14 A SILENT MARRIAGE

"BE WARY OF your bride."

Stiffening, Cailean met the arch-druid's eye. The two of them stood in the yard outside the broch. Cailean had come outdoors to see Raen off. She'd journeyed here specially to conduct his handfasting ceremony and would now return to the Isle of Arryn. Above them, the sky was the color of smoke, while the wind—The Sweeper this morning—pushed at them and scattered straw across the yard.

Raen fixed him with a steely gaze he knew well. "There's something odd about her. "

Cailean fought the urge to snort. That was putting it kindly. The woman was mouthy, willful, and devious too. He'd known what she was up to that morning, lingering at the washbasin clad only in her skin, waiting for him to wake up. When he'd rolled out of the furs, his gaze alighting on Fia, he'd been greeted with a delicious sight: the sweeping curve of her back, with wavy oak-colored hair tumbling between her shoulder blades, and a delicious pale and rounded arse. And, of course, his prick had responded.

But Raen's concerns were likely different from his.

"She wasn't what I was expecting," he admitted gruffly. "But what is it exactly that bothers you, Wise One?"

"I touched her mind just before I began the ceremony."

Cailean nodded. He'd seen the tattoos on the arch-druid's neck glow briefly and knew what she was doing. Before being elected to her current position, Raen had once been a seer. She could read the bones and see patterns in smoke and the flight of birds. And she was powerful enough to be able to touch a person's mind and read—even sway—their emotions. "And what did you see?"

"Nothing … she warded herself from me."

Warded? Cailean stilled. "How does a Maid of Albia learn to do that?"

Raen's strong features tightened. "She doesn't." Her gaze narrowed then. "Of course, the lass might wield the gift."

Cailean frowned. The gift was the untapped druidic power that usually manifested at puberty. Cailean's own gift had shown itself just after his fourteenth winter. "You think she could be one of us, yet not realize it?"

"It happens … she's spent the last ten years locked away from the world. We have no access to the Maids of Albia. "

Cailean considered these words. "Is it a problem … if she's gifted?"

"Possibly not." The arch-druid fixed him with a piercing look. "But something about her bothers me, all the same. Don't let your guard down around her."

Cailean pulled a face. "Don't worry … there's no risk of that."

The silence was getting to Bree. Digging her wooden spoon into the thick barley and pork stew, she cast a veiled glance in her husband's direction.

The man hadn't lied the night before: theirs was to be a silent marriage.

In other circumstances, she'd have been relieved—she didn't want to have anything to do with him—but the success of her mission depended on mac Brochan opening up to her.

Clearing her throat, Bree reached for her cup of wine and took a sip. "Was your day a fruitful one, husband?"

He grunted, helping himself to some bread.

"Mine certainly was," she said when it became clear he wasn't going to elaborate. "Mirren showed me around the broch … and I met Princess Lara." She paused then, toying with her spoon. "The fort is bigger than I expected. We—"

"I heard you visited the healer today," the chief-enforcer interrupted her. "Is something wrong with you?"

Bree stiffened. Had he been spying on her?

"She gave me something for headaches, that's all," she replied. "Sometimes it feels as if powries are stabbing my temples with their pikes … and I thought I was succumbing this morning."

His gaze met hers. "And how fares your head now?"

"Much better … thank you."

A heartbeat passed, and then he glanced over at the inset, where the collection of both their figurines sat. His brow furrowed, and Bree sensed his disapproval. She'd known putting her idols next to his would annoy him and braced herself to be told off.

However, she wasn't. A moment later, her husband focused once more on his supper. Silence fell again.

Irritated, Bree started to tap her foot under the table. "Princess Lara has invited me to go shopping with her soon … on Market Day."

Mac Brochan nodded, but he didn't look her way. He chewed his meal doggedly, although with little enjoyment. It was as if it was a chore he had to get through.

"I would like to buy some clothing," she went on. "Is that permitted?"

