The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1

by Michelle Willingham

  He worked on the rabbit first, distancing himself from the task as best he could. Orin rejoined him, unsheathing his own knife. ‘I’ll cut the meat,’ he offered.

  ‘I can manage.’ Kieran nodded his head towards the others. ‘You should join the other men.’

  Orin grimaced. ‘They haven’t much to say to me. I’d rather be of use here.’ Without waiting for a reply, he took out a knife and quartered the meat. ‘Go ahead and start on the deer. I’ll help you balance it over the trench.’

  Kieran hesitated, but lifted the deer into position. Orin helped him, and together they finished butchering it.

  It was then that he saw Iseult returning, another woman at her side. Their horses’ flanks glistened with sweat, and both women looked as though they’d been caught in the rain. They also appeared guilty, as though they weren’t supposed to be out alone.

  Iseult handed her horse to one of the younger boys and stopped when she saw them. For a moment, she looked torn, as if deciding whether to speak to him. She lowered her mantle, and strands of wet hair framed her delicate face. Her skin appeared soft, like a woman who had just emerged from a bath. The folds of her léine moulded to her legs, her slender body like a young sapling. She took another step forwards and his traitorous body responded.

  Don’t. He shot her a warning look, not to come any further. She should know better than to speak to a man like him. He didn’t care what she wanted to say. Whatever it was, he couldn’t help her. Wouldn’t help her.

  Deliberately he turned his attention back to the meat, though he was fully aware of her. She moved towards Davin’s hut, and he breathed easier when she was gone. It was better this way.

  He hoped she wouldn’t return this night. He didn’t need her to finish the carving. When he was around her, he seemed to become a different man. Guided by instinct instead of honour.

  Stay far away from her, he warned himself.

  He dipped his hands into an animal trough to rinse away the blood after they finished butchering the meat. Some would be salted and smoked to preserve it, while he expected Davin would want some of the fresh venison at his table this night.

  ‘I think we’ve finished,’ Orin said, setting his knife aside. ‘Dine with us,’ he offered. ‘My foster-father will want to hear the story of the hunt.’

  Kieran shook his head. ‘I am a slave, not one of you. It isn’t my place.’

  ‘Davin won’t mind,’ Orin insisted. ‘He asked me to invite you.’

  ‘Asked or commanded?’ Kieran cleaned his blade and sheathed it.

  Orin gave a feeble smile. ‘Is there a difference? Come. Davin will be expecting us.’

  ‘I haven’t finished preserving the meat.’ It was his last argument. They could not leave it out, else it would spoil.

  ‘Bring it down into the storage cairns. The ground is still frozen in places, and it will keep until the morning. I’ll show you.’ Orin picked up two of the baskets, while Kieran took the remaining two. The young man led him inside one of the small huts, and Kieran descended a ladder into the storage chamber. Orin passed him the baskets one by one, and then he descended the ladder to show him where to keep the meat.

  The air temperature was brisk, and the stones lining the walls kept it even cooler. Kieran set down the baskets, and Orin brought a piece of leather to wrap up several pounds of venison. ‘We’ll bring this to my foster-mother.’

  With no other choice, Kieran followed the young man. He hadn’t guessed the connection between Davin and Orin, and it meant that Orin was younger than he supposed. Most young men finished their fostering at the age of seventeen.

  As they passed his tiny hut, Kieran wished he could avoid spending time in Davin’s home. He preferred his privacy and had no wish to speak with anyone. Nor did he want anyone prying into his past.

  He followed behind Orin, pretending that he didn’t see the eyes of the villagers watching them with interest. Kieran’s defences rose up, his hands curling into fists. It was as though an invisible chain jerked him by the neck, dragging him towards his unwanted master.

  Soon enough, he and Orin stood at the entrance. The young lad opened the door, and gestured for him to go inside.

  ‘I brought Kieran to share our meal, Neasa,’ Orin explained, handing her the leather-wrapped venison. A tall woman with dark hair, Neasa Ó Falvey wore a costly cream-coloured léine and violet overdress. Distaste lined her eyes when she saw Kieran.

