25 WELL ALONE

ARMS STILL FOLDED across her chest—to prevent herself from grabbing one of the knives under her cloak and flinging it straight into the fight master’s throat—Bree watched the two men face off.

The slaves moved back to look on from the spectator benches, while Bree remained by the gate, forcing her feet to grow roots. Underneath her apparent calm, she itched to join the fight.

She’d seen the look Eilig had flashed her, and she still seethed. A blade to the gullet would wipe the insolent grin off his face.

Bree ground her teeth in frustration. You promised Cailean you wouldn’t interfere .

And she wouldn’t. Not yet.

Eilig still wore a smirk though, even as he swung his blade to block his opponent’s first strike. Bree had to hand it to him, the man’s arrogance was impressive. Most people wouldn’t look so confident with Cailean mac Brochan bearing down upon them.

Her husband moved with fluid grace—in contrast to the fight master, who favored his left leg badly.

Both warrior-druids fought with heavy broadswords, a blade that had to be wielded two-handed. Despite that Eilig was hampered by his sore leg, he was brutal and precise, expending no more energy than necessary. It became evident early on that they were evenly matched.

Bree’s gaze narrowed. Indeed, their fighting styles were eerily similar. It made sense, for Eilig had taught Cailean to fight. All the same, the realization put her on edge.

They moved around the arena, each giving ground reluctantly.

Fighting with broadswords wasn’t a dance like it was with a longsword. The blade that hung at Bree’s hip would be wielded differently. There was more play, more parrying and feinting. But the two warriors swung their blades like clubs, the clang of iron splitting the air every time they collided.

Bree’s heart started to pound as she watched the duel unfold.

He favors his left , so make use of it .

Don’t give any ground .

Make another downward cut.

Shades, she had to bite her tongue. It wasn’t like her to stand on the sidelines. She liked to be in the thick of things.

And yet, she’d given Cailean her word.

Meanwhile, the fight drew out. It wasn’t long before sweat gleamed on both men’s faces. Cailean’s black cloak billowed out around him as he moved, sawdust kicking up beneath his boots.

And gradually, the smirk slipped from Eilig’s face.

“Not bad, lad ,” he panted, swinging his blade at Cailean’s gut, only to meet his opponent’s blade yet again. “You’ve improved.”

Cailean merely grunted in response. Clearly, he wasn’t about to let his former master distract him.

“Your sister was inconsolable after you left, you know?” Eilig goaded, trying another tactic. “She was so sure you’d come back for her … but I told her you wouldn’t. And I was right.”

“I’m here now,” Cailean replied through gritted teeth as he deflected a vicious thrust.

“Aye.” Eilig’s mouth twisted. “Too late.”

Bree thought Cailean might have snapped up the bait, might have lunged at his former master, but instead, he kept his temper leashed. And as the fight continued, a deep groove etched between Eilig’s brows. His lameness was worsening too, and he was starting to lumber.

“Slowing down, eh?” Cailean taunted him.

“Fucking horse kicked me in the knee a moon ago,” he wheezed, bleeding now upon his right arm where Cailean’s blade had scored him. “Fighting me won’t change a thing, you know? Your parents are still dead. Your sister is my woman … and you’re still the brat who abandoned her.” His handsome face twisted into a sneer. “Face it, you and I aren’t so different. We put ourselves first … and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Snarling a curse, Cailean slashed at him, driving the older man back across the arena. They both dripped blood, from shallow gashes to their arms, but barely appeared to notice.

Eilig’s tattoos flared silver then, as he drew on earth magic to defend himself, but Cailean didn’t let up. His own tattoos started to glow, and the air became heavy with the resinous scent of pine and the acrid odor of campfire ash.

Bree’s breathing grew shallow, and it took all her will not to shift back, toward the archway. She dropped her hands to her sides then, flexing them. “Finish him, Cailean!” she shouted, unable to hold in her frustration any longer.

The two men fought on. And then, Cailean struck hard—hard enough to make Eilig stumble. It was the moment he’d been waiting for, and he swung again, his blade slicing deep into the fight master’s side.

Eilig roared and staggered sideways, his knee giving way as he slashed his blade once more.

But now that Cailean had the advantage, he pressed it.

Bree’s skin prickled as she observed him. Her husband’s skill was breathtaking to watch. Pride swelled in her breast. He was good.

Injured, Eilig was much slower, and although his tattoos still pulsed as if moonlight rippled through them, he couldn’t defend himself against the flurry of hammer blows that rained down on him. Each one drove him back, until, finally, he was on his knees.

His broadsword slipped from blood-slick fingers, thudding onto the sawdust. Clutching his injured side, Eilig glared defiantly up at Cailean. “Dog-humping turd,” he ground out. “You should have left well alone.”

“I think not,” Cailean replied coldly. “I’ve waited too long for this. Say a prayer to The Reaper, for you’re about to meet him.”

In response, Eilig spat on the ground between them.

A heartbeat followed, and then Cailean swung his sword, cleaving the fight master’s head cleanly from his shoulders.

The head rolled onto the ground, while blood pumped from his severed neck.

Eilig’s body stayed upright for a moment longer before his tattoos faded and he toppled sideways.

Bree’s pulse thumped in her ears as relief flooded through her. “Finally,” she gasped before releasing the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “You drew that out, didn’t you?”

Panting, Cailean tore his gaze from where his former master’s head sat in the sawdust—his features still contorted—and flashed her a grin. “Eilig isn’t the only one who knows how to please a crowd.”

