The way he’d pushed her back and made so much sense she could barely fathom it.
He was going to be the death of her. If she could forget her shoes and basic bodily functions, than what would happen when she had a knife at her throat? She couldn’t subsist on kisses and touches alone. Wits were essential.
The line moved steadily when a guard stepped forward and began issuing the water himself. With each person that stepped forward, he issued a command, “Break your fast at the lower tent,” to the women, and, “Break your fast at the upper tent,” to the men.
Despite her newfound conviction of avoiding all thought and contact with Macrath, she couldn’t help her roving gaze. Where is he? Had he made it back to his tent safely?
Aye, she wanted to forget him, but after she made certain she’d not been the cause of his death.
By the time she reached the barrels, there was no sign of Macrath and her lip stung from chewing through the top layer of skin.
“Bloody warrior,” she murmured.
“What was that?” the guard said, sloshing water into her bucket.
Ceana shook her head, swallowed. “Nothing. Just…” She didn’t feel like explaining.
The guard glowered at her. The skin beneath his eyes was puffy and purple. “Are you giving me cause to punish you?”
She shook her head hard, fearful of what such a punishment would be. The way he leered at her, she was certain it would be unpleasant and meted out within his quarters instead of tied to a stake.
“None, sir. Apologies.”
Before he could make another comment, Ceana lowered her eyes and turned to hurry away. But one of the women in line stuck her foot out, tripping her. The bucket flew forward as Ceana thrust out her arms to catch herself, hands slipping in the mud and her chin smacking into the muck.
Laughs broke out all around her. Ceana gritted her teeth and pushed up, sitting back on her heels. Oddly enough, in a humiliating position like this, tears did not come to her eyes, but instead a burning rage settled in her chest, choking her. A woman gazed down at her with a satisfied smirk. Ceana didn’t recognize her at first, but there was something subtly familiar.
“Serves you right for pushing past me yesterday,” she said, the sneer on her face deepening.
Now she knew who the woman was—one of the people she’d pushed past when getting through the gate—the one who’d called her a bitch. Ceana wiped at the muck on her face, certain she’d only ended up smearing more on.
In her ordinary life, she would have brushed off such a spiteful act. Behaving as a tormenter in retaliation did nothing but make one’s self into such, and she usually preferred to take the higher road. Perhaps she should just laugh it off. Call a truce.
It seemed life around them had stopped as people watched to see what would happen next.
She could not laugh it off. Not at the war games. Not when every move she made determined whether she lived or died. Though the woman hadn’t come at her with a battleax, she was trying to prove that Ceana was weak.
This woman had challenged her. Had made her a fool and if she didn’t do something about it now, she’d be a target for the rest of the time she had left.
Ceana slowly stood and rounded on the woman. “They call me the Bitch of MacRae,” she said low and clear, before shoving both hands hard against the woman’s chest.
Her opponent stumbled several feet backward out of the water line, scoffing in surprise and anger. It didn’t take her long to recover her footing and she stared down at the muddy handprints on the front of her gown. With a vicious shriek, she lunged toward Ceana, teeth bared. They grappled on their feet for several moments, both of them grunting and growling, the crowd cheering them on.
Ceana’s skin stung where the woman pinched and scratched her but she pushed through it. Likely the discomfort was the least of her worries for the day.
From behind, someone cleared their throat, but Ceana was too busy trying to grapple with her opponent to pay attention, until a stinging slap slammed against her shoulder.
She jumped away from the woman she’d been wrestling and came face to face with the female royal council member, holding a whip. Blood drained from every place it could within her body to pool in her feet, making her lightheaded. “I require the Bitch of MacRae in my chambers.”
The line grew silent, and her opponent eased back inch by inch to the line, the horror on her face most likely mirrored Ceana’s. Had she really come this far, entered the games and made if through the first round only to be beaten to death by this witch?
“Now,” the woman said, her voice steel.
