9 WITH MY BODY AND MY LIFE

STANDING ON THE edge of the River Lethe, Bree tried not to fidget.

Her clothing was too restrictive. The women who'd dressed her earlier had tied her bodice so tightly that she could hardly breathe. She wore a silky emerald-colored vest laced with ribbon and a matching full skirt that brushed around her bare ankles. Spring was supposed to be upon them now, but she shivered in a cold wind.

Curse Albia's cold and damp climate .

It didn't help that her clothing was ridiculously thin and she stood barefoot on the mossy riverbank.

Gritting her teeth, Bree cast her gaze over the gathering crowd. The voices of the men surrounding her were loud and coarse. The odor of stale sweat drifted over the riverbank.

She noted too that there were robed druids amongst the throng.

Bree's eyes narrowed as she observed them. Counselors, sacrificers, seers, enforcers, and bards—each wore a different colored cloak to distinguish them. And she could smell their magic too, conifers and wood-ash, heavy and pungent.

Her pulse quickened in response, her fingers curling into fists. She preferred the reek of unwashed bodies to the stench of druids.

How did Bryce suffer living here for so long?

Thinking about her predecessor reminded Bree that she'd need to find out what had happened to him. As soon as this handfasting was over, she would begin her search.

Bristling now, as impatience thrummed through her, she concentrated on keeping her back straight while she awaited mac Brochan. Where was the brute? She'd had enough of being gawked at.

Bree's attention shifted then, over the crowd of retainers and druids, to where the High King stood next to his wife, son, and daughter upon a rise overlooking the river.

Talorc mac Brude was scowling as if he too was tired of waiting for his chief-enforcer. The High King was a big muscular man, although older than she'd expected, his face craggy and harsh. Next to him, the queen—a pretty woman with delicate features and auburn hair that she wore in elaborate braids—was considerably younger .

Bree's gaze lingered on the High King and queen consort a moment longer before shifting to their offspring. The prince was handsome and flamboyant. Like his father, he had swarthy looks, although his long dark hair, oiled and swept back from his face, wasn't yet threaded with grey. A bronze torque gleamed at his throat. His sister stood silently beside him. No older than twenty winters, she had a heart-shaped face and a mane of dark-auburn curls.

The princess glanced Bree's way then. Her full lips quirked into a half-smile.

Heart kicking, Bree lowered her gaze. Don't stare so, you fool .

Murmuring reached her then, and she lifted her chin. An instant later, she spied a large figure cutting a swathe through the crowd.

There he was—her husband-to-be.

Bree's chest tightened, her breathing suddenly fast and shallow. She wasn't ready for this. She'd never be ready.

Clad in tight-fitting leather breeches and an embroidered vest, with a golden torque about his neck, the chief-enforcer also walked barefoot. The Marav always handfasted unshod; it grounded them and brought them closer to The Mother and The Maiden.

One of the queen's women had reminded Bree of that earlier.

To Bree's relief, the fae hound didn't follow him. She'd have to be careful around the beast. In her Shee form, she'd be able to touch minds with it—but even as one of the Marav, she felt a connection, like a thread pulling taut whenever the hound glanced her way.

Having the fae hound near was dangerous.

A black cloak rippled from mac Brochan's broad shoulders. Black was the color worn by the enforcers. Bree's skin prickled in revulsion. Of all the druids, enforcers were the worst of them, the ones who hunted her people.

The chief-enforcer closed the gap between them and stepped before her. Like the day before, his expression was severe, his gaze cold. He favored Bree with a brusque nod, and she nodded back. No words passed between them.

A tall, spare figure clad in golden robes approached then. A woman of around fifty, her angular face heavily tattooed, her grey-threaded black hair twisted into tiny braids.

Bree's stomach dropped sharply. Fuck .

She hadn't realized the arch-druid—the most powerful of them all—would conduct the ceremony; in truth, she'd thought one of the counselor-druids might. This was bad news, indeed, for if any of the druids could sniff an imposter out, this woman could.

But there was nothing to be done, for the arch-druid had halted before them, her dark eyes sweeping from Mac Brochan to Bree.

Slow your breathing and clear your mind … or she'll sense your agitation.

