17 A SMALL WIN
"THERE YOU GO." Mirren slid the last pin into Bree's hair and stepped back. "It's done. … what do you think?"
Picking up a looking glass, Bree inspected her reflection. It had been a long while since she'd taken such care with her appearance. Nonetheless, tonight was Bealtunn—the eve that marked the passage from spring into summer—and she wanted to look her best. At dusk, the inhabitants of Duncrag would venture beyond the walls and gather on one of the hills to the north of the fort. There, they would dance around the bonfire and drink the first of the summer wine. Bealtunn was a festival that celebrated The Maiden, fertility, and new life .
It was the perfect opportunity for the chief-enforcer and his wife to spend time together.
Bree's jaw tightened then, her gaze narrowing as she stared at the hazel-eyed woman in the looking glass. A moon's turn had passed since her husband's return from Braewall. But she was no closer to gaining his confidence.
These days, she and mac Brochan had settled into a routine of sorts. Silent meals. Awkward evenings seated opposite each other while Skaal slumbered before the hearth. Sleeping just a couple of feet apart in the furs, yet never touching.
Bree had tried to soften him up. But every attempt at conversation was met with terse responses. She'd done thoughtful things for him too. She'd had baths brought up for him and asked Mirren to find out from the cooks what his favorite foods were—blood sausage and grouse pie—to ensure he was served them regularly. However, her efforts were always met with non-committal grunts.
He was a rude, ungrateful bastard, and being nice to him galled her.
She hadn't tried to seduce him outright yet—not after his response to her first, clumsy, attempt. Something told her he'd reject any advances she made, and she didn't feel like being humiliated. Instead, she'd embarked on a subtler path, one that had yet to bear fruit.
Bree's breathing grew shallow then. Time was passing. Mor would be impatient for a silver acorn. Unfortunately, she had little to tell.
"You're frowning?" Concern laced Mirren's voice. "Don't you like it? "
Bree shook herself out of her reverie and turned to meet her handmaid's gaze. She then flashed her a reassuring smile. "Aye, I love what you've done."
Nonetheless, Mirren still looked unconvinced, and Bree huffed a sigh. "Don't mind me … I'm a little out of sorts today, that's all."
A groove etched between Mirren's brows. "Why? It's Bealtunn … and the sun is shining."
Bree's mouth quirked. Her handmaid's cheerful disposition had been a balm since her arrival at Duncrag. Despite that Mirren was an indentured servant and could lack confidence at times, she had a remarkably positive approach to life.
And of course, like most of the women in the broch, the lass was excited about Bealtunn.
"You're right," Bree replied with a shrug. "I've no reason to frown." She then focused on her handmaid, running a critical eye over her curly mop of peat-brown hair. "You'll be attending this eve too?"
Mirren nodded, her sky-blue eyes gleaming with quiet excitement.
"Well then, since you've spent so long pinning my hair up, the least I can do is braid yours."
Her handmaid's cheeks flushed before a delighted smile stretched her lips. "You would?"
"Aye." Bree rose to her feet and gestured to the stool she'd been sitting on. "Come … let me get to work."
Mirren did as bid, eagerly settling herself onto the stool, while Bree took a bone comb and carefully brushed out her maid's thick hair. She then divided Mirren's unruly curls into sections, fastening them with pins, before she started to weave long thin braids .
Braiding was something she was good at, for, back in Sheehallion, she usually wore her hair plaited, especially when she was working.
Nonetheless, as she braided Mirren's wayward mane, Bree found herself pursing her lips. She was pleased to do something for Mirren, for she enjoyed the lass's company, but there was part of her that couldn't believe she—the Raven Queen's assassin—was plaiting another woman's hair.
Shades, what have I become?
"Will the chief-enforcer accompany you from the broch this eve?" Mirren asked, intruding upon her brooding. "Or will he meet us at the bonfire?"
Bree pulled a face, glad that Mirren couldn't see her expression. She'd tried asking mac Brochan the same question that morning, but he'd been evasive. "I'm not sure." She hesitated then before adding. "In truth, I'm not sure he'll join me at all."
Her handmaid sucked in a breath. "But he must … it wouldn't be right for the chief-enforcer's wife to attend Bealtunn on her own."
Bree frowned. Iron bite her, she was tired of trying to soften up her husband. She'd have more luck molding a lump of granite.
