22 FLEETING INTIMACY

"THE FIRST THING you must learn are the weak spots of a man's body." Bree faced Mirren in the center of the chief-enforcer's alcove. They'd pushed the table back against the wall to give themselves some space. It was mid-morning, and no one was likely to disturb them for a while.

However, Bree wasn't in the mood for giving lessons. She didn't need to provide mac Brochan with another reason to be suspicious of her. She'd awoken early, tense and ill-tempered, with a nagging sense of failure.

If only there was a way she could spy on the High King and his druidic council. As Mirren had informed her, they met regularly, every four or five days. But every time he called his druids to him, the High King placed guards at the entrance to the hall, forbidding everyone—even servants—entry.

It was impossible to listen in on them.

Mirren nodded before licking her lips nervously. Her handmaid was still worryingly pale, and her face was blotchy this morning—a sign she'd spent most of the night weeping. Bree didn't want to put her through this, yet maybe a distraction would help.

"Target the nose, eyes, throat, just below the breastbone, groin … and knees," she continued. "Don't bother going for anywhere else, especially not with a trained warrior."

Mirren winced. "You make it sound so easy."

"Don't be afraid to let them come close," Bree instructed. "It helps if they think you're weak … but that's when you strike."

Her handmaid's features tightened at these words, something dark moving in the depths of her eyes.

"Of course, preventing a situation is always better than having to fight." Bree paused then, her brow furrowing. "But when you're cornered and forced to defend yourself, there are four basic moves that could save you."

Mirren swallowed. "Show me then."

Bree nodded. "Right … let's start with this one." She mimicked driving the heel of her hand into Mirren's nose. "A broken nose really hurts … and it makes the eyes water, which should give you enough time to get away." Bree repeated the move. "See how I step in close, how I put the weight of my body behind it?"

"Aye. "

"Well, it's your turn now. I'm going to grab you … and you're going to hit me in the nose with the back of your hand."

"But won't I hurt you?"

Bree snorted. "Let me worry about that."

A moment later, she leaped at Mirren.

The lass shrieked and lashed out, her palm flashing upward. Bree jerked her head back just in time, to avoid a crushed nose.

"Aye, that's it." Bree's mouth quirked. "You're a quick study."

Mirren's eyes glinted, high spots of color appearing on her pale cheeks. "If I imagine you're one of them … it's easier." There was a hard edge to her voice that Bree hadn't heard before. The sweet, smiling woman who'd laughed with her as they sat mending clothes together was gone.

Bree's breathing grew shallow then. Those bastard enforcers had stolen more than Mirren's innocence; they'd broken something inside her. She was brittle now, a vessel for rage and revenge to fill.

Their gazes met and held before Bree cleared her throat. "Right, next, I'm going to teach you the eye gouge."

Mirren nodded. "Good."

Bree took her handmaid through the first four essential self-defense moves. After showing her how to break a man's nose, and how to drive her fingers into his eyes, she demonstrated how to use her knees and elbows as weapons as well, aiming for the sensitive spots she'd highlighted earlier.

And Mirren's attention never wavered.

Bree was walking across the yard before the broch, returning from accompanying Mirren to the bakehouse, when shouting drew her attention.

Swiveling on her heel, she spied a horse and rider thundering through the gates.

Bree's gaze slid over the newcomer, taking in the dried blood that slicked his side and the sweat coating his ashen face. He pulled up his winded mount a few yards from Bree and attempted to dismount. However, the man was so weak that he collapsed onto the hard-packed dirt and lay there, panting.

Bree closed the distance between them and knelt, helping the man onto his back. It was hard not to wrinkle her nose at the reek of him; the sweet smell of decay warned her that the wounds he carried now festered.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

"The High King," the man rasped, ignoring her question. "I … must … speak to him."

"Fia!" Bree glanced up to see her husband striding across the yard toward her. His scowl warned her to move back from the injured man, but she held her ground. "What are you doing out here?"

"I escorted Mirren to the bakehouse," she replied coolly, holding his eye. "After what happened, she's … understandably … nervous."

Her husband's mouth thinned, although he didn't reprimand her. Instead, he halted and hunkered down next to the prone man. "I'm Cailean mac Brochan, the chief-enforcer," he told the man brusquely. "Name yourself."

