and the tension in his face lessened. “Nay, not him.”
“I have another suitor?” Breanne said to her mother, her hand to her chest.
Ula nodded and smiled sweetly enough that Breanne’s chest pricked a bit. She wanted Breanne to marry?
First Rose and now her mother. She was going straight to hell to burn a thousand deaths for the deceits coming out of her more readily and convincingly each hour.
“Gannon O’Shannon, your uncle’s most promising scribe,” Ula said and leaned forward to touch Breanne’s knee. “A learned man, a student. You will have so much in common.”
Breanne certainly didn’t have to feign her surprise. Her shock might be the first honest thing about her day. Gannon? Sweet, shy, Gannon? Breanne and Gannon O’Shannon? Laughter tickled her. She coughed to rid her throat of the entirely inappropriate, not to mention rude, response. Gannon was a dear sweet young fellow after all. But, in all her days and nights, she hadn’t guessed he held affection for her.
“When will you decide?” Niall asked, making her feel dissected, exposed.
“Decide on Gannon?” How could she? Her mind still spun from the notion. Kiss Gannon? Feel Gannon press his bulge into her? No. Gannon wouldn’t be lewd and overbearing like Quinlan. He’d be gentle.
“How long before you planned to choose?” Niall asked with an exasperated sigh. He bent forward and crossed his arms, in wait for her answer.
Breanne’s eyes shot from him to Ula and back to him. Her mind slammed to a stop. He was asking her to name a deadline. The sense of control she’d momentarily lost grasp of returned. She licked her lips and laughed. It sounded affected but she didn’t care.
“No later than All Hallows Eve. I will have been officiated and that offers me enough time to consider among these men,” she said and nodded sharply at the end.
Niall met her gaze steadily. A grin grew on his face and for a wonderful moment, Breanne thought she’d cleanly averted disaster.
“Beltane,” Niall said. “Not a day later. You may choose in the tradition which has kept you from your choice.”
“Beltane? But, my lord, that’s nigh two months hence. You canno’ possibly expect me to….”
“If you do not. I will.”
“You will.” Breanne shot to her feet. Her voice rose. “You will? I am not chattel to be given away at your discretion or whim.”
“No,” Niall said. “You are not. But you are my responsibility and you are not going to live the life of a hermit, which for some reason I cannot fathom, you appear to be attracted to.”
“Niall, please,” Ula said and stood, as well. She stepped between them. “Breanne. This is for the best. And you said yourself that you agree. Please don’t make me rue the liberties we’ve allowed you out of a mother’s love.”
“My apologies, my lord.” Guilt kicked her heart. “Do forgive my insolence. You have both indeed indulged my aspirations. Forgive me.” She bowed her head.
Niall swept a hand through the air. Ula sat.
“We will discuss this further tomorrow,” Niall said, sounding tired. “The dinner hour approaches. You may leave us, Breanne.”
Her face was hot with color, but she was grateful despite the embarrassment of losing her temper. She had no right to speak to him so disrespectfully and not simply because he was the local king. Niall O’Donnell had been naught but good to her and her mother since their arrival eleven years ago.
&nbs
p; Breanne left and part of her was glad that she couldn’t stay and eavesdrop. She didn’t want to hear what they said about her outburst, didn’t have to.
The hot bath waiting for her in her bedchamber washed away hot tears and the day’s troubles. Finn wasn’t even there to vent on, still hadn’t returned to the keep. He was probably roaming the forest for fairy mounds again.
Plaiting her hair into an intricate braid, she wove gold baubles in sporadically. Two, potentially three, very different men were about to become a daily nuisance and she didn’t have any way out of any of it. She did want to marry. It wasn’t that. One of them certainly would be suitable if she could settle herself with their inevitable manly passions.
And though six weeks time sounded brief, she knew of courtships that completed in days. Why, hadn’t Rose set sight on her husband, Ryan, exactly one week before they handfasted and now had four babies to prove their love, if not lust, for one another?
And her husband need not necessarily be selected from the three. If she actually began looking, she might find another suitable man among the clansmen and frequent inter-tribal travelers.
