24 SEVEN CROWS

brEE WAS DESCENDING the worn stone steps from the walls when a heavy-set bay horse thundered into the yard, ridden by a lanky man with short blond hair.

Torran.

Bree frowned, melting into the shadows at the base of the stairs lest he see her. Best she was as secretive as possible about her movements.

His horse was lathered, and when he drew it up, a stable hand emerged to take it from the enforcer. "Where have you been these past days?" the older man asked as Torran swung down from the saddle .

"On a brief visit to the House of Maids," Torran replied.

A chill washed over Bree at this admission. Shit. Shit. Shit!

"Why is that then?" the nosy stable hand asked. "Buying yourself a bride too, are you?"

Torran's lip curled, although he didn't answer. "Where is the chief-enforcer?"

"He's not here … the High King's sent him north to deal with trouble."

"Aye?"

The man nodded. "The Circines are stirring things up again."

Torran's jaw tightened at this news. Then, giving his horse a gentle slap on the rump, he turned and strode away across the yard toward the broch. Bree followed, grateful for her light sandals, which moved noiselessly across the hard-packed earth.

And as Torran walked, he withdrew a rolled piece of parchment from a pouch at his waist.

Bree's heart kicked hard at the sight.

She should have realized that her husband wouldn't let things be after discovering she could fight. Of course, he wanted to make sure that she wasn't lying to him about Mother Gelda hiring a fighting instructor to teach the Maids of Albia.

Bree started to sweat. Picking up the skirt of her tunic, she followed Torran inside and up the stairs to the first floor, hoping that he'd leave the message in their quarters. Unfortunately, he veered left, instead—nodding to the guard posted on the landing and pushing aside the heavy curtain shielding the chief-enforcer's meeting alcove. Torran then disappeared inside.

The guard glanced her way as Bree appeared. "Good afternoon, Lady mac Brochan. "

"Afternoon." Heart pounding, Bree walked past him and dove into the safety of the quarters she and the chief-enforcer shared, where she paced the floor.

She couldn't let mac Brochan read that letter.

It was over for her if he did.

Supper had come and gone when Bree made her way up the stairs, carrying a tray that balanced a heavy stoppered bottle and four pewter goblets studded with garnets.

"Where are you going with that, Lady mac Brochan," a guard greeted her when she reached the first-floor landing and turned left. While he was in residence at the broch, the chief-enforcer didn't post a guard on the landing. However, to her frustration, there was always one there during his absences.

Bree flashed him a bright smile. "The fortified blaeberry wine my husband ordered from Troon has arrived," she informed him. "I'm leaving it in his meeting alcove for when he returns home."

The guard, a coarse-featured man with eyes too close together, frowned before he nodded to the curtained entrance at the other end of the landing. "Why don't you leave it in your quarters?"

"The chief-enforcer prefers to drink in here," she replied sweetly. "So he might share the wine with his men over a few games of dice."

"Aye, but he won't be back for a few days yet."

"No," Bree replied patiently, keeping her smile fixed. "And the wine will be waiting for him when he does. "

The guard squinted at her before clearly deciding he couldn't be bothered deciphering the reasonings of a flea-brained woman. He grunted then and gestured to the entrance to the chief-enforcer's private space. "Go on."

Bowing her head so the guard wouldn't see the jubilation in her eyes, Bree stepped forward and shouldered the curtain aside, entering the alcove. She hadn't been inside here since the day of her arrival at Duncrag, and the moment she stepped within, the smell of leather and ash, with a whisper of clove, wrapped itself around her.

Cailean mac Brochan's scent.

Before she realized what she was doing, Bree dragged the smell deep into her lungs. Her chest tightened then, a strange fluttering beginning deep in her belly.

She halted abruptly, her fingers tightening around the edges of the wooden tray.

Iron flay her, she hadn't meant to do that. What had come over her?

All the same, the chief-enforcer's presence permeated this chamber. It was his domain. Everything, from the iron swords and axes that hung on the walls, to the wolfskin rug in front of the hearth, reminded her of the mortal she'd shackled herself to.

It overwhelmed her senses.

Curse this mortal body . It made her weaker, more susceptible to things that wouldn't usually bother her.

Jaw clenching, Bree moved once more, carrying the tray over to the sturdy oaken table that sat at the back of the space. A neat stack of fresh parchment sat upon one corner, together with a stoppered pot of ink. Another pot held a collection of quills. Everything was tidy, reflecting her husband's orderly, military, mind. Mac Brochan controlled everything around him. How frustrating for him that his wife was so unruly.

Setting the tray down on the table, her gaze went to the rolled piece of parchment that waited there.

It bore a wax seal, with the sigil of a holly leaf upon it—the House of Maids.

This was it.

Bree grabbed the message and deftly tucked it into her bodice.

Straightening up, she then cast a glance around the alcove. This was her opportunity to see if her husband had left anything—letters, maps, or hastily scribbled notes—behind that might be useful to Mor. However, a quick survey revealed that every surface was clear.

There was nothing helpful here.

Bree left the wine for mac Brochan's return, turned, and made her way back out onto the landing. The guard nodded to her as she departed, and she flashed him another smile. Yet, all she could think about was returning to the privacy of her quarters. Heart pounding, she forced herself to walk across the landing at a sedate pace. However, once she was alone, Bree deftly unsealed the missive and read it.