"Aye." Finishing his meal, her husband leaned back in his chair and picked up his cup of wine, swirling it in front of him. "I shall leave you a coin purse on the table tomorrow … spend what you want." He paused then before adding, "I will be away from Duncrag for a few days."

Relief swept over Bree before she swiftly checked herself.

She couldn't avoid this man. And if he was away often, it would take her far longer to gain his trust and gather information from him. Her pulse quickened then. Was he off on one of his Shee-hunting expeditions to the Uplands? If so, she'd warn her people. She didn't want to waste any of her cache of acorns, but Mor needed to be kept informed .

"Where are you going?" she asked lightly.

His mouth pursed, and for a moment, she thought he might refuse to answer—or reprimand—her. Instead, he replied, "Braewall."

Bree affected a worried look. "I hope there isn't any trouble down south," she murmured. "I fear for my family."

"There's no trouble."

Bree waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. Impatience bristled within her. If her husband was being tight-lipped about his trip south, there had to be a reason.

"In my father's last missive, he mentioned that King Dunchadh of Braewall appears to be raising an army," she said after a lengthy pause. "Is this the reason for the High King's visit?"

Her husband's gaze snapped to hers, and she caught the warning glint in his woad-blue eyes. A muscle in his jaw flexed, and a chill settled in the air.

Once again, she waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming.

"You seem tense, husband," Bree noted eventually, swallowing her frustration. "Would you like a massage … all Maids of Albia are trained in the art of—"

"No." Draining the last of his wine, mac Brochan pushed himself up from the table. "I've got work to do." He gave a low whistle then. "Come, Skaal."

The fae hound rose fluidly to her feet and followed her master as he left the alcove without a backward glance.

As he'd warned, mac Brochan departed early the following morning, rising before the first glimmer of dawn lit the eastern sky.

Bree didn't bother trying to get up early to give him a morning show of the wares he'd yet to sample. Her seduction tactic hadn't worked the morning before, so she was going to have to be subtler, craftier.

As such, today she employed a different approach. As soon as he rose from the furs, she got up too and hastily pulled on a tunic.

"Go back to bed, wife," he ordered as she pulled a woolen shawl around her shoulders and padded over to the hearth, skirting Skaal's large bulk. "It's still early."

"I will," she assured him cheerfully. "But let me first give you some light to ready yourself by."

Rousing the embers, she lit an oil lamp and carried it over to where he was washing beside the sleeping nook. Keeping her gaze averted from his nakedness, for she found it disconcerting, Bree then went to the square table that dominated the center of the alcove and poured her husband a cup of ale.

Mac Brochan had finished bathing and dressed with deft military precision.

"Here," she said softly, handing him the cup.

He took it with a curt nod, draining the ale in a few gulps before handing the cup back to her.

"Do you need anything else, husband?"

"No," he replied tersely.

An awkward pause followed before Bree cleared her throat. "I shall see you … when you return from Braewall?"

"Aye."

"I shall wish you a safe journey then. "

He nodded, even as his dark brows knitted together. Bree heaved a silent sigh. Shades, this man was suspicious of her now, looking for manipulation in every word, every gesture.

Their marriage hadn't started well.

She'd gotten little from mac Brochan at supper the night before, and then he'd stayed away for the rest of the evening. Bree had retired to the furs long before he returned.

And now he would be gone for a few days.

After he and Skaal had departed, the alcove seemed empty indeed without the force of the chief-enforcer's presence.

Bree moved over to the fire once more and warmed her hands over the flames. Her fingers and toes had been cold constantly ever since she'd arrived at Duncrag.

While her husband was away, she'd listen to as much gossip as she could. The High King's household was a big one, and no one saw as much as servants did. Some of them might have served Talorc when he spoke with his druidic council.

Some also might know what had happened to Bryce.

Mac Brochan's absence would give her more freedom to explore too.

Bree had just finished dressing when Mirren arrived, bearing a tray of oatcakes.

"Join me." Bree gestured to the table as she moved toward it. "There are too many of these for me to eat on my own."

