Chapter 16

Marcán didn't like leaving Astrid, but Ian's behavior was a bit disconcerting. If the lad hadn't mentioned his worries about his brother taking over as ri túaithe, Marcán wouldn't have been quite so willing to abandon her. It felt an eternity since they had last met in the shed, and Pádraig's allusion to some sort of announcement was just what he did not want to hear.

Even with Pádraig gone, Marcán had a bad feeling about the situation. Every attempt he'd made to discuss a betrothal with Diarmuid had been interrupted. Short of holding his friend still and forcing him to listen, Marcán could find no way to speak alone with him. He realized now that was exactly what he should have done.

These hostages were certainly more than a handful for everyone involved, and after their attempted escape, Marcán was almost ready to help with their execution just to be done with them. Almost. They worked well together, which made them an asset to any clan, and a threat to anyone trying to hold them.

Ian paused a good distance from the others but still searched around to be sure they were alone, his eyes rounded with concern. Finally, he turned to Marcán, his face tight. "I am afeared my father did not die unassisted."

Not at all what Marcán had believed the lad was going to say. It took a moment for him to recover enough to respond. Murder was a serious offense. Murdering a ri túaithe even more so, as it would render the clan more vulnerable to attack. Normally a tánaiste would quickly take over, but Ian's clan had no one. And to make such an accusation? Ian was young, but the repercussions for making claims such as these could alter his entire life.

"Ye think he was murdered?"

"I know he was murdered."

"Ye know?" Marcán studied the lad. "I know the loss of yer father must be a great blow to ye—"

"I am not wrong!"

"Did ye see it happen?"

"No—"

"Then ye don't know."

Ian spoke through clenched teeth. "It was made to appear that he died in his sleep."

"And were ye in the bed with him?"

"No."

"In the room with him?"

"No, but—"

"Then. Ye. Do. Not. Know."

Ian's face crumpled, and the lad clearly struggled with his emotions. Marcán refused to back down. Such accusations would not go unpunished if they were proven wrong. He liked the lad. He didn't want to see his future ruined.

"Short of a firsthand account, and even better a second witness, ye need to keep yer thoughts to yerself."

"I knew my father, Marcán. I knew his habits."

When Ian gripped his arm, his trembling fury surprised Marcán.

"He had a bit of chamomile tea each night before he lay down. Every night."

"And he had not?"

"Oh the cup was there, but 'twas not only chamomile flowers I found in it."

Ian pulled his closed fist out of the sack hanging from his belt and opened his hand. The telltale white flowers of a poisonous plant sat crushed in his palm.

"Ye found hemlock in his cup?"

Ian nodded, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"Then he was indeed murdered," Marcán said.

"Thank ye." The lad's voice cracked, but he struggled for composure.

"And who would want to see him dead?"

Ian's frown pushed the tears down his cheeks. When he raised his brows, Marcán realized the lad didn't need to say the name. Pádraig.

"Is yer brother that heartless?"

"They'd had an argument, a bitter argument that neither would back down from. I tried to block it out. They said such vile things."

"And what was the argument about?"

"Daimhin." Ian wiped his face with an impatient gesture, his face reddening with his anger. "When Daimhin came back without Astrid—"

"Astrid?"

"My father had sent her to bring Astrid to him. Daimhin refused at first. She did not want to go, but my father… compelled her to do his bidding."

Marcán's own blood was beginning to boil. "He beat her?"

Ian nodded. "When she returned with Astrid's refusal, he beat her again. He said she hadn't tried hard enough to persuade her. When Pádraig found out about the beating, he was beside himself."

Marcán could not actually imagine that man coming to the defense of any woman. He was a user of women, not a defender of them. "So they had an argument about yer father's treatment of Daimhin?"

"Pádraig and Daimhin are very close. Closer than most siblings."

Marcán sensed there was something Ian was not saying, and he was nearing the end of his patience. "Ye asked to speak to me, Ian. Either do so, or allow me to return to my duties."

Ian shifted, averting his eyes. "Do ye know how our clans are connected? How the land was once owned as one túath? A great and powerful clan?"

Ready to rip the boy's face off for dragging out the story, Marcán merely nodded. "Two brothers had a falling out and the land was divided."

A terrible waste. Once the clan was divided, they became of little importance, their glory days behind them.

"That is correct. My father wanted to be the one to unite the clans again, to bring our people back to their previous prominence. He was a very ambitious man."

"Through battle?" Marcán asked.

