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27 KEEPING SECRETS

DRAWING IN A deep, steadying breath, Bree reached out and boldly trailed a fingertip down his muscular bicep, following the swirl of the woad tattoos that curved across his skin. "These don't feel like they were etched by magic," she murmured.

He harrumphed softly, his eyes slowly opening. "Aye, well, each one hurt like The Reaper's blade."

Bree's fingertips traced the marking that wound around his bicep, just above the elbow—a serpent devouring itself. "It must have taken years to have all these done. "

"It did … I was fourteen when I received my first. A sacrificer worked on me upon a bloodstone in the moonlight, calling upon The Warrior's strength as she carved out the design and stained the skin with woad."

"Which one was your first?"

His eyes glinted in the half-light before he lifted his hand to the center of his chest. "This one."

Bree peered at the wolf's head, and her mouth curved. "It's fitting … since you're now shadowed by a fae hound." Boldly, she reached out and slid a finger down his chest, gently following the tattooed swirls and symbols she found there. Mac Brochan's breathing hitched, his gaze hooded now, but she pretended not to notice. "These are beautiful," she murmured—and they were, even if their beauty was deadly to her people.

His mouth quirked. "Thank you, wife … although, as you've seen, using them comes at a cost."

Bree raised her gaze to his once more. "So, you wield The Warrior's strength when you fight?"

"Aye … one of the first things a druid learns when they take the enforcer's path is how to draw on their power, their courage." His mouth quirked. "Unlike the other paths though, our strength is purely physical. I can't wield wisdom or insight like a seer or a counselor, nor can I commune directly with the Gods like a sacrificer, or weave sagas like a bard. Enforcers are weapons … savages."

Bree inclined her head at his blunt words. There was no bitterness in them though; he was merely stating a fact. This was her opening to deepen their conversation, and she'd take it.

"Why were you so set against taking a wife?"

Her husband's eyes darkened at her question, something moving in their depths .

Bree's breathing grew shallow. Aye, there was something there—a reason why this man kept himself walled off from others. She sensed a deep well of loneliness in him, and she wished to peer into it. She was pushing things now, deliberately. If she could get him to talk about himself, to trust her, he might divulge other details as well.

But a moment later, he blinked, and his gaze veiled. "It doesn't matter," he replied, his tone gruff now.

"I think it does," she replied softly, holding his eye. "What happened to your family, Cailean?" Her pulse lurched then; it felt far too intimate to use his first name, but she was desperate now. She couldn't let him retreat.

It was too late though. As their stare drew out, mac Brochan's face hardened.

Iron smite her, she'd just hit another wall.

"Leave it alone, wife." There was a warning edge in his voice now.

"I left the letter … sealed with wax … on your table. It should still be there, awaiting you."

Cailean shot another look across the tidy surface, his gaze taking in the tray with a stoppered clay bottle and pewter goblets. "Did you bring this in too?"

Torran snorted. "No … do I look like your servant?"

Cailean scowled. Only his second could get away with such a response.

It was late afternoon of the day after Cailean's return to Duncrag. He'd meant to check his meeting alcove earlier, but the blood-letting had drained him. He'd slept later than was his habit, and then the High King had summoned him for a debrief. Their meeting had dragged on, and Cailean had ended up eating his noon meal with his liege rather than with his wife. Afterward, Talorc had summoned the rest of the druidic council, and they'd had a lengthy meeting that had stretched on all afternoon.

Finally, as supper approached, Cailean had gone to his meeting alcove. But the letter he'd expected to find was nowhere to be seen. Torran had come looking for him shortly after.

Moving to the table, Cailean picked up the bottle and pulled out the cork, sniffing the contents. It was fruity and cloying.

"Blaeberry," he muttered. He couldn't stand blaeberry wine, especially the fortified variety—something most of the servants here knew.

Setting down the bottle, he glanced Torran's way once more. A deep groove had cut between the enforcer's tawny brows, and he'd folded his arms across his chest.

"So, you haven't been back in here since leaving the letter?" Cailean asked.

Torran shook his head, his jaw tensing. "And the guards don't let anyone into this alcove."

Cailean growled a curse. Aye, they didn't. However, there was one person who might have been able to persuade them to break the rules. Devious bitch . Heat ignited in his gut, anger flaring. Banking it, he tried to keep his focus. "I don't suppose Mother Gelda told you what her response contained?"

Torran shook his head, and Cailean dragged a hand down his face as the heat in his stomach started to pulse.

"She did tell me something worrying though," Torran admitted then. The groove between his eyebrows deepened into a scowl. "Your bride's escort never returned to Baldeen. "

Cailean stilled, the fire in his belly dousing. "What?"

"Four men were hired to ensure she reached Duncrag safely … but they've gone missing." Torran's gaze glinted. "And a search has yielded nothing … not even bodies."

Silence followed these words, while a chill crawled down Cailean's spine.

"I fear your wife is keeping secrets, Cailean," Torran said quietly, holding his eye.

"She is." Cailean turned on his heel and stalked toward the landing, Skaal shadowing him. "And it's time I got some answers."

"Don't hesitate. I could have crushed your windpipe by now."

"But I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't." Bree released her grip on the handmaid's arms and stepped back.

Mirren glanced over her shoulder, her brow furrowing. "Very well," she muttered. "Shall we go again?"

Bree nodded. "Ready?"

