Her brother chuckled. He was drunk. Glancing around, she realized they were all drunk, though that wasn’t unusual. They were celebrating. But it did not bode well for whatever these pretenders had in mind.
Ethne couldn’t control the frown, but Malcolm paid her no mind, instead turning to drape his other arm around the shoulders of the squire, pulling him close against him. “And this is…”
Malcolm turned to the man, nearly nose to nose. “Damn, man, I canna remember how to say yer name.”
The younger man sunk his teeth into his upper lip to check his grimace, then smiled. A tight-lipped smile. A grotesque expression.
“Keer-awn.” He spoke the name deliberately, as if annoyed at having to again pronounce it. “My name is Ciaran.”
“For his dark hair,” Malcolm added, as if just remembering. “A good hunter as well.”
Olaf’s eyes never left her. When he reached out to hand her one of the lampreys from the ground, she jumped back without thinking. Her panic rose.
But when Olaf glanced around at the others and then turned back to her with a questioning smile, she realized he saw her dread and didn’t care. Who could she tell that they had the enemy in their midst?
Malcolm dipped his head, an apologetic expression, and dropped to his knees. “Need to get these picked up.”
The others went back to their drinking. All but Olaf, who remained close, keeping her in his sight.
“Ye look done in,” Malcom whispered, his wife's loud laughter echoing around them.
Ethne glanced at the warrior before answering, “’Tis ye who looks done in. Shall I see to a bath?”
He smiled, weaving a little when he stood. “I am fine, and ye look to have yer hands full.”
She glanced toward Olaf. The uneasy tension between the mormaer and the powerful islanders was unrelenting. Though not living on royal lands or covered by royal laws, the ongoing abuse of their power was well-known. Hiding their identity now didn’t seem to fit in with their arrogance.
Malcolm brushed the sand off the last eel. Pausing before handing it to her, he squeezed the large fish’s mouth as if it were speaking and said in a high voice, “Did ye get these yerself?”
Finn laughed beside her, his thumb dropping from his mouth, a concerning sight since he hadn’t sucked his thumb since he started to walk.
It eased the tension enough for her to respond, “These were all I could find.”
When he smiled at her again, Malcolm’s kind, brown eyes creased at the corners. “Ye have done well then.”
“Come away now, Malcolm.” Domelch's orders were not to be disobeyed.
He and Ethne’s eyes met, but he said no more, instead swaying slightly as he moved to rejoin the others.
His wife was quick to turn back to her guests and explain, “Malcolm is a kind brother. More kind than Ethne deserves.”
“Ethne,” Olaf said again and turned to Ciaran, always close at hand it seemed, who smirked in return.
Ethne’s breath quickened. He quirked a brow, no doubt entertained by her distress.
“And what about Ethne, Malcolm?” It was Aidan, their chieftain, who spoke. “She is your sister, but surely ye see she is ripe for the taking.”
Her face flamed and she dropped beside the fire.
The scraping of the iron pot on the stone hearth hid her quiet groan. Her heart racing, she needed to focus on seeing to the meal. Finn sat near, understandably afraid to leave her side.
Aidan was the only chieftain Ethne had known here, but his interest no longer seemed fatherly.
“We will decide when the time comes,” Domelch said with a light tone, as if the man had asked a silly question.
Ethne’s fingers were white where she gripped the iron pan. It was no secret they considered her their slave. Worth very little. As breeding stock, however, her price increased.
“Ripe, indeed.” It was Olaf, but the others laughed quietly rather than upbraiding him. “I say her time has come this night.”
