16 ON EDGE

brEE TENSED, her pulse quickening. She wasn't ready to see mac Brochan again or to weather his unpleasant company. She'd enjoyed having their quarters to herself and spending the evenings chatting over a cup of wine with Mirren.

The bastard would shatter her peace.

Bree swiftly pulled herself up then, reminding herself that she needed him to return. How else would she get information from him? She'd hoped to discover things in his absence, but Princess Lara had admitted that she wasn't invited to any of the druidic councils either, and Bree's questioning of Mirren had yielded little of use .

The crowd below them parted, and standards bearing the High King's crest, a white wolf's head on black, loomed above the low turf roofs of the surrounding cottages.

The two women remained where they were, watching as heavy feather-footed horses bearing big, tattooed men clad in black leather, thick jet-colored cloaks rippling from their shoulders, appeared.

Bree's stomach clenched.

Enforcer scum . The bane of her people. Just the sight of them made her fingers itch. If she were armed with all her blades, she could take half a dozen of them down in moments.

But that wasn't why she was here.

Clenching her jaw so tightly that her ears started to ache, Bree forced the murderous thoughts down.

She'd expected to see her husband at the head of the escort, but mac Brochan rode alongside the High King and the prince, upon a charcoal stallion. Skaal trotted at his side, and the crowd parted further to give the fae hound a wide berth.

Bree's attention fixed upon her husband, taking in his proud bearing and the furrow of his brow. He was intimidating, and he wielded it like a weapon. She couldn't help but notice how many gazes in the crowd tracked him rather than the king.

Talorc mac Brude wore a severe expression. On the few times Bree had seen him, the man's hatchet face hadn't softened into a smile once. She wouldn't be surprised if it never did. His dark, deep-set eyes surveyed the crowd as he rode, mounted upon a grey horse, decked out in leather and iron armor. The High King sat easily in the saddle, one hand holding the reins, the other loosely clasping the hilt of the dagger he wore at his hip. It was the stance of a warrior; although getting on in years, Talorc wasn't a man to be underestimated .

Next to him, Prince Kennan also carried himself with assurance, but without his father's aggression. Sun glinted on the prince's long dark hair as he rode. Bree marked the way two pretty lasses he passed gazed up at him like mooncalves, their cheeks flushed with excitement at being this close to the prince. But Kennan didn't spare either a glance.

The High King spied his daughter then, and something flickered across his severe features. For an instant, his face actually softened. Yet the moment was fleeting, gone so quickly that Bree could almost believe she'd imagined it.

"Daughter," he greeted her, the barest warmth in his voice. "I should have known you'd be out here."

"Morning, father." Lara ducked her head, her mouth curving. "You've returned sooner than expected."

He snorted. "Aye, well … I concluded my business in Braewall swiftly." The High King's gaze flicked sidewise then, and to Bree's surprise, it settled upon her .

She stiffened. This was the first time since her arrival at Duncrag he'd even noticed her. Skin prickling, she stared back for a heartbeat before checking herself. "Your Highness," she murmured, lowering her gaze and dipping into an awkward curtsey.

The High King made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. "Settling in well?"

"Aye, Your Highness."

"Eager for your husband's return I'd wager."

Bree's gaze flicked up, and she nodded. A few yards away, mac Brochan shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. He didn't like the High King singling her out for attention. Was he wary of what she might say ?

A wicked impulse fluttered up then—to tell Talorc that her husband refused to bed her, to humiliate him in front of his liege. The High King didn't want them to be handfasted in name only. Mirren had explained that he insisted all members of his druidic council not only took partners, but that they had children.

Bree had been surprised to hear the druidic bloodlines grew increasingly rare—especially those of enforcers—and the High King wanted to ensure they prospered once more. She'd seen a few warrior-druids gathered at her handfasting but had discovered that there were barely more than forty of them at Duncrag. Not the small army she'd anticipated.

Aye, this was useful to know, and Bree wondered if she could use this information to her benefit.

Talorc urged his horse on, making it clear that their exchange had ended, and the company moved forward. The gathered crowd drew back to let them pass.

