36 THE CHOICE IS YOURS

CAILEAN JOLTED AWAKE. “Fuck!”

Pain speared his left side, a deep, throbbing ache that made him choke off a groan.

“I thought the rough ride might wake you. This cart is a boneshaker.”

A husky voice drew his attention, and, blinking, as pale sunlight assaulted his tender eyes, Cailean’s gaze settled on the face of a beautiful Shee female. The sky above them was the color of smoke, yet, as always, Bree’s skin glowed. Her golden eyes glistened as she stared down at him.

The wagon they were riding in lurched then as it hit a pothole, and pain knifed through Cailean’s side once more.

He cursed again, through gritted teeth this time.

Grimacing, Bree picked up a cushion and moved around to his injured side, gently pushing it under him. “Here … this might help.” She lowered herself down, sliding her legs under his in the narrow space. “I didn’t want to shift you … but we have to keep moving.”

Cailean blinked. His memories were foggy, as if he were trying to retrieve them from the bottom of a pond. “What happened?” he croaked.

Bree unstoppered a skin of ale then and held it to his lips, letting him take a few grateful gulps. Afterward, a groove appeared between her eyebrows. “How much do you remember?”

His eyes fluttered shut while he waited for his thick head to clear. The ale tasted like nectar. “Right up until after that arrow hit me,” he said after a few moments.

“About that,” Bree said, her voice sharpening. “Don’t you ever do anything so foolhardy again, mac Brochan.”

His eyes snapped open, their gazes fusing. “Just try and stop me,” he growled. And he meant it too. When he’d seen that Shee archer draw back his bowstring, his response had been involuntary.

Their stare lengthened until Cailean licked his parched lips. In response, Bree held up the skin of ale so he could take another sip. “Is the princess safe?” he asked, meeting her eye once more.

“Aye.”

“And the battle?”

“The Marav were defeated. Talorc mac Brude, his overkings, and most of his host are dead.”

Cailean’s heart gave a heavy thud at this news—not because he’d grieve for the ruthless High King whose lust for revenge had driven him to his end, but for the scores who’d died with him.

Such a Gods-damned waste.

“How many of us are left?”

“A little over two hundred warriors. Four enforcers survived, Torran among them.”

Cailean’s chest squeezed at the news his friend was alive. It was a glimmer of light in the darkness. He wanted to talk to him. But there would be time for that later.

Right now, it was difficult to see past the throbbing in his side.

“How long … was I out?” he grunted.

“Two days. The arrow was poisoned … but we found the cure.” She paused then, her tawny eyes shadowing. “I nearly lost you.”

Something clutched at Cailean’s chest, and he reached out a hand, his fingers entwining with hers. “You won’t rid yourself so easily of me, woman,” he said huskily.

Bree favored him with a wobbly smile. “That’s a relief.” She blinked then, her eyes filling with tears. A moment later, she cut her gaze away, her expression shadowing.

“What is it?” he asked, concern rippling through him.

“Mor sent my brother through the stones,” she whispered. “He’s now a Marav slave.” She paused then, sighing. “I told you she has eyes everywhere. She was suspicious of me when I returned in the summer … and when she discovered I left Sheehallion, I must have proved her right.”

Cailean blinked, his pain-muddled mind trying to make sense of her words. “She did it to punish you ?”

Bree nodded.

“We can send him home.”

She swallowed. “No, like me … his life will be forfeit if he ever returns to the Shee realm.”

Cailean scowled. Curse it, he wished his head didn’t feel as if it were filled with wool. “Have you spoken to the princess … asked her to free him?”

“Not yet,” she whispered, cutting her gaze away. “Lara’s been so forgiving … I don’t want to push things just yet. What if she turns on him?”

“She won’t.” Cailean’s jaw firmed, his fingers tightening around hers. “Not if we speak to her together.”

“You look like shit.”

A familiar voice made Cailean glance up. They’d stopped outside the hill fort of Dulross, and around him, what was left of the armies of Albia was making camp for the night. Bree had gone off to assist, leaving Cailean alone in the wagon.

Torran stood in front of him, arms folded across his chest. Cailean’s mouth quirked into a relieved grin. “So, do you.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. Healing scratches and lacerations crisscrossed Torran’s bare arms, and a colorful bruise shadowed his jaw.

Skaal pushed herself up from where she’d been lying, on guard, next to the wagon. Plumed tail wagging, she rubbed her head against the enforcer then, nearly knocking him over. “Oof … careful, lass.” Torran reached down and ruffled the fae hound’s furry ears. “Skaal’s been looking after you then?”

“It seems so.”

“She hasn’t left your side since you fell,” Torran replied, an eyebrow lifting. “And neither has Bree. I swear, if you’d died, she’d have chased you into the Otherworld and dragged you back.”

Warmth washed over Cailean, although he covered his embarrassment up with a shrug. Eldra had told him how Bree had gone out hunting for mugwort and brought it back just in time to save him.

Clearing his throat, he met his friend’s eye once more. “How is everyone treating her?” he asked then, shifting to make himself more comfortable. The healer had given him something for the pain, but the throbbing was still there, a constant, like the beating of his heart. “If I hear anyone’s disrespected my wife, I’ll have their balls.”

Torran snorted. “Don’t worry … the men are all too scared of Bree to bother her.” He inclined his head then. “So, she’s coming back to Duncrag with us?”

“Aye,” he replied brusquely, even as tension coiled in his gut. Injured or not, he’d take on anyone who criticized Bree. “Have you got a problem with that, mac Rab?”

Torran merely smiled, folding his arms once more. “I suppose you want your old job back?”

