17 ASKING FOR TROUBLE

TELL HER IT ends here.

Seated at the end of a long table inside the ale-hall, Cailean fought the urge to frown at the glamored Shee female opposite. Bree had just speared a piece of garlic sausage on the end of the small steel eating knife she carried with her. She then sniffed it experimentally.

Cailean’s fingers clenched around his own eating knife. He then stabbed it into the sausage on his trencher.

He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, agreeing to let her travel with him to Morae. He didn’t need her assistance with Eilig. She’d caught him at a weak moment maybe. But ever since he’d agreed, regret had been brewing inside him like a storm.

He was a lone wolf, and that was how he liked it.

His wife had nearly brought him to his knees during the summer; he couldn’t risk her weakening him again. He couldn’t let Bree in—and allowing her to travel with him was just asking for trouble.

The man next to him, who reeked like boiled cabbage, let out a braying laugh at something his wife had just said. In response, the woman started to cackle. The couple were both red-faced from a surfeit of ale, the remains of a huge supper of sausage, braised onions, and coarse oaten bread scattered between them.

Swallowing his mouthful of sausage, Cailean ignored the pair. He was used to being crammed in amongst other customers in ale-halls. Like most, this one was long, windowless, and narrow, with hearths at each end. A fug of smoke hung under the low rafters, and the cacophony of voices was deafening.

However, the noise gave them privacy, even in a crowd.

Steeling himself, Cailean focused on Bree once more. For once, she wasn’t interrogating him. She seemed content just to be in his company, something that unsettled him.

He couldn’t allow her to get comfortable, to think this would last.

She needed to know that tomorrow he’d ride for Cannich, and she wouldn’t be coming with him.

“How is your arm?” he asked, reaching for his cup of ale. He then took a large gulp, anger spiking through him. The Reaper take him, why did he keep fussing over her?

Bree glanced up from her supper. “Better … the whin should heal it quickly.”

“We use whin tonic just for sore throats and coughs … I didn’t realize it had such powerful healing properties.”

She smiled. “It probably doesn’t … for you that is.”

Cailean stabbed another piece of sausage. Enough with skirting around the subject. He needed to stop blathering on about whin tonic and get to the Gods-damned point. “It was a bold move … to walk away from Sheehallion.”

Bree’s expression sobered. “Aye,” she murmured. “But an easier choice than I’d expected.” She paused then. “Once I realized I had to find you.”

Tension coiled in Cailean’s gut. She wasn’t making this easy. “Does the queen know you’re here?” The question was asked tersely, and only Bree would have heard him. But he marked her flinch, nonetheless.

She nodded. “Mor has eyes everywhere … she’ll know I’ve crossed into Albia.”

“And are you forbidden from crossing back?”

“No,” she replied, a groove etching between her brows. “Except that she’s highly suspicious of me now.” She halted then, her hazel eyes narrowing. “Why? Are you suggesting I do?”

“It might be for the best.”

They stared at each other a long moment, and Cailean marked the way her jaw tightened. Frowning, he braced himself to be argued with. He’d known she wouldn’t let this go easily.

But to his irritation, she didn’t even answer him. Instead, Bree glanced right, her body stiffening.

Something—or someone—had caught her eye.

Do I know him?

The man was playing ‘Liar’ with a woman a few yards away—each taking turns to shake two dice in a cup and then guess if their opponent was lying to them about the result.

He looked to be of middling age, although he carried his years well, and had umber-colored skin and black hair that curled tightly against his scalp. Leathers covered his lean frame, and when he smiled at the pale-skinned woman with greying tawny hair who sat opposite, he revealed straight, even teeth.

Bree’s pulse quickened. The woman was a stranger to her, yet the man definitely reminded her of someone.

Moments passed, and sensing her looking at him, the man glanced Bree’s way. Their gazes met, and his dark eyes narrowed.

Bree shifted her attention back to her trencher, her heart pounding.

Iron bite her, she did recognize him.

“What is it?”

Bree looked up, meeting Cailean’s veiled blue eyes once more.

Her belly clenched then. He wanted rid of her. The garlic sausage and bread she’d eaten churned, nausea following. She’d known this conversation was looming.

Swallowing, she did her best to ignore the sense of impending doom. They’d have to finish their talk later. Right now, she had to speak to someone else.

Without another word to her husband, Bree picked up her cup of ale once more and rose from the table. Then, ignoring his scowl, she moved across to where the couple were now laughing together and slid onto the bench seat next to the woman.

“Sorry for the intrusion.”

Their laughter cut off, and the woman’s moss-green eyes narrowed. “Can we help you?”

“I hope so.”

Bree flashed the woman an apologetic smile before fixing the man with a level look. “It’s been a long while … Flynn.”

The man stiffened. His reaction was subtle, and he hurriedly masked it, but it was enough.

Aye, it was him.

“You’re looking well,” she murmured. “Living amongst the Marav clearly suits you.”

“You’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he replied coldly, his brows knitting together. “My name’s Lycan.”

Holding his gaze, Bree shifted her glamor, just a little, so that her face altered. For a heartbeat or two, she let him see her real features and her golden eyes with their slitted pupils.

Alarm rippled across Flynn’s face. “Iron,” he whispered as Bree let her Marav glamor settle once more.

Aye, he’d recognized her too.

“I knew Mor would catch up with me one day.” His throat bobbed then, while beside Bree, his female companion had gone still. “How long have you been hunting me?”