Relief flickered across the stranger's face. The High King wasn't before him, but he'd speak to his emissary. "Garth mac Donal," he breathed, his voice weak now. "I'm a tax collector." His eyes glittered with fever as he met the chief-enforcer's gaze. "We were attacked in the north."

Mac Brochan's brow furrowed, and Bree stilled, excitement fluttering under her ribs. Perhaps she was about to discover something that could help her people, something she could send back to Mor. Finally .

She held her breath, waiting for the man to say more, for mac Brochan to question him. However, after a brief pause, her husband glanced her way, his expression stony. "Fetch the healer."

"I'm going away tomorrow." Halfway through the noon meal, mac Brochan broke the silence between them.

Bree glanced up from where she was wrestling with an overcooked piece of roast venison. It was as tough as boiled leather. "Aye?" Of course, after witnessing the arrival of the tax collector that morning, she wasn't surprised by this news.

He gave her a curt nod and reached into the basket between them, helping himself to a slice of oaten bread.

"Are you going north then?" she asked lightly, bracing herself for his stony silence.

To her surprise, he nodded. "To the Uplands … the High King's tax collectors were attacked north of the Goatfell Mountains."

"So, the man this morning was the only survivor?"

Her husband gave a curt nod.

"Did he reveal anything useful?"

"Not much … he died around noon. "

Bree took this news in, disappointment rising. Curse it, she'd hoped for something juicier. Nonetheless, now that mac Brochan was talking to her, she'd keep the conversation going.

"Did the Shee attack them?"

He shook his head. "More likely tribespeople." Mac Brochan took a mouthful of bread and chewed slowly before swallowing. "The Overking of Cannich has little control over his people these days … especially the Circines tribe."

It pleased Bree to learn just how unpopular Talorc mac Brude was with his people. The three hill tribes of the Uplands had always been difficult to control, and these days, the chieftains who'd bent the knee to the local overking were unruly.

Nonetheless, there was a vagueness to her husband's response that frustrated her. He knew more than he was letting on. Taxes weren't the only issue with the Uplanders. If the overkings were busy building armies, they'd be drafting local men. She wondered if the Circines had rebelled.

She wanted to ask mac Brochan about this, but—remembering his response last time she'd inquired about the High King's armies—she held her tongue.

"You are to behave yourself in my absence," mac Brochan said then.

Bree couldn't help it, her mouth curved. "Was that a jest, husband?"

His gaze snapped up to meet hers. "No."

Bree pulled a face. "I don't know what trouble you think I'll get up to."

He snorted, and her pulse quickened in response. Of course, after the events of the past days, he'd be keeping an even closer eye on her .

"How long will you be away?" she asked after an awkward pause.

"I'm not sure … although it's likely to be the full turn of a moon."

Bree wasn't sure whether to feel relieved that she'd be spared his company—or frustrated that she'd have to wait longer still to work on building trust between them.

Mac Brochan was even more suspicious of her now.

As such, despite that she wanted to ask him for more details, like the size of his patrol, and the route they'd take north, Bree swallowed the urge.

I have something to send to Mor now though , she reassured herself. It wasn't much, but it would hopefully take the edge off the Raven Queen's impatience. And if she made sure she was up at first light and watching from the walls as the men departed, she'd discover their numbers too.

Bree glanced over at the hearth then, where Skaal was gnawing at a bone. "Will your hound be going with you?"

"Of course … she follows me everywhere."

Bree met her husband's eye once more. "Won't you tell me how Skaal came to be your companion?"

Mac Brochan's mouth pursed, and he leaned back in his chair, studying her under dark brows.

Bree suffered his inspection, even as her breathing grew shallow. Curse the man, he was locked tighter than a tomb. "Forgive me, husband," she muttered, reaching for her cup of wine and taking a sip. "Yet again, I forget my place."

He huffed a humorless laugh. "Why is it that even your apologies are like a fist to the face?"

Wincing, Bree took another sip of wine. It looked as if they were about to pass another silent evening .

