Page 51 of Tair

“Cease your mumpin,” the laird said through tight lips, “or I shall break your face.”

“If you order me approve of your bed wench, my lord, why then, so I shall. When you’ve tired of her and cast her aside, you may toss her to me.” He palmed the front of his trews. “I shall show her what she’s no’ yet enjoyed.”

A wild wind tore through the lists as the laird came at him, hammering him with lightning-fast strikes to the limbs, chest and head. The fury left Dorchad reeling, unable to move fast enough to counter Tair’s moves. His eyes had nearly swollen shut by the time the laird knocked him to the ground and planted one foot on his chest.

“Stay down, Chieftain, and listen well,” Tair said, and then tapped his chin with the end of his stave. “I’ve given my all to you and my brothers. I’ll do the same for as long as we live, only I shall have Lucy Brooke for myself. She’s mine.”

He was in too much pain to sneer, but he refused to concede. “Let me up and I shall repay your kindness, my lord.”

“You’re an eejit still, even as you bleed at my feet.” The laird leaned down. “Speak of my lady again with such disrespect, and I shall make you wish I’d end you this morn.” He straightened, hurled the wooden staff away and stalked back into the stronghold.

Dorchad knew the laird would expect him to come to him to offer apologies today. In truth what he had done in the sparring circle had been wrong, and not just for the tenets of the bout. Long ago, with all their brothers, he had watched Tair defeat every challenger in order to rule the clan, which he had earned with his strength, his endurance, and his hard-headed refusal to give up what he desired most. The man was not only his half-brother but his liege lord. Had Dorchad been an ordinary mortal, he might have faced death for speaking with such insolence to a laird. The fact that he couldn’t be easily killed due to his dark Fae blood mattered little. If Tair wished him ended, he had the brute strength and the ruthlessness to tear his head from his shoulders.

All this, over a facking wench without enough sense to keep to her proper place.

He spent the night staring at the ceiling in his quarters. All around him the clan were bedding down with their long-time lovers, and doubtless the laird would enjoy Lucy Brooke’s affections. The fact that he always slept alone made no difference; he was not capable of jealousy. No, what he needed to do, he decided near dawn, was find the means with which to send the blonde wench back to her time. Tair could not fault him for returning her to her world and her kin, as that was where she belonged.

Before the morning meal he went to consult with his brother, who frowned at the fading bruises on his face before telling him without the cluet they were powerless to send Lucy back.

“’Tis possible the magic folk may help her, but she’d need go to them alone, and no’ mention us,” Sgathan said. “You do recall druids sense the dark Fae with ease, and despise them greatly. They’d likely ken at once that we’re half-bloods.”

Dorchad had never had any dealings with druid kind. “What if they believe her a victim of the MacRune? I could beat her, and then drop her bound and gagged near one of their settlements. She need only tell them the truth.”

“Then they may come and destroy Gealladh, the clan and our vassals. We dinnae ken enough about the magic folk in the highlands to risk angering them.” His brother regarded him as if he didn’t recognize him. “I ken you dinnae much like her, but Mistress Brooke doesnae deserve a thrashing. She means naught to you. Allow the laird to deal with her.”

He might have followed his brother’s counsel, had he not crossed paths with the wench an hour later.

“Chieftain, I was hoping to run into you,” Lucy said as she breezed into the laird’s chamber. “Oh, you look a bit battered. I hope Tair wasn’t too hard on you yesterday.”

Dorchad might have tolerated her presence. He’d come to wait on the laird and make his apologies, and he’d already learned to ignore her impudence. She was here to stay, and he had not a thing to say about it. The sympathy in her gaze, however, proved too much for him to bear.

“You hope?” He approached her swiftly, backing her up to the wall. “’Twas you did such to my face, wench. You and your wiles turned our lord against me.”

“I see.” She looked more worried than fearful. “Well, then please let me apologize for me and my wiles. It was completely unintentional.”

“Do you reckon I stay my hand because the laird fancies your pretty arse, then?” Dorchad rammed his fist into the wall next to Lucy’s head, making a shallow hole and pelting her with chips of stone. “You’re just another hoor, come to feed off the clan by spreading your legs for Tair. Did you beg him for coin? He’ll give you as much as you want, just as he ever does with his bed wenches.”

“He has to pay for sex? That’s ridiculous. Are all the women in this time blind?” She glanced at his bloodied fist as he drew it back. “Anyway, if you want to beat the crap out of me, go ahead. I’m sure I’ve earned it for silently calling you Wanker so often.”

Dorchad stared at her. Mortals feared him, so much so they often stopped and ran in the opposite direction when they saw him approaching. And she offered him this? “Go you mad?”

“I’m just tired of all the empty threats. You want to beat me up, Cath probably does, too, judging by the way he’s looked at me since I dared to ask him about Elphyne—oh, and your twin brother, who is supposed to be the nice MacRune? Told me he’d be happy to shackle me to his bed so I could service him whenever he wants.” She rolled her eyes. “Point is, you clan guys do talk a good game, but none of you have even breathed hard on me since I got here.”

He couldn’t believe she had lost her fear of him along with all the MacRune—or that was what she wished him to believe? “Do you challenge me, wench? For I vow, I shall–”

“Stop, Wanker, please.” Lucy lifted her hand and patted his cheek. “It’s only scary the first dozen times. Now it’s just getting tiresome.” She glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “Good morning, Laird. Your second just made a hole in the wall trying to keep a rat from jumping on me.”

“Dinnae jest.” Dorchad looked at Tair, and belatedly stepped back from Lucy. “My lord. Permit me explain.”

The laird held up one big hand. “No need. She’s done the same to half the clan. My thanks for resisting the urge to beat her senseless.” As Dorchad stumbled out of his way Tair stepped up to loom over Lucy. “You shall cease goading my men, wench—in particular my second when he’s in a mood, else I must sleep with more cracked ribs.”

“That’s fine, as long as you take me with you on the raid on the slaver’s camp.” As he swore she gestured at the chieftain. “He didn’t tell me. I overheard you talking about it. Also, I saw the armorer loading all the extra swords into the cart before they dropped the hay bales in it. I want to go, too—and don’t say there’s no raid, or it was part of your ruse, or whatever. I know what you and the clan have been doing. Thing is, I want to know why. I want to see it for myself, so I’m going.”

Tair shook his head. “’Tis no place for–”

“For what?” Lucy said. “Your bed slave?” She glanced at Dorchad, who quickly took the smirk from his face. “I’m not taking anybody’s word for anything anymore.” She stepped up to Tair. “Particularly yours. I’ll see what you’re about, with my own eyes, before I make any decisions about us.”

Tair exchanged a look with Dorchad, who shrugged. Left to him, the Chieftain would let the wench see how she’d been coddled. Mayhap ’twould still her tongue.