She stared in horror at the motionless heap that had been her sister.
After an agonizing span of time, the hounds, troubled by Temair’s shocked silence, began nudging her, licking at her face, urging her to get up.
But she couldn’t. She was stuck fast. Frozen in time.
Only the sorrowful wailing of the servants discovering Aillenn’s broken body at the base of the tower finally roused Temair.
She had to go.
She’d promised Aillenn.
She had to go.
Now.
She drew in a ragged breath and rose on trembling limbs. Turning blind eyes toward the forest, barely able to command her legs, she nonetheless forced one unsteady foot in front of the other.
Eventually, she reached the trees.
Shock gave way all too soon to anguish. The path blurred in her vision as her eyes brimmed with tears. Her throat ached with grief. Her chest felt cold and hollow, as if her heart had been ripped from her body. Her limbs seemed to be made of lead as she dragged herself forward.
She staggered along the trail, using the patches of moonlight that sliced through the overlapping branches like stepping stones.
She had to get away. Far away.
If she hurried, maybe she could elude the despair threatening to engulf her.
If she ran fast enough, maybe she could escape the image that was seared into her brain…
Her sister falling.
Over.
And over.
She ran until the trees muffled the sound of the keening servants.
Until the wind no longer pierced the leafy wood.
Until the moon ceased lighting her way.
Where she was going she didn’t know. Nor did she care. She only knew she needed to get as far away from the tower as possible. Hooking her fingers beneath the hounds’ collars, she let them lead her deep into the wood.
She was dimly aware that there were dangers in the forest. Wolves. And outlaws. But there was no room for fear in her heart.
Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, stinging her cuts. But the pain wasn’t enough to distract her from the chaos of her thoughts.
How could her sister have taken her own life?
Why had she done it?
Why hadn’t she just run away with Temair?
And the most tormenting thought of all…
Could Temair have done something to stop her?
She sobbed with the burden of her guilt—deep, racking sobs that came from the tortured depths of her soul. And even at twelve years old, she knew that question would curse her forever.
She lurched onward for miles, out of Tuath O’Keeffe, farther than she’d ever gone afield alone.
Until the moon rose high over the trees.
Until the hounds led her off of the main path, as if they knew where they were going, taking a trail that twisted through trees and landscapes unknown to her.
Until her sides ached with fatigue.
Yet it still didn’t feel far enough.
At last, when she was weary with sorrow and her fingers were half-frozen, the toe of her brog caught on a root, and she pitched forward, falling onto her hands and knees.
All at once the weight of her sister’s death pressed down on her like a heavy hand. Unable to rise, she hung her head, weeping brokenly, letting the moss absorb her tears.
Flann nudged her with his wet nose, urging her on. But she had nothing left. She could go no farther. Her legs were useless. Her eyes were swollen and sore. Her mind was exhausted.
She collapsed atop the leafy ground, curling in on herself, pulling her brat around her.
Surrendering, Bran and Flann circled and bedded down in the ferns beside her. The last thought Temair had before she fell into the blissful oblivion of sleep was that if she died tonight, at least it would be in the company of her last two friends in the world.
Nobody woke Cormac O’Keeffe. Anyone who dared to wake him from slumber learned quickly what a grave mistake they’d made. Which was why the clann chieftain didn’t hear the news until late the next morn.
When he finally pried open his groggy eyelids, it was to the sight of his sniveling servant, hovering over his bed. The man bunched his cap in white-knuckled hands. His eyes were red and raw. His chin was quivering. The man looked as if he might piss his trius at any moment.
Cormac growled low in his throat. He wondered how long the dullard had been standing there, watching him sleep. Long enough, apparently, to prod the banked fire on the hearth to life.
“What?” Cormac grunted, wincing at the throbbing in his head.
He’d indulged in the brew from the monastery again last night. The strong stuff made him forget his troubles easily enough. But it punished him like the devil the next morn.
