6 FIRST IMPRESSIONS

brEE STEPPED INTO the entrance to the alcove, feeling the draft against her spine as the curtain swished shut behind her, sealing her inside with the mortal she was to soon wed.

The chief-enforcer stood with his back to her, staring down at the crackling hearth.

The first thing Bree noted was his size. He was huge, standing at least six-and-a-half feet. Of course, the fur cloak he wore around his shoulders emphasized their breadth, but there was no denying the warrior-druid filled the alcove.

The second thing she noted was the giant dog lying to his left .

The beast was indeed massive —bigger even than the wolves that roamed the northern Uplands of Albia. And as she stared at the hound, it raised its head, golden glowing eyes fixing upon her. Bree's already fast pulse lurched into a gallop.

This dog, with its pricked ears and long moss-green coat, didn't belong to this world, but her own. Fae hounds guarded the territory around barrows, protecting the portals between the realms from the Marav.

Mortals usually feared these creatures, calling them ‘harbingers of death'. Fae hounds were silent hunters, yet its bloodcurdling howl had been known to stop men's hearts.

Bree hadn't expected to find one here .

The dog watched her, its glowing eyes unnervingly bright. And then it cocked its head.

Sweat slid between Bree's shoulder blades. Shit . This was the last thing she needed. She wasn't glamored, but she now worried that the hound would see through her Marav shell, to who she really was inside.

Don't be a fool … of course, it can't.

Since passing through the stones, she'd noted that she'd lost the ability to touch minds with animals—a gift all Shee were blessed with. Fia's pony was a sweet-tempered beast, but his thoughts had been closed to her.

And just as well too; that way, this fae hound wouldn't unmask her.

Swallowing hard, she tore her attention from the dog, her gaze sliding over the stacked-stone walls surrounding her—where iron swords, axes, and pikes hung—to the low beams that crisscrossed overhead. The alcove itself was sparsely furnished with just a single wooden table lined by two benches. It was a meeting room of sorts—a decent-sized space—but the big man and his monstrous dog made it seem cramped.

Bree focused once more on the chief-enforcer. From the back, his neck appeared thick and bullish, his crow-colored hair cropped short to his head. He stood with his legs slightly apart, his hands by his sides, as if readying himself for a fight.

Drawing in a deep breath through her nose and then slowly releasing it through her mouth, Bree concentrated on steadying herself. Her arrival in Duncrag had knocked her off-course, but she needed to regain control of her emotions and senses.

She also had to remember that she was playing a role now.

She was Fia mac Callum—a ‘Maid of Albia'—a young woman tutored to become the wife of a high-born man or a military leader. She'd recently learned that ordering a ‘Maid of Albia' for a wife was costly, although these women were famed for their grace and good manners. From the age of twelve, they were taught how to please their men.

Burying her distaste, both for the woman she was impersonating and this world that she was forced to inhabit, Bree gently cleared her throat. "My lord?"

"I'm no lord," he replied, turning to her.

A pair of piercing woad-blue eyes settled upon her. They were startling in their hue—not a color she was used to seeing among her people.

But his eyes weren't the only startling thing about him.

From the back, the man's size had given the impression of brutishness. She'd expected a coarse, lumpy face with a heavy brow and bullish jaw—but her husband-to-be had chiseled, sharp features that gave him a hawkish look.

His jaw was strong yet lean and shadowed with stubble, and he had a well-molded mouth. There was a severity to his face though, as if it smiled rarely. Her gaze traveled down then, taking in his broad chest and narrow waist and hips. He wore a leather vest with a knife belt strapped across the front and tight leather breeches. His arms were bare and covered in druidic tattoos. A knotted swirl of dark-blue markings wrapped itself around his heavily muscled bicep and disappeared under his vest before traveling across his collarbone to his neck.

Bree glanced back up to his face. Aye, he was a Marav toad—and far less handsome than males of her race—but all the same, Bree had to admit that he wasn't foul to look upon.

Just as well, she reminded herself grimly. For you will be spreading your legs for him soon enough .

Pushing aside the disturbing thought—for the fact that she'd soon couple with a man responsible for hunting and killing countless Shee made her feel sick—Bree ducked her head.

"Like what you see?" The question was blunt.

Bree stiffened. She hadn't realized she'd been staring. She needed to watch that. A Maid of Albia didn't gawk. He'd wonder where her manners were.

Cailean mac Brochan moved close then, looming over her. "Lift your head," he commanded. Bree raised her chin and angled her head back to meet that unnerving gaze. Making such bold eye contact with him was unsettling, especially now that they were standing just a foot apart.

She inhaled the smell of him then: leather and male musk, with a hint of clove. It wasn't unpleasant, not like some of the foul odors she'd endured on the way up to the broch. However, he didn't smell like a male of her own people. Gavyn's scent was fresh as a mountain glade. This man's scent was darker, sharper .

