Blood Feud: A Dark Ages Scottish Romance (The Warrior Brothers of Skye Book 1)

by Jayne Castel

  She had not yet accepted her fate, to live here as Galan mac Muin’s wife, but today she did not fight it either. Suddenly, the world around her had color again.

  Their journey took them north-east over the rise and fall of many hills and clear streams that trickled over granite pebbles. The ‘Hill of the Hag’, merely a stain against the cloud-streaked blue sky at first, gradually drew closer. It was a magnificent sight, a huge mount rising up from moorland. Tea had to admit that the hill did appear to have a red hue, no doubt from the short, seared grass that covered its smoothly rounded sides.

  They rode up an incline, crossing a burn before making their way up the hill’s steep, boulder-strewn face. Scree covered the ground and clumps of red-gold grass poked out amongst it. After a while, they were both forced to dismount and lead their ponies. However, as they climbed higher, the space between the boulders narrowed, and it became impossible to take the ponies any further.

  Galan turned to Tea. The pair of them had barely spoken during the journey here; it had been an easy silence but now Tea felt herself tense as her husband favored her with his full attention. “I’ve the hunger of a wolf,” he announced. “Let’s eat here.”

  Smiling, Tea turned and retrieved the meal she had brought from her leather saddle bag. Luana had been generous, giving her huge slabs of fresh bread and pats of butter, boiled eggs and slices of a cake studded with hazelnuts and dripping with honey.

  She sat down next to Galan, perched on the edge of a boulder, and handed him some food upon an oiled cloth. The fresh air had also given her an appetite, and she found her belly rumbling as she peeled an egg.

  They ate in companionable silence, each admiring the view. From here, they had a vast panorama over The Winged Isle.

  The view to the west was desolate; a savage series of rudely formed mountains of discolored black and red, almost as if they had been ravaged by fire. Among them was Beia-an-ghrianan, Mountain of the Sun—a sacred spot for the people of this isle—followed by the serrated tops of Bla Bheinn, the clustered heights of Quillin, and the soaring peak of Cuchuillin. The deep recesses between these alps were narrow vales where herds of deer roamed.

  To the south-west, in the direction they had come, Tea caught sight of the glittering blue of Loch Slapin. She had never seen the isle from this height, and the sight of it took her breath away.

  “What do you think?” Galan asked, helping himself to another slab of bread. “Worth the trip?”

  Tea nodded. “Aye. It’s magical up here.”

  “I’d hoped you’d like it.”

  The sincerity in his voice made Tea’s breathing quicken. He wanted to please her, and did not try to hide it. The realization made her panic slightly. She did not want him to care, yet despite all her attempts to hurt him he still made an effort with her.

  She looked down at the slice of hazelnut and honey cake, and fought a sense of shame. “You have a thick-skin, Galan mac Muin. Most men would loathe me after how I’ve treated you.”

  He laughed, a low rumble that made her skin prickle with need. “Nothing worthwhile is easily gotten.”

  Tea raised her head and looked at him. He was watching her, his gaze intense. “Really, you believe that?”

  He gave her a slow smile. “Aye—I do.”

  Slightly flustered, she picked up her slice of cake and took a bite. It was delicious, and infused with sweet honey perfumed of heather. The taste of it almost made her groan with pleasure.

  “Gods, Luana is a talented cook.”

  “One of the many reasons Donnel wed her, I’m sure.” Galan was grinning now, His gaze devoured her as she took another bite. Tea was aware of his stare and found herself growing hot under it. Yet she pretended not to notice—this cake was too good not to finish. However, when she did and licked the honey off her fingers, she became aware that Galan had gone very still next to her.

  Tea froze, suddenly recalling the evening of their handfasting; how she had licked honey off his fingers at the feast—and the events that had unfolded quickly afterward.

  Luana—the conniving minx. She had packed this honeyed sweet deliberately.

  Tea met Galan’s gaze, her heart suddenly thrumming hard against her ribs. Wordlessly, he stretched out a hand and took one of hers. He then brought her fingers to his mouth and began to lick her fingers.

