Haunting Warrior (19 page)

After the marriage had been consummated, he meant. She felt yet another hot rush stain her face. A normal couple would not have been expected to consummate in such a way. A
normal
bride would not have felt she bore the weight of two men at once.

“After a Christian wedding, the bride is expected to prove her purity to the groom’s father.”

Ruairi’s jaw dropped. “How does she do that?”

Saraid moved stiffly to the bed and began to gather the sheets, both proud and humiliated by the smear of blood on them. Ruairi’s eyes followed her actions, his brows drawn close in a frown.

How could he not know that she was expected to bring them out and deliver them to her new father by marriage? Cathán would hold them up for his brutal soldiers to jeer at. It should be a rite of happiness and pride, this symbol of their union. Instead, it would be filled with shame.

“Yer father will acknowledge that I came to y’ untouched and that our match is done.”

“And then?”

She frowned, not understanding his question.

“Will there be more partying? Dancing?”

Partying?
Such strange expressions this man used. She said, “There will be merriment, yes. Music. The men are half in their cups now. They will plunge all the way as the night goes on.”

He nodded, sucking in a deep breath and slowly letting it out.

“Good. So this is how we play it. We’re going to go out and smile and act like we’ve done our duty—accepted our fate. Whatever you call it here.”

It was her turn to stare openmouthed.

“We’re going to move through the room like we don’t have a care in the world. When we get to your brothers, if you can, you’re going to tell them what’s up. Do you think you can do that without being noticed?”

At one time, she and Tiarnan had been able to communicate without words at all. That gift had been trampled with their innocence years ago and she no longer knew if it was still possible. She could only pray it was.

Before she could answer, he pointed at her hair. “And you might want to do something with that first.”

She reached up, finding the braided glory had been reduced to a snarled mess. Amazed that she could still have a sense of vanity in these circumstances, she felt yet another flush heat her skin. Quickly she began to pull the tiny braids that had survived from the rest and unravel them. After a moment, Ruairi moved to her side and started doing the same thing. His hands were big and clumsy, but his touch was gentle, his fingers warm as they brushed her nape. His nearness made her clumsy, her stomach jittery. His hands in her hair seemed almost as intimate as the joining they’d shared.

Once all of the tiny braids had been unraveled, her hair hung in a rippling mass to her waist. He held it then, running his fingers through the silky curtain, separating the strands, watching the play of candlelight gleaming through it. Then he brought it to his face and inhaled the scent, seeming unaware of what he did. Saraid, however, was all too aware of his every single move.

“God, your hair is beautiful,” he said so softly she wondered if he’d meant to speak aloud. “It smells like heaven.”

His gaze snagged hers and she felt the fire of it to her toes.

Quickly she finger-combed it back, divided it into three sections, and braided it into one thick rope that hung down her back. She used her blue ribbon to secure it. Ruairi watched the whole process with a hungry look in his eyes that stoked the embers still burning inside her.

Swallowing hard, she said, “I’m ready.”

He nodded, reluctantly pulling his gaze away. “All right, then. Let’s do this.”

She gathered up the sheets, feeling another wave of hot embarrassment at the memory of what they’d done. His blue eyes tracked her movements, and not for the first time, she had the unnerving feeling that he read her mind.

With the bundle in one arm, she settled her other hand in the crook of his elbow. He hesitated at the curtain, and she heard him say something under his breath. It sounded like “show time.”

D
OUBT had become Tiarnan’s trusted friend.

It wasn’t always that way. Once he’d been bold and decisive, leading his men in battle, guiding his people to salvation. But that was so long ago, Tiarnan himself half suspected he’d imagined it. Perhaps he’d always been plagued by the gnawing gnats of uncertainty. Even now he wanted to turn to his younger brothers and beg them for reassurance. Ask them,
Did I do the right thing
?

But he knew what they’d say.

Only Liam, the youngest, had been brave enough to tell him he was a fool when Tiarnan presented his plan. Just as Eamonn had surprised him with his loyalty, agreeing wholeheartedly that it was the only way, standing beside him and offering support. Tiarnan had been grateful for that, but he knew that the others believed what Liam did—Tiarnan was not capable of leading them to anything but destruction.