  ‘Slaves do not share a meal with the flaiths,’ Neasa corrected. ‘But he may serve our table this night.’ She nodded to Kieran and pointed him towards the other slaves. ‘Prepare the meal with the others and see to the guests.’

  Kieran let no trace of emotion show upon his face. He’d expected this. Why Orin had thought it would be any different, he didn’t know. Status meant everything to a chieftain’s wife.

  He tensed, looking for a way to leave. All he needed was to follow another man who was working outside. His eyes scanned the interior for an opportunity.

  ‘Kieran is my guest,’ Orin argued. ‘If it were not for him, we would have no meat at all.’

  Neasa cast him a sympathetic look. ‘The man knows his place, even if you do not. Now go and help your foster-brother.’ Her firm tone offered him no chance to resist.

  Orin’s face fell. ‘I’m sorry, Kieran.’

  He shook his head, as if it were no matter. While he joined the other slaves, he watched the entrance, waiting for the right moment. Some of the men lifted furnishings into the room while the female slaves worked to prepare the food.

  A maiden struggled to open a sealed clay container, muttering beneath her breath, ‘I ought to bash you open.’

  Kieran slid into the shadows, hoping to escape her notice. His luck failed him, for her gaze snapped upon him.

  ‘I know you. You’re Davin’s new slave.’

  He gave a faint nod. He recognised her as the woman who had travelled with Iseult. With damp brown hair and a softly rounded figure, she was fair enough in appearance. He took the container from her, loosening the wax that sealed it.

  ‘She doesn’t like you.’

  ‘I know it.’ He handed back the container, prepared to continue his escape.

  ‘Wait.’ The woman blocked his way. ‘I saw her weeping after she left the carver’s hut the other night. What did you do to her?’

  ‘I never—’ Touched her, he almost said. But that was a lie. He stiffened, not wanting to defend himself to Iseult’s companion. He held his silence, giving her his most intimidating stare.

  She tilted her chin up. ‘Mind yourself, slave. She is my friend, and I won’t have you bothering her.’ The woman kept her eyes firmly upon him, completely disrupting his plans to get away. No doubt she would alert the entire household, were he to try it.

  Though he had resigned himself to his servitude, it was harder than he’d expected. He was accustomed to giving commands, not receiving them.

  ‘Fill this with water,’ one of the older servants directed him, pushing an iron pot into his hands. Kieran nearly dropped it, but caught the chieftain’s wife watching him. She, too, expected him to disobey.

  Instead, he stared back at her, willing her to look away. Her mouth tightened, showing her discomfort. No man would truly command him; he had chosen this act of contrition. The other slaves seemed to sense it, for they moved away from him when he walked outside for the water. Conversations dimmed, drawing even more attention.

  Kieran returned with a full pot, hanging it over the hearth. No one said anything more, though one of the female slaves offered him a timid smile. At his dark look, she scuttled away and tended to the food. The others avoided him.

  From that moment, he took the more strenuous tasks as his own. He moved among them, lifting stacks of peat and wishing he’d never accompanied Orin. Else he could have been back in the carver’s hut, finishing the image of Iseult.

  * * *

  After another hour, his shoulder ached from the continuous strain. Lifting the de
er earlier, coupled with these tasks, made him aware that his wounds hadn’t healed. He kept his discomfort to himself, not letting anyone see the weakness.

  As time passed, the rich aroma of venison filled the small space, and his mouth watered. The slaves revealed other dishes: puddings seasoned with onions and salt, roasted pork and oatmeal cakes studded with fresh currants. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten foods like these. Though he knew he would not sit at their tables, at least he might have portions of the food. It gave him something to look forward to.

  When at last more people began to arrive, Neasa called him over. ‘Slave, you will bathe the feet of our guests.’

  Kieran stopped short, taken aback. Though he knew it was a task often given over to the fudir, his mind rebelled against it. The chieftain’s wife meant to demean him, to remind him of his place. He hadn’t cared before, but of a sudden, his skin warmed with embarrassment. The idea of kneeling before the others, humbling himself in such a way, made him grind his teeth.