  The feel of his tongue, warm and smooth, gliding over her skin made Tea stifle a gasp. Why did this feel so good? Then when he drew one her fingers into his mouth and sucked it gently she let out a soft moan of need.

  The sound shocked her—and it caused an instant reaction. With a muttered curse, Galan pulled her against him, scattering the remnants of their meal at their feet.

  His kiss was hard, wild and hungry, and she matched it. This was the first kiss they had shared—for they had not done so during their handfasting night. That night, their mating had been too frenzied, too desperate.

  They devoured each other. Tea tangled her hands in his hair, the strands fine and soft like spider silk. She drank in the taste of him. With a deep groan, Galan pulled her up onto his lap so that she sat astride him. His hands slid down the length of her back, his touch firm, possessive, to cup her buttocks. He pulled Tea against him so that she sat in the cradle of his hips, her breasts crushed against the hard wall of his chest.

  Despite the layers of clothing they wore, she could feel his shaft pressing against her lower belly. Excitement pulsed between her thighs at the memory of what he had felt like inside her.

  It would be so easy to reach down and unlace his breaches, to take his shaft in her hands, to stroke him. It would be even easier to strip off her tunic and let him feast on her breasts. However, if she did that there would be no going back. Only the fact that she wore breeches, and not skirts that could easily be hitched up around her hips baring her naked lower torso to him, prevented Galan from taking her easily.

  As his hands slid round to her front, fumbling for the edge of her leather tunic so he could rip it from her, Tea pulled away.

  Panting, she pushed against his chest so that their bodies were no longer pressed together. It was impossible to think straight when this man was near her; and when he kissed and touched her, her thoughts dissolved like mist under hot sun.

  “Galan,” she gasped. “No … please.”

  He gazed up at her. “What’s wrong?” His voice was thick, his eyes glazed. “Am I too rough with you?”

  She shook her head, fighting the urge to melt into his arms once more. Yet it was not her attraction to him she fought but the feelings that he roused in her. A wave of tenderness, of soul-longing crashed over her, bringing tears to her eyes. Breathing hard, she climbed off him and tried to master it.

  “Tea … what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  Liar. Everything was wrong. She was not supposed to want this man, yet animal attraction she could deal with—mating was a union of bodies, not hearts. But Galan did something to her. Just a short time in his company and he stripped away the walls she had spent years building. He was good to her, he listened to her, and worse still, he wished to know her.

  Tea turned away from him, blinking as tears blurred her vision. It was too much to bear.

  “Tea?”

  “I’m fine,” she choked out the words. “Let’s go home.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Birth

  Dusk was settling in a grey cloak over the land when Galan and Tea rode back into Dun Ringill. Galan’s warriors had lit torches on the defensive walls; golden beacons beckoning them home.

  It had been a tense return journey. The easy camaraderie they had enjoyed earlier that day had gone after the kiss they had shared. When Tea would not answer Galan’s concerns, he retreated. The man who rode beside her now, was the same cold stranger she had enjoyed hating on her first days here.

  Only now she knew that was not the real man.

  It had been an effort to choke back the tears, but she had forced herself to. She co
uld not weep in front of Galan, could not tell him the real reason for her upset. He would not understand. Who would understand such foolish fears?

  Tea hardly understood them herself.

  All she knew was that she would not love, she would not let anyone in. If you cared, you risked loss—better to turn your heart to stone.

  She was considering this decision, and reflecting on the lonely existence before her, when they rode through the gate into the fort. Dismounting in front of the stables, they led their ponies into their stalls and began the process of unsaddling and rubbing down.

  Each of them kept their silence for a while, but it was eventually Galan who broke it.

  “Whatever I did to upset you, I’m sorry for it,” he said, regarding her over the withers of his stallion. The braziers at the entrance to the stable cast long shadows over the stalls, illuminating Galan’s strong, proud face in gold.

  Tea met his gaze, stifling a wince at the confused look on his face. She could not let him blame himself.