Mirren's cheeks flushed pink. "I'll break my fast downstairs later, Mistress," she murmured. "With the other servants."

Bree waved her words away. "Nonsense. My husband is away at present, and I'd like company. Take a seat."

Mirren hovered there, her cheeks glowing like the sunset before she nodded, pulled up a chair, and settled herself opposite, watching as Bree helped herself to an oatcake and started to spread butter upon it.

Glancing up, Bree met her eye. "What's your opinion of the chief-enforcer?" she asked.

Mirren's sky-blue eyes snapped wide at her direct question. "I d … don't know," she stuttered.

"Go on, venture an opinion … I'd like to hear it."

Her handmaid drew in a deep breath. "He's … intimidating," she admitted finally. "Although his dedication to his work is admirable." She paused then, her mouth curving into a wry smile as she warmed to the subject. "Some folk here say he doesn't sleep."

Bree huffed a laugh. "Oh, he does … I've seen him." She then spooned some honey onto the oatcake and handed it to Mirren. "Here."

For a moment, she thought the lass might refuse to take it. However, despite that her embarrassment hadn't eased, she did. "Thank you, Mistress."

"Just call me Fia," Bree replied, picking up an oatcake for herself. "The formality gets tiring."

Mirren started at this before giving a hesitant nod.

Bree spread butter and honey upon her oatcake and took a bite. These were good. She finished her first oatcake swiftly and prepared a second, which she handed to Mirren, who was nibbling at her breakfast with one eye on Bree.

The lass was still wary around her, cowed by their difference in rank. Bree wouldn't get any valuable details from her unless trust was established.

"Are you from Duncrag, Mirren?"

Her handmaid nodded. "I'm the youngest of five daughters. My Da is an ironsmith. "

Bree suppressed the urge to pull a face at this proud admission. It wasn't surprising though; Duncrag was full of them. "And do you have a man … any bairns?"

Mirren shook her head, her pale skin flushing once more. "My father had debts to pay, so he sold me into the High King's service. I have more rights than a slave, but as an indentured servant, I cannot take a husband."

Bree frowned at this. Likely, most of the Marav knew of such an arrangement and wouldn't think it strange. Nonetheless, there were many things in this world that were new to Bree, and she had to navigate them carefully. "And that doesn't bother you?"

Mirren pulled a face. "Not yet." She paused then, a shadow flitting across her features. "It's an honor to serve the High King." Her voice was a little wooden as she ducked her head. "I need nothing else."

Bree snorted. "You're young and fair … just because you can't wed, there's no need to deny yourself of pleasure." Mirren looked mortified at this comment, but Bree continued. "Why not take a lover in secret?"

Mirren froze in her seat, flushing a deep red this time.

"Is there someone you've noticed?" Bree asked, pretending not to see her embarrassment.

"No," Mirren gasped quickly—too quickly.

"Liar. Who is he?"

Mirren cut her gaze away and reached for the cup of milk that she'd just poured.

"Come on … I won't tell anyone."

"His name is Torran," the handmaid whispered. "He's an enforcer … your husband's second-in-command. "

Bree's mouth pursed. Seeing her reaction, Mirren's brow furrowed. "They're not forbidden to take lovers," she assured Bree, clearly thinking propriety was the issue. She paused then, her features tightening. "I stay away from most of the enforcers though. They're rough and aggressive … with hungry gazes and filthy mouths." She halted then, alarm rippling across her face. "Not the chief-enforcer though … I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

Bree waved her apology away. "I know you weren't talking about him," she reassured the lass. "So, this Torran … he's not like the others?"

Mirren shook her head.

"Have you spoken to him?"

"Gods, no. He doesn't know I breathe."

Bree observed Mirren silently for a few moments. "Maybe it's time he noticed you."

"I can't approach him." Mirren's voice was strangled now. "I'd die if he talked to me."

Bree snorted. "Don't be a fool. He's an enforcer … not The Warrior himself."

Mirren giggled at this, the flush on her cheeks fading, and Bree, to her surprise, found herself smiling in response.