"Not his first choice. He had hoped to do it peaceably, though marriage, and his eyes were on yer father—"

"My father? How so?"

"If Colmán were to take a woman from our clan to wife, my father could have someone he knew and trusted at his side. He believed he could convince Colmán to be his second and unite the tribes."

"There was one woman he believed could win Colmán—a most beautiful woman, much sought after. He encouraged her to spend time with yer father, woo him into marriage. Yer father was interested at first, but then he met yer mother."

Daimhin had begun to tell him this story the other day, he realized, only he had not let her finish. Up until now, Marcán had never heard of his father's interest in any woman other than his own mother. "And who was this woman?"

"I do not know her name. Daimhin marrying Diarmuid or Pádraig marrying Astrid would accomplish the same thing. My father would have settled for either. When Diarmuid married, that left only Astrid."

Of course, it didn't leave Astrid at all, and the sooner everyone knew she was taken, the better. "I have had much to contend with here, Ian—"

"I believe Pádraig murdered our father."

The words hung in the air like a bad smell. "He did not want to be forced to marry Astrid?"

"Oh he was fine with marrying her. Seeks her hand even now, playing up to Beibhinn."

Marcán gritted his teeth but remained focused. "But ye do not know for certain if 'twas Pádraig?"

Ian's look of betrayal hit Marcán in the gut. "I have spoken to ye of this. He has reason! He wants to be king."

Certainly Marcán believed the man was capable of murdering someone, but his own father?

There were many fathers who treated their children thus—men who had a taste for cruelty didn't always care to protect their own families from their wrath. His own father and mother had been kind, choosing to be patient with him rather than using their fists.

Marcán hesitated but a moment before asking the question on his lips. "And why was it different for ye?"

Ian seemed taken aback.

"Ye never spoke of yerself when ye mentioned yer father's behavior. Was it only Pádraig and Daimhin who felt his wrath?"

The lad nodded. "I am from the second wife my father took, a younger woman he loved very deeply. I assumed he did not love their mother. From the stories I have heard, there seemed to be constant strife between them. She would be locked in her room for days, also receiving beatings at his hand."

A cruel man then, although Marcán had never sensed it himself. "Ye're saying Pádraig murdered his father so that he could take over as king?"

"And he does not have the support of our clan."

"Then the derb fine will not be behind him. He will have acted for nothing."

"They will support him, because they have no choice. That is why we are without a tánaiste."

"There is no one but yer brother?"

"The tánaiste died suddenly last fall. Many believe he was killed. No one has named my brother. Not yet."

Marcán sighed. "Ye fear for yer clan. I understand, but what would ye have me do?"

"I am uncertain what ye can do." Ian shrugged, his shoulders rounded in defeat.

Marcán struggled for words to encourage the lad. "Ian, the derb fine are nobility. A fine line of nobility. They are powerful men. Trust the ones that will serve on this council to do what is best for yer clan. Ye yerself are descended from kings and may someday serve on this council. Would ye accept a bribe to give support to someone who cannot even defend his own clan?"

"I do not trust them. I cannot trust them, not when I know many are indebted to Pádraig!"

"The derb fine are above such things. How are they indebted?"

"I do not know for certain." Ian's glance shifted, as if searching for an answer that refused to come. He finally looked at Marcán. "But ye are a man I trust. If ye would come and be near when they meet, I would be grateful."

Marcán was from the line of kings, so he could be part of the council and had done so when needed. But he was a man of action, preferring to be at Diarmuid's side to sitting around discussing how things should go.

"I will do what I can for ye, Ian. I will remain close at hand to them, and if I can speak any truth to them, I will."

"My thanks." Ian grasped his wrist in a show of respect, and Marcán returned the gesture. "They meet in a few days' time, and until then our clan is vulnerable. Please speak to no one of my concerns. I do not wish to be found dead as well."

Searching his face for any sign that he was but jesting, Marcán instead recognized his resoluteness. "Nor do I. I will speak of this to no one."

By the time Marcán returned, Astrid was nowhere in sight. He searched the faces of those in the roundhouse, but again there was no sign of her. Astrid was not there, and his exhaustion was quickly overtaking him. Gréagóir had been given the duty of seeing to the hostages, no doubt as a show of support from Diarmuid, which suited Marcán fine.

Joan approached with a trencher. "The goings-on outside have ye missing the repast."

"Not by choice." He accepted the food, leaning against the wall to partake. "And has Astrid been about?"

He had done his best to sound merely curious, but Joan's eagle eyes were on him, her lips curling slightly. "She is attending her mother."

