by Lucy Monroe
Barr nodded toward Osgard. “I could use your eye during training tomorrow.”
“I’m a cantankerous old bastard. You think your trainees can stand the lash of my tongue?”
“They stood the knock of my fist today.”
“Real potential as warriors then.”
“Aye.”
He saw the grins and ducked heads their words caused out of the corner of his eye.
“Bah!” Rowland stood up and stomped out of the hall.
“Good riddance.” Osgard tugged on a beard more gray than white but getting there. “I hear your hunt was more successful and less bloody than our Earc’s.”
“’Twas the same hunt until our laird decided to go seeking naked women rather than game,” Earc said with a knowing grin and a wink.
Osgard snorted. “Are you saying you don’t prefer a nice clean-smelling woman over a sweaty boar? Only I’m thinking you would do your hunting right here.”
Earc, tough warrior and staunch Chrechte, blushed like a youth in the throes of calf’s love. “I’ll not be hunting women anywhere at present, thank you.”
“If you say so.” Osgard sounded unconvinced.
“I do.”
“All right then.”
“All right.”
Barr listened to the exchange with growing amusement. He did not know who Osgard believed Earc had set his eye on, but the old warrior had certainly struck on something.
“Was she nude when you found her?” Earc asked in an obvious bid to turn the topic.
“Aye. Bleeding and unconscious, too.” The memory of Sabrine’s state still had the power to make him growl.
Chrechte around the hall flinched, some even making barely aborted movements to bare their throats.
“What happened to her?”
“She doesn’t remember.”
“That’s troubling,” Osgard said. “I knew a soldier once. Took a blow to the head. Forgot his wife’s name and where to find their cottage. ’Twas dead within the week.”
“From the blow?” Circin asked.
“Nay, from his wife. She found him sleeping in a widow’s bed.”
The table erupted into guffaws and backslapping, but Barr did not laugh. “She will not die.”
Osgard gave him a long, shrewd look. “It’s like that, is it?”
Chapter 4
“He’s got her in his bed and insists on being the one to watch over her through the night as Verica has said she must be,” Circin said.
“He has now, has he?” Osgard asked.
“Surely you jest,” one of the other old Chrechte men said from his seat at the other table. “She’s a stranger we know nothing about. You cannot take her to mate.”
“You dare attempt to tell me what I can and cannot do?” And who said anything about mating? To be sure, his wolf felt uncommonly possessive, but Barr was not yet certain his naked lady of the forest was the one he was intended to claim.
He did not deny the possibility to himself, if no one else though.
“You are our laird now. You owe this clan your loyalty.”
“The clan has it, but when the time comes to choose my mate, I’ll not suffer your interference, or any other.”
“Who you choose to mate will affect this clan.”
So would banishing the old men who whined like little children and gossiped like old biddies, but Barr forbore mentioning that fact. Not all the old men were a pain in his ass, just two or three and as much as they might irritate him, this was their home.
“You’ll trust your laird’s choice just as you’ll accept her,” Osgard said at his most irascible.
Earc nodded as did several others around the tables, surprising Barr. He expected loyalty, that was a given, but he had not expected support of his decisions so quickly.
That said more bad than good about how the clan saw the former leaders among them.
Verica’s patient sniffed the food warily, her small nose crinkling in her poor, scratched-up face. What had caused this delicate woman to be out in the woods alone in the first place, much less get attacked?
Sabrine’s lack of memory worried Verica more than she wanted to allow her laird to know. Yet she was equally as concerned about what had brought the woman to her current state. It could not be good and might well spell trouble for their clan.
Not that Verica begrudged Barr’s offer of help to the young woman, but the clanswoman could not help wondering what trouble it might bring, both from within and without the Donegal holding.
“The laird’s cooks are better than most,” Verica assured the other woman, certain Sabrine would smell nothing but well-prepared mutton and vegetables in her wooden bowl.
“My mum is one of them,” Brigit said, pride in her voice, but then her heart-shaped face took on a wounded cast. “My da is dead.”
Verica tensed, her heartbeat increasing though she kept a carefully neutral expression on her face. Discussion of the dead clansman could lead to trouble for both Verica and her apprentice healer.
Sabrine gave Verica an oddly concerned look, almost as if she could read Verica’s thoughts despite her better than average attempt at controlling her expression. Growing up a double shifter in the Donegal clan had been a die-or-try training ground for learning to hide both her bird nature and her true thoughts and feelings.
“How did he die?” Sabrine gently asked the girl.
“A wild animal got him while he was hunting.” Brigit recited the words as if she’d been taught to say them, but they held no conviction.
She had to learn to dissemble better. Those who had hurt her father would think nothing of harming the child. Only Verica could not blame Brigit for her lack. Her father had been gone less than a year, not long enough for her to bury her grief as deeply as it had to go.
Verica found herself saying, both for the child’s sake and as a very subtle warning to Sabrine, “Just like my da.”
“Your father was laird before Barr?”
“Nay, before that even, before the laird Barr replaced.” Rowland, a cruel and stupid man, if cunning like the beast inside him.
