11 MUMMERY

CAILEAN PULLED ASIDE the curtain to his chamber, allowing his wife to enter before him.

Fia brushed by, leaving the scent of lavender in her wake.

Gritting his teeth, he followed, letting the curtain swing shut behind them. It was late. The feasting had concluded with the newlyweds sharing a cup of mead and feeding each other honey cakes. Cailean had nursed his drink for as long as he could—but, eventually, he hadn't been able to put this off any longer.

Skaal was gnawing a mutton bone by the hearth. The dog glanced up when Fia entered, her tawny eyes spearing Cailean's bride .

Fia's step faltered, and Cailean nearly ran into her back. "Skaal makes you nervous, does she?" he taunted, vindicated that the woman was intimidated by his fae hound, after all.

His wife cast him a sharp look before hurriedly softening her expression. "Aren't these beasts dangerous?" she asked huskily. "I've heard that hearing three of its howls will still your heart."

"It will."

"So, why do you own one?"

Cailean snorted. "I don't own Skaal … she chooses to remain at my side."

Fia's hazel eyes widened. "How is that possible?"

He shrugged, even as irritation simmered.

Heedless, his wife continued. "Doesn't it make you nervous … living with a beast that usually serves the Shee?"

"No."

"But most folk fear anything connected to them."

"That's because most folk are ignorant. The Shee are fickle and dangerous … but they have an understanding of things we don't."

Fia stiffened. "It sounds as if you respect them," she whispered. "Have you—"

"That's one too many questions, woman." Cailean moved past her to the table, where he poured them both cups of boiled water. Mead and wine had flowed during the feasting, and he wished to clear his head, not be interrogated. "Leash your tongue now."

He turned back to her to find his bride's eyes had narrowed, anger burning in their depths.

Cailean glared back at her. Gods, what had he married? The woman had lied to him in his missives, as had the governess of the Maids of Albia. Mother Gelda had assured him she'd sent him a dowdy lass who valued silence. Instead, they'd sent him a strong-willed woman who wouldn't stop talking. Her questions had been so incessant this eve that his temples now felt as if vicious imps had just taken hammers to them.

His temper simmered as he approached Fia and handed her a cup of water. "Let's get a few things straight." He paused then, fixing her with a gimlet stare. "I never wanted a wife, but the High King demanded it. And as such, I've done his bidding." He fought a lip-curl at this admission but pushed on. "However, our marriage is nothing more than an arrangement … mummery ."

Fia's sensual lips thinned. Earlier in the day, especially after the light kiss he'd given her to conclude their handfasting, Cailean had found his gaze returning to her mouth. He stopped himself now.

"We will sit beside each other at gatherings, and you will busy yourself in wifely tasks each day as a good woman should," he went on. "When we are alone together, you will learn to enjoy silence." He gestured then to the nook to his left. "We will share the furs … however, I won't touch you."

Fia's fingers tightened around the cup she now cradled. "Why not?"

"My reasons are my own."

To his surprise, his wife stepped back from him and muttered something under her breath.

Cailean stiffened. "What's that, wife?"

Her gaze met his once more, and he could have sworn he saw relief flare in her eyes before her mouth pursed. "Nothing," she replied, her voice clipped. High spots of color had risen to her cheeks.

Cailean drained his cup of water, took his wife's empty cup, and turned away from her, returning the vessels to the table. " Our union is an arrangement … nothing more," he informed her coldly. He deliberately didn't look her way as he spoke. "I get a bride, and you have the honor of being wed to the chief-enforcer. You will be protected within these walls, shielded from poverty and hardship. That will be enough."

Silence followed before she answered, "You never mentioned this ‘condition' in your letter."

Cailean glanced over his shoulder to find her scowling at him. "No, I didn't," he replied. "For obvious reasons."

"You deceived me."

"Aye … and I won't be the first or the last to do so."

"I don't—"

"You lied too," he cut her off as he removed his vest and threw it onto a chair. He then started unlacing his leather breeches, his back still turned to her. "The letters you sent me gave the impression of a quiet, obliging young woman. Instead, I get a mouthy shrew who must always have the last word." He hardened his voice then. "From this moment on, it will cease."