Were she more daring, the Beltane feast and fire could become her hunting ground. What a lovely thought. To walk up, pick a man, and just be done with it. To not bother with the mess of any of it, the wooing, the choosing, the hurt feelings and quarrels, until the last minute. Breanne smiled at herself in the mirror and covered a giggle. The idea was ridiculous.
Ready for dinner, she stood and braced herself. She honed in on the single thought that would lift her spirits and help ease facing four long tables filled with knowing faces. In six short hours, she’d be deep in the woods, and might glimpse some magick.
* * * *
Hunger woke Ashlon. He opened his eyes and adjusted to the dimly lit area he was in. Carefully, he sat up, making the table he lay on creak loudly. He looked around, trying to remember where he was and how he got there. But nothing came. The last distinct memory he had was of falling asleep in a cave with his arms around Jacque’s treasure.
Abruptly, Ashlon looked about the small room. He rolled from the table, careless of the small wool covering dropping to the floor. He located his mantle, his sword, and his shoes. But, nowhere did he see the chest.
A man’s voice sounded outside the stone walled room. Ashlon stopped. He listened to… singing? It drew closer. Ashlon promptly palmed his sword and took battle stance.
Brittle notes of song carried nearer, a language foreign and beautiful to Ashlon’s ears. The door knocked about and the song changed to cursing and finally the man kicked the wood open and froze in place.
“What are you about now, lad?”
Ashlon lifted the sword a degree, the friendliness of the stranger adding to his defensiveness. “Who are you? What have you done with my possessions?” he demanded in English.
“There now, lad. You’ll ruin my ministrations.” The man directed his gaze to Ashlon’s midsection.
He followed the gaze and saw the clumps of leaf and mossy root about to fall from his middle. He put one hand over the poultices and held his sword steady with the other. The heathen guised man had fast explaining to do or he’d feel the thick end of Ashlon’s blade. Pointing his sword at the man, he motioned him in. It was then that he realized the stranger carried a steaming bowl. His gut ached with the hunger.
“I demand to know who you are and where I am. I require the return of my belongings immediately.”
The man entered the small room slowly, set the bowl down, all the while nodding gently. “Calm yourself, lad. You’re in my home. Tir Conaill, Ireland home of the clan O’Donnell and all who are welcomed here along their travels.”
Ashlon’s arm lowered a fragment. He was losing his strength by the second. “Who are you?” He needed to lie down.
“My Christian name is Shamus Heremon Dermot O’Brian, descendant of The O’Brian, descended of Niall of the Nine Hostages.” The man smiled, showing aged folds in his cheeks. “You may call me Heremon, as do all others.”
Ashlon’s arm wobbled inside. His sword felt like a hundred pounds trying to drag it down. He had the man’s name, but it told him nothing concrete. He needed more. “How did I come to be here with you, Lord Heremon? Where have you put the chest I traveled with?” he asked, biting for a minute more of strength.
“Why, I saved you, lad. And I know of no chest.”
In a loud clang, Ashlon’s sword fell from his grip to the stone floor. He used the free hand to support his body before it collapsed on the spot. A wet pile of leafy mush landed next to his blade.
“Enough of that now,” Heremon said. Raising his voice made it sound more tinny than brittle, but kind nonetheless. “Lie on your back. There. Go easy on yourself there. It’s no feather sack you’re putting onto.”
Ashlon eased as carefully as he could onto the wood table. His body shook from exhaustion and his vision swam. How could such little effort drain him so rapidly? “My belongings,” he muttered between gasps for air. “A square wooden, well worn… oak, I need to….” It was too much.
Heremon lifted his head and placed a rolled bundle beneath it. Before Ashlon could try the words again, a mouthful of bitter tasting broth filled up his mouth from a small wooden bowl. Heremon’s movements were sure for a man his apparent age. The broth didn’t spill or slosh as he brought it repeatedly to Ashlon’s lips.