"Her mother?"

The cook shrugged and returned to her own food. "Faolán said they sent word for the meal to begin without them."

Faolán and her mother. Not the best combination. The two could easily light a fire under his sweet Astrid by their mere presence. He hoped she'd be strong against them, knowing now that she had nothing to fear, not with him supporting her.

Marcán dallied in hope of Astrid's return, but after finishing the food and a second horn of mead, he had to admit she was not returning. He sought the refuge of the little building he now thought of as theirs. Mayhap he could get some rest with the memory of their lovemaking foremost in his mind.

A moonless night, the room was so black that he could not see his hand in front of his face. He closed the door behind him and felt along the walls, touching the stacked wooden barrels as he sought the spot that he'd cleared for them.

"Oomph."

Marcán had hit someone with his foot. "Who is there?"

"Who do ye wish it to be?"

Astrid's sweet voice was like a balm to his tired body, and he dropped to his knees beside her. The memories coming back, bombarding his senses.

"I searched ye out," he said, his words breathy with desire.

"And ye didn't find me." She sounded to be sitting up now, a smile in her voice.

"Had I known ye were here, I would have come at once."

"And that would have given me great pleasure," Astrid said.

He reached for her.

"And what trouble is yer mother getting into now?" Marcán asked. An audible gasp. "I was but teasing. Certainly ye know she is no longer a problem for ye? Ye have my protection."

Astrid flattened her cold hand to his cheek. "And ye have mine."

He smiled at the odd statement before turning her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. "Ah, my lovely Astrid."

Her deep sigh spoke of contentment. "Happy I am that ye are here with me now."

"As am I."

With a hand flat against his chest, she urged him to the ground. "I have missed ye."

Astrid rested her head against his shoulder and Marcán wrapped his arms tightly around his love.

"And this is where ye shall remain," he said.

Her body tightened, but she kept quiet.

"Do ye fear discovery still?" he asked.

She nodded her head against him, the scent of lavender drifting to him.

"Ye have nothing to fear. Discovery will make everything fall into place."

Her moist cheek brushed his hand when she leaned up to kiss him. He pulled her closer as if to devour her sweetness and she returned his kisses just as passionately. Breaking away, he stroked her damp skin.

"Why do ye cry?"

There was a long pause before she answered. "Because I am where I belong."

"Ye are indeed. Now let me love ye."

Astrid closed her eyes, determined to take in every detail of his lips on hers.

Despite her mother's insistence, Diarmuid had neither agreed to give his consent nor to discuss Astrid's betrothal to Pádraig. In this way, he had given her hope. He'd watched her closely while their mother had gone on and on about the rightness of the joining and how well Pádraig would take care of Astrid. As if he could see into her soul and knew this was not the way it should be. Mayhap for the first time, Astrid had truly felt the depth of her brother's deep love for her as well as his wisdom. Wisdom all of the kings were said to possess.

The forceful way he'd told Beibhinn to set it aside for now had made Astrid breathe a sigh of relief. And the way that he'd asked Astrid's permission for Merewyn to return to her own people? That had gone a long way toward showing Astrid that her brother was seeing her differently. She would miss Merewyn, but trusted Diarmuid when he said it was what the lass wanted. And no one could deny that it would be safer for someone with Merewyn's healing ability and low status to keep well away from Beibhinn.

No sooner had Diarmuid walked away than Beibhinn had repeated her threat. She'd narrowed her eyes shrewdly and said, "When the priest comes, all things will be settled. Do ye not agree?"

Astrid, clinging to the slender strands of hope her brother had given her, had replied, "All things will indeed be settled in due course… for all of us."

And now here she was with her love. After saying a farewell to Merewyn, Astrid had snuck away unseen to lie in wait, praying for Marcán to come to her. Her prayers had been answered.

Desperate to remember everything, Astrid could not get enough of him. His sweet murmurs of love, the arousing touch of his hands on her bare skin, and the gentleness of his mouth setting her aflame were all etched in her mind. Just when she was certain she was satiated, the tears returned and she again sought his ministrations.

"Ye are like an unquenchable need in my soul," he said, as if it were him seeking to remember her rather than the other way around.

Repeatedly she told him she loved him, and she would only ever love him. When he held her close, their bodies spent, he kissed the top of her head and her eyes drifted closed. This could well be the last time she would be held in his arms, intimately entwined in both body and soul, and the thought crushed her.

She was in no hurry to see the night end.