With that, he kicked off his breeches and strode naked past her to the furs.

Bree watched mac Brochan climb into the sleeping nook.

Fury pulsed like a stoked ember in her gut, although the sight of his nudity flustered her. Of course, she'd seen a naked male before—but she'd been unprepared for the sight of him .

The light of the fire and the single cresset that burned upon the stacked-stone wall played across his tattooed skin. The chief-enforcer was all brawn, his muscles rippling as he moved. He bore several scars, many of them silvered with age, upon his chest and back, and one, still slightly pink, upon his right thigh. The males of her race were tall and lean, even if hard-muscled. But this mortal's brute strength was unsettling.

And she couldn't help herself—her gaze dipped to his groin as he strode past her, to what hung between his thighs. Even unaroused, he was big.

Bree swallowed, weakness flooding over her. Of course, she was relieved he wasn't going to rut her. She certainly didn't want him forcing that inside her. And yet, a different kind of heat ignited in her lower belly at the thought—one that she hurriedly quashed.

Shades, she'd nearly gotten herself in serious trouble moments ago, for she'd muttered a damning insult regarding his lack of sexual prowess under her breath. She was lucky he hadn't caught her words.

Even so, as her anger slowly ebbed, she cursed herself for not handling her husband better. Gil's comments came back to taunt her then. You won't last the distance … you're incapable of getting close to anyone … and even feigning it will be a challenge.

Iron smite her smug brother, how right he was. She'd only been in Duncrag a day, and already she was losing control of the situation.

Nonetheless, even an obliging Maid of Albia would chafe at this bastard's lack of manners.

Bree curled her hands into fists and let her fingernails bite into her palms. The pain steadied her, reminded her that, as tempting as it was, she couldn't accept his refusal to lie with her. Mor hadn't ordered her outright to couple with her husband, but the requirement had been unspoken. Marital intimacy would help lower his defenses. Many secrets had been told between lovers after a vigorous tumble .

Bile surged up, stinging the back of Bree's throat. There was no getting away from it—as much as the thought turned her stomach, she was going to have to seduce him.

Jaw clenched, she unlaced her vest and slipped out of her pretty skirt. Meanwhile, the chief-enforcer had pulled a fur over him and turned toward the wall.

Glaring at his back, she pondered her next move. Although she usually slept naked, she was tempted to leave on her flimsy undertunic. Her mouth thinned as she smoothed her hands over the shift that reached mid-calf. It's too late for modesty now, she reminded herself . Do what needs to be done.

Despite her husband's terse announcement, she'd seen how his gaze dipped to her mouth a few times during the feasting earlier. She'd even caught him looking at her cleavage when she'd reached forward to help herself to some bread. He did his best to hide it—and hadn't likely even admitted it to himself—but he was attracted to her. And she knew instinctively that her boldness stoked it. The chief-enforcer had ordered a meek bride, but what he really wanted was a hellcat—a wild woman who'd rake her nails down his back.

But could she force herself to play this dangerous game?

Bree stripped off her undertunic so that she stood naked. Glancing down at herself, she observed her new body—with lush curves, large rose-tipped breasts, and fair skin scattered with freckles. It was a far cry from what she'd looked like before, but mac Brochan was drawn to this form, and she needed to find a way to fuel his desire.

Maybe … but not tonight.

Relief fluttered through her once more. She had a reprieve, even if it was a short one—time to come up with a plan .

A fire burned in the hearth, yet cool air feathered across her bare skin, and she shivered. Steeling herself, and doing her best to ignore the chill, she crossed to the alcove and climbed into the warm and soft furs. The sleeping nook was wide, and there was a mountain of bedding between Bree and her husband. As such, there wouldn't be any accidental touching.

Lying on her back, staring up at the low stone ceiling, she willed sleep to come. However, it didn't.

She was too tense.

I could kill him tonight.

Aye, she could slip from the furs while he slumbered, help herself to one of the blades on the wall, and stab mac Brochan between the shoulder blades. She'd enjoy it too. But no, instead of killing him, she had to find a way to make him talk.

A far more difficult task.

Bree squeezed her eyes shut, silently praying to the Great Raven for fortitude. She was going to need it.