His long knife sat thrust through a loop in his leather belt. The belt that now lay beside her. She never later remembered seizing it with her left hand, gripping the pommel against her palm as tightly as she could. But she would remember till her dying day how it felt when she thrust it into his chest even as he came down upon her. Thrust and, with what strength remained to her, twisted.
A look of stark surprise came to his face even as he collapsed to one side. With speed born of loathing, Darlei slid out from under his weight, leaving the knife where it was. His blood warm on her hands, holding her breath, she eyed him there, half tumbled onto his side on the bed.
Waiting. Waiting for him to rise again.
She waited long. MacNabh did not stir. At length she found the strength to tiptoe close enough that she saw his eyes were open, staring sightlessly.
A breath huffed between her teeth.
She washed her hands in the basin, turning the water red, then gathered up her few belongings. Her cloak, some dry clothing which she made into a bundle. Her hands trembled so violently, she could scarcely accomplish the task.
Then she went back out, leaving her chamber door open behind her.
Half the clan, or so it seemed, had gathered in the hall. Many were MacNabh’s men, but there were also a number of women present, including Roisin, now back on her feet.
What might they do to her?
She raised her head high, lifted her chin. Met Roisin’s stare.
“MacNabh is dead,” she said loudly and clearly. “He fell on his own knife while attacking me. When the king comes, you will tell him I married MacNabh as he ordered. I am his widow now.”
Roisin gave a cry, and the old woman, MacNabh’s mother, moaned. The men stared. No one moved to block her way as, head still high, Darlei walked from the place.
A few of the guards and servants followed her. She could hear that much. Outside, the rain had slackened and night resided deep all around, the pure autumn night. Scotland spread her dark skirt, mayhap to hide Darlei, her daughter, as she went.
Behind her, she could hear Roisin wailing. Ahead of her—
There in the gloom, she saw a man.
He stepped out into the light of the torches that had been lit, no doubt at nightfall, to either side of the doorway. Soaked to the skin he was, his light brown hair slicked like the fur of an otter. His chest rose and fell violently, and he looked…
He looked like the best thing she’d ever seen.
“MacNabh is dead,” she said.
“Aye so.” The words strained past his lips.
Clan’s folk came out through the open doorway behind Darlei. Did they follow Roisin’s orders? Would they try to stop her?
Deathan looked at one of them. “Ye ken wha’ to do. MacNabh named his heir. In the stables, he did.”
“Aye,” the man agreed. “When the king comes, I will tell him.”
“I will need my pony.”
Someone already came around the side of the house, leading it. A tall young fellow it was, with black hair and MacNabh’s pale-blue eyes.
“The gods go wi’ ye,” the young man said to Deathan.
“And wi’ ye. Yer father is dead, lad.”
“I heard.”
“He named ye chief after him, and everyone heard it. Lead yer people well.”
Deathan boosted Darlei onto the back of his pony, his hands at her waist a caress.
“Are ye bad hurt?” he whispered.
