28 ON BORROWED TIME

brEE'S BELLY PITCHED as she lowered herself onto the bench seat next to her husband.

In other circumstances, an invitation to supper by the High King and the opportunity to observe his druidic council would have excited her—finally, a chance to learn something of value—but not this evening.

At present, she felt sick.

You're on borrowed time now , she reminded herself as she smoothed her sweaty palms upon the skirt of her tunic. She'd recently picked the new garment up from the seamstress; it was a deep woad-blue with gold ribbon sewn into the hem and around the neck. Her bronze arm ring set off the tunic's rich color.

Ever since her arrival at Duncrag, she'd watched her husband disappear in the evenings to the High King's councils, only to return a long while later, often when she'd already retired to the furs. And, of course, mac Brochan never spoke of what was discussed at these private meetings.

But this eve was a break with routine.

Thank the Ancestors.

They'd been close to the point of no return earlier, and when her husband had stepped back from her, fury had simmered in his eyes. "We'll continue this after supper," he'd told her, not hiding the threat from his voice.

Bree's pulse spiked at the memory. They couldn't be alone again. She was done here. As soon as supper was over, she needed to find a way out of Duncrag. Mor would be angry, but she'd face her wrath.

Somehow, she'd find a way to appease the Raven Queen.

Cold washed over Bree then. Curse it, her pouch of silver acorns was still upstairs. She had to retrieve them. They were her only way to communicate with Mor, should Eagal find her.

However, even while her mind scrabbled, Bree was only too aware of the chief-enforcer's nearness as he slid onto the bench seat next to her, and the heat of his thigh as it brushed against hers.

Her stomach pitched once more—yet not from panic this time.

Iron brand her, this was the last thing she needed.

His nearness earlier as he caged her in against the wall, the scent of him, his heat and strength, had confirmed the attraction between them—one that had sparked right from the beginning. She was in mortal danger, but his proximity had roused more than panic. It had awoken a wild hunger within her.

Dizziness assailed her, and she gripped the edge of the table to steady herself.

This wasn't part of the plan. She was supposed to gain his trust, to deceive him—but the realization of just how much she wanted him horrified her. He was one of the hated enforcers—an enemy of the Shee. If he knew who she really was, he wouldn't hesitate to plunge a blade through her heart.

Bree understood all of that, yet her breathing still grew shallow as his hand accidentally brushed hers when they both reached for the same cup of wine.

She cut mac Brochan a veiled look then and caught him watching her.

Hostility and distrust burned in his blue eyes—and something else too.

Heart pounding, Bree tore her gaze from his. She had to keep her nerve. He's just a man , she repeated the phrase that had anchored her ever since her arrival at Duncrag. No match for you.

The words now sounded hollow though. Her husband had already shown himself to be a formidable opponent, and he was close to besting her.

Trying her best to slow her breathing and find her equilibrium, Bree shifted her attention from mac Brochan. Instead, she surveyed those seated at the tables that had been arranged in a square around the smallest of the hearths. It was an intimate gathering this eve, in contrast to a hall full of warriors who'd gathered for the chief-enforcer's wedding feast.

The queen consort and the princess were both absent, although Prince Kennan sat at his father's right hand. Both men were striking in black leather, their dark hair combed back and golden torques gleaming at their throats. However, the High King's presence dominated his son's.

Around the table sat five druids, all clad in different colored robes. Each member of the druidic council sat with their spouse.

Directly across the table, Gregor mac Hume was watching her husband with a hooded gaze, a thin smile playing upon his lips.

Bree's tension wound tighter. She didn't like that smile.

Mac Hume caught her watching him then, and his eyes glinted.

Pulse thudding in her ears, she tore her gaze away. Mac Hume's expression reminded her of the look he'd given her after the blood-letting ceremony.

It was as if they shared a secret.

Staring down at the trencher before her, Bree focused on keeping her breathing steady.

Just get through this supper.

Servants appeared then, bearing platters of breads studded with hazelnuts and walnuts, rich venison stew, braised kale, and wheels of aged goat's cheese. As always, the food here was pungent, overpowering—causing Bree's already tense stomach to clench.

Shades, how was she supposed to force any of this down?

Having served the table, the servants departed, leaving the High King and his supper guests alone.

"It's a pleasure to see my chief druids … and their spouses … gathered here this evening," the High King spoke up then, his powerful voice rumbling across the now silent hall. However, his expression contradicted his words. A frown creased his brow, and his mouth was turned down at the edges .

He picked up the gem-encrusted goblet before him and took a measured sip. "Druidic gifts are only passed through certain bloodlines … and the gifts you bear grow rarer."