Finding it hard to breathe, Ceana managed to straighten her shoulders. She swiped at the mud caking her face, her arms and gown, but it did nothing except smudge.
The council woman whipped around and headed straight up the center road toward the castle. It took every ounce of willpower she had to follow, her footsteps heavy and slow.
Ceana flicked her gaze toward the sky, praying that the gods would have mercy on her. I’m so sorry. Though her clan would never hear her say it. I have failed you. For she was certain she was about to make an appearance at her own execution.
“This way,” the woman snapped, turning abruptly and heading toward the steep back stairs to the castle.
The guards bowed to the council woman and stepped aside, opening the large wood and iron doors. They creaked on their hinges, raising the hair on Ceana’s arms. Inside the castle was dark and a draft swirled around her ankles.
“Wait here,” barked the council woman. “You’re covered in filth and not fit to cross further.”
Ceana nodded and stood proud, filthy or not. She could quaver on the inside.
She was left alone in the back entryway. The only light from a single torch sent shadows dancing around the walls, and she imagined every swift draft tickling against her legs were the fingers of the souls who’d died in the games over the last century.
“Come with me, miss.”
A maid stepped from out of the shadows, summoning Ceana down a flight of stairs. She entered into a barren room, save for many steel tubs and linens. The maid beckoned her toward a tub against the far wall.
“ ’Tis not warm, but we must get you cleaned up, else Lady Beatrice will have my head.”
Ceana nodded, guessing that Beatrice was the council woman.
“Disrobe,” the maid said.
Again, Ceana nodded, not sure where her voice had gone, perhaps stolen by fear. Was she cleaning herself for her own death pyre?
Her fingers shook as she disrobed, her clothes falling in a soggy, mud-covered pile on the floor. When she was finished she stepped closer to the tub, dipped a finger into the water that filled it one-third of the way. It was cold. Not freezing, but not at all warm either.
“Get in. She’ll not want to wait long.”
Ceana stepped into the tub, goose flesh covering her entire body. She wrapped her arms around herself, covering her breasts.
“Don’t be shy now, miss,” the maid said, prying her arms down and dripping a soaked cloth over her shoulders.
But Ceana wasn’t being modest. She was damned cold, and scared out of her wits. Her teeth chattered. Shivering, her nails turning purple, Ceana could do nothing but stand there as the maid washed the grime from her.
“Wait here, now. I need to get you a new gown. Don’t mind if we burn this one do you?”
Ceana turned to stare at her clan’s colors, muted by age and mud. Burning it seemed profane almost, like she would be giving up her clan, her soul. “Please don’t,” she said.
The maid raised her brow. “Wasn’t a question, really.” She picked up the clothes and tossed them into the hearth that Ceana hadn’t even realized was lit. The maid tossed her a linen towel, but it fell short of the tub, landing a few feet away. “Warm yourself if you will. I’ll be right back.”
Ceana climbed from the tub and tiptoed over the cold stone cellar floor to the linen. The fabric was rough, but clean. She swiped
at the water on her body then went to stand before the fire, roaring as it burned her things.
“I knew your mother.”
Ceana turned abruptly to see Lady Beatrice standing in the doorway. Her mouth fell open at the woman’s words; feet froze in place, toes going numb.
“She, too, liked to be called the Bitch of MacRae. Must be a family trait.”
Was she supposed to answer? This woman held her fate in her hands and Ceana didn’t know how to respond. What to say or do that would not anger her. She blinked, staring but not really seeing the woman in front of her until Lady Beatrice moved. She took a subtle step in Ceana’s direction, glanced down at the simple gown within her own hands, then picked up her pace until she stood not a foot away.
“Here.” She handed Ceana the folded fabric. “She and I fought together once. Must have been before you were born.”
