She could abandon him, she supposed, and move off on foot, but her heart protested doing that. Injured and possibly disoriented, would he find his way home?
Could she be so selfish?
Her bow and quiver had fallen during the crash. She had to slide back down the bank and search for them. She feared Bradh would take flight once she left him, but he was still there when she clawed her way up again, muddy and wet.
The pony’s head drooped dispiritedly. She had not the heart to leave him.
“Come, then.”
She began leading him one careful step at a time, back the way they had come. Fortunately, they had come up the same side of the stream where they’d fallen, but it would be a long, slow journey.
Her mind simmered and steamed. If any good fortune remained to her, she might slip back into her tent before dawn—surely the light would come late in this weather—and pretend ignorance over Bradh’s state.
But her luck had not been good this night.
The storm began to move off at length, and the night’s darkness fled with it. Step by painful step, she led the pony. She could feel her own hurts now, bruises coming up all over her body.
None could rival the ache in her heart.
She heard them before she saw them—a party moving through the trees up ahead. Rough, impatient voices calling to one another. Her absence had been discovered.
The gods well and truly had abandoned her.
For the pony’s sake, she stopped and waited for them to reach her. Yes, that was her father’s voice. As the air began to lighten to gray, she caught sight of him down off his own pony and, no doubt, following her trail.
“There!” cried one of his men.
Father’s head came up and he caught sight of her. She braced herself for what would come.
Anger filled his every line as he stalked toward her. A man of goodly height he was, built along graceful lines with brown hair like her own and a pair of canny, dark eyes now narrowed in annoyance. He wore his good cloak—thoroughly wetted—and a narrow bronze crown that denoted his status as a king. Long hadtheir ancestors fought the Celtic invaders who pushed them back and back eastward, and stole their lands. So long as Darlei could remember, and years before that.
How could Father so betray his own, those who had fought and died before him, and send her to wed with one of those invaders?
“Darlei!” he bellowed. “What have you done?” His voice echoed the distant thunder. His outrage came at her in a wave that found her even before he stepped up.
Those dark eyes examined her and moved over Bradh even before he demanded, “Explain yourself!”
Did he truly need an explanation? It must be clear, all of it, from the moment he had discovered her absence.
She lifted her chin. “I told you I did not want this marriage.”
“So, what? You go creeping off in the night like a craven coward too weak to face her duty?”
That stung. “I am no coward.”
“You might have fooled me. A woman of courage, you are not.”
“Father—”
He raised his voice to a bellow. “A woman of courage accepts her future and her fate with strength and grace. A woman of courage would make me proud.”
A veritable blow to the heart, that. Some of the anger drained from Darlei, but not all.
His quick gaze moved over her again. “Have you injured yourself?”
“Nay, but Bradh is hurt. We suffered a fall.”
“So it is not enough you have betrayed me—you have ruined your good pony.”