“Sorrowful tidin’s, m’lord.”
Cormac scrubbed at his eyes. What was it this time? Escaped cattle? A pregnant servant? Bugs in the wheat stores? “Spill it.”
The man looked ready to crumble. “I regret to inform ye…your daughter is…she’s dead, m’lord.”
Cormac halted. Surely he’d heard wrong. He gave his head a shake. “Say that again.”
The servant wiped his wet nose with the back of his hand. “She’s dead, m’lord. Your daughter’s gone.”
Cormac blinked.
He felt nothing.
Not regret. Not even surprise.
To be blunt, he’d never really liked the lass anyway. Temair was a useless wench and too mouthy for her own good. It was no shock to him that that mouth of hers had finally gotten her killed.
He tried to remember what had happened last night. It was all blurry in his mind. He’d knocked the lass around a bit. But he was sure he hadn’t beaten her that badly. Temair was a tough imp.
If she was dead, it wasn’t by his hand.
“The lass was lucky to live as long as she did,” he grumbled. “Temair’s wayward tongue was bound to—”
“Oh, nay, m’lord, not her.” And then, as if to soften his bad news, he added hopefully, “I’m sure Temair is alive and well.”
Which didn’t cheer Cormac in the least. He narrowed his eyes. His breath stilled. “Not Aillenn?”
The servant nodded. “She fell from the top o’ the tower last night.”
Cormac’s heart dropped.
Nay. It couldn’t be. Aillenn couldn’t be dead.
He compressed his lips and began to grind his teeth. He could feel the blood start to simmer in his veins.
The servant must have sensed the coming storm. He excused himself with a hasty, “I’ll leave ye to your grief, m’lord.” Then he scurried from the chamber.
Cormac’s bushy beard quivered as the rage built inside him. Nay. Aillenn could not be dead. Not his oldest child. Not the heir to his land. Not the bride he intended as barter for a rich English lord.
How dared she? How dared she die?
He snatched up the crock of ale beside his bed, intent on taking a bracing swig. It was empty. With a curse, he flung it across the room. It shattered against the plaster wall.
How had this happened? How could Aillenn be dead?
She wasn’t the type of girl to clamber on top of the tower wall. That was something Temair would…
His brow clouded.
Temair.
Could she have pushed her sister from the tower? It did seem like the sort of foul deed the wicked whelp might perpetrate.
He felt the steam roiling between his ears.
If Temair was indeed to blame for Aillenn’s death, he’d give her such a beating, she’d be lucky to survive it.
Beside himself with ire, he hurled off the coverlet.
It was then he spied the crimson stain on the bed linens.
The breath caught in his lungs.
Now he remembered.
Chapter 3
Cormac stared at the stain.
Aillenn had been in his bed last night. The lass hadn’t wanted to lie with him. She’d begged him to stop. But he’d been d
eep in his cups and as randy as a goat. And Aillenn had always reminded him so much of his wife—his dear, departed Lerben. They had the same fair skin and blue eyes, the same ripe body, the same warm…
Cormac gulped. He ran a shaky hand over his mouth. Sweat oozed from his brow.
He’d fondled the lass before. It had been all in fun. After all, what hale man could resist Aillenn’s plump breasts and curvy arse?
But fornication—that was a sin. One of the most heinous. Forbidden by the Celtic gods and the Christian one as well.
Shite. That was the last time he’d drink the monastery ale.
But he couldn’t afford to dwell on his unfortunate mistake. He had to think of more important things.
Like who else knew about it.
Aillenn. Aillenn knew. But she was dead. So maybe that was for the best, after all.
Had she told anyone before she died? Had she confided to her maidservant? Had she confessed to her sister?
He glanced again at the damning stain. No one had seen it yet.
He scrambled up and tossed the coverlet onto the floor. Then he tore the linens from the bed, balling them into a gruesome bundle.
