Let her bridegroom win, he’d meant.
Rohr should have had a good chance. Urfet would not have competed due to his wounded arm. And for some reason, Rohr’s brother—Deathan—also stood down. But Rohr had not been ahead and looked set to lose to another of the Caledonian warriors when the rain came down.
She could hear it on the roof of the hall even now as she sat beside the despicable man, who still wore a scowl on his face. And that said something about the power of the elements, for the roof was high and built strong.
Something about the power of it resonated with her. This place she might grow to like. Its people?
Never.
She looked about for Deathan, absent this night from the table below her. He had taken a place at the end of her own table. She leaned forward to steal a look at him.
No more the sort of man to attract her than his brother. And yet…
There was something about him. The way he moved, mayhap. The way he looked at her.
His smile.
He had a singular smile, did Deathan MacMurtray. A shy thing, and perhaps guarded, it made an appearance but rarely, and transformed him when it did.
He, at least, was a warrior—something she instinctively did respect. He had done well in the competitions. Taken losing to her well. He did not sit beside her brooding like a small boy.
By the gods, if she had to marry, she wanted to wed a man, not a child.
She did not speak to Rohr and he did not speak to her. Food was brought and presented, dish after dish. The rain pounded down. The onlookers stared.
Darlei supposed she should make an effort to speak to Rohr for appearance’s sake. But she just did not care.
How was she to endure this life? Curse the king. And curse Rohr MacMurtray.
The dishes were cleared, and an old man appeared to entertain them. He brought a harp and accompanied himself as he told stories and sang, his aged voice beautiful despite a few cracks.
As Darlei listened, she relaxed. Many things she might abhor about the Gaels’ world. Their music, though, was not among those things.
Upon the thought, she looked up across the hall and found a man standing to the rear. Deathan had abandoned his place at the table and stood against the wall.
Watching her.
She tried to convince herself that was not his purpose—that he had perhaps gone there the better to listen, for he seemed as enthralled with the music as she. But nay, his gaze rested unwavering upon her, and whenever she lifted her eyes to his face, it quickened.
Never had any man anywhere looked at her so. It made her pulse speed unaccountably, and had her upright in her seat, as if drawn by strings.
Rohr did glance at her then. He still had not spoken more than a word or two, and now as he followed her gaze to the rear wall, she dropped her eyes hastily.
The last thing she needed was this man, who could not stand a slight or a loss catching her looking at his brother.
A thought came stealing into her mind. Why, oh why, could not Deathan be her intended husband instead?
*
Master Coll’s musicwove a spell, and Deathan fell whole into it, leaving his place at the table, the better to listen. He could still hear the rain falling. The notes of the old man’s harp somehow blended with the sound of it, wove a spell to hold the company.
What would it be like, Deathan wondered, to possess the power to evoke such emotions in others? But in truth, mayhap at least part of what Deathan felt stemmed from another source.
She sat beside Rohr at the head table as if upon a throne, brown head high, some of her thick, heavy hair now dampened by the rain. Features like stone. Only the silver eyes glittered, alive with a soul-deep wildness.
Just as if some untamed creature from the far reaches of Scotland, a fox mayhap, had showed up at their gates and come inside to take part in the festivities, sit at their table, grace them with its presence. For all its apparent composure, still wild.
An odd fancy, he admitted. He seemed full of fancies about this woman he did not know. He needed to leave off with it.