  “You did nothing wrong, Galan,” she said huskily. “It’s me. I can’t give you what you seek.”

  He opened his mouth to answer her but was forestalled by Donnel, who strode into the stables.

  Excitement danced in Donnel’s eyes, his body tense with purpose. His gaze darted between Galan and Tea, barely noting the tension between them. “You’re back!”

  Galan glanced his brother’s way, his expression darkening. Donnel’s appearance had shattered a delicate moment between man and wife. “What is it?” he snapped.

  “It’s Luana—the babe is coming a month early.”

  Tea threw down the twist of straw she had been using to rub down her stallion. She shifted focus, her thoughts leaving Galan and fixing upon her sister-by-marriage. If the babe was coming early, Luana would be upset.

  “I must go to her,” she announced before striding from the stall. “Luana will need me.”

  ***

  “Move around if you want to.” Tea rubbed Luana’s lower back soothingly. “It will help the cramps.”

  Luana’s pretty face scrunched in discomfort but she did as Tea bid, pacing around the alcove, her bare feet crunching on fresh rushes. “I’m exhausted already,” she said, her voice breathy with pain. “My feet feel as if they’re filled with wet sand. My ankles have been swollen since dawn.”

  Tea watched her, a frown furrowing her brow. For the first time leaving Dun Ardtreck she wished Eithni was here. Although she was young, her sister had already brought a number of healthy babes into the world. Tea had assisted her at some of the births, and knew what to do to help—yet she lacked Eithni’s confidence, her healer’s touch.

  Luana’s pregnancy had concerned her; she had not carried the babe easily and had complained of fatigue and ‘heaviness’ for a while now. Dun Ardtreck’s midwife, a middle-aged woman named Alia, had been summoned. Tea hoped she would take control of the situation and soothe Luana’s fears.

  “It’s too soon,” Luana gasped, clutching her lower back as she took short, pained steps around the small space. “What if the babe is harmed?”

  “Many children are born early,” Tea assured her with more confidence than she felt. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  At that moment, the hanging of stitched goat-skin that shielded them from the open space beyond, drew aside and a short, heavyset woman with dark braided hair and flushed cheeks entered.

  “Now,” she clucked, bustling over to Luana. “Why the worried face?”

  “The babe has come too soon,” the young woman groaned, doubling over as a contraction seized her. “It’s not right. I don’t feel right.”

  “Nonsense.” Alia cast Tea a stern look, as if she blamed her for Luana’s agitation. “Women give birth to healthy babes every day, and you will be one.”

  Luana attempted a smile of gratitude that turned into a wince as the contractions returned.

  Satisfied, she had calmed Luana sufficiently, Alia glanced back in Tea’s direction. “Get me hot water and fresh linen. The babe will be coming soon.”

  Donnel and Luana’s son was born as the moon reached its zenith that night. Talor mac Donnel was a tiny babe, so small he fit into his father’s cupped hands. He was a red-faced infant who squawked like an angry fowl.

  Donnel’s eyes glistened with tears as he cradled his son in his arms. Exhausted, her delicately featured face pale against the dark furs, Luana gave her husband a wan smile. “He will be handsome, like his father.”

  Donnel smiled. “And hopefully wise, like his mother.”

  Looking on, Tea’s eyes misted. It was a tender scene and one for them to share in private. Satisfied her work was done, Alia had gone off to her fur by the fire. Tea needed to leave them now too.

  She edged back to the hanging and slipped beyond it. The fire in the great hearth had burned down to embers and a chill lay in the air. Tea shivered and padded over to the alcove she shared with Galan. Like her, he had stayed awake until the babe had been delivered, and he was waiting for her when she entered. He propped himself up on one elbow, regarding her sleepily.

  “All is well?”

  “Aye, Luana just needs to rest.”

  No sooner had she spoken when Donnel’s shout rang out through the stone fort, followed by an infant’s wail. “Alia!”

  Tea started, her hand going to her throat. Whirling, she pushed back through the hanging, aware of movement behind her as Galan sprang from the furs.

