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“And I may defend ye if ye cannae.”
“On the rare occasion it happens, aye.”
“And I can train with yer men from time to time.”
He stood then, eyes flashing, “Dinnae ye push me lass. I must go, but be free to enjoy the evening. Ask yer maid for anything ye’d like.”
With a curt nod, he left the room and the tight knot in her chest—one she only now noticed she had—began to ease. Breathing in deep, she steadied her nerves and reminded herself that she was the daughter of a laird, a brave lass who could fight as well as any man.
But despite knowing she would be tested, she realized that though she wanted a freedom with the councilmen… it was only Ó Riagáin’s opinion that truly mattered. Staring at her hands, she wondered, for the countless time, about who was responsible for the abduction of those Ó Riagáin held dear.
Sighing through her nose, she reached for the book, but then set it aside again. Turning to the window again, she wondered if someone would take her just over that hillock. She smelled salt water and wanted to know how near they were to the sea.
Perhaps another time.
Going back to her chair, she retook the book; if she couldn’t explore her home, at least she could imagine theirs.
* * *
With curt nods of greeting, he strode to the stables, feeling the need for a brisk morning ride. With the help of a stable hand, he had his horse, a black beast of a warhorse, tall with hooves that would crush bones with one stomp, saddled, and he headed out—to the waterfalls.
As he headed up through the forest to the north ridges and hills, the icy wind he was riding into hurt his eyes, but the crisp, hay-scented air soothed his senses. The chill breeze was a sharp reminder that summer had long ended, and winter was on its way—another winter, another year with his family gone. It would be another year where a further section of his heart was bound to crumble into pieces. To the north lay the mouth of Dùn Skudiburgh,and the wicked brown crags of the headland beyond.
Finally, the first waterfall came into view: a frothing column of water thundering down from craggy gray rocks. Mist from the fall drifted across the path and caressed Conner’s face. He inhaled deeply. The air smelled perfumed here.
His eyes ran over to the spot where Olivia had wielded his sword and killed the last man. He truly did not know what to make of the lass; though he respected her and admired her strength, the hatred he had for her people held him back from seeing her as anything but an obstacle.
The daughter of his people’s enemy awaited back at his home. He could not imagine she was looking forward to this union…this sham of a marriage.
The peace he had brokered that day had rung like a hollow victory. The price of his mother and sister had been too high. Even though so much blood had been spilled; and the hate that had festered between the tribes for decades now, in the moment, knowing his family had been taken, it had taken every ounce of control to not restart the feud— only that time, it would have been an outright, war, a bloodbath.
Now, he was supposed to marry their daughter and have children with her. Turning away, he ground his teeth. It did not help that the lass was beautiful and fierce, plucking an unwanted attraction to her—one he did not need.
What more must I suffer?
Chapter 5
Rarely did Olivia linger in bed past dawn. Most times, she already had her morning meal and found herself in the stables, going for a ride with her stallion, or she was on the training field, flinging daggers and wooden targets. Now, she could only contemplate that in two days her life would be irrevocably changed—she would be married to Ó Riagáin.
I suppose it could be worse. I would be married to a man who would ban me from doing what I love and force me to be a shadow of who I am.
Turning, she laid on her back before rubbing her eyes and sitting while wondering where she could find Ó Riagáin to speak with him. She washed quickly and as she reached for her usual morning wear of a set of breeches and a shirt, she drew her hand back. That was another question—did Ó Riagáin not take kindly to a woman in men’s clothing?
With an abundance of caution, she donned a high-necked tunic made of thick wool and did her hair in a simple plait down her back. Wisps clung to her temples as she left to find him, but had no inkling where to start.
“Ye look as if ye lost yer head and are trying to find it again,” the sound of Elder O’Bernei’s cane had her turning. The older man came closer, his brows lowered in thought. “What had ye spinning in circles, lass?”
“Elder,” she bowed her head. “Good mornin’. Would ye mind pointing me in the way I can find Laird Ó Riagáin?”
“Most days at this time, he is in his meeting room, lass,” O’Bernei said, “Nay the one we were in yestermorn, this room is his coveted property. Ye’ll have to be like Queen Esther and have the king extend his golden scepter to ye to enter.”
“I’ll take the chance,” Olivia said. “Where is it?”
Soon, she found herself on a top level in the castle, where only one door rested in the hallway. Sucking in a breath, she knocked—but nothing came. Knocking again, she waited, but still nothing came and she wondered if she was at the right place. Taking a chance, she pushed the door open to reveal a long room, with a table at the far end, shelves of books and scrolls rested on them. But what took her attention were the many weapons rested on hooks on the far wall.
Swords, dirks, daggers, halberds, and maces; they all rested there. Drawn like a moth to a flame, she plucked one glistening dirk off a hook, slipping a finger over the sharp metal in fascinated wonder—until the sharp scrape of the door had her jumping and cutting herself.
Ó Riagáin stood at the door, his expression a mess of confusion. When his eyes landed on her, he strode forward and plucked the weapon from her then grabbed her hand. “Ye’ve hurt yerself.”