Ceana nodded. She gripped her towel tighter, knuckles going white. She’d known her mother was a warrior, had seen her return from protecting the clan alongside her father with blood still smeared on her hands. She’d survived many battles, even if in the end she’d succumbed to an enemy knife. It had only been when she arrived at the games that her guards told her about her mother wanting to enter. How much of her mother’s life was hidden from her? Why had her mother changed her mind about entering the games? Aaron and Boarg said it was because she was to wed Ceana’s father. But was that the only reason?
She wanted to ask, but was too afraid her questions wouldn’t be welcome. The woman before her was a stranger and had brutally ordered the deaths of many of the contestants in the past few days. She couldn’t trust that her questions wouldn’t lead to a lashing.
Lady Beatrice shook the fabric until Ceana took hold of it, clutching it to her breast.
“Well. I was sorry to hear that she passed. And ’tis a shame she didn’t teach you better. Don’t start any more brawls, MacRae, or I’ll be forced to punish you. These games are serious, and while I’d like to see you succeed because I respected your mother, I’ll not give you any more special treatment.”
“My thanks.” Ceana let out the breath she’d been holding and met Lady Beatrice’s gaze, then curtsied as best she could in a linen towel. She was grateful, because she knew she should have been punished. This woman had just given her a huge reprieve—and bathed her, clothed her.
She did not respond to Ceana’s gratitude, but quit the room as silently as she’d come, leaving behind a heavy weight on Ceana’s shoulders.
Lady Beatrice had given her a gift—her life, and she couldn’t squander it.
Ceana let her towel drop. When she unfolded the gown, a strip of MacRae plaid fell free. Was it… Was it possible this was her mother’s? How did Lady Beatrice come to be in possession of it?
She lifted the strip of fabric to her face and breathed in any lingering scent, imagining it was her mother’s. It gave her strength. She lifted her chin, took the first deep breath of the last hour and let it out slowly. A renewed sense of pride and guarded courage filled her veins.
This next round would be hers to win.
Chapter Seven
Macrath felt as though he’d drunk an entire barrel of whisky but got none of the fun out of it. His head was heavy, eyes gritty and stomach rolling.
He’d slept little after making sure Ceana was tucked safely into her tent. He dunked water over his head by the barrels in an effort to vanquish the cobwebs. It had been difficult to wake, and he’d taken longer than necessary to pleat and don his plaid.
Commotion around the water barrels was high. Lots of chatter, animated hand gestures and laughter. But having decided to focus only on himself and winning this next round of games, he was able to channel the noise down to a dull roar. Until he heard Ceana’s name.
Well, not her name exactly, but—the Bitch of MacRae.
And though she’d not yet told him which clan she came from, or her background for that matter, he happened to hear it when they’d done the roll call the day before.
Bitch of MacRae.
He doubted it had been what she chose to call herself, rather the cruel insult of the man who registered her. Or maybe she had chosen it, hoping the name would scare anyone away from her. Because, she was tough, he’d give her that much, but Ceana was no bitch.
So when he heard her name mentioned, his ears perked up. Every word uttered ratcheted up his uneasiness. He gritted his teeth.
“Aye, saw her go into the castle myself.”
“With the council woman?”
“Mmhmm. Likely dead by now.”
“Else the council woman favors cunt over cock.”
And then the cackles began, and the sounds of slapping flesh as they patted each other on the back for their vulgar jokes.
Macrath turned slowly around, his fists clenched tight, prepared to knock an apology from the bastards who dared speak against Ceana, and then to find out where the hell she was. Because if she’d gone into the castle… He had a lot more to fear today than the simple games. And dammit, he wasn’t supposed to fear for her. A cold knot formed in his belly, and his teeth ground so tight he was certain those around could hear it.
If he had to, he’d knock every one of the pock-marked bastard guards away from the door and storm the castle himself to find her.
Taking a deep breath, he managed to ask, “Why’d she go into the castle?” without breaking either of their noses, though his fists were going numb from the pressure.
They shrugged. A woman butted between the two men and gazed at Macrath, her eyes hungry as she stared over his shirtless form. When she smiled, her two front teeth were missing, lips swollen. Perhaps an injury from the day before.
