Page 34 of Dorchad

As expected, mention of the surly clan’s attitude toward Fifer and his men made the war master glower, and shifted his attention away from what Kiamh had done.

“Those useless eejits shall soon regret their rancor toward us.” Ivor glanced at his arm in the sling, and his suspicious tone thawed a little as he asked, “Does your injury improve, then?”

“Aye, the lady healer come to the MacRune of late, she’s greatly skilled.” He touched his shoulder, and made an exaggerated wince. “’Tis only lingering pain and stiffness I must endure for some moons now.”

“Moons?” The other man scowled. “Permit our healer use the harp for you again. ’Tis ever worked for all the men in the clan.”

“I fear I’m no’ as strong nor hearty as you and the MacAlen. My flesh doesnae respond to your healer’s songs.” He let some weariness creep into his expression. “And now I fear I need seek my bed again, for the journey to the island and back, ’twas most tiring. May I take my leave, War Master?”

Ivor nodded, and even escorted him through the inner gates and up to the arch leading to the back of the stronghold, where Kiamh had been assigned quarters.

“Rest and mend,” the war master said.

Kiamh thought of how he would one day end Ivor. Perhaps not at the mercy of wild beasts, but from a slow poison that would cause him to suffer agonizing pain for days before he choked to death on his own blood.

The prospect made him bow to hide his smile. “My thanks for your concern, War Master.”

He passed several guards and vassals on his way to the guest chamber, and for their benefit kept up his hobbling, fatigued pretense. Inside he seethed with frustration over his lack of progress, and all the men protecting the laird that he needed to get out of his way. Only when he was alone in the room did he pull his arm out of the sling to stretch his aching shoulder. Ivor personally should never have paid any attention to him; either he suspected him as an infiltrator or knew that the laird was infatuated with him. Some highland warriors publicly condemned those who preferred to fack their own gender, but others secretly swived gèidh partners while keeping female wives to bear their bairns.

Charlatans and pretenders, all of them.

The laird had no wife and, according to the vassals prone to gossip, no lover or bed wench. From the way he had catered to him, Kiamh knew Fifer was attracted. He also ruled over a powerful and wealthy clan that would doubtless disapprove of him openly taking a male lover.

The only way to take control of him was to furtively lure him into bed, but since the incident in the tower Fifer had been avoiding him. Kiamh had never before dealt with a resistant swain, and it annoyed him. Was he not everything the laird desired? Slender, fragile, with a modest demeanor? Why was he fighting the inevitable?

Kiamh had always lured to him lovers with little more than a glance and a carefully crafted smile. His current appearance, with young, handsome features, soft eyes and pale skin, particularly appealed to big, tough warriors like the laird. He smirked a little as he recalled the games he’d played with some guards from a stronghold near his tribe’s settlement. Those brutes had like to chase after him when he went to gather herbs in the forest. Occasionally he’d allowed them to catch him, and after a little struggling would submit to their crude, rough hands.

Gods, if I could take you back to the garrison, one lusty lover had said after spending most of the afternoon fondling and facking him. I’d work in you every night.

Fifer was close to the same state, his desire making his control slip for a moment today. Yet the burden of rule and his own reserve had built a high wall around him that Kiamh had not yet been able to scale.

He shall go on ignoring me unless I make him look upon what he so desires again. ’Tis time for another drastic measure.

Kiamh washed and dressed carefully, and waited until the bells for the evening meal sounded before he hobbled down to the great hall. Fifer always sat with his senior men on the elevated dais, and when he came through the arch he saw him there speaking intently with Ivor. Like every other night he would probably never once look upon him as he pretended Kiamh did not exist.

You shallnae ignore me.

He waited until a sound gave him reason to look over his shoulder, and at the same time deliberately strayed into the path of a pair of clansmen. He collided with one and fell in front of them with a low, pitiful wail.

“What do you here, lad?” the bigger clansman asked, and reached down to pull him to his feet.

He cried out a second time, curling over and clutching his shoulder as he bit the inside of his bottom lip until he tasted blood.

“Forgive me, my lord,” he said, making a dribble of blood run down his chin as he straightened. “I didnae see you.”

The entire hall had fallen silent, and his thready, pain-filled words seemed to whisper again and again as they echoed through the air of the hall. Kiamh wiped his hand across his mouth as he staggered over to the nearest table to grip the edge, shaking as if unsure his legs would continue to support him. For a moment he wondered if Fifer had even looked over at him, and then strong arms came around him and pulled him against a tall, muscular body.

Aye, aye, Kiamh thought. You like me better when I’m helpless.

“Lean on me now, lad,” the laird said as he put an arm around his waist. To the pair of clansmen he said, “Why do you stand there? Fetch the healer.”

The last thing Kiamh wanted was to spend a night in the infirmary being forced again to listen to healing harp song. “I’m well, my lord. ’Tis but hunger that weakens me.”

“Bring food for the lad to the guest chamber,” Fifer ordered as he swung him up into his arms. He then carried him out of the hall and through the passages, his handsome face dark with anger.

Kiamh knew the cause of his temper, for he had been eating very little since their last encounter, and had shed even more weight than he had while a captive. As a druid he could survive on a tiny amount of food for a very long time, and becoming even more frail would cause Fifer to suffer guilt over not attending to him as before. The fact that he had grown exhausted in truth just made his ruse all the more convincing, he thought as he pressed his cheek to the laird’s chest and closed his eyes.

Darkness swallowed him, lifting only with the touch of a large, gentle hand on his brow.