The chief-enforcer passed Bree then, and for an instant, his gaze seized upon her.

The censure in those hard blue eyes was unmistakable. The woman she was impersonating would have no doubt flushed and dropped her gaze under such a stare, but Bree didn't bother. That ship had sailed. He knew she wasn't a mouse.

And so, she stared back, fire quickening in her belly, answering his challenge.

Returning to the broch after their shopping had concluded, Bree accompanied Lara to her quarters, where they tried on the shawls and jewelry they'd bought.

But the princess seemed distracted. Her gaze had turned inward .

Seizing an opportunity to learn more about the politics of this realm, and the relationships within the royal family, Bree cast her a probing look. "Are you worried about the news your father brings from Braewall?"

Lara sighed, studying her reflection in the beaten silver looking glass before her. She'd just put on her new amber earrings, and they gleamed in the light of the cresset burning on the wall behind her. "I shouldn't brood on such things," she muttered. "But I know father will have discussed me with the overking there during his visit."

Her green eyes unfocused then. Suddenly, it was as if she were leagues away.

Bree cleared her throat. "What would happen if you refused to wed King Dunchadh?"

Lara jerked out of her reverie, her startled gaze meeting Bree's. She then shook her head, tension rippling over her features. "One doesn't refuse my father."

Cailean observed his wife under hooded lids.

Fia sat opposite him, winding wool onto a distaff. It was a womanly task, one that most lasses learned from their mothers. However, he noted that his wife wasn't skilled at it. She wound the wool slowly and kept tangling it.

Cailean fought a lip curl. Gods, what did they teach the Maids of Albia?

The quiet inside the alcove was ponderous this eve. Supper had come and gone, largely silent as usual. And now, to his irritation, Cailean found his attention drifting to the woman he'd wed.

He wished he didn't find her so attractive.

Firelight burnished her creamy skin, warming her long rich-brown hair and hazel eyes. She was wearing a sleeveless tunic, the color of moss, that hugged her curves indecently. And about her right bicep gleamed a delicate bronze arm ring. Her comeliness was earthy, and it called to a primal urge within him.

Cailean's jaw tightened, and he lifted the cup of ale he'd been nursing to his lips.

Fortunately, he'd long ago mastered the art of self-control.

His pretty yet vexing wife might tempt him, but he'd not succumb. Bedding her would be a mistake. She'd expect closeness then, would try to bond with him. Women couldn't help themselves.

But Cailean wouldn't attach himself to anyone. He'd made himself that promise many years ago, and he would keep it. Maintaining his distance from her physically would ensure they both remembered what their marriage was.

An arrangement.

Even so, tension rippled through him this eve, and his fingers flexed against the cup he gripped.

Fia glanced up from winding wool.

"You seem on edge, husband," she noted. "Is something amiss?"

Cailean fought the urge to scowl. "No."

"Did the trip to Braewell go well?"

"Well enough."

"Princess Lara told me today that her handfasting to King Dunchadh is likely. "

Cailean gave a non-committal grunt. The Warrior's cods, this woman couldn't keep her nose out of matters that didn't concern her. "That's the High King's business, not ours," he replied.

He caught the flash of annoyance in Fia's eyes before she ducked her head. "Of course."

Silence fell then, before Skaal, who was soundly asleep by the fire, started to snore. Cailean winced and nudged the fae hound gently with his boot. The snoring cut off.

"I hear you met Torran today," he said finally.

Fia's shoulders tensed. Warily, she raised her gaze to his. "Aye."

"Why were you taking the stairs to the dungeon this morning?"

"I was exploring and got lost."

Cailean sighed, reaching up and massaging the tense muscles at the back of his neck. It was the same excuse she'd given Torran. His second hadn't believed her, and neither did Cailean.

Fia held his eye, her expression veiled now. "I'm sorry," she said after a beat. "I was just curious."

Cailean frowned, fixing his wife with a gimlet stare. He reminded himself then of the arch-druid's warning. He should keep a closer eye on his wife. "You are to curb your curiosity in the future," he said finally, his tone wintry. "Don't go down there again."