"Five winters ago, I was part of a war band in the far north of the Uplands," mac Brochan said then, surprising her. "The world was frozen, the Sharp Billed Wind cutting straight to the marrow. Mid-winter Fire approached, and the High King had sent us to Darkmere, to attack the Shee when they emerged from their barrow at Mid-winter Fire."

Bree fought a scowl. Aye, she remembered that attack and Mor's fury afterward. Mid-winter Fire—the Winter solstice—was a sacred time for both the Shee and the Marav. Despite the cold in the mortal realm, the Shee ventured forth from their barrows, walking between the two worlds, and bringing back offerings from Albia. They collected hawthorn and drualus, as well as blood-red holly berries and the fallen acorns from mighty oaks.

"We thought we'd catch them unawares, especially that far north," the chief-enforcer went on. "We knew fae hounds stalked those mountains, and so we stoppered our ears with soft wax, to protect ourselves from their howls, before we fought them. But their numbers were far greater than we'd anticipated, and they eventually shattered our ranks. Many of our war band fell."

He halted there before he absently raised a hand, his fingertips skimming the left side of his ribcage as if recalling the incident. "I too was injured. A blizzard came upon us, and I was separated from the other enforcers. Weak from the loss of blood, I crawled into a cave … ignorant of the fact that it was a fae hound's den."

Bree's gaze widened. "That was unlucky."

The corners of his mouth lifted in the barest hint of a smile. "The Warrior was looking down on me that day … for the cave was empty when I arrived." He glanced over at Skaal. The hound ha d stopped chewing at her bone and now sat up, ears pricked, as if listening to the tale.

"In truth, I was too weak, too cold, to pay much attention to my surroundings … I only cared that I'd escaped the blizzard and the Shee," he continued. "I fell asleep, and when I awoke, I found a tiny fae hound pup nestled against me. It was then that I realized where I'd stumbled into." His expression softened slightly as he continued to look at Skaal. "She was alone … I don't know what happened to the rest of her litter."

"Fae hounds don't whelp large litters like wolves or dogs do," Bree answered. "One or two pups per litter is all you get … which is why they're so rare." Her husband's attention snapped back to Bree at this, and heat rushed over her. What was she doing? "Or so I've heard," she added quickly. "Mother Gelda explained such things to us."

The chief-enforcer watched her intently for a moment before nodding. "Aye, well, this pup was alone. The blizzard stretched out, and I lay there in the fae hound's den, too weak to move. I braced myself for the mother to return … but she never did." Something shadowed his eyes then—surely not remorse? "We must have slain her during the battle."

Bree's fingers tightened around her cup of wine. Of course, you did.

"I'm surprised you survived to tell the tale." Bree dropped her gaze to her trencher. She didn't want him to see her reaction.

"As was I," he replied. "However, I slaked my thirst on melted snow and ate the dry oatcakes and cheese I carried with me. I shared the cheese in little pieces with the pup."

"I'd have expected you to wring its neck." Bree dug her eating knife into the leathery venison once more. The thought of this man sharing his rations with a fae hound pup was incongruous, to say the least.

He harrumphed, and Bree glanced up to see he was looking at Skaal once more. "I couldn't bring myself to," he admitted with a shake of his head. "And when I was strong enough to walk, I left the cave and brought Skaal with me." His mouth curved into a real smile then. "You've been with me ever since, haven't you, lass?"

Skaal pushed herself up, her heavy fringed tail thumping on the floor.

Something tugged deep within Bree's chest as she observed the bond between them—a complicated emotion, somewhere between jealousy, longing … and respect .

Watch it , she warned herself. Don't you dare think there's any decency in him . "I don't believe it," she said, unable to stop herself from teasing him. "My ruthless enforcer husband has a heart, after all."

Mac Brochan's gaze cut to her, the softness she'd witnessed upon his face as he looked at his hound disappearing.

Immediately, Bree regretted her sarcasm. Iron choke her, she'd get nothing out of him now.

Her husband's lips parted, as if he was going to answer her, before they compressed tight, swallowing his response. Picking up his cup of wine, he drained it in a long, deep draft. He then slammed the cup down on the table between them, making it clear that their conversation, and the fleeting intimacy that it had brought, was over.