CHAPTER 5
Reid dropped down on the bench between Maclan and Connor as Aedan’s mellow baritone sang a long, slightly depressing, song of unrequited love. Mac pressed a cool ceramic mug into Reid’s hand. The yeasty liquid eased his tiredness.
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
“May I?” Maura said. Without waiting for a reply, she squeezed herself between Reid and Connor.
Reid was acutely aware of her thigh pressed warmly against his as she carefully picked up his injured hand and frowned at the dingy bandage. “Your mother said you hadn’t bothered to see Ingrid yet.”
“Connor’s done a good—”
“Connor is a drunk, not a healer,” Maura scolded, casting a withering glance at the middle brother whose only reply was to finish his ale.
“It’s a story fire,” Reid demurred. “I’m sure Ingrid is—”
“Already waiting for you,” Maura stood and tugged gently on his wrist. “Along with your mother.”
Reid groaned. Was his whole family bent on embarrassing him tonight? He drained his ale, passed the cup back to Maclan, and let Maura drag him away from the bonfire, a victorious smile on her soft lips.
In the kitchen, his mother and the old herbalist were silhouetted against the warm hearth, their graying heads close in eager conversation.
“I found him,” Maura interrupted. They looked up sharply. A significant look passed between them and Reid had the disturbing feeling they were up to something.
Nodding at Ingrid, Brigga stood and shifted her shawl. She touched his cheek with a motherly smile as she passed. Reid groaned inwardly.
“Sit down,” Ingrid said, her voice roughened with age. Maura led him to his mother’s empty seat and stayed standing by his shoulder as the old healer unwrapped his wounded hand. Reid wasn’t sure he wanted to look at it, but neither did he want to see pity on Maura’s face. So he studied Ingrid. Her once-auburn hair was mostly white and her face was lined; her eyes shone bright on either side of that strong, straight O’Mara nose, the same one Maura had.
“Where did Connor learn this?” Ingrid curiously turned his hand this way and that.
“He wouldn’t say.”
She untied the splint and squeezed the bones which hurt, but not as badly as the first night. “A good job. But it needs to be cleaned again.”
The door burst open and Tarhill’s growl echoed off the ceiling. “See, I told you she was here.”
Reid immediately recognized the tanned young man standing in the doorway next to Tarhill. “Gilland! I didn’t know you’d come, too,” he said. Gilland was the son of the Seal Clan chieftain and had spent a few summers running wild over the peaks with the boys of Bear Clan.
Gilland’s eyes flicked uneasily between Reid and Maura. “Hello, Maura. Reid.” Gilland’s voice was hesitant as he allowed Tarhill to push him further into the room. “The dancing’s begun.”
Reid looked curiously at Maura in the silence that followed the obvious hint. Her cheeks were flushed.
Gilland cleared his throat, determination setting his brows low. “I’ve come to ask you to join me.” He held out a hand to Maura.
“Go on,” Ingrid said. “This will only take a moment more.” She gestured to Reid’s hand.
Maura glanced down at Reid with an unsettled frown, then fixed a smile to her cheeks and crossed the room to let Gilland lead her out.
After they left, Tarhill came closer, looming over Reid. “Fynan’s here to arrange the betrothal,” he said. “So quit your foolishness.” The old trapper turned and left.
Reid stared at the closed door as Ingrid scrubbed gently at his fingers with a damp spicy-smelling cloth. She replaced the splint and for a long moment he sat speechless, lost in the jumbled thoughts crowding his mind.
Maura and… Gilland?
Reid’s heart sank. Their pairing made sense. They were the children of chieftains, after all. Although Reid remembered Gilland fondly, he also remembered the boy as being rather prideful.
“Well?” Ingrid’s raspy voice prodded him from his thoughts. “Are you going after them?”
There was an edge of disapproval in Ingrid’s voice. Her question seemed to shame him for even thinking of courting Maura.
“Me? No,” he assured her as he stood up. “I will let her have her happiness. Not to worry.”
