12 TIME AND EFFORT

brEE SLEPT POORLY. As such, she was awake far earlier than the chief-enforcer.

Glancing over at her sleeping husband—cast in deep shadow, for the fire had died to a faint glow overnight—she frowned. Without a window to let in the light, she had no idea if dawn had broken outside. All the same, she sensed he'd get up soon and likely leave without disturbing her.

However, she intended to disturb him, to give him a look at what he'd rejected the night before. Surely, it wouldn't take much to make the chief-enforcer forget himself. After all, males were ruled by their rods .

Bree rolled out of the sleeping nook and padded naked over to the earthen bowl. Her stomach clenched then. She didn't want to do this. She'd lain awake for most of the night, dreading it.

She wasn't a seductress.

She picked up a jug of water and poured it into the bowl, noting that her hands were shaky. Curse it, she couldn't let her nerve fail her. Silently praying to the Great Raven for the guts to see this through, she helped herself to a cake of rough soap and began to wash.

Across the alcove, the fae hound stirred from its sheepskin. Sitting up, Skaal stretched her long body and then sat up, those golden eyes settling upon Bree.

And despite knowing it wasn't wise, Bree stared back at the hound for an instant. Traitor. Fae hounds belonged to her world, not this one. The beast should be guarding a barrow, not sleeping in the chief-enforcer's chamber.

Skaal gave a low growl then, the sound rumbling through the shadows, and Bree cut her attention away. It wasn't a good idea to stare down a fae hound—and that wasn't why she'd left the warmth of the furs.

Goosebumps pebbled her skin, and Bree clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. The water was icy, and the air inside this alcove was as cold as a tomb. Maybe this wasn't her brightest idea. Right now, she felt as sensual as a plucked goose hung up on a butcher's rack.

All the same, she deliberately lingered, waiting for the chief-enforcer to wake from his slumber. And eventually, when she was chilled to the marrow and reaching for a drying sheet, he did .

The whisper of the furs and the thud of his feet hitting the wood floor warned her that he was, indeed, awake.

And then the alcove went silent once more.

Bree's breathing grew shallow. She could feel the heat of his gaze upon her back, slowly raking down the length of her naked body.

Moments passed, and she let him look his fill. Her skin prickled, and she slowly counted to ten. And then, clutching the drying sheet to her chest, she twisted, glancing over her shoulder.

Her husband stood just two yards behind her.

Bree forced herself to stiffen, her lips parting as if she hadn't expected to see him there. "Good … morning," she murmured, injecting a husky note into her voice.

The chief-enforcer didn't answer.

His face was set in harsh, disapproving lines, but his gaze betrayed him. Even in the weak glow of the hearth, she marked the heat in his eyes.

In this light, they looked dark, almost black.

Dragging in a slow breath, she let her gaze travel over his naked torso, over the tangle of tattoos and the scars that told their own story, down his muscled belly to the nest of dark hair between his thighs.

Victory surged in her chest—along with a jolt of panic—at the sight of his manhood at half-mast. Unaroused it was big, although now it was swelling to an intimidating size before her eyes. He'd just proved that last night's muttered insult was groundless. There was nothing wrong with his manhood.

Bree's breathing hitched, heat pooling in her lower belly.

Iron blind her, was she responding physically to this beast ?

Jerking her chin up, she met his eye once more. She'd expected him to look embarrassed, for mortification now crawled over her naked skin. But he didn't. For her part, she itched to throw the drying sheet around herself, to hide the sweep of her back and exposed arse from his hot gaze.

But she resisted the urge.

The chief-enforcer might be easier to bend to her will than she'd thought. Maybe this seduction would be blessedly short.

But mac Brochan's mouth thinned into a severe line. Uncaring that his rod now bobbed before him, he strode across to the stool where he'd left his clothing the night before. And then, as Bree looked on, he pulled on his breeches and vest.

Shivering now, Bree turned from him and deftly finished drying. Once she was done, she wrapped the large drying sheet around her. She'd catch a chill if she stood here much longer.

"A servant will be up shortly to rouse the fire," her husband informed her tersely. She glanced over her shoulder to see him yanking on heavy boots. "Mirren will answer your questions about how things are done here." With that, he moved toward the curtain, took a fur cloak off its peg from beside it, and slung the mantle around his shoulders. And then, without another word, he left the alcove, Skaal padding after him.

