19 TRAINED TO KILL

brEE HAD JUST left the chief-enforcer's alcove, when she met the healer on the stairs. Eldra was returning from the level above. A basket hung over one arm, and her purple robes whispered around her ankles.

"Good morning," Bree greeted the woman with a nod. She'd been hoping to see Eldra more frequently since her arrival. But when she wasn't working, the healer kept to herself.

Eldra's mouth curved. "Good day, Lady mac Brochan."

Bree's gaze lowered to her basket of healing herbs. "All is well? "

"Aye … the queen likes me to attend on her regularly, that's all." Eldra met her eye. "How are the headaches?"

"The tincture you gave me works wonders," Bree assured her, "although I've nearly run out."

"Visit me tomorrow morning, and I'll prepare you some more."

Bree flashed her a grateful smile. "I will … thank you." Hopefully, fate would be on her side this time and Eldra would be on her own. She couldn't ask probing questions with Lara present. All the same, Eldra wasn't an easy person to pry details from.

"I shall see you then." The healer moved on, disappearing down the stairs.

Watching her go, Bree wondered if Eldra would speak frankly with her. She was self-contained, with pale, knowing, eyes. They'd only crossed paths a handful of times since Bree's arrival at Duncrag, although she got the sense that the healer observed her as closely as she did her.

Shaking herself free of the discomforting sensation, she left the broch, pushing through the heavy doors and descending the steps into the wide yard beyond.

A cluster of white-robed figures had just passed through the gates and was coming toward her. Bree's mouth pursed. Counselors . It wasn't the first time she'd glimpsed the druids who advised the High King. However, she'd never seen a group of them walking purposefully together. A well-built woman, her brown hair plaited into thin braids, led the druids.

Annis mac Gord, the chief-counselor. Aye, Bree had learned the names of each member of the druidic council. Even so, she hadn't spoken to any of the others. The chief-enforcer was the only member of the council who resided within these walls; the rest dwelled with their spouses in cottages outside the walls of the broch.

The chief-counselor's gaze slid over Bree as she swept past, haughty and dismissive.

Bree couldn't help it, she bristled. Watching the white-robed counselors mount the steps, she wondered what their purpose was today. Was the High King wrestling with a difficult decision?

Had he called his chief-enforcer to him as well?

Thinking about her husband made Bree frown.

A few days had gone by since Bealtunn. The eve had passed well enough—her husband had even danced with her a few times—and they'd lingered a while at the bonfire. Long enough to appease the High King.

Bree had caught Talorc watching them several times throughout the evening. Aye, she'd discovered a chink in her husband's armor. In refusing to bed her, he was directly defying the High King. It was powerful knowledge to hold over mac Brochan, yet she was wary of wielding it.

Having the chief-enforcer punished, dismissed, or even executed, wouldn't likely help her.

All the same, she liked having something to hold over him, something she could use should things get desperate.

Bree muttered an oath under her breath then. She was brushing the edges of desperation now, for ever since Bealtunn, the chief-enforcer had barely spoken to her. Her plan to draw them closer hadn't worked.

Dragging herself from brooding thoughts, she surveyed the wide yard before the broch. Several low stone buildings with turf roofs lined this space—a stable complex sat at one end with an armory next to it. Across from the stables was a granary and the kitchen. The rich smells of cooking drifted out from the long, low-slung building, as did the rise and fall of voices. From outside, it sounded as if one of the cooks was shouting at his helpers, muffled curses spiking through the warm late-morning air.

Bree decided not to stick her nose inside the kitchen. She'd done so once, shortly after her arrival at Duncrag, venturing into the smoky space mid-morning. She'd hoped to find a chatty kitchenhand to question, although, in the end, she hadn't lingered. The cooks and servants within had all fallen silent, watching her nervously. Their reaction was vexing. Everyone knew servants loved to gossip; however, this lot seemed to have swallowed their tongues.

Bree huffed a frustrated sigh. She had so few within the broch that she could question. Lengthening her stride, she passed the kitchen, heading toward the bakehouse that was nestled into the back of the complex.

Mirren usually worked there at this time of day, baking the last of the bread that would be served with the noon meal.

Of course, Bree wasn't supposed to be wandering around as if she had no constraints on her time. She had a pile of her husband's clothes that needed mending and wool to be spun—but those tasks could wait. Sometimes, when the walls of the chief-enforcer's quarters closed in and the lack of sunlight drove her mad, Bree had to get out.

As often, she went looking for her handmaid.

Worry gnawed at her gut this morning, but Mirren would make her feel better.

Leaving the yard, she made her way down a narrow wynd between tightly-packed outbuildings. Ahead, the entrance to the bakehouse loomed, where the nutty aroma of oaten bread wafted out.

Bree's mouth watered. The bread and her morning oatcakes were some of the few foods she found palatable here.

Peering inside, she was disappointed to find the bakehouse empty. Where was Mirren? It was also odd that no one was in here to tend the loaves. Even from the entranceway, she could see that the bread was deeply browned and on the cusp of burning.

Maybe she should don some gloves and save the loaves?

Bree was about to step inside the bakehouse and do just that when a muffled cry drew her attention. Her senses sharpened at the noise, her warrior instinct stirring.

Emerging once more into the wynd between two buildings, she moved farther into the shadows, toward the narrow passage that ran beneath the high stacked-stone wall encircling the broch.

And as she stepped into it, she spied three figures struggling against the wall of one of the storehouses: a woman with curly dark hair, and two huge heavily tattooed men clad in black leather.

Bree stilled. Mirren.