He’d given his sister to a man who—even as Tiarnan bemoaned his own insecurity—raped his sister. Had the right to do whatever he wanted with her, a right Tiarnan had gifted him. If not for the music, they would all be hearing her cries, her sobs. He’d condemned Saraid to this fate, and she would never forgive him. Yet she’d gone to it with her head held high. Her courage, her sacrifice, only enlarged the feelings of failure within him.

All around him the festivities surged as the wine and mead flowed with the music. Looking at the happy faces—many familiar from the times before Cathán had come and wreaked his havoc on their lives—he felt destitute. How could he hope that Cathán would keep his word?

There were more strangers than friends in the room. Most were Northmen with their blond hair, icy eyes, and conquering ways. Cathán’s wife’s people. Everything they did was bigger, grander than any ordinary man. They ate like each meal was their last. They laughed like laughter might be snatched away if not enjoyed to its fullest. And they whored like their seed was a gift of the gods.

It could have been worse, Tiarnan told himself. It might be a Northman behind the curtain with his sister. But the voice of doubt jeered at even that. Nothing—
no one
—was as bad as Ruairi the Bloodletter. Not even a Northman.

Scowling, he shouldered his way past the revelry to the head table where Cathán sat like the king he’d proclaimed himself to be.

“Ah, Tiarnan of the Favored Lands,” Cathán exclaimed loudly. His tone mocked, his eyes scorned, yet his face split with a grin that would certainly fool anyone who might be watching. Tiarnan glanced over his shoulder. That would be nearly everyone in the room.

“Sit,” Cathán boomed in a jolly voice all could hear. “Eat. Enjoy yourself for once.”

He felt his face burn at the laughter that came from the last. Damn Cathán Half-Beard. Tiarnan had no desire to eat or drink in this man’s presence. And there would never be enjoyment for him here.

“Where is the treaty, Cathán?” he demanded. Their agreement was that the treaty would be signed once Saraid was given to the Bloodletter, reinstating his rights over the
tuath
his people had once called home. The treaty would legalize his claim to property, proclaiming Cathán’s intentions to be peaceable.

Cathán’s emotionless eyes glittered hard and flat even as his smile broadened. He knew it irritated Tiarnan, this gleeful front he presented. “All in good time, my boy.”

Tiarnan placed his palms on the table and leaned closer, towering over the seated man in a manner he knew would aggravate. Two of Cathán’s men took a step forward, but Cathán shook his head, unconcerned by any threat Tiarnan might pose. But the pulse beating at his temple gave him away. He was not so calm and at ease as he wanted to appear. Yet as much as he wished to be the cause of Cathán’s stress, Tiarnan sensed his agitation came from something else.
What?
Curious, Tiarnan narrowed his eyes, watching the older man as he pretended that all was well.

He shifted his gaze to Cathán’s wife, who sat at his right with her nose in the air and her horseface scrunched up with distaste. She made a dismissive noise as she looked away. To her right their daughter, Mauri, lovely in a dress of ivory and lavender with tiny woven flowers at the sleeves and neck, watched him with her doe eyes. For her, he checked his anger. Still it burned deep inside him.

Tiarnan eased back and motioned to one of the servingwomen hovering at each end of the table. She scuttled forward, eyes downcast and tray with mead in front. He took a cup, drank, forced himself to smile.

When he spoke, he was glad to hear his voice sounded calm. It would benefit no one to lose his temper now, and his interest was piqued by the tension emanating from Cathán. What would make such a powerful man nervous on a day like today, when everything seemed to be stacking up exactly as he planned?

Pushing, Tiarnan said, “Our agreement was that papers would be signed after the joining. The deed is done. The papers should be signed.”

“So they will be. But not now, when everyone is having their fun. Look at them, Tiarnan. Look at their happy faces. They’re hopeful.”

Reluctantly he glanced back at the gathering. It was true. Those people who had lived through the long years of bloodshed now believed that peace was coming and they danced with joy and hope, unaware of the mockery in the flat gaze of their leader or the cold, calculating attention of the Northmen who viewed them all like tasty morsels to be devoured later.