  He should simply walk out. Let another slave complete the task. One of the other slaves tried to hand him a basin of water and a linen cloth. Kieran ignored the man, taking a step towards the door.

  He didn’t care about the punishment. But before he could leave, the door opened.

  Davin entered the hut, holding hands with Iseult. She had changed her gown since he’d last seen her and had pulled part of her hair away from her face, leaving the rest to dry upon her shoulders. The reddish-gold mass offered a striking contrast to the emerald léine and matching overdress. Her cheeks glowed, as if she’d scrubbed them clean. But then her expression drew taut when she saw him. She believed he was nothing more than a slave, a man beneath her notice.

  The two of them sat down upon a bench, and, before he realised it, he was holding the heavy wooden basin. For a moment he considered dropping it, letting the water spill over the earthen floor.

  He found himself staring at Iseult. She didn’t acknowledge him, giving her full attention to Davin. And yet he noticed the faint blush upon her cheeks.

  Though he didn’t know why, he was tempted to provoke her. He wanted to see those rich blue eyes widen when he touched her bare feet.

  He washed Davin’s feet without looking at the man, a perfunctory gesture. Davin took the linen cloth and dried his own feet, walking over to greet his parents.

  Kieran waited a moment, looking into Iseult’s face. She kept her gaze averted, though he knew she was aware of him. As angry as she’d been the last time they spoke, he imagined she wouldn’t hesitate to kick water into his face.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered furiously, between her teeth.

  He lifted her ankle into the basin. ‘Obeying my commands.’

  His hand curved around the bare skin, his thumb upon the most sensitive part of her ankle. Iseult pretended not to notice, but he saw the goose flesh rising upon her skin.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be working on the carving?’ Not once would she look at him.

  He took the sole of her foot and scooped warm water on to her bare skin. His callused palms felt rough against her softness, and he ran his thumb over the sensitive arch. She reddened, but said nothing. When his hands moved up to her calves, she inhaled sharply, as though he’d touched her intimately.

  ‘The carving was only one of my duties.’ He took his time with the other foot, bathing the dust from her bare feet, massaging them gently.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ she murmured. He glanced up at her face, and she tried to hide a shiver. His own breath felt shaky. This had been a game to him, but right now the rules had changed. Her vulnerability cast a spell over him, until he wanted to drag her forwards, kissing her and stripping her bare.

  Wasn’t this what Branna had done to him, betraying him with another man? What was he doing, caressing Iseult’s skin the way a lover might?

  He’d never let himself fall into that trap, no matter how beautiful she was. Iseult was the sort of woman to take a man’s breath away, and he knew better than to play with fire.

  He handed her the linen towel, and she dried her own feet. Leaning close to him, she added, ‘I need to speak with you later. After the meal is finished.’

  Not a good idea at all. ‘I have to work on the carving. And I don’t need you there.’

  ‘This isn’t about the carving.’

  He stared hard at her, willing her to understand that he would not let her make a fool of him. ‘Don’t come.’

  With the warning issued, he rejoined the rest of the slaves where he belonged.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Iseult paused before the door to Kieran’s hut, a basket of food in one hand. Though he’d warned her not to come, she needed answers about her son. The chances of him knowing anything at all were unlikely, but she was willing to try anything.

  She wanted to simply open the door, ask her questions and leave. But the memory of his hands upon her feet, even now, made her skin burn. She had almost imagined leaning down and feeling his lips against hers. Kieran Ó Brannon would not be considerate, like Davin. She could almost sense what it would be like, a wild stolen kiss. His sudden move the other night had made her feel like a captive, completely subject to his whims. It terrified her that she’d wanted to know what it would feel like.

  She lowered her head. What was wrong with her? Did she crave the forbidden so much that she could not accept the embrace of a man who truly loved her? Saint Brigid, she despised herself for even thinking such thoughts. And she didn’t even like Kieran. He was rude and insufferably arrogant.