Cailean stilled. In truth, he hadn’t given the future much thought. He hadn’t even spoken with Lara yet. “Would it bother you, if I did?” Indeed, Torran was the chief-enforcer these days; he might not want to give the role up. In his position, Cailean would have fought to keep it. He realized then how much he’d missed his life in Duncrag, his camaraderie with Torran.

To his surprise, his friend’s smile widened, his grey eyes glinting. “I’d take offense if you didn’t.”

“Cailean.”

A woman’s soft, hesitant voice intruded upon their exchange. Torran moved aside then, turning. Both men’s gazes settled upon the newcomer.

A tall woman with long dark hair and woad-blue eyes stood before them.

Cailean’s pulse quickened, his belly tensing. With everything that had happened, he’d almost forgotten that she was with the camp. “Enya.” He tried to push himself up and then thought better of it. “How are the lads?”

Her throat bobbed. “Bruised and bloodied … but they’ll all live.”

His stomach unclenched. “Good.”

Enya eyed him, tension vibrating off her. “I heard you’d been injured.”

“Aye.” His gaze roamed over her face, noting how strained her proud features were. “But I’ll be fine.”

She swallowed once more before nodding. Her hands flexed at her sides. “I wanted to thank you,” she whispered. “For saving us.”

Cailean stared back at her, and his throat started to ache. “It won’t make up for everything,” he said huskily. “But it’s a start.”

Her eyes glistened. “Aye,” she whispered. “It is.”

“I’m sorry,” he said then, the apology tearing from his throat. “My behavior was callous … selfish. I cared more about revenge than you, and I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

Enya stared back at him, her face softening. She knew what those words had cost him. Aye, Cailean wasn’t a man easily humbled, yet he’d swallow his pride now. “If I can let it go, then you should too,” she replied. “It’s time to let the past lie.”

Torran cleared his throat then. The enforcer was eyeing them, his face a picture of confusion. “Are you going to introduce us?”

Cailean huffed. “This nosy bastard is Torran … one of the few people I’d trust with my life,” he said, his mouth curving into a wry smile. “Torran, meet Enya … my long-lost sister.”

“Take his collar off.”

“Aye, Your Highness.”

The burly smith turned to Gil, favoring him with a brusque nod. “Kneel.”

Slowly, his expression still strained—even after Princess Lara’s command—Gil obeyed. Wielding a pair of iron pliers, the smith cut his way through the collar. Moments later, it fell away, thudding onto the sheepskins Gil knelt upon.

Without another word, the smith picked up the collar, gave a bow to the princess, cast Bree a glower, and left the pavilion.

Bree, Cailean, Torran, and Gil were alone with the princess once more. Lara had dismissed her servants, save Mirren, from the tent. Once they’d finished making camp at Dulross, the princess had called for them all.

Bree cut her husband a sidelong look. Leaning heavily on a stick, Cailean’s face was drawn with pain, yet his expression was determined. While she’d been helping make camp, he’d been busy setting up a meeting.

Lara watched as Gil rose to his feet. He then raised his hand, massaging his neck, eyeing her all the while. The princess’s gaze flicked to Bree. “You should have told me that your brother was here.”

She managed a tight smile, even as guilt twisted in her chest. “You had enough to deal with.”

Lara’s brow furrowed. “Were you worried how I would react?”

“Possibly. You have little reason to trust me.”

The princess flashed her an exasperated look. “Don’t treat me as if I’m made of eggshell. I’m tougher than I look.”

Their gazes held before Bree’s mouth quirked once more. Her friend was wounded and grieving, but she wasn’t beaten. “I know.”

Meanwhile, Gil eyed them both as he stood there, still rubbing the welt on his neck where the iron had chafed.

Lara shifted her attention to Cailean and Torran. “Mac Rab has agreed to step down and take his place as your second again,” she informed Cailean, her manner turning brisk as she focused on practical matters. “Will you be my chief-enforcer, mac Brochan?”

He returned her gaze, his blue eyes veiled. Bree understood his caution: no doubt, Talorc mac Brude wouldn’t have welcomed him back like this. But Lara wasn’t her father. Her face was wan this evening, her throat still bandaged, yet she held herself proudly. Defiantly.

The heir to the Albian throne.

“Aye, Your Highness,” Cailean murmured, his voice rougher than usual. He bowed his head. “It would be my honor.” He paused then, swallowing. “But I will only accept if my wife will be welcome in Duncrag as well.”

Lara raised an eyebrow, glancing back at Bree.

Cailean cleared his throat, and she sensed he was about to plead her case. However, she reached out, her fingers closing around his wrist in warning. She appreciated what he’d done today, but she needed to handle this.

“Would you suffer a Shee living in your broch?” she asked softly.

Lara raked an assessing gaze over her. “I would.” Warmth flushed across her chest at these words, but Lara hadn’t finished. “Albia requires a strong leader now … but a ruler is only as strong as those at their side.” Her eyes glinted then. “Would you consider becoming my personal warder and counselor?”

Bree jerked, her lips parting as her breath gusted out of her. The most she’d hoped for was for Lara to agree for her chief-enforcer to bring his wife home, to allow her to reside in Duncrag. She hadn’t expected to be offered a job .

Her breathing grew shallow then, her chest constricting as emotion slammed into her—a blend of elation and something more complex. Guilt. If she took on such a role, her betrayal of her people would be absolute. Even so, she reminded herself that she’d long passed the point of no return. Mor had already named her a traitor.

“That’s quite an offer,” she replied huskily, feeling the gazes of Cailean, Torran, and her brother boring into her. Her eyes stung then, and she blinked furiously. “Are you sure?”

Lara stared back, her mouth lifting into an enigmatic smile. “Aye.”