  She reached Donnel’s alcove to find Luana in convulsions. Donnel gripped the crying babe under one arm, while he tried to still his wife with the other.

  Tea rushed forward and plucked wailing Talor from Donnel. A moment later, Alia stumbled into the alcove, her eyes wide.

  “The Mother preserve us,” she gasped. “She has the birthing sickness.”

  The birthing sickness. Tea clutched Talor to her breast, terror washing over her. She had never heard of it.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Galan demanded from over Tea’s shoulder.

  “Don’t just stand there gawping, woman,” Donnel snarled at the midwife. “Do something!”

  Face ashen, Alia rushed to Luana’s side. She grabbed a scrap of linen, dipped it into the bowl of water beside her and tried to mop Luana’s face. However, the convulsing woman paid her no heed; her head was now jerking from side to side.

  “There are poisons in her body,” the midwife muttered, her eyes bulging as she tried to keep Luana from hitting her in the face. “They are devouring her.”

  “Can you stop them?” Galan now stood next to Tea, his face revealing the same horror she felt.

  Alia’s eyes gleamed with tears as she shook her head. “There’s nothing anyone can do. When the birthing sickness hits, the woman will die.”

  Donnel’s roar of rage echoed through the alcove. “Save her!”

  “I can’t.” Tears now ran down the midwife’s face. She grasped hold of Luana’s convulsing shoulders and tried to pin her to the bed.

  Tea, Galan and Donnel watched, horrified, as Luana’s body went rigid, her eyes rolling back in her head. A heartbeat later, she slumped, lifeless, in the midwife’s arms.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lament for Luana

  They buried Luana—daughter of Cern, wife of Donnel—in a cairn of stone upon a hillock east of the fort. The day was cold, the air damp with the promise of coming snow. A biting north-westerly wind buffeted the mourners as they carried the body up the hillside to its final resting place.

  Tea walked behind Galan and his brother, each step leaden. She wore a heavy fur cloak, yet it could not warm the chill within her. In her twenty winters she had seen far too much death.

  The loss of Luana seemed so cruel, and the injustice of it left a bitter taste in her mouth. In her arms, she carried a small creature with a fluff of downy black hair, wrapped in fur to ward off the chill. Next to Tea walked Mael, Luana’s elder sister. She too carried a babe, although her daughter was nearly three moons older
than Talor. She still had plenty of milk, so she would raise her nephew.

  Grief mottled and lined Mael’s pretty face, making her look much older. Her slender shoulders shook as she silently wept. Tea deeply felt her grief, reflecting on how she would react to losing Eithni in the same way; it did not even bear thinking about. Her own eyes burned with tears, and it was with great effort that she kept her grief at bay.

  The light was fading, the pale sun disappearing to the west. Night would soon settle on Dun Ringill and the deep loch behind it. Tea, Mael and Deri had spent the day preparing Luana for her burial, cleaning her body and dressing her in a beautiful woolen robe edged in sable fur. Mael had sobbed as she had brushed out her sister’s thick dark hair.

  Now the time had come to bid Luana goodbye, to send her forth to meet her ancestors.

  The procession of mourners reached the stacked-stone cairn and waited as the men—Galan and Donnel among them—slid Luana’s bier into the tomb. By rights, it should have been Mael to sing her sister’s final lament, yet she was now bent double with sobs, so that her husband was forced to take her daughter from her lest she accidently hurt her.

  Tea inhaled deeply. She would sing it; she owed Luana that much.

  Her voice, low and strident, but with a slight quaver, rang out across the hillside. It lifted and fell in grief as Tea sang of beauty, kindness and a gentle spirit taken too soon. The lament had an intensity, a passion that stilled all that heard it.

  Even Donnel, who flanked the entrance to Luana’s cairn, lost his expression of contained fury as she sang. Instead, he bowed his head at its haunting vehemence. Tea sang on, watching as tears streamed down Donnel’s proud face. She was singing this for him, for her father … for all men who had lost a woman they loved.