“Does it feel as sweet as you expected?” she asked, deliberately challenging him. Gaining revenge wasn’t as straightforward as most people believed. She recalled then the way Mor’s eyes had shadowed when she’d brought her Grae’s severed head—but then, he’d been her brother, while Eilig had only ever been Cailean’s enemy.

“Sweeter,” he replied, his gaze glinting. “My only regret is that the shit-eater’s death was swift.”

Sheathing his sword, he turned then to face the enslaved warriors who looked on from the benches.

One of them, a heavily scarred man with piercing dark eyes, nodded at him. “Well fought.”

Cailean inclined his head, acknowledging the compliment. “My sister, Enya … where is she?”

The scarred slave gestured left. “Next door … at the fight master’s lodgings.”

He nodded before turning on his heel and heading toward where Bree waited.

“Wait!” One of the other slaves—a short, broad man with a lumpy nose that looked as if it had been broken countless times—stepped forward then. “So, we belong to you now, do we?” There was no mistaking the belligerence, the bitterness, in his voice.

Cailean halted and glanced over his shoulder, his gaze shifting between the faces of the men before him. “You’re all free now,” he told them tersely. “Find yourselves a smith and remove those collars.”

Enya stared at Cailean, her face draining of blood. “You killed him?”

“Aye,” he replied, waiting to see relief and vindication illuminate his sister’s eyes. It was slow arriving. “I cut off his head.”

Standing within the fight master’s lodgings—a cottage tucked in behind the fighting enclosure—he wondered if he should have delivered the news that he’d just beheaded Eilig with a little less bluntness.

Enya was blinking at him as if he’d been speaking another tongue. Meanwhile, her three sons, the eldest of which looked around eighteen, stood behind her. The lads were all big for their ages and muscular like their father. And like their mother, they all now wore stunned expressions.

For his part, Cailean was still reeling from the discovery that his sister was still alive, still Eilig’s woman. He didn’t want to dwell on what she’d been through over the past two decades. The thought made his gut ache.

They stood in the main living space of the cottage. It was a simple yet comfortable dwelling, with sheepskins covering the dirt-packed floor, and faded wall hangings obscuring the stacked-stone walls.

Behind Cailean, Bree shifted slightly. Before they’d entered the fight master’s lodgings, she’d warned him that his sister might not be pleased to see him, and as such, he’d braced himself for a cool welcome. Nonetheless, he’d been initially encouraged when joy had flared in his sister’s gaze after he’d stepped through the threshold.

Moments passed, and then high spots of color rose to Enya’s cheeks, and her blue eyes—the hue of woad like his—glittered. Time had been kinder to his sister than he’d expected. Life as Eilig’s slave hadn’t worn her out. Her black hair, long and lustrous, fell in a curtain over her shoulders, and she held herself tall and proud.

And as their stare drew out, he realized that it wasn’t jubilation that brightened Enya’s eyes and brought color to her cheeks, but grief … and rage.

His breathing grew shallow as realization dawned. Unlike years earlier, Enya didn’t wear an iron slave collar. The long sleeveless midnight-blue tunic she wore was of decent cloth, and upon her right bicep gleamed two bronze arm rings.

Gods … no. Dizziness swept over Cailean.

All these years, he’d imagined his sister enslaved, brutalized. Dead. But here she was, looking like a … wife.

Bile shot up, stinging the back of his throat.

“You bastard ,” Enya finally rasped, her hands fisting at her sides. “You fucking bastard.”

“He had it coming,” Cailean bit out the words, even as he started to sweat. This was all wrong. Why wasn’t his sister congratulating him for beheading the fight master? What had Eilig done to make her so compliant? Bree stepped up next to him then, placing a restraining hand on his arm. However, he wouldn’t be silenced. “That sack of shit destroyed our family. I did this for us … for you .”

Enya’s hand shot out, her palm catching him across the cheek. The blow left a burn in its wake. “Liar!” she shouted in his face. “It was for you .” Breathing hard, she shoved him in the chest. “It’s been twenty years, Cailean. Twenty . Years . Did you really think nothing would change?”

He stared back at her, stunned.

“Eilig gave me my freedom years ago.” She spat the words out at him now, while her sons shifted backward, as if cowed by their mother’s venom. “We made a family together … but now you come wading back into my life and destroy it.”

“Enya,” he rasped. “Don’t tell me you loved him?”

“Aye!” she shrieked, trembling with fury now. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides as if she was trying to stop herself from clawing his eyes out.

His chest constricted. What a bloody mess. You fucking clod-head.

“It’s your turn to bleed now, uncle.” The eldest son moved forward once more. This time, he gripped a carving knife—one he’d swiped from the large scrubbed table behind him. His light-grey eyes glittered.

“Put that knife away, fool,” Bree spoke up then, her voice sharp. “Before you cut yourself.”

The youth ignored her. Encouraged by their brother’s balls, Cailean’s other nephews grabbed knives of their own. All three of them now advanced on him.

He watched them, his gaze narrowing incredulously. These three idiots had more courage than sense.

“Lads,” Enya rasped, glancing over her shoulder at her sons. “Don’t—”

“Move aside, Ma,” the eldest ordered. “Let us deal with him.”

Clenching his jaw, Cailean reluctantly drew two of the knives from the belt slung across his chest. An instant later, the scrape of metal against leather warned him that Bree had also drawn a weapon.

“Listen to your mother,” His gaze swept over his nephews’ rigid faces. “Or this won’t end well for you.”