And as she did so, her stomach swooped.

Unfortunately, it was as she'd suspected. Mother Gelda confirmed, in just three blunt sentences, that no Maid of Albia had ever been trained to fight.

Bree gnawed at her lower lip. Mac Brochan would discover the truth soon enough—even if he had to ride to Baldeen himself for answers. But in the meantime, she'd stall him.

Crossing to the fire, she threw the letter in, watching as the golden tongues of flame devoured it .

A thought occurred to her then, and ice slithered down her spine. Of course, when mac Brochan returned, Torran would ask the chief-enforcer if he'd gotten his missive. But what if Mother Gelda had spoken to Torran? What if he knows what the letter contains?

Bree watched the last of the parchment blacken and shrivel.

Keep your nerve. Mother Gelda had written to the chief-enforcer. Her words were for his eyes only. Instinct told her that Torran didn't know. And with any luck, Mor would play her part. The Shee would attack the chief-enforcer's band, and he'd never return to Duncrag to discover his letter missing.

She had to brazen this out—it was either that or fail Mor as Bryce had.

"Fia," Mirren's voice intruded then, carrying through the curtain shielding the chief-enforcer's quarters from the landing. "Princess Lara requests you join her in the hall, for an evening wine."

Bree clenched her hands by her sides.

Curse it . Over the past moons, she'd developed a reluctant liking and respect for the princess. But now wasn't the time to have a chat over a goblet of wine. Her nerves were as tight as a drum—company was the last thing she was in the mood for. Nonetheless, she wouldn't decline. She couldn't.

"Aye," she called back. "I shall be down shortly."

Princess Lara wasn't alone in the smoky hall. As Bree entered, the High King and the prince glanced up from their game of ‘Liar'. The dice game was popular amongst the Marav—indeed, Mirren had been surprised to discover that her mistress didn't know it.

Bree's skin prickled under the men's inspection.

The High King possessed a quiet menace, while his son brooded. They made an incongruous pair seated there—Talorc's big frame folded into a chair, restless energy bristling off him. The High King was dressed in plain leather, the golden torque about his neck his only concession to his status, while Kennan was clad in a beautifully fitting tunic and breeches with delicately embroidered flourishes. As always, the prince's long jet-black hair was oiled and combed back. Amber-studded rings sparkled upon his long fingers as he picked up the dice pot and shook it.

A few yards away from the High Seat, Queen Teva and her gaggle of ladies had gathered around the largest of the two hearths. They'd been gossiping together when Bree entered, but broke off at her entrance, studying her with interest.

Bree stiffened. Unfortunately, she was still the talk of the broch.

"Fia!" Lara drew her attention then. The princess sat alone upon a stool by the second hearth. She held a distaff in one hand and had a basket of wool upon her lap. Winding wool onto a spindle, readying it for spinning, was a task that Bree still struggled with. However, Lara had likely learned this skill at her mother's knee as a child.

"Good evening, Your Highness."

Lara gestured to the ewer of wine and two cups upon the table next to her. "Pour us some wine and take a seat."

Bree obeyed. Then, cradling her cup of wine, she perched upon the stool opposite the princess.

Taking a sip of wine, Lara met her eye. "I hear Cailean has gone away again. "

Bree stiffened. She couldn't get used to the princess calling mac Brochan by his first name. Masking her reaction, she nodded. "I suppose I shall have to get used to it."

"But it feels as if you've barely spent any time together since your handfasting."

Long enough.

"Aye, well, there are many demands on a chief-enforcer's time," she replied, her tone veiled. "It sounds as if things are getting lawless in the north."

The princess glanced over at where the queen consort and her women had returned to their conversation. Meanwhile, the High King and the prince were both focusing on their dicing. "Father has been in a foul mood ever since word arrived about his tax inspectors," she murmured, her brow furrowing. "They took all their coin and then strung the men by their necks from trees."

"Won't it be hard to catch those responsible though?" Bree asked, taking a sip from her own cup. The tart plum wine bit at the back of her throat, but her interest was piqued. Until now, she'd been disappointed about just how little Princess Lara seemed to overhear—but maybe she'd learned something of use now. "I hear the Circines are adept at hiding."

"Aye, they have a young chieftain … Domnall mac Bridei … who is at odds with the local overking. He's quite the troublemaker, and father wants him dealt with."

Bree managed a tight smile. The chieftain's name was useful, certainly, yet she'd hoped for more. "My husband will rise to the task, I'm sure."

The two women fell silent then. The princess put her wine aside and picked up her distaff once more. But her green eyes had clouded, and her features were now strained .

Bree leaned forward. "Is something wrong, Your Highness?"

Lara huffed a sigh. She cut another glance over at the High Seat as if she feared her father could overhear them. Bree doubted he could; even so, she edged closer to catch the princess's next words. "Last night, I dreamed of seven crows sitting on a yew tree."

Bree stared blankly at her, her pulse quickening. Curse her, there were so many Marav superstitions she was ignorant of—this was another one. "And?"

Lara's gaze narrowed, and she made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat. "You know … it's a portent ," she whispered. "Someone under this roof guards a dangerous secret."