Quickly, before the evidence of his crime could betray him, he shoved the sheets into the fire. The flames licked hungrily at the cloth, consuming the linen—and his guilt—in one fiery gulp.
He dropped to a naked crouch by the blaze to watch it burn, letting the heat scorch his knees.
It wasn’t fair, he decided, gazing into the fire. It seemed he’d been born under unfavorable stars, that he was ever fortune’s foe.
Long ago, when his older brother Senach had died, leaving Cormac to take his place as clann chieftain, Cormac had thought it an unexpected gift. After a lifetime of languishing in the shadow of his illustrious sibling, he finally had the chance to prove his worth.
He should have known he’d never fill his brother’s brogs.
Cormac spit his bitterness into the fire, making it sizzle.
Senach’s death hadn’t been a blessing. It had been a curse.
The clann had adored his brother. Strong and handsome, bold and just, Senach had been the pride of the O’Keeffes, a hero to the people.
No matter how hard Cormac tried, he could never quite measure up to Senach, whose heroic legend had only grown after his death. Cormac had never been able to earn the respect or affection that had been freely given to his brother.
Until he’d taken Lerben to wife.
It had been a clever decision. At least he’d thought so at the time. The clann loved Lerben’s gentle gaze and winsome smile, her kind heart and sweet nature. With Lerben at his side, Cormac was reborn as a chieftain the clann could follow and obey.
But that hadn’t lasted. Lerben had failed to provide him with the sons he needed to continue his precious chieftain line. She’d given him two daughters. And then she’d died.
After that, he drowned his misery in ale and hardened his heart against the clann—some who secretly blamed him for Lerben’s death.
He couldn’t afford to diminish his honor price—the status he was afforded through his bloodline. He might not possess the reputation of his brother, the charm of his wife, or the legacy of sons. But what he couldn’t woo to his hand, he could command.
He forced the clann to bow to his will. He seized power by amassing riches. By hook and crook, he bought himself higher and higher rank, clawing his way into the good graces of Lord John—Eire’s overlord and the son of the English King Henry.
His plan was to curry favor with Lord John by offering his daughter Aillenn to an English bridegroom, thus securing Tuath O’Keeffe for King Henry.
There were those in the clann who would have condemned his actions as treason against their Gaelic birthright. They were determined to fight tooth and nail against the creeping invasion of foreign forces.
But Cormac wasn’t stupid. He knew the English would eventually have their way. King Henry’s hunger for land was insatiable. He might devour it one bite at a time. But he would devour it.
Henry’s son John already reigned over most of the eastern coast, which made the young man’s nickname, Lackland, laughable. It was only a matter of time before all of Eire would be subject to the English king.
It was Cormac’s intention to come out on the right side of the inevitable battle. And to do that, he needed to prove his loyalty to the crown. What could be more convincing than bartering away his oldest daughter and the heiress to Tuath O’Keeffe to a vassal of King Henry?
But now, curse his fate, he had nothing to barter.
He stared hard into the bright flames—his gaze and his options narrowing.
Cormac could take another bride. A young bride. One who could give him sons.
But by the time a son of his grew to manhood, Cormac would be a doddering old fool. Nay, he needed leverage now, something to secure and solidify the bond between Lord John and the O’Keeffes, something to prove his allegiance.
Temair.
He sneered with distaste.
The lass was unfit to be any man’s bride. Willful and bullheaded, conniving and sly, she was as slippery as an eel and as tenacious as a wild boar.
She was ugly as well. Unlike her delicate, milky-fleshed, red-haired sister, Temair had raven-black hair and spooky gray eyes that smoldered like ashen coals. It was little wonder Cormac’s fist found her face so often. She had the kind of cocky countenance that looked in need of a good clout. With looks like hers, the lass invited brutality.
But she was his only hope.
He sighed. He would have to pray she would grow breasts, for she was currently as flat as a plank. And he would have to find a way to tame her, to mold her into the kind of meek, mild bride her sister would have made. Which would be no easy task.