Mirren was right though. Bree would cause whispers if she attended Bealtunn without him—and mac Brochan was the only reason she'd asked Mirren to put up her hair and help her dress in her most becoming tunic: emerald with a plunging neckline. She'd made this effort for him, but if he wouldn't grace her with his presence this evening, she'd miss another, crucial, opportunity to get close to him .
It wouldn't do. If playing the part of the dutiful wife wasn't going to sway him, she'd have to employ a different, slightly riskier tactic.
"You're right," Bree replied after a pause. "I will seek him out after I've done your hair … and ensure he joins me."
Silence followed her comment, and when Mirren finally replied, her voice held an awed note to it. "The chief-enforcer doesn't scare you, Fia?"
Bree snorted. "No."
Aye, he was an intimidating bastard, but that wasn't why she minded herself around him these days. She wasn't afraid of standing up to him when necessary either—she just had to be careful not to compromise her position here.
"Well … he cows everyone else," Mirren replied, oblivious to her mistress's thoughts. "Although I must admit, he's scarier than ever of late."
Of course, he is , Bree thought bitterly. He's got a wife he doesn't want.
Later, Bree found her husband in the yard before the broch, talking to three of his enforcers.
Ignoring the fact that all the warrior-druids looked her way as she approached, Bree picked up her long skirt—she didn't want to dirty her lovely green tunic—and made her way toward them.
Mac Brochan's dark brows knitted together in a frown as she approached. He wouldn't appreciate her seeking him out. But her conversation with Mirren had made her realize that if she didn't act, their relationship would never change.
It was time for her to push things a little.
"Husband," she greeted him with a nod, halting a few feet back. "May I have a word?"
"Can't it wait?" he replied tersely.
"I'm afraid not."
One of the other enforcers smirked, while the remaining two exchanged looks. Marking their reaction, Bree focused her attention once more on mac Brochan, waiting for him to answer.
A muscle feathered in his jaw, his frown sliding into a scowl, and for a moment, she thought he might bark at her—and attempt to send her away.
Bree put her hands on her hips then and straightened her spine.
He would not.
Moments passed, and then mac Brochan made a sharp gesture to his men. "Leave us."
The other enforcers departed, although not without lingering, hungry looks at Bree.
"What do you want?" he asked the moment they were out of earshot.
"It grows late in the day," Bree replied, holding his gaze steadily. "The eve of Bealtunn approaches … yet you haven't told me of your plans." She brushed at the full skirt of her tunic. "As you can see, I'm ready."
Brochan's blue eyes darkened, and he folded his brawny arms across his chest. "Go on your own."
"I can't do that."
His gaze narrowed. "Keep Mirren nearby and no one will question my absence. "
"The High King might."
The chief-enforcer stilled at that, and at the warning she'd deliberately injected into her tone. "Excuse me?" he said finally.
"I hear that Talorc is desperate for the druidic bloodlines … especially those of enforcers … to be continued," she said, inclining her head. "I imagine he'd be upset to discover that his chief-enforcer won't be fathering any children."
A beat of silence followed before mac Brochan dropped his arms to his sides and stepped close to her. "Are you threatening me, Fia?" he asked, his voice lowering.
Bree's pulse quickened, for his nearness flustered her a little. Nonetheless, she continued to hold his eye. "Do I need to?" she replied softly. "I'm not asking you to bed me. All I ask is for my husband to attend Bealtunn at my side."
He stared back at her, and Bree started to sweat under his scrutiny.
She'd told Mirren that he didn't scare her, but suddenly she wasn't so sure. The man could be menacing, and now he turned the full force of his cold glare upon her, she found herself wishing that she wasn't flouncing around in a pretty tunic with her hair pinned in elaborate coils upon her head. Instead, she wanted to be dressed in grimy hunting leathers and facing him with a dagger in her hand.
Moments passed, and Bree had no choice but to suffer his stare. However, as she waited, her pulse hammered in her ears. Perhaps she'd pushed things too far.
Eventually, mac Brochan answered her. "Very well, wife." His voice was rough, as if each word was an effort. "I'll fetch you from our alcove at dusk."
Victory surged through Bree .
It was a small win, but the fact she'd managed to finally sway him over something sang in her veins. Aye, she'd found a weakness in his armor. Cailean mac Brochan feared few individuals it seemed. But the wrath of the High King checked him.
But, to her consternation, the chief-enforcer stepped even closer then, bending to speak in her ear. "You get your way this time … for we shall give the High King a show." His breath tickled her skin, while the scent of leather, ash, and male enveloped her. "However, I'd counsel you against trying to blackmail me again."