Queasiness washed over Bree once more. There would be a reason why the High King was reminding them of something all his council would have been aware of.

"Aye, Your Highness," the chief-sacrificer said with a nod. "That is why Beatha carries our fourth child." His gaze swept around the table, while beside him, his wife gave a smug smile. "The rest of you are slow to produce."

This comment brought tight lips and scowls from some of those around the table. None of them liked being reminded of their childlessness. Bree cast her husband a sidelong glance then, noting that his expression remained shuttered. If the chief-sacrificer's comment vexed him, he hid it well.

"Of course," mac Hume drawled, not yet finished. "Some of you are trying, at least." His gaze fell upon the chief-enforcer. "While others make no effort at all."

Silence settled at the table.

Bree started to sweat. Next to her, mac Brochan stilled.

"Indeed," The High King leaned forward in his carven chair, his hatchet face tightening as he fixed his chief-enforcer in a gimlet stare. "Gregor informs me that during the blood-letting ceremony, he discovered that you and your wife have not been … intimate ."

Bree's already fast pulse took off, while across the table, Gregor smirked.

She should be relieved, for she'd worried he'd somehow delved into her soul and learned that she'd once been Shee. But this wasn't good news either .

"Aye," the chief-sacrificer replied when mac Brochan remained stubbornly silent. "Usually, when wedded couples perform the rite, I can sense a ‘melding' between them that comes from having joined physically. But not between these two."

With a sinking belly, Bree waited for the High King's judgment.

However, her husband responded first.

"Gregor lies," he growled.

The High King's dark gaze glittered. "And why would he do that?"

"Because he's a shit-stirring bastard who's never liked me."

Talorc snorted. He then glanced across at a slender, sharp-featured man robed in green: the chief-seer. "What say you, Allaster? Has mac Brochan plowed his wife?"

Silence fell once more, all gazes settling upon Allaster mac Coll. Moments passed, and the druid's lean face tightened, before the tattoos on his neck started to glow faintly.

Bree's heart kicked against her ribs. Quickly, she raised her mental wards, hoping that her husband had done the same. Seers weren't just masters of divination; they could also touch minds—just as the arch-druid had attempted to do on the day of her and mac Brochan's handfasting.

The chief-seer's eyes narrowed as he stared her down. Aye, he'd met resistance, and it surprised him. After a few moments, his attention shifted to the chief-enforcer. Eventually, mac Coll pursed his lips and looked at the High King. "I'd say not, Your Highness."

"What have you seen?"

"Mac Coll has seen nothing," mac Brochan ground out, his lip curling .

Relief fluttered through Bree. Of course, his mental wards would also be strong. He wouldn't allow any seer to touch his thoughts.

Unfortunately, her relief was short-lived.

"I may not be able to touch either of their minds," mac Coll replied, undaunted by the chief-enforcer's aggression. "But there is hostility and distrust between them … and I suspect there has been no carnal intimacy."

Bree's heart kicked like a pony against her ribs, sweat trickling under her arms now. She chanced another glance at her husband then—her belly swooping at the cold anger she spied on his face. Mac Brochan's face got a hawkish look when his temper rose. Tension crackled through the air in the hall.

"You disappoint me, Cailean." The High King's voice splintered the silence, low and hard. Next to him, Prince Kennan looked on, a frown marring his brow as he viewed the chief-enforcer. Likewise, all gazes were riveted upon mac Brochan. "You promised you would fulfill all your obligations."

The chief-enforcer didn't reply.

"Don't bother trying to lie your way out of this," Talorc went on, a vicious edge creeping into his tone now. "For I see that Gregor is telling the truth." The High King looked at Bree then, and the sweat bathing her skin turned cold. "What is wrong with the woman? She's fair of face and has a ripe body." His mouth pursed then. "Don't tell me you have the same tastes as my son?"

Next to the High King, Kennan jerked as if his father had just elbowed him in the ribs. An instant later, the prince's handsome face hardened. Nonetheless, he held his tongue.

As did the chief-enforcer .

"Unfortunately for him, the prince has duties he must fulfill… and so do you." Talorc leaned forward further still, his strong, ring-encrusted hands gripping the armrests of his chair. "I care not where you'd prefer to stick your prick … but my realm needs more enforcers, and that means you will fill your wife's belly with your sons. Is. That. Clear?"

The threat in the High King's voice shivered across the hall.

Silence followed before mac Brochan finally answered. "Aye, Sire." The words fell like ax blows.

The two men locked gazes for a heartbeat before Talorc mac Brude sank back into his chair. "Good … I'm glad we've cleared that up." His expression turned severe once more. "I'm giving you a second chance, but there won't be a third."