  Why was her heart beating so fast? She swallowed hard and bolstered her courage. In a few moments, she’d have her answers about Aidan. Without asking, she opened the door.

  Kieran’s back was turned. His skin glistened from where he’d poured water down it. She shivered at the sight of his barely healed wounds and the water tracing the ridges of his skin. His lean body was formed almost entirely of muscle, not a trace of softness about him. The waist of his trews hung low, exposing the edges of his hips.

  The sight of him captivated her. She imagined sliding her hands around his waist, raising her palms up to his firm shoulders. As if in answer to her vision, her body responded, aching to be touched. Her clothes weighed down upon her, the tips of her breasts hardening.

  No. Don’t weaken like this.

  ‘You could have knocked,’ he said.

  Iseult jerked her attention away. ‘You wouldn’t have let me in.’ She pulled the folds of her grey brat around her shoulders, shivering in the cool spring night. The interior of the hut was as frigid as the outside, for Kieran hadn’t bothered to build a fire. Two small clay lamps sitting on the work bench offered his only light. ‘Aren’t you freezing?’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed.’ He reached for a drying cloth and wiped the moisture away. Bare-chested, he didn’t bother to don a new tunic. It heightened the intimacy of the hut, making her imagination run wild. The forbidden desire to touch Kieran came over her again. Iseult dropped her gaze to the ground, forcing her thrumming heart to calm down.

  She spied his old garment sodden with water, resting upon a bench. It struck her to realise that these were the only clothes he possessed.

  Iseult set her basket down upon the earthen floor. ‘May I?’ She gestured towards the peat stacked near the hearth. The need to do something, to take her mind off the present moment, was foremost.

  He shrugged, and she gathered tinder and flint, sparking a fire. In time, her shivering ceased when the warm flames licked the fuel. She dragged two wooden tree stumps near the fire and picked up his wet tunic without asking. Wringing the remaining water out, she spread it to dry before the fire. Occupying her hands made it easier to avoid the true reason for coming.

  Kieran said nothing, but behaved as though she weren’t there. He sat upon the bench, his blade moving upon the wood. Tiny shavings flew into the air, and the fresh scent of yew filled the hut.

  ‘I won’t stay long,’ Ise
ult promised. She wasn’t certain how to ask him about the slave markets without bringing up bad memories. Surely it had been a barbaric experience, completely demeaning.

  ‘What is it you want?’ In his voice she heard the undertones of displeasure at being interrupted.

  In the faint golden light, she saw white scars across his fingers and knuckles. They were the hands of a working man, not a nobleman. Like her father’s.

  Her heart softened as she thought of her da and how she missed him. Rory was the sort of man who laughed often and would gather her in a bear hug. Sometimes he’d made rings for her out of bits of iron, while working at his forge. As a little girl, she’d pretended they were made of silver and precious stones.

  ‘Iseult?’ Kieran prompted again. Impatience lined his voice.

  She bit her lip, fearing he would have no information to give her. ‘I wanted…to ask you about the slave markets,’ she admitted at last. Her heartbeat quickened, and she rubbed her shoulders to bring warmth back into her skin. ‘Were there any children there?’

  ‘Many.’ His face transformed into anger, his brown eyes fierce with the injustice. ‘Some only a few days old if their mothers happened to give birth in captivity.’

  For the first time, he set down his knife and stared at her. ‘Were you thinking to buy a child?’

  ‘No!’ The very idea horrified her. How could he think her that cold or unfeeling? Though she understood that families were sometimes driven to desperation, she couldn’t imagine selling a child for profit.

  Kieran didn’t press, but waited for her to continue. He picked up his knife, and she watched the blade dig into the wood, shaving the layers away. It disconcerted her to see her face emerging from the wood. Not the carefree girl she’d been once, but instead the weary face of a woman.

  ‘I wanted…to find a particular child,’ she said at last. ‘A boy about two years of age. With dark hair and deep blue eyes. His name is Aidan.’