20 FIGHT ME

"TELL ME WHAT happened."

The chief-enforcer's voice cut through the meeting room, piercing the silence.

"Those two brutes—" Bree began, but her husband cut her off.

"I wasn't addressing you." Indeed, mac Brochan's gaze was upon Mirren, who stood at his wife's side.

Head lowered, arms wrapped around herself, the lass was shaking.

Heat ignited in Bree's stomach. Couldn't he see Mirren was deeply distressed? She needed to visit the healer, not be interrogated. With effort, she bit her tongue; she'd already drawn far too much attention to herself this morning.

That was an understatement—she'd just landed herself in a steaming pile of shit.

The aftermath of the fight had been surreal, as if she were watching the scene from afar. The first thing she'd done was go to Mirren. Her handmaid had crawled deep into the shadows and curled up like a hedgehog, weeping. "You're safe now, lass," Bree had whispered, lowering herself to her knees before her. Mirren's throat had convulsed, her eyes still wild. And something had twisted deep within Bree's chest to see her terror.

Just yards from the two women, more enforcers had appeared. They'd then dragged the two men off in chains.

Bree had watched them go, fury kindling in her gut. Those two shit-eating bastards still breathed. How she longed to cut out their hearts.

"I w … was in the b … bakehouse," Mirren stuttered out the words finally. "T … they cornered me."

"The enforcers?"

"Aye … t … they followed me yesterday … when I was taking clothing down to the laundry … but I … I escaped them."

The ember in Bree's gut flared hot once more. What?

How she wished Mirren had confided in her—she'd have gone straight to her husband. She could have prevented this. Aye, Mirren had admitted that Drago intimidated her, but Bree had no idea that he and his friend had been stalking her like prey.

Bree cleared her throat. "When I found them, one of them was raping her while the other held her still."

Mac Brochan's gaze snapped to Bree then, pinning her to the spot. Ire burned in his eyes. Next to him, Torran also quietly simmered .

"Fia … told them to stop," Mirren gasped out the words, her blue eyes guttering, "and when they refused, she attacked them."

"With a broom? " The chief-enforcer's attention remained upon Bree then, a muscle feathering in his tight jaw.

"Aye," Bree replied, holding her chin high. "There was nothing else to hand."

A brittle silence filled the meeting alcove.

Mirren gave a choked sob then, her shoulders shaking. "W … will I be blamed?"

Bree jolted, shocked that Mirren would think such a thing. Acting on instinct, she stepped close to her handmaid and put an arm around her shoulders. The gesture felt odd; she couldn't remember the last time she'd comforted anyone . Nevertheless, Mirren's upset cut her to the bone.

"No, lass," the chief-enforcer replied, his tone softening slightly. "Those men committed a terrible violence against you … and they will pay."

Bree's mouth thinned. They'd better . If it were up to her, she'd string them both up by their balls first and let them cry for their mothers before she bled them. Her fingertips tingled at the thought.

Mirren nodded, even as she made another choking sound.

Bree tightened her grip on her maid's shaking shoulders. She then cut mac Brochan a sharp look. Couldn't he save his questions until later?

Their gazes fused, and a battle of wills followed, until the chief-enforcer scowled. He then nodded to his second. "Take Mirren down to the healer."

Bree stilled, an ache rising under her breastbone.

Mirren had admired Torran from afar for many moons, but this wasn't the first contact she'd longed for. And after what she'd just endured, the handmaid wouldn't want to go near any enforcer again.

Torran stepped forward. "This way," he said, his tone gentle, as if he were speaking to a wounded animal. Mirren's gaze flickered up. Her face was swollen and tear-stained, her eyes red from weeping, and she barely focused on the man before her. Instead, she gave a mute nod.

Bree steered the lass gently to the right, toward the doorway. She intended to go with them. Mirren was fragile at present; she needed her.

"Not you, wife," mac Brochan barked. "Stay where you are."

Bree cut him a sharp look. However, the thunderous expression on his face made her think twice about arguing with him. Swallowing her quickening anger, she dropped her arm from around her maid's shoulders and let her go.

Still hugging herself, as if fearing she'd crumble into pieces if she didn't, Mirren shuffled forward.

Torran followed her out of the meeting chamber.

An icy silence descended once husband and wife were alone. Meanwhile, Skaal sat at her master's side, her golden gaze fixed upon Bree.

The fae hound's baleful stare was even more unnerving than usual.

Eventually, the chief-enforcer spoke. "Please tell me, Fia," he said then, with exaggerated slowness. "How a Maid of Albia learns to fight like an assassin?"

Bree started to sweat. Ancestors help her, she had to talk fast, or the game would be up. "I had a tutor … at the House of Maids," she began, her mind churning to come up with a convincing lie. "An ex-mercenary, who taught us how to use our fists … and blades … to defend ourselves. "

Mac Brochan folded heavily muscled arms over his broad chest. "I was told nothing of this."

"It's new … Mother Gelda decided that those Maids who wished to could learn to fight."

The chief-enforcer's gaze narrowed. "A wife does not need such skills."

"Perhaps not," Bree replied, forcing herself to hold his eye, "but the world is changing. Relations with the Shee worsen by the year, and there is unrest among our people too. Danger is everywhere, and Mother Gelda wishes us to be strong as well as trained in womanly arts." She raised her chin then, warming to her subject. "Wives must often travel throughout the realm … must look after themselves when their husbands are away." Mac Brochan scowled at this, but she pressed on. "If I hadn't intervened, both those animals would have raped Mirren."

"Enforcers aren't to be messed with." Mac Brochan stepped forward, looming over her. "They could have killed you."