Verica had always believed he was responsible for her father’s death but could not prove it. Even if she had been able to, it would have done no good. Rowland had too much power with the Chrechte wolf pack and the Donegal clan they lived among.
Best she remember that before loose lips caused more pain for all of them. “That’s enough talk of the past,” she said. “Eat your food, Brigit. Your mother would find it amiss if your bowl was returned to the kitchen untouched.”
The food was good and Verica noted that Sabrine ate hungrily, as did she and Brigit.
“How long has Barr been laird?” Sabrine asked as she set her bowl aside.
Verica picked it up and placed it with her own on a table by the door, warning herself to caution when speaking with this woman. There was something about Sabrine that invited confidences, but sharing such was dangerous. Deadly so. “Less than a month.”
“He is ever so much better than our old laird.”
Verica’s head moved in an infinitesimal nod she could not help, though she gave her charge a chiding frown. “Do not speak disrespectfully of Rowland.”
The girl’s lip protruded in a stubborn pout. “He was not a fair leader.”
“No, but he’s still a powerful man in our clan. It could go badly for you and your mother if someone heard you say so.”
“It cannot get worse for my mum.” Brigit’s pout turned to a pain-filled expression that caught at Verica’s heart.
“What do you mean?” Verica demanded, a sick feeling in her stomach. She knew, but how she wished she did not.
She’d seen the way Rowland looked at the young widow before the woman had ever lost her husband.
Brigit’s face blanched and she closed her mouth so tight her lips disappeared. The girl shook her head.
And Verica’s disquiet intensified. “Tell me.”
“Mum says I mustn’t.”
<
br /> Sabrine’s body went tense, and an expression Verica had only ever seen on a warrior’s set her face in feral lines. “Does your former laird hurt your mother?”
Brigit’s eyes filled with tears, but she wiped away the moisture with a fisted hand before they could fall. “Mum and me are strong. She says so.”
“You are strong.” But the girl’s fear had become a rank odor around them. Verica would not question her further.
“It is all right. You do not need to say anything you don’t want to,” Sabrine said before Verica could.
Brigit nodded, her tension easing a wee bit. “You always say the walls have ears,” she said to Verica. “So does Mum, but they don’t. It is not possible.” These words held no more conviction than her recitation of her father’s death. Brigit looked around, her expression filled with fear and impotent anger. “Sometimes I think they really do though.”
More like Rowland had Chrechte spying for him. Not much got past a wolf’s hearing. Not even when it was said behind closed doors.
“Rowland is your previous laird?” Sabrine asked, the disgust in her voice when she said his name an exact echo of what was in Verica’s heart.
“Aye,” Verica affirmed. “The king forced him to step aside so the Sinclairs’ second could take the role.”
“Barr used to be second-in-command to the laird of the Sinclair clan?” Sabrine sounded like she found that strange indeed.
They all had, no matter how much the clan silently rejoiced at the turn of events. And each and every one of them wondered how long their good fortune could last as well. How long before Barr and his second, Earc, ended up the same way her father had?
The thought of Earc dead hurt in a way Verica refused to acknowledge. The man was not for her.
She nodded as she moved around the room, tidying it. “That’s right.”
“And he’s the most bestest warrior.” The awe in Brigit’s voice was refreshingly different from the reaction their former leader caused.
“He’s big enough.” Sabrine’s praise sounded grudging.
Very different than the reaction of the other Donegal clanswomen, who did their best to garner the new laird’s attention. Not that it had done any of them any good so far. He’d shown not the slightest preference, focusing entirely on improving the protection of their holding.
“But he’s fast, too,” Brigit said with enthusiasm. “Faster than any of our warriors.”
“He’s our warrior now, too.”
“He lets Rowland stay though.” Brigit’s opinion of that state of affairs did not have to be spoken aloud; her tone and the way she held her body said it all.
Verica sighed. The new laird did not realize what a treacherous serpent shared his table every mealtime. Which only increased the chance Barr would meet the same fate as her father. Her mother had warned her da, but he had believed himself invincible.
His death had left his raven wife, as well as the rest of their clan, unprotected from Rowland’s perfidy.
Just as Barr’s inevitable demise would do.
“Has Barr been given a reason to banish this Rowland?” Sabrine asked.
“No.”
“You have not spoken to him on the matter?”
“I have no proof of the accusations I wish to make.”
They both looked at Brigit. The girl’s mother probably had proof of the man’s evil, but she would have to be willing to step forward. “I cannot blame another woman for not wanting to levy an accusation. Should something happen to Laird Barr, she would have no one to protect her from Rowland’s wrath.”
“A woman needs to be able to protect herself.” Sabrine sounded quite serious.
“How?” Brigit asked, keen interest glowing in her dark eyes.
“Are the women of your clan not taught to fight?” Sabrine looked appalled.
“No. Women are too weak,” Brigit recited one of Rowland’s common strictures.
“Ridiculous.”
“Do you know how to fight?” Brigit asked their patient.
Sabrine opened her mouth and then closed it, looking torn.
