18 PUTTING ON A SHOW

THE CHIEF-ENFORCER and his wife walked arm-and-arm up the hill behind the fort. Above them, a bonfire illuminated the night like a beacon, golden tongues of flame licking at the moths that fluttered about it.

Bree's skin prickled at the sight of the Bealtunn fire, and at the pounding of the drums—a steady, ominous beat that reminded her of a pulsing heart—that echoed through the night .

Her own people celebrated the passage from spring to summer, but their festivities were different. Instead of honoring The Maiden, they gave thanks to The Great Raven. Right now, in Sheehallion, younglings would be painting eggs for the festivities of the following day and the bakers would be preparing the festive breads studded with nuts.

A pang went through Bree then. How long would she be stuck here in Albia, living someone else's life? When could she finally go home?

When Mor calls you back.

Her breathing quickened, as she imagined year after year stretching ahead of her here. Pushing the chilling thought aside, Bree glanced over her shoulder at where Mirren followed behind them. The firelight burnished her maid's face. Catching her eye, Mirren grinned.

Envy clutched at Bree's stomach then—a response that caught her off-guard.

Had she ever been the sort to get excited about festivals? Not since she'd been a youngling, many years ago now. Ever since reaching adulthood, she'd adopted a cool disdain for such things. However, the time she'd spent with Mirren since her arrival at Duncrag had made her face just how cynical she'd become, and how her attitude colored the world around her.

Mirren was mortal. An indentured servant. And yet day-to-day experiences brought her more joy than even the highlights of Bree's long life so far had.

It was an unsettling realization .

Her husband's arm tensed then, and Bree cut her attention left to where he walked at her side. His profile was harsh, but like her, he'd made an effort with his appearance this evening, donning the golden torque he'd worn for their handfasting. A matching black leather vest and breeches that had been embossed with druidic designs clad his big body.

Not for the first time, Bree found herself silently admiring him.

Aye, he was the loathsome chief-enforcer. But he was also distractingly attractive.

Realizing she was staring, Bree looked away, her gaze traveling to the reason her husband had tensed.

The High King sat upon a raised wooden platform, a few yards back from the bonfire. His face flushed with wine and the fire's warmth, Talorc mac Brude was talking to his queen.

The chief-enforcer halted then, on the edge of where revelers danced around the fire. Bree recognized many of the faces—men and women who lived within the broch, as well as those who resided in the fort proper. A number of enforcers were present this eve too, and as she looked on, one of them grabbed a lass and hauled her into the dancing.

"Folk certainly seem to be enjoying themselves," Bree observed, glancing her husband's way once more.

Mac Brochan grunted.

"Perhaps we could join the dancing too?" Bree's belly clenched as she spoke. She wasn't a good dancer and indeed hadn't had much use for the skill over the years. Nevertheless, she was desperate this eve to force some closeness between her and mac Brochan. So desperate that she'd even dance.

However, her husband scowled at her suggestion. "Not yet," he snapped .

Bree clenched her jaw, irritation surging.

"Would you like me to fetch you both some wine?" Mirren asked then, appearing at Bree's shoulder.

"Aye," Bree replied with a grateful smile. Wine would certainly help. "Thank you."

She watched her handmaid weave her way through the press.

Torran walked past Mirren then. However, he didn't notice the lass, for his gaze was upon a woman with long red hair who waved to him a few yards distant.

Mirren's gaze tracked the chief-enforcer's second-in-command as he strode past, longing upon her face. Then, pulling herself together, she turned and hurried on, dodging another enforcer—a massive brute—who lurched toward her. Reaching a woman who was ladling out wine into cups, Mirren collected two before making the journey back to the chief-enforcer and his wife. On the way, she navigated lecherous looks and barely avoided spilling the wine when the same enforcer who'd approached her earlier attempted to block her way once more. Mirren nimbly skirted around him.

Nevertheless, the maid's face was red, her mouth pursed, when she returned to Bree and mac Brochan and handed them their wines.

"All is well?" Bree asked before lifting her cup to her lips and taking a gulp.