His voice was flat and harsh, and yet something in the chief-enforcer's gaze made Bree still. Maybe she had pierced his armor after all.

"You were worried for my safety?" she asked softly, seizing the moment.

His stare drilled into her. "You are my wife," he replied, each word falling like a hammer blow. "I paid a lot of coin for you, and I won't see it wasted."

Bree flinched, even as her anger quickened once more. Mercenary prick.

"What are you going to do to them?" she demanded, lifting her chin in challenge.

"Their crime cannot be pardoned. They will be executed at dusk … I shall wield the blade myself. "

Bree's mouth compressed. Good.

Underneath her satisfaction though, surprise flickered. Before coming here, she'd thought of the Marav as savages who couldn't care less if a woman was raped. But the chief-enforcer's response revealed that some did.

Mac Brochan stepped back. His gaze then swept down, from the crown of her head to her sandaled feet. There was no lust in his eyes though, just a cool assessment. "I'll admit, you are full of surprises, wife," he murmured. "Who would have thought a soft-looking woman could hold her own against two of my enforcers?" His mouth tugged into a humorless smile then. "I think it's time I tested your skills myself."

Bree frowned, not catching his meaning.

Her husband motioned to the doorway. "Come on, we're going to the training yard."

Bree followed mac Brochan into the yard behind the broch. Ringed by a high lichen-encrusted wall and lined by barracks, it wasn't an area she'd visited yet.

And the moment she stepped beyond the passageway that led from the main yard, she realized why.

It was a male domain.

Some enforcers sparred, stripped to the waist, their brawny torsos gleaming, while others sharpened their weapons on whetstones as they looked on. Like her husband, they were all heavily tattooed, their hair cropped short against their scalps.

And the moment Bree appeared, their gazes speared her.

Predatory. Assessing .

Bree's step slowed, her pulse thudding in her ears.

"Clear the yard," the chief-enforcer barked.

And to her surprise, they went quietly, although not without smirks and sharp looks at Bree.

"Is this wise?" Bree asked, frowning. "Surely, you don't want your men gossiping about your wife?"

"Too late for that," mac Brochan replied, turning to her. He then removed the heavy knife belt he wore across his chest, and the blades strapped to his hips and thighs, before tossing them to one side. "The servants who witnessed the fight will have already told half the residents of the broch. By this evening, even the fort's shit-shoveler will have heard."

Bree flinched. He wasn't likely wrong about that. She then lowered her gaze, feigning reticence even as her gut clenched. "I don't want to do this," she murmured. That was a lie. She longed to give this prick a beating he'd never forget. Frustration hammered within her. How she wished she could shift back into her Shee form. Even then, mac Brochan wouldn't be an easy opponent. Nonetheless, it would be a fairer fight.

The chief-enforcer snorted, and she raised her gaze to see that he'd lowered himself into a fighting stance. "Come on, wife." The goading edge to his voice made violence surge within her. "Imagine you hate me."

Bree set her jaw. That shouldn't be too hard.

Shifting back from him, she mimicked the same pose. Back in Sheehallion, she'd trained every day, even while she was hunting her next mark. She'd missed pushing her body.

They were alone in the yard now, the warm sun on their heads .

The back of her neck prickled then. Of course, many of the enforcers would be watching from the shadows. They wanted to see her thrashed.

"So, you want to humiliate me?" she asked, as they slowly began to circle each other.

He shrugged. "I want to learn more about the woman I married … a woman with secrets."

Bree snorted. "You've had plenty of opportunity to get to know me," she shot back. "But I'm usually beneath your notice."

His dark brows knitted together, and Bree almost smiled. She had him there, and they both knew it.

He lunged then, catching her off guard. His fist drove straight for her face, yet Bree ducked, her left hand snapping up and catching his wrist, while her right hand curled into a fist and punched toward his throat.

Mac Brochan jerked his head back, just missing having his windpipe crushed.

They sprang apart and circled each other once more.

But this time, the mood had changed.

Tension shivered through the warm air. Bree's blood started to roar in her ears.

What are you doing? Her pride made her want to fight him properly, to unleash herself on him, but to do so would be idiotic. Aye, she'd woven a lie about learning fighting skills at the House of Maids, but she still wouldn't have the same level of skill as a warrior-druid who'd spent many years training.

As much as it galled her, she had to let him have an easy victory, while at the same making it look credible.

And so, Bree forced herself to go on the defensive. Instead of aiming for his throat again, she focused on deflecting his blows .

The bastard was fast though. His knuckles grazed her jaw and glanced off her ribs. Both places stung, and the pain shocked her a little. Pain in this body was different, sharper and rawer. She could almost feel the bruises forming.

Again and again, she dodged, ducked, and side-stepped. Sweat slid down her back, while mac Brochan's eyes now burned into her.

"Fight me," he growled as he struck once more.

Iron bite her, how she wanted to. How she wanted to crush his nose with her fist and blacken both his eyes while she was at it. How she longed to smash his pretty face to a pulp.

Ducking under his guard, she caught mac Brochan square in the jaw with her fist and then drove her knee up into his groin.

Frustratingly, he moved to avoid the blow, and her knee collided with the hard muscle of his thigh.

And then, he kicked her feet out from under her.

Bree hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from her lungs.

For a heartbeat or two, she merely lay there, mouth opening and closing, as she tried to recover her breath. Curse it, she'd fallen much harder than she would have in her Shee form. She'd never been winded like this before.

A shadow fell over her then, and she looked up to see her husband blocking out the sky.

"Bastard!" she gasped.

To her surprise, he flashed her a wicked smile—the first show of mirth she'd seen from him. "Not bad," he drawled. "Although don't think I didn't notice that you pulled your punches."