“I won’t tell,” Brigit promised. “Verica won’t, either. She’s good at keeping secrets.”
Sabrine gave Verica a questioning look.
“Better than my apprentice knows.” Bird shifters had to be. Verica’s own double-shifter nature would get her killed if it ever became known.
Sabrine nodded then.
“Really? You can fight? Can you teach me?”
That agonized look of indecision crossed Sabrine’s face again.
“Maybe when your arm is healed, we can venture into the forest one afternoon,” Verica offered by way of an out for the other woman.
She knew too well how hard it was to disappoint Brigit.
“A warrior does not allow injury to hold her back from training.” Sabrine was back to appearing as appalled as a nun faced with a loch full of bathing men.
“You’re not a soldier, silly. You’re a woman.” Brigit giggled.
Sabrine’s eyes narrowed, as if that truth was not particularly welcome. “Perhaps we can make time tomorrow.”
“Maybe my mum could come, too.”
“She must,” Sabrine replied in a voice that would brook no opposition. “I will make my way to the kitchens tomorrow and invite her on our walk in the forest myself.”
Brigit’s smile was worth whatever effort it took to take that walk without Rowland or his cronies following. Verica started sifting through her mental list of herbs that could be added to their morning meal that might incapacitate them.
If she was caught, the consequences didn’t bear dwelling on. It was terribly risky, but it had to be done.
For Brigit’s sake; for all their sakes.
The sound of feminine laughter drifting from his room stopped Barr at the door. The realization that such sounds were not common here like they had been in the Sinclair holding struck him stone still.
A laird was responsible for the well-being of his people. An absence of joy among them was cause for concern, but then so was his blindness to the problem.
He had been living among the Donegals for a month, but he hadn’t noticed the lack of laughter until now. It had taken bringing another stranger among them for him to become aware.
To be sure, he’d noticed other things. The separation between the Chrechte of the clan and their human counterparts. Until today, he had not realized just how deep that chasm was. The lack of male Chrechte of an age with himself was also odd. Their children were here, as were some elders, but the pack was not merely small, as Talorc and he had believed before Barr had come to the Donegal holding. It was strangely lopsided.
The wolf waited outside the door, and Sabrine wondered why he did not come in. His scent was partially masked, as if like her, he was always on his guard against detection. Nevertheless, she had become aware of his presence before he had ever reached the door. And her body was already responding in inexplicable and undeniable ways.
Her raven longed to perch in his lap and nuzzle his neck and head.
The woman in her wanted far more than mere nuzzling and the warrior she’d been trained to become was more terrified than at any other time in her life.
For the battle against her instincts might well be lost.
The heavy door swung inward and Brigit’s high-pitched, childish laughter ceased abruptly, her face pinching in fear she tried to hide.
Barr came in, his shoulders nearly as wide as the door frame. He was smiling, but there was something around his eyes, a watchful expression that intrigued her. “It appears you two are keeping our guest entertained.”
“She was telling a funny story, laird.” Having visibly relaxed when she saw Barr, Brigit ducked her head shyly.
Barr reached out and ruffled the girl’s hair while giving Sabrine a quizzical look. “Was she now?”
The young girl lifted her eyes, an expression of pure hero-worship and adoration making them shine, and nodded.
“Perhaps she’ll have to tell me the story later.” Again, he spoke to the child, but his gaze fixed on Sabrine.
The heat there reached out to her like fire jumping from the hearth. And she felt burned in places no man had ever touched.
Sabrine didn’t think she’d be telling that particular story, ever. It had been about her knife training. Even a wooden blade hurt if you stabbed yourself hard enough. All she said though was, “Perhaps.”
“Come, Brigit, it is past time I returned you to your mother.” Verica picked up her basket and curtsied before scooting around Barr to reach the door.
She paused there and turned back to face him. “Wake Sabrine several times throughout the night. She is not showing any signs that need concern us, but the memory loss cannot be ignored.”
His glance flicked between Verica and Sabrine, the expression in his storm-cloud eyes unreadable. “The memories must be coming back, if she can remember stories to tell.”
“Our minds are not so easy to understand, laird. Sabrine remembers patches, but the blanket of her thoughts is still missing those important pieces about how she came to be in the forest. Some memories she may never regain.”
Barr frowned, but nodded. “I will watch over her this night.”
And much more if Sabrine was not careful. Though she would not have believed it possible, his scent grew more potent upon increased familiarity. She had no idea what she would do when he dropped his guard and his scent hit her senses with full impact again. She rarely drank the wine her people were so good at making, but simply being in the same room with him made her feel like she’d imbibed an entire bottle on her own.
According to the heady fragrance of arousal rolling off of him, his reaction to her was every bit as powerful. And that was more than a little worrisome. Bad enough she had to fight her own desires, but standing against his could well prove her downfall.
There was a reason she did not drink wine or even ale. Sabrine did not like the vulnerability of having her senses hampered by the effects of spirits, but this was worse. So much worse. This would not go away with an hour’s rest, or by taking to the air.