“Well, but ye knew ye must wed one day.” A wonder that Rohr had escaped this long. As a man of a score and four years, and the future head of the clan, he might have any young woman of their acquaintance—or of those clans surrounding them. “There is the succession.”
“Speaks a man whose future has no’ just been decided for him.” Rohr fairly spat the words. “Ye, the fortunate one.”
“Fortunate?” If being second in everything could be considered so. If being the dutiful one who could only ever step into a role of prominence if the unimaginable happened and some evil befell the brother Deathan loved.
Aye, he loved Rohr. But by the powers, the bugger did prove difficult sometimes.
“Ye”—Rohr took a turn around the floor—“will be able to choose the woman ye wish to wed.”
“Aye so, but Da might well ha’ arranged a match for ye anyway.”
“He would no’. I ha’ already chosen my bride.”
“What?” Deathan’s eyes narrowed. “Who?” He could not recall his brother looking with especial favor on anyone. Though the lasses of the clan did follow him.
In droves.
“Caragh MacDroit.” Rohr spoke the name like a curse, his vehemence the product of his anger.
“But—ye never showed favor to her. Or to anyone.”
“How could I? ’Twould ha’ set the tongues to wagging and brought all the fierce mothers out to argue for their bonny daughters. We kept it well secret. But I am in love wi’ Caragh and ha’ asked her to wed wi’ me.”
“Oh.” It was all Deathan could manage.
“I was set to tell Da and Mam”—Rohr’s face softened, speaking that name—“as soon as the season ended and the joining could be arranged.”
Deathan thought on Caragh, but one of the lasses who continually trailed his brother. She was bonny, aye, with red-gold hair and a face like one of the goddesses from an ancient tale. Bards might sing of such a woman.
“I am sorry,” he said. Indeed, this changed things, made the news Da had broken more difficult. “’Tis hard to bear. Perhaps if ye had told Da—”
“’Twould make no difference. This is a decree from the king that I maun marry some savage Caledonian tribeswoman from the interior—”
“I doubt she is a savage. Da says she is a princess.”
A terrible smile stretched Rohr’s lips, one akin to what Deathan had so recently seen on his father’s face. “They are all savages. They prick their skin wi’ blue woad and mak’ human sacrifices.”
“I doubt that is true.”
“Wha’ d’ye know about it? The Caledonian version o’ a princess will be some wild woman. Half tamed. Ye mark my words. Besides—”
Besides? Could this get any worse?
Rohr swung around and stared Deathan full in the eyes. “Caragh is carrying my child.”
“Eh?”
“We did no’ tell anyone—Caragh did not want to, before we were wed. But ye can see, the succession is already seen to, and I canna wed wi’ this wild woman who comes.”
For the second time that night, Deathan sank to a seat on the floor. “Ye maun tell Da. Ye maun tell him right away.”
“When he is coming all over the high chief and throwing my fealty in my face?”
“Even so. Because the Caledonian woman comes at order o’ the king, and will expect a bridegroom.”
“Aye so. Ye wed wi’ her, then!”
Chapter Three