Mirren nodded and gave an embarrassed shrug. "Just the usual harassment."

"Harassment?" Her response drew the chief-enforcer's attention. "Who is bothering you, Mirren?"

Pinned under mac Brochan's stare, the handmaid's expression grew anxious. She then shook her head vehemently. "No one," she gasped. "I jest. "

"That enforcer seemed intent on getting your attention," Bree noted, unwilling to let the subject lie.

"Which one?" her husband asked, his gaze narrowing.

Bree nodded to where the huge warrior-druid now loomed over another lass.

"That's Drago," mac Brochan admitted after a weighty pause, glancing back at Mirren. "What did he say to you?"

"Nothing." Mirren swallowed. "He wanted … a dance."

"Aye, well … tell me if he crosses the line," the chief-enforcer rumbled, scowling. "Is that clear?"

The handmaid nodded, her blue eyes wide, startled.

Bree smiled at her, attempting to reassure the lass, for Mirren was clearly flustered. "Go on … get yourself some wine and join the revelry," she urged her. "My husband will keep me company."

Nodding once more, Mirren backed away and then fled into the crowd like a frightened hind.

Bree watched her go, frowning. "That enforcer did harass her," she said after a pause, turning back to mac Brochan. "I saw him."

Her husband sighed. "Drago has already been warned about bullying women," he replied.

Aye, well … warn him again . The words burned in Bree's chest, but she swallowed them. She'd attended Bealtunn with her husband to build a rapport with him, not argue.

They fell silent then, each drinking their wine as the revelry played out around them. Besides black-clad enforcers, there were other druids amongst the crowd—Bree picked out flashes of blue, green, yellow, and red amongst the plain homespun of the locals. The drums increased in tempo now, as did the dancing .

Tension rippled through the air as if the night was building to something.

Across the crowd, the High King ceased talking to his wife. Instead, his gaze cut across the press and seized upon the chief-enforcer.

Talorc's dark gaze narrowed.

"See," Bree murmured, grabbing the opportunity the High King had just given her. "He wishes to see us together … we should ensure he thinks all is well between us."

Mac Brochan growled a curse, and Bree swallowed a smile.

She had him.

Draining the last of his wine, the chief-enforcer tossed the cup aside. "Come then, wife," he muttered. "Let's dance."

Cailean led Fia to where men and women whirled around the fire and drew her into the melee.

And as he did so, anger pummeled his chest like the drums around him.

He should have realized she'd discover the High King's determination to further the druidic lines, and that the devious woman would try and use it to manipulate him.

Nonetheless, she'd caught him unawares today.

Cailean ground his teeth, his grip tightening upon Fia's as he swung her around him. Her long oak-colored hair flew like a banner behind her. There was no denying it; his wife was lovely to look upon .

He would have had to be blind not to notice her in her tunic when she'd interrupted him with his enforcers earlier. Her full breasts were at risk of spilling from its low neckline. He wished she would wear more demure clothing—perhaps he'd tell her so later. But at present, he found it hard to keep his gaze from straying to her lush cleavage.

This close, her scent kept distracting him.

Fuck it. He didn't want to dance with his wife. He didn't want to stay by her side tonight, drinking wine, and putting on a show for the High King.

But, ironically, Fia had been wise to suggest doing so. Talorc would be incensed if he suspected Cailean wasn't fulfilling his duties.

He pulled his wife close to him then before clasping her by the waist, lifting her up, and spinning her about him.

Fia's cheeks were flushed now, her full lips parted. And her hazel eyes—a gaze that had the power to both anger and unsettle him—gleamed.

Cailean's gut clenched. He was playing a dangerous game, defying the High King like this. He'd seen firsthand over the years what happened to those who vexed Talorc. He was quick to anger and slow to forgive. Aye, Cailean was his chief-enforcer, and the High King relied on him. But he wasn't indispensable. No one was.

Hopefully, seeing Cailean and Fia dance together before the Bealtunn fire, and taking part in the revelry, would be enough to convince him that his chief-enforcer was doing his duty.