“She was fighting,” the woman answered.
Macrath raised a skeptical brow. That didn’t sound like Ceana at all. She must have been provoked. “Fighting?” he asked.
“Aye. With a woman. They were down in the mud right where you stand.”
He glanced down around his feet. Sure enough the mud was well and disturbed, but he’d only assumed it had been from the number of people coming to the barrels to drink and wash up for the morning. Had it been this woman who’d fought with Ceana?
“Her ladyship marched right up to the both of them and whipped the Bitch on her back before demanding her to come inside.” She hooked her thumb at the man on her left who was nodding with a lecherous smile on his crude face. “I think he’s got the right of it. The lady likes cunt.”
They all burst out laughing then and Macrath was stepping forward to shut them up with his fists when the back doors of the castle flung open and Ceana walked out. Her face was pale, eyes wide and rounded as though she’d seen a ghost. She was dressed in a clean, well-kept gown, her hair, slightly damp, looked to be plaited down her back and a strip of plaid was wrapped tightly around her waist. Standing barefoot on the steps and looking down at the crowd that’d gathered to watch her, she looked so innocent, a little nervous. But her shoulders squared as though she already owned the castle.
“Move out of the way, you bastards,” Macrath grumbled shoving past the three who’d insulted her moments before.
He had every intention of walking right up to her to make sure she was all right, but then her friend Aaron rushed forward, his feet hitting the stairs before Macrath had even cleared a path.
Perhaps this was better. He needed to put some distance between them anyway. Hell, he’d been willing to beat the guards and rush into the castle, which would have only served to earn him a battleax in the head. He watched as Aaron hammered her with questions. She shook her head and nodded in answer. Her mouth was turned down, brows drawn together and she looked as though she’d not slept any better than he had. A pang of jealousy gripped him right in the ballocks when Aaron held out his arm and she took it without hesitation. He led her down the stairs and in the opposite direction of where Macrath stood. Most likely taking her to the tent where she could break her fast.
Macrath hesitated for a moment
before forcing his feet to move so he could intercept them. However, when the female council member stepped from the back of the castle door, he froze. Her gaze was focused on Ceana’s retreating figure and for a moment he caught a glint of concern—and admitted that for a flash of a breath he thought maybe the vulgar jackanapes had the right of it, that she desired Ceana for her own. But then he realized the look was one he’d never received himself—that of a mother looking fondly on their child. This woman could not be her mother—could she?—but she was obviously concerned all the same. Some deeper connection was held between those two than anyone else in the games. What stake did she have in Ceana? If any at all.
The lady nodded to the guards on the stairs who raised their horns and blew.
“Last call to break your fast before the rules for game two are announced,” shouted several guards on horseback riding up the center road.
Macrath’s stomach growled. His never-ending appetite. Judging from the past few days, he’d need sustenance today. Needed the energy his body had not received from sleep. Making his way through the crowd, he entered the men’s meal tent only to find that the tabletops were loaded merely with men’s elbows as they lounged on benches. No food. The trenchers were bare. Cups and jugs littered the surface.
Had they already eaten all the food?
Filthy maggots.
As he made his way to a table, intent on at least grabbing a watered ale, he heard many of the men complaining of the lack of food. A moment later one of guards came in with two swords drawn and held out before him. He looked as though he was on the defensive and Macrath’s instincts were pricked. He straightened, hand going to his empty belt and cursing the rule of no weapons. He gripped his mug of ale instead. If he had to, he could bash in a man’s brain with the cup.
“There’s to be no breakfast for the men today,” said the guard.
They would starve them. If they couldn’t kill them with wolves, they’d let them slowly waste away. No matter, Macrath had gone without meals before, and if his hunger became excruciating, he’d simply forage while in the woods. His stepmother had tried to poison him enough that he knew which plants to stay away from.
Lords of the Isles Page 102