The curtain swept closed, leaving his wife alone.

And the instant it did, Bree's knees wobbled.

Another reprieve, thank the Ancestors . She clenched her jaw hard then. No, she couldn't shy away from this.

Retrieving her clothing, she hastily dressed, her hands shaking from the cold. "It didn't go that badly," she muttered to herself. "What did you expect? For him to throw you on your back on the furs and give you a morning tumble? "

Her pulse quickened, even as her lower belly clenched at the mental image those words created. She needed to be realistic about this situation. Softening her husband up would require time and effort. Cailean mac Brochan was a warrior-druid, a man with rigid self-discipline. It would take more than one sight of her naked to breach his defenses.

Aye, if she wanted his secrets, she was going to have to work a bit harder.

Her breathing grew shallow, panic slithering through her. Shades, she didn't want to think about what that would entail.

Huffing another curse, Bree crossed to the wooden chest next to the sleeping nook and opened it. Firstly, she checked her small pouch of silver acorns—the only item she'd brought from Sheehallion—was still nestled amongst Fia's belongings. Then retrieving her four figurines of the Gods, Bree glanced around, looking for somewhere to put them.

Her husband already had idols on display upon a ledge set into the alcove wall, but she wanted to put Fia's stamp upon these quarters too. As such, she pushed mac Brochan's figurines along so hers could sit next to them.

Her mouth quirked into a wry smile then. That'll vex him.

A sigh swiftly followed. Of course, she was supposed to be charming her husband, not angering him. Turning, she returned to the open chest. There, her gaze rested upon the leather-bound diary. Reading that first entry upon her arrival here had made her uneasy. Nonetheless, the Maid of Albia's diary might yield secrets, or details, that could assist Bree. Unlike Fia, she hadn't been schooled in the art of pleasing males.

And frankly, she needed all the help she could get.

Bree picked up the diary and crossed to the hearth, pulling up a stool next to the glowing embers so she could read. Then, she opened the diary and read the second entry. This one didn't unsettle her as much as the opening page had. Fia prattled on about the wet winter they were having.

Bree skimmed the entry, and the next one, before starting the fourth.

A man came to the House today. He was tall and lean with hair the color of ripe wheat and eyes the color of the Baleful Sea. My heart stopped at the sight of him, and I knew that he was the one.

Bree halted here, her lip curling. "Eyes the color of the Baleful Sea," she muttered. "What drivel." Steeling herself for more of the same, she forced herself on.

We lined up in the courtyard, all dressed in our finest, and he chose three of us to take a turn around the gardens with him.

I was one of the lucky three!

How my heart sang as we walked together. He was charming and polite, with a voice that was both deep and musical. I could have listened to him all day. He asked me about my interests and skills. I told him that I'm an able weaver and that I play the lyre very well.

Of course, I remembered Mother Gelda's teachings and made sure that the conversation always returned to him. He's a prosperous wool merchant from the Galan Peninsula and recently widowed. His blue eyes are so kind.

Our meeting went so well. I was loath to be parted from him.

But now I must wait. Tomorrow, he will make his choice .

Bree paused once more and shook her head. "Foolish lass." Fia's desperation was raw. Turning the page, she then read the next entry. It was short.

He didn't choose me.

Fyona was his choice. She is lively and charming, with the curves and prettiness I lack. But she can't play the lyre as well as me, and she tends to babble.

I can't believe Fyona was his choice.

How can this be? He was the one.

Bree closed the diary. Earlier, she'd sneered at the woman's gushing words over her suitor, although she didn't now. Fia's tone was bewildered, hurt. Her joy had been too brief, much like her life.

She imagined Fia's last moments then—her terror as Gavyn loomed over her, his fingers tightening about her throat.

Bree winced, a sensation she couldn't identify fluttering deep in her chest. Of course, she had no aversion to killing—her hands would forever be stained with the blood of her victims—but she liked to tell herself that they'd all had it coming.

They were the queen's enemies.

Yet Fia mac Callum hadn't done Mor wrong. Her only mistake was agreeing to marry the High King's chief-enforcer and getting in the Raven Queen's way.