Despite the bitter taste, Ashlon drank hungrily. A small suspicion that the soup held poison gave way to deep gratitude. The man had saved him from the cave, the storm. If only he could recall a moment past the cave. Logic explained that he must have succumbed to fever as he slept. But, something in that conclusion unsettled him. If the man had saved him from the cave, how in the world did he come upon him in it?
“Your belly wants more, but will put it right out if we don’t rest a spell,” Heremon said.
Ashlon closed his eyes. He felt groggy. Numbed. He opened his mouth to speak but only a snore escaped.
Heremon smiled at the rumpling sound and patted the young knight’s arm. Near dead yet swift as a lion to stand brave and order answers. The vigor of youth and ambition hadn’t yet given way to wisdom for Ashlon Sinclair, but soon enough it would. Soon enough.
Heremon set about straightening the small space before blowing out the single candle and leaving his charge. The difficult part was over. In a week’s time, Ashlon would be standing and able to fight again, so long as he allowed his body to heal.
In the outer room, Heremon put ink to paper and began the hours of assiduous preparation for Breanne’s arrival. The girl, a woman now, he had to remind himself, was on the precipice of her destiny. She despaired, he knew. But he also knew that soon she would be living her dreams, her long years of work bearing fruit.
Heremon sighed and rubbed his eyes. He dipped the quill tip into the inkwell. He blotted and wrote the words that designed what seemed a lifetime past. In a sense, they were exactly that: a lifetime.
He had thought it would be harder than it was, to proceed with the necessary arrangements as he now did. But, perhaps the years of preparing for this end caused some desensitization. He was appreciative for it. He had never considered himself a courageous soul and the numbness prevented him from running in fear from obligation.
He lifted the parchment and gently blew on it. Once the ink dried to satisfaction, Heremon rolled it, tied it and returned to Ashlon’s meager temporary quarters where he hid it among the items Breanne would take. Ashlon slept soundly thanks to the herbs and his body’s desperate need to strengthen itself. He would need it.
Mouse quiet, Heremon closed the door and locked it. He trusted Breanne to be resourceful enough to find the key, and the man, in that order, just as the ancestors had shown him. Nostalgia crept into his heart. He would miss her. The knowledge that they would meet again when the veil between his new world and hers became thin didn’t console him. But, he couldn’t change the course of destiny and fighting its will only made the course
of things more difficult to survive in the end.
The knock came, loud and abrupt, right on time. Heremon opened the door without delay. He saw this final act of answering straight away, his last act of courage. The man on the other side was the only surprise amid the events that had been foretold nearly forty years before.
Wordlessly, Heremon gestured the man to enter and met the eyes of his fate unwaveringly.
Chapter Three
Two bards arrived that day and joined the chieftain at his table as welcome. The night promised to be full of new songs and poems, a preview of the performance they came to give at Niall and Ula’s wedding feast.
The large hall was overwrought with guests and residents dining, laughing and sharing. Excitement and welcome permeated the room Breanne forced herself to enter gracefully into. Not many noticed her entrance, a good sign. She released her held breath after walking a few rods when she got no snicker or stare. The room full of pointing, laughing family and friends she’d envisioned gave way to an average, perhaps somewhat special evening.
Rose’s waving hand caught her attention. Breanne smiled. She gladly joined her best friend at the long table. Ula and Niall weren’t likely waiting on her to join them after this afternoon’s exchange.
“You’re just in time, Bree,” Rose said. “Ryan has returned and will join us, as well as Quinlan.” She wiggled her eyebrows up and down.
Already seated, Breanne forced herself to smile. She chose unpleasantness here over mortified there, readily. Besides, what could Quinlan do with so many surrounding them? It wasn’t as though he could kiss her right there, paw away for all to see. And he’d already given her the flowers. Oh damn and double damn it. She’d left the flowers by the stream, hadn’t she?
The bump on her shoulder made her look up. Quinlan grinned down at her sheepishly and gestured to the seat next to her. Before she could protest, he took it.
“Good evening, ladies. You both look beautiful this fine eve,” he said cordially, his gaze steady on her face.