“More the fool you,” Ingrid said, wringing out the cloth in a bowl of clean water.
“What?” he said, thinking he hadn’t heard her right.
“Do you think her stupid?”
“Of course not.” Anger pressed an unfamiliar scowl onto his face. “She’s a smart girl and knows…”
“Her own mind,” Ingrid finished with a pointed stare.
He nodded his agreement.
“Then don’t make the choice for her. If you wish to earn her love, you must risk your heart and trust her judgment.”
Reid frowned his confusion. Opening his mouth to ask her what she meant, she silenced him with a wave of her hand.
“Now get on with you, I’ve work to do.”
Reid returned to the bonfire to find his father leaning against the hall as he had during the last celebration, his mood blacker than before. But Ingrid’s words whirled in Reid’s mind.
So she wants me to pursue Maura?
He shook his head. Surely he’d misinterpreted her.
Reid replayed the conversation again and again as he wended his way to the bench where his brothers sat. The more he thought about it, the more sure he was about what she asked of him.
With emboldened purpose, he looked for Maura in the press of couples. He found her, cheeks flushed, dancing with a far more confident Gilland than the one he’d seen in the kitchen.
“Mac,” Reid nudged his brother’s arm, “where’s Nalia?”
“Oy, that one’s far too much woman for you, little brother,” Maclan laughed.
Reid scowled and confiscated Maclan’s ale. Downing it in one distracted swallow, he scanned the firelight himself and found Nalia standing on the far side nearer the trees.
“Never mind.”
He shoved the empty flagon into Mac’s hand and dove into the crowd. He sidled between onlookers, avoiding Tarhill’s assessing gaze, until he reached Nalia.
She was older than Maclan with darkly chestnut hair and sensually wide eyes. She was attractive in that primal way of women who knew what men wanted. Or, more precisely, she knew what she wanted and she could convince anyone that what she wanted was them. She’d dallied with Mac a time or two, although it seemed to Reid she liked to play chase more than she liked to be caught.
“Dance with me,” he announced boldly, holding out his hand to her.
She laughed at him, peering askance as if deeming him unworthy. “Why should I?”
“Because Gilland Fynan wants to dance with you,” he whispered.
Curiosity flared in her eyes. “Does he?”
Reid sidled close. “It’s just that he can’t really ask for himself.” Reid counted on rumors of the betrothal having already spread.
“That might be awkward indeed,” she agreed, taking Reid’s offered hand with a sly smile.
Reid placed his other hand firmly on the curve of her waist and pulled her into the cavorting throng. Within two rounds of the fire, they were close enough to the other couple to talk.
Reid let go of Nalia and bowed to Maura. “May I cut in?”
Before Gilland could argue, Nalia sauntered up to him, trailing a suggestive hand down his arm. The other man’s confused look as Nalia pulled his hand to her waist and dragged him away made Reid stifle his laugh in a cough.
“That was cruel,” Maura said despite the delighted gleam of mischief in her eyes.
“Why? Nalia’s a nice girl.” With a wink, Reid took Maura’s hand and let the spritely cadence pull them along. Her hand rested lightly in his wounded one. His other palm rested against her waist as softly as a sparrow. Together, they glided through the complicated twirls and skips like
birds rising from the lake, shifting as one creature in time to the music. He’d never danced with a girl like this—as if they shared one breath, one mind, one soul.
A few wayward curls clung to her damp neck, drawing his eyes there. They then wandered of their own accord up to her slightly parted lips and the pink sheen of her cheeks, and up again to her eyes turned to honey by the firelight.
Those eyes skittered sideways, avoiding his, roving over the other couples beneath a crinkled brow. Something troubled her.
He leaned forward, his cheek close enough to feel the heat rising from hers, sparing her the stark vulnerability of eye-to-eye. “From what I hear,” he murmured, “Gilland will soon need to know the clan better.”
“Who told you?” Her low voice was thick with an emotion he couldn’t place.
“Tarhill.”