Despite the cold wind, Bree started to sweat. An instant later, she emptied her head of any thought, any feeling—a skill she'd acquired as an apprentice warrior—and focused on steadying her breath. She'd learned a long time ago that an assassin had to be the master of their fear.

The arch-druid's gaze rested upon Bree's face, and the woman stilled a moment.

She had a stare that could cut through stone. Bree's skin prickled. The arch-druid was probing into her thoughts. The tattoos on her neck glowed slightly now, a sign she was wielding her power .

Sweat trickled down Bree's back, but she stared back—her mind as empty as the sky.

Thank the Ancestors that her training had stuck with her, even through her transformation from Shee to Marav.

However, this was worse than she'd thought, for this woman was a seer.

The arch-druid's stare only lasted a few heartbeats, yet it felt like an eternity.

Mac Brochan cleared his throat then, and the woman's gaze snapped to him. Her strong jaw tightened, and then she unlooped a green ribbon from her belt. "Shall we begin?"

"Aye," he answered, his voice clipped.

"Face each other, and clasp hands."

Relieved to look elsewhere so she didn't have to make eye contact with the arch-druid again, Bree turned to face the chief-enforcer properly. A moment later, he reached out and took her hand.

Bree stiffened.

She wasn't sure what she'd expected his touch to be like. But the warmth and strength in the hand that held hers wasn't it. She hadn't realized the Marav had so much heat burning inside them. The underside of his hand bore rough callouses, a testament to how hard he likely trained and fought.

These were hands that had wielded iron weapons and summoned druidic magic against the Shee—hands that would own her later.

Dizziness swept over Bree before she gave herself a hard mental slap. Control yourself .

The arch-druid began to wrap the ribbon around their joined hands. "Cailean mac Brochan, chief-enforcer to the High King, I join you with Fia mac Callum of Braewall." The woman's voice carried through the cold, damp air. "May The Mother light your path. May The Warrior protect you. May The Maiden grant you a bounteous family. May The Hag bless you with long, healthy lives … and may The Reaper stay far from your door."

The arch-druid then focused on mac Brochan. "Say your vows," she ordered softly.

The chief-enforcer nodded, his jaw tight, and when he spoke, his voice was slightly choked as if he'd just swallowed nails. "I, Cailean, son of Brochan, pledge to protect you, Fia, daughter of Callum, with my body and my life."

Foreboding prickled Bree's skin. Vows made under the eyes of the Gods were sacred, and although she didn't worship The Five, she was superstitious enough to worry that her deception would rouse their wrath.

Silence fell then, settling uncomfortably, before the arch-druid's brow furrowed. "It's your turn, Fia … make your promise."

Swallowing, Bree forced herself to meet mac Brochan's eye. He stared back at her, his woad-blue gaze giving nothing away. Only the strain to his voice as he'd spoken his vow had betrayed him. "I, Fia, daughter of Callum, pledge to honor you, Cailean, son of Brochan," she said softly. "With my body and my life."

Queasiness churned through her as she finished speaking.

Ancestors, forgive me.

"You are now wed," the arch-druid announced as she unwrapped the ribbon that bound their hands. "You may kiss your bride, Cailean."

Bree's stomach lurched.

Of course, she'd never attended a handfasting before and knew little of the ways of the Marav. She'd thought that the ceremony ended with their vows. But it didn't .

The chief-enforcer's expression appeared carven out of stone at these words, and yet he stepped forward, a hand closing over her forearm. Once again, the strength and heat of his grip jolted through Bree. This man was a furnace.

She wanted to drop her gaze, to avert her face, but pride kept her in place, frozen like a hind in a hunter's sights.

A heartbeat later, heat ignited under her ribs. No, she wouldn't shrink from this beast. A kiss wasn't the worst of what she'd have to suffer from him.

Mac Brochan dipped his head then, his mouth brushing over hers.

The kiss was light, and his lips were soft and warm. For an instant, the scent of leather and ash, and the spicy hint of clove, enveloped her—before he pulled back.

Relief swept over Bree, the sensation so strong that her knees weakened.

That was it. The kiss was over. The ceremony was done.