In truth, he unsettled her. And this close, she could smell magic on him too—pine and campfire—an odor that made her stomach clench.

This was why she'd had to leave her old self behind. She couldn't come before this man glamored. But even though she was Marav now, worry crept in.

This man wasn't like others of his race. He was the chief-enforcer, a powerful warrior-druid who cloaked himself in earth magic and had a fae hound at his side. What if he smelled her lie?

His gaze roamed Bree's face now. Ever since turning to look at her, his expression had remained stony. She'd expected the Marav to be easier to read than her own people, but this man gave her nothing.

"You're not what I expected," he said after a lengthy pause, his tone disapproving.

"No?" she asked lightly.

"No."

Trying to ignore the sudden dampness to her palms, Bree forced a polite smile. "How so?"

"I thought you'd be fresher-faced, shy. But there's a boldness to you." Accusation crept into his voice.

Curse it. She wasn't doing a great job at pretending to be Fia. Bree ducked her head once more. "I'm just excited to finally meet you," she murmured.

"There's no point in acting meek," he snapped, scowling. "In your letters, you told me you were two and twenty … was that a lie?"

Bree swallowed, raising her chin to meet his eye once more. "No … I've always looked more mature than my age. "

Even in her Marav form, she looked no older than a woman of twenty-five or so. However, this sharp-eyed individual had seen what she'd been sure he wouldn't—that her eyes weren't young.

He continued to stare down at her, and Bree resisted the urge to squirm.

Squirm? She hadn't felt this uncomfortable under a male gaze in years.

"Aye, well … you'll do, I suppose," he muttered after a pause.

Bree stiffened. Rude bastard.

In her Shee form, she was beautiful. Lovely enough to bring a mere mortal like him to his knees. "I hope that I'm pleasing to you," she said, careful to keep her voice sweet and low.

He gave a snort and stepped back from her then, before moving over to a shelf where a jug and a row of earthen cups sat. "Mead?"

"Aye, thank you." Bree's pride was stinging now, but she managed to swallow her annoyance.

The chief-enforcer poured them both drinks and passed Bree her cup. "We'll be wed at noon tomorrow."

Bree nodded; this announcement wasn't unexpected.

"You will sleep in one of the guest alcoves tonight," he went on before taking a sip from his cup. "And then, directly after our handfasting, you will move into my quarters."

"Will there be a wedding feast?" she asked, hoping there wouldn't be. The quicker this was over the better.

"Aye." His dark brows knitted together. "I told you that in my letter," he snapped. "Don't you remember?"

Bree kicked herself. She'd forgotten that detail. "Of course." She lifted her own cup to her lips and took a sip .

Quelling the urge to gag, she swallowed it. The drink was rough and pungent, not at all like the sweet beverages she was used to.

"What is it?" Her husband-to-be had marked her reaction. His gaze was hard and cold now as he studied her.

"Nothing," she lied, forcing a bright smile. "The mead is just a little stronger than I'm used to, that's all." And then, steeling herself, she took another sip and swallowed, ignoring her churning stomach as she did so.

Mac Brochan's mouth thinned. "You're an odd one … but that doesn't matter. I need a wife, and you understand my conditions ."

Bree nodded, even as she fought a frown. Aye, she did remember those. The man had a nerve.

Silence fell then as they both nursed their drinks.

It wasn't a companionable pause though, but a tension-filled one. Mac Brochan's expression had grown even more severe than before. His harsh manner put Bree on edge.

This wasn't going well. The last thing she needed was for the chief-enforcer to decide she wouldn't suit him as a wife, after all, and send her away.

A chill slithered down Bree's spine as she imagined Mor's wrath. No, she couldn't let him do that.

In truth, she was nervous to say anything else. After reading Fia's letters, she'd tucked them and the diary away without bothering to research further. At the time, she'd been confident that she knew what was expected of her, but so far, she was doing a poor job of being a Maid of Albia.

She'd have to make a start on Fia's diary later. She needed to get into the young woman's head .

Sipping her foul mead silently, Bree wished he'd terminate this uncomfortable meeting and send her to the guest quarters.

All the while, her husband-to-be stared her down. His scrutiny was unnerving. She could feel the weight of his judgment. He wasn't happy with her, that much was clear. Lowering her gaze, she waited for him to speak.

Eventually, the chief-enforcer downed the dregs of his mead before taking Bree's half-finished cup from her. "I shall let you retire now," he announced, his tone sour. "The queen's women will visit you in the morning and help you prepare for the ceremony."

Bree raised her chin to see that he wore a grim expression. Pulse quickening, she dipped her head once more. "Aye, I'm tired."

"Rest then … and ready yourself for tomorrow," he replied, dismissing her with a curt wave of his hand. "The next time we meet will be at our handfasting."