Mirren faced forward once more. "Aye."

The two women stood in the middle of the chief-enforcer's alcove. It was risky teaching Mirren when her husband was in residence. However, mac Brochan was caught up in meetings this afternoon, and training her handmaid was a welcome distraction.

Bree had been on edge all day, waiting for the chief-enforcer to talk to his second-in-command, to learn that Torran had brought back a letter from the House of Maids, and that it had gone missing.

In the meantime, it pleased her to be able to teach Mirren some new skills. Her handmaid had proved to be an eager student, although the lass hadn't been herself since the attack. She rarely smiled these days, and there was a cynical edge to her now. She'd also taken to carrying a boning knife tucked into her belt, just in case another brute inside the broch cornered her.

Mirren's transformation had saddened Bree a little before she reminded herself that it was a harsh world, and only the tough survived.

Stepping into her, she threw her arms around Mirren's chest.

The lass jolted in her grip, and arched back, the back of her head smacking Bree's nose. Cursing, Bree let go of her and staggered away. Her hand lifted to her nose and came away bloodied.

"The Mother forgive me!" Mirren whipped around, her expression horrified. "What have I done?"

Eyes smarting, Bree wiped away the blood and grinned. "Nice move!"

"But I hurt you!"

Bree snorted and walked to the washbasin, picking up a damp cloth and cleaning her nose. It hurt, although luckily, Mirren hadn't broken it. "Serves me right for underestimating you." It was true—she'd expected her maid to jab at her ribs with her elbow. Instead, she'd headbutted her.

She cast her handmaid a sidelong look, to see a slight smile tugging at her mouth. "You did?"

"Aye … you're fast."

At that moment, the chief-enforcer stormed into the alcove .

Bree put down the washcloth and turned to face him. But one look at his thunderous face told her that the game was up.

After all the waiting, it was almost a relief.

"Leave us." Mac Brochan's voice cracked across the chamber like a whip.

Mirren's gaze flicked between husband and wife, her blue eyes shadowing. Then, she ducked her head and scurried from their quarters, the heavy hanging swishing shut behind her.

Skaal, who'd followed mac Brochan inside, sat down near the entrance, silently barring the way out. Meanwhile, the chief-enforcer advanced on Bree.

She held her ground, even as her pulse went wild. "Why the foul temper, husband?"

"Enough with this fucking mummery," mac Brochan ground out. He skirted the edge of the table and crowded her. "What did you do with the letter?"

And despite that she wasn't afraid of him, Bree backed up. Lifting her chin, she met his narrowed gaze. She had no choice but to brazen this out. "What are you talking about?"

"So, you want to play a game, do you?" The menace in his throat did make a frisson of fear skate down her spine then.

"No … I just—"

"The letter that came from the House of Maids." He continued to advance on her, stalking her now. "I didn't believe your tale about learning to fight … and so I sent a missive to Baldeen, asking Mother Gelda to confirm my suspicions. She responded, and her letter was left in my meeting alcove."

"I only left you some wine." Bree's spine hit the wall. There was nowhere to go; the bastard had her bailed up, and her pulse leaped into a canter. "I thought you might appreciate it upon your return. I didn't see any letter. "

He leaned in, placing his hands on either side of her, caging her in. "Liar. What did you do with it?"

"Nothing." Bree leaned her head back against the wall, craning her neck now to maintain eye contact.

His fury blazed. This close, she could taste it.

And her anger answered its call, expanding like an unfurling fern in her chest. How she wanted to lash out at this enforcer, to drive her knee up into his groin, and to slam the heel of her hand into his nose as she'd shown Mirren.

She was done for, yet she'd go down fighting.

"While he was at the House of Maids, Torran discovered that your escort never returned home," he growled. "What do you have to say about that?"

Bree's stomach dropped like a stone.

Shit. Of course, they'd wonder what happened to the men Gavyn and his Ravens had slain. She should have expected this.

"The roads are dangerous," she replied, her mouth suddenly dry. "Perhaps they fell foul of the Shee."

The chief-enforcer leaned in closer, his scent crowding her senses. Damn him, he was too close. Their bodies were almost touching, and his heat engulfed her. "Another falsehood."

"I don't know what happened to my escort," she gasped, her pulse thundering now.

"Lie after lie," he bit out, his blue eyes drilling into her. "And all the while, you constantly push me."

Bree flushed hot. "I seek to form a bond with my husband ," she shot back. "Is that wrong?"

"I made our arrangement clear … but it appears you have a purpose of your own. "

Bree started to sweat. "You tricked me!" She threw the accusation at him. "I wouldn't have accepted your proposal if I'd known our marriage was to be a ruse."

The chief-enforcer's lip curled. "Don't try and make this about me." His eyes hardened. "Your lying ends here. Tell me the truth, woman. All of it."

Bree glared up at him, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. Her limbs tingled now, and heat washed over her. Things were about to get ugly.

"Mac Brochan," a gruff male voice intruded then, carrying through the curtain in the doorway. "The High King summons you to supper."

"What?" the chief-enforcer snapped, yet his attention never strayed from Bree's face. " Now? "

"Aye. All the druidic council have been called."

" Again? " Mac Brochan swore softly, his face twisting, before he answered, "I'll be there shortly."

The guard on the other side of the curtain cleared his throat apologetically. "The High King requires your wife to join you."

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