She made a noise he couldn’t decipher, her head jerking down and away from his. He wanted to look into her eyes, to take measure of her reaction. Instead he kept his face turned, his eyes on the bonfire, allowing her the privacy of the shadows to compose herself.
“I know I should have told you myself,” she said.
Reid did look at her then, lifting her chin with a gentle finger. “You don’t owe me anything. We barely know each other.”
She stopped dancing and stared at him in shocked silence as the river of dancers parted around them. She barked a harsh laugh. “How can you say that?”
Reid’s confidence sagged like leaves in a thunderstorm and words did not come to his rescue.
Her eyes searched his in disbelief. “You really don’t remember.” She pushed the damp curls from her neck, rubbing at tension along the base of her skull. Then she shook her head with a self-deprecating snort and pulled away, turning for the shadows of the nearest building.
“Remember what?” His mind scrambled to figure out what she was talking about as he trailed after her. He reached out and grabbed her fingers as tightly as he dared, not wanting to offend but not wanting to let her leave.
She whirled around, her face hard. “Never mind. It was a long time ago.”
A long time ago?
Reid scoured his memory. Brigga had hinted of this the other night, something about a summer. Vaguely, he could picture Maura playing with them in the brilliant sunshine and greening pines. Him and Mac and Connor playing chase beneath the pines, and Maura tagging after all dirty knees and torn dresses. It brought memories of Tarhill’s fists as well but Reid tried to push that aside.
Her mood soured further as the minutes ticked by.
“Give me a hint at least,” he begged, feeling her slip like a minnow through his fingers.
She crossed her arms and he thought she was going to scold him or curse him, instead she said just one word in angry challenge. “Rabbit.”
“Rabbit,” he breathed and something twitched timidly in the warren of old memories. Then a heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he turned to see an irritated Gilland.
“Has he upset you?” Gilland asked Maura, stepping between her and Reid.
But Reid was too distracted to notice. “Rabbit,” he breathed, struggling to think.
Gilland took Maura’s arm and pulled her back toward the bonfire. “Your father was worried about you,” he said.
“My father? Worried about me in my own clan? Or was it you, Gilland?” There was a hard edge to her voice for Gilland too, for which Reid was thankful.
Sudden nostalgia shifted the veils and he could see past his father’s scowl. “Of course, the rabbit!”
As if a candle had been lit in the dim room of Reid’s mind, memories he never realized he’d lost suddenly sparkled brightly—memories of a boyhood in the pines. The tangy smell of needles and loam that rose from each heavy footfall. The way the patchy summer sunlight streamed brightly through the boughs and glinted off their red hair. They had chased Mac and Connor up that meadow countless times, never catching them. Reid could picture Connor’s lean back before him as if it had happened only yesterday and the breathless giggling of Maura as he dragged her by the wrist.
He looked into her face partially obscured by the shadows and remembered it all. “The one you begged me not to kill.”
“You remember?” Her eyes were wary, but there was hope also.
“I didn’t,” Reid admitted sheepishly, “until just now.” He couldn’t take his eyes from her, now seeing her as the chubby-cheeked sap-speckled girl who spent warm, innocent evenings in the arms of the willow with him, talking about everything and nothing.
Gilland tugged lightly on Maura’s arm, impatient. “I’d like to finish our dance.”
“Give me a minute,” Maura said, untangling herself from the Fynan heir and leading Reid by the hand further into the night.
“I’m sorry I didn’t remember,” Reid said, wanting to explain yet not really understanding it himself.
“I thought maybe Tarhill beat it out of you.” Her laugh was false and tight.
In truth, Reid’s father had done just that although Reid would never say such a thing aloud. No one talked about the rages. Maura’s insight, however, shocked him. How much did the others know about his father? He pictured Ingrid and Brigga, heads together whispering unseen truths. Were Tarhill secrets hidden as transparently as Ruari’s?
“I’m sorry I got you in trouble.” Her whispered apology shook him from his wondering.
“It wasn’t you,” he said, taking her hand in both of his. Her fingers were long now, and smooth.