One glimpse at the scene and two things were clear: the men were the High King's enforcers—and the lass wasn't willing.

Mirren twisted and fought in their merciless grip, tears streaking her cheeks.

One of them—the biggest of the two—had his hand over the lass's mouth, flattening her against the wall and pinning her arms over her head. Meanwhile, his companion, his bullish face slack with lust, had pushed up her tunic, exposing the lower half of her body. He gripped Mirren's naked hips as he rutted her from behind, yanking her up to meet him with each vicious thrust.

She struggled wildly, her eyes feral with pain and panic.

Recognizing the brute raping Mirren—it was Drago, the enforcer who'd tried to corner the lass at Bealtunn—Bree hissed a curse and glanced around for a weapon.

Neither man realized they had a witness to their rape, but they would soon.

"Hurry up and finish," the one holding her still rasped, his voice tight with excitement. "I want a turn."

"Aye, you'll have her," his companion grunted, sweat beading on his brow as he started to thrust harder and faster. "But not before I split this bitch open."

Bree spotted a broom leaning up against a storehouse then, no doubt left by a servant. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

"Leave the lass be." Her voice echoed through the passageway. "Now."

The men cut their attention Bree's way, their gazes narrowing as they settled upon her.

"Fuck off," Drago growled, grinding himself into the lass so she made an agonized sound against the hand gagging her. "Unless you want me to take you next."

"She's the chief-enforcer's wife," his companion muttered, his expression darkening. "Maybe, we should—"

"Retrace your steps, bitch," Drago grunted, angered rather than worried by this declaration. " Now ."

Bree lunged.

The broom caught the rapist under the jaw. Her second blow broke his friend's nose .

Mirren crumpled to the ground as they released her. Her choked sobs ripped through the air as she yanked down her skirt and crawled away into the shadows.

Meanwhile, Drago hauled up his trews and drew one of the knives strapped across his chest. "I warned you," he snarled.

A heartbeat later, the two men launched themselves at Bree. Their tattoos remained dull; they clearly didn't think her a threat.

That was a mistake.

Mouth twisting, she stepped forward to meet them. Careful, she warned herself. You're slower and weaker in this body.

Aye, in her Shee form, she was deadly, but even as a Marav woman, armed only with a broom, her training didn't desert her. She could fight.

Ducking the swiping blades and meaty fists, Bree went for their eyes, throats, and groins, using the end of the broom handle to cause as much damage as she could. But the enforcers were druids, and just like her, they'd been trained to kill.

Their tattoos flared to life then on their naked arms, glowing as they drew on their magic.

Bree's heart jolted as the odor of pine and campfire enveloped her, before she checked herself. As a Shee, just the smell of druidic power would weaken her. But as a mortal, it didn't affect her. Nonetheless, summoning their magic made the enforcers even more formidable opponents. They worked together now, backing her up against the perimeter wall.

Sharp iron bit into her upper arm as one of their blades nicked her. Bree waited for an agonizing burn to follow, although there was nothing but a warm trickle of blood.

Jaw clenched, she ducked another meaty fist and spun, kicking Drago in the cods .

He grunted a curse and staggered. Such a blow would have brought down most opponents, but the warrior-druid recovered with alarming swiftness.

All the same, Bree couldn't believe these two idiots were taking her on. She was the chief-enforcer's wife . What did they hope to achieve—quell her before dragging her into the shadows to defile her as they had Mirren? Did they think she wouldn't breathe a word to her husband?

And then she saw the gleam in their eyes, the grim fatalism.

No, they both knew they'd gone too far. They intended to kill her. A dead woman couldn't betray them.

Above the pounding of her heart, Bree heard shouts nearby. The sound was steadily growing louder. Soon, they'd have company.

The enforcers had her cornered. However, she used the hard surface of the stone wall to spring back at them, kicking high this time. Her sandaled foot caught Drago, who'd recovered from the blow to the groin, under the chin, while she drove the end of her broom into the guts of his companion.

But she was panting now, her muscles burning from the strain of the fight. She wouldn't be able to keep this up for much longer.

Her assailants were down, but just for an instant. Blood pouring from his mouth, from where he'd bitten his tongue, Drago drew another knife. He came at Bree again, murder in his eyes.

He never reached her.

Something huge barreled into him. Bree reeled back, catching the blur of dark-green fur as she did so.

Skaal .

Hackles raised and teeth bared, the fae hound pinned Drago to the ground.

Snarling curses, the big man struggled wildly, yet a deep growl from Skaal, as she pressed her massive jaws close to him, made his face blanch. The glow of his tattoos faded.

A heartbeat later, the chief-enforcer himself pushed past Bree, an iron dagger clenched in his hand, and stabbed her second attacker through the shoulder, pinning him up against the wall.

The enforcer let out an agonized wheeze and tried to fight him off, but mac Brochan twisted the blade.

Grunting, the man sagged against the wall, sweat gleaming on his brow.

Bree leaned against the perimeter wall. She still grasped the broom handle in one hand, while she raised the other hand to her chest, against her pounding heart.

It was a humbling moment. The whoresons almost had me.

She glanced right then to where Torran looked on. He stood a few yards away, a knot of wide-eyed servants crowding behind him. The chief-enforcer's second's face was all sharp angles, outrage simmering in his grey eyes.

Swallowing, Bree tore her gaze from Torran to see that her husband had shifted his focus from the enforcer he'd just subdued. Instead, mac Brochan was watching her.

His gaze cut into her like an ax-blade, and Bree's stomach swooped.

Fuck .

Had she just unmasked herself?