Beating the lass didn’t work. Besides, if he was to make a bride of her, he’d have to preserve what little beauty she had. He couldn’t send her to her betrothed with a black eye and missing teeth.
He scratched at his flea-bitten arse.
How else could he make her behave?
As the last bit of linen curled and burned and smoked itself to gray ash, destroying the proof of his sin, the answer occurred to him.
Her hounds.
The lass might not care what happened to her. But she protected those dogs of hers with an unnatural ferocity. Master the hounds, and he could master the lass.
He rose to piss on the fire, feeling better already.
Temair awoke to the sound of the hounds growling low in their throats. It took her a moment to remember where she was. She blinked into the blinding dawn, trying to see what had upset the dogs.
She rose on her elbows. The hounds were standing watch at her feet, snarling a warning to something beyond.
She shielded her eyes with her arm, trying to make out what it was.
Someone yelled, “Call them off!”
She sat up all the way and gasped. A ragged band of archers had their arrows trained on Bran and Flann.
“Nay!” she cried. “Don’t shoot! Please!”
No one lowered their bow.
“Please!” Temair begged again.
“Then ye’d better call them off!” one of the men barked.
“Aye, I will,” she assured them. “But ye’ll have to lower your bows.” Temair knew that as long as the hounds perceived a threat to her, they wouldn’t let down their guard.
Another man grumbled, “Not likely.”
“I won’t let them hurt ye,” Temair said.
“So ye say,” came a woman’s dubious voice.
Bran chose that unfortunate moment to lunge forward with a snap of his jaws, casting doubt on her promise.
“Nay, Bran!”
Someone fired an arrow. Temair gasped as it landed an inch in front of Bran’s paws. Of course, that was all it took for both hounds to erupt in panicked barks.
She knew it was hopeless, but she had to try to control the hounds before they got injured…or worse. She shot
to her feet.
“Bran! Flann! Come!”
They ignored her.
She whistled, the loud whistle she used to retrieve them when they roved too far from the tower.
That didn’t work. Their instincts to protect her were too strong. They continued to snap and snarl at the archers.
“Please,” Temair pleaded. “If ye’ll put down your bows, they’ll stop.”
A man replied with a smirk. “No doubt they’re gnawin’ on the bones o’ the last man who believed that.”
Temair felt her normally tough shell begin to crack. She’d already lost her sister. Now this band of archers wanted to kill her hounds. A knot of despair clogged her throat, and she felt her eyes fill with tears. What was she to do?
Suddenly, an older woman with silvery hair emerged from the trees. She wore a léine of soft green and carried a bow over her shoulder.
“What’s all the clamor?” the woman asked.
“Wolfhounds,” a man replied.
Another remarked, “The kind rich nobles own.”
Temair furrowed her brow as she realized this must be one of the bands of woodkerns that were said to plague the forest. She’d never seen woodkerns before, but everyone knew of their thievery. Mostly misfits, byblows, disinherited nobles, and battle-scarred soldiers, they dwelled in the woods, preying on passersby.
If they indeed meant to rob her, they were out of luck. She hadn’t a single coin on her person.
Temair lifted her chin and tried to keep up a brave face as the woman cocked her head and studied her from head to toe.
“Put away your bows,” the woman finally said in a soft and trembling voice. Then her lips curved into a curious smile. “This lass is the one.”
“The one?” one of the men asked.
“Nay,” declared another. “Impossible.”
“This tiny mouse?” a woman asked.
“It can’t be,” said a man.
The silver-haired woman was looking strangely at her. “’Tis.”
“Ye’re sure?” someone said.
“The sight has never failed me,” the woman replied. Then she narrowed twinkling eyes at Temair. “Ye’ve been visitin’ my dreams, lass.”
Temair didn’t know what the woman was talking about. But to her relief, one by one, the archers complied. The hounds calmed, and as Temair had promised, she grabbed their collars to rein them in.
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