It wasn’t a lie. Not really. Tarhill never knew about that particular rabbit.
Reid had never understood why Mac and Connor always refused to take Maura with them to walk their lines, no matter how much she begged. One night, tossing willow buds in the river, Reid promised boldly that when he had trap lines of his own, he’d take her. So, at the end of the summer, he dragged her out at the break of day to the high meadows where he had set leg traps for small game. He wasn’t old enough or strong enough for jaw traps, and a lucky thing that was, too.
The very first trap they came to held a quivering young hare in a leg noose. He remembered pouncing on it, grasping it tightly with two hands though it had already exhausted itself fighting the rope. One quick snap and it would be over. He remembered the soft fur, the heart fluttering wildly beneath his fingers, its bones so small and light.
But Maura had cried out against it, horrified at his callousness. He tried to explain that it was his job, but she would hear none of it. Her mind was fixed only on the small bundle of innocence in his hands. Against her tears, he had no defense.
He’d released the rabbit watching with a heavy sickness in his gut as it leapt away. There would be no point in going to his other traps with her. She’d be even more upset should they find one already dead. So, the question was: Did he take her home or spend the day of it?
Looking up at her puffy eyes, he had wondered if this life would make him cruel. Maybe it had made Tarhill what he was. Then Maura had wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tight. Her lips pressed to his smooth cheek too long to just be a friendly peck and his decision was made.
When Tarhill discovered his youngest son’s traps had been neglected and the boy had been wandering the pines alone with the chieftain’s daughter, he’d shown him not just the switch, but boots and fists as well. Not even Brigga’s pleading could soften his father’s anger that day. The week after was a haze of pain and fear, filled with his father’s displeasure.
“No, it was me who got you in trouble,” she said sadly, breaking his reverie. “I never realized about hunting, you know?”
“It’s not for the kind-hearted,” he said with a twinge.
“Don’t say that. You’re always kind. To Ruari. To Aedan. To me. But suddenly…you were gone.”
“Father was angry I neglected my lines. He made sure I had no time for gallivanting after that.” It was close enough.
“For a week, no one spoke your name…” Her voice was soft with concern but not quite pity
. Maura’s hand was still in his and she stepped closer, no longer a gangly girl.
He thought she might kiss him. Then, Gilland’s harsh whisper interrupted.
“Maura, we’ve been gone too long.”
Reid knew what Gilland really meant. Anger flared that this newcomer would try to deny him his chance with her. Yet, as he looked down into her earnest face in the firelight, Reid’s anger melted. He felt a confidence he hadn’t had before. They’d been friends as children. Although he wanted something more now, it was more than Gilland had.
“Go on,” he whispered to Maura. “Go with Gilland to the fire.” He kissed her on the forehead, a moment more than a peck. “And, if you promise not to scare off the deer, you can come hunting with me tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 6
A hand’s depth of soft needles swallowed their footsteps. Loam and pine tingled in Reid’s nose. He glanced back at Maura and was greeted with an eager smile. It was odd to see her in leggings for a change, a knife at her belt. She impressed him with how easily she kept up, the two of them agile and quick as children through the brush. He pointed to the top of the rise and she nodded.
Connor was the real tracker in the family, probably the best in the clan, but Reid knew enough. He found tell-tale spoor and a trail, likely a small herd heading upland. Soon, they crept to the edge of a ridge. Down below a group of four, no five, deer grazed contentedly. Reid unslung his bow. Though he wasn’t as deadly as Maclan, Connor had taught him well. He slowly unfolded to standing, taking a snail’s age to lift the bow and draw the string to his lip.
He sighted a medium-sized animal and paused. He breathed slowly, searching for the silence in his own heartbeat. Solid, centered, he released a soft breath through parted lips, sure of his aim.
Then the sharp crack of a branch sent the herd bounding away.
“Damn!” Reid cursed under his breath and whirled to find Gilland standing sheepishly behind them.
Tales of the Archer: A Corthan Companion Page 4