With all his heart, Tiarnan wished he could trust that the peace he himself had bargained for with this marriage would actually come to be. Perhaps having the treaty signed and in hand would color this picture in a different way. Perhaps it would make what Saraid endured worth the sacrifice. Perhaps it would slow the flood of self-loathing that threatened to drown what was left of his self-respect.

“They’ve not been priest-wed yet,” Cathán reminded him now. “That will make it official.”

“And what of this?” Tiarnan demanded, pointing to the curtain where his sister was even now being ravaged. “A priest will do no more than consummation.”

“But I’ve seen no proof of that yet, have I, boy?”

Tiarnan’s jaw set hard. “I am not yer boy.”

Cathán’s smile broadened. “No, I don’t suppose you are. You’re a man. A big man, aren’t you?” He paused only long enough for Tiarnan to feel the salt in his scorn. “But I don’t see that you’ve held up your end of the bargain. Where are your people? You’ve brought only your brothers and none of the rest. Do you not trust me?”

“Like a rabbit trusts a fox,” Tiarnan said before he could stop himself.

“The treaty will not be drawn until I see the evidence of consummation. And until you bring your people to witness.”

“That was not our agreement.”

Cathán raised his brows and stroked his half beard. “Fine, then. Go and gather your sister and be gone.”

Tiarnan felt his face burn hot with rage and humiliation. Cathán had him by the stones, and they both knew it.

The smile he forced felt like it might crack his face in two. “We will wait for the proof but no more than that. Do not think to betray me Cathán Half-Beard.”

“Or what?” Cathán demanded, leaning forward until his face was close to Tiarnan’s. “What will you do?”

“Whatever I must,” Tiarnan said with more courage than he felt.

Because in truth, what
would
he do? What
could
he do? What had he been doing since Cathán’s first, brutal attack years ago? Fighting, running, losing everything he loved . . .

Cathán’s smile told Tiarnan his thoughts had been read, and he cursed himself for the fool he was. They’d been right—all who had questioned his decision. Angrily, Tiarnan looked away and found himself staring into Mauri’s beautiful eyes. It should have been him behind the curtain with Mauri, not Saraid and the Bloodletter. Cathán’s daughter smiled at him, the gesture tremulous and hopeful, and Tiarnan felt another wave of despair.

Before he could gather his thoughts, he saw Eamonn and Michael shouldering through the crowd to his side. One quick glance and he knew they’d sensed the tension and were here to stand or die with him. They were good boys, nearly men, and their loyalty felt like a noose, ever tightening.

He gave the two a quick shake of his head, letting them know there was no cause for alarm. Not yet anyway. Eamonn looked almost disappointed, but Michael let out a shaky breath of relief.

Tiarnan returned his attention to Cathán, the bastard, but just then the curtain drew back and his sister stepped out with the Bloodletter at her side. The crowd behind him quieted before turning as one to gaze with open curiosity at the pair poised behind the long table. Cathán’s brows came together in a quick frown and then he spun suddenly, looking at his son and new daughter-in-law with shock that he couldn’t mask quickly enough. It darted through his eyes, a dark question that Tiarnan could not read. But it momentarily froze Cathán’s triumphant features into a harsh mask that Tiarnan would have sworn was fear. Or could it be anger? Or a snapping banner of both? Regardless, it was gone before Tiarnan could understand more, or what caused it.

But why was Cathán surprised to see his son and Saraid?

The question boomed in Tiarnan’s mind, the echo a forewarning he couldn’t quite grasp. Something was happening. Something bigger than the monumental joining of Saraid to Ruairi the Bloodletter. . . .

“God’s blood,” Eamonn exclaimed softly as he, like the others, watched Saraid move into the room as graceful and proud as a queen.

The Bloodletter laid a proprietary hand at the small of her back, and his gaze settled on her features in what looked for an instant to be tenderness.
Tenderness?
From the
Bloodletter
?

As quickly as it appeared, it was gone, and the Bloodletter’s blue eyes moved away as he scanned the room with purpose. What was he looking for? Yet another question Tiarnan had no answers to. At the Bloodletter’s side